Liar Liar_Another gripping serial killer thriller from the bestselling author
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‘And I’ll go and pass on the good news to DCI O’Connor.’ He clapped Charlie on the shoulder. ‘I trust he’ll let us off bringing him Powell’s inside leg measurement until the bastard’s fitted for his prison uniform.’
Chapter 20
The phone rang and he breathed a sigh of relief. He’d been ready for Ice’s word all morning, expecting his instructions earlier, the anticipation mounting with every minute that passed, unable to relax for fear that he’d drop off to sleep and miss the sound of the ringtone.
When at last the call came, it was gone midday. He listened as Ice ran through the instructions a second time. Was it his imagination or was there a note of irritation in the way the words were delivered. He listened extra carefully, committing each word to memory. He wasn’t allowed to write notes, which could be found, and he certainly didn’t want to fuck it up. The instructions were, as always, clear and precise. The last command was repeated a third time before the call was ended abruptly: ‘Phone me as soon as you have the package in your possession.’
He shrugged and shoved the phone into his trouser pocket. Ice was clearly agitated. It must be difficult getting every tiny detail organised, while planning the next killing… and the next. He was looking forward to finding out what was required this time.
He went back over the orders in his mind. He couldn’t get them wrong. Failure was not an option and, anyway, he enjoyed his responsibilities.
His light summer jacket was hanging over the back of a kitchen chair. He picked it up and slung it over his shoulder before heading towards the door. He was to leave home now and go immediately to the designated spot where he would find the package, wrapped in brown paper inside a black plastic carrier bag.
Once in his possession he must make the call that Ice was so insistent at receiving. There was no time to waste.
The latest death had been planned perfectly, designed to fit its recipient. Now the wheels needed to be set in motion.
*
‘Samson Louis Powell is a forty-three-year-old, Afro-Caribbean male with a long criminal record and a history of violent offences. He comes from a dysfunctional background, having been taken into care as a four-year-old child after the death of his parents in a house fire, and he has lived a chaotic lifestyle ever since. He himself sustained burns to his limbs, neck and shoulders in the fire and has attempted to cover them up with a variety of tattoos down both arms and on his neck.’
Charlie looked out across the tightly packed office. Paul and Sabira had just returned from a second visit to the magistrate’s court in a matter of hours and the paperwork was ready to go. Their number had swollen by at least a dozen extra Murder Investigation Team detectives and Nick was holding court with a group of them. The MIT officers stood in clusters, having been divided into smaller units already, designated to entry, search, arrest and exhibits, with a leader who had received an earlier briefing on what exactly was required by each group. The last to arrive had been a contingent of armed officers, resulting in the office now groaning under the strain of so many bodies and equipment squeezed into such a small amount of space.
The room had silenced as Charlie started, pointing to the front and side profiles of Powell projected on to the whiteboard at the front of the office, next to the photos of their victims and other suspects Bet had compiled earlier.
The image of Samson Powell was everything she’d imagined their murderer to be; a solidly built man, with a neck so short that his shaven head appeared to merge seamlessly into bulky shoulders. His forehead was lined; his eyes dark-rimmed and his nose looked to have been flattened across his face at some juncture in his colourful career of crime. His top lip was clean-shaven but he sported a full chinstrap beard of coarse black hair that disappeared down his neck until it was swallowed up into his chest hair. Two gold teeth, one on either side of his front upper incisors blinked out from the lazy smile he wore, and a large diamond stud hung from his left earlobe. A range of sordid tattoos appeared like a rash across the front and sides of his neck, the red and black inks used, hardly visible against the pigment of his skin.
‘He has convictions for almost every offence you can name and has served various terms in prison. He has also been detained under the Mental Health Act on a compulsory detention order in Bethlem Psychiatric Hospital for four years after throwing a kettle of boiling water over his long-term partner, Lisa Forrester… though the term “partner” might be an over-exaggeration.’
The reason his name had sounded familiar had come to Charlie shortly after she’d heard it. Their address bordered Lambeth and Wandsworth borough, and although any disturbances were dealt with by the neighbouring Community Support Unit, both his and Lisa Forrester’s photos had appeared quite regularly on their local briefings when one, or the other, or both, were shown as wanted.
‘Several months ago, Lisa Forrester was taken into detox, with the help of social workers and officers from Wandsworth CSU, the unit that dealt with them regularly,’ Charlie continued. ‘She was adamant at the time that she did not want to see Samson again… ever. Whether she’ll be able to give him up for good is another question, but it might have been the trigger for Samson starting this rampage.’
There was a murmur of agreement from some of the gathered officers. Relationships such as theirs rarely ended happily.
Charlie continued. ‘He has come up on a DNA hit from a hair found at DI McGovern’s murder scene. I don’t need to say, that detail is not to be mentioned in his presence. We’ll drop it in to conversation while in interview and see what he has to say.
