Time To Die

  Time to Die

  A gripping serial killer thriller - with a twist

  Caroline Mitchell

  This book is dedicated to my father Niall Mitchell,

  who taught me the value of hard work and determination.

  Chapter One

  Bert

  * * *

  ‘Please don’t hurt me.’ Mother’s voice rang in his ears as Bert drove through the inky rain-drenched streets. The wipers of the rusty orange van whipped back and forth like a metronome, conducting his thoughts into a symphony of torment.

  ‘Please Bertram don’t …’

  Bert turned up the radio to drown out the memory. It blended in a mind crowded with dark thoughts, surfacing as the maddening itch that threatened the remains of his sanity. He swore as the Volkswagen hit a pothole and jolted him in his seat. The moonless sky did little to ease his journey, and he peered through the rain-streaked windscreen at the road sign ahead. Haven. Bert bared his teeth in a sharp smile. It was almost biblical.

  The exhaust pipe of his van belched out a plume of smoke before shuddering into submission in the rear car park of The Cherry Tree pub. Bert threw off the seatbelt that had long since lost its elasticity and wrenched the handbrake as far as it would go. Giving himself one last glance in the rear view mirror, he nodded in silent affirmation before throwing open the van door. Clamping a hand over his black fedora hat, he ran to the pub as the rain beat into his back, his long black trench coat flapping open.

  The sweet smell of damp logs rose from the open fire, and he shook his foot to dispel the water trickling through the hole in his shoe. At least the place was warm. The early spring evening had brought a biting chill to the air. He shoved the van keys deep into his pocket, shuddering at the thought of returning to the cold metal tomb. It was a poor comparison to his warm bed at home. But he couldn’t go back. Not now.

  His small flint eyes slid over the patrons in the low-beamed pub. A disinterested-looking couple sat beside the log fire, their fingers pecking at their iPhones in the absence of conversation. His gaze moved to the bar, where a well-padded man in a navy suit sat staring into his pint. A thought snaked into Bert’s consciousness. He’s the one. Shaking the rain from his hat, Bert dragged a metal comb through his damp wisps of silver hair. He rifled for change in his worn suit pocket and ordered a pint of Guinness, dropping an array of coins on the dusky wooden bar.

  The barman curled his fat fingers over the five and ten pence pieces, his lips moving silently as he counted them into the till. But Bert was not interested in him. He was focused on the man at the bar. His heart cranked up a notch at the thought of what lay ahead, and he left his pint to rest. Five minutes. He needed five minutes to steady himself, and then he would begin. The stench of piss and cigarette stubs rose from the men’s toilets, and he gripped the corners of the ceramic sink as he drew upon his reserves of strength. Staring in the mirror, he sought out his power. It lay in the darkness behind his eyes, sank deep in their sockets. It will be done, he whispered, a twisted smile playing on his lips.

  * * *

  He returned to find suit man half asleep, his fleshy cheeks pressing through open fingers as he leaned into his hands.

  Bert sank back mouthfuls of Guinness, savouring the creamy black liquid as it hit the back of his throat. Satiated, he rifled in his pocket for his battered deck of tarot cards. An unlikely tool to initiate the death of another, but for Bert, therein lay the appeal.

  ‘What you got there, buddy?’ suit man said, the trace of an American accent on his lips.

  Bert’s lips narrowed in a smile as he patted the deck of cards in front of him. ‘These, my friend, can predict your future.’

  Suit man snickered before raising the whisky chaser to his lips and knocking it back. ‘Scuse me, can I order another round and a Guinness for my compadre here?’

  The barman cast a curious glance over the unlikely friendship before drying his glass with a tea towel and turning to dispense the drinks.

  ‘Much appreciated,’ Bert said, in his most amenable tone.

  ‘That’s OK. I’m feeling friendly. That barman is as much fun as a root canal.’

  Bert laughed mechanically, narrowing his eyes at the barman returning with their drinks.

  ‘Have you had your fortune told before?’ Bert asked, scratching the itch behind his ear. It burned like fire into his skin. He hated small talk, but he did what he could to gain the trust of those chosen to receive their prophecy.

