by Sarah Flint
Charlie looked around the room. Everybody had stopped what they were doing and were listening in horrified silence to the report.
Nick continued. ‘The left hand was severed from back to front too but not so cleanly, probably because the suspect was having to lean further across to get to it.’
Hunter sat down heavily on one of the desks. ‘Hopefully by that stage Ashton was unconscious.’
Nick nodded in agreement. ‘Or at least semiconscious. Certainly rendered defenceless. As soon as he’s unconscious, the killer drags him to the wall, props him up and leaves him to bleed out completely, until he’s dead. Apparently, it would have been pretty quick, but I still can’t imagine what he must have gone through.’
Paul held up his phone towards them. ‘This gives you an idea of what he went through.’ They gathered around and Nick confirmed it was the recording that Dr Crane had showed him at the mortuary. They all watched in horror as a laboratory professor, in full protective clothing, held up a bottle of 96 per cent concentrated sulphuric acid, and stated that the liquid had been easily bought by him over the internet. He described how it reacted with water to become hotter and that, as the skin was made up of sixty percent water, the acid would cause horrific injuries to whichever part of the body it came into contact with.
He then held up a six-inch square piece of sheep’s skin and poured a small amount of acid over it. Within seconds the sample started to swell, before contracting and shrinking. He explained that within a minute the temperature had risen to over 70°, but if more acid had been used, it would have reached boiling point.’
Charlie watched as the substance contorted into a shrunken mass, totally unrecognisable as skin, listening as the professor finished his demonstration off.
‘So, an acid attack victim would at first feel a hot sensation on their face before suffering excruciating pain.’
The presentation was concluded but nobody in the room dared to move. The silence was palpable as they all continued to stare at the frozen image on Paul’s phone. The professor had put into words quite candidly what every member of the team had been trying not to entertain. Their colleague, PC Brian Ashton would have died in agony.’
Chapter 9
Today was the longest day of the year, summer solstice June 21st. The sun was low in the sky, not yet ready to slip down over the horizon, as he reached his destination. There was a hint of mystery all around him as he surveyed the landscape; something strange and unfamiliar in the way the trees rustled gently in the balmy air. Maybe it was the thought of long-ago pagan rituals being performed that made his heart race or perhaps the anticipation of what he was to do again the next night.
The package was where the instruction had dictated, hidden behind a brick wall in the overgrown front garden of a derelict house; the middle one of a terrace of condemned properties. Nobody walked this way these days. The road led nowhere and if someone did happen to pass through and saw him, they’d think nothing of a scruffily dressed man, down on his luck, scavenging around for scraps. They’d more likely turn away from the sight, in case they invited his attention. He picked the bag up and started to head home, his curiosity ignited. This package was like the last, of similar weight, compact and neatly bound in brown paper. He peered into the black carrier bag in which it had been wrapped and wondered what would be expected of him this time.
All he knew at the moment was that it was happening tomorrow. Tomorrow he’d be going through it all again. Bang, bang, bang, three in a row. Three dead coppers. Three dead pigs. That’s if the first one was dead yet. She should be by now. Three days to a week was as long as it normally took for dehydration to kill, but with their added extras, it should have taken far, far less. Four days had passed now. She should be starting to rot. He laughed, a deep, rasping laugh, tinged with bitterness. She deserved to die; all the officers in London’s lauded Metropolitan Police Service did. They were a bunch of psychopaths in uniform. He hated them all.
He turned the parcel around in his hands, letting the malice roll over him, engulf him. Police officers had ruined his life, interfered, dictated and destroyed. Now, even his woman had left, taken from him… by the urgings of a copper. He didn’t care what he did now. He never had. There was nothing left for him; nothing, except following the directions of the one person who had stood shoulder-to-shoulder with him all these years.
The timing was perfect and so the games had commenced. He had the perfect partner. One who believed the same as he. One with whom he had sparred over the years. One he had used, borrowed from, benefitted from… and the one who was now calling in the favour. He just had to play by the rules… and he had, almost. He just liked to add a few personal touches, embellish the instructions a tiny bit more, make the killings a little riskier, so each copper knew without doubt he meant it. So, he’d lifted his balaclava for the first cop, being mildly entertained as the bitch tried to remember his features while knowing she’d never live to speak of them. And he’d killed the dog, or nearly. What sweet retribution for the last few seconds of the bastard’s life to be spent watching his beloved Labrador die.
He pulled a crumpled packet of cigarettes out from his jacket pocket as he walked, and thrust one into his mouth, drawing hard on the flame from his lighter as it flickered low. Expelling the smoke into the warm air, he watched as it floated away over the bushes before the last tiny white wisps dissipated into the evening sky. He strolled through some gates into a park, noticing the small groups of teenagers huddled smoking joints; the runners, jogging in time to the music on their headphones, the evening dog walkers standing, deep in conversation, as their dogs circled and sniffed.
