TICK TICK TICK

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  TICK TICK TICK

  Copyright G.M.Clark 2012

  All rights are reserved. No part of this publication can be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, without the written permission of the author.

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  This book is dedicated to Kirsty and Ben

  Be sober, be vigilant: because your adversary

  the devil, as a roaring lion, walketh about

  seeking whom he may devour.

  I Peter 5 v. 8

  PROLOGUE

  It was a learning process. If only ordinary people could actually understand. Everything required a learning curve; his was just not the usual style. It had taken years to perfect, years of training, of education, of research and naturally of cunning. He was born for the job that finely honed his talents and he had been an expert student. Just one more rehearsal, he thought, before he started his grand master plan. Just one more practice session. Already his blood was pumping in anticipation.

  Smashing into the back bedroom, he entered swiftly. She had the television turned up too loud and never heard him come in. He reached over, yanking her out of the chair, brute force hauling her withered hair while her wasted hands clawed frantically at the air.

  Tossing her easily onto the bed he drew out his knife, the blade shiny hard steel, icy to the touch and cold to the eyes. It poured terror into her mind, her expression dazed, not realising the full implications for a split second. Her eyes stood out on stalks, the pupils dilated. A whispering of tears at the side of her eyes felt bony, scratchy beneath the surface. Death was coming, she sensed it; smelled it, tasted it… and there wasn’t a damn thing that she could do.

  He towered above her, the sheer presence both ominous and terrifying. He lifted the knife slowly and with one hand tugged her off the bed, spun her hard around and closed his fingers over her scrawny throat and squeezed. The knife now poised between his pencil thin lips, he squeezed harder, harder still. She moaned, a soft gurgle, then her neck drooped as the body went limp in his arms.

  Spilling her onto the bed he snatched the knife from his teeth, held it aloft and brought it down swiftly across her neck. The skin erupted as warm blood spurted, cardinal red everywhere. He merely tossed back his head and laughed.

  Oh yes, there was no doubt… he was ready for them now.

  CHAPTER 1

  Rain ruptures from the Manchester sky as though a monsoon had raged above us and burst its vastness, emptied its soul and exploded onto the city streets below. People dash for cover: pushing, shoving, barging their way through, umbrellas twisted inside out while pale hands fought to hang onto them. Rain falls, smashing onto the bonnet of my car like tiny boulders, deafening to the ears. Torrents lash down on the pavements, grey clouds suspended above our heads like a large blimp that had ground to a complete halt.

  An old woman is soaked to the skin. Her ragged hair is plastered to her face like a mass of wet wriggling snakes in the ferocious wind. Bright orange lipstick is smeared across her mouth, harsh against the pale face. Rivulets of water drip down onto her forehead, tumbling onto the sagging skin then dropping further onto the old threadbare chequered coat and finally splashing at her feet. She doesn’t seem to notice; perhaps she just doesn’t care anymore. Life has a way of grinding you down.

  With weather like this I could shut my eyes and envision somewhere hot like Barbados. A place where the air was so warm, sticky and humid that with one deft single stroke I could write my name in it, creasing the air with just words. A cool beer in one hand, the water dribbling down onto my raging hot skin, sun beating down on my back, releasing the tension of aching muscles and tired brain cells. To simply lie there with nothing better to do than gaze at a warm inviting ocean coloured with azures: emerald greens and sky blues, with small white boats beckoning me to walk on the hot toasty sand.

  Jesus… if only.

  Instead I’m sitting hunched in an old unmarked car, a lukewarm cup of coffee in one hand, the usual foul-tasting kind from Stan’s van. The other hand is attempting to clear the condensation from the windows, but smearing the water into larger globules instead. It trickles down the inside of my sleeve, making me feel colder than I already am. I crank up the heater, but feel only a mild blast of warm air – so much for advanced technology and the space age.

