TICK TICK TICK Read online

‘They just like pissing us off,’ I snipe, the old fury beginning to boil up inside me, questions already forming in my mind.

  Why did she let him in? Did she know him? Would I get to know him? Dear God I hope so, I really hope so.

  Finally we get the nod to come over. I stand looking at what was once a beautiful young girl filled with vitality and the sparkle and zest of life. Her hair is now matted with blood, smears of it on her face are now dried dirt brown, and blood has seeped from the corner of her mouth and her nose, encrusted now upon the whitewashed porcelain face. Her eyes have sunken into the deepest hollows, as if trying to escape from the ravages of excruciating pain. All that looks back at me now is a bruised and battered face with the familiar vacant stare of death, haunting me with so many unanswered questions.

  I can feel that hatred lines the room like an ozone layer, evil films seeping one above the other, entwisted and encircled in death. She lies sprawled on the floor, her hands bound tightly behind her back. The neck lies at an awkward angle, obviously snapped. I can see a range of ligature marks around her neck, the sallow cream dress completely shredded, her underwear shredded too. Through the ripped clothes I see that her belly has been split open, the cut running all the way down from her breasts to her hips – I can actually see her insides.

  Mack recoils. ‘Oh shit!’

  The hairs on the back of my neck prickle. I didn’t like the feeling of this case one little bit. This was no normal run-of-the-mill street murder. The FME glances up at me; I know him from way back, a smart-mouthed bitter old hack who couldn’t wait another day for retirement, and he treats each case like it was just another tick in the box. He’s wiry and has a face that has seen too much death, his nose slightly crooked and a mouth that droops to one side. I know he’s going to pass on this case as if it was on fire – too much trouble for him.

  ‘You’re not really going to ask me what she died of, right?’ he snarls.

  ‘Don’t piss me around, I need the actual cause of death, and you damn well know it,’ I bite back at him, my eyes not moving from his. Another grimace and he turns away – Chickenshit, I think.

  He bags her hands and then bags her head to protect any evidence; she looks like she’s been vacuum-packed now. Mack walks off in disgust. I can see his fists clenching and unclenching in undisguised anger. He stops… noticing that all her shoes are in the corner of the lounge, arranged from lowest to the highest heel.

  ‘I’ll let you know when I’ve done the post.’ the FME gripes.

  ‘Need it like yesterday, Doc.’ I try a smile, not sure if it works, but anything’s worth a try.

  ‘Don’t you always?’ Sarcasm oozes from his twisted mouth, as does a little drool. Lovely.

  ‘You got a time of death?’

  He starts packing his samples neatly away, almost lovingly. I try not to look, but I can’t help it.

  ‘I suspect around two to four days, maybe more. Once I’ve done the cut and got all the lab samples back, you’ll be the first to know.’

  I didn’t believe that line for a second. I know as soon as he gets the body back to the morgue he’ll pass this one straight on to someone else. He’s getting a little irked at me now, but frankly I don’t give a toss. I have a job to do as well.

  He stuffs her body into the bag like it’s a piece of meat; there is no delicate touch, no respect and certainly no decorum. I watch the vacuum-packed head being quickly covered and I’m relieved.

  ‘Was she raped?’

  He sighs loudly. ‘Repeatedly.’

  I’m getting to the stage I’d like to shove my fist into the other side of his mouth, kind of straighten it up for him – I hold my tongue and clench my fists instead.

  Mack traipses back in. ‘I’d say we got one more weird nutter on the loose.’

  ‘Nothin’ new there then,’ I reply.

  ‘You see the shoes?’

  ‘I saw.’

  ‘How come her shoes were in the lounge?’

  ‘Maybe she moved them? Who knows?’

  We move through to the bedroom, this was definitely a young woman’s room; soft lighting, floral curtains, contrasting cushions on the bed. I never could understand why women always needed to put cushions on a bed, I mean they just get chucked off anyway, unless she only used the bed herself? An old, tired music box sits on the night stand, its paint scratched and faded with a broken ballet dancer inside, the once candy pink costume now faded to a mottled grey. It still has all her valuables in it. The song is ‘Ave Maria’, and I wonder momentarily if that will be played at her funeral now instead? In the box of jewellery are a pretty sapphire ring, some gold chains, earrings and a bracelet; nothing too posh, but good enough for a burglar.

