Suspended Retribution: a spell-binding serial killer thriller (DI Rosalind Kray Book 3)

by Rob Ashman

  ‘Is that when you left?’

  ‘I couldn’t take it anymore. When he was suffering one of his attacks he would lash out and sometimes hit me. He wouldn’t mean to, he was fighting off an invisible attacker and occasionally I got too close. It was scary and he flatly refused to get help, so I packed my things and went. Sooner or later I was going to get seriously hurt, we both knew that.’

  ‘Where did you go?’

  ‘I moved in with my mum, but that only lasted a week.’

  ‘Why was that?’

  ‘If you knew my mum you wouldn’t ask. That’s when Kail said I could crash here until I got on my feet.’

  ‘Kail is …?’

  ‘Kail is my boss at work, he gave me his spare room and one thing led to another. You know … and now we live together. We’ve been a couple about five months.’

  ‘Where is Kail now?’

  ‘He goes to the squash club once a week; I’m not sure they play a lot of squash but he enjoys it.’

  ‘Does Alex know about Kail?’

  ‘I don’t think so.’

  ‘Does Alex have any friends? Does he use social media?’

  ‘He had loads of friends before Afghan but when he came back he pushed them away. He kept in touch with his team leader, a guy named Jono, who returned with horrific injuries and subsequently died. So, you see when you ask about his friends, I don’t think he has any, and his idea of social media is sending the occasional text.’

  Kray nodded and scribbled in her notebook.

  ‘You didn’t answer my question, is Alex in trouble?’ Clarke asked again.

  ‘We believe Alex was involved in the murders of three people.’

  ‘Jesus!’ The coffee slopped out of Clarke’s cup onto the back of her hand. She placed the cup on the hearth. ‘Murders? But how?’

  ‘We are conducting our investigations, so it is too early to confirm any details. We will, however, be going live with a public appeal asking for anyone who sees Alex to get in touch.’

  ‘Shit. You mean he’s disappeared.’

  ‘We need to find him, a press conference has been scheduled and it will be aired on the TV tonight. I did not want you to see the appeal without being notified first.’

  ‘I don’t believe it.’ Clarke was on her feet, pacing around the lounge.

  ‘I don’t want you to panic, Julie, but I do want you to get in touch if Alex makes contact.’ Kray fished around in her coat pocket and handed over a card. ‘Anytime, day or night, you can reach me on that number.’ Kray drained the last of her coffee and stood up to leave. Clarke was still on her walkabout around the living room.

  ‘I’ll let myself out.’ Kray made her way back down the driveway to her car. Through the bay window she could see Clarke stood in the centre of the room trying to comprehend what she had just been told.

  Kray’s phone buzzed on the dashboard. It was a text from Dr Ding-dong. It said one word: Food? She called and his voice came over the speakers.

  ‘That was quick, are you hungry?’ Millican said.

  ‘Nope, but I’m thirsty.’

  ‘Fancy having an impromptu wine tasting at my place?’

  ‘No; but how about you come over to mine and I’ll fix dinner.’

  ‘You don’t cook.’

  ‘I know, see you at half-eight.’ She hung up; what a lovely end to a shit day.

  At eight thirty on the dot there was a rap on the door. Kray raced downstairs dressed in jeans and a top. ‘I’m coming, I’m coming,’ she said having only just got home and taken a quick shower.

  She opened the door to find Millican holding a bottle of wine.

  ‘Hey, I heard there was a thirsty woman on the premises. Sounded like an emergency.’

  ‘Come in.’ He stepped across the threshold but she didn’t move back to allow him inside. Instead his body pressed into hers and she kissed him on the mouth. ‘Definitely an emergency.’ She took the bottle from his hand and walked through into the lounge where a large wine was already sitting on the coffee table next to an empty glass.

  He threw off his coat and joined her on the sofa.

  ‘It was looking like I was going to drink the first bottle on my own,’ she said.

  ‘That would constitute as an emergency. I can see the headlines now; ‘Lone woman drinks whole bottle of wine on her own.’ That’s hardly breaking news for this house, now is it?’

  She poured him a drink and they chinked glasses. ‘Cheeky sod.’

