‘Only when I’m around you.’ Ray stood, wrapped his arms around her waist. Smiled. ‘Been working on my speech today.’
‘Is it gushy?’
‘It is the Niagra Falls of gushy speeches.’
Her flesh tingled as Ray gently kissed her nose. The contact felt good. Needed. She wanted more of it, but without the images of bloodied bodies and abused young girls clawing inside her head.
She wrapped her arms around Ray’s waist and buried her face in his shoulder. Held tight until she heard the front door open. She looked up to see Chloe enter the house. Remembered her meeting with Jed earlier today, and felt her cheeks flush with shame as she braced herself for her daughter’s imminent breakdown.
‘How goes it stranger?’ Ray greeted from over her shoulder.
Chloe stepped into the room, slung her bag onto the floor. ‘I’m single.’
Jessop eased away from Ray’s embrace. ‘You okay?’
A shrug.
‘What happened?’ Ray pried in a soft tone.
‘I dumped him.’
Jessop jolted. ‘You dumped him?’
‘We weren’t going anywhere. Suppose it’d just run its course. Shit happens, right?’
Remembering what Brooke had said about looking top left to visualise actual events instead of making them up, Jessop searched her daughter’s eyes for any tells she was lying. That maybe she was saying this just to save face when the reality was Jed had done as she had instructed. After a couple of seconds of watching Chloe’s green eyes flicker left to right and back again, she gave up.
Ray said, ‘Sure, honey, that happens all the time. Kudos for being so mature about it, though.’
‘How did Jed take it?’ Jessop asked.
‘He looked relieved.’
‘Then it was for the best,’ Ray said.
Chloe shrugged. ‘Mind if I nick a beer?’
‘Go for it.’ Jessop watched Chloe skulk out of the room.
‘Want me to apply one of my emotional Bandaids?’ Ray offered.
Ray had a doctorate in applying emotional Bandaids, especially where Chloe was concerned. ‘Thanks. But I think I might have a go myself this time.
She entered the kitchen in time to see Chloe taking a long pull from a bottle of San Miguel. ‘Got one for me?’ She knew she shouldn’t but this could be classed as an emergency.
Chloe plucked a bottle from the fridge, opened it and handed it to her mother.
Jessop took the beer, rolled it between her palms. ‘It’s gonna sting for a while you know?’
Chloe stared into her bottle.
‘But I’m proud of you. Takes a lot of guts to do what you did.’
Sipping on her beer, Chloe nodded, more to herself than her mum.
‘You gonna be okay for tomorrow night?’ Tomorrow night was Jessop’s hen night. She hadn’t wanted one, but Brooke had insisted she at least have a couple of drinks with the girls. And the opportunity to spend a rare evening in with her daughter was too great a chance to miss. ‘Reckon you could do with a good old-fashioned girly night.’
‘I’ll be fine. Listen, if it’s cool with you I think I might finish this in my room.’
Before Jessop had a chance to answer, Chloe had bid her goodnight and left the kitchen.
Jessop eyed her beer, convinced Jed had done as she’d asked and broken her daughter’s heart. It was for the greater good, even though tomorrow Chloe would wake up and the world would be a lonelier place.
Maybe it would for her daughter, she thought, but her world would be one person richer, and all the worse for it.
A shiver ran up her spine. She took a swig on the beer. A moment later she’d finished the bottle.
Chapter Thirty-three
Tuesday, October 31st
Catherine Jessop knew what she wanted to be when she grew up. The decision was simple: she was going to be a police detective. It was an ambition she’d kept to herself for reasons only she could justify.
Her adopted parents, her aunty and uncle on her mother’s side, were good, caring people, who had welcomed their orphaned niece into their family with the love and affection they’d shown their own two children. As far as they were concerned, sweet little Cathy wanted to honour her mother’s name and continue with her cake making business. The longer they believed that the better it was for them, Cathy had concluded. Because if they knew the truth then they’d probably figure out why she‘d chosen that particular path and try to dissuade her from her decision. And they would have been right to.