‘He currently lives at 23 Ribblesden Road, SW16, in a ground floor, converted flat. There’s a floor plan for you all to peruse before we go. He is wanted for the murder of three police officers, so there can be no doubting that we will not be top of his favourites list. He has a full gamut of warning signals flashing up on his PNC record, including violent, mental, drugs, suicidal, weapons, escaper and alleges, so be prepared for anything. The armed unit will enter first in case he arms himself. He has used an axe or machete, as well as acid, in the linked murders and may well have them to hand in his premises. For that reason, we’re going straight in as quickly as possible. He’s to be neutralised before he has a chance to retaliate.’
She glanced across at Hunter, who was standing to her side, for confirmation and he nodded and stepped forward, taking over.
‘Yes, that’s right. We need our operation to be short, sharp and effective. Our intelligence is that he regularly deals drugs around the area at night, and therefore sleeps during the day. Hopefully that will be the case now. We don’t want Powell given any warning that we’re coming and no leeway when we’re inside. You’ll be briefed by your respective team leaders on your exact role before we go.’
He checked his watch. ‘Be ready to move out at exactly 13.30 hours. I want Samson Powell in a cell and out of action as soon as possible.’ He clapped his hands and the room shifted immediately. ‘And remember, we’ll have the eyes of the press on us this afternoon, so be on your best behaviour. More importantly, we’ll have the hopes of every police officer in the Met on our success. Let’s make sure we don’t fail.’
*
The designated spot was less than a mile from his home. He was to leave his car parked on the road outside his address and walk. He slammed the gate to the front garden shut, as a wall of heat slapped him across the face, immediately wishing he was back inside, in the shade. It was sweltering. The heat of the midday sun beat down on his shoulders and within minutes a river of sweat was streaming down the small of his back. He wiped his forehead with the back of his hand, the roughened skin around his scarred forearms brushing against his cheek.
A neighbour scurried out of sight as he approached, no doubt fearing another confrontation. He stuck two fingers up at the man’s retreating body, his gesture going unheeded, but it didn’t matter if it hadn’t been seen. It was satisfying just knowing his mere presence was enough to cause that reaction.
The building was half derelict but was still visited each morning and evening by a workforce of one or two employees, who turned up in their works van and walked once around the perimeter to check the padlocks were still intact and the cover in place over the well-shaft at the centre of the site. There were few residents of the local area who hadn’t trespassed there at one time or another, to gaze across the thirty-foot span of the gaping hole, into its murky depths. His curiosity had also brought him to the grounds previously, the opportunity to appropriate some copper piping and old lead flashing from the roofs of several outhouses being too good to miss.
The road was quiet, most local residents having the sense to stay indoors to avoid the stifling heat. He ducked behind the only large tree in the street, glad of the cool umbrella of leaves, and checked the driveway. There was no sign of the van. A length of metal fencing ran from either side of the tree attached to the top of a brick wall, into which the tree was set. As its trunk had expanded over the years, part of the wall to one side had crumbled away and the fence was insecure. He pulled it back slightly and peered over the wall, seeing at once the black plastic carrier bag lodged behind a laurel bush.
Once again, the directions were accurate, so specific that he wanted to laugh with delight. What manner of death had been dreamt up this time? He couldn’t wait to see the contents of the package but he remembered Ice’s last instruction and how insistently it was delivered. Phone me as soon as you have the package in your possession.
There was still no one about. Peeling the broken fence back, he slid over into the site and retrieved the bag, sitting down in the shade of the tree with his back against the wall. Ice’s number was the only one in the cheap Nokia. He’d left his personal phone at home as instructed. He dialled the number and waited for it to ring the usual three times before it was answered.
‘I’ve got it,’ he said breathlessly. ‘What do you want me to do next?’
The voice that answered was Ice’s. There was no doubt about it, but instead of its usual calm, soothing tones, it prickled with anger.
‘I want you to use it now, every bit of it, where you found it. The contents of the parcel have been chosen specifically for you. You didn’t follow my instructions as I demanded and right now the police are on their way to your home to arrest you. You fucked up, Samson, and I can’t work with people who fuck up. From this moment, you are on your own. There is no one in the world for you now. You will never hear from me again. Ever. So, take my last piece of advice, Samson… and die.’
*
‘Go, go, go’, Hunter instructed clearly on the radio.
As if with one movement, every officer swept forward, the armed team crashing through the flimsy front door, screaming their demands, the back-up moving swiftly behind, waiting for the shout that any suspect inside had been detained. A small group of local residents appeared, as if by magic, on the street outside, watching from the opposite pavement, their phone cameras poised to record the moment when their rather sullen, aggressive neighbour would be brought out. They were used to the arrival of police at the address, but this time there were more than usual and they were armed.
‘All clear,’ shouted the sergeant in charge of the armed police. ‘There’s no one here.’
‘Fuck it,’ Hunter swore out loud. ‘That’s all we need. A madman who kills police officers and who will soon know that we’re on to him, if he doesn’t already. Even more reason to despatch a few more quickly.’
Charlie swallowed her frustration and said nothing. The vein on Hunter’s forehead was standing out prominently. She watched as he pulled the officers back, sealing the empty flat off for a full forensic examination. Finding evidence would now be as vital as finding the man.
