Hurt (The Hurt Series) (25 page)

‘Okay,’ Davies said. ‘I’ve pinpointed our boy’s earlier movements before he zeroed in on the young lovers.’

‘
You mean zeroed in on
us
?’ Mason corrected his colleagues.

‘Yeah, whatever.’ Davies played the footage, and both Jessop and Mason watched as their suspect appeared from Lewis Street, which ran alongside the department store Jessop had been staking out. Along the street, just out of shot, Jessop clocked the pub from where the young lovers had stumbled out knocking into her. She noted the time on the screen. They were due out in two minutes.

‘Any sign of him prior to this?’ she asked Davies.

Davies shook his head. ‘I’ve checked footage from all sides of the building. He just appeared from nowhere.’

‘Sounds familiar,’ she sighed. ‘Keep on it. Especially check for guys with bags.’

Davies rubbed his eyes and went back to work.

‘When do you think he was onto us?’ Mason asked wearily.

Jessop paused the footage, sat back and stretched her back. ‘Probably from the minute we stepped onto the high street this morning.’

Mason scratched his chin, troubled.

‘I know you had your doubts about this operation,’ she said. ‘But you can’t catch a snake without beating the grass in which it hides.’

Chapter
Sixty-three

‘Feel that? ’Olly used to say after they’d finished a job. ‘Fucking adrenaline, baby! That shit keeps us sharp. Keeps us the fuck alive. Makes us immortal. I could down a fucking gallon of that stuff, I swear.’

‘With a good ol’ American cheese burger on the side, right?’ he’d slur in the yank accent he’d perfected.

‘Oh yeah, that works. Shangri-fucking-La, my man.’

He smiled at the memory. This was the first time he’d felt the “life juice” since his last job with Olly. He felt it now because finally his hunter had woken up. Had channelled those sharp instincts of hers last night and figured out his hunting ground.

Good work, Detective. You just bought Collette Wicks another day and bumped her up to number seven.

Good work, but not your best.

For that, he needed Ray and his cancer out of the way. This was another unforeseen distraction that was robbing him of his hunter’s best game. And this was why he was stepping onto the second bus of the day.

But this one he intended to stay on. Well, at least until the girl he took a seat behind got off.

The girl who had today become number six.

Chapter
Sixty-four

Jessop leant over Mike Knowles’ table, eyes half closed against the stark light that was enhancing the magnified image of the grey hoody.

‘See...’ Knowles pointed his tweezers at the pocket of the grey hoody. ‘The fibres have been stretched, mainly downwards. Consistent with someone resting their hands in the pocket.’

She saw the inconsistency in the weave of the cheap cotton and polyester material. Pictured their boy stalking along the high street following the drunk teenage lovers, hands tucked deep into the hoody’s pockets. ‘And none of the others are like this?’ she asked, eyeing the dozen identical hoodys folded on the adjacent worktop.

‘Nope. I take it our boy was wearing gloves?’ Knowles asked.

‘Yep.’

‘And you said he had his hood up?’

With a fluttering in the pit of her belly, Jessop watched Knowles ease the garment around and begin inspecting the hood.

He asked, ‘You figure out why he left that piece of kitchen towel for you to find?’

‘A power play.’ She went on to explain her theory about the killer wanting the psychological advantage on them by playing mind games.

Knowles nodded as he eased the magnifying glass over the fleecy grey hood. ‘Got me thinking about the print we found on that Swiss Army knife.’

‘Terence Randal’s print?’

‘Uh-huh.’

‘Our boy mugged Randal a month ago and took the knife.’

‘I heard. But have you considered
why
he chose Randal? After all, he weren’t no saint, was he?

No, he wasn’t, she mused. What with the shock discovery of Nathan’s body followed by the call about Paul Bromley’s murder, Curtis’ news about Randal being mugged a month prior had paled in significance. Of course, she’d suspected their boy had mugged him. After all, how else had the knife found its way into Spartan the dog’s neck? But how had he known Randal carried a knife? Or had he just come across it whilst searching Randal’s pockets for cigarettes and his wallet and thought the knife may come in handy some day?

Knowles said, ‘If you ask me, your boy doesn’t do anything without a reason. He had that knife in his possession for a month and didn’t get one print on it. Yet he made damn sure Randal’s print was still on it.’ Knowles looked up from the magnifying glass, frowned at the grey hood, shook his head, and turned off the light. ‘Just as he made sure Stewart Nichols’ print was on that kitchen towel he left for you.’

