My Bloody Valentine (Alastair Gunn) (15 page)

He drew back and struck again, feeling nothing as his knuckles smashed into the damaged surface. But he kept going, watching the patch of red building on the wall from his torn skin; straining to feel the jagged splinters from the tiles forcing their way into his flesh.

He stopped, breathing heavily, trying to experience the sensations that should have been attacking his senses. Pain was good; the only thing that had a chance of clearing his messed-up head. He closed his eyes.

‘
Give it up, idiot!
’ the voice shouted. ‘
You can’t get rid of me.
’

But it was quieter this time.

Bull straightened, drew back his injured hand again.

‘
Don’t you fucking dare …
’

He put everything into the final blow, pounding his fist into the dented surface. The tiles gave way, shards falling towards the dirty floor. And at last the wound screamed, releasing waves of agony that made him cry out.

Bull withdrew his hand, pulling it in to his chest as it started to shake. He’d injured himself badly, but the tactic had worked.

The voice had gone.

He stood, breathing hard, aware of the world again.

There had been no voice.

Which meant the evil was inside Bull, trying to convince him to kill. Today, he’d silenced it, but there was only one way to destroy it for good. And that was to stick to the plan.

Bull’s eyes were still closed when he heard footsteps outside. He looked up just as the boy appeared at the door. He recognized the kid straight away, from out in the park; he was red-faced from running. The kid who pushed his sister off the slide.

The boy stood in the doorway, staring at him.

And Bull, cradling his damaged hand, stared back.

26

‘Right.’ Hawkins dumped her notepad on the desk. ‘That’s about all Amala and I can tell you about Sam Philips’ former peers. There’s a good chance this murder had nothing to do with anyone from Holloway, but let’s keep open minds about the possibility for now.’

She glanced around at her murder investigation team. DI Frank Todd lounged on a wheeled office chair next to the standing DS Aaron Sharpe. Mike perched on the edge of a nearby desk, in front of which Amala Yasir occupied a third chair.

The team had been through several incarnations even during its most recent case, although such rapid change was hardly unusual. There was no such thing as a permanent crew; detectives were simply seconded to and off particular murder investigations as required. Similar mixtures of personnel were often repeated, of course, as management accepted that familiarity among colleagues sped up work rates, while different gaps between cases ending meant the same officers tended to be available at the same times.

But despite having been back at work for just over a day, Hawkins suspected the report she was about to receive from these officers wasn’t going to lift her
metaphorical skirt. She had called everyone back for an end-of-shift catch-up in the operations room at Becke House, in the hope that more headway than she’d achieved at Holloway had been made by others elsewhere.

‘So’ – Hawkins spread her hands, inviting contributions from the floor – ‘who’s going to make my afternoon?’

Nobody spoke.

She rephrased. ‘Does anyone have anything that backs up this media fixation with Valentine’s Day? Exes, rejected lovers, cuckold concubines?’

Still nothing.

‘Good’ – Hawkins crossed her arms – ‘because the sooner that particular sideshow exhausts itself, the better. Obviously, the “Murderer with a Message” angle is a great hook for the papers, especially after what happened at Christmas. They’re milking public concern about indiscriminate psychos at large, but I still say it’s coincidence.’ She looked from face to face. ‘And even if I’m wrong, this Valentine’s nonsense only happens once a year, so the longer we go without finding additional bodies from yesterday or previous years, the more likely it becomes that we’re dealing with an isolated event, or at least that we have until this time next year to track the killer down.’

Nods went round the room, reassuring Hawkins that her views were shared.

‘Okay.’ She turned to her most experienced DI. ‘Let’s do progress instead. Frank, what do you have?’

Immediately, Todd’s face contracted into an expression that said, ‘Oh yeah, pick on the Geordie’, making Hawkins wish she hadn’t started with him. Her choice, to go straight to her most insightful researcher, had actually been a backhanded compliment.

‘Well’ – Todd motioned to DS Sharpe – ‘as instructed, my esteemed colleague and I have been chatting to Brendan Marsh’s friends: quite a challenge, as it turns out. It’s been years since Marsh was murdered by our latest victim, so several had moved away, but we caught up with a few of them.’ He looked at Sharpe.

