But still he waited, watching the blood drip from the end of the blade, splattering the pebbles below. He stooped to wipe it on the small section of the man’s shirt that had remained white and carefully, almost reverentially, placed it back in his shoulder bag.
As Jack continued walking in his original direction, he could feel the calmness descend.
Chapter Two
‘Ma’am, take a look at this.’
DC Stepford stood patiently whilst DCI Marlowe carefully read the document he had just placed on her desk. He knew from past experience not to interrupt her when she was concentrating.
‘What do you make of it?’
He couldn’t resist asking the question.
‘In terms of what?’ Marlowe replied coolly.
‘Do you think it might be...?’ From the very moment he had arrived at the beach in Whitstable, Stepford wondered whether their killer was back in business. It was nearly three weeks since the person attacking women in Nottingham had decided to target their city, only to seemingly disappear once more. No one had said it, but he was sure he wasn’t the only one who had been hoping he may strike again so that they would have more evidence to go on this time.
‘The same man?’ Marlowe finished for him, her eyebrows raised. She let out a long sigh. ‘I really don’t see it. Look, I understand why you are looking for the link though. I had a quick catch up with DCI Johnson earlier in the week and she was talking about a murder in St. Albans, claiming that to have been done by our guy. She shared the details with me but, to be honest, I don’t really buy that either.’
‘Do you think he just stopped?’ Stepford tried hard to prevent any impertinence coming through in his tone. Nevertheless, he waited for some form of rebuke.
Instead, he received a simple shrug from Marlowe. ‘I don’t know, but perhaps that’s just the very thing. Whoever this guy is, he’s committed four attacks that are definitely attributable to him but has left us very little to go on. For whatever reason his deliberate disposal of the murder weapon was perhaps a sign that it was to be his last kill.’
‘This DCI Johnson doesn’t seem to think so.’ Stepford had been out interviewing local residents when she had come down to check on the investigation, but that hadn’t stopped him hearing about her. In the short time Johnson had been at the station she had caused quite a stir, managing to put a fair few people’s noses out of joint.
‘Are you suggesting I should call her about this?’ A hint of menace had crept into Marlowe’s voice. ‘Perhaps you would like to go and visit the DSI and share your concerns about how I am leading this case?’
DC Stepford suddenly felt very uncomfortable. ‘I’m sorry, ma’am, I wasn’t suggesting…’
‘Then sod off and find out who really killed this man.’
Chapter Three
The room looked familiar, but Johnson knew the chances of her being in the same one as when she was admitted to the hospital before were slim. Even so, she was still wary that one of the nurses from her previous stay might enter. She tried to sit up, which took some effort, not helped by the effects of the drugs still in her system, but she felt remarkably okay. Johnson guessed it wasn’t just because her injuries were lighter than before, the bandages on various parts of her body indicating where she had received burns, but because things were very much different this time. Before she was having to deal with the death of McNeil, and the knowledge that his killer had got away.
As Johnson reached out with an unsteady hand towards the cup of water on the table next to her, she contemplated how she really felt about what had happened this time in her house. In many respects it was a mixture of relief and regret. Relief that she had survived it and that the sadistic serial killer, Brandt, was no longer at large, but also regret for how things had played out. For the third time, her plan to outwit him had failed. Even if she hadn’t learned from what had happened when he first came to her house, the events in Benidorm should have taught her that Brandt would always remain one step ahead. She wanted to believe her actions had been the result of desperation but knew, deep down, there was an element of arrogance. Throughout her life, Johnson had viewed failure as a temporary state. If she was unable to do something, she had always shown resilience – resolving that she need only try harder to then succeed. Most of the time she had been right and every successive reversal in fortune had only strengthened her belief that she could achieve whatever she set out to do.
Johnson viewed this personality trait as a quality, but recently it had been leading to the death of others. This time there had been Susan, Brandt’s wife. Johnson had yet to receive confirmation that he had killed her, but she knew better than anyone what he was capable of. The other death she was aware of was Brandt’s own. This took up the large proportion of the regret she felt. The outcome she had sought may have been the same, but it was meant to be on her terms, not his. She took little satisfaction that his plan to kill them both in the house fire had failed; what he had done was to steal her opportunity for retribution. In a way, it was the final insult.
And what had he left behind? Johnson knew she should be grateful to still be alive but what life could she look forward to? McNeil was still gone; her house was now destroyed and the career she had held so dear was in tatters. Even if none of her actions could be viewed as criminal, she still had a lot of questions to answer, not just in terms of what Brandt was doing there, but also why she had chosen to return to her home rather than remain anonymous and safe in the flat she had rented.
Her thoughts were disturbed by the door opening. The flash of a smile confirmed that this nurse was neither the one who had her pinned down and sedated before, nor the one who had refused to get her some clothes when determined to leave.
‘Do you think you’re well enough for a visitor?’ she asked in a soft, soothing voice.
‘Come again?’
‘It’s fine, I’ll just tell him he’ll have to come back at another time.’ The nurse turned to leave.
