This was not at all how she had expected this to play out. Whatever it was, she hoped it was good news for a change.
‘Before I tell you, for what it’s worth I wanted to apologise for not trusting your instincts.’
‘Er, go on, guv.’ She was really confused now.
‘Thames Valley Police found a foreign fibre in one of the stab wounds. Turns out it was a small piece of carpet thread.’ Potter was being very calm, but Johnson could see the excitement in his eyes.
‘Yes?’
‘Well I was thinking about what you had said. And I thought that there was no harm in checking…’
‘What is it?’ She was becoming impatient.
‘Well I asked them to cross reference to the carpet in St. Albans…’
‘Fucking hell, I could kiss you right now!’ Johnson exclaimed.
Potter looked shocked; her reaction being far from what he had expected. Rather than carry out her threat, she slumped into the chair opposite his desk.
He coughed, composing himself. ‘I wanted to discuss with you what we should do with this information. I was thinking we…’
‘We sit on it,’ she interrupted.
‘But this is big, it’s…’
‘It’s massive,’ she agreed. ‘But now is not the time to reveal it.’ Oh shit, here goes. Far from attempting to cover up what she had been up to yesterday, she was going to explain it all to Potter. ‘We’ve already got something in play, so we need to hold this card back until we need to use it.’
Potter looked entirely confused with what Johnson was saying, so she proceeded to tell him what was in the paper that morning and her conversation with the journalist outside the press conference. She frequently paused during her explanation, partly to consider her words carefully but also to try and read Potter’s reaction to what she was telling him. He had remained stony faced throughout.
Having finished, she was alarmed that he remained motionless for a while. Oh God, what have I done?
‘So how does this play out?’ he asked, calmly.
‘Well, assuming he reads what is in the article today or sees what others make of it tomorrow, it will influence what he does next.’
‘Go on…’
‘Now his sexuality is being called into question, my guess is one of two things. He’ll either stop…’
‘Why?’
‘…because he won’t want what he is doing next to be misinterpreted. The alternative is he will want to remove suggestions of homosexuality by attacking a woman again.’
‘So, we’re back to where we were before…’ Potter put his hands to his head to massage his temples.
‘No, guv, he’s making mistakes now. By inciting him into doing something more… complex again this time, we are going to ensure he continues to make mistakes. And that’s how we will catch him.’
‘This doesn’t sit at all well with me, Stella.’ His tone was one of admission rather than criticism. ‘I don’t like the idea that we are just waiting for the next murder, much less seem to be provoking it.’
That Potter had said we did not escape her. ‘Me neither, guv but, if it’s any consolation, I think he would have done it anyway. Knowing what we know about St. Albans, the killing of the man in Milton Keynes was just there to suggest a direct link back to Canterbury. Something made him want to spend more time with his female victims; an urge he would revisit at some point. I don’t think he can help himself.’
‘Why is that?’
‘Because I don’t think targeting a man was just for our benefit. I think he was trying to convince himself that it’s just about the killing. But it’s not and St. Albans proves it’s not.’
‘And so, the speculation about his sexuality…’
‘Will make him confront it.’
Silence descended in the office with both of them lost in their own thoughts. ‘Okay then,’ Potter said eventually. ‘I don’t know if it will make me sleep easier tonight thinking that we are just accelerating the process rather than making it worse…’
‘How are things, guv?’
The frankness of her question caused Potter to pause.
‘Oh well, you know… Actually,’ he continued with an ironic laugh. ‘The pressure from above seems to have eased since Saturday. With it being in another police authority it has kind of spread the load.’ His face became serious again. ‘It doesn’t really make it any easier though.’
‘No,’ Johnson agreed. ‘And yesterday?’
‘It seems that no one was surprised by your apparent impetuousness in the press conference.’
This time Johnson laughed. ‘I should have told you, guv…’
‘No, you shouldn’t,’ Potter replied. They both knew what he meant by that.
