‘Do you like to read, Janet?’ he asked.
‘I’ve not really got time to be honest. Why, do you?’
‘Oh yes, as much as I can. I like to read in bed. Have you ever heard of Tolkien, Janet? JRR Tolkien?’
‘Can’t say I have, and you won’t have any time for reading this afternoon,’ Janet giggled from the bedroom.
‘He was a heretic, Janet. A heretic.’
Chapter 12
Azrael arrived back home a few minutes before six. The milk was nearly empty but there was just enough for a cup of tea. He loved these moments. A special time. He had switched on his stereo and the music had enveloped him. He was completely content. Satisfied that he had once again been able to achieve what he had been instructed to do. He spread himself out on the couch. He liked Nina Simone. He always felt black singers had more spirituality about them, more true understanding. He noticed a couple of spots of discolouration on his shoes. He knew it was blood, sinner’s blood, but he was safe here; no reason to disturb the mood. He made a mental note that he would need to buy milk on the way out later. He would maybe get some shoe polish as well.
***
Later that evening two men again sat in their own worlds, deep in their own thoughts. But there was no contentment in their lives. They sat miles, and worlds, apart but unknown to them their torments too were similar and irrevocably entwined. Matt Healy was sitting in his living room. No lights, no music, no sound but he was engulfed nevertheless. His eyes were closed, his fists clenched. The whisky had numbed his mouth but his mind was agonisingly clear, his own voice lucid in his head, talking only to him. He had watched earlier as Susan Dornan, beautiful Susan, had met Ray Ford. He had watched them enter a restaurant and watched them leave. He had followed them back to Dornan’s flat. He had then bought a bottle of Glenfiddich and gone home. He knew what they were doing now.
Would Ford have gently slipped off Susan’s blouse as he had done or would he have been more assured, forceful? Would Susan want that, like that? Would Susan have pushed his head down onto her neck, willing him to run his tongue along and down onto her breasts, willing him to torment the hardness into her nipples? Would Ford right now be tasting that mix of heat and perfume, running his hands over her moist skin, down, down until his fingers found her pantie line, pushing on to their sacred goal?. Would Susan be running her tongue around the tip of his cock, letting out that small groan of pleasure she always did with him, would she already be mounting him, gently guiding him inside her, arching back, her hands on his knees, her movements getting faster, more urgent, till she felt Ford explode inside her?
They would be lying spent now. Her head would be on his chest. Ford would have the smell of her hair, the feel of her breasts on his side, the taste of her on his tongue. Would Susan think of him? Compare them?
Healy poured the last dram from the bottle. It had been 20 years since he had felt so strongly about a woman, he pondered, looked back, tormented by thoughts of what would have happened to him had Pamela gone to his bosses, even back then. Since then he had never really trusted woman who showed any affection for him. He knew that what they saw in him was a mirage. In reality he was closer to being the kind of man he tracked down than the people he purported to protect. At one time he’d blamed his mother, and the fact that he felt duty bound to look after her after his father upped and left, especially since she never once acknowledged his sacrifice. He had learned, though, that that explanation was too easy a get-out. He was responsible for his own shortcomings with women and only he could do anything about it. His thoughts returned to Susan Dornan.
Bitch.......just like all the rest.
Peter Harris was also sitting in the dark, his despair even worse than Healy’s as there could be no redemption for him. Not ever. He was glad he had been able to make love to Kate one last time, show her his devotion, but was tormented by why, how, she had found someone else. He sat on the kitchen floor staring at the door of the washing machine, his own distorted image staring back. He was glad that Kate was now dead, grateful that no other man would ever have her. He had been her first love and now he was her last. His wife had never been to see him and he’d heard that she had taken the kids out of school and moved down to her mother’s in England. He never thought of them but did think of his first family. He thought about his son, wished they could meet up, talk; but he wept for his daughter and what he had done to her.
***
I hadn’t stayed over at Susan Dornan’s flat the night before. We were both tired. Both of us needed to be fresh in the morning, be prepared to be evasive with each other as we fenced over Joe Turner’s future. I had felt that the Azrael link to two murders, including Kate Turner’s, which had been leaked to the press by a civilian police clerk named Jim Rodgers, eliminated him from Kate’s murder and my relief was palpable.
Although we had agreed not to talk about the specifics of the case, I had reiterated to Susan over dinner that Joe was more than just a client. He was a friend. I recounted some boyhood tales, some glorious victories with the local football team, if not the local girls. I told her of my alarm at the time at seeing the train ticket on Joe’s bedside cabinet and how glad I was to know I could discount it now. I laughed nervously as I told her of “planting” the ticket through a tear in the lining of Joe’s jacket. Later, back at her flat, we sat watching a DVD picked by Susan; Tom Cruise being “lush” apparently. Susan had suddenly sat up on the couch and shouted, “of course”. I asked what she was on about but Susan had just said it was a work thing.
