What Lies in the Dark (9 page)

Bullface has unconsciously been crunching her teeth at night from the frustration, much to her husband’s annoyance. At home, she has broken a coffee table with one frustrated kick. But here in the police station, she is trying to keep her exterior calm. Fletcher will never know just how close he had come to a swift kick in the … area.

He has been restrained as well, too quiet and thoughtful, something is definitely going on in his head.

Bullface deepens her scowl, what is her partner keeping from her? She turns to hack away at the fort of papers on her desk. She isn’t leaving today until her desk is clear, she had promised herself this earlier.

November 11th 00.18 am

The bag is slowly unzipped, strong hands gently pull her out of the bag and place her on the cold metal table. The room is completely silent, with only the faint noise of traffic intruding through the blacked out windows. Methodically she is stripped and then the coroner leans over her with slight astonishment.

The night had been cold, whispers of snow tracing the air. She had previously stared up at the two baffled police officers and they had stared down. Shivering, they stood over her corpse, not knowing what to make of it. The number on
the left hand is understood all too well but not this … other stuff. The dance began around her, the hours of patient photographing, documenting and orders were given. Then she was brought here, for answers.

“Victim’s right leg, calf area. What appears to be a butterfly has been drawn on the victim’s leg. This has been drawn on in felt tip pen, using the colours red, blue, black and yellow.”

An assistant scribbles frantically, another assistant documents each drawing with several photographs. An alien in bright green waves to the assistants from the right thigh. A yellow and pink striped rose takes up most of the left leg. The victim’s right arm hold a rainbow, two more butterflies and an apple, while her left arm inexplicably depict a pink and purple dinosaur. A wasp buzzes around the victim’s neck, drawn in a bright yellow and black, stained with a darkening red.

Cause of death is a knife wound to the throat, death is instantaneous.

“It is the same M.O as Fran Lizzie’s.” Bullface states, staring down at the blood-stained street. “Throat was slit, no defensive, no sexual assault. She didn’t see it coming.”

“Any ID?”

“Nope, victim’s purse was taken. She was found next to an abandoned shopping bag, I sent an officer to see if the clerk can tell us anything,” She pauses. “The bag contained a bottle of Fairy liquid, Stardust, two bags of lollipops and a bag of toffee popcorn.”

“Munchies?” Fletcher’s lips move as he is thinking.

“Possibly.” Little humour ever passes Bullface’s lips. “She was covered in drawings.”

Fletcher pauses, not quite knowing what to say, “Drawings?” He manages weakly.

“Felt-tipped all over her body.”

“Do you think the assailant …” a pause while Fletcher tries to figure out a sensitive way to phrase this.

“It’s a possibility but not a likely one,” She mutters.
“Trauma to the left hand again.”

Fletcher’s heart sinks, shit shit shit his mind is already chanting.

“Did anyone else see?”

“We are not sure.”

“Who found her?”

“Anonymous tipster. Have got Smith and Seasions checking out the call location, Juda and Hendy seizing all available CCTV.”

There is just one last question to ask, the question that breaks their familiar routine. “What number was she?” He asks, not actually wanting to hear the answer.

Bullface murmurs a reply.

Oh shit shit shit.

That number rings in his head over and over. Fletcher just wants to go home, grab Claire and leave the city. Go as far away as possible, the other end of the country maybe, where no one has to face this monster. This is his first instinct. However, Fletcher is still a police officer, still sworn to protect the peace and, while every nerve in his body is on edge, whispering that they should get out of here, go where it is safe, his mind tells him to get a grip. Officers of the law don’t just run away when it gets too hard, whispers a voice that sounds questionably like his father-in-law. Officers don’t leave innocents to suffer, get a fucking grip man. This is the second time he has wanted to go home rather than work a case this year, maybe he just isn’t cut out to be a police officer anymore. Hell, he has been one for the last ten years of his life, it’s all he wanted to be when he was younger. But maybe, maybe he has made a mistake. Then it isn’t like he can just turn round to Bullface and say, sorry old bird, but I can’t do this anymore. I am just going to go home like a good castrato and drink cocoa until all this nasty malarkey blows over. No he can’t do anything like that. He owes it to Shannon, to all of these women to keep going. Maybe, though, maybe just maybe, he will suggest to Claire that she should be the one who leaves the city. He will be able to
handle this better, he reassures himself, once he knows that Claire is safe. Oh shit though, they are now up to victim number 34.