Chapter Forty-seven
Brandt waited for the train and reflected on his visit to London two days previously. As promised, Franklin had called on Wednesday evening and Brandt had persisted with his story about being given tickets for the weekend’s match. That was despite him remaining unsuccessful in his search for any. The next day he had resorted to the box office worker’s original suggestion of purchasing club membership. Having cost £35 to get registered, he found out that it only entitled him to purchase a ticket for himself so he reluctantly bought an additional one. Spending most of the day refreshing a digital stadium plan until sections turned from red to yellow to indicate a ticket had been made available was as tedious as it was ultimately fruitless. Except for on one occasion, he found they were just singles and had to go back to the main screen. As the afternoon had worn on, and just as he was about to give up hope, two arrived on the upper tier, positioned near the half way line. Brandt had been taken aback by their individual cost of nearly £150 and the pause meant that when he clicked on the seats a message appeared to say they were no longer available. Now entirely frustrated with the whole thing, he slammed down the lid of his laptop and left the room.
The next morning, whilst sporting an awful hangover, searches on the internet revealed websites claiming to have tickets. Advertising themselves as travel operators, they tapped into the foreign market for tourists who wanted to take in a big game whilst in the city. Brandt saw them as little more than legalised touts, an opinion strengthened by the astronomical prices they were charging. Promising that orders before 3pm would be sent out for next day delivery, Brandt had come close to clicking the button to purchase. After agonising for a while, he decided it too much of a risk to rely on Saturday’s postal service. Instead he took the last desperate step of travelling to the stadium itself.
It had been a miserable trip to London with a delay on the line leading to his train being late and packed with other passengers. To cap it off, the rain he was greeted with when emerging from Highbury and Islington tube station only intensified on the mile or so walk to The Emirates. Despite the weather, there were quite a few people wandering around the outside of the stadium, stopping to take pictures of themselves with the various statues of former players dotted around. Yet more people were in the huge club shop picking up gifts and souvenirs. Brandt didn’t go in, but he could see through the windows that the merchandise stretched far beyond the typical replica kit. People could even purchase a tour of the stadium for prices more than Brandt had originally expected to pay for a match ticket.
The only area that seemed empty of people was the box office. Approaching one of the kiosks, he wasn’t surprised to see a sign confirming that the match was sold out, but persisted with asking the attendant anyway. As he left to start on his alternate plan of looking for spares around some of the local pubs, he noticed that someone was now waiting behind him. Pretending to check his phone, Brandt remained in earshot to hear that the man was collecting the tickets he had ordered when they had originally been on sale. As he left Brandt had tried to buy them off him but, despite offering twice their face value, he was unsuccessful. He knew that it was probably better to leave the pubs until they got busier later in the day, so he hung around the stadium a
t a distance that wouldn’t arouse suspicion from anyone inside, waiting to see if more people would collect their tickets. It was a slow and frustrating couple of hours, getting increasingly wet and cold, and having to go through the humiliation of pleading people to part with something they clearly had no intention of giving up. Resolving that he would make one last attempt, he noticed the final couple leaving the ticket office seemed to be arguing.
Brandt could not believe his luck when the snippet of their conversation he caught as they passed him seemed to revolve around the man’s shift pattern at work. Pouncing on his opportunity he apologised for interrupting them and enquired what the problem was. Receiving a look from the man that suggested he should be minding his own business, the woman, clearly angry with the situation, blurted out that he had gone and spent money they couldn’t afford on football tickets that, it turns out, are for a game when he is working. She went on to explain that if he had got his lazy arse here a couple of days ago the club might have been able to resell them but, at this late stage, they had said it wasn’t possible. Brandt, putting on his best concerned voice, offered to take them off their hands and said he would give them an extra £20 so they could make up whilst having a drink on their way home.
