The Voyeur Page 7

  Albie thought for a moment, leant his elbows on the desk, he placed his fingers together in a steeple, then put them to his mouth and blew.

  “The murderer shows explosive anger when he kills. The damage he inflicted on Emily was over a period of time, as if she was his virgin kill because of the extended time between capture and death. Whereas the attack on Duke was quick but frenzied. Perhaps the killer had the luxury of time with Emily. She was almost definitely murdered inside and moved to the woods. She was his experiment.”

  Masters leaned back in her chair and tapped the wooden arms with her pen as Albie spoke. She watched a frown in his forehead and crows feet form at the corners of his eyes as he attempted to make sense of his thoughts aloud.

  “In your opinion, could there be more than one killer?”

  Albie shrugged. “Are you suggesting two different killers or two working together?”

  “I’m just putting it into the universe. Remember keep an open mind.”

  Albie stood. “Is that it, DI Masters?”

  She rose from her chair and followed him to the door. “One more request before you leave. I want you to talk to Emily’s son.”

  “Why? He can’t tell us anything.” Albie stopped, his hand on the door handle, and faced his boss. “The doctors are unsure whether he’ll speak again.”

  “I’m aware of the diagnosis, Edwards, but he doesn’t know about his mother’s death yet. It needs to be handled with care, and I want it to come from you. Keep attuned to his responses. Whatever trauma he’s experienced, he could help us find a killer.”

  Albie stared down at the beige carpet between their feet.

  “What if I make him worse? I don’t think I’m the right person to talk to him. What about Fawn? She’d be perfect.”

  DI Masters slipped her bag over her shoulder and picked up her mobile from the desk.

  “I want you there. Contact social services and keep them updated. Now get going.”

  She marched past him into the incident room and out of sight, leaving her order hanging in the air.

  17

  Strips of bright light reflected off metallic surfaces blinded the officers for a second when they first entered the room. As their eyes adjusted to the clinical scene in front of them, Albie heaved and tasted bile in the back of his throat. He was momentarily thankful he’d abandoned plans for lunch earlier.

  “Hey, you two.” Leo stepped up and shook them both by the hand, giving Tanya an extra smile and a sneaky wink. “I’ll be with you in a sec. Just finish writing this up.” He bent over the paperwork and continued to scribble.

  Albie strode away from Tanya, his attention focused on the contours under the white sheet on the autopsy table. He had witnessed the aftermath of many horrific deaths before and always had the same response—distress at all the pain and waste of life.

  Slipping his pen into his top pocket, Leo joined Albie at the slab, folded the sheet back, and exposed the top of the torso.

  “The time of death I stated at the crime scene was pretty accurate. Between five and seven in the morning. The amount of blood at the scene suggests that is where the murder took place.” Leo stopped and watched Tanya as she leant against the opposite wall scribbling in her notebook. His forehead furrowed. “I’ll send you a report, you know.”

  She paused and looked up from her notebook. “Yes, I know.” She felt heat rise from her neck, aware that a rosy blush had probably reached her cheeks. “But it’s just the key points that bring up other questions. I like to note them down to mull over at dinner.” She smiled and positioned her pen, ready to write.

  “Okay.” He returned the smile.

  Albie coughed. “Nico, my man. The corpse?”

  Leo fumbled with the sheet and exposed the rest of the body. “The attack was frenzied, and the killer used more than one weapon at a time. There are two deep entry wounds to the back. One in the lower right side and one under the ribs on the left side, which damaged a kidney. As the victim turned, the killer slashed him across the neck, slicing the carotid artery.”

  “So was that the fatal injury?” Tanya interrupted.

  “He would have bled out within minutes, so yes the slash to the neck killed him. He fell back and cracked his skull on the underpass wall. All of the other injuries were an afterthought.”

  “Or a statement?” Albie’s gaze hovered over the intrusive inscription which encroached on the victim’s stomach. Pointing at the debased area, he asked, “Was the victim lucid when he was violated in this way?”

