Hurt (The Hurt Series) (13 page)

‘Jesus,’ Mason hissed from over her shoulder. ‘Cocaine, Rohypnol, Ketamine Cannabis…’

Feeling nauseous, Jessop stepped away from the wardrobe and sucked in a deep breath. Saw the girl on the bed and imagined it was her Chloe lying there drugged, naked, and dead. Her gorge rose, and it was all she could do to stop herself from throwing up.

‘Boss…’

She turned back to the wardrobe to see Mason offering her a photograph he’d found in the next draw. ‘Look familiar?’

The picture was of two good looking boys with tussled brown hair, both in their early teens, and both sitting on BMX bikes with arms over each other’s shoulders. Wide cheesy grins adorned their faces, although the happiness didn’t reach the eyes of the taller boy on the left.

He had his father’s eyes: dark, intense, troubled.

She’d seen those eyes before…Recently. But instead of swirling with dark chaos as they were in the picture, the eyes she’d seen earlier in the home movie Terence Randal had made were wide with horror and sodden with pain.

As no doubt they would be fourteen years later and 3500 miles away as Oliver Randal lay dying in Afghanistan.

Chapter
Thirty

Along with a bunch of other photos of the young brothers together during happier times, Jessop found an old newspaper clipping folded carefully. The article told of how Nathan and Oliver Randal’s mother had died whilst driving under the influence ten years ago. Friends who had talked to her prior to the accident said she was “suicidal” following the news of her husband’s conviction.

That was one way out of the nightmare, she thought. The other way out was to fight and take back control of your life, just as Oliver had done by joining the army.

Nathan had chosen neither of these paths.

She wondered at which point in his life Nathan had inherited his twisted father’s fetish for making porn. Before the conviction? Had he also been a victim of his father’s abuse? The youngest sibling was often the most influential, after all. Or had his father’s conviction and mother’s death been the catalyst for his change? Such traumas were known to shatter fragile psyches and give rise to another persona.

Maybe the pain he had experienced was
the breaking of the shell of his understanding.
And now he was
no longer afraid
, he could
begin to live.

Crackpot or crusader
?

Nathan was the former, but like most power seekers considered himself the latter. His father had unwittingly taught him life’s most valuable lesson and he wanted to share it with the world. And just as a little thanks to his old man, he chose to use his dad’s trusty Swiss Army knife to teach his lesson.

The pieces fit, yet as always with hypothesising and profiling, the evidence was circumstantial. She needed proof to glue the pieces together and make them stick.

With a scrum of officers and detectives gathered in the living room, she made her instructions clear. ‘Find him. Every resource we have. Brooke, make sure this bastard’s face is on the ten o’clock news. Tom, strip his laptop then stop his finances: credit cards, bank cards, fucking supermarket loyalty cards. The rest of you, tear this place and his pitiful life apart. Okay, people, move!’

The gathering dispersed, a hive of activity ensued. Jessop’s mobile rang. Not recognising the number, she answered with a blunt hello.

‘DCI Jessop?’

‘Who’s this?’

‘DS Gary Curtis, CO14. You asked for a favour.’

She had, from her old department The Clubs and Vice squad. She needed an experienced cop to help track down the source of Nathan’s stash of drugs, and also, the habits of one Suzanne Bell, the dead girl on Nathan’s bed. ID found in her handbag revealed she was only sixteen. Further checks revealed she was also a local prostitute and registered heroin addict.

Jessop filled Curtis in on the case. ‘I’ll have the names and details emailed to you shortly.’

‘Got it.’

‘Hold on a sec, Gary.’ She left the living room, entered the hallway where the coroner was wheeling Suzanne’s body out of the bedroom. She waited until the bedroom was empty and shut herself in. ‘2009,’ she said to Curtis. ‘You brought down Darius King, didn’t you?’

‘Yes ma’am.’

‘Four years undercover to do so, right?’

‘
Yes.’

‘Paid a price, I heard.’

‘I went a little off track for a while.’

‘You okay now?’

‘Fine.’

She’d heard about Curtis going “a little off track for a while.” Aside from having to immerse himself in a made-up persona for four years, which in itself could be psychologically damaging, to infiltrate Darius King’s circle Curtis had had to win King’s trust by sampling the cocaine for which King had made his fortune. A year later, while King was serving eighteen years thanks to Curtis’ work, Curtis was serving his own time, climbing the walls in rehab.

