Tick Tick Tick

This book is dedicated to Kirsty and Ben

Be sober, be vigilant: because your adversary

the devil, as a roaring lion, walketh about

seeking whom he may devour.

I
Peter
5 v. 8

PROLOGUE

It was a learning process. If only ordinary people could actually understand. Everything required a learning curve; his was just not the usual style. It had taken years to perfect, years of training, of education, of research and naturally of cunning. He was born for the job that finely honed his talents and he had been an expert student.
Just one more rehearsal,
he thought, before he started his grand master plan.
Just one more practice session
. Already his blood was pumping in anticipation.

Smashing into the back bedroom, he entered swiftly. She had the television turned up too loud and never heard him come in. He reached over, yanking her out of the chair, brute force hauling her withered hair while her wasted hands clawed frantically at the air.

Tossing her easily onto the bed he drew out his knife, the blade shiny hard steel, icy to the touch and cold to the eyes. It poured terror into her mind, her expression dazed, not realising the full implications for a split second. Her eyes stood out on stalks, the pupils dilated. A whispering of tears at the side of her eyes felt bony, scratchy beneath the surface. Death was coming, she sensed it; smelled it, tasted it… and there wasn’t a damn thing that she could do.

He towered above her, the sheer presence both ominous and terrifying. He lifted the knife slowly and with one hand tugged her off the bed, spun her hard around and closed his fingers over her scrawny throat and squeezed. The knife now poised between his pencil thin lips, he squeezed harder, harder still. She moaned, a soft gurgle, then her neck drooped as the body went limp in his arms.

Spilling her onto the bed he snatched the knife from his teeth, held it aloft and brought it down swiftly across her neck. The skin erupted as warm blood spurted, cardinal red everywhere. He merely tossed back his head and laughed.

Oh yes, there was no doubt… he was ready for them now.

CHAPTER 1

Rain ruptures from the Manchester sky as though a monsoon had raged above us and burst its vastness, emptied its soul and exploded onto the city streets below. People dash for cover: pushing, shoving, barging their way through, umbrellas twisted inside out while pale hands fought to hang onto them. Rain falls, smashing onto the bonnet of my car like tiny boulders, deafening to the ears. Torrents lash down on the pavements, grey clouds suspended above our heads like a large blimp that had ground to a complete halt.

An old woman is soaked to the skin. Her ragged hair is plastered to her face like a mass of wet wriggling snakes in the ferocious wind. Bright orange lipstick is smeared across her mouth, harsh against the pale face. Rivulets of water drip down onto her forehead, tumbling onto the sagging skin then dropping further onto the old threadbare chequered coat and finally splashing at her feet. She doesn’t seem to notice; perhaps she just doesn’t care anymore. Life has a way of grinding you down.

With weather like this I could shut my eyes and envision somewhere hot like Barbados. A place where the air was so warm, sticky and humid that with one deft single stroke I could write my name in it, creasing the air with just words. A cool beer in one hand, the water dribbling down onto my raging hot skin, sun beating down on my back, releasing the tension of aching muscles and tired brain cells. To simply lie there with nothing better to do than gaze at a warm inviting ocean coloured with azures: emerald greens and sky blues, with small white boats beckoning me to walk on the hot toasty sand.

Jesus… if only.

Instead I’m sitting hunched in an old unmarked car, a lukewarm cup of coffee in one hand, the usual foul-tasting kind from Stan’s van. The other hand is attempting to clear the condensation from the windows, but smearing the water into larger globules instead. It trickles down the inside of my sleeve, making me feel colder than I already am. I crank up the heater, but feel only a mild blast of warm air – so much for advanced technology and the space age.

Coppers – people either love or hate us. Frankly I don’t give much of a damn; all that interests me is solving crime and doing it quickly. I never did have much patience. I was always completely driven. The motivation of unsolved crimes pushes me onwards relentlessly. I’ve been a copper for over twenty years and think I’m getting pretty good at it now. Heck I know I am, but I never like to appear too arrogant. Somehow I never found that to be too nice a trait.

I glance over at my partner David Mackay – Mack. He has a good ten years on me, most of it protruding from his middle and hanging over his belt. Hell, that man can put away the beer – a couple of cases of Becks is an easy weekend drink for him. Mack is a heavyset guy, thick black wavy hair with a tinge of the old grey at the sides now, and legs like tree trunks… but age, too much booze and cigarettes and an utter lack of exercise have taken their toll, and still he doesn’t give a toss. He’s the type of man who thinks you should live for the here and now and savour every single minute of it, as death will come knocking soon enough. If he had his way, that would be while he’s sitting at home with the family, drinking a bottle of Glenmorangie, smoking, and watching Manchester United thrash Chelsea on his new widescreen plasma – in high definition if you don’t mind. Still, he’s a damn good partner and I consider him a damn good friend.

I can see his fingers drumming on the steering wheel, impatience furrowing his heavy brows, teeth clenched and the jaw set. God, he hates traffic jams. He hates being stuck in any sort of queue, whether it’s in a line at Bargain Booze, or three deep at the local pub, frustration seeping from his every pore. Mack is a different breed from me – as soon as he gets home he just switches off, puts the day job to one side, takes off his day clothes, dons his faded and rather stretched casual trousers, throws on the nearest T-shirt, grabs a beer, flicks on the sport channel, and waits for dinner to be served – family life reigns, no problems. I wish I could do that too. But I can’t. I live and breathe the job, or it lives and breathes me – either way, a case that remains unsolved never goes away. It broods in my mind, like a bruise that aches when you touch it, the colour staying there just long enough to remind you that its story is far from over. The police radio squawks into life, at the exact same moment as a faceless drunk wavers in front of us, slips and bounces heavily onto the bonnet of the car. It’s never a good idea to hit a police car, it’s even worse when Mack is driving – take it from me.

