Tick Tick Tick (22 page)

Mack and I walk along the ancient marble floor, the tapping of our shoes in perfect rhythm. From the little that we heard downstairs this is going to be the worst so far – if that’s possible.

The door to the upstairs hallway is taped off, and the police tape flickers from the gust through a cracked window. Why is it that the tape never stays still? This place already feels like a morgue, the deathly silence, the heavy stench of blood in the air. I’m seriously thinking about changing my job – well, I think about it for all of ten seconds.

Two coppers stand guard outside the office, their faces a shade of pale green and their hands quivering in shock. The FME’s assistants are standing nearby with a trolley, laughing and chatting as if this is yet another normal daily occurrence in their mundane lives. Perhaps for them it is; I guess when you’ve been brutally murdered you don’t have much to say about how you’re treated. We don our protective suits and snap on our gloves. Just as we are about to enter the scene, we’re told to immediately put on masks. I don’t like the sound of this one little bit, and feel the hairs on the back of my neck prickle, tension knotting up the old stomach muscles again.

The FME, my favourite lady, is back again. Hell, we’ve gotta stop meeting like this; you never know, my girlfriend might get jealous.
Fat chance of that at the moment
, I think. The body of Preston Law lies decapitated in front of the filing cabinet. The head is positioned above his body, leaving a gap where his neck should have been. The cut is in a V shape, is that another sign? V for victory – against what? Against me? Who knows? The walls are a sea of red, bright crimson red. Blood actually drips from the ceiling; I can see small spots fall onto the carpet below – oh, holy Christ.

 As I walk towards the body, my feet squelch in the bloody carpet, the blood seeping up the sides of my enclosed shoes, bright sticky red against the white protective coverings. The stench is almost unbearable. I feel like I’m desecrating his grave somehow; as I walk I am uncomfortably aware that I am swimming through the very soul of the man.

Mack begins to walk in then abruptly stops. ‘Oh shit,’ yelps Mack, his face ashen and going even paler by the minute.

I stand and stare at the body, my face expressionless. My favourite FME glances up at me.

‘Well, as he’s missing his neck I don’t suppose you can tell me whether or not he was choked to death?’

Breathe, Downey, breathe.

‘No,’ she replies, holding steady with my eyes; we both know sarcasm is sometimes the only way of keeping our emotions in check and getting on with the job.

‘Is it likely?’ I ask.

She takes a moment to ponder. ‘Probably,’ she says. ‘As I can’t see any visible skull markings to show that he was hit with anything, no bullet wounds or single blow, and I’m guessing he didn’t just lie down for the killer.’

‘Great, now the son of a bitch is removing his signature.’

‘Give me time to do the cut and I’ll see what else I can find out.’ She tries to reassure me.

‘You got an estimate for time of death?’ I ask.

‘Yeah, about two hours maximum.’

My brain shifts up a gear. It’s now 9 p.m.; if the killer was here two hours ago, add time for traffic from the morgue, and that means he’d been at St Josephs at the latest around 6:30 p.m. That bastard, we were so close to him. At least I can get the hospital staff canvassed for a clear time. It also means that the son of a bitch is on a
spree
– the mere thought of that word brings back nightmares which I can’t afford to be thinking about right now.
Focus, everything is a living clue.

‘Downey… I’ve never ever seen anything like this before.’ Mack’s voice is strained.

‘I’m going to need two body bags for this one,’ the FME shouts outside, and continues examining the body.

I glance at Mack. ‘Me neither pal, me neither.’

‘There’s so much blood, God it’s everywhere, it’s like the very life of him seeped out and flooded the whole damn place.’ Mack’s brow is covered in perspiration.

I know exactly what he means, Preston Law had been killed quickly and while his heart was still pumping its final few beats, the killer had slashed open his neck, causing a massive blood spurt which had now saturated the entire floor and sprayed onto the ceiling. I actually feel like I’m standing on Preston Law’s spirit.

The crime techs are in their element. ‘You got anything?’ I ask.

‘No prints, he was obviously gloved up as usual. We’ll need to get the clothes and samples back to the lab, see if we can turn anything up.’

God, every murder is like running up a dead end; no forensic evidence, not even a trace, the autopsies turn up nothing we don’t already know. The family background checks show that they were all good citizens, no major enemies, no family problems; no one heard or saw the killer get in or out, and yet we know he was stalking his victims – so how come no-one noticed? Is he an expert in this field; an ex-copper with a grudge? An ex-con with a point to prove – had he planned all this from a jail cell? Why send the riddles to only me – what is the connection? It’s like banging your head off a brick wall.

‘Get it finished… now!’ I shout. The FME bags the head separately into one body bag, and the rest of him is zipped up into another; each heaved onto a trolley which rattles down the hall. I feel physically sick as I watch them go.

The crime tech guys seem to have multiplied in force for this one; they’re everywhere, photographing and videotaping it all – nothing escapes the camera’s eye.

‘What I don’t understand, is how nobody sees this soddin’ guy covered in blood. I mean he must’ve been dripping in the stuff.’ Mack shakes his head in disbelief.

‘There’s no blood outside the room – that means he’s either wearing something over his clothes, or he’s changing afterwards.’

My pretty FME is just about to instruct the crime techs.

‘Hey,’ I shout.

She glances up. ‘Yes?’

‘Any signs of sexual gratification?’ I ask.

‘He sodomised him.’

‘Bleedin’ sicko,’ Mack says.

‘Well Grimes is just going to love this one. Now the shit’s really gonna hit the fan, there’s no way in hell he can keep this one quiet,’ I say.

I look out the nearest window and can hear vans screeching up outside. The media are already setting up camp as the suits squeal to a halt, tumbling out of their cars.

‘Looks like our favourite people have already arrived,’ says Mack. ‘Time to go.’

