Fifty Two Weeks of Murder (10 page)

Chapter 13

Anders and Duncan sped through the streets in a patrol car, sirens blazing as Anders steered them through the traffic as quickly as she could. Duncan maintained a sullen silence and Anders grinned as he clutched his seat belt with one hand and kept the other on the dashboard to steady himself as she weaved around a stationary lorry, cutting the angle as close as she could.

The alert had come through half an hour previously. A neighbour had heard screaming and called the local police, who’d contacted Mal’s team as soon as they arrived at the scene. A husband had taken a Samurai sword to his wife, trying to replicate James Clavell’s Shogun. Luckily, the police had arrived quickly and he had fled, leaving his injured wife behind.

Coleraine Road was lined with old Victorian houses. High ceilings and large rooms with bay windows and front doors that could fit a large sofa through comfortably. Many had been converted to flats, the landlord turning the lower and upper floors into separate living areas to rent out. Spotted among the grand houses were the odd newer structures that had been erected after the Blitz. They were poorly designed, cheaply built and ill at ease next to their expensive neighbours. The Victorian houses themselves had seen their value sky rocket over the last few decades, so many of the owners had significantly less wealth than those who had bought the properties recently. Anders passed Aston Martin’s parked in the street next to old Ford Cortina’s. 

The street was on a steep slope and, half way up, Anders spied a squad of patrol cars parked against a tatty group of flats nestled between their more illustrious neighbours. Uniformed officers stood in the road and guided in an ambulance that had just arrived. Anders and Duncan stepped from the car and showed their Warrant Cards to the senior officer on site. He gave their rank a long stare before deciding that he was happy to relinquish control of the scene to the dour man and the attractive, but intense woman. He led them up to the flat where the crime had taken place. It was on the upper floor and they climbed the concrete steps clutched to one side of the building to get there. The senior officer, a balding man in his forties chatted amicably as they made their way up the staircase.

“Marshall Johnson,” he said, giving them the details. “Goes at his wife with a damn sword.” He shook his head in disbelief. “People are going nuts over this website. What about you? Would you kill someone for five million?” Anders gave him a brutal gaze and he hurried up the stairs, keen to finish his escort duty.

As they walked along the concrete balcony, Anders noted the dilapidated state of the building. Paint was peeling from every window, doors were worn thin and a sour whiff of urine hung in the stairwell. For such a wealthy area, this was a tiny pocket of misery. Screams could be heard from the end of the balcony and they picked up the pace. Arriving at the door to the last flat, Anders stepped over some blood that had pooled at the entrance. The interior was dark, the only natural light coming from the open door.

Inside, Anders could see a long, rectangular room with a kitchen at the end, separated by a breakfast bar. In front of that were several old sofas, the material patchy and the cushions permanently depressed by years of use. The walls were full of shelves and books were scattered around the floor, piled in corners and stacked around the large, flat screen TV. On the sofa, a morbidly obese woman lay screaming as two paramedics worked to stabilise her before moving the poor victim down the stairwell. Dark hair was plastered to her face as blood gushed from a wound in her scalp. Her T-shirt was ripped, presumably by the sword and deep wounds could be seen under the material, covering her arms and stomach. She wailed at the pain and shock of her ordeal.

“How’s she doing?” asked Anders. One of the paramedics, an achingly thin man in his early twenties, glanced around before returning back to the task of stemming the flow of blood. He had to shout to make himself heard above the screaming.

“She’ll be ok if we can get her to sit still for a minute,” he replied as the woman screamed even louder at his touch. Anders checked the mail that had been left on the floor.

“Jenny Johnson,” she muttered and moved into the house to let Duncan through. He turned his nose up in disgust at the dirt and grime. Blood had spattered the walls, thickly dark in the dim light and his eyes roved the scene, piecing together what had happened. Moving through the flat, Anders saw a picture of the husband, Marshall, on his wedding day. Oddly enough, he wasn’t with his wife, but with an older woman who looked like his mother. There were enough shared autosomal characteristics evident. She rested an arm protectively around him. He was lean and wiry with a buzz cut and piercing eyes that seemed on edge. Anders’ thoughts were suddenly interrupted as Duncan lost his temper.

“Get that woman out of here and sedated!” he yelled. The paramedics gave him a wary look, but tried to lift the huge woman from the sofa, eliciting further shrieks of pain.

“Belay that order,” snapped Anders, giving Duncan a challenging look as she did so. He scowled at her as she exercised her authority. “Get outside and organise the search. Check with the neighbours, see if they know anything.” He made to protest, but thought better of it. Turning sharply on his heels, he stepped over the blood in the doorway and left.