  Coppers – people either love or hate us. Frankly I don’t give much of a damn; all that interests me is solving crime and doing it quickly. I never did have much patience. I was always completely driven. The motivation of unsolved crimes pushes me onwards relentlessly. I’ve been a copper for over twenty years and think I’m getting pretty good at it now. Heck I know I am, but I never like to appear too arrogant. Somehow I never found that to be too nice a trait.

  I glance over at my partner David Mackay – Mack. He has a good ten years on me, most of it protruding from his middle and hanging over his belt. Hell, that man can put away the beer – a couple of cases of Becks is an easy weekend drink for him. Mack is a heavyset guy, thick black wavy hair with a tinge of the old grey at the sides now, and legs like tree trunks… but age, too much booze and cigarettes and an utter lack of exercise have taken their toll, and still he doesn’t give a toss. He’s the type of man who thinks you should live for the here and now and savour every single minute of it, as death will come knocking soon enough. If he had his way, that would be while he’s sitting at home with the family, drinking a bottle of Glenmorangie, smoking, and watching Manchester United thrash Chelsea on his new widescreen plasma – in high definition if you don’t mind. Still, he’s a damn good partner and I consider him a damn good friend.

  I can see his fingers drumming on the steering wheel, impatience furrowing his heavy brows, teeth clenched and the jaw set. God, he hates traffic jams. He hates being stuck in any sort of queue, whether it’s in a line at Bargain Booze, or three deep at the local pub, frustration seeping from his every pore. Mack is a different breed from me – as soon as he gets home he just switches off, puts the day job to one side, takes off his day clothes, dons his faded and rather stretched casual trousers, throws on the nearest T-shirt, grabs a beer, flicks on the sport channel, and waits for dinner to be served – family life reigns, no problems. I wish I could do that too. But I can’t. I live and breathe the job, or it lives and breathes me – either way, a case that remains unsolved never goes away. It broods in my mind, like a bruise that aches when you touch it, the colour staying there just long enough to remind you that its story is far from over. The police radio squawks into life, at the exact same moment as a faceless drunk wavers in front of us, slips and bounces heavily onto the bonnet of the car. It’s never a good idea to hit a police car, it’s even worse when Mack is driving – take it from me.

  ‘We need a DI.’

  ‘Jesus Christ,’ yells Mack, staring at the drunk who is now lying prostrate on the bonnet of the car, thinking he’s found a new place to sleep.

  I casually pick up the receiver. ‘CK4785 responding.’

  Mack leans out of the car window, his face growing more purple by the second in utter fury. The rain whips at his face as with one arm he grabs hold of the drunk who’s still clutching a half-filled whisky bottle, his eyes rolling into oblivion, the only kind that street drunks call home.

  ‘Get off my car you sodding twat.’

  I watch Mack bodily haul the drunk onto the road with one of his great paws. The drunk couldn’t care less; oblivion sure has its sweet rewards sometimes. He wouldn’t have wanted to see Mack’s pent up fury released – not a pretty sight at all.

  ‘CK4785, you have a suspicious circumstances at 138 Green Close,’ crackles the dispatcher.

  ‘En route now, ETA approx. five minutes.’

  ‘Copy,’
it crackles back.

  Mack flicks on the siren, the wailing piercing through the air. Goddamn it I’ve always hated the screeching, but it sure breaks up a traffic jam in double quick time. Mack floors the accelerator as other drivers turn and glare at us for racing ahead. He just misses the old drunk who’s back up on his feet and weaving in and out of cars again. Mack swears and gestures out of the window at him.

  ‘What’s the matter Mack? Too early for a drink?’ I smirk.

  He gives me that old devil glare. ‘Fuck off.’

  We pull up in front of a decrepit flat building. Mack rams the car right up the front, tyres squealing, and parks Miami Vice style. I swear he’s been watching those damn reruns on Sky again – I hate Sky with a passion, you get maybe ten decent channels and the rest are crap. Mack nudges the coroner’s van in front of us and pretends he’s done nothing wrong, and frankly I don’t care. Perhaps he needs another road safety course; I’ll volunteer him for one, preferably before he kills me.