‘We need a DI.’

‘Jesus Christ,’ yells Mack, staring at the drunk who is now lying prostrate on the bonnet of the car, thinking he’s found a new place to sleep.

I casually pick up the receiver. ‘CK4785 responding.’

Mack leans out of the car window, his face growing more purple by the second in utter fury. The rain whips at his face as with one arm he grabs hold of the drunk who’s still clutching a half-filled whisky bottle, his eyes rolling into oblivion, the only kind that street drunks call home.

‘Get off my car you sodding twat.’

I watch Mack bodily haul the drunk onto the road with one of his great paws. The drunk couldn’t care less; oblivion sure has its sweet rewards sometimes. He wouldn’t have wanted to see Mack’s pent up fury released – not a pretty sight at all.

‘CK4785, you have a suspicious circumstances at 138 Green Close,’ crackles the dispatcher.

‘En route now, ETA approx. five minutes.’

‘Copy,’ it crackles back.

Mack flicks on the siren, the wailing piercing through the air. Goddamn it I’ve always hated the screeching, but it sure breaks up a traffic jam in double quick time. Mack floors the accelerator as other drivers turn and glare at us for racing ahead. He just misses the old drunk who’s back up on his feet and weaving in and out of cars again. Mack swears and gestures out of the window at him.

‘What’s the matter Mack? Too early for a drink?’ I smirk.

He gives me that old devil glare. ‘Fuck off.’

We pull up in front of a decrepit flat building. Mack rams the car right up the front, tyres squealing, and parks
Miami Vice
style. I swear he’s been watching those damn reruns on Sky again – I hate Sky with a passion, you get maybe ten decent channels and the rest are crap. Mack nudges the coroner’s van in front of us and pretends he’s done nothing wrong, and frankly I don’t care. Perhaps he needs another road safety course; I’ll volunteer him for one, preferably before he kills me.

The crime scene is already cordoned off, police tape flapping wildly in the wind. The area is surrounded by blue and whites, their lights still flashing, though the sirens have stopped screaming. People brave the weather and cram the pavements straining for a view, any type of view. The
death watchers
I call them. They’re such a special breed of people.

As I open the door the city sounds fill my head, dogs barking wildly and trams roaring in the background. A car alarm pierces the air, but not one single head swivels to look. Jesus, I could’ve stolen the car and no one would’ve batted an eyelid – just another nice friendly neighbourhood then.

I check to see who else is around. Just the usual mix, so it looks like this one is all ours. I flash my warrant card at the nearest copper, who waves us through the outer cordon with a mere cursory glance. Flashbulbs go off in my face and I’m momentarily blinded. I try shielding my eyes and baring my teeth at them.

‘They taking your worst side again?’ asks Mack with a snort.

‘Don’t they always? You think one of these days they’d learn.’ Sarcasm seeps from the edges of my mouth.

I detest the media with a vengeance, always getting in the way; a microphone or camera stuffed in your face, at the other end a reporter only after every gory detail, with absolutely no concern for the sacrifice of human life. Then once they’ve gleaned each particle of information it’ll appear on Sky, with a poker-faced immaculate presenter who will announce the breaking news just in – everything is always breaking news. Jesus, it pisses me off.

I make my way to the elderly building where a baby-faced copper, all blue eyes and pretty blonde curly hair with fine boned features, stands guard. He reminds me of a child lost among the cruel adult world of murder and mayhem. Hey, his choice. He stands up taller and puffs out his chest as I approach. I like that. Actually, I like it a lot. Nothing wrong with a bit of respect for the old hands of this game. I flash my card.

‘Detective Inspector.’

‘Who called it in?’ I ask.

‘The next door neighbour sir.’ He stands a little taller, pulling back his shoulders trying to impress me.

‘Okay kid, move out of the way.’ He steps aside, his face crestfallen, like a child who wants to go play in the sweet shop.

‘Hey, listen son. Your time will come but it ain’t a barrel of laughs, so be prepared.’

A flicker of a smile. ‘Yes sir.’

I can almost see him visualising himself taking charge in a murder enquiry. Poor sod, he doesn’t have a clue. I’ve been too long in this job to know that all murders are gruesome, the scenes played over and over in your mind like a DVD on constant rewind and play. I leave him with his chest stuck forward.

Upstairs, people are peering out of their doors trying not to be seen. One small untidy kid takes a good long hard look at me and then bolts for his door; a tattooed hand reaches out, grabs him by the scruff of the neck and yanks him inside. The door is banged shut so hard that the frame actually rattles – I obviously fail to make a great first impression. The walls are ravaged with age and sheer neglect, the crumbling mortar dust filling my lungs and making it hard to breathe. Sweet wrappers tossed around by the wind form into mounds in the stairwell, empty bottles of vodka and whisky lie scattered around adding an audience to the urine-soaked graffiti walls. Nice. I wonder how much the landlord charges to rent the flats, then decide that, whatever the amount, it’s grossly overpriced.