Stephen Booth - The Dead Place

Soon there will be a killing. It might happen in the nextfew hours. We could synchronize our watches and countdown the minutes. What a chance to record the tickingaway of a life, to follow it through to that last, perfectmoment, when existence becomes nothing, when thespirit parts with the physical.

The end is always so close, isnt it? Fate lurks beneathour feet like a rat in a sewer. It hangs in a corner ofthe room like a spider in its web, awaiting its moment. And the moment of our dying already exists inside us, deep inside. Its a dark ghost on the edge of our dreams, a weight that drags at our feet, a whisper in the ear atthe darkest hour of the night. We cant touch it or seeit. But we know its there, all the same.

But then again perhaps Ill wait, and enjoy theanticipation. They say thats half the pleasure, dontthey? The waiting and planning, the unspoiled thrill ofexpectation. We can let the imagination scurry ahead, like a dog on a trail, its nostrils twitching, its tonguedribbling with joy. Our minds can sense the blood andsavour it. We can close our eyes and breathe in thearoma.

I can smell it right now, cant you? Its so powerful, so sweet. So irresistible. Its the scent of death.

Footsteps approached in the corridor. Heavy boots, someone pacing slowly on the vinyl flooring. Here was a man in no hurry, his mind elsewhere, thinking about his lunch or the end of his shift, worrying about the twinge of pain in his back, a waistband grown too tight. An ordinary man, who rarely thought about dying.

The footsteps paused near the door, and there was a rustle of papers, followed by a moments silence. An aroma of coffee drifted on the air, warm and metallic, like the distant scent of blood.

As she listened to the silence, Detective Sergeant Diane Fry rubbed at the black marks on her fingers with a tissue. The fax machine invariably did this to her. Every time she went near the damn thing, the powder ended up on her skin. There always seemed to be a spill from a cartridge, or fingerprints left on the casing. But tonight she felt as though she were trying to wipe a much darker stain from her hands than fax toner.

Hes seriously disturbed, she said. Thats all. A sicko. A Rampton case.

But she didnt expect a reply. It was only a tactic to delay reading the rest of the transcript. Fry scraped at her fingers again, but the marks only smeared and sank deeper into her pores. She would need soap and a scrubbing brush later.

Damned machines. Who invented them?

On the other side of the desk, Detective Inspector Paul Hitchens waited patiently, rotating his swivel chair, smiling with satisfaction at a high-pitched squeal that came from the base at the end of each turn.

Fry sighed. Waiting for her in the CID room was the paperwork from several cases she was already up to her neck in. She was due in court tomorrow morning to give evidence in a murder trial, and there was a conference with the Crown Prosecution Service later in the day. She didnt have time to take on anything else, as her DI ought to know.

Shed also slept badly again last night. Now, at the end of the day, her head ached as if steel springs had been wound tight across her forehead and driven deep into the nerves behind her eyes. A growing queasiness told her that she ought to go home and lie down for a while until the feeling passed.

And this will be a real killing not some drunkenscuffle in the back yard of a pub. Therell be no spasmof senseless violence, no pathetic spurt of immaturepassion. Theres no place for the brainless lunge of aknife, the boot in the side of the head. Therell be nopiss among the blood, no shit on the stones, no screamingand thrashing as a neck slithers in my fingers like asweat-soaked snake

No, therell be none of that sort of mess. Not thistime. Thats the sign of a disorganized brain, thesurrender to an irrational impulse. Its not my kind ofkilling.

My killing has been carefully planned. This deathwill be a model of perfection. The details will be precise, the conception immaculate, the execution flawless. Anaccomplishment to be proud of for the rest of my life.

TRANSCRIPTION NOTE: BRIEF PAUSE, LAUGHTER.

A cold worm moved in Frys stomach. She looked up from the faxed sheets, suppressing a feeling of nausea that had risen as she read the last sentence.

I need to hear the original tape, she said.

Of course. Its on its way from Ripley. Well have it first thing in the morning.

What are they using a carrier pigeon?

Hitchens turned to look at her then. He smoothed his hands along the sleeves of his jacket, a mannerism hed developed over the past few weeks, as if he were constantly worrying about his appearance. Tonight, he looked particularly uncomfortable. Perhaps he wasnt sleeping well, either.

Diane, Ive heard this tape, he said. This guy is convincing. I think hes serious.

When the footsteps outside the door moved on, Fry followed their sound and let her mind wander the passages of E Division headquarters down the stairs, past the scenes of crime department, the locked and darkened incident room, and into a corridor filled with muffled, echoing voices. By the time the sounds had faded away, her thoughts were aimless and disoriented, too. They were lost in a maze with no way out, as they so often were in her dreams.

No, hes laughing, she said. Hes a joker.

Hitchens shrugged. Dont believe me, then. Wait until you hear the tape, and judge for yourself.

Fry regarded the DI curiously. Despite his faults as a manager, she knew he had good instincts. If Hitchens had heard the tape and thought it should be taken seriously, she was inclined to believe him. The printed words on the page werent enough on their own. The callers real meaning would be captured in the sound of his voice, the manner of his speech, in the audible layers of truth and lies.

He seems to be hinting that hes killed before, she said.

Yes. There are some significant phrases. Not this time, for a start.

Yet in the same breath hes disapproving of something. Disapproving of himself, would you say?

With a nod, Hitchens began to smooth his sleeve again. He had strong hands, with clean, trimmed fingernails. A white scar crawled all the way across the middle knuckles of three of his fingers.

He could turn out to be an interesting psychological case for someone to examine, he said.

The DIs voice sounded too casual. And suddenly Fry thought she knew why he was looking so uncomfortable.

Dont tell me weve got a psychologist on the case already?

It wasnt my decision, Diane. This has come down to us from Ripley, remember.

She shook her head in frustration. So some chief officer at Derbyshire Constabulary HQ had got wind of the phone call and decided to interfere. That was all she needed. She pictured one of the ACPO types in his silver braid strolling through the comms room at Ripley, demonstrating his hands-on approach to visiting members of the police committee, hoping theyd remember him when promotion time came round.

OK, so whos the psychologist? said Fry. And, more to the point, who did he go to school with?

Now, thats where youre wrong, said Hitchens. He pulled an embossed business card from the clip holding the case file together. As she took the card, Fry noticed that it was a pretty slim file so far. But it wouldnt stay that way, once reports from the experts started thumping on to her desk.

Dr Rosa Kane, she said. Do you know anything about her?

The list of accredited experts and consultants had recently been updated. Someone had wielded a new broom and put his own stamp on the list, bringing in people with fresh ideas.

Not a thing, said Hitchens. But we have an appointment to meet her tomorrow.