What Lies in the Dark (22 page)

One more lap, make sure the coast is absolutely clear and then he approaches.

Her eyes track him warily.

“Give you twenty for a blow job.”

Usually she would refuse and run, but it is very cold. Twenty will get her somewhere to stay, a hot meal. She swallows her pride, and he points to the toilet block. She reluctantly follows him and gets to her knees.

Finally a release.

She bled a lot, but it doesn’t matter. It is dark and his wife won’t know he is home until after he cleans up. Slipped in the mud if she asks. He will put his clothes straight into the wash, carefully applying the stain remover. He has a little longer with this one and feels happy. He hates to lower himself like this but he has to take what he can get sometimes.

It takes a few days for this one to be found. The cold has preserved her nicely. He waits eagerly each day for the news report. He enjoys this almost as much as the killings now. Seeing the outbreak of fear and hatred is fun. Wondering what these pathetic people are going to do next is fun. He nearly reports her location himself, growing more and more impatient. A little longer, he keeps telling himself. They will find her soon.

They find her on January 12th. The cleaner had come round to clean the toilets, had waited for whoever was in the disabled toilet to come out, had knocked and called out, “Are you done yet?” They thought it was another damn homeless wreck and used the universal key to slam the door open, fully intending to teach them a lesson. The anger stuck in their throat as they inhaled the coppery decay.

Bullface arrives while officers are still photographing the scene. They have a lot to photograph. Blood has splattered across the stall. She had been pushed back onto the toilet. Her body had slipped into an uncomfortable angle and stiffened, slowly freezing. Rigor mortis then livor mortis, as what remained of her blood began to settle. Spinal and brain fluid had begun to leak from the orifices. Had this been the weather for bugs, she would have been crawling with them.

They photograph every splatter, every position, every angle of her broken body before they even think of moving her. Already it doesn’t looking promising in terms of DNA and evidence. Maybe they would find a strand or two of clothing again but this killer goes for the cheap, mass produced clothing. Maybe they will get lucky and find a trace of spit. This looks like a frenzied attack, he would have sweated. Maybe the cold has preserved something along with this girl.

Fletcher arrives as they are loading her up.

“She has been here for several days now. It’s going to be hard to estimate a time of death because of the cold. We haven’t got an ID on her yet.”

“Her name is Rosie.” Fletcher mumbles. “We have offered her help before.

Bullface has never known her partner to be so solemn. She is the one with a face like a bulldog, whilst he is the sensitive but joking one. He hasn’t been sleeping well, she didn’t have to be a detective to see that (but then who had been sleeping well?) Fletcher is as deflated as the Christmas balloons. He does little as she orders a sweep of the area, radios the station, asks Michaels to search for information on Rosie.

Fletcher had said she had been homeless for a least a year, maybe more. She was somewhere between the ages of thirty and forty. Fletcher had never noticed her dealing before or soliciting. She had laughed at him when he had offered to take her to a shelter. They found some meagre belongings close by, she had probably been sleeping in the toilet block late at night and hiding in the bushes during the day.

Bullface looks around the woods, they have been here before with Adelina Sasha. It is possible he lives near here. Somewhere within walking distance. That could be a new start to their search, checking out any possible CCTV footage around this area, seeing if any joggers come frequently. It will take a lot of watching but it could be worth it. She would get the warrant later, get one of the juniors to start watching, warning them to pay very close attention. Yes, this could be a good direction to go in. Two bodies have been found in these woods, Shannon had been taken from the woods and yet no evidence of the killer’s car. But then, if he is walking, how did he get Shannon away from here? Ah damn it. How close was that railway tunnel to here? Maybe he could have carried her, not many people would have been in this area at night.

She walks back to her car. Fletcher has the telephone to his ear. He hangs up without saying anything.

“Why don’t we talk in here?” She motions to her car. Glumly he climbs in.

“What is going on Fletcher?”

“I am going to quit.”

Oh man the fuck up!

