The Ultimate Selection: Be Careful Who You Talk To

by S. J. Wardell

  ‘Dan, can you give us your gut feeling on the cause of death? A serious answer would be welcome,’ McFarland demanded, rejoining the conversation.

  ‘Severe lacerations to throat and abdomen causing haemorrhaging. Death inevitable, due to massive blood loss,’ the short stubby man answered with a hardened sadness.

  ‘Was the deceased tortured?’ Terry asked.

  ‘I don’t know, I’ll be able to tell you more when I get him on the slab. All I can tell you is this – he meant to kill him.’

  ‘Thanks Dan. We’ll talk later.’

  ‘Nice to see you Terry.’ The forensic scientist smiled – pleased that Terry was back – though he was puzzled as to what the capacity of Terry’s return was.

  ‘What is your gut telling you now?’ McFarland enquired.

  ‘No fucking idea, though, at the moment, I think there is a link. We need to go and talk to him… now!’ Terry told McFarland, already making his way out towards the car.

  ‘Hold on, hold on. I’ve got to make a phone call first. You can’t just go walking in there,’ McFarland told Terry.

  ‘Phone away. Let’s go! Thanks again Dan,’ Terry replied, waving his gratitude in gesture. ‘And while you’re on the phone, talk to whoever it is you need to talk to and tell them to arrange for this leash to be removed.’

  ‘Leash?’ McFarland replied blankly.

  ‘I don’t need to be walked. I’m going to need more independence and freedom – freedom to roam.’

  ‘I’ll see what I can do.’

  ‘Just do it. Please, mate.’

  Both men remained silent for the whole journey, their minds in overdrive.

  McFarland parked around the rear of the building – the press had camped outside the front and Terry needed to remain off their radar. Both men entered the building using an entrance only the well-informed knew about.

  ‘How are you, Ted?’ McFarland said to the sixty-something-year-old desk sergeant.

  ‘I’m OK, and you?’ Was the half-hearted response from the grey-haired man, clock-watching until his retirement alarm bell rang.

  ‘Over-worked, under-loved.’ Both men chuckled. ‘Well, you know why we’re here, don’t you?’

  ‘Yes, you’ll have to wait whilst I get someone to take you to an interview room.’

  Both men nodded. Whoever it was that McFarland had phoned was extremely powerful within The Met. Terry had not needed to introduce himself. He thought that his past may have helped, or maybe the desk sergeant thought that he was there on behalf of Thames Television.

  A young WPC escorted them down to the long narrow corridor; then she directed them into an interview room.

  ‘Good luck!’ was all she said.

  As both men walked into the interview room, they noticed that Martin was sitting at the table, his head resting in his hands. He did not bother to look up to see who had entered the room.

  ‘Hello Martin. Are you waiting for legal representation?’ McFarland said, opening the conversation.

  ‘No!’ Was all he got in return, Martin was not in the mood for talking. He looked exhausted.

  ‘Would you like someone to represent you?’ McFarland tried again.

  ‘No thanks.’

  ‘Would you like something to eat or drink? How about a cigarette?’

  ‘I don’t need anything,’ he said with his head still placed in his hands, his emotions the same.

  ‘You know why we’re here, don’t you?’

  ‘Yeah I’ve got a good idea. But I haven’t been charged yet… why?’

  ‘We need to clarify a few things first,’ Terry said, joining the conversation.

  ‘You’re that reporter off the telly aren’t you?’

  ‘That’s right, but I’m also here trying to help the police piece this jigsaw together.’

  ‘Terry Bane, from the news?’ Martin said.

  ‘We’re here to talk to you about your dead brother-in-law, Martin.’

  ‘Yeah, I did it, though only to save myself,’ Martin replied.

  ‘I need you to tell me what happened,’ Terry said. ‘Tell me what you know.’ Both men sat down, Terry chose to sit directly in front of Martin.

  ‘I woke up chained to a railing in a fucking car park. Hector…Hector… my dead brother-in-law, who was still alive at the time, was chained to another railing.’

  ‘Take your time,’ Terry said, reassuringly.

