Tick Tick Tick (19 page)

So out of six riddles we have two possible answers – IMAGINATION and THE KING OF SPADES. But what does it mean; is it a nursery rhyme, a poem? Christ I wish I’d paid more attention in Mrs Armstrong’s English class.

The boys leave after they’ve fleeced me for every penny I had, which wasn’t much – but it’s the thought that counts, right? My head is pounding from the mixture of beer and whisky, and I’ve had way too much to drive home. Mack suggests I crash in one of the spare rooms and I don’t put up much of an argument.

The room looks like it’s Garrett’s when he stays over. The walls are painted sky blue and flecked with puffy clouds; aircraft streak across the sky, with vapour trails lighting up the room. The bed is small, but I manage to squeeze in. Cars and teddy bears lie at the bottom of the bed, but I don’t have the heart to kick them off. As soon as my head sinks into the soft feather pillow, I can feel sleep closing around me… but the sanctuary of deep slumber never really comes. I drift out of one dream and into another, pictures of Connie’s face float by; first she is smiling, then we are lying safely ensconced in bed, but the nightmare vision of her being held captive by a faceless killer is never far from the surface. I see the bodies of the victims flash past; their eyes seem to bore into mine, their faces transfixed in death, waiting for me to provide an answer – which I still don’t have.

Morning comes all too quickly, and as I wake it takes me a few moments to get my bearings. My head feels like it has been run over by a ten-ton truck; my mouth is parched, the tongue furry and bone dry. I heave open the window and gulp in some fresh air, trying to clear my head. God, it actually smells sweet; it’s so nice not to wake up to the city smog and the thunder of passing traffic, and I can actually understand why Mack lives out here now. I slip back into my creased clothes and try to quietly step downstairs. I can hear humming from the kitchen, and smell the aroma of fresh baked wholemeal bread. I hear my stomach rumble, and head Betty’s way.

‘Morning,’ she smiles, bustling about. ‘How about some strong coffee and a couple of slabs of fresh toast with marmalade; it might make you feel better?’

I gave her a quick peck on the cheek; I think she actually blushes. ‘Betty, as always, you’re a lifesaver.’ The toast pops and I slather it in butter and homemade raspberry jam instead, and ram it in. God, it’s sheer heaven.

Mack appears as I’m on my second cup of coffee, and my fifth slice.

‘You are leaving some for me?’ His face is a little pale too; nice to know that as a seasoned drinker, he still suffers hangovers.

‘Sit down old man,’ says Betty, plonking a plate of steaming muffins and a rack of fresh toast down with a huge mug of hot coffee; he throws in a few spoonfuls of sugar, as Betty frowns at him.

‘How you feeling?’ I ask.

‘About as good as you look.’

‘That bad, huh?’ I smile.

‘Well if you boys will go crazy on the booze, that’s what you get. You’ve got to suffer for it somehow.’ Betty looks almost pleased at Mack’s discomfort.

‘Mack here tells me that Connie’s gone,’ says Betty, with no hint of disapproval in her tone.

‘I felt it was the right thing to do, he was getting too close to her,’ I reply, still feeling guilty.

‘Nothing wrong with a man looking after his woman and protecting her,’ she says. Betty is from the old school, where men are meant to be hard and strong and women are supposed to do as they’re told; it isn’t the first time that I’ve wished Connie could be just a little more like Betty.

‘Forensics didn’t find anything more than the bullet which had gone clean through Stacey Bun’s skull, and lodged in the passenger’s door,’ Mack says, still munching.

‘Did we get any witnesses?’ I ask in a forlorn hope.

Mack nearly chokes on his coffee. ‘You think that among hundreds of office windows and hundreds of people with their noses pinned directly in front of them that, someone, somewhere, looked up and saw a rifle pointed?’

‘I was only asking.’ Jeez, grumpy or what?

Mack snorts while grabbing the jam out of my hand. ‘And I was only answering.’

I can feel the temper flare within my belly again. ‘Listen, I’m going to go home and get changed before I go in. Thanks for the room and breakfast.’

I push my plate away, say my goodbyes, pick up my jacket and head out to my car. I start the engine, trying to rev it up to crank the heater faster, and as I drive away I hold the King of Spades in my left hand.

What the hell does it mean?

CHAPTER 21

I turn the key in the lock and push open the flat door. No letters, and no faxes – good. I make my way to the shower, throwing off my clothes and leaving them littered on the floor. I ram the jets up as hard and as hot as I can get them, and then climb in. The water rains off my back and bounces off the walls. Damn, it feels good. I plunge my face under and feel the searing water almost scald my face. I hold it there for as long as I can.

After towelling myself dry, I lift the razor to my foamed face; the shelves are empty, bare, and I try to concentrate on shaving without cutting my face. I reach for a clean shirt in the wardrobe, her dresses are gone; no high-heeled shoes, no scent of the woman I love. For the first time in my entire life I know that I’ve found the woman of my dreams, the woman who understands every facet of my being, who doesn’t judge, who instead understands every aspect of my personality. Who loves with a passion, whose morals and determining of justice are exactly the same as mine. I found my soul mate – only to send her away. I can only pray that she will understand why.

I arrive at headquarters feeling at least part of the human race again, and two Aspirin have helped with the headache from hell. I stride into the squad room, and beside the latest riddle I pin the King of Spades. I notice that under the first riddle, a reply has come back from the cryptanalysts – A TREE.

I live only to die

With half my life

Although sometimes surrounded

I have no wife

I breathe without breath

Yet I still make a sound

I look up to the stars

But begin in the ground.

I suppose it could be – a tree dies back in the winter, flourishes the rest, dances in the wind, and breathes without having to take a breath.

