Dark of Mind

by Robin Roughley

  'I know it's out of order but perhaps the shock of what's happened made her say things she didn't mean,' Lasser offered sympathetically.

  Anna sniffed loudly in distress. 'The thing is, he never shouted at me in front of his mother, and I know she never really liked me.'

  'What makes you say that?' Odette enquired.

  'She once told me I dressed like a tart,' Anna lowered her head, and Odette and Lasser exchanged a quick look of surprise.

  'But it was Mal who always told me what to wear, he said he liked to pick my clothes.'

  Odette could feel the anger inside start to build as she looked at the young woman, her face glowing with embarrassment, her eyes sparkling with even more tears.

  'I bet he told you what clothes to buy as well,' Odette said, her voice sounding harsher than intended.

  Anna nodded. 'I've got loads of stuff that he picked, stuff I normally wouldn't be seen dead in, the tops got lower and the dresses and skirts shorter and I know it was wrong, I should have said no and…'

  'Did you ever refuse to wear the stuff he chose?' Lasser asked, his own face now marred with a frown.

  Anna sighed heavily. 'Just the once, but he exploded and pushed me against the wall, so I never refused again.'

  Odette moved from one foot to the other, her face pale with rage as what little sympathy she'd had for Malcolm Marshall dissipated. 'Can you tell us if he had any friends, Anna?'

  'I know he used to go playing snooker at a club in town three times a week, but he never took me, so I have no idea if he had friends there.'

  'You never went out with another couple, or met anyone he knew?'

  She looked at Lasser and shook her head. 'Never, the truth is he would spend a lot of the time out of the flat. The more I think about it the more I can see he was using me, he would go out and come back in the early hours, and then I would get up for work and he would stay in bed all day.'

  'And the times you went out as a couple you always paid, never him?' Lasser asked.

  Anna wiped at her face that was etched with distress. 'I've been a fool, haven't I?'

  'Like I said yesterday, it's time for you to move on,' Odette pulled a card from her pocket and handed it over. 'If you need anything, then you can get me on that number.'

  Anna took the card, her eyes now shining with gratitude as well as tears. 'Thank you.'

  Odette smiled before giving Lasser the nod, five minutes later they were back in the car heading towards the town centre.

  Once again, Lasser kept his mouth closed.

  18

  Bannister leaned over Roger's shoulder trying to keep up with the images that zipped across the screen.

  'How the hell do you manage to concentrate with all that going on?' he asked, rubbing at his eyes.

  'Years of online gaming,' Roger responded with the flicker of a grin as he continued to manipulate the images.

  'Believe it or not I used to be a Pacman demon at one time,' Bannister said, seeing the images on the screen begin to slow down.

  'Ah, you like the retro stuff,' Roger said, then tensed as he hit a button, the screen froze, and he pointed at the figure caught midstride. 'There.'

  Bannister frowned when he saw the man wearing the grotty-looking parka and jeans, the hood up, his face hidden from view. 'It was warm last night so what is he doing dressed like an Eskimo?'

  'I was wondering the same thing,' Roger tapped at the keys and the figures on the screen started to go in reverse, the man in the big coat vanishing into the doorway of B&M Bargains, then they all started to move forward again in slow motion. 'The guy in the white T-shirt and stonewashed jeans is Marshall,' Roger said.

  'How do you know?'

  'I checked with Sally Wright and she identified him.'

  Bannister leaned forward even further; his eyes narrowed as he stared at the screen. 'He looks as if he's spitting feathers.'

  'Yeah, but watch this,' the figures sped up slightly, and the DCI watched Marshall stride along, then the man in the parka came into the shot, his face twisted away as if he were looking down the street.

  When Marshall drew level, he turned his head, and the man in the doorway snapped back appearing suddenly afraid.

  'Marshall said something to Eskimo man, something that unnerved him,' Bannister said with confidence.

