by Liz Mistry
Dr Mara smiles when I shuffle in. ‘Hello, Jimmy, take a seat. I’ll be with you in a minute.’
She’s got the radio on, quietly in the background as she works and as I sit down, the song ends, and the news comes on. My heart flips. We don’t get to know much about what’s going on outside and I’m greedy to hear something – anything that might make my fears seem silly. I bend my head, as usual, and pretend I’m not listening.
‘News of another murder in Bradford, bring the total of murders in the city this month to four. Two women were found dead earlier in the month, although West Yorkshire police are not releasing any details at present. It is believed that the most recent victim is a journalist with the Bradford Chronicle and his…’
As if realising she’d made a mistake in not turning off the radio quicker, Dr Mara stands up abruptly, sending her wheeled chair back to hit the windowsill behind her. I feel her eyes studying me, trying to work out if I heard anything – if I was even interested in the news. Seemingly satisfied she moves round and sits in her usual place opposite me and places her recorder on the coffee table that sits between us. Truth is, I am. Bradford is where Coco is. I’m sure of it. That’s what Ben told me … and now I know where he is too.
‘How are your new meds working, Jimmy?’
I shrug – my usual response. I don’t take them half the time – hide them down the side of my cheek or else regurgitate them later. But she won’t know unless she orders a blood test.
‘Bernie tells me you’ve not been yourself, these past few weeks?’
Damn! Bernie sees everything. I shrug again.
‘He says you’ve been hitting yourself. Do you know why you’ve started that up again? You were doing so well.’
It’s because he’s out there and I don’t know what the fuck he’s doing – all I know is it’s bad and Rory’s going to get dragged into it and … but I don’t say any of that. It’s not what I do.
‘Are you sad, Jimmy?’
Hell yes, wouldn’t you be? He could be doing anything and there’s nothing I can do about it. This time I shake my head, but my finger’s sore. I’m bending it so far back it might pop out of its socket. I want to scream. I want to pummel my head. I want this all to end.
She leans forward a little and I tense. This is it. The bad stuff’s coming. I grab my thumb instead and pull it slow and steady – like slow release pain killers – ha, that’s funny!
‘Who are you angry with when you hit yourself, Jimmy?’
This is my cue. The words fill my mouth like venom and I want to spit them all out in a rush to get rid of the poison, but that’s not how Jimmy speaks. Not how Jimmy does things. For years, I’ve been this version of Jimmy. Spouting venom so they’ll never realise I shouldn’t be here. That it’s all a lie. I can’t go back to Barlinnie – or Peterhead either for that matter. I need to stay here where I can keep an eye on Rory. That’s my job.
‘Bitches.’ I say. It’s what she expects to hear, so that’s what I give her.
‘Bitches?’ She repeats my word, the nastiness taken away by the sweetness of her voice.
‘Whores, cunts, and bitches … all of them.’ I have to play the part now, so I take my hands out of the pouch and curl them over my head, like I’ve seen Rory do.
‘Who are these whores, cunts, and bitches, Jimmy?’
I’m going to start punching myself. The self-loathing is so strong; I want to punish myself. ‘Fucking w-w-whore … J-J-Jude and…’
I’m breathing heavy now, but that’s not an act. I hate this, but she sees my rage and needs to ascertain where it’s directed, and I need to play my part. ‘That fucking b-b-bitch, T-T-Tracie and…’ The tears start to fall, and they’re not an act either. ‘The b-b-bbitch C-C-Coco – she’s the worst.’
My head’s spinning, I want to deny my words, but I’m nearly done now. ‘She’s the very fucking worst. Co-Coco, but I’d kill all of them if I had the chance – every whoring one of them.’
I fall back in my chair, fingernails burrowed deep in the palm of my opposite hands. She waits, watches me, trying to work out what I’m thinking. ‘I think we’ll sign you up for anger management sessions again, Jimmy. You were doing so well, and we don’t want you to go backwards, do we?’
I shake my head, eyes down, avoiding her gaze.
‘Bernie tells me you’ve not had your visitor for a while – Douglas, isn’t it? Douglas McCarthy? Is he poorly?’
