Tick Tick Tick (17 page)

‘Were you lonely last night?’ she asks, that smile lighting up her face.

‘That too,’ I reply, trying to readjust my jeans.

‘What?’ She looks bemused.

‘I don’t want to fight.’ I give in, I know, but I mean it.

‘Me neither.’ She gently strokes my face.

‘Am I still in trouble?’

‘You’re forgiven – this time.’

She leads me into the bedroom, removing my clothes until I am naked and heavy with anticipation. I reach over and carefully remove her soft woollen top, unzip the skirt until it falls to the floor. With one hand I flip open her bra, my lips kiss the soft pink flesh, which cries out to be touched. Lifting her gently I place her on the bed, working my way down her soft, sensuous skin. I kiss each line, each soft fold, pulling off her panties. I move further down, licking the insides of her thighs, feeling her straining in anticipation. She pulls me up and our mouths unite as one, exploring, devouring each other. Finally I cannot wait a moment longer, and plunge into her. She claws at my back, the two of us moving in perfect rhythm, taking each other to parallel heights where finally ecstasy is found in perfect and utterly sublime synchronicity. I feel her shudder through me, as my own lust is released; dear God I love her.  I love everything about her; the way she feels, the way she looks, the very soul of her that has facets that I have never met in any other woman. And so with the promise of so much more to come, I enfold her in my arms and let her rest awhile, while I watch her gently drift into sleep, a satisfied smile curling her bruised, full lips.

The morning sun streams in through the open window, the breeze gently lapping at the curtains. She stirs in my arms.
Is there ever a place so perfect, so innocent, so full of love
, I wonder?

Kissing me, she steps naked into her dressing gown and makes for the kitchen.

‘I’m so hungry,’ she says, a mischievous twinkle in her eye.
I’m hungry too, but not for food
, I think. God, she has a body made for loving, I really hope that I’m the one who gets to do that forever. Perhaps I should tell her this instead of just keeping the thoughts bottled up.
One day
, I promise myself,
one day soon
.

The shower has wakened me, and the promise of breakfast cooking again in the kitchen has me stumbling through, wearing only a towel… after all, I didn’t get to eat the last lot.

‘That smells good.’ The bacon’s sizzling under the grill, the coffee bubbling in the pot.

‘So do you.’ She runs a hand through my damp hair.

I lean over and kiss the soft part of her neck.

‘So, I think you should just stick with my profile.’
Reality check
, I think,
here we go again.

‘I already told you I can’t.’ I turn my back to her, a fatal mistake.

‘You just don’t get it do you?’ It’s like I’ve ignited a fuse within her.

‘Now what?’

‘Each serial killer has a specific stressor that sets him off. His signature will remain the same no matter what! His variations of torture or mutilation may vary the more he goes on, the more practiced he becomes, but
always
he has a pattern.’

How did we go from a loving couple to two warring people in the space of mere seconds
, I wonder? I’m bone tired and weary, and sick of hearing everyone else’s opinion on a nutcase; temper flares within me again.

‘Jesus Christ, Connie, I’m trying to eat.’

‘
Eat
! Do you have any bloody idea of what I have to go through to get a profile?’

‘Enlighten me, why don’t you?’ I snap, while ramming a piece of bacon into my mouth. I think that’s the last straw for her.

She hurls her glass of orange juice at the wall. It smashes into smithereens; oh good, more flying shrapnel, just what I need. The juice drips slowly down the wall, staining it.

‘You asshole! I have to devour all your reports, look at the crime scene photographs and get all those gruesome images ingrained into my mind. I then have to change into that victim, I have to physically imagine what they are feeling, I have to see that killer coming for me.’ She’s gasping for breath, anger burning into the very heart of her.

‘Then I have to imagine his hands coming around my throat, choking the very life out of me, knowing that I am going to die and that there is nothing that I can do. I have to feel every ounce of their pain, to try to understand what it’s like to be paralysed with fear, with sheer and incomprehensible terror, to scream my lungs out… knowing every minute, every second that it’s not going to help. I have to live through each one of their horrific deaths.’

I try to reach her but she pushes me away – hard.

‘Then, after all that… I have to put myself into the mind of your killer. To try and understand what exactly is making him tick. I have to try to see how he thinks, what he wants, to work out his plans, and then try to feel his gratification when he releases his own bloody, sick, sordid fantasy of dominating another innocent human being for his own perverted purpose.’

Dead silence in the room – the juice still drips. I can see her trembling, her anger, the rage now dissipated; all that is left is unguarded raw feelings. I never realised, never thought about what she had to go through. God, I’m a selfish bastard sometimes.

I can’t get to her fast enough, enveloping her in my arms, trying to make her safe. She sobs so quietly into my arms; I think this is the first time I’ve ever heard her cry, and it wrenches every ounce of my heart, knowing that I’m partly to blame.

‘I had no idea hon… I’m so sorry, God I’m so sorry.’ The words sound futile, useless as I say them.

‘Sometimes it’s just so damn hard, so wearing,’ she says softly, her voice drained, like the very soul of her has risen and floated away.

I hold her face in my hands, gently stroking away the tears. ‘Look, back off this one if it’s getting to you this much. Christ, it’s not even your job here.’

‘It doesn’t matter where I am,’ she says. ‘This is what I do… I can’t walk away now.’

I simply nod my head; she’s obsessed, just the same as me, in fighting for justice and protecting the innocent. Perhaps that’s why we’re so good together.

‘I need to check out some more facts. It’s going to be a long day and night,’ she says.

I’m stroking her, trying to comfort. ‘I’ll do my best to get back early and help you… I promise.’

Just as I’m about to kiss away her pain, my pager bleeps. Nothing like work to ruin a good moment. I don’t have a new mobile phone yet so I simply dial into work on the home line. Ernie Taggs has been released without charge. I don’t say a word, I’m too damn angry to speak.

