‘My point exactly. I mean, I don’t suppose these guys that got themselves killed thought they were up for anything more than a bit of rough. I knew them, you know. Adam Scott, Paul Gibbs, Gareth Finnegan and Damien Connolly. Every last one of them, and let me tell you, I wouldn’t have had them pegged for that sort of scene. Just shows you, doesn’t it? You can never tell what goes on in people’s heads.’
‘How come you knew them, then? I thought the paper said they weren’t known on the scene,’ Merrick said.
‘I run a gym,’ Stevie said proudly. ‘Adam and Gareth, they were members. We used to go out for a drink now and again. That Paul Gibbs, I knew him through a mate of mine, used to have a pint with him and all. And that copper, Connolly, he came round the gym after we had a burglary.’
‘I bet there’s not many around here that can say they knew all the poor sods,’ Merrick said.
‘You’re right there, pal. Mind you, I don’t suppose the killer had anything more in mind than a wee bit of fun.’
Merrick’s eyebrows rose. ‘You think it’s fun to murder folk?’
Stevie shook his head. ‘Naw, you’re no’ following me. See, I don’t think he sets out to kill these guys. Naw, it’s kind of an accident, if you get my meaning. They’re playing their games, and your man just gets carried away, and it all gets out of hand. He’s obviously strong, he carts these bodies about and dumps them in the middle of the city, for God’s sake. He’s not going to be a seven-stone weakling, now is he? If he’s a real body-builder like me, he maybe doesn’t know his own strength. Could happen to anybody,’ he added after a moment’s pause.
‘Four times?’ Merrick demanded incredulously.
Stevie shrugged. ‘Maybe they asked for it. Know what I mean? Prick teases and that? Promising what they didnae want to deliver when push came to shove? I’ve been there, Don, and let me tell you, there’ve been times when I’ve wanted to strangle the wee bastards.’
The detective in Merrick was straining at the leash. Carol Jordan wasn’t the only Bradfield copper who’d been reading up on the psychology of the serial killer. Merrick had read cases where killers got off on this kind of justification, swaggering in front of a third party. The Yorkshire Ripper, he knew, had boasted to his male cronies about ‘doing’ prostitutes. He wanted Stevie in an interview room. The only problem was how to get him there.
Merrick cleared his throat. ‘I suppose the only way to avoid that is to get to know the people you go to bed with before you get there.’
‘My point exactly. You fancy getting out of here? Maybe going for a cup of coffee down the diner? Getting to know each other a wee bit better?’
Merrick nodded. ‘Sure,’ he said, dumping the remains of his beer on a nearby table. ‘Let’s go.’ Soon as they got outside, he could switch his radio to ‘transmit only’ and one of the back-up teams would pick them up. Then they could test Stevie’s bravado in Scargill Street.
Although it was after midnight, the street outside the Hell Hole was far from deserted. ‘This way,’ Stevie said, pointing to his left. Merrick slid his hand into his jacket and adjusted the radio switch.
‘Where is it we’re going?’ he asked.
‘There’s an all-night diner in Crompton Gardens.’
‘Great. I could murder a bacon butty,’ Merrick said.
‘Very bad for your health, all that grease,’ Stevie said seriously.
As they rounded the corner into the alley leading into the square, Merrick sensed someone stepping out of a darkened doorway behind him. He started to turn towards the sound of footsteps.
Just like Bonfire Night, was his last conscious thought as a starburst of light erupted behind his eyes.
FROM 3½″ DISK LABELLED: BACKUP.007; FILE LOVE.007
It didn’t last as long as I’d expected. Surprisingly, Adam proved more fragile than the German shepherd. Once he’d lapsed into unconsciousness following the dislocation of his limbs, he proved impossible to rouse. I waited for hours, but nothing seemed to bring him round; not pain, not cold water, not warmth. I was disappointed, I admit it. His pain had been a mere shadow of mine, his punishment not enough for the betrayal that occasioned it.
I finished what I had to do, neatly and swiftly, just after midnight. Then I took him off the rack and folded him into a heavy-duty garden rubbish sack. I put that inside a black Bradfield Metropolitan Council bin bag. It was a struggle to get the dead weight back up the cellar steps and into the wheelbarrow, but my hours pumping iron paid off.
I couldn’t wait to get home to my computer, to transform the evening into something transcendent. But I still had work to do before I could relax and indulge myself. I drove into the city centre just above the legal speed limit – not so fast I’d get pulled for speeding, and not so slow that I’d be stopped on suspicion of being a careful drunk driver. I made for the gay cruising area behind the university. Temple Fields used to be a student area, filled with small cafés, restaurants, shops and bars with low prices and standards. Then, about ten years ago, a couple of the bars became gay. Our left-wing city council responded to pressure and funded a gay and lesbian centre, which moved into the basement of an Indian restaurant. That seemed to trigger a domino effect, and within a year or two, Temple Fields had become Cruising City and the straight students had moved over to Greenholm on the far side of campus. Now, Temple Fields was home to gay bars, clubs, chichi bistros, shops selling leather and bondage gear, and a nightly rent rack right along the canal.
By half past one on a Tuesday morning, there were still quite a few men out on the streets. I drove around a couple of times, concentrating on the area round Crompton Gardens. The square was dark; most of the streetlights had been vandalized for reasons of sexual privacy, and the council was too strapped for cash to repair them. Besides, none of the local businesses was complaining; the darker the square, the more desirable the area, the bigger their profits.
I looked around cautiously. Nothing stirred. I wrestled the bag to the lip of the boot, then half rolled, half carried it on to the low wall. I tipped it over the edge with a rustling thud and closed the tailgate as quietly as I could. I took a penknife out of my pocket, leaned over the wall and slit the bags open. I pulled them free of the body and crumpled them into a ball.
Just after two, I parked Adam’s car a couple of streets away from his house then walked back to my jeep, stuffing the bags in a litter bin on the way. I was in bed by three. In spite of my burning desire to carry on with my work, I was overwhelmed with exhaustion. Not surprising, considering the effort I’d expended. I was asleep as soon as I switched off the light.
When I woke, I rolled over and looked at the clock. Then I checked with my watch. I had to accept its corroboration. I’d been asleep for thirteen and a half hours. I don’t think I’ve ever slept for that length of time, not even after general anaesthetic. I was furious with myself. I’d been looking forward to sitting down at my computer to relive and rebuild my encounter with Adam till it more closely resembled my deepest fantasies. But now I barely had enough time to shower and eat.
On my way into work, I picked up a late city final edition of the Bradfield Evening Sentinel Times. I’d made page two of the paper:
NAKED BODY FOUND
The mutilated body of a naked man was found in Bradfield’s gay village early this morning.
Council worker Robbie Greaves made the grisly discovery as he made a routine rubbish collection in the Crompton Gardens area of Temple Fields.
Now