Slow Slicing (DI Bliss Book 7) Page 13

  His mouth dry and sour, Bliss clicked away from the crime scene photographs. Unlike the amateur photographer who had discovered the body, he would recover from the impact of what he had seen; inured to such depravity, his thick skin was perhaps not entirely immune, but it was callused enough to prevent permanent damage. Though the graphic nature of the wounds left him feeling numb, he did not want his investigator’s interest to become voyeuristic.

  He searched for DNA but, as expected, found no evidence. Turning to the timeline section, Bliss followed the chronology on the screen at the same time as he replayed Conway’s version of events in his head. They were a close enough match for him to nod approvingly at the Super’s ability to not only draw on his memory, but also provide information in such a way as to create a vivid picture in the mind’s eye.

  Three pivotal moments captured Bliss’s attention. The first was the window during which Price had been taken off the street. The first question to ask was whether she had willingly gone with somebody else, perhaps accepting a lift from a familiar face. If not – if she had been snatched – why had nobody noticed? It was the rush hour. There would have been vehicles and other pedestrians along her most likely route, all the way from the bus stop to the point at which she would have entered her housing estate. So was that where it had happened? Had she blundered into a street gang hanging around close to her flat? The evening would have been dark, the lighting in and around the area likely to range from dim to negligible. But was it possible for an abduction to have taken place without a single witness noticing or hearing her protest? Bliss thought it unlikely, believing instead that she had accepted a ride from somebody she knew.

  The second critical juncture to consider was the dumping of the body. Although not a major thoroughfare, Wharf Road had always been well-travelled, as far as Bliss could recall. Often used as a rat-run between City Road and north Islington, bypassing the heavy traffic around the Angel tube station, it was busy enough for Bliss to speculate that the body dump had been carried out in the dead of night. Indeed, it was highly likely that her naked body had been tipped over the same bridge from which she had later been spotted.

  In between the two time points, the living, breathing Geraldine Price had entered premises somewhere – probably in the same immediate vicinity – before being carried or dragged out to a waiting vehicle several days later. A van or estate car was Bliss’s guess. Identifying the location in which she was held was critical, but something the original investigating team had been unable to do. Bliss had a shrewd idea that it would not have been someone’s home, but a business property; somewhere out of the way, far from observant eyes and sharp ears.

  Yet close by.

  He was certain it would have to be near to where she had been both taken and returned. Why dump her in the same area several days later if not?

  Bliss felt his stomach flip. He rushed out of his office and sped to the men’s toilets at the far end of the corridor. He burst through the door and headed straight for one of the three sinks. For a good minute he leaned over it, hands gripping its stainless-steel rim. Cramps raced across his abdomen, and he felt a liquid burn at the back of his throat. When nothing came up and he’d choked back the bile, Bliss ran the cold tap, cupped his hands beneath the stream and brought the water up to his face. The coldness stung a little, but it felt good. He avoided looking into the mirror, not wanting to catch even a glimpse of what he knew must be a harrowing look on his face.

  What had happened to Price was no longer a mystery. As for how it happened, where it happened, and who was responsible, there were still no answers a quarter of a century later. It wasn’t a lot to go on, but it was all Bliss needed after seeing those photographs. Geraldine Price was now more than a case file to him. Her vicious, brutal murder had never been solved, but having seen her broken body, he was now stung by the reality of the situation. And he would not rest until he had answers.

  Seventeen

  He had no idea how many hours or days had passed since he’d been taken, only that his future hung by the finest of threads. Death could not come soon enough for him, but he feared his own strength might enable him to survive another day or two. The thought chilled him so deeply he shook until his bones ached.

  Since the loss of his left hand, shock had completely overwhelmed his body. Bathed beneath the midday sun and spotlit in its heat, he trembled and shuddered nonetheless. His mind was a confusion of images, and he wondered if he had hallucinated certain aspects of what he thought he had endured; he could not believe himself capable of withstanding such an onslaught.

  While the masked figure punished him, his willpower fractured and unashamed tears spilled out, accompanied by pleading for the swift mercy of release. With the man gone once more, he was left consumed by pain, anger, bitterness, and a contempt for his own weakness. All too soon, however, he began preparing for the man’s return, once more crushed beneath the weight of hopelessness and capitulation. Terror funnelled back in to fill the void where agony dissipated, and a dull throbbing rippled through his veins.

  Throughout it all there were moments of lucidity. Minutes filled with the harsh reality of being some psychotic freak’s captive, understanding there was no escape and nobody around to hear his screams. Now, as he waited once again for the man’s return, he began to ponder his captor’s motives for carrying out this degree of torture. The moment he realised it had to be personal, his thoughts turned to the figure’s appearance.

  Why wear the mask?

  Was it for dramatic effect? Was its featureless design deliberately calculated to instil further terror? Or was the truth simpler than either of those explanations? Was the man hiding his face behind the ragged cloth because without it he’d be recognised? Was that it? Did he know this man? Had the two of them been enemies?

