“Before or after he was killed?” Maria asked, calmly.
“Doc Nugent thinks the mutilations were all carried out post-mortem, apart from the penis, maybe. The man's throat had been slashed, cut almost through to the spine, and he was almost definitely dead before the killer hacked him to bits.”
Maria's face registered a mixture of shock and sympathy at Ross's gruesome revelation.
“That must have been a terrible thing to see, my darling. I'm sorry you had to be there.”
“That's my job, isn't it? Clearing up the mess the criminal fraternity leave behind themselves. It then turned out the victim was a convicted rapist. We thought at first he might have been killed by someone connected to his victim but we moved fast to interview her and her friends and relatives and there's no way I can see them being involved. So, we're back to square one.”
Maria moved to her husband and, standing behind him, placed her hands on the back of his neck and slowly began to massage his tense and taut muscles. It was something she always did when he was stressed from a hard day at work and gradually, he began to relax a little.
“I love you, Maria Ross,” he spoke quietly as her hands gently eased away the tension in his neck muscles.
“I love you too, Andy Ross,” she whispered as she bent down and kissed the top of his head gently.
“Better stop before I nod off,” Ross said as he felt his eyes beginning to droop.
“Why don't you go and take a shower and freshen up while I cook us something?”
“Good idea,” he agreed, as he heaved himself up from his chair, kissed Maria tenderly on the lips he loved so much and walked from the room. As she heard him walk up the stairs to the bathroom, Maria thought, not for the first time, of how lucky she considered herself to have Andy Ross as a husband. She'd fallen for him almost from the first time she'd met him, and that love had never diminished. She loved his olive tinted skin, the result of his distant Anglo-Indian-Portuguese ancestry, and his intense dark brown eyes, with a head of luxuriant dark brown hair that was only just beginning to show a hint of grey as he approached his late forties. Equally, she knew Andy cared just as much for her. He never ceased to compliment her on her long, blonde hair, blue eyes, and her lips, always a prime target for his kisses. She'd kept herself in shape and still had a figure that many women half her age would have craved.
Daydream over, Maria set to work and quickly prepared a meal of spaghetti bolognaise for the two of them. After dinner, the pair snuggled up together on the large four-seater sofa in their lounge, her head resting on his chest as they relaxed together, watching TV for a while, and then listening to music for an hour until tiredness began to summon them both to bed.
“Doctor Ross prescribes an early night, Inspector,” she whispered quietly in his ear.
“I'm happy to go along with your prescription, Doctor,” he replied.
“You lock up down here, then go and get into bed, Andy. I'll grab a quick shower and be with you in ten minutes. If you're a good boy, the doctor might prescribe a spot of intimate massage, if you follow my meaning,” she grinned at him.
“Mmm, sounds good to me. Don't be long in the shower. I'll be waiting.”
They rose from the sofa, Maria quickly heading upstairs for her shower. Andy went round each room ensuring all the windows were locked, and then finally making sure the front and back doors were locked and the security alarm switched on, finally following his wife up the stairs.
“Don't be long, darling,” he shouted, as he quickly undressed and jumped into bed.
“Two minutes,” Maria shouted from the en-suite bathroom. Shower over; Maria quickly removed the shower cap that had kept her hair dry, shaking her hair loose, allowing to cascade down, creating a look of wilful abandon. Pefect, she thought. Now wasn't the time for washing her hair and spending fifteen minutes with the hair dryer, certainly not for what she had in mind. Although she and Andy slept in the nude, she reached up and took a slinky, narrow strapped satin negligee from a hook behind the bathroom door. She knew her husband enjoyed the feel of the satin against her skin and removing it was one of his special sensual pleasures. A quick look in the mirror, a brush through her hair and Maria was ready. After the kind of day he'd endured, Andy deserved a little pleasure, and she was intent on providing it.
