Hurt (The Hurt Series) (6 page)

She’d taken the famous author’s statement, and when asked by him, had confessed to not being a fan of fiction and never reading one of his books. Unfazed, he’d asked if she’d ever heard of his old eighties hair metal band Flame, who had scored their one and only top ten hit Love Rocket back in ’89.

She hadn’t.

Undeterred, the persistent author with his long, silver ponytail, rough stubble, leathery tanned skin, and tired, muddy eyes that twinkled in her company asked what she did to unwind. She’d wanted to say work, but found herself confessing to a guilty fondness of Frasier. If not for Ray reeling off a list of his favourite episodes like a kid excitingly reciting his Christmas list, she would have suspected he was lying about his passion for the sitcom just to impress her.

At least twice a week since, he had texted her a joke, claiming everyone needed to laugh now and then. She agreed, but it was not the often puerile jokes that made her feel good, it was knowing she had someone thoughtful enough to take the time to send them. And as an author, Ray had time. However, sometimes his timing
sucked
, as Chloe would say. And despite the matrimonial theme his jokes had taken recently to usher in the big day on Saturday, now was one of those times.

Number 38 was a good hundred yards back up the street. With the rain unrelenting, Jessop huddled beneath her umbrella and tried hopelessly to dodge the many puddles with her so-called new boots. By the time they reached the house, her foot was sopping and her mood had darkened because of it.

‘
Home sweet home,’ Mason said, grimacing at the dilapidated two bedroom end terrace house with graffiti covered ply board nailed up over the smashed windows and front door.

‘After you,’ she urged.

Mason flipped his overcoat collar up high upon his neck and led the way down the broken flag-stoned path to where Thacker had said access to the house could be gained by the back door. She followed, soon entering a small fenced in garden overgrown with tangled weeds and strewn with an assortment of supermarket carrier bags bulging and slipping with household rubbish. She spotted a pile of disturbed earth amongst the weeds and went to investigate.

‘Spartan’s grave?’ Mason asked.

Jessop peered into the shallow hole pooled with slippery mud. ‘No dog here.’

‘So Thacker
was
lying. Brooke’s gonna be pissed at herself.’

‘Maybe. Or maybe we have a bigger problem.’ She stepped away from the hole and met Mason at the boarded up back door. According to Thacker, access could be gained with a solid push in just the right place. After a minute of pushing in the wrong place, Mason managed to ease the stiff board open enough for them to slip inside the dark, dank house.

Decaying flesh. She knew the acrid stench well. Once experienced, never forgotten. And, of course, with that familiar smell of death came the flies.

She placed a hand over her nose and mouth and surveyed the neglected kitchen. More supermarket carrier bags littered the mud streaked floor, while in the space where she suspected the oven used to be, there was an impressive pile of empty cider bottles, beer cans and cigarette packets.

'Boss.' Mason was standing next to the sink batting away the flies.

She joined him, peered into the sink at the hairy mess of dirt, bone, teeth, and bloody pulp that used to be Spartan.

‘Check this out.’ Mason motioned above the sink to where on the two door Formica cupboard a sentence was crudely scrawled. 'We must have felt what it is to die, that we may appreciate the enjoyments of life.

‘The last line of the Dumas quote,’ she mumbled.

Mason tapped his finger against the dark lettering. ‘Still tacky.’

She had no doubt of the medium in which the words had been written: Spartan’s congealing blood.

‘Is this the bigger problem you mentioned?’

She nodded. ‘Uh-huh. One that links Tanya Adams to a goddamn dog.’

Mason sighed. ‘Great. My first serial killer case.’

Jessop snuck a glance at her DI, whose weary comment contradicted the excitement dancing in his eyes. She recalled the moment she’d been assigned her first multiple murder case. Remembered the mixed emotions she’d endured: excitement for actually getting to hunt a suspected serial killer, and guilt for feeling so hyped about prospering on the gruesome deaths of three innocent girls. That was twelve years and four multiple murderer cases ago. And with each case the excitement had waned under the weight or her growing disdain for her sick and twisted quarry.

She wondered how long it would take for the excitement in Mason’s eyes to dull.

