by Jay Nadal
Despite being in close proximity to his colleagues most days, he preferred his own company. He paused for a moment to look back over his time there earlier. He’d sat in a solitary chair in the corner of the room closest to the ornate bookshelves that were set into the walls at right angles. They contained hundreds of books dating back years, and now stretched the full width and height of both walls.
Meanwhile, his colleagues had sat in a circle on low, high-back chairs, the fabric of which had been worn away many years ago to leave a dull shine and imprints of various sizes. Their incessant nattering and seemingly professional opinions had irritated him as he read.
In deep reflection, he was unaware of movement behind him. The intruder had entered through the back of the house via the kitchen before making his way up towards the study. Before leaving the kitchen, he’d left a length of rope on the kitchen table, whilst at the same time picking up Rochester’s car keys knowing that they would come in handy later. Inch by inch, he’d slowly made his way through the house careful to avoid any creaking floorboards.
He peered in and could see his next target quietly sitting at his desk. Rochester was sitting side-on to him, which meant he couldn’t creep up on his target from behind as he had done with his first victim. He’d have to rush this one, hoping the element of surprise would give him the upper hand.
The intruder burst through the door rushing towards his intended target, causing Rochester to jolt out of his semi-daydream, and reel back in his chair as the masked intruder bore down on him, pinning him back in his chair by his throat. The intruder’s fingers felt like steel jaws as they gripped his neck, closing off his windpipe. Gasps of breath were mixed with spittle that exploded from his mouth. His face reddened, the veins in his neck bulging as the tourniquet-like grip tightened.
His mind swirled in confusion as he fought hard to comprehend what was happening. His eyes widened in fear as his pupils dilated. The hooded face of his assailant loomed closer to his own, dark brown eyes twisted in anger glared at him through tiny eyeholes. His eyes tracked the glint of the steel blade that came into his peripheral view. If his assailant was trying to terrify him, then he had achieved his goal. His stomach knotted in fear and his eyes bulged as the pressure built in his head, drowning out any noise around him.
“I…I…caaann’t breeeaatthh,” he managed to squeeze out, as both of his hands pulled hard against his assailant’s in a desperate attempt to fight him off.
The intruder released his grip slightly, as he inched his head closer to his victim’s. “I’ve been waiting for this for a long time,” he said in a slow, deliberate voice.
“I…Don’t know what you mean?” Rochester stuttered in reply. “Waiting for what? Who are you? Please…Please don’t hurt me.”
“It’s too late for that. You’re coming with me.” And with that he grabbed Rochester’s arm, and buried the tip of his blade under the man’s jaw, being careful not to pierce the skin.
“Now listen here, I’m not going anywhere with you. I don’t know what you think I’ve done. This has to stop right now,” he demanded, his voice a mixture of fear and bravado.
“I’m not looking to hurt you. I just want a friendly chat, that’s all,” the intruder hissed enraged by Rochester’s insistence. You’ve got a cheek to think we can play by your rules.
Rochester paused for a second; he stared at the hooded assailant, confusion in his eyes. “Hold on a moment, I’m sure I recognise that voice.” His mind raced, desperate to make the connection and join the dots. His eyes widened once again as he stared hard into his assailants eyes. “Yes…Yes, it’s you. Why?…”
Before he had time to finish the sentence his assailant pushed him forward violently through the doorway of the study, the knife firmly pressed between his shoulders. As they marched down the stairs, his feet struggled to maintain a safe footing as he was repeatedly shoved through the house and out of the kitchen door into the semi-darkness.
“Don’t mutter a word or I’ll slice your innards out here on the grass,” the assailant whispered, being careful not to attract unwanted attention.
He thrust the man up against the silver VW Golf, continuing to pin him in place with the knife whilst reaching in his pocket for the car keys. Throwing the keys on the roof of the car he demanded that Rochester drive.
“This isn’t my car.”
“Don’t take me for an idiot. I want you to get in the car. I’m going to sit right behind you in the back seat and you are going to do everything I say…understand?” he demanded.
Giles Rochester nodded slowly as his shaking hand reached out for the car keys. His thumb trembled as he tried hard to press down on the unlock button in the dark, finally releasing it, two pulses of orange lights confirming it. Rochester was forcibly pushed into the driver’s seat, and a moment later, the assailant quickly got in behind him and in a split second slung some white plastic packaging tape around Rochester’s neck. He pulled it tight, startling Rochester and forcing the man’s head back into the headrest, pinning him into position.
“Drive to Teville Gate car park in Worthing,” the assailant instructed.
Rochester hesitated for a moment. “What?…Why?…” was all he had the opportunity to say before the assailant tugged a little harder on the plastic tape as a warning. The sharp edge of the tape cut hard into his skin, sending out a sharp stinging pain.
“Shut up and drive.”
They had travelled in silence for the journey. Giles nervously glanced in his rear-view mirror, but at this time of night there were very few cars on the road as they made their way to Worthing. His grip on the steering had tightened as the fear churned inside him, turning his knuckles so white they resembled hail balls. His eyes had darted from left to right in terror hoping that he might see a police car. But what good would that have done? Falling short of driving straight into them, he had no other way of attracting attention. Each and every time he tried to drive erratically to attract attention, the assailant had tightened the plastic tape around his neck as a warning.
