‘What the fuck?’
‘Look, you’ve completely got the wrong idea here. Just give me a minute to explain and I promise that if you still want me to leave then I will.’
She stared at him intently. ‘Go on,’ she said, the coldness in her voice betrayed by the way she stepped back to allow him to enter.
‘There’s no girlfriend.’ Jack blurted out. That he also shook his head was less about adding emphasis and more frustration at how it seemed harder to talk to her than it had either of the two women he had recently murdered. ‘What I said about you that morning was true. I fancied you; of course I did. I wouldn’t have asked you out otherwise, would I?’ Lies no longer felt uncomfortable on his lips. ‘But we have so much in common and it was brilliant. Not just going out for dinner but afterwards when we… you know. I just woke up and saw you and got a little freaked out.’
‘But why?’ Her tone had softened considerably.
‘I don’t know. I’ve only just met you, but it felt so right.’ He lowered his head, realising that power came in many forms and not just through domination. ‘I guess… I guess I got a little scared.’
‘And now?’
‘And now I just knew that I had to come and see you. The truth is, I’m not used to all this sort of stuff and I’m sorry if I hurt you.’
‘Shh,’ she said, pulling him inside and allowing the door to close behind him. ‘It’s okay. I understand. We can take things slowly if you like.’
‘Slowly?’
‘Yeah, we don’t have to get all serious and stuff.’
Jack could feel his heart hammering once more. ‘But does that mean we can’t...?’
‘No,’ she whispered, letting go of him so that she could pull her top up over her head.
Chapter Nineteen
‘Hello?’ Johnson recognised the number as being the generic one from the station, but she didn’t know who would be calling her. Most likely it was DC Hardy, but so far she had always needed to chase him if she wanted any information.
‘Hello, Stella, it’s Steven.’
She hesitated for a moment, whilst her brain put together the voice with the unfamiliar name. ‘Guv?’ Similar to McNeil, she had only ever thought of her immediate superior as DSI Potter. She supposed it was a sign of their extended parting that he thought it appropriate to drop the formalities.
‘I’m pleased I caught you. I need to speak with you.’
‘Okay. Go on.’
‘Are you at… home? I’ll send a car round.’
‘What is it, guv? Tell me.’
‘It should be there in a few minutes. We’ll speak when you come in.’ Johnson didn’t see that there was any point arguing but, at the same time, she wasn’t going to sound like she found this bizarre request acceptably normal. ‘Oh, and one other thing,’ he added. ‘Don’t wait outside. The driver will buzz up and give you my name by way of clearance.’
The anxious wait that followed wasn’t helped once the car arrived, because the officer seemed reluctant to reveal why he had been sent out.
‘I’ve already told you, the call came down for me to come and pick you up. I don’t know why you’re wanted at the station,’ he said as he closed his door, having first ensured she entered the car safely.
Johnson believed he was speaking the truth in that he didn’t know specifically why Potter wanted to speak to her, but she could tell he was holding something back. ‘But you think you know what it is to do with.’ Not a question but a statement.
‘I’m sorry but I had better not say.’
She had already grown tired of this jobsworth. The station was full of people like him, so afraid of putting a foot wrong that it rendered them impotent. Time for a change of tack. ‘Am I under arrest?’
‘I’m sorry?’
‘Am I under arrest?’ Johnson repeated, more slowly this time. ‘Because if I am, you haven’t read me my rights.’
‘No, you’re not under arrest,’ he sighed.
‘Good, then stop the car please,’ she said calmly.
‘What?’
‘I said stop this fucking car and let me out!’
‘I… I can’t.’
‘Oh yes you can, PC whoever the fuck. What’s more, if you don’t stop the car right now, I’ll have you arrested for abduction.’
‘Please,’ he cried, gradually slowing the vehicle nonetheless.
Johnson waited until they came to a halt. ‘Now that’s better. Okay then, where were we? Oh right, you were going to tell me exactly what I am doing here, otherwise I am going to get out and walk home.’
‘I told you, I don’t know exactly!’
Johnson sighed theatrically and reached for the door handle.
‘But I think I know what it’s about.’
‘Go on…’ She allowed the impatience to remain in her voice, despite knowing that victory had already been achieved.
‘It must be connected with what happened earlier.’
‘And what did happen earlier?’
‘The murder.’
‘What murder?’ As much as Johnson had loved Nottingham, the city wasn’t without its fair share of problems. One of its more unfortunate nicknames was Shottingham, meant to reflect the gun crime people in other parts of the country believed to be rife here. The truth was there were far too many shootings, but they tended to be localised to particular wards and were usually limited to the elements of the criminal underworld who lived there. ‘Where?’
‘In an alleyway, close to…’
Johnson didn’t listen to the rest. It suddenly all made sense. She had spent the last couple of days hoping what had happened by the river was just some sort of sick coincidence. Although news of another hadn’t come as a complete surprise, for it to come so soon was a shock.
‘Put your foot down,’ she ordered.
‘But…’
‘But what? We’ve already wasted enough time here. Get me to the station!’
* * *
‘Wait! I’ll open the door as soon as I park up.’