A young couple sat on a bench, arms and legs entwined, turning to kiss every few seconds, as if unable to stay apart for any longer. An older pair ambled silently past, arm in arm, the strength of their lifetime bond magnified in their closeness. He stopped to watch as a third couple came into view, their body language at odds with one another, the way they walked a few feet apart, their arms gesticulating, their voices loud. They didn’t care who heard their argument. It was happening; it would happen again and just because they fought, it didn’t mean they couldn’t be together.
The couple were almost out of view now. He shifted uncomfortably from one foot to the other, suddenly incensed by the sight. Why were they allowed to stay together when he and his woman had been prised apart?
He needed to get home. The package burned into his thoughts, its contents poised to give him the means to satisfy his anger.
The phone would be ringing at 22.00 exactly. It was never early, never late; it was always on time and he needed to be ready.
A few minutes later he opened his front door and breathed in the familiarity of his flat, the earthy aroma that came with the disarray and dirt, the fetid smell of cigarettes, the overpowering air of malcontent. Nothing had been cleaned, nothing aired; the day-to-day clutter of living having built up. Quickly he secured the door and headed inside, placing the package on the table in the lounge, before conducting an inspection of each room. There was nothing there of consequence. He had followed his instructions well. Nothing was left to betray what he had been doing, all evidence from his earlier missions destroyed, even his clothing exchanged for replacements. If the cops came, they would find nothing incriminating in the flat.
He selected some new rubber gloves from a drawer in the kitchen and returned to the package, carefully taking out the brown paper parcel and positioning it on top of the plastic carrier bag. He pulled a balaclava over his head while he examined it, placing a tissue across the mouth hole so no saliva from his breath or spittle could land on the parcel’s contents.
The first thing he found was a cheap Nokia mobile and a new pay-as-you-go SIM card which he inserted into the phone immediately, ready to receive his call at ten. The old SIM and phone would now be disposed of but a spare battery was charged up ready to go. He was well prepared.
Peeling the wrapping away, he looked down into the
pack with growing pleasure. A single red rose lay across the top, its stem smooth, the thorns removed but laying nearby. He rubbed his finger along its length, staring at each additional item when his phone rang. He glanced at his watch. It was exactly 10 p.m. A new number was flashing on the screen. A wave of relief washed over him. He liked to maintain control his end and disliked the short amount of time before they each had their new numbers up and running. His first job after the conversation ended would be to save it into his phone so that he could make contact again, request advice or give a debrief; his own hotline if required.
A voice came across the speaker. It was a voice he recognised instantly, the voice that he had been waiting for, and it was always the same; calm, measured, reassuring and direct. He no longer recalled the identity of the voice, but he remembered the face to whom it belonged, how it reminded him of a person from his past.
It had told him that the world was full of weak people in positions of power and that he owed them nothing. It had told him that he was strong, but that they should work together because they would gain greater power in partnership. It was a voice that had urged patience, promised much and that had stayed with him. Now it asked for something in return. He grinned as he listened to the words.
‘Hello,’ the voice said. ‘It’s Ice. Are you ready to do exactly as I instruct?’
He pressed the receiver tightly to his ear, his head replaying the thrill of the chase and the sheer wanton pleasure of the kill. He couldn’t say no. He didn’t want to say no, but most of all, he was excited by what Ice offered.
*
Ice put the phone down and sighed with pleasure at the forthcoming execution. There could be no room for carelessness, no chance for the police to obtain DNA. Number One was good. He had no conscience, neither of them had… but Number One was also prone to stupidity and arrogance and that had to be taken into consideration. Any chance of Number One being identified had to be minimised.
Ice idly rearranged the thorns, sliding them about, moving them across the table until they were in a perfect circle. Ring a ring o’ rose thorns. A single thorn stood out, the others swept from the table on to the floor. The barb was the longest, the sharpest, the deadliest. Ice picked it up, holding it to the light, admiring its lone threat.
Number One was alone. Ice too. They had nothing but each other, and a shared loathing of police… in the end though, that was all that was required.
Chapter 10
Thursday 22nd June 2017
‘Look, Charlie, Carl Hookham’s phone was used in the same area as Brian Ashton’s body was found, about an hour or so before he was discovered.’
The whole team had been punctual and had got straight to work, no one daring to provoke Hunter’s temper after his previous day’s mood. Nick looked smart and was busy checking through a printout of phone data he’d requested on the mobile number that Tina had for her ex. Charlie was helping him, though it was a job that she despised. She found it almost impossible to wade through the reams of call data and decipher anything of use. Give her a face or registration number and she was happy. Give her pages of codes, numbers and figures and it all looked gobbledygook to her. She leant over to look where he was pointing; squeezing his shoulders playfully.
‘Hunter will be pleased with that little snippet.’ She was beginning to warm to Nick, though she didn’t know how long it would last. The cloud he’d arrived under was big, black and far-reaching and Paul had found out all the details from an ex-colleague of Nick’s in Croydon the previous evening. They’d all known that no CID officer would voluntarily transfer to a Community Support Unit on another borough under their own volition. Domestic crime, in particular, could often be gutty, unrewarding, and notoriously risky. Now they knew the reason for his arrival.
