Flowers for the Dead (35 page)

So Mike has found another victim to add to the ones his friend knows about. That means they are now looking for a killer who has slain at least five women so far.

Had Simon mentioned anything about flowers at the other murders? Had any of the women reported being stalked, or strange things happening around their home prior to their murders? He doesn’t remember Simon saying anything, but then again they hadn’t talked specifics. Mike drums his fingers on the steering wheel, impatient to make connections that perhaps are not there.

What he really needs is a ciggie to help him think, but of course that is not allowed. He takes a steadying breath and forces his racing mind to slow once more.

“Let’s suppose my gut is right. What does that mean?” he asks out loud again.

He answers his own question without hesitation. “It means a confident, cold-blooded serial killer is out there. And I know who he is targeting next.”

As soon as he reaches the station he goes to his boss’s office and tells her everything.

Detective Chief Inspector Jane Goddard offers Mike an Extra Strong Mint as she perches on the edge of her desk to listen to him. Once he has taken one, she pops one into her own mouth too and hides the packet away again in the trouser pocket of her funeral black outfit. Aside from that she is motionless as Mike shares his theories with her.

“Do you think I’m on the wrong track?” the sergeant checks.

Cheeks hollowing as she sucks thoughtfully, she gives a little shrug, sending her black poodle hairstyle into a frenzy.

“No, it’s worth checking out at least. Stalkers are crazy buggers. But it’s a bit of a leap from stalker to serial killer – normally they just fixate on one person and maybe kill them, but that’s it. They aren’t serials.”

She shifts the sweet to the other side of her mouth. “Check it out before issuing an Osman Warning telling this Laura woman that she could be the next victim of a loony. I don’t want her scared needlessly into thinking her life is in danger. At the moment we’ve no actual proof she is even being stalked, apart from her word.”

“Yeah, I might be jumping the gun linking her to this,” says Mike, but there is no conviction behind the sentiment. He has an idea. “I could get a profile done on Laura’s stalker and Irene’s killer, if it’d make you feel more comfortable – no need to tell them Irene’s case is officially solved. I think Simon, I mean Detective Chief Inspector Phillips, over at Reading CID, used someone recently, on the Clayton case. I could contact her. I need to update him anyway.”

A couple of sudden crunches and Jane’s sweet is gone as she makes a decision. “Good idea. But have an informal chat only, see if you can get out of her how likely this scenario is before we go down the route of commissioning a full profile.”

“So I’m trying for a cheeky freebie?” he asks uncomfortably.

She nods amiably. “That’s about the size of it. Look after the pennies and the pounds look after themselves. A full profile costs a fortune, and right now the only thing justifying it is your hunch.”

Mike’s teddy bear eyes shoot wide open but he says nothing.

“Yes, so work your charm and see how much you can get for gratis. We’ll have a rethink after that,” the inspector says. “Oh, and definitely give your pal, DCI Phillips a call, bring him in on this. Looks like Operation Blaze just got a poke to get its fires burning again. Tell him I’ll give him a bell in a bit to make things official. We’ll all be working together on this now.”

“Shall I tell uniform to start guarding Laura Weir’s place? Maybe get the flat fitted with a panic alarm? If I’m right, she could be in danger right now – and we have a duty of care to issue an Osman Warning to let her know,” he points out. Beneath the calm surface, he is frustrated. Time is ticking by. Glancing at the clock, he finds it is noon. High noon, the stuff of drama in westerns.

His boss does not share his urgency though. “Not so long ago you were convinced all this was in her head and that investigating would be a waste of CID resources. Get your ducks in a row before you do anything else. Because if you’re wrong, you’re not only wasting money this constabulary doesn’t have, you’re scaring an already vulnerable woman needlessly.”

Mike balls his fists momentarily then lets them relax. The boss is right, he knows. Less haste, more speed was what was needed here – better to take the time to investigate properly than rush in half-cocked.

Jumping down from the top of the desk where she was perched, Jane makes a shooing motion with her hands. “Now off you pop, I’ve got my hands full with this historical murder inquiry. The pressure’s on to identify Lisa Brookman’s killer.”

Mike walks away, his bear-like body moving with surprising grace.

CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

~ Basil ~

Hatred

“That alarm’s good enough to keep the Crown Jewels safe,” Joey promises, allowing himself a slight upturn of the lips to show he is happy.

