The Mermaids Singing (31 page)

Carol flicked back a few pages, rereading a couple of paragraphs which had particularly struck her first time through. She found it hard to credit how quickly Tony had assimilated the stacks of files she’d delivered. Not only that, but he’d drawn out of them the key points that created for the first time in Carol’s mind a picture, albeit shadowy, of the man she was hunting.

But the profile raised questions in her mind. At least one of those questions didn’t seem to have occurred to Tony. She wondered if it wasn’t referred to because he had dismissed it out of hand. Either way, she had to know. And she had to find a way of asking that didn’t sound like an attack.

F
ROM
3½″
DISK LABELLED
: B
ACKUP
.007;
FILE
L
OVE
.013

I hated to keep Gareth hanging on, but I had to leave him for one little errand. In his car, I’d found a few of the Christmas cards his company sent out to favoured clients, already signed by all the partners. Inside one, with a fountain pen, a stencil set and Gareth’s blood, I’d written in block capitals, ‘
A MERRY CHRISTMAS TO ALL YOUR READERS; YOUR EXCLUSIVE CHRISTMAS GIFT IS WAITING IN THE SHRUBBERY OF CARLTON PARK BEHIND THE BANDSTAND. COMPLIMENTS OF THE SEASON FROM SANTA CLAWS
.’ It wasn’t easy to write with the blood; it kept congealing on the nib, which I had to clean every few letters. Luckily, there was no shortage of ink. I addressed a Jiffy bag to the editor of the
Bradfield Evening Sentinel Times
and put the card in it, along with a video I’d made a couple of weeks before, when I’d started to plan what to do with Gareth. I’d already decided to change my modus operandi slightly. Temple Fields was bound to be risky now; even if the queens were too drunk or stoned to be vigilant, the police would be keeping an eye open for more than the occasional cottaging poof. But the nature trail through the shrubbery of Carlton Park is almost as notorious a pick-up area
.

Early on a rainy Sunday morning, when there was nobody about, I’d driven out to Carlton Park with my camcorder. I started off by the wrought-iron bandstand. I walked around it, filming it from every angle. It wouldn’t take long before somebody in the
BEST
office recognized the landmark. After all, Carlton Park is the biggest park within the city boundaries, and there’s a brass-band concert there every Sunday from April to September. I deliberately kept the camcorder at chest level rather than on my shoulder; I’ve read of instances where correct estimates of height have been made simply from the angle photographs have been taken from. If some forensic scientist was going to draw any conclusions from this video, I wanted to be sure they would be the wrong ones
.

Leaving the bandstand behind, I walked down the nature trail towards the shrubbery. I panned across the general area where I thought I’d dump the body, then stopped filming. I passed nobody on my way back to the jeep. That was probably just as well, since I was grinning from ear to ear at the thought of the news editor puzzling over my Christmas message.

The message would also serve two other functions. It would minimize the time it took to identify Gareth’s body, which meant the publicity machine would have plenty of fodder to keep it going through what was always a slack news period. Secondly, it would send the police on a wild goose chase, working out who could have had access to the Christmas cards.

The police might even decide that someone connected with Gareth through work had decided to bump him off and make it look like a copycat killing by dumping the body in a gay cruising area. Just the sort of thing a deranged and disillusioned client would do. If I got really lucky, they might even give the bitch a hard time, too.

I drove into the city centre to post the packet at the main post office. There were enough last-minute panicking gift-givers for me to be unremarkable. I stopped at an off licence on the way back to buy a bottle of champagne. I don’t normally drink when I’m working, but this was a special occasion.

When I got back, Gareth was semi-conscious, mumbling incomprehensibly. ‘Santa’s here,’ I said cheerfully as I came down the stairs. I popped the cork on the champagne and poured two glasses. I took one over to Gareth and, standing on tiptoe, I gently lifted his lolling head. I held the glass to his lips and tilted it. ‘You’ll enjoy this,’ I said. ‘It’s vintage Dom Perignon.’

His eyes snapped wide open. For a moment, he looked bewildered, then he remembered and he fixed me with a look of pure hatred. But he was parched, and couldn’t resist the champagne. He swallowed it greedily, not savouring it at all. Then he belched in my face, a look of strange satisfaction in his eyes.

