‘Yes sir?’
‘I need you to take a run over to the city centre. One of the shop owners thinks he had an attempted break in last night.’ Andrews had yet to make eye contact, instead diligently filling in his logbook.
‘I’m sorry, sir, I’ve been requested upstairs.’
Andrews carried on writing until he finished his sentence. He placed his ballpoint pen neatly on the desk and then looked up at McNeil with a smile. ‘Does the DCI want her plaything back?’ It was Andrews whom DI Fisher had come to see in order to find someone from uniform to accompany Johnson.
McNeil wondered whether he already knew of her alterations to the arrangements for Sarah Donovan’s protection. ‘As it happens Sarge, it is her that I am going to see.’
Andrews leaned forward, his voice now hushed despite no one being in close proximity: ‘Just be careful McNeil, you’re a promising young officer and I don’t want to see you get into any difficulties.’
‘Sir?’
‘Let’s just say they’re awfully stretched up there, what with that madman running around. When CID gets stretched, they get stressed. When they get stressed they are more likely to make mistakes. Plain clothes think they’re better than us and it’s an illusion they wish to maintain.’ His voice was nearly a whisper now. ‘Just make sure that if things go tits up, they’re not able to make you their scapegoat.’ And with that the duty sergeant picked up his pen and started writing again.
‘Thanks, sir,’ McNeil replied before making his way to the staircase. The truth was he felt anything but grateful for the advice he had just received. The apprehension he held that he was getting into something over his head had seemingly been confirmed. He tried to dismiss it as inter-force rivalry. He didn’t really understand people like Andrews. Clearly more than competent, he had chosen not to move into CID. To McNeil it was like a talented footballer refusing to move to a Premiership club. He saw it as a natural progression for his career and welcomed that his association with DCI Johnson might bring it about far quicker than he had ever hoped.
Feeling a little more confident, he took the final flight of stairs two at a time, only to be dismayed to find that the keypad to the door didn’t accept the code he used for the rest of the station. Having pressed the buzzer, he moved anxiously from one foot to the other, waiting for a reply.
When none was forthcoming, he apprehensively pressed it again. Almost instantly he heard a shout from the other side of the room: ‘For fuck’s sake, Hardy, you lazy berk, see who that is.’
Moments later the door opened, and McNeil was met by a detective in a cheap suit, looking not much older that he was. ‘Yes?’ Came the impatient enquiry.
‘I’m here to see DCI Johnson.’
‘And you are?’
‘Never mind introductions, get back on the blower!’ It was the voice who had instructed DC Hardy to answer the door, and belonged to DI Fisher, a tall man who had recently started shaving his head in order to disguise the natural baldness that had developed since he had hit forty.
‘Yes, guv,’ Hardy responded, rolling his eyes good naturedly.
‘Think you can find your own way sweetheart?’ Fisher called across to McNeil sarcastically.
Taking this to mean he was invited to enter, he stepped through the door and proceeded to scan the area. Most of the space was open plan and housed a number of desks, all with their own computer and telephone. Very few were occupied and none of the people looked up at the visitor. He headed for the closed off rooms at the back and saw Johnson’s name engraved on a metal plate on one of the doors.
He was about to knock when he was startled by a voice directly behind him. ‘McNeil, what are you doing standing around?’
‘Er, I just got here, ma’am.’
‘Perfect timing, I’ve just been with the DSI.’ She rolled her eyes, in an uncanny copy of Hardy’s, moments before. ‘Head on in, there’s something I need to discuss with you.’
When he opened the door, he was met with a plain but tidy room consisting mainly of a desk with a high-backed chair on one side and two smaller seats on the other. Johnson pushed past him and sat down elegantly, adjusting her skirt as she did so. He took the right hand of those opposite and observed that the only thing on the desk, aside from the obligatory computer, was a silver photo frame; its contents pointed at Johnson.
