Tick Tick Tick (6 page)

I’ve been thinking of Kathy Garland; the case occupies my mind day and night. She hadn’t kept any diaries or old letters; everything appeared to turn up a blank. The second neighbourhood canvass was also a complete waste of time; it was as frustrating as hell. We managed to find a couple of old boyfriends, neither of whom had a bad word to say about her – no grudges were held and all had resounding alibis. It’s like banging your head off a brick wall. I’m getting nowhere fast and it’s driving me crazy.

Connie sleeps while I listen to the voice at the other end giving me the details. Another murder, this time on the other side of town. Possible similarities and can I get my arse down their quickly? Great, just what I want to hear before breakfast. I slip out of bed and Connie slides immediately into my empty space without waking. I yank on some clothes, splash my face with water, run a hand through my hair and grab the nearest coat. I notice this one is also getting worn inside from my nasty habit of stuffing the inside pockets full of pencils, pens and paper – Jeez, I’m just your typical boy scout. I should buy my coats in bulk – save myself a fortune. Keys? I’ve left them in the bedroom, so I tiptoe back in taking one last glance at Connie. She sleeps like the dead. I instantly banish that phrase from my head. Bending over, I drop my lips to her brow, her golden hair fanned around her face like a pale watery halo, her skin so soft and creamy. Jesus, I just want to slip back into that bed and do unmentionable things to her, but instead I pick up my keys and leave. Sometimes life just isn’t fair.

Once into the Alfa I make a left-hand turn and take off to the other side of the city. The streets are pretty quiet; some early risers are out jogging, their hats pulled down against the biting wind, feet steadily pounding the pavements. Paper vans and trucks deposit their bundles along the way. I pass by Stan’s van, he’s just opening up for the day. He recognises me and throws me a wave – I can’t even stomach the thought of one of his coffees right now, so I just wave back and keep on going. At least I was spared the normal morning sight of teenage drunks lying sprawled on the pavements, surrounded by their own vomit.  Small mercies, I’ll take them every time.

Pulling over at the block of flats I see Mack standing a few cars back, trying to light a cigarette. He thumps his shoes on the ground, the cold seeping into him while he waits. No media yet – good. Mack nods his greeting while sucking in the nicotine, the smoke curling up above him; he rubs at his eyes as if trying to banish the sleep away.

The usual cordons are set up; a few neighbours have pitched up to see what’s going on, but not the normal masses – not yet. Mack and I saunter slowly towards the building; he pulls out another cigarette and lights it from the glowing embers of the last one, then flicks that away and stomps on it with his great bear of a foot. I look at him as he sucks in a few more lungfuls.

‘You feel better for that?’

He eyes me back. ‘Yep.’

‘Cancer sticks, they’re gonna kill you.’

He takes another long drag and blows the smoke my way.

‘So? Everyone’s gotta go sometime.’

‘You’re not getting any younger, old man,’ I tease, but he doesn’t seem in the mood.

‘Spare me the sodding details, if you want a younger partner just say so.’ He spits the words out.

‘Maybe I will.’
Jesus, testy this morning ain’t you
, I think.

He continues to blow smoke at me – I continue to ignore him. Finally he crunches it out on the ground.

‘Hey, you remember Jake Pearce?’

I shake my head as I try to recall the face.

‘You know the novice we had way back, nice kid – went to the Met for the Specialist Firearms Command ’

‘Oh yeah I remember – Junior.’ His face finally flickers into my head.

Mack smiles that lazy way. ‘Yeah, that’s him. I bumped into his old pal Ricky at the pub last night.’

I give him one of my looks.

‘What? I was only there an hour.’

Yeah right, that normally means two or three. ‘What about him?’

Mack reaches for another cigarette and lights it, ignoring the frown on my face.

‘Seems the kid got blown to pieces last week. Some bastard shot him in the head, splattered his brains everywhere.’

My jaw drops. I can recall Junior’s face when he finally made it in for the firearms unit. It was like he had won the golden ticket to Willie Wonka’s Chocolate Factory – jumping about all hyped up, ready to run with the big guns. Hell, I just can’t take it in.

