

### Pieces of Me:

by

Ian Williams

SMASHWORDS EDITION

* * * * *

PUBLISHED BY:

Ian Williams on Smashwords

Pieces of Me

Copyright © 2011 by Ian Williams

Smashwords Edition License Notes

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then you should return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the author's work.

### General stuff......

Ian Williams is a 38 year old childish idiot who lives in Chorleywood, however by the time you read this he may well be either in San Francisco, Dubai, South America.....or somewhere else.

### Acknowledgements

Firstly to you, the reader, or more importantly the purchaser of this book. Its not often you can get a warm glow of righteousness and a feeling you have made the world a better place before you have even started to read the first page.

Therefore if you get half way through this nonsense and think, why am I wasting my time with this amateurish rubbish before grumpily closing and deleting this book from your kindle, iPad, laptop or whatever else you may be reading this on, just remember you may well have helped to save a child's life, conserve the Earths rainforests, build hospitals in Asia or save the lives of pregnant women, now if that isn't worth the meagre cost of this book I don't know what is.

Here is a link to the charities you will be helping

http://www.msiziafrica.org.uk/

http://comeridewithme.org/donate/

### To me

It's taken me four years to do this. I could probably have messed about with it for another four as well but in the end you just have to think ' that's it, get it out there and stop procrastinating.'

I realised when writing this that it is not an easy task. It takes a long time as sometimes you sit at your computer and nothing comes out, what should take a whole page of enlightening and constructive prose ends up as 'he died'. So I learned that if you are not feeling creative go back downstairs, put the television on and make yourself a cup of tea.....I drank a lot of tea.

### To my friends

I would like to thank Mr Benjamin Fitzsimmons, a.k.a. Blue Nose, a.k.a. grumpy and also Mr Mark Smith for reading the first draft and providing valuable feedback and suggestions which went further than 'what the hell is this rubbish, delete it, stop wasting your time and get on with your life.....'

To everyone else, you are all in here somewhere, only a mixture of your names have tended to be used, no character traits have been linked to the names so please do not be offended if you have been shot, knocked unconscious, labelled an alcoholic or told you have got nice boobs.....you see you have to read the book now just to see who I am talking about.

### The bad news

I already have an idea and mind map for my second book.........

### Table of Contents

Prologue - Gus Gus 'David'

Chapter 1 – 'Sorry red shite'

Chapter 2 - Nice set of cans as well

Chapter 3 – 'Andguibh'

Chapter 4 - and now Bacchus was concerned

Chapter 5 – Ian hated Jeremy Kyle

Chapter 6 – 'Nice one McGeorge see you later on'

Chapter 7 – 'So what's the plan then?'

Chapter 8 – 'But why don't you know who did this'

Chapter 9 – 'Sorry Chief'

Chapter 10 – 'Would you like another drink?'

Chapter 11 – 'Wake up lazy bones we're here'

Chapter 12 – 'It's pronounced Shemek you idiot'

Chapter 13 – 'Sorry darlin'

Chapter 14 – And that included David Holmes

Chapter 15 – 'Hello police'

Chapter 16 – 'Not far now.....come on'

Chapter 17 – 'Please forgive me'

Chapter 18 – 'Hello Spotty, where's Superted?'

Chapter 19 – 'Okay I like it'

Chapter 20 – 'Roger that guv'

Chapter 21 – 'GO GO GO GO GO'

Chapter 22 – 'Shall I continue?'

Chapter 23 – 'She wants what?'

Chapter 24 – 'Oi Ayrton...you wanna slow it down a bit'

Chapter 25 – 'I'm okay, I'm okay....'

Chapter 26 – 'I was going to wait until tonight but I can't'

### Prologue - Gus Gus 'David'

'Come onnnnnn....come on for Gods sake, just a few drops....please!!!!' It was no good; Nick Donovan was simply unable to piss.

