A Need To Kill (DI Matt Barnes) Read online

  Back home, he garaged the van, retrieved the carrier bag from the rear and entered the house by the back door. He was up; hyper. Could still hear the plaintive, pleading voice of the whore as she begged him to spare her. They were all so full of crap, luring and using punters to line their purses with dirty money. They thought that they had a power over all men, but he was like no man they had ever met. He was totally repelled by their wanton proclivity to spread their legs for profit.

  With a large milky coffee on the table in front of him, he placed the three slightly crumpled folios he had removed from the address book onto the Formica tabletop and smoothed them out with his hand. Studying the entries, he recognised six other names, including that of Villiers. Knowledge was power. He was in a position to cause these sad celebrities, sportsmen, politicians, and even a high-ranking cop to rue keeping their brains in their trousers. He would not attempt to blackmail them, but might contact them and discuss their less than decent behaviour. Let them know that they had been found out, and that their affluent homes, fat-cat lifestyles and position in society were now in danger of being undermined. Scandal involving such notables as these was manna from heaven to the tabloids.

  He put the sheets of paper together and folded them in half. As a rule, he did not keep mementoes of his crimes. Overconfidence was the undoing of most repeat offenders. They could not envisage being found out, and so kept something from their victims as a trophy. He needed nothing but his memories. He closed his eyes and went back in his mind to eight p.m. the previous evening, to the point in time when he had taken her from outside the front door of the swish apartment block in Pimlico...

  A lot of the pleasure was in the anticipation. Eagerly looking forward to any event was in some ways more rewarding than the actual culmination of the act. He was a watcher, a stalker; the whole package. Preparation was all-important.

  Marsha Freeman, a.k.a. Trudi Jameson was an ex-catwalk model who, though still only twenty-eight, had past her shelf life in that profession. The trend-setters wanted anorexic-looking waifs, the younger the better. That was not to say that Marsha was not a looker. She had pulling power. Her background in modelling had given her poise and grace, and her name had been associated with those on the so-called ‘A’ list, and she was au fait with the life that they led and the recreational scene they enjoyed. She was no stranger to places like Cannes, or to polo matches that attracted at least a brace of princes.

  Marsha’s second career had been as a ‘meeter and greeter’ at Stringfellows, pumping flesh, flashing her Colgate-white teeth and firm, bronzed thighs, and making sure a good time was had by all. It was not long after that when she realised her charms could be far more profitable. She planned to make enough money to open her own model recruitment agency and secure her future for when the unforgiving ravages of time made her less able to attract the well-heeled punters that were currently lining up to bed her.

  The blow to her temple caused her to sag at the knees. She was not aware of what had happened and could not think straight.

  He bundled her into the back of the van and pulled the doors shut with the speed of a trapdoor spider snatching its prey and retreating into its lair. It took him only seconds to secure her wrists and ankles and affix a broad strip of silver duct tape tightly around her head, overlaying her mouth. He covered her with a sheet of tarpaulin and drove away into the night. In his rear-view mirror he saw a white limo pull up to the kerb outside the apartment block. But he had not been seen. To all intents and purpose Marsha, in her persona as Trudi, had dropped off the planet and would not survive the fall into personal oblivion.

  The subsequent quality time spent in the lockup had been an unmitigated success. He had berated her for the path she had chosen to follow; taught her the error of her ways, punctuating his words by applying the glowing tip of a cigarette to her flawless skin. Even removed the tape from her ankles to spread her legs and burn her most intimate parts. The smell of fear in the air was as tangible as that of the smoking flesh. It was much later that he wrapped the tights around her neck and removed the tape from her mouth, to allow her to beg for life and repent for all she had done to incur his wrath. And then he had slowly...ever so slowly garrotted her, all the while watching the expression on her face and in her coin-round eyes. He was astride her, and stiffened as she bucked and twisted beneath him. He undid the bottom two buttons of the boiler suit to release his throbbing member and roll a condom down its length, before proceeding, though prolonging the act by pausing and even relaxing his latex-gloved hands several times to let her suck in a ragged breath. Eventually, as he came, he simultaneously wrenched the ends of the tights with all his strength. The finale was soon over, and yet he sat there for awhile, emotionally drained and at one with the stillness that followed such frenetic exertion. He wanted to pull back the mask, lean forward and kiss her damp brow. She was now without sin. He refrained. The merest, infinitesimal trace of saliva would result in his DNA being recovered. There could be no intimacy without a barrier.

