The Mermaids Singing

Half a dozen reporters had joined Penny Burgess behind the yellow plastic tapes. John Brandon faced them. As they grew closer, they could hear the cacophony of questions the press were hurling at the ACC. Carol and Tony hung back as Cross pushed past a constable standing at Brandon’s shoulder and shouted, ‘One at a time, ladies and gentlemen. You’ll all get heard.’

Brandon half turned towards Cross, his face expressionless. ‘Thank you, Superintendent Cross.’

‘Have we got a serial killer loose in Bradfield?’ Penny Burgess demanded, her voice cutting through the momentary quiet like the cry of some bird of ill omen.

‘There’s no reason to suppose …’ Cross started.

Brandon cut across him icily. ‘Leave this to me, Tom,’ he said. ‘As I said a moment ago, this afternoon we have found the body of a white male in his late twenties or early thirties. It’s too soon to be one hundred per cent certain, but there are indications that this killing may be connected to three previous homicides that have taken place in Bradfield over the last nine months.’

‘Does that mean you’re treating these murders as the work of one serial killer?’ asked a young man with a tape recorder thrust forward like a cattle prod.

‘We are examining the possibility that one perpetrator is responsible for all four crimes, yes.’

Cross looked as if he wanted to hit someone. His hands were bunched into fists at his sides, his brows so low they must have cut his vision to a slit. ‘Though it’s only a possibility at this stage,’ he said mutinously.

Penny chipped in ahead of the opposition again. ‘How will this affect your approach to the investigation, Mr Brandon?’

‘As of today, we will be amalgamating the three previous murder enquiries with this latest one into a single major incident task force. We will be making full use of the Home Office Large Major Enquiry System computer to analyse the available data, and we are confident that this will enable us to develop new leads,’ Brandon said, his lugubrious face belying the optimism in his voice.

‘Yo, go for it,’ Carol muttered under her breath.

‘Haven’t you left it a bit late? Hasn’t the murderer had a head start because you wouldn’t acknowledge he was a serial killer?’ a voice from the rear of the pack shouted angrily.

Brandon squared his shoulders and looked stern. ‘We’re policemen, not clairvoyants. We don’t theorize ahead of the evidence. Rest assured, we will be doing everything within our power to bring this killer to justice as swiftly as is humanly possible.’

‘Will you be using a psychological profiler?’ It was Penny Burgess again. Tom Cross shot Tony a look of pure hatred.

Brandon smiled. ‘That’s all for now, ladies and gentlemen. There will be a statement later from the force press office. Now, if you’ll excuse us, we’ve got a lot of work to do.’ He nodded benevolently towards the press, then he turned away, taking Cross firmly by the elbow. They walked back towards the alley, Cross’s back rigid with fury. Carol and Tony followed a few paces behind. As they went, Penny Burgess’s voice rang out behind them. ‘Inspector Jordan? Who’s the new boy?’

‘God, that woman doesn’t miss a trick,’ Carol muttered.

‘I’d better keep out of her way, then,’ Tony remarked. ‘Me ending up front-page news could be a serious health hazard.’

Carol stopped in her tracks. ‘You mean the killer could target you?’

Tony grinned. ‘No. I mean your Chief Constable would have an apoplexy.’

The irresistible urge to mirror his smile hit Carol. This man was unlike any Home Office Jobsworth she’d ever encountered. Not only did he have a sense of humour, he didn’t mind being indiscreet. And close up, he definitely fell into the category her friend Lucy described as ‘a bit chewy’. He was showing signs of being the first interesting man she’d met in the Job for a very long time. ‘You could be right,’ was all she said, managing to sound noncommittal enough for her words not to be held against her.

They reached the corner of the alley in time to see Tom Cross round on Brandon. ‘With respect, sir, you just contradicted everything I’ve been telling them buggers since this sideshow started.’

‘It’s time for a different approach, Tom,’ Brandon said coolly.

‘So why not discuss it with me instead of making me look a dickhead in front of that mob? Not to mention my own men.’ Cross leaned forward belligerently. His hand strayed upwards, index finger pointed, as if he were going to stab Brandon in the chest with it. But common sense careerism prevailed, and the hand dropped back by his side.

‘You think if I’d had you in my office and suggested a different approach I’d have got one?’ There was steel beneath the mildness in Brandon’s voice, and Cross recognized it.

His lower jaw jutted. ‘At the end of the day, operational decisions are down to me,’ he said. Beneath the belligerence, Tony pictured a small boy, an aggressive bully resenting the adults who still had the power to sort him out.

