Fifty Two Weeks of Murder (12 page)

As they made their way down the steps and approached Waterloo, the grand entrance looming overhead, Mal, clearly intrigued spoke again. Anders didn’t mind. This wasn’t the aggressive questioning of Lucy, but someone who wanted to get to know her some more.

“Do your wards know? What were their names?” Anders smiled at the thought of them.

“Aaron and Cassie. They know. Hard not to considering the publicity at the time.”

“They know you killed their father?”

“They do. They also know what he did to them.”

“They’ll forget. Time will distort things and maybe one day they’ll want a reckoning.” Drink had made him maudlin, a great sadness in his eyes. Anders wanted to know what was behind such deep sorrow, but let it go for now.

“When that time comes, they can have their reckoning,” she replied. “It’s the least they deserve. Speaking of which, Buckland will get his too. We’ll find him.” He sighed abruptly.

“He’s a ghost. No trace anywhere.” It was frustrating that, with all of the technology available to them, it was still possible to hide in the UK. Anders had warned him that the excessive data compiled by the British surveillance network would swamp the system, and so it had proved. They simply had too much, so Mal had the team break it up and focus on key areas, but it was still overwhelming. It didn’t help that Francis, Buckland’s twin brother kept showing up on the facial recognition software and that calls to the helpline had all tagged him. It was an arduous task to eliminate him each time and he had been reluctant to curtail his activities. There had even been a fight outside parliament when a tourist mistook him for Michael and Francis had to be ushered away with a police escort. Mal interrupted her thoughts.

“You think many people will rally to his cause beyond getting the five million quid?” Anders gave it some consideration as they entered Waterloo Station through the impressive, carved stonework gilding the flight of steps. Inside the station, armed police patrolled silently and with an air of slight menace. Of the one hundred and thirty thousand police officers in Britain, six thousand were now trained in firearms – a number that had doubled over the last few years, notably since the Paris attacks. Anders, used to such sights in the States, found it jarring and watched them as she replied.

“There’s always those who are looking for something to latch on to, something to be part of that gives them hope. It’s easy to be down on humanity. We kill and maim and torture and we see the worst of it, but there is grace in our failings, hope in our triumphs. There is much good in us, but it’s easier not to be. Buckland’s tapping into our fears and using greed and avarice as back up. It’s a potent cocktail.” She turned to see Mal gazing at her strangely as she mused out loud.

“What?” she asked. He chuckled at her defensive tone.

“Nothing,” he protested. “It’s nice to see you open up a little is all.”

“So I’m buttoned up am I?” Mal’s eyes sparkled with mischief.

“A little intense perhaps,” he said and neatly sidestepped her backhanded swipe. Anders checked her train times on the billboard and saw that she had half an hour to wait. Sighing, she spotted a bar at the back of the station at the top of a flight of steps and asked Mal if he fancied another drink.

“Sure,” he replied and led her to the bar, weaving through the throng of people with practised ease and grace despite his bulk. “So tell me about Jesse,” he asked. “You two clearly know each other well.” Anders gave him a guarded look.

“What do you know?” She wasn’t about to give away any details of him that Mal didn’t know. He saw her weariness and smiled, glad that she had such protective instincts over those she cared about.

“Spent time in America and some of that in a prison for hacking into the NSA. Something about making every computer screen show Solskjaer’s winning goal in the Champions League final on repeat.” Anders smiled at the memory as they entered the small bar and sat overlooking the crowded station floor. Anders enjoyed people watching and had her back against the wall looking down below.

“I was his arresting officer. Dragged him naked as the day he was born from his bed. He made quite the scene.” As they ordered more wine, Anders continued the story. “Anyways, a year into his sentence, I pulled him out to help me break into a paedophile ring down South. He got a taste for the right side of the law and I convinced the judge to suspend his sentence.” Mal chuckled as the drinks were served and chinked her glass with his.

“I knew there was a big softie in there somewhere,” he said and laughed as she gave him a mock scowl and lifted her own glass to salute him.

