Streamed to Kill

by Emmy Ellis

  Wickes pinched his chin between finger and thumb. “It’s a pisser, though. We just have to sit and wait for another body to show up. Fucking stinks.”

  “It does,” Langham agreed, “but there is the other alternative. When a woman goes missing, we start acting right away. No more ‘let’s see if she returns after forty-eight hours’ crap. We look into it immediately. Granted, a lot of manpower will go into that, but it’s all we can do, and it’s easier to manage that into our schedules. A quick phone call here and there chasing up the women’s last whereabouts isn’t the same as taking a chunk of time using several officers to man the stream.”

  He held back a sigh and went on. “As we know from experience—and I wish we didn’t—most of the women will turn up again—just some worried husband or mother calling in because she’s half an hour late—but at some point there’ll be those who don’t come home when it gets dark. Those are the red flags.”

  Sergeant Villier raised her hand then lowered it to her lap. A leggy blonde, thirtysomething, she looked weird in uniform. It didn’t suit her. She seemed the type who’d be more at home in a basque and stockings. Anyone who had the guts to suggest such a thing would soon find she didn’t agree. She’d rip the balls off a man who came on to her at work—or anywhere else, Langham suspected.

  “Yes, Villier?” he held his breath for her comment.

  She was likely to go into one, shoving her opinion out there with such force that when he had to gently shoot down her ideas it would make everyone feel uncomfortable. She meant well, but shit, she was a pushy one.

  “I think we’ve gone as far as we can go here.” She stood and joined Langham up front.

  He bit back the urge to tell her to sit the fuck back down. She had a habit of doing this kind of thing, encroaching on his position, trying to get the others to see that her standing as the uniformed officers’ boss was just one step of her ladder. She intended to climb higher, that much was obvious.

  Villier faced the others. “Let’s go through what we have.”

  I was just about to do that after the question-and-answer session. Christ.

  She continued, strutting back and forth, her black trousers rustling with each step. “We know he abducts them from the field opposite Morrisons supermarket. As Langham said, having our men at the stream each night isn’t going to work. The same goes for having them either at the abduction field, the forest behind it, or inside the supermarket. The killer will know by now that he’ll possibly be spotted. He has to take more care—and he will. I’m going to propose something and, while I know none of you would want this, and I appreciate your concern, I really do, I can’t sit idly by and wait for another woman’s body to turn up. I joined the force because…”

  Fuck. Here we go…

  Langham half-listened to how she wanted to rid the city of criminals, and while she couldn’t do that by herself, she’d give it a damn good try. Her father had been a copper, her grandfather before that, blah-de-fucking-blah. About to step in and stop her diatribe, he was brought up short by her strident voice cutting into his thoughts.

  “…as bait.” She slammed her hands onto her hips and eyed everyone, then her gaze finally fell on Langham.

  “What?” He hadn’t expected that. Yes, she was dedicated—more dedicated than most of the people there—but to offer herself up like that? No fucking way. It hadn’t come to that. Not yet.

  “I’ll be one of the women,” she said. “A dog walker. I’ll go every evening at the same time. Walk the field’s perimeter and see if I spot anyone suspicious. I mean, we should have done this ages ago. I did say, but no one listened.” She huffed out a breath. “Or they listened but didn’t agree to it.”

  She was getting at him—he’d obviously tuned her out when she’d suggested it before—but his hands were tied anyway from those above him. Sending her out there wouldn’t just be sending her out. Other officers would have to be involved, watching her as she walked, and sparing so many men every night… They had no solid idea of when the next victim was likely to be abducted, so her idea just wasn’t viable.

  He explained that to her.

  She narrowed her eyes. “Just as I thought. Silly of me to suggest such a thing.”

  Langham smiled, going for a genuine one but thinking he’d missed it by a bloody long shot. “Besides, you’re blonde.”

  She frowned, shaking her head as though he was the thickest fucker she’d seen in a long time.