‘I think he was teaching Thacker a lesson for jumping him,’ Mason said, peering down at Spartan’s remains. ‘Why else would he come back here and do this?’

Jessop agreed.

‘Takes a lot balls to return to a scene the next day just to prove a point.’

It did, she thought. Balls, discipline, and careful planning, especially coming here directly from his latest murder scene. She shivered as something oily in the pit of her stomach twisted
into
a tight knot. This she remembered was the manifestation of fear. Something she hadn't felt since she was seven.

So why, thirty-six years later, was she feeling it again now?

From beside her, Mason asked, 'You okay, boss?'

'Fine,' she lied. 'Call it in.'

Chapter
Twelve

Compartmentalise. Improvise. Adapt. Overcome. Or “Ciao”, as Olly used to say in his hilarious mock Italian accent.

The ability to adapt a plan at a second’s notice when the need arose was one of the key attributes that had earned him his God-like status. Yet he hadn’t reached such heights without putting in the work, which meant learning all he could about his enemy and affording them the upmost respect. In this case, Detective Chief Inspector Catherine Jessop.

Driven and tenacious Catherine Jessop. Joined the force straight out of college with a psychology diploma and a degree in criminology. Walked the beat, got married at twenty-four, divorced and gave birth to Chloe two years later whilst working for CO14, The Clubs and Vice squad. Returned to the force as a detective with MIT, the city’s Murder Investigation Team. A year later, promoted to DI after her involvement with the Santos Vickers arrest. Was soon promoted to DCI at age thirty-two when her boss, William Travis, made Detective Superintendent. Had since caught three of the city’s most notorious killers with her tenacity and instinct.

Yeah, he knew her. He knew all about her. Information was an invaluable ally, and could be as dangerous as any weapon when manipulated right.

He knew all about manipulating information.

This was how he had found out Jessop was engaged to the famous author Ray Dalton. However, what he hadn’t known then, but what he had later learned, was that Jessop and Dalton were due to marry at the city’s registry office at midday this coming Saturday.

Before then the plan had been perfect with dates, times, places, insertion points and extraction routes all rehearsed and memorised. But then last month he’d learned of Jessop’s marriage this Saturday and had been forced to watch that steely purpose in her eyes distinguish like a dying ember.

‘Where’s the sport in hunting a lame duck?’ Olly would say. ‘We need friction in our lives to keep us sharp. The better the adversary, the better we become.’

He was used to hunting the best, and so deserved to be hunted by the best.

And so he’d taken precautions.

DCI Catherine Jessop needed a kick up thearse to take her mind off her wedding and bring her best game back to the table.

And that’s what she was going to get.

He flicked up his hood and watched the two redheads step from the women’s clothing boutique. They could be sisters, yet over the last week he’d learned them not to be.

Ciao, ladies.

Chapter
Thirteen

Detective Superintendent William Travis was a good listener. He never interrupted, never allowed his attention to stray, never yawned, and never fiddled with any of the few contents carefully organised upon his tidy desk for fear of missing any crucial detail being regaled to him. To those unaccustomed to such eerie stillness, it may appear as if the man with the neatly trimmed moustache seated behind his desk was dead. This perception was enhanced by his monochrome attire of black suit, white shirt, and black tie, earning him the affectionate moniker The Undertaker among his subordinates.

The Undertaker listened, and he listened well. Until it was time to speak. And when it was time to speak, he chose his words carefully, and used them sparingly.

‘Working theory?’

‘Thacker’s dog may have been a trial run,’ Jessop answered. ‘To see if he could actually go through with the kill and get away with it.’

‘M.O familiar?’

She shook her head. ‘Mason’s checking the Homicide Index for any similarities.’ The Homicide Index is a detailed database of all murder, manslaughter, and infanticide cases committed in the country since 1977. If the killer’s Modus Operandi had been used before, it would be documented on the index. However, as yet Mason had failed to draw any comparisons, and she was beginning to doubt he would. In all her years chasing and studying the city’s sick and psychotic, she had not come across one as careful as this. ‘He’s meticulous to the point of obsessive, though. Knowles and his team found no trace at either scene.’

