Senseless, page 24
He’d seen and even interacted with plenty of cops before, although mainly when he was very young, when he was rescued from his hellish situation. But he’d seen plenty on the TV and in newspapers, but this one looked haunted yet almost supremely confident, as if he’d experienced things that few others ever would. Even other cops. Other detectives. He felt a prickle of unease as he thought he sensed something of himself in the face of the detective on his screen. That being the case, he had no doubt that he would be capable of turning to violence to achieve what he wanted, but surely a man like that would realise that the man making the allegations was a fraud. Surely he would smell it. He chased the thoughts away with a shake of his head. He was imagining things. There was no way he and the cop could share any instincts. No matter what the detective had experienced, unless he too, had killed to get what he wanted. The thought made him momentarily freeze before he dismissed it as nonsense. It was impossible. But he couldn’t deny that he sensed a danger in the man. A danger to himself. A danger that he simply wouldn’t allow to continue.
Jameson entered the concourse at London Bridge train station and looked around for Jackson until he recognised him from his profile picture he’d seen adorning the article he’d read in The World, sitting on a chair outside a coffee shop that was reduced to selling takeout only, sipping from a takeaway cup. He made his way through the other chairs and tables before sitting opposite Jackson without saying anything. After a few seconds Jackson looked up from his mobile phone and smiled. ‘DI Jameson,’ he said. ‘Not drinking?’
‘I’m not here for the coffee,’ Jameson replied.
‘Tea then,’ Jackson quipped.
‘What the fuck do you think you’re doing?’ Jameson asked, ignoring him. ‘Running an unsubstantiated story accusing me of assaulting that animal Cramer?’
‘I got to report what I got to report.’ Jackson shrugged, as if it was nothing. ‘Cramer told me what he told me and I decided it was in the public interest to run the story.’
‘You decided?’ Jameson said.
‘Sure,’ Jackson replied. ‘I made the call.’
‘With no corroborating evidence or witnesses?’
‘Well, I’m still looking for that.’ Jackson smiled.
‘You know you’re interfering with a murder investigation?’ Jameson said, trying to unsettle him.
‘No. I’m not,’ he replied defiantly. ‘I haven’t touched your investigation. This Cramer character gets in touch and tells me he has a tale to tell, so I listen. The story’s newsworthy and plausible, so I run with it.’
‘Plausible how?’ Jameson asked.
‘He had the paperwork to prove he was being investigated for the murders of those women,’ Jackson explained. ‘Bail papers and stuff, you know. Everyone knows you’re in charge of that investigation. I have every right to run the story and I don’t have to tell you anything. I assume you’re familiar with journalistic privilege?’
‘I know what it is,’ he told him. ‘I also know your article should have clearly stated this was an unsupported allegation, which it didn’t.’
‘An oversight,’ Jackson smiled. ‘My apologies.’
‘You’re a fucking arsehole, Jackson,’ Jameson told him.
‘That’s some temper you got there,’ Jackson said with mock concern. ‘Cramer push you too far, did he? Lost your cool and taught him a lesson did you? What was it? Did he tell you something that he did to the victims that made you snap?’
‘Goodbye, Jackson,’ he told him, getting to his feet.
‘Wait,’ Jackson said in a conciliatory tone. ‘Wait. I apologise. I’m just messing with you. Please, sit down.’ Jameson waited a few seconds before doing as he was asked. ‘It doesn’t have to be like this – battling with each other. We could have a mutually beneficial relationship like I had with your predecessor. I’m not going to lie. It worked well.’
‘You told me this before, Jackson,’ he said. ‘And I told you I’m not interested.’
‘Then maybe you’re interested in this,’ Jackson continued. ‘I know what happened in New Zealand. I know why you came back to London.’
‘You don’t know anything,’ Jameson said, although he couldn’t hide his concern.
‘I know you shot a man during an armed robbery,’ Jackson told him, expecting a reaction.