  ‘Bad day then?’

  ‘Yeah, one of the worst. We had that guy who’s been murdering people and lost him.’

  ‘That is bad.’

  ‘Actually, to be more precise … I had that guy who’s been murdering people and lost him.’

  ‘Ouch! That’s worse.’

  ‘If only I had leaned over the desk and punched his lights out, we would be down the pub celebrating now.’

  ‘So, now I’m the booby prize. Very nice.’

  ‘No, I didn’t mean that.’ Kray swung her feet up onto the sofa and leaned into him. ‘I wanted you to come over, but that doesn’t change the fact that I fucked up today.’

  ‘You’ll get him.’ Millican kissed the side of her neck. There was a comfortable minute when neither of them said a word. They sipped their wine and melted into each other.

  ‘I can’t smell cooking,’ he said breaking the moment.

  There was a rap on the front door.

  ‘I said I would fix dinner.’ Kray put her wine on the table and walked into the hallway clutching her purse. ‘I didn’t say anything about cooking.’

  Minutes later she returned with two flat, square boxes. ‘I assume you like pizza.’ She slid them on the table and flipped open the lids.

  ‘Bloody hell, Roz, you shouldn’t have gone to this much trouble.’

  ‘I know. I had to call them twice because the first time they were engaged. Fucking exhausting.’

  Kray stuffed a wedge of pizza in her mouth. There was one positive thing to come from her association with Dr Ding-dong; at least now she ate real food with her wine rather than chocolate … or simply more wine.

  ‘You are a great cook,’ he said helping himself to another slice of garlic bread.

  ‘I know.’

  Two hours later they were still curled up on the sofa. The food was gone as was the wine.

  ‘I can’t believe you only brought one bottle,’ she said.

  ‘I can’t believe you only had half a bottle left in the fridge.’

  ‘I couldn’t help it, when I got home and I was thirsty.’

  ‘Do you have an off-licence around here? I will pop out for some more.’

  ‘Wait, what’s the time?’

  ‘It’s just gone ten-thirty.’

  ‘I need to put the news on, you don’t mind, do you?’

  ‘No what is it?’

  The TV came on and Kray flicked between the channels. The anchor woman said, ‘… our correspondent was at the news conference.’

  The segment cut away to ACC Quade, flanked by DCI Bagley, with a cluster of microphones sprouting up at them from the table. The force badge and logo served as a backdrop.

  ‘We are investigating the murders of …’

  ‘Mrs Blobby said she would organise a news conference today and I’ve been so busy I’ve not seen it,’ said Kray. ‘Look at Bagley, he looks scared shitless.’

  ‘… we want to trace this man. His name is Alex Jarrod …’ Quade read from her pre-prepared script. The face of Jarrod filled the screen. ‘We want any member of the general public seeing Alex Jarrod to contact us on the number at the bottom of your screen. I will read it out: It’s …’

  ‘That’s the guy I had today and he got away,’ Kray purred. Millican stared at the screen, blinking his eyes. The news article finished and Kray switched off the TV. ‘Fingers crossed someone spots him.’ She half-turned into Millican and kissed him on the lips. ‘Let’s both go to the off-licence, I don’t trust you.’

  Millican
said nothing.

  ‘Are you all right?’ Kray asked.

  ‘No, no I’m not feeling so good.’

  ‘Oh no, was it the pizza?’

  ‘I don’t know.’ Millican pushed Kray to one side and stood up. ‘I need to go.’

  ‘Go! What do you mean go?’

  ‘I need to leave.’ He pulled on his shoes, retrieved his coat from the hallway and grabbed his keys.

  ‘Hang on, Chris, where are you going? You can’t drive.’

  ‘I’ll be fine I’ve only had a few glasses.’

  ‘Chris you’ve drunk far too much.’

  ‘I need to get home.’

  ‘Chris, you can’t …’ And with that, the front door slammed shut.

  36

  I put the fork into my mouth, my taste buds wonder what the hell they’ve done to upset me. I scan the ingredients off the packet. The title at the top reads ‘chilli con carne.’

  I doubt that very much.

