A Cut for a Cut (Detective Kate Young) Page 10

  The clock hands moved closer towards half past one and she decided to go home for a few hours’ sleep. It was one thing to throw yourself into an investigation and another to burn out too quickly.

  ‘And you need to be on your game when you speak to Cooper later this morning,’ said Chris.

  ‘I’ll be—’ She checked herself. She ought not to keep talking aloud to her imagined dead husband. It was bordering on madness. She reached for the door handle and halted. Be that as it may, believing he was with her helped her, more than she cared to admit. ‘I’ll be perfectly fine,’ she murmured.

  CHAPTER TEN

  The cheating, prick-teasing bitch! She’d been all over him, made him believe they were an item – boyfriend and girlfriend – and then dumped him. He’d treated her nicely, respectfully, and yet it hadn’t been good enough. He should have treated her like his father treated his own half-sister. It’s been over a year since she ditched him and he still hasn’t got over it. The hurt is still as raw. Unbeknown to her, he’s trailed her on several occasions, each time waiting for an opportunity to play out the scene he’s fantasised over for months. There’s nobody about in the park and his pulse quickens at the prospect of what is to come. This time, he’ll be in charge. She won’t be able to control him or his emotions. She will be completely in his power. A voice in his head whispers, she’s mine and he slips a knitted balaclava over his face and hugs the shadows of the trees.

  She doesn’t hear his quickening footsteps or sense his presence until he is upon her and knocks her over with a body blow. She’s so slight, she instantly tumbles to the ground and before she can recover, he has dragged her out of sight. He unleashes the demons, curses her, forces her down. She complies and when it’s over he’s buzzing. She’s his at last. He leans forward to tell her and without warning, she lashes out, her nails gouging his hand, causing blood to instantly seep from the wound. He makes no sound of alarm, covers it with his other hand before she realises the extent of the injury and hisses that she should go and not look back, or he’ll kill her. She leaves, a sobbing broken mess.

  His hand has four deep scratches. They’ll heal in time. For now, he ought to keep them hidden. He studies them and smiles. Somehow, they make the whole experience feel even more real. He licks the wounds created by her nails, trying to taste any residue of her that might be in his blood, while imaginary trumpets sound victoriously in his head. He owns her! He ought to celebrate in some way, do something to ensure he always remembers this wonderful moment. A tattoo maybe? He ponders the possibility and as blood bubbles and begins to crust on his wounds, he considers the possibility of getting an inked drawing of a black heart to represent the bitch who broke his own heart, along with a single drop of blood to remind him that, in the end, he broke her.

  The memories fade and he pummels the punchbag, causing it to swing with such velocity it’s in danger of knocking him out. He grunts with the effort before finally standing back and sucking in air. His face burns hot with the effort and rivulets of sweat sting his eyes, causing him to blink repeatedly, but he feels good – invincible. The workout has helped him come to terms with the disappointment that his victims aren’t providing him with the gratification they should. Even when he is in the zone, forcing them into submission while recalling every detail of what it had felt like to overcome his first love, he’s been finding it increasingly difficult to accept these women are embodiments of her, chosen specifically to allow him to relive those precious moments. During this frenzied workout, he’s accepted what he’d already begun to suspect – he wants her, again. He wipes his forehead with his arm, nods at the guy who’s been watching him work out.

  ‘Got some anger there, mate,’ says the man.

  ‘Yeah, not so much now.’

  ‘Worked it out of your system, eh?’

  ‘You could say that,’ he replies, grinning in a friendly fashion. If the bloke really knew who he was imagining when he smashed his fist into the bag, he wouldn’t be so quick to chat. That’s the good thing about working out at this gym. Nobody pays you much attention. Everyone here is heavily into training, so it isn’t unusual to see someone hammering fists against a bag or opponent, or even kicking it, or for somebody to spend a long time in the corner of the room with a dummy, practising vagus strikes.

