He was on him in a flash, stabbing downward, and burying the knife deep. He felt the blade hit something, what was it? Stowe yelled as he drew it out again, the white shirt the man wore suddenly coloured by a damp patch of red that spread rapidly outward. A winking flash and it was in again, harder this time then out, in, out, harder, harder, harder.
Jerking, Stowe’s arms flailed around wildly as they attempted to push him off. No chance.
Your time’s up my friend.
Stabbing again, stabbing into mush, the front of Stowe’s shirt now almost entirely red. The arms weakening, gradually stopped their flailing, slackening, relaxing as the fingers curled. The chest heaving made one last ginormous effort. Then nothing.
Revenge was sweet. It tasted like blood.
CHAPTER THIRTY FIVE - DEACON
“Put a call out on all bloody units. I want Vincent Kemp found and picked up,” he yelled, sprinting through the station office to his desk. So Kemp had been with Marilyn. Kemp was Randall. And for some reason he had Doyle? His pulse thumped, he dared not think about it. How had he gotten her to open the door?
Doyle’s instincts were as sharp as a razor. She’d never open the door to a potential murder suspect. It was all his fault, just like he had feared. He’d hurt her and Kemp had sensed her vulnerability and taken advantage of it. Otherwise a cop like Doyle would never have compromised her safety like that.
If only he hadn’t been such an insensitive dick then she wouldn’t have blown him out like that. And then she wouldn't be with Kemp right now and she wouldn't be in danger. If only. Sitting at his computer, he searched Interpol frantically. He didn’t have much time. If they were going to track down Kemp they had to find out more about Randall.
Brynn Randall. Killed in the French Pyrenees while he was an exchange student studying Theology. Car crash, nothing unusual about that. Or was there?
He switched screens, there it was. Her Majesty’s Passport Office. Louise Randall applied for a temporary passport in 1996. Back when they still issued temporary passports. And two months before her brother was killed. Flipping back to the Interpol screen, he punched in some data. The machine hung as if the window was frozen. Shit. He thumped the desktop. He really didn’t have time for technology failing on him now. The screen flickered. He blinked, staring at the information in front of his eyes.
Suzette Dubois. Born on July 15th. Politics student at Le Mirail university , blonde, 21 years old. Found dead, her throat slit, near a leisure centre in Toulouse. He clicked to the pictures taken by forensics. There it was. The necklace, a ruby suspended by the gold chain that was at her throat. Suzette had been killed in July 1996. One whole month before Brynn Randall had been found dead just 50 miles away in the French Pyrenees.
What he didn’t understand was why there were no records on Brynn Randall since he died? And nothing linking Brynn Randall to Kemp? If Louise was using his name, surely there should be some kind of paper trail, some link between the two?
And what was the reference to 13:45-46? Opening up Google he punched in the numbers.
“Matthew 13:45-46. The Parable Of the Pearl,” he muttered aloud. What did that mean?
Again the kingdom of heaven is like unto a merchant man, seeking goodly pearls; Who, when he had found one of great price, went and sold all that he had, and bought it.
Shit, he should have paid more attention in religious education at school. He had no idea what this stuff meant. He read on;
A pearl itself, is a beautiful single entity formed through suffering in the heart of the oyster. This parable is generally interpreted as illustrating the value of the Kingdom of Heaven. Kingdom of heaven?
These violent delights have violent ends…He knew that that was Romeo and Juliet, Gateway had said so. And the pearl, Sally had been a pearl. So who was the oyster? Birthstone?
And why the reference to the kingdom of heaven and star crossed lovers? Was Birthstone planning to kill himself so he could be with her again? Just then he had an awful thought. Opening his desk drawer, he scrabbled madly for his diary. He wrote down everything important there. Doyle was a good friend, and her birthday was important to him. His fingers turned the pages quickly, where was it dammit?
There it was marked in red, the same way he marked everything, as a reminder to himself. June 22nd. His blood ran cold.