  The crime scene is already cordoned off, police tape flapping wildly in the wind. The area is surrounded by blue and whites, their lights still flashing, though the sirens have stopped screaming. People brave the weather and cram the pavements straining for a view, any type of view. The death watchers I call them. They’re such a special breed of people.

  As I open the door the city sounds fill my head, dogs barking wildly and trams roaring in the background. A car alarm pierces the air, but not one single head swivels to look. Jesus, I could’ve stolen the car and no one would’ve batted an eyelid – just another nice friendly neighbourhood then.

  I check to see who else is around. Just the usual mix, so it looks like this one is all ours. I flash my warrant card at the nearest copper, who waves us through the outer cordon with a mere cursory glance. Flashbulbs go off in my face and I’m momentarily blinded. I try shielding my eyes and baring my teeth at them.

  ‘They taking your worst side again?’ asks Mack with a snort.

  ‘Don’t they always? You think one of these days they’d learn.’ Sarcasm seeps from the edges of my mouth.

  I detest the media with a vengeance, always getting in the way; a microphone or camera stuffed in your face, at the other end a reporter only after every gory detail, with absolutely no concern for the sacrifice of human life. Then once they’ve gleaned each particle of information it’ll appear on Sky, with a poker-faced immaculate presenter who will announce the breaking news just in – everything is always breaking news. Jesus, it pisses me off.

  I make my way to the elderly building where a baby-faced copper, all blue eyes and pretty blonde curly hair with fine boned features, stands guard. He reminds me of a child lost among the cruel adult world of murder and mayhem. Hey, his choice. He stands up taller and puffs out his chest as I approach. I like that. Actually, I like it a lot. Nothing wrong with a bit of respect for the old hands of this game. I flash my card.

  ‘Detective Inspector.’

  ‘Who called it in?’ I ask.

  ‘The next door neighbour sir.’ He stands a little taller, pulling back his shoulders trying to impress me.

  ‘Okay kid, move out of the way.’ He steps aside, his face crestfallen, like a child who wants to go play in the sweet shop.

  ‘Hey, listen son. Your time will come but it ain’t a barrel of laughs, so be prepared.’

  A flicker of a smile. ‘Yes sir.’

  I can almost see him visualising himself taking charge in a murder enquiry. Poor sod, he doesn’t have a clue. I’ve been too long in this job to know that all murders are gruesome, the scenes played over and over in your mind like a DVD on constant rewind and play. I leave him with his chest stuck forward.

  Upstairs, people are peering out of their doors trying not to be seen. One small untidy kid takes a good long hard look at me and then bolts for his door; a tattooed hand reaches out, grabs him by the scruff of the neck and yanks him inside. The door is banged shut so hard that the frame actually rattles – I obviously fail to make a great first impression. The walls are ravaged with age and sheer neglect, the crumbling mortar dust filling my lungs and making it hard to breathe. Sweet wrappers tossed around by the wind form into mounds in the stairwell, empty bottles of vodka and whisky lie scattered around adding an audience to the urine-soaked graffiti walls. Nice. I wonder how much the landlord charges to rent the flats, then decide that, whatever the amount, it’s grossly overpriced.

  The hallway is throbbing with police, even the firearms unit is here. When I see that coppers are overly anxious I know we’ve got a major problem. Something real ugly is on the other side of that door and it’s down to Mack and I to figure out what the hell has happened.

  I hate the banality of death, the vacuous space that it leaves behind in other people’s shattered lives. But worse than that is the sheer brutality, the menace of torturing another human soul just for some sick, sordid, twisted perversion, usually with some sort of grudge vengeance. Goddamn it, I both hate and want this part. I want it because I know that I would be driven to find the killer, to get him tossed into the cesspits of a dark lonely cell where I know that he will suffer unspeakable torments, over and over again. And no, I do not feel pity. That to me feels like true justice, a place where he will be punished by the darkest men in the world, with twisted souls of their own, and he will pay dearly for seeking vengeance where vengeance did not deserve to live.