Because the justice she sought would take them all to hell.
Jessop opened her eyes and realised she was lying in the same position as when she’d fallen into bed eight hours ago. She blinked against the dawn light creeping through the curtains and instinctively checked her mobile for missed calls. She was both relieved and disappointed to find there were none. This meant the killer had not struck again, but also, Nathan Randal was still on the run.
Of course, if the killer and Randal were one and the same then he’d be hard pushed to strike so methodically with no resources and nowhere to hide. This was good news. However, she still had to find the bastard. And the longer he stayed invisible the harder that task would be. They may have frozen his accounts and seized his assets, but killers as meticulous as the one she hunted now tended to have a contingency plan for such disruptions. They didn’t just stop killing because they’d been found. The compulsion within them was too strong for that. So they waited and adapted. Sometimes moved on to another town, where another DCI would receive a call in the early hours telling of a butchered victim and a loved one forced to watch and learn.
Unacceptable.
This was her man.
Just as the bastard who had slaughtered her family should have been her man seven years ago.
But she’d missed her chance, hadn’t she?
Yes. But sometimes life gave you a second chance.
The question was: What was she going to do about it?
A sudden surge of adrenaline had her wide awake and kicking off the duvet. She was half way out of the bed when she stopped.
Something felt wrong.
She turned to see Ray huddled beneath his side of the duvet.
With the exception of last night, she couldn’t recall the last time she had risen from bed before Ray. Ray had always proclaimed he did his best writing in the early hours when the brain was refreshed and uncluttered by the day ahead. Over the years his body clock had adjusted to this, meaning his day would always begin at 6.00am, even on weekends.
She checked the alarm clock: 7.02am. Remembered touching Ray’s forehead last night and thinking he felt hot.
She leant across the bed, brushed the lank hair from Ray’s forehead. Could feel the warmth from his head even before she made contact.
Only then did she notice the box of tissues and Paracetamol on his bedside table.
Poor lamb. Man-flu on the day of his stag night.
She smiled to herself. Not that that would stop him propping up the bar with his old band buddy Nick, reminiscing about the band and how they could’ve been as big as Iron Maiden if they hadn’t drank and snorted away their modest success.
She planted a soft kiss on Ray’s hair. Breathed in his musky scent. ‘Gotta go,’ she whispered.
The duvet stirred. From beneath it an arm snaked out, curled around her waist. Ray opened one eye, offered her a sleepy grin. ‘Is there a stiff needing your attention?’
Suppressing a grin, she said, ‘Nope.’
Ray motioned beneath the duvet. ‘I got one, detective.’
She pulled the arm from around her waist, pushed his hand beneath the duvet between his legs. ‘Reckon that’s one stiff you can handle yourself. Besides, you’re poorly.’
Ray groaned playfully. ‘And you’re a prude. Still wanna marry you, though.’
‘Good,’ she said, easing off the side of bed.
‘Let’s be careful out there, huh?’ Ray mumbled.
&nbs
p; Her heart swelled. Of all the endearing habits Ray had adopted since they’d met, quoting the Hill Street Blues signature line before she left for work was her favourite.
She watched her man roll over and close his eyes, then crept from the room onto the landing and hovered outside the closed door to Chloe’s room. She wondered if her daughter was up yet, and if so, would she go to college today and face her ghosts.
After all, it was Halloween, the time to face your demons.
Chapter Thirty-four
Parked in the station’s car park Jessop unwrapped the pack of cigarettes she’d just bought and fingered one out. The little white stick felt instantly familiar between her fingers as she placed the end between her lips and lit up.
This was the first time she’d smoked since learning she was pregnant with Chloe eighteen years ago. On receiving the news, she’d quit her forty a day habit that very morning and had only had the one craving since.
That had been seven years ago. And now, like then, her life was on the precipice of another big change. All she had to do was make one call on the mobile in her palm and get the address. One thirty second conversation that could change the next thirty years of her life.
