Tick Tick Tick (11 page)

When time is the bearer of age to the place

I will own the tears and lines from your face

And when the hours from the sun, vary each day

I can light up or dim, have it your way

I can weep and smile at the same time as you

Yet nothing you say, can I dearly hold true.

What am I?

Your nemesis.

Now I’m really pissed off. No, more than that, I’m seething that this killer had got more access to my home. I try last caller and get nothing, now there’s a surprise. I quickly phone the station and get patched through to the crime techs. Putting them in the picture, they say they’ll send a van over in about twenty minutes; at least
that
was getting shorter with each new clue.

I know that the number the fax has come from could have been rerouted through hundreds of numbers. Still, if the computer nerds can just get me a lead, any sort of lead, it would help. I take the phone off the hook just in case anyone tries to call. Who knows, the nerds could get lucky on that too.

I know it isn’t difficult to get an unlisted phone number if you really want to; you could have a friend who works at the phone company, or hire one of our lower end detective agencies, and they’d soon find your number. Anything for quick money; it doesn’t matter to them one iota if I’m a copper or not, nothing matters to them but money, and preferably large amounts of it. Considering a lot of retired coppers now worked at detective agencies, this irritates me further – isn’t brotherhood grand?

Soft footsteps announce Connie’s arrival.  Strangely she looks rather tousled this morning, her hair not it’s normal mass of gleaming tendrils. Her face is pale and there are dark circles under those wide eyes. Perhaps I’d worn her out after all. She takes one look at the plastic bag and knows what has happened.

‘From him?’ she queries, already knowing the answer.

‘As I don’t know any other arseholes out there sending me riddles… go figure.’ I don’t mean to snap her head off; it’s just my sheer frustration. She turns and strides into the kitchen. I can hear the kettle being filled, the coffee percolator starting and fridge doors banging open and shut. Obviously I’ve pissed her off too.

‘I’m sorry babe.’ I wrap my arms around her.

‘I know.’ Her voice is polite; nothing more, nothing less.

‘It’s driving me crazy, that’s all. It’s like he knows everything about me, and I know sod all about him.’

‘He doesn’t know everything about you. Yes, he knows your address and your phone number, and he’s trying to wind you up.’

‘Well, he’s succeeding.’

‘Then don’t let him.’

The doorbell rings just as I’m about to kiss her.
For God’s sake
, I think,
give me a break
.

I let the techs in white suits in. In the space of about thirty seconds they have my phone and fax machine dismantled and have hooked up their own equipment.

‘Can you trace it?’ I ask the bald, heavy set guy who looks like he’s in charge. He looks at me as if I’m dense.

‘Contrary to what the public believe, it’s pretty easy nowadays. Digital switches have sped up the process, and with the electronic systems we can identify any caller’s number within a fraction of a second,’ he says.

I’m starting to like the sound of this. He continues, ‘There is no foolproof way to avoid tracing on a network when making a direct call.’

‘What if he rerouted it?’ I ask, my stomach beginning to tense.

‘Very unlikely as it was a fax.’

‘How do you know it was a direct call?’ One of his colleagues hands him a sheet of paper.

‘Because I’ve just got the number.’

Jesus Christ, a breakthrough at last. ‘Where’s it from?’ I almost scream.

‘It’s from a twenty-four hour phone shop on the north-east side. Cars are on their way now.’

I turn to Connie and smirk; I must look like a goddamn grinning Cheshire cat. ‘Jesus, at last, something tangible.’ She nods in concurrence.

At the same time, I wish that I’d stayed at least half awake last night. I’m normally a light sleeper and I would’ve heard the fax go. If I’d picked it up straight away, we could’ve had a chance of picking the son of a bitch up. Still, it’s worth searching the shop for CCTV and questioning whoever was on duty.

I’m still in a state of euphoria when my mobile phone rings. Expecting it to be Mack or Grimes I snap it open. No such luck – we have another body.

Connie can tell from the look on my face that he’s struck again.

‘His time span is getting shorter.’  I see her eyes narrow, as worry flicks on by.

‘I know.’ I grab my coat and keys and am almost out the door as she yells.

‘Oh by the way, I’ve solved the second riddle – it isn’t a dream. It’s IMAGINATION
.
’

My beeper goes off, so I just nod, blow her a kiss and leave her with the computer nerds. Sorry, hon.

Mack is tied up investigating the phone shop, so this one’s all mine. As I drive to the latest crime scene, thoughts flicker through my mind. Why target me? Is it as Connie stated? Just because I’m the lead copper in the case in the field, or is it something more personal? I don’t have an answer.

As I draw up outside the house, the media frenzy has already begun in earnest. I also see Grimes’s car sitting further along the street. Great! I try to get out of my car unseen, but it doesn’t work; as usual microphones are thrust in my face with anxious reporters at the other end.

‘Have you got any idea who it is?’

‘No comment.’

‘Have we got another serial killer in Manchester?’

‘No comment.’

‘Have MI5 been called in?’

‘I said… no comment.’

Fury burns within me as I realise that the city has taken on the fear of the killer, just as he wants it. Snapping into my protective suit, I stride into the house while flashbulbs and rolling cameras continued to cover my every move.

A hand motions me through to the lounge where Mandy Arthur is lying on the floor, minus her legs. I see Grimes talking to forensics, ignore him and get as close to the body as I can without compromising any evidence.

Bloody hell; she’s lying face down, the body entirely naked. Cuts run the full length from the base of her skull down to the base of her spine. I can actually make out portions of the spinal column. The legs have been hacked off, similar to Frankie Bush; hard swinging had caused downward cuts on the bones protruding around pools of red blood. She isn’t long dead, I know that for sure.

