Degrees of Darkness

by Tony J. Forder

  The incident room, as the interior of the annexe was known, was buzzing. Tables, chairs, desks and filing cabinets were scattered around all four corners of the huge area, a central snake-like plastic trunking housing all of the communications and power cables. A dozen men and three women were either speaking on the telephone, rummaging through files, consulting computer monitors, or grouped around the many incident boards. The cacophony of voices and background noise was deafening. The place had an edge to it; you could cut yourself on the atmosphere.

  Frank’s reputation preceded him into the unit. As he began to renew acquaintances or make new ones, there were broad and genuine smiles, words of welcome, expressions of sympathy and condolence for his loss. Behind it all he felt an overwhelming sense of enthusiasm for his return, no matter how brief it might be.

  And then there was Superintendent Colin Foster.

  The man glanced up from a file he was scanning, peering over the rim of his spectacles. He didn’t offer to shake hands, nor was there any sign of welcome or even sympathy. If anything, his eyes spoke of open hostility.

  Foster pointed to a phone and said, ‘He’ll be coming through on that line. If he calls again, which I very much doubt. I’ve arranged for a trace, of course. However, I presume your good friend DCI Loizou has already informed you of my misgivings.’

  ‘You don’t think the caller is kosher.’

  Tight-lipped, Foster shook his head. ‘No, I don’t. You may recall yourself how many crank calls we get in situations like this.’

  ‘Who took the initial call?’

  ‘Sergeant Cunningham. I believe you know him.’

  ‘Yes, I do. He’s a good bloke. If he thought it might be our man, then I’d be willing to back his judgement.’

  Foster glared at him. ‘Well, I’ll be sure to keep that in mind. Look, don’t think you’re getting your feet back under the table here, Rogers. You take the call, you deal with it in the correct manner, and then you hand it over to us to carry on with. Afterwards, you go about your business. Collect some debts, or whatever it is you do these days.’

  Frank was aware of several faces now turned his way. If they were waiting for a reaction they were going to be disappointed. Whatever Foster had in mind here, it wasn’t going to work. Frank wanted this. He needed it badly.

  ‘I’ll wait here by the phone,’ he said. And smiled.

  Foster turned away angrily, snapping an order at some poor unfortunate who just happened to be passing.

  Frank turned to Nicky. ‘What time is he due to call?’

  His friend perched on the edge of a desk, rolling up his shirt sleeves. ‘He didn’t say. He just told us to get you here quickly.’

  Frank nodded and looked around the unit. Nothing much had changed, either in layout or decor. The breeze-blocks had received an obligatory coat of white emulsion the day before Frank first opened its doors to the squad, and only the odd poster had been added since. His gaze fell upon the incident boards. Two rows of photographs were pinned to them. He jerked his head away before the images registered. He didn’t want to see Laura’s face up there with the others. His daughter was a part of this, he knew, but she didn’t belong.

  DS Capel wandered over, hands in pockets. He seemed a little nervous. ‘How did the SOC visit go, Frank?’ His thin, effeminate features belied a wiry strength. He was usually to be found at the forefront of anything that needed ‘bottle’.

  ‘Not too bad. There wasn’t much to be done. Just picked up a few of my daughter’s things, then let people get on with their jobs.’

  ‘This must be a bloody awful time for you.’

  ‘Yes. The hardest.’

  ‘You think this caller is for real? You think it’s him?’

  Frank shrugged. Capel was harmless enough, a pretty good copper in his own way, but he was often too naive for his own good. ‘No way of telling just yet, Warren. But I’ll know. The moment I hear his voice.’

  ‘Let’s just hope he’s the genuine article,’ Nicky said. ‘We could do with a break right now.’

  ‘I know I could,’ Frank whispered. He glanced at the incident boards one more time, then dismissed them with a shake of his head. ‘There’s a lot going on in here. Is it being well organised?’