And make up for the last thirty years of her life.
She cracked a window and inhaled long and deep, relishing the cool smoke caressing the back of her throat and welcoming the rewarding head rush the nicotine delivered. She marvelled at how easy it was for the body to remember, then looked at her thumb twitching over the phone’s keypad.
And how hard it was for the heart to forget.
‘Fuck it.’ She flicked the cigarette out the window and pocketed the phone. She knew already she’d be holding both items again shortly.
Her team was already seated in the war room when she entered. Beside Davies sat a lean man in his late twenties with serious eyes, close cropped hair, and wearing a well-worn brown leather bomber jacket over a creased plaid shirt.
She’d not met her latest temporary recruit, Gary Curtis, in person before, and was a little shocked at how he differed from the file picture she’d seen of him. But then she supposed four years working undercover with a coke habit could have a tendency to change a person’s appearance.
She introduced herself and thanked him for helping out at short notice. Curtis stood and shook her hand with a surprisingly tender grip. Nodded.
Undercover cops were often spare with their words. Choosing your words carefully and keeping quiet until you had to speak were what kept them alive. And breaking that habit was often harder to beat than substance addiction, especially when stuck in a room with four strangers - fellow cops or not.
Jessop took her seat at the head of the table, placed her mobile on the table next to her cup of coffee. ‘Any sightings?’ she asked the room.
‘None,’ Mason answered with quiet frustration.
‘Both last night and this morning’s news ran his picture, along with both local papers,’ Brooke said.
‘What about the hospital?’ Jessop asked.
‘They’re circulating his picture.’
‘Door to door?’
Mason shook his head. ‘No one saw him after we lost him.’
Just disappeared into thin air, she thought. Just as the killer does.
‘City Living Properties has almost two hundred properties on their books.’ All eyes turned to the new voice in the room. Surprising to Jessop, the attention didn’t seem to faze Curtis. ‘Thirty of those properties are vacant, and Nathan has access to all the keys if he’s ballsy enough to walk into the office and get them.’
‘He could break in to one of them,’ Davies offered. ‘You got the addresses?’
Curtis tore off a sheet from his notepad and handed it to Davies.
‘You don’t happen to know his work rota for the last week?’
Curtis flipped over a page, tore off another sheet and passed it to a surprised looking Davies, who immediately got tapping on his laptop.
‘How do you know all this?’ Mason pried.
Curtis shrugged. ‘Turns out Nathan’s boss happens to be an old acquaintance of mine. Just happened to run into him last night.’
Mason nodded his understanding. ‘Small world.’
Curtis met Jessop’s eyes briefly. Exchanged a knowing look.
She didn’t want details, just results.
‘Anyway,’ Curtis continued, ‘according to my old friend, Nathan was a model employee, worked hard, only took a handful of sick days, rarely socialised with the team outside work, and never had an office romance.’
Jessop asked, ‘What about the drugs we found?’
‘Watch this space.’
She turned to Davies. ‘Any joy with Nathan’s PC?’
‘It’s what’s not on it that’s the worry,’ Davies answered.
‘Meaning?’
‘Nathan was hooked up to plenty of internet porn sites, but no social networking or dating sites. Only used his email for work related stuff. Nothing personal.’
‘Weird,’ Brooke mused, a self confessedfacebook junky.
It was, Jessop thought. Especially for an affluent, single twenty-something male with a line in amateur porn.
‘Maybe not,’ Davies said. ‘These days, what with people like my good-self on the side of the good and righteous, the safest way for our not so good and righteous friends to hook up with a girl is by buying them a good old fashioned drink in a bar or a club. There he’s just another dude trying to get his end away. No one sees him, no one notices him. Anonymity in plain sight. And, most crucially, no cyber trail for yours truly to follow.’