Delighted with the outcome, Brandt still had enough time to undertake one further task before heading home. An hour later, and back at the station platform, he withdrew his hand from the bulge in his pocket to slowly caress his cheek; the place where the delighted woman had kissed him. She had been beautiful and, in Brandt’s opinion, far out of her boyfriend’s league. The way she had spoken about him made Brandt believe that his intervention was just a stay of execution for their relationship.
With nothing else to prepare in advance of the match, Brandt had spent most of Saturday fine tuning the plans for the day and what he was going to do with the information he obtained. The key to everything was alcohol, and more specifically Franklin’s growing dependency on it. The fixture was an early kick off, so he knew that his best chance was after the game anyway. Nevertheless, he wanted to test the extent of Franklin’s resolve to stay on the wagon so, having agreed to meet him at the station, he then texted to say he had arrived early and was waiting for him in a bar just above the concourse.
Positioning himself a few tables inside and with a view of the entrance; Brandt wanted a chance to appraise Franklin before he was spotted. The way Franklin paused at the top of the escalator, causing the people behind to have to walk round him, amused Brandt. He looked nervous. The cause of those nerves was clear when, having finally clocked Brandt, his eyes were immediately drawn to the drinks in front of him. One pint was half empty but there was a full one sat opposite.
‘Sorry buddy, I didn’t know if you wanted a beer, but I didn’t want to look like Billy No Mates.’ He smiled to himself as Franklin continued to look at the drinks. ‘Look, if, you know, you’d better not I could just…’ He theatrically moved his own glass out of the way and slowly reached for the other.
‘No, no that’s fine,’ said Franklin in a voice that was an octave too high. ‘One for the road eh?’
‘Yep, can’t beat a beer and some football,’ Brandt lied. ‘We’ll just have this one and head on to the stadium, shall we?’
Franklin didn’t respond, so consumed was he with taking a couple of large gulps of the beer. Brandt could see him force himself to then slow considerably, and the conversation was as stunted as when they had first walked along the canal. Give it time, Brandt thought to himself.
‘Er, do you want another?’ Franklin asked, noticing that Brandt had finished his whilst he still had half left.
‘Nah mate, if we hurry we can get one in before the match starts.’ With that he rose, enjoying the look of disappointment on Franklin’s face. That he then chose to down the remainder of his beer in one go made Brandt turn to conceal his grin.
Fifteen minutes later they emerged from Arsenal tube station into a flurry of activity. They turned off Drayton Park Road and up some steps leading to a bridge. The now familiar outside of The Emirates came into view.
‘Stunning, isn’t it?’ Franklin commented.
‘Sure is,’ said Brandt, irritated by the crowds of people blocking his way. He glanced at his watch. It was only half an hour to kick off. Thankfully turnstiles were dotted all around the stadium perimeter and it only took them a further five minutes to gain entry to the lower tier. Inside was a hubbub of chatter, with screens mounted high on the walls showing the highlights of recent games.
‘Shall we see them finish warming up?’ Franklin asked excitedly.
‘I thought we might er…’ Brandt didn’t finish his sentence, instead cocking his head to the nearest bar.
‘Oh yeah, sure,’ Franklin replied politely. ‘My round isn’t it?’ He reached for his wallet.
‘Great. I’ll just go for a piss,’ Brandt said. He couldn’t bear waiting whilst Franklin queued. He knew that he would have further chances should he return with a soft drink for himself, but Brandt would be able to relax, perhaps even enjoy the game, if the right decision was made now.
Brandt had managed to squeeze into a gap in front of one of the long troughs but had been unable to urinate. His bladder was sufficiently full, but the close proximity of other men alongside him, and knowing that people were waiting impatiently behind, put him off. Frustratingly, the urge returned as soon as he passed the sinks on the way to the exit which only angered him further. For a moment he had completely forgotten about Franklin and the bar but, not only was he greeted with the sight of him holding two bottles of lager, he could also see that one was already a third empty.
‘Cheers mate,’ he said, taking his drink and listening to the dull thump of the plastic as he hit it against Franklin’s.