  ‘Hector was already there, like I said. We waited and this guy appeared dressed in a black suit, the suit was stuck to his skin. He wore a mask, but the kind I’ve never seen before. It was like his face, but it wasn’t his face. Anyway, he had made Hector swallow a key, the key to the chain around my ankle.’

  ‘Do you know how you got there? Were you snatched in your sleep?’

  ‘Yeah, I must’ve been. I’d been out on the lash, so I don’t even remember going to bed.’

  ‘Do you live alone, Martin?’

  ‘No, I live with my bird,’ Martin paused, ‘but I’d been out with my mate, Greg, and I’d planned on crashing at his place, but I honestly don’t remember leaving the pub.’ Martin sobbed gently.

  ‘Did you see Hector swallow the key?’ Terry asked.

  ‘No.’

  ‘OK, please continue,’ Terry smiled.

  ‘He then started telling me all kinds of fucked up shit… about Hector and my sister.’

  ‘What kind of things, Martin?’

  ‘I don’t wanna go into that now.’

  ‘Are you OK to continue, or would you like a break?’ McFarland interrupted.

  ‘I’m OK. Can I have a cup of tea, two sugars, and a fag? I’ll go outside and smoke it if you like?’ Martin asked, smiling, raising his hand to his face and wiping a tear that was trickling down his cheek. His hand trembled.

  ‘You can smoke in here. Nice try though, can’t let you go outside just yet.’ McFarland used the phone on the wall to order the prisoners request, which arrived within moments.

  ‘You can keep the packet, but I’ll need the lighter,’ McFarland said, trying to wear a pleasant smile. He found it difficult to smile whilst he was at work, the seriousness of his job did not allow him that luxury.

  ‘Thanks,’ Martin quietly replied as the prisoner lit up a cigarette, savouring the nicotine that entered his body. The comfort of the hot sweet tea lifted him although the reality of the situation quickly returned.

  ‘Do you know why you were taken there?’ Terry wanted to keep the questioning going.

  ‘Yeah, to kill Hector.’

  ‘What did this man say to you?’

  ‘He made Hector swallow the key to the handcuffs around my ankle and said if I wanted to live I had to cut him open to get the key.’ Martin blatantly ignored the question.

  ‘What were you supposed to cut Hector open with?’

  ‘He gave me a blade.’

  ‘Hector is in a right old state. Who did that to him?’

  ‘I did.’

  ‘A bit erratic, the guy looks like he’s been mutilated, when the key would have obviously been in his stomach, Martin.’

  ‘I lost it… my temper I mean – I kicked the fuck out of him before I cut him, OK?’

  ‘Was he abusing your sister?’

  ‘Yeah, you could say that.’

  ‘So this guy told you that Hector was abusing your sister and you believed him. Why?’

  ‘Cos Hector didn’t deny it. That bastard had it coming.’

  ‘But you would have had to kill him to get the key – so why mutilate him?’

  ‘I told you, I lost it… I freaked out!’ Martin snapped.

  Terry looked at Martin, allowing for silence to cool the air. He wanted to test Martin.

  ‘Tell me more about this man. What he looked like, what he was wearing, how he spoke, anything you think might help us with our enquiries.’

  ‘OK, he wore a black rubber suit, black boots, like boxing boots, and a mask. The mask looked like it was his real face, but it wasn’t. He was fuckin
g strong and fit. He spoke sort of posh at times. He seemed polite, well-spoken, with a funny twang, and then at other times he was a right bastard. He didn’t fuck about, he meant business.’

  ‘What makes you say he was fit?’ That comment had intrigued Terry.

  ‘His build was very muscular, shaped… you know, defined, cut, well-cut, not an ounce of fat. The sort that lifted a lot of weights.’

  ‘I hope you don’t mind me saying this Martin, but you look like the sort of fella that can handle yourself.’

  ‘I’m no mug, if that’s what you mean.’

  ‘I’ve seen Hector, listen I don’t think you’re a mug.’

  ‘He was slick and skilful.’

  ‘So you woke up there. How did he get you there? Did he abduct you from your bed while you slept?’ Terry asked, wanting to test Martin’s previous answer.