The next morning, Anders took her time with her run. The drink had fuddled her mind and body, so she let the alcohol sweat itself out before pushing herself. The Richmond Hill Gate was already open when she arrived and the Warden grinned at her as she passed.

“Little late this morning,” he called as she waved good morning.

Returning to the flat, she found Aaron and Cassie already up and making breakfast. It was the weekend and they were all at home together that day. They grinned as she came through the door, visibly sweating and tired.

“Morning,” said Cassie. She was dressed in a short skirt and loose t-shirt that hung lower than the skirt itself, eyes heavily made up and sporting a new ear piercing. “Heard you banging your way in nice and early this morning. Few drinks last night?” Anders slumped down in a chair at the table and helped herself to some toast. Cassie passed her a large mug of coffee, which Anders took gratefully.

“A few,” she replied. Tucking into her toast, she asked what they would like to do today. She had the day off and was determined to spend it with the two of them.

“The IMAX is showing a quadruple bill of the Avengers films,” declared Aaron. Cassie rolled her eyes.

“If I’m going, I want popcorn. Lots of it. And candy. And soda.” Anders grinned.

“Sounds good,” she declared. “Anyone who doesn’t have diabetes by the end of the day has failed miserably.

“What’s diabetes?” asked Aaron. Cassie gave Anders a look that suggested she could deal with that one. Grabbing another slice of toast and sticking it in her mouth, she ushered Aaron into his bedroom to get changed and tame his wild mane of blonde hair while she explained all about blood glucose levels. It made little difference. He still wanted a giant bag of popcorn at the cinema.

Week 2

And so our first week concludes. It’s been a wonderful week, with so much support for our cause. You have taken my teachings and owned them. There were so many entries, it was overwhelming and I have decided that next week, I shall choose two winners. For the first week of our revolution, I chose an entry from Spain. A re-enactment from A Game of Thrones. The Red Wedding. You have to love a man willing to chop the head from his fellow man and stitch it to the body of the family pet and vice versa. I was quite taken aback and only too pleased to grant this the winning entry. I have posted the pictures below for your delectation. 

The winner proves one thing. That this is now an international revolution, though we mustn’t lose sight of the ultimate goal; a revolution of the species. It is time to break the shackles, destroy democracy and crush antiquated notions of civilisation. As a species, we have castrated ourselves and lost sight of what we can truly be, what our role on this planet should be.

We think ourselves perfect, yet it is our imperfections that make us beautiful. Every mutation, every defect is essential to our very existence, the fundamental driving force behind the survival of every species. Each of us carries thousands of millions of anomalies and outliers, written into our very code. That is our strength. Non-conformity to a norm determined by whom? We have become bland, driven to an idealised image that we should reject, not embrace.

That is why, this week, the theme is that of your own fantasies. Live them out. Be bold. Be creative and express your innermost desires. Don’t let society tell you it is a fantasy when society should be encouraging you to embrace your deepest desires, to turn them into reality and allow your true expression. Omnia romae vernalia sunt.

My fantasy is complete liberation in the true sense of the word. Our souls free to express, to lose their temporal chains and unite completely with its pastoral self. Only then can this planet and humanity be saved.

I present my entry for the week. A policeman. Someone we allow to enforce the rules we agree to abide by. Passively realising that we created our own prison by the acceptance of laws that rely completely on our acquiescence. What happens when you realise that this acceptance is no longer permissible?

Taking him is easy. When I do, he hits the news and his family speak tearfully of how worried they are for him. He knows none of this, none of the search for him in the outside world for I am setting him free from his physical being. It takes a long time. Many, many weeks, but Sergeant Boyle is strong. He holds on to his form, even when I take it from him.

Day one, I remove a finger. The little one. He screams. He begs. He threatens, but I ignore him. He is trapped in this box, chained to a chair in front of a large mirror so he can see what I do to him.

The next day, I take my sheers to him once more. Another finger. I do this for many days until he has no fingers and toes. He’s given up screaming. He just sobs. His spirit is broken and he does not see that I am making it anew. I preserve his fingers and put them on display in his prison. I hang some by wires, I glue some to the walls, an effigy of Boyle so he may know what he loses as I help him gain immortality.

