Tick Tick Tick (13 page)

‘Dr Clements.’

‘Yes.’ She sounds bored; must be missing me, I arrogantly conclude, but it’s more likely that I interrupted her work and she’s rather anxious to get back to that.

‘Any chance you could run the riddles past him?’

‘Her… Dr Clements is a she.’ Connie sounds quite amused.

‘Right.’ Why are all the bright sparks women in her world?

‘Have you got any more riddles?’ she asks. I quickly fill her in, and can hear her scribbling furiously at the other end.

‘What about police confidentiality?’ her voice purrs.

‘Just do it, I’ll run it past Grimes later.’ She blows me a kiss down the phone; I simply said ditto, too many males around if you know what I mean.

Mack and I are sitting in a squad room full of coppers. On the board are the four riddles, and written under the second one is the possible answer IMAGINATION
.
Does it mean I have to use my imagination or that in my wildest dreams I can never imagine what he will do next?

Grimes comes in looking the worse for wear. His tie is loose, the normally tight collar unbuttoned, and he looks like a man who’s just had a good arse kicking from the chiefs – he probably has.

We’re quickly sectioned off into teams and assigned caseloads of work; just because we have one killer, that doesn’t stop the rest of Manchester’s finest causing us some severe headaches. Mack and I are to stay as the leads on the case; a profiler will be here in the next couple of days – that could mean several more dead bodies if we don’t get some help real fast. Local perps – that’s our next job, find out if we have anyone else back out on the streets that could remotely represent our man.

Alex Gibbons appears at our desk a few hours later. A young athletic guy in his mid-twenties, he’s also an absolute mine of information on offenders and a true computer genius. He’d poured through my list of forty suspects and whittled it down to four – this was definitely more like my kind of number. Four strong perps who could’ve fitted either of the scenarios; we have to take a closer look. Ernie Taggs, a psychiatric nutcase that we put away about ten years ago for the murder and rape of two prostitutes, his MO was manual strangulation then dismemberment. I remember the case well – he’d pleaded insanity and got away without being locked up for life, now he was back on the streets: isn’t justice grand?

Mike Winston, an older thug who’d beaten his wife and daughter to a bloody pulp, then sliced them up and hidden the body parts at various sites all over the city. I don’t think he’s a candidate, and toss his file to one side for further review. Ray Thomson, another bruiser who had a vendetta against all ‘gays’. He’d savagely cut open five of them before we finally managed to get the son of a bitch. His excuse – he claimed he was doing the world a favour. Now don’t get me wrong, I’m as heterosexual as they come, but I believe that all human beings are equal – until they cross the wrong side of the law, then that’s another matter. He missed getting life though, another plea of insanity that, combined with a major legal cock-up, means he’s now free as a bird. And lastly, Maurice Halton, a thirty year old father of two, who was a knife and gun nutcase. He’d taken a simple dislike to his new neighbours so he stabbed them repeatedly and then shot them for target practice. I’m not sure about this guy; I’m not convinced he’s weird enough, if you know what I mean.

So that leaves only two twisted individuals to check out off the bat, Ernie Taggs and Ray Thomson. Jeez, isn’t it just heart-warming to know that these guys are now cut loose and free to roam through the neighbourhoods again, just makes you feel comforted now doesn’t it? I know where to find Ernie; he’d be back to home base.

We find Ernie back at one of his usual haunts, an old seedy pub down a side street, called Mick’s. It reeks of stale beer and rancid, cheap cigarettes, with the unmistakable odour of urine. As we walk through, I can feel my shoes actually sticking to the floor – I refuse to look at exactly what it is. Ernie is easy to spot, propped up at the bar. His balding head is shining in the cheap spotlights, the crooked nose and pot belly jutting together in a similar alignment. A pint of beer lies almost finished beside him, with several empties nearby.

‘Hello Ernie,’ I say. ‘Long time no see.’

His head swivels round, the glazed eyes staring at me for some sort of recognition. His eyes grow darker, the hooded brows gather under his sweaty lined brow, the nostrils flare. Ah, that’s more like it –now he remembers me. It’s good to know that I’m not forgettable.

‘Ya fuckin’ pig – what d’ya want?’ Snarling, he tries to jump off the bar stool, but only succeeds in colliding with the bar. Mack steps closer, letting him know he’s there.

‘Been doing anything you shouldn’t have lately?’ I ask, trying to keep my tone level. I don’t like the look of some of the other nutcases in this joint; God only knows what weapons some of them are carrying.

‘I haven’t been doing anything,’ he moans.

‘Where were you last week?’ I try to avoid his reeking breath.

‘Any specific day?’ The answer is so cocksure, it pissed me right off.

‘Let’s start with yesterday and work backwards.’ I smile, with a slight snarl.

He snorts out loud, saliva dribbling down one side of his bloated cheek.

‘Ask Mick here – I been here every day and night for weeks, he can vouch for me.’

I glance at Mick, standing behind the bar; he nods his head in full agreement. Now I wonder why I’ve got the feeling that good old Mick would vouch for a damn dog in a pinstriped suit drinking in here, as long as the price was right.

‘He’s been here all the time just like he says,’ says Mick, with a smirk.

‘What time does he get here?’ I casually ask.

‘After the afternoon’s drinking he usually comes back around five.’

‘What time does he leave?’

‘About midnight.’ Mick’s looking bored already.

‘How much does he drink?’

Mick laughs. ‘Enough so he can’t stand, let alone piss.’

There isn’t much else I can ask.

‘I’m going to be keeping a special eye on your prime establishment Mick, to make sure everything’s above board and legal.’ He doesn’t look as though he cares much. So much for my veiled threat, perhaps I’m getting out of practice.

‘Be seeing you Ernie.’

