His indecision was interrupted when he heard the door’s latch click. A multitude of thoughts crossed his mind in that instant. What if it is Sarah? What would I do? Do I have time to run away or will I have to confront her? As the door opened, he was startled to see a small dog emerge. It did not even glance in his direction, so keen was it to be out in the open. At the other end of the lead was a plump middle-aged woman.
‘Calm down, Pickles,’ she said good-naturedly, giving a gentle yank back on the lead. She was holding the door open.
Stood there, awkwardly clutching the bunch of flowers, he felt he had little choice but to enter. He reassured himself that he would just wait a minute for the woman and her dog to go and he could exit again. He could just ditch the flowers here and head for home.
Whether it was their cost, the effort he had gone to in order to get there, or the effect failure would have on his ego, he used his last shred of courage to press the button for the lift.
Chapter Fourteen
‘Isn’t that sweet?’ Strachan said, pointing.
‘Must be feeling guilty for something,’ McNeil replied grumpily.
‘It will be something lovely,’ she continued, ignoring his comment. ‘Perhaps he and his wife found out she was pregnant.’
‘No, he looks nervous.’
‘Becoming a parent is quite a…’
‘Shut up!’ McNeil shouted abruptly, reaching for his phone. He hit the redial button. He heard the ringing tone just once.
‘Yes?’
‘Ma’am, I might have something.’
‘I want you to describe everything.’ Her voice was calm and controlled.
‘There’s man with a bunch of flowers stopped by the main entrance. He’s looking around nervously.’
‘Delivery guy?’
‘No, no van. On foot.’
‘What does he look like?’
‘Hard to tell, he’s wearing a cap. Erm, he has blue jeans and a black hoodie. Hold on, he’s reaching out for one of the buzzers. Wait. He hasn’t pressed it. He’s just looking around again.’
‘Man with a hoodie, cap and flowers,’ McNeil heard Johnson repeating quietly. ‘Go, go, go!’ He instantly realised she wasn’t talking to him but, instead, relaying orders. Her voice returned to normal volume. ‘Backup is one minute away. What’s he doing now?’
‘He’s still just stood there looking around. Hold on, he’s stepping away.’
‘Don’t lose him!’
‘No, someone’s coming out… Ah, shit! She’s holding it open for him. I’m going in!’
‘Don’t! Wait for backup!’ But McNeil didn’t hear the order. He was already opening the door, not caring that it slammed the side of the car next to him.
‘Madam, wait there!’ He shouted across the car park at the resident who had emerged from the building. He knew he would have little chance of breaking down the door. She either hadn’t heard him or didn’t think he was calling to her.
‘Police! Stop right there!’ He bellowed this time. It had the desired effect. The woman froze on the spot and the lead to her dog dropped to the floor. Moments later her hands rose in the air in what, under less serious circumstances, McNeil might have found comic.
He had closed half the distance to her, and was about to issue the instruction to return to the door, when a screech of tires distracted him. He turned in the direction of the noise just in time to see an unremarkable white van bearing down on him.
McNeil’s brain was screaming at him to leap to the side, but his legs would not obey. The screeching began again as the van locked its tyres under braking. He closed his eyes waiting for the inevitable.
When it didn’t come, he opened them again and looked up through the windscreen, into the equally terrified face of the driver. Before he could think what to do next he heard the side door slide open.
‘Go, go, go!’ came the command from within. Out leapt three male and one female specialist firearms officers. They were dressed in blue overalls with body armour and helmets, both made from Kevlar. None of them looked in his direction, instead heading straight for the entrance to the flats in parallel pairs, their Heckler and Kock MP5 carbines sweeping in front of them.
As McNeil started to follow, he was overtaken by another officer who was hefting a long metal cylinder with handles, known in the police as The Big Red Key. The man had barely stopped in front of the door before making a short back-swing with the object and then thrusting it at the lock. Despite the loud crack, the door remained shut.
‘Again!’ Shouted the commanding officer next to him. This time a longer swing had the desired effect and, in a crash of metal and plastic, the door gave way. ‘Go, go, go!’ Came the familiar order and the four officers with MP5s filed in, heading for the stairs. Although breathing heavily following his exertion, the fifth dropped the battering ram, drew his Glock 17 self-loading pistol and followed.