They have finished taking swabs and samples from Rosie. The autopsy has begun. Bruises indicate she had been pulled forcibly by her wrists. First she had been deeply stabbed in the chest area and it was unlikely she had felt the five stabs that followed. She definitely hadn’t felt the number 40 being cut in to her right hand. It is the deepest and most defined number he has ever cut.

“And why are you going to quit?”

Fletcher thinks about telling her about the angry looks, the feeling that everyone in the station is out to get him, that he can’t face the failure anymore. Fletcher briefly thinks about slapping her for her sardonic tone but then this is Bullface, not a source of sympathy. Instead he tells her the
simplest explanation.

“Claire has left me. She is pregnant and wants to be with the father.”

“That’s not a reason to leave.” She is sorry to hear this but also wants to talk her partner out of making a stupid decision.

“She wouldn’t have been sleeping around if I wasn’t working all the time.”

“From what I have seen, yes she would.” Bullface is never anything but blunt.

Again, Fletcher feels like slapping her.

“You two were fighting long before this case. If it wasn’t this case, it would be something else.”

Hurt silence.

“You have always loved her more than she loved you.”

Low blow you bitch. He turns away, ready to get out of the car.

Bulldog knows it is time to change tactics. “It’s not just Claire either. I am not blind, I can see what’s going on at the station.” She is a detective after all. “You are struggling to deal with people blaming you.”

He isn’t going to deny it, isn’t going to agree with her either. She already thought of him as being a pansy.

“Yes, people are blaming us for not catching him already, because they think this shit is easy. They can blame who they like but we are not guilty. We did not kill these women, we are not guilty of their murders. We have done nothing wrong. There is nothing any other officer could have done differently.” She meets his glare again, to let him know how serious she is. “What good is quitting going to do? How is it going to help anyone? Quitting won’t stop you from being a cop. Quitting won’t make this be over. All quitting will mean is that we will just be one more man down.” She is on a roll. She hates the tough love speech but will never hesitate to use it. “You have not done anything wrong. I have not done anything wrong. We have followed every single procedure, followed every single lead. We have done everything we can. Do you think you would still be on this
case if Dalbiac and Vogel had seen you as incapable? Do you think Morkam would even be paying your wages if he didn’t think you were doing a good job? Who knew Rosie’s name? You did, why? Because you are good at talking to people. Good at seeing people who others don’t want to see. You are good at what you do. Sherlock fucking Holmes could be on this case and he would be struggling.”

“Fucking cops are shite.” The male voice proclaims to murmurs of agreement. Six heads are peering at maps of the city in the Taylor’s living room. Jennifer Taylor adds a new mark to where Rosie had been found.

“It’s not like we are much better.” Joe mutters. “I was on patrol in that area and didn’t see anything. There is just too much fucking ground to cover.”

“We need more people to help.” Chris agrees.

“Yes because there are just so many people who would be willing to risk their lives going out at night on patrols – people who can be trusted,” Jennifer snaps.

She already dislikes Chris and has her doubts about Joe. But they are friends of Robert Leona who has vouched that they will be useful, but she has her doubts.

“What did you find out about John Roberts?” Mr Taylor asks Jack, in an effort to distract his wife.

“He is nothing but a Mummy’s boy. I am not even sure why the police arrested him in the first place.”

“What about the Krill?”

Robert Leona has been looking into this one. Some of his fellow officers are still happy to talk to him. “The house seems to be abandoned, unless this guy has a secret entrance in and out the house. No one has been seen movement inside. The last food delivery was made over a month ago. The house belongs to a K. Rill which is where the nickname Krill comes from.”

Jennifer isn’t convinced on this one either.

Some people aren’t that bothered about Rosie’s death. The homeless don’t mean that much to them, it is a relief to hear that the victim hadn’t been another mother. Some fill with shame when they hear how a woman has been sleeping rough in this weather, at this time of year. Some cling to the theory that the killer is growing more violent, that this victim had her arms practically torn off and that this only meant there would be more attacks. The killer has completely lost his mind now, they argue, soon it will be easy to catch him as he is going to slip up more now. They have to catch him soon otherwise these murders are going to become more frequent, more vicious.