  The man dropped his eyes as he picked at his beer mat. ‘No I haven’t. Lately I seem to spend all my time in the past.’

  Bert understood the sentiment, but he truly didn’t care. ‘Give me a tenner and I’ll tell you your future. What do you say?’

  Suit man leaned to the left as he pulled out a wad of money from his back pocket. Dipping his fingers into the roll, he slipped ten pounds on the bar. ‘Hit me.’

  Bert wiped the bar clean with his sleeve as faint laughter echoed from within. Shuffling the cards, he felt the joy of release as he transferred his energies to the pack. He fanned out the deck, asking the man to choose three cards before placing them face down on the bar.

  ‘These are past, present and future,’ Bert said, turning the first card over. It had begun. Like the roll of a dice, the prophecy had been set into action and could not be halted. The reading was accurate and to the point. He told of suit man’s success in business, and the sleep paralysis which terrorised his nights. A condition so debilitating he had forced himself to return to face a past best forgotten. His face was an expressionless mask as the words unfolded in Bert's gravelly drawl.

  Bert took in the images only he could see, suit man’s past delivered to his mind’s eye in cine-camera pictures complete with sound, smells, and dark emotions.

  Suit man was a good deal younger, his dark hair skimming the collar of his black leather jacket. His parents owned the pub in which they sat, and he was no stranger to driving his father’s car after a belly full of cider. As he sped past the rows of trees, he did not see the six-year-old child chase her dog down the footpath. Blonde curls bouncing, she didn’t have time to scream as he lost control and clipped the kerb. A screeching of brakes was followed by a sickening thud. She didn’t stand a chance. Bile rose to his throat at the sight of the motionless body in his rear view mirror. Where was her mother? Why had nobody been watching her? Heart clamouring, he reached for the car door handle, and then paused. What was the point in stopping now? The damage had been done. Pumping the accelerator, he sped down the sun-streaked road. He must have imagined it. It must have been a dog not a child, and it was far too beautiful a day for such a horrific thing to occur.

  Bert took a deep breath as the image passed. He did not feel disgust at the man’s actions; it was too late for that now. No, he felt delight. For he was going to help the transgressor atone for his sins. After all, wasn’t that what he was here for? A shot of death in the vein of this diseased soul. The fact that he would benefit from the demise of another simply told him it was meant to be.

  ‘This is the last card,’ Bert said, his throat dry. He wondered why he hadn’t revealed the man’s murky past, why he hadn’t whispered those two words … I know. But now it was time for the grand finale. The climax, and Bert could barely wait. ‘You might not want to hear what I have to say but I’m going to complete the reading with a future prophecy.’

  Suit man shrugged as his words curled in a slur. ‘You’ve blown me away so far. Feel free.’ Bert's eyes flickered to suit man’s car keys, sat like an accusation on the bar. He licked his lips as he dealt his last hand.

  ‘That rope in the boot of your car, the one you’ve been playing with, well tonight you’re going to use it. Because it’s the only way you can pay for wh
at you’ve done.’ Bert held back a chuckle as a frisson of excitement rose up inside him. Was there really a rope in the boot of his car? The crumpled expression on the man’s face told him there was. He paused for breath and glanced around the pub. The couple had left and the dying embers of the fire faintly crackled in the background. A clock ticked on the wall, a reminder that time was running out for both of them. The tiniest of smiles tugged at Bert's lips as he slowly and deliberately delivered the final words. ‘You came to face your demons but you are the monster of your nightmares. Finish it now and beg for forgiveness when you meet your maker. It’s the only way to save your soul.’

  The man’s mask of friendship fell away to reveal eyes filled with torture and anguish. It was as if someone had let the air out of his face, and the age-ripened lines and grooves deepened in his distress. Slowly he nodded, before finishing his drink and sliding off the leather barstool. ‘It’s time,’ suit man said, in a hollow voice.

  ‘Yes,’ Bert agreed, his voice dropping to a whisper. ‘Time to die.’ He did not try to stop the man as he left the pub, his shoulders slouched under the burden of guilt. The ker-thunk sound of the double doors announced he had exited the building.