‘But I’m the ACC Crime and the buck stops with me. I make the policy decisions, and I’ve just made one that happens to impact on your sphere of operations. From now on, this is one single major incident enquiry. Is that clear, Tom? Or do you want to take it further?’ For the first time, Carol saw for herself how John Brandon had climbed so far up the greasy pole. The threat in his voice was no empty posturing. He was clearly prepared to do whatever it took to achieve his ends, and he acted with all the assurance of a man used to winning. There was nowhere left for Tom Cross to go.

Cross rounded on Carol. ‘Have you got nothing better to do, Inspector?’

‘I’m waiting to make my report, sir,’ she said. ‘You told me to wait for you after the press conference.’

‘Before you get into that … Tom, let me introduce you to Dr Tony Hill,’ Brandon said, motioning Tony to come forward.

‘We’ve met,’ Cross said, sullen as a schoolboy.

‘Dr Hill has agreed to work closely with us in this investigation. He’s got more experience in profiling serial offenders than just about anybody else in the country. He’s also agreed to keep his involvement under wraps.’

Tony gave a self-deprecating, diplomatic smile. ‘That’s right. The last thing I want is to turn your enquiry into a sideshow. If there’s any credit going when we nail this bastard, I want it to go to your team. They’ll be the ones doing the work, after all.’

‘You’re not wrong there,’ Cross muttered. ‘I don’t want you under our feet, getting in the road.’

‘None of us want that, Tom,’ Brandon said. ‘That’s why I’ve asked Carol to act as liaison officer between Tony and us.’

‘I can’t afford to lose a senior officer at a time like this,’ Cross protested.

‘You’re not losing her,’ Brandon said. ‘You’re gaining an officer with a unique overview of all the cases. Could prove invaluable, Tom.’ He glanced at his watch. ‘I better be off. The Chief’s going to want a briefing on this one. Keep me posted, Tom.’ Brandon sketched a wave and stepped back into the street and out of sight.

Cross pulled a packet of cigarettes out of his pocket and lit up. ‘You know your trouble, Inspector?’ he said. ‘You’re not as smart as you like to think you are. One step out of line, lady, and I’ll have your guts for a jock strap.’ He took a deep drag of his cigarette and leaned forward to blow smoke in Carol’s direction. The gesture was ruined by the gust of wind that snatched the smoke away before it reached her. Looking disgusted, Cross turned on his heel and marched back to the scene of the crime.

‘You meet a nice class of person in this job,’ Carol said.

‘At least I know now which way the wind blows,’ Tony replied. As he spoke, he felt a drop of rain on his face.

‘Oh shit,’ Carol said. ‘That’s all we need. Look, can we meet tomorrow? I can grab the files tonight and skim them beforehand. Then you can get stuck in.’

‘Fine. My office, ten o’clock?’

‘Perfect. How do I find you?’

Tony gave Carol directions, then watched as she hurried back down the alley. An interesting woman. And attractive too, most men would agree to that. There were times when he almost wished he could find an uncomplicated response in himself. But he’d long since gone beyond the point where he would allow himself to be attracted to a woman like Carol Jordan.

It was after seven when Carol finally made it back to headquarters. When she rang John Brandon’s extension, she was pleasantly surprised to find him still at his desk. ‘Come on up,’ he told her.

She was even more surprised when she walked through his secretary’s door and found him pouring two steaming mugs from the coffee maker. ‘Milk and sugar?’ he asked her.

‘Neither,’ she said. ‘This is an unexpected pleasure.’

‘I gave up smoking five years ago,’ Brandon confided. ‘Now it’s only the caffeine that holds me together. Come through.’

Carol walked into his office, fired with curiosity. She’d never been across the threshold before. The decor was regulation cream paint, the furniture identical to Cross’s office, except that here the wood was gleaming, free from scuffs, scratches, cigarette burns and the telltale rings left by hot cups. Unlike most senior officers, Brandon hadn’t decorated his walls with police photographs and his framed commendations. Instead, he’d chosen half a dozen reproductions of turn-of-the-century paintings of Bradfield street scenes. Colourful yet moody, often rain-soaked, they mirrored the spectacular view from the seventhfloor window. The only item in the room that ran true to expectation was the photograph of his wife and children on the desk. Even that was no posed, studio shot, but an enlargement of a holiday snap on board a sailboat. Deduction: in spite of the impression Brandon strove to give as a bluff, straightforward, conventional copper, he was actually far more complex and thoughtful under the surface.