I sat in my car in the office car park and thought over my relationship with Susan. She had been the only woman at the “horrendous experience” of the speed dating evening that I had been interested in and I was glad and relieved that she had taken up my offer of going on a date. The fact of the matter was that I really liked Susan; was fascinated, rather than put off, by the fact she was a detective, and hoped Susan was keen to keep the relationship going. Past disappointments with women had shown me that you couldn’t assume anything when it came to relationships and I had therefore developed a habit of always looking for signs of what way a relationship would probably go. I had always been right in the past… and this one felt so right.
Yes, Susan, you could well be The One. I hope so.
I would have been even happier had I known that Susan Dornan was thinking exactly the same. Especially when events over the next few hours would show me that Susan was a police officer first; and a potential partner second.
Dornan had called Healy into her office; awkwardness ignored.
‘You were right all along, Matt,’ she said to him.
‘What? You ditched the bent shot?’
‘Very funny. No, about Joe Turner. I think he did kill Kate.’
‘Why? What brought this on?’
‘My boyfriend and I were watching a movie last night.’
‘How nice for you.’
‘Shut up and listen. The film was Jerry Maguire; not bad as it happens. Anyway, the point is that the tag line for the movie is “Show me the money”. Tom Cruise plays a sports agent.’
‘So?’
‘So it got me thinking. Julie Connor told us that Joe Turner’s businesses were shit so he obviously had money problems. I’m not sure of the laws in Spain; but it’s a safe bet to think he’ll get everything, including any insurance money.’
‘Shit. Well, at least he won’t get to enjoy it. He’s a cert to get found guilty of Julie’s killing alone….so he’ll get life for that.’
‘How do people end up so evil, Matt?’
‘That’s not the main point, though, Susan.’
‘No? What is, then?’
‘When are we going to Marbella?’ the note of bitterness in his voice not going undetected by Dornan.
***
Joe Turner and I walked into the Interview Room. He looked a whole lot the worse for wear since the last time we had all seen him. The look of a haunted man. Susan looked radiant. Healy his
usual self.
‘How you getting on, Joe?’ asked Dornan. Healy sat to the side and slightly behind her. His role was to observe, come in as the bad cop when the time was right.
‘How do you think?’ replied Joe.
‘Been drinking a lot?’
‘Depends what you mean by a lot, doesn’t it?’
‘Suppose.’
‘Where were you on Saturday night, Joe?’
I was taken by surprise. I had assumed the interview was to tell Joe he had been eliminated from the enquiries surrounding his wife’s murder. Maybe to ask him some more about the Julie Connor case.
‘Why are you asking Inspector?’ I asked. Talking to Susan in this way felt bizarre after the intimacy of just a few hours previously. The look of disdain on Healy’s face even more pronounced than usual when I glanced over to see him staring at me.
‘A woman was killed on Saturday night in much the same way as Julie Connor was. Much the same way as Kate Turner was, actually. So where were you, Joe?’
‘Wait a minute. It’s common knowledge that a link; between Saturday night’s killing and Kate Turner’s death, has been established. A link that eliminates my client,’ I said.
‘No, it doesn’t. It could in fact link your client to all three murders,’ said Susan.
‘Don’t be absurd. Say nothing, Joe.’
‘What were you doing in Glasgow the night your wife was raped and murdered, Joe.’ shouted Healy.
Healy was studying Turner carefully. He could see the panic in his eyes. I prayed he could not see the same in mine.
‘I wasn’t,’ said Joe.
‘You were, Joe. We have your train ticket; found it in the inside pocket of your jacket, the one we’re examining for traces of Julie Connor’s killing; bit careless that, Joe.’
My mind was racing, in turmoil. I couldn’t understand it. Neither could Joe. He was positive he had tossed that ticket, positive.
I knew he hadn’t.
‘No, you haven’t’ said Joe.
‘Yes, we have. It’s at the lab now and when it comes back with your finger prints on it Joe then you are in big soapy bubble, Joe. Very big soapy bubble indeed’ replied Dornan.
‘Well, what’s it going to be, then, Joe?’ Healy’s gruff tone interrupting my train of thought. I repeated to Joe to say nothing. He ignored me.
‘OK. I’ll tell you about that week-end but let’s get one thing straight from the beginning; I did not kill Kate. I loved her.’
Over the next twenty minutes Joe Turner explained that he suspected his wife was having an affair and that he had decided to follow her to Glasgow to try and find out; and “sort out the git” if it was true. He had decided to kill two birds with one stone by taking his own girlfriend along for a romantic break in Edinburgh at the same time; and nipping through to Glasgow on the Saturday while she met up with some distant family relatives. The hypocrisy of his own affair not seeming to register. He said that he had been in Glasgow on the fateful day but that he hadn’t been able to find Kate, as he had planned on following her when she left her mother’s house unaware that she had never actually been there. He claimed he spent a bit of time wandering around Glasgow in the off chance he might see her but that he had returned to Edinburgh well before the time his wife was apparently killed, and that he had definitely never been out to the Clyde Valley. Healy and Dornan asked a couple of questions but basically just took the story in to ponder over later.
‘And what about Saturday night just gone, Joe? Where were you then?’
‘I can’t remember. Pissed.’
‘Need to do better than that, Joe. But, in the meantime, tell us about how many people you’ve stabbed, oh let’s say, since you were a teenager.’ Dornan said quietly.
