Smoke and Mirrors

by Denver Murphy

  What Jack entered, even though the concept would be alien to him, was a period of mourning. Although he had never expected to meet the man who had given him so much inspiration, the knowledge that he now never would, gave him great sadness. Whilst trying to maintain a relatively cheerful persona in front of his parents, Jack started to consider how he could honour Brandt; both in his work and his sacrifice.

  * * *

  Jack had lied, claiming that his trip to London was to meet a school friend and spend the day visiting some key attractions. The train he boarded at Canterbury West early that Saturday morning was heading to the capital but only for the purpose of allowing him to change to one that would take him north and to Nottingham. He may have already visited the spot where Brandt had killed the girl on countless occasions over the last few weeks – a small road just off the main high street and only a few minutes’ walk from Jack’s own house – but Jack still needed to go to where it all started. He found it fitting that his walk to the station took him past the garage where Brandt had disposed of the murder weapon and along the route where their paths may well have crossed that day.

  Catching the 06:25 train, the ride into King’s Cross took less than an hour. Although the change of line meant only a platform switch, Jack had fifty minutes to kill and went in search of some breakfast on the concourse. Unbeknownst to him, he passed the bar where Brandt and Franklin had met prior to the Arsenal game. Instead, Jack found an upmarket café with a menu not dissimilar to the one he had worked at just a short time ago. But he was too nervous to stomach anything fried and elected to have a pastry to go with the coffee he ordered.

  The remainder of the journey was long and boring, with most of the places they passed through towns Jack had barely heard of. Nevertheless, the excitement inside him built, especially after Loughborough, the last stop before Nottingham. That he would arrive at the scene of the very first attack on Sarah Donovan was a particular thrill. Given what he had been through in Whitstable, he wondered whether Brandt had experienced the same kind of apprehension as he approached her just outside the station. Maybe that explained why his attack hadn’t been sufficient to end her life. Jack felt uncomfortable any time he thought back to the repeated stabs he had delivered to the man, because the crazed way in which he had dealt those murdering blows was out of sync with the calmness he believed Brandt to have approached his victims with. However, in Sarah’s case he had perhaps been too controlled and self-assured, and had learned from the experience that he would need to inflict multiple wounds in order to ensure the kill.

  With it now being mid-morning on a glorious summer’s day, it wasn’t surprising to find the area busy with people. Not only could Jack loiter without drawing attention to himself, but he enjoyed the similarity with what he had experienced outside King’s Cross in London. He had been aware of Nottingham’s existence prior to news of Brandt’s actions there, but only because of the role it had in tales of Robin Hood he had enjoyed as a child. Yet the bustling city that greeted him was as far removed from those as one could get.

  With the stabbing receiving only local news coverage at the time, Jack had no photographs he could use to identify the precise location, but he had read that Sarah hadn’t been a passenger, merely passing the station on her way to the shops that Saturday. Whilst he would have loved to stand on the very spot on which she had collapsed, just being on the same stretch of pavement was sufficient for Jack to feel exhilarated.

  Much as he could have spent ages there, drinking in the same sights, smells and sounds that Brandt would have experienced, Jack had much to do before he would make the long journey home that day. So, to make the most of the limited time he had available, he walked away from the station in the direction that Sarah had come from and followed the signs for the City Ground and Trent Bridge. The route was initially disappointing with the buildings becoming increasingly plain and often dilapidated. Things perked up as he neared the river and it seemed the area had gone through a degree of regeneration, not least indicated by the typical English boozers giving way to trendier waterfront bars. Jack enjoyed the modernity it offered – a contrast to the traditional surroundings of Canterbury.

  Jack had memorised the location of where Brandt had committed his second murder long before he had thought about coming to Nottingham, but as he left the main road behind him and set off along the water’s edge, he checked his phone just to be sure. He needn’t have worried because after he went around one of the river’s natural meanders, he could see up ahead a few bunches of flowers marking the spot. It didn’t escape him that most had long wilted. Jack had the urge to reach out and touch one to see if it would crumble in his fingers, but he was disturbed by a voice from behind.

  ‘Awful isn’t it?’

  Jack turned to find a middle-aged woman stood there, her Border Collie sat patiently next to her, wagging his tail and panting with his tongue hanging out of his mouth. He didn’t remember passing her on the path, nor had he heard her approach.

  ‘Er, yeah, terrible,’ he mumbled, not sure exactly whether he was supposed to be agreeing with what had happened there, or the fact that people had soon forgotten and stopped laying fresh flowers.

  ‘Know her did you, duck?’

  The question sounded innocent, but Jack was disturbed nonetheless. ‘Er, no,’ he responded before he managed to will his brain to get into gear. ‘But I pass this way now and again and it just feels strange to think what happened here.’

  The woman nodded, the action causing her generous double chin to wobble in time. ‘Absolutely. But for the grace of God, it could have been either of us.’ She paused thoughtfully. ‘Although more likely to be you than me I reckon.’

