Buried Slaughter (18 page)

“Please stay, Brian,” Hannah begged. She sat with her arms wrapped around her, shaking as goose pimples sprouted on her skin. “Please stay. I…‌I can’t be alone. I just can’t. Not after this. Not after‌—‌after what I just saw.”

Brian opened the latch on the front door. He knew that he should stay here with his fiancé. He knew that was the “right” thing to do. But he’d received a message directly to his doorstep. And the card that Vanessa had given him. The killer must’ve slipped it into her bag at some point. The question marks that he’d thought were directed at him clearly were.

This was personal, there was no denying it.

“You just wait there, Han,” Brian said. “I won’t be long. I promise you. I’ll call you as soon as I’ve handed this stuff over. I need to do this. This ends, right here.”

Without looking her in the eye again, he opened the door, slipped outside, and quickly slammed it shut.

He drove at a much quicker speed than usual. It reminded him of being back on duty as a Detective Sergeant, speeding down the street while cars parted, just like the water did for Moses, or whomever. The photograph and the poem‌—‌the sick, twisted poem‌—‌sat on his passenger seat, still in view. He’d rung Vanessa about the card but she knew nothing about it. He was riled up and heat was pumping through every inch of his body, but he was excited, too. Optimistic.

Firstly, the killer had provided a photograph of the murder weapon. DI Marlow had informed him that they had suspicions that some sort of machete was being used, but now they had a clear shot; they could put out a search for known distributors of these weapons, both on the high street and online. It was a large net to cast, but a net nonetheless.

Secondly, the killer had left some handwriting. Which meant that the police could get to work on some handwriting analysis and see if any known matches came up. Again, it was a very long shot‌—‌handwriting was unreliable‌—‌but it was a shot all the same.

The best shot would be courtesy of CCTV. Somebody must have left the envelope at Brian and Hannah’s doorstep, so hopefully they’d come up on CCTV. After the CityWatch fiasco a couple of years ago, he didn’t want another wild chase for a killer all because of council inadequacies.

But it seemed too simple. Why would the killer reveal himself? Why would he go to all the trouble he’d gone only to show up nearly two weeks later and give it all away? It didn’t add up.

As he approached the main road that led into the city centre, he went over the poem again and again in his head.

Eleven little rats lost their lives, Flushed right down the drain…‌

Simple. A reference to the eleven that the “Harold Harvey” imitator had already killed. “Rats” suggested that the poet held clear feelings of disgust towards those he’d killed. The idea of them being “flushed right down the drain” backed that up.

But one little rat ran away to hide, And returned to cause some pain…‌

The last line sent shivers across Brian’s arms. If eleven had been killed, and one returned to cause pain, then perhaps the writer and killer was referring to the 17
^th
Century killings.

Perhaps only eleven witches had been executed, and one had survived, somehow.

But if that survivor returned to “cause some pain”, then why was the killer picking off people in a Harold Harvey-esque manner? Wouldn’t he despise everything Harvey did?

And what the hell did a 21
^st
Century killer have to do with it?

Another question niggled at Brian’s consciousness as he pulled in to one of the many free parking spaces in front of the police station and applied his handbrake.

What the fuck did any of this have to do with him?

He grabbed the photograph and the attached poem, as well as the envelope, which could also be traced, and stepped out into the cold, rushing towards the police station.

It was as if a gift from heaven had fallen into his hands.

He wasn’t entirely sure how he felt about that.

The sound of telephones echoed through from the main offices as Brian stood waiting for the desk officer to put her own phone down and listen to what he had to say. She had short, dark hair, and glasses dangled from her neck. Brian didn’t recognise her. In fact, he wasn’t sure he trusted her with what he had to report. He wanted to see DI Marlow. Talk to him directly.

After a few more moments of chatting at a leisurely pace, the desk officer put down the phone and smiled at Brian. “Can I help you, sir?”

Brian cleared his throat. He was wearing his PCSO uniform ready for work, but clearly she didn’t recognise him, not like the other officers did. Bloody new recruits. Head in the clouds, the lot of them.

“I…‌I’m Brian McDone. A former Detective Sergeant. And I have something that I think Detective Inspector Marlow would be very interested in seeing.”