He waved Carol to a pair of chairs in front of his desk, then sat down in the other one. ‘One thing I want to be clear about,’ Brandon said without preliminary. ‘You report to Superintendent Cross. He’s in charge of this operation. However, I want to see copies of your reports and Dr Hill’s, and I want to know any theories the pair of you come up with that you’re not ready to commit to paper. Think you can handle that balancing act?’

Carol’s eyebrows rose. ‘There’s only one way to find out, sir,’ she said.

Brandon’s lips twitched in a half smile. He’d always preferred honesty to bullshit. ‘OK. I want you to make sure you are given access to everybody’s files. Any problems with that, any sense that anyone’s trying to stall you and Dr Hill, and I want to know about it, no matter who’s responsible. I’ll talk to the squad myself in the morning, make sure nobody’s in any doubt about what the new rules of the game are. Anything you need from me?’

Another twelve hours in the day would be a start, Carol thought wearily. Loving a challenge was all very well. But this time, it looked like love was going to be an uphill struggle.

Tony closed his front door behind him. He dropped his briefcase where he stood and leaned against the wall. He’d got what he wanted. It was a battle of wits now, his insight against the killer’s stockade. Somewhere in the pattern of these crimes there lay a labyrinthine path straight to a murderer’s heart. Somehow, Tony had to tread that path, wary of misleading shadows, careful to avoid straying into treacherous undergrowth.

He shrugged away from the wall, feeling suddenly exhausted, and headed for the kitchen, pulling off his tie and unbuttoning his shirt on the way. A cold beer, and then he could go through his scanty collection of press clippings on the three previous murders. He had just opened the fridge to grab a can of Boddingtons when the phone rang. He slammed the door shut and snatched up the extension, juggling with the cold can. ‘Hello?’ he said.

‘Anthony,’ the voice said.

Tony swallowed hard. ‘This isn’t a good time,’ he said, cutting coldly across the husky contralto coming down the line. He dumped the can on the worktop and popped the ring pull with one hand.

‘Playing hard to get? Oh, well, that’s part of the fun, isn’t it? I thought I’d cured you of trying to avoid me. I thought we’d left all that behind us. Don’t say you’re going to regress and hang up on me again, that’s all I ask.’ The voice was teasing, laughter bubbling just beneath the surface.

‘I’m not playing hard to get,’ he said. ‘It really isn’t a good time.’ He could feel the slow burn of anger rising from the pit of his stomach.

‘That’s up to you. You’re the man. You’re the boss. Unless, of course, you want things different for a change. If you catch my drift.’ The voice was almost a sigh, teasing him with its elusive quality. ‘After all, this is strictly between you and me. Consenting adults, as they say.’

‘So don’t I have the right to say no, not right now? Or is it only women who have that right?’ he said, hearing the tension in his voice as the anger rose like bile in his throat.

‘God, Anthony, your voice gets so sexy when you’re angry,’ the voice purred.

Nonplussed, Tony held the phone away from his ear, staring at it as if it were an artefact from another planet. Sometimes he wondered if what came out of his mouth were the same words that arrived in his listeners’ ears. With a clinical detachment he couldn’t bring to his caller, he noted that his grip on the phone was so tight his fingers were white. After a moment, he put the receiver back to his ear. ‘Just listening to your voice makes me wet, Anthony,’ she was saying. ‘Don’t you want to know what I’m wearing, what I’m doing right now?’ The voice was seductive, the breathing more audible than it had been at first.

‘Look, I’ve had a hard day, I’ve got a load of work to do and much as I enjoy our little games, I’m not in the mood tonight.’ Agitated, Tony looked desperately round his kitchen as if searching for the nearest exit.

‘You sound so tense, my darling. Let me soothe all that pressure away. Let’s play. Think of me as a relaxation technique. You know you’ll work better afterwards. You know I give you the best time you’ve ever had. With a stud like you and a sex queen like me, there’s nothing we can’t do. And for starters, I’m going to give you the dirtiest, sexiest, horniest phone call we’ve ever shared.’

