The Trophy Taker Read online

  As time had gone on she’d built a stronger and stronger case; Cornell Miller’s DNA from a cigarette end found nearby, CCTV putting him heading in the right direction, phone records showing him in the same location, even a jacket with Moses Sinkler’s bloodstain on the sleeve, found at his home at the time of her suspect’s arrest. Everything to put him at the right place at the right time but, frustratingly, nothing to say it was actually him. Moses had been so traumatised, he’d been unable to pick Miller out in a line-up, even from behind one-way glass. In fact he’d been so distressed it had taken a great deal of persuasion to even get him to the identity parade. When the time came to pick out the suspect who had done this to him, his fear had stopped him looking into the faces of any of the men there. He couldn’t do it. He couldn’t look at them, and he couldn’t pick out his assailant.

  Cornell Miller had laughed when told he had not been identified but with the evidence mounting that he’d been close by, he’d not been stupid either. Admitting to his presence at the scene, Miller’s defence was that he’d been walking home from a night out and had seen the man lying in a pool of blood and gone over to help, but then realising how serious it was and that he had a criminal record, had panicked and run away in case people thought it was him. But it was him. Every smile, word, expression, movement confirmed to Charlie it was. She had a sixth sense when it came to guilt or innocence and her sixth sense was in overdrive.

  Now, as Charlie watched him in the custody office, she knew with even more certainty that he was guilty. She just hoped that when it got to Crown Court the twelve men and women of the jury would listen to their own sixth sense, as well as the evidence and find him guilty. Cornell Miller, with not a shred of compassion or a pang of conscience, had nearly killed a man for twenty quid. Charlie wanted justice for Moses and that meant putting Miller away for life.

  She stared at his back as he swaggered towards his cell in front of her. He was not getting bail and would remain in custody until his trip to see the magistrates the next morning.

  ‘See you in court,’ he said, pulling his hand up to his head in a mock salute, before throwing himself down on to his mattress.

  ‘Looking forward to it... and to the verdict.’ She stepped back and took hold of the thick metal cell door, swinging it shut with more force than usual so that the heavy thud reverberated along the corridor. ‘You’d better get used to that sound. It’s all you’re going to be hearing for a good long time.’

  *

  The man had almost finished now. He looked down at his handiwork and was pleased at the bloody spectacle. It had taken some time but he had enjoyed every second of it. With each victim he had become more skilled, more able to admire the intricacies of the human body. He liked the precise nature at the beginning of the job, the way each layer that was peeled back revealed more, the way he always finished with a flourish. It fitted him. A man of many emotions, needs, loves, passions; strip one away and another would show. Strip them all away and all that was left was a shell, a cavity that could not be filled.

  He packed his tools back in his bag carefully and bent down to collect the souvenirs he had laid to one side in a plastic bag. She was special and he wanted something to remind him of her, but then he always did. He loved to look at his trophies, see how they fared with time, recall each of his victims and the reason he had picked them. They were cool to the touch now and he didn’t like it. He started to walk towards his car, feeling the cold of the bag permeating through the plastic gloves he still wore.

  With each step he remembered the promise he had made to himself all those years before, as she’d walked away.

  Opening the bag he took the larger of his souvenirs out and threw it to one side. His had been tossed away – now it was time for him to do the same to hers.

  *

  Charlie couldn’t sleep that night.

  Sirens screamed all around her, blue lights flashed and the sound of tyres screeching along half-empty roads filled the night. Something was happening. She didn’t know what, but she could feel the emotions trembling through the freezing air. Someone, somewhere was breathing their last and it wasn’t a peaceful death. Her intuition was at work again.

  By the time she had got back to her small rented flat in Clapham, South London, the nightmares were already beginning to take shape. Moses Sinkler was being swallowed up into the darkness, his body writhing in pain, blood spewing out across the concrete. Cornell Miller stood above him, leaning against a wall; a cigarette dangling from his mouth, laughing as he spat at him.