  Leo shook his head. “The depth of the wounds and the amount of blood spilled from the wounds suggest the etchings were carried out post mortem.” Pointing to the wound in the area of the heart, he added, “As was this wound.”

  “So did the killer leave the large knife in the victim’s chest intentionally? What about fingerprints or DNA on the knife?”

  Leo gripped the blade of the knife in his gloved hand and held the handle up to the light as if in search of evidence.

  “Unfortunately, no. The killer knew the weapon wasn’t incriminating evidence. But the victim did put up a fight. He has additional cuts and marks as a result of a scuffle and contusions to his back and the back of his head caused by the impact with the underpass wall. I’ve sent samples of fibre and fingernail scrapings for analysis. I’ll let you know the outcome.”

  “And the carvings?”

  “Tanya, I knew you’d ask. We have another 4 and what looks like a J with an L beneath.” Leo sidled around Albie and addressed Tanya with a calculated grin on his face. “I’ve just had an idea. I’ve been struggling to make any sense of the chosen letters. Now I know you enjoy a puzzle. How about we make it competitive? The person who fails to solve the puzzle buys lunch for the other person. What do you think? Up for a challenge?”

  Tanya shuffled backwards until her body hit the wall.

  “I’m game if you are, Leo.” Albie patted him on the back. “Whoever loses has to buy three meals. Better start saving. I won’t be happy unless I’m eating steak.” The main door opened, and animated voices cut through their jest.

  “Come on, Watt’s, we’ve wasted far too much of Mr. Nico’s time. I’m sure he has more bodies to butcher.” He raised a hand in the air. “Grateful for your insight as always, and I look forward to the meal.”

  Leo sniggered, raised his hand to reciprocate, and started to clear away.

  They'd fallen into silence as they’d left the building, and they were still silent as they sat in the car. Albie looked at his watch. He estimated they’d been sitting in the car, seat belts on and ready to leave, for at least five minutes. He‘d dared to look at his partner’s profile as a sob filled the space. A shudder ran from her tense shoulders down her body but failed to touch her hands as they tightly gripped the steering wheel. Tanya faced front. An isolated tear hesitated and balanced on her lower eyelash before meandering down her cheek.

  Albie opened the car door. “I’ll drive, Tania, hop out.” His foot grazed the concrete.

  “It’s happening again.” Tanya’s face crumpled, and the shudders escalated into uncontrollable shaking. A shrill scream escaped her. “It’s happening again.”

  Grabbing a blanket from the backseat, Albie jumped out of the car. He negotiated his way between parked cars and a small group of people, pulled her from the car, and cocooned her in the blanket to protect her from nosy gossips.

  It wasn’t the first time he’d witnessed this kind of fallout. It happened many times in the job for different reasons. He’d come close to it himself on occasion.

  Albie gained inspiration in many ways; however, sitting in slow moving traffic, the chance of an epiphany was slim. Tanya managed to be curled in an upright ball and still be embraced in her seatbelt.

  “Look, Tanya, I know Leo’s suggestion may have been a bit forward, but your reaction…wasn’t it slightly over the top?” Albie’s gentle tone was lost under Tanya’s hiccupped laughter.

  “How shallow do you think
I am? No don’t answer that.”

  Albie smiled but kept his eye on the car in front.

  “Do you want to talk about it?”

  Tanya shook her head and screwed up her face. “I will, tomorrow. Now, I’m just exhausted.”

  Taking that as a cue to stop asking questions, he drove in silence until she’d navigated him to her door. He left her sitting up in bed watching a soppy romantic comedy and sipping brandy. He made her promise to phone her sister if she needed some company.

  The brandy had definitely helped her settle, and the strong wooded smell reminded him that he had an unopened bottle of single malt whiskey waiting for him at home.

  As the traffic idled towards the Larchwood turn off, he indicated at the last minute and cut in front of a car in the inside lane. Honks and shouts of abused followed him as he weaved through standing traffic and into free moving traffic. One more right turn by the traffic lights and two country lanes later, and he was home. The cut stone cottage was one of three, each one surrounded by a small garden. It was a real retreat, a pocket of peace in his busy life.