‘Nosey, are we?’ She had caught him looking. Before he could answer, she turned the frame around to reveal a small boy in a school uniform of a purple jumper and grey shorts. His blonde hair and prominent cheekbones closely resembled Johnson’s.
‘Your son?’
Johnson let out a sudden burst of laughter. ‘My nephew,’ she said. McNeil hoped that she didn’t notice his smile that greeted her reply. He briefly wondered whether she had intended this exchange from the moment he noticed the frame.
‘How did she take it?’
McNeil was instantly shaken from his thoughts. Assuming Johnson was referring to his conversation at the hospital he replied: ‘Fine. To be honest she seemed quite relieved.’
‘When do you think she’ll be released?’
‘Friday at the latest.’
‘I see.’ Johnson leaned forward on her desk. ‘What I am about to tell you is to remain strictly between us. Only you, me, and the DSI are aware. And he wasn’t exactly thrilled by the idea.’
McNeil wanted to find out more about the DSI’s reaction but didn’t think Johnson would welcome the interruption.
‘So, this is, sort of, off the books. Officially unofficial, if you like. You okay with that?’
‘Sure,’ he lied.
‘Good. I need you to be my man on the ground. We can’t have CID there as it’ll look like overkill and we don’t want to unsettle Sarah.’
‘She’s been through enough already,’ McNeil said sincerely.
‘Yeah,’ replied Johnson, dismissively. ‘I’m going to give you my mobile number and you call me if you spot anything suspicious. I don’t care whether it’s a dog taking a dump; if it looks odd, you call me. Understood?’
‘Yes, ma’am, but we’re going to be terribly short of manpower out there if something goes down. Standard procedure just has one car maintaining surveillance. There’s also the added complication of her living in a block of flats. The number of people coming and going…’
‘That’s why I picked you,’ she interrupted.
‘Ma’am?’
‘That’s the closest to a compliment you’re going to get from me. For now. Help me catch that bastard and I’ll make sure you get a desk up here. But for now, you follow my instructions without hesitation. Deal?’
‘Deal.’ As the implication of Johnson’s offer sank in, McNeil noticed his excitement was tinged with a sense of unease. ‘Do you really think he’s going to go after her?’
‘I think there’s a chance and, to be honest, we’ve got sod all else to go on at the moment. He’s arrogant and he’s enjoying himself. He wanted us to make the connection between the attacks, which means he wants us to chase him. He thinks he’s invincible so what better way to show it than to finish off what he started. Right under our noses.’
Chapter Eleven
Brandt was singing.
He had never liked listening to the radio and failed to understand why it was so popular. Why would you spend your time hearing a bunch of songs you didn’t like on the off chance something might be played that was bearable? Worst of all was those annoyingly cheerful DJs, so stuck for something to say, they invited contributions from dim-witted listeners who had nothing better to do than to call in and share their inane anecdotes. The only time he tended to switch on the radio was to listen to the news, and for that he deliberately selected a station which didn’t play music at all.
But today was an exception. Today he was in a good mood. As soon as he turned on the ignition, he had surfed through the pre-programmed stations on the car’s stereo and had quickly settled on Radio 2. Most of what was being played was modern stuff he d
idn’t recognise but currently it was David Bowie’s Let’s Dance. Having never bought a Bowie track in his life, he was surprised to find how many of the words he knew. For those he didn’t, he was quite happy to mumble his way along until the chorus came around. His singing continued with the next song: Lady In Red. It was one of his ex-wife’s favourites but even that didn’t bother him. She had loved Stars In Their Eyes, an irritating 1990s so-called talent competition where people got made over to supposedly look like the artist they were going to attempt to perform as. Soon after they had started dating, he remembered her crying when the real Chris De Burgh surprised some loser in the middle of the song and turned it into a duet. However, he doubted if his bitch of a wife or if any of the morons who watched it were hearing the lyrics in the same way he did today:
The lady in red is dancing with me, cheek to cheek
There’s nobody here, it’s just you and me
It’s where I want to be
But I hardly know this beauty by my side
I’ll never forget the way you look tonight
Brandt could feel tears forming and decided to pull into the next service station. He was currently wearing his typical post-retirement outfit of a jumper and chinos so that any of his nosey neighbours would think he was off to a museum or visiting a friend. Going back to the scene of a previous crime would require a disguise, especially because he was intending reaching Nottingham by train. He felt it was prudent not to arrive by car for a third time, but public transport was not without its own risks. To minimise these, he would start his rail journey at nearby Loughborough, hoping that there would be plenty of other people making the relatively short trip in on a Saturday to go shopping. He would be wearing a hat with a brim to obscure his face from CCTV and would park in a residential street near to the station. That way, if for some reason someone did decide to track his movements, they would assume he had walked to the station from his house.
