The Trophy Taker Read online

  Just when they thought they were getting somewhere, there was always a hurdle thrown in the way; a door slammed in their faces, metaphorically, or actually in this case.

  *

  Mickey Barton waited at least ten minutes after hearing the door slam before he stepped out from the wardrobe upstairs and gingerly came down to the kitchen.

  ‘Thanks for that, sis. I owe you.’

  ‘Too right you do. Why do they want to nick you again? From the numbers waiting behind that arrogant bitch, I don’t think they’d come for a welfare visit.’

  ‘I have no idea,’ he lied. ‘You know what Old Bill are like when they think they’ve got something. Just because Susan was shagging her boss, they think I might want her dead. More like I’d want to see him dead. Bastard. What she saw in him I’ll never know.’

  He turned and climbed the stairs again, not waiting for an answer, in case his forthright sister said something that might hurt his pride. He’d do what she said he’d already done and disappear. He’d always camped with the scouts and he knew how to survive. He’d take himself off for a few days and enjoy the freedom. Besides, he knew why they wanted to speak to him; he’d watched the news. It could only be two things. Either they’d found the ring or they thought he had something to do with the death of that little faggot.

  Well, let them think what they wanted. He had stories that covered both eventualities and the police would have to prove otherwise.

  Chapter 26

  Round and round he turned the clear Perspex container in his hands; it was hypnotic. He loved to twist the top on tightly so that he could turn it upside down and stare at each severed finger, each digit bringing back memories, each one a tale of love and betrayal.

  He lifted it up towards the bare light bulb in his rented room and rotated it again, savouring the sight, identifying them, remembering each one.

  The oldest was small, slightly more discoloured and wrinkled than the others; the fingernail bitten down to the quick. It belonged to his first love, in a different country, so many years before; back when each country in Europe was its own entity, not woven together in one big dysfunctional Union. The girl had been sweet, a worrier who chewed at her nails. They were young, close together in age. She’d doted on him, but had she ever truly loved him? She had been promised to another and, in the isolated village in which he was staying at the time, it was expected they would marry. It wasn’t right. When the time had come for her to be betrothed, she had not looked back, betraying his love forever and breaking his heart. It was her destiny and he was no part of it.

  Something had snapped within him. The pain had been immense, so it had been easy to kill her. She came willingly when he’d called and when her body was found several days later, ripped open and mutilated, nobody had suspected him. A tragic accidental death, made worse by forest animals feasting on her dead body. Her new husband grieved but moved on. He remained for a time, his grief at her loss tempered only by the knowledge of her betrayal. If he couldn’t have her then no one would. No one else had really cared, but he had, and he’d cherished the one part of her that he’d taken, still intact, and still with a nail chewed down to the quick. It would forever remind him of the beautiful girl from the forest.

  The next finger was longer, its prints worn down by years of labouring. The nail was short and stubby, worn low rather than bitten. The murder of its owner had been equally as easy, committed in the same foreign country and separated by just a few years. The girl had been older, married previously, but when her husband had died prematurely, he had been her solace, the one she’d turned to for nurture and support. But she wanted him only as a confidante, a friend, while he yearned for more. She moved on, married in due course to a neighbour whose own wife had died in childbirth. It had been a natural progression but he was no part of it and he’d watched her become pregnant with her new husband’s child until he could watch no more.

  Her murder had been put down to a passing farm labourer, the dullard’s mind addled by alcohol, the knife that cut her open planted in his rucksack as he slept. It had been easy, too easy. In those days, there was neither the means nor the will to carry out a full investigation. The farm labourer was convicted and duly hanged from a tree, still protesting his innocence.

  He felt no sorrow for either of them. She had betrayed his attentions and the farm labourer deserved no better. The unborn child had caused him some guilt however. The child had done no wrong. It was an innocent, caught up in the sins of its mother. He’d left the child intact within her body, careful not to harm the tiny foetus while removing her heart, his skills at surgery being honed as he did so.