  'I thought the same thing, but if that's the case then why did he then follow Marshall a few seconds later?' Roger pondered as the man in the parka moved from the doorway and headed to the right, shuffling along in Marshall's footsteps. 'I tracked them to Barclays bank but when you move further from the town centre fewer cameras are in use.'

  'But they were heading towards the train station?'

  'It looks that way,' Roger admitted.

  'Can you get a better image of the guy?'

  'Afraid not, he walked with his head down and the fur on the hood keeps his face hidden.'

  Bannister sighed in disappointment just as Carole Henson came into the room. 'Sorry for the delay, I was on the phone,' she said as she walked to Bannister's side.

  Half a minute later, Roger had filled her in on the mystery man, and she had watched him follow the unfortunate Marshall before they vanished from view.

  Pulling out a chair she sat down, and Bannister followed suit, his eyes still fixed on the screen, the man with the parka was once more caught in mid-stride and the DCI tilted his head.

  'Whatever Marshall said, it made the guy lurch back, so perhaps the two of them knew one another.'

  'If they did then obviously there was no love lost between the two of them,' Carole pondered.

  'Marshall looks like a bully boy and we know he was already angry,' Bannister paused, 'Eskimo man looks to be about nine stone wet through, so perhaps their paths had crossed before and Marshall had hurt the guy in some way.'

  Carole looked at Bannister and nodded. 'Possible I suppose, but if that was the case then why would the unknown man follow someone like Marshall?'

  Bannister sighed and folded his arms. 'That's the million-dollar question.'

  The three of them fell silent, each lost in their own thoughts as they tried to unpick the mystery.

  19

  'You know what to do, give me details.'

  Foster chewed his shredded bottom lip as he walked through the park, the heat building beneath the hood of his parka, his scuffed shoes slapping on the tarmac path. 'There are a few people here, I can see a woman throwing a ball for her boxer dog and there are three teenagers on bikes riding like maniacs,' he hissed trying to keep his voice pitched low.

  'Accident waiting to happen,' the voice said cryptically.

  Foster grunted in agreement. 'The café's open, I can see a few people sitting outside at the tables, two have little dogs with them.'

  'What about the play area?'

  Foster suddenly thought of his mother, she had been shouting for help as he left the house without bothering to go in to see her.

  'Benny, I need changing, I need…'

  Closing the door quietly, he had walked down the path to the road just as his phone had droned, and the man had told him to head towards the park. Now, his mother's warning came blasting into his head, ''People don't like to see a single man in the park, especially near the play area.'' He felt the shiver of fear crawl over his skin as he angled left and walked around the base of the steps that led up to the café perched on the highest part of the parkland.

  'There are lots of children, some on the swings, at least ten on the roundabout and there are a few on the slide,' he said, glancing away from the play area, his face now sweating freely.

  'Don't worry, Benny, I'm not going to ask you to stab a child.'

  'Thank you,' Foster gasped in relief.

  'Can you see the path that runs into the trees?' the man asked.

  Foster frowned as his eyes scanned to the left. 'Yes, I see it.'

  'Let's have a walk down there, shall we?'

  'Whatever you want, I'll do it.'

  'Of cou
rse you will,' the voice on the phone sounded pleased with his response and Foster smiled in relief as he cut across the short-cropped grass.

  He moved around a couple of ducks that were sitting in the morning sun, unconcerned as he walked within a foot of them.

  Reaching the cover of the trees, he sighed slightly feeling the temperature drop in the shade, his shoes now crunching on the shale-covered path.

  'Do you own any other coat apart from that grotty-looking thing?'

  Foster came to a sudden halt, his face screwed up in confusion.

  'Don't even think of looking for me, it's enough for you to know that I am watching.'

  Foster felt a strange thrill of excitement flash through his mind, he was here, the master was close and watching him, making sure he did exactly as he was told!

  'Well, do you own another coat or not?'

  Foster tried to think but the truth was he never ventured into his wardrobe, preferring to leave his meagre supply of clothes littered around the bedroom in a tangled mess. 'I think this is my only coat,' he admitted, his face burning with shame.