‘I’ve also heard you have a talent for getting information and cooperation,’ she said.

‘I’ve made a few contacts.’

‘Well use them, because I want Nathan Randal. Understood?’

‘Understood.’

‘Good.’

She hung up, turned to Nathan’s camera, on which he’d captured Suzanne Bell’s dignity and final breaths. The thought of trawling through the collection of DVD’s turned her stomach. But the girls needed her attention, and she needed the privacy they deserved to give them it.

Chapter
Thirty-one

Since as far back as Jessop could remember she had never kept a tidy workspace. Even in childhood her bedroom was in a permanent state of disarray with used and new word search books littering every spare surface. Only once had her aunty tidied the mess, organising the books into neat piles when Jessop had been at school one day. Within a minute of returning home she would
reorganise
to the way her stuff should be. She was not a dirty child, neither was she scruffy or complacent, but since moving in with her aunty and uncle at the age of seven, she could only seem to find true contentment amongst mess and chaos. It was a place that would follow her into adulthood, and particularly, the box room next to the kitchen she’d made her home office.

With no window, and shelf upon shelf buckling under the weight of old case files and criminology books, the room appeared half its already small size. Chloe called it claustrophobic and depressing, yet she found such tight confines reassuring, and found it easier to focus on the work she often brought home with her.

It was here, seated in her black leather swivel chair at her desk, she watched the DVD entitled Michelle 22/7/10 on her PC.

This was the twelfth film she’d flicked through with each of the movies following the same theme of a girl or girls on Nathan’s bed using his toys on themselves. On one occasion one of the girls was handcuffed to the wrought iron bedstead while another girl raped her with a strap on dildo. Jessop hadn’t watched much more of that one.

Another theme was the use of cocaine. There was always a bag on the bedside table alongside a razor blade or credit card. So far none of the girls she’d seen had refused the stuff. Neither had they appeared to be there under duress. They wanted to be there, and were enjoying every damn minute of the humiliating ordeal.

She wondered if they would feel the same sober, watching themselves back on the screen as she was doing now. Some of them, such as Suzanne, may not care too much, but others, such as the young brunette named Michelle, who she was watching now, may want to rethink her life once shown the degrading footage. Although Michelle certainly looked like she knew what she was doing for the camera, her slight, lithe body striking poses and working the doubled-ended dildo to maximum effect. Michelle was not shy. Jessop wondered if her confidence had anything to do with the cocaine, or if Nathan may have taken advantage of her youth and naivety and made slick promises of fame and fortune from behind the camera.

She swapped Michelle for Sara, filmed on 4/3/11. Sara was a true redhead with heavy breasts and full hips, and, Jessop noted, could be old enough to be Michelle’s mother. The next disc was of Petra, a twenty-something black girl with short, spiked hair and an athlete’s limber body. Once again she was alone on the bed except for one of Nathan’s toys.

She sped through the thirty minute film, ejected the disc, and took a sip from the sweet tea she’d made. Beside the cup sat a half eaten round of cheese on cold toast. With the prospect of having to sit through the degrading films, what appetite her body had after missing dinner last night soon waned when she’d loaded up the first film.

Yawning, she picked up her phone and called Mason. ‘Anything?’ she asked when he picked up.

‘Not much. Evening news is going to run his picture and we’ve stopped his bank account and credit cards. So unless he has a suitcase stuffed with cash hidden somewhere he’s going
nowhere.’

‘Anything from Davies?’

‘Not yet. What about you?’

She glanced at the stack of disks on her desk. ‘He isn’t choosy who he picks up. Young, old, fat, thin, black, white…they’re all here. Doesn’t discriminate, just like our killer doesn’t with his choice of victims.’

‘If he’s selling the films he’ll have to cater for all tastes.’

‘Yeah, but there’s something else. Randal is in none of them.’

‘Come again?’

‘He doesn’t partake, just gets the girls to perform for him.’

A pause. Then, ‘Maybe he’s tapped into a masturbation niche in the market.’

‘Maybe. Or maybe he just likes to watch

‘Voyeurism?’ Mason offered.

Jessop sat back in her chair, considering this. ‘What does our killer make his victims’ loved ones do?’

‘Watch,’ Mason answered.