She exited the bathroom and softly padded, barefoot across the bedroom to where Andy lay, on his side, facing away from her. She smoothed the chemise down as she moved closer and lifted the edge of the duvet. Sliding in beside and behind him, Maria softly whispered in his ear, “I've got something special for you, big boy”
Receiving no reply and no response, she reached her right arm across her husband's body, allowing her hand to gently stroke his manhood.
“Are you kidding me?” she asked, and then realised he wasn't. Andy Ross was fast asleep.
* * *
“Don't stop, Oh god, please, don't stop.”
Izzie Drake lay beneath Peter Foster, her legs apart and wrapped tightly round him as he approached his own climax. Izzie could feel the beginnings of her own orgasm as she urged him on, until he gasped, grunted and cried out a loud “Yes,” as he spilled his seed deep within her. Feeling his penis throb and swell within her as he came, Izzie's own orgasm burst through the barriers of her own expectant passion and she herself cried out in ecstasy as the strength of the orgasm overwhelmed her, shutting out all other feelings and sensations until, slowly, as Peter sighed loudly, she released him from the intense leg lock she held his body in and allowed her legs to fall languidly and lewdly apart, knees slightly raised, as the lovers allowed themselves a few moments of breathless respite.
“Bloody hell, Izzie. You're amazing!” Peter exclaimed, having finally got his breath back enough to speak.
“You're not so bad yourself,” she grinned up at him, before pulling his face down and planting a long, lingering kiss on his lips.
The pair had spent the evening at Peter's two-bedroomed apartment in a fairly new mid-priced development overlooking the docks. He'd bought it the previous year after inheriting a reasonably generous legacy from his always doting grandmother, who'd brought him up herself after his parents had died in a car crash when the young Paul Foster was ten years old. Her death from liver disease had hit him hard at the time, and his relationship with the pretty police sergeant had helped him greatly in his recovery from the initial grief at her passing. He and Izzie had enjoyed a takeaway from the local Indian restaurant before falling into bed together, Izzie virtually ripping his clothes off as she pulled him to into the bedroom.
“You're not usually quite so…intense,” he observed, tactfully, as Izzie eventually eased herself out from beneath him, pulling herself up to a sitting position beside him.
“Not complaining, are you?”
“Hey, no way. Just wondering what I've done to deserve such a treat, that's all.”
Izzie sighed before replying.
“I think it was just such a shit day at work today, Paul. I've never seen a body mutilated in that way. I mean, come on, you might not have seen it when it was brought in, but you must have heard what the killer did to Remington.”
“Oh, yes, it was quite the talk of the office when we heard the details. I was glad I'm only employed on the admin side of things, so I can imagine a little bit of what you're getting at. I don't know how you can look at stuff like that every day and not be physically sick,” he said.
“I felt like being sick, for sure, but I held on, I'm glad to say. We don't get to see that kind of thing often to be honest. Most murders are nothing like that, maybe a simple gunshot, or sometimes a stabbing or strangulation, but this was different, and to be honest, when we found out just what Remington had done in the past, I found it hard to feel too much sympathy for him.”
“That's only natural, Izzie. You're only human, after all, and a gorgeous young woman too. You must feel a certain empathy with the girl he attacked.”
“That's true, and Peter?”
“Yes?”
“Thanks for being so kind and understanding.”
“Come here,” he said and as she turned to face him, he kissed her long and hard, the kiss carrying a welter of emotion that carried Izzie back from her thoughts of work and once again turned her on to the romantic and erotic feelings they'd been sharing up until a few moments ago.
“Peter?” she gasped as she pulled her lips away long enough to talk.
“Uh huh?”
“Take me to the moon again.”
“My pleasure,” he grinned, pushing her down onto her back once more.
Izzie Drake needed no prompting as she opened her legs to welcome her lover into her body and into her very soul once again. As Peter Foster began to make love to her for the second time, a thought entered her mind, and for the first time, she realised…she was in love.
The couple soon fell asleep, though they woke twice in the night and indulged in repeats of their earlier lovemaking. Whatever the following day might bring, for now, at least, Izzie Drake was at peace with herself and with the world, the Matthew Remingtons of the world banished to the tiniest corner of her consciousness.