Douglas McCarthy my arse – it’s Ben. Poorly – if only. I wish he was fucking dead. I wish I knew where he was. I wish I could get out of this place and find him – stop him.
I shrug and leaning my head back, just a little, I allow a glaze to drift over them. It’s easy, I just empty my mind and the light goes off. It does the trick every time. She thinks I’m spent, that the session has taken too much out of me.
‘OK, Jimmy. You can go. I’ll get Bernie to give you something to relax you and we’ll try to find out where Mr McCarthy is – can’t have you missing out on your visits.’
My heart picks up a little at her words. Maybe when they can’t find McCarthy, it’ll raise a red flag. Maybe they’ll work out he’s a figment of Ben’s imagination.
Chapter 47
Bradford
Gus hadn’t had time to shake off his encounter with his mum and Sadia. He desperately needed a run to release the tension that built across his forehead and his shoulders. Inside his head were too many thoughts and images. Him with Sadia – in bed, walking hand in hand, at work – then the pain of her leaving. His mum featured in there too. The sketch of her as a little girl, the strong woman she was now, the subterfuge she adopted in the interests of saving him, protecting him, her picking him up and hugging him close after he’d scraped his knee, her cheering him on at Sports Day, her proud as punch when he graduated.
It was too much to deal with – too much to hold in his head – so, he did what he always did and bundled them all together and shoved them in a box at the back of his mind. It didn’t release the tension, but at least his brain was more focussed.
Barely noticing anyone, he ran, full speed upstairs to the incident room and flung the door open. He’d focus on something – exercise his brain in an attempt to exorcise the troubling thoughts. It took him a few moments to realise that the room was silent and everyone was huddled round Alice, who held a shaking hand over her mouth, her eyes wide and anguished.
Gus rushed to her. Had something happened to her parents? They weren’t close, but Alice loved them, and they were the only family she had. ‘What’s wrong?’
Compo and Taffy stepped away from her, allowing Gus to stand right in front of her. Close up she looked even worse. Taking her by the arm, he guided her over to a chair and sat her down. ‘Get her some water … now.’
Kneeling on the floor beside her, Gus handed her the glass of water that Compo brought and repeated his earlier question. ‘What’s up?’
Alice took a sip of water and then thrust the glass back to Gus. Her hands shook so much that the water sploshed over the side. Gus took it and handed it back to Compo, who was shuffling from foot to foot, unsure what to do. Taffy had backed off and waited behind Compo, presumably in case he was needed. Sebastian Carlton, headphones in, was oblivious as he studied the sketches on the wall, including the most recent found at Beatrice Flateau’s murder scene.
Swallowing hard, Alice finally managed to speak. ‘It’s Jez.’
‘Jez? Hopkins?’
Alice nodded. ‘We’ve been called to a crime scene at his flat.’ She gripped Gus’s arm and squeezed tightly. ‘He’s been murdered – strangled.’
Carlton, seemingly just becoming aware of the situation in the office, stepped closer. ‘Strangled – someone else has been strangled? Too many strangulations for my liking. That’s four in the past week. Maybe we need to reassess our thoughts on things.’
Gus heard Carlton’s words, and agreed with the psychologist’s assessment, but right now he was more concerned with Alice.
She was more upset with the news of Jez’s death than he would have expected and that could only mean one thing. ‘You’ve been seeing him again, haven’t you?’ He exhaled. ‘For fuck’s sake, Al…’
But no sooner had he uttered the words, than he wished he could take them back.
‘Aw crap. I’m sorry, Al. That was unacceptable, but you have, haven’t you? That’s why you’re so upset.’
Alice gulped back a cry and nodded. ‘For a while now I … Well, I didn’t tell you because you hate him so much. Not that it matters now … he’s gone.’
With her shoulders hunched and mascara streaking her cheeks she looked so forlorn – so alone and Gus wasn’t sure what to say. What could he say? Someone else keeping secrets from him – but he couldn’t blame Alice. He’d made his opinion of the journalist crystal clear at every opportunity. No wonder she didn’t confide in him. Anyway, now wasn’t the time for remonstrations. His partner was distressed and so Gus put his own anxieties to the side and wrapping his arms round her and pulled her close. ‘Aw, Al. I’m sorry, really sorry.’
