I couldn’t believe he still had the stamina for bravado. It was time to show him who was boss. I’d already pinned his hands to the cross with a couple of cold chisels. The blood had congealed around them, black and hard. Now it was the turn of his feet.
When he saw me pick up my tools from the workbench, he finally cracked. ‘There’s no need for this,’ he said desperately. ‘Please. You could still let me go. They’d never find you. I’ve no idea where we are. I don’t know who you are, where you live, what you do for a living. You could move away from Bradfield and they’d never find you.’
I took a step closer. Tears welled up in his eyes and spilled over, trickling through the blood on his cheek. They must have stung, but he never flinched. ‘Please,’ he whispered. ‘It’s not too late. Even if you killed those other men. Was it you who killed them?’
He was smart, I had to give him that. Too smart for his own good. He’d just earned himself some more suffering. I turned away and dropped the chisel and club hammer on the workbench. Let him think I was having second thoughts. Let him spend the night convinced I was going to have mercy. That would make Christmas Day all the sweeter.
I shut the cellar door behind me and went upstairs to bed, armed with my videos and the best part of a bottle of vintage champagne. I was having the best Christmas I’d ever had. I remembered all those years of desperate hope, praying that this would be the year my mother would buy me presents like other children got. But all she’d ever done was let me down. Now I’d worked out that the only person who could give me what I craved was myself; I knew that for the first time in my life, I could look forward to the kind of Christmas other people have, filled with surprises, satisfaction and sex.
Reading his acts by the light of such mute traces as he left behind him, the police became aware that latterly he must have loitered. And the reason which governed him is striking; because at once it records – that murder was not pursued by him simply as a means to an end, but also as an end for itself.
The Wunch of Bankers was one of the few city-centre watering holes where Kevin Matthews felt safe meeting Penny Burgess. A fun pub with blaring rap music and decor modelled on soap operas – the Rover’s Return Snug, the Woolpack Eaterie, the Queen Vic Lounge, and the Cheers Beer Bar – was the last place he was likely to see another copper or Penny another journalist.
Kevin made a face as his taste buds clenched on the strong bitter coffee that lurked under a swirl of foam that looked more like industrial effluent than a cappuccino. Where the hell was she? He glanced at his watch for the twentieth time. She’d promised she’d be here by four at the latest, and now it was ten past. He pushed the half-empty cup away from him and grabbed his fashionable raincoat from the banquette beside him. He was about to stand up when the pub’s revolving door hissed round and disgorged Penny. She waved and headed straight over to his table.
‘You said four o’clock,’ Kevin greeted her.
‘God, Kevin, you’re getting really anal in your old age,’ Penny complained, giving him a peck on the cheek as she subsided on to the seat beside him. ‘Get me one of those mineral waters with a hint of fruits of the forest, there’s a love,’ she said, her voice mocking the pretensions of her chosen drink.
When Kevin returned with a glass already sweating with condensation, Penny immediately put a proprietorial hand on the inside of his thigh. ‘Mmm, thanks,’ she said, sipping her drink. ‘So what’s new? Why the urgent meeting?’
‘Today’s paper,’ he said tonelessly. ‘The shit’s really hit the fan.’
‘Oh, good,’ Penny said. ‘Maybe we’ll get some positive action. Like a suspect you’ve got some evidence against.’
‘You’re not understanding. They’re hunting for the mole. The Chief had Brandon on the carpet this morning, and the upshot is that Internal Affairs have mounted a leak enquiry. Penny, you’ve got to cover my back,’ Kevin said desperately. Penny took her time lighting a cigarette. ‘Are you listening to me?’ Kevin demanded.
‘Of course I am, sweetheart,’ Penny soothed automatically, her mind already planning her story for the morrow. ‘I just don’t understand why you’re getting so worked up. You know a good journalist never reveals her sources. What’s the problem? You think I’m not a good enough journalist?’ With an effort, Penny forced herself to listen to Kevin’s reply rather than the voice in her head reeling off headlines.
‘It’s not that I don’t trust you,’ Kevin said impatiently. ‘It’s inside the force I’m worried about. Everybody will be desperate to put themselves in the clear, so anybody that knows about us will be falling over themselves to tell Internal Affairs. And once they know that we’re, well, you know? That’ll be it. I’ll have had it.’
‘But nobody knows about us. Or not from me, they don’t,’ Penny said calmly.
‘I thought nobody knew too. Then Carol Jordan said something that made me think she does.’
‘And you think Carol’s going to shop you to Internal Affairs?’ Penny said, failing to hide the incredulity she felt. She hadn’t had many dealings with the CID’s most glamorous officer, but what she knew of the inspector didn’t incline her to cast her in the role of grass.
‘You don’t know her. She’s totally bloody ruthless. She wants to go all the way, that one, and she’d drop me in it soon as look at me if she thought it would take her a rung up the ladder.’
Penny shook her head in exasperation. ‘You’re overreacting. Even if Carol Jordan has mysteriously discovered that we’re seeing each other, I’m sure she’s too busy covering herself with glory from her liaison with Dr Hill to be bothered with shopping you. Besides, if you think about it rationally, she’s got nothing to gain from getting herself a reputation with the lads as a grass.’
Kevin shook his head dubiously. ‘I don’t know. Penny, you’ve no idea what it’s like on this job. We’re all working eighteen-hour days, and we’re getting nowhere.’
Penny stroked the inside of his thigh. ‘Sweetheart, you’re under a lot of pressure. Look, tell you what. If it all comes on top and somebody fingers you, Internal Affairs are bound to come to us and front us up. They’ll be looking for corroboration. If that happens, I’ll make it look like Carol Jordan’s my source, OK? That should muddy the waters.’
Kevin’s smile was worth the flannel, she decided. That, and one or two other things about him. Reassured, he bounced to his feet. ‘Thanks, Pen. Listen, I’ve got to be a place. I’ll call you soon so we can get together, OK?’ He leaned over and kissed her deep and hard.
‘Keep me posted, lover boy,’ Penny said softly to his retreating back. Before he even reached the doors, her intro was taking shape. Oh yes, she could see it now.
Bradfield police are devoting new resources to the hunt for the serial killer who has claimed four victims and placed men in jeopardy as never before.
But the extra officers will not be joining the search for the monstrous Queer Killer. Their job will be to police the police themselves.
Top brass in the force are so alarmed by the accuracy of the Sentinel Times’s stories on the killings that they have set up a full-scale mole hunt to uncover the source of our stories. Instead of catching the killer, the mole-catchers will be tracking down fellow officers who subscribe to the view that the terrified public have a right to know what’s going on.
Carol opened the door to the outer office and said, ‘I’m all done. Can we talk?’
Tony looked up from the computer screen absently, held up one finger and said, ‘Yeah, sure, give me a minute,’ and finished what he was doing.
Carol retreated