  For a second he felt a pang of guilt at the thought. He twisted the jar in his hands in a bid to forget what he had done to the baby and his eyes alighted on the small black finger next to hers. Things had changed by the time he met the youth who was its owner.

  Time had moved on. He’d moved on, now twenty seven years of age. He’d forgotten the baby and met Susan. She was unmarried when they’d met and he had fallen madly in love with her. She was everything he wanted; everything he desired. Twenty-two years old, petite, with long blonde hair and a good Catholic school education. She was clever and pretty and engaging and he wanted her more than anyone he’d ever set eyes on. For a couple of years he made every excuse to be with her; just being near her was enough. Until she too betrayed him and everything changed.

  He was once more forgotten, cast to one side, used to help her achieve her goal, but nothing more. Despite her treachery he had loved her, really loved her and even though she’d stuck a dagger through his heart, he couldn’t do the same to her. She was too perfect to be damaged in any way. And so it had started in earnest; his self-destruction. He didn’t care what he did as long as he got pleasure, like he had never known before. He travelled to Africa on working holidays to help others; building, teaching, labouring, but he had got more out of the visits than he’d given, much more.

  He stared at the jar again and remembered the boy whose finger floated in his container; the twelve-year-old boy who had kissed him; who’d been used by the elders of his village. He knew no different. The boy thought he was doing the right thing, but instead of stopping him, explaining what was right and proper, he had allowed the boy to awaken an urge that he had never previously allowed himself to submit to, a passion that he’d always longed for but never experienced with Susan. The boy did everything he wanted; and he wanted everything. He knew it was wrong. He knew it was depraved but he couldn’t stop. At last he could be himself, in a country far away where no one would know him, expect anything from him; where he was free to forget his responsibilities and do as he’d always wanted.

  He killed the boy two nights before he was due to leave the country, discarding his mutilated body out on scrubland for the vultures and hyenas to gorge on. It had happened after he’d seen his young lover leaving an elder’s tent. He knew the older man would have expected sexual favours from him; just as he had. The boy had obviously submitted as bidden but suddenly he didn’t want anyone else to have him as he had. The boy was his and he had loved him in his own way. He was doing the boy a favour by killing him really, even though he’d nearly changed his mind at the sight of his innocent, terrified face as he’d held the blade above him. In the end however, the boy needed rescuing from himself and he was the one that could save him.

  Afterwards he had returned home, gone back to his day job; this time working more regularly with the down-and-outs, the untamed children, the lost souls who vulnerability and bodies he could use to satisfy his greed, while maintaining an outwardly normal existence. Nobody knew; nobody would suspect. Not even those close to him, only a few others who traded pictures and stories anonymously. JJ had come to him during that time and he’d loved him just as he’d loved his African boy, transforming him from a naughty child to a man who obeyed his every word. All had gone well until he’d suggested introducing a new boy into their lives to join them, the idea, for s
ome unknown reason, causing JJ distress and triggering his disappearance.

  In JJ’s absence he’d claimed another, on a trip to Somalia, the child’s finger floating with the others. He barely remembered the child’s name. He’d loved, he’d lost, he’d killed. He’d come and gone and now he was back and had the fingers of Susan and JJ to bolster his collection.

  He stared at the newest additions; in just over a week, Susan’s had already taken on a slight yellowy hue in comparison to JJ’s. The varnish had faded and the nail appeared tarnished. JJ’s was still clean and looked almost alive. He felt the familiar ripple of excitement at the sight. He couldn’t wait another week to claim his next victim. He needed to dispatch more on the list before he was up to date. There was a new possibility arriving on the scene already. He loved easily and he lost easily and he recognised the signs building up in his body once again. He was falling in love; he could feel it in the way his words provoked a reaction; in the way he was watched and addressed but he needed to take care. He had a job to do before he could truly love again.

  He checked himself in a small cracked mirror above the sink and smiled. The police had no idea of his hidden past. They looked only at the surface, the here’s and now’s. They worked only on the obvious, the scraps of information he’d allowed them to find. He was too clever for them.

