Exit Wounds (3 page)

Gary was forty-three years old now. After his time in the army he had spent the last three years returning to petty crime. Old habits die hard, and outside the regiment he knew no other life. Gary exhaled loudly. He couldn’t pretend there was anything petty about what he was about to do now.

Glancing in his rear-view mirror, Gary caught a glimpse of himself and did his best to ignore the look of disgust in his own eyes. His hair was almost all gone now and he had shaved what remained short to his scalp. His face looked tired, like an old, battered leather jacket that had been worn for far too long and was started to wear thin and fray at the edges.

Gary rubbed his hands together on the steering wheel. Even they had their own scars to bear. He was desperate for a hit. Maybe he could have a smoke instead?

Just one. To take the edge off.

Gary thought about it. He could make sure that he took the used cigarette and even the ash with him after he had wiped down the car for prints. He didn’t pretend to understand forensics but he knew they couldn’t get DNA off what wasn’t there. He shook his head quickly to himself. No, he had the car window open just half an inch at the top. It let in the cold, early morning air and stopped the windows steaming up with his breath. This helped to avoid unwanted attention, but if he lit up, it would also let out a steady flow of smoke like a chimney and that would defeat the whole object.

The front door to a house a little further up the road on the right opened. A young girl, in her mid to late teens came out, carefully shutting the door behind her, as if to make as little noise as possible. She raised her left foot up onto the small wall that lined the pathway to the pavement and began to stretch. She wore a tight, pink tank top and a pair of blue jogging trousers with plain, white trainers. Her long, brown hair was tied back in a pony, and as she turned with her next set of stretches, Gary found that he had to look away.

She was so young. She could be his own daughter. She’d be about this girl’s age now. Not that Gary would recognise her if he saw her in the street.

Gary waved these thoughts away from his head. It was pointless even thinking about such things. It wasn’t like he had a choice in this. Not really. He had to go through with it. Forcing himself to look back, Gary tried to complete the task he had started in his mind three days earlier. He tried to get used to the idea of what he was going to do to this girl. In silent, rhetorical conversation he had told himself that it would get easier. Yet sat here now, staring at what would become his twentieth, he felt the same sickening lack of weight in his stomach that he had felt that very first time.

The girl in pink walked to the end of her garden and began her morning jog. Gary watched her for a few moments, and then reluctantly started the engine of his car and took a deep breath.

Bute Place, Cardiff Bay

Richard and Paul’s van pulled up at traffic lights opposite the large, quarry slate-covered Wales Millennium Centre building, its engraved words still illuminated from within.

The van turned left onto Bute Street and then curved round to the right as it became pedestrianised, and finally pulled into a single story car park just opposite the science museum Richard had often taken his two children to during the summer holidays. The van pulled over in the far right corner and Dean hopped out of the passenger side door. A moment later he pulled the sliding door open and signalled to Richard and Paul to get out.

As he stepped down onto the concrete Paul saw that the area was deserted. He looked up at the walls and realised that all the CCTV cameras had been pointed toward the wall in advance. Obviously the person monitoring them was grossly incompetent, or simply didn’t care.

Probably some fat bastard, high on chip fat and cheap whiskey
, Paul thought to himself as Dean slammed the van door shut behind them.

Paul turned round, scanning his surroundings, his eyes eventually falling on Dean. He smiled at Paul, with his big, teethy grin and reached out behind him with his right arm to tap twice on the side of the van. The van reversed back and drove out of the car park.

“So, where’s Giacometti?” Richard asked.

Dean ignored him. He reached behind but then had second thoughts and instead retrieved Paul’s weapon, tucked into the front of his belt. He checked chamber and loaded a round into the pipe.

Richard raised his hands, “Hey, you contacted us. We’re here for business. You don’t want our help, fine. We’ll walk.”

Dean waved the Beretta, signalling that they should move.

“Relax,” Paul replied, not bothering to dampen his own volume. “He’s just fucking with us. If he wanted to shoot us, he would have done it back in the van. Easier to move the bodies. We’re just being transferred to another vehicle. Make sure we’re not being followed.”

“Look at the big brain on you!” Dean cooed, mockingly.

Richard glanced at Dean, and then back to Paul. “How do you know?”

Dean walked past them and held out a set of car keys in his left hand and pressed the button on the key ring. Right on cue the signal lights to a new, silver Audi A4 in front of them flashed twice, accompanied by the sound of the doors unlocking.

Paul smiled at his brother, “Told you so.”

M.I.T. (Murder Investigation Taskforce), Cardiff Branch

Tony knocked on the frosted glass window of Colgan’s office. The blinds were down and he couldn’t hear his superior inside but he knew that just like himself, he would be exactly where he said he would be, exactly when he said he would.

Colgan’s voice answered, “Come.”

Tony stepped inside, careful to shut the door tight behind him. Colgan was busy on the phone behind his desk, his face mostly obscured by his computer monitor. He raised an open palm and gestured for Tony to take a seat at the table opposite his desk.

As he sat down, Tony made sure his phone was on silent and did his best to hide his surprise. Even now he was struggling to hear Colgan’s voice. No wonder he hadn’t heard him outside. The phone call must be important, Tony deducted, which of course made its topic all the more attractive. As if sensing his spiked interest, Colgan looked up at Tony, across the top of his monitor. Tony looked away, cautious not to make his movement seem sudden.

“What do you know about Denise Sanders?” Colgan asked suddenly.

Tony turned. Colgan had now finished his call and already risen from his desk. He answered immediately, without hesitation, “Victim number twelve. Sixteen years old. She went missing whilst walking back from her friend’s house at night. Murdered in the exact same way as the others. Her body was found at Lisvane Reservoir.”