Laura beams back, unable to contain herself. “Wow, I thought it would take all day. It’s only one o’clock!”

“Well, the lads will want their lunch,” says Joey, actually managing a joke of sorts. Laura is so happy she guffaws even though it is lame.

“What do you want us to do with the cameras we found?” he adds. He holds out a plastic zip lock bag containing three tiny devices, one each retrieved from the kitchen, bedroom and lounge. Laura takes an automatic step back. Despite scolding herself, she cannot bring herself to take the bag.

“Just…I don’t know, throw them in a bin somewhere far, far away from me,” she shudders.

A brisk, economic nod. “Will do. Now you’re sure you know how to use the alarm, and you’re happy with everything.”

“Definitely. You’ve talked me through it a couple of times, given me a demo, it’s all good.” Laura sticks out her hand and the pair shake just as a thought occurs to the young woman. “Hey, can you take my mobile too? I know it sounds paranoid but I’m worried it’s being used against me.”

“No such thing as paranoid,” says Joey. Laura wonders if he is ex-military; she can almost hear the silent ma’am at the end of the sentence.

She is grateful to him as she hands over her phone – she will get another one tomorrow. When she closes her front door she leans against it and sighs. Her home is finally her own again.

***

Adam watches the men leave Laura’s flat. Their van has barely reached the bottom of the road before he is walking confidently up her garden path. A quick nip round the side of the building, then he returns to her front door, smiling to himself.

She’s a clever girl, that Laura, getting everything done so quickly. The new locks are really good ones; Adam approves. All he had ever wanted was to keep her safe, look after her, cherish her. Of course, the locks are not good enough to keep him out, but then he is the best at what he does.

The alarm she has had fitted is impressive too. It is one that is silent when triggered, which alerts the security company direct. If the numbered code is not input to turn it off the company calls Laura, and if she does not answer, or does not give the correct code word when she does answer, they contact the police.

Adam knows this because he has seen and heard the numerous explanations and demonstrations given to Laura by Joey. What a shame the ‘security expert’s’ team had not been good enough to find the camera in the hall, Adam scoffs silently. He congratulates himself on so expertly recessing it into a wall that it is virtually invisible to the eye, hidden as it is in the shadow of a picture hanging above it.

He double-checks the footage he is receiving from it - Laura is not in the hall. Well, wherever she is, she will meet Adam soon. He lets himself inside with one of his many skeleton keys.

A frisson of excitement gives him goose bumps. What he has in store for Laura is extra special, so much better than anything he has done in the past.

He is chuckling silently to himself as he removes his shoes, and saunters over to the incredibly expensive alarm and taps in the code.

***

Laura is in the kitchen when she hears something. Like a soft step on laminate flooring. Her heart jumps painfully, but she tells herself she is being silly.

Another noise. Soft tapping. For all she feels safe now, she has grown used to being constantly on high alert, listening out for someone in her home with her. She picks the biggest knife from the block on the counter and sidles towards the door that leads to the hallway. Ears straining for any sound. Eyes darting, taking in everything.

Holding her breath against the painful beat of her heart, she eases the door open a crack and peers.

Just in time to see a shadow disappear into the lounge.

Adrenaline courses through her, she recognises it from when she was in the crash and plunged into the car for her brother despite it being in flames. It gives her courage, makes her think faster.

She has to get out. Right now. She cannot get to the landline to call for help. She has no mobile phone. The only person who can save her is herself.

Instinct takes over. Laura slides out of the kitchen as quietly as she can, thanking the gods that she is not wearing shoes. Her bare feet make no sound as she steps into the hall.

Laura can’t believe her eyes. In front of the main door is a pair of shoes, and a pile of books. Her stalker has stacked them in the same way she used to. He is bound to grab her before she can escape that way. Instead she has only one option left. She darts into the bathroom, the only room in the flat to have a lock. Not even a lock, just a flimsy little bolt. Her life now depends on that bar of metal.

Perhaps she can escape through the bathroom window.

No, it is so tiny that only a child could squeeze through. Laura is slim but not that small.

Then she hears someone cough politely, almost as if to announce themselves apologetically. 

Her mind is racing. Okay, okay, someone is definitely in the flat despite the new security measures. And there is no way to call for help. There is no escape from this room. So what now? There has to be another option.

She looks round desperately for an idea. Steps into the bath, pulls the shower curtain across. Panic overwhelms her; it feels too much like a scene from a horror film and she jumps back out again.