“He won’t stop until he’s finished what he intended to complete.” Gateway’s words. The killer had murdered eleven women not ten. A cycle, a cycle of twelve. And Doyle, Doyle was supposed to be the twelfth. The pearl of great price. Now he really needed a fucking cigarette. Standing up he reached for his jacket. Hobbs came rushing over.
“Sarge I got the results on the print Barnes asked for.”
“Anything?” He looked at Hobbs hopefully.
“We found your prints on it, and Barnes’s, and we found a match,” Hobbs said, his voice sounding a little unsure.
“A match for what?”
“That’s just the thing, we couldn’t find Jackson in the system.”
“So who’s it a match for then,” he said, frowning. This was like pulling bloody teeth.
”Well?”
“It’s Randall’s Sarge, the one you’ve been trying to locate, Louise Randall.”
Jackson was Randall? Jackson, she was with Jackson not Kemp. He had to get to Jenny, had to find her she could be in danger, eleven women had been killed for god’s sake.
“Hobbs,”” he roared, frantic now, “get a bloody unit down to Adam Jackson’s flat , 142 Docklands Walk, I want a thorough search, not a hair left unturned.”
“Yes Sarge.” Hobbs looked slightly nervous as he turned to go.
“You were supposed to get an ID on Jackson down at the fucking club,” he yelled after him. He was trembling, Jackson, it was Jackson, he known it, he’d had that feeling, the same one he got when he’d looked at Martin Anton. Hobbs turned back, looking indignant.
“I did! I showed it right to her, she said she’d never seen him before.”
“What bloody picture did you show her? Show me it. Now,” he barked. Jackson must have sent someone else’s picture over. The muppet hadn’t thought to run it by him first. Hobbs walked to his desk, and he followed close behind him, the anticipation rendering him barely able to breath. Clicking the monitor Hobbs flicked to his email, opening the attachment. The picture filled the screen. The face was unmistakeably Adam Jackson’s.
“You’re sure this was the picture you showed her?”
“Yep, certain, got the actual print out somewhere too,” Hobbs said, rifling through the paperwork on his desk.
“And Michelle Swan said she’d never seen him before?”
“She was very clear that she hadn’t seen him before.” How the hell had Jackson managed it?
“What about the CCTV from the club? Did you get that?”
“That’s what I was looking through when I got the call about the fingerprint Sarge.” Scratching his head, he scowled.
“I’m going down for a cigarette. Put the call out quickly. Radio me in if they find anything at Jackson’s flat. Keep going through the CCTV.”
“Alright Sarge.” Fuck. What the hell was going on? Why hadn’t Swan recognized Jackson? Randall had to be Jackson, otherwise they couldn’t’ have found a match. Either that or somehow Louise Randall’s fingerprints had gotten on to that card. But how could that have happened though? Where were Adam Jackson’s fingerprints if he wasn’t Randall? The only other prints on the card were his and Barnes’s.
Pressing the button on the elevator, he heard the familiar ding. The doors opened and he walked in, hitting the button to get to Ground level. He nibbled his nails nervously as the elevator descended. Why was it taking so long? He needed a bloody cigarette.
Opening the pack on the way back from the little off licence on the corner, he ripped off the cellophane and pulled a cigarette out, stuffing it between his lips. Sparking the clipper lighter he’d bought, he sucked on it as the nicotine hit his b
rain. His mobile rang, startling him. Reaching for it, he answered it as he puffed on the cigarette.
“Gaine,” he mumbled, the cigarette still between his lips.
“Inspector Gaine, it’s Diane Pesh from the Met records department.”
“Yes?”
“I know it’s priority right now so I pushed it through for you?”
“Pushed what through?” What was she talking about?
“Louise Randall’s medical records. Someone from your office subpoenaed them earlier today, the request was marked as urgent?”
“Yeah we already received them thanks anyway Diane,” he said, going to hang up the phone.
“That’s not possible I’m afraid,” she said, the words causing him to pause, confused.
“What do you mean, not possible?”
“Well I only just received them. That’s why I’m calling you now.”
