The Trophy Taker Page 16

  His last hope foundered. JJ was disgusting. He needed to get the job done, fulfil his plan.

  ‘Here, have some G. It’ll help you relax and have a good time.’

  He squeezed a few millilitres of the odourless liquid into a small bottle of Coke. It was the drug of choice for many in the gay community. Little did his hostage know that there was already enough metallic alloy wheel-cleaner in the bottle to render him unable to fight.

  JJ took the bottle, swigging the whole of the contents down. He watched as JJ’s eyes first became alive, then fixed and glassy and then closed. He watched as his body started to twitch and spasm, each muscle in his face moving independently as if trying to rip his skin apart. He smiled at the analogy. He’d soon be doing that to JJ himself.

  He wasn’t going to let him die yet though and not from the drug. Locking the car doors shut, he pulled away slowly, carefully winding through the backstreets, savouring every second of how his plan was unfolding. JJ was his, to do with as he pleased. Before his final moments he wanted JJ to recognise the kindly stranger and then very slowly understand what pain was all about and why he had to die.

  *

  The Downs cemetery in Bear Road, Brighton, spread out over a huge area, not far from the South Downs, from which its name had derived. The driveway led to the main crematorium with areas of graves stretched as far as the eye could see in all directions, in neat squares with the tombstones upright and the grounds well tended.

  He had already scoped out the location, particularly liking the area set aside for war veterans and the Jewish community. His favourite part, however, was the woodland area in the far corner. It was left natural and unkempt and just right for JJ, the wild child.

  JJ was conscious now but his body continued to twitch and spasm with the drug’s effects. His captive could do little more than lift one foot in front of the other and even this appeared difficult. At present he had complete control of JJ’s movements, but it was only a matter of time before he would rouse further, so preparations were in force.

  He guided them through a part of the outer wall which had been damaged by a fallen tree and walked slowly towards the woodland. A thick scarf stopped his hostage crying out for help and further ligatures kept his hands and feet bound loosely, allowing some movement but not enough for him to break free and run or fight, should the drug wear off. Anyway, he was more than capable of overpowering his prey. JJ was weak. He always had been.

  The sky was heavy and the wind still gusted temperamentally. Only tiny shafts of moonlight were strong enough to break through the cloud cover, so the graveyard seemed shadowy and threatening.

  As they walked, the grounds became more disorganised, the neat squares changing to less formal shapes, with tombstones protruding from the earth at disparate angles. He said nothing. JJ was silent too, making no attempt to speak; it was as if he was content to go without question; as if he didn’t care that he was being led to his death.

  They were nearly there now and he didn’t know how he felt. One minute overjoyed to have his lost love with him again; the next hating him for his betrayal and desertion.

  He guided JJ along the dirt path towards the small copse of trees at the rear, listening as their footsteps crunched on the frozen soil; imagining the natural earth mixed in with the ashes from the bodies of the dead. He indicated for his hostage to sit and JJ sat down immediately on a tree root, turning his head to stare as he unpacked his bag of tools, laying each implement carefully on a cloth.

  He heard a low hum, it was a tune that he knew well, a melody that had stayed with him all his life, that he had sung many, many times. JJ was humming it. It made him want to cry with the pleasure of the memory. He continued to listen, putting lyrics to each line, on the verge of singing out loud. Maybe, just maybe, JJ had recognised him and this was his way of reaching out and asking forgiveness.

  He removed the gag that had prevented JJ putting words to the song and waited to hear if he continued. In the silence that followed he yearned to hear the phrases he knew so well.

  After a minute the singing started up again, this time with the words almost whispered in tune to the music, JJ nodding his head in time with the beat.

  He started to join in, his baritone tones blending well with JJ’s tenor, the words forming in his head, even before he opened his mouth. As he did so he pulled the hooded top down from over his head and removed some of his disguise, staring straight at JJ.