Teville Gate car park was an isolated spot close to Worthing rail station. Set behind industrial offices and nondescript small factory buildings, it was the last place Giles wanted to end up. An urban, grey concrete monument empty at night, the stomping ground for teenagers and drug addicts who left their calling cards. Graffiti tags lined the stairwells, discarded needles and condoms presented further health hazards, and the overpowering smell of urine hung in the air like the gents toilet in a pub.
He had been forced to drive to the third floor of the car park, before being dragged from the car and pushed hard against the white railings. His ribs stung as the metal dug into the base of his back. The tip of the knife was positioned beneath his jaw ensuring he remained firmly rooted to the spot as his hands reached out to his sides to grab the cold steel. His eyes were fixed wide in terror as his body shook violently in the low glow of the strip lights that gave off an eerie, excessively bright glow.
“I’ve waited a long time for this,” the hooded man said in a slow drawl. “I’ve counted down the days, just waiting to finally say what I had to say.”
The smell of stale breath assaulted Giles’s nostrils, as his chest heaved. He shook his head in bewilderment. “I don’t understand. What have I done wrong?”
“Everything. You let it happen. You knew about it for all these years but you’ve remained silent. You’re nothing more than a coward,” he hissed as he grabbed Giles’s throat and pushed him backwards further over the barrier.
Giles shook his head violently, still unable to comprehend. His eyes bulged as the man’s grip pressed down hard on his windpipe.
“Nancy boy,” he uttered. “Remember that?”
It took Giles a few moments to process the statement as his mind tracked back over the years, recalling all the times, places and situations in his life. And then somewhere deep within the recesses of his dark mind, he latched onto the elusive memory. His eyes slowly tracked round to t
he hooded assailant. Their eyes connected, and in the silence that prevailed, silent words were spoken.
That’s all the hooded man needed as his cue, and with a final push on Giles’s neck, he tossed him over the railings. Giles frantically grabbed the edge in a vain attempt to save himself, his chilling screams echoed around the stillness of the car park as he fell to the ground, guttural screams silenced by a heavy, dull thud.
The hooded assailant didn’t bother looking over the edge. He turned his back and made his way towards the stairwell taking one step at a time. He was in no hurry. The adrenaline still coursed through his veins as sweat beaded under his hood. He was pleased with his work.
He stood over the mangled body of Giles Rochester. The man’s arms and legs were contorted in ways not humanly possible for a living body. A shiny pall of darkness grew around his head. It glinted in the moonlit night sky. He felt no remorse, he felt no anger. This fucker had received what was coming to him. He crouched down looking at the twisted body with a morbid curiosity, his eyes darting up and down the mangled mess. His silence was only accompanied with an assured nod, pleased with his end result.
Before walking away, he placed a small scrap of paper and white feather in the man’s trouser pocket. Silent footsteps melted away into the dark night.
10
Scott groaned as he was awakened from a deep slumber by his phone rattling and vibrating as it bounced across his bedside cabinet. Today for some reason he was feeling particularly tired. Yesterday, everyone seemed to want a piece of his time. He’d spent several hours in the afternoon trying to reassure Cara after her Ford Focus had been vandalised.
Although the nature of the damage had raised some suspicion in Scott’s mind, he hadn’t told Cara. The last thing he wanted was her freaking out even more. Both her windscreen and driver’s window had been smashed. What surprised Scott was that nothing had been taken. Her satnav was still firmly planted in its cradle stuck to the windscreen, several pounds in loose change were still sitting in the pocket in the centre console, and her pink CD case was on the passenger seat. Going from experience, these were typical items that opportunists would have stolen in the majority of car crime incidents.
DCI Harvey had been on his case for most of the evening. She had wanted a progress report when the team didn’t really have much to go on. Even though it was just the beginning of the investigation, the DCI was already giving Scott a hard time. It wasn’t the way that the DCI operated, but something or someone was causing Harvey to be a little uptight and short with him. That alone was enough to stress him out.
Scott flung his head back on the pillow as he held his phone above his face allowing the screen to come into focus. “Baker…” he said in a course, gravelly voice.
“Sorry to disturb you, sir, Sergeant Trillo here. The DCI asked me to contact you immediately. Got a possible suspicious death.” The sergeant paused.
“Go on…” Scott continued clearing his throat and rubbing his eyes in an effort to shake off his sleepiness. He tried hard to concentrate as Cara rolled over towards him, her ample, warm breasts tucked into his left arm, her hand travelled down to his groin as she groaned.
“We’ve got what looks like a jumper at the Teville Gate car park in Worthing. We’ve got uniform in attendance.”
Scott paused for a moment allowing his brain to engage. Cara had already kept him up for what felt most of the night with her insatiable sexual appetite, and clearly was hungry for more. That warm fuzzy feeling of the night before was fast fading as the prospect of attending a messy incident loomed into view.
“Why is it potentially suspicious and not a straightforward jumper?”
“A vehicle was discovered in the car park, with its door open and the keys in the ignition.”
