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

by Denver Murphy

  It was McNeil who had first pointed out that they needed to hurry back to the police station if they were going to hit the road in time to avoid the bulk of the rush hour traffic later in their journey. Misinterpreting Johnson’s reluctance, his offer to drive had the effect of snapping her out of her current mood and inviting the good-natured torrent of insults about her previous experience with him behind the wheel.

  Although it had been him who first suggested he didn’t fancy the journey back, pre-rush hour or not, McNeil suspected by the swiftness the statement was replied to, that he wasn’t the first to think it. Johnson’s apparent coyness about suggesting they stay the night –something that, she later revealed, had been pre-approved by DSI Potter in case they uncovered more evidence – was a source of intrigue for him. Naturally it could be for a whole host of reasons, not least the fact that the trip had been entirely fruitless, but the near relief with which she received McNeil’s admission that he wasn’t ready to go back to Nottingham, suggested a certain nervousness on her part. And yet, as soon as he had broached the issues related to them staying, Johnson had been swift and decisive in confronting each of them. The most immediate and pressing was ensuring approval for her not returning to continue heading up the Nottingham investigation. Whilst Johnson had been confident that, if subsequently challenged by DSI Potter, she could find an acceptable reason for not going back straight away, she admitted that they would both feel more relaxed if they knew he was on side.

  What followed had been a masterclass in manipulation, all played out on speakerphone for McNeil’s benefit; something of which Machiavelli himself would have been proud. She had tempered DSI Potter’s initial expectation that, having chosen to call him from Canterbury, they had some concrete information, by appearing to be looking for guidance; as a student would from a mentor. She successfully played to his, admittedly small, ego then proceeded to talk about obstacles they had encountered; first with the traffic but also with co-operation by the Canterbury constabulary. She hadn’t mentioned DCI Marlowe, nor had she chosen to share how open and helpful she had been, allowing her comments about the duty sergeant and pathologist to be examples that implied a trend with the rest of the staff. McNeil was sure it had been much to Potter’s relief that Johnson had politely turned down the resulting offer for the matter to be raised with the station’s superiors. After describing the examination of the victim’s body and their study of the crime scene, she suggested that their initial thought this might be the work of their killer had been incorrect. With the DSI under at least as much pressure as she was to get a result, he reached the same conclusion she had privately that, although there was no clear evidence connecting the murders, nothing that had been described to him demonstrated that they weren’t linked. Potter had stated they must keep an open mind.

  Johnson had apologised, offering that she was tired, and then attempted to wrap up the phone call by explaining that they needed to get back to the police station to retrieve her car before the long journey back. Whether out of concern for Johnson’s welfare or just a refusal to concede that nothing more could be done to link the two cases, DSI Potter suggested they stay over, have a fresh look tomorrow and, if nothing else turned up, they could then make their way back mid-morning. She had appeared reluctant and even went as far as to say she didn’t know where to look to find an appropriate hotel given it would be secured on tax-payers’ money. Potter had told her that now wasn’t the time to worry about such things and to just head for the high street and find the first one that looked decent.

  Impressed as he had been by the conversation, not for the first time, McNeil wondered whether Johnson would be only too willing to throw him to the wolves if it served her purpose.

  It had been an interesting walk along the high street. Johnson had turned down some perfectly acceptable looking lodgings, the decisiveness of her dismissals almost implying she knew there was better further up. As soon as they arrived at a hotel with an imposing and traditional frontage made of stone on the ground floor and Tudor beams, with bay windows, on the upper two, Johnson had declared it to be the right one. They walked under the awning, above which were flag poles proudly displaying the hotel’s brand name, and a doorman greeted them to reveal an interior design that was clean and modern, but also luxurious with its expensive brown leathers and dark woods.

