SMOKE AND
MIRRORS
A copycat killer makes a cold trail
run hot
Book 3 of the DSI Jeffrey Brandt Murders Trilogy
DENVER MURPHY
Published by
THE BOOK FOLKS
London, 2019
© Denver Murphy
Polite note to the reader
This book is written in British English except where fidelity to other languages or accents is appropriate.
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SMOKE AND MIRRORS is the final book in a trilogy about the murderous escapades of ex-detective Jeffrey Brandt and his pursuer, DCI Stella Johnson. It can be enjoyed as a standalone. Details of the first book, ONE STEP AHEAD, and the second, HIDE AND SEEK, can be found at the end of this one.
CONTENTS
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-one
Chapter Twenty-two
Chapter Twenty-three
Chapter Twenty-four
Chapter Twenty-five
Chapter Twenty-six
Chapter Twenty-seven
Chapter Twenty-eight
Chapter Twenty-nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-one
Chapter Thirty-two
Chapter Thirty-three
Chapter Thirty-four
Chapter Thirty-five
Chapter Thirty-six
Chapter Thirty-seven
Chapter Thirty-eight
Chapter Thirty-nine
Chapter Forty
Chapter Forty-one
Chapter Forty-two
Chapter Forty-three
Chapter Forty-four
Chapter Forty-five
Chapter Forty-six
Chapter Forty-seven
Chapter Forty-eight
Chapter Forty-nine
Chapter Fifty
Chapter Fifty-one
Chapter Fifty-two
Chapter Fifty-three
Chapter Fifty-four
Chapter Fifty-five
Chapter Fifty-six
ONE STEP AHEAD – Book 1 in the trilogy
HIDE AND SEEK – Book 2 in the trilogy
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Prologue
They say that time is the great healer and, with Brandt dead, and consequently her sole remaining purpose in life having now gone, Stella Johnson had plenty of time on her hands. Yet in the weeks since Brandt’s second visit to her house, only her physical wounds had healed. The doctors had told her that she was lucky she would only suffer a couple of discreet patches of long-term scarring; but they were only talking about what they could see.
Far more damaging had been the injury she suffered the first time Brandt visited her house: the death of the man she had started falling for.
On that occasion, PC McNeil had saved her from former Chief Superintendent Jeffrey Brandt, the serial killer they had hunted for months, but in so doing he had been fatally stabbed.
McNeil’s death and Brandt’s subsequent escape weren’t the only causes of her pain; equally bad was the knowledge that she was responsible for them both being there that night. In her desperation to catch Brandt, she had instigated the publishing of a newspaper article that suggested he had been preying on young women to hide that he was a closet homosexual. He had tracked Johnson down to prove to her first-hand that the allegations were untrue, stripping her and tying her to the bed. He was about to rape her when McNeil arrived.
McNeil had been to her house just once before, and that was only because she was driving with him to Canterbury to see whether a murder there was linked to the killings they were investigating in Nottingham. But it was in Canterbury where their association had begun crossing over from professional to personal. Had it not been for some crucial evidence being discovered as they made their way back into the hotel that night, it was highly probable that Johnson would have slept with her younger colleague. Her determination not to lose focus in her pursuit of Brandt had made that moment the closest they’d ever come to becoming physical.
Brandt denying her the blossoming relationship with McNeil had seen Johnson return to work far sooner than she was mentally ready. She may have successfully lied her way through her Occupational Health interview, but her boss, DSI Potter, had not been fooled. Resolutely keeping her away from the hunt for McNeil’s murderer, and leaving it to DI Fisher, who appeared to be falling for the false trail left by Brandt, Johnson decided to go it alone in her search for justice.
After tracing him to the Spanish seaside resort of Benidorm, but failing to lure him into a trap there, she found herself with little option but to revisit the strategy that had drawn Brandt out the first time. Coercing his ex-wife into agreeing to an interview that would seemingly confirm the earlier rumours, she lay in wait for his return to Nottingham. But just as her past actions had inadvertently led to the death of another, Brandt had lured her out under the pretence that she could save his ex-wife when, in reality, he had killed her hours before.
Johnson had eventually awoken in her kitchen, tied to a chair and with Brandt pouring petrol around the room. She had derived little satisfaction from managing to escape the resulting blaze as he perished within. Although nothing would bring McNeil back, Brandt denying her the revenge she craved had left her feeling empty.
The thought of killing Brandt herself had been the one thing that had kept her going. As far as she was concerned, all she was now left with was a destroyed house and a career she no longer wanted.
What Johnson didn’t know was that Brandt had left her with less than that. The charred remains of the body dragged from the house weren’t his.
