Tick Tick Tick (4 page)

Why then, do I feel like I’ve just entirely abandoned her and left her completely bereft, with absolutely no answers that she had wanted to hear? Sometimes this job stinks.

CHAPTER 3

Jumping into my old Alfa, I rev up the engine to get the heater working quicker. I turn right and head out onto the streets. It’s still cold and wet, the tyres swishing through rivers of water still cascading down the pavements. It seems like Manchester never sleeps; nightclub signs light up the skies, blinking in their iridescent colours as partygoers stumble out and spill down the streets.

Flicking the radio on, all I hear are gruesome details of Kathy Garland’s murder, the presenter relishing every single point. If I ever find out that a copper leaked the details, I’ll hang him from the nearest tree – personally. Tapping it off again in disgust, I shove in Frank Sinatra instead, his rich voice serenading me home, quietening the rage that has slowly but surely built up during the day. I make a final left turn and swing into my parking spot. I see Connie’s car immediately, it’s easy to spot, being a hired one. Reluctantly switching off Frank, I grab my jacket; sling it over my head to avoid the rain and race into the building.

I stand watching her from the hallway; she’s sitting at the breakfast bar, a glass of white wine resting elegantly in her hand. Her long golden hair drapes down her back in gentle, smooth waves. I love the feel of it, soft in my hands, like freshly spun silk. She is a striking woman; tall, fine-boned, wide hazel eyes that search the very soul of you, graceful, yet shapely and lots of long leg, just how I like it.

We met a few years back when she was over from Virginia giving a seminar on criminal profiling. I don’t remember much of the class, but I could tell you exactly what she was wearing – a soft, dark emerald green suit with a cream silk blouse and black stilettos. Soon after that, we got together… it took a lot of persuasion on my part, but I get the feeling she’s rather fond of me now. Arrogant, I know.

She flies over as often as her schedule allows, which isn’t nearly enough for me. The flat’s too damn bare without her. I’m too damn bare without her. I wonder if I’ve ever told her that? Probably not.

You’d never in a million years guess that this refined beauty has armour of steel, courage that both astounds and bewilders me, and a motivation that exceeds even my own. She deals with some of the most hardened killers in the world, and what’s worse is that she actually enjoys it. I told you she was some kind of a woman … and she’s all mine. The rain still stings at the window as I walk in, her head turning at the sound of my feet. That smile of hers brightens up what has been one hell of a day. I walk over and kiss the top of her head. I just can’t resist putting my hand in her hair, rubbing her neck, her skin like molten lava.

‘Bad day?’ she asks.

‘Something like that. I’m going to take a quick shower, be right back.’

I strip off and turn the shower up full blast, feel the hot water lashing my back, softening the aching muscles bound in tension. I wonder where Mrs Garland is now? Is she sitting at home alone, screaming for her lost child? I put my head right under the shower and lift my face into it, feeling the water like pins and needles pouring on my face. Grabbing the nearest towel I saunter back through, my hair still wet, my body dripping – I don’t care.

‘You still look like you had a crap day,’ she smiles.

‘Why, thanks babe.’

‘Anytime. How about a glass of wine?’

‘A straight shot of Glenfiddich will do fine for starters.’ Her eyes watch me. Why do I always get the feeling she knows my every thought?

She gets up, her long legs sauntering into the kitchen, and checks what’s cooking on the stove – it smells good anyway – then she slowly pours me a large glass. I take a long swig and breathe a deep, drawn-out sigh.

‘You want to talk about it?’

‘Nope,’ I snap, and instantly regret it.

She refills her own glass, the wine bottle bangs down hard, and she moves over to the desk where her books are piled high. Case files and photographs are stacked beside them. Pads of paper are covered with neat, precise writing. I can tell she’s been working all day again. I glance over her shoulder and see pictures of criminals, mutilated bodies and autopsy reports. I’ve had enough of that shit for one day.

‘I thought you were supposed to be on holiday?’

A laugh ripples through her. ‘I am.’

‘So how come you’re still working?’

‘Ah, well research doesn’t count. Besides, you’re not in the mood for talking.’ Her eyes are suggestive. I lean over and flip the folders shut. My hand works its way down the inside of her blouse, caressing her breasts – they’re firm, full and pert to the touch. She closes her eyes and I can hear her breath becoming shorter.

‘Just 'cos I said I didn’t want talk, doesn’t mean I don’t have something else in mind.’

Those innocent eyes look up at me. ‘Well, you’ve only got half an hour until dinner.’

I spin the chair round and lead her over to the couch, pushing her gently back. My tongue flicks in and out of her mouth, my hands roaming freely beneath her clothes as her fingers dig into my back. I wander further down, as she moans with pleasure.

‘Dinner can wait,’ I say.

Cold, all I feel is the freezing cold air. The autopsy room is clinical, stark, everything seems white or stainless steel. A row of slabs lie empty, waiting for the next bodies to come in. Only Kathy Garland lies on a table. I’m relieved, I detest when the slabs are full, pathologists working away, the sounds of slicing and drilling filling your ears. Worst of all, I hate to see a kid on the table – a tiny body just lying there is the most gut wrenching sight of all.

We put on the protective coverings and saunter over. Mack keeps looking at the instruments, knives, saws and jars of chemicals, some with things inside them that I don’t even want to think about. He seems interested as usual. He has some sort of weird, warped fascination with morgues, and I actually think he likes them.

The body lies on the table. She looks such a damn mess and anger swells within me again. Doc Baines gestures us to come further forward – I knew the old hack would’ve passed the case on. Secretly I’m glad, Baines is one of your better ones.

‘Well as you can see here guys, the knife wound punctured her lungs and several other organs, but it didn’t kill her.’

Mack peers closer. ‘She was strangled then?’ he asks.