  The chest of drawers has been ripped open, the contents searched, pants and bras hung out staring at me, reminding me that a young life that should have just been starting is now at a bitter and savage end. Her wardrobe has been ransacked, clothes scattered around. There’s plenty of space for shoes, but none are there – why have they been moved? And who moved them?

  ‘My guess is he’s cleaned it. We’re not going to find anything here, but send the boys in anyway, see what else they can turn up.’ I can feel the first beats of frustration.

  ‘Okay.’ Mack makes the necessary calls without question.

  On my way out I notice that the pictures of her family and friends are all lopsided – moved? I take another look. The girl was sitting in a back garden playing on an old wooden swing when she was a child, happy, smiling, and enjoying the sun on her face. The exuberance of a child content with life, laughter and play. Another with her parents, their arms enfolding her like a security blanket, all three happily laughing into the camera. There are shots of various family scenes, all comfortable and relaxed in each other’s company. A family once united will now be divided, ripped apart by unbearable grief. Why would anyone bother to move pictures? I ask forensics to check for prints. We move out, letting the team get on with their job – there’s nothing much else we can do here for now.

  Leaving the flat I feel an inordinate sense of sorrow. The banality of death never gets any easier with time – in fact it gets worse. I stride back to the car, the wind still whips and stings in my face and I welcome it, anything to dissipate the unforgettable stench of death.

  The pavements are now heaving with people. They don’t care about the weather; all they want to see is the dead body in the bag rolled out before them. What is it about ordinary people that turns them into bloodthirsty sightseers of death? Even at a road accident scene, you can spot all the drivers slowing down, craning their necks to try to get a glimpse, to see if anyone’s dead. Perhaps if they had to deal with it like me they would change their opinion. Somehow I doubt it.

  Good news obviously spreads fast. The media frenzy had begun in earnest; their vans are rammed everywhere, parked haphazardly on the roads and pavements with their antennas flailing in the wind. Reporters rush to get to me, it’s always the same. Tape recorders and microphones are plunged in my face as I try to get past. I do my usual imitation of a bored copper, glower at them, and ignore them with practised ease.

  ‘No comment,’ is my stock reply.

  ‘But if you could just give us the exact details,’ asks a probing reporter with an innocent smile on her face.

  ‘Are you deaf? I said no comment.’ Marching off, her reply isn’t the most polite I’ve ever heard. Let’s put it this way, she’s certainly no lady.

  I stop the first copper I see, away from the throbbing crowd.

  ‘I want the results of the neighbourhood canvas on my desk, like yesterday, and make sure the witness’ statement is waiting for me in the morning.’

  ‘Yes sir.’

  ‘And get rid of these media jerkoffs!’ I shout.

  Mack catches up with me. As we near the car more flashbulbs go off, in his face for a change, making him jump out of his skin. I turn and recognise that purple tinge that’s taking hold of his face; and I know what’s comin
g next. He grabs the photographer by his coat and pulls it tight around his throat. The guy’s gasping for breath as he tries to get away, but the more he tries, the harder Mack pulls. I can actually hear the guy wheezing and choking; I simply stand and do nothing – just watch. The camera finally falls to the ground and Mack accidentally thumps his big boot down on it.

  ‘You’re really pissin’ me off. Unless you want my foot up your arse, take a walk pal.’ One of these days Mack’s going to get in trouble for that. Not from me, of course.

  We finally make it into the car and Mack rams the vehicle in and out trying to get away. I watch the media clamouring over each other, jostling to get the most gruesome shots of the body bag being loaded into the FME’s van, the old hack smiling and posing for pictures like he’s the star of some goddamn gruesome TV show. It repulses me – have they no compassion for the sacrifice of another human being? Mack’s getting pissed at the struggle to get the car out. Finally he manoeuvres a way, nearly hitting another woman reporter. She screams obscenities at him and gives him the finger. What happened to all the polite media ladies? Oh yes, they don’t exist round here.

  ‘Bloody media – they’re like rats, running out of every stinkin’ sewer.’

