Sacrifice (11 page)

‘Not so far, ma’am.’

‘I’ve got a note to go up and see him.’

‘Can’t help you with that.’

‘Okay.’ She breezed away.

Heck turned to Claire. ‘Forty-five minutes. Enough time for breakfast?’

‘Breakfast?’

‘There’s a smashing little deli round the corner. They do a nice egg sandwich.’

Claire glanced again at the photo of the woman with the stick in her mouth. ‘I’m not sure I can eat, but … hey, the fresh air can’t hurt.’

Gemma watched from the other end of the corridor as they headed off together.

For a thirty-year-old, Claire Moody was already very experienced. Her references had been among the best Gemma had ever seen, and she’d interviewed excellently. The girl’s good looks and lively personality were another bonus – the bulk of the detectives in SCU were men, and if that would make them more deferential around her, all the better; at least until she’d found her feet. It was no surprise that Claire was being hit on of course, though it took Gemma aback a little to see Heck’s interest.

Not that she could afford to worry about that now. She let herself into her office, dumping her coat and brolly and thinking again about Joe Wullerton.

She hadn’t known him very long – he’d only been in his post about half a year, having replaced the disgraced Jim Laycock, and from the beginning had set his stall out to be an affable, approachable boss with an even temper and easy manner. On first arrival, he’d voluntarily changed his official title, replacing the macho Metropolitan Police-style ‘Commander’ of the National Crime Group with the more neutral ‘Director’, which she fully approved of. But she wasn’t naïve enough to think it would be warm and fuzzy all the way. Wullerton had transferred in from the Hampshire Constabulary’s Critical Incident Cadre, which he’d run effectively for fifteen years, so he was clearly a sharp bloke who knew his job, and probably a toughie as well. And he would need to be for the new position he occupied: as well as the Serial Crimes Unit, NCG also comprised the Organised Crime Division and the Kidnap Squad, and that little lot would take some managing.

She glanced again at the memo to go and see him. Rather than being emailed to her, it had been handed to her – in fact
shoved
into her grasp – the moment she’d entered the building.

Somehow that seemed ominous.

Kate wasn’t sure how long she’d lain in the darkness.

It was difficult to work out how far she’d fallen when he’d dropped her down into this pitch-black hole – ten feet, twelve, maybe more. But the impact at the bottom, though slightly cushioned by what felt like straw, had knocked her unconscious for a time.

Sick and dazed, Kate now lay balled up in a crumpled heap. The blanket had been ripped away as she’d descended, but wherever she now was, it smelled equally disgusting.

That was when she realised that she wasn’t alone.

Movement sounded somewhere to her left; she detected a dull, hoarse breathing.

Kate jerked upright onto her knees.

Her late father, who’d been a coal miner, had often used the phrase ‘it’s as black as the pit’, meaning there were no chinks of light at all. That was the situation now. Impenetrable blackness veiled Kate on all sides. Yet she knew there was somebody else there. She could hear them – shuffling about, and not too far away. She groped into the pocket of her Afghan, where mercifully her cigarette lighter was still in place. She held it in front of her as she struck it, as though to ward off a blow.

The sudden flame, though weak and wavering, was initially like a burst of lightning in the pitch blackness. She had to shield her eyes, but when they finally adjusted, she didn’t know which to be more horrified by: the sight of the cell she’d been imprisoned in or the sight of her two cellmates.

The former resembled the bottom of a well. Its geometry was circular, its walls constructed from damp, mildewed brick and rising into opaque shadow. There were no windows and no apparent handholds or footholds by which she could climb out. Its floor was hard-packed earth covered in straw. She also saw where the stench came from: one side of the cell – and it was close at hand, because the entire place was probably only ten feet in diameter – had been used as a toilet. Numerous human droppings were scattered there, indicating the length of time her fellow prisoners had been confined. One of these sat against the opposite wall, his knees drawn up to his chest; the other was kneeling about three yards away on her left.

Kate quickly backed away, though both were scrawny and dirty, and pop-eyed in the unexpected light; they looked as fazed by her arrival as she was.

