Fifty Two Weeks of Murder (28 page)

Chapter 9

Anders sat on the floor in her office and looked at the evidence around her. She’d drawn the blinds and dimmed the lights, pushing the desk back against the wall and putting a tablet next to her on the floor. She then put her phone into a dock and selected a playlist that she had made from every crime scene linked to Buckland. Playing the music, she started the process of building her construct.

She started at the beginning. Matthew Peters. Nailed to a cross on Wimbledon Common. She re-read every report, every lead, every piece of evidence. She did the same for Boyle. Chopped to pieces over forty days and nights in a shipping container. The vicar and his wife. Killed in a grotesque parody of a fairy tale.

She hesitated then.

Mal Weathers. Killed using the same method that she’d been disfigured with. Shoving her emotions aside, she read the reports, analysed the evidence and looked at the photographs, not shying from the horrific details they showed.

She read the report from Ben and Helen on the corpse in Bath. They’d had little time to gather evidence, but they had been thorough. Once done, she picked up her tablet and scoured the web, chasing her thoughts and finding links. It was time then to build her mental construct. It had taken her hours to reach this point and her stomach gnawed with hunger, but she ignored it, focused as she was.

Closing her eyes, she went back four weeks to Wimbledon common, the music helping her to realise the world as it was then. She dragged Peter Matthews from the van, beat him and tied him to the cross, hammering the nails in after shoving a ball of Buckthorn into his mouth. She wasn’t alone. Someone else was with her, helping to hammer the nails in, taking delight at the bloody mess, squeezing his mouth shut so that the thorns dug deeper into flesh.

The shape was blurred. Fuzzy and indistinct, there wasn’t enough evidence for her to get a clear image.

Boyle. She sliced and diced, tore finger from socket, cut limb from torso. The different grooves of the blade, tough and decisive, the other timid at first, then strong. The third cutting, weaker yet sure, steady in its work. To keep him alive, she needed help. She couldn’t do it alone. Boyle wanted to die so very much, but Anders wouldn’t let him. She gave Boyle constant care, set up a rotation, kept his wounds clean, showed the others how. Anders stopped then. Buckland wouldn’t know how to keep him alive. But
she
would.
She
showed them how.

The Vicar and his wife. Anders made the steel boots, heated them up, but needed help to hold the wife’s legs still as she put the boots on her. The poor woman screamed and the acrid smell of burnt flesh and hair clung to Anders like a stain. It took a long time to beat the Vicar. To break every bone, but Anders swung the bat hard and fast. Stopping, she remembered every break. Someone else broke that bone. Too tall for that angle. A shape blurred next to her, swinging the bat with glee. Smaller, not as strong. Then another, raining blows with strength and fury.

Then came Mal.

Alone in her office, tears of anguish streaked down her face as she whipped the skin from his back. She tried to block out his screams, but her construct was too strong, too clear. She tore the flesh in strips of meat from his body until she exposed the bone beneath and continued her terrible work.  She sobbed quietly in the now dark office but would not flinch. She paused, rewound, re-whipped, covering every angle until she knew the story of his death more intimately than she had known the story of his life. The memory would be seared on her brain as if she herself had committed the atrocity. She would carry the guilt of his death forever, and, in the dark, with music filling the room, she played a requiem for his soul.

Several hours later, exhausted from her efforts, she climbed stiffly to her feet. The music had been on repeat and she switched it off, erasing the Playlist from the phone. Taking a moment to gather herself, she headed to the door, slightly unsteady on her feet, and made her way into the Hub. The place was eerily quiet, the only sound coming from Jesse’s keyboard as he tapped away, lit only by a single lamp.

“Hey,” he said when he saw her. He looked tired, but his energy levels were high. “You have any luck in your weird dream world thingymaboby?” His question alerted Abi, Duncan and Barry and they came scurrying from Abi’s office, clearly having been waiting for her to finish. Anders gave them all a tired smile.

“I think I know who did it.” she said. “Get McDowell and the team. We’re ending this today.”

Chapter 10

Anders stood by the projector waiting for Helen and Ben to make their way from the forensics lab. McDowell was being Skyped and his picture showed at the bottom of the screen. He looked like he had been dragged from sleep and his suit was a crumpled mess. The rest of the team looked shattered, except for Barry, who looked bright and alert. He’d slept on Abi’s sofa while waiting and passed mugs of hot coffee around.  Anders accepted hers gratefully and munched on a bar of chocolate as she waited for Ben to fold himself into a seat. At the back of the group, the Met Commissioner, Dawkins sat slouched in his chair. He exuded an air of authority and calm, his silver hair and crinkled skin immaculately kept. Word had it that he was next in line for McDowell’s job when he retired.