* * *
Sweat poured from every pore of Father Gerald Byrne's body. The sight of Mark Proctor, screaming in terror, and the sight of his blood, flowing in a torrent from a vicious head wound filled his mind until he thought his brain would swell and burst from his skull. Even then, his arm acted as though independent of his body, rising and falling in an arc of destruction as he wielded the heavy sword, one of two that usually hung in a display at the bishop's palace, the crossed swords being relics from the days of the crusades, so it was said. If this was indeed a crusader's weapon, it was enjoying a vicious renaissance in the hands of this twenty-first century warrior-priest.
As his arm finally tired, and the weight of the sword caused it to fall limply at his side, the bloodied blade pointing at the blood-soaked ground, Byrne finally allowed himself to stop, his chest heaving, and he surveyed his work. Little remained of Proctor's skull, his chest a gaping maw and the blood seeping from under the corpse until it appeared to be floating on a miniature lake of deep crimson.
That Proctor was dead, there could be no doubt, so, when the cadaver suddenly sat up, the bloodied, shattered head turning towards him, Gerald Byrne recoiled in abject fear. The hideously torn lips, the toothless mouth began to move and Proctor, impossibly, spoke,
“Gerry, oh Gerry, what on earth have you done? You'll be in trouble for this, you know you will.”
Byrne screamed, a scream so loud it reverberated from the walls of his bedroom, so loud in fact that it woke him from his dream, or was it a nightmare? He really was sweating as he sat upright in bed, looked around him, recognising the familiar fixtures and fittings of his own bedroom, the dressing table, the wardrobe, the paisley-patterned quilt on his bed. Gerald Byrne forced himself out of the bed, and padded across the room to the dressing table, where he paused to view his reflection in the mirror. “Holy Mother of God, Gerald,” he spoke to himself, “you truly look like shit, my friend.”
Byrne almost staggered from his bedroom, making his way to the bathroom at the end of the landing, where he splashed cold water on his face and neck until he began to feel less wretched and more like his self again.
As he prepared to walk out of the bathroom, he became aware of an urgent knocking on his bedroom door, and he heard David Willis's voice calling out to him.
“Father Byrne, are you alright in there? Father, please open the door.”
“I'm here, David,” he said as he exited the bathroom, stepping out onto the landing. He realised his shouting must have woken the young priest, whose own bedroom was just along the landing from his own.
“Oh, thank the good Lord,” Willis exclaimed, standing at the bedroom door in his red tartan dressing gown and matching carpet slippers, his blue striped pyjama bottoms protruding from the hem of the robe. “Was it a nightmare, Father? I was worried when I woke to hear you screaming so loudly. At first I thought someone had broken in and was attacking you.”
Byrne walked up to Willis and placed a reassuring hand on the younger man's shoulder.
“Yes, David, it was just a nightmare, nothing to worry about. I probably shouldn't have enjoyed the biscuits and cheese so much after dinner. I've often heard that cheese can be the cause of bad dreams if eaten in excess before bedtime.”
“Well, if you're sure you're alright, Father?”
“I'm fine, really, David. I'm sorry to have disturbed your sleep. You go and get yourself back to bed.”
“Right, okay then, Father. I'll say good night again, then.”
“Yes, goodnight, David, sleep well, and I'm sorry, once again.”
Father Willis smiled a slightly worried smile as he headed back to his room, and turned round just before entering the bedroom but Father Byrne had already disappeared into his own bedroom, closing the door virtually silently.
Back in bed again a few minutes later, Gerald Byrne laid his head back on his pillows, closing his eyes, and allowed himself to slowly drift back to sleep. Just before sleep claimed him however, he found himself thinking,
Couldn't have happened to a more deserving case.