  Albie wandered from the bathroom, still towelling dry his sandy hair. The ends had begun to curl. A haircut was definitely overdue. Throwing on a t-shirt and jogging bottoms, Albie poured himself the generous measure of the single malt he’d promised himself earlier. He switched on the TV and sprawled on the black sofa, moulding into the soft material. Pressing the play button on the remote, he thanked whoever was listening that he’d remembered to pre-record the football. As a child he had spent the first day of the football season on the terraces at Highbury with his uncle Morgan. If the job allowed, he’d still go and watch his team. The whistle blew, and he was engrossed.

  Albie stood on the edge of a cliff, staring out at sea. Seagulls swooped and glided overhead, the breeze cool on his face. A dark cloud covered the sun, and he took another step. Rocks and pebbles crumbled underfoot, and he balanced on the precipice long enough to know it was the end. Air slammed out of his mouth, his face disfigured by the pressure. He held out his arms and closed his eyes and waited for impact.

  A hard slap to his face woke him from his dreams. It took a few moments for Albie to realise it was a knock from his own hand that had startled him awake. A distant ringing seeped into his head. Disorientated, he grabbed his phone, pausing the TV and cursing at the realisation that he’d managed to sleep through the first half of the match. His team was two goals down.

  He glanced at the caller’s name. “Edwards. This had better be important.” His voice and head groggy, he listened to the hitched breathing on the other end of the phone.

  “You told me to report anything I found. It may not have been the best decision to wait til the morning, so I took a chance.”

  Albie sat on the edge of the couch, put the glass to his lips, and drained the last drop of whiskey.

  “Okay, report.” Albie poured another finger of whiskey into his empty glass, relieved the call wasn’t a summons to go back to work.

  “Well,” he said, paper shuffling in the background. “Regarding the loan for the restaurant. The dealings Tyler Duke had with Donovan Coleman seem to be legit, on the surface. Only on further investigation, a few names have come to my attention that could counteract the legitimate part of the business.”

  “Go on. Dazzle me with your findings.” Albie smiled at his quick retort.

  “Apart from Donovan Coleman, the name Freddie Hurst has bounced onto my radar. He’s in a different league to Coleman. He’s got a criminal record spanning decades…”

  “Right, thanks, Frank. Great work. Tell you what, you concentrate on Coleman and the next of kin with Watts and leave Hurst to me.”

  “But, there’s more.”

  “No, Frank, that’s enough for one night. Good work. Get some sleep.”

  He ended the call and dragged his fingers through his hair. “Fucking Freddie. What a time to resurface. Tomorrow. He’ll have to wait until tomorrow.”

  Albie scanned his phone. Just as he’d thought—five missed calls, six text messages, and two voicemail messages. As expected, most of the calls had been from Frank, although two were from an unknown number. Frank had texted as well. He must have been cursing him, he thought. His mother had texted reminding him she was still alive. He chuckled. She’d even sent her address ‘in case he’d forgotten where she lived.’

  The final three texts were from Lucy.

  The first was mild: Where are you? I’m at this party alone! Hurry, I feel like an idiot.

  The second began with, I’m pissed off with you now -you bastard.

  And the third finished with, You’ve humiliated me for the last time, dickhead!

  Albie moved to the bedroom, rereading Lucy’s texts and tried to feel some kind of emotion. All he felt was relief that she’d finally got the message.

  Slipping out of his clothes, he folded the duvet back, puffed three pillows, and propped himself against them. With one hand, he drew the duvet to his waist, more for decency than need. The night temperatures were becoming unbearable. With the other hand, he scrolled the screen of his phone and listened to the voicemails. Lucy had filled the first message mainly with unflattering expletives, then finalised the end of their relationship by yelling that he was well and truly dumped. Deleting the message, he removed a pillow. Throwing it on the floor, he leaned back and prepared for more abuse. Instead, he had to turn up the volume to hear the soft voice. He sat upright in bed, fully attentive.