  Her current job always followed her home, like a rabid stalker determined to get its pound of flesh. Victims from old and new cases mixed together; visions of bodies in the earth, children, mothers, blood creeping across carpets, roads, clotting in pools, always ending in the same way. Victims like Moses Sinkler, Richard Hubbard, Helena McPherson and Greg Leigh-Matthews would begin to merge into one; spinning round and round, out of reach, down into murky water. Those responsible would stand watching the vortex, laughing, before they all converged together, flailing arms tugging at each other, gasping for breath, trying to get to the surface, swimming and splashing wildly until exhaustion sucked them down into the darkness. Finally she would see Jamie, her little brother, always an arm’s length away; so close but yet unable to reach her outstretched fingers, clawing at the water, with bubbles escaping from his nose and mouth as he called out her name. Over and over and over until everything went silent and he was drifting downwards, his eyes closed, his limbs still.

  It seemed to be worse if she climbed into her bed, as if, to be comfortable was to forget; and she could never forget and was never permitted forgiveness. She plugged in the nightlight and grabbed her iPod, scrolling down to her ‘favourites’ playlist. Sometimes light and sound helped her to sleep; sometimes nothing did. The job offered counselling these days for dealing with traumatic events but she dared not go. At the age of twenty nine and with nine years’ service, she’d already dealt with more horror and tragedy than most people would see in a lifetime. If she began to talk, she feared she would never stop. It was better to remain silent and seal each trauma in a separate compartment in her brain. Some things were better left undisturbed. She could cope with the regular nightmares, but if they penetrated her daytime hours she would be in trouble.

  She pulled the duvet off the bed and slumped down on to the huge brown and beige beanbag that took up the corner of her lounge. It had moved with her wherever she lived; too big for most people to entertain in their houses but just the right size for her and Jamie to squeeze into for sleepovers. Like the huge maroon sofa at her mum’s house, it was part of their previous life that must always remain, the cement that kept her security intact.

  She set the iPod to random and pressed the play button. Every word of every song was imprinted in her memory but she liked the surprise of not knowing which song was next.

  ‘When the Going Gets Tough, the Tough Get Going’, sounded out through the earphones, as clearly as when she and her brother had first heard it, on their way out on explorations in the mid 90’s. It had pretty much become her anthem after his death, the song that had motivated her to join the police. It was what had kept her going when all she wanted, was to have taken his place. It was what made her fight for the likes of Moses Sinkler. The day Charlie ceased to crave justice for the victims would be the day she handed in her warrant card.

  She closed her eyes but still she was unsettled. Maybe it had been Cornell Miller’s swagger or the knowledge of what he had done. Maybe it was the sirens signalling another victim; of that she was sure. It would only be a few hours before she returned to duty. She felt the darkness blurring from pitch black into a lighter grey; warmer now than before. The music was calming her. Jamie was with her and she was not alone anymore. She settled into partial sleep, knowing instinctively that she would not be able to rest fully while the night’s traumas were still ongoing.

  Whatever was happening now would be waiting for h
er in the morning.

  Chapter 3

  Cornell Miller lay against the clean white bed sheets; his eyes closed, and chuckled quietly. How easy had that been?

  Part one was complete; wait until the early hours of the morning when the cops are tired, then rip your T-shirt into a strip, tie it round your neck moderately tightly, hold your breath and lie still on the floor of your cell. The police gaoler wouldn’t know how long you had been there, whether thirty seconds or thirty minutes, and in the ensuing panic you were guaranteed a trip to A&E; just in case. When the A&E happened to be at Kings College Hospital, the local hospital you’ve attended all your life, well that’s just a bonus.