‘So?’ Jameson shrugged. ‘He tried to point his shotgun at me so I shot him in the shoulder. He survived. It was no big deal.’
‘That wasn’t how your superiors saw it, I’m told.’ Jackson smiled. ‘Put you on a close protection job to keep you out the way. As a punishment.’
‘A job’s a job,’ Jameson replied, trying to pour cold water over it.
‘So who were you protecting?’ Jackson pressed.
‘It’s confidential,’ Jameson told him. ‘Even if I wanted to tell you I wouldn’t.’
‘What’s the matter?’ Jackson asked. ‘Did they end up dead too?’
‘Drop it, Jackson,’ he warned him.
‘Did it end up being another stain on your career?’
‘Leave it, Jackson or I’ll…’
‘You’ll what?’ Jackson smiled. ‘There’s that temper of yours again. Ever heard of social distancing?’
‘I make a bad enemy,’ he warned him.
‘I know,’ Jackson said. ‘And so does Saheed Sarwar. I know you were Officer X, Jameson. I know it was you who shot and killed Sarwar.’
‘Who’s giving you this information?’ he demanded.
‘Now, now,’ Jackson said, still recovering his composure. ‘Journalistic privilege, remember?’
‘We’re done here,’ Jameson told him, getting to his feet.
‘You’ve already shot two people,’ Jackson tried to provoke him into saying more, ‘that we know of, anyway. One cop, two shootings. That’s some record.’
‘Stay away from me, Jackson,’ he warned him. ‘And stay away from Cramer too.’ He leaned across the table and accidentally on purpose knocked Jackson’s drink over, some of it spilling into his lap.
‘Shit,’ Jackson said, pushing his chair back to assess the damage.
‘You might want to clean that up,’ Jameson told him before walking away, leaving Jackson swearing as he looked around for napkins.
Martin Thomas was still in his flat but had moved from watching his TV to searching Google Maps live on his laptop and had already zoomed in on Sutton – the area the news had said Brian Cramer lived. He’d made a note of the shops that had been in the background when Cramer had been interviewed and found them easily enough. From what he’d seen of him, he correctly assumed he wasn’t the sort of person to be living in a decent house and searched the area close to the shops for any likely-looking flats. After a few minutes of tracking through the surrounding streets, he eventually came across the image of a run-down-looking low-rise block of flats that seemed to fit Cramer’s appearance perfectly. He gave a slight smile of satisfaction as he tapped the screen with his index finger. He was sure his instincts had served him well but knew there was only one way to be sure he’d found the imposter.
Jameson headed straight home after meeting Jackson, but it was still late by the time he arrived to find Jenny sitting in the kitchen watching TV. He wasn’t too worried that she may have seen any of the news articles about him as she rarely watched anything other than YouTube or reality TV programmes, but it was still a relief when she didn’t overly react to him when she first saw him.
‘You okay?’ he asked her, emptying the detritus from his pockets onto the kitchen worktop.
‘Sure,’ she said without interest, her eyes never leaving the screen.
‘Why don’t you watch this in the lounge?’ he asked, looking for any signs she might have seen or heard something. ‘You’d be more comfortable.’
‘No.’ She sighed. ‘I prefer it in here.’
‘Okay.’ He shrugged, pulling a beer from the fridge and drinking it straight from the bottle. He was tempted to drink something stronger for what he was about to tell her. ‘Listen, Jenny, I need to tell you something.’
‘What?’ she asked without looking at him.
‘I met someone earlier today,’ he told her. ‘A journalist. A newspaper journalist.’
‘Did they want to know about your case?’ she said, still sounding disinterested, her eyes never leaving the TV screen.
‘No,’ he answered. ‘Not really. He was more interested in me.’
Jenny’s eyes suddenly darted to his. ‘What does he want to know about you?’ she asked with suspicion.
‘Truth is, he already seems to know quite a lot about me,’ he said, before pausing to give her time to process what he was telling her. ‘Clearly he has some very good contacts. Some in New Zealand too.’
