Tick Tick Tick (28 page)

I race back into the city, drop my order off at Sparks and say I’ll pick it up in an hour. Next stop, the jewellers. I know, kind of makes your heart thump now, doesn’t it?

I search about ten jewellers before I find that perfect ring; simple, expensive and timeless, just like her. It’s a yellow square diamond, surrounded by smaller white diamonds, with a platinum shank; it’s stunning and it matches the colour of her hair. I pay by credit card – just as well I have a rather large limit – and put the small box in my inside coat pocket. My future happiness rests softly in the lining of my jacket, as the rest of the hurried preparations are put into place.

The weather is holding out fine for me; it might be the end of January but the sun is shining, and with not a breath of wind, it’s actually quite mild.

I pick up the picnic basket at Sparks and kiss Cathy on the cheek; it’s overflowing with goodies.

‘How much?’ I ask, grinning at her.

‘This one’s on me,’ she says, and gives me a slight wink.

‘Look, you know my policy, I always pay my way.’ I start to get my wallet out.

‘And you know mine. I like to reward someone for a job well done. Now go on and take it.’ She shoves the basket in my hands; I bend over and kiss her briefly on the lips. I don’t know who’s more embarrassed, her or me. But stuff it; the food of romance is stirring my soul, and it’s a complete first for me.

I do a naughty thing – climbing back into my Alfa, I flick on the siren and floor it. Now normally you can only do this for emergencies and not for unofficial business; but what the hell, I decided to do it anyway. I certainly don’t want her getting there before me; I still have things to do.

I arrive at the old oak tree, and bless Cathy she’s already got the outdoor heaters set up exactly where I’d asked for them; that’s another favour I owe. They’re starting to mount up.

I lay out the car rug – not the prettiest but it’ll have to do – and spread out the picnic; chicken legs, crusty French bread, assorted pâtés, cheeses, grapes, and a huge variety of assorted sandwiches, bulging at the seams. I pop the cork on the champagne, and wait on the woman of my dreams. Who says men can’t do romance? Bullshit.

She arrives about ten minutes later, and after I’ve checked the box is still in my inside pocket about a hundred times, I watch her stroll towards me. She’s wearing a caramel cashmere coat, with a honey scarf thrown loosely around her shoulders. The long legs are encased in pale green trousers, with simple brown pointed boots. Her hair flows freely, and swishes as she walked; yes, the woman of my dreams.

She seemed surprised at my plan; well, most people would. I’m not exactly the most romantic guy in the world, and whoever heard of a picnic in a park in Manchester, in the middle of winter? Still, hopefully she’ll remember it for years to come. I’m praying she’ll say yes.
Please, let her say yes.

‘What are you up to?’ she purrs.

‘Just taking time out for a special lady.’ I act like this was just an everyday occurrence.

She smiles and sits down, throwing the blanket over both of us.

‘What are you really up to?’ She leans over and kisses me.

‘Chicken leg?’ I offer, trying my best to look innocent, while my heart is thudding; I swear you can see it pulsate out of my chest.

She takes a sandwich instead. ‘Glass of Dom?’ I fill it and hand it to her. The tiny bubbles pop, rising to the surface.

‘Downey, what’s up? She gives me one of her looks.

‘Nothing, I swear.’ I ram a chicken leg in my mouth –
nothing, just that I’m going to ask you to marry me
.

‘Where’s the band then?’ She looks around. Damn it, I hadn’t thought of that. I turn to see her giggling –
oh, very funny
.

I press my hand once again to my jacket pocket;
still there
. Then just as I’m about to do the declaring of love speech that I’ve prepared, my damn mobile phone rings.

‘Shit, I said no calls, only for emergencies.’

‘It must be an emergency then,’ she replies, sipping her champagne.

I groan and slide it open.

‘Downey here.’ I snap. Jesus, I’m mad as hell.

‘You’ve got a suspicious circumstances,’ says the voice.

‘Can’t you get someone else to cover it?’ I’m really pissed off.

‘Nope, Grimes wants you there.’

I sigh; this is not going according to plan. ‘Tell Grimes I’m having a well-deserved day off.’

‘Not now you’re not.’

‘Why not?’ I ask, not bothering to conceal my mounting frustration.

‘Because this murder has all the hallmarks of the serial killings. You’d better get there fast.’

My heart actually skips a beat, I feel it. I note down the address and say I’m on my way. Connie doesn’t look irritated, just concerned.

‘Something come up?’

‘You could say that.’ I rise to my feet and start to clear away the picnic. I don’t want to tell her a damn thing – not yet anyway.

‘Look, you go. I’ll take all of this home, we can finish it later,’ she replies with no note of annoyance whatsoever – how does she do that?

I just nod as I feel the old adrenaline kick through me; I feel it all the way to the pit of my stomach, and then fear pitches all the way down to my toes.

‘Thanks hon.’ I kiss her hard on the mouth and then walk away without turning back to throw her a wave. I’d been so close in asking her to be my wife, only to be interrupted by another death – which someone suspects is linked to my serial killer; it couldn’t be.

Could it?

CHAPTER 32

I drive to the house like a man deranged; perhaps I am. How the hell could someone copycat Tim Fash so quickly? Sure, we all know copycats are out there; they prey on other killers’ ideas, trying to emulate themselves on notoriety alone. It isn’t the first time it has been done, and it won’t be the last… more’s the pity.

As I pull over at number 23, I’m pleased to see there are no media vans for a change; everyone’s still no doubt writing articles and digging up information on Tim Fash. Good, it keeps them out of my way. I miss Mack not waiting for me, the easy companionship that comes with years of trust and mutual respect; it leaves a vacant hole by my side. I don my white protective suit and notice that the FME’s van is already here; let’s hope it’s Susan.