‘Wasted on you,’ I said angrily. ‘Like all the fine things in life.’ I stepped back and slashed the glass across his face. It shattered against his nose, cutting his cheek to ribbons. I was glad Auntie Doris wouldn’t be coming back. She’d had that set of six fragile crystal glasses as a silver-wedding present, and she’d never used them, terrified that someone would break one. She’d been right to be concerned.

Gareth shook his head. ‘You’re evil,’ he slurred. ‘Pure evil.’

‘No, I’m not,’ I said softly. ‘I’m justice. Remember justice? It’s what you’re supposed to stand for.’

‘Twisted, evil bastard,’ he replied.

I couldn’t believe he still had the stamina for bravado. It was time to show him who was boss. I’d already pinned his hands to the cross with a couple of cold chisels. The blood had congealed around them, black and hard. Now it was the turn of his feet.

When he saw me pick up my tools from the workbench, he finally cracked. ‘There’s no need for this,’ he said desperately. ‘Please. You could still let me go. They’d never find you. I’ve no idea where we are. I don’t know who you are, where you live, what you do for a living. You could move away from Bradfield and they’d never find you.’

I took a step closer. Tears welled up in his eyes and spilled over, trickling through the blood on his cheek. They must have stung, but he never flinched. ‘Please,’ he whispered. ‘It’s not too late. Even if you killed those other men. Was it you who killed them?’

He was smart, I had to give him that. Too smart for his own good. He’d just earned himself some more suffering. I turned away and dropped the chisel and club hammer on the workbench. Let him think I was having second thoughts. Let him spend the night convinced I was going to have mercy. That would make Christmas Day all the sweeter.

I shut the cellar door behind me and went upstairs to bed, armed with my videos and the best part of a bottle of vintage champagne. I was having the best Christmas I’d ever had. I remembered all those years of desperate hope, praying that this would be the year my mother would buy me presents like other children got. But all she’d ever done was let me down. Now I’d worked out that the only person who could give me what I craved was myself; I knew that for the first time in my life, I could look forward to the kind of Christmas other people have, filled with surprises, satisfaction and sex.

13

Reading his acts by the light of such mute traces as he left behind him, the police became aware that latterly he must have loitered. And the reason which governed him is striking; because at once it records — that murder was not pursued by him simply as a means to an end, but also as an end for itself.

The Wunch of Bankers was one of the few city-centre watering holes where Kevin Matthews felt safe meeting Penny Burgess. A fun pub with blaring rap music and decor modelled on soap operas — the Rover’s Return Snug, the Woolpack Eaterie, the Queen Vic Lounge, and the Cheers Beer Bar — was the last place he was likely to see another copper or Penny another journalist.

Kevin made a face as his taste buds clenched on the strong bitter coffee that lurked under a swirl of foam that looked more like industrial effluent than a cappuccino. Where the hell was she? He glanced at his watch for the twentieth time. She’d promised she’d be here by four at the latest, and now it was ten past. He pushed the half-empty cup away from him and grabbed his fashionable raincoat from the banquette beside him. He was about to stand up when the pub’s revolving door hissed round and disgorged Penny. She waved and headed straight over to his table.

‘You said four o’clock,’ Kevin greeted her.

‘God, Kevin, you’re getting really anal in your old age,’ Penny complained, giving him a peck on the cheek as she subsided on to the seat beside him. ‘Get me one of those mineral waters with a hint of fruits of the forest, there’s a love,’ she said, her voice mocking the pretensions of her chosen drink.

When Kevin returned with a glass already sweating with condensation, Penny immediately put a proprietorial hand on the inside of his thigh. ‘Mmm, thanks,’ she said, sipping her drink. ‘So what’s new? Why the urgent meeting?’

‘Today’s paper,’ he said tonelessly. ‘The shit’s really hit the fan.’

‘Oh, good,’ Penny said. ‘Maybe we’ll get some positive action. Like a suspect you’ve got some evidence against.’

‘You’re not understanding. They’re hunting for the mole. The Chief had Brandon on the carpet this morning, and the upshot is that Internal Affairs have mounted a leak enquiry. Penny, you’ve got to cover my back,’ Kevin said desperately. Penny took her time lighting a cigarette. ‘Are you listening to me?’ Kevin demanded.