  ‘Catch you later,’ he says. ‘Have a good workout.’

  Kate drank in the cool air, inhaling deeply to dispel any residual mugginess from a deep and dreamless sleep. After only three hours’ sleep, she was limbering up for the run that would set her up for the day.

  This morning, she’d chosen to make the journey to Blithfield Reservoir to exercise, not because it was right next to the village where Laura had died, but because it would only be a short drive afterwards to Thamesbury Prison for her meeting with Cooper at eight o’clock.

  There was another important reason she liked to come here to run. Every time she crossed the causeway and parked up, she felt oddly at peace, because here, her connection with Chris seemed to grow stronger. He would come more into focus as she pounded around the ancient woodlands, keenly aware of his presence, almost as if he was matching her stride for stride, as he had done when he was alive. She needed to refresh the connection, especially as the ability to conjure up a clear picture of her husband, his mannerisms and even the exact timbre of his voice was in danger of waning.

  There were rumours about submerged homes and lives lost during the creation of the reservoir, none of which Kate believed given there was no documented evidence to prove that was the case, yet on cooler mornings when pockets of wispy clouds hung above the water, she would become aware of arms, barely visible to the naked eye, beckoning her closer to the water’s edge. On those days, the reservoir was wild, remote and full of mystery. If she strained her ears, she’d hear more than an occasional nasal honk from wildfowl, sounds like muffled calls for help. Today, there were none and the water was glassy. A grey heron rose lazily from the reeds and began a graceful lolling, long legs trailing, its identical twin mirrored below. She released the tension from between her shoulders with a shake, glanced across the water, reflecting pale blue skies and flames of orange, crimson and gold from the changing foliage surrounding it, then powered away from the water’s front, towards the trees and tranquillity.

  Kate thundered through the damp woods, navigating roots that curled and twisted their way through the mounds of soggy leaves on the path, her breath coming in rasps as she took the slope at speed. From here, she would reach the wild flower meadow and head back towards the lake to complete the second phase of this lengthy circuit.

  ‘Recording aside, what you really could do with is a signed statement from Farai and a full confession from Cooper Monroe,’ said Chris, reminding her of the conversation she’d recorded only a fortnight earlier, when she’d been singularly focused on uncovering the level of corruption surrounding Dickson and determining if he was central to the decision to have Chris murdered.

  The quality of the recording had been good and the conversation between her and Farai clear. It had since been downloaded to a USB stick already containing the file of corrupt officers that Chris had left on his computer. She still had to think of a place to safely store it.

  ‘Fat chance of a statement, and the recording won’t stand up in court. There’s not enough proof it was Farai speaking. Let’s hope Cooper can dish more dirt on Dickson. If he can, I’m going to make damn sure Dickson gets what he deserves.’

  Cooper had driven the sex workers to the Maddox Club back in January, on the night the boy was killed. He’d been paid to bury the body and keep schtum before being asked to beat up Chris, who’d been investigating the club. Cooper had refused to harm the journalist but in doing so, set off the chain of events that resulted in the hire of a hitman from the dark web, who’d gunned down Kate’s husband, along with other innocent passengers, on a train.

  Birds scattered from treetops, wings beating as fast as her heart. Dickson had kept back vital i
nformation from the investigative team at the time. He’d helped cover up a boy’s death, threatened Farai, who would have been a valuable witness, and protected the man responsible for the boy’s death. Because of his actions, there was no doubt in Kate’s mind that Dickson had also helped the same man hire the hitman or, at the very least, known he was going to pay somebody to silence her husband.

  Her feet slip-slapped over the grass and she turned her concentration once more to her breathing. She had to maintain her stamina for the final push, through the forest and back along the road to her car. She’d dry off with a towel in the car and give herself a spray with deodorant before she headed to the prison. She doubted Cooper would be too bothered by the smell of perspiration. He’d been a member of the SAS and had fought cheek by jowl with others in life-threatening situations where no one would worry first about personal hygiene.