  The food is hot and that is about all you could say for it. I reach for the Tabasco sauce. The dead eyes of Alice Fox, the child rapist stare down at me. I imagine myself drawing a big fat X across her face – all in good time.

  I put down the food, unpack the phone from its box and assemble the components. There is one good thing about being located on the Promenade; there is excellent 4G coverage and in no time I am downloading the Facebook app. I tap it with my fingertip, input the necessary details and my false identity comes up on the screen. To anyone searching my history they would see a boring man who has never posted a single message or photograph. Which is true. I do, however, belong to a closed group; an exclusive group with three members, one of whom had his legs blown off and is dead, and the other helped me come through the darkest time when recovering from my Bagdad Boil.

  When we came back home from Afghan we decided to keep in touch and Jono came up with the closed group idea. ‘Let’s keep things between us three’, he said. Not sure why. The phone emits a shrill ping and an alert comes up. It reads: We need to talk, urgent. The message was sent an hour ago.

  I tap out a response and immediately get a reply.

  I pull on more layers of clothing and make my way down the dark corridor to the stairs, my head torch blasting a white cone of light at the red-pink walls. The wind is picking up as I stroll along the prom, the clear black sky confirming that we will have a covering of frost and ice by morning. The moon is big and bright, casting a wedge of silver across the sea. I descend the steps onto the sand and head past the tower to the central pier. The cast iron structure juts out at right angles into the sea, a wooden boardwalk held aloft by what looks like old man’s fingers. The skyline is dominated by a Ferris wheel, one hundred and eight feet tall, stretching into the night sky.

  It is low tide and I walk towards the surf. I am soon under the pier surrounded by the thick legs supporting the massive structure. I stop and lean against the iron skeleton, surveying the beach. I can hear the waves behind me lapping on the sand, it is a comforting sound.

  Out of the darkness I see the silhouette of a figure coming towards me. I give a low whistle, he flicks his head in my direction. A minute more and he is stood beside me.

  ‘Hey, I got your message, what’s so urgent?’ I ask.

  ‘What the fuck are you doing?’ He is out of breath.

  ‘Standing under the central pier talking to you.’

  ‘Don’t be funny. What the fuck is going on?’

  ‘I love this place, don’t you? I really identify with it. I know people prefer the tower or the Winter Gardens or the Pleasure Beach, but this is my favourite. Did you know it was engulfed in flames twice; two fires nine years apart, both of them threatened to destroy it, and yet here it is. Standing tall. It’s a survivor, just like me.’

  ‘I saw your picture on the television. They said you were wanted in connection with three murders.’

  ‘Oh, yeah … that.’

  ‘Alex what the hell have you done?’

  ‘Was it the police putting out a public appeal?’

  ‘Yes, it was, why the fuck do they want to speak to you?’

  ‘Because I killed those people.’

  ‘What! Why the fuck …?’

  ‘They needed to die, that’s why.’

  The man walks in small circles with his head looking up. ‘What happened? Did they do something to you, is this about revenge?’

  ‘No this is about retribution. These are people who have got away with the most heinous crimes and they need to pay.’

  ‘You cannot go around killing people.’

  ‘Yes, I can.’

  ‘No you can’t. You went to war to protect people, you can’t come back and start killing them.’

  ‘That’s where you’re wrong. We like to think we were in Afghan fighting to protect our way of life but we weren’t.’

  ‘You’re talking bollocks.’

  ‘You don’t understand.’

  ‘That’s the most sensible thing you’ve said so far … no I don’t understand. What the hell is going on inside that screwed up head of yours?’

  ‘I look at it like this: We all live in a fucking big house, in the middle of nowhere in a strange land—’

  ‘What is this? Jackanory time?’

  ‘Bear with me, I’m trying to explain in simple terms. It’s like we all live in a big house, in the middle of nowhere in a strange land. Other people live there too, in their own big houses. In our place we have a set of rules that makes us happy, but the others have a different set of rules. Their rules are not like our rules. In their house it is okay to kill people, to sexually abuse children, to beat those who are weak or to steal from your neighbour, and we live in fear that they want to impose their rules on us. So, we send our people to fight those with different rules and its dangerous outside, and people die. And after you’ve taken your turn fighting you are allowed back into the house. It is then that you discover that what you’ve been fighting for doesn’t count for anything.’