‘Of course I am, sweetheart,’ Penny soothed automatically, her mind already planning her story for the morrow. ‘I just don’t understand why you’re getting so worked up. You know a good journalist never reveals her sources. What’s the problem? You think I’m not a good enough journalist?’ With an effort, Penny forced herself to listen to Kevin’s reply rather than the voice in her head reeling off headlines.

‘It’s not that I don’t trust you,’ Kevin said impatiently. ‘It’s inside the force I’m worried about. Everybody will be desperate to put themselves in the clear, so anybody that knows about us will be falling over themselves to tell Internal Affairs. And once they know that we’re, well, you know? That’ll be it. I’ll have had it.’

‘But nobody knows about us. Or not from me, they don’t,’ Penny said calmly.

‘I thought nobody knew too. Then Carol Jordan said something that made me think she does.’

‘And you think Carol’s going to shop you to Internal Affairs?’ Penny said, failing to hide the incredulity she felt. She hadn’t had many dealings with the CID’s most glamorous officer, but what she knew of the inspector didn’t incline her to cast her in the role of grass.

‘You don’t know her. She’s totally bloody ruthless. She wants to go all the way, that one, and she’d drop me in it soon as look at me if she thought it would take her a rung up the ladder.’

Penny shook her head in exasperation. ‘You’re overreacting. Even if Carol Jordan has mysteriously discovered that we’re seeing each other, I’m sure she’s too busy covering herself with glory from her liaison with Dr Hill to be bothered with shopping you. Besides, if you think about it rationally, she’s got nothing to gain from getting herself a reputation with the lads as a grass.’

Kevin shook his head dubiously. ‘I don’t know. Penny, you’ve no idea what it’s like on this job. We’re all working eighteen-hour days, and we’re getting nowhere.’

Penny stroked the inside of his thigh. ‘Sweetheart, you’re under a lot of pressure. Look, tell you what. If it all comes on top and somebody fingers you, Internal Affairs are bound to come to us and front us up. They’ll be looking for corroboration. If that happens, I’ll make it look like Carol Jordan’s my source, OK? That should muddy the waters.’

Kevin’s smile was worth the flannel, she decided. That, and one or two other things about him. Reassured, he bounced to his feet. ‘Thanks, Pen. Listen, I’ve got to be a place. I’ll call you soon so we can get together, OK?’ He leaned over and kissed her deep and hard.

‘Keep me posted, lover boy,’ Penny said softly to his retreating back. Before he even reached the doors, her intro was taking shape. Oh yes, she could see it now.

Bradfield police are devoting new resources to the hunt for the serial killer who has claimed four victims and placed men in jeopardy as never before.
But the extra officers will not be joining the search for the monstrous Queer Killer. Their job will be to police the police themselves.
Top brass in the force are so alarmed by the accuracy of the
Sentinel Times
’s stories on the killings that they have set up a full-scale mole hunt to uncover the source of our stories. Instead of catching the killer, the mole-catchers will be tracking down fellow officers who subscribe to the view that the terrified public have a right to know what’s going on.

Carol opened the door to the outer office and said, ‘I’m all done. Can we talk?’

Tony looked up from the computer screen absently, held up one finger and said, ‘Yeah, sure, give me a minute,’ and finished what he was doing.

Carol retreated and took a deep breath. No matter how professional she tried to be, she couldn’t help the surge of attraction she felt for this man. Ignoring it was easier said than done. Moments later, Tony joined her. He perched on the edge of his desk, his hair standing on end like Dennis the Menace from thrusting his fingers through it while he concentrated. ‘So,’ he said. ‘What’s the verdict?’

‘I’m impressed,’ she said. ‘It really pulls everything together. There were a couple of things, though.’

‘Only a couple?’ Tony asked, his voice close to a chuckle.

‘You talk a lot about how he must be strong, to overpower his victims and move them around. Also, you speculate about how he gets them into a vulnerable position in the first place. I was wondering if maybe there were two of them.’

‘Go on,’ Tony said, no hint of frost in his voice.