‘Oh. Right.’ The DS stood up a little straighter on being handed the limelight. ‘There’s nothing revolutionary, but we managed to scrape together a few interesting bits.’

Hawkins smiled inwardly at his Todd-ism. The two bachelors were still living together after being involuntarily paired up for safety reasons during the team’s last case, so, increasingly, they’d ended up working together, for convenience, according to Mike. She’d been quietly hoping Todd’s fastidious nature would rub off on the so far underwhelming Sharpe, although she’d happily have left the cynicism. Time would tell if the older man’s influence had moved things in the right direction overall.

Sharpe flattened his tie; an odd habit considering the usual state of his clothes suggested he slept in them. ‘Looks like Marsh had a pretty tight core group of
about four male friends, old mates from school and university, all now in their mid-thirties. Two of them, Mickey Borders and Dennis Sowden, are still local, both supervisors for Makro in Croydon. Number three, James Wallace, moved away last year when his accountancy firm relocated to Norfolk, and the last one, Richard Miller, is overseas with the RAF. We saw both the local lads, and spoke to the accountant on the phone, but we’re still waiting on the MOD for an update on Miller.’

He looked around, the way people do when they’re used to being ignored, before continuing in a more confident tone when no one jumped in. ‘We’ve confirmed that Borders was on shift from Thursday night into Friday morning, and Miller is definitely out of the country, but the last two are each other’s alibi. Both said independently that Sowden spent the week with Wallace in Swaffham, but that’s rather convenient, considering they could have worked together to take out Samantha Philips, so tomorrow we’ll dig into that claim.’

Sharpe finished up by detailing the group’s physical attributes, although, considering that any of the men could be right-handed and the striking force a hammer allowed, any of the four could conceivably have inflicted the decisive blow.

Hawkins curtailed the subsequent discussion when it began to digress, and turned to Maguire. ‘What else do we have?’

Mike stood. ‘I spent some time today with Marsh’s folks. His mom, Juliette, died four years ago of a heart attack, leaving just the father and two other kids. The brother, Aidan, is top suspect there, ’cause the dad, Paul, is too old, and the sister, Carla, is too small; we’re talking five feet if she’s an inch. Thing is, though, none of ’em seem too broke up over Brendan’s murder. I know it was a while back, but clearly this ain’t a close family we got here.’

Hawkins’ spirit sank. ‘What about more distant relatives?’

‘We know about some cousins and stuff like that. Haven’t caught up with them yet, but from what I heard today, most only saw Brendan for weddings and funerals. Eight of them or so, counting cousins and great-aunts, but there ain’t a rap sheet between them worth mentioning, just a couple of County Court judgements from an uncle on the mom’s side, so I don’t think we’re looking at prime suspects there, either.’

‘Okay.’ Hawkins brought the session to a close. ‘Good work, everyone, but don’t jack it in yet. Even if they didn’t do it themselves, any of these people could have contracted a hit.’ She was about to dismiss her team for the day when she caught sight of someone standing behind and to her right. She rotated the chair.

‘Don’t let us interrupt.’ Tristan Vaughn stood just inside the door with a second, unfamiliar man. ‘But I need a moment with everyone when you’re finished.’

‘It’s fine.’ Hawkins smiled, wondering how long he’d been there. ‘We’re just about done.’

The DCS nodded and stepped forward in front of the group. ‘I’d like to introduce DI Steven Tanner.’ He motioned to the other man, who moved in beside him. ‘He’s on the High Potential Development Scheme and he has some important information to share with you all.’ He gestured for his colleague to take over.

Tanner moved further into collective view. He had dark hair, a strong jaw and, unusually for a serving Met detective, a tan. He was young, perhaps late twenties, six feet tall and athletic, with a demeanour right on the line between confidence and conceit.

Tanner made a self-assured opening comment in a deep, abrading tone, about some of the team probably having seen him around. He winked at Amala and made a joke that Hawkins knew was about football but didn’t get. All the men laughed.

But his expression hardened as he produced an A4 envelope and laid it on the table in front of him. He turned to the investigation board and began reciting the events leading up to Samantha Philips’ murder. Describing the team’s own case to them.

Hawkins forced herself not to interrupt, looking over at Vaughn, but the DCS seemed more than at ease.