  Nicky nodded, eyes straying to the far end of the unit where the majority of officers gathered. ‘Statement readers and receivers are ploughing through everything we’ve had faxed over from the other on-going investigations, in addition to the statement sheets our own people have brought in. Warren’s the action officer for the squad, by the way.’

  ‘Not a lot of jobs to hand out so far then? Not with the few crumbs this prick leaves behind.’

  ‘There’s enough to be getting on with. Teams have been sent out to speak with the other murder squads directly. There’s the door-to-door around the Clarke scene. Liaison with forensics and pathology.’ Nicky shrugged. ‘All the mundane stuff, all actioned, any part of which might just give us that break we’re looking for.’

  ‘I’d forgotten how grinding and ordinary this work can sometimes be,’ Frank admitted. ‘Piecing all the tiny parts of the puzzle together.’

  ‘Yeah. And without a picture on the box to guide us.’

  Frank nodded thoughtfully. Everything that could be done was being done. Nicky and Capel were pulling all the right strings, overseeing the minutiae of the investigation. It was now just a matter of patience, and relying on your team to be thorough and alert. The bustle around him continuing, Frank sat down by the telephone to wait. He was used to waiting. He waited for ten more minutes before the call came in.

  16

  So lost in thought was he, that the first Frank knew about the incoming call was when an amber light flashing on the mini switchboard snagged his attention. The trace was already running, intervening some five seconds before the ringing tone could be heard by the caller.

  Frank swallowed, wet his lips, drew saliva into his throat, then picked up the handset. He wasn’t aware of anyone or anything else around him.

  ‘This is Frank Rogers speaking.’

  ‘Hello, Mr Rogers. Or may I call you Frank?’ The voice emerged from speakers placed around the incident room. It was deep, calm and authoritative. It sounded a little off, and Frank suspected the caller was using a voice scrambler.

  ‘You may.’

  ‘I’m so glad they managed to persuade you to take my call.’

  ‘I didn’t need any persuasion. But I have to ask: why me?’

  ‘Before I go into that, Frank, let me tell you that if you are tracing this call, I demand you stop doing so immediately. If you don’t, and believe me I will know, I’ll have your daughter delivered to you within the hour in a rubber bag.’

  Frank froze, his testicles crawled and shrivelled inside their scrotal sac. The man meant every word. Frank cupped his hand over the mouthpiece. ‘Stop the trace,’ he said.

  Foster looked up sharply. He shook his head, a terrible glint in his eyes. ‘You haven’t established the caller’s credentials yet.’

  ‘I don’t need to. It’s him. Now stop the trace.’

  Foster’s chest swelled. ‘In case I didn’t make myself clear to you before, Rogers, I am in charge of this investigation. I will decide how best to proceed. The trace will continue until I decide otherwise.’

  Frank deliberately eased his hand off the mouthpiece. ‘Superintendent Foster, if you don’t order that trace stopped right now, I’ll rip your face to pieces with this phone. My daughter’s life is at stake here, and just at the moment I don’t give a shit about protocol or rank. Believe me, Foster, if you lose her for me I’ll end you. I’ll have fuck all else to live for.’

  There was a moment of complete silence. It was as if everyone inside the annexe had stopped breathing. The two men glowered at each other, the superintendent seething as a flush crept into both cheeks. Eventually, as if the enormity of the challenge had dawned on him, he lowered his gaze and barked the command for the trace to be stopped.

/>   The voice came again over the speakers. ‘Well done, Frank. You handled that very well. I’m impressed.’

  Foster glared once more at Frank with open hostility, realising that the caller had been allowed to hear their side of the conversation. Frank turned away. He had won a battle, now it was time to give a little and play by a few of the rules.

  ‘I have to establish your credibility,’ he said into the phone. ‘It’s standard procedure.’

  ‘But you know I’m not a crank, don’t you?’

  ‘Yes. Even so …’

  ‘Go ahead. Establish away.’ The caller uttered a low chuckle. There wasn’t anyone in the room who didn’t feel chilled by the sound.

  ‘Okay. You’ve obviously read the newspapers or watched the TV. That’s how you latched onto me. You must know that the police didn’t give all the information in their possession to the press. What I’d like are a couple of answers from you.’

