by Ernesto Lee
Shaken and off-balance, she almost falls again, when an impatient hand jerks her away from the doorway. “And don’t try to run or scream for help. That won’t be good for you.”
She is shoved towards the pavement, and a jab strikes hard between her shoulder blades, causing her to cry out in pain. “Now, start walking before I lose my patience. And keep that trap of yours closed, or I’ll close it for you.”
Praying for the night to end and desperately wanting to believe she is going to be okay, Heather obediently remains silent as her captor guides her through the eerily deserted streets. Two or three cars pass close by, but sheer terror of the unknown prevents her from calling out for help.
As they walk, the thumping bass she heard earlier grows ever clearer until up ahead she recognizes the familiar lights of The Soho Lounge terrace. They stop on the pavement opposite the club, and Heather is told to look up. Sneering, her custodian says, “It sounds like fun, doesn’t it? And that could have been us if you hadn’t been so full of yourself.”
“No, no. We can still go,” Heather implores. “It’s not too late. We can still go.”
While her assailant laughs at her pleas, an ungloved fist slams into her right cheek with lighting speed. Her knees buckle beneath her and she falls to the floor barely conscious.
. . . . . . . .
She is unsure of exactly how long she has been out, but the next thing she hears is a soothing voice. “You’re going to be okay, love. The ambulance is on the way and will be here soon. What’s your name?”
Her right eye is already swollen shut, and the metallic taste of blood in her mouth has left her overwhelmed with nausea. Unable to fully focus, she squeezes her savior’s hand and mumbles, “It’s Heather. What happened to me?”
The snarled reply is both sobering and utterly terrifying. “I fucking happened, you dumb bitch.”
Recoiling from the gloved hand holding hers, Heather tries to scream but her rasped breath is lost on the dried blood now caking her lips. Laughing maniacally, her tormentor pulls her dead weight upright as though she were as light as a feather.
Her head is forced upward towards the scenes of merriment taking place just four floors above them as she is taunted again. “Go on then. Scream all you fucking like. That’s what you want, isn’t it?”
Struggling to stand unaided, Heather also struggles to engage her brain sufficiently enough to muster a cry for help.
The attacker revels in her impotence, and the feeling of disgust at this broken shell of a woman swaying helplessly before them is all-consuming and exhilarating. “Not so bloody full of yourself now, are you? Look at the bloody state of you. You can’t even string two words together. Well, let me give you a bit of motivation. I think you’ll like this.”
Smirking, Heather’s captor slowly lifts the front of their hoodie to reveal the shiny new claw hammer tucked menacingly into the waistband of the jogging bottoms. “I’m sure you’ve heard of Negan from that show The Walking Dead, haven’t you? Well, this isn’t Lucille, but it’ll do just as well.”
Fear of dying is a great motivator. A piercing scream erupts from the young woman’s lungs as adrenaline pumps through her veins. Although the sound cleaves clearly through the frozen early morning air, it is sadly too little, too late.
Her warm breath barely has time to fall before the first sadistic blow smashes Heather’s right cheekbone into a million or more jagged fragments.
Tenderly lifting her head from the pavement, the maniac with the hammer whispers softly in her ear, “Good girl. That’s what I was looking for. Now I can get on with what I came here for. Now close your eyes. It’ll all soon be over.”
. . . . . . . .
On the terrace above, two young women have taken a break from dancing and are now chatting in the smoking area.
Noting the odd couple in the street below, one of the women turns to her friend and asks, “What do you think is going on down there? They don’t look happy, do they?”
Peering over the edge of the terrace, the second woman replies, “Looks like a lovers’ tiff to me. The one in the dress looks well mullered.”
Laughing, her friend says, “Yeah, the poor cow can hardly stand up. Anyway, I’m ready for another dan—”
The agonized scream below isn’t just heard by the two friends. It is so piercing, half a dozen others also rush to the edge of the terrace.
Concerned, a young man asks the friends, “What in God’s name was that scream?”