McNeil listened to the thunder of feet in the stairwell and glanced at the lift doors. The electronic number above them moved from six to seven, before finally resting on eight. A feeling of dread swept over him as he imagined the doors opening and the man heading for Sarah Donovan’s flat. Yes, he would be caught, of that McNeil was certain. But would they get to him before he got to Sarah?
As he headed for the stairs McNeil was disgusted to find that his thoughts were moving away from what might be happening to Sarah and to what would happen to him when it was over. Far from being celebrated for helping catch the killer, serious questions would be raised regarding his professional judgement. Sure, he was only there because of orders from above, but the fact remained that he was the man on the ground and he had not stopped the suspect, despite spotting him long before he entered the apartment block. What’s more he had a suspicion that DCI Johnson would gladly use him as a scapegoat, as Sergeant Andrews had warned, if it prevented any of the shit for this being chucked in her direction.
Now a third of the way up, he heard the door at the top being flung open. Wondering how long it would be before there were any shots, the first he would have witnessed on active duty, McNeil reached for the phone he had stuffed in his top pocket whilst getting out of the car. He nearly tripped as he glanced down at the display and was surprised to see that the connection to Johnson had not been severed.
‘Ma’am?’ McNeil called in the direction of the microphone. He jammed the device to his left ear whilst using his right hand on the banister to pull himself up the stairs quicker. He did not receive a response. As he rounded the penultimate flight of stairs, he heard shouts, muffled by the fire door which had now self-closed.
As McNeil burst through, his first sight was the fifth officer turning around and levelling his pistol at his chest. For one sickening moment, he thought he was going to be shot, sure he could see the pressure of the man’s index finger being applied to the trigger. Their eyes locked and McNeil was relieved to see recognition dawn. The gun lowered.
‘Down on your knees!’ Both McNeil and the officer turned to the owner of the voice, but his back was to them. ‘Hands behind your head!’
He moved his position to get a better look at where the commands were being directed, whilst remaining conscious not to draw any more unwanted attention to himself. Between the tangle of legs, he could see flowers strewn across the hallway and an officer crouched, cuffing the man he had seen walk across the car park.
Chapter Fifteen
Brandt exited the ticket barrier knowing that if he looked up beyond the peak of his cap, he would be faced with a number of CCTV cameras, even more than would have tracked his progress from when he got off the train. If he needed any more reassurance that his choice of outfit had been correct, he noticed that the young man stood at the florist stall looked remarkably similar. It seemed that a hoodie and jeans was the default clothing for the male weekend shopper and the wearing of some form of hat was far from unusual.
Although his destination was to the left, Brandt turned right as he emerged from the station.
Should anyone choose to look at the footage from that afternoon, he wanted to be eliminated as someone heading for the shops rather than the river. He deliberately passed the spot where he had stabbed Sarah Donovan and it took him all his willpower not to slow his pace. He would have loved to linger there for a while and relive that tremendous moment of a couple of weeks ago. Instead, he gazed at the Broadmarsh Centre in front of him.
Ordinarily the thought of going shopping with so many people on a Saturday would be horrifying, but today the anonymity it gave him was welcome. He kept the leisurely pace of those around him and pretended to glance at the various window displays. Although he saw nothing that remotely interested him, Brandt was satisfied he had played the part sufficiently well as he started heading away from the busiest parts. He moved along some narrower streets, looking to pick up the main A60 road and start heading in the correct direction for his adventure that afternoon.
It was not long before Brandt found himself crossing back over the railway and at the next junction he could see Hooters: a bar and restaurant from America where the waitresses wore tight tops and skimpy shorts. Much as he thought he would enjoy the view inside, what he hoped awaited him further on would be a far more intimate experience. He quite liked Nottingham and was sad to think this would probably be his last visit. Naturally it held happy memories for him, but it was also the area itself he liked. It didn’t have the intimidating size of London but retained that impersonal quality where it felt you could go about your business without anyone paying attention. Similarly, one minute you could be on a packed city street full of shoppers and a few minutes later be somewhere quiet and discreet.