So that means we now have three possible answers. IMAGINATION, THE KING OF SPADES and A TREE. It’s beginning to sound more like a nursery rhyme to me; are all the items mentioned in a specific rhyme or poem? But what’s the connection between that and the chosen victims?

Grimes sweeps into the room, glances at the card and nods his head. Hell, is that an actual compliment?

‘Ray Thomson was found this morning – dead,’ he says.

Great
, I think,
another possible suspect for the serial killer, who’s gone and got himself killed… just as I thought things were starting to look up.

‘Downey, Mack, I want you to go check out the crime scene.’ I can feel my headache returning with a vengeance.

The alley is strewn with litter, trash cans overflow; forensics are already finished and ready to move the body by the time we arrive. I ask them to leave it in situ for ten minutes, and they’re none too impressed. The coppers already here think it’s merely a robbery gone wrong.

We walk around the battered body of Ray Thomson. Christ, someone has done a real job on him. Dried blood encircles the entire body as if someone had drawn a highlighter over a sketch, illuminating it. My rough estimate is thirty-five stab wounds, all cut cleanly through his heavy winter coat. There are additional wounds to the face and head, and both hands are severely cut; Ray had apparently tried to shield his face from the killer’s knife thrusts. It appears as if there were four blows to the head from a heavy object, fracturing the skull. The FME is officially listing the cause of death as ‘internal bleeding’. I think that’s a tad out of place, considering most of his blood is now outside his body. But then, I’m no doctor.

As I pace around the crime scene my mind automatically goes into overdrive; I notice that there’s a bullet hole in the wall behind him. I point it out to Mack.

‘The FME says no bullet wounds,’ says Mack

What was it Connie said? First and secondary scenes. This was definitely a secondary scene.

‘Let’s go,’ I say. Mack looks at me like I’ve flipped.

‘What about the tosser?’

‘He was murdered somewhere else, probably got hauled into a car where they stabbed him, they then dumped his body in the alley. I think old Ray here rallied a bit, surprising them, which forced the killers to repeatedly smash his skull, probably with the butt of a low-calibre handgun, which went off accidentally in the process – hence the bullet hole in the wall. Get the coppers to scour for the bullet, and you’ll have your match for a gun.’

‘Impressive,’ says Mack, and he actually looks surprised.

I walk past the coppers who’ve been listening to every word, and say, ‘This was no robbery, this was a professional hit. Look for the missing bullet.’ They simply nod.

‘You do know that this is going to do your reputation wonders,’ says Mack, patting me on the back.

‘Who gives a shit, the fact is that one of our main suspects has just been killed by a hitman, and that leaves me with one less suspect – it’s not looking good.’ I yank open Mack’s passenger door.

‘Plus, who wanted Ray Thomson dead?’

Mack puts his seatbelt on, and turns to me. ‘Let’s face it Downey, with an arsehole like him – who didn’t?’

By the time we arrive back at headquarters it’s utter chaos – the Serious Organised Crime Agency has arrived. I don’t know one copper in the whole goddamn police force who welcomes them in. They stand in their shiny black and grey suits, polished shoes and coordinating ties. I almost expected them to reach for their dark glasses; it’s like an apparition from the movie
Men in Black
. Only this is for real.

Grimes motions for us all to enter the case room; here each victim has a profile board, and it reads like a story. Picture of the victim, place of death, time of death, FME’s report, forensic report, profile report, address and any other significant details. On a separate board are the six riddles with the three suggested answers so far. Grimes takes the floor.

‘Due to the complete lack of forensic evidence in each case, and also with the speed of the killings increasing, the chiefs have decided to enlist the help of the Serious Organised Crime Agency.’

‘Whoopee,’ says Mack.

‘This is Inspector Reeves, he is now the lead investigating officer in this case, and you will assist him and his colleagues in any way possible.’

Murmurings of discontent from around the room.

‘Is that understood?’ yells Grimes.

Silence.

Inspector Reeves moves forward, a tall man around six feet two. His black hair is cut short, the suit neatly pressed, and the collar impeccably white; it looks like his mother still irons it for him. His nose is razor sharp and thin, his jaw angular, and the mouth tight. I guess you can say I take an instant dislike.

‘All case files will be reviewed by my officers to see what you have missed.’
Good start
, I think,
why not piss us off further
?

‘Which one is Detective Inspector Downey?’ he asks.

All heads swivel towards me; I merely nod in his direction.

‘Can you think of any reason as to why you’ve been singled out as the recipient of the killer’s riddles?’

Someone in the room snorts.

‘Maybe he just likes me? Or maybe he thinks that I’m really good at English literature?’ The sarcasm is heavy in my voice; I don’t care, and don’t try to disguise it.

He glares. ‘That attitude is really not going to help.’ His eyes are like ice; cold, steady and hard.

‘I’m trying my very best.’ The smug smile comes easily. He wanders over to me. I think perhaps since he’s acting like a school teacher that maybe I’m going to get my knuckles rapped. He leans over and sticks his face an inch from mine; I can actually taste the rancid breath.

‘Arseholes like you, Downey, come and go every day. You all think you’re some big hotshot, a few solved murder cases under your belt and you think you’re God’s gift to mankind. Well let me tell you – you’re not. So far we have six dead bodies, and not a scrap of evidence. A trashed crime scene, that you were in charge of, and you think you can play smart with me? Forget it pal.’ He stands upright; I can see the sense of power flooding through him, and feel the old fury boil up inside of me.

I don’t think, I merely react. I scrape back the chair and yank his tie hard – pulling him towards me. ‘I don’t give a flying fuck what you think, you can breeze in here along with the rest of your halfwit mates, but don’t for one minute, or for one second, make the mistake of thinking that
you
are going to take over
my
case.’