  ‘I think I stayed at a mate’s place. We’d been out on the lash, I’ve already told you this.’

  ‘What’s your mate called?’

  ‘Greg O’Hara. We used to work together on the bins, before he went on the sweep.’

  ‘Where does this Greg O’Hara live?’

  ‘On Empire Way, Wembley.’

  ‘Get me an address please,’ Terry asked McFarland.

  McFarland used his mobile phone, and whispered into the mouth piece.

  ‘Got it,’ he replied seconds later.

  ‘So you went out with Greg O’Hara and had a skinfull. At the end of the night, you went back to his and crashed out – woke up in the multi-storey and you can’t remember anything in-between?’

  ‘I’ve told you all I know…’

  ‘I don’t believe you have, Martin. Did he say anything else to you?’ Terry asked, leaning forward in his chair.

  ‘He fucking didn’t shut up! I can’t remember everything, he went on about choices and how fucking choices change everything.’ Martin was starting to feel pressured.

  ‘Who killed Hector?’ Terry decided to throw the question back at Martin once more.

  ‘I did,’ Martin answered swiftly, shaking his head in disbelief on hearing his answer.

  ‘Did this man make you kill Hector?’

  ‘No!’

  ‘What made you kill Hector?’

  ‘If I hadn’t, I’d still be there with him and I would’ve died with him. No one would have found us there, would they? That car park was gonna be demolished, with us in it!’ Martin was trying to justify his actions as he fought back the tears.

  ‘So you…’ Terry tried to gather his thoughts, ‘had to kill Hector in order to save your own life?’

  ‘That’s about it. Listen, Hector raped my sister. He raped men too. He was a nasty piece of shit. If I’d found all this out on a different day, fuck knows what I would’ve done to him… I might have killed him. But, in that car park, I didn’t have a choice, I had to save myself. You would’ve done the same thing.’

  ‘Let’s hope I never have to find out, Martin.’

  ‘So I am going to be banged up for this then?’

  ‘If we can find the man in the rubber suit, your sentence may be reduced to involuntary manslaughter.’

  ‘Without him we have nothing,’ McFarland confirmed.

  ‘If there is anything else you think of please let someone know and we’ll come back and listen,’ Terry said, standing up. McFarland used the phone on the wall to alert the officer outside the room that they had finished talking to the prisoner.

  ‘Do me a favour and catch that bastard before he does someone else,’ Martin called to the two men and he was led out of the room.

  ‘He already has done someone else,’ McFarland said quietly to himself.

  Terry overheard the comment and thought the same as his Scottish partner.

  ‘We are going to have to warn the public – make a statement to the press,’ McFarland said.

  ‘That’s what the bastard wants. You need to tell the gaffer and then it’s his call. I’d advise him against it.’

  ‘Listen, Terry, we’ve got ourselves a serial killer running around,’ McFarland said with a bemused look.

  ‘That’s where you’re wrong McFarland. He hasn’t killed anybody yet!’

  McFarland took his mobile phone from his pocket and began to dial a number from the listed memory.

  ‘Hello, sir,’ he said into the phone’s receiver, ‘I need a meet with you.’

  ‘OK, how urgent is it?’ was the response.

  ‘There’s been another killing. It’s all pointing in the direction of the same guy who wears the black suit.’

  ‘OK, meet me in the coffee shop outside Regent Street tube station in about an hour… bring Terry with you.’ The voice on the other end did not wait for confirmation, he simply ended the call there.

  McFarland looked at Terry and spoke. ‘Regent Street Coffee Shop, in an hour…’

  ‘Nothing changes, does it?’ Terry replied, with a smirk on his face.

  ‘He wants you there too.’

  ‘In for a penny, as they say?’

  ***

  The two detectives sat with the tall, hard-looking man drinking coffee. The tall man, McFarland’s boss, and the sole point of contact in this case, had agreed with Terry in the first instance, though he had now decided that a press release was the natural course of action.

  ‘I’ll arrange a press release for this afternoon. McFarland, I want you there. You can answer whatever I don’t.’

  McFarland nodded.

  ‘Terry you can’t be there for obvious reasons. Though we may soon have to allow you to surface.’