Watford Gap services had received something of a makeover since his last visit a number of years ago. Originally planning to get changed swiftly in one of the toilet cubicles, he stopped off at Costa for some coffee and cake first. He had no set time for where he needed to be and, in some respects, the later it was, the fewer people would be around to witness it.
He settled into one of the café’s soft armchairs to read a complimentary newspaper whilst waiting for his drink to cool. The front page was devoted to a scandal regarding a Premier League footballer. He mused that if someone having sex with a stripper merited top billing then surely it wouldn’t be long until he was the main headline. Today might be the day, he chuckled to himself whilst taking a bite of his millionaire’s shortbread.
Brandt wondered what Sarah was doing at this exact moment. She was rarely far from his thoughts. They say you never forget your first love and, whilst he saw the parallels, it reminded him more of when he lost his virginity. It was a moment he felt he had been building up to his whole life and was as thrilling as he had hoped, even if in reality it was rather clumsy. From what he had gathered from the various news reports, she typically walked to town on a Saturday morning to visit the shops. He very much doubted she would be doing that today. The website of a local newspaper had informed him of her release from hospital and, in their usual intrusive style, had photographed her being helped out of the car close to where she lived. Brandt used to despise the press and it was always the locals who angered him the most. You could usually keep the nationals on a leash by feeding them just enough information to satisfy them, with the threat that the flow of information would dry up entirely if they printed something that might jeopardise the investigation. But the local hacks didn’t give a shit about protocols or trying to form a workable relationship. All they cared about was finding a career defining story; a break that would pave their way to the nationals. Now, though, he was finding their indiscretion advantageous.
Brandt was feeling a little self-conscious as he emerged from the public toilets, but his new clothes made up for the psychological discomfort with how they felt on his body. Since his wife left, he had consciously dressed to give the impression he was doing well for himself. He had even upgraded his suits from his usual supermarket items to those from designers with foreign names he could not begin to pronounce. Not that he actually needed a smart casual wardrobe since the endless dinner parties that punctuated his marriage had instantly dried up. He tucked his plain black polo shirt, with small contrasting-red symbol where the breast pocket should be, into his jeans. With the early spring temperature relatively high on that Saturday, he had forgone a jacket in favour of a vest underneath.
As he stepped outside into the sunlight and carefully placed on his head a baseball cap he had picked up at the last minute from a charity shop near home, he could feel the buzz of the caffeine working through his system. Much as he welcomed the extra sharpness he felt it was giving to his senses, he knew this was a pale imitation of the thrill that was only a short time away. He wondered how the dump of adrenaline would feel to DCI Johnson when she was informed of his latest exploits. Whereas some colleagues used to feel sick when something big went down, others, like him, were energised. He realised that he had become addicted to it but the highs he was chasing now were a lot greater. Having spent a career being reactive to the actions of others, he was now forging his own, spectacular trail.