A minute later Jessop was sat beside Knowles’ before his computer, scrutinising the pictures taken at Randal’s house. The small, shabby living room with the pea green walls and threadbare carpet was as she remembered it. She began her search with the bookcase, sure now she’d missed something among all the horror and crime thriller novels.

She’d learned the “love your suffering” quote the killer had regaled to Vicky was written by Hermann Hesse, a German poet and novelist who’d won a Nobel prize for literature. Panning down the image of the bookcase to Randal’s more classical collection of literature, she hoped to find either of Hermann Hesse’s two most famous novels, Steppenwolf and Siddhartha, tucked somewhere between John Steinbeck and George Orwell. When neither Hesse nor any of the
other
authors the bastard had quoted failed to present themselves, she slumped back in the chair and warily clicked on the next photo.

‘It was just a hunch, Cathy,’ Knowles said, sensing her despondence.

Jessop stared at the picture of Randal’s coffee table, on which stood the full ashtray, five empty beer cans, a half full bottle of Bells Whiskey, and the local newspaper opened at the puzzle page. ‘Yeah, and you have the best hunches since that bell ringer bloke in Notre Dame.’

She was just about to click on the next image of Randal’s kitchen, when Knowles said, ‘Wait a minute…’

Knowles took the mouse from her hand, shuffled in closer to the screen and zoomed in on the image of the cluttered table. She peered closer, watching Knowles pan to the newspaper and zoom in close enough so she could read the words on the open puzzle page.

‘Christ,’ he sighed.

‘Christ, what?’

‘What was Randal’s time of death?’

‘Three to three-thirty in the morning.’

‘
Monday
morning, right?’

‘Uh-huh.’

Knowles ran a hand over his bald head. ‘The paper only publishes the puzzle page on a Monday. I should know, because I do all the bloody things.’

She recalled seeing the puzzles Knowles had completed in his paper when she’d met him in the pub Monday afternoon. ‘So?’

Knowles looked at her over the top of his glasses.

‘What?’ she said.

‘
Really
, Detective Chief Inspector?’

Bewildered, Jessop turned back to the screen, stared at the puzzle page where Randal was halfway through completing the giant Sudoku puzzle. ‘Oh shit.’

Knowles grinned. ‘Yeah. Not bad going for a dead man.’

Her cheeks flushed hot at her stupidity as she zoomed in closer at the newspaper’s date: Monday October 30
^th
. Randal had died around three in the morning, several hours before that day’s newspaper hit the shops. And yet there it was, meaning someone must’ve brought it in after Randal had killed himself.

Killed himself, or been killed?

‘You know,’ Knowles said. ‘Your killer may be a sneaky son of a bitch, but he aint no mathematician.’

‘Meaning?’

‘That Sudoku puzzle he was working on…’

She looked at the puzzle, where someone had filled in an assortment of numbers in blue biro.’

Knowles sat forward, stroked his snowy beard. ‘None of those answers are right.’

Chapter
Sixty-five

1231556 - 111370 - 11251830 - 122604 - 520526 - 72876 - 8775 - 82531 - 91877 - 122603.

‘Map coordinates?’ The Undertaker flicked his eyes up from the list Jessop had handed him. To Jessop his narrow shoulders appeared higher and tighter than usual beneath the black suit. Concern weighed heavy on his brow as he surveyed the numbers again.

‘That was our first thought,’ she said. ‘None of the numbers correspond, though.’

‘Dates?’

She shook her head. ‘I can’t see how they can be.’

The Undertaker placed the list next to his note pad. Under a breath, he asked, ‘Why ten numbers?’

‘I’m working on the assumption he plans to kill ten victims. So far we’re up to six.’

The Undertaker raised a black eyebrow. ‘Six?’

‘Spartan the dog, Tanya, Darren, Paul, Sam, and now Randal.’

‘MO for Randal’s murder differs from the rest of his kills.’

‘Yes, but there’s still a theme of emancipation through suffering. Could be our boy wanted him to suffer by watching the tape, then repent for his sins before he killed him.’

The Undertaker drummed his fingernails on the list of numbers. Jessop watched the slender fingers bounce, noting the tip of the nail on his left forefinger was missing, as if chewed off. On anyone else this was not unusual. However, on such a meticulous man as her boss, this stood out as if the whole finger was missing.