  'Never mind, now I didn't tell you to stop, so get walking.'

  Foster did as he was told, his bunched hands thrust into his pockets as he shuffled along.

  Dappled sunlight slipped between the branches of the huge trees above as they spread open their leaves to the sun's rays.

  Foster wondered what his mother was doing right now, he smiled fleetingly as he thought of her sitting in her wet bed, the tart ammonia stink permeating the small room, then the smile vanished as he realised that he would still have to clean it up when he eventually arrived home.

  The thought soured his mood, no doubt she would demand answers, demand to know why he had left the house when he knew she was in trouble, knew she was desperate for the toilet and her morning coffee with the Bourbon biscuits that she ate one after the other until the pack was empty.

  'Around the corner you'll see a man standing alone, he is the target,' the voice said and suddenly Foster was back in the moment, all thoughts of his elephantine mother vanished from his mind as his fist closed around the handle of the knife.

  'What would you like me to do?' he asked in a tremulous voice.

  'I would like you to cut his throat open and then stab him.'

  Benny Foster held the gasp behind his clamped lips and then he quickened his pace, suddenly eager to act on the instructions before the screaming voice of reason could stop him.

  Rounding the corner, he saw the man around thirty feet away, he had a pair of binoculars held to his eyes as he scanned the treetops, dressed in typical walking gear – sturdy boots and a green waterproof jacket – his grey hair sprouting out from beneath the black baseball cap.

  'SLAUGHTER HIM!' the voice beneath the hood demanded and Foster broke into a run.

  The man was still peering up into the treetops, adjusting the binoculars as he zeroed in on the jackdaw perched high above.

  When he heard the crunch of feet running on the shale he frowned, lowered the glasses, and started to turn, his eyes widening in surprise as the skinny man lashed out his right arm, the sharp blade slicing across his throat in a blaze of agony, the man's arms sprang apart as he tried to scream, the binoculars thumping against his chest – held in place by the black strap.

  Blood spurted from the savage wound, spraying out in a wide arc as he staggered backwards.

  'NOW STAB HIM!' the voice screamed.

  'YES!' Foster hissed and drove the blade into the man's chest, sending him crashing to the ground, his arms and legs thrashing.

  'Go left,' the voice demanded.

  Snatching the knife free, Foster glanced at the man's face, his eyes springing wide in recognition, and then he dashed left, his body shaking with fear and adrenalin as he left the track, his shoes brushing through the ankle-high grass while the man on the path shuddered and died.

  'Well done, Benny, well done indeed.'

  Benny Foster couldn't respond, his mind clattered with a mixture of terror and joy, within seconds he had vanished into the smothering of green.

  Ten minutes later, the body was found by the woman with the boxer, her screams blasting out through the trees as she backed away from the horror. Pulling out her phone she rang the police, the dog sitting by her side, head tilted as it howled, the plaintive wail echoing around the woods.

  20

  They were driving through the town centre when Lasser took the call about the attack in the woods.

  Hitting the siren, Odette got her foot down, taking up position in the centre of the road as the traffic moved out of their way. Heading past the college building, they drove for another quarter of a mile, then Odette pulled up on the right, and they jumped out before dashing through the green wrought iron gates that led into the woodland.

  Sprinting along the path, they rounded the corner and straight away saw the flash of yellow on the path ahead, Spenner and Steve Black were holding their arms wide ushering a group of about a dozen people away from the crime scene.

  Two paramedics stood in front of the victim, a blanket stretched between them, doing their best to shield his lifeless body from the ghoulish onlookers.

  Slowing from a run to a brisk walk, they approached the scene, the victim was sprawled on his back, arms outstretched, his head on one side, the gash in his throat leaking red onto the cinder path, his green jacket saturated with blood from the stab wound in his chest.

  One of the paramedics looked at Lasser and shook his head. 'I'm afraid there's nothing we could do, he was already dead when we arrived, ' he explained with a sigh.

