Streamed to Kill Page 4

  He looked wretched. Fucking wretched.

  Oliver left, and Langham followed, striding past Oliver at the vending machine.

  “Come by when you’re ready.” In the main room, Langham walked through, waving his notes. “Incident room, everyone. We have one hell of a bloody break. Oliver’s here.”

  Heads snapped up. Papers shuffled. Chairs scraped back. The air changed, charged now, everyone knowing that with the mention of Oliver, things had been taken to a new level.

  Everyone except Hastings.

  “Oliver?” the young officer asked.

  “You’ll learn, son,” Langham said. “You’ll learn.”

  Chapter Five

  Langham studied Hastings with wry amusement. The officer was so new to this, Langham doubted he’d even seen half the shite the others had seen yet. Hasting stood at the back of the room behind the rows of chairs and watched everyone with an expression of stunned wonderment. The young man’s cheeks were ruddy, and his eyes darted about here, there, and every-bloody-where. His jaw was slack, tongue slightly protruding, and if Langham didn’t know better, he’d say the man was in a state between panic and shock. Cornered, almost. Like he didn’t know what to do for the best, that he had no purpose or wasn’t sure what his role was.

  What is he doing on my team again? Who put him in with us?

  There was a buzz in the air, people hyped up, on the verge of getting another bite of information from Oliver. The last snippet he’d given them had been similar to what Langham had just been told. One of the previous women had managed to contact Oliver while she’d been held captive and on drugs, communicating with him between bouts of being out for the count. It had led nowhere, yielded no clues other than her abductor was administering ‘medicine’ via a syringe and stroking her cheek. She’d gone quiet after contacting Oliver twice, and Oliver had held out hope that she’d get hold of him again. She hadn’t. Then her body—or Langham had assumed it was her body—had been found in the stream. He could only hope this latest information didn’t fizzle out the same way—that Cheryl’s life hadn’t fizzled out.

  He shifted his gaze from Hastings and found a spot on the far wall, zoning out while everyone settled themselves. The shuffle of notebook pages, the pop of pen lids being pulled off, and the scrape of those infernal metal chair legs on the floor faded into the background.

  Those women had been a hard sight to come to terms with. The killer had draped a couple of them over outcropping boulders in the deepest parts of the stream, their feet, hands, and heads in the water, their backs curved. From his vantage point on the bank, Langham had likened them to islands in the stream. The body parts in the water had looked as though the skin would split any second from the pressure of bloating, and the colour…

  When the white tents had been erected, the photographers had been and gone, and SOCO had picked over the surrounding area, Langham had returned to watch every one of those women being removed from their final resting places. Some of them had been there a while, faces ballooned, a sick parody of what they’d looked like in life. Eyes missing, some skin sucked on by fishes and whatever the hell else resided in the water. He’d been hard pressed not to puke. He’d thought himself hardened to sights like that, but shit, he’d been wrong.

  A sharp bang of the door slamming snapped him out of his reverie. He blinked and stared at Sergeant Villier, who glared back as though he’d purposely called a meeting and hadn’t told her. She’d been out and about—bullying people for information, he suspected, what she did best—and he was glad she’d returned in time, if only to save himself the hassle of bringing her up to date with a one-on-one chat later. He hated those. She always interrupted. Then again, she always interrupted in here, too, so what the hell difference did it make whether she attended incident room meetings or not?

  “Right,” he said, looking at everyone in one sweep then stopping on Hastings, who had remained standing at the back. “Oliver has some information, so as he explains, I’ll write it up on the whiteboard.”

  Oliver stood from his front row seat and ran a hand through his mussed hair. He appeared tired, worn out from being in contact with Cheryl then getting all that data dumped in his head. The dark circles beneath his eyes seemed more pronounced than they’d been ten minutes ago, and two deep gouges bracketed the sides of his mouth where his lips were downturned. Langham turned away to lug the whiteboard across and select a black marker pen.

  “Sir?” Hastings said.

  Langham swivelled to face him. “Yes?”