  He sighed and let the events fade. Time to catch a few hours’ sleep. The coffee was now almost cold, but he drank it anyway.

  Lying in bed, he dozed and was once more atop Marsha at the climactic moment. As he gazed down into her eyes, she began to smile, and her features metamorphosed into those of his late mother.

  “You can’t murder me again, you pathetic little boy,” his mother said. “I’m already dead.”

  As the vagary reared up and reached out to him with clawing fingers, he covered his face and screamed out. There would be no sleep. Night terrors waited in the wings of his mind, ready to take centre stage and rekindle past horror he did not want to confront.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Matt, Pete and Marci left the lockup at dawn. Bored and weary looking uniformed officers guarded the scene, and the meat wagon was on the way. The body would soon be bagged, tagged and heading for the mortuary. The autopsy would no doubt result in giving up details that were not apparent by just carrying out a physical inspection.

  “I want you to arrange for a fingertip search of the area for the missing cigarette butts, and a house-to-house for witnesses,” Matt said to Marci.

  “What wits, boss? All that’s left of this neighbourhood is boarded up and falling down.”

  “I’ve got eyes, Marci. But it’s a haven for junkies to shoot up. Or for winos to squat in.”

  Marci nodded and got on the phone to jack it up.

  “Come on, let’s head back to the ranch and get this case up on the boards,” Matt said to Pete, ducking under the tape, wincing, trying not to limp as he walked slowly across the street to his Discovery.

  It was March, but bitter. Winter was not quite ready to relinquish its grip, and Matt’s leg complained in cold weather. His femur had been fractured by a bullet, and although healed up, it still reminded him that he was not the same man he had been. Maybe arthritis was setting in. And he felt more vulnerable. During the same incident he had caught a slug in his left kidney that resulted in the organ’s removal. It had been the lowest point in his life, to date. None of the other team members had survived, and the then woman in his life, Linda, had walked, unable to live with a man who was driven, in a profession that courted death at every turn. He could have taken a medical pension and walked, but wouldn’t have known what to do with the rest of his life. He was fortunate in that he had more than a job, it was a vocation. Same as he supposed being a priest. Though he didn’t try to save souls. He spent his days trying to nail the arses of unrighteous citizens to the wall. He was on board for the duration, however long that might be. He didn’t let himself look too far ahead; had come to realise that all plans were subject to being fucked up or drastically modified by unfolding events that were beyond his control. Best to live for now. It didn’t do to try and outguess whatever the future had up its sleeve. The past was enough to live with. He couldn’t help but look back over his shoulder now and then and see it snaking away like a pitted road paved with bad
memories. A lot of people he’d cared about had fallen by the wayside. They were gone. Shit happens. But it wasn’t all bad. As he drove back to the Yard he took time out to think of Beth. They had become as close as Matt supposed two people could get; found the key ingredient to life, which he believed to be true love. They’d been all set to sell their places and buy a cottage next to a river in Borehamwood, but that had fallen through. The couple who were planning to sell it and spend much of their time in Florida had come up against a problem that could not be got past. The guy developed prostate cancer and subsequently died. His wife took the property off the market and settled back to live out her years in the familiar surroundings that she had shared with her husband. It was after that when Beth had become a little detached. Matt had been immersed in another case, and the relationship got stretched. He knew that he was being too remote. He had fixated on hunting down a killer who predated on female hitchhikers, raped them, and then for whatever sick reason, cut off their heads. The case had been resolved within three weeks. The killer had left trace at the scene of a third crime – by way of skin and blood in minute amounts under the fingernails of the victim – and had been located due to having a previous conviction for grievous bodily harm on a woman.