  Odette glanced at the paramedic then turned back and silently studied the victim.

  Glancing across, Lasser saw Spenner approaching, his face pale with shock as he moved to Lasser's side, when he ran a finger along the collar of his shirt Lasser knew he was reliving the moment when he had been slashed across the throat by Robert Flynn, a man who had killed more than once before he died on the railways tracks in Hindley, his body reduced to scattered offal and shattered bone by the intercity that smashed into him.

  'You OK?' Lasser asked.

  Spenner's cheeks inflated as he gave a nod. 'I'm fine, boss,' he replied with a ragged half-smile.

  'Who put the call in?' Odette asked.

  'Dog walker, she's pretty shook up about it.'

  'Did she know the victim?'

  Spenner shook his head. 'She said she'd seen the guy before in the park, but she didn't have a name.'

  Lasser pursed his lips before looking down at the dead man, the binoculars stained with blood, the wound in his neck gaping. 'I take it Doc Shannon is on his way?'

  'He should be here any minute,' Spenner told him.

  'OK, get rid of the rubberneckers, the last thing we want is all this spreading on Facebook or Twitter, complete with images of the poor guy.'

  Lasser studied the surrounding area, his eyes searching for any clues left behind. When he spotted the trail to his right, he moved over, his eyes following the track of flattened grass.

  Sliding hands into his pockets, he moved off the path, walking to the left of the footprints he made his way through the trees, occasionally stopping as the trail became less obvious then he was moving again as it reappeared. When he saw the blood-slick knife in the grass, he eased down to his haunches, eyes narrowed as he scrutinised the blade. The handle was made of dark wood, the blade itself looked pitted, though the cutting edge appeared sharp, he watched as a bluebottle scuttled over the steel, no doubt feeding on the sticky smear of blood.

  When the magpie cackled overhead, Lasser glanced up, seeing the bird land on a nearby branch. 'Bugger off,' he barked as he rose and clapped his hands, sending the bird deeper into the woodland with a squawk.

  21

  'Slow down!'

  Benny Foster did as the voice demanded, though it was difficult to obey with the adrenalin coursing through his body.

  'How did that feel?'

  'Wonderful!' he r
esponded, his voice rising in delight, but when an image of the dead man's face swept into his mind, he thrust it away, refusing to let it ruin the moment.

  'Why are you shouting? Do you want to draw attention to yourself?'

  Foster was walking towards the bus station, people milled around on the pavements, some heading in and out of the shops, one or two stood looking aimlessly around them as if they had been beamed down from a distant planet to find themselves lost and disorientated in an alien world.

  'I'm sorry, I'm just excited,' Foster mumbled apologetically.

  'You need to calm down, you need self-control,' the voice paused, 'otherwise your fun will be over before it has even really begun.'

  This time Foster kept his mouth closed, his feet slapped on the cracked pavement flags as his shoulders sagged, the thrill of the kill still steaming around his brain though now he knew the voice was right, his master was always right, he needed to be careful. All it would take was one false move and then he could be caught, and that would be the end of his service, the end of him.

  For the first time, he considered the implications of what he was doing, and it made the sweat run more freely down his pockmarked face. The truth was he had no real fear of dying, for most of his adult life he had been suicidal and living in a permanent state of despair had taken away the natural fear that death held for the average person. No, it was the fear of being locked up that terrified him, of being behind bars, of having no handle on the steel door that made him sweat.

  'When the time comes, will you give me permission to kill myself?' he asked before he had the time to consider the request.

  For a few seconds he thought he had made a terrible mistake as the voice sighed in his ear.

  'Why are you considering the end when we have so much to achieve?'

  'I'll do anything you ask of me, but please, I need to know that in the end you will let me die?'

  The seconds stretched out, his feet now shuffling along, and then he winced as a police car went flying by, the siren screeching, lights flashing.

  'I saved you from certain death yet now you seem to be craving it.'