  “He hasn’t taken a blonde.” Langham gestured to the pictures on the board. “All brunettes, all blue-eyed. A brown-eyed blonde wouldn’t pique his interest.”

  Villier’s cheeks flushed. She’d never admit to not seeing that obvious fact—or having not been listening when he’d pointed it out a few weeks ago.

  She sighed. “Um, hello? Wigs? Contact lenses? Heard of them?”

  Her tone and attitude got on his last nerve. Sod going gently on her now. “While I appreciate your input, in future you’re better off giving it from your seat, like everyone else does. Also, as the leading detective inspector on this case, I get to decide whether we take such a drastic step. As for hearing about wigs and contact lenses? Yes, I tend to wear them on the nights I go out, I thought you knew that.”

  Rumbles of laughter. A whoop.

  “Now, Sergeant Villier, please return to your seat, and I’ll write your suggestion on the board. We may discuss it at a later date, but at the moment it’s a no-go.”

  She stared at him, cheeks getting redder, then turned away and made a dignified walk back to her chair. He’d been a bastard to her, showing her up like that in front of everyone, but she’d pushed his buttons, and his reprimand had been a long time coming. He didn’t want to tell his boss about her, but if she continued like this, he’d have to.

  He changed the subject. “The newspapers. While we can’t control everything that gets printed, we can minimise the damage. So far, the local papers have done as we’ve asked and kept the articles on the women low profile. Unfortunately, a couple of nationals picked up on it, but they haven’t sensationalised it as they usually would. Thankfully, it seems no one from the big guys has joined the dots just yet and realised these cases are linked.” He sighed. “But, as we all know, it won’t be long, and this will be because the killer will be hacked off that he isn’t making full-frontal, national news. Yes, he’s made the front page, but with an ego the size of a house, he’s going to want more. And that means he’ll up his game. Do something more shocking.”

  “What can be more shocking than what he’s already done?” a male uniform asked. “I mean, he’s abducting and killing women, for Christ’s sake.”

  “Ah,” Langham said. “Hastings, isn’t it?”

  The officer nodded.

  “New, aren’t you?” Langham said. “You haven’t seen anything yet. What this man is doing is terrible, yes, but so far, the bodies have only been wrecked by the stream itself. Imagine if they’d been wrecked by him as well.” He pressed on, wanting to put his meaning across so this wet-behind-the-ears kid would get the bloody drift pretty quick. “What if he stabbed them? Sliced their skin to ribbons so when we found them they didn’t look like women at all? What if you had to go to a scene and stand there staring down at such a sight, holding back puke as it threatened to come up and contaminate the scene? What if he carved into their faces, gouged out their eyes? You getting the picture here, son?”

  Hastings’ face was pale, the tips of his ears red.

  “Good. So, back to the newspapers. What I’ve described to Hastings may well start happening. Who knows what goes on in a killer’s head. Something might tip him over the edge so he deviates from what is the norm to him, which is drugging them into unconsciousness and placing them face-first in the stream and watching them drown in their sleep. There has to be a reason he does this, and sadly, it won’t become clear until he’s caught and he chooses to tell us. Which he will if he’s the type we think he is and wants attention. I’ll need whoever has the
newspapers on their list to telephone them again and make sure any future stories remain small.”

  “Won’t that encourage him to go out of control?” Wickes asked.

  “It’s possible, but the least amount of panic generated for the local women the better. And yes, I’m well aware not making a big fuss potentially puts women in more danger, but I’m following orders myself and passing them down to you.”

  Langham gave Villier a direct glare then shifted his gaze to check he hadn’t frightened the life out of Hastings. The kid—must be twenty if he was a day—chewed the inside of his lip and bounced one foot on the floor. He appeared as though he needed to get out, get some fresh air. Langham knew all about that.

  “Right. Those reviewing the morgue files, review them again. Those going through the witness statements, go through them again. Those doing whatever you’re doing on this case, go through it again. I want this fucker caught. Sooner rather than later, got it?”