Anders continued her search of the flat. Putting on some gloves, she picked up various books and sheets of papers lying around the cluttered room. Blocking out the screaming, she started piecing together a picture of Marshall. Bills with angry red lettered headings showed him to be in some considerable debt. Tax returns lying under a betting paper showed he made little from his self-employment. Some were dated from fifteen years ago. The fridge showed pizzas and pasta. One cupboard held three boxes of the same cereal. Pictures of Marshall as a child, same houses. Raised here.

Likes routine, finds comfort in the familiar, limited expansion and outlook. Lives through these books but unwilling to do anything for himself. Mummy’s boy. Finally, Anders made her way back to the sofa and crouched down so that she could look at the miserable woman. Her bleeding had been staunched and one paramedic was bandaging her head and the other putting gauze around a deep cut on her arm.

“Mrs Johnson,” she said. “I’m Assistant Chief Constable Anders. I’m here to find your husband and make sure he pays for what he did to you.” She burst into fresh tears, throwing her head back and knocking the young paramedic aside, causing her to scream in fresh pain as her wound jerked open.

“Mrs Johnson, I need you to be very calm for me. This will be over soon and then we can get you to hospital and make sure you’re well cared for. Do you have any children? Anyone we can call to come and be with you.” She sniffed loudly, streams of snot dribbling from her nose. Her voice, when she spoke, was raw and scratched, her vocal chords shredded from her screaming.

“No. There’s no one.” Anders placed a gentle hand on Jenny’s and gripped it tightly.

“I need you to answer one question for me and then I’ll make sure you’re looked after by these kind men. You’ve been very brave. Where does Marshall’s mother live? Is it around here?”

Duncan was banging on the door next to the stairwell when Anders hurried from the flat and called out to him.

“Next street along. Number ninety nine. His mother’s place. I’ll bet we’ll find him there, hoping this will all blow over.” She took the steps two at a time and could hear Duncan pounding after her, tie flying behind as he sprinted after her. Anders had started the car by the time he caught up and, panting heavily, hurried to buckle his seatbelt as she swung the car round and sped down the hill, leaving behind an array of bemused police officers trying to fathom where they were going.

“I’ll pull up a few houses down,” she said, using the handbrake to swerve round the corner at the bottom of the hill and then starting back up the next street in third gear. Duncan, despite himself, was impressed.

“Shouldn’t we be calling this in, get those officers to back us up,” he asked as the houses flew past at great speed.

“I’ll call it in when we’ve stopped. I want a few minutes before we spook Marshall away.” Skidding to a halt half way up the hill, Duncan scrabbled to the boot and pulled out a stab vest and a belt with speedcuffs, CS spray and an ASP baton that would extend out at the click of a button. Anders relayed their position to Jesse and he started to coordinate a cordon around the area in case Marshall did escape. Duncan threw a set of gear to Anders and she pulled the heavy vest over her head and pulled the side straps tight before buckling the belt up. It was slightly too big for her tiny waist and hung loose.

The street was virtually identical to the last one they were on. Victorian houses lined the sides and, again, the pattern was interrupted by the odd council house that had sprung up in the gaping holes left by the Blitz. The Ninety Ninth house was smaller than its two neighbours, as if they had dominated it into submission. Where they proudly displayed their pale bricks and bay windows, this house had wooden slats over the newer bricks and small windows covered in a semi permeable membrane of filth that allowed little light into its murky interior. The front door had iron bars over its front and looked incongruous in the neighbourhood.

A side path led to the back and Anders nodded for Duncan to take it. He signalled his agreement and slunk down the path, ducking below a round window on the side, while Anders strode up to the front door and rang the bell. Mack the Knife sounded from the ringer and she heard an argument seeping through the thin wooden door. She saw the eyehole darken as the owner peered outside so she held up her warrant card.

“This is Assistant Chief Constable Anders from the NCA ma’am. Please open the door.”

“What do you want?” The voice was old and distrustful. Anders imagined a frail woman on the other side, stooped with age.

“I’m here to ask a few questions about your son. He’s attacked his wife with a sword.”

“No he didn’t,” came the swift reply. “She’s making it up. Always took him for granted she did.”

“Ma’am, I’m going to have to insist that you open the door. Under the Police and Criminal Evidence Act, I have the power to gain entry and search your premises. I wish to enter the property and discuss with you the whereabouts of your son before he hurts anyone else.” There was a long pause and Anders could almost hear the woman thinking.

“Fine,” she said. Chains were unbuckled and locks unlocked as Miss Johnson made sure to take her time opening the door, acting older and more frail than she really was. She glowered at Anders before unlocking the steel gate across the entrance. Suddenly, Anders heard a shout followed by a scream from behind the house. Without thought, Anders barrelled past the old woman and sprinted through the house, unclipping her ASP as she ran. A narrow hallway led to the kitchen at the back, all immaculately maintained; a clean interior despite the grimy exterior. Anders kept moving forward, saw a door leading to the back and burst from the house into the garden.