‘I know the fucking code,’ Johnson shouted, slamming the car door. As soon as the gate to the secure car park had retracted she had got out. It wasn’t just that she was in a hurry, she wasn’t about to be escorted into her own station as though she was some kind of guest or, worse still, a suspect.
‘Ma’am,’ Sergeant Andrews greeted her briefly before returning his attention to his log book. Johnson was grateful he didn’t question her arrival as he would have been entitled to under the circumstances. She reflected that she really had got him wrong and he was a decent guy despite his usually officious exterior.
As if she needed further encouragement to scale the stairs up to CID without further delay, she could hear the back door opening in the corridor behind her. She would do the man who had driven her here a favour and not wait until he said something that required her to slap him down in front of his superior.
Yet she couldn’t help but feel a little apprehensive as she approached the door leading to her old unit. She assumed that her failure to gain entry at the first attempt was through her punching in the wrong code, but her more cautious second effort yielded the same result. She was about to bang on the glass when she noticed someone approaching.
‘How come it’s not working?’ She demanded as DC Hardy opened the door.
‘Fisher changed the code,’ he whispered in reply.
‘Why?’ The shrug that greeted her question implied it had been done on a whim, but Johnson suspected something more sinister. ‘So, where is he?’
This time she didn’t wait for a response as she had already spotted Fisher’s lanky frame over by the case pin board. It seemed convenient that he had found something to do which meant he wouldn’t have to face her.
‘DI Fisher,’ she called, emphasising his rank, as she strode over.
‘Ah hello, Stella,’ he said in return, the warmth he had put into the words belied by him selecting her forename in speaking to her for the first time eve
r.
‘What have you got for me?’ Time to make this smarmy shit play his hand.
‘For you? Nothing. You’re not on active duty anymore,’ he scoffed.
She stood there, hands on hips with a smile to match her raised eyebrow. ‘So, now you’ve got the keys to the playhouse you’ve decided you don’t want to share any of the toys?’
Johnson waited, enjoying the way his mouth flapped open and closed as he tried and failed to think of a cutting retort. ‘Just remember, Fisher, you’re merely the caretaker here so you’d better try and enjoy it whilst it lasts.’ And with that she spun away and headed towards Potter’s office.
Johnson considered knocking but decided there was no point breaking the habit of a lifetime. In addition, she liked the thought of Fisher, who was bound to still be watching her, seeing her do something he would never have the balls to try himself.
‘Guv,’ she said by way of greeting. Despite how much she had grown to dislike him following McNeil’s death, she couldn’t help but smile at the way DSI Potter didn’t even seem in the least bit surprised by her method of entry.
‘Thanks for coming, Stella, do sit down.’
‘Not that I had much choice,’ she muttered sufficiently loudly as she took her seat.
‘I’m sure you already know what this is about…’
‘But you didn’t tell me anything,’ she interrupted innocently, amused by his resulting expression suggesting he knew full well that she would have got what she needed out of the officer he had sent to collect her. But the thought of the circumstances of her return caused her to forget the office politics and reassert her authority. ‘I take it there are links to the one the other day.’
‘Yes, similar kind of serrated blade, if not the same actual knife.’
‘Copycat?’
‘Probably. Although…’ Potter left the sentence unfinished.
‘Although what, guv? What else could it be? Surely you can’t think it’s just a coincidence?’
More silence.
‘You don’t think it’s coincidence.’ Johnson was stunned. She had been certain that the reason for asking her in was because they wanted her back. As soon as this got out, there would be a media frenzy and they couldn’t allow the same kind of fuck ups they’d had following the identification of Brandt. She hadn’t worked out whether she had been going to agree, but had planned on enjoying being asked nonetheless.
‘Like I said, it’s probably a copycat.’ Potter had that same calm tone that had always managed to infuriate Johnson when she was trying to get him to admit something.
‘But?’
‘Tell me, Stella, how sure are you that it was Brandt who died in your house?’
‘How sure?!’ she shouted. ‘I watched him burn to death. I saw his body whilst I lay in my back-garden choking on the fucking smoke!’
‘But did you actually see him set light to himself or recognise that it was specifically him when you saw the body?’
‘You know I didn’t,’ she replied bitterly. ‘But the examination of the dental records would have confirmed…’ Johnson stopped, instantly seeing the guilt in Potter’s eyes. ‘Please, tell me you checked them,’ she implored.
‘It would be inappropriate for me to discuss the details of an investigation…’
‘Look, you don’t need to tell me whose fuck up it is. I think I can guess, but I suppose it’s a good thing for both of you that Brandt is dead, and this is just the work of some sick copycat.’
‘How can you be so sure?’ The desperation in his voice was clear.
Johnson thought for a moment. All this may have been distressing on some level, but it was still nice to see Potter squirm. She had no idea why he was covering for Fisher but now was the time to remind him she was eminently more capable.
‘There are a number of reasons. Firstly, what would be the point of faking his death only to then go on and indicate he was still alive? But even if he was mad or stupid enough to do that, why would he just recreate his old murders rather than continue to evolve as he had done? Moreover, if for some reason he did want us to know, then he would have used the same method of indicating the link as he had before.’