  After that case, Matt and Beth had talked it through. Anything worth having was worth working at and fighting for. Neither of them wanted to lose what they had forged together. It didn’t always pay dividends to analyse something too closely, but it was in both of their natures to understand to the best of their ability what made each other tick. It came down to realising that they were both individuals with strong personalities. There would have to be plenty of compromise and a game plan, if they were to keep what they had from coming unglued. The bottom line was, that their work had to be left at the doorstep. They had to learn to be able to switch off and concentrate wholly on each other. It was not easy. Beth was still based at her apartment in Roehampton; Matt at the maisonette in Harrow. They were both still subconsciously hanging on to the independence that was fundamentally a state that they had come to feel most comfortable in. It wasn’t what they wanted, but was how it had worked out so far. There was a niggling suspicion on both their parts that the other was not capable or ready for full commitment.

  Matt felt as though their relationship was in danger of imploding. He knew that it was up to him to reassure Beth and make positive moves. But, Christ, she was the shrink. How come she hadn’t got it together? She should know that she meant everything to him. He’d told her enough times. And she still wore the engagement ring. But actions speak louder...

  He flashed his warrant card at the barrier. Drove through after being checked out. Fucking terrorists were making life a pain in the arse. The world was paranoid, and with good reason. Nowhere was safe from fanatics with C4 strapped to themselves, who believed that blowing the shit out of westerners would fundamentally change things and martyr them for causes that no one really understood or cared about. The sad bastards should get a life and join the human race.

  Matt took the lift up to the third floor, preoccupied and not even acknowledging the two civvie office workers who rode up with him. He looked at his wristwatch. It was eight a.m. Was the Big Apple five hours behind or ahead? He had to think for a second. Behind. He couldn’t ring Beth at three in the morning.

  By nine o’clock every chair in the squad room was occupied. Matt had personally written up the boards with all the points he thought pertinent, and also tacked blowups of the two victims on them. This was how every investigation started.

  “Listen up, guys,” he said to the team assembled before him. “This one is hot. We need to put everything else on a low light while we concentrate on running this maniac down.”

  “What makes this so special, boss?” DC Dave Brent asked.

  “Look at the boards and answer that for yourself, Dave,” Matt said to the young cop, who had only been on the team for six weeks and was still finding his feet.

  Dave’s brow creased with concentration as he looked back and forth at the columns of information written beneath the names of the two murder victims.

  “They were both on the game,” he said. “And got tortured and strangled.”

  “And?”

  “Same MO. So it looks like the same person did them.”

  “That’s one of the reasons it goes to the top of the pile,” Matt said. “What we have here is a repeater started up. He’s found a new hobby, and there is no reason to believe that he’ll quit it and take up fly fishing or oil painting.”

  There were a few chuckles around the room. Even street cops needed to relieve nervous tension.

  “And there’s another consideration,” Matt said when he had their full attention again. “The second victim had her address book with her. A few pages had been ripped out, and we have to figure he took them. That would not in itself be significant, but she was high-class. Her clientele was a mix of some of the biggest movers and shakers in the city, plus top cops, lawyers and faces that get a lot of media coverage.”

  “You mean upstairs are more concerned about a leak than the victims, boss?” DC Errol Chambers said.

  “I mean that it makes for a very sensitive situation. Obviously they don’t want major scandals to rock a lot of boats. But our only concern is to wrap it up, same as any other case. If we have to step on a few toes, then so be it. I don’t care about egos. Everyone named in the diary is a suspect, although if the killer was also a punter, then he would have removed the page with his name and details on it.”

  “Do we get to see the book?” Errol asked.