The FME, Clive Chambers, is a relative newcomer to the field, and I’m a little disappointed that it isn’t my lovely lady again. He carries out the usual tests for body temperature, sexual acts, and forensic evidence. Grimes catches me off guard while I’m watching; it proves a deadly mistake.

‘I’ve got a copy of the third riddle, does it make any sense to you?’ asks Grimes.

‘Nothing makes any sense at the moment,’ I reply, feeling like my brain is fried.

‘Mack’s been down to the store, no CCTV,’ he says. I didn’t really expect it; this is one clever son of a bitch who wouldn’t have made that simple a mistake.

‘We’re in the process of interviewing the staff, but no one seems to recall anyone who looked suspicious,’ he snaps.

How can you tell what a serial killer looks like? It’s not as if he walks in with a sign stapled to his head. In fact, most of the serial killers that I’ve read about came across as quite intelligent, normal-looking people.

By the time Grimes has moved off, the body has been placed in a bag and is being wheeled out. I can see from the impressions on the bag that she’s now been turned face up. Damn it! I grab hold of Clive Chambers, and yank him towards me.

‘How long have you been doing this job?’

Faces stare at me from all around the room as if I’ve gone crazy.

‘About two months,’ he replies, looking hesitant.

‘Didn’t they teach you anything at medical school?’ I snap, my fist clenching and unclenching as if it can’t make its mind up whether to smack him in the face or not.

‘I don’t know what you mean,’ he falters.

‘Didn’t you see the spots of blood on her back?’ I reply.

‘Yes, arterial spotting from the cuts,’ he eyes me like I’m some sort of raving lunatic.

‘Maybe,’ I reply. ‘But just what if, for argument’s sake, the spots had come from the killer?’

‘What do you mean?’ His face visibly pales as I can see his brain cogs slowly begin to whirr round.

‘Even I noticed that those blood spots were a different pattern to the ones round the edges of the cuts. Now let’s take it a step further; if the killer had hacked through her legs first, the blood would’ve sprayed up at him, causing him to have blood on his body. Then say he decided to cut through her back for the hell of it, so that when he leaned over the body, hacking into her, the blood fell from him, splashing
onto the back
.’ Realisation dawns onto his face.

‘You mean we might have had some of the killer’s DNA mixed in there?’

‘You catch on real fast.’ I do want to punch him in the face now, I so want to.

He shakes his head in despair. ‘Oh shit.’

‘Well it’s all long gone now.’ Rage infests me, and writhes throughout me.

‘We can turn the body back over,’ he replies lamely, his head lowering.

‘It’s too late; the remaining blood in her back will have seeped out, washing all the spotting away. Any evidence we might have had has now been either completely eradicated or compromised.’

He has the good grace to look completely mortified, but I don’t give a shit.

‘You’re a star, Clive, bound to go far in the job with an intellect such as yours.’

‘Lay off, Downey,’ says another forensic. ‘We all make mistakes.’

I glare at them both for what seems a very long time. ‘Tell that to the next victim.’

I’m still as mad as hell; this could’ve been a prime opportunity to have actually got some of the killer’s DNA. We might not have, but at least we would have tried.

I know that it’s standard procedure in most cases to turn the body the right way up; this ensures that the red cells sink to the back of the body, ensuring an easier job for the embalmer at the funeral home. However in a murder crime scene, this is a catastrophe; a complete and utter waste of crucial evidence.

I finally let go of Clive, as more forensics appear. ‘Did you take pictures of her back?’

They nod.

‘Did you put a ruler on her back?’

I can see the hesitation in their eyes. What is this? Rank amateur’s day?

You always need a ruler to determine the actual size of the bloodstains; basic trigonometric calculations are prepared using the length-to-width ratio of the bloodstains – simple. Even I understand this. However, as the rank amateurs had not even included a ruler, these will now have to be estimated. Christ, everything is a cock-up today. Bring back the gorgeous FME – not only is she superbly efficient, but she’s easy on the eyes, which always helps.

Clive Chambers is packing up his bag, as far away from me as possible. Wise move.

‘Hey, you get anything on the hyoid?’ I yell at him.

He won’t even look up at me. ‘Distinct bruising around the arterial areas, smaller bruises at the snapped hyoid.’

‘Any sign of sexual gratification?’ I snap. I can’t be arsed even trying to be polite to him.

‘He raped her, then slit her. No semen or DNA, he probably used a condom.’

I hear the groan filter around the room. ‘I take it this was before he cut her legs off?’

‘Yes.’

‘Estimated time of death?’ I ask.

‘Around twenty-four hours.’ He’s still talking to his bag.

‘Get the report faxed to me as soon as possible.’ He simply nods, lifts his bag keeping his back to me, and walks away with his shoulders hunched over. I have a feeling he won’t be staying in his present position for very long, and I have a strong sense that he knows it too.

My mobile phone rings, it’s Mack. ‘Meet you at Sparks for coffee?’ He’s obviously hoping for a quick lunch, but I don’t have the time.

‘Too far away,’ I reply. ‘Meet you at Macy’s cafe instead?’

‘Okay,’ he moans.

I pull open the door of Macy’s and am instantly hit by the soothing aromas of warm percolating coffees, lattes frothing, and mochas smelling like sheer heaven. Batches of oven-hot muffins are being taken off the trays; I eye the blueberry ones, my mouth watering. Mack is sitting at a secluded table near the window, obviously keeping an eye out for me. An empty plate with two muffin wrappers already sits there; looks like he was hungry after all.

I order a latte and a blueberry muffin, Mack orders a chocolate chip cookie and an almond muffin; this really isn’t going to help his waistline, but I make no comment.