Whereas his two previous encounters had been meticulously planned, right down to the very spot where he would complete his task, he had only settled on a general area for this one. He did not believe it to be the trap of complacency that serial killers sometimes fell into once they thought they were too smart to get caught. On the contrary, Brandt knew that the police would be looking for meaning; for patterns. They would be trying to understand the thought process behind the specific location and would be developing all kinds of hypotheses. He was certain that this latest act would all but convince them he was a resident of Nottingham. They would be marking the three locations on a map and would be trying to work out the region in which he lived. That he knew he was heading in the general direction of Sarah’s place only helped reinforce it. They may well come to the conclusion that he had followed her from her home and decided to stab her once there were sufficient people around at the station.
Deep in thought, Brandt didn’t even notice the white van that sped past him, even though the draught of wind almost dislodged his hat. As the gradient of the road increased in order to cross the river, Nottingham Forest’s football stadium loomed large on his right. Further along the road he could make out some of the floodlights from Trent Bridge cricket ground. There weren’t any matches scheduled at either venue, but he was concerned that there might be increased CCTV if he should continue any further.
He stopped on the bridge and surveyed the area around him. As he looked south, away from the City Ground, he contemplated detouring onto the path running along the river. This would mean he would be away from the traffic and, having selected an appropriate candidate, he could wait until the way was clear in both directions. It troubled him slightly that the river was overlooked, not least by the nearby apartment blocks, but he might find a spot further along where their view was obscured.
Brandt took out his phone and brought up the now familiar Google map of Nottingham. He saw that the river meandered, and he wanted to make sure that it wouldn’t take him so far away from the station that he may be forced to double back on himself. He knew from experience that, unless given sufficient cause to, people would rarely even register passing someone once. However, some sort of impression would be left on their memory because, should they encounter that person again within a short space of time, it tended to leave an imprint.
He worked out that he would need to follow it for about a mile before there was a tree-lined route that would lead him pretty much straight back to the station. Satisfied that a mile should give him sufficient opportunity, he started down the path to the riverside. Believing fate to be with him, he was delighted to see a blonde woman, walking a pug, emerge from under the bridge and end up in front of him just a few feet ahead.
His early years as a detective had taught him how to follow people discretely without drawing attention to himself. Approximating that he had twenty minutes until his turn off, Brandt felt quite relaxed as he set a gap of around ten metres between him and the woman. His only real concern was what would happen if the dog decided to stop, perhaps needing to empty its bowels. He figured that if that happened in a sufficiently secluded spot he would just have to get on with his task. But he did not want that. This was to be his decision. His timing. It was to be on his terms, not a fucking dog’s!
Acknowledging that his mood was darkening unnecessarily, Brandt tried to stop his train of thought and focus purely on the woman ahead. The whole purpose of this exercise had been to enable him to enjoy the moment more. He was not going to allow concerns about things he couldn’t control spoil that. Although he had only caught the merest glimpse of the woman’s face as she had emerged from under the bridge, he knew straight away that she was beautiful. The way her hair was now glinting in the sunlight and bounced in time to the movements of her slim but curvaceous body, seemed to confirm this to Brandt. He had never pigeon-holed himself as favouring a particular hair colour, but he was sure a woman such as this could turn him towards blondes.
Almost as though drawn by the intensity of his thoughts, the woman glanced behind her. It was brief; fleeting even, and her gaze never even made it as far as Brandt. He knew, ultimately, that this was a good thing but a part of him regretted being denied the intimacy it would have brought.
Nevertheless, he had seen enough to confirm that fate was on his side. This was his calling; this was what he was meant to do. His whole life, even his two previous acts in Nottingham, had merely served to bring him to this point. Despite being brought up in a Catholic household, his family’s religion had not rubbed off on Brandt. His time in the police had only served to solidify the feeling that such acts of violence and depravity as he witnessed almost on a daily basis, demonstrated that either God didn’t exist or was not the sort of god Brandt could love. But now, today, on this river path in Nottingham, he had something of an epiphany.
