BiteMarks (12 page)

“
You're not going to help?”

“
What if he strikes again before you find out what you need to catch him?”

“
Then I'll live with it.”

“
That shouldn't be your call, mate.”

“
Just one other thing that I need to tell you that might have a bearing on events.”

“
What?”

“
When I went to visit the latest girl who was attacked, there was a bit of an incident between me and Antony Jones.”

“
This just keeps getting better. Go on.”

“
He was waiting for me at my car when I came back to it and grabbed hold of my arm, so I kind of throttled him a little.”

“
Are you completely insane? The man kills people for fun, and makes his money from drugs, guns and violence.”

“
He grabbed hold of me first, I just defended myself.”

“
What happened afterward?”

“
He basically promised to kill me next time he's at a loose-end. Don't worry though, I told him that the only way he could possibly hurt me was by taking it out on my beloved partner, you.”

“
You fucking didn't?” Marcus losing the hue from his cheeks.

“
No, I didn't.” 

The color returns to his face again. “Check you out, Mr Popularity all of a sudden. What are you going to do?”

“
First and foremost, try to locate our fanged friend in the system; then I'll let CID know about the Jones threat. Should give me long enough with them tied up to try and nick blondie and claim all the glory.”

“
Aren't you at least going to beg a little for my help?”

“
Not if you're not willing to give it.”

“
Try me.”

“
Marcus my dear friend, will you help me to track down the madman who keeps gnawing on the prostitutes of our fair city please?”

“
Only if you'll give me the low down on who you're fucking at the moment.' He starts to laugh when I begin to protest. “I can see that healthy glow of anticipation about you, so I reckon you're on a promise for later tonight.”

“
Is it that obvious?” I'm grinning now too. “Well, until recently you had the look of a man who spends most of his time alone in the dark aiming for RSI. Now you do a passable impression of a normal well- adjusted human being; and since I'm not fucking you, I tend to remember small details like that, it means that somebody else is doing the honors.”

“
Okay, but keep it to yourself.”

“
Scout's honor.”

“
It's Karen.”

His expression remains blank for a long moment and then realization dawns, breaking out into a smile that threatens to touch each ear. “Detective Inspector Karen Ball-breaker Cobb? You are having a fucking giraffe, my son.”

“
Like I said, lips to remain sealed please.”

“
She's old enough to have given birth to you, for God's sake. I can't even begin to imagine how you managed that one. So there's your plan for immunity then? Sly dog.”

“
You're still talking.”

“
Okay, I'm done now, but I'm seeing you in a new light, mate.”

The afternoon drifts onwards; the dyeing dying blaze falling towards the cooling earth behind animated and lengthening skeletal silhouettes. As people pass each other, their shadows become giants, stretching out their limbs and falling over the foreground; fifty meter long exaggerations mimicking and amplifying the movements of the bodies that trap them. They seem to fight with each other as they cross and uncross paths, enraged by the uninvited intrusions into their space. When the sun finally collapses in a shower of red sparks on the horizon, and the wind breathes gentle life into each blade of grass, the shadow giants shrink back in mortal fear; flickering like flames in negative before vanishing from view.

We walk the last few hundred yards towards the station in easy silence. Entering the car park and then nodding a polite greeting to the pretty girl on reception, removing hats and coats as we make our way to the locker room, and finally checking in our radios now that the shift is over. Two other officers are getting changed. The atmosphere of gentle banter and convivial bonding begins to evaporate again, certain individuals presence can suck the air out of a room, leaving an uncomfortable vacuum.

“
Oh, grow up you pair of pricks.” Marcus aims the comment at Police Constable's Strang and Moore, coming on shift as we are clocking of.

They have their backs to us, shoulders hunched and dancing with the effort of suppressing laughter. In our absence Marcus' free-standing locker has had some alterations done; lifted onto the top of another locker, with a rudimentary rope-ladder sellotaped to the side. There's a label on the front which says 'laptop', it takes me a beat before I get the 'joke' – laptop, a small PC.

Strang replies first. “I thought having just been on an incredibly enlightening diversity course, it was time for a revamp of the old nickname.”

Jamie Moore adds his own thoughts. “Think of it as a term of endearment if it helps, my little black friend.”

I grab hold of Marcus at the moment that he is preparing to launch a right hook towards the point of Moore's chin, pulling him in to a tight bear hug.

“
It's not worth your job, I'll fix it.” I speak just loudly enough to be audible to him, holding eye contact. He stops struggling, eyes aflame and teeth clenched.

“
That's right, give your fella a cuddle, calm him down before he does something stupid.”

I wink at Marcus on their blind side, and step backwards onto Strang, the taunter's bare foot with my heavy police boot; grinding my heel into the delicate bones and feeling a satisfying crunch. He gives us a few bars of a unique scream aria composed mainly of impressively high and ever-changing notes.

“
I'm so sorry, I didn't realize that your foot was there. Are you okay?”

“
My foot! My fucking foot.” Tears stream down his face as he clutches the blackening toes tightly in both hands. “You did that on purpose.” Moore is up in my face, voice menacing and brow furrowed in anger. I grab his balls tightly through his boxer shorts and squeeze hard enough to let him know that I'm not messing around.