She stayed in his arms for a few moments and then pushed him away and stood up as if she’d gained strength from his hug. Rubbing her cheeks with a tissue, she sniffed and straightened her shoulders. ‘Carlton’s right. All these strangulations are too much of a coincidence – for now, I’d like to investigate them as separate investigations, but keeping an eye on any possible overlaps. Which means, Gus, you can take this one.’
Gus had never been more proud of Alice than he was right at that moment. It took great strength to put your personal feelings to the side to focus on a case that meant so much to you. When she looked at Gus, her eyes pleaded with him. ‘There’s no way I can do this, Gus. I just can’t.’
Gus stood up and winked at Taffy. ‘Come on, Taff. Looks like it’s you and me.’
There was no need to point out to Alice right at this moment that she was off the Hopkins’s investigation anyway because of her relationship with him and, if the Brookes’ case and this one proved to be linked, then they would both be off them. But he’d deal with that later.
****
Gus was familiar with the layout of Jez Hopkin’s flat in Lister Mills which was just opposite The Fort on Lilycroft Road. Not only had he been in the flat before, but Gus’s sister had, until Gabriella got pregnant, lived in a very similar one. Security was good here, so Gus was surprised to discover that the security cameras had been wiped for the previous evening, which was when they suspected Hopkins had died.
Sid was on the case, and as soon as he approached Gus in his bunny suit, he said, ‘How similar is this to what happened to Erica? You think we’ve got two sickos prowling around – two sickos with very different MOs at the same time?’
‘No idea yet, Sid, but we’re looking into it.’ Gus glanced sideways at the CSI manager. Was Sid a bit too eager to discuss the investigation? He gave himself a mental shake. It was more likely that Gus was just being paranoid and untrusting. Dr Mahmood would be so proud that he’d picked himself up on that.
Sid guided Gus into the bedroom where Jez Hopkins lay, head caved in but with hand marks around his neck signifying he’d been strangled.
‘Petechia.’ Sid pointed a gloved finger. ‘I read Erica’s PM report and this all seems nearly identical to her death – in bed, incapacitated by being bashed on the head with an item found in the residence, and then manually strangled.’
Once more Gus quashed his suspicions over Sid’s interest in the case – wouldn’t he be equally invested if one of his team had been murdered? Besides, the same thoughts had been coursing through his own mind, although he didn’t want to voice them aloud. Not till they had something concrete. ‘Erica Smedley’s home was an easy-ish target for a clever killer. Lister Hills flats are completely different, Sid. They’ve got a security guard, cameras, personal access codes, and all sorts. How could someone have broken through all those security measures?’
He turned to Taffy, who’d been gawping at the Swedish style flat with an envious look. Not usually one for gallows humour, Gus couldn’t resist this one time. ‘Well, looks like there’s one vacant now, Taff, and you’d never be late for work again. You could practically roll out of bed.’
Taffy’s envious look faded and his lip curled up in disgust. ‘No thanks – No way I’d want to live where someone’s been offed.’ He grinned. ‘Besides, you don’t pay me enough.’
‘I’m not in charge of police salaries, but I hear you. Look, go track down the security guard who was on last night and send some officers to interview him. Also arrange to get Compo access to all the security for the entire building and for Hopkins’s flat.’
Moving closer to the bed, Gus looked down at Hopkins. He was a good-looking lad and Gus could see what Alice saw in him. Without his cloak of brusque cockiness on display, he looked younger than his years – too damn young to be murdered. Realising the ludicrousness of his thoughts, Gus rolled his eyes. Like there was an acceptable age to be murdered. He took his time studying how Hopkins was lying. Alice would want to know, and Gus needed to find something to tell her. Had he been moved? He suspected that the hit to the head would have stunned Hopkins, but not enough to make him unaware of being strangled – probably just enough to give his killer the upper hand. That would be why there was little sign of a struggle. On the bedside table was a photo in a frame, it was of Hopkins and Alice – a stupid selfie taken somewhere on the North Yorkshire Moors.
‘Yeuch!’
Gus turned round in time to see a CSI placing a sock into an evidence bag. Gus raised a questioning eyebrow.