Before either can answer, another young man hanging over the edge of the terrace gasps, “Oh my good God, is that fucking blood?”
Jostling for position, the growing crowd are momentarily shocked to silence by the sight of the hammer-wielding assailant looming ominously over Heather’s near lifeless body.
Her head is lying in an ever-expanding pool of blood, but a barely perceptible twitch of an arm is noticed by a sharp-eyed observer on the terrace above. “Christ, she’s still alive. Somebody call a fucking ambulan—”
His words are lost in an avalanche of screams. This time, however, the screams are much closer to home.
. . . . . . . .
If the crowd above were expecting that their screams and protests might somehow invoke a modicum of empathy or compassion in the sadist below, then they are shortly to find out just how misguided that expectation is.
You see, screams to a sadist are as fuel is to a fire. The more fuel you add, the more intense the fire will burn.
And so it is for the hammer-wielding sadist, basking in the glory of their first public performance. Circling Heather like some gladiator of old, the maniac theatrically raises a downturned thumb toward the horrified watchers above. The obvious and sickening intention is confirmed with a wink and a nod.
As they straddle the helpless young woman, vicious blow after vicious blow renders her formally beautiful face into little more than a bloody pulp of flesh, muscle, sinew and bone.
So utterly entire is the destruction, that when the emergency services do finally arrive, they will be hard-pressed to find any skull fragment larger than a fifty pence piece.
Pleased with what they perceive to be their greatest performance yet, the blood-soaked killer defiantly ignores the approaching sirens to end this horrific spectacle with a bow and a final flourish to the now silent crowd above before disappearing into the night.
Chapter Fifteen
Lost in the comforting depths of a dream, Erin subconsciously wills the childlike voice to leave her alone. “Just, um… just a few more minutes. I promise I’ll get up then.”
A light turns on and a soft hand gently shakes her shoulder. The voice is more insistent now. “Mum. There’s a man knocking at the door. Mum, wake up.”
Still lost in the mist of last night’s alcohol, Erin reluctantly forces open her eyes, then quickly turns away from the sudden harshness of the bedside lamp.
“What time is it?” she groans.
Smiling sweetly, her mini-me nods towards the digital clock on the bedside table. “It’s ten past six.” She then sarcastically adds, “Ten past six, on Saturday morning. I hope it’s something important.”
“What’s important?” Erin asks, still clearly half-asleep. “What are you talking about, Cassie?”
Pulling back the bedroom curtains, Erin’s daughter points down to the scruffy individual hovering on the doorstep. “I’m talking about him. The hobo that has been knocking on the door for the last five minutes. How can you not have heard him?”
Suddenly aware of brass striking brass, Erin leaps from the bed and pulls Cassie away from the window. At the same moment, Edgar Balmain looks up and mouths the words, “It’s important. Come down, please.”
Closing the curtains, Erin orders her daughter back to bed.
“What does he want?” the young girl asks.
“Nothing for you to worry about,” Erin replies. “It’s police busi—”
“Yeah, yeah, police business. Mum, I get it,” Cassie laughs. “That�
��s your standard answer when you don’t want to answer a question. Goodnight, Mum. I’ll see you when it’s tomorrow.”
. . . . . . . .
Although not known for his impeccable taste and grooming, it’s clear to Erin that she’s not the only one to have had a rude awakening this morning. Looking very much like something the cat dragged in, the journalist gruffly apologizes for the early morning intrusion before adding, “I have something important that you need to see, though.”
Puzzled, Erin asks, “How do you know where I live?”
Immediately realizing the naivety of her question, she tuts and says, “Forget it. Tell me what’s so important that you felt the need to come here to my home at six in the morning.”
“Probably better if we do this inside,” Balmain suggests. Then leering unashamedly at Erin’s flimsy silk dressing gown, he says, “I don’t think that’s suitable for standing on a doorstep at this time of the morning, Chief Inspector.”
Self-consciously pulling the dressing gown more tightly around her, Erin steps aside to allow Balmain to pass. “Through there, please. We can talk in the kitchen.”
