Tick Tick Tick (5 page)

Your nemesis.
No, I don’t like the sound of that one little bit.

CHAPTER 4

Sleep proves hard to come by, the riddle playing over and over in my mind; I can hardly do a crossword at the best of times, let alone trying to figure out a riddle. Connie was out late with her friend Mel, and I was already asleep by the time she came home. I left early before she woke. Perhaps I should’ve waited up for her; she has an analytical mind and perhaps would’ve made more sense of it than me. I’ll discuss it with her tonight.

I put Mack in the picture about the riddle first thing. Never his favourite time for trying to get the grey matter moving, but he tried… with no success. Forensics had come up with nothing; no prints, standard format paper, regular computer typing font. In other words, absolutely nothing to help. Why was I not surprised?

I’d sent a copy of the riddle to the GCHQ cryptanalysts and the Force Intelligence Bureau. Even though the thought of involving the government nearly turned my stomach, it had to be done. They’d promised to get right on it.
Yeah sure
, I thought.

What does it mean? What the hell lives only to die half its life, and breathes without breath? Jesus, it’s driving me nuts. Mack can’t come up with any solution either, so all that we do know is that either the killer is giving us a clue, or a very sick nutcase that’s been watching the case on the news is winding us up. As no factual information on the case was revealed in the riddle – at least none that we could tell – then we’re no better off. Welcome to the world of policing.

Superintendent Grimes is in a meeting so we continue with standard procedures. Before he can bark at us for anything else, Mack and I run through the lists of local villains. Nothing hits me in the face about this one. Sure we have a broad range of suspects, killers that have recently been released from prison, but not one single shred of damning evidence that I can tie them to. I can hardly pull in half of Manchester’s finest dregs of society with absolutely jack shit on the table, apart from a riddle that no one can solve, and that none of us know who’d sent. I’m getting more and more frustrated by the minute. I hate being pressured when I have nothing to go on and I just know this is going to ratchet out of control.

We’d done a search on her bank accounts; nothing looked out of place, no recent large deposits or withdrawals. She had over five thousand pounds in various accounts. Sure, a substantial amount of money, especially in these days of worldwide recession, but not one worth killing her over. Her background checks were much the same. No history of drugs, no gambling, in fact this girl had no vices at all – at least none that we’d found yet.

There still isn’t a single witness in the whole block of flats who’d heard or seen a damn thing. I find that hard to believe. There must have been one person who listened to her screaming, no doubt afraid to come forward for fear of reprisals from gangs, pimps, and the usual scourge of society who are a constant menace to the law forces.
God bless the human rights of freedom and the do-gooders
, I thought.

I snap shut the case file and slowly rub at my eyes. They’re tired and gritty from the constant reading. I swallow the last dregs of my coffee – it’s cold and bitter in my mouth – and holler for Mack. It’s time to revisit the crime scene, see if I can pick up anything that we’d missed before. You just never know, sometimes you get lucky. I’m one of the old school who still believe that all officers, no matter what rank, should still pound the beat. That’s where the grass roots of police information comes from; build up rapports with your neighbourhood chavs, petty thieves and nutters, because they’re the ones who’ll give you the information, without an ounce of guilt about whoever they betray. These days there’s no unwritten protection rule among villains, no honour among thieves – nope, now it’s everyone for themselves. Greed, huh?

Mack’s stomach is doing an imitation of a growl, so I suggest stopping at Sparks bistro on the way. His eyes light up as if I’ve just given him the day off – Christ, he sure does like his food. Mack pulls over at Sparks, the back wheels screeching in protest at the brakes being slammed on hard. I’m convinced one day he’s gonna kill me, and we need to have words about this. We’ve been coming here for over fifteen years; after Frank and Cathy started it up, it quickly became an institution. Maybe it was the mother-sized portions of deep fried fish and chicken, or the huge home-made burgers. Anyhow, the regulars always seem to come back for a warm dose of soothing comfort.