‘What are you telling me?’ she asked as she sat bolt upright.
‘He’s been digging around,’ he explained. ‘He knows I was given the close protection assignment.’
‘What?’ she said, her voice sharp and focused. ‘How?’
‘I don’t know,’ he admitted. ‘Someone in New Zealand is giving the information. But he doesn’t know who I was protecting.’
‘But you told me it had all been covered up,’ she reminded him. ‘You said it would never get out.’
‘It has been,’ he tried to assure her. ‘He doesn’t know any details. Just that I was given the assignment.’
‘But what if he keeps looking?’ she asked in a panic. ‘What if he finds out more?’
‘He won’t,’ he told her. ‘If he was going to, he probably would have by now.’
‘Great,’ she said, shaking her head.
‘Even if he did,’ he explained, ‘he couldn’t print anything. You were a minor at the time, which means he couldn’t divulge anything that could lead to your identity being revealed.’
‘That doesn’t make me feel any better,’ she insisted.
‘I’ve already warned him off.’
There was an uncomfortable silence before she spoke again. ‘Why does this shit keep happening to us?’ she asked, ignoring his reassurances. ‘We went halfway around the world to get away from everything that happened. Then we had to come back because the same shit happened to us there.’
‘Watch your language,’ he half-heartedly reprimanded her. ‘And we’ve just had a bad run, is all. Things will calm down. What happened in New Zealand was a bolt of lightning. We were unlucky. Wrong place, wrong time.’
‘And before that?’ she pressed him.
‘Sarwar was always a possibility,’ he said with a shrug. ‘Considering the type of work I was doing at the time. I was armed for a reason. And,’ he began before changing his mind.
‘And what?’ she asked, not prepared to let it go.
‘And maybe I pushed things too much,’ he admitted. ‘Put myself in positions where things were more likely to happen. Bad things.’
‘Bad things to both of us,’ she told him.
‘I never thought it would involve you, Jenny,’ he insisted. ‘How could I have?’
‘Because you’re my dad,’ she replied. ‘Mum isn’t here anymore. If anything had happened to you what would happen to me? Did you even think about that?’
‘Not enough,’ he admitted. ‘I liked being on the edge and when I was there I didn’t think about much else other than the end result. But I’ve changed. After everything, I’ve changed. You’re my priority. Always. I promise.’
‘You can’t promise me that,’ she said, shaking her head. ‘You’re a detective. Which means I have to share you with all the shit and bad people in the world. But it’s okay. I understand you have to do it. It’s just you. I’m even proud of what you do, but I don’t want to become a story. I don’t want some sleazy journalist telling everyone about me. I don’t want to be that girl. I’m not that girl.’
‘I know,’ he agreed. ‘But it’s not going to happen. Trust me. I’ll take care of it. It’s not going to happen.’
Chapter Twenty-Three
Early morning and Martin Thomas was on the Essex coastline, walking along the clifftop area popular with walkers – even more so since the lockdown restrictions. It was another beautiful day, the low sun shining brightly to the east as the breeze blew in from the sea, carrying the sound of waves and the offshore wind turbines that had first led him to the location. He’d parked his car in the small car park where he knew there was no CCTV and walked close to the treeline that ran adjacent to the open ground where most people liked to walk. First, he searched for a place in the trees where the path came close. Close enough to grab someone and drag them into the woods without being seen. Having found where he thought was the perfect spot, he settled down and waited for a victim to come close, like a spider waiting for his web to ripple before rushing from its hiding space to ensnare its prey and drag it to its death.