  He was now lying in a curtained-off cubicle, wholly satisfied with his treatment so far. Part two was to follow shortly. He needed to get going. The medication the police doctor had given was beginning to wear off. He was craving a proper fix. He twisted his hands in the cuffs, dragging his skin hard against the metal, feeling them digging into the soft skin around his wrists. He half opened his eyes, glancing round at his two police guards. The woman was older, skinny, with sunken cheeks and a pinched expression. She wouldn’t have looked out of place in his normal setting, squashed into the corner of a dirty sofa in a crack house. She was eyeing him with a look that said she knew what he was up to, she’d experience of the games they played. He would have to be careful with this one.

  On his other side sat a man mountain, thickset, thick-necked, his head shaved to show a snowstorm of scars across his scalp. His sleeves were rolled as high as they could be, his uniform shirt barely fitting over his huge biceps. Several darkly coloured tattoos peeped out from underneath the roll-up. He was easily pigeonholed; definitely more brawn than brain; more Neanderthal than nous. He looked as thick mentally as his carefully honed physique. This was more like it; the kind that would think that just his sheer presence would deter any escape attempts. The kind that would be slow to see what was happening and even slower to take up the chase.

  He closed his eyes again and moaned loudly.

  The man mountain stood, as if the noise signalled his need to assert himself. He peered out from behind the curtain and beckoned a nurse over. ‘When can he be seen, so that we can get out of here?’

  His voice was deep and his manner abrupt. The nurse responded accordingly.

  ‘He’ll be seen when it’s his turn to be seen.’

  She turned as if to leave, but just as she was about to walk off, they were joined by a white-coated doctor. He wore a stethoscope around his neck and an expression of irritable impatience on his face. He obviously had a few points on his licence and liked to treat the police in the manner that he felt he’d been treated. He would have kept them waiting usually, as a matter of principle; however, the man mountain was his least favourite type of officer and he wanted him gone. Too thick and stupid to have a mind of his own. He was the sort to give out penalties without any thought for the welfare of the motorist.

  Miller groaned out loud again. They both looked towards him and then with a flourish the doctor threw back the curtain and walked in. It was all going beautifully to plan. He let out another moan, this time louder, and rolled his arms in the cuffs. The doctor leant across and lifted his hands up, staring at the red wheals around his wrists.

  ‘Get these cuffs off him while I carry out my examination.’

  The policewoman was twitchy. She didn’t want him released. Her voice was high and whiny and the doctor easily overruled her.

  ‘I said get them off now or I’ll move on. I’ve plenty of other people to see.’

  Miller could hardly keep the grin from appearing on his lips as the doctor spoke. The man was doing his job for him. He lifted his hands and watched gleefully as the man mountain removed them. After all who would try to escape from such an imposing guard?

  He let the doctor check the marks around his neck and wrists; take his blood pressure and pulse and then he answered what questions he could. It was clear that the doctor was on his side; two against two, an equal match. He was nearly finished now.

  The doctor stepped back and started to write his notes up, leaving space for the man mountain to move past him and squeeze over to one side. That only left the skinny policewoman on the other. He could see her hand hovering over her baton. She could read him well; but it didn’t matter, her size was the only significant thing. The huge officer was leaning over him now, grasping his nearest hand and placing the hard metal cuff back on. Miller held his breath. The time was right. He felt the man mountain relax slightly as the first cuff was on. He raised his other hand as if to allow the officer his other wrist but as he was about to take hold of it, Miller grabbed the metal restraints with his free hand, lifting both hands up against the man mountain’s grip. The officer grunted and lunged forward but Miller was too quick.

  Leaping up off the bed, he swung his two hands round, complete with metal cuff, before bringing them down with a crack against the policewoman’s upturned face. She staggered back, clutching her nose as blood sprayed across the sheets, her baton crashing down on the floor. She’d been more switched on than her thick colleague; just not quick enough.

  He gave her a shove, barging her out of the way and then he had a clear run. The man mountain was trapped behind the doctor, who sprang back to let him through, but the thick hunk was far too slow. He was on his way, navigating through the emergency room and waiting areas towards the exit. Everyone was watching but nobody intervened. Nobody ever did.