‘Right. That’s it. We’re leaving now. If you have anything more to ask, you can ask once you get the results from the so-called train ticket,’ I said staring at Susan Dornan. I hoped to appear calm on the outside but inside I was all over the place. I wasn’t even sure if I had been guilty of a dereliction of my duties to my client as his lawyer. ‘You can call me Inspector. You have my number, I believe.’
A few minutes later Joe and I found ourselves in a coffee bar around the corner from the police station.
‘You’ve not been sticking me in it, have you Ray?’
‘Don’t be daft. What are you talking about?’
‘It’s just that I’ve been thinking, Ray, a lot. Especially during that last interview.’
‘What’s that supposed to fucking mean?’ I tried to sound offended, hurt even, but my eyes betrayed me.
‘Well, I’ll tell you Ray, will I? The cops seem to know a lot of detail about things and in fucking sharpish time too, if you ask me. Conveniently finding things now too, it seems. Makes you wonder. If she wasn’t dead, I’d be thinking that bitch Connor was blabbing. I didn’t kill her by the way. I know that now.’
‘You told me you didn’t know what you’d done at that time, Joe. Totally lost it you said. For Christ’s sake, you even told me you were going to kill Julie and you obviously don’t know what you did with the train ticket. Now you’re using “I can’t remember” as your defence for this latest murder. You’d better get a grip, Joe.’
‘Yeah, I told you Ray; only you. Don’t think I’ll be using you as my lawyer any more, Ray.’
I didn’t see the blow coming. Joe’s punch knocked me off my seat. He wasn’t able to land any more blows as two waiters had rushed over and stood between me and a man I no longer recognised as my boyhood friend. I scrambled to my feet and tried to preserve some form of dignity but Joe had already left. Ten minutes later I was still sitting staring at my coffee. My heart had stopped racing but my mind had not. A lump had formed on the side of my eye. A young waitress approached the table.
‘Are you OK? You didn’t deserve that’ she said.
‘No. I did actually. I truly did.’
Chapter 13
Joe and I’s relationship had reached what was surely a point of no return. The irony of a situation where one person who was clearly in the wrong, possibly borderline mad, appeared to have no regrets or feelings of guilt over what they had done and another person, namely me, who had only tried to save a friend from himself yet was riddled with guilt, even shame, was not lost on me. I had tried in vain to put the whole series of tragedies to the back of my mind and move on as best I could, but the enormity of what Joe had possibly done kept dragging me back. I started spending time reading about serial killers. Was that what Joe was, a serial killer? I didn’t know but nobody seemed to write stories about people who only killed once. The one thing that did seem to apply to all the murderers was that an early, perhaps traumatic, experience could be the trigger for actions that unfold decades later. What could drive a man to brutally kill a person he loved? I didn’t know every detail of Joe’s early life but could there be an explanation lying there, waiting to make sense of the madness? But even if there was; what of poor Julie?
I looked back on my own upbringing. If that sort of early experience had not soured me against women then what did it take? What the hell could have happened to Joe and why did I not know about it? I was sitting in my office quite dispirited. I would have been even more so had I known about my erstwhile friend Joe Turner’s activities in recent days. The Glasgow papers had quickly moved on from the insignificance of some mere murders and were fretting over how many kids Brad and Angelina were going to adopt this week. I wondered if I should get back in touch with Joe, try and bury the hatchet. Speak to Susan. Let her know that Joe was not all bad, that he had been a loyal friend, a good father of sorts…..that he just had a bit of a temper; that was all.
***
That evening Azrael sat in his apartment listening to his music. He felt the stirrings coming on but couldn’t quite pick up the signs. He needed His guidance, to be pointed in the right direction, to be shown who had to die. It was true that sometimes His guidance had troubled him but even then The Lord had sent him
a message. “Collateral damage” the American President had called it. It was just the way things had to be sometimes. Innocent people have to die so that what is right can be done.
He was happy, had a sense that he was loved and capable of loving, not at all devoured by hate for all women, merely distracted by the evil in some.
***
The next morning Susan Dornan sat in her office going over the previous day’s revelations.
Like Healy, she couldn’t really accept that there was no connection between at least some of the victims. Could it possibly be true that it was just all some huge coincidence? Or could it be that there was a serial killer preying on women and that his activities had somehow over-lapped Turner’s? Or was Turner Azrael? Or was Harris? Either way her instinct was to concentrate on the King killing now and that was what she was going to do. She called Healy into her office.
‘Matt, you and I will go back over everything in the Turner and Connor killings starting back at her hotel, and then try to link them to the Jean King killing.’
Half an hour later they both walked into the foyer of The Marriott in Argyle Street. They identified themselves at the reception desk and asked to speak to whoever was on reception duties the day Julie Connor was murdered. By chance, the girl they spoke to was the one who was on duty.
‘Can we have a quick word, then, please?’ asked Dornan.
‘Yes, of course. Take a seat over there and I’ll get some cover for the desk and be right over.’ replied the girl, who’s name badge read “Helen”. Five minutes later she came over and sat down beside Healy.
The Initial Blow Page 15