Bullface is annoyed. She is usually annoyed but now she is verging from annoyed onto inferno angry. The perpetrator has taken every opportunity he can to torment them, to slow them down. He took the victim’s purse, and with it, he took the easiest way to identity the victim. They will have to wait until someone reports her as missing. It slows them down, means that maybe a trail or two will go cold before they can even ID her. If they can ID her! They already have over two hundred sets of unclaimed and unnamed Jane Does in the morgue, all from the last fifty years. Fletcher isn’t exactly helping either. Instead, it is her who is issuing orders, collecting evidence while he stands there, looking helpless. She feels like giving him a sharp slap across the face, she is getting violent again. This is not good. Deep breath, deep breaths, deep fucking breath, hold in the frustrated screams.

“Hello?” The drunken voice slurs down the phone, the officer grimaces in disgust. He hates working the night shifts, always gets the drunk calls, particularly at one in the morning.

“Iss thiss the police?”

“Yes, do you have a crime to report?” The officer mutters rudely, through gritted teeth.

“My housseematee. She hasn’t come back yet. She sup-supposssed to be baack by now,”

The officer can hear someone else yelling in the background, then the drunk voice telling the other to shut the fuck up.

“She went out like two hours ago maybe. She was a wee bit pissed, she was.”

“Sir, this isn’t a police matter.”

“Just wanted ya to keep an eye out for her.”

“OK, what is your friend’s name?” It is easier to take
a description than to argue with the drunk, the officer decides.

“Izzzie.”

“OK, what does she look like?” Maybe he will send a squad car over tomorrow, frighten the prat, give him the standard don’t waste police time lecture.

“She’s pretty.”

“OK.” Definitely send over a car.

“She drew all over herself. Ya would notice.”

“She drew all over herself?” He says in slight astonishment.

One of the other officers looks over sharply.

“Ya, like Wasspssss, ya?”

The house is a mess. It could be used as a dictionary definition for disorganisation. Fletcher and Bullface cautiously walk into the kitchen, trying their hardest not to step on anything too … gooey. The kitchen itself is painted a painfully bright yellow, with matching orange cupboards. The work stations are covered in dirty dishes, empty vodka bottles, scattered playing cards and several suspiciously bright stains. Leading out of the kitchen, Fletcher can see another door, covered in brightly drawn images of dragons, robots, rabbits and what looks like a cheese grater. A bright plaque proudly proclaims that this room belonged to
Sir Izz the Mad,
Isobel’s room.

One of the piles in the kitchen groans, Bullface realises it is actually a person as the pile slowly tries to stand up, fails and then passes out again, falling heavily to the floor.

“Don’t mind him, he’s a lightweight he is.” Their tour guide, Frank isn’t completely sober either, his girlfriend’s death hasn’t quite penetrated through the warm alcoholic buzz.

“So.” He isn’t quite sure what to do with his unexpected guests, the man on the phone said they needed to ask him some questions. He hopes Izzie will be home soon, she is better at answering questions than he is. He had hoped
they had found her and were bringing her back. The only reason he answered the door was because he thought it might be her. Where was Izzie?

“Is there anyone we can call for you?” Fletcher asks softly.

Frank’s eyes light up and he smirks dreamily. “Pizza?”

Fletcher and Bullface exchange sharp glances. There is no easy way of saying this.

November 11th 2.32 a.m.