  He knew the way well. He could hear the man mountain shouting down his radio for assistance but he was wasting his time. By the time any backup arrived, he’d be swallowed up into the local estate, the maze of walkways and concrete landings easily concealing his route from policemen or police dogs.

  He slammed out the exit into the darkness of the night. It was just gone 4 a.m.; the air was chilled and the cold slapped him hard across the face. His breath was coming quick and shallow but he didn’t need much oxygen; he was running on adrenalin, pumped and psyched up to the maximum. Nothing could stop him. He ran on until the sound of the chasing officer merged into the distance. He’d made it out and he wasn’t about to go back inside, whatever that fucking DC Stafford thought. Anyway, she’d have to catch him first.

  He thought of their last conversation. The stupid bitch. He’d never plead guilty. Ever. Why would you, when even the smallest cock-up by the prosecution could see you walking? Maybe he should get hold of the snivelling black bastard who’d made the allegation in the first place, Moses Sinkler. A little bit of pressure and a few threats to him and his family and he’d be sure to drop the case. Maybe he should have finished him off properly when he’d had the chance.

  He slowed down as he came to a small parade of shops. A charity shop nestled in the middle and several bags of clothing were stacked up by the front door. Quickly he split one of the bags open and found it full of men’s clothing. He was in luck. He chose some items; a nearly new T-shirt, a black woollen jumper, a nice thick parka-style jacket, complete with fur-lined hood. It was a little scruffy and a touch on the large side, but who cared, if it was free. The handcuffs were still attached to one wrist; they made a useful weapon but it wouldn’t do for them to be spotted. He pulled the parka sleeve over them. He’d get one of his burglar mates to remove them with a set of bolt croppers later. He’d seen it done before.

  He started to walk, watching all the time for any sign of the Old Bill. An alleyway ran along the side of the shops. He slid into it as a police car turned into the road. They hadn’t seen him, and anyway, they wouldn’t recognise him hidden within his new hooded jacket. But he didn’t want to take the chance.

  Sitting down on a low wall at the back of the shops, he made a mental list of what he needed. First was money; he had to get some cash to buy his gear. He needed crack and heroin now; the cramps were starting to take a grip of his guts.

  Rooting around in a rubbish area, he found an old glass Red Stripe beer bottle. He held it by the neck
and smashed it on the brickwork, lifting it up in the dim light of a nearby street lamp. The jagged edges glistened menacingly with the remnants of the beer. He liked its look.

  The sky was beginning to lighten on the horizon now, a thin flaky glow just beginning to rise and grow in strength. It was his favourite time of the night on the streets.

  He held the broken bottle up to the light again, feeling the adrenalin starting to mount. He liked the idea of the Red Stripe too; it was his calling card.

  All he needed now was to find the next victim.

  Chapter 4

  ‘How the hell could he have escaped? ’Charlie was incredulous. ‘After all the time and effort it took me to get him charged. I don’t bloody believe it.’

  She’d given up trying to sleep and had eventually got up, slipped on her old trainers and jogged in. Twenty minutes later, after tweaking her right leg in the final sprint, she had been stretching out her calves on the cycle rail at the front of Lambeth HQ when she’d heard the news of Miller’s escape from one of the home-going night shift.

  She’d taken the stairs two at a time, before bursting into her office and now, at just gone 7 a.m. she was standing in her running gear, sweat prickling on her temples and down the base of her back.

  Bet was the only one in their office so far, her own body clock waking her at an ungodly hour every day, whether she wanted to be woken or not. She was normally the first one in; her self-appointed jobs being to get the first hot drinks of the day organised and to read through what had been happening since their last duty, so as to brief everyone on their arrival.

  Bet indicated the night duty occurrence book, now highlighted on her computer where all the events of the previous night were logged. Charlie slumped down in front of it, massaging the back of her leg as she stared at the screen. The details made grim reading. She scanned through the circumstances, shaking her head as she noted the removal of the handcuffs.