Suddenly, his anger found a weakness in the dam and burst free. ‘Not tonight!’ Tony yelled, slamming the phone down so hard the can of beer jumped. Creamy froth swelled up through the triangular hole in the top. Tony stared at it in disgust. He picked up the can and threw it in the sink. The can clattered against the stainless steel, then rolled from side to side. Beer and foam spurted out in brown and cream gouts as Tony dropped into a crouch, head down, hands over his face. Tonight, faced with staring into the depths of someone else’s nightmares, he absolutely did not want the inevitable confrontation with his own deficiencies that the phone calls always brought in their wake. The phone rang again, but he remained motionless, eyes squeezed shut. When the answering machine picked up, the caller disconnected the line. ‘Bitch,’ he said viciously. ‘Bitch.’

FROM 3½″ DISK LABELLED: BACKUP.007; FILE LOVE.003

When my neighbours go out to work in the morning, they leave their German shepherd loose in the back yard. All day long, he lopes restlessly up and down the yard, quartering the poured concrete with the diligence of a prison officer who really loves the work. He’s heavy-set, black and brindle, with a shaggy coat. Whenever anyone enters the yards on either side of his, he barks, a long, deep-throated cacophony that lasts far longer than any intrusion. When the bin men come down the back alley to trundle our wheelie bins to their truck, the dog becomes hysterical, standing on his hind legs, forepaws scrabbling uselessly against the heavy wooden gate. I’ve watched him from the vantage point of my back-bedroom window. He’s nearly as tall as the gate itself. Perfect, really.

Next Monday morning, I bought a couple of pounds of steak and cut it into one-inch cubes, like all the best recipes say. Then I made a small incision in each cube and inserted one of the tranquillizers my doctor insists on prescribing for me. I never wanted them, and certainly never use them, but I’d had the feeling they might come in useful one day.

I came out of my back door and listened cheerfully to the dog’s salvo of barks. I could afford to be cheerful; it would be the last time I’d have to endure it. I plunged my hand into the bowl of moist meat, enjoying its cool, slippery feel. Then I tossed it over the wall in handfuls. I returned indoors, washed up and went upstairs to my vantage point by the computer. I chose the atmospheric world of Darkseed, calming my excitement with the gothic and macabre underworld I had come to know so well. In spite of my absorption in the game, though, I couldn’t help glancing out of the window every few minutes. After a while, he slumped to the ground, tongue lolling out of his mouth. I exited from my game and picked up my binoculars. He seemed to be breathing, but wasn’t moving.

I ran downstairs, picking up the holdall I’d prepared earlier, and got into the jeep. I reversed it down the alley till the tailgate was level with next-door’s yard gate. I turned off the engine. Silence. I couldn’t resist a certain smug satisfaction as I picked up my crowbar and jumped down. It took moments to force next-door’s gate. As it swung open, I could see the dog hadn’t stirred. I opened the holdall and crouched down beside him. I shoved his tongue back into his mouth and taped his muzzle shut with a roll of surgical tape. I bound his legs together, front and back, and dragged him to the jeep. He was heavy, but I keep myself in shape, and it wasn’t too hard to manhandle him into the back.

His breath was coming in soft snores when we got to the farmhouse, but there was no flicker of consciousness, even when I thumbed back his eyelids. I tipped him into the wheelbarrow I’d left out there, wheeled him through the cottage and emptied him down the flight of steps. I switched on the lights and hauled the dog on to the rack like a sack of potatoes, then turned to study my knives. I’d fitted a magnetic strip to the wall, and there they hung suspended, each sharpened to a professional edge; cleaver, filleting knife, carving knife, paring knife and craft knife. I chose the craft knife, cut away the tape from the dog’s legs and spread him out on his stomach. I fastened the strap round his middle to hold him tightly against the rack. That’s when I realized I had a problem.

Sometime in the past few minutes, the dog had stopped breathing. I thrust my head against the rough hairs of his chest, searching for a heartbeat, but it was too late. I’d obviously miscalculated the drug dosage, and given him too much. I was furious, I have to admit. The dog’s death wouldn’t affect the practicalities of scientifically testing my apparatus, but I had been looking forward to his suffering; a small revenge for the dozens of times his demented barking had woken me up, especially when I’d come off a hard night shift. But he’d died without a moment’s suffering. The last thing he’d known was a couple of pounds of steak. It didn’t please me that he’d died happy.

That wasn’t all; I soon discovered a second problem. The straps I’d fitted were fine for human ankles and wrists. But the dog didn’t have hands or feet to stop his limbs slipping free.

I didn’t puzzle for long. It was a far from elegant solution, but it served my purpose. I still had some six-inch nails left over from the repairs and modifications I’d made to the cellar. I carefully placed his left front paw so it straddled a gap in the timbers. I felt for the space between the bones and, with one blow of my club hammer, I drove the nail through at right angles to the paw, just above the last joint. I fixed the strap below the nail, and tugged at it. I reckoned it would hold for long enough.