He slowly slides through the open window, trying so hard not to cause any creaks, then slides down into the living room. Photographs of a smiling family glare at him from the wall. He pulls the window close, not wanting the neighbours to see, then tip-toes across the cool wooden floor. He pulls off his shoes at the living room door as silently as possible. There are young children in this house, which means the huge possibility that there are toys still on the floor. He will have to be very careful. He slides his feet forward, first one foot, then another. He leaves the living room door open, not wanting to cause any unnecessary sound. They should all be in a deep sleep by now, but he isn’t going to take any chances. He moves forward into the hall. It isn’t so dark here. But it is silent and eerie, he likes this time of night, so calm and quiet. He begins to slowly climb the stairs, his heart palpitating wildly from the strain, his mouth feels dry. He feels almost giddy and light headed. Just a few more steps. He slides onto the landing, so far so good. A smile spreads across his face. His hands grip the master bedroom door, slowly creaking it open.

CRAAAACK.

He mutters a soft oomph then collapses onto the carpeted floor. His wife of ten years stands over him, still brandishing a golf club, her eyes wild with fear, arms shaking with adrenaline. He will never regain consciousness.

“I thought he was the killer.” The wife sobs over and over again, crying into court rooms and cameras.

November 11th 2.45 am

Kain wakes up. Coughs briefly, checks the stairs, then goes back to sleep.

November 11th 1.34 pm

The word on the street is that there had been two murders last night. Offices are again buzzing with rumours. The word has been spread by neighbours that police cars had been visiting in the night, with ambulances. Screams of the devastated wife had been heard. Was he attacking families now? It has only been two months since the last murders. He is working fast! Panic rushes through, some people leave work early then just leave the city.

She types frantically at her desk with quivering hands, not noticing just how many words she is misspelling. It could be you next. It could be you next. It could be … was the mantra repeating over and over in her head, He is attacking families now, he is attacking families, could be you, over and over as she tries to concentrate on her work. Her boss says her name softly and she looks over at him sharply, her eyes slightly glazed with tears.

“I am not going to risk my family.” She screams loudly at him, her hands grabbing frantically at her purse before turning and half running, half stumbling out the door. The poor confused boss had only asked her to make a photocopy.

The police call lines are extremely busy, even more staff have to be added as fresh appeals for information are broadcast, they are trying to find the last people to see Isobel Hilarie aka Izzie aka Izz the Mad.

Isobel’s university has heard the news and has announced that the university will be shut for the rest of the day, out of respect for their promising art student. They also increase campus security and threaten to enforce a curfew.
No one says that Izzie had been drunk the night before, that after drawing on herself for several hours she decided that she was hungry and set forth on a brave quest for food. No one says that she loved quests and dragons and fantasy. No one says that she was basically a kid in an adult’s body, which is why she named herself Sir Izz the Mad. She is just a victim, no longer a person.

Madison Albrook finds she has the day off because of a girl she has never heard of. She decides to use the time wisely and effectively. She isn’t going to do her coursework or the small mound of washing that now covers most of her floor. Instead she is going to do something she has been putting off for a while now. Something she has wanted to do since she came to university and got away from her mother’s hawk eyes. She is going to get her clitoris pierced. She thinks it will make an amazing story to frighten her grandchildren with one day. Also it will scare the beeswax out of Mrs Chalmers, the old lady in the flat below, the lady who opens her door every time Madison leaves her flat. Always to ask Madison, “What are you doing to protect yourself from this monster? You must take more care my dear. Would you like me to get Augustus to escort you?”

Madison knows that this is all a pretence. Mrs Chalmers’s thirty year old son Augustus has a crush on her, and he has made the ultimate mistake of admitting so to his mother. Now the old bat just won’t stop trying to push them together, refusing to believe that Madison does not want to go out with a man ten years older, a man who stinks of sweat and cat pee.

Gleefully she tells Mrs Chalmers exactly where she is going and hopes the look of disgust she receives means Mrs Chalmers will stop trying to hook her up with her darling Augustus. It is turning out to be a good day, despite that girl’s death.

She is excited, she is going to do something daring! Something her mother would forbid. She smiles to herself, something that could be easily undone if she doesn’t like it.
Unfortunately the only people who get to see her brand new piercing are the overworked coroner and his assistants. They are only a little shocked, however they have seen worse.

November 11th 3.05 pm

Madison Albrook’s body is found, face down in a sea of blood red memorial poppies. She lies dead centre in the display. This image will scream across the front page of every newspaper the following day. What doesn’t make the papers is the number 36 felt-tipped across her right hand.