  “Oliver’s that bloke in the newspaper, is he?” Hastings blushed and shifted from foot to foot. “I mean, I’ve been listening and—”

  “That’s correct. Any more questions about how Oliver does what he does, ask him later—if he’s willing to explain. If not, ask someone else who knows. Now, Oliver?”

  Oliver repeated the information he’d given Langham. Officers scribbled notes, others narrowed their eyes or frowned. He told them who the victim was and that as far as he was aware, she was still alive.

  A question-and-answer session occurred, officers doing what Langham used to do, pressing for more specifics, something Oliver didn’t have. Langham allowed it to go on until a muscle spasmed in Oliver’s jaw.

  “Right, that’s enough,” Langham said, writing the last note at the end of a long list. Before he forgot, he said, “Someone needs to get a picture of Cheryl for the board.” He tapped it with his finger. “And leave Oliver alone. He isn’t the bloody oracle. You know how this works. Snippets, and in the past those snippets have held bigger clues than we realised at the time, so now we adopt the pattern we’ve talked about recently, looking between the lines, writing out all the scenarios that could come up, and seeing if we can find anything, however small, to help us. Thanks, Oliver.”

  Oliver returned to his seat, slumped down into it, clearly knackered. This one would drain him more, what with him knowing Cheryl. In any other circumstances he wouldn’t be allowed on the case—too personal, too raw—but he was the only one who could speak to people with his mind. Apart from Adam, a civilian telepath who’d been a massive help in the Queer Rites case, but since he hadn’t called in with any leads, Oliver was on his own. Him taking a back seat unfortunately wasn’t an option.

  Poor bastard.

  “Now,” Langham said. “Cheryl isn’t known for putting herself at risk—although that could be debateable…” He glanced at Oliver, waiting for a look of rebuke. When one wasn’t forthcoming, he continued. “Given that she was well aware of women going missing, having helped report it in the local newspaper she works for, we can assume she would have been on her guard. So, with that in mind, we’re maybe dealing with a charmer, someone who has the knack of being able to get on your good side without you even noticing he’s got evil lurking in his head. Or, and this seems more likely, seeing as Oliver said the man wears a mask, he’s a snatch-to-abduct type. Catches these women unaware. I need a background check run on Cheryl, but what I do know—Oliver works with her at said newspaper—she also has a second job. Morning and evening shifts in the café in Morrisons.”

  Someone groaned. Loud. Long.

  “I know, I know.” Langham held up a forestalling hand. “We could potentially have thousands of suspects if the killer had his eye on her there, and given that all the victims were taken while walking their dogs on the field opposite… Daunting task, one I wish we didn’t have to deal with, but shit happens. You know the drill in situations like this, so I want you all on it. No slacking. We need this bloke caught before Cheryl gets killed. She wasn’t at the newspaper this morning. Someone—Hastings—you need to ring Morrisons.”

  “For…?” Hastings stared.

  Langham sighed. How the fuck do they get through training? “I just said she also works there. You need to see how long she’s been off work. Were you listening or what?” he snapped.

  “Um, sorry, sir.”

  He gave Hastings a glare that stronger men had withered under. Hast
ings all but shrivelled up and died. Langham, unable to look at him any longer for fear of seriously hurting him with a caustic barb or two, continued with the briefing.

  After answering queries and allotting everyone various tasks, Langham dismissed them. He stood in place while they filed from the room—all except Hastings and Oliver, the latter still in his seat, head bobbing as if he were about ready to drop off.

  “Sir?” Hastings said, walking from the back and making a pig’s ear of it, tripping on a couple of chairs that jutted from their usual uniformity. He was a bundle of nerves. “Is it all right if I speak to Oliver now?”

  Langham glanced at Oliver, torn between letting this copper get his curiosity quieted, and telling him to fuck off if he knew what was good for him. Oliver shook his head, then leant forward to prop his elbows on his knees and cover his face with his hands.

  “Oliver’s tired,” Langham said. “Gets him like that sometimes. Speak to one of the others, preferably not Villier. She’s not in Oliver’s corner. Doesn’t believe in all this ‘shit’ as she calls it.”

