His immediate thought had been to double back and push through the open door to complete his act in the hallway. The impatient side of his brain had told him that this might even be better than doing it in the street. He could close the door to ensure they were in perfect isolation. He could take his time. Perhaps even enjoy the feel of her body, the coolness of her skin and take in her unique scent. Brandt had already started to turn when he suddenly came to his senses. This had not been part of the plan and there were so many variables that were unaccounted for, not least the fact, at her age, she was unlikely to live alone in a house that, notwithstanding its modest size, must be expensive given its proximity to the centre of Canterbury.
Brandt had taken a long loop to return to the high street, not just so that he didn’t end up doubling back, but also to allow himself time to calm down. Disturbed that he had even contemplated taking an uncalculated risk, he promised he would keep things nice and simple, resolutely refusing to deviate from the plan unless strictly necessary.
As he lay in bed, still flaccid in his hand, he wondered whether it was the relative simplicity of the killing that was preventing him deriving any real pleasure from the day. For a fleeting moment he remembered the resigned disappointment etched onto his wife’s face at those times when he had failed to either maintain an erection or achieve one in the first place. Determined to prove to that bitch it had been more the lack of stimulus she provided, than an inability on his part, he screwed his eyes shut and concentrated hard.
He brought back the image of the woman’s widening blue eyes as she looked at him when he had grabbed her in the few long seconds before he drove home the knife. Yes, he had felt the same thrill as before; made euphoric when he had walked sufficiently far away to believe he had not been seen. At the very edges of his hearing, he thought that he heard the scream of the person who first discovered her, but that had only served to make his heart beat faster. Indeed, and despite the long walk back to his car, he could still feel himself shaking slightly as he had attempted to turn his key in the ignition.
On reflection, he wondered whether that sensation had been more down to the brilliance of his improvised discarding of the knife. As Brandt had approached the centre of Canterbury he had passed a local garage; busy with trade. There had been a number of customers’ cars parked out the front and the open shutters revealed two vehicles on ramps, one having its underside inspected and the other receiving a change of tyres. Brandt approached it for a second time that day and smiled as he saw that it was now closed. A couple of vehicles remained in the car park, but he assumed they might belong to customers who had yet to receive the necessary remedial work. With a plan barely hatching in his mind he had gone up to the entrance and seen on the door that their opening hours were 8am to 6pm Monday – Friday and 8am to 12pm on Saturday. A glance at his watch revealed that it was nearly 12:50pm and Brandt surmised that the darkness inside meant the workers were long gone. Brandt opened the shutter of the letterbox and dropped the knife through, with barely a moment’s hesitation to admire the blood, still wet on the blade.
Knowing that Johnson would have been on high alert up in Nottingham, he wondered what the look on her face would be like in a few days when she realised that he had well and truly outfoxed her this time.
It was with thoughts of DCI Johnson’s humiliation that Brandt could finally feel himself harden.
Chapter Twenty-six
Johnson spent the morning at the station. There were ground crews out like yesterday but in a much smaller capacity. Although she had them check in from time to time, she wasn’t that interested; much less expecting something to happen. Johnson knew that they were possibly clutching at straws with the girl down in Kent but what she had managed to get from the police station in Canterbury certainly didn’t discount their guy. The victim was a seemingly randomly selected female in her early twenties with stab wounds to her torso from a serrated knife.
Johnson dialled the number again.
‘Look, there’s still no news back from the path lab,’ was what she received by way of a greeting. It had only been 10 minutes since her last call.
‘Just tell them to get a move on, will you?’ Johnson hung up without waiting for a reply.
Even though maps on the internet were far more detailed, when Johnson was working a case, she liked to use a paper copy. She had a map of Nottinghamshire on a wall in her office and they had one of Nottingham itself in the main area, as part of their investigation board. It had a number of pins in it, but the three red ones were where the victims had been found. Johnson had spent countless hours staring at it, hoping that some kind of pattern would reveal itself. Although she believed that it would now have to be replaced with a larger one, potentially of the whole of the UK, she would not allow herself to tempt fate and take it down until something more concrete came through from Kent. If it did, then the case might even get reassigned to a different task-force; especially given the possibility that the killer may have committed more murders around the country that hadn’t yet been linked.
She headed back into her office and pulled out the map of England and Wales that sat in her drawer. Her eyes looked from Nottingham down to Canterbury and back up to Nottingham again. It was the best part of two hundred miles. She studied the roads in between. Could be fucking anywhere, she thought, staring at all the major towns and cities along the way.
The ringing of her phone startled her. ‘DCI Johnson,’ she announced formally into the mouthpiece.
‘I’ve heard back from the lab and there’s no trace of any swipes or smears on the victim’s clothes.’
‘Shit. Okay.’
There followed a few seconds of silence.
‘You’re welcome by the way,’ came the sarcastic response just before the line went dead.
If Johnson was bothered by the tone of a subordinate she had never met, her face didn’t show it. She placed the receiver back in its cradle and looked at the map again.
‘What are you up to?’ she murmured before rising to walk out of her office. ‘I’ll be on my mobile if you need me,’ she called out to no one in particular as she headed to the door.
