Out of Time

by Steven Allinson

Neil screeched to a halt outside the modern-looking apartment block, signing off from Dawn and grabbing a jacket from the back seat.

  This area of Croydon was classed as being relatively middle-class, with a good proportion of its residents young professionals looking to climb corporate ladders. Crime in the postcode was lower than the London average, and wealth was on a par with, if not slightly higher than surrounding boroughs.

  The apartment complex looked like a modern maisonette tower; a single spire of white, with balconies protruding from the upper floors. Box plants hung from nearly every window, hardy creepers already beginning to fan across the white plastered exterior.

  He scanned the street. There were no sign of the Specialist Firearms Officers Dawn requested almost twenty minutes ago. Looking up at the building then down at his watch, he lounged on his bonnet and waited, trying to look casual, but failing miserably. It was already four o’clock and the languid chill of a winter’s eve was beginning to settle around him.

  Five minutes of waiting turned to ten, but Neil could not even hear the wail of distant sirens. Rechecking his watch, he growled. Every fibre of his being was screaming at him to follow procedure and stay where he was, but something was pushing against his usual restraint.

  It started as a mental itch, and unavoidable gnaw that foisted in his mind. Soon the irritation was palpable, causing a tick in his left eye and forcing him to tilt his head to compensate. Soon, the twitch was a closure; a scrunching shut of both eyes to hold back the rapidly approaching alteration to his behaviour. Until finally, like a sudden release of pressure, Neil’s eyes opened. The decision was made.

  Stepping away from his car with a newfound purpose, he crossed the street and made his way up the concrete steps to the foyer.

  The glass front of the ground floor led to a wide entrance area, filled with green and red cloth couches and frosted glass tables. Behind that, a polished travertine floor extended out to a bank of lifts sat in the centre of the structure.

  Ducking through the tables, he found Dawn’s last text message ‘Apartment 8.03’. Calling a lift and stepping in, he pressed the button for the eighth floor and absently cracked his knuckles.

  Neil knew what he was stepping into. He was about to walk up to the door of a potential triple murderer. However, that was not his greatest motivator.

  As a ping sounded and the lift doors opened, he reached into his pocket and withdrew the note from Artimus’ office. Shaking his head, he found he still struggled to comprehend the words written there. Gordon Cooper – Primary Occurrence Creator – Killer.

  If he had seen the note at the beginning of the case, he would not have believed it. Neither would he have been able to figure out what had really happened. However, his education, for want of a better term at the hands of Artimus gave him all the insight he needed to join the dots.

  Neil approached the door, his breathing shallow, as his body entered a state of energy conservation in preparation for fight or flight. Checking the corridor one last time to ensure no one was watching, he reached out and knocked on the door.

  Nothing.

  Checking his watch and tapping his foot to put down his growing trepidation, he knocked again. “Mister Cooper.” he said, just loud enough to be heard through Gordon’s door but hopefully not through any of the others.

  Again, no response arrived.

  Neil knew the law. He knew attempting to enter a property without the express consent of the owner was a crime, even for the police, but what option did he have? Could he suggest he thought the owner was in distress or in need of immediate assistance? Not really. He should not even be in the building.

  Gritting his teeth, he knocked again, raising his voice so anyone on the floor should be able to hear him. “Mister Cooper? This is Detective Townsend of Scotland Yard. I need to speak to you regarding Artimus Crane. I believe his life may be in danger.” When no response was received, he banged as hard as he could. “Mister Cooper?”

  Scanning the corridor again, he reached out and tried the handle. To his surprise, it twisted with little effort, the door drifting open lightly to his touch. Heart beginning to thump with the thoughts now ranging through his mind, he cautiously stepped inside.

  Gordon Cooper. The first man they talked to on Saturday morning after their trip to Hybrid Incorporated. An office data analyst who looked like he would not hurt a fly. Neil thought back to the interview, Gordon answering their questions openly and honestly. He could swear there were no lies. However, as he stepped into the apartment and cast his gaze over the level of detritus present, all his fears were confirmed.

  Gordon’s apartment was laid out in a similar style to many within London. An open plan entrance led to a strip kitchen area to his right, and out to a simple living room with just enough space for a two-seater couch and a solitary chair. A stand held up a miserable looking TV that currently displayed only static.

  Neil gagged slightly as he edged forward. Washing up piled in the sink, many of the cups and plates crawling with non-medicinal fur. Random items of dirty clothing draped over worktops and furniture alike, and every surface cultivated a thick coat of dust.

