Tick Tick Tick (12 page)

‘So what you got?’ I say. The clattering of cups being dropped in the background causes us both to jump. I think our nerves are more than a little on edge.

‘Mary Lingard was on duty last night; she recalled that several users came in to use the computers, photocopier and fax services. She couldn’t give a clear description on any of them, so no obvious leads there.’

‘Not even a glimpse of a photofit?’

‘She’s at the station now, going through all the mug shots.’

I know that’s a last gasp try, so does Mack, but neither of us says it. I listen to the sound of steam heating milk, the coffee beans being crushed and feel an inordinate sense of desolation. One witness who can’t identify shit, compromised crucial forensic evidence and a killer on the loose who likes sending me riddles that no one can solve.

IMAGINATION
–
wasn’t that what Connie said?

I can take you to places you’ve never seen

And show you sights that you’ve never been

I can bring you the world, a sight to behold

I can conquer the lands, with your stories untold

I can travel afar, and for a while keep you there

And yet, I’ve simply never been anywhere.

What am I?

I flick the pad round to Mack. ‘IMAGINATION.’

‘What?’ he says, as he stuffs the last remaining morsels of the muffin into his mouth, a great paw wiping it clean.

‘Connie says the answer is IMAGINATION – could be.’

I can see him struggling to work it out. I know the feeling, but somehow as soon as she’d said it I knew it was right. Trouble is, I don’t know what it means, but I have a feeling we’re going to find out really soon.

Trophies… they bother me. Why the hell is he collecting body parts? It’s like something out of a horror film. Is it simply for greed? To relive the death over and over again, or could it be something more sinister? Is he making something? Perhaps it’s just vengeance, to show that he can do exactly as he wishes, whenever he wants to, with whomever he wants. I just can’t get a handle on this guy. I test my theories on Mack; he merely sits and listens in a sort of distracted way, no doubt preferring to look at the cakes and muffins with unwritten desire in his eyes. I have a feeling his mind isn’t entirely on the job today, and I’m not sure why.

‘So what do you think about taking the body parts?’ I query.

‘I think he’s a flippin’ psycho,’ snaps Mack.

‘Yes, I think we’ve gathered that much already,’ I reply.

‘But what does he want body parts for?’

‘Take Jeffrey Dahmer – he was a good looking guy, well educated and one of the worst serial killers in history.’

‘He was a homo,’ says Mack, with a flicker of disgust in his eyes.

‘So? The point is that he killed and dismembered them. He also cannibalised them.’

Mack stares at me. ‘You think he’s a cannibal?’

‘Could be.’

‘Jesus, isn’t that heart-warming?’ He swallows the last dregs of his coffee.

‘Then of course there was Albert Fish. He murdered, tortured, decapitated, castrated, drank their blood and ate them.’

‘Bloody hell Downey, I just ate.’

I’m talking out loud just trying to make sense of it all. ‘But our boy, he kills
before
he dismembers, he also has sexual perversions, which makes me think he’s not quite in their league – yet.’

‘What was it Edmund Kemper said?’ asks Mack, eyeing up one of the waitresses.

‘When asked, “What do you think when you see a pretty girl walking down the street?” he answered, “One side of me says I’d like to talk to her, like to date her, the other side of me says – I wonder how her head would look on a stick”,’ I reply.

‘Jesus,’ sighs Mack, ‘the world’s full of nutcases.’

‘Come on,’ I say, shrugging my jacket back on. ‘Better get our arses back to the station before they send out a goddamn search party.’

CHAPTER 12

I leave the comforting aroma of fresh baked goods and march back to my car. The wind has a distinctly icy feel to it today – January in the north-west can be a son of a bitch weather wise, but we’ve managed to escape the traditional heavy winds and snowfalls so far. Trouble is, now all we’ve got is the usual constant grey pelting rain.

I ram the Alfa into reverse and make my way back into the middle of the city. The radio is filled with the case of Mandy Arthur and it seems like Manchester is now in the deep throws of serial killer fear. I can’t blame them, I kinda feel the same way.

Footsteps. It’s like I’m always two steps behind this guy. He has obviously planned each killing with exact precision timing, as no one saw him go in or out. This makes me think that he did watch his victims, and then plan the killings around their daily schedule. Smart, he’s definitely that; riddles with no answers are a good way of winding us all up, and he’s sure succeeding on that. Grimes has told me that the GCHQ are still working on them, but as yet they still have no solutions.
Strike one for Connie
, I think.

Why send me puzzles that I can’t solve? Is he an expert in that field? It’s worth considering. You just never know what kind of background a serial killer is going to have. Most seem perfectly normal when caught, and Connie told me that many of them are quite respectful and even helpful when she goes to interview them. I still can’t quite believe that she enjoys her work so much. Perhaps she’s even crazier than I am.

But the mutilations, they are brutal; the cuts, hacks and wounds to the bodies are a sign of an extremely depraved mind, slashing through innocent victims in sheer anger and undiluted venom. There are no specific MOs apart from the sexual connections and the snapped hyoid bone; these are the only two pieces that he seems to keep for every victim.

The wind is stronger now, tugging at the side of my car as I swing into headquarters, and it looks like the animals had been let loose for the day. Jesus, everywhere I look there are TV vans, reporters grabbing the nearest coppers, and a cluster of the hardened reporters all waiting for me. I see Mack in front crash through them, not giving a toss who he runs over; they scatter out of his way like rats in a flood.

