clothes wringer that I picked up in an antique shop. I’d also bought an old mahogany dining table in an auction. I took it straight up to the farm and dismembered it in the kitchen, admiring the craftsmanship that had gone into the solid timber. It took a couple of days to build the rack. All that remained was to test it.
Let the reader then figure to himself the pure frenzy of horror when in this hush of expectation, looking, and indeed, waiting for the unknown arm to strike once more, but not believing that any audacity could be equal to such an attempt as yet, whilst all eyes were watching … a second case of the same mysterious nature, a murder on the same exterminating plan, was perpetrated in the very same neighbourhood.
As soon as Brandon started the engine, the mobile phone mounted on the dashboard trilled. He grabbed the handset and barked, ‘Brandon.’ Tony could hear the computerized voice say, ‘You have messages. Please call 121. You have messages …’
Brandon took the phone from his ear, hit the keys and jammed it back again. This time, Tony couldn’t hear what was said. After a moment, Brandon dialled another number. ‘My secretary,’ he explained briefly. ‘Sorry about this … Hello, Martina? John. You were looking for me?’
A few seconds into the answer, Brandon squeezed his eyes shut, as if in pain. ‘Where?’ he asked, his voice dull. ‘OK, got it. I’ll be there within the half-hour. Who’s dealing? … Fine, thanks, Martina.’ Brandon opened his eyes and ended the call. He carefully replaced the handset and twisted in his seat to face Tony. ‘You wanted to know when you could start? How about now?’
‘Another body?’ Tony asked.
‘Another body,’ Brandon agreed grimly, turning back and slamming the car into gear. ‘How do you feel about scenes of crime?’
Tony shrugged. ‘I’ll probably lose my lunch, but it’s a bonus for me if I get to see them in a fairly pristine state.’
‘There’s nothing pristine about the way this sick bastard leaves them,’ Brandon growled as he shot on to the motorway and made straight for the outside lane. The speedo read ninety-five before he eased back on the accelerator.
‘Has he gone back to Temple Fields?’ Tony asked.
Taken aback, Brandon shot him a quick look. Tony was staring straight ahead, his dark eyebrows corrugated in a frown. ‘How did you know?’
That was a question Tony wasn’t prepared to answer. ‘Call it a hunch,’ he stalled. ‘I think last time out he was scared that Temple Fields might be getting a bit too hot. Dumping the third body in Carlton Park shifted the focus, maybe stopped the police concentrating on one area, probably relaxed people’s vigilance a bit. But he likes Temple Fields. Either because he knows the patch really well, or else it’s important to his fantasy. Or maybe it makes some kind of statement for him,’ Tony mused aloud.
‘Do you always come up with half a dozen different hypotheses every time someone tosses you a fact?’ Brandon asked, flashing his lights at a BMW that was reluctant to give up possession of the fast lane. ‘Shift, you bastard, before I get Traffic out to you,’ he snarled.
‘I try,’ Tony said. ‘That’s how I do the job. Gradually, the evidence makes me eliminate some of my initial thoughts. Eventually, some sort of pattern begins to form.’ He fell silent, already fantasizing about what he would find at the scene of the crime. His stomach felt hollow, muscles fluttering like a musician before a concert. Normally, all he ever got to see were the second-hand, sanitized versions of crime scenes. No matter how good the photographer and the other forensic officers, it was always someone else’s vision he had to translate. This time, he was going to be as close to a killer as he’d ever been. For a man who lived his life behind the shield of learned behaviours, penetrating a killer’s façade was the only game in town.
Carol said, ‘No comment,’ for the eleventh time. Penny Burgess’s mouth tightened and her eyes flicked round the scene, desperate for someone who would be less of a stone wall than Carol. Popeye Cross might be a male chauvinist pig, but in between the patronizing comments he always salted a few memorable quotes. Drawing a blank, she focused on Carol again.
‘What happened to sisterhood, Carol?’ she complained. ‘Come on, give us a break. Surely there must be something you can tell me apart from “No comment”.’
‘I’m sorry, Ms Burgess. The last thing your readers need to hear is ill-informed off-the-cuff speculation. As soon as I’ve got anything concrete to say, I promise you’ll be the first to know.’ Carol softened her words with a smile.
She turned to walk away, but Penny grabbed the sleeve of her mac. ‘Off the record?’ she pleaded. ‘Just for my guidance? So I don’t end up writing something that makes me look a pillock? Carol, I don’t have to tell you what it’s like. I work in an office full of guys that are running a book on when I’ll make my next cock-up.’
Carol sighed. It was hard to resist. Only the thought of what Tom Cross would make of it in the squad room kept her mouth closed. ‘I can’t,’ she said. ‘Anyway, as far as I’m concerned, you’ve been doing just fine so far.’ As she spoke, a familiar Range Rover turned the corner. ‘Oh shit,’ she muttered, pulling her arm away from the reporter. All she needed was John Brandon deciding she was the police source behind the Sentinel Times’s serial-killer hysteria. Briskly, Carol walked towards Brandon’s car as it jerked to a halt, waiting for someone to shift the tapes keeping the crowd at bay. She stopped and waited while the constables rushed to impress the ACC with their efficiency. The Range Rover nosed forward, giving Carol the opportunity to spot the stranger in Brandon’s passenger seat. As the two men climbed down, she scanned Tony, committing the details to the memory bank she’d trained herself to develop. You never knew when you’d need to come up with a photofit. Around five-eight, slim, good shoulders, narrow hips, legs and trunk in proportion, short dark hair, side parting, dark eyes, probably blue, shadows under the eyes, fair skin, average nose, wide mouth, lower lip fuller than upper. Shame about the dress sense, though. The suit was even more out of fashion than Brandon’s. It didn’t look worn, however. Deduction: this was a man who didn’t spend his working life in a suit. Equally, he didn’t like throwing money away, so the suit was going to be worn till it fell to bits. Second deduction: he probably wasn’t married or in a permanent relationship. Any woman whose partner needed a suit occasionally would have pitched him into buying a timelessly classic style that wouldn’t look so absurd five years after its purchase.
By the time she’d reached this conclusion, Brandon was by her side, gesturing to his companion to join them. ‘Carol,’ he said.
‘Mr Brandon,’ she acknowledged.
‘Tony, I’d like you to meet Detective Inspector Carol Jordan. Carol, this is Dr Tony Hill from the Home Office.’
Tony smiled and held out his hand. Attractive smile, Carol added to her list of particulars as she shook the hand. Good handshake, too. Dry, firm without the macho need to crush the bones that so many senior officers exhibited. ‘Pleased to meet you,’ he said.
A surprisingly deep voice, faintly northern. Carol kept her own smile tight. You never knew with the Home Office. ‘Likewise,’ she said.
‘Carol’s heading up one of the murder teams we’ve got on these killings. Number two, is it, Carol?’ Brandon asked, already knowing the answer.
‘That’s right, sir. Paul Gibbs.’