It was Saturday night, Sunday morning, 4:11 a.m. in The End nightclub, London. Nick had been on it all weekend, yet again. The traditional wind down on Friday afternoon had begun with a long boozy pub lunch which set him up nicely to surf the internet at work, sorting out his fantasy football team selections to try and beat Johnny Soccer who was leading for the fourth year in a row, and email his mates to arrange the weekends mayhem. He had promised to go home on Friday and have dinner with his parents, however as his lunchtime fish and chips was digesting and that third pint of Stella Artois, which he definitely should not have downed in one to the rapturous applause of his equally juvenile work colleagues, began to kick in, he thought 'fuck it lets go out'. So breezing through the next thirty six hours on a diet of alcohol, amphetamines, pizza, cocaine, more alcohol, a few pills ( not the legal kind ) and very little sleep, here he was, sweating from every inch of his body, apart from the inch (or six inches as he liked to boast sarcastically) he actually wanted to.

In the toilets he was shielded from the cacophony of sound and thumping baselines that were emanating from outside this cooler, sweatier, brighter hideaway where men walked around like zombies, carrying bottles of water, looking slightly dishevelled with that wasted far away look in their eyes, chewing gum like a New York cop out of the movies. Nick lent his head against the toilet wall; it was cold and wet and felt good on his forehead. He took a deep breath and tried to focus. 'Never mind 'Nick mumbled and tucked his 'nudger' back into his trousers and did up the zip on his jeans.

Turning around he was greeted by that familiar London sight of the toilet attendant, who are mostly Africans who spend their evenings talking nonsense to very drunk, wasted people, turning on the cold or hot water, squeezing soap into their hands and handing them paper towels before offering a fine selection of lollipops, chewing gum and assorted men's fragrances, before looking at you and hoping those guilt pangs kick in and you give him yet another £1 coin..... _no wonder they are always smiling_ thought Nick, ' _they must be loaded. Note to self, become a toilet attendant._

Having washed his hands, sprayed himself with at least his fifth different aftershave of the night (CK 1 this time) and taking another lollipop, so as to get some sugar in his system and to try and stop his jaws from grinding away due to the amount of drugs he had taken, he looked at himself closely in the mirror. As he got near the mirror he realised his eyes were like saucers, he almost looked like an alien as he stirred forward, the overhead strip lighting bathing him in a crisp white ethereal haze, the faint buzz of the lighting overhead just about audible above the vibrating walls and dull thud thud thud from the party of darkness and flashing lights just a few metres away. A bead of sweat was clinging to his hair, his cheeks were shining and his face flushed. There were damp patches all over his T shirt, but Nick simply brushed some imaginary fluff off the front of his t shirt, wiped his brow, popped the lollipop in his mouth, exhaled and then exited the toilets ready for round whatever the hell he was up to.

The first thing that hits you is the heat. With seven hundred sweaty clubbers, twenty bar staff, four DJ's, and about four thousand thumping watts of music power and lighting, the small solitary air conditioning unit in the corner is never going to keep up. Nicks eyes gradually got used to the darkness and his ears took in the melodic vocals of Urdur Hakonardottir as she sang 'I still have last night in my body, I want you here with me, I want you here with me'. The base of the tune was thumping through Nick's entire body and he recognised it immediately. A rush of adrenalin (and drugs) stormed through him as he realised what was playing as he turned left and half clambered, fell down the steps onto the main dance floor in search of his friends. He didn't have to go far before he was greeted with smiles, hugs and kisses from his assorted dancing fraternity who had kept him company all day and had partaken with equal vigour, in the cocktail of drink and drugs which had been purchased throughout the day, evening and night. They were dancing right near the DJ booth and Darren Emerson was playing another superb set. Nick looked up and gave him an acknowledging nod of the head before dancing trance like to the highs and lows of the song, his fellow clubbing fraternity decked out with matching water bottles, chewing gum and lollipops, happily chomping away at thin air, their brains unable to fully comprehend and process the sights, sounds and smells that were enveloping and over-whelming it, the rush of endorphins was becoming a tidal wave as the music and the atmosphere climbed higher and higher.

Nick hadn't realised but he had been sweating more and more and was terribly dehydrated, the lack of water and food over the past two days had put a tremendous strain on his body. His heart, liver and lungs were working over-time to try and bring his body temperature back under control, however it was all too much and as the song reached a crescendo and the crowd were going wild Nick felt dizzy, a stabbing pain hammered through his chest, everything went white as his hearing faded and he felt as if he was under water. It only took a second for him to fall and another five for the realisation to kick in to his friends and onlookers that something was horribly wrong. However these six seconds to Nick seemed like hours as he fell to the floor and all his organs simply gave up. By the time the lights went on and the paramedics had crouched down to check for a pulse, twenty four year old Nick Donovan from the quiet village of Chorleywood was dead......