Reeves storms into the room about three minutes later, he looks such a tosser in his white protective suit. Three others follow close behind.

‘You’re stepping on my crime scene,’ says the FME, with no hint of a smile.

‘I think you’ll find this is my crime scene, dear,’ he sneers.

She stands up and doesn’t take her eyes off him, her tone level but firm. ‘I think you’ll find it’s mine.
I
am in sole charge of any crime scene until I’m finished – and I’m not.’ She almost dares him to challenge her, and stands her ground.
You go, girl
, I think to myself.

He moves closer to her, his feet plopping through the carpet.

‘I’m Inspector Reeves from SOCA, and you would be?’

‘I would be Susan Oakes, the Chief Forensic Medical Examiner.’ Still she doesn’t move.

Hell, I’m impressed, I didn’t know she was the chief. Not only that, but now I know her name – Susan, yes, it seems to suit her.

‘I want to know exactly what happened here,’ barks Reeves.

Christ; same old, same old.

‘Preston Law, aged forty nine, was murdered. His neck was slit open with a hunting knife; the killer knew exactly where to strike to sever the artery in mere seconds. He suffered massive blood loss, and quite probably a fatal heart attack with the shock, but I would say slicing through the neck killed him.’ Her tone is firm yet subtly sarcastic. I’m beginning to like her even more.

 ‘What else?’ He’s rattled but trying not to show it.

‘Time of death, approximately two hours ago, and his neck has been removed. I’ve had a really good look – but I just can’t find it, be a dear and see if you can.’

She turns her back on him, winks at me, finishes instructing the crime techs, picks up her bag and leaves Reeves with a scarlet face. I’m loving it.

‘Search the fucking place for fibres, I want something found. Don’t give me excuses, just do it,’ snaps Reeves, embarrassment written all over his face.

The teams simply carry on working, ignoring the high and mighty Reeves; he’s making friends real fast.

He nods to Mack and me. ‘You two wise guys get out, you’re not needed.’

Mack turns to me. ‘I’m hurt man, hurt.’

I smile. ‘Grates right to the bone, if you know what I mean.’

Reeves moves closer to us. I see Mack’s fist clench; hell, who am I to stop him?

‘I’m warning you pair of arseholes, you get any information, you call me first. Is that clear?’

‘Absolutely crystal,’ I say, grabbing hold of Mack’s arm. Sod it, he can punch him later.

As I turn to leave, I have the pleasure of watching a drop of blood drip slowly from the ceiling and plop right on Reeves’ head; too bad he’s wearing that hooded suit.

‘Goddamn it,’ I hear him shout as we leave.

The second we walk out of the building, flashbulbs go off, and microphones are plunged once again in our faces; we’re lit up in the night like two rabbits caught in headlights. I can see Hilda Corwin elbowing her way through the pack of media wolves, her faithful camera crew following in her wake. She is right up at me, almost nose to nose. As I try to ignore her, she simply pushes further forward. Jesus, any moment now and she’ll be on top of me… and take it from me that wasn’t a pleasant thought.

‘Inspector Downey, this is the seventh killing in only a matter of weeks; are you any further forward in apprehending the serial killer?’ Her large nostrils, as hairy as any man’s I’d ever met, flare like a bull’s in heat.

I feign ignorance. ‘No comment.’

We try to move forward and once again she blocks our path.
Jeez, just give me an excuse, any excuse to snap some handcuffs on those wrinkly wrists – please.

‘The people of Manchester and the whole of Britain have a right to know! Are you depriving us of the truth, how can we protect ourselves… Inspector?’

Finally coppers move in and haul her bony ass back before I lose it completely. We jump into one car, someone else can drop mine off later. Mack revs up the engine, wheels spinning as we make a break for it. I look up to see her still shouting at the car.

Mack says, ‘I bloody hate that bitch… know who she reminds me of with that stupid black wig that covers half her damn face and that deep manly voice screaming at us?’

‘Enlighten me.’

‘She’s bloody Darth Vader’s mother!’

I laugh. ‘Now, Mack.’

‘What?’ He’s smiling.

‘You’re not being polite.’

‘So who gives a shit?’ he says.

Who gives a shit indeed
, I think. As far as I’m concerned all media are scum, no exceptions; all they want is a sensational story. They have no heart, no soul; like mindless vampires sucking the blood out of every story, every human being’s pain. No, I hate every damn one of them.

I’ll bet that not a single one of them thinks of Preston Law’s wife or children. No, that would be too humane; what do they care that a family would be ripped apart for the rest of their days? Where is the compassion in journalism? The answer –
there isn’t any.

CHAPTER 24

Mack drives me back to my flat; the tension between us is palpable. We’re each lost in our own thoughts of despair. Once again we failed to stop an innocent life from being savagely ended, and the fact that we’re no nearer to finding out the killer weighs heavy. How many more will die before we manage to catch a break? This isn’t what we signed up for. We both joined the police force as we wanted to protect innocent citizens, whilst weeding out the dregs of society who leech off the frail, the poor and the lonely. We want to make a difference to society; it may be old fashioned, heck it may even be politically incorrect these days, but up until recently we’ve always been a pretty successful team.

‘You want me to come up with you?’ asks Mack.

I know he’s thinking a riddle might be there.

‘Nope, not tonight Josephine.’

I open the car door.

‘Hey, Downey.’

‘Yes?’

‘Why do we work for the murder investigation team?’

‘Because the dead need answers, their families need answers… and so do we.’

Mack thinks about it. ‘You ever thought about changing departments?’

‘I’ve thought about it, but the murder team has one advantage above all the others.’

He lights a cigarette and draws in a lungful. ‘What’s that then?’

‘In the murder team the only true boss… is God.’

I shut the door.