  Her phone vibrated against the top of her arm where it had been secured and, coming to a halt, she used the Bluetooth connection to speak aloud.

  ‘DI Young.’

  ‘DI Young, this is Callum Fullerton, the governor at Thamesbury Prison. You were due to meet Cooper Monroe at eight this morning.’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘I’m afraid that will no longer be possible. Mr Monroe was found dead in the showers, earlier this morning. It appears he took his own life.’

  ‘No, that’s impossible. He was going to speak to me about something important.’

  ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘Are you sure he took his own life and wasn’t attacked?’

  ‘There’s no doubt. He slashed his own throat. By the time he was discovered, he’d already lost a great deal of blood. I’m afraid he died on the way to the infirmary.’

  ‘Have you spoken to his daughter?’

  ‘Yes, directly before I contacted you. I’m sorry to give you bad news. I hope this doesn’t directly impact your investigation.’

  ‘I don’t know what he had to tell me, so I can’t tell if it was significant or not. Sir, did he seem to have any enemies or struggle while he was with you?’

  ‘No. He was a model prisoner. Would probably have got out on parole at the earliest opportunity. Great shame. It seems the last few days he’d been quieter than usual, not himself. The chaplain confirmed he’d recently spoken with regret about his past demeanours. I guess he suddenly decided it was too much for him.’

  Kate didn’t imagine that was the case. Cooper had been one of an elite special forces unit and faced far worse situations than life in prison. On top of that, he adored his daughter, Sierra. He wouldn’t have killed himself. Something in the governor’s tone suggested she ought not to voice such opinions, so she thanked him for his time.

  ‘Shit! Now what?’

  ‘I don’t know.’ Chris’s voice echoed the horror in her own. ‘We won’t ever know what he had to say.’

  She froze, her thoughts colliding. Farai had been warned he wouldn’t come out of prison alive. Could it be possible? ‘What if somebody found out about our meeting today and decided it was too risky to let Cooper talk to me? What if Dickson had him killed to prevent him from speaking to me?’

  ‘That’s a lot of what ifs, Kate. Yet, I can’t imagine he’d ask to see you, then top himself the morning he was due to tell you something important.’

  Kate kicked at a stone, sending it spinning in the air and landing with a soft plop against a tree. ‘Shit! I really needed to question him. This screws up everything.’

  A grey squirrel raced onto the pathway, came to a swift halt when it spied Kate standing motionless and scurried away as she released a low groan that grew in intensity until it became an angry scream that roared through the trees.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  He pauses in front of the floor-length mirror in the corner of his garage to admire his muscular, gleaming torso. He flexes powerful fingers still aching from the recent exertion with the hand grip strengthener, then grins and springs forward, right arm extended towards his neck, ready to deliver a knuckle punch to his reflection, halting before he strikes the glass. He steps back again and permits himself another smile. He is a dangerous killing machine. A wolf in sheep’s clothing. Who could imagine he wields such power in his fists?

  He’s performed the vagus strike manoeuvre so often he can do it with his eyes closed. It’s imperative to inflict damage to the nerve itself rather than to the muscles that protect it. The only way he can cause the greatest damage to the nerve fibres is by penetrative force and so he must drive in from the front where the soft tissues lie. It takes skill and practice. Too hard and he’ll kill. Too soft and his victim might escape. He’s only got it wrong once before and that body has never been uncovered.

  The crashing symbols and violin introduction to Morrissey’s ‘At Last I Am Born’ ring out. It’s a good thing he set the alarm on his mobile to warn him it’s time to get ready for work, where he’ll blend in with the others to become an ordinary bloke. Nobody there has a clue of what he is capable of. Ordinary men don’t wield the power he does. He is an avenger, a demigod.