  In those few idle moments when he was not being tortured, fearing torture, or anticipating the grim return of the creatures, Tommy Harrison reflected on how he had been abducted. These days he earned a crust fencing stolen items, and most of the time he worked out of a lock-up garage adjacent to a viaduct in Buckhurst Hill; for bigger jobs in the capital, he used one of his old haunts on the Isle of Dogs. On Saturday he had received a text message. The number was unknown to him, but since most of his new customers were friends of friends of friends, this was nothing unusual. He arranged a meeting with the caller in a supermarket car park close to Millwall outer dock later in the evening, indicating they should wait for him in the last available space at the far end, by the car wash. His policy was to meet people in person ahead of any transaction; if they had something of interest to him, he would then make the necessary reference calls prior to shaking hands on a deal. There was no risk involved at this point because neither cash nor goods were on offer during the initial meeting.

  He rolled into the car park fifteen minutes after the appointed time. A blue Transit van was waiting in the assigned space, a lone figure behind the wheel. He parked up two bays down, and seconds later somebody wearing a sweatshirt with its hood pulled up climbed out of the van and ambled over, head bowed to avoid security cameras as Tommy had advised. As usual, he kept his doors locked but hit the button for the window on the passenger side. This ensured he and whoever he was doing business with remained at least an arm’s length apart. It was an added precaution he had never previously required. But on this occasion, as the figure crouched, Tommy caught a bright flash of metal glinting in the fading sunlight. It was as if a camera’s flash had gone off, momentarily blinding him. A second later, he felt a fierce cramp-like pain creep over his entire body. His muscles spasmed. He felt his body jerk around and his eyes begin to roll inside their sockets. Rearing back, he smashed his head against the window.

  A swirling sensation followed by a slow submerging into darkness was the last thing he remembered until he woke up lashed to the wooden posts. He now realised he had been tasered, after which he’d been rendered unconscious by e
ither a blow or being force-fed a strong sedative. It seemed like a long time ago now, though he knew less than three full days had passed. The man who had abducted him was without compassion. He was also patient and methodical as he went about slicing chunks of meat from Tommy’s body. A number of wounds had been left untreated, depending on blood seepage. If the flow increased, out came the blowtorch, and the searing pain and nauseating stench of his own burnt flesh became hideously overpowering.

  A sense of hopelessness squeezed his heart to the point of crushing it. Whatever this man wanted, it was not information. He had asked no questions; his actions were intended only to cause pain and terror. As for why he had removed the hand, Tommy had no clue. But the man had taken it away with him, carefully wrapped up in a carrier bag together with a couple of fragments of tissue sliced off with the smaller blade. At that point, Tommy had considered every remaining part of his body, the numerous sections so far untouched, the number of appendages and limbs left available for removal.

  It all added up to a great deal more misery and agony to come.

  But why? He did not deserve this.

  Tommy wept, sobbing as he had not done since early childhood. Alone and terrified. Not wishing for home, but for death to visit him – sooner rather than later.

  Eighteen

  The new offices of the Peterborough Telegraph were smaller than those in their previous building near the bus station, but infinitely more comfortable, and brighter by far. During the case in which Molly had created chaos for one of the city’s most notorious drugs gangs, Bliss and Chandler had met with journalist Sandra Bannister and three senior editorial staff to discuss another case running in parallel; at the time, none of them could have known how important that meeting would later prove to be. On this occasion, it was just Bliss and Bannister thrust together in the conference room.

  Bliss had been at his desk when his mobile rang, half an hour earlier. Bannister had called on three separate occasions since eight-thirty that morning. He’d let each one go to voicemail, but had not checked the messages. Three attempts to contact him in a single day was unusual, though, so this time he picked up.

  ‘We need to talk,’ Bannister said without preamble. Their relationship had returned to its original stilted, awkward state recently, and Bliss was unsurprised by her getting straight down to business.

  ‘We do?’

  ‘Yes, I think so. I believe I have information you’ll be interested in.’

  ‘Is that so? I didn’t think we did this kind of thing any more.’

  ‘Neither did I, but what I have for you today is important. Crucial, in fact.’

  Bliss let that sink in for a few seconds. He sat upright, mind stirring. ‘All right, you have my attention. Can you give me a clue?’

  ‘I’ve been working on a story for a couple of weeks now. Judging by what I hear coming out of Tower Hill and your own media office, my story and your investigation appear to be crossing lines.’

  That was something Bliss did not want to hear. He immediately understood the urgency. ‘I’ll be there in half an hour,’ he said.

  She had insisted he go alone. When he asked why, Bannister told him she didn’t want DS Chandler jumping in and confusing the situation further with any official blowback after hearing what was said. Irritated by the request, but equally intrigued, Bliss agreed and left Thorpe Wood without saying a word to any of his team.

  As close as he and Bannister had once been, a gulf now existed between them. Bliss understood why, and blamed himself. He had allowed their professional relationship to become a personal one, but when they were on the brink of becoming more than friends, he had pulled away. Despite his explanation, Sandra had not taken his decision as well as Emily had. They had spoken twice since, resulting in short, superficial conversations. The greeting they exchanged on this occasion was not entirely warm.

  ‘You sounded concerned on the phone,’ Bliss said, taking a seat at the central table. He thought she looked tired, puffy around the eyes. Pale and more slender than he remembered, Bannister did not present as the picture of health. He wondered what was bothering her.