  ‘Rats have more manners,’ I reply.

  CHAPTER 2

  I wander back into the squad room. It’s crammed, bustling with activity. Coppers are sifting through mountains of files, computer keyboards are frantically being pressed, telephones ring constantly, the whining heavy in the air. Some just leave them off the hook, fed up with crank callers, crap leads, or just plain fed up. I know the feeling well. People stream in and out, passing any type of information and adding to a never-ending caseload that overwhelms us. I see Mike Spears, your characteristically arrogant macho copper, making a move on a colleague Wendy; he’s all body with no brain cells… really, not an ounce. Now don’t get me wrong, Wendy’s one fine looking lady; beautiful, with legs that seem to stretch for forever, skin like silk and a body that you would walk on water for… but she’s no one’s fool, least of all his. I watch this evolving scene with interest.

  ‘Wendy, babe, you know I’m your man. Hell, that probationer you’ve been seeing, he don’t know how to treat a woman like you.’ Mike leers towards her, but she just looks bored.

  ‘Try it on someone who cares,’ she yawns back.

  Most of the other coppers, sensing something afoot, turn and stare, a lot of whistling begins. Mike puffs up his overworked chest; he looks like a cockerel on heat about to get laid – fat chance.

  ‘Now boys, wait in line, I saw her first.’ He swaggers up to Wendy, casually draping his arm over her shoulder, his hand brushing purposely across her breast. Bad move, I think. He doesn’t see the staple gun in her hand. She deftly thumps him in the balls with it.

  ‘Jesus!’

  He doubles over in agony, sagging to his knees, his hands cupping his groin, tears springing from his eyes. So much for the hard man act now.

  Wendy smirks. ‘No means no – you got that one now? Or do I need to repeat myself?’

  The place erupts; coppers are falling over themselves cracking up, me included. It lightens the sullen atmosphere in the room, if only for a few minutes.

  Mike gasps, ‘You don’t know what you’re missing.’ He’s still holding his groin. Perhaps she stuck a staple in it? I can only hope.

  ‘Oh, I heard, and it isn’t much.’ She waves her little finger in his face. That’s it, explosions of laughter, his humiliation is complete as Wendy walks right over him, her eyes dancing, flicking the hair out of her face as she tip-taps purposefully out of the room. Mike’s now rolling on the floor in complete misery and mortification – and I love it, love every damn minute of it. Who says a female copper can’t handle herself?

  Mack walks in and tosses a file onto my desk. He sinks into the old, worn plum leather chair opposite, stuffs an unlit cigarette in his mouth and plants his great big feet on my desk. I ignore him and flick the file open. Mack starts reciting what he already knows.

  ‘She was Kathy Garland, age twenty-eight, a local shop manager. Her boss says she was well liked, friendly and easy going, due for a promotion shortly. She had no recent boyfriends that anyone knew of, no debts, good credit history, no priors – not even a traffic ticket. In other words, your perfect model citizen.’

  Mack ignores the no smoking policy and lights up. I turn and breathe deeply, trying to ignore the smoke wafting my way, and sigh.

  ‘Where’s her car now?’

  ‘In the compound, waiting for forensics.’

  ‘What about the neighbours? Anybody hear anything, see anything suspicious?’

  ‘Nobody knows nothin’.’

  How the hell can a young woman be brutally murdered in her own home and the neighbours don’t see or hear a damn thing? Impatience floods once again to the surface.

  ‘Jesus, she must have been screaming for help, you saw those defensive wounds, and she must have been screaming her bloody lungs out.’ My hands instinctively ball into fists.

  Mack simply shrugs his shoulders. ‘You know what kind of neighbourhood it is. Too many gangs, pimps, prostitutes, illegals and deadbeats, they just don’t want to get involved.’

  ‘Well make them get involved. I don’t care if you have to get a damn search warrant for every single flat, but I want to start getting some answers – fast!’

  Mack nods his head. He can understand my frustration, feels it too; he knows I’m not mad at him, just mad in general.

  ‘Something about this stinks. I’ve got a real bad feeling about this one.’