As he waited, he saw several possible targets – women in their thirties of his preferred type and attractive enough, but so far they all had dogs with them and he couldn’t be doing with dogs today. He didn’t have his usual feeling of excitement and anticipation. More a feeling of having an itch he needed to scratch. He just had to do what he had to do and leave, but he was finding it difficult to fully focus as thoughts of Sophie constantly invaded his mind. He reminded himself he needed to do this, to complete the act for Sophie, so he could become more human and be with her properly without the fear that she may become just another vessel for him to use to become the man-god that would be capable of living amongst people, able to feel, hear, taste and smell all the things of the world they could, without surrendering the powers he had that they could only dream about. He wondered if this would be the last time and that after this, he would have taken enough from his experiences to feel all the things he desired from life and share them with Sophie. Maybe he’d even taken enough from them to be capable of loving her and to make her love him? It would be the ultimate achievement, signalling he’d reached the summit of the mountain he’d been climbing all his life since narrowly surviving his own mother. To experience real human love would be the justification of all he’d done.
The sight of a woman walking on her own jolted him from his thoughts. She was perfect. The right height, age and build, with longish blonde hair and clearly attractive. His body tensed as he prepared to spring into his web and seize his prize as the woman came ever closer, but he remained calm despite the enormity of what he was about to do. When she finally drew level, he burst from the treeline and grabbed her from behind – one hand gripped over her mouth while the other arm wrapped around her chest like a boa constrictor preparing to crush its prey to death, trapping both her arms by her side. He lifted her effortlessly from the ground, so even her kicking legs couldn’t help her escape, and carried her into the trees to the pre-prepared area in a small clearing where his backpack lay open on the ground next to a roll of insulating tape, a knife and a bottle of water. His mobile phone was also on the ground, arranged on a tripod and already set to record what was about to happen.
He pushed her face first to the ground, virtually landing on top of her, pinning her by kneeling on her back as he seized the tape, pulling her arms behind her before quickly and smoothly binding her wrists together. Satisfied she was secure, he rolled her over onto her back, tore off a strip of the tape that he intended to use to cover her mouth before she spoke through her tears and fear, stopping him mid-action.
‘Please,’ she begged him. ‘Don’t do this. Let me go. I won’t tell anyone. I promise.’
Before Sophie her words would have meant nothing to him. It would have been as pointless as a deer expecting mercy from a tiger. But now they stopped him dead. He looked away from her, then to the tape in his hand and for a second it actually flashed in his mind to do exactly that. To untie her and let her go. To trust her promise not to tell anyone. But after a few seconds he shook the thought away. She had seen him. She could tell the police what he looked like and so much more. He knew he had to push through the pitiful feeling of remorse. His transition to a man-god was not yet complete. If he didn’t take her as he’d taken the others, his human part would remain incomplete and he’d never be able to be with Sophie in the way he desired – like a normal man, although he was aware that he’d always be so much more than just normal, but he’d have the best of both worlds. To be able to feel the highs of human emotion that he’d observed could bring pleasures that he’d never experienced before, whilst being able to control those that he’d seen damage mere mortals. If he could just take one more life, he was sure he would have absorbed enough senses from the bodies of others to give him the gifts of feeling, taste, hearing and smell that were taken from him so many years ago. Senses that he needed to complete his transition.
He looked down at the crying woman as she squirmed in the dirt forlornly struggling to escape from under his talons before forcefully slapping the tape over her mouth and making sure it was securely attached. The act drained all hope from the woman as her crying and struggling intensified, becoming even worse when he ripped her shirt open and pushed her bra upwards to reveal her breasts. He swapped the tape for the knife and held it in front of her face, but even if he’d been wearing his hearing aids, he would have struggled to hear her screaming through the tape and above the sound of the sea breeze and wind turbines. He looked around in all directions to ensure that no one was close before ripping the tape from her mouth. He needed to see her scream. His imagination would convert what he was seeing into sound, as it had done so many times before and she did indeed scream as he put the knife to her bare chest and prepared to slice through her skin, but she suddenly stopped screaming. Instead, she clenched her eyes tightly closed and twisted her face away from him, preparing to take the pain. He shook her, trying to make her look, but she refused.
‘Look at me,’ he demanded, but still she wouldn’t. ‘Look at me,’ he tried again, but still she wouldn’t. ‘Look at me or you’ll die.’