Chapter One
As the bus from Canterbury swept down the hill into Whitstable, and with the blue-grey sea now visible beyond the houses on his left, Jack pushed thoughts of everything else to one side and concentrated on the task at hand. With no experience of murder, either directly or indirectly, Jack knew his greatest chance of getting away with it would be to make himself as unnoticeable as possible. This wasn’t just in terms of the location of the killing itself but his movements in the surrounding areas.
He had alighted at the stop before the odd industrial unit turned into the main thoroughfare of shops. Jack knew little about the deployment of CCTV but suspected a quiet seaside town such as Whitstable was unlikely to have much coverage outside the very centre. That his route to the beach would take him close to his grandmother’s old house was a coincidence. He wondered how his parents and, most of all, his grandmother would feel if they could see him now and knew what he was planning on doing. It wasn’t too late to change his mind. He could simply turn around and catch a bus back home, putting all this behind him.
But Jack knew the truth.
On what should be a day for celebration, with less than an hour passing since he finished his final A Level exam, Jack couldn’t look to the future with this still hanging over him. He was certain he could find the strength to turn around, but e
qually knew it would merely postpone the inevitable.
This had to be done.
Jack carried on walking and, instead of thinking of his family, he turned his attention to the man who had inspired him.
Brandt.
Had he ever experienced such doubts? Jack liked to believe that he hadn’t but even if he had, he had managed to overcome them, a fact which to Jack was a source of strength.
Not that Jack felt he would have to worry about this. He had no intention of making a career out of murder. This was to be a one-off, just something that would enable his mind to settle and allow him to focus on the long summer ahead, so he could begin looking forward to his adult life. He reassured himself that, much in the same way he had quickly lost interest in his internet searches years ago, he would be able to put thoughts of death behind him after this. Having delivered it first hand, his previous fantasies would sufficiently pale by comparison to render them pointless.
Feeling much better, Jack found himself able to concentrate solely on the present; a discovery that coincided with his arrival at the short alleyway that took him directly onto the beach. He slowed his pace, enjoying the narrow view his confined sight gave him of the water. From here, the sea seemed infinite and Jack found the expanse comforting in its vastness. It made him feel small and, by the same virtue, so too the act he was about to perform. He had read recently that with a global population now well in excess of seven billion, a person dies in the world every half a second. In this context, what he was going to do was wholly insignificant. In fact, Jack didn’t really believe it was adding to the statistic. Given he knew he couldn’t move on with his life until the deed was done, it wasn’t so much ending someone else’s life as trading theirs for his. He wouldn’t know the background of his victim, but he felt confident his life was worth more than theirs. Not only was he young and should be allowed to look forward to many happy years ahead, but he was an able and intelligent person who could well go on to make a valuable contribution to the world. Whoever he was going to find walking aimlessly along the beach, when they should be at work, was clearly not as important as him.
Taking a deep breath, he emerged from the alleyway; the crunch of the shingle underfoot signalling his arrival at his destination. Reaching into his shoulder bag, he touched the knife for the first time since placing it there that morning. It was one of the smaller blades from the wooden block that stood proud on the marble work surface, and was the closest he could find in size to the steak knife used in the attacks in Nottingham and Canterbury. A serrated edge would have added to the authenticity of the experience, but Jack reassured himself that he was only seeking to take inspiration from those events.
He was going to bring it out and attempt to hold it discreetly, perhaps the handle reversed so it would sit up his forearm, but as soon as it was exposed to the sun’s rays the reflection shone in his eyes. He cursed himself, knowing that his hero wouldn’t make this kind of mistake. It mattered not to Jack that there wasn’t anyone within sight, schoolboy errors like this would see him caught.
‘Stop pissing about,’ he muttered to himself and continued to trudge along, the sound of his footsteps matched only by the gentle tumbling of the waves and the gulls calling out overhead. This was not at all the experience Jack had been expecting. He thought he would be feeling pumped; energised by the sheer thrill of finally experiencing a death he had created. Instead, he felt out of his depth and, despite the familiarity of the setting, lost and far from home. He still wanted to kill but this was more about getting the deed over and done with than any kind of watershed moment in his life. It would have to be the very first person he encountered. Any notion of selecting his victim would only give him more time in which to lose his nerve.
Jack stepped over the wooden groyne and spotted a person headed in his direction. All he could make out from this distance was that they were male and seemed of average build. Jack would have liked a woman, and not just because of the synergy it would create with the other attacks. He felt it would give him more of a chance to overpower his victim, if things didn’t go smoothly. However, his own physique was strong – if not overtly muscular – and he reassured himself that a man would be less wary of a stranger approaching. Similarly, selecting this particular man gave Jack one significant advantage – he was alone. Jack wasn’t intimidated by dogs, but he knew that some breeds could be very protective of their owner and, even if they weren’t, the sort of barking that his actions may provoke could draw unwanted attention.