### Chapter 1 - 'Sorry red shite'

'Eye Eye' said DI Carragher sarcastically as he looked down on the grisly spectre that confronted him.

'Oh, very funny' PC McGeorge tone was disapproving as usual. In front of them, on the floor of his office was James Benjamin Langan, all six feet four and eighteen Jamaican stones of him. However he must have weighed a lot less now as he was surrounded by pints of his own blood which was still seeping out of the five inch tear in his neck and more alarmingly from the two holes where his eyes had been, hence DI Carraghers joke.

It was 11 a.m. Sunday morning the 2nd of September 2007. They were standing, not in a proper office building but rather the office at the top of the building attached to the 'Booty' nightclub. The club had a rather salubrious reputation and was on the Met Police's watch list as drugs were rife, violence both inside and outside the club was a regular occurrence, some of the most violent London gangs frequented the establishment and to top it all off it was owned by one James Benjamin Langan, JB to his friends, Mr Langan to his employees and 'Benny' to his wife, which was a constant embarrassment when he was out with her but probably not something that would concern him any more.

'So what do you think happened here then Mcgeorge' queried DI Carragher.

'Well from the looks of it and having taken statements from the cleaner who found him this morning at 8:30 a.m. and the head barman who had just come down to do a stock check at 9 a.m., he was here last night in his office with some of his crew and one or two women who were also his employees at the nearby Honey Club which is a lap dancing club in Paddington on Praed Street. From the amount of empty glasses, empty Moet & Chandon champagne bottles, plus various other half empty spirits bottles, not to mention the cocaine liberally thrown all over the coffee table and desk over there they had quite a night. Mr Langan was found like this, sprawled over the antique green leather sofa, his large mahogany desk has been checked but there isn't much in there. The head barman says he left at 4 a.m. and there were only a couple of people left by then. They were Mr Langan, 'Phoenix' & 'Crystal' the barman isn't sure of their real names but they work for Mr Langan at the Honey Club as 'exotic dancers' plus an associate of his called 'Bacchus', again the barman is unsure of his real name but did give us an address, Flat 3, 57a Abbey Road, St Johns Wood, he said its near the Salt House pub.

As you can also see the wall safe is still open. Bit of a cliché but the safe was hidden behind a painting, some sort of graffiti artist, we could track him down but it seems irrelevant. There are unused bullet cartridges on the floor just below the safe. If there was a gun there as well then it's gone. There is money scattered over the floor, looks like it was in the safe, but not all of it was wrapped. The barman says the night's takings had been in there, just over £10,000, although he is not sure how much was actually taken as it was being dished out to the party revellers plus he had a few visitors he owed money to. We can get forensics in to check the inside of the safe for any residue. There are also some contracts in the safe relating to this club and the three lap dancing clubs that he owns plus a very interesting financial report on his business dealings, who with, how much etc which is going to be very helpful to CID and Operation Trident.'

Carragher - 'So what do you think the reason behind the murder was then? Gang related or a robbery?'

McGeorge - 'Hard to tell at this early stage but I would guess its gang related, probably drugs and they maybe took whatever was in the safe as it was open when they arrived, alternatively they tortured him for the combination, although this would seem doubtful as if he had been screaming the place down somebody would probably have heard something'

'Yes, you are probably right there. What about any CCTV recordings from inside the club?'

'I asked about that and apparently they turn off the security recordings once the club closes. Plus, as he knows a few dubious characters around here he has a side entrance to get up here which is not monitored or recorded. I have requested the tapes are taken in as evidence so we can review them for any leads but it looks doubtful. I have got PC Robinson in the other room checking them over, do you want to go and have a chat with him?'

'I will do it on the way out. Okay then, good work. Get forensics down here as soon as you can to give this place the once over. There is certainly plenty to work with here so hopefully they will turn something up.'

'Will do chief, you off duty now?'