‘Hey boys,’ yells Cathy over the waiting customers, her blonde hair scrunched up on top of her head, a few tendrils escaping down the side of her flushed face.

‘Just take your usual seat boys,’ she smiles, while tossing a wink.

We saunter past the rest of the crowd queuing at the door, a few of them glaring in our direction; I really don’t care and slide into the booth. The Formica tables are wiped clean, cutlery folded into blue napkins are quickly placed along with a steaming pot of strong tea. Yes, my kind of place.

‘What can I get for you today?’ Pencil and pad at the ready.

Mack glances at the menu pretending to peruse – he always does this, then orders the same damn meal as every other time. Perhaps it’s a kind of mating ritual with his food.

‘Large double burger with everything on top, with chips… make that a large chips, no salad and a coke,’ he replies. I could’ve written it all down before he said it. Cathy just smiles and nods towards me.

‘I’ll have a bacon buttie and a coffee.’ I’m not that hungry.

Mack leans back against the leather seats, shuffling to get comfortable. The heating unit drones directly above his head.

‘So you got any ideas?’ He flicks open his napkin.

‘Not much,’ I reply as Cathy brings over the food. Coppers always get fast service in here. To be honest, we get pretty good service in most places.

‘She let the person in – maybe she knew him, maybe not. But once in he didn’t waste any time in killing her. He wasn’t taking any chances.’ I push the buttie into my mouth, not really tasting it.

Mack bites into the burger, ketchup lining his mouth like cheap lipstick.

‘Seems he was a skilled worker.’ He keeps right on munching, fistfuls of chips getting rammed into the big cavity, a stray piece of onion sits on the corner of his upper lip that he casually flicks in with his tongue.

‘The knife wound was clean, a skilled cut. Not a scalpel, perhaps a hunting knife with round edges at the entrance and exit of the slice?’ I gulp down the tea.

He takes another bite and more ketchup dribbles.

‘You think some drugged-up street nut did it?’

I ponder on this for a moment, letting the tea warm me through.

‘No.’

His eyes settle on mine; I look at the red lipstick.

‘Why not?’

‘Too systematic, too structured. He posed the body, searched the place and wiped it clean. No drugged-up nutter would bother, he’d have just carved her up, taken the money and ran. This one was far too neat.’

‘What about the riddle?’

‘Who the hell knows what it means – if anything,’ I reply.

Mack nods in semi-agreement. A massive piece of steaming apple pie appears in front of him; he smiles at the waitress and quickly attacks it. I wondered if Betty lets him eat like this at home; somehow I doubt it.

I signal for the bill and peel off some notes. I leave a good tip and wave my thanks to Cathy on the way out. As usual she protests at being paid, says that the police keep the place safe, but I’ve never really taken advantage of my position, although I know plenty of others who do, and I don’t plan to start anytime soon.

We drive back to the flat in silence, each lost in our own thoughts about the case. The street is back to normal now; the only sign of the brutal murder is the crime scene tape still surrounding the area. As we climb the stairs the usual arguments from neighbours shouting resound through the filthy, empty hallways. I use the keys this time, no need for gloves or protective gear as forensics has finished up.

I stand digesting the scene, trying to absorb every minute detail, but still nothing jumps out at me. I know it wasn’t a burglary gone wrong, but a rape case gone wrong? Maybe, but why take the time to mutilate the body when he could have just scarpered?

The shoes had been given to the FME, leaving an empty space on the floor; so far there have been a few matches to the bruises on her skin, but no DNA. The stippled blood stains are still visible on the carpet; I reckon these stains are from the blood dripping from her hands as she tried desperately to defend herself. That proves that she had either known her killer or trusted him enough to let him in. She had a peephole and a security chain which hadn’t been broken. He must have made his move quickly… hence the wounds on her hands and the matching spotting on the carpet. So had he come with the sole intent to kill?