“Sergeant, that still doesn’t make it suspicious, and you’re not helping.” Scott sighed in frustration. He never understood why people waffled and never got to the point. And at that precise moment he had the patience of a gnat.
“The vehicle is registered to a Giles Rochester. The address of the registered keeper is…Edmunston-Hunt boarding school. He’s a teacher there.”
Scott’s eyes widened. His mind furiously processed the information. Was it stolen? Was the deceased the registered keeper? This was more than a coincidence. He had no proof as yet, but more a hunch. “Okay I’ll be there in forty-five minutes, make sure the scene is secure,” he barked.
“Yes, that’s all in hand. Shall I alert the rest of your team?”
“Yes, contact DS Trent and DC Wilson. Inform SOCO, we need the scene documented and photographed. Oh and contact the pathologist.”
“I’ll do that right away, sir. We have tried to contact the pathologist a couple of times already but she’s not answering her phone, so we’ve left a few messages for her to contact us immediately.”
After hanging up, Scott stroked Cara’s dark hair that was spread across his chest. “Wake up, trouble,” he said kissing the top of her head. “We’ve got a job on. Oh and check your phone. You’re needed too. We’ve got forty-five minutes to get to Worthing,” Scott announced, wiggling out from underneath Cara.
“Oh, can’t we just have five more minutes in bed? I’ll make it worth your while,” she said in a slow, seductive, sleepy voice.
“Nope, so get your lazy ass out of bed,” Scott replied as he searched around his room for something to wear.
“You’re such a spoilsport, Scottie.”
A sea of curious faces greeted Scott by the time he arrived. He pushed his way through the growing crowd of morbid onlookers. The presence of a familiar white forensic tent was out of view around the back of the car park, so the scene offered little to see for those milling around. Well at least that’s something, he thought hoping to keep the scene obscured from this lot.
He signed into the scene log, and paused to scan the surroundings, looking at entrances, exits, the type of buildings in the locality, their uses and CCTV, before proceeding around the back towards the tent. He hated jumpers, not because of what they did, they all had their own reasons, but because they created a bloody mess. It wouldn’t be long before a council approved cleaning company was on scene washing away the remnants of someone’s life.
Scott looked over his shoulder at the swelling crowd beyond the cordon. Various onlookers were recording images on their phones. Scott picked out two individuals who stood out from the crowd with their DSLRs and long lenses. Bloody press.
The car park was L-shaped in structure which afforded some degree of concealment as the incident had taken place at the inner corner of where the two sides of the car park met. The area looked out over a secondary open-air car park. The white forensic tent had been positioned close to the wall of the car park. A solitary scenes-of-crime officer was finalising their work outside of the tent as Scott walked up.
Scott acknowledged the SOCO with a nod, before he peered in through the flap in the side. He saw the twisted body of a man, one leg projected forward, the second bent at the knee and flexed backwards. He was lying on his side, with a dark, dried pool of blood framing his head. Even from this angle, Scott could clearly make out a large depression in the side of the man’s head that had practically flattened the shape of his face.
“I’ve got this for you, sir,” the SOCO offered Scott, holding a clear evidence bag. “This was the only evidence we found on him.”
The moment Scott saw the contents of the bag, he knew that in some way the incident involving the jumper was connected to his ongoing murder investigation. Inside the bag were a white feather and a small note with a Latin inscription, which Scott vaguely recalled looked remarkably similar to the first inscription that had been found on the first body.
Scott scanned the scene once again. Clearly from the multitude of weeds that were breaking through the stones in the pavement and the white railings, which upon closer inspection were an off-white with large patches of brown rust, the car park and surrounding area indicated years of neglect. He gl
anced up to look at the side of the car park and the path that the body had followed. From where he was standing, it was a significant drop. With any luck, Scott hoped that the man had died on impact.
“Guv, up here.” Mike was leaning over the railings on the third floor. “His car is up here.”
Scott took to the stairwell, and instantly scrunched up his nose. The smell of urine was overpowering on certain floors. He trod carefully. He could make out dark stains from those who’d relieved themselves and worse. As he stepped out from the stairwell, he glanced around the deserted floor. Despite the brilliant sunshine outside, there was a darkness and chill inside. The only car visible was behind a police cordon. Scott ducked under the tape and walked over to the car. The door of the silver Golf was still open, the keys in the ignition.
“I guess we can assume it’s his car, considering there’s nowt else up here.” Mike gesticulated, swinging his arm in an arc.
Scott hummed to himself. “More than likely. We’ll get SOCO to do a sweep of the car and see if they can grab some prints.”
Scott walked over to the dirty railings, and glanced over the edge. He wasn’t a great one for heights, and from where he stood it seemed like a bloody long way down. From this elevated position, he could get a much clearer view of the surrounding area.
From his vantage point, there wasn’t a lot to see except the back of low-rise office blocks. Some had their windows boarded up. Others less fortunate had various windows broken, no doubt from stone-throwing youths who had little else to do in what appeared to be a bit of a run-down area. Graffiti tags on brown brick walls had repeatedly been whitewashed, leaving an ugly collage that resembled the paintings of a child in preschool.