There is nowhere else to hide. Laura backs as far away from the door as she can in the tiny bathroom, and curls up in a corner. Waiting. She’s got the knife in both hands, pointed in the general direction of the door. She’s never stabbed anyone before and she is not sure what it will feel like. She’s not really sure she’s capable of doing it. But she is sure that she will give it a damn good go because her life is depending on this and she will do whatever it takes to live.

She thinks about her family, she thinks about the car crash. Prays silently.

“Please, Mum, please, Dad, give me the strength to fight back. Give me the strength to stay alive. I don’t want to see you yet. It’s not because I don’t love you, it’s just…I need to live. I need your strength, please help me.”

At this moment, as she is about to die, Laura finally realises how much she wants to live. She repeats the words again and again to her dead family.

Please help me.

Please help me.

Please help me.

CHAPTER FORTY

~ Dragonswort ~

Horror

Criminal psychologist Emma Cawthorpe has the kind of voice Mike could fall in love with. He has a thing for an Irish lilt. Right now though he feels anything but warm and fuzzy.

“There’ll be a strong chance that the perpetrator had a criminal past as a child. He may have hurt animals, beaten up other kids, or exposed himself to someone when he was a young teenager himself,” she says. “People who expose themselves often go on to commit much more extreme crimes - I always find it odd that people so often write it off as almost funny. Digging around in the past might just help you identify this person. Look out for reports of abuse in any suspects’ history, too.”

“But you do agree that the killings you identified previously for Operation Blaze are linked to the Irene McBride case and possibly Laura Weir’s?”

She gives a gentle sigh that is almost a laugh. “You know I can’t confirm that without a proper, in-depth analysis of the cases. I’m giving you all I can, considering you’re playing me. I take it I’m not being paid for this consultation.”

Mike winces. “Yeah, caught out. Sorry. But…”

“…But, yes, from what you have said, the cases do sound linked, and there is a serial killer out there,” she confirms.

“What about the fact the women aren’t all from one racial group; is that significant?”

“Possibly. Most serial killers target their own race, and most serial killers are also white males – so I’d say there’s still a strong chance you’re looking for a white male here, most likely aged in his late twenties to early thirties.

“While I’m out here on a limb, I’ll say this: the rituals of flowers and mutilation show someone who is very disturbed, but who is also highly organised and intelligent. A sociopath. He could easily turn his skills to effective stalking of his victims first, in order to find out all he can about them. Your theory appears sound to me.”

With hurried thanks, Mike hangs up, body taut. He’s right: the serial killer is linked to his two cases.

He lets Simon know the latest development, and his own boss.

“Laura Weir needs to be told formally that her life is in anger now,” Jane agrees. “Get straight on with issuing the Osman Warning.”

Mike nods, relieved. The official letter is sent out by police to let someone know there is reasonable suspicion their life is in danger.

“And get uniform to sort out keeping an eye on her,” she orders.

As Mike hurries from her office he decides to ask Mags’s sister, Yvette, if she will look after Daisy for a few hours after school so that he can do overtime. He stops in the corridor, pulls out his mobile to text her and realises it has been switched off since morning. Ah well, it’s been just as well he could not be disturbed.

The second he switches it on it buzzes with a text. It is a photograph from Laura, with
“Got him!”
written across the bottom.

Mike swears in shock.

“Language,” mocks Bum Fluff as he passes by. Then he stops and peers at the picture that Mike is still staring at – Mike feels there is something familiar about the face, but cannot place it. Bum Fluff nudges him.

“Hey, why have you got a photo of Adam Bourne on your phone?” the detective constable asks.

Mike frowns. “Who?”

“Adam Bourne. One of the men we need to re-interview in connection with the Lisa Brookman death. He lives in Birmingham…”

But Mike doesn’t hear anything else because he has suddenly placed the face. It is the man he stopped for having a faded registration number - on Drury Road, right outside Laura’s flat.

All the puzzle pieces fly into place. The serial killer, Lisa Brookman, Laura… Mike shouts, and bursts into Jane’s office again without so much as a knock.

***

Laura swallows down a whimper. She has just heard something. Correction someone. Right outside the bathroom door.

She cannot seem to get control of her breathing. She thinks she might have a heart attack soon. Her hands are shaking, the knife bouncing in front of her like a divining rod for fear. It is glinting, sparkler-like, the light kicking off it; it would look pretty if she were not so scared.