Chapter 9
Escalation
Every member of the investigation team was on time for the morning briefing, so much so that Andy Ross was the last to arrive, and he was ten minutes early! Acknowledging the greetings of his fellow officers, Ross felt good about himself this morning. Although he'd fallen into a deep sleep the previous night, depriving himself of the immense pleasure of a steamy lovemaking session with Maria, she'd made sure he was wide awake at five-thirty a.m. as Ross felt himself being gently coaxed into the mood by the tender ministrations of his wife's nimble fingers. What he'd missed last night, Maria was determined to make up for that morning. The sex was steamy alright, as his wife made sure they both extracted maximum pleasure from the thirty minutes they dared devote to each other before rising to begin the day. He hoped he could hide the self-satisfied grin that he felt was a sure giveaway to his team, but nobody appeared to notice, he thought.
Izzie Drake was at the front of the room, in conversation with collator, Paul Ferris, the pair of them standing in front of the whiteboard.
“Morning, sir,” Izzie said as she turned to him. My God, she looks like the cat that got the cream, Ross thought as he looked at his sergeant's face and recognised the gleam in her eye as a sure-fire tell-tale sign.
“Good night, last night, Izzie?” he asked, looking straight in the eye, and Izzie instantly knew that he knew exactly what she and Peter Foster were doing the previous night.
“Very good, sir, thank you. And you?”
“Oh yes, very good, thank you, Sergeant. Very good indeed.”
That was enough. The almost telepathic connection between Ross and his Sergeant meant that he realised she could read him as well as he read her. Seems like both master and apprentice had found the ideal outlet to release the tension and the stress of the previous day's gruesome discovery.
“Right then, that's good, so, let's get this show on the road, shall we?”
Within five minutes, Ross had summarised the efforts of the previous day, ending by thanking everyone for their hard work and professionalism in managing to complete a major slice of investigative procedure in one day. He praised Paul Ferris for helping George Thompson put together a Press Release that said very little, just enough to keep the press hounds at bay for a day or two while they attempted to press forward with the investigation, and then moved on to the orders for the day.
“We might not have unearthed a viable suspect as yet, but I think it's safe to say we've eliminated any connection between Remington's murder and the rape of Claire Morris. So, as I said yesterday, we go back into his past, and we dig, dig deep into anything and everything that man did in his life that might have some bearing on what happened yesterday. Someone held a pathological hatred for Mathew
Remington. They must have done to have killed him and mutilated him as they did. We have to find out what he did to bring about such hatred.”
“Any ideas where to start, sir?” asked 'Tony' Curtis.
“At the beginning of course, Tony,” Ross replied. “D.C. Ferris will start the ball rolling by digging up his birth certificate. Paul, I want you to trace his early years, find out where he went to school, if he had any reported problems with other kids, or his teachers, that kind of thing.”
“Okay, sir. I'll get to work right away, though I do know from the file on his arrest that he was an orphan with no known relatives, so we can eliminate the family angle right away,” Ferris replied.
“Fair enough,” said Ross, “concentrate on the rest. Sam, Derek, you two work together and go back to Remington's time in the nick. Speak to the prison governor, any of the prison offices who were there at the time. Bear in mind I don't know what we're looking for, but it's possible he upset someone badly while he was banged up. We know he was segregated from the general prison population because of the nature of his offence, but we haven't yet considered the fact he may have done something to upset someone who wasn't a prisoner.”
“Bloody hell, sir. You think a prison officer might have done it?”
“I don't know, Derek, but I'm not discounting anything at this time.”
What about me, sir?” Izzie asked.
Before Ross could reply, the door of the conference room was opened and the figure of D.C.I. Harry Porteous stood there, framed by the doorway. His words sent an immediate chill down the spine of everyone in the room.
“We've had another one, and it's even worse than Remington.”
* * *
Andy Ross's mouth fell open in shock, Izzie Drake looked as though someone had smacked her across the face and rest of the team froze where they sat or stood, unable to quite comprehend this latest shocking news.
The detective chief inspector strode to the front of the room and stood beside Ross before speaking again.
All Saints- Murder on the Mersey Page 9