ONE STEP AHEAD: detectives hunt a serial killer who knows all their moves (The DCI Jeffrey Brandt Murders Trilogy Book 1)

by Denver Murphy

  Regardless, the fact remained that the police would have made the connection after the second woman, and here was DCI Johnson implying that it was only now, one death later, that the parallels were clear. It wasn’t even as though he had left them such a clue this time. Sure, he had used the same steak knife, but he hadn’t felt it necessary to flag up the link. Brandt would have been willing to bet that, no sooner had they heard the news of what had happened along the River Trent, they had immediately known he had struck again.

  ‘Liar!’ Brandt repeated. It amused him that they had not wanted to reveal this sooner. Was it that they were confused why such a deliberate clue had been left? Perhaps, but from experience he guessed it was because they would not have wanted to alarm the public until it was apparent that a pattern was emerging. That, and the fact that the pressure on the police to make an arrest would increase tenfold now this was in the public domain.

  Brandt watched with keen interest whilst DCI Johnson appealed for people to be vigilant. She sounded genuinely concerned, but the warmth of her words did not stretch to her eyes. They remained as ice cold as ever. Yet Brandt no longer found their stare unsettling. The news conference confirmed that they were nowhere near to catching him, despite what DSI Potter had said about following a number of credible leads. There was no way they would have come out with such an appeal, such an admission of the inability to keep the public safe, if they thought they were even part of the way towards catching him.

  It was the timing of the press conference that had caused Brandt a moment of panic. Given the killing had hit the national news on Saturday evening, the delay until Monday seemed unusual. For a while on Sunday, Brandt had been concerned that its absence had meant he had made some sort of mistake which the police were following up. He knew his planning had been sound, both in terms of how he had travelled to Nottingham and not leaving any unintended clues at the scene. However, he also knew he could not have legislated against everything. Perhaps someone else had come around one of the bends just as he was fleeing the scene and had provided a good enough description to allow the police to pick him up on CCTV later in his route. Perhaps there had been a building somewhat obscured by the trees with a window that someone happened to be looking out of. Perhaps there had been a homeless guy foraging on the other side of the bushes. All increasingly unlikely but still, technically, possible.

  Brandt had even toyed with the idea of making his getaway on Sunday evening but had decided against it, having not given the slightest bit of thought to it in any of his previous planning. He concluded that if the police were on to him, the worst thing he could do was something that would be seen as out of character. The quiet road on which Brandt lived had a sufficient number of nosey neighbours that his departure on a Sunday evening would probably not have gone unnoticed. Instead he had decided to sleep on the problem; reasoning that, if he felt the same the following day, he could ensure a more anonymous departure. It gave him enough time to work out where he would go and, more crucially, how he would get there. He would set different timers on his house lights and leave his car on the drive. Brandt knew that taking public transport held many risks but the Automatic Number Plate Recognition cameras scattered across the road network made car travel equally perilous.

  However, the next morning he had felt calmer and somewhat fatalistic about events. As he lay in bed thinking about the women with whom he had formed such a special bond, he had been reminded of the signs he had received that suggested he was being supported by a higher power of some kind. How with the first, as he had exited the station, he immediately had seen her long flowing hair. Sarah Donovan had seemed to indicate, by a simple body movement, where she had wanted him. Then a voice in his consciousness had prevented him from twisting the knife and thus saved her life. When he had revisited Nottingham, he had decided that whoever had entered the alleyway next would become his second act. The fact that it was another attractive young woman had suggested more than a coincidence, seemingly confirmed by his third victim emerging from under the bridge over the River Trent, just as he was about to take to the path.

  It would appear he was destined to focus on attractive young women. This was something he felt entirely comfortable with, even though it would be causing a number of conclusions to be drawn by the profilers at the police. Brandt surmised that, given he hadn’t deliberately targeted young women, they would end up coming up with someone different. Not only had Brandt never intended for there to be an apparent pattern to his victims, it was something he had planned against. This was one of the reasons why he had gone to such lengths in the alleyway to highlight it was him striking again. If the person had been a middle-aged man, the chances of the police making the connection with Sarah Donovan would have been particularly slim. Perhaps it would have taken quite a few more acts before they knew they were dealing with one man. Brandt didn’t have the patience for such a wait. He had wasted the best years of his life in a marriage and a profession that had given him little satisfaction.

  So what if he got a particular thrill from these women? He was not oblivious to this; in reality he embraced it. How could he not when they had aroused feelings forgotten since the first years of his failed marriage? Though being responsible for the life seeping from another human created a euphoria beyond anything sexual, causing Brandt to believe it would remain the same regardless of gender or age, he was sure that reliving these moments back at home, whilst still gratifying, would clearly not have the same erotic thrill. Far from making him a pervert, Brandt thought his victims might even be grateful. Surely, just like him, they wanted their lives, no matter how short, to have meaning. To leave a legacy when they died. Although primarily that would be them immortalised in media, print, and the spoken word, the contribution of their existence would live on in Brandt.