  Snapping into action, Bert gathered together his cards. The shake in his hands was not from fear, but from the adrenalin coursing through his veins. It would not be long now. Giving the cards a quick shuffle, he slipped them back into the red velvet pouch before tugging the frayed gold drawstrings. It was a suitable punishment for the wicked, and a blessed release for him. Tonight suit man would take the rope to the dingy bedroom he was renting, and throw it over the strongest beam. With Bert’s words echoing in his mind, he would climb up onto a chair and place the noose over his head. Suit man’s final thoughts would be of the little girl he mowed down all those years ago.

  Bert swigged the leftover whisky chaser in one gulp. As he slid off the barstool something on the floor caught his eye. Could it be? He ran his fingers through his hair, purposely knocking off his hat. Bending down to pick it up, he placed it over the wad of notes that had fallen from suit man’s pocket onto the floor. There must be a few hundred quid there. Sliding them into the inner lip of his hat, he walked out to his van. The prediction had served him well, and the man would not need it any more. He smiled at the prospect of his next kill. Sin was all around. He would not be found wanting.

  Chapter Two

  ‘Stop, police!’ DC Jennifer Knight yelled at the young woman, who appeared to have gained the ability of a gazelle through the streets of Haven. ‘Why do I always get the runners?’ she said between breaths. ‘Emily, stop, I just need to talk to you.’

  ‘Bog off!’ the girl yelled, her long auburn hair streaming behind her as she clattered down the narrow alleyway, dodging puddles and overstuffed rubbish bins.

  Jennifer began to lose ground and wondered where her partner DC Will Dunston had gotten to. He appeared at the end of the alleyway and took the girl’s legs in a swift rugby tackle. Not one to lose face, Jennifer pulled the girl out of the gutter by the scruff of her neck.

  ‘When I say stop, I mean stop,’ she said, pulling Emily’s wrists behind her as Will locked the cuffs in place. Jennifer recited the caution before arresting her for theft. A quick search under her puffa jacket produced the stash of jewellery freshly stolen from the counter of the jewellers on the high street. Shouts of police brutality drowned out her words as the insolent teen dragged her heels to the unmarked police car.

  ‘You want me to drive?’ Will asked, a smug grin creeping behind his beard. ‘You look all done in.’

  Jennifer fingered a loose tendril of brown wavy hair back into her hairclip. ‘I was just giving you a head start. You drive, I’ll sit in the back with our friend here.’ She clicked Emily’s seatbelt in its holster before sliding in beside her, muttering under her breath as her puddle-stained trousers seeped through to her skin.

  The best thing about working for Operation Moonlight was the steady stream of unusual cases hitting their office on a daily basis. Emily Clarke was a particular person of interest, and unfortunately for her, was being monitored by Will and Jennifer as she made an impromptu visit to the jewellers. Loath to blow her cover, Jennifer allowed uniformed officers to deal with the aftermath of Emily’s shoplifting of make-up and clothes, but expensive jewellery? As Will said, that was taking the piss. The elevation of her crime confirmed Jennifer’s suspicions. Emily was getting desperate.

  Back at the station, Jennifer filled her sergeant in on Emily’s arrest, and together they wrote up interview tactics, which were far more about extracting intelligence than theft of jewellery. Emily was a member of a cult that was spreading to every county in the UK. Weekly meetings resulted in chants, meditation, and the so-called rebirthing process, which gave the group its name: ‘The Reborners’. Hailed as a second chance at life, they had no shortage of followers. But intelligence on drug use and suicides within neighbouring groups suggested all was not what it seemed. Nicknamed ‘The God Drug’, DMT, was the cheaply made psychedelic used to initiate powerful ‘spiritual experiences’. With high joining fees and low production costs, The Reborners was a profitable money making machine.

  Tasked to shut the Haven branch down, Op Moonlight were under pressure to locate the clandestine gatherings.

  ‘Are you happy with that?’ DS Claire Gilmour asked, as Jennifer finished making her notes. ‘Will deals with the theft offence, and hopefully persuades her to speak to you about the cult. If we can’t convince her to speak, then remind her that social services will be all over this like a rash, if she ends up inside.’