“Look there must be some mistake, my DC got them through earlier.” Seriously? They couldn’t even sort out their own bloody admin. No wonder they couldn’t catch a killer. He took another deep puff on the cigarette. His stress levels were through the roof right now, he didn’t want to think what digits his blood pressure was pushing too.
“No it’s simply not possible I’m afraid. The lady at the NHS records department only signed them off twenty minutes ago. To me personally.” He stood there clutching the phone, his brain scrabbling madly to make sense of things.
“Inspector? Are you there?” his subconscious heard Diane say somehow, her voice seeming strangely disembodied. Discarding the half smoked cigarette, he crushed it beneath his heel, hurrying into the lift. He’d call Barnes, the young cop would be able to tell him what was going on. As he was going to punch in the digits, Hobbs came rushing up again.
“Sarge. I think you’d better take a look at this,” he said, the expression on his face grave.
“What is it?” Hobbs complexion was pale as he gestured over to his computer.
“The CCTV from the strip club, I found something,” he said, his eyes wide.
“What is it man? Don’t just stand there gawping, bloody tell me?”
“I think you’d better see for yourself Sarge.” Sighing, he rolled his eyes.
“Show me. This better be bloody good.” Following Hobbs, he made his way over to the small, desktop monitor. His eyes squinted to make sense of the grainy image on the screen. The date on the right hand corner said April 8th, the night Swan had said she’d seen Kemp and City Boy. It looked like a man, a man with dark hair leaving the strip club.
“Looks like a man leaving a strip club. Fucking revolutionary that. Is that all you’ve found?” He looked at Hobbs disbelievingly.
“Sarge...” Hobbs clicked the button to enlarge the image and the face became clearer. He squinted, no, it couldn’t be?
But it was unmistakeable. The man leaving the strip club, his face slightly turned to the camera, was Detective Constable Tom Barnes.
CHAPTER THIRTY SIX - DEACON
The mole, that’s where he’d seen it before, Barnes had the same mole by his eye. That’s why he looked far younger than his 33 years, and that was why they couldn’t find Louise Randall. Randall had been under their bloody noses the whole time, hiding in plain sight. Barnes was Randall.
“Put a trace on his radio, his mobile, I want him fucking located,” he said, turning to face his team, who were gathered around him in the briefing room. The assorted collection of faces ranged from the disbelieving to the genuinely stunned; one of their own was in the frame and it felt like a betrayal.
“Don’t cut him any slack because he’s one of us. Remember he knows how we work, down to the exact procedures we’re going to employ when we come after him.” Hobbs raised a hand.
“Yes. What is it Hobbs?”
“Do we have authorisation to shoot to kill Sarge?” He shook his head. They had all had training in firearms but he didn’t want things getting bloody trigger happy.
“We’re going to be bringing a SWAT team as soon as we locate him. They’re experts in this kind of operation. The rest of you are equipped with a taser, that should be more than enough.” Hobbs nodded. He turned to address the rest of them, their faces grave.
“I want a complete search of his property, report back to me on every single fucking thing you find, understand?” The sea of faces nodded. He turned back to Hobbs.
“And you, that was good work. I want you to pull up his records, Beeton’s going to want to know how the fuck we didn’t spot this before.”
“I looked at the records Sarge, the medicals were confidential. There was no way anyone could have found out unless they subpoenaed them.”
“What about the psychometric tests?”
“The what?”
“The psych tests he was required to complete before joining the force. Why didn’t they screen him out?”
“He passed ‘em Sir. With flying colours.” What the fuck?
“Shit,” he muttered, shaking his head as he looked around the room.
“Alright well you heard the man, you’re dealing with an extremely convincing suspect here. So fucking convincing in fact he managed to get past our own screening procedures. So, if any of you do locate him make sure you approach with caution. He could be armed and we know he’s dangerous. Make sure you call for back up and do not, I repeat do not, proceed until you got a SWAT team covering your arses. Now get out there and bring this bastard down.”