Brandt had always seen death as destructive but now viewed it as quite the opposite. This woman presumably led a mundane life and her impact, however positive, would only have been on those immediately around her. What Brandt was just about to do would spread her influence far and wide. The media coverage this would undoubtedly provoke was Brandt’s gift to the world. Her face would be everywhere; her beauty distributed for all to enjoy. Her life would be eulogised by those who knew her and, perhaps, even by many who didn’t. Her funeral would be far better attended than she ever could have expected. This outpouring of love was his gift to her; the reward for her sacrifice. And to Brandt’s mind, it was a sacrifice worth paying many times over. In the city of Nottingham in particular, but all over the country, loved ones would hold each other a little closer tonight. Less would be taken for granted and more would be appreciated. Who could put a price on such a tightening of the fabric of society? But if one could, it would certainly be worth more than the cost of an individual.
Brandt’s commitment to his new career had never wavered but these thoughts certainly helped to galvanise his resolve. The fact that he was gaining such satisfaction from his work was just a fortunate by-product. He did not feel guilty for it. In fact, he saw it as entirely healthy. He had always accepted that the immediate pleasure derived from procreation was not its primary purpose but when it was overlooked, deliberately ignored, suppressed even, that was when things had gone wrong in his marriage.
Brandt had gro
wn sick and tired of feeling guilty for things. By the time his wife had left him it seemed as though he was responsible for anything that happened that was less than ideal. Such was his sense of guilt that he often believed himself to blame for two conflicting things at once. He had felt wrong to want so much more from their sex life and yet he had believed he was to blame for his wife’s inability to get pregnant. It had been the same with work; although widely admired for his gift to spot the lead in a case where all others had failed, this only served to heighten the guilt he felt when there was a crime he couldn’t solve.
That’s why he knew his latest endeavour was right. There had not been one minute, not even a fleeting second, where he had questioned the purpose of what he was doing; much less consider that it might be wrong. When he had first plunged that knife into the girl outside the station, the release he had felt was so much more than a chemical reaction started in his brain. It was almost physical, like a snake shedding a skin, perhaps even more transformational – an insect emerging from a pupa. Much as this change is the last stage of creation for the insect, so too Brandt knew that he was now becoming the ultimate iteration of himself.
As if to provide a physical confirmation of his psychological musings, Brandt could feel himself begin to stiffen. A quick glance at his phone confirmed that he had been following this woman and her dog for half a mile now. The noise from the main arterial roads through Nottingham had faded and it was only the occasional vehicle in a side street that was noticeable above the indistinct hum. The meandering of the river meant they were no longer visible from the blocks of flats built near Trent Bridge, and the numbers of walkers had dwindled to the extent that there was no one but the woman and her dog on this stretch of path.
With the strain in his trousers becoming uncomfortable at his current speed, Brandt was pleased to see the dog pausing to take a particularly long sniff at some foliage on the grass verge. He wondered whether he should take the opportunity to close the distance and complete the act. The conditions were as good as they were likely to get but unconsciously he could feel his pace slowing. Any apparent hesitancy was not due to having second thoughts. Whereas his encounters with the other two had been momentary, with every passing minute, his affinity with this woman grew. The longer he spent staring at her from behind, the more he yearned to add to the fleeting view of her face from first spotting her. Much as he was caught up in the thrill of the chase, he had not lost the cold logic that had served him well during his previous career. He knew that, when the time came, he would have to act fast. Whilst no one else was currently in sight, at any time someone could walk or, worse, jog or cycle around the corner. Therefore, he would need to make his getaway as quickly as possible. But then again, Brandt was feeling somewhat fatalistic. The chances of someone witnessing their moment of intimacy were the same whether he did it now or further along the path. Consequently, he would take his time building up to it to ensure that today’s events would be etched on his memory forever. He would not need any visual stimulation back in the confines of his home. That hard-nose bitch, DCI Stella Johnson, wouldn’t be able to unnerve him with her dead-eyed stare. He knew her type back when he was in the force. So determined were women like that to get on; so determined were they to prove they could make it despite the gender-biased odds they fabricated in their feminist, no doubt lesbian, minds, that they ended up conforming to every male stereotype they were supposedly fighting against.
ONE STEP AHEAD: detectives hunt a serial killer who knows all their moves (The DCI Jeffrey Brandt Murders Trilogy Book 1) Page 5