  He peered into the container, eagerly counting the fingers. Six now, but room for more.

  The tools were ready for action. He’d cleaned them briefly but not so carefully this time. The cops had already pretty much linked the two murders. What did it matter if JJ’s DNA was found at the next crime scene; or the next, or the next, as long as his wasn’t?

  Gently, he placed the container back inside the box on the mantelpiece and closed its lid, locking away his treasures.

  He gazed at the photograph of himself, young, good-looking and strong. He looked at his mother, stooped from her labours, and his father, sleeves rolled up ready for work. Would they still be proud of him now? He didn’t care if they weren’t. It was their fault, anyhow.

  He imagined his next killing. The next one would be easy, far too easy. He could almost do it with his eyes closed. He rubbed his hands together with pleasure; one palm against the other, massaging each finger, stroking and caressing, the motion creating heat, warmth, passion. Everything that had been thrown back in his face.

  Chapter 27

  When Charlie entered Jamie’s graveyard that Wednesday morning something was different. She couldn’t work out quite what it was but somehow she felt ill at ease. It was earlier than usual and still dark, but it wasn’t that; she was used to sneaking around the backs of shops and estates in the dead of night. It was no use being frightened of the dark in her job.

  She made her way through the gate and into the churchyard, conscious of every crunch of her feet on the gravel. Since her last visit, the church trustees and gardeners had been at work. The fallen leaves had been swept and crammed into sacks by the entrance, along with the last grass cuttings of the year. A mountain of fallen foliage lay stacked into a large pile, each branch sawn into manageable lengths for removal by churchgoers, for their open fires and log burners. The graveyard had been made ready for the winter.

  Maybe it was that notion that made Charlie uneasy that morning. She hated the fact that winter was almost upon them and the area would stand forgotten and unkempt at least until the Christmas festivities; nearly three months when Jamie would lay in the frozen earth, with only her mother’s and her own separate visits, to let him know he was not forgotten. Lucy and Beth never visited. They were more wrapped up in their own lives to think of the half-brother they had never met. Harry, his stepfather didn’t even visit his own daughters, never mind the stepson whose death he had been partly responsible for. As for the man who had fathered Jamie; he probably didn’t even know that his child was dead. He’d never cared in Jamie’s life; why should he bother now he was gone.

  She switched the torch of her phone on, pushing away her thoughts and started suddenly when a twig snapped. Turning quickly, she saw a field mouse scurry into the bushes, its eyes illuminated in the light of the beam. It was gone in a flash and she scolded herself for being so jumpy. But there was something not right.

  She made her way over to Jamie’s grave and kissed her fingers, passing them slowly in line with the indentation of his name engraved on the headstone as she did on every visit. For a passing moment the action calmed her.

  A light gust of wind rattled the weathervane on top of the tower and it squeaked impatiently. She looked up as the clock hands clicked on to seven. Instead of the usual peace, her head filled with thoughts of what needed to be done. They still had a killer at large, who had now murdered in cold blood at least twice and could easily claim more victims. Mickey Barton was their main suspect and needed to be caught. Oscar Abrahams and Vincent Atkins were also both credible suspects, but without further evidence coming to light would remain free, at least for the time being. Abrahams’ friend was yet to be identified and the car crucially still had to be found... and of course, Cornell Miller still needed to be detained.

  She felt a pang of guilt at the thought of Moses and Claudette still living in fear. She hadn’t really spoken to Moses since the arson attack and she needed to. She couldn’t let him down any further.

  It was still dark when she whispered her goodbyes to Jamie. She would normally wait for dawn to break but this morning she couldn’t afford to stay any longer. He would understand she had things to do and she would make up for it on her next visit.

  She jogged back to her car and climbed in. Hers was the only car in the car park. It always was. Nothing was different today. It was all in her head. She heard the locks clunk into place and switched the engine on, relaxing as the headlights lit up the trees and shrubs surrounding her.