“Thanks for coming,” she said as Ben gave her a shy nod that he was good to go. “I’ve kept this meeting small as we need to move fast and I don’t want any leaks. Helen, did you get what I needed?” Helen gave her a sad nod. She’d had Lucy’s body sent to her lab and found the needle mark in the belly button. It was exceptionally difficult to spot and would only be found by those looking for it. Anders turned to Jesse and he gave her the thumbs up. He’d finally found the documents for the house in Bath.

“As you all know by now, we found a body in the house in Bath. Jesse has come up with the goods once again and we can see that the house has been part of the Buckland family estate for generations. Only now, it belongs to Francis, not Michael. The body in the safe is Buckland. We can’t confirm that one hundred percent yet, but we can do that easily enough, given a little time.” She clicked on a remote and the projector showed some archive footage of Lord Francis Buckland. He was giving a seminar in Oxford on Law, the students enraptured by his passion and vigour.

“Michael’s brother. The good egg, if you will.” She clicked the remote again and showed footage of Francis on the BBC news last week. He was just as impassioned, but there was a slight shift in tone. His speech in Oxford had been about how the law was there to protect everyone, to allow society peace in which to thrive and grow. Here, he was making an argument for a return of the death penalty.

“…the last execution took place in nineteen sixty four. It was abolished for murder at that time, the only punishment by hanging given to treason until nineteen ninety eight. Since then the rate of murder has only increased…”

“…actually, the murder rate has declined sharply since two thousand and two…”

“…there will always be a blip, a time when murder rates peak and decline, but on the whole, there has been an increase. The justice system is letting people down…”

Anders turned to Abi, who was frowning.

“There’s a change there,” she said. “His attitude to the law has changed completely.”

“I think his attitude is the same as it’s always been,” replied Anders. “Around the same time as Michael is divorcing his wife, Francis’ dies in a car accident. I’ve read the reports and there’s no way her brakes should have failed like that.” Realisation was dawning on the group as Anders piled on the evidence.

“Matthew Peters. Buckland’s first victim. He’d known Francis since they were children. The two people, Matthew and his wife, who could tell the difference between Francis and Michael were dead. The body in the safe isn’t Michael. It’s Francis.” A stunned silence settled over the room as everyone digested the information. Michael had killed his brother, hidden the body and then assumed his place. He’d been hiding in plain sight all along. McDowell swore loudly, the sound coming clearly through the speakers.

“I’ve been keeping him up to date on the search for his brother,” he said angrily. “He’s been the one making sure we had extra funds to pursue him.” Anders shrugged.

“Either he didn’t think he’d be found or he enjoyed the sport.” Anders gave him a look of sympathy as further realisation hit.

“That’s how he knew about Mal,” he said, ageing suddenly, his vibrant energy leaching from him. “He’s dead because of me.”

“There’s more,” said Anders, unwilling to dwell on that fact. “I think Lawrence, his son is helping him out, but also his wife.” Abi gave a snort of derision.

“Not her. She’s devastated by this whole thing.”

“She fooled us both Abi,” replied Anders. “Unless she’s been living with her head in the sand these last few weeks, she’d have seen her ex-husband on the TV. Boyle took at least three people to keep him alive. Lady Margaret trained as a nurse. It was also Lady Margaret Buckland who visited St Thomas’ yesterday to open a children’s ward. She could easily have slipped into Lucy’s room. Occam’s Razor. The theory with the fewest assumptions is the one we go with. This has the fewest assumptions. Helen, what are your findings?”

Duncan groaned in shock as Helen spoke, her voice quiet in the group.

“I checked Lucy’s body just now. There’s a needle mark in her belly button. Very small. Toxicology is running now, but I don’t think it will show anything. Insulin would do the trick and the hormone would denature then break down quickly so as to be untraceable. I may find slightly elevated levels, but nothing conclusive.”

McDowell spoke in the silence that followed.

“I’ll have a warrant drawn up for you now. You can take Buckland in his brother’s home at Kensington. There’s not enough for the other two beyond circumstantial evidence.”