Crowds gather around me as I clamber out of the car, the breeze whipping through me and the chill seeping through every fibre of clothing. Cameras zoom in at me.
Is
he
watching
, I think?
Is this what
he
wants?
Microphones are once again thrust in my face, though this time I can’t escape. It’s claustrophobic, a seething mass of reporters like rabid vultures pouncing on every word, every gesture that I make.

‘Have you got him yet?’ one yells.

‘What are the police doing to protect the citizens of Manchester and the UK?’ shouts another.

‘Nothing,’ a crowd of them shouts out in unison, a trace of fear in their own voices.

‘Where’s the government, what are they doing to help?’

Dear God, do they expect a group of James Bonds to come storming into the city and solve the case in a day? Now wouldn’t that be dandy, make my day.

Questions are hollered in my face, no thought for the families’ feelings, the victims, or for the people who had to go through the crime scenes, reliving each particle, each dying moment of an innocent victim’s death. Try seeing the blood; the mutilations, the sexual assaults, the merciless brutality, and then try telling me that we’re doing nothing? Go fuck yourselves; fury rages, boiling through every open pore like a raw, festering wound.

I want to scream at them that we’re trying everything we know, but this son of a bitch is slick and smart. Instead I can say nothing. I barge, elbow and generally shove my way through, my lips pursed, teeth grinding together.

I can see Mack is having just as bad a time of it as me; I see the fist move before David Vale of Sky News has time to register what he has done. His microphone had smacked Mack full in the mouth, his lip split, the red blood dripping down his mouth.

‘Mack, no!’ I yell, but I can’t reach him.

Too late, the great bear’s paw of a fist comes up in an arc, and smashes into David’s face; his body flips back and lands hard on the concrete, his nose erupting at the same time.

I grab hold of Mack’s jacket before he has time to go in for a second blow.

‘Get your arse inside,’ I snap.

‘The only arse I’m gonna move is that snivelling scumbag’s.’

Mack leans down and bodily picks up David from the ground, his nose obviously broken, the skin torn, a large bruise forming beneath his eye, blood smeared on his face… he’s near to tears. Mack, with no sympathy whatsoever and ignoring his own minor injuries, spins him around, snaps on his handcuffs and marches him inside.

‘You can’t arrest me!’ David exclaims, almost spluttering at Mack.

‘I’m arresting you on account of obstructing a police officer, hitting a police officer, breach of the peace and any other damn laws that I can dream up.’ Mack hands him over to the custody sergeant. ‘Add ten counts of being an arsehole as well.’ He marches off to the toilets to see what damage had been done. I watch the blood splatter onto the floor as he walks.

Blood, it’s the sign of life – or the sign of death.

Time is already against us, I know that; the killer is speeding up the process and we still have jack shit – things are not looking good. I don’t even notice the letter until Mack comes back holding his split lip together with a wad of toilet roll.

The mail lies unopened in my in tray. This time, I know there will be numerous oddball letters from nutcases who claim to be the killer and I drop them into one pile on the left-hand side of my desk, to be picked up and checked through later by a team specially formed exactly for this purpose. Cranks always seem to come out of the woodwork at a time like this. Christ, if only they knew the added pressure they put on already drained resources. I open the white envelope as I slurp at hot, tasteless coffee; my hand reaches in and pulls out the letter. I see the usual printing before I realise my own stupid mistake. Damn it, I don’t have any gloves on – now who’s making amateur errors?

‘Mack, gloves – now!’ I nod towards the letter. He pulls a pair out of his packet and chucks them across the desk. Yanking them on, I start again.

To Whom It May Concern: perhaps Mandy Arthur. Oh, but you already know that by now.

If you do not have me, you will surely feel alone

For only I embrace each and every one who asks for me.

Should you choose to walk alone or lose me

You will surely walk in the shadows of death.

I am found in your heart, within your soul and beyond

And yet you cannot touch me.

What am I?

Your nemesis.

Goddamn this son of a bitch, goddamn him to hell.
One day
, I think –
one day soon
.

CHAPTER 13

Pressure – it’s like a time bomb has gone off in my head. Forensics stated that Mandy Arthur had been dead less than twenty-four hours, yet the postmark on the envelope is dated only yesterday. This means that the killer had already picked his victim and knew precisely what he was going to do.

Footsteps in front of mine yet again
.

Forensics have taken the letter and the envelope, both now with my fingerprints all over them… didn’t I just berate an FME today for ineptitude? Now it’s my turn to take the fall.

How had we traced Mandy Arthur anyway? I pick up the phone and make a few calls. Seems we had an anonymous phone call that told of a bloodbath at her home. No name given and the trace on the phone was a public call box miles out of the city – which of course had hundreds of fingerprints, but none that showed up on the criminal records database. It must have been the killer – perhaps he wanted to make sure that we found the body before I got the letter. He’s getting cocky now. Where the hell is the bloody profiler?

I look at the scribbled note I’ve written down
– You will surely walk in the shadows of death.
Is he talking about himself, or me? Jesus, I’d give anything to have a PhD in English right now. A dim light goes on in my head; Connie has a professor friend who’s an expert in the English Language. Could she give him a call, run the riddles by him? Perhaps she’s done it already? But she would’ve mentioned it surely? I pick up the phone again.

‘Connie?’

‘Yes?’ It sounds like she’s working at the flat again, judging from the note of distraction in her voice.

‘Any chance you could do me a favour?’ I try my fatal charm.

‘I don’t do phone sex.’
Ha ha, so funny… and why not?
I think.

‘Your professor friend…’

‘I have several.’
Who’s being a smartass
, I think, but carry on.