‘No mate, thank you. I haven’t been to a game in ages. What with the week I’ve had and everything… you know, with the wife and all. Well, let’s just say, it’s good to let your hair down once in a while.’
That last statement was music to Brandt’s ears.
Chapter Forty-eight
‘How long do you think the DSI is going to last?’ McNeil asked. They had been watching CCTV footage from St. Albans for hours and Johnson’s ability to stay focused never failed to amaze him. He knew that being in the police was more than a job, but this seemed bordering on an obsession for her. When she had come back from seeing Potter, he had been genuinely touched that she had confided in him about the carpet fibre, though it appeared she was under strict instruction to not let the information leave his office. What had impressed McNeil the most was the way she hadn’t spoken about it in terms of vindication. She could have used this as an opportunity to laud it over everyone else; to emphasise that she knew the link that all others, McNeil to a certain degree included, had dismissed. He’d often wondered, as clichéd as it seemed, whether Johnson’s apparent confidence and bravado was a mechanism for covering up her insecurities. What he now believed was that it was a more intrinsic part of her; designed, consciously or not, to promote her beliefs. Therefore, when she was proven to be correct she could dispense with the dramatics in the knowledge that she had been successful.
‘What’s that?’ Johnson replied, her gaze not leaving the screen in front of her.
‘I asked how long Potter is willing not to go public with St. Albans.’
‘Oh that, well I think we’ve got the rest of next week,’ she said, almost conversationally.
‘You mean if our guy doesn’t strike again in that time?’
‘Yep.’
McNeil waved his hand in front of her face to break her concentration. ‘Hello, Johnson? You don’t seem concerned by this.’
‘Nope,’ she replied, refusing to be baited and pretending she could still see through his hand.
This time he reached out for her chair, one of those on wheels, and started swivelling it towards him. Johnson didn’t resist, allowing her body to twist but keeping her head resolutely trained on the CCTV footage.
&n
bsp; He burst out laughing. ‘You’re such a piss-take, ma’am.’
‘And you, PC McNeil, are an irritant. Just because you have the concentration levels of a goldfish, it doesn’t mean us humans should similarly suffer.’ The lightness of her tone designed to soften the impact of the words.
‘I’m just worried that your refusal to accept that you need glasses will soon have your nose touching the screen.’
McNeil had learned by now that any reference to her age, however dangerous that might be, always served to provoke a reaction. He just hoped to God it was the right one this time.
Johnson turned towards McNeil, enjoying the look of apprehension her cold stare was having on him. ‘I need fucking glasses you say?’ For effect she squinted slightly and leaned towards him, as though to get a better look. Quick as a flash she reached out and grabbed the sides of his chair and wheeled him towards her so quickly it bumped into hers. Before McNeil could recoil in shock, she planted her lips on his. Unlike in the lift in Canterbury, this time she was the one doing the work; her tongue darting into his mouth to meet his. But just as he reached out to embrace her, she planted her legs firmly on the floor and pushed her seat away, with her backwards movement soon breaking the kiss.
McNeil remained motionless, still leaning forwards, his mouth puckered and with his eyes remaining closed. Johnson crossed her arms. Eventually and slowly he opened one eye and then opened the other to look at her with mock shock. ‘Oh, had you stopped? Sorry I hadn’t really noticed.’
She tried to resist giggling but when McNeil closed his eyes again to resume the exact pose as before, she couldn’t help herself. ‘Fuck you!’ Was all she could manage before his laughter set her off again. Eventually calming down, she said, ‘Look, just get me a cup of coffee or something and I’ll try and get this last tape finished.’
‘You didn’t say please.’
‘Excuse me?’ Johnson said, rising out of her seat.
‘If you expect me to be your servant as well as your… your plaything, the least you can do is ask nicely.’
ONE STEP AHEAD: detectives hunt a serial killer who knows all their moves (The DCI Jeffrey Brandt Murders Trilogy Book 1) Page 18