  ‘Fire away, Frank. I’m all yours.’ The voice became deliberately camp.

  ‘First, you have a particular method of entering your victims’ property. One that you seem to prefer. Also, you like to do something before approaching your victims.’

  How was he able to do this? The man on the other end of the line had murdered his son and wife, had abducted his daughter. How was he able to talk to him this way? So calm, so collected. If the man had been standing before him he would have killed him there and then without a single qualm. As it was he could feel a cold sweat spread across his back between his shoulder-blades, the hand gripping the phone growing clammy.

  ‘For the record then, Frank, and anyone else listening in, I take the locks apart in order to gain access, and if there is a pet in the house I kill it before I move on to my human victims.’

  There was an explosion of released air and tension. Now everyone else knew what Frank had known right from the first word. Faces turned his way. Some were frowning, others slightly wary.

  Frank breathed easily. ‘Okay then. You have the advantage over me right now. How about giving me a name?’

  ‘Oh, Frank. You think I’m that easily had?’

  ‘No, of course not. I don’t expect your real name. Just one I can use when we’re talking. I doubt this will be our last conversation.’

  After a brief pause, the caller said, ‘If you insist on calling me something, make it … Oscar.’

  ‘Oscar. Right. That puts us on an even footing.’

  ‘Oh, you think so? I have your daughter, Frank. Like a god I control her every moment. I decide whether she lives or dies, I decide whether she suffers or slips quietly away. And you think we’re equal?’

  Frank closed his eyes. He wanted to slam the phone down, to cut off that dreadfully confident voice. But the man was correct in everything he said. ‘Fair enough. You’re right, of course. You have the advantage, Oscar.’

  ‘You agree with me? When people agree with me, Frank, I always feel I must be wrong.’

  ‘Not this time. Of course you have the edge. So, use it. What do you want?’

  ‘Oh, you know how it is, Frank. Sometimes a man just has to turn the valve a little, release some of the pressure. What’s the point of being a genius unless one is admired for it?’

  ‘You believe you’re a genius, Oscar?’

  ‘Ha-ha. I have nothing to declare except my genius, Frank.’

  ‘You … you want to tell me something, Oscar?’

  ‘Yes, I do. How wonderfully astute of you, knowing I want to tell you something rather than ask a question. I imagine you were a magnificent policeman. Can you guess what it is, Frank? I think you can. I saw your photograph. You look extremely capable. Go on, give it a whirl.’

  ‘Let me have a moment.’ Frank cupped his hand once more. He lowered his head, studying the floor as if searching its dusty, scratched-to-hell surface for inspiration. The silence in the room was overwhelming. Then he lifted his hand and said, in a tired, resigned voice ‘You want to offer us one of the girls, don’t you, Oscar?’

  ‘Brilliant.’ Applause rang out through the speakers. ‘I knew you could do it, Frank.’

  ‘Dead or alive?’ Frank asked. He closed his eyes.

  ‘Ah. Maybe that depends on you. Then again, maybe not. You will have to wait and see, Frank. You and your merry boys in blue.’

  ‘Tell me where.’

  ‘Don’t rush me, Frank. You may be short of time, but I have plenty to spare.’

  ‘I’m sorry. At your own pace.’

  ‘We’ll talk again, won’t we, Frank? I’ve so enjoyed our little chat.’

  ‘If that’s what you want, Oscar. I’ll be here for you if you want to let off a little more steam.’

  ‘This could be the start of a beautiful friendship.’

  ‘I doubt it.’

  The man chuckled one more time. ‘You could be right. Still, your loss. I can be fascinating. Tell me, Frank, where does it hurt the most? The pain of losing the mother of your children, the knowledge of how your son suffered before his life was ended, the uncertainty over what has become of your daughter …where does that pain gather most of all in the dead of night to gnaw at your insides?’