  I drum my fingers on the desk, picturing the girl lying on the floor, another picture of her playing on a swing. Mack stubs out his cigarette, flicking ash everywhere, scrounges in his pocket for a faded pack of gum, stuffs a piece of it in his mouth and starts chomping away.

  ‘Jesus, Downey, in all the years I worked with you – you always get a bad feeling, especially about murders.’

  Now I am pissed off. What happened to good old fashioned police work, like using your brain to try to get things solved? I hate murders I can’t solve. In fact I hate anything I can’t solve, it’s a bad habit of mine and he knows it. I glare at him watching me, waiting for my response. Let’s not disappoint him, I think.

  ‘I’m telling you Mack, she isn’t his first – and she isn’t gonna be his last. You see if I’m right… again!’

  I swipe Mack’s legs off my desk; he nearly falls backwards out of the chair.

  ‘Stop smoking in the office and get the dog crap off your shoes – they stink!’

  Thinking I’m not looking, I watch as he picks up a leg and starts sniffing a shoe. I walk out, smirking.

  I stroll down to the reception area and begin checking what new leads are coming in. Scraps of paper are thrust at me, fast and furious, and as soon as I tuck a fistful into my pocket, more are shoved my way. The place is crammed with a mixture of media and perverts, each trying to outdo the other – it’s a close call, I know. It’s utter chaos. The desk sergeant is looking sorely stressed, an old timer who hates all this crap. Dealing with the scourge of mankind and the dregs of the media isn’t fun. One of the usual perverts sidles up to the desk, filthy jeans, ripped Pink Floyd top, hair matted with dirt and booze dripping from his breath. I can smell him from twenty feet away.

  ‘Look Kenny, just crawl back to your hole.’

  ‘I’m telling you sarge, I busted that child wide open.’

  ‘Oh yeah? How?’

  Kenny begins to get excited, rubbing his hands together, his eyes widening in anticipation. ‘Well, you know, she got a little too worked up, if you know what I mean. So I just blew her head off – it was glorious.’

  ‘Not this time tosser, now get the hell out of my sight!’

  I want to spit on the son of a bitch as he leaves – scum, pure evil scum. The desk sergeant just looks at me, despair written in his eyes.

  ‘Pervs, they just crawl out their hole anytim
e there’s a damn murder.’

  ‘I know sarge, just keep on doing what you’re doing, that’s all you can do. Hell, maybe one of these days they’ll actually have done something that we can slam them in the cells for.’

  ‘I ain’t got enough bloody cells for these perverts.’ Disgust washes over him as another one sidles up.

  A petite, graceful middle-aged woman walks to the desk. She’s in a dark winter coat, matching gloves and handbag, her hair greying. Her face is slightly familiar to me, but I can’t quite place her. The eyes are wide but vacant, red-rimmed. Her cheekbones seem to have receded into the smallness of her face so that her head seems out of proportion, even on her small frame.

  The desk sergeant doesn’t even look up.

  ‘Yes?’ he barks.

  ‘Could someone help me please?’ she quivers.

  She looks totally out of place and utterly lost. I give him a little nudge and he glances up.

  ‘What can I do for you, ma’am?’

  ‘My daughter.’

  ‘Uh huh.’

  It comes out in a strangled whisper. ‘The body – she was my daughter.’

  ‘What body would that be ma’am?’

  ‘Kathy, Kathy Garland.’

  His eyes snap up. ‘Jesus, I’m sorry ma’am. If you’d just like to come this way.’

  Suddenly I remember her from the pictures in her daughter’s flat. She is taken away for questioning, standard procedure in a case like this. It seems like a million flashbulbs go off all at once as the media frenzy at the back of the room realise who she is. They holler questions at us, not giving a hoot that this poor woman can hear every word.

  Sometimes I could cheerfully pull a gun on the lot of them.

  I know I’m going to get called through to the back to interview her, so I make my way there anyway. She’s been put in a small cramped room; all strip lights with no windows – not exactly warming. I nod to Fletch who’s managed to sit her down and place a glass of water in her fragile hands. It shakes between her fingers.

  ‘Ma’am, please try to take a sip,’ he says, not having the right words. Does anyone? Wendy comes down to offer assistance. It’s always helpful to have a woman with you in a situation like this. That’s not a biased comment, just pure common sense.