Originally intending to go for a smoke and then decide whether to go home, as she opened the external door, McNeil was walking across the car park.
‘Any news?’ Johnson asked, more conversationally than anything.
He shook his head. ‘No, nothing. Everyone’s still in position though. Any news back here?’
‘No, the path lab didn’t find anything on the body linking her to our guy.’
‘Oh.’ McNeil sounded disappointed.
‘That was good work though,’ Johnson offered cheerfully.
‘Just clutching at straws, I guess.’ He seemed genuinely deflated.
‘No, seriously, McNeil. That was really good work. How did you even find out about the girl? It’s not made the nationals.’
‘I was sure he would strike again yesterday. When we didn’t hear anything, I decided to search the news for stabbings.’ His voice was more animated than before. ‘It’s seriously depressing the number that come up but they’re mostly gang related or muggings. This one just kind of stood out, despite being so far away.’
‘Look, if it’s any consolation I think it might still be our guy.’
McNeil shook his head. ‘He’d have left a clue though, like with the second one.’
‘Agreed,’ Johnson said.
‘It’s not just because I thought of it, but I kind of wish we could see the body so we could rule out it being him.’
Silence.
‘Perhaps we can,’ Johnson replied eventually. ‘Fancy a road trip?’
‘Come again?’
‘Assuming nothing happens here today, I’ll leave DI Fisher in charge. He’s gagging for a bit of extra responsibility, but he’ll have to continue coordinating the door to door activity with uniform whilst Hardy carries on going through all of the CCTV. Apart from that, we’ve got nothing else to go
on. Besides, I’ve got a contact down there who will only be too pleased to see me.’ Johnson smirked to herself.
‘What’s funny?’
‘Oh nothing,’ she said. ‘Go home and get a good night’s sleep. I’ll pick you up at 6am.’
‘Erm, do you mind if I come around to your place?’ He didn’t know why but for some reason he didn’t want Johnson to see that he lived in a shared house in a grotty part of town.
‘Oh, I see, don’t want me waking the girlfriend?’ she said, already walking back towards the station before calling out her address over her shoulder.
Chapter Twenty-seven
The red Audi TTRS gleamed in the dawn light, squat and aggressive with its fixed rear spoiler and large diameter wheels. Although McNeil was seven minutes early, Johnson was already waiting by the car, finishing off a cigarette. He was relieved. The half-hour journey from Radford to Wollaton had made him cold.
‘Nice walk?’ Johnson called sarcastically as McNeil opened the door.
He didn’t rise to the bait. Instead he made a deliberate appraisal of the car before getting in. ‘I didn’t realise you used to be a hairdresser, ma’am.’
‘Fuck off, PC McNeil,’ she replied, deliberately flooring the accelerator whilst he was still fumbling for his seat belt. ‘You drive like a bitch,’ she added, barely slowing as she entered the roundabout at the end of her road.
Not wanting to give Johnson the satisfaction of showing that her driving was scaring the life out of him, he casually poked at various points of the interior. ‘Nice,’ he said. ‘It’s remarkably clean. Did you get it washed especially for our trip?’
‘Bollocks I did,’ she lied. ‘But if you so much as leave a bit of mud on my floor mats I’ll kill you.’
‘So, no drive-thru then?’
‘What?’
‘Come on Johnson, your morning bowl of quinoa isn’t going to last you all the way to Canterbury. I fancy a Maccy D’s and I could murder a coffee right about now. Does this toy car have any cup holders?’ he said, peering around theatrically once more.
Johnson applied the brakes heavily, smiling to herself as McNeil was thrown forward. ‘Sorry about that, the pedal is a bit all or nothing. Guess I could have a coffee and maybe a bowl of porridge or something.’
Twenty minutes later the Audi, following signs for the M1, was pulling out of McDonald’s car park. A comfortable silence had descended as both of the occupants were enjoying the warm, full feeling brought about by their breakfast. Pulling up at the drive-thru Johnson had required little persuasion to copy McNeil’s order of a sausage and egg McMuffin meal, only hesitating at the last minute to switch to an orange juice for the drink. ‘That way we have a cold drink to share whilst we eat and can then have the coffee once it cools down.’ She didn’t think to ask whether McNeil minded sharing the same receptacle and he never even considered the behaviour unusual for two colleagues of very differing rank.
Their progress along the motorway had been good for the first hour and, for the most part, Johnson had maintained a steady 85-90mph in the outside lane. McNeil soon relaxed in the car, having realised that she was a more than capable driver – her inputs smooth and confident. Things somewhat changed when the traffic became heavier just outside Dunstable and the variable speed limits were switched on.
‘Hate these things,’ Johnson grumbled to herself, after having to wipe off a third of her speed as she passed the first 60mph marked gantry.
‘It’s to slow us down before we hit the bulk of the traffic. That way a jam can be avoided,’ McNeil ventured.