  ‘It’s you,’ JJ stopped singing and frowned. ‘I knew you were familiar as soon as you spoke to me, but I didn’t realise it was you. You’ve changed so much. What do you want from me?’

  ‘Drink this,’ he ordered, offering JJ another bottle of Coke, laced with G.

  JJ took the bottle and swigged from it, without question. It was just like it always had been; him and the boy, doing what he was told. Maybe he would change his mind after all and let him live with him again.

  ‘You ruined my life, you bastard. I hope you rot in hell,’ JJ spat suddenly. ‘Look what you did to me. You made me like this. I’m dead already. You killed me a long time ago.’ He indicated the implements, his eyes focussing on the long, sharp stiletto blade. ‘So do what you have to, or fuck off. You can’t make my life any worse than you did in the beginning.’

  *

  JJ lay down on the cold grass, with his legs straight out and his arms above his head, as far as the bindings would allow. His anger had receded as quickly as it had come, as the G took effect. Fuck, the stuff was good. He didn’t care what happened now; in truth he never really had.

  He had always known his time would be limited and that he would die young. Roger had saved him from his captor all those years ago, but he had never been able to properly save him from himself. Tears welled up at the thought of his partner, so innately sensitive and forgiving, so content to love him how he was, damaged and debased. He let the tears slip from his eyes, hot against his temples and allowed them to flow freely, feeling their warmth on his skin, realising he would never see his lover’s smiling face again.

  He felt his hand being lifted and saw the hatred in the man’s eyes, then the most excruciating pain shot through his body. As his hand was released from the man’s grip, he raised it above his head and tried to focus. Blood was pumping out from a stump, where his ring finger should have been. It looked strange and made him want to laugh.

  He saw the man take hold of the stiletto blade and hold it above his chest. Its point hovered above his heart, but he didn’t care anymore. Death held no fear for him. He opened his mouth and started to sing the song again, his voice sounding strangely detached. The man joined in, chanting the words loudly; drowning out his singing. His head started to swim, the voices merging into a discordant clamour.

  He started to scream and opened his eyes for one last time, watching in terrified awe, as the blade was plunged down into his chest.

  Chapter 23

  ‘We’ve got a second murder.’

  Hunter paced through the door from his office speaking as he strode. Charlie looked up. They were the words that no detective wanted to hear, especially not on a Monday morning, and even more so when they hadn’t a charge for their first murder.

  ‘Forty-two-year-old, white homosexual male in Brighton. Same MO, killed in a graveyard, chest opened and heart ripped out, ring finger missing. His ring could be seen in his chest cavity and has now been removed by the Sussex Scene of Crime officers for identification.’

  ‘What was his name?’ Paul looked shocked. She’d seen him react like this before. He always took it personally when a gay guy was killed or died of an overdose. The LGBT community was a small world and many were known to him or by friends of his.

  ‘Jason Jennings, better known as JJ. His civil partner, Roger Stevenson, has been informed and has confirmed the ring belongs to JJ, but we’re still waiting for a formal identification of the body.’

  Paul shook his head. ‘Can’t say I know either of them personally, though probably
some of my friends or friends of friends might. I’ll listen out for any snippets that might help. Any suspects?’

  ‘None as yet. Roger was away for the night on a business trip and has no idea why JJ should have been found where he was. He was well liked in the community, though Roger is aware that he did stray sometimes. It could be something to do with that; he may have been picked up randomly, although, with the MO of his death being identical to Susan’s, we’ve got to assume it must be linked somehow to her murder.’

  ‘Wow, a middle-aged woman and a forty-two-year-old gay man? I wonder what on Earth the link between them can be.’

  Charlie went and gave Paul a quick hug. He was looking as if one of his own family had been killed.