  ‘Where is this going?’

  ‘It is then you find out the rules you were fighting to protect don’t exist. It’s wrong to kill a kid – no it isn’t. It’s wrong to sexually abuse children – no it isn’t. It’s wrong to threaten people and hurt them – no it isn’t. It’s wrong to steal – no it isn’t. You find the rules you’ve been defending no longer apply. What was the fucking point? We may as well have let the other people in, to impose their will, and saved the ones who died.’

  ‘That’s bollocks!’

  ‘Wake up! People are killing kids and getting away with it, sexually abusing kids and getting away with it; assaulting people, threatening people and stealing from people and getting away with it. We didn’t fight for that.’ I grab hold of his shoulders. ‘I fought for my country but I never fought for this.’

  ‘For fuck sake, Alex, you have to hand yourself over to the police. You’re ill, the PTSD has skewed your perspective. You have to stop.’

  ‘I can’t, the mission isn’t over.’

  ‘Mission? What mission? We are not in Helmand Province now! This is not Sangin or the Northern Valleys. This is England, the place we fought to preserve.’

  ‘Then why the hell aren’t they fighting to preserve it as well?’ I shove him and he stumbles backwards. ‘You’re part of the Brotherhood, you cared for me in Bastion and you helped me when I got back. I thought you of all people would understand.’

  The tide is coming in and water is lapping around the soles of our boots.

  He comes back at me hard, ramming his fists into my chest, pinning me against one of the stanchions. ‘I looked after you because that was my job and now you need to allow others to do their job. This is not your fight. The police, the CPS, the judges all have their part to play and sometimes they get it wrong, but it’s not your job to put it right.’

  I press my face into his. ‘Yes, it is. For the sake of Donk, Jono, Bootleg, Ryan, Pat and all the others who have either not returned, or come back with limbs blow
n off, I owe it to them to put things right.’

  I hook my foot around the back of his leg and slam him into the sand. He lands hard on his back in the water. My knee knocks the wind out of him as it thuds into his chest, the point of my knife digs into the skin of his cheek. I can see his wide eyes, glinting in the half-light.

  His legs kick at the sand and he throws a punch, I block it and seize his wrist.

  ‘Don’t.’ He struggles below me, his hair sticking flat to his head with sea water. ‘Don’t.’

  ‘You have to stop. You can’t go on killing people.’ He chokes out the words through gritted teeth.

  ‘The reason this blade is not sticking out of your eye socket right now is because you are part of the Brotherhood. You helped me and we’re friends. This is me being your friend. You need to stay out of my way. Do you understand?’

  He stares up at me and struggles to free himself. I force my knee into his sternum and press the blade across his throat, my face inches from his.

  He freezes.

  ‘I said, do you understand?’ He nods and blinks his eyes. ‘Because if you don’t, Brotherhood or no Brotherhood, I will kill you, Chris.’

  37

  I can see the silhouette of a copper sitting in his car outside the house. What a thankless task that is. The pavement is glistening with the onset of a heavy frost. I skirt around the corner using the hedge for cover and lose myself in the darkness of the alleyway.

  To avoid the officer playing sentry, I’m approaching the house from the other side so I have to judge when I’m level with the property. A couple of times I heave myself up to peer over the wall – twice I get it wrong. At the third attempt I’m in the right place.

  My elaborate plan has had to go out of the window. For a meticulous planner like me this is tantamount to winging it. I’ve had to leave the kit bag filled with toys back at the penthouse, a man walking around at 2am is bound to raise suspicion, one carrying a large holdall is even worse. I’m packing light tonight.

  The back gate is locked so I leap up onto the top of the wall and drop down the other side. The grass is crisp underfoot. Cyril the guard dog must be sound asleep because all is quiet. I crab across the lawn and crouch below the kitchen window. The house is silent. I attach the suction cup to the glass and give it a light push, the pane breaks away from the frame. I tilt it and draw it back through, placing it at my feet. My arm snakes through the gap and I unlock the catch. The door creaks opens inwards.