That evening, as Wendy made her way to her brother's flat, she couldn't help but play the same line over and over in her head.
It's almost as if he wanted her to be found.
Why on earth would the killer want his victims to be found so easily? Why would he not want their flesh to decay, their bodies to rot so badly that the police could not identify them as easily as they otherwise could? Did he want the police to find him just as easily? The questions kept encircling Wendy's mind.
She thought back to her own personal studies into murderers and serial killers. The Green River Killer, who was thought to have killed more than fifty people in Seattle, Washington, in the early 1980s left his victims in the open on the banks of the Green River. Again, all women and mostly prostitutes. Lucien Staniak, the Red Spider, who killed eleven women in Poland in the 1960s used to write letters to the police telling them where the bodies were. For some killers, it was all part of the game.
Michael's flat was situated in a less than desirable part of Mildenheath, to say the least. The flats just off of Wiseman Road were fairly new, but still pretty drab and depressing. The Hillside estate was pretty depressing in itself, and recent “regeneration” efforts had not done much to improve its local reputation. Wendy knew, through her job, just how much of the local crime originated on the Hillside estate. It wasn’t the sort of place her brother should be, but at the stage in his life he was at, he didn’t really have much choice.
As Wendy drove through the dark, dimly lit streets, she recalled the last time she'd visited Michael's flat. Cigarette ash was sprinkled all over the sodden furniture and a mixture of blood, semen and sweat had worked its way into the filthy carpets. Wendy shuddered as she anticipated the scene she would witness this time.
She parked her car in a well-lit corner of the communal car park and made her way up the metal staircase that scaled the front wall of the building.
As Michael opened the door and she entered the flat, Wendy felt an overwhelming sense of sorrow. The siblings that had shared parents, shared a household, shared a childhood. How could they grow up to be such entirely different people?
‘It's good to see you again, Wend,’ Michael said as he closed the door behind them.
‘And you, too. How are you bearing up?’
‘Yeah, pretty good actually. That's why I called you over. I'm starting to pick myself up. As you can see, I'm already getting the flat in order.’
Wendy looked around at the muck and filth that consisted of Michael's home. Cobwebs adorned every crevice and mould was almost visibly crawling up the walls.
‘Yeah, so I see. It looks... great.’
‘Coffee?’
‘Uh, no, I'm fine thanks. I can't drink coffee too late in the evening,’ Wendy lied. Drinking coffee in the evening was almost a habit for her. It had to be, if you were more often than not up all night poring over case notes.
‘Oh, right. Well I'm afraid I don't really have anything else to offer you. I've not been to the shops yet this week.’
Wendy hoped the sigh of relief wasn't made out loud.
‘And the drugs?’ Wendy asked. ‘Have you stopped the drugs?’
Michael had been a heavy user of both heroin and crack cocaine and had made life very difficult for Wendy in recent years. As the only family member he had left, she felt almost responsible for him. Even though she wasn’t, trying to work her way up through the police service and having a drug addict and petty criminal for a brother wasn’t exactly ideal. Work and family life don’t mix well at the best of times, but the previous few years had been particularly awkward.
Michael smiled and made his way through to the kitchen to pour himself a coffee.
‘Course I have. Been clean a few months now.’
Had it really been that long since she had last seen Michael? It must have been. She had rarely felt compelled to pay him social visits in the previous years, knowing that it was both a waste of time and a possible conflict of interests. Although Michael’s criminality had long been a thing of the past, she hadn’t got round to visiting him for some time. The days had turned into weeks and the weeks into months.
Out of the corner of her eye, Wendy noticed something: a syringe containing a small amount of brown liquid adorned the french dresser in the living room. Even without her narcotics training, it was pretty evident that the needle was used and had once held heroin.
She said nothing and waited until Michael returned with his coffee.
‘A few months, yeah? Then what's this?’
‘That? Oh, that's from a friend of mine. He’s homeless but comes here occasionally to score. He's not managed to kick the habit yet. I really should stop him coming over, I know. It's not a good influence.’
Wendy may only have seen Michael a handful of times in the previous few years, but she still knew when he was lying.
‘Tell me the truth, Michael. This is yours, isn't it?’
‘It's not as easy as you think, Wend. I'm trying… I'm trying.’
‘Trying? Trying? Haven’t you learnt anything, Michael? Dad would turn in his grave if he knew you were pumping this shit into your arms. Or have you started on your legs yet?’
‘I’m trying! I swear to God I'm trying! Do you have any idea how hard it is to just stop after seven years? I've been doing this fucking shit for seven years, Wend. It's powerful stuff. It's not as easy as that. The methadone dulls some of it, but it’s not the same.’
‘Don't give me that bullshit, Michael. You're not even interested in trying! Even through mum's illness you carried on pumping that shit into yourself without a care in the world.’
Michael seemed visibly wounded by the mention of their mother. Sue Knight had died three years earlier from pancreatic cancer, mentally scarred by having to watch her only son slowly kill himself with class-A drugs. The initial shock of her death had seemed to jolt Michael back into reality, but grief had soon set in and he dealt with it the only way he knew how. Since then, they’d barely spoken.