‘Jesus, Junior? Shit – I really liked that kid. Did they get the bastard?’

Mack shakes his head, his shoulders slumping.

‘Nope not yet, though they think it’s connected to the Tim Fash drug network. You work this fuckin’ job every day with these wankers in this city, then you go to the big smoke for your training and on a day off – you get your brains blown out.’

Mack grinds out his cigarette butt with the venom of a man in pain. I knew was taking it badly; he’d got along with the kid really well.

I glance at him. ‘Goddamn it Mack, I’m really sorry pal.’ He nods and put his head down; I could swear I see tears in his eyes. I didn’t say any more.

CHAPTER 5

Eyeing the flat, we pass more coppers, move past the outer cordon and start upstairs. I can hear a family yelling, screaming at each other. Although I can’t make out the actual words, it didn’t sound good – obviously not a couple in the first flush of love then. We ignore it and carry on. It’s dark, really dark; I can smell the must on the walls, it infuses in my brain. The paint is peeling with dirty green patches of slime and mould, the fungus putrid blue and green. I spot a drunk nearby clutching a bottle in a crumpled brown paper bag – he clenches it in his sleep as though his life depended on it, and God only knows what’s inside it. A rumpled bag of threadbare clothes is under his head forming a lumpy pillow of sorts. A small flea-bitten dog with a lopsided ear, his ribs protruding against his flesh, stands guard over his master’s belongings. The lips curl and snap at me, so I decide to keep on walking.

At the door, we once again don our protective suits, Mack turns his back so that I don’t see him struggle with the zipper. Jesus, don’t tell me he’s starting to get vain in his old age.

‘Careful,’ I say.

Mack stares at me.

‘No FME yet, no coppers have been all the way inside – keep your taser handy and your wits on fire.’

We both unzip and take out our tasers, ready for the unexpected. Slowly I open the flat door and instantly recoil from the unbearable stench. Now I know why the other coppers were halfway down the hall – bastards!

Mack grimaces from the smell of decay. There is no other smell like that of rotting flesh; it seems to invade every pore, seeping right through every single particle of you. No matter how often you deal in death – and as detectives in the murder investigation team that’s pretty often – you can still never get over the reek of death.

Mack clasps a hand to his mouth over the mask, the other holding his taser steady. I flick the light switch – nothing. Shit!  We pull out our torches, Mack having to let go of his mask – I could see his entire face screw up in a grimace. I enter first as he covers me. I kick open a few doors; the utility room, bathroom, a wardrobe – nobody. My body’s coiled tight as a spring, my fingers hover on the taser’s trigger and I realise I’m just desperate to put 50,000 volts of electric charge through someone, anyone – just to take away the sheer damn frustration of the Kathy Garland case.

The hall leads directly into the lounge. The dated curtains are tightly closed. Scanning my torch around, I see that the room has been totally ransacked. The coffee table is upside down, the worn brown leather suite has been slashed and numerous pictures are smashed everywhere. I crackle as I tread on the glass, trying my best to avoid it for the forensic team.

‘Shit. Watch your feet.’

‘Where?’ asks Mack.

‘The goddamn glass is everywhere.’

Mack does his best to manoeuvre around it. We kick open the few remaining doors apart from the back room – nothing.

‘Check – empty,’ he calls.

‘Next.’

The smell emanating from the back room is even more blood-curdling. I hate the smell of death, I hated rotting corpses even more and by the smell of this one, I know that’s exactly what we’re going to find. We tiptoe around trying to absorb every last detail before the crime scene techs arrive. I kick at the bedroom door, hard – it bounces open. Flashing my torch I stare, completely frozen to the spot, my pupils fully dilated.

Raymond Brick, probably late forties, lies sprawled on his bed. He’s massive. His arms have been completely hacked off at the joints, and from the staining I can tell that the severing happened here, as blood has seeped down either side of the sheet. I quickly scan the carpet, nothing visible towards the door, so was he actually killed here? Flies batter at the windows like a hailstorm. His body is completely infested with maggots; they seethe and writhe, wriggling around in one large mass. I try to ignore them, Mack can’t.