  They settled on two of the mid-price rooms and agreed to part company to meet in the hotel’s champagne bar at 5pm. Whilst Johnson had gone out to pick up some essentials, offering to buy McNeil a toothbrush and whatever other toiletries he required, he had gone up to his room. The receptionist had described it as enviable, a fitting description given its large size, polished wooden floors and enormous double bed. He was disappointed to find his view was to the rear of the hotel and settled down on the leather sofa at the foot of the bed to see what was on the large television mounted on the opposing wall. With the imperfect signal quality a match to the attributes of the daytime programming, he soon became bored and headed down to the bar early.

  It was now 17:09 and he’d drained most of his pint. Johnson had yet to arrive, and McNeil knew that if the barman was half-way competent he would soon be enquiring whether he wanted another. He had no idea how the evening would pan out and, for all he knew, Johnson might want a quick drink, grab some food nearby before excusing herself for an early night. In which case another beer now, as long as he drank it slowly enough that he wouldn’t force the barman into tempting him into a third before she arrived, couldn’t hurt. But, then again, if she was looking to let her hair down a bit, which was perfectly plausible given the few days they’d had, starting so early and being a couple of drinks up when he had no idea of her tolerance might not be a good idea.

  ‘Same again?’ The cheerful question from the barman meant McNeil could be indecisive no longer.

  As he thought of the appropriate response, a familiar voice called from a few feet behind him: ‘Make that two!’

  As he turned around to acknowledge Johnson’s arrival, the sight before him caused him to gawp. ‘Wow’ escaped his mouth before he attempted, and failed, to regain his composure.

  ‘Problem?’ she enquired with an innocence to her tone that completely contrasted with the mischievous glint in her eye.

  ‘You, er, got changed…’

  ‘Nothing escapes you, PC McNeil.’ It was clear that Johnson’s trip to the shops, and part of the reason for her being late to the bar, had been much more than picking up a few items for the morning. As far as he could tell, it had stretched to a whole new wardrobe. Her casual jeans of earlier had been swapped for a tighter fitting pair, complemented by some ankle boots with a substantial heel. Her top was a pattern of black and white, the neckline sitting below her shoulders and revealing that, if she was wearing a bra, and the fit of the material made it unclear either way, it was a strapless one.

  Johnson suggested that they move from the bar stools to a more comfortable and secluded table towards the side of the room. It was clear from his early attempts at conversation that she wasn’t very interested in discussing their case. Part of him regretted not taking the earlier opportunity to get an extra drink in him so he might relax more, but the rate at which Johnson was quaffing her beer suggested that any current awkwardness would soon be replaced by the tongue-loosening effects of alcohol consumption.

  ‘Any thoughts on what you might like to do this evening?’ he asked, trying to sound as casual as possible.

  ‘Let’s have another here and then see what the rest of this town has to offer,’ she said before draining the remainder of her glass.

  McNeil moved to get up, but Johnson beat him to it. ‘My round,’ she called cheerfully, grabbing her small clutch bag and heading back to the bar. A couple of minutes later she returned with a pint in each hand and two bags of crisps clenched between her teeth. As she slumped back down with a satisfied sigh, she slung the snacks into the middle of the table. ‘Have whichever bag you like. I thought we could do with
lining our stomachs,’ she said with a wink.

  Chapter Thirty

  ‘Look, I think I’m going to have to eat something soon,’ McNeil said. The clock above the bar informed him that it was now 8:45pm. They were in their third establishment since leaving the hotel but this one was much the same as the last two. Having decided that the only premises still open on the high street were the usual chain restaurants, they had ventured down a side street looking for pubs. The number on offer was not the issue, just the lack of variety, and, on a Monday evening, most were quiet. Neither of them had initially seen this as a problem but as they got through more rounds, and their conversations got louder and more animated, they became conscious that the subdued atmosphere was becoming increasingly divergent to their mood.

  ‘I think I’m a little too drunk to sit in a restaurant,’ confessed Johnson who, once they had left the hotel, had switched to wine and matched each of McNeil’s pints with a large glass. ‘Another bag of peanuts?’