‘That’s bollocks,’ she replied coarsely. ‘You’re just meant to think that. If a mile down the road we hit congestion we’re meant to be like oh I’m pleased I slowed down when it’s not as if you wouldn’t have braked when you saw the queuing traffic. Or if the traffic suddenly clears, you’re like oh thank goodness they slowed us down so to allow things to space out a little.’ Johnson paused for a moment, realising how animated she had just been.
‘Erm, let me guess. You have a few points for speeding on your license?’ McNeil said.
‘You what?’
‘I bet that you were about to follow that little speech of yours with the claim that the only reason why they turn on the speed limits is so they can switch on the speed cameras and make some money.’
‘You can just…’
‘And the only reason why you would do so with such depth of feeling is that you have been caught out by these before,’ McNeil interrupted smugly, before adding, ‘And more than once I would imagine.’
‘Fuck off, McNeil, at least I’m old enough to have a driving license. Your provisional doesn’t even allow you onto a motorway.’
Silence descended. The next gantry was looming into view, this one informing the motorists that the speed limit had now reduced to 50mph.
‘Bet she slows…’ McNeil whispered, supposedly to himself.
Almost instantly he could feel the car accelerating. He turned in surprise to look at Johnson. With metres to spare she jumped on the brakes and wiped off just enough speed that, after an agonising moment of waiting, they didn’t see a double flash from above.
He looked back at her with a mixture of shock and relief. All the while her expression had not changed, and her eyes hadn’t left the road. He was about to ask if she was okay when he saw her left hand leave the steering wheel and rise to her face. It looked like she might rest it against her cheek but instead she curled up all of the digits except the middle one and proceeded to make the remaining finger move back and forth between her and her passenger, all the while maintaining her focus on the other side of the windscreen.
‘And you say I’m immature…’ McNeil quipped whilst trying to make himself comfortable in his seat once more. With the hand now back on the steering wheel, he took the opportunity to take a long glance at Johnson, knowing that she was unlikely to turn. Without those eyes boring into him he was able to appreciate the structure of her face. She had prominent cheekbones, upon which was skin that was virtually flawless, with the merest hint of the crow’s feet of age forming at the corners of her eyes. As he observed her lips and how the bottom one was slightly fuller than the top, he wondered what they might taste like.
‘Shit!’ The abrupt curse brought McNeil’s thoughts back to the present. The deceleration of the car, more gradual this time, confirming what Johnson had seen up ahead. ‘We’ve hit the traffic already.’
‘Cheer up, it’ll probably clear after a couple of junctions and you’ll be able to drive like Sebastian Vettel the rest of the way to Kent.’
Chapter Twenty-eight
‘It’s a nice car and everything but, next time, let’s take something a little more on the comfortable side of sporty,’ McNeil suggested whilst trying to straighten out his back in the unfamiliar police station car park.
‘It’s not my fault we were virtually bumper to bumper all the way here,’ Johnson said grumpily, also feeling the effects on her bones of the near four-hour drive.
McNeil looked at his watch, a simple Casio he had been given by his mother in the run up to his GCSE exams years ago. It was covered in scratches and the black paint had chipped off in places, revealing the metal underneath. He had planned to upgrade to something sturdier and chunkier, like a G Shock, when he first joined the force but, whilst this remained accurate, he no longer saw the need.
‘Do you need some help with that?’
‘Come again?’ McNeil replied absentmindedly, looking up.
‘You seem to be struggling. Do you need me to explain what the big hand means?’ It was clear that Johnson’s frustration with the journey had evaporated.
‘It’s digital.’
‘Even more worrying,’ she murmured.
‘Why are you in a good mood all of a sudden?’
‘Ah!’ Johnson laughed. ‘That obvious, is it?’ She began walking to the station. McNeil started following and was about to ask her what she meant, when she continued, ‘Do you
remember me saying that we were expected?’
‘Yes,’ replied McNeil, not really understanding.
‘Well, do you remember me saying we were welcome?’
‘Er, no.’
‘We’re not,’ she said, turning and smiling.
‘And that is why you’re happy?’ McNeil was more confused than ever.
‘You ever watched one of those American movies where a crime happens, the FBI arrive and the local cops get all pissy?’
‘Ah I see,’ he said, nodding. ‘So, we’re like the FBI then?’
‘Bingo!’
‘But that still doesn’t explain why you’re excited…’
Whether or not Johnson intended sharing, they were already at the door. Although they had needed to give their credentials when arriving at the secure car park, they faced another buzzer.
‘It’s DCI Johnson and Special Agent Starling,’ she called into a small microphone, whilst depressing the button.
‘Could you repeat that?’ Came the crackled reply.
‘Look, you already know who we are. You’re the same voice as when we arrived. We’re already running late because of the stupid traffic round here so let’s skip to the part where I meet with DCI Marlowe, shall we?’ There followed an awkward silence, eventually broken by the clicking sound of the lock release. Johnson winked at McNeil, pulled the door and held it open for him. ‘After you, Clarice,’ she said, gesturing at the dimly lit interior.
ONE STEP AHEAD: detectives hunt a serial killer who knows all their moves (The DCI Jeffrey Brandt Murders Trilogy Book 1) Page 9