‘Dirty fucker’s been wanking off into a sock.’ The CSI nodded to the TV – that was paused at a lesbian sex scene. As I said dirty fucker.’ The CSI paused. ‘Unless, of course, it’s the killer – sometimes those pervs do that shit, you know?’
But Gus knew the killer was too forensically savvy to leave DNA behind. Fuck’s sake, Hopkins, couldn’t you just once let me think kindly of you – so I don’t have to lie to Alice?
Having been gearing himself up to being magnanimous about Hopkins when he reported back, Gus’s anger flared. Boy, was the deceased making it harder by the second.
Pondering Hopkins’s sordid viewing choices, Gus left the bedroom and headed to the front door where a CSI was checking for fingerprints using a hand held machine to see if there were any matches to the IDENT1 database. This was a fairly new addition to the CSI crime scene kit and Gus was fascinated to see it in action. He wasn’t hopeful of the CSI getting a hit though – this killer seemed far too savvy to make a silly mistake with his fingerprints, nevertheless watching the process was intriguing. ‘Anything?’
The CSI shook his head. ‘Nah. I’ve done the lift inside and out and repeated the process at each level, in case the killer came from one of the other floors and I’ve done the stairs – both doors and banisters, but got nothing that flashed up on the data base so far. I’ll get a comparison of the prints in the bedroom, the ornament, and the door, and the ones from the access points, but – you know the bugger probably wore gloves. Wonder how he got access though? The security system should show who accessed the building last night and when they did, as long as its server didn’t go offline like the cameras.’
‘Good point. I’ll get that checked by my tech guy.’
Heading back to The Fort, Gus was plagued by the idea that the likelihood of two such forensically knowledgeable killers, using manual strangulation as their method of killing was becoming increasingly unlikely. Could it be possible that the ritual killings and these seemingly random and possibly motiveless home intrusions followed by strangulation were in some way linked? Sebastian Carlton had posed the question earlier, so clearly it wasn’t completely off the radar as far as the psychologist was concerned. After viewing the scene, Gus could see similarities with Erica Smedley’s murder, however the manual strangulation of four people so closely together was too coincidental to dismiss.
With a grim smile, G
us acknowledged one thing – in selecting Jez Hopkins as a victim, their killer, if it was the same person, was definitely much more skilled than they’d previously thought. Perhaps he’d made a mistake in revealing the extent of his talents, because from where Gus stood, it looked very much like their killer could worm his way into the homes of pregnant women, as well as bypass quite complicated security systems. This, in Gus’s mind made his motives more complex.
Perhaps he should delay the trip to Scotland to interview Rory Robertson? After all, it wouldn’t be fair for both Gus and Carlton to leave the team short staffed, not when they had four murders to consider.
Chapter 48
Bradford
The police took their time getting there. The Man in Black had wondered when they’d find Hopkin’s body and had done a couple of drive-bys during the day. Content that his latest exhibit has been found at last, he is happy to leave the police to get on with it. He wishes he knew the way their thoughts were going. If they’d linked Hopkins with Smedley and, more to the point, if they’d linked Hopkins and Smedley to the two dead women?
He’d have got a kick out of seeing Alice Cooper’s reaction to it all, but that isn’t his end goal, so he smiles and moves on from here. In the city centre he uses his laptop to access one of the free WiFi hotspots in Bradford, putting it through various layers of encryption. He’s already decided on his third pregnant target and needs to make sure things are in place for that. Her partner works irregular hours and seems to drop in and out at random, so planning is essential. Targeting the access point has been easy for him.
This one doesn’t live in a mansion – no, she is just one of a whole harem of women vying for the gangster’s affection. He grins. Little does the gangster know, but he’s been had. This wee hussy has set a trap and he’s fallen for it hook line and sinker. In some ways, he regrets that he is ending the target’s deceit quite so soon. In many ways it would have been enjoyable to wait and see everything unfold – he could have had great enjoyment telling the gangster that one of his trollops had trapped him – that he isn’t the virile macho man he thinks, because, like the other women the killer has targeted before, this one has used a bit of help from the Hudson Fertility Clinic. However, unlike the Man in Black’s previous victims, this little slapper has done it without the knowledge of the baby’s ‘father to be’.