  ‘I’ve had my fill of bar snacks,’ McNeil replied, trying to stifle a belch. ‘I believe they’re still serving food here,’ he said, reaching across to the next table to retrieve a dog-eared cardboard menu and offering it to her.

  She barely glanced at it before saying, ‘Look, we’ve been in here for at least…’ She looked up at the clock and her face contorted in concentration as she attempted to work out the time since their arrival.

  ‘Do you need help with that?’ McNeil asked, his voice dripping with delighted sarcasm.

  ‘Piss off!’ she replied loudly and receiving irritated glances from across the bar. ‘If only it was digital,’ she mused still staring at the clock.

  Once they had stopped laughing, Johnson leant in towards McNeil.

  ‘We’ve been here… a while.’ She attempted to whisper but only succeeding in lowering her voice to a typical speaking level. ‘How many dishes have you seen being served?’

  ‘Er, none.’

  ‘Exactly,’ she responded, nodding sagely, as though Confucius himself would have envied her profundity.

  It took McNeil a few moments to grasp her point. ‘Ah, so what then? Is it too early for a kebab?’

  ‘What?’ Johnson replied in mock outrage, once again drawing attention to herself from other patrons. ‘This is how you treat a lady?’

  ‘Okay then,’ he said good naturedly, taking another swig of his lager. ‘At the risk of accusing the lady of being fickle: if she’s too pissed for a restaurant, too snobby for a takeaway and too… I don’t know what … to eat here… then what would said lady like?’

  She leaned in once more, this time much closer. McNeil giggled and turned his head, so his ear was directly in front of her. He could feel her hot breath but heard no words. Instead a smooth hand grasped his chin and gently pulled his face back towards her. She fixed him with her pale blue eyes. Although glassy from the alcohol, they remained as intense as ever. ‘Room service,’ she whispered.

  Chapter Thirty-one

  McNeil had mixed feelings about the walk back to the hotel. On the one hand he wanted to get there as soon as possible, lest the moment fade, but on the other he felt more nervous than he could remember in a long time. If Johnson was similarly conflicted, her steady pace suggested otherwise. With her being a stride further ahead, he afforded himself a long look at her body. He had an overwhelming urge to just stop her there in the street and kiss her but, it wasn’t so much fear that she wouldn’t reciprocate that prevented him, more that he didn’t want to appear over-eager. He was very conscious of the age gap and had never been with a woman out of her twenties.

  The idea of being with someone older didn’t bother him, especially when Johnson’s physique looked perfect and she could pass as someone considerably younger. Rather than being concerned that she might be too old for him, he was worried that he may seem too young for her. He had no doubt that the confidence she exuded everyday was replicated when it came to being physical. And whilst the thought of her taking control and being clear about exactly what she wanted thrilled him, at the same time he found it intimidating. He felt caught in the void between the carefree abandon of a one-night stand and the progressive learning experience of a relationship. When he was with a girl he had just met there was the understanding that this wasn’t expected to lead anywhere. As such, and whilst his ego had wanted him to perform well, he had known that he could just relax and enjoy himself. When he was at the beginning of a relationship there was more of a focus on intimacy and tenderness; a slowness to the pace and an acknowledgement that it would take time and practice for two individuals to come together as one cohesive entity.

  Knowing that he was now over-thinking the concern for what was to follow, he could feel his pace slacken further. This was noticed by Johnson, but she did not seem to misread this as him having second thoughts. ‘Come on slow-coach,’ she called, turning around and now walking backwards. ‘Room service can be terribly slow, so I suggest you order the moment you get back to your room.’

  McNeil stopped instantly, slack jawed for the second time that evening. Johnson also came to a halt. Her face looked deadly serious. ‘And I bet the tray charge in a place like this is astronomical.’ She paused. ‘So, I guess it’s best we order together,’ she said slowly. With that she broke out into a huge grin, grabbed his hand and virtually dragged him up to jogging speed for the final fifty metres to the hotel entrance.