Even though luck had seemed to bring him a suitable person, Jack didn’t like the speed with which their travel was converging. A few minutes earlier it may have seemed like his whole life had been building up to this point, but now it was upon him, it all felt too rushed. As Jack stepped into the groyne field the man had entered a few moments before, he became convinced that the best course of action was to merely pass him and take the next turn off back towards the main road. It no longer mattered that he would regret this action to the point of finding himself drawn to kill at a later date, at least today he could try and continue his life as normal. It may torment him, but he could attempt to deal with the pain, perhaps seek counselling.
Maybe he should just tell his parents. He knew the revelation, which wouldn’t include anything about this visit to Whitstable, would deeply disturb them, but it was their job to support him. Rather than help him secure a summer job so he could raise extra cash for going to university in October, they could send him somewhere that would allow him to get over these thoughts. And that’s all it was at the moment – just thoughts, irrespective of what he was about to do. Jack had read about plenty of celebrities going into re-hab for drink or drug related problems; perhaps there was something similar that could help him.
He stopped walking. He knew exactly what that place was. His parents would send him to a mental hospital. If he went home now and waited for them to return from work, only to tell them that he wanted to kill someone, they’d first laugh nervously as though believing he was cracking some kind of dark teenage joke they didn’t understand. But once they realised he was serious, they would have him sectioned. They would convince themselves they were being supportive, but really what they would do is what they had always done when faced with a problem; they would have someone else deal with it and preferably quickly enough so that neither the neighbours nor their friends at the rotary club would notice.
‘Are you okay?’
The question startled Jack and he raised his head to see the man staring at him with a look of concern. Like with most young people, Jack was pretty useless identifying the age of people comfortably into adulthood but, with no signs of grey in his dark brown hair, nor any prominent wrinkles, he guessed the man to be somewhere in his thirties.
‘What are you doing here?’ Jack asked.
‘I was just walking past and you seemed a little... troubled,’ the man replied.
‘No,’ Jack said calmly. ‘Why are you here?’ He could see his question still wasn’t understood and so decided on a different approach. ‘Why aren’t you at work?’
‘Excuse me?’ The confusion in his voice was matched by the couple of steps he took away from Jack.
‘Don’t you have a job?’
‘Well, I guess I could ask you something similar but, if you must know, yes I do, and I’m going to it now.’
‘What do you do?’ Jack asked, reaching into his bag.
‘I work at the Cross Keys,’ he replied impatiently. ‘I’m running late so, if you don’t need help or anything, I had better get going.’
‘Wait! Hold on!’ Jack cried, causing the man to turn back. ‘I do need your help with something.’ He withdrew the knife, a little unsure what to do with it next. Fortunately for Jack, the sight of the blade only caused the man to pause and look at him with bewilderment.
The moment of inactivity was brief but felt an age to Jack. There was no going back but his arm wouldn’t move. It was as if the knife was a dead wei
ght.
‘Look, whatever it is, it can’t be as bad as all that.’
Jack opened his mouth to ask him what he meant but closed it again. He could feel a rare emotion building inside him. Anger. This man just viewed him as some unstable kid. An unstable kid who has skipped school and was threatening suicide as some pathetic cry for help.
‘I bet he never had to deal with this shit. I bet he never had his victims patronising him,’ Jack muttered.
‘Who are you talking...?’
Jack had silenced the man before he could complete his question. They both stared at the knife’s hilt protruding from his chest. Jack found the bloom of blood that was spreading out mesmerising, especially the way the material of his white T-shirt was greedily soaking up the moisture. It was proving an effective sponge. He looked up to see the man’s eyes wide with disbelief and could feel his manners compelling him to apologise. But this was no error. It may not have been planned, but Jack had come to this place in order to do something specific; something that had yet to be completed. He reached for the handle.
‘Don’t!’ The man gurgled, and blood bubbled on his lips.
Jack smiled. Any reassurance it conveyed was not designed to bring the man comfort; instead it was a surety that blasted away his earlier reticence. This was not only right but what he was meant to do.
As Jack withdrew the blade, his smile turned into a grin. The material of the man’s top couldn’t cope with the increased flow and blood started dribbling in rivulets. The grin turned into a laugh, as Jack plunged the knife repeatedly back into the man’s chest until the man’s knees buckled, collapsing him onto the beach.
Jack swung around to check he hadn’t been observed. Satisfied, he wiped the back of his sleeve across his face, mopping away the blood that had showered him. He looked down and was disappointed to see that the man’s head was facing the ground. Using his foot to lever him over, Jack wasn’t surprised to find sightless eyes staring back at him. He knew the man was dead; he had felt his life pass from him.
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