‘It was the only way I knew how to cope.’
‘Cope?! Don't make me laugh! It was probably you and your addiction that finished her off!’
No sooner had Wendy uttered those words than she had immediately regretted every single one of them.
‘Wend, I called you because I need you. I need help.’
‘You've had my help whenever you wanted it for the past seven years, but nothing's changed. Nothing will ever change. How many chances can you give someone? I’m through with you, Michael. I don't want anything to do with you,’ she said through breaking tears.
Whether through anger or guilt, Wendy left Michael's flat, slammed the door behind her and headed for her car.
As she coasted through the streets of Mildenheath, Wendy played the conversation over and over in her head. She could recall every word, every inflection. It was something she seemed to make a habit of, although she wasn't quite sure whether it was the mark of a good police officer or a character trait that left her unable to forgive and forget.
Stopping at the traffic lights on Southold Street, Wendy’s eyes drifted over to the pub, The Cardinal, at the side of the road. Swinging her car round to the left, she pulled into the car park and walked into the pub.
She pulled up a stool and perused the drinks on offer, her eyes stopping at the bottle of whisky attached to the optic. She didn't even like whisky, but right at that moment it had an appeal.
‘Whisky, please,’ she said to the barman, a middle-aged bloke who looked like a rat.
‘Heavy day, was it?’ the barman replied.
‘You could say that. Can you make it a double?’ She’d leave the car in the car park, she decided. The walk home would probably sober her up anyway, and she could do with the thinking time.
The barman duly obliged and collected the money from his new friend for the evening. Despite being a town centre pub, The Cardinal never seemed to get much passing trade. It once had a reputation as a rough pub, and the exterior decor did it no favours in lifting that reputation, the blue paint peeling and flaking off the door and window frames.
‘Penny for ‘em,’ the barman said.
‘You wouldn't want to know, trust me.’
‘Copper, are ya?’
‘How'd you know?’
‘We get a lot of them in here. Easy to spot, really.’
Wendy wondered whether they ever got a lot of anything in The Cardinal. She certainly saw no reason for any of her colleagues to drink in a dive like this. Except Culverhouse. She'd bet Culverhouse would love this place.
‘It's a long story.’
‘Try me.’
Wendy thought for a moment. She could be careful, not give away too much information. ‘OK. Yes, I'm a copper. I'm attached to a murder case which is now a serial murder case. There's a nutter on the loose who's chopping down prostitutes, and we're miles from catching him because my senior investigating officer is a clueless bigoted prick. For a brief respite, I went to visit my idiot smack-head brother this evening only to find out that he's still an idiot and still a smack-head. How's that for starters?’
‘Better than most I hear, I'll give you that. First I've heard of any serial killer, though.’
‘We've only just found out ourselves. It's due to hit the papers in the morning. Will be on the front page of tomorrow night’s Bugle. Call it a sneak preview.’
‘I’m honoured. You nowhere near catching the fella then?’
‘Not really. There are still a few things to tie up.’
Wendy guffawed at the terrible pun and realised she needed another whisky.
The barman rang the bell for no-one's benefit but Wendy's. Christ, it was half-eleven. She didn't know what time she'd arrived at The Cardinal, but it was a good four double whiskys ago. With no other option, Wendy said her goodbyes and left.
The walk wasn’t an option at eleven-thirty. All she wanted to do was go to bed. She didn't think twice about getting into her car and driving home, even after her good four whiskys. Tonight, she just didn't care. In fact, the thought rather amused her.
As she reversed her Mazda out of the parking space, she realised she hadn't switched on her lights. As she fumbled to do so, she looked up and into her rear-view mirror just in time to see the large four-wheel-drive BMW meet the rear bumper with an almighty bang.
Wendy got out of her car and apologised profusely to the man in the BMW, who’d got out and was inspecting the damage.
‘Shit, I'm so sorry. I didn't see you there. Are you OK?’ Wendy asked.
‘Yeah, I'm fine. Car's a bit worse for wear, though. Christ knows how you managed that – I wasn't even moving!’
‘I’m so sorry. My mind was elsewhere and I just went onto autopilot.’
‘It happens. Just as long as you're insured, mind!’
‘Don't worry about that. I can go one better: I'm a police officer.’
‘Well, saves me a phone call, I suppose. You on licensing, then?’
‘No, night off. I’m attached to the murder squad, actually. Wendy Knight,’ she said, proffering her hand.
‘Blimey, a real professional woman. There's a turn-up for the books. I'm Robert, by the way. Robert Ludford, seeing as we’re onto surnames already.’
The man handed Wendy his business card in a manner far too unsuitable for the occasion.
Robert Ludford ~ Chartered Accountant.
‘Blimey, a real professional man, too. There's a turn-up for the books.’
The pair chuckled as they exchanged insurance details before heading back to their cars.
‘Oh, and Wendy?’ Robert called. ‘Be careful, won't you? Whisky and cars are never a good mix. You wouldn't want to have to arrest yourself for drink-driving.’