  As she pulled out on to the lane that led to the church, she breathed a sigh of relief and leant forward to select her music. She didn’t notice the dark blue Vauxhall Vectra estate parked up, silent and unlit, in the entrance to a field opposite, or the pair of eyes watching her every move.

  *

  ‘For fuck’s sake, Mickey Barton cannot just disappear into thin air. Charlie, see if you can speak to Emma, she liked you. Maybe she will have been contacted by her father. We need a location for him and, if we can’t get that, we need a phone number. Tell her it’s urgent. She’s upset that he’s been arrested for Susan’s murder. Maybe if you tell her that Mickey knew a second victim she’ll realise how important it is we get hold of him now. Don’t tell her about us finding her mother’s ring though. I’d like to keep that little gem for his interview, without giving him the heads-up.’

  Hunter’s cheeks were ruddy and he looked stressed, and when he looked like that, Charlie worried. During her drive to work, she had been trying to process everything that was going on. Luck was not on their side and they needed a dose of it urgently. She tried to calm his worries.

  ‘Will do, boss. I’m sure he’ll come to light quickly. He’s got family to think about and anyway he’s due back on bail this Thursday. If we don’t find him today, we’ll get him tomorrow.’

  ‘We could have another bloody victim by tomorrow.’

  ‘Yes, but so far the killer’s only struck on a Sunday. If he follows that pattern, we’ve still got a few more days. We’ll just have to keep our fingers crossed.’

  ‘That’s hardly a recipe for crime prevention and I can’t imagine it going down very well at Coroner’s Court either. “Well, Sir or Madam, we did cross our fingers!”’

  He sat down heavily as his phone rang and barked his name into the mouthpiece. Charlie wished she’d kept her mouth shut. There was no point trying to reason with him when he was in this mood. He was clearly feeling the pressure, and when his back was against the wall, they all knew about it.

  A few minutes later he threw his phone down on to the desk in front of him and leant back in the chair, rolling his eyes. ‘That was the traffic department.
Oscar Abrahams’ car pinged up on the fixed ANPR cameras several times over the weekend on the south coast, mainly around the Hastings area. They didn’t think to let us know until now.’

  ‘Not exactly in Brighton, but in the same part of the country,’ Charlie was the only one who dared to speak.

  ‘Yes, quite. Fucking wasters. They know how important it is to get that car stopped, but apparently they didn’t have any spare units! They must have heard about the Brighton murder on Monday morning and were hoping that it would ping up again later on Monday or yesterday, but it hasn’t surfaced since. We’ve lost our chance.’

  He stood up and pulled out a crumpled packet of cigarettes from his pocket, then glared menacingly at Charlie.

  ‘I’m going outside for a fag and don’t try and stop me.’

  She put her hands up in surrender. Some days she’d get away with telling Hunter off for smoking. She’d promised Mrs H, a long time ago that she’d do what she could to preserve what was left of his failing health. It was a standing joke between her and Hunter usually. Today though, she knew better than to even try. It was going to be a long day.

  ‘Woah, what’s got into him today?’ Paul gave a low whistle after the door had slammed shut.

  ‘F.M.C. Don’t you remember. He had it when we were looking for the abductor in the last case?’ These days no one mentioned him by name.

  ‘What the fuck’s F.M.C?’

  Charlie found Emma’s number and picked up the phone. She stopped, prior to keying in the number, and turned towards Paul. Everyone was staring at her.

  ‘Frustration Mid Case! It’s a well-known condition among detectives. I’m sure we’ve all suffered from it at one stage or another. And it’s very contagious. Now Hunter has it, it’s highly likely that we’ll all go down with it in due course. So you’d better watch out.’

  Bet started laughing and the tension in the office cleared almost immediately. ‘I wondered what you were going to say then Charlie. I’ll put the kettle on and make him a fresh brew. We’d better see if we can cure him today, before it’s too late for us all.’