The hallway is dark; there are no windows to let in the natural light and the electrics don’t seem to be working. That’s never a good sign. Still, I can see daylight coming from the back bedroom.

The house is fairly new and modern inside; smart leather sofas, rugs on the floor, a pine table with magazines scattered, and an eclectic mix of paintings decorate the living room walls.

I carefully make my way to the bedroom trying to absorb every tiny detail; once again I’d noticed that the door lock had not been broken. The house is immaculately neat and tidy. I see the crime techs sketching various other rooms in the house, teams of forensics are checking every particle, fibre and clothing for prints or DNA.

I nod at Susan and she beckons me in; damn, she still looks good. On the bed lies Sara Mason; I notice that the window had been popped, which explains how her killer got in and probably back out.

She lies face up, her face covered in multiple stab wounds; I quickly count around twenty. The cheeks have been sliced open, revealing the bones and soft tissues underneath. From the bruising around her arms and ankles, it’s obvious that she had been bound, although the incriminating ligatures have been removed by the killer. I’m struck by the utter sadness in her eyes, as though death had come quickly, urgently; and for an instant I’m thinking again of Mack, and how damn close he’d come to death.

Her chest has been sliced open in the shape of a Y, a typical autopsy signature;
not good
.

As my eyes wander further down I gag; I can feel the vomit rise up my throat, and I struggle to maintain self-control. Jesus Christ, in her right hand she holds her own heart. The son of a bitch butchered her, cut out her heart and placed it in her hand. Is this a sign of some sort? Christ, what does it mean? I stare open-mouthed for several minutes.
Breathe, Downey, breathe.

Susan the FME walks over and I can see the heavy strain in her eyes. I don’t know how she’s coping; Christ it’s horrific.

‘Her name is Sara Mason, aged thirty-two, time of death approximately twelve hours, perhaps slightly less. She’s been raped several times, although there is no evidence of semen. Her hands and legs have been bound by a rope, again no evidence found. She has several fractures to the skull, probably caused by a blunt instrument, such as the handle of a gun, and over her entire body she has one hundred and four stab wounds.’

‘Holy God, he did a real number on her.’ I’m still struggling to breathe.

She pushes me to the far side of the room, out of earshot of most people.

‘Downey, she has had her tongue cut out, we can’t find it.’ I see apprehension on her face and hear it in her voice.

I can feel the cold hand of fear grip my spine and slowly twist and tighten it.

I nod. ‘What else?’

She stares at me. ‘She has the same sized bruise marks on the hyoid bone – it’s cleanly snapped.’

‘Jesus, it can’t be right – maybe he has roughly the same size hands as Tim Fash?’ I can’t take it in, I don’t want to; not even for a second do I want to think what’s running through her mind.

‘Look Downey, I’m no detective nor am I a profiler, but the scene suggests, with the little evidence that we have, that your killer is still on the loose.’

I turn and run out of the house, and throw up, over and over again, until my stomach is aching, empty, the taste of acid filling my mouth and nose. It can’t be true. If what she says is right, then had we killed an innocent man?

I stay outside for about ten minutes, catching my breath and trying to clear my mind. I have to go back in, I know it; I don’t want to, but I force myself.

I start again, this time looking for clues and dismissing everything else but the crime scene from my mind. The lounge, kitchen, and bathroom are clean. The dining room is also spotless. No dishes are in the kitchen and the kettle is empty. This proves to me that our killer struck when she was asleep. She was either naked in bed or he stripped off her clothes and took them with him. The only window and room that had been touched was the back bedroom. This meant that the whole incident took place there. He must have watched her for days, observing her behaviour. As this house has a small upstairs, how did he know she slept in the back downstairs room? The only explanation could be if he had been observing her habits. This was no quick robbery, or simply a rape. Sara Mason was brutally murdered in the sanctuary of her own home. The killer knew the easy access route; there was even a large hedge outside which would have shielded his movements. He would have known that she kept her window open, and that’s what he decided to use.

The heart – I think this is a message, but is it for me?
Look what I’ve done; I’ve literally ripped out her heart.
Is yours ripping now, too?
I can’t ignore what Susan said about the matching bruises on the hyoid bone and it being cleanly snapped, and also the missing tongue. She’s right; I have a really bad feeling that our killer is still out there, and that we had in fact killed an innocent man. Tim Fash may have done drugs and had people killed, like Junior; he isn’t the sort that you lose sleep over killing, but this time I was led to him, step by step, death by death.
And I’m going to find out why.

Tick, tick, tick.

CHAPTER 33

I reported back to headquarters. Grimes has left and is out for an area meeting, so I type up my report and leave it on his desk, with copies for all those concerned. Then I walk to the victim’s room, as I’ve named it, and start a new board. I add the details for Sara Mason and stand back. That now makes eight. Eight faces staring at me; all mutilated and attacked with such venom, hatred and also such infinite skill. I think that’s what frightened me the most.

As I leave, I pick up the notebook containing the latest letter from my nemesis, and stick it in my pocket.

Dinner is already on the go by the time I get home. I can smell roast beef, herbed potatoes and a medley of vegetables singing in the pot. She takes one look at my face and rushes over.

‘What the hell is the matter? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.’ she says.

‘Something like that,’ I reply.

‘Is it Mack?’

I shake my head. ‘Nope.’

She grabs me by the shoulders and shakes me roughly.

‘Downey, you’re scaring me, what is it?’

I stare into those warm eyes, and feel my knees begin to buckle.

‘It’s
him
– he’s killed again.’

She helps me into a chair at the table, darts for the whisky, fills the glass to the brim and shoves it in my hand.