CHAPTER 19

I park up at the Rosewood Funeral Home and watch the coffin of Kathy Garland being loaded into the hearse with such infinite care. Apart from what looks like close family, there seems to be no one else about. As we drive through light traffic to Springfield Church, I manage to keep a good distance between us; I don’t want the family knowing that I’m following their every move.

The coffin is made of cherry wood, the colours and hues so vivid against the stark white lilies that are piled high around it. One solitary red rose lies on top of the coffin. For some reason it tugs at my heart strings, perhaps because it appears as lonely in death as Kathy Garland had. There had been an air of innocence about the girl, and I’m truly enraged that someone could have such disregard for the sanctity of human life. She did not deserve it –
no one did
.

The ceremony is quiet, reserved; the church crowded but hushed, united together in grief. I sit at the far corner pew in the back, well out of eyeshot; I don’t want to distress the Garland family any more than I already have. I’m here for a purpose. It’s a known fact that killers often come to the funerals of their victims, it gives them a high to see the coffin and the grief in the family’s faces. I scan as many as I can; no one looks obviously out of place, but then I don’t really expect them to. I know plainclothes coppers are positioned both inside and outside the church, and at the burial ground. I’ve seen a few faces that I recognise from about the station, but I simply ignore them and keep my eyes averted.

The coffin is walked past me; I say a silent prayer for Kathy and vow to her that I will find her killer – and I mean every word. Mrs Garland is supported, by her sister I presume, and it looks like she has aged about twenty years in a matter of days. The black coat is drawn tightly around her, the collar up high, and a small black hat with a veil partially covering her eyes, which are wet with tears. She stops momentarily, directing her gaze straight at me and nodding. Obviously I’m no longer that good in the covert avenues. Still, in some ways I’m glad that she’s seen me; I want her to know that I am still looking, still hunting the killer, and that I will never give up until I catch him.

When I jump back into my car I switch on the new mobile phone which I’d bought first thing; one of these new-fangled machines that lets you take and send pictures – seems far too complicated for me, but there you go, I’m not exactly a man of the computer age. The phone instantly buzzes into life with what can only be described as a tune from rap hell. Jesus, I’ll have to figure out how to change that – it could prove embarrassing.

‘Downey here.’

‘We’ve got a shooter in Princess Street,’ says Mack, and I can hear horns blaring as he talks.

‘What the hell’s happening?’

‘We’ve got two cars with rear windows blown out, occupants okay, and one car with a direct hit in the driver’s side. One young female shot in the head. It’s fuckin’ chaos.’

‘I’m on my way,’ I reply.

From one death to another
, I think.

I turn on the ignition, slip it into first and slowly drive away from the funeral. I’d like to floor the Alfa, but decorum prevents me.

I flick on the siren on the roof to get through the traffic as I near Princess Street; it’s jammed solid for about ten streets. The stone buildings are solidly built, and scattered amongst them are some new high-rise luxury buildings, but due to the recession and judging by the amount of estate agent signs, it seems that a fair few are lying empty.

An ambulance is pushing its way through in front of me; I swerve the car and follow in its path, weaving in and out of cars with stunned drivers as the news is slowly beginning to filter through. At long last I pull up beside Mack, who’s talking to a man clearly shaken. He’s mid-twenties, with long floppy hair, his left hand keeps shoving it out of his face; his gestures are frantic. The street is now seething with police. Firearms units are combing the areas that they think the killer was firing from. I sidle up to Mack, who’s passed the young driver over to the ambulance team to give him the once over; he probably just needs something for the shock.

I can see a car up ahead being screened by tarpaulin; that’s obviously the victim.

‘How long ago?’ I ask.

‘About thirty minutes,’ replies Mack.

‘Where was he firing from?’

Mack nods to the general area on my left, and I take in a quick scan of the area.

‘We think he was in one of the office buildings, searches are being carried out now.’

‘Do we know how many victims?’

‘Just the one – fatal,’ says Mack. ‘Two others had their rear windows blown out, lucky if you ask me.’

I lift the tarpaulin sheet and glance inside, being careful not to compromise the crime scene. She was young, about twenty-one at a rough guess. Her head is resting on the steering wheel, the eyes facing towards me; she has a startled look, like a rabbit caught in glaring headlights. Her long curly red hair is now matted with blood, and I could actually see where her brains have splattered. Oh God, what a waste of life. Was this someone in the wrong place at the wrong time, or could it be my killer? All my gut instincts say it could be him, but then I am a man possessed at the moment; he takes over every waking minute of my thoughts. The facts are that this killer looks to have picked his victim at random; it was mere luck – if you could call it that – that she was the only one who’d got hit. This doesn’t follow the pattern of the serial killer who’s scaring the shit out of the city. No doubt this is probably a nutcase taking vengeance on anyone just for the hell of it; it’s a fact that killings happened all the time here, that’s just the way it is now.

‘Have you got a name?’ I ask Mack.

‘Driver’s license says it was Stacey Bun, aged twenty from the north-east of the city.’

I can actually feel the despair wash through me like a tidal wave in mid-flow; it swirls and pulls me under, locking me below the surface, no breath to be had.

‘Downey? Downey, you all right?’ Mack’s arm is holding onto me.

‘You know what?’ He looks at me, concern written in his eyes. ‘I’ve seen too much death lately, enough death for a lifetime.’

‘I know,’ says Mack, ‘but it goes with the job.’

I grab hold of Mack by the collar; I don’t know what I’m doing. Pure unadulterated anger rages, boils within me and overflows. ‘She was only twenty years old! She’d only just started her life, probably just fell in love for the first time, got her life all mapped out before her, then bam, one bullet and she’s splattered over the damn car.’