Jessop concurred. Nathan was young, single, good looking, had a decent job and expendable income. He didn’t need to hide behind a virtual persona to hunt his prey, especially in a city as big as this with so many bars and clubs.’
Davies said, ‘Okay. Randal’s whereabouts on the dates of the three murders.’
‘Three murders?’ Curtis queried. ‘Who’s the third victim?’
‘Spartan the dog,’ Davies answered. ‘That was first thing Saturday morning, according to Thacker. Thanks to our new friend sitting beside me we know Nathan was on holiday last week. His whereabouts at that time of the murder is unknown.’
‘What about mobile calls made?’ Brooke asked.
‘According to his records, none made.’
‘Internet access?’
‘Not until 7.39 that evening, a porn site, believe it or not. Okay, Sunday. 10.30am, the time of the Tanya Adams murder. Nathan had the day off. Again, none of his neighbours could confirm him being in or not. Not exactly Mister Sociable is Nathan. Records show no internet or phone activity all that day and night, which brings us to the Darren Spencer murder. Obviously Nathan’s not at work. However, a neighbour does recall seeing his car. Apparently, Nathan had parked in the neighbour’s parking space. It wasn’t a big deal normally, but that particular night the car park was full and the neighbour had to park in the next block.’
‘No vehicles followed Darren and Rebecca to the park,’ Mason reminded everyone.
‘Right,’ Davies confirmed. ‘And that brings us to yesterday, when we know he threw a sicky with a supposed sore throat.’ Davies closed the pages and stretched his back. ‘I think we know the rest.’
Mason beckoned for the report.
‘So, in summary,’ Brooke said. ‘Nathan has no alibi for any of the murders.’
‘Certainly appears that way.’ Davies agreed. ‘Does he fit with your profile, boss? Boss…?’
Jessop looked up from her phone to see four sets of eyes looking at her. ‘Sorry, what?’
‘Nathan,’ Davies prompted. ‘Does he fit with your profile?’
She eyed her phone, thinking: Who the hell was she to ask about profiling killers? Composing herself as best she could, she answered, ‘Let’s just find him first, okay?’
Chapter Thirty-five
Last night’s events were certainly unexpected. Olly would have loved it, though. Olly thr
ived on the unexpected, got off on the adrenaline buzz of having to CIAO when a plan went bad.
Compartmentalise. Improvise. Adapt. Overcome. Apply that, and you can turn any situation to your advantage
And so today he had, and it had worked out quite nicely for him.
And for Paul Bromley.
But not for Stewart Nichols, whose lesson and subsequent education would have to wait another day.
And not for his hunter, either. Catherine, who was not looking too sprightly last night running down that river bank.
In contrast he felt as fit as a butcher’s dog today, his legs picking up the pace as he reached the man and his son.
Not even out of breath as he said, ‘’Scuse me, boss. I think you dropped this.’
The expression he received was one he was familiar with by now: bemusement followed by relief.
‘Shit, cheers, mate.’
‘No problem. You and your boy have a good day, yeah?’
‘We will do now.’
Yeah, and make the most of it, Mark Hughes. Because you aint got many left.
Chapter Thirty-six
Time. When you wanted it to speed up it hit the brakes. When you wanted it to slow down it accelerated.
Why?
Slumped in her chair behind her desk, Jessop watched the hands on the clock above the door creep onto 3.00pm.
Where had the day gone?
Yes, she needed time to think, yet the act of thinking seemed to swallow the hours. And the more hours it swallowed, the less time she had to think.
A paradox.
But wasn’t her whole life one big paradox?
She glanced from her phone to the PC screen, whereon was the profile she had built of their killer. Broken family, a witness to some violent act within his family at a young age, delusions of coming through the trauma enlightened and a better person…Psychological observations compiled from years of studying the sick and twisted, all of whom believed they could justify their actions. To them, what they were doing was right, even if they didn’t take pleasure from it. For whatever reason their victims needed to die, and the killers’ lives were not complete until that happened.
Hurt (The Hurt Series) Page 11