‘Uh-huh. And among other things Nathan’s old man was an English Literature teacher.’

‘And our boy likes to quote famous literary figures,’ Mason said. ‘I’m convinced. What about you?’

She fought back a yawn, checked the time and calculated she’d been up the best part of eighteen hours. ‘I think I need a bath and a good night sleep. Then I think I want to know Nathan’s whereabouts on the three kill dates.’ She eyed the pictures of the three murder scenes taped to the wall behind her desk. ‘Then I’ll be convinced.’

Chapter
Thirty-two

Wrapped in a towelling robe after a well needed hot bath, Jessop padded into the living room in time to see Ray take off his reading glasses, yawn, and close his Marian Keyes novel. It always amused her seeing this gaunt ex-rocker and author of so many violent novels slouched in an armchair reading chick-lit. According to Ray chick-lit was the perfect way to unwind after a hard day scoring hot-lead justice with his fictional alter-ego. Like a warm, bubbly bath for the soul he’d say.

Maybe she should pick up one of the books, she mused, still feeling dirty from the films she’d endured.

‘You up for a night cap, detective?’ Ray stretched his arms above his head.

As tempting as it was, alcohol on an empty stomach would not be a good idea considering the workload she faced tomorrow hunting Nathan Randal. ‘Think I’m just gonna turn in again. Sorry.’ She planted a kiss on Ray’s forehead. ‘You okay?’ She placed a hand where her lips had been. ‘Feels like you got a temperature.’

‘Only when I’m around you.’ Ray stood, wrapped his arms around her waist. Smiled. ‘Been working on my speech today.’

‘Is it gushy?’

‘It is the Niagra Falls of gushy speeches.’

Her flesh tingled as Ray gently kissed her nose. The contact felt good. Needed. She wanted more of it, but without the images of bloodied bodies and abused young girls clawing inside her head.

She wrapped her arms around Ray’s waist and buried her face in his shoulder. Held tight until she heard the front door open. She looked up to see Chloe enter the house. Remembered her meeting with Jed earlier today, and felt her cheeks flush with shame as she braced herself for her daughter’s imminent breakdown.

‘How goes it stranger?’ Ray greeted from over her shoulder.

Chloe stepped into the room, slung her bag onto the floor. ‘I’m single.’

Jessop eased away from Ray’s embrace. ‘You okay?’

A shrug.

‘What happened?’ Ray pried in a soft tone.

‘I dumped him.’

Jessop jolted. ‘
You
dumped
him
?’

‘We weren’t going anywhere. Suppose it’d just run its course. Shit happens, right?’

Remembering what Brooke had said about looking top left to visualise actual events instead of making them up, Jessop searched her daughter’s eyes for any tells she was lying. That maybe she was saying this just to save face when the reality was Jed had done as she had instructed. After a couple of seconds of watching Chloe’s green eyes flicker left to right and back again, she gave up.

Ray said, ‘Sure, honey, that happens all the time. Kudos for being so mature about it, though.’

‘How did Jed take it?’ Jessop asked.

‘He looked relieved.’

‘Then it was for the best,’ Ray said.

Chloe shrugged. ‘Mind if I nick a beer?’

‘
Go for it.’ Jessop watched Chloe skulk out of the room.

‘Want me to apply one of my emotional Bandaids?’ Ray offered.

Ray had a doctorate in applying emotional Bandaids, especially where Chloe was concerned. ‘Thanks. But I think I might have a go myself this time.

She entered the kitchen in time to see Chloe taking a long pull from a bottle of San Miguel. ‘Got one for me?’ She knew she shouldn’t but this could be classed as an emergency.

Chloe plucked a bottle from the fridge, opened it and handed it to her mother.

Jessop took the beer, rolled it between her palms. ‘It’s gonna sting for a while you know?’

Chloe stared into her bottle.

‘But I’m proud of you. Takes a lot of guts to do what you did.’

Sipping on her beer, Chloe nodded, more to herself than her mum.

‘You gonna be okay for tomorrow night?’ Tomorrow night was Jessop’s hen night. She hadn’t wanted one, but Brooke had insisted she at least have a couple of drinks with the girls. And the opportunity to spend a rare evening in with her daughter was too great a chance to miss. ‘Reckon you could do with a good old-fashioned girly night.’