Other rumours have spread, victims had been found without shoes or without clothes. Some women are even using this time to rifle through their partner’s possessions just to make sure. No one has found anything indicating murder, however a divorce is now being filed on the basis of other incriminating evidence.

It isn’t just Fletcher who is struggling to cope, Bullface realises as she looks around the room. The cops who had been cracking jokes before they found Fran Lizzie Taylor are stone-faced and sleepless. The room stinks of defeat. They are arguing over how much more they should be seen doing. The public are arming themselves again, and there are rumours of patrolling vigilantes. Some are arguing that the plain clothes officers need to stay a secret, that the killer is more likely to operate if he doesn’t know they are out there. Some are arguing that they need to say there are plain clothes out there. Some want the officers who are running surveillance on John Roberts and the Krill recalled, as they are obviously needed elsewhere. (Fletcher feels a stab of pride at this. Finally, they realise that he was right about John Roberts.) The public need more uniformed officers on patrol. They need more officers to do these patrols. They need more money to have more officers.

Bullface ignores them all and concentrates on Chief Constable Morkam. She has a plan. A plan which will take a
lot of time and money, and may slightly infringe certain rights but it has been done before. To her surprise, Morkam agrees and starts the bureaucracy to implement it.

John Roberts used to be invisible. He didn’t like being invisible. It wasn’t the fame a Rock God like him deserved. He used to have a pathetic job where no one recognised his greatness, and a girlfriend who wasn’t a supermodel. He has always wanted more. Then that bitch, that meddling bitch, stuck her nose in and bang he has fame. The world is watching him now but they still don’t recognise his greatness. They are mocking him, laughing at him. He is exposed and alone.

“Johnny.”

She wants him to sell his house. Now she has cleaned it and repainted it and made it look nice. She thinks, despite everything, eventually they will get a good price for it, after they replace the smashed window. He can stay with her until the house is sold. Then he can cut or at least wash his hair, make himself a little more presentable and start again in a new city, join a new band, get a nice new job. “Isn’t that a good idea Johnny? Just think about it, Johnny. Please.”

This is his house! Why doesn’t the bitch across the road have to leave? She is the one who broke in, she is the one who spread the lies. She is the one who did something wrong. Not him! He doesn’t want to move. Moving would mean admitting he is scared. He isn’t scared. Isn’t. Maybe he had been a little scared when the brick came flying through the window, but that was understandable.

“What are you going to do if you stay here, Johnny? No one is going to hire you now.”

Big deal. He doesn’t want to leave until he has had revenge. He can’t leave without teaching Mrs Prissy Bitch a lesson. Something to scare her away from her curtains. But what?

Then again, if he moves in with his mother and puts the house up for sale, then she would think this is over. She would let her guard down. The police would move on too, there would be no witnesses or anyone to protect her. He
could get his revenge when she least expects it.

“You have made the right decision, Johnny. I am proud of you.” She has never said that before. Would never say it again either.

Saturday evening sees Brandi strutting down the street, finally feeling alive. Even just being out here felt daring, felt … sexy. She is in control, she has power. She can almost feel the eyes watching her and she shakes her butt in response. She strides, imagining herself walking down the red carpet, surrounded by adoring admirers. Her heels tap out her own personal drum roll. Her dress sashays and swishes as she moves. She turns another corner onto an empty street. She begins to imagine the television interviews she will give, they will ask her, was she scared? And she will come up with something witty that implies she is as strong as any hero. Then the handsome television presenter will laugh and give her flowers. She will appear on every television across the country, looking more beautiful than her sister.

Brandi crosses the road and walks into the park.

She walks past an
Appeal for Information
poster and then another. Looking up, she sees the posters stuck on every possible area; all blazing with Madison Albrook’s picture. They didn’t look that different did they? Madison was younger of course, a lot younger. Madison has a nicer nose but otherwise, they weren’t that different. Brandi could maybe have passed as her aunt.