‘Real soon.’ Mack adds, thumping him hard on the back, so that his whole body rattles.

Ernie couldn’t have given a rat’s ass, and I have a gut feeling that he isn’t our man; still, it’s worth putting a tail on him. Who knows, he could’ve killed any of them during the day, easy, and then come to the pub at night. I make the necessary phone calls; Ernie is going to be watched.

Rain drenches us to the very skin, erupting again from the sky like a never-ending waterfall, pounding through every ounce of clothing. As we haul open another pub door, lightning whips across the sky, the sharp forks illuminating overhead. We’re tired, bone weary. We’ve spent the last few hours searching for Ray Thomson, with no luck. Nobody has seen him, or heard of him. If anyone knows where he is, they sure aren’t for telling. We decide to call it a day and I head home, the water still dripping from my hair, down onto my nose, and finally splashing onto my coat. Cranking up the heat I try to stop shivering, my whole body seemingly in a permanent state of tremble.

Connie is already fast asleep in bed, so I slip into the shower, tossing the soaking clothes onto the tiled floor – yes, I know she’ll moan later, but I don’t really care. I turn the shower up full blast and step into the hot, steaming jets. As I reach for the bar of soap, a hand covers mine.

‘Want me to scrub your back?’ she asks.

‘I thought you were sleeping.’

‘First rule of policing, never presume anything. So, do you want your back scrubbed or not?’ Smiling, she lathers up her hands.

I yank her inside. ‘I can think of better things to do.’ I pull her towards me hard, kissing her neck and then moving further down; she feels so damn good and so damn right.

Tonight I don’t want to think of anything but you
, I think.

It doesn’t work. The dreams of mutilated bodies repeat through the night.

I need to catch his footsteps – tick, tick, tick.

CHAPTER 14

I drive out to the outskirts of the city; it takes a while to get there because the traffic is so damn bad. Once there though, the streets are relatively quiet. The trees, bare from the winter, overhang the houses like guards forever watchful. Small children play contentedly in the streets, wrapped up in luminous warm clothes, but somewhat oblivious to the cold as children are. At last I see number 47; it’s an attractive mature Victorian house, with tall rising ivy that surrounds the entrance, though on closer inspection I can see that the façade is crumbling slightly. The grass outside is still a vivid hue of green and the garden generally looks well-tended. I pull the door chime and somewhere in the house I hear doors banging. As she opens the door I see the instant recognition on her face, and she recoils. I don’t blame her; I’ve had that effect on many women over the years.

‘I’m sorry to intrude Mrs Garland, but I have a few more questions that I need to ask.’

‘Come in,’ is her quiet reply, although I know she doesn’t want me to set foot inside her home. I can understand why.

She ushers me into a pale ivory lounge where a grand piano stands gracefully in one corner, family pictures in gilt-edged frames adorning its sleek black surface, polished and pristine. The fire is lit, bathing the room in a soft, dappled orange glow. I can see photograph albums on the ornate, carved maple coffee table; she is quite obviously a woman of some wealth. Why does that surprise me?

‘I have the funeral directors coming soon to make arrangements, so if you could make it quick,’ she says.

‘No problem.’ I hesitate for a moment, unsure of how to phrase my words.

‘Could you tell me how long Kathy had been living at the flat?’

‘Oh, for about four years.’ she says, folding her hands together.

‘Did she have many boyfriends, especially any that majored in English?’

‘Only a couple that I knew of, none of them were exactly what you’d call intellectual. I already gave you this information.’ She sounds weary.

‘I know ma’am, I’m just clarifying a few points,’ I gently probe.  ‘Did she have a lot of female friends?’

‘One or two from work that she used to go out drinking with occasionally, but not what you’d call a special best friend.’

‘No one from her school that she’d kept in contact with?’ I try to question further.

‘Inspector Downey, we moved around a lot. My late husband used to be in the diplomatic service – he died a few years ago.’

Silence.

She twists her wedding band around and around as if it comforts her.

‘It’s a very sad day when you have to bury your only child.’ It’s almost a whisper.

‘Yes ma’am.’ I don’t know what else to say.

‘It’s not right is it? It’s not the way God intended. I should have gone first.’

‘May I ask if Kathy had any inheritances from her father?’

Her head jerks up, annoyance and disdain clearly flickering across her face.

‘Yes, she did, but she wasn’t eligible for them until she was thirty.’

She starts to sob, so quietly now – tears run down her cheeks, like small, silent streams of unfathomable grief. And so I wait… until she very slowly stops.

I detest having to ask more questions, especially when she is so visibly distressed, but it is part and parcel of my job, and I have to press on.

‘May I ask what happens to the inheritance now?’

‘The money – oh it goes back into the estate.’

‘And your next beneficiary is?’

‘I suppose it’s Samantha, my sister.’ She takes a pristine white linen hankie out and dabs at her face, the eyes red and sore.

Glancing out of the window I see a black car pull up in front of the house; time to make a move.

‘Once again, my sincere condolences.’

She snaps her head up, her voice riddled with rancour.

‘I don’t want condolences – I want that damn killer found!’

My mobile phone goes off on the drive back; snapping it open I listen to Mack. Headquarters have had an anonymous call; there was evidence left at Frankie’s house that we missed. It seems odd, but we have no choice but to go and take another look. I take a hard left and swing back towards Frankie’s house; Mack and forensics will meet me there. My mind is filled with pictures of Mrs Garland, preparing the funeral of her only child. As coppers we are taught to detach ourselves from cases, but this one has dug right into the pit of my stomach, and it’s like a knife twisting inside with every added murder. What she needs is closure – and I’m determined to bring it to her, one way or another.

I draw up outside the old house. Cars are lined up on both sides of the street; Mack as usual is lighting up a cigarette and stomping his feet in frustration at my time of arrival.