The woman didn’t flinch. “That’s great. Well, pass it through and I’ll make sure he gets it this afternoon when he finishes his hard street duty.” She glanced at his PCSO badge. “No offence.”

Brian’s cheeks warmed up. “Look‌—‌it’s…‌it’s to do with the massacres. The Pendle Hill and Longridge Fell killings. And the…‌Longley fields, too. It could prove very important evidence.” He gestured the envelope in her direction.

“Oh, well,” she said, spinning over to the computer and chewing the end of her Bic biro pen; a habit that went right through Brian. “Those cases are being monitored by the Lancashire unit. You’ll want to be in touch with the head of the overall investigation, which is…‌” She clicked around on the keyboard and peered at the screen. “Chief Superintendent Harrison from Blackburn police department. Would you like a contact number?”

“No,” Brian said. He shook his head and looked over at the office doors. Doors he used to walk through every day without even being questioned. “Listen,” Brian said, taking a deep breath and leaning in to the desk. “Is DI Marlow in?”

The desk officer widened her eyes and shrugged. “I’m not supposed to say whether…‌”

“Well, this is important. Very fucking important. If you watch the news, you’ll know damn well that eleven people have been brutally murdered in the Lancashire area within the last month. Heads sliced from their necks. One of those victims was my…‌my sister-in-law. And right here, I believe I have evidence that this killer is trying to reach out to me in some way. Trying to contact me. I’ve no idea how or why, but they’ve left enough clues that we can at least get an idea of who it is. So, if you don’t bring me DI Marlow right this second, I’m going to walk on through those doors my-fucking-sel‌—‌”

“Whoa, whoa, whoa,” a voice muttered somewhere behind Brian.

He recognised it. Whiny. Raspy. He turned around, and his suspicions were correct. Stephen Molfer.

“First day back at work and shouting your mouth off at our desk staff already? You must hold a real grudge, Brian.”

Brian took a deep, steadying breath, and stepped over to Stephen Molfer. Stephen was wearing a leather coat, zipped up over his suit. He had a steaming coffee in hand, and a new, thick-rimmed pair of glasses. He might’ve looked as punchable as ever, but now wasn’t the time to fight him. Now was the time to beg him, if anything.

“I would mention this little incident to your supervisor, but I suppose we’re old friends, so I can‌—‌”

“Ste…‌Detective Sergeant Molfer.” He raised the envelope and the photograph towards him. “I know we’ve hardly been best buds in the past, but right now I need your help. Massively.”

Stephen Molfer’s eyes narrowed. He lowered his coffee, then raised it again, taking a sip, trying his best not to look too curious about Brian’s offer. “Go on.”

Brian closed his eyes and gathered his thoughts. “I received this on my doorstep either this morning or some time last night, I don’t know. It’s a photograph of Marie Wootherfood. I believe it must’ve been taken just before she died. She has the…‌the question mark cut on her head.” He held out the photograph, and Stephen Molfer choked on some of his coffee.

“And you can see the torsos in the background, just about. But then there’s this poem. It talks about eleven ‘rats’ being killed, but one getting away. I don’t know, but I think the killer is trying to tell us something. Is there a chance that back in the 17
^th
Century, one of the victims got away?”

Molfer paused for a few moments, scratching his liney forehead. “I…‌Brian, this is crazy. All of it. I don’t know what to make of it. But‌—‌but the 17
^th
Century lead has been investigated. The killer probably was a copycat, but nothing more. There’s certainly no message, not that we can find, anyway.”

“Then what is this?” Brian said, jabbing his finger at the poem. “Why would he send this to me? Why would I receive question marks in cards with the same red felt-tip pen months before any of this started? And another identical card today?”

Stephen’s eyes narrowed. “Are you suggesting this killer is targeting you solely? Because although it does seem a little strange and there do seem to be some links, that would be somewhat…‌self-centred. Why would anybody want to target
you
?”

Brian shrugged. “Just get this to DI Marlow, right now. Check the envelope. Get any matches on the murder weapon. Check the handwriting and check the fingerprints. Oh, and check the CCTV on my road‌—‌Brooklands Drive‌—‌too. If somebody dropped this on my doorstep, then they’ll be on that tape from yesterday afternoon to this morning at some stage. Check it. Now.”