  ‘His partner says that JJ was originally from South London. Maybe there’s a link there with any or all of our suspects. Paul and Bet, get on to that. Research as much as you can on Jason Jennings and see if you can find anything, anywhere, that shows he may have been connected to the same school, church or area as Mickey Barton, Atkins or Abrahams. He may even have been one of Abrahams’ previous victims. Stranger things have happened. I only need the smallest link to that bastard and I’ll happily bring him back in, with his snivelling solicitor. I’d love to see the look on both their faces when I read out a charge.’

  Paul brightened up immediately and nodded across to Bet enthusiastically. ‘Come on then partner; let’s see if we can crack another case for the boss.’

  Hunter indicated for Charlie to get ready, before turning to the others. ‘Naz and Sabira, are you OK to carry on with the manhunt for Miller? He’s racking up more victims every day and we need him caught quickly.’

  Naz nodded. ‘We’re doing our best but we’re barely having time to search, in between dealing with each new victim. I’ll see if the fugitives unit can assist us with a few extra officers and get the source unit on to it; maybe they’ve got a few snouts that can sniff him out.’

  ‘Good idea. We need to find him before Ben does.’ He winked towards Charlie. ‘Oh and just to let you all know, we’re getting a new team member to bring us up to a full complement. Not sure who it will be or when they’ll arrive but at least the bosses upstairs have realised at last how stretched we are and are doing something about it. I’ll keep you posted as soon as I know. Right, Charlie, let’s go!’

  *

  The murder scene at Downs Cemetery was a carbon copy of the one at West Norwood.

  Charlie stared at the bloody sight, comparing murders. Jason Jennings’ body was sealed off from public view, laid out flat on the grass, carefully placed with his limbs neatly by his sides. His ring finger on his left hand was missing and his eyes were open, staring straight upwards, dark, static pupils devoid of life. What had he seen in those last few moments before he died? What pain had he gone through in his last few seconds? If only they knew, they’d be able to catch his killer straightaway, but now it was too late. They were back to square one again.

  Jennings was only a small man, yet his wrists and mouth showed clear signs of ligatures having been used. His chest had been opened, his ribs cut cleanly and peeled back and blood had clotted around the open wound where his heart had once been. It was as grisly and disturbing a murder as Susan Barton’s.

  A small tent had been erected about thirty feet away from his body. A peek inside showed an outlined area where Jennings’ heart had been located, apparently tossed to one side as the killer left. It had been removed now in readiness for the post mortem but a small marker showed where it had lain.

  Hunter turned to Chief Superintendent Bernie Groves, the Senior Investigating Officer from the Sussex Constabulary who had made the call this morning. ‘Thank you for calling us in on this.’

  ‘No worries. We’re only a small force and I’m not ashamed to say we could use the help and resources that you have in the Met. I presume you’re already some way into the investigation your end? At the moment we have nothing to go on at all. No CCTV, no witnesses, no idea why our victim was here, or how he got here. With it being an outside scene, the forensic opportunities are likely to be sparse, and, like yours, the motive doesn’t appear to be robbery; his wallet and phone were still in his pocket. ‘To be honest, we’re going to be struggling. His partner was away on business and we have already ruled him out as a suspect. He’s got several cast-iron alibis and hotel CCTV that show him booking into a hotel in Luton yesterday evening and staying in the bar drinking until the early hours. There’s no way he could have been involved.’

  ‘Can we speak to him?’ Hunter asked.

  ‘Yes, of course. He’s in a bit of a state, as you would expect, but he seems very willing to help in any way he can.’

  ‘Well, that makes a pleasant change.’ Charlie couldn’t help saying what was in her head. Maybe it was just London but everybody there seemed so guarded when asked to assist police.

  Bernie Groves turned to face her and she immediately wished she hadn’t said anything. He was tall, stern and had a distinct military air and although he appeared gracious in his communications with them, she suddenly felt as if she’d upset the sergeant major and was about to be bawled out.

  Hunter came to her rescue. ‘What DC Stafford here means, is that we have three suspects so far for our murder in London, and none of them are being particularly helpful in allowing us to piece together their movements around the time of our victim’s death. In fact they seem to prefer to be extremely economical with the truth.’