‘Yes, she has a range of ligature marks around her neck.’

I try to look closely at the markings. ‘Do you know what was used?’

‘It’s a bit strange this one.’ Baines inclined his head.

The tiny hairs on the back of my neck stand up, and my eyes open wider – I don’t like the word strange, especially from a pathologist.

‘She’s been strangled with one of her fishnet stockings, but before that she was choked to death.’

‘Goddamn it, I knew it.’ I shake my head.

‘What do you mean choked to death? I thought you just said he used the stockings?’ Mack sounds confused.

‘The hyoid bone is snapped, see the small bruises?’

We peer even closer and I can see small vivid marks, blues, mottled with greens and yellows.

Mack nods. ‘Yeah.’

‘Well what your killer did, was he stood in front of her.’ The Doc puts his hands around Mack's throat, to demonstrate. Mack’s looking real edgy about this.
Not so cocky now
, I think.

‘And then he pushed his thumbs inward and upward on the hyoid bone, snapping it, and choked her to death – it would have taken about fifty seconds.’

The Doc still has his hands around Mack's throat and he’s still squeezing, Mack’s face is turning red. He swats the Doc’s hands away, rubbing his neck.
Fifty seconds
, I think,
to snuff out someone's life. Fifty measly seconds
.

‘We may have a perv on our hands, perhaps martial arts trained?’ I say, talking more to myself.

I can tell Mack disagrees. ‘Not necessarily. Plenty of bloody tossers know the trick.’

‘Yes, but your man knew exactly what he was doing,’ replies the Doc firmly.

‘Meaning what exactly?’ I ask.

‘That he’s an expert in snapping bones cleanly and efficiently. He also has fetishes. After he killed her, he raped her repeatedly, although no trace of semen was found. He then strangled her with her own stockings for his pleasure, and then placed them back on the body.’

‘What about all the small bruises elsewhere?'

Mack accidentally knocks an instrument off the tray, it hurtles to the floor. I nearly jump out of my skin.

‘Jesus, Mack!’

Mack slowly smiles. ‘Sorry pal – you were saying about the bruises?’

‘Ah, that’s how I know you’ve got real trouble.’ Baines delivers a slow grimace.

‘Just what I need,’ I reply acidly.

‘After the stockings, he put on high-heeled stilettos and walked over part of her body. Then he got the knife and started shredding her clothes. Lastly, he slit her belly wide open, and cut out her navel. We never found it.’

Mack groaned. ‘Christ – we have one sick puppy on our hands.’

I stare at the girl one last time, praying that those fifty seconds went quickly, yet somehow knowing that to her it would have been an eternity, waiting for her death to come to ease the agony, until she fell into complete oblivion. Waiting, struggling for just one more breath gasping for any breath simply to stay alive. I count fifty seconds in my head; it goes so very slowly as I picture the killer taking her life – tick, tick, tick. I’m going to get this bastard if it kills me.

‘The Superintendent is just gonna love this one. Mack, make sure they bring in all her shoes, see if the Doc here can find any matches,’ I say.

‘You got it.’ He ambles off as other bodies start rolling in, identifying tags flapping from their toes. I see one’s a small body and quickly avert my eyes. I don’t want to know.

‘You get anything on the time of death yet?’ I ask.

‘With the heating up that high, decomposition is more complicated. I can’t place her at anything more specific than two to four days.’

‘Anything in the lab results?’

‘Nothing of any note.’

‘No DNA, blood, hairs, traces, fibres?

‘Nope, nothing that doesn’t match the victim or her house.’

‘You really know how to make a man’s morning, don’t you Doc?’ I say.

He actually smiles. ‘I do my level best.’

We take the lift back up, trying to get the pungent smells of the morgue out of our noses. I don’t know whether pathologists just have no sense of taste or smell, perhaps they just get used to it, but their complete lack of wincing always amazed me. The stench seems to linger on my clothes for the rest of the day, and those fifty seconds keep ticking in my head. I simply cannot believe that there isn’t one single shred of evidence to go on. There has to be a clue somewhere – all we have to do is find it.

It arrives in the shape of a letter later that day, just as I’m getting ready to go home from the station. The envelope is a regular shape and size, no different to any other letter that I normally receive – except that this one is addressed to Kathy Garland, care of my squad. Snapping on a pair of latex gloves, I lifted the letter opener – a gift from Connie that, to be truthful, I very rarely use, but let’s keep that a secret between us. The blade slices neatly through the envelope. Cautiously I open the letter, while the hairs on the back of my neck stand up.

My breath stops as I read the contents. Holy shit, this doesn’t look good at all.

To Whom It May Concern: perhaps Kathy Garland.

I live only to die

With half my life

Although sometimes surrounded

I have no wife

I breathe without breath

Yet I still make a sound

I look up to the stars

But begin in the ground.

What am I?

Your nemesis.

Goddamn it, where has it come from? No postmark… was it hand-delivered, and had the killer just walked right into my station and handed the damn letter over? This was a definite threat, I know that, but I don’t know much else. There’s no point in trying to view the closed-circuit tapes at reception as they’ve been down for the morning. Coincidence? Who knows? But I don’t like coincidences, I don’t believe in them. A coincidence is usually a well thought out plan, or simply a mistake in timing. My hands are shaking as I sit with the knowledge that I now have a killer out there with a purpose, and he’s giving me a hint of what that is. We need to solve the riddle, and we need to solve it fast. Someone else’s life depends on it, I’m sure of it, and I don’t want to be responsible for another innocent victim’s death. The pressure has suddenly been ratcheted up – and I don’t like that feeling at all.

I quickly bag the envelope and letter separately and have it sent straight down to forensics. I ask Jim to fax a copy to Grimes who’s already gone home for the day. No doubt this will be the first discussion on tomorrow’s agenda.