  She sat down at the opposite side of the table, as far from him as possible. ‘I was. I am. The thing is, I’m not exactly sure what’s cooking here, but I have a feeling we’re about to reach a point where the overlap between your investigation and my own becomes impossible to navigate. Reluctantly, I now think it’s time to share what I have with the police.’

  ‘How about you tell me what it is you’ve been working on, and I’ll give you my honest opinion?’

  ‘That is my intention,’ Bannister insisted. The worried look on her face deepened into something more troubled. ‘I fought hard with my editors to bring this to you. My colleague and I have spent many hours on this project, and with no article yet posted there’s a concern it will be time wasted.’

  ‘You mean, once I hear what you have to say, I might ask you to sit on it.’

  ‘Exactly. That’s why I thought it best if Penny wasn’t here with you. Despite our differences, I still feel you and I are capable of thrashing things out ahead of any formal decision. Plus – and I don’t like to remind you of this, but I will – myself and my newspaper retain the right to publish, irrespective of what we discuss in this room.’

  Bliss bristled, indignant at being given the official Fourth Estate line. ‘Then why bring it to me at all?’ he asked, with greater severity than he’d intended.

  ‘Because it’s the right thing to do,’ she said simply. ‘And yes, I learned that phrase from you.’

  Bannister took a deep breath and launched into what she had to say. It had begun over two weeks earlier, she said, when she stumbled across a brief online column in the Huffington Post, written by a freelance reporter. In the article, the author laid out the curious case of Benjamin Carlisle, a man in his fifties who had taken his two dogs for a walk and never returned. Both Staffordshire bull terriers were found three hours later, running free around a farmer’s field nearby. Carlisle’s wife reported her husband missing, but there were no suspicious circumstances and no witnesses to suggest that any criminal activity had taken place. In the final paragraph, the writer speculated as to whether the man’s gangland past lay behind his disappearance.

  ‘The item piqued my curiosity,’ Bannister admitted. ‘The article was not the best I’ve ever read, and journalistically weak – having referred to Carlisle’s murky past, it failed to explore it further. Even so, I read it on a Friday, spent the weekend mulling it over, and on the Monday morning asked my editor if I could devote time to investigating the item thoroughly. She gave me a bit of leeway, I roped in a junior, and we began a deep dive into Ben Carlisle.’

  Bliss had felt hairs springing erect on the nape of his neck the moment Bannister mentioned a gangland connection. ‘I take it you discovered enough to keep you interested,’ he said.

  ‘You could say so. Carlisle is one sick and twisted individual. He’s spent time in prison, but is thought to have committed far worse crimes than those of which he was convicted. Those crimes include malicious wounding, ABH, GBH, and murder. In fact, he was charged with all three during a four-year period back in the late eighties and early nineties, but each charge was eventually dropped due to lack of evidence, witnesses mysteriously withdrawing their statements or, in one case, disappearing altogether.’

  ‘He sounds like a real sweetheart. But I have to say, Sandra, his name hasn’t come up in my own investigation so far.’

  After a lengthy pause during which her eyes never left his, she finally said, ‘Do you know, that’s the first time you’ve called me by my first name?’

  He nodded. ‘Given the circumstances, it felt like the right thing to do.’

  ‘There was a time when I’d have been overjoyed. Now… I’m not so sure.’

  Bliss wanted to shrug it off before he became too defensive. ‘It’s s
till your name, right? Let’s not get hung up on it. Like I say, I’m not seeing where your Mr Carlisle fits in with our case.’

  ‘I’m about to get to that. Once I got a sense of the kind of man he was, we went deeper still. Right back to his teenage years, following his reputation through the decades, until he all but disappeared from the news and rumour mills. It began to look as if our story had led us nowhere. Then two things came together in rapid succession. Both myself and my junior colleague were obviously aware of the find at the Bishop’s Palace, and on Saturday we caught wind of the similar discovery in Wiltshire. By this stage we had carried out many interviews and completed dozens of hours of research, and after the news came in at the weekend, my junior happened to mention an idea he’d had.’

  Bliss felt himself leaning forward, turning his better ear slightly towards her. ‘Which was?’

  ‘There are a couple of strands, so please bear with me.’

  ‘I’ll give it my best shot. I’m not used to this investigative lark.’

  Bannister pouted. ‘Do you want to hear what I have to say, or not?’

  Bliss nodded amiably. ‘It was a joke. Please, go on.’

  ‘One of Ben Carlisle’s fellow gangsters from way back was a man called Freddy Swift. His background was extremely interesting, and we discovered that he’d been interviewed in connection with an awful crime in the mid-nineties – a crime we’ll come back to in a moment, but it’s one I’m positive you’ll be interested in. Also, we met with Carlisle’s wife at their home, and although I didn’t see it myself, while we were speaking to her my junior spotted a book on a shelf and it stuck in his head. He said he didn’t think of it again until the report came in about the contents of the carrier bag in Wiltshire. He debated whether or not to mention it to me, but when he did, it stuck inside my head, too.’

  ‘Which book?’