'Indeed, off home for some kip. The Mrs is probably in a right mess as she was out with the girls last night while I was working so I might make lots of noise and see how bad her hangover actually is'

'Okay well see you later then'

'Yeah, see you tomorrow for an update'

DI Carragher walked out of the office and down the metal stairs into the club. The hand rail was still sticky from the previous night's revelry. There was also the unmistakable smell of stale alcohol, as it had only been seven hours since the club had been packed. Ian passed the small room near the entrance where the security tapes and equipment were. The door was ajar and he could see PC Greg Robinson staring intently at the screen.

'Hiya Greg son, how you doing?'

'Okay thanks red shite' whispered Greg guiltily. This was his nickname for Ian which he should only really use outside of work hours. Ian was a Liverpool fan. Greg was originally from Sunderland and had the accent to match. Plus it was impossible for him to string a single sentence together without taking the piss out of someone or using several expletives.

'Your Mackem's aren't doing very well are they then, what is it, bottom of the league, hardly any points...' goaded Ian

'Howay, yer red shite bastard, leave us alone will yer, I was screaming at the tele on sat' day, another awful performance, nearly got thrown out of the pub for throwing me beer at the tele like'

'You what...how did you not get barred for that then?'

'Because the landlord is a fellow Mackem and he was standing right next to me but he didn't see me do it as he was on his knees pounding the floor with his fist screaming obscenities at the floor. He was more annoyed than I was. Even more so when he looked up and saw beer dripping down off his brand new forty two inch flat screen.'

'Jesus, you North East lot are mad. I love my football but throwing good beer away.....disgraceful, at the least you could have thrown a soft drink.'

They both looked at each other and smiled. 'So come on...' enquired Ian as he bent down to survey the monitor, 'have you found anything interesting?'

'Loads man. Can't believe the people that come in here. Loads of gang members, seriously hard blokes, plenty of women as well, with not much on either, couple of bobby dazzlers in there as well'

'Greg this isn't an interview for Playboy TV, have you actually got anything useful for me you dirty pervert'

'Sorry red shite...I mean DI Carragher....I noticed this lot' PC Robinson checked his notes and rewound the tape to precisely 12:33 a.m. There, coming into the club were six white men. Which in itself wasn't unusual but the fact they were the only white men in the queue was one thing. The other thing was that they were a Polish gang who had recently got onto the Met police's radar, moving into prostitution, armed robbery and more recently drug dealing.

Ian got even closer to the screen 'What the fuck are they doing in here? That takes some balls. Aren't they in competition with James Benjamin Langan? They must know this is his club, and they have the temerity and balls and come in here, that shows a sign of intent. Good spot son, keep looking see what else you can find'

'Will do Ian, and see you Monday for the footie, us versus your lot.'

'yeah see you there then' Ian walked out, as he did so he was shaking his head as he was surprised at the manner of the killing, the throat cut was nothing new, but to actually take the eyes out, and not only that but to take them away when they left was quite brutal and unnecessary in a way. Maybe he had been a witness to something and it got out he had been telling people about it? Perhaps there was a contract put out on him with an extra amount to be paid for actual proof he was no longer of this earth? The Yardie's from the Caribbean had been moving into London over recent years and attacks had been getting more frequent and violent so perhaps there was something there as well. Also a number of Eastern European gangs had been moving in and there had already been some brutal attacks and incidents as gang's fought for territory and influence all across London. Forensics would find some interesting stuff that's for sure.

Ian clicked the unlock button on his car key-ring. The indicator lights flashed as the car doors unlocked and he got into his car, turned on the radio and headed home. He thought about cooking himself some breakfast when he got in but was too tired and doubted there was anything in the fridge anyway so decided to stop off at a café _. I think I will give the boiled eggs a miss, they will remind me of Langans eyes rolling around in a car somewhere, best to stick to a nice health conscious bacon and sausage sandwich with lashings of tomato sauce, washed down with a mug of tea_ , thought Ian. _And anyway at least he wasn't naked as otherwise I might have to give the sausage a miss as well..._