  ‘How so?’ Jack asked. He had been anxious to get rid of her as quickly as possible but found her last comment intriguing.

  ‘Well, from what I heard he wasn’t just into young girls like this poor one, but also into young boys as well.’

  ‘You what?’ Jack didn’t consider himself homophobic and had been well aware of some of the speculation in both the press and on social media as to Brandt’s motives, but he didn’t like the implication that he had been driven by anything other than a need to create death.

  The woman continued, ‘Indeed, they say he was doing it to try and prove something to himself, when all the while he was fancying men.’ She stopped a moment to give her dog a quick pat on the head and ruffle of its coat. ‘Not that I have anything against them queers. What they do in the privacy of their own home and all that, is up to them.’

  ‘I had better be going,’ Jack muttered, setting off before the woman could share her thoughts on any other groups in society. He regretted being unable to scour the ground for any signs of blood stains, but he doubted he would have been allowed the peace to explore the area whilst she had a captive audience.

  Jack consoled himself with the thought that Brandt had trodden the very same path he was taking. He didn’t know from which way he had approached, but it made no sense to Jack to think Brandt would have doubled back and risk being noticed by people he may have passed on his route. He imagined that Brandt probably chose this direction because, like Jack, he would be heading away from the hustle and bustle of Trent Bridge and be looking to slip quietly away into a residential area.

  And it was a particular house Jack was looking for now. He estimated it would take him the best part of an hour to walk there and he would need to stop for some lunch on the way. Unless he had ample time before needing to catch his train, he would skip the alleyway where Brandt had made his first kill. It was off route and if his experience in Nottingham so far was anything to go by, he would not be afforded the peace to enjoy the spot properly. Besides, Johnson’s house was the purpose of his visit. Brandt had not only been there twice, spending considerably longer on each occasion than he had at any of the other sites, but it also marked the place of his own passing.

  Jack sensed he had found the right road even before he saw the street sign confirming
this was where Johnson lived. The address hadn’t been divulged after the first attack, but Jack assumed the police were less bothered about keeping it a secret now that Brandt was dead, and the house burned down. The pictures he had seen on the internet had shown the extent of the devastation, provoked, he had read, by the gas boiler exploding; but seeing it up close, and with the unaffected houses mere metres either side providing an alarming contrast, was something entirely different. He wondered what it must have been like inside, with the searing heat and flames all around.

  As much time as Jack had spent thinking about death, he had rarely touched upon suicide; far less thoughts of his own. But whilst he might not have given it much consideration, he was sure he could never set himself on fire. He pondered how much pain Brandt had experienced before he died, but also how Johnson had managed to escape. Brandt may have made a mistake with Sarah Donovan but that had been because it was his first attempt. With everything he subsequently went on to do, Jack was surprised to think that he would go on to mess something up that was seemingly so simple. But, then again, Jack had never tied someone up. He imagined that DCI Johnson would have to be strong and fit if she were allowed to be in the police force. Moreover, he had read stories on the internet about amazing feats of strength during times of crisis. One had particularly struck him where a mother had supposedly managed to rip a car door from its hinges in order to save her child.

  Jack was saddened that there were no flowers or notes of despair laid by the house. Brandt’s death was not being acknowledged. He would have liked to have read the messages left in Brandt’s wake, just as he had on the canal path earlier that day.

  With one final gaze at the cremated shell of bricks and mortar, Jack turned to make the walk back to the station. He was pleased he had made the trip. It might not have provided him with the sort of connection with Brandt he had hoped for, but he had seen the place first hand where his hero had chosen to make his final stand.

  And yet, as his train sped through the countryside on its return journey to London, the key emotion he experienced was one of sadness. In that anonymous street, Brandt had ended something that was so pure, so inspiring. It didn’t seem right, and Jack began to develop the notion that it was his responsibility, his duty even, to redeem whatever mistakes had led Brandt to believe the best course of action was to take his own life.

  Chapter Six

  The hearing went as Johnson had expected. She knew she should have prepared better, or at least been more rested, but she had been enjoying her time with her sister and nephew so much that she had only returned to England on the last available flight. Now that it was over she could go home, at least to the place she currently called home: the flat she had been renting since Brandt had first visited her house. Between her ill-fated trip to Benidorm and her holiday at her sister’s place in the south of France, she had spent longer away from the apartment than she had in it. At least this time the insurance company were paying for her rental, even if they were beginning to press her to decide what she wanted to do with her old house.

  The truth was Johnson had no idea what would come next. The inquest had not resulted in any charges being brought against her, and she was free to resume work as soon as she completed another one of those bullshit evaluations she’d had to do the last time. The psychological test would be more thorough this time, with the hardest questions at the inquest not being reserved for her but fired at the doctor who had cleared her for active duty. Apparently, it didn’t matter that the events which led to Brandt’s attempt to murder her had come when she had supposedly been taking a break from work; the panel viewed her being given the all clear as a mitigating factor behind her subsequent actions.