  He allows himself a moment of satisfaction and the opportunity to relive the previous evening when he’d shown that bitch who was in charge, truly in charge. For a while, he’d been transported back in time to his first conquest as he tugged on her luscious hair, which fell like thick chocolate waves, and stared into her innocent brown eyes. Oh, yes. It had rekindled that delicious moment when he’d thrust his first love to her knees and made her surrender to him.

  Without warning the euphoria evaporates, exactly as it did on Friday in Abbots Bromley. Usually, a re-enactment of that very first attack would sustain him for weeks, but ever since she came back into his life, each one has only lasted a few hours. So far, he has been unable to find out where she lives and determine a routine that would allow him to track her down and plan an attack. The frustration is eating at him. He wants her so badly he is unable to fully enjoy his array of stand-ins. The urge to find her and have her again is ruining everything.

  He picks up a towel and wipes his face then stares again in the mirror, disappointed by what he now sees. This new power ought to be displayed across his features, yet it has already drained away, leaving an ordinary man, and so his mood shifts, to be replaced by bitter disappointment.

  He’s more formidable than his father ever was and still he feels unfulfilled. He wipes his face one last time and sets his jaw. In those few moments, with Morrissey singing in the background, a decision has been made. He’s destined to repeat the act to relive the euphoria he craves and keep practising for that special someone – his first love.

  He will strike again.

  Tomorrow.

  With her plans to speak to Cooper scuppered, Kate jogged back to where she’d parked. The news of his death had come as a severe blow and, try as she might, she couldn’t shake the idea that Cooper had been deliberately silenced. If so, it begged the question why. No matter how many other alternatives she considered – angered cellmates, other people with vendettas – the fact he’d died the very morning of their meeting rang alarm bells. The only other person who knew he wished to speak to her was his daughter, Sierra. She might have let it slip to the wrong person, or somebody on the inside had found out and warned concerned parties about Cooper’s intention to meet with Kate. Dickson?

  There’d be no chance of her persuading the prison authorities to look into his death. That much had been clear from the governor’s stand-offish nature over the phone. There might not even be an autopsy or an investigation into the actual cause of death. Not unless she could persuade Sierra to request one. An image of a dewy-eyed Kate, head held high, walking behind her father’s coffin, stuck in her mind’s eye and for a moment, she thought of the pain Sierra would be experiencing. Her mission would have to wait. Sierra needed time to digest the horrible news.

  She flung herself into the driving seat and glared ahead. Balling her fists, she thumped the steering wheel. A flock of geese lifted off as if
disturbed by the noise, amidst noisy honking and synchronised flapping. The cacophony of noise grew ever louder, filling the whole sky as increased numbers joined them and grouped into a perfect V-formation to continue their lengthy, southbound journey. The sight distracted her and she silently wished them all a safe flight.

  Chris had once told her that geese looked after their own during migration. ‘They never leave a man down,’ he’d said. If one was struggling during flight or so sick or weary it had to land, two others would flank it and either fly alongside or land with the ailing bird, to ensure its safety and, if it were to perish, the remaining pair would take off together, looking out for each other. Chris had been her own personal travelling companion, somebody who’d never leave her to fend for herself. She didn’t need to speak out loud to know he was with her still, as he always would be. Blowing out her cheeks and straightening up, she turned on the engine. It was time to return to the station, via her house for a quick shower. She’d check up on the team and see if there was any new information regarding Laura Dean and talk to Sierra later in the day.

  She edged out onto the causeway. The geese were already in the distance, their distinct flight pattern still visible. DCI William Chase rang before she’d reached the halfway point.

  ‘Morning, Kate.’

  Until she’d discovered Chris’s file, she’d have trusted William with her life. Since that day, an invisible barrier had been erected and their old, easy friendship was strained. She knew she was to blame. She’d kept William at arm’s length, refusing any invitations to supper or for drinks at his house, and avoiding him so he wouldn’t notice the change in her attitude, or guess she had suspicions about him. Luckily, the last couple of months, he’d become heavily occupied at work and she’d had even less contact than usual with him. She kept her voice level, tone pleasant.