The café was his usual hangout whenever he was on nights. It was a quiet place, not necessarily a traditional English 'greasy spoon' sort of place where even the mugs of tea were coated in grease and fat. It was pretty non-descript really, a simple small café layout, the owner had been there years. He couldn't even be bothered to think up a decent name for the place, it simply said 'CAFÉ in large black letters on a plain background. Clearly the word marketing was a mysterious black art to this man. He was friendly enough though and always said good morning, how are you today, but it was obvious he let the answers wash over him like waves on a seashore one after the other. Ian didn't even know his name. He was an old-ish man, about fifty probably, tremendous cockney accent, always clean shaven and wearing a white shirt which he somehow kept clean all throughout the day. The meals were decent, hearty affairs and the prices were reasonable. The menu had innumerable choices on there but if you listed all the ingredients it essentially came down to bread, toast, bacon, eggs, sausage, baked beans, black pudding, mushrooms, tomatoes and chips. He liked it though as it is quiet at most times and there was always a good selection of papers to peruse whilst he shoved down his heart attack sandwich.

Having finished his gourmet breakfast, saying goodbye to white shirt no-marketing man on the way out he drove home and then put his key in the door and waited for a minute whilst he decided whether to be nice and quiet so his wife could sleep or as loud as possible, just to annoy her.

'MORNING' shouted Ian up the stairs.

'Fuck off you arsehole, I'm hung-over' complained Louisa annoyingly.

'LOVE YOU TOO HONEY BUNNY' shouted Ian just as loudly as he walked into the kitchen with a smile on his face.

However the smile was wiped off his face when he saw the state of the place. There were empty wine bottles, dirty glasses, and full ash trays everywhere, plus the unmistakable odour of women's perfume, and lots of it. The girls had been round again.

'Jesus wept' muttered Ian under his breath as he began to clean up, trying his best to clink together as many bottles and glasses as possible so as to maximise the noise levels.

'WILL YOU SHUT THE FUCK UP' bellowed his wife from upstairs.

Once Ian had at least tried to add a semblance of order to the kitchen he checked the post, which had been absent-mindedly flung on the kitchen counter. The envelopes were now stained with red and white rings of wine (that's not easy to say is it!!)

Like an alcoholic's version of the Olympic Games. It was all the usual stuff, bills bills and more bills. The electric bill was enormous again. There was only two of them but somehow the meter readings were as if Blofeld, Scaramanga and all the other James Bond villains had set up their secret bunker below Ian's house and were siphoning off electricity for their lasers, super computers and hundreds of kettles to keep the silent army which never seemed to speak but which inevitably would be shot, exploded and destroyed by Bond with a single shot of his Walther PPK. The rest of the post was more bills. The last one was telling him he had probably won £100,000 with the Readers Digest. More bullshit. He tore them all up and threw them in the bin.

Fuck this, time to escape, so Ian opened the patio door at the back of the house in order to let some fresh air in. The cigarette odour wouldn't dissipate in a hurry so he walked down to the shed where he lay down on his camp bed, put Classic FM on and went to sleep. Ahh the joys of married life thought Ian as his eyes closed, his body relaxed and he drifted off with piano music in his ears and the sun on his face.

### Chapter 2 - Nice set of cans as well

Ian awoke suddenly to the garden shed door being opened.

'Ding dong, there was no need to dress up especially for me petal'

'You know that joke still isn't funny, I have been a nurse now for six years and we've lived in this house for most of those, and you have for some reason always slept in the shed when I go out with the girls, so its not very original. Here I've made you a cuppa and a bacon sandwich, its four o'clock now so I have to go in'

'Excellent, thanks very much, I suppose you're not as bad as my mother keeps telling me you are' joked Ian

'Now you know your mum thinks I'm fantastic so I won't rise to that comment. Anyway I will make it up to you later on when you get in off your shift'

' _Get in'_ smirked Ian

'Right well see you later then'

'Yeah, see you later trouble'

Ian sat up on the camp bed so he could get stuck into his bacon sandwich. His trusted sleeping bag had twisted whilst he had slept so he had been lying on the zip for a while which had left an indentation in his not so sculpted stomach. He liked it in the shed. It wasn't really a shed, his wife Louisa had always called it a summer house, as she argued it had two windows at the front and sheds don't have windows. It wasn't massive but it was a handy storage place for the garden furniture and some of his old stuff he wasn't allowed to keep in the house on display. In fact the place looked more like a little kid's bedroom as on the wall was his homage to Liverpool Football club and their treble winning season in 2001. There was also his old football boots which still had mud on them from four years ago and were wrapped tightly in two Tesco's carrier bags along with his other sporting items, namely a snooker cue and a dartboard.