Aside from offering him a seat, Erin refrains from any of the other usual niceties a guest in her home might expect to be offered.
“Well?” she demands expectantly. “Spit it out, man.”
Nodding, Balmain carefully reaches into the pocket of his grubby and crumpled rain mac. Still nodding, he carefully places a slightly scuffed Samsung Galaxy cell phone onto the table and says, “I’m sure you can guess already what this is?”
Pointing to the missing fragment of glass from the edge of the screen, he flips the phone over to confirm its model number. “It’s a Galaxy S9. The same model as the phone belonging to Shreya Sin—”
“Where the hell did you get this?” Erin barks.
“Believe it or not, it was dropped through my letterbox just over two hours ago. I’ve no idea who left it.”
“Of course you don’t,” Erin sneers. “And you wouldn’t tell me even if you did, would you?”
Ignoring the dig, Balmain slides the phone across the table. “Think what you want, Chief Inspector, but I’m here because this thing just got a whole lot bigger than either of our inflated egos.”
“Meaning what exactly?” Erin asks.
Pointing to the phone, Balmain replies, “Meaning you should pick that up and take a look through the camera roll. You might find it surprising.”
Balmain offers the phone to a reluctant Erin. “Don’t worry about contaminating any prints or DNA. When your lab boys check this, I can guarantee the only prints they are going to find will be ours. Whoever had this before me has been meticulous in restoring it back to its factory settings. So, you can bet your bottom dollar that it’s also been scrubbed clean to within an inch of its life.”
Noting Erin’s confusion, Balmain says, “The pictures and video in the camera roll have been manually added from somewhere after the reset. Possibly from a laptop or even sent from a burner phone. Whatever it is, the pictures and video are all that remain. The browser, email, messages and WhatsApp activity is all gone.”
Seeing that she is still reluctant to take it, Balmain places the phone in Erin’s hand. “You need to take a look, Chief Inspector. If nothing else, it might force you to consider the possibility that you may have the wrong man in custody. Go on – it’s unlocked.”
Lost for words, Erin scrolls in stunned silence through more than two hundred images. Each is more explicit than the last and all confirm beyond doubt and in glorious color the probable nature of Shreya’s sexuality.
“She was bisexual at the very least, then,” Erin mutters to herself.
“There are also two videos,” Balmain reminds her.
Nodding, Erin says, “Yes, I know. I think I’ve seen enough for now, though, to get the picture.”
Her mind whirring, Erin is brought back to reality by Balmain repeating his question. “I asked if you know who the second woman is? The blonde in the pictures with her?”
Erin knows exactly who the blonde is and she also has a strong suspicion of which slimy lying bastard was behind the camera for this shoot. She has no intention, though, of sharing her thoughts with a journalist. Her intention, however, is of no consequence.
Smirking, Balmain cockily places a post-it note onto the table. “Let me help you, Chief Inspector. Her name is Danica Shevchenko. She’s a twenty-seven-year-old Ukrainian national and she works as a receptionist cum PA for Derek Bannister, Entertainment and Talent Services. Do you recognize either of those names? Yes, of course you do. You and Sergeant Bolton paid them both a visit recently, didn’t you?”
Quietly seething, Erin refuses to take the bait and instead warns, “When this is over, I will find out which of my team is feeding you with information. And when that happens, I will do everything in my power to take you both down.”
“That’s your prerogative,” Balmain accepts with a shrug. “But like I said earlier, I’m here showing you this because this thing is a whole lot bigger than either of our inflated egos.
“I’m also here because I think we’re both being played when it comes to this case. This phone can only have come from Shreya’s killer and delivering it to me this morning, of all mornings, just serves to confirm further that your killer is still out there.”
“Wait – what do you mean ‘this morning of all mornings’?” Erin asks.
Stunned, Balmain quietly curses. “Fuck, I thought you already knew.” Then reverting to type, he quietly sniggers, “I was surprised to catch you at home. But I guess that explains it.”
“Explains what?” Erin demands. “What’s happened?”