‘Hmmm,’ Potter responded, considering what had just been said. ‘But they are so similar, right down to the weapon used.’
‘Tell me something, guv, was there a swipe of blood on either victim?’
‘No. Why?’
‘Because that was Brandt’s calling card. He used it to show it was the same man committing the first murders and he did it again with that guy in Milton Keynes because he wanted us to know it was him, hoping we would continue to dismiss what had happened in St. Albans. What you have got to ask yourself is this: if he wanted us to know he was alive and killing again, he would have given us his tell-tale link and if he didn’t, would he be stupid enough to commit more murders in the exact same spot as he had used previously?’
‘Okay, supposing all that is true, there is another possibility here.’
‘Go on, guv…’
‘Maybe it wasn’t just Brandt and Franklin. There could be a third person out there who had been lying low and has now come out of the woodwork.’
Johnson put her head in her hands. ‘No, no, no! There was no Brandt and Franklin. I tried to tell you this before. I don’t know the exact nature of their relationship and what sort of a hold Brandt had over Franklin, but this was his own work. I was sure of it after he… after I first spoke with him and am absolutely certain it was having met him again. You know the suicide note was bullshit; it was Brandt just trying to cover his tracks. To think there might be a third party is just... just…’
‘Just what?’
‘Just desperation.’ Despite the breakdown of the relationship, Johnson still felt uncomfortable delivering such a damning assessment of the person she had looked up to for so long. She wanted to continue before he could respond.
‘I’ll tell you another reason why this is the work of the copycat rather than Brandt or someone who was acting with him. The similarities that you find so compelling between these murders and Brandt’s are there because it is someone trying to recreate them. What they have done is recreate them as they understand them. But not only will you find some key differences that are distinct to this particular person’s motivation for the attack, but the lack of a swipe proves it’s someone who only knows the details in the public domain. Otherwise they would have done that too in an effort to be as authentic as possible.’
‘So, your theory hangs on a swipe of blood?’ Potter had never been prone to sarcasm and his use of it now was just a further indication to Johnson of how desperate he had become.
She stood up. ‘Obviously, you can just ignore everything I have told you but then why bring me in here if you didn’t want to know how I saw it.’
‘I brought you in to try and protect you. If Brandt really is still out there…’
‘Ha,’ scoffed Johnson, swinging open the door. ‘It seems like you’re the one who needs protecting. From yourself.’ And with that she slammed it shut and marched across the open plan office of CID. Much as she wanted to, she decided that she wouldn’t seek to engage Fisher but would leave them to their catalogue of mistakes – her head held high in the knowledge that there was nothing more she could do to help them if they didn’t choose to help themselves.
Chapter Twenty
The knock at the door wasn’t a complete surprise this time. Even if Mrs Hardcastle hadn’t promised to return with news, whilst reading his morning newspaper Brandt had heard her pulling up in her Kia Sportage. The events in Nottingham had reached the national press and he was keen to keep a tab on things. He was still extremely concerned about how he was going to last the winter without a regular income but supposed the reigniting of interest in him that the copycat killer had provoked was better whilst he was more isolated from the public.
As to his feelings that someone was going around seemingly recreating his murders, he wasn’t quite s
ure what to make of it. On the one hand, it was flattering and certainly fitted the purpose he had been trying to achieve of provoking fear. But he wasn’t sure he felt comfortable with someone he didn’t know, in effect, acting in his stead. The body he had left in Johnson’s house was long buried so he wasn’t especially concerned about people thinking he was alive and back in business once more, particularly because he could see no logical reason for people to think, even if he had still been alive, that he would choose to revisit old murder scenes rather than move on to fresh pastures.
Before heading to the door, he flipped the kettle on. He hoped that Mrs Hardcastle had something good to tell him but, regardless, he was grateful for her continued concern and would not allow her to leave this time without being suitably refreshed.
‘Hello, Greggy,’ she said as soon as he was stood before her. She appeared a little nervous and for the briefest of moments Brandt wondered whether she might also have been reading the newspapers and had somehow realised that Britain’s most notorious serial killer of the 21st century was the man who had been serving her a particularly generous slice of her favourite lemon cake twice a week for the past two months. A voice in his head that had never quite gone away told him it would be best to kill her now rather than run the risk of detection. But whilst Brandt may have been unable to rid himself of its unwelcome contributions entirely since he came to Wales, he fully understood them for what they were and would do his utmost to ignore them.
‘Hello, Mrs Hardcastle, it’s good to see you again,’ he said, ushering her in. Irrespective of the voice’s motives he would soon be able to determine whether her visible anxiety was purely because she was unaccustomed to entering the lodgings of men she barely knew, or if there indeed was another root cause.
‘I told you to call me Kath,’ she chided, but not unkindly.
‘Of course, Mrs Hardcastle,’ Brandt said in response, the wink that he followed it up with causing them both to laugh. ‘And to what do I owe the pleasure on this fine day?’ he continued, looking past her and out of the open door at the steady drizzle that had commenced before dawn.
Smoke and Mirrors Page 9