Stephen Molfer stepped back and rushed towards the offices. “Yes, boss,” he said, saluting Brian.

Brian turned away. What did he do now? Wait around and twiddle his thumbs? No. He’d call Hannah before work. Apologise for rushing off. She’d understand. She had to.

“Oh, Brian?”

Brian turned back. It was Stephen Molfer.

He smiled. “You’ve done good.”

Before Brian had the chance to add anything, Stephen Molfer slammed the office door shut and disappeared from sight.

Brian looked out of the window. Rain‌—‌a familiar sight for a Prestonian. He sighed as he rested his hands against the glass. One hour until he started his PCSO duty once again. One hour until his life returned to normal.

But fuck. Stephen Molfer had complimented him. Whatever happened, today was far from normal, that was for sure.

Chapter Twenty

The cafeteria wasn’t a place Brian frequented so much these days. It was filled with officers he used to work with, which always meant he’d have a bit of explaining to do about why he was now just a “lowly PCSO”, as well as bearing a fair brunt of the banter.

Bearing the brunt of the banter was a nightmare, especially when those dishing it out were the biggest morons imaginable.

But today, as he waited for his first shift back on duty to come around, he sat with a coffee in his hands on one of the tables by the door, just in case he had to make a quick escape. The cafeteria was relatively empty, but it would get busier as the morning moved into afternoon, as officer after officer took break after break.

Lazy gits.

He sipped his coffee and stared at his phone on the table. Every time the door swung open, he jolted his neck round in hope that it might be DI Marlow, or somebody else on the “Harold Harvey II” investigations. He wanted to know what their progress was on the cases. He hated being forced to wait around as if he was some sort of civilian like this. He needed to know what any of this had to do with him.

He’d called Hannah as soon as he’d entered the cafeteria and found a table. She was a little shaken up, but she understood his urgency to get to the police station. He told her to make sure she headed round to the neighbours, or just go out for a walk in a public place.

He wasn’t comfortable with her being in their house, not with this morning’s special little delivery. Not one bit.

The cafeteria door swung open again. Brian looked over. Two younger officers taking an early break, one with long, wannabe rock-star hair, the other with a peculiar Seventies moustache and a skinny frame. Slackers. They weren’t real officers, not these days. They were fakers. Wannabes. Kids in need of a power kick. It wasn’t the same as when he’d first joined the police. There was no pride anymore. No loyalty.

Brian grabbed his phone as the door settled again. He’d been toying with contacting David Wallson for quite a while now. Truth was, he hadn’t heard from him since the incident, aside from the occasional text. He’d kept a lookout for his name in the papers, but he was limited to NIBs‌—‌News In Briefs‌—‌and the occasional page-filler. Nothing major. No breakthroughs.

But this wasn’t about news. Oh no. He knew David Wallson had many sources, however questionably he may have obtained them. He needed to put a word out. He needed to ask a question. A question that the poem from Harold Harvey II had put in his mind and just wouldn’t allow to settle.

He pressed David’s name‌—‌now changed from the previously insulting version to a more simple “David W”‌—‌and waited. The phone rang.

And rang.

And rang.

“Hi, this is David Wallson from the
Lancashire News
‌—‌” Typical David, mentioning his profession on his personal mobile. “‌—‌Can’t take your call right now, so leave a message or drop us a text.”

There was a bleep to indicate that he was being recorded. Fuck, what the hell?

“David, it’s Brian. Hope you’re well, blah blah, whatever. Anyway, there’s something I need you to look into for me. I…‌I received a letter on my doorstep today. I believe it’s from the killer. Came attached with a photograph of‌—‌”

“Brian? You received a letter?”

David Wallson’s voice took Brian by surprise as it cut short his message. “Um, yeah. Yeah, I did. Why didn’t you‌—‌”

“I’m on Sherwood Way working on a story. Just taking a moment to slack off, so make it quick.”

“I accept your sympathies,” Brian said, referring to Marie. “But anyway‌—‌I received a letter from the killer. Photograph of Marie attached before she was decapitated. Came with a nice little poem underneath, too.”