‘Who is he?’ Johnson called out and was surprised to find her question wasn’t answered directly, more seen as an indication that she wanted to see whoever it was waiting outside. Without reply the nurse was gone and the door was about to close again when a male hand caught it.
‘Hello, Stella.’
‘Guv?’ It was DSI Potter. Not only had he come to visit her the first time she had been admitted to hospital, but he had helped her leave, collected items from her house, and booked her into one of the city’s many hotels.
However, much had changed in the last few weeks.
All the apparent kindness seemed to have evaporated on her return to work. He had shown a complete disregard for how she had been feeling; her overpowering need to catch McNeil’s killer. Instead, he had put her on some bullshit drug related case whilst DI Fisher had continued to fuck up the investigation.
‘How are you doing?’
Johnson ignored the kindness in his voice. ‘Why are you here?’
He recoiled from the sting of the accusation. ‘I… I wanted to see how you are. I care about you, Stella.’
‘Huh,’ she huffed. ‘Fat lot you care.’
‘If this is about what happened when you returned to work…’
‘This is exactly about what happened,’ she said. Johnson wanted to tell him that because of his cruelty she had been forced to hunt for Brandt herself. If he hadn’t made her take things into her own hands she wouldn’t be lying here, her body covered in burns. But she couldn’t. She didn’t understand why he had been so cold towards her, but he wasn’t responsible for what she had done. If nothing else, there was the possibility that if she hadn’t made her suspicions known to Brandt in Spain, he may not have evaded the police following the murder of the woman in the caravan.
‘This is the last thing I wanted for you.’ Potter seemed genuinely distressed.
‘I suppose you’re going to tell me that’s why you kept me off the case.’
‘Exactly,’ he cried out. �
��After what happened to you last time, I wanted you as far away from that madman as possible. I was trying to protect you. I was trying to be your friend. Put yourself in my shoes; you would have done the same thing.’
‘But that’s the trouble though, isn’t it, guv? You blurred the boundaries. Your desire to protect me was as a friend but you used your position of authority to carry it out. That’s not fair. That would be like me…’
‘Like you using your position of authority to keep a young officer you were attracted to close by?’
Johnson recoiled as though slapped. The look of horror on Potter’s face did not make it any easier. ‘It wasn’t like that,’ she hissed.
‘I know, and I’m sorry I said it, but I wanted to show you that things are not as straightforward as you make out.’
‘Just go.’ Johnson could feel the tears beginning to well up and wouldn’t give Potter the satisfaction of seeing them again. The last time he had held her and told her it would be okay, now she didn’t want him anywhere near her.
‘I’ll check in to see how you are getting on in a couple of days. I’ll try and hold off on you being questioned.’
Johnson didn’t ask him what he was referring to. It wasn’t just that she didn’t want to delay his departure, she knew exactly what he meant. What she wondered was whether he was telling her this to ensure she used the opportunity to get her story straight. At the moment she couldn’t give a toss about how the police perceived her actions, especially not Professional Standards, but equally she knew there was little to gain from giving them anything to be suspicious about.
Her exchange with Potter had left her exhausted and she was contemplating finding the switch to recline her bed and get some more rest. She was considering whether it would be best to wait for her next load of pain medication, in the hope she may fall into a sufficiently deep sleep that she would not dream. It was rare that the events of Brandt’s first arrival at her house didn’t revisit her in the night, and she was sure that things would only get worse in the short term as her brain tried to come to terms with what happened when he returned there. She had been around enough officers in her time who had suffered with PTSD to know that it would not be a fast recovery.
And yet even whilst sitting up, she could feel her eyelids growing heavy. It was only when she heard a polite cough that she noticed the nurse had returned to her doorway. ‘It seems like you’re quite the popular one today. Got enough strength for another visitor?’
Johnson was genuinely curious who it might be this time, even if she didn’t fully believe Potter’s claim that he would keep officers away from her until she was feeling a little better. She nodded, which was all the encouragement the nurse needed.
The woman who entered was instantly recognisable, even if Johnson had only met her once. ‘Claire?’
‘Oh, I’m so glad to see you,’ McNeil’s sister said, immediately approaching the bed. Her expression was one of genuine worry and in complete contrast to the stony determination she had shown in the graveyard.
‘Look, Claire, I wasn’t ignoring your messages. I just… I just didn’t want to…’
‘Shh,’ she soothed, reaching out for one of Johnson’s bandaged hands. ‘I’m the one who should be apologising to you. I should have had more faith.’
Johnson didn’t know how to respond. Instead she continued to stare at her visitor with wide eyes.
‘You did it, Stella.’ Hearing her first name come from Claire’s mouth was almost as alien as hearing McNeil referred to as Darren. ‘You did what was needed and you got him.’
‘But… but I didn’t…’
‘Yes, you did,’ she responded firmly. ‘Nothing will bring my brother back, but I can try and move on now that sick fuck is dead. We both can.’
The tears that had threatened to spill when Potter had been there were back again, and this time nothing would stop them falling. Through her blurred vision Johnson could see Claire had also started to cry. She wondered whether hers were also for fear of what moving on meant. With thoughts of revenge no longer providing a purpose to her life, all Johnson could look forward to was emptiness.