  “Hi, I probably have the wrong number or an old number. I know I shouldn’t phone you, but I guess the chances of you hearing this are slim. I just needed to say sorry. I was rude today. And I should have kept it professional. Anyway, I don’t expect to hear from you or anything. Oh…It’s Olivia Devine, by the way.”

  Smiling, Albie saved her number under O.D. Then texted her: UR 4 given. Eddie x

  18

  Reggie gripped the pole on the 654 bus with one hand. He’d pressed the button to request a stop and concentrated on keeping his balance. In his other hand he clutched a small bunch of pink and white carnations, Lana’s favourites. Unsteady on his feet, Reggie fell into a person next to him as the bus came to an abrupt halt. Apologising, he stepped through the opening doors. Negotiating the steps, he made his way through a huddle of people hovering around the bus stop and began to make the short walk to meet his wife.

  Reggie was glad he had been able to leave home without an interrogation as to where he was heading that morning. Nick didn’t understand his monthly ritual, and he wasn’t about to start explaining his actions to his son. After all, he didn’t interfere in Nick’s life. He wouldn’t ask where he’d been the previous evening. It didn’t mean he wasn’t curious, but it was none of his business. He couldn’t help but hope it meant his son’s social life was picking up again.

  The crematorium was peaceful as always. Guilt of leaving a six-week gap between this and his previous visit consumed him as he approached the maze of plaques. He was reluctant to burden Lana with his guilt or worries when he visited, and he approached with a strained grin on his mouth. God knows her short life had been traumatic enough, he thought. Reggie had decided years ago that the only news he’d share with Lana would be good news.

  He ran his fingers over the engraved lettering on her wall plaque and read the epitaph:

  MY ANGEL LANA

  Beloved Wife and Mother

  Amatores, honoris et muniat, semper

  LANA ANNE LANSBURY, 1963-1988

  Wiping tears from his cheeks, Reggie scanned the close proximity relieved to be alone. So much for keeping a cheerful persona. He had the same thoughts every time he visited. He’d only had her gravestone engraved in Latin because she’d fallen in love with translating when she went to university. Reggie had put an end to her education and her dreams when they’d married. He snorted. ‘Love, honour, and protect always’. What a joke!

  Arranging the flowers, he cleared his throat and apologised for the length of time between visi
ts. Next, he brought his wife up to date with the daily events of his life, hiding the emptiness of his existence from his voice.

  However sombre Reggie felt, he always focused on the here and now. The past was too painful, and what was the point in wallowing in her morbid death when she could remain his beautiful wife in his eyes?

  Nick never understood his resistance to talk about Lana. But how could he ever understand? It was Reggie’s coping mechanism. Nick had been young when his mother died. How could a four-year-old boy relate to the trauma of losing a wife? Yes, Nick had been at home when Lana was attacked. Reggie had seen him crouched at the top of the stairs, partially behind the wall with his eyes squeezed tight as if playing hide ’n’ seek. His son had been questioned time and again about his memories of that evening. Nothing.

  Reggie removed a battered paperback copy of Wuthering Heights from the inside pocket of his coat, scrolled through the pages to the turned down corner, and in a deep and mellow voice, continued to read Lana her favourite book.

  Two hours later, with a heavy heart, Reggie blew Lana a kiss and began the long journey home.

  19

  Number 121 Sutcliffe Way sat empty and boarded up like it’s neighbour 123. Although the turnover of residents on the Fennick Estate was substantially higher than any other owned by the local council, it was quite rare for neighbouring houses to be empty at the same time.

  “Bloody yobs. I’ve had enough of clearing up after them every morning.” Reggie stood at the kitchen window, knife in hand, waiting for the toaster to ping.

  “Tried to reason with them?”

  “I might just do that, if any of them appeared before nightfall. Want me to put a couple of slices in for you?”

  Nick washed his hands and stared out past his father, but could only make out the odd movements in the dim light. “I’ll have four.”