The sound of a siren and the sight of blue lights through the kitchen window force a realization and a new and more direct question. “There’s been another killing, hasn’t there?”
Getting to his feet, Balmain nods. “Yes, Chief Inspector.
At ten past three this morning. Only this time, you’ve got a whole heap of eyewitnesses that saw the whole bloody thing.”
Interrupted by a frantic hammering at the door, Balmain excuses himself. “I guess I’ll be leaving you, then. I think we’re both in for a busy day.”
. . . . . . . .
Waiting until Balmain’s car is out of sight, Erin pulls a bedraggled DC Potter inside and slams shut the door. “Why the hell didn’t somebody wake me sooner?”
Stuttering, he replies, “Um, we’ve been trying for nearly two hours, ma’am. Your phone volume must be—”
“Forget it,” Erin snaps. “Tell me what’s happened.”
“Another murder, ma’am. Similar MO to the Singh and Wilton murders. There are witnesses, though, this time that saw everything.”
“Okay, and where was it?” Erin asks, calmer now.
“On DeVere Street, ma’am. Right there on the pavement just below The Soho Lounge. You know it?”
“Yes, I do,” Erin replies. “That’s DI Marchetti’s neck of the woods. Is she on scene yet?”
“We haven’t been able to get hold of her yet. Sorry, ma’am.”
“Okay. What about DS Bolton?”
Shaking his head, Potter says, “No. We can’t raise him either. In fairness, we were all a bit smashed last night, ma’am.”
“Tell me about it,” Erin mutters, nursing her own growing hangover. “So, who have we got on scene?”
“DS Cheeseman is the acting SIO on site, ma’am. He’s holding until you or DI Marchetti get there.”
Confident that Cheeseman will manage things well enough until she can take over, Erin allows herself to relax slightly. “Okay, that’s good, Mike. While I get changed, I want you to keep trying to get hold of Tony and Terri. And call DI Gladwell. I want him on site if he’s not already there. Oh, and most important of all, call DS Cheeseman. Tell him I want Derek Bannister brought in urgently. Understood?”
“Not really, ma’am, no. What should I say if DS Cheeseman asks why?”
“I don’t have
time to explain now, DC Potter. Just tell him it’s a priority. He’ll understand.”
Nodding, the young officer suddenly looks unusually vulnerable, and Erin asks, “Is there something else bothering you, Mike?”
Clearly disturbed by something, Potter hesitates before quietly saying, “Apparently, the sick bastard put on some kind of show for the witnesses. What kind of animal could do that, ma’am?”
“One that needs putting to sleep,” Erin reflects pensively. “Listen, Mike, while I grab a quick shower, why don’t you make yourself a cup of tea and a slice of toast. It’s going to be a long, shitty day and who knows when you’ll get another chance. You can make your calls from the kitchen.”
. . . . . . . .
Forty-five minutes later, Potter escorts Erin through the cordon to where DI Cheeseman is waiting to brief her.
“Morning, ma’am. Most of the team are still AWOL, but I’ve paired up the ones that are here. I’ve got them working on the CCTV sweep, crime-scene preservation and interviewing the witnesses. I expect the rest of the team will trickle in as they pick up their messages. I’ll assign them as they get here.”
“That’s great. Thanks for holding the fort, Frank. What have we got so far from the witnesses?”
Pulling her aside, Cheeseman hands Erin a forensic suit. “Forget the witnesses for now, ma’am. You need to see something.”
Hovering impatiently, Cheeseman ushers her toward the tent even as she is still struggling to secure her hood. Ordering all the other officers to leave, he leads Erin towards where the body is laid out. Clearly unsure of himself, he hesitates to speak, and growing impatient, Erin says, “I’m a big girl, Frank. What is it you wanted to show me?”
Hands trembling, he carefully lifts the edge of the plastic sheeting covering Heather’s body. The sight of the bloodied floral pattern in the dress brings an icy blast of recognition and horror. Afraid of the answer, Erin nervously asks, “Jesus Christ – is that who I think it is?”