  ‘It’s all for the greater good,’ Jennifer said, glad they were on the same wavelength. Using Emily’s misfortune as leverage for gaining quality intelligence may have seemed distasteful to some, but her cooperation could secure a suspended sentence, which meant keeping her out of prison as long as she kept her nose clean. It was a case of one back scratching the other, and worth pursuing, if it meant cleaning up the streets.

  Jennifer had been thrilled to discover Claire was supervising Op Moonlight. An old friend from her joining-up days, her psychic talents had led to her being offered a place supervising the team. Claire’s office was clean and efficient, apart from the scent of dog that sometimes lingered on her clothes.

  ‘What do you think? Does it look like me? I bought it in Wilko’s,’ Claire said, holding a small spiky cactus decorated with two plastic eyes and a tuft of black curly hair.

  ‘I can see a passing resemblance,’ Jennifer laughed, enjoying the contrast between Claire and her previous sergeant, whose default mode was permanently stressed.

  ‘Can you do me a favour?’ Claire asked, as Jennifer rose to leave.

  ‘Of course,’ Jennifer said, sitting back down on the worn swivel chair.

  ‘We have a new starter this afternoon. Her name is Zoe. She’s only twenty-six. I’d like you to take her under your wing, help her settle in.’

  ‘Sure,’ Jennifer smiled, still feeling like the newbie herself. The four months since she had joined had flown by. It wasn’t as if she had gone very far from her old office in Haven CID. Still on the same floor, she accessed her office through a security coded interconnecting door.

  ‘And if she asks about the operation name, tell her she can thank DI Cole. I think our boss fancies himself as a black James Bond.’

  ‘It’s better than the “Supernatural Homicide Investigation Team”, as suggested by Will.’ Jennifer chuckled at the acronym. ‘It’s funny; when I tell people I’m working under Operation Moonlight, most coppers just nod their head and pretend they know what it is.’

  Claire nodded. ‘Men in black we ain’t. We’re still coppers and a crime is a crime, regardless of who’s doing the mopping up.’

  DI Ethan Cole poked his head through the door, making Claire jump. A well-dressed and classically handsome young man, he didn’t have any psychic skills that Jennifer was aware of, but his enthusiasm for his job was palpable. Whether he wa
s recruiting new staff or organising dawn raids, he gave the team one hundred and ten percent. While Claire was involved in the day to day running of the team, Ethan made all the major decisions, and bore the brunt of responsibility when things went wrong.

  ‘Sorry to interrupt,’ he said, addressing them both. ‘I was wondering if Jennifer has time to attend The Cherry Tree pub with me. It’s a sudden death, sounds like it’s right up our street.’

  Jennifer’s eyes lit up at the prospect of another case involving the supernatural. She quickly did the maths. A sudden death shouldn’t take too long, and the pub wasn’t too far away. There was plenty of time for Will to interview Emily for theft then release her to assist Jennifer with her enquiries on The Reborners cult.

  ‘Sure thing, boss,’ Jennifer nodded, a tingle of anticipation making her giddy inside.

  [#]

  She pushed open the back doors to the outside yard, welcoming the crisp, fresh air into her lungs. Spring was finally in bloom, and the weak afternoon sun battled its way through the clouds that had not long since shed a fine mist of rain.

  ‘Is this the hanging they were talking about earlier?’ Jennifer asked. Nowadays her police radio was always on, and attached to the slim-fitting waistband of her designer trousers. Since the incident with Frank Foster, she did not want to miss a thing. A serial killer more dead than alive, he had left his mark deep in her psyche, and she knew that it would not be long before someone like Frank found her again. But right now, her thoughts were with Ethan, and she was keen to hear what he made of the sudden death they were tagged to attend.

  ‘Yes, it’s another suicide by the sound of it,’ Ethan said, pushing back the car passenger seat to accommodate his long legs. ‘The victim isn’t even from around here. I wish people would kill themselves in their hometowns, and save me the paperwork.’