“
Get in my face again and I'll rip them off and feed them to you one at a time you fucking throw-back. Find yourselves some new targets, I'm not playing anymore.”

I release my hold and he cups himself protectively, retreating swiftly and reviewing his opinion of where I belong in the parameters of this small world. I'm smiling now, not because I enjoy the violence and the concomitant surge of power, but because I can recall another of my Granddad's sayings.

There are two types of man in the world that'll grab hold of another man's balls. The first type is a man without boundaries, he'll hurt you any way that he can if you give him reason to. The second type you'll have to find out about for yourself, son, but he'll hold your balls in a completely different way, so you'll know him when you meet him.
He'd laughed in his idiosyncratic way then, like an old car struggling to fire up, and I'd joined him not knowing what we were laughing at, but enjoying his amusement as if it was my own.

“
Fucking psycho freak.” 

I take a bow at the insult, re-entering the present. 

“
Pleased to be of service.”

Marcus is done packing his stuff into his locker now and gestures
that we should leave. A combination of amusement and gratitude does a mischievous dance across his face. He waits until we are at a computer in the admin room before he speaks.

“
Thanks, mate, that was awesome.”

“
I don't have many friends, but I look after the ones that I care about.”
No you don't.
The internal monologue reminds me, with vivid mental portraits of what I've done.

Marcus fires up a computer, logging in to the criminal intelligence database and finding the search screen.

CRIMINT allows you to input names, numbers, addresses or keywords, and then gives multiple entries that match for you to sift through. The entries are categorized by intelligence officers in terms of their likely validity; from the irrefutably correct to those that are little more than third hand hearsay. Contrary to popular opinion Police Intelligence is not a contradiction on terms. The facility allows you to build a picture of an offender's history or establish whether a particular address might be potentially dangerous to visit alone. It also allows you to establish possible links between different offenses or incidents.

Marcus types and enters 'Vampire' then clicks into the first of several hundred items returned. The entry relates to a guy called James Jones, who changed his name to 'Vampiricus Vampire' after his most recent conviction for indecent exposure in 1999. Using a separate part of the system, we retrieve his picture; short, morbidly obese, wearing a long black leather trench-coat, with greasy badly-dyed hair half covering his thick glasses.

“
Probably not, mate.” Marcus grins.

“
I'd better log on too, judging by the size of that list. I'll start at the last entry and meet you in the middle.” I pull up a chair and log on to the neighboring machine. An hour later my eyes are pleading for a break from the screen, and I'm reeling with information overload.

“
How many people are calling their crazed dogs Vampire for God's sake?”

“
They must all be in your half, I've only come across one. All my lists are wannabes, biting each other for fun and claiming that they're Lestat.”

“
May as well jot a few names down though, and remember that the blond hair might not be natural.”

“
You think he's just trying it to see if he'll have more fun?”

“
Funny, Marco, funny. How many have you read so far?”

“
Fifty-four, you?”

“
Seventy-two. Let's try a different tact, how about release lists for the last six months. Search the interesting looking ones and look for a link?”

“
Sounds good, but I need a drink and something to eat first. Remember this is on my time, mate.”

“
We'll grab an unmarked and drive out for something. I'll just ask if anyone else needs something bringing back though.”

“
Right, I'll get the keys then.”

I head into the briefing room and ask around, but nobody wants anything, so I head on up to the CID office. Kev Henshall is flicking through witness statements and grunts a 'no' in my direction without bothering to look up.

Karen is either on the phone or talking to herself out of sight at the other side of the room; battered filing cabinets obscuring my view of her.

I take a slow walk in her general direction, picking my way between overflowing desks adorned with circular coffee prints and an origami snail on top of a haphazard stack of cardboard files. She
finishes up the call as I hover in her line of vision, and she flutters her eyelashes at me. I take a few moments to appraise her as we speak. She is striking for anyone who is prepared to look beyond the façade. Even now, tired and no doubt working the kinds of hours that most mortals would shudder at, she has an unmistakable presence that I wonder how I missed before we became intimate. Her eyes light up as she comprehends my expression, still slightly guarded and quizzical to see me here in her territory, but definitely pleased all the same.

“
Constable Marks, how are you?”

“
All the better for seeing you, Inspector Cobb. I'm on my way out for a snack if you'd like anything bringing back in?”

“
I'm fine thanks; don't want to ruin my appetite for later on...”

I keep my voice low so as not to broadcast to Kev Henshall.  “I look forward to it, Karen. Sorry
I've not spoken to you much recently.”

I find myself compelled to instigate some sort of contact, strange for me – I'm not what you'd call the tactile type. I take a swift glance around to ensure that we can't be seen and lean in kissing her gently on the lips; the contact rising and blooming as a delicate blush in her cheeks. “I love what you've done with your hair, Inspector. See you later.”

She looks part shocked and part amused as I walk away. For one I choose to ignore the self-torturing voice beating against the inside of my skull. 

An hour later and we're both back at the same computer screens, dropping flakes of chicken dumplin' pastry between the keys. The meat is moist and highly spiced, a floral curry aroma perfuming the air and attracting the attentions of passing nostrils. Marcus' father was originally from Jamaica, and my love of all things spicy and interesting makes me more than happy to head into the dark heart of St Ann's for the 'best Caribbean food in the city', on the regular occasions when he has a hankering for something authentic.