  The mixture of cold air, anticipation, anxiety and that final shock on the journey back had done a fine job of sobering McNeil up. Momentarily believing that he had completely misread Johnson’s signals had galvanised him into determination that he was going to enjoy himself, come what may. As the doors to the elevator closed and she turned towards him, he could control himself no longer. He placed his left hand on her backside to pull her in and bent his head down to meet her lips. She allowed her mouth to part, and did not object to his right hand finding her breast over the material of her top. But she did not return the kiss. Perturbed, he pulled away to find her eyes boring into him once more. The audible ping, announcing they had arrived at the appropriate floor, punctuated the intensity of the moment. ‘Easy tiger,’ she murmured, stepping out of the lift. ‘We have all night.’

  ‘Your place or mine?’ McNeil asked a few moments later, trying to sound sufficiently casual but with his lips still tingling from their recent encounter.

  ‘Mine, definitely mine.’

  McNeil waited patiently, and Johnson started to rummage in her bag for the room key. Although small, she had clearly packed as much stuff into it as possible. ‘Here, hold this,’ she commanded, thrusting her mobile phone towards him, in order to allow her to differentiate between the bag’s contents more easily.

  As he grabbed it, his touch woke up the screen. Unconsciously he glanced down at the display; an act he would replay over in his mind with regret countless times in the days to follow. ‘You have some missed calls,’ he remarked absentmindedly.

  ‘Let me see,’ she responded, abandoning her search. ‘Shit!’

  ‘What is it?’ McNeil asked, concerned.

  ‘They’re local numbers. Look, I’ve got a voicemail.’ She pressed the icon for recorded messages and then hit speaker so they both could hear.

  It seemed to take an age for the automated voice to run through its prescribed preamble. Eventually the message started: ‘DCI Johnson, it’s DCI Marlowe. We have the murder weapon.’ There was a long pause and Johnson’s finger hovered over the End Call icon. ‘I think you are going to want to see this,’ she added.

  Chapter Thirty-two

  Brandt no longer considered himself retired; he very much saw his latest endeavours as a career change. Clearly it was something he had needed to keep to himself, maintaining the impression that he was jobless. This was relatively straightforward considering that his divorce, coupled with leaving the police, had left him with very few regular acquaintances, never mind friends. Yet in the weeks following his retirement party, he had needed to deal
with numerous messages enquiring, not without a hint of jealousy, how much he was enjoying his spare time. His responses, sufficiently delayed and short, both implied that he was keeping busy and served not to maintain a dialogue. The occasional phone calls had been more of an irritation, having to answer the usual questions about whether he had taken up golf, found a wealthy divorcee, and if he was missing the routine of work. He guessed that he would have been less generous with his responses, had he not wanted to arouse any suspicious as to his well-being. The calls usually ended with non-specific promises to meet up soon but thankfully, they were becoming increasingly infrequent in number.

  Except, that is, for Franklin’s. DSI Brian Franklin was two years Brandt’s junior and busy planning for his own retirement. They had known each other for the past two decades, with their careers progressing at similar rates. However, notwithstanding the fact that they looked similar, with their dark brown hair, average height and medium build, as far as Brandt was concerned, that was where the similarities ended. Whilst Brandt had been satisfied that the job of Chief Superintendent was as far as he could progress without the bureaucracy and politics overtaking true investigative work, Franklin, for so many years, had been hell bent on going higher. Not that he would admit that to anyone now that his proximity to retirement had curtailed his previously minimal chances. As far as Brandt was concerned, Franklin had got as far as he had riding on the back of the success of others. With the spotlight more on him as DSI, he had maintained his position with caution and conservatism, hoping to be seen as a safe pair of hands when further opportunities arose. That Brandt, with a reputation for the unorthodox, had been invited to apply for more senior positions on a number of occasions, hadn’t bothered Franklin. Perhaps he saw Brandt’s refusal to do so as opening the way for him, hoping that their association would make him a more attractive candidate.