  ‘I’ll watch it from home, with respect, sir.’

  ‘Cutting to the chase, Terry, this is my call and I’m calling it. If we don’t warn the public and this does leak, they’ll be all over us like a pack of rats. People will start asking questions, the first of which will be about you. I am not willing to put my career on the line because you may have a gut feeling, Terry. You both know the procedure here. I have to follow protocol. There have been two murders; all we’re doing is confirming that they are linked.’

  ‘You’ll do what you think is right – avoidance is better than cure,’ Terry said, privately gritting his teeth.

  ‘Has someone informed the next of kin?’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ McFarland replied, ‘hopefully this press release will prompt the guy in the rubber suit to make contact,’ he added.

  ‘He won’t. He’s not doing this for the glory, he’s doing this for personal reasons. He doesn’t want to get caught, that’s why he’s being so careful, that’s the reason for wearing black –concealment – a black rubber suit, think about it. He’s not left any trace of himself at either of the two crime scenes, has he? We are totally blind with this one and he knows it. He’s playing with us and he’s good at it. The way he’s doing it tells us that he’s in charge; he’s not randomly selecting these people, his victims – or, if the truth be told – the victims of others. They’ve been carefully researched. The first was a drunk who beat his girlfriend, the second was a man who led a double a life and let’s not forget he also abused his wife. There might be a link there. If we catch him before he orchestrates another murder, what could we charge him with? From what we’ve been told, he hasn’t told either of the two to kill. He hasn’t directly threatened anyone, he does it indirectly.’ Terry was only trying to point out the obvious, his frustration building.

  ‘Do you respect this guy?’ McFarland’s boss enquired.

  ‘I think he’s very clever and calculating, but to answer your question, no I don’t respect him in what he’s doing, but I respect his planning… I’m only trying to say that he’s going to be hard to catch.’

  ‘So that’s your psychological profile of this man, Terry?’

  ‘That’s just how I see him and what he’s done. Try to think about the planning that must have been involved. These weren’t random.’

  ‘Terry, hold on a minute, you’re saying that he wants the press coverage and then you’
re saying he doesn’t. Make your mind up, what is it?’ McFarland seemed puzzled by Terry’s last statement.

  ‘I didn’t say that. You’re not listening,’ Terry said scratching his head.

  ‘We’re going to have to follow procedure here,’ the boss said.

  ‘OK, please humour me. What are you going to tell them? We’ve got two murders that are linked, and the man who orchestrated these horrendous crimes actually did what? Orchestrated?’

  ‘You are not going to change my mind, Terry. We follow procedure. That matter is closed. Am I clear on that?’

  Terry nodded. ‘We tell them the facts.’

  McFarland looked at him giving him a sideways glance. Terry returned the look shaking his head with frustration and confusion.

  ‘I wish you luck, mate.’

  ‘Piece of cake,’ McFarland said, not reassuringly.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Sitting slightly out of sight, amongst a few homeless people, Greg viewed the comings and goings of his latest crime scene.

  ‘Do you want some?’ a homeless man enquired, offering Greg a bottle.

  ‘No thanks – too early for me.’

  ‘It’s never too early or never too late, too late to go back home and patch things up.’

  ‘I know,’ Greg replied, ‘I just need time.’

  ‘Just don’t let the grass grow under your feet,’ the homeless man smiled; his toothless smile seemed friendly.

  Greg returned to his surveillance.

  ‘I know you,’ Greg said, spotting Terry exit McFarland’s car.

  ‘What?’ the homeless man asked.

  Greg simply ignored the question, choosing to stand and walk away from the stench of stale body odour and infested filth.

  Removing his mobile phone from his pocket, he quickly accessed the internet, searching for a phone number for Thames Television. Within moments, a number appeared. He selected the direct dial option and waited for an answer – all he got was an out-of-office robotic answer machine.

  Three hours later, Greg tried the phone number again.

  ‘Thames Television, how can I direct your call?’ a female telephonist answered.

  ‘Terry Bane, please,’ Greg replied, using his alter ego’s accent; already putting a name to the face he had seen earlier that morning.