  “Oh, right, sir.” Hastings stood abreast of Langham and stared at Oliver. Hastings’ face showed his disappointment. “Only, it’s really weird stuff, and I just wanted—” He stopped, nodding to himself. “I’ll be off then, sir.”

  “You do that.”

  Langham waited until he’d left. For a minute back there he thought he’d have to take Hastings to task, explain with a bit more force that he ought to piss off while the going was good. He hated having to do that, to be seen as the big bad boss, but sometimes, needs must. It seemed Hastings was keen, so that was something, but at times the newbies were too keen, more trouble than they were worth.

  Langham sat beside Oliver, the chair creaking, wobbling a bit where one of the black rubber feet had come off. “You need to go home.”

  “I’ll be all right in a minute. I just need…some food, maybe a drink.” Oliver sat up straighter, blinked several times, then leant forward again to pick up the treats he’d bought from the vending machine. “Sugar. Helps.”

  Langham stood. “Come on. My office. I need to get some notes down, get my head screwed on straight before I decide what the hell I have to do on this one. Limited officers. It isn’t looking good.”

  Oliver glanced up, his eyes red-rimmed, a little watery. A bag of crisps shook in his hand, the packet rustling. “We’ve got to find her.”

  “I know. We’ll give it a damn good try. But—”

  “I know.” Oliver stood. “I fucking know. And even though I don’t talk to my mum, my sister, I can’t help wondering. What if it was one of them? How would I feel? Just because my mum called me weird all my life, she’s still my mum, know what I mean? And I never thought I’d feel like that. Thought I’d cut her out with no trouble. Bloody hell.”

  Oliver walked away with his head bent, leaving the room with a defeated air about him. The door snapped shut even though he hadn’t slammed it, and the white venetian blinds swung across the window insert.

  Langham’s head spun with his thoughts. Where they hell would they begin? Station undercover officers at the café or send in uniforms to question all customers? No, undercover would be better. Less chance of the bastard—if he even used the supermarket—becoming aware they were on to him, drawing closer. If he saw a police presence, he might change venue, and that was all they bloody needed. Now they had such a solid lead, they’d have to run with it as best they could, hoping the killer stuck to old ground as he had in the past.

  Who would go and interview the newspaper staff? He would, but Oliver would probably insist on going with him, saying he had a better chance to get them to talk, to know if they were lying by looking at their faces. But some people could control their features, rarely a telling tic or micro-expression to be seen.

  And now there was Oliver and his admission about his mother and sister. Langham never thought Oliver would have worried about them, not after how they’d acted towards him when he was growing up.

  “Jesus wept,” he said quietly. “This is one hell of a nightmare.”

  He strode through the main office, waylaid by various officers, responding to questions he was thankfully able to answer. Yes, you need to check into Cheryl’s background, see if she is actually missing. No, I don’t doubt Oliver for a second. Yes, you need to send plain-clothed officers out to Morrisons, see if the staff noticed anyone lurking about the past few nights by the field. No, I haven’t got a bloody clue where Wilkes is.

  Back in his office, Oliver chomping on crisps, Langham shut the door and leant against it.

  God help anyone who knocks now…

  His phone rang.

  “I don’t need this at the moment.” Langham gritted his teeth.

  “Better answer that,” Oliver said.

  Langham sighed. “Fuck it.” He walked to the desk then snatched up the phone. “Langham.”

  “It’s Hastings, sir.”

  “Go on.” Please don’t let him ask an imbecilic question…

  “There’s no missing person’s report on Miss Witherspoon, so I telephoned the newspaper and Morrisons. She didn’t show up at either place. Unusual for her, Morrisons said, because she always calls in if she’s ill. So I ran a check and found her parents. They live in Scotland—doubt they’d even know she was missing unless Miss Witherspoon got in contact every day, and seeing as she hasn’t been reported as being gone…”

  “Yep, yep. Good work. Let Villier know what you’ve found. She’ll give you further direction.” Langham dropped the phone onto the cradle without saying goodbye. He couldn’t be arsed and wasn’t in the mood for niceties. He’d felt sorry for Hastings at the first meeting, but he’d got on his nerves in the last. The man was out of his depth—stupid of him to be on loan in their office at the moment, supposedly learning how things worked in this department. What—did he have a view to working on Langham’s squad? Did the powers that be see something in Hastings worth nurturing? Not fucking likely, unless he pulled his finger out and stopped acting so damn wet.