I’d fixed the other legs within five minutes. Once he was securely strapped down, I was finally able to get started on the business of the day. Even with the bare prospect of a purely scientific experiment, I could feel the excitement rising in me till it was like a hard lump in my throat. Almost, it seemed, without conscious thought, my hand strayed to the handle of the rack. I watched it, detached, as if it were the hand of a stranger. It caressed the cogs, ran lightly over the wheel, and finally came to rest on the handle. The aroma of lubricating oil still hung lightly on the air, melding with the faint smell of paint and the stale, doggy smell of my assistant in the experiment. I took a deep breath, shivered in anticipation, and slowly began to turn the handle.

3

I do not stick to assert, that any man who deals in murder must have very incorrect ways of thinking, and truly inaccurate principles.

Don Merrick unzipped his flies. With a sigh of relief, he relaxed his muscles and let his bursting bladder empty. Behind him, the cubicle door opened. His pleasure was abruptly shattered when a heavy hand descended on his shoulder. ‘Sergeant Merrick. Just the man I wanted to see,’ Tom Cross boomed. Inexplicably, Merrick discovered he couldn’t finish what he’d started.

‘’Morning, sir,’ he said cautiously, shaking himself and quickly tucking his manhood out of Cross’s sight.

‘Told you about her new assignment, has she, your guv’nor?’ Cross asked, all lads-together bonhomie.

‘She mentioned it, yes, sir.’ Merrick looked longingly at the door. But there was no escape. Not with Cross’s hand still clamped on his shoulder.

‘I hear you’re planning on taking your inspector’s exams,’ Cross remarked.

Merrick’s stomach clenched. ‘That’s right, sir.’

‘So you’ll be needing all the friends in high places you can find, eh, lad?’

Merrick forced his lips apart in what he hoped was a smile to match Cross’s. ‘If you say so, sir.’

‘You’ve got the makings of a good officer, Merrick. As long as you remember where your loyalties lie. I know Inspector Jordan’s going to be a very busy lady over the next few weeks. She might not always have time to keep me fully abreast of things.’ Cross leered suggestively. ‘I’ll be relying on you to keep me informed of all developments. You understand, lad?’

Merrick nodded. ‘Aye, sir.’

Cross dropped his hand and made for the door. Opening it, he turned back to Merrick and said, ‘Especially if she starts shagging our doctor friend.’

The door sighed shut behind Cross. ‘Fuck and bollocks,’ Merrick said softly to himself as he moved to the washbasin and started scrubbing his hands vigorously under the hot tap.

Tony had been at his desk since eight. So far, all he’d done was make some photocopies of the Crime Analysis Report form he’d devised for the projected task force. Heavily based on the FBI’s Violent Criminal Apprehension Program questionnaire, it aimed to produce a standard classification of every aspect of the crime, from the victim through to the forensic evidence. He shuffled the forms absently, then rearranged his newspaper cuttings into a neat pile. He justified his lack of activity by telling himself that until Carol arrived with the police files, there was little he could do. But that was merely an excuse.

The truth was, there was good reason why concentration was eluding him. She was in his head again. The mystery woman. At the start, he’d felt vulnerable, unwilling to take part in her games. Just like his patients, he thought ironically. How many times had he uttered the maxim that everybody was reluctant to cooperate with therapy at some level? He’d lost count of the number of times he’d slammed the phone down in the early days. But she had persisted, patiently continuing to administer her soothing persuasions till he had started to relax, even to join in.

She had completely thrown him off balance. She had seemed from the first to have an instinct for his Achilles heel, yet she never attacked it. She was everything anyone could desire in a fantasy lover, from gentle to raunchy. The key question for Tony was whether he was pathetic because he managed to relate to pornographic phone calls from a stranger, or whether he should congratulate himself on being so well adjusted that he understood what he needed and what worked for him. But he could not escape the fear that, if not yet dependent on the phone calls, he was at risk of succumbing to that danger. Already incapable of sustaining a normal sexual relationship, was he colluding in the worsening of his condition, or was he moving towards recovery? The only way to test which was correct was to attempt the shift from fantasy to reality. But he was still too wary of fresh humiliation for that. For now, it seemed he’d have to settle for the mysterious stranger who managed to make him feel like a man for long enough to drive the demons underground.