I then move onto his hands, bloody fingerless stumps that I hack my way through. He starts screaming again. I tire of this, so I take his tongue, scissors slicing through the flesh with a delicious cutting sound. His teeth next, one by one with pliers, a clamp to hold his jaw open.

My project requires work and dedication. It is not easy. I walk among you, brushing myself against the disease that we have become and know that I am setting one of you free. That I am creating art from his temporal spirit. I wanted to scream, to shout, to show you all, but the time was not right. I needed to remove a limb. Then another. Piece by piece. A drip to keep him alive, drugs to stave off infection. He wishes to die, but I fight for him. I fight to keep him alive, so that he may see. He turns away, so I clamp his head in place, remove the eyelids. He sees then and suffers cardiac arrest. His appendages displayed in wondrous fashion around him, he gives up.

But I save him once more. He is alive. He is waiting for you. I have succeeded in my task. It is time for you all to follow.

Chapter 1

Anders sipped her coffee as she watched Aaron pour himself some cereal into a bowl. He looked smug as he poured his milk over the flakes and scooped out a large mouthful with his fist wrapped around a spoon too large for his small hands. He looked triumphant and rammed it into his mouth, his face turning to despair as he realised that Anders had swapped back the inner packet of cereals that morning.

“That’s not my Frosties,” he moaned through a mouthful of Corn Flakes. Cassie laughed delightedly and gave Anders a high five, wooden bangles banging loudly as she raised her arm.

“New joke,” she declared causing Anders to groan loudly.

“Enough with the jokes already,” she said but Cassie ignored her.

“Why can’t you have a twelve inch nose?” she asked. Aaron crinkled his forehead in thought, absently chewing his cereal as he did so.

“Dunno.”

“Because then it would be a foot.” Anders snorted with laughter, coffee spilling from her nose as she fought to control her fit of giggles.

“That’s terrible,” she declared as she wiped coffee from her chin. Aaron shrugged.

“I don’t get it.” Cassie started to explain the joke when Anders’ phone rang. Still cleaning her spilt coffee, she tapped the phone and Mal’s voice came through the speaker.

“He’s posted a new blog. Just come up. Get to the Isle of Dogs now.” Switching the phone off the speaker with an apologetic glance at Cassie, she stood up and walked away from the table.

“What’s going on?”

“Jesse will explain as you go, just get moving. We may have time to save him. Barry’s on the way.” With a click, he was gone. Anders paused for a moment, gathered her thoughts and grabbed a rucksack from her room, putting her keys, phone and wallet in there. She wedged a blue tooth device into her ear and set her phone as she reached deeper into her cupboard and pulled out a Kevlar vest with the word Police emblazoned on it. She then buckled a belt around her waist with her cuffs, spray and ASP baton attached, yelling through to the kitchen as she secured the straps.

“Cassie, I need your bike. You can take the truck.” Cassie rolled her eyes as Anders swept past, giving Aaron a kiss on the forehead and Cassie one on the cheek.

“That rust bucket! Something breaks every time I look at it!” Grabbing Cassie’s helmet and leathers, Anders ran out of the flat, calling Jesse and sprinting down the steps three at a time, struggling into the helmet and jacket whilst trying not to trip. Jesse picked up immediately.

“We got some screwed up shit here,” he said, not bothering with pleasantries. Anders knew him well enough to know that he was shaken by what he’d seen online. Anders burst through the door at the bottom of the stairwell and ran to Cassie’s bike, a BMW S 1000 RR that she’d bought for Cassie on her eighteenth birthday. Revving the engine, she spun the bike around and raced out of the building, leaning low into the turn as she sped through the early morning traffic.

“Where am I going?” she asked.

“Docklands Museum, I’ll guide you.”

“Why the rush?” Anders sped through traffic lights, used the bus lanes and ignored basic traffic courtesies as she rode. Were it not for Jesse’s description of events, she’d have been grinning with joy.

“Read the blog to me,” she said while several cars beeped loudly as she cut them up in her haste.