Duncan was on the floor, blood pouring from a wound in his arm as he tried to raise his other to ward off the killing blow that was coming. Marshall stood over him, wielding his Samurai sword and screaming incoherently. Anders could see the rage in his eyes and knew he’d lost his grip on reason.

“Hey!” she yelled and he looked up, sword poised in mid-air. She used that moment to extend her baton, thrusting it outwards with a satisfying
snick
. The noise spurred him to action and he ran at her, closing the gap fast. Anders waited a brief second, letting him move closer. With lightning speed, she stepped into his swing and ducked so the sword swung behind her. As she moved, Anders swung her own weapon.

Her training in America had given her a very different approach to violent confrontation. Living in a country where it was your legal right to be armed gave a different starting point. Suicide by cop was not a term used in Britain where knives were more likely to be used and police, as a rule, were not armed with handguns. When being trained in the use of a baton, officers were given sweet spots that they could hit. The back of the leg for instance. They were also shown areas to avoid if at all possible. Skulls and joints were off limits unless in the most dire of circumstance. 

Anders’ swing cracked his knee cap and Marshall stumbled with a cry of pain, his leg giving way beneath him. She swung again, a backhanded blow, whippet fast, that smashed his elbow joint to a pulp and caused him to drop his sword, the wickedly curved blade spinning away wildly. He gave another snarl of pain but managed to stay upright. He glared at her in rage and fury, his voice shrieking hoarse as he screamed.

“You fucking b…” Anders’ baton clubbed the side of his head with a crunching blow and his eyes rolled upwards as he collapsed to the floor, his legs buckling under him as he hit the ground with a meaty thump.

“Dammit,” muttered Anders, her heart beating calmly in her chest. “There’ll be a complaint about that.”

The Interview

Part 3

Anders gazed at him coolly. Her voice, when she spoke, was calm yet laced with steel.

“I’ve led squads of men to battle and ran the lead team on serial killers in the most prestigious office of the FBI. I believe that question has already been answered.”

“You don’t look like a man.” It was a statement and a challenging one at that.

“I’m not. That’s the point of gender reassignment surgery.”

“You sound like a woman. Thought you’d look and sound like those drag queen hookers at Soho.”

“You have my picture on file. It’s right in front of you. You know what I look like.” Cooper held his hands out in a gesture meant to placate yet was anything but.

“I’m just curious, that’s all.”

“I was lucky enough to know what I was from an early age. There are hormone blockers you can take to inhibit the effects of testosterone.” Cooper smiled at that.

“So you chemically castrated yourself and then your parents kicked you out.” Anders frowned, curious as to how he knew, but quickly shut down her emotions. She’d suffered worse and had changed far too long ago to let him bother her.

“They did, yes.”

“You had your op at eighteen. How did you pay for that?”

“I worked hard, got my diplomas and paid with the money I earned at that time.”

“Touching. How did you pay for the op?”

“Hard work and grit. I also came into a little money.”

“From a notorious crime lord who you then arrested ten years later.” Anders chuckled.

“Would that my life were so interesting,” she replied. “It’s a little more mundane than that. Death in the family.”

“The same family that disowned you.”

“Not all of them.” Cooper leaned back in his chair and gazed at her, his eyes roving her slender frame with distaste.

“So, you’re a transsexual who does all the manly things like join the army and excel at CQB. It doesn’t fit.” Anders shrugged.

“As I said, I knew what I was from an early age. I also realised that I’d have to excel at everything I did so that what I was wouldn’t matter.”

“How do you know it doesn’t matter to me?”

“I’m here aren’t I?”

“As a transsexual, how can you be relied upon to be stable in this pressured environment? Aren’t you too busy mincing around, pretending to be a woman?”

“I had two years of psychological analysis before making the transition. Judging by this conversation, I’m the most rational and stable person in this room.” She saw Barrett supress a smile at that.

“Your parents must be proud of their fag son?” Anders stilled suddenly and the atmosphere thickened. Cooper had gone too far. Barrett quickly stepped in and banged her fist on the table.

“I like this one! She has fire!” McDowell grinned suddenly and stood up, striding to a drinks cabinet sat flush against the wall.

“I agree! Cooper?” All eyes turned to Cooper, whose demeanour suddenly changed. His patronising attitude vanished and he looked a different person as he clapped his hands suddenly and stood up, shooting round the table to offer his hand to Anders. Nonplussed she leaned back slightly, unsure of his change.

“I’m so very sorry,” he said. “We had to be sure.” McDowell poured some brandy into the crystal glasses and handed them out.

“Cooper loves his job Miss Anders, but he plays the role of arsehole a little too well for my liking.” He raised his glass and offered a toast. “To Assistant Chief Constable Anders.” As they drank their brandy, Anders eyed them all over the rim of her glass.

Mad, she thought. They’re all mad.