  Frank took a deep breath. The truth was there was no single place. The pain filled him completely. It ate away at his heart and soul, rampaged through his blood and fed upon the marrow of his bones. ‘I won’t discuss that with you,’ he said.

  ‘Oh, I think you will. When the moment is right. I think you’ll discuss anything with me given the right circumstances.’

  Then he told Frank where to find the girl and ended the call.

  Minutes later, Frank was still sitting at the desk, sweat running down from his hairline. The incident room was buzzing once more. Foster and several others were already out of the unit, tyres screeching and kicking up clouds of dust and gravel as their vehicles sped away. Frank felt a hand press down on his shoulder. He looked up, eyes moist.

  ‘Come on, Frank,’ Nicky said. ‘Let’s go. Foster will want to be the first on the scene. But there’s no reason why you can’t be in on it.’

  Frank nodded and got to his feet. ‘Yes. Let’s go. But don’t hurry. There’s really no need. No need at all. She’s dead, Nicky. We can’t help her now, whoever she is.’

  ‘You don’t know that.’

  ‘Oh, but I do.’

  ‘Not for certain.’

  ‘The girl is dead, Nicky. Believe me.’

  Frank felt his friend’s close scrutiny, saw him nod his head. He believed.

  Frank knew he was right. The girl was dead. And part of him thought that just maybe the caller was being deliberately cruel and sadistic. That just maybe, despite the promise of more verbal jousting, the dead girl might be Laura.

  17

  Sebastian Reeves carefully sealed the child’s hands and feet in paper bags – his chosen method of ensuring he preserved the oils on her fingers and any traces of dirt or debris that may have adhered to her skin or got caught up under the nails. A series of photographs had been taken of the body from several angles and distances. The area around her had been vacuumed and photographed, the entire scene-of-crime operation caught on digital video for later analysis. The evidence collected at this stage of any investigation often proved not only a vital link to the perpetrator, but also essential in their subsequent conviction. It was crucial to maintain the chain of evidence, and to provide as much visual information as possible. Verbal descriptions were one thing, but nothing made a juror reflect quite like seeing the scene for themselves.

  The SOC was that of a surreal horror story. Bunting and tinsel in an array of dazzling colours hung from steel struts, streamers and balloons had been taped to brick columns, and dotted evenly across the floor stood candles of all shapes, sizes and odours. And in the centre, lay the naked, mutilated corpse of a girl yet to reach her teenage years.

  It was not Laura Rogers.

  The abandoned warehouse on the edge of a business estate in Tottenham, north London, echoed with the dull nois
e of movement and muted voices. Despite this, Frank was acutely aware of the sound DS Tom Whelan’s leather-soled shoes made as he descended the concrete steps down to where both Frank and Nicky waited. Whelan’s face was as white as the overalls that he and the scene of crime officers wore.

  The DS swallowed hard a few times before saying, ‘It looks as if the bastard may have tortured her unmercifully before she died, and then seems to have taken tools of some description to her dead body when he dumped her here. There’s no blood to speak of, but plenty of tissue and what looks like … like bone dust.’ He hung his head, shook it slowly, as if shamed on behalf of mankind. No crashing waves were going to pull him out of this. ‘What kind of an animal would do such a thing?’

  Nicky looked up from his notebook. ‘An animal wouldn’t. This bastard’s the genuine article. A real fucking monster.’

  Whelan slowly clambered out of his whites, leaning against a brick wall for support. ‘What did he sound like, Frank?’ He had been elsewhere when the call came in.

  Frank thought about it for a second or two. ‘Composed. Self-assured. Arrogant. Egotistical. Everything I’d expected, and more. He’s too damned confident, Tom. Way too sure of himself. One thing I know for certain, he doesn’t believe he’ll be caught.’

  The sergeant threw his coverall onto the warehouse floor. His face creased by anger. ‘None of them ever do.’

  ‘Sure. But he’s up to number seven now. You’re no closer to him than any of the other murder squads around the country have been. You and they have all the information at hand, but still there’s so little to work with. He leaves you nothing. At least, nothing he doesn’t care to.’