Tanner reached the photograph of Philips’ body, outlined her injuries and described the weapon that caused them. He was obviously building towards
something, and Hawkins watched his chest swell as he approached his big moment.

‘Unfortunately’ – Tanner glanced at Vaughn.
I’d like to thank my sponsor –
‘Samantha Philips wasn’t the first. I have evidence that this killer has struck before.’

The floor seemed to fall from under Hawkins. She looked around the operations room as the shockwave of Tanner’s revelation spread.

This killer has struck before.

She fought the panic rising out of her gut like air bubbles in water. Two multiple murderers in just over three months? Questions flooded her mind. She watched the rest of her team exchanging stunned glances as the new arrival stood coolly before them.

Mike caught her eye.
Did you know about this?

She hadn’t, of course, but neither was she going to let the DCS or his lapdog hijack proceedings so fast.

‘Sir.’ She addressed Vaughn. ‘If there was fresh evidence in this case, shouldn’t we have been made aware?’

The DCS nodded. ‘That’s why we’re here. Steve made the discovery no more than half an hour ago, after reading your reports on the system. He informed me immediately, and we came straight here. I’m glad we caught you all.’

‘Right,’ Hawkins fumbled, lacking a riposte.

‘Anyway,’ Vaughn continued, ‘I’m sure you’ll be interested in what DI Tanner has to say.’ He gestured
to the man standing, proverbially, on her toes. ‘Go ahead, Steve.’

‘Thanks.’ Tanner picked up the mystery envelope and reached inside. He spread the contents on the nearest desk. ‘Take a look at these. The victim is Rosa Calano, a nineteen-year-old Portuguese immigrant.’

Everyone moved in to view the collection of photographs showing a young woman’s corpse from various angles. The set of her limbs demonstrated that her prostration was due to death, even without head injuries disturbingly similar to those that had killed Samantha Philips.

Hawkins frowned at Tanner. ‘Where did you get these?’

The DI gave her a sideways stare, as if trying to work out whether she was accusing him of something. ‘An associate of mine in Forensics worked on this case a few months ago. He wrote a now esteemed paper on the assessment of manually inflicted cranial injuries relative to assailant height and weight. Have you read it?’

‘It’s on my list,’ she feigned. ‘What’s the link?’

‘I remembered these shots as soon as I saw your report.’ Tanner reached into the envelope again. ‘So I brought up the details we had on the murder weapon.’ He held out several pieces of paper, stapled at the corner. ‘The specifics should be familiar to you.’

Hawkins took the sheets, recognizing the standard forensic injury report.

She read the investigator’s summary of the weapon used to kill Rosa Calano: ‘Heavy, club-ended tool, head approximately two inches in diameter and of dense compound – probably metal, slightly tapered towards the peripheral contact surface, consistent with the attributes of a large domestic hammer. Weapon head weight likely to be in the region of 450g (16oz), to provide a convenient balance between lightness and feasible striking force sufficient to kill.’

She flipped to the second page, which showed a grainy printed image of a ball-peen hammer; the type with a wedge on the reverse of the head instead of a claw. It was clear from the report that the Calano murder weapon hadn’t been found either. But the forensic investigator had noted that, if the assailant had any sense, he’d be more likely to use this type, as a claw’s sharp edges would catch easily on clothing, making the weapon harder to handle and increasing the risk of stray fibres being left at the scene.

She looked at Tanner. ‘When did this happen?’

‘I know what you’re thinking,’ he said, ‘but Miss Calano died in October last year, which debunks the whole Valentine’s Day idea.’

‘Hold up,’ Mike interjected. ‘What date was it?’

Tanner checked his notes. ‘The fifth. Why?’

‘Phew.’ Maguire blew out his cheeks. ‘In the States we celebrate Sweetest Day, basically a fall re-run of Valentine’s. It’s in October, but always the third Saturday of the month.’

Hawkins took over. ‘So that kills the romantic occasion link, but given the choice I’m not sure I’d have traded confirmation of that for a second body.’ She passed the report to Frank. ‘Did we look at this case?’

‘Well’ – Todd squinted at the photos, immediately defensive – ‘we might have, but
dozens
of people get murdered with hammers every bloody year. What makes
this
one so special?’