As they started to filter out of the room, he spotted Sara Gateway approaching.
“You stayed Professor?”
“Thought you might need my assistance,” she said, smiling at him.
“How would he have been able to pass the psychometric tests for the Met?
“Oh very easily Inspector. Sociopaths are very adept at telling people exactly what they know they want to hear.”
“But he was able to get past our screeners?”
“I’ve met many sociopathic individuals in my time as a profiler and nearly all of them have been extraordinarily adept at convincing authority figures,” she said, shrugging her thin shoulders as she looked at him.
“Still our hiring personnel are highly trained to look out for this kind of thing surely?”
“Your screeners will be attuned to pick up for instances of mental instability yes. But a sociopath isn’t so much mentally unstable as wired completely differently from most people.”
“What do you mean?” He scratched the side of his face, not quite understanding.
“What I mean Inspector, is that they are specially trained to watch out for unusual patterns of behaviour. Typical instances of lying for example. But a sociopath won’t be behaving in an unusual way, because the way they are wired allows them to behave normally, when it would be impossible to for the rest of us. They can remain calm for example when they lie.”
He stood there, staring, trying to digest what she was telling him.
“That’s what makes them so dangerous Inspector.”
He nodded, slowly, “the bible reference referred to a pearl of great price. I think it’s Doyle, her stone is the same as the Sally Brooks. When you said he was coming to the end of the cycle, I think the cycle is twelve. He’s killed eleven already, and there was another, a Suzette Dubois, killed in France, fourteen years ago. ”
She nodded her head.
“Yes, twelve is highly significant to him. But more significant is the fact that he seems to have found a replacement for Sally. She was obviously important to him, in fact she seems to be have been the one to trigger the cycle in the first place. It’s imperative you find him as soon as possible, Doyle could be in serious danger.”
“Where do you think he could have taken her?”
“I don’t know, but my best guess would be a location that is meaningful to him. Somewhere he feels is an apt location to finish what was started seventeen years ago.” Somewhere to finish what had been started seventeen years ago. Finish it where it had started? He felt a
chill on the back of his neck as the realisation coursed through his synapses. Sally’s house. Barnes had taken her to Sally’s house.
“Professor I have to go,” he blurted out, leaving Gateway to stand there looking slightly taken aback as he sprinted out of the room. He dashed down the stairs to the officer’s car park, not wanting to wait for the lift. He should call for back-up. Grabbing his radio, he called it in, as he jumped in his BMW 5 series.
“I’m heading to 122 The Willows in Chertsey, serious potential hostage situation, suspect is likely to be armed. I want a unit to shadow me but do not fucking proceed until I give the say so. Let me go in by myself first.” He really didn’t want special ops steaming in and fucking things up. He had to ensure Doyle was safe first.
***
It was an hour’s drive to Chertsey, but somehow the BMW made it in under forty minutes. Arriving outside, he parked the car a few doors down from the house. He looked around, back up hadn’t arrived yet, but they shouldn’t be far behind. The house was wreathed in darkness. He couldn’t afford to wait. Doyle had to be inside somewhere.
He slid the pick into the lock, using his other hand to jimmy the torque around, in order to separate the pins. Jiggling it as noiselessly as he could, he twisted the pick round entirely, pressing on the door with his shoulder. Nothing. He twisted the pick the other way, still applying tension with the steel spring of the torque. There was a click, as he felt the lock give a little. Jimmying the torque again, he leaned his shoulder against the door as he worked the lock.
He’d been lucky to receive basic lock pick training from special ops when he’d first joined the squad, and it had proved to be invaluable on several occasions over the years. This was definitely one of them. Satisfaction coursed through him, as finally the lock yielded and he slid into the dark of the house.
Reaching into his pocket for his flashlight, he swung the beam around the hallway. Nothing. He moved into the lounge silently, sweeping the beam around. Still nothing. There was a faint scratching sound, a rustle, where was it coming from? He stopped, his ears primed to the noise as he tried to discern the source of the sound.
Dead Blonde Page 24