  Neil guessed the carpet it was once a cream colour, but now the be-speckled grey of human hair and boot grime faded out that long lost shade in a layer of dirt maybe a few millimetres deep.

  Yet somewhere, masked by the near overpowering stench of rotting food, a distantly familiar, almost metallic odour permeated the space. It made the hairs on his neck stand to attention to experience, and every breath he took seemed to convert some part of the acrid attar to taste.

  Neil stepped forward, craning his neck as he tentatively searched the interior for signs of life. “Mister Cooper?” he said, nerves beginning to jangle. “Mister Cooper? Are you in here?”

  As he passed the edge of the breakfast island that separated kitchen strip from living space, he could see two doors to his left and one to his right. Two bedrooms, one bathroom, he surmised, making his way toward the solitary door; master bedroom by itself, smaller bedroom next to bathroom.

  He opened the door to the master suite and regretted it instantly. The foul stench of faeces met him almost immediately, burning his nostrils and forcing him to squint. A cursory glance round the room told him three things: Gordon Cooper was not in a very good mental state, it was unlikely the main bathroom would be an experience he would enjoy, but most importantly, that someone was recently injured here.

  Neil tiptoed between the mounds of garments on the floor, careful to avoid stepping in the hidden sources of the smells surrounding him, and over to the night stand. A bloodstain covered the sheets on one side of the bed, and a smear of red trailed off the edge and dripped to the floor. The fact the blood was still liquid meant whatever happened here was recent. No more than a few hours.

  Neil rummaged around the area, but could find nothing he could conclude was the cause of the injury the stain suggested. However, just a brief inspection of the dispersal pattern discounted both gunshot and potential blunt force trauma. There simply was not enough spatter on surrounding items. That also ruled out accidental injury, as there was no drip trail from the scene leading to a washroom or anywhere else the injury could be dealt with. No, the blood marks showed a quick, controlled manner of injury creation. Which left just one possible cause; stabbing.

  Neil raised from his haunches and made a quick scan of the en suite. Wishing he had not bothered allowing himself to experience that particular festering horror, but finding nothing of interest, he left the room and closed the door.

  Gritting his teeth and making his way across the living room, he arrived at the bathroom.

  Now he had been on both sides of the apartment, he could say for certain that whatever smell he thought was in the background earlier, was well and truly in the foreground over here. It was simply repugnant. Like rotting liver, soaked in urine.

  Not wanting to find out where it was coming from, but knowing he had to, he grabbed the doorkno
b and stepped beyond with a grunt.

  The bathroom was unlike anything he could possibly imagine. The tiles coated in a thick paste of sludge that was just on the disconcerting edge of creamy-brown. The sink blocked, filled with a slimy off-white substance that Neil did not want to know the source of. The shower curtain, ripped and tattered yet still clinging to the rail by a few plastic hoops spattered in a mix of blood, phlegm, and seminal fluids and the floor contained the fungal-pluming remains of innumerate blood-soaked towels.

  It would take a team of scientists’ months to unpick the genetic material here, but they would get their chance. Backing out and closing the door, he leaned against the frame.

  After seeing the other rooms, Neil caught his breath before stepping inside the last. As he reached out to the handle, the odour he feared seemed to magnify, seeping through the air-cracks in the door and burying itself deep within him. Every part of his being screamed at him not to turn the handle, but he fought the sensation away. Already perspiring as he twisted, the latch gave with a familiar click, and swung open.

  His first realised view of the room’s interior caught him by surprise. Gathering himself before his breakfast vacated his body, Neil reeled from the doorway, careening backward over the filthy couch and ending up in a an undignified heap on the floor by its side.

  Panting and unsure if he only imagined what he saw, he righted himself and began to inch back to the doorway. Now the room was no longer separated from the apartment, the full pungency of the aroma contained within it was released. It was everywhere. It rampaged up his nostrils, replacing everything in his world with its vileness. He had encountered this before, but never as intense. It was the smell of rancid flesh.

  Reaching the doorway, his second glance confirmed his fears. As he continued to stare, his phone buzzed in his pocket; it was Dawn.

  “Hi.” he said, his voice sounding distant even to him.

  “SFO squad is five minutes out, and I have a name for you; Mandy Palmer. So you know who you’re looking for I will send a recent photo to your phone…”

  “Don’t bother.” said Neil, cutting Dawn short. “Five-eight, light brown hair, tattoo on left arm depicting a unicorn.”

  “How did you know that?” asked Dawn, her apprehension clear.

  “Because her decomposing body is tied to the bed I’m looking at.”

  Chapter 36

  Showdown