  The neighbour stands shaking in the hallway, her face white as she gnaws at her fingernails, or what’s left of them. Her eyes have that frenzied look of a woman in complete and utter shock. Her body trembles from head to toe, almost in a rhythm. I can see two coppers trying to question her, but anyone with half a brain can see the delayed shock; hell she can’t even speak. Her mouth just sort of hangs open. I know that this woman has seen horrors that are almost unimaginable to most people. This is not a cheap TV show or a film, this is for real, and unfortunately she will see it repeated over and over in her nightmares for the rest of her life. I know the feeling well.

  ‘What have we got?’ I ask the nearest copper.

  ‘One dead girl and I mean dead. She’s not a pretty picture in death.’

  I didn’t know there was such a thing in murder cases.

  ‘Just great,’ I snap, gearing myself up.

  ‘The rooms have been checked and cleared and the CSIs are already in.’

  Fantastic, how many people have trooped through this flat already? And how do the CSIs always get there before me?

  White protective suits, gloves and masks are thrust at us. I shrug mine on quickly, eager to get this over with. Mack takes a little longer trying to get the zip up over his protruding stomach; I do the decent thing and pretend not to notice. Looking around I make eye contact with another copper who’s free. ‘Who was the first on the scene?’

  ‘I was,’ replies Dave, an old hand at this who’s probably been called out to as many murders as me. Perhaps we should’ve kept score over the years.

  ‘Did you touch anything?’ I have to ask, knowing he will resent it, but still.

  He looks annoyed. ‘I know the procedures.’ I merely stare at him until he backs down first.

  ‘No sir, the door was already open.’

  ‘How about her?’ I nod to the woman.

  ‘Far as I can tell, she had a spare key. Hadn’t seen the girl for a few days, so she just unlocked the door and walked straight into hell.’

  ‘That’s what being a good neighbour will get you every time,’ says Mack, still fidgeting with his zip. It looks like he’s going to burst out of the suit.

  ‘Dave, get her out of here and take her back to the station. Get her statement and a full set of prints, but go easy on the woman, she’s already having a real bad day.’

  ‘Yes sir.’ Dave starts to walk away.

  ‘Hey Dave?’ He turns. ‘Don’t forget to bag her clothes and slippers here. I want them checked.’ He simply nods with his glare still in place.

  I look at Mack. ‘Let’s d
o it.’

  ‘Okay.’

  Steady steps, slow and sure, making positive that we didn’t compromise any evidence. I’m looking for clues, any sort of clue. The flat is tidy. I flick a finger over the mirror frame – no dust. Various watercolours hang neatly, so she obviously had a good eye for detail. Flowers in a vase have wilted due to the heaters being on full blast, a liquid mould grows in fetid blue and greens, the odour pungent. Jesus, it feels like a goddamn furnace in this suit. I give the kitchen the once-over, again spotless.

  ‘Looks secure, give it a check.’

  Mack nods and proceeds to give the door and hall windows a final check. Nothing, no signs of forced entry. This girl had let her victim in – why? A trail of mottled brown on the light beige carpet leads us into the lounge. Stark magnolia walls that look recently painted are now covered in a plethora of blood splatters. I can see the lemon silk curtains have numerous stains on them too. The CSI team are already here and we have no choice but to wait until they’ve completed their tests. The Forensic Medical Examiner has already started. He’s measuring her, taking the body temperature, various pictures of the blood splatters, examining her for rape and any other form of abuse. All I can hear is the click, click, click of the cameras working away, then a pause, more film loaded, the camera whining as it loads up again, click, click, click.

  What a way to end your life – murdered then demeaned by complete strangers taking your picture from every conceivable angle, in your moment of absolute and utter vulnerability. I despise this part, but try damn hard never to show it and give them the satisfaction. I think it’s the callousness of how they treat people in death; some FMEs are more understanding, more humane. Others, like this one, couldn’t give a monkey’s toss as he goes about his routine with undiluted venom.

  ‘What takes them so damn long?’ gripes Mack.