For the first time since the accident she knows absolutely that she wants to live. Not go through the motions, not tick off days, not get through it; she wants to live. She wants to see sunrises in the morning. Well, maybe not, she quite likes a lie in. But she wants the thought of being able to see the sunrises in the morning. She wants to meet somebody and fall in love, feel that giddy moment when skin tingles at his touch, and the most fascinating thing in the world is to stare into his eyes. To make plans, share experiences, grow old together.

She wants to eat chocolate and really taste it and enjoy it. Let it melt on her tongue and encase her taste buds. Hell, she wants to see the world. She wants to do all that clichéd stuff because it’s a cliché for a reason, it’s a cliché because that is life, in all its vastness and silliness.

She. Does. Not. Want. To. Die.

The bathroom door’s knob is turning. Cowardice overcomes her momentarily and she casts around one last time for a hiding place. Behind the shower curtain is still the only option. Or the airing cupboard. It is a small, head-height half cupboard, though, and she is not certain there would be enough room for her. Plus, she would have to pull out all the towels, and a little pile of those on the floor would kind of give away her hiding place.

What is she going to do? Fight. It is time for Laura’s last stand.

***

Mike’s heart is racing as he starts to run along the station’s corridors, mac billowing out behind him like a superhero’s cape. Behind him scramble uniformed and plain clothes officers who are his back up. He is not built for speed but he is racing as fast as he can, and now he has lumbered up to a decent pace he will not stop until he reaches his car.

Poor Laura. Laughed at by uniform. Disbelieved by CID. He tries not to think of her lying dead, her porcelain skin turning blue and mottled.

He skids to a halt by his car, sliding on the mucky slush the tyres have made in the car park, and jumps into his vehicle. Guns the engine and is off. While he is heading to Laura’s flat, a couple of armed squad cars are on their way to Adam’s house in the Birmingham suburb of Moseley. Mike really, really hopes that they find him there, because if they do not then he is terrified of what he will find at Laura’s flat.

He tries her mobile, but it goes straight to answerphone.

“Laura, hi, it’s DS Bishop here,” he says, making his voice calming. “I got your message and need you to give me a call urgently, as soon as you get this. I’m on my way over to yours, but just…call me if you get this message first, okay? Thanks.”

Clicking off his phone, he floors the car, trying to pass cars that are driving at a snail’s pace thanks to the snow.

***

A pace back, a lazy kick, and wood splinters as the tiny screws holding the bathroom bolt in place pull free. Adam steps inside, casts a look around.

The shower curtain is pulled across, creating the only possible hiding place. With a flick of his wrist it swishes back.

A pile of towels is revealed. Adam frowns – as a scream comes from behind him, a blur of movement, something landing heavily on him.

***

Laura bursts free from the airing cupboard with a scream and launches at her stalker. She has one chance, just one chance, to catch him unawares and she will not give up. The carving knife rises in the air, flashes down. Adam cries out in pain.

Yes!

But he is more used to fighting than she is. He swings around, ignoring the blood oozing from the cut on his bicep. Steel fingers circled Laura’s wrist. She jerks, kicks, can’t break free. Sees his other fist, ducks. It lands a glancing blow. Stars form. Legs wobble.

One chance, just one chance.

Instead of trying to pull away, she grabs the arm that is holding her wrist. Yanks Adam towards her, crunching her knee up in a swift movement. Satisfying soft connection, an agonised grunt.

Adam swings again. Laura’s head snaps back sickeningly. Pain explodes. She stumbles, sways, then slides to the floor as darkness takes her.

***

Mike and the other squad cars park down the street, away from Laura’s home. Everyone is running into place, careful not to be seen; the last thing they need is to spook Adam if he is there.

As Mike runs his airwave radio crackles to life, and he pulls it from his pocket, bringing with it a piece of paper. It is a picture of a blackened lung Daisy has managed to find on the internet and print off – she does not approve of e-cigarettes because they still contain ‘nick-o-fin’. Mike snatches it from the air as it floats in front of him towards the slush-covered ground, the snow no longer brilliant white but scummy brown, and reminds himself to have a stern word with her about her internet use. Still running, he stuffs the paper back into his pocket and answers the radio.

“Yes.” Less a bark, more a huff.

“Officers are in place at Adam Bourne’s house, sir. They’re about to go in.”

“Keep me informed.”

Please let them be in time…