She saw the frowns on the faces of the team as they bunched together on the pavement outside and heard the guarded comments. They would all feel a little more vulnerable on the streets until Samson Powell was arrested.
*
Samson Powell looked out from behind a tree in the churchyard at the end of the road. His drunken mate was still sitting on the bench, swigging from a can of Stella, his head turned towards the police activity, every now and again muttering to himself. Samson unscrewed the cap on the top of the Smirnoff vodka bottle, one of the selected items left for him inside the black plastic bag, and took a slug from it. For a long moment, he thought about drinking it with his mate, but that could never happen.
The neat vodka hit the back of his throat and a wave of melancholy and anger swept through him. Ice was right. The pigs were on to him and there was nothing he could do to hold back the inevitable. His life would be fucked. He pulled the phone from his pocket and dialled Ice’s number. An automated message told him the number was unavailable. He dialled it again, and again, and again, swigging more and more vodka with every repeat of the message and each time he heard it, the realisation that he’d been left to deal with this alone was hammered further into his head. You fucked up, Samson, and I can’t work with people who fuck up. From this moment, you are on your own. You will never hear from me again. Ever. So take my last piece of advice, Samson… and die.
He wiped at the sweat on his brow angrily. He wanted to kill every single one of the police officers standing outside his door, rip each of them apart, tear out their hearts, beat them, maim them all. He hated them. They had tormented him throughout his life, but still, how could he have fucked up when he’d followed the instructions so carefully?
He started to retrace his footsteps, back across the road, along the side streets and under the railway bridges, his mind wandering to each killing; the axing of the dog, the lifting of his balaclava, the money; they were the only bits he’d added to personally. How could he have been identified from any of those? Still, Ice had blamed him and, deep down, he knew that Ice was right. You fucked up, Samson.
He was at the waterworks now. The road was still empty and there was no sign of the works van, but he wouldn’t have cared had it been there. He knew what he had to do. He had only two choices… a lifetime in prison, or following Ice’s final order. There was no other way.
Squeezing back through the gap in the fence, he pulled the black plastic bag out from under the bush and sunk down to his knees. The electrical cable spread out across the grass, strong and unbreakable, its end looped into a noose and tied tightly. He downed the remainder of the vodka and allowed the pure alcohol to wash through him, bringing with it a calmness and clarity.
The events of his life started to run through his brain, slowly at first but gathering pace. The flames and screams of his parents as they died in front of him, the pain of his own flesh sizzling in the heat, the separation, the foster homes, care homes, always moving, never staying in one place. And the agony, denial, rage and numbness, every part of him deadened in time so he could feel nothing. No emotion. No empathy. No responsibility for his actions. No guilt. Then the beatings, police stations, courts, prisons, wards, hospitals, inmates, disinfectant, more beatings. Words of love and words of abuse, love and abuse, never one without the other. Neither meaning anything. Lisa, loving him, hating him, leaving him, returning, going, going, gone. But he didn’t care. He didn’t give a fuck because that was his life, but now his life was over.
He hadn’t known the policewoman, or the policeman with the dog, but he had known the fat one, the one he had set on fire, understanding the pain of charred skin only too well, the smell and
memory of burning flesh returning him to his childhood. His hand moved subconsciously over the scar tissue on his arms and neck, his roughened, hairless skin lying in mounds where the flesh had withered and shrunk in the heat. The fat cop deserved it. They all deserved it. Ice had told him so and he had known it too. But now Ice was gone, fucked off and left him to deal with all their shit. He dialled the number, giving a wry smile as the answerphone kicked in again. You will never hear from me again. Ever. He wanted to laugh at the words. He’d been truly shafted, but deep down he knew it was his destiny. He and Ice had played a game. For years he’d thought he was the smartest, but now, because of his need to leave his own signature, to upstage Ice, he’d lost the game.
Throwing the empty bottle down on to the black bag, he stood and walked unsteadily towards the well-shaft, knowing instinctively what Ice had been thinking. A single magpie landed on the path before him, hopping back and forth, leading him forward, its beady black eye enticing him towards his grave. One for sorrow… He came to the side of the hole, pushing the cover across and staring through the metal railings into the abyss. The sunshine lit up the upper edges but no light permeated to its base, the furthest reaches of the watery pit rearing up towards him, a matt black hell. A metal ladder was attached to the rim, hanging fifteen feet from the railings. It led downwards but stopped mid-air, as if fearing to go any further.
Samson pulled the phone from his pocket and dialled the only saved number one last time before throwing it forward as the automated message sounded. He had no use for it now Ice had gone. He didn’t care anymore as he listened to its eventual muted splash far down below. He never truly had. He climbed the railings, looping the noose around his neck, before descending the ladder and tying the free end to the bottom rung. For the first time ever, he would be following Ice’s instructions to the letter. The irony was not lost on him. He thought about leaving a note, but to whom? There was no one left. You are on your own.