‘Jesus, I think I’m gonna puke.’

I glare at him. ‘Give me a break, you’re acting like a flipping amateur.’

‘Back off, Downey.’

I watch his face turn a shade of pale green and try to ignore him. I continue to examine the body from a distance, making sure I don’t compromise any evidence. The body’s completely putrefied; his eyes stare upwards as though he watched something in the last final moments of death; hell, for his sake I hope it was quick. His mouth is set in a grimace that will now last forever, the marks of death are all around his neck, and peering closer I can see small vivid bruises there. A shiver runs up my spine as I get a really bad sense of foreboding.

Finally the FME arrives – a petite young woman. You don’t get that many women in this line of work, but even through her protective clothing I can tell this one’s a real beauty – and polite. Doesn’t that just make your day? She quickly takes over setting up the crime scene, and if she’s at all bothered about the state of the body she hides it well. You’ve got to give her extra marks for that. Going straight up to him, she begins the routine tests. I stand back and watch, kicking the bedroom door shut behind me. She nods her gratitude.

Mack almost gags. ‘What did you do that for?’

‘Entomologist.’

Mack shrugs his shoulders in reply while swatting uselessly at the flies. The FME finally wanders back over, deep in thought.

‘This one’s been dead about three weeks I’d guess… rough guess, mind.’

I smile. ‘No shit Sherlock. Is his MO the same as the Garland case?’ I’m trying to act cool, even smart, but I get the feeling she’s not impressed or simply not bothered. Damn shame.

‘It looks that way, the same sized bruises beside the hyoid bone, just like before, but you and I know it’s a well known trick.’

It’s a common fact that all good FMEs keep up to date with other priority cases. The tech team arrive carrying a bundle of cases in assorted sizes. They run their torches over the entire mutilated body. Suddenly he’s lit up like a life-size poster for a bad horror film, only this is for real. He lies in all his putrefied glory, the lights magnifying the gruesome image; a cold sweat dampens my shirt even through the protective suit, and I can feel the bile in the back of my throat.

‘Anything else?’ I ask.

She shakes her head. ‘Nothing I can tell you at this stage, the body’s too decayed. I’ll run the usual tests, do the cut and get the results faxed to you as soon as possible.’

‘Thanks Doc,’ I reply and give her an appreciative nod. She glides out of the room – I watch her go, with lust written in my eyes.

Think damn it, think. Okay he’s got no arms, they’ve been taken, so I can’t tell if he tried to fight off his attacker. No knife wounds anywhere else that I can see. No obvious bullet holes, though the post mortem may turn up something else. I can’t tell if he was bound or not from the state of the maggot-infested stumps. No visible bruising elsewhere, so that means he was probably already dead when the killer hacked off his arms.

Blood splatters are indicative of the body being moved, no smeared blood anywhere, and no spurts – so his heart had already stopped pumping when he was sliced. How the hell did the killer manage it? Jesus, he must’ve weighed eighteen stone. Nobody just lies down and waits to be killed. No one that I ever met anyway. He was still in his day clothes, so the killer didn’t wake him up suddenly. I shine the torch on the carpet, I can just about make out a slight rumpling. Okay, now we’re getting somewhere, how did I miss that earlier? I’m slipping. He was obviously murdered somewhere else in the flat and dragged to the bed. It would’ve taken a mighty strong man to heave his dead weight through here. I need to get the forensics going quickly on this one; I have a bad feeling about this… really bad.

CHAPTER 6

While I’m waiting, I take a quick scout around the room. I fling open the wardrobe door half expecting his missing arms to topple towards me. I can feel my breath becoming shorter as the adrenaline rushes; I don’t like the look of what I’m seeing one iota. His clothes in the wardrobe are shredded and, as I peer closer, it looks like the same size cuts as the clothes on the Garland case. Could be a coincidence… no, that’s bullshit.  There are no such things as coincidences in my line of work. I notice that his shoes lie in the bottom of the closet. perfectly aligned and polished, and this strikes me as odd. A killer with a shoe fetish? Or two killers who are neat freaks?