‘May have a forensics background,’ The Undertaker offered.

‘Agreed. Knowles is trawling through the city’s forensic science database past and present.’

The Undertaker picked up his pen, a Mont Blanc. Dropped his dark, solemn eyes to the constant pad of paper he kept on his desk. In his mid-fifties, he had the lean, sinewy physique and thick, black hair to rival any man half his age. On the rare occasions he was not seated behind his desk, he stood at a disconcerting five-ten. Anyone who met the man would swear afterwards he stood at least six-two such was his commanding presence. Some people needed to shout to get attention. Bill Travis just needed to exist.

‘What’s your gut saying on this one, Catherine?’

As accustomed as she was to this part of their meetings, she always dreaded it. Closing the file, she sat back in the leather chair she’d sat in so many times before. Felt, as she always did sitting here under her boss’ expectant gaze, like a Mastermind contestant. Her specialist subject: Gut Instinct.

‘I think I would sleep a hell of a lot better if I thought he was finished.’

The Undertaker scribbled something she could not see on the pad of paper. ‘Regular twenty-four hour updates.’

‘Yes, sir.’ She took her cue and stood. Turned to leave.

'Catherine.'

'Sir?'

'You know Dodd is being released on Tuesday.'

'I do.'

'How do you feel about that?'

She shrugged. 'Impartial.'

The
Undertaker held her eyes for a beat longer than she felt comfortable with. Finally, after what felt like an eternity, he whispered, 'Good.'

The meeting was over.

Chapter
Fourteen

The MIT offices were situated on the fourth floor of the brown building, directly below The Undertaker’s office. Accommodating a too modest team of twelve detectives to solve the city’s escalating death rate, the office space was divided into three workable sections. The largest of these sections was where the team worked and regularly ate lunch and sometimes dinner and, on occasions, breakfast. Cordoned off by a glass partition in the east corner was the incident room, or “war room”, as it had been branded once upon a time. This was where Jessop would chair briefings and devise strategies with her team. Rarely was the obtrusive whiteboard at the head of the room unblemished, just as the corkboard on the wall behind it was rarely free of at least half a dozen bloody crime scene pictures.

Adjoining the war room was her office, a compact glass cubicle with a brown leather two-seater sofa, three filing cabinets full to bursting, and a perpetually cluttered desk Jessop had always considered too small for her job.

It was here, tucked away in solitude amongst the organised chaos and ever growing towers of paperwork, she liked to brainstorm with a good old fashion pen and paper and plenty of coffee.

Sipping from her second Styrofoam cup of black coffee, she tried once again to wriggle some warmth back into her bare cold toes beneath her desk. Knew deep down only a hot bath would do the trick, and that only when she’d found something of use on the film before her would she allow herself to go home and take one.

She refocused back on the PC screen, whereon played CCTV footage from Revels nightclub the night Tanya Adams claimed to have lost her door keys.

The camera was situated above the main door and angled to capture the faces of each and every reveler as the door staff vetted them with frowns or smiles. They’re all so young, she noted. So young and so under dressed on such a chilly October night.

Just watching the scantily dressed young girls made her shiver. She remembered when she used to have a trim, firm figure like the ones she watched filing into the club. A figure twenty years younger she used to be proud of. A figure she used to use to entrap potential clients with back in her days working in CO14, The Clubs and Vice squad. A figure she would never get back at her age. Didn’t matter because she had Ray now, and he loved every extra curve and new worry line she sported.

She sipped some more tepid coffee and watched as the young and the gorgeous continued to file in two by two. Stopped the recording and rewound a bit, pausing on the familiar face of Tanya Adams. Her dark hair was tied up into a tight ponytail, exposing her delicate face and flawless cappuccino complexion. She looked beautiful in a shoulder-less silver dress that cupped her modest breasts and was just long enough to cover her behind.

Just because Tanya didn’t leave the club with a man, did not mean she wasn’t propositioned during the night. According to her clubbing partner, Sophia Cox, Tanya did indeed have many admirers, but none she considered worthy of sharing her bed with and having Keisha bump into in the kitchen the next morning.