I’m sure she must have screamed – screamed her lungs out. If someone started attacking you with a knife you’d do anything to get someone’s attention. Why had no one come? Unless she froze; sometimes that does happen, you’re so damn scared that you open your mouth yet nothing comes out, or you’re too busy trying to protect yourself or too scared to react. My instinct? I think she ran into the lounge for the phone. She would’ve been better going for a kitchen knife, but hindsight’s a marvellous thing. I should know. Anyhow, he got her quickly, snapped her neck and it was all over – those fifty seconds still ticked in my head. Jesus, we need a break, any kind of break. I turn to Mack, anger rising inside me.

‘I want the neighbourhood canvassed again, somebody bloody well heard something.’

‘We’re not going to get anything Downey. We already tried the next door flats, seems no one was home at the suspected time.’

‘Bullshit! You’re telling me all these neighbours went missing for four days?’

‘The neighbour on the left was away seeing a friend and the guy on the other side is a full-time drunk and wouldn’t have heard a thing.’

‘Get every bloody flat in this building canvassed again,’ I snap.

Mack just nods, he knows it’s a waste of time. Deep down so do I, but right now I have jack shit. All I need is one tiny solid lead, and it would be a start. I know I’m going to get this guy one way or another, I just don’t know how – yet.

****************************

He walked with a slight hunch that twisted his wiry frame over to one side, his grey hair straggly, thinning on top. The trousers and coat were worn, faded; a testament to the many years he had spent on this earth. Frankie Bush clutched at his small grocery bag as he shuffled his way down to the market. Any semblance of the day’s warmth had gone, replaced by a cool wind with a touch of rain in the air, typical north-west weather. The dark clouds rumbled overhead, threatening to spill their heavy load onto the streets below. He stopped at a vegetable stall where imported ripe melons the shade of honey were lined up in rows amongst oranges, avocados and oversized tomatoes.

‘Hey Frankie – how goes it old man?’

Frankie’s eyebrows twitched at the reference to his seventy-eight years of age; he liked to think he looked a little younger.

‘Not bad son, yourself?’ He treated himself to a few of the oranges and one of the juicy melons.

‘I’ve had busier days, but the damn rain ain’t helping.’

‘Well son, your farmers are always asking for the stuff,’ Frankie snorted, pocketing his change.

He continued through the market, pausing to have a quick chat to all those that he knew, buying a few items here and there. Most of the stall holders gave him a quick chat; he liked that, it made him feel part of the community and gave him a chance to have an actual conversation instead of sitting in an empty house, alone and lonely in his own company. After a good hour he began making his way back up the hill towards home, the old bag pulling him even more to one side, accentuating his hunch. He ignored the rain which now lashed at his face and concentrated harder on getting to his front door, every footstep now hurting a little more, the arthritic pains gnawing as water seeped through the thin soles of his shoes.

The house was, like him, old and worn with time. The dull door, once a pale cream was now a stippled grey, the wood frame crumbling in parts. He fumbled in his coat pocket for the keys. Finally, with cold hands he pulled them out, his old knotted fingers shook as he tried to turn the lock. Finally he managed and gave the door a nudge open.

Stumbling into the hallway he glanced up – startled, his fingers dropped the bag and spilled its contents; a melon rolled by and stopped at a polished boot. The foot snapped up and kicked the door shut – hard. Frankie’s mouth slackened, the face illuminated in utter terror as he saw the knife. Completely frozen now, the mouth still sags but no words come out as gloved hands reach out for him – tick, tick, tick.

***************************

It’s two days later that I get another call. The phone shrills at just after five in the morning. I’m already awake and staring into the darkness, the room masquerading in flickering shadows, alternating between faded greys and a cloak of blackness; my eyes slowly adjust to the changing light as I snatch up the receiver. Connie’s arm is draped softly over my chest, her breathing warm, steady and rhythmic. I can feel her soft naked skin pressing gently against me, similar to the touch of smooth satin; the reassurance of her body’s closeness shrouds me like a warm soothing blanket.