“No way man. It’s too disturbing. I read it once and I feel all dirty. Like I need to take a shower.”

“Get Abi to read it to me then, just let me know what I’m heading into.” As she neared the location, Abi read the blog. Anders frowned as she listened.

“It’s a different tone to the last one. He seems more unhinged here. The message is different, yet close enough that most folks won’t discern the difference.”

“I agree,” said Abi. “I don’t think he means what he says at all. He’s just getting kicks from what he does and is trying to legitimise it, get others to join his sick fantasy and exonerate him. I’ve checked the web and he’s building quite a cult in just a week. This goes on any longer and the disaffected will flock to him even more.” Anders grimaced inside her helmet as Abi passed over to Jesse.

“Just around the corner now. Should be a building next door to the museum,” said Jesse who paused briefly as he scanned the news channels on one of his screens. “Heads up, it’s on TV. Camera crew just pulling up ahead of you now. There’s a few folks around the door trying to get in. They look…er…”

“Fanatical,” said Abi in the background.

“Yeah, fanatical. Or bat shit crazy. Take your pick. Barry’s a few minutes behind with a van full of Met’s, got caught up in traffic. Mal is another ten. I’d wait if I were you.” Anders shook her head as she rounded the corner and slowed to a halt by a statue of Robert Milligan, who stood proudly outside the museum.

“Can’t let them compromise the scene,” replied Anders as she stepped from the bike and strode across the cobbled paving towards a posse of men and women who were beating at a large wooden door on the building next to the museum. To her right, the sun sparkled off the Thames in glittering beams that reflected sharply off the large windows that adorned the old fashioned warehouses that lined the dockyard. They’d been renovated and the ships removed, but the upscale vibe to the area couldn’t disguise its heritage. Anders would have loved to have spent a peaceful day here with the kids, but had rather more pressing matters at hand. She unzipped her jacket and let it drop to the floor to give herself more freedom of movement and show her Police Vest.

There were around fifteen of them and they’d read the blog. It was the mix of people that surprised her. A business man in a suit there, a spotty looking teen here and a housewife among the crowd. They were cheering as a large man in a denim jacket succeeded in pulling the lock from the massive doors. Aware that a film crew was watching her, Anders shouted over the crowd.

“Police! This is a crime scene and you are now trespassing on it. Back off and leave this area immediately.” The large guy turned at her shout and stared at Anders belligerently through beady eyes, his neck and shoulders thickly muscled but his belly large and round. He swatted an elderly man aside as he moved towards Anders, narrowing the gap quickly.

“We don’t recognise your authority to govern,” he snarled. “Haven’t you heard love, we’re in the middle of a revolution.” Anders sighed inwardly as she approached the group. They had fanned out as she drew near, flanking her sides and giving her little room to move except backwards. She stopped a few feet from Beady Eyes and unclipped her baton. She was acutely aware of the news crew filming the scene from a safe distance and kept her voice low.

“There’s no revolution,” she said. “Not today.” He stepped forwards threateningly and clenched his fists.

“There’s a change coming. You won’t be able to oppress us for much longer. He’s done this for us to see. We need to see what he’s done.”

His words emboldened the crowd and they advanced on her. In the background she could hear sirens as her colleagues raced to catch up, stuck as they were in the morning traffic. She didn’t think they’d get here in time. Shifting her stance and lowering her centre of gravity, she thrust out her hand and the baton extended itself with a threatening sound, full of menace and ill intent.

The crowd paused as Anders, silent and still, stared hard at Beady Eyes, daring him to step forward. Jesse’s panicked voice burst through her headset.

“I’m watching you live on TV! Be nice, be nice, be nice.”

To the sides, Anders saw some of the bolder fanatics close in on her. Still staring at the large man, she assessed her options calmly. Choosing her course of action, she took a steadying breath and prepared to move.

Before she could act, the dockyard front was bathed in flashing lights and a cacophony of sound as Barry skidded round the corner in a large van. As he screeched to a halt, the back doors flew open and a squad of officers in riot gear poured out, advancing on the crowd who dispersed rapidly. Barry leapt from the vehicle and sprinted to Anders as the large guy turned to run. Anders was faster and stuck out her baton. It tangled his legs together and sent him crashing to the floor, his forehead taking the brunt of the impact.