  Therefore, to run away now and, more crucially, to abandon such an important project would be an injustice to their sacrifice. They deserved the snowballing of exposure that his repeated acts would bring. He didn’t want them consigned to the regional news and the odd fleeting mention in the nationals. Brandt realised he had a duty to create some serious waves; they, along with him, were ready to become the most talked about people in Britain. Today’s press conference marked the start of that journey and Brandt could barely contain his excitement with what the forthcoming Saturday might bring.

  Chapter Nineteen

  The frustration and boredom that DCI Johnson had felt earlier in the week was now turning into anxiety. Even though she knew that the killer would be mad to strike again on yet another Saturday, all the same, she found it a distinct possibility; one that was growing every minute it got closer to the weekend. Not that she thought for one moment the killer was mad, at least not in the traditional sense of the word. Far from being a raving lunatic, this man was cold and calculating. Up to this point he had managed to avoid leaving any evidence of worth, and yet had the confidence to highlight the link between his victims. Whilst DSI Potter believed it was the killer’s way of taunting the authorities, perhaps trying to show an air of invincibility, Johnson was not convinced. There had been no attempt by him to contact the police, nor did she think there would be. Far from making some kind of statement or seeking notoriety or infamy, Johnson believed that the killer was doing something he simply enjoyed. The fact that he was selecting attractive young women only supported this by implying a sexual dimension. That they had yet to find any evidence of physical interference pre- or post-mortem made Johnson believe they were dealing with a sexually repressed individual. For the level of bitterness and loneliness to reach murderous proportions, whilst at the same time avoiding either the levels of violence demonstrating a hatred of women, or the molestation associated with acting out one’s fantasies, suggested the work of a middle-aged man. Having already demonstrated confidence as well as competence, Johnson only believed it a matter of time until the perpetrator lost whatever inhibitions were currently holding him back.

  She shuddered at the th
ought of the consequences for those who would be subjected to his perversion, but then also for the backlash it would bring the police. If what Johnson had told the people of Nottingham on Monday had not caused sufficient fear, when it transpired that the killer in their midst was a sexual predator, it would doubtlessly cause panic. The upshot would make this week, so far full of following up hollow leads from hundreds of phone calls and watching hours of CCTV footage, feel like a holiday in The Bahamas.

  The reality was that Johnson could have skipped most of the mundane tasks, and left it to her team, along with McNeil who had remained keen as ever to help. She could have spent the time going over the little evidence they had, working up theories. It wasn’t so much that she knew that there was little to go on, more a sense of responsibility to muck in with the others. She knew that she often appeared aloof but was equally conscious that, if they were going to get a result from this, she would need the team galvanised and the best way was to lead from the front. Much as she felt that she had been successful in hiding her increasing frustration, it would seem that McNeil was able to read her moods better than most.

  Johnson had been certain after the mix up at Sarah Donovan’s flat that McNeil would try and distance himself from the CID investigation. She would not have been surprised, much less blame him, if he had requested to move back to his usual work. That he had asked to stay and help meant something to Johnson, even if she had been determined not to show it. Unless things made a dramatic change for the better, she doubted any of them would come up smelling of roses, but she did feel that McNeil was starting to fit in with the rest of the team.

  ‘You don’t think he’ll bother tomorrow do you, ma’am?’ McNeil enquired, as though reading her mind. They were both studying the board in the main area; a network of photographs, maps, and pieces of information associated with the case.

  ‘What do you think?’ came Johnson’s now familiar response to his questions.

  ‘He’d be taking a huge risk if he did so.’ Not only would the press conference have served to make people extra cautious, but Saturday would see the largest visible police presence in Nottingham since Forest were in the top division in the 1980s and football hooliganism was at its height.

  ‘So?’

  ‘He doesn’t strike me as the sort of person who would take such a big risk.’

  ‘And stabbing three women in broad daylight is the work of a cautious man?’

  ‘No, ma’am, I think they were carefully planned and, although carrying inherent risks, he had worked to minimise them. Tomorrow contains too many variables I think he will feel he cannot control.’

  ‘So perhaps he’s decided to retire then?’

  ‘No, ma’am, I don’t think that either. As things stand, I can’t see him stopping until we catch him.’ McNeil’s tone had taken on a sombre note.

  ‘So, what then? Lay low for a while and wait for the dust to settle?’ Johnson had only kept this conversation going in an attempt to alleviate some of the tedium but, the more McNeil spoke, the more interested she became in what he had to say.

  ‘I don’t think he is going to do anything tomorrow, but I reckon he’s going to be out and about taking everything in.’

  ‘Oh really?’ For the first time Johnson’s question was genuine. Whilst she also believed that there would not be an attack tomorrow, she had not considered the idea that the killer would be in public.

  ‘Yes, I think he will be keen to know what difference he’s made.’

  ‘And what do you base that on?’

  ‘Well…’ McNeil thought carefully. ‘This is probably because of the blood swipe on the second victim. He wanted us to know it was him striking again. Plus, I think it shows some ego. Also, he will probably know about us waiting for him at Sarah Donovan’s flat.’