Chapter Twelve
‘You coming down the Cross Keys tonight?’ PC Strachan asked, whilst attempting to stretch away the numbness in her limbs within the confines of the unmarked Vauxhall Insignia. The Cross Keys was one of the more traditional pubs in the city centre and had plenty of space. They found it an ideal meeting point on a Saturday night; appealing to officers of all ages. With a few drinks inside them they usually split into smaller groups, depending on where they wanted to finish the night.
‘Should be good,’ she continued, without waiting for a response. ‘Some are talking about heading on to Gatecrasher later because that DJ is in town tonight.’
‘Yeah, probably,’ McNeil responded absently, without knowing who she was referring to. He was busy trying to concentrate on what was outside the windscreen but with lots of things going on, and yet nothing specific, he was finding it hard.
They had arrived at 8am, replacing the squad car that had been there overnight. The parking space had an uninterrupted line of sight to the entrance to Sarah Donovan’s block, along with a good view of the general surroundings. Having stopped for a drive-thru McDonald’s breakfast en route, the first hour or so had passed quite pleasantly and the scene had remained quiet until the residents started heading out.
‘I don’t mind shifts like these,’ Strachan said. ‘It’s kind of like getting paid for sitting around and having a chat. Which is probably what I would be doing this afternoon anyway if I was off duty. Except my mum is way more talkative than you and our sofa is way more comfortable than these seats.’
McNeil did not dislike Strachan; they had even shared a drunken snog a few Saturdays ago. McNeil had thought it might go further but, when she was struggling to walk as they attempted to switch nightclub, he convinced one of the other female officers that it was probably best if they took her home. Nothing had been said since, but McNeil wondered whether her talk of going out tonight was with a view to continuing where they had left off.
Regardless, McNeil very much doubted he would be seeing Strachan tonight; promise of a drunken fumble or not. He hoped to be spending his evening with Johnson. If the day proved successful, it would probably be back at the station amid a flurry of paperwork and interviews. He fully intended being there, if for no other reason than for her to keep him in her mind given what she had said about providing his career a leg up. If the killer didn’t turn up, as was looking increasingly likely, he would suggest they drown their sorrows together. He intended sounding sufficiently casual so that any reluctance on her part would not make things awkward in the future.
He had only spoken to Johnson once so far that d
ay. Strachan had gone to use the toilet at the nearby pub, and no doubt to smoke a crafty fag, and he took the opportunity to provide her with an update. Their conversation was brief, and she was clearly irritated, although whether it was because he had disturbed her unnecessarily or she was frustrated with the lack of news, he couldn’t tell.
Chapter Thirteen
He anxiously pulled the baseball cap a little further down at the front. He doubted that anyone would recognise him, but it paid to be cautious. He knew what he was doing was risky. There was every chance Sarah wouldn’t open the door to him or, worse still, she would have visitors. Her parents maybe. He felt confident he could deal with whatever situation arose, but he didn’t like uncertainty.
At the last moment he had decided to pick up some flowers at the railway station. Although carrying them would draw more attention, he believed it would back up his explanation for being there – should someone ask.
Crossing the River Trent, he could see the block of flats matching the address he had for Sarah. He could feel the mixture of nerves and excitement build as more adrenaline was dumped into his system. This was different to his previous encounters with women. He wasn’t used to doing the chasing, merely reacting to those who were in the right place at the right time. It certainly raised the stakes, but Sarah had never been far from his mind since that Saturday a couple of weeks ago. One way or another, this would bring some form of resolution.
As he crossed the car park, he sped up a little. Pausing at the entrance door, he read the labels on the different buttons. None had the names of their occupants, but he knew that Sarah was in Apartment 84; top floor. His hand moved to press the buzzer but stopped just short. What would he say? Oh, hello Sarah, I’m really sorry about what happened. I bought you some flowers… Not likely. He stepped back rethinking the whole thing. It wasn’t too late to back out; not too late to go home.
ONE STEP AHEAD: detectives hunt a serial killer who knows all their moves (The DCI Jeffrey Brandt Murders Trilogy Book 1) Page 4