  Regardless, Johnson had no intention of returning to the police. What she resented far more than the steps she would need to take in order to resume her old position, was how she had been treated by the department. She wasn’t sure she could trust her team. It wasn’t just that they had done little to find Brandt and been duped by the bogus suicide note from Franklin. The man who had been asked to stand in for her in her absence, DI Fisher, was also a problem. During the time he had spent under her command, Johnson had managed to keep him on a sufficiently tight leash, but her concerns that he might now be actively working against her were largely confirmed at the hearing. Not only had he provided answers suggesting Johnson had always been a loose cannon, but he even went so far trying to twist proceedings to fit his agenda that, in the end, the chairperson had cause to silence him early, but not before she delivered a few words of admonishment.

  If Potter couldn’t see what a problem Fisher was to the department, that was his problem, not Johnson’s. He had hardly come out of the whole affair smelling of roses and if he wanted to persist with Fisher’s poor leadership of the team, it was for him to regret at a later date.

  As she walked back to her car, Johnson considered whether all this meant a change of location was the best way forward. She had never contemplated switching careers before and a fresh start in a new constabulary might be what she needed. However, she knew that she wouldn’t be able to leave all her baggage behind. Her fame was close to notoriety and whilst many on the job might see her as something of a hero, there would still be others that viewed her with suspicion. She had felt it at the hearing when one woman had questioned how, when she was tied to a chair in a burning room, she thought she was able to escape. Johnson had dismissed the question with the simple truth that she didn’t know, all the while resenting the implication that her not being burnt to a crisp was somehow curious. Fortunately, nothing had come up to suggest anyone knew about her trip to Benidorm, and to prevent them digging any further Johnson volunteered the information that she had been the one to put Brandt’s ex-wife up to the interview with the journalist Gail Trevelly. Whilst this raised some eyebrows and led to questions about her motive – with some of them so impertinent as to suggest she may have predicted what would then go on to happen to Susan – there was nothing she had done that was criminal.

  As she approached her Audi TTRS, its red paintwork looking resplendent in the summer sunshine, she regretted once again her decision to go for the hard top over the convertible. In an effort to get herself as far away from the hearing as possible, she hadn’t even thought to light the cigarette that her body now craved. In an effort to try and get her habit back under control, she had reinstated her ban on smoking in the car; something she would feel less guilty about reneging upon if she were able to lower the roof and allow the elements to banish all evidence of her filthy addiction.

  But today would have to be an exception, and at least the warm weather meant she could have the windows down. As she reached into her handbag to retrieve her packet of Marlboro Lights, she shook her head about how petty her concerns were these days. In the aftermath of McNeil’s death, she had chastised herself for dwelling on anything of a trivial nature but knew now they were the product of a highly-strung person who no longer had a demanding career to monopolise her thoughts.

  A tap on her shoulder immediately roused her from her musings and she spun round with the unlit cigarette still poking from her lips.

  ‘I didn’t mean to startle you, ma’am.’

  ‘What is it, Hardy?’ Johnson hadn’t meant to sound so impatient with the man who had assisted her when trying to track down Brandt, but the last thing she wanted to do was make small talk with one of her former colleagues.

  ‘I wanted to apologise for what went on in there.’

  Johnson was genuinely confused by this statement. Hardy had been present but hadn’t been called on to provide any comment. She shrugged. ‘Not your fault.’

  ‘Perhaps not,’ he agreed timidly. ‘But I just wanted you to know that’s not how we all feel about… well, about how things happened.’

  ‘You mean what Fisher said?’

  ‘Er, yes… exactly.’

  ‘So how do you feel?’

  ‘Well, a little guilty, if I’m to be completely honest.
I allowed Fisher to convince me that Brandt wasn’t the key player in all this when I really should have listened to you.’

  ‘Not your fault,’ Johnson repeated but with more feeling this time. She could see that this wasn’t sufficient to allay Hardy’s concerns. ‘Look, you’re just starting out in your career really, and are relatively new to the team. If you had stuck your neck out and championed me whilst I was just sitting on the side-lines, all you were likely to wind up doing would be getting your head chopped off.’

  He was nodding, but the slow manner in which he did it suggested he wasn’t fully following what she was trying to say.

  ‘Look, Hardy, you’re a good detective, and I don’t just mean good at your job, you’re a decent person too. But in your position, there is only so much you can do. If you do feel guilty then the best thing you can do is keep your head down and your eyes open.’ Johnson couldn’t believe she was about to say the next bit. ‘DSI Potter is a good man too. If you have any concerns about what is going on, you take it to him, but you make sure you have your ducks in a row first, because I have met ambitious pricks like Fisher before. If he sees you as a threat, he’ll hang you out to dry as soon as look at you.’

  ‘Understood, ma’am. And thanks,’ he added.

  Johnson felt there was no more to be said and opened the door to her car, her cigarette long forgotten. That conversation alone was enough to tell her that she was better off out of it.