  The phone rang again. He picked up. “What?”

  “Hastings, sir.”

  Holy Jesus fuck… “Yes?”

  “You didn’t let me finish my last call, sir.”

  Langham closed his eyes and bared his teeth. He was seriously on edge now, wanting to sort through the information and see what they needed to do next. The thought of Cheryl being bathed in bleach, that her time might be running out, chilled him to the bone. Talking to Hastings, hand-holding him, wasn’t a job he had the inclination to throw himself into.

  “Right. Get on with it then, Hastings.” This had better be good…

  “Someone else visited the newspaper asking after her.”

  “And?”

  “And it wasn’t one of us, sir.”

  “What?”

  “Male civilian asking questions. How long she’d been off work, stuff like that. Newspaper editor said he’d acted a bit furtive.”

  “When was this?” Langham grabbed a pen and tapped it on the table.

  “About half an hour ago.”

  Langham’s breath came out in an almighty whoosh. He put the phone down and lifted his jacket off the back of his chair.

  “Going somewhere?” Oliver stood, more alert now.

  “Yep. Someone’s been at the newspaper asking questions.”

  “Oh? Must have been after I left. It’s been quiet there all morning until…until Cheryl got hold of me.”

  “Half an hour ago.” Langham shrugged into his jacket. “You coming?”

  “Yep.” Oliver rubbed one eye with a knuckle.

  “They got CCTV there?” Langham walked to his door then pulled it open.

  “Yeah. Had to. We get all kinds of nutters showing up, angry about the stories.”

  “Good. Because I’m going to need to see it.” And please let the bastard who was nosing around earlier be young, blond, and with green eyes.

  Chapter Six

  Dav
id stared at her from the bedroom doorway, taking a moment to think. He’d go for a walk at some point, clear the cobwebs, get back to being totally focused. Perhaps come back and write in his diary. That little book was a Godsend. Like, as soon as he started writing, all the angst went away, spilling onto the page.

  Cheryl was asleep now. She’d need some more drugs soon. He’d given her a small dose, just enough so she would get a solid hour or two of sleep while he sat on the sofa and meditated, waiting for Mr Clever to tell him it was The Time. He always liked that bit. He got to be someone totally different, didn’t he, or perhaps who he was supposed to be. Yeah, that was it. That was what his personal journey was all about. Becoming himself. How many women would he have to kill in order to be his true self all the time? Or was the killing ritual the only thing that enabled him to be himself?

  He was discovering more every day, and the answers to his questions would come. Rome wasn’t built in a day—Mr Clever had told him that, and seeing as Mr Clever was such a clever man, David just had to trust in his voice and do as he was being told. It would all come out in the wash, like people were fond of saying. But things didn’t always come out in the wash, did they?

  He shoved that thought aside, knowing if he chased it, he’d end up in a mess, worrying about things he shouldn’t concern himself with. And being a mess might fuck with what he was doing, and he couldn’t have that.

  He took the mask off, regretting its loss—it had become a part of him, the condensation inside disguising any tears that might want to fall—yet at the same time he was relieved to have some clean air on his skin. Well, cleaner now that Cheryl had been bleached and the air freshener had done exactly what it claimed it would: Floral Breeze doesn’t just mask odours, it takes them away!

  He went into his bedroom next to hers to place the mask back in his bedside drawer. He stroked it. The cheeks were as soft as the women’s—he closed his eyes and imagined the ritual had started already, that he was doing what he always did before they were snuffed out for good. The familiar feeling of The Time came then, and he snapped his eyes open. He went to the bathroom to check on the knickers, the only thing of Cheryl’s he hadn’t put in the washing machine. He stared into the sink, pleased to see all traces of the mess had gone—bleach, he loved it, so good at getting rid of stains and stenches—so unplugged the stopper then rinsed them through. After squeezing them out, he draped them over the radiator then walked out into the hallway to turn up the heating so they’d dry quicker.