  ‘Maybe because they are being treated as suspects and not witnesses?’

  ‘If only that was the case. I could at least understand that, but it’s been the lies as much as anything that have caused them to become potential suspects. Let’s hope Roger can help us out.’

  *

  Roger Stevenson looked as if he’d been crying constantly since the moment a police officer had turned up at the door to his hotel room in Luton and given him the news of his partner’s death.

  Now staying with a couple of friends back in Brighton, he sat slumped on a leather settee, his head bowed forward. He got up when Hunter and Charlie walked in and held out his hand to them both. She reciprocated, feeling her own small palm swallowed up immediately within the vastness and strength of his grip.

  As small as Jason Jennings had been, so Roger Stevenson was the opposite. He was the Goliath to Jason’s David and Charlie could see straightaway how the dynamics of their relationship had worked. She waited while he settled himself back down before she spoke, his bulk filling one space completely and overlapping on to the adjacent cushion.

  ‘Thank you for seeing us. I’m so sorry for your loss.’

  ‘I always knew the day would come sooner rather than later, but thank you for your kind words.’

  ‘Why do you say that?’

  His comment was clearly designed to provoke a question. He obviously wanted to talk and, like Bernie Groves had said, he seemed open to telling all he knew. Still, she had to tread carefully. She didn’t want to say anything that might offend him or cause him to stop talking freely.

  ‘JJ was a lost soul. I looked after him and he relied totally on me. He always had, from our first day together. I wish I could have stayed with him all the time because I know without me he was vulnerable, but sometimes I had to work away from home. He hated me leaving him but he never said anything because he didn’t want to upset me. I also know he met other men when I was gone. Other people told me.’

  ‘And you didn’t find that hard?’

  ‘Yes, of course I did, especially at first, but JJ was different. I know he loved me as much as he was capable of loving anyone.’ He stopped and cleared his throat, fighting back the tremor in his voice. ‘But he was damaged. For him, it was all about physical affection. He needed to be wanted and he thought that he would be liked if he gave other men his body. He didn’t care what they did to him. Sometimes when I came back from business trips he would have bruises, sometimes marks where he had obviously been tied up, once or twice he ha
d bite marks. He thought I didn’t notice but I always did.’

  ‘And you didn’t say anything?’

  ‘What would be the point? JJ was JJ. He would have carried on doing it because he couldn’t stop himself. And I loved him for who he was. In fact, in a strange way I loved him more because he was so lost. I wanted to protect him. If I’d said something he would have felt he’d let me down and I didn’t want that. I was all he had and he gave me as much of himself that he could. I know he loved me. He would tell me that every day. But there was always a part of him that didn’t care about what happened to him. He never really spoke about it, but he’d been like that from the day I first met him.’

  ‘When did you meet him?’

  ‘It was Millennium night. In a club in Soho. He was there by himself, sat in the corner drinking. I thought he looked cute, so we got chatting. He was very drunk and very sad. Something had obviously happened but he wouldn’t tell me what. He never has. All I know was that night he ran away from everything and everyone he’d ever known and he never went back. He’s stayed with me ever since. He always says I rescued him, but I don’t know what or who I rescued him from.’

  ‘So he’s never given you a name.’

  ‘No. He only gave the most sketchy details about his past. Said his life began when we met. All I know was that he was in care and was shunted from one care home to another and around various foster parents. He was kicked out of several schools because of his behaviour and arrested a few times. On one occasion a policeman turned up on my doorstep in North London asking after him. He said that JJ had been reported missing. He didn’t say who by. JJ told him that he was safe and well and didn’t wish to be contacted. As he was an adult, the policeman said that the person who had made the report would just be told he was alive and had left by choice and nothing else but he was terrified afterwards, in case the policeman passed on where he was living. In the end we moved down here and he was much more settled. I don’t think he was ever truly happy though. He always said his past would catch up with him one day.’