  “In good time, yes. And it goes without saying that I’ll have the balls of anyone who talks out of turn.”

  “Does that go for me too, boss?” Marci asked with a mischievous grin on her face.

  “Yeah, Marci. You’ve got more balls than a lot of guys I know.”

  There was a ripple of laughter, whistles and a few hand claps. The team filled their coffee cups at Matt’s behest, before he continued.

  “Let’s start with the first victim,” Matt said. “Kelly Lindon was a sixteen-year-old runaway working the kerbs. She was freelance and allegedly new at the game. She turned up at a derelict warehouse in Dulwich on the morning of the fifteenth of February. Two youngsters found her. She was naked, covered in cigarette burns, and had been beaten before being strangled with a pair of tights that were later found to be brand new. They hadn’t been worn by her or anyone else, so the killer brought them with him. That makes it premeditated, not a spur of the moment slaying. We’re looking for someone who is targeting prostitutes. They’re his chosen prey.”

  “Were there any suspects?” Marci asked.

  “Yeah. Every guy who cruised that area. The only one who looked good for it was a forty-year-old single bloke. He’s a baggage handler at Heathrow and still lives with his widowed mother in a semi out west, in Feltham. He admitted being with Kelly on the evening of the fourteenth. Said he paid her twenty quid for a blowjob. There was trace of Kelly in his car, but nothing else. Not enough to hold him on. The case officer didn’t see him as being in the frame. Just thought he’d had himself a little Valentine’s Day treat, and ended up being with the wrong person at the wrong time. But we need to follow up and see where he was when Marsha was lifted.”

  “Do we know who the last punter with the second victim was?” DC Mark Jones asked.

  Matt nodded. “Marsha Freeman didn’t walk the streets. She worked by appointment only, and her clients were recommended or introduced by people known to her. If we can believe the entries in her address book, she was supposed to be picked up outside her apartment building at nine p.m. last night by Colin Westin.”

  There was an intake of breath. Westin was the ebullient American CEO of Airscape; a conglomerate that was still in the shadow of Virgin, but was on track to supersede Branson’s empire.

  “Why would Marsha keep volatile information like that on her person?” Marci asked. “I can’t get my head roun
d someone like her carrying such a damning record of her actions in her bag. It doesn’t add up.”

  Matt hiked his shoulders. “Beats me. Maybe she intended to put it in a safe deposit box, or sell the information and quit hooking. We need to talk to whoever was close to her. Get an angle on what made her tick. Everyone listed in her book will have to be interviewed. She could have been turning the screw and getting greedy. If she had her fingers in some rich punter’s wallet, he may have looked at the big picture and decided that she was going to bleed him indefinitely. Killing her solved the problem and guaranteed his anonymity. She could have arranged to trade the book for a sack full of money. And the buyer topped her and got to keep the cash and the book.”

  “But he didn’t keep the book, boss. Just ripped a couple of pages out of it,” Dave Brent said.

  “I know, Dave. And it doesn’t fit with the first murder that was without any doubt committed by the same person. There are two avenues to go down: Someone who knew Marsha murdered Kelly Lindon to set the scene for the main event, to throw us off the scent. Or a head case is up and running, and the taking of the pages is unrelated.”

  Matt arranged for Norman Sharp, the baggage handler, to be interviewed again. If he had a cast-iron alibi for the period that covered Marsha Freeman’s abduction and subsequent murder, then they would start in on the book. Rattle the cages of everyone listed. That would be easier said than done. Matt did not relish having to question some of the punters, in particular a high court judge and a divisional commander of the Met.

  After handing out assignments to the team, Matt went up to Tom’s office, rapped on the open door and entered.

  “Take a pew,” Tom said from where he was standing near the window and filling a mug from the ancient coffee maker that had been a wedding present to him and Jean. She had replaced it at home several years ago with a new one. Tom reached for another mug and poured Matt some of the strong Colombian Java, before settling in his chair.