DC Nick Arrowsmith was on his final life, having been put on an action plan for failing to perform and given two previous written warnings. This was his last chance. Nick apparently loved the trappings of the job but disliked having to get his hands dirty. Give him the kudos, power and advantages of the office but don’t ask him to work for it. He would do only what was absolutely necessary and was only interested, at best, in becoming a Crimewatch presenter or, at worst, promotion; the chance to get off the factory floor and into a supervisory role. In short, he was not a team player. He liked to give rather than receive orders and as a graduate entry he was adamant that he was destined for greatness. No wonder he had paled at the idea of the post-mortem.
Charlie had been disappointed to hear the news. To her, the best part of the job was at the coalface and she couldn’t understand his lack of motivation, but for now she was willing to give him the benefit of the doubt. At least he appeared to be trying; maybe he’d turned over a new leaf with the transfer. He would have to be careful though. Hunter would be well briefed on the situation… and his motto was, ‘you never get a second chance to make a first impression’. How it played out now was up to Nick. If he made the effort, he would be in, but if he didn’t step up, he would be out. Hunter would bide his time… and then they’d all be forced to silently observe as Nick’s future unfolded in front of them.
Charlie was still staring at the log of call data, deep in thought, when Hunter emerged from his office. They needn’t have worried about his mood; he was back to his usual outlook, good-humoured, determined and ready to get on. The previous day’s interview had evidently been forgotten and with nothing further coming through on Dennis Walters, today his mind was firmly set on Carl Hookham.
‘So, what do we know about Carl Hookham, team? I can see you’ve all been in early and are keeping busy. It’s much appreciated.’
Nick jumped in first, much to Charlie’s amusement, clearly wanting to gain some ground with the boss. ‘Well, I was just showing Charlie that Hookham’s mobile phone number pinged up on a mast in the Tooting Bec area, about an hour before Brian’s body was discovered. He must have been there at the same time as Brian was killed. I sent off for his call data yesterday. I’ll carry on looking through it.’
‘Good, Nick, thanks, keep it up. Naz, Sabira, tell me all about Hookham.’
Naz peered at a screen on her computer. ‘I’ve been putting together a briefing document but basically Hookham is a thirty-five-year-old, white male, date of birth 19/04/1982. He is known to police mainly from his younger days when he was a Millwall supporter. There’s no history of domestic offences and no assaults on women. The PNC shows his first conviction was at the age of seventeen when he was arrested for criminal damage, a brick through a shop window while on his way to a match. There are then about ten years of arrests and convictions for football-hooligan-type offences, drunkenness, fighting, threatening and abusive words and behaviour and similar, before eventually being banned from Millwall. Included in those offences are a couple of ABH assaults, nothing too spectacular, black eyes, broken noses that sort of thing.’
Hunter pursed his lips and frowned. ‘So he is known for violence, although mostly just scrapping.’
Naz nodded. ‘Enough to put him inside twice though. I think it was around the time the authorities were cracking down on football violence and making examples of anyone convicted. There is one more serious offence though.’ She stared back at the screen. ‘It happened in 2003, when he was twenty-one years old. Hookham was arrested for quite a nasty GBH but wasn’t charged; the victim didn’t want to pursue the allegation. Looking at the details, it appears that he was seen on CCTV outside a stadium bottling his victim across the face with a broken beer bottle, in retaliation for being hit with a fence post. Hookham had six stitches to his scalp; however, his victim, who was an Arsenal supporter, had twenty-five stitches to a large wound on his right cheek. They both dropped charges preferring to sort it out themselves.’
‘Where have I heard that before?’ Hunter grunted and pulled his handkerchief from his pocket. ‘He likes a bit of overzealous retribution then?’
Naz leant back, still staring at her computer. ‘He does have a temper. There
’s also another more recent case where he smashed a set of double-glazed doors at a builder’s merchant after a dispute. He was given a suspended sentence and ordered to pay the full cost of the damage in compensation. He’s still paying it back now.’
‘Is he working currently?’ Charlie remembered the comments about legal aid.
Sabira took over. ‘Yes he is. His jobs have mainly been connected to cars, working in garages and for the AA. Over the last eight years or so, he’d finally settled down, probably since becoming a father, and got his qualifications as a driving instructor. However, since the split with Tina, he’s reverted to form and come to notice a few times for drink-related offences. He also got himself disqualified for a year for driving with excess alcohol.’
‘Tina said he was volatile and a drinker,’ Hunter commented. ‘So now he’s got his licence back and returned to work? Hence being declined for legal aid. Any vehicle for him?’
‘Yep,’ Paul piped up. ‘Bet and I have been checking his address for what vehicles are registered to it. He’s confirmed on our systems at the address that Tina gave us and the PNC shows he has a red Vauxhall Corsa registered to him, a typical driving instructor’s car.’ He read out an index number. ‘Bet and I are going to go back through what CCTV we have near the crime scene. If he’s made calls from the area, we might also spot his vehicle in the vicinity.’