The one on the left wore a grubby white vest and khaki pants, a military-training-type ensemble, which somehow contrived to make him look even more emaciated than his bony frame actually was, as did his tattoos – of which he had plenty, though all looked cheap and homemade. His face was rodent-thin, his hair a greasy, ginger mat. The one against the wall wore a light blue shell-suit, though this too was ragged and exceedingly dirty. His hair was an unwashed mop. Like his mate, he had gaunt, pock-marked features, and was hollow-eyed with fear and pain.

Fearing that her lighter fuel would run out, Kate flicked it off, plunging them into blackness again. She stayed where she was, back firmly to the wall. ‘Who are you?’ she asked. ‘Where am I?’

‘I’m Carl,’ said a voice on her left; that was the guy in the khaki pants.

‘And I’m Lee,’ said another voice.

They were flat-toned, whiney. Kate was reassured that she was not in imminent danger, though she still had to struggle to contain her emotions.

‘Okay … Carl, Lee. Why are we here? What is this place?’

‘We’re underground,’ Carl said.

‘I think I realise that!’ she replied, more sharply than she’d intended. ‘Just … what’s going on?’

‘Dunno.’ That was Lee. ‘Bastard just grabbed us and chucked us down here.’

‘We don’t know why,’ Carl added. ‘We don’t know who.’

Their accents were thin, nasal. By the sounds of it, they came from Manchester, but one of the poorer districts.

‘Where are you from, Carl?’ Kate asked, sensing that he was the less beaten-down of the two.

‘Salford,’ he said, confirming her suspicion.

‘Me too,’ came Lee’s voice.

‘You were together when this happened?’

‘Never met each other before last week.’

She shuddered. ‘You’ve been in here a whole week?’

‘Seems like it,’ Carl said. ‘Difficult keeping track. Can you put your lighter on again?’

‘I’d better not. We should save it. But you think it’s been a whole week? Seriously?’

‘Could be longer.’

‘What actually happened?’

Carl hesitated before saying: ‘I was screwing cars on the Weaste.’

‘You mean stealing?’

‘Riding round in them.’ He sounded briefly defensive. ‘I always left them after. The owners got them back, or got the insurance. No one ever got hurt.’ He sniffed. ‘I wasn’t looking for anything in particular. Just summat I could take for a spin, you know. Maybe whip the CD and sat-nav as well. I’d fixed on this Renault Scenic in a side-street, when this big bleeder stands up in front of me – right in front of me, like he’s been crouching down, waiting – and punches my fucking lights out. I woke up in here. Thought maybe it was his cellar, or something. Then, a couple of days later, he drops Lee down as well. It’s like he’s collecting people.’

‘Who is he?’ she asked.

‘Didn’t see him properly. Too dark.’

‘I didn’t see him either,’ Lee said. ‘I’d been doing houses up Clifton … I know that sounds bad. But I’ve got a habit, haven’t I? I’ve got to get money somehow. It’s not like I want to do it …’

‘Oh, can it for fuck’s sake!’ Carl blurted. ‘Just admit you’re a thieving little scrote. Maybe if this bastard’s listening, that’s what he’s waiting for. Maybe he’ll let us out when we finally ’fess up to all the fucking shit we cause.’

‘Did you get a look at him, Lee?’ Kate asked.

‘Nah. It was half-one in the morning. Pitch black. I’d just gone over this back wall. Next thing I know, this big fucker’s waiting on the other side. At first I thought it was a copper. I was going to go quietly – bed for the night, you know, square meal. Even if it
did
mean I’d be strung out in the morning …’

‘Did he say anything?’ she interrupted.

‘Nothing. Cracked my head on the bricks. Don’t remember anything after that.’

‘He wouldn’t keep feeding us if he wanted to kill us, would he?’ Carl said, sounding faintly hopeful.

‘He feeds us, does he?’ Kate didn’t know whether to be encouraged by that revelation, or even more worried.

‘Every so often he drops a few slices of bread down,’ Carl said. She heard the scrunch of wrapping paper, and pictured him licking at it, trying to mop up every minuscule crumb. ‘Couple of chocolate biscuits as well, only a couple of them mind.’

‘What do you reckon, missus?’ Lee said.

‘If he’s feeding us, it means that he wants us alive,’ Kate agreed. She didn’t bother to add:
for the time being
. You didn’t kidnap someone and keep them in an underground cell with no light and no running water because you had something pleasant in mind.

According to the piles of documentation they’d each been provided with, all bound in special folders and stencilled: ‘Operation Festival’, the withered corpse walled into the base of the old factory chimney had been a homeless man called Ernest Shapiro.