Chapter Four
As far as Brandt was concerned, this was his first legitimate trip to Wales. Any previous visit had been years before and purely so he could get to the ferry at Holyhead to visit his family in Ireland. He was usually running late, and the main focus had been on driving as fast as possible through it.
In many respects, it was for this reason Brandt had chosen Wales as somewhere he would try and settle down. Its relative unfamiliarity meant that he felt far removed from what had happened in Nottingham, not just in terms of avoiding the glare of the authorities, but also separating himself from his deeds. This was another reason why he hadn’t sought to return to the continent. Not only would he be pushing his luck for the third time at passport control, but also his attempt to impersonate someone else may require killing again; something he wanted to avoid.
Now that he had brought his dealings with DCI Johnson to a conclusion, and the source of much of his pain, Susan, had gone, he just wanted to have a stab at trying to move on. The intermittent thoughts of suicide hadn’t left him, but there was no way he was going to set fire to himself. He didn’t fear the agony of burning, it was just so far removed from the plummeting from a great height that he had fantasised about since staring up at the 10m platform at Westminster Lodge as a child learning to swim.
He would see if he could settle in North Wales. His existence now wasn’t about trying to find redemption for what he had done; he still believed he had been acting in the public’s best interest. But his snap decision to spare Johnson’s life necessitated an end to the killing. What he hadn’t expected in the moment he decided to loosen her restraints, was the feeling of freedom that faking his own death would bring. He no longer had to be former Detective Superintendent Jeffrey Brandt, a man who had become so disillusioned with society to have turned to murder. He may not have been as successful as he had intended, but he had tried his best.
Now it was time to move on.
Certainly, his final act had caused a media frenzy. Even days later, he might no longer have been headline news, but he was still taking up column space. Believed to be dead, pictures of him had reverted to formal ones taken whilst he had still been in the force and didn’t reflect the look he had cultivated in Spain. The temperature in Rhyl may not have been anywhere like it had in Benidorm, but it was sunny, and he was keeping his tan topped up, as well as growing out his new beard once more.
Perhaps it was a sense of fatalism that prevented Brandt from becoming as concerned about being spotted as before, but he also knew that no one now expected to see him alive. Any similarities between him and the pictures that had been plastered across the newspapers and on television would be quickly dismissed.
Most of all, Brandt felt safe in his privately rented static home in a quiet caravan park away from the livelier and more popular sites closer to the seaside town. The campsite backed onto a stretch of beach that, at the beginning and end of each day, was deserted except for the occasional dog walker. Strolling along the sand and staring out to sea, he could feel an inner peace that had escaped him for so many years; this soon became his favourite place.
But along with the belief that he could find some semblance of happiness, was also the knowledge that his limited funds would not enable him to stay there indefinitely without finding some form of paid employment. Once the children went back to school and the off-season began, he intended making the owner an offer on a longer-term rental; one that would be considerably less than what he was currently paying but would provide them both with a degree of security. Nevertheless, even if it was accepted, taking into account his living costs, Brandt’s money would dry up before the winter was over.
Immigration had always been an issue that preoccupied the British public, no more so than since the Brexit referendum. Brandt knew that if he were to survive in a country obsessed by
national insurance numbers and tax codes, he would have to think like an illegal immigrant and find the sort of work that paid in cash and asked few questions. He had considered enquiring if the campsite owners would offer him odd maintenance jobs. The idea of being able to gain employment so close to home was attractive but also the reason why he decided against it. If they did request any form of identification, it may lead to a situation where he felt the need to leave, something he didn’t want to risk just as he was starting to feel settled.
Instead, Brandt chose the most stereotypical of seasonal work. One synonymous with immigrants because it was a job that few Brits would be willing to do, with its low pay relative to the effort involved: fruit picking. The last time Brandt had done any work that could be considered physical was 30 years ago when he was an officer walking the beat, but the idea of being out in the open and using his body rather than his mind held a certain attraction.
Chapter Five
Jack knew he needed to try and secure a job for the remainder of his time in Canterbury before heading off to university; the destination to be determined when he collected his A Level results in a few weeks’ time. However, any pressure from his parents had now faded seeing as his mood had improved. Yet Jack didn’t know how he was feeling. Killing the man in Whitstable was meant to have been a calming experience, to allow him to move on from the thoughts that had dogged his childhood; enabling him to concentrate on the future. But the past few weeks had been the most tumultuous Jack could ever remember. Whilst his friends were enjoying the long summer days and trying to put their exams at the back of their mind, Jack was unsettled.
The guilt that followed realising Brandt hadn’t cheated him quickly faded, and he became obsessed with being ready to find out about Brandt’s next exploit as soon as it happened. That his idol’s next action was to be his last, left Jack confused. He had never envisaged it ending like this. Childish as it may have been, he had expected his hero to go on forever. In the hours that followed the news of Brandt’s suicide in the house fire, Jack had felt numb. When feeling started to return, it was one of loss. It seemed such a waste, but he drew strength from the fact that Brandt had intended it. It had been on his terms and he had denied anyone the credit for catching him.
Smoke and Mirrors Page 2