Colgan leaned forward on the table and nodded, his head bowed. “I don’t drink tap water anymore.”

Tony remained silent, unsure whether the correct response was to laugh, agree, or say something insightful.

Colgan’s head remained down as he thought aloud, “Always water. Why does he always leave them near water?”

This time Tony knew he could answer. “It’s likely to destroy any forensic evidence. Blood, semen, hair; water would wash all that away and nearly all of the bodies have been found partially if not completely submerged.”

It was Colgan’s turn to remain silent. Tony paused. His answer hadn’t been the one Colgan was looking for.

“You think it’s linked to the practice of the killing?” Tony asked eventually.

“I’m beginning to think it’s some sort of ritual. Water is considered a purifier in most religions. Christianity, Hinduism, Judaism, Islam, they all incorporate a form of ritual washing.”

“You’re saying you believe the killer is trying to cleanse his victims?” Tony frowned. “Why would he do that?”

“Guilt? We know he feels shame for his actions. He tears out their eyes so that he doesn’t have to feel he’s being watched as he rapes them.” Colgan looked up finally, meeting Tony’s eyes. He stood up straight. “This guy isn’t like the others. His methods aren’t changing. They aren’t evolving. They’ve been exactly the same since day one and he’s not making any mistakes.”

“Everyone makes mistakes.”

Colgan raised the corner of his mouth in a little laugh, “Even you?”

Tony wasn’t sure if that was a reprimand or a compliment. His boss was certainly keeping him on his toes today.

Colgan’s smiled dropped. He pulled his chair around and sat opposite Tony. “Cardiff has never faced a serial killer like this before, and certainly not one with such a long reign. One of our biggest problems here is the media. They’re out for just as much blood as this lunatic, only the blood they want is ours.” Colgan brought his hands together. “The first sniff of a lead we get and it’s splashed all over the headlines. Not only does it needlessly get people’s hopes up, but quite often it ruins what slim chance we have at actually catching the bastard.”

“I agree, sir.” Tony replied, when he was certain it was the right time to do so.

Colgan reached for a file that had been on the desk the whole time and slid it over to Tony. Inside were photocopies of statements with red biro rings around certain areas. Tony began skim-reading these paragraphs, simultaneously making sure that he kept listening to the department director.

Colgan got up and turned his back, walking as he talked, “It’s a stretch, and I really do mean that. Denise Sanders’ mother says in her statement that on the day before her daughter was abducted, her sixteenth birthday party, she saw a man watching Denise. The party was held at their local pub. There were lots of men there, and Denise was a pretty girl. There was no CCTV footage besides one camera pointed at the till and no one else mentioned this man in their statements.” He casually studied the wall-sized map of Cardiff as he continued, “Nobody thought anything of it. Just some other sad, old barfly, perving on teenage girls. The only description she could give was that he wore a camouflage jacket.”

The director turned back, signalling Tony to look up from the folder. “And then we get Lucy Green. Statements were again taken from her friends and family when she went missing about what she had been doing in the days prior to her disappearance. One thing in particular popped out at me.”

“The man at the ice cream counter,” Tony said, hoping they had come to the same conclusion.

His superior nodded, “Lucy and her best friend, Jenny Williams went to the cinema the day before Lucy went missing. Jenny said that when they went to buy ice cream Lucy couldn’t find enough change in her purse and before Jenny could reach into her handbag, the man behind them paid for her. Teenage girl’s descriptions of anyone over thirty are always pretty generic, but besides being old, all she said about the man was that he wore a camouflage jacket.”

Tony rolled his tongue around his mouth once before speaking, “Even if it is the same man in both accounts, Cardiff is a small enough city for it to be purely coincidental.”

Colgan eased himself back into the chair with a sigh, “If these murders continue for much longer, there won’t be a person left in the county who doesn’t know somebody who knows one of the victims. I said it was a stretch.”

Tony nodded, “Sir, I understand and agree with your hesitance to release this information to the media.” He paused, “But you’ll have to excuse me for being blunt, why are you telling me this?”

“You mean as opposed to the rest of the team?” It was a rhetorical question. Colgan lowered his voice as he leaned forward. “There has been information reported that this department has not officially disclosed to the press. Inquisitive journalism only goes so far.”

It was Tony’s turn to lower his voice, “You think there’s a leak in the team?”

Colgan seemed frustrated that the question had even had to be said aloud. He bit down on his tongue, “I don’t know. Yet.”

Somewhere in Cardiff Bay

Paul hated to admit it, but Dean did seem to know what he was doing. If he didn’t then whoever had given him instructions certainly did. Paul was now driving the silver A4 with Richard next to him in the front passenger seat. Dean sat in the back directly behind Paul, his weapon still drawn. It was the set-up that had he been in Dean’s shoes, he would have arranged himself.

Dean had identified Paul as the most considerable threat out of the two brothers. A selection confirmed for him when Paul was the one most reluctant to hand over his weapon. Armed with that very weapon, Dean had it positioned at the back of his seat, just above where the small of Paul’s back would be.

Funny how things can turn around on you
, Paul thought to himself, equally amused as he was annoyed by the situation.

Dean had made Paul the driver to keep his hands busy. Whilst Paul was driving, there was little chance he could cause a struggle and fight back. Sat behind him, Dean was also out of his line of sight. Paul could catch Dean’s face in the mirror if he turned his head enough but it was only a guess as to where the gun was pointed. All he had to go on was the assumption that Dean would be smart enough to keep it below window level.

Richard was the only one who was in a position to create any real attack, but then there was enough distance between them for Dean to simply turn the gun and shoot him.