  ‘Go on…’

  ‘So,’ McNeil said pensively, ‘whilst I don’t think he is stupid enough to do anything, with everyone on high alert, he’ll want to see how everyone’s acting and, in particular, us.’

  Johnson stopped to consider this for a moment. ‘If you’re right, how can that help us?’

  ‘Well, I’m not sure, ma’am,’ he conceded. ‘I suppose if that were me, I might check out the places I had been before because that is where I would be able to notice the differences.’

  ‘So how do we turn that to our advantage?’

  ‘What I would do is tone back the uniform presence in these areas, so as not to spook him, but deploy some plain clothes to keep an eye out for him.’

  Clever, thought Johnson. Not only might McNeil be onto something, but the way his mind worked suggested he was cut out for this line of policing. She was similarly pleased that this had been witnessed by the rest of the team. No more bullshit photocopying and filing for him; she no longer cared if he might be seen as the teacher’s pet. He had faced her line of questioning with honesty and a refusal to be intimidated that few of them possessed and, although a long shot, what he was proposing was the first bit of genuine proactive thinking since she had made the call of using Sarah Donovan as bait.

  ‘Very well, McNeil, go and make the necessary arrangements.’

  Chapter Twenty

  Brandt was in a particularly good mood on this dry, clear morning. Once again the weather was in his favour, something he appreciated all the more because he intended driving the whole distance this time. He started wondering whether today’s candidate had even the slightest inclination that this would be a Saturday unlike any other – their last. It might be as small as giving their loved one a longer kiss goodbye that morning, or unconsciously taking a glance back at their house as they left it for the final time. Brandt liked to think they did because, again, it would fit his belief that he was doing something preordained; something with purpose.

  It made him contemplate how the residents of Nottingham were feeling this morning. He guessed that there would be a number of apprehensive people, many of whom would have woken up thinking of him. How many had changed their plans and altered their typical routine given what DCI Johnson had advised earlier in the week?

  He knew the atmosphere in Nottingham that day would be a little subdued, but people had a defence mechanism whereby, no matter what they heard, they never truly accepted that bad things would happen to them. Yes, some of the women would avoid taking short cuts through alleyways or walking their dogs along secluded sections of the river, but would they do the truly safe thing and stay at home? He very much doubted it. Similarly, their limited attempts to minimise the risk would lack any true thought of the extent of the danger. Brandt had grown tired over recent years of seeing the same pointless knee-jerk reactions to terrorist attacks. If it had been something on the airlines then extra security measures would be put in place, inconveniencing and delaying countless passengers, before gradually being relaxed once the dust had settled. Even if permanent changes were made, like they had with bag and body searches at major events, the manner in which they were administered changed in the weeks following an attack. The staff responsible for carrying them out, so invasive in the immediate aftermath, soon became far less thorough. Anyone who wanted to smuggle in something illegal had to do little more than conceal the item somewhere less obvious.

  Brandt supposed that the counter argument to the apparent futility of all this, was that people felt safer; happy to buy into the illusion. But this was why he couldn’t let up, couldn’t allow himself to be caught. Selflessly and relentlessly he believed himself duty bound to continue until the illusion was shattered and human nature’s natural complacency was driven from the public.

  Chapter Twenty-one

  ‘Do you want me to take over?’ Johnson said, as she nearly got whiplash for the third time following McNeil’s jerky acceleration.

  ‘Sorry, ma’am, it’s just I haven’t driven this particular model before.’

  Johnson knew that he had never driven anything as powerful as the Audi S4 she had chosen this morning from the impounded stock. The police were allo
wed to keep and use those vehicles that had been proven to be purchased with the proceeds of crime. Johnson, a secret petrol head, used any excuse to dip into this more exotic motor pool rather than the usual dull collection of Vauxhalls and Volvos. Although preferring the BMW M4’s additional performance, the Audi S4 still had a more-than-adequate 340 BHP and was, crucially, more understated in looks, especially in this metallic grey paintwork and estate body style. Appearing to the untrained eye to be just another junior executive’s company car, the engine mated to its Quattro four-wheel drive system ensured that in the right hands, it could keep up with almost any vehicle on the road.

  Although Johnson enjoyed banter with McNeil, she knew that today would be long and stressful. With other things playing on her mind, she had decided she would start as gently as possible. So, as well as allowing him to drive to their first location, she did not comment that, unless he was willing to pay astronomical personal insurance premiums, his age meant he was likely to be restricted to owning little more than a Ford Fiesta for a while yet.

  Johnson, unshackled by the burden of being a young adult, owned a faster car than the one she was being driven in that morning. Also an Audi, her TTRS had more power and was lighter and nimbler, whilst retaining the security of all-wheel drive. Far from understated, she had ordered hers in bright red and loved, not just driving it, but also the attention it drew. Unconcerned by the stereotype of an attractive blonde driving a red sports car, she even wished she had gone for the convertible version. Although the extra weight applied to strengthen the chassis would blunt the performance a little, being open to the elements and that warbling five-cylinder soundtrack would heighten the sense of speed.