Too groggy to get up quickly, she knelt on his back and immobilised him with her speedcuffs. They had a thick plastic handle instead of a chain and she used that to lift his arms and force him to his feet, pushing him towards some officers who’d arrived to help. The rest of the group had been rounded up and were being loaded into the back of another van for questioning.  Barry gave her a wry look.

“Making friends I see,” he said and passed her a Glock 26. She checked the clip and chambered a round. Though police officers weren’t armed in the UK, there were armed units and McDowell had made sure that both Barry and Anders’ credentials and training made them eligible in specific circumstances.

“You know me,” replied Anders. “I’m a party a minute gal.” Barry chuckled before sobering up quickly as he eyed the door. He’d also read the blog.

“Ready?” he asked. Anders gave a curt nod and they moved quickly to the entrance, Anders switching off her blue tooth as they moved. The door was set deep into a stone arch and there were no visible windows on the building. It hung ajar slightly and Barry nudged it open further with the tip of his pistol, flashlight held in the other hand, weapon resting gently on it. The interior of the building was dark, the gloom sucking the light from their torches. Anders, clicked the safety off her Glock, the noise gleefully signalling malicious promise.   

She moved in and slid to the right, giving Barry free space to enter while she offered covering fire. He tucked left so that they were no longer framed by the light from the door. Using their flashlights, they could see that they were in a large warehouse that was completely empty apart from a large metal shipping container in the middle. An unnerving silence smothered the large space and Barry felt a chill as he eyed the container. Looking to Anders, he saw a focused expression on her face and drew comfort from her professionalism.

Flanking the metal box, they circled it before coming back round to the front. It was roughly twenty metres long and ten wide. Anders gave the nod to Barry and he pulled the large lever on the door, tugging it open silently. He stepped back as a red glow ebbed from the container, allowing Anders to quickly move in. She stopped short at the macabre scene inside.

Sergeant Boyle was still alive.

Pieces of him hung from the ceiling like some twisted mobile, swinging gently in a breeze the door had created as it opened. Boyle’s fingers had been glued to the walls in a criss-cross pattern and his feet had been stapled to the floor in a penguin stance. Boyle was shackled to a metal chair by his neck. His limbs had been removed and he was propped against the chair by steel wire sown through his torso. His eyelids had been sliced off as had his nose and lips. Several drips hung beside Boyle, litres of fluids and antibiotics pumping through him.

The smell was horrendous and Anders wondered at how he still lived, mewling noises coming from his ruined body. The odour was that of rotting flesh but one that had been dipped in formaldehyde to slow the decaying process. Barry came in behind her, weapon held high, but he lowered it as soon as he saw Buckland’s work. He stood silent for several heartbeats, both of them too shocked to move. Anders had seen the worst that humanity had to offer and still had the capacity to be horrified by it.

As Barry moved towards Boyle, he holstered his weapon and stepped around him, placing a gentle hand on his shoulder. In the red light, the tattoos on his arm seemed to writhe with a life of their own. A silent tear fell unknowingly from Anders as Barry gave her a hard stare.

She knew what he was saying.

“I’ll do it,” she said softly. Barry shook his head sadly. Neither wanted to be the one to abdicate responsibility. In that moment a bond was forged between the pair as deeply as if they had fought together on a battlefield. Placing his hands softly around Boyle’s head, he gave a sudden jerk and a loud snap echoed around the container. Barry stepped away from Boyle’s corpse and walked out of the container. He spoke to her as he passed.

“It’ll be a few minutes before Mal gets here. You do your thing.” As he left, Anders took out her headphones and placed them in her ears. She hesitated before pressing play, knowing what it meant.  She would not turn from it though. She would gather the evidence, build a picture and relive the scene. She would do to Boyle what Buckland had done to him again and again in a twisted time loop until she had what she needed. As she moved around the room, a part of her wondered at the cost to her own soul.