“We can still take them in for questioning and hold them for thirty six hours,” said Duncan. “Might give us time to find something.” Dawkins stood up and brushed lint from his trousers. His voice was grim but filled with satisfaction.

“I’ll have two armed units escort you. When can you leave?”

Chapter 11

Buckland’s property was located at the Academy Gardens in Kensington. He occupied the bottom two flats of an exclusive residence and Barry had the gate keeper open the gates as Anders drove through and parked the patrol car. Behind her, two large vans screeched to a halt and out poured two units of armed officers. They wore vests with Police emblazoned across their chests and carried Heckler & Koch machine guns with clear magazines that showed clips filled with bullets. They moved with a grim silence and were followed by two men carrying a large tube with handles that would be used to break down the front door. 

Anders opened the boot to the car and tossed Barry his Heckler & Koch. He plucked it from the air with practised ease and checked the chamber before holstering a pistol. There was a nervous tension in the group as Duncan stepped from the car and struggled into a vest. Everyone knew what had happened to Lucy and were wary of further traps. Anders appraised the property, which Jesse had gleefully told her was worth over five million pounds, and figured Buckland wouldn’t care about such niceties. After all, that was the prize for one winning entry.

In silence, they moved to the front door, a large, oak panelled entrance that would take some blows to knock in. Anders signalled the two squads behind her and bade the entry team to step forward. One of them put small explosives on the hinges and stepped back whilst the other two moved forward. The manoeuvre was well practised and they moved with intimidating efficiency. A quick glance to Anders and they were given the go sign.

The doors buckled as the compact explosives warped the hinges and the blow from the metal tube took the door clean off, the metal shearing as if made from melted butter. Anders burst through the smoke as the entry team stepped aside.

“Police! Put your hands up and stay where you are. We are armed,” Anders yelled as she found herself in a large open plan room. It was huge and housed a banqueting table and an open fire that burned heartily despite the summer heat outside. The space was bright and well lit, natural light streaming in from large windows. It was also empty and Barry followed Anders through the room and into a long corridor, both checking for any signs of traps, yet moving quickly, guns raised to their shoulders.

Racing along the corridor, they scanned each room as they passed, Anders signalling those behind her to secure the room properly. The flat was elegantly decorated, wealth obvious but not overstated. They had little time to admire the surroundings as they pushed on. At the end of the corridor was a large study area and it was here that they found Buckland.

He was leaning against a large desk that dominated the room and had his hands in the air. He was dressed in a bespoke suit, elegantly tailored to show his broad shoulders and trim waist. His dark and grey speckled hair was neatly combed and he glowed with good health. He was grinning as Anders entered and covered the space quickly to him. The world slowed for a moment as she saw Buckland, images of Mal’s ravaged body flashing through her mind. Her finger tightened on the trigger. The only thing protecting Buckland was her training and her desire to see him punished through the judicial system he so brazenly mocked. He saw the anger in Anders, felt the flutter of wings in the darkness and knew how close he was to death. He brushed the fear aside, his discipline stemming from class and breeding.

“Welcome!” he said. “How may I help you today Miss Anders?”

He protested as Anders spun him round and pushed him forward onto the table, pulling his hands behind him. Barry checked the room as she read him his rights, keeping her voice neutral as anger coursed through her. Barry glanced at the laptop on the desk and looked nervously at Anders. She quickly picked up on his vibe.

“Something wrong?” asked Buckland, staring hard at Anders. He was no longer the composed, charming, handsome and athletic man Anders had met in Parliament. He’d warped and twisted, his mask removed, showing the true madness that lay beneath.

Barry turned the laptop round so that Anders could see the screen just as Jesse spoke through her headpiece.

“We have a problem,” he said, his voice tight with worry. “It looks like every device that’s been used to look at the website over the last four weeks has a virus that’s just been activated, some kind of Trojan horse. Smart phones, tablets, even smart TV’s. Doesn’t matter if it’s Windows, Android or Apple. They’re all showing the same thing. I can’t override it. Three of my screens are buggered.”

Anders stared at the laptop as Barry took out his phone and checked. It no longer responded to his commands and he couldn’t switch it off. It showed the same scene as the laptop. In one corner of the screen, an image from a small drone was showing Buckland’s house, the police car and two vans parked outside. The feed was live. Above it, Buckland had written three sentences and they sent a chill down her spine

Burn it.

All of it.

Set the world on fire.