  Chapter Three

  David gained perverse pleasure in sitting with Conrad, knowing where the Morrisons woman was when Conrad didn’t. Of course, David sat there making all the right noises, offering all the right reasons why she might not be serving them this morning, but Conrad was more upset than David had thought he’d be. What David hadn’t bargained for was the bloke really did like Cheryl, wanted her for more than a bit of fun in the sack. He seemed overly upset by her absence.

  How had David missed that? Had he been so intent on snaring her for his own reasons that he hadn’t fully realised how much Conrad wanted to secure a date with her? Then again, David had walked out of the café last time, hadn’t he, pissed off and seeing red, and when Conrad had been speaking to him prior to that, he hadn’t particularly been listening. Oh, he’d heard him, but he hadn’t taken it all in properly. He needed to watch himself for that kind of thing in the future. He could miss important info that might change the course of his operation.

  “She told me she’d meet me, David, go on a date with me. Can you believe that?”

  David took a deep breath. Plonked on a fake smile. “Wow, how cool is that?”

  “Not very. She didn’t turn up. At first, I reckoned it was because I’d forgotten to give her my number, but I thought back and know she took it. I’d written it on a napkin, remember doing it.” He shoved a hand through his bugging, bouncy fringe. “Then I thought she’d tossed it away, didn’t have any intention of meeting me at all, especially when I called her and her phone went straight to voicemail. But now she isn’t here either… Something isn’t right, is it?”

  “No idea,” David said. “Last time I heard anything, you were going to ask her out. I haven’t been here since to know how long she’s been gone.” He wanted to laugh. Really laugh.

  “It’s been two days, mate. Two bloody days. And where were you yesterday anyway? I waited here for you, but you didn’t bloody show.” Conrad stabbed at a sausage.

  David decided it might be a good idea to ignore Conrad’s questions. “Oh, well, she might just be ill then. Two days is nothing. It isn’t unheard of, you know. People get sick, switch off their phones. Christ, you ought to calm down.” David rammed a bacon rasher into his mouth and chewed, enjoying what he privately called the ‘piggy’ flavour.

  “David, I asked her coworker. That old dear over there who always gives us lukewarm tea. Cheryl didn’t call in sick. No one here has heard from her.” Conrad sighed, glancing around the café as though Cheryl would appear at any moment, out of breath, late for her shift, full of apologies that she hadn’t met him.

  “I’d say she might have switched shifts—you know she only works early mornings and late afternoons here, doing a stint at the newspaper in between, you told me earlier you’d found that out—but if she hasn’t called in…” David shrugged. “Maybe she just got pissed off with working two jobs. Who fucking knows?”

  Conrad sat up straighter. “The newspaper. You reckon I should go there, check if they’ve seen her?”

  David frowned, rolling his eyes as though he thought Conrad was going too far. “Oh, come on! Don’t you think that would look a bit weird? A bit stalkerish?”

  Now he thought about it, Conrad going to the newspaper might be just the thing David needed. Conrad turning up, saying he was meant to have been meeting her, and him ringing her as often as he had, might raise red flags. The editor might take him for one of those nutters who involved themselves with their crimes, trying to help solve it when all along they were diverting the police elsewhere.

  “On second thought,” David said, “you go to the newspaper. Great idea. Go and check, and if she isn’t there or hasn’t been since you last saw her, then I’d say there was something to worry about. Maybe they’re shrugging her absence off like this lot are—that she just didn’t turn up. Maybe no one knows she’s actually missing.” David stressed that last word and waited for Conrad to freak the fuck out.

  Conrad paled. His hand holding his fork shook, and the sausage wiggled along with it. “Oh my God. What if she’s one of those women?”

  David scooped up some baked beans. “What women?” He knew full well what bloody women, he just wanted Conrad to talk about them. About him. He put the beans in his mouth and swallowed without chewing. Pointless chewing beans.

  “You know, the ones found in the river. What if that weirdo took her?” Two spots of pink appeared on Conrad’s cheekbones. His mouth quivered.

  Jesus H, he’s gone and got himself well and truly attached to her.