‘He was sixty-eight years old and so far down the pecking order that he was never even reported missing,’ Gemma told the thirty-five SCU personnel gathered in the DO.

They gazed at the big screen in fascinated silence.

‘In case you were wondering, this was done to him while he was still alive,’ she added, ‘as evidenced by the loss of tissue from his wrists where he’d attempted to wriggle free of his manacles. The cause of death was slow dehydration – in other words, thirst – which meant he’d been imprisoned in his brick coffin at least a week before the lads in Yorkshire found him.’

There was a similar astonished silence when she brought up images of the second crime; a double homicide in this case, a young male and female facing each other in the front seat of a parked motor vehicle, the female seated on the male’s lap. His head had slumped to the right, hers to the left. They were covered front and back with thickly clotted blood.

‘Todd Burling and Cheryl Mayers,’ Gemma said, ‘twenty and nineteen respectively – killed a month and a half after Shapiro, on February 14, Valentine’s Day. Believe it or not, they were transfixed together through their hearts by an arrow while having sex in Burling’s parked car.’

‘The Father Christmas victim was found on December 25?’ Shawna McCluskey asked. ‘And
this
happened on Valentine’s Day?’

‘Correct.’

‘Someone has a sense of humour,’ Charlie Finnegan snorted.

‘It gets funnier.’ Gemma hit her remote control and brought various images of a third murder scene to their attention. These were the most graphic so far. They portrayed an elongated, only vaguely human form, blackened almost to a crisp and lying on leaf-strewn grass. ‘This was Barry Butterfield,’ she explained. ‘Male, aged forty-three, and a registered alcoholic. His body was found last autumn, late on the evening of November 5, on the outskirts of Preston, Lancashire.’

‘Not burning on a bonfire by any chance?’ Detective Inspector Ben Kane wondered.

He was one of Gemma’s more bookish officers, a stout, bespectacled man of about forty, with neat, prematurely greying hair and a neat line in corduroy jackets, checked shirts and dickie-bows.

‘However did you guess?’ she said, hitting the remote control several times more, presenting a number of grisly close-ups.

Some fragments of clothing still adhered to the burnt carcass, but charred musculature and even bones were exposed. The face had melted beyond recognition – it resembled a wax mannequin after blowtorch treatment, yet somehow its look of horrific agony was still discernible.

‘It wasn’t initially treated as suspicious,’ Gemma added. ‘Apparently Butterfield went off on solo pub-crawls every night. The first assumption was that he’d got thoroughly intoxicated and found his way to some unofficial bonfire on wasteland outside the town, probably looking for more booze. Whether there were other people there at the time, or it was after everyone else had gone, there was no obvious indication … but it seemed possible that in his inebriated state he passed out and fell into the flames.’

‘So the cause of death was burning?’ Shawna asked.

‘That’s the problem. The coroner ordered a post-mortem, which then revealed that Butterfield had died before he was put into the fire … as a result of neurogenic shock caused by massive internal tissue damage. Almost every joint in his body was either torn or dislocated.’

‘It was like he’d been stretched out on a rack.’ This came from Detective Chief Inspector Mike Garrickson, who had recently been seconded to the unit to act as Gemma’s DSIO and up until now had been sitting quietly to one side.

‘And if you remember your school history,’ Gemma said, ‘Guy Fawkes was stretched on a rack before he was executed. And we celebrate the anniversary of this event on November 5 by burning his effigy on bonfires.’

‘We’re dealing with some kind of calendar killer?’ Gary Quinnell said. He almost sounded amused by the notion, but the expression on his face told a different story – even to hardened homicide detectives like the Serial Crimes Unit, the graphic images of Barry Butterfield were stomach-turning.

‘It would seem that way,’ Gemma replied. ‘And he’s now struck three times.’

‘I take it there are no other connected homicides or assaults that we’re aware of?’ DI Kane asked.

‘Not according to the National Crime Faculty,’ Garrickson said.

Standing in one of the corners, Heck pondered the documentation they’d been given, glancing again at the file from Lancashire and noting the Lancashire FME’s thesis that Barry Butterfield had been ‘racked’ by being stretched between a moving vehicle and some stationary object, like a tree or gatepost. That small detail ran his blood cold.