Fingers settled around the Mont Blanc pen, The Undertaker said, ‘That’s a bit of a stretch.’

It was, and she knew it.

‘He went to a lot of trouble to pinpoint Randal,’ her boss added. ‘There’s a stronger connection. Where’s the pupil he raped?’

Jessop flipped over a page in her notebook. ‘Belfast. Whereabouts confirmed for the last week. Hasn’t set foot on these shores since he left thirteen years ago, and has no family over here.’

‘And Randal’s other son?’

‘Oliver Randal. Killed in action in Afghanistan two years ago.’

A quiet moment happened when The Undertaker peered at the list of numbers before him, processing what he’d learned so far. Just as Jessop’s eyes were drawn back to the torn fingernail, he said, ‘Plan of action?’

Jessop straightened her back, unaware her posture had slumped. ‘He has four more kills to make. Going by the time he needs to pick his targets and invade their everyday lives, I believe he hasn’t yet picked them all.’ She closed her notebook and rested it in her lap. ‘After today, I believe he can’t risk returning to his old hunting ground, and so will be looking for somewhere new.’

‘Thoughts on where?’

‘He needs somewhere where there are plenty of people. A large demographic so as to melt into the crowd and not form a pattern in his victims. I’m thinking retail parks, shopping precincts, supermarkets, cinemas, bowling alleys, leisure complexes, and the football stadium. He’ll be aware of any place with CCTV now, so I’d concentrate on the places without it.’

‘You’re talking a lot of manpower here, Catherine.’

‘I know the logistics involved, sir, but in my opinion this is the best play we have until we
can
figure out the connection between him and Randal.’

The Undertaker steepled his fingers and sat back. The tension in his shoulders remained as he stared at her with eyes as black as his onyx cufflinks, looking for reassurance that she was not just grasping at straws and telling him what he wanted to hear to atone for her visit to Dodd’s place the other day. He wanted to know her head was straight and she truly believed in what she was doing and that this was the only play open to them.

Then, after what felt like an eternity of silent soul searching, he asked, ‘How’s Vicky?’

The sudden change of subject caught her off guard. ‘Eh, as expected. But she’s strong.’

‘And Ray? How’s he coping?’

Something in the sincere tone of the question squeezed her heart. As astute as her boss was, he could not know the hidden significance of his question. ‘He’s good.’

‘Does he blame you for Samantha?’

She fidgeted. ‘He thinks where there’s smoke there’s fire.’

‘What do you think?’

‘Sam and Vicky were no strangers to town, and they fit the killer’s criteria. I think it would be counterproductive to assume he is targeting me through them.’

The Undertaker nodded to himself. ‘Are you fit to continue leading this investigation?’

That was the question, and this was her chance. All she had to do was answer no, tell of Ray’s illness and his refusal to seek treatment, and she’d be sent home to deal with it and help with Vicky’s recovery. Vicky, the girl who’d she made a promise to catch her mother’s killer. The killer who was playing power games with her.

Games that may have led him to Vicky and Samantha.

‘Yes, sir, I am.’

The Undertaker nodded, turned to his PC, tapped on the keyboard. ‘I’ll get you more eyes for your operation tomorrow.’

‘Thank you.’ She stood, her knees not as steady as when she’d walked in. ‘Sir?’

The onyx eyes flicked in her direction.

‘Vincent Dodd. I - ’

One blink, and her boss’ attention was back on his PC screen. He wasn’t interested in what she had to say. The incident was history.

It was up to her now to keep it that way.

Chapter
Sixty-six

The Undertaker wielded a lot of clout in the force. By the time Jessop had listed all the possible places the killer may hunt next, she had an email informing her she had another eighteen detectives at her disposal, seconded from the city’s two other precincts.

Devising shifts, rotas and tactics for the operation had proved a logistical nightmare, and she knew the chances of a result were slim. However, she kept reminding herself such a gamble had paid off today in the high street, despite her team’s doubts.

Stifling a yawn, she glanced up from her work. All was silent in the war room.

Davies had his face in his laptop, pecking at the keyboard lethargically, trying to crack the number sequence. Brooke was fingering through the numerous files they had compiled on their elusive subject, looking for something, anything, they may have missed, while Mason reclined in his chair, eyes glued to the clock on the wall above the white board.