  “I doubt it. Wasn’t she ultra-careful? I remember her saying to a customer once that she had a big dog, never went out alone without it. No way would someone be able to take her without being bitten.” Liar. That dog was soft as shit, and the knife went into his belly nice and easy.

  Conrad pointed his still-sausage-laden fork in David’s direction. “Good point. I’m just being silly, aren’t I?”

  Most definitely not, tosser. “Maybe a bit. But I understand where you’re coming from. Just didn’t realise you liked her enough to be bothered if she never met you for a date, that’s all.”

  “What? Don’t piss about! I talked about her all the time. I thought you knew.”

  David shook his head. “Um, no, wasn’t that obvious to me, but then again, I can be a bit slow on the uptake.” Best to let him think he was dim, that he wouldn’t have the nous to be That Weirdo.

  David was tempted to do just what he hoped Conrad would actually do—involve himself with Cheryl’s disappearance, find out what was going on from the other side—but quickly decided against it. He preferred guessing what Langham would do next—if anything—and congratulating himself when he’d guessed right, had predicted the detective’s moves. This time, though, he was treading on rockier ground. Yeah, the others had been missed by loved ones, but this one, well, Langham’s psychic aide knew Cheryl, and they would possibly push that little bit harder to find her. David had done his research before taking her. The thing was, Cheryl wasn’t so bad, nice company when she wasn’t sleeping, and he wouldn’t mind keeping her for longer. That might be dangerous, though. They could discover where she was, then it would be game over, his personal journey cut off before it had even properly begun.

  Conrad sipped his tea from a white cup, the kind found in most cafés that held the equivalent of half a cup of a normal brew. Two or three gulps, and the bloody stuff was gone, which was why they always shared a pot. David reached out to pour himself a fresh one, surreptitiously watching Conrad as he stared out of the window at the numerous rows of parked cars. David would feel sorry for him if he could be bothered, but Conrad was such a bore, such a wanker, that he couldn’t muster up the energy. He’d enjoy being the one Conrad turned to when Cheryl was found. The man would be cut up, he’d bet, snivelling into his cooked breakfast or his lukewarm tea.

  Why didn’t they provide tea cosies here? Another thing to add to his irritation list. Maybe he’d ask Cheryl when he got home.

  * * * *

  Diary entry #
308

  Quote of the day: The man who can successfully hide a multitude of emotions, making others think he feels the complete opposite, is a clever man indeed. I am clever.

  In the car on the way back from Morrisons, I got to thinking about Conrad going to the newspaper. What a cock! If they don’t take him seriously, that’s fine by me—I want to play with that detective for a long while to come—but if they do, I might need to be a bit more careful. The voice told me not to worry, that there’s nothing to fret about, but you can never be sure, can you?

  I asked what the voice’s name was as I drove along Hipwell Road, and he replied that if I needed a name, Mr Clever would do. I wanted to laugh, to tell him he was just as much a dick as Conrad, but sensed that wasn’t a wise move. Mr Clever gets prickly sometimes, snaps at me when I won’t do what he wants, when he wants, and as I’m at a crucial part of the bitch’s place in my personal journey, I can’t be doing with anything going wrong. If Mr Clever decided to stop instructing me, letting me know when it’s safe and when it isn’t, I’d be fucked, wouldn’t I?

  I must admit, his advice in telling me to wear a disguise when I took Cheryl was genius. He said I must do that with every woman in the future. That detective’s aide might have the means to speak to her and get my description. The newspaper said that Oliver bloke not only hears the voices of the dead but now has the ability to speak to people who are alive—using his mind. How insane is that? I don’t believe a sodding word of it, but there you go.

  So when I got back to my flat, I had to come in here and get the disguise out of my bedside drawer. It’s just a mask. You know, the one I got from eBay yonks ago, that supplier from Hong Kong. I remember the package took ages to arrive, and back then I’d wondered if I’d have it in time for that Halloween party the knobs down in flat sixty-two were holding. I think, if I recall right, that’s detailed in Diary Entry #168.