He isn’t a sick man – no, not at all, however, he does like a challenge. Of course, he does, who doesn’t? He smiles. Well, sadly not everyone, which is why he finally ended up here forty–five years later – for payback – and enjoyment – but mostly for payback. For everything the bitch cost him. Now is the time to shred every aspect of her precious life – bit by bit, layer by layer, person by person.
Chapter 8
Bradford
Gus had been right. The incident room at The Fort on Lilycroft Road was a buzz of activity, doughnuts, and excitement, with Professor Sebastian Carlton, half-eaten doughnut on a napkin before him, pasty legs splayed in a way that made Gus want to cringe centre stage. Of course he is!
DCI, or rather, acting DCS Nancy Chalmers, sat opposite the professor, her bright yellow sundress, with an unnecessarily high split up both sides, competing with Carlton’s trainers for most garish colour of the day. Why couldn’t people just stick to neutral colours? The slightest bit of sunshine and there they were, in their droves, dazzling drivers and passers-by with their cacophony of bright hues. Half tempted to turn and leave the room, Gus smelt fresh coffee and eyed the box of doughnuts, so instead, ventured further in. Alice had already pulled up a chair next to Nancy and was listening in to whatever exaggerated serial killer tale Carlton was relating.
In a proprietorial place as close as he could get to his unlikely friend, Compo was yet more evidence of how Gus’s team had succumbed to Lockdown restrictions by embracing neon tints. In a far too bright T-shirt, with an image of Prince or the Artist Formerly Known as Prince on the front, Compo’s head was in danger of falling off his shoulders as he nodded in rhythmic pleasure at every word uttered by his guru. Thank god for Alice. Her one concession to the heat was to wear a black T-shirt instead of a long-sleeved jumper.
Lurking by the coffee machine in the little kitchen space Gus had insisted on as a necessity for the comfort, focus, and dedication of his team, was his newest team member. Taffy grinned at him. ‘Coffee, boss?’
At last sanity prevails. ‘Please, Taff. Oh, and by the way. You’re on for the post-mortem – requested by Dr McGuire no less.’
Gus had given up on attending PMs. His aversion to blood, which he grudgingly admitted, made him a liability in the PM suite and put him through unnecessary torture – twice, because inevitably he had already witnessed the appalling degradation killers inflicted on their victims at the crime scene.
Taffy’s face lit up, his grin wide enough to swallow a doughnut whole. ‘Brilliant! Can’t wait.’
Noticing Gus’s raised eyebrow and realising that his attendance at a PM necessarily meant that some unfortunate person had lost their life, Taffy wiped the smile from his face and handed Gus his coffee. ‘When I say great – well, you know, like. I don’t mean great, great. I mean, like, I’m gutted that someone’s dead.’
Taffy’s eyes widened as he continued verbalising his train of thought. ‘They’ve not been gutted, have they? The victim I mean. Not that I want them to have been gutted, but – you know with the prof here and all, it looks like we’ve caught ourselves a hot one.’
For God’s sake! Biting back the response that sprung to his lips, Gus shook his head. ‘You need to read more. Not all serial killers do the blood and gore shit, you know. Besides, we’re not talking serial killer here, right?’ Gus relented and muttered under his breath, ‘Well, not yet anyway.’
Taffy nodded, his frown demonstrating his contrition.
Coffee cup in hand, Gus snatched up a doughnut, and walked to the front of the room. Compo and Taffy had started the Victim Board, but as yet, the only item on it was an image of the victim, Miranda Brookes, taken from one of her social media accounts with her name carefully printed in Taffy’s best handwriting. As always with these smiling social media photos, the waste of human life was emphasised. Looking at this image, anyone would assume that Miranda Brookes was a carefree happy soul with her life to look forward to. She looked kind and pretty. She had a load of Facebook friends so was probably popular. This was emphasised by the knowledge of her pregnancy. But Gus was well aware that she would have had her ups and down in life. She would have experienced a gamut of emotions, been unkind sometimes, selfish at other times, perhaps maybe even been a queen bitch – whether she was perfect or not, whether she was one of life’s winners or not, was irrelevant to the dedicated process Gus and his team would go through to catch this killer. At the back of his mind, the thought, before he strikes again, niggled and the tension in his shoulders tightened. It was game on and they needed to be the best they possibly could.
Placed on a table next to the board were copies of the crime scene images he’d sent Compo earlier. Not the best – Gus was no photographer – but until the CSI photographer sent over her file of professional grade images and close-ups, they’d have to do. Ideally, he would have liked to