Ian chewed absent-mindedly as he looked out of the window up at the sky and around the shed...sorry Louisa, Summerhouse as his brain tried to catch up and absorb his surroundings. He was still tired but couldn't really sleep in the day. Classic FM always sounded rubbish when he first woke up, he needed something with a bit more to it so tuned into Radio 1 just in time for 'The View – Same Jeans'

'Now that's more like it, lets crank it up a bit' Ian stood up excitedly, kicking himself out of his sleeping bag, and putting the plate down to turn the music up, he then wandered out into the garden for some dancing. He was in his pants, which was not a pretty sight, holding his bacon sandwich in one hand and a cup of tea in the other He thought he saw his next door neighbour peer out of the window then quickly move but he wasn't sure. He didn't mind what they thought, or saw, they knew he was slightly eccentric so would put up with this strange act coupled with his ridiculously skinny legs and silly hair which looked a bit like Worzel Gummidge when it was long and Peter Crouch's when it was short. Today it was Peter Crouch-esque as he had only had it cut last week.

After a late afternoon in front of the TV blindly watching Deal or No Deal and then the news it was time to get changed and get down to the station. He had a meeting arranged with PC McGeorge to go through what they had so far at seven p.m. It had been a complete waste of an afternoon. He had barely moved. Zombie-fied, staring at the TV without even really thinking about anything. The time just passed, like he was asleep but awake. He had loads of stuff to actually do. The boiler was making a funny noise and he vowed to look at it. As in the proper boiler, not his wife. There may or may not have been a leak from the washing machine. He needed to pull it out to have a look, but it just seemed such a struggle. It was far easier to stick the kettle on and then lie on the sofa for a bit. Laziness was disappointing but inevitable, it was like a cloud that enveloped you, once you were in it, and it was difficult to get out. Carpe Diem he should cry, seize the day, get up get out there and change the world...actually hang on a minute, Scrubs is just about to start on Sky 1.

PC Lisa McGeorge was waiting for him when he got in. She was a good policewoman, who had come high up in her class at the academy, took martial arts classes, equality classes, sociology classes, any sort of class that would improve her as a police officer. She could therefore handle any situation and had a nice set of cans as well!! That last bit was what Ian thought, she hadn't written that on her CV, obviously, although he might suggest it to her at the next staff drinks, once he had had a few of course.

'Right then PC McGeorge what have you got for me then?' Ian asked enthusiastically as he clapped his hands together in readiness.

'Right Ian, here is what we have found out so far. The Forensics team has tagged and bagged twenty drinks glasses. Six Champagne flutes, four wine glasses and ten spirits glasses. There are numerous prints and lipstick markings on the glasses. We already have Mr Langans prints on file so we can rule him out, however we will need the prints of his associate Bacchus and the two lap dancers Crystal and Phoenix. I have done some background on Bacchus and his real name is Richard Bird. He is a minor criminal who has been charged with drug possession, ABH (aggravated bodily harm) and various other minor offences. I was going to go down to the Honey Club later this evening as I have spoken to the manager and he has agreed to meet at 10 p.m. tonight.'

'Good work McGeorge, but can I suggest I go to the Honey Club to interview the two ladies in question.'

'I thought you might say that so I told him to expect you, try and keep your mind...or more importantly your eyes on the job' McGeorge gave Ian a knowing gaze which made him feel about as guilty as a puppy sitting next to a pile of poo.

'I will of course act in a professional manner making sure I always keep abreast of the situation' retorted Ian in his best official policeman's voice

'Okay then, so we also found some bullets. These have been identified as CCI Standard Velocity Ammunition 22 Long Rifle 40 Grain Lead Round Nose bullets. They will fit into a standard .22 handgun. The white powder on the desk and coffee table is cocaine as we suspected. The Forensics team have more to do as it will take a while to process all of the material, however, effectively the drinks glasses information will help to confirm who was there and this will be substantiated by the witness report from the head barman. Forensics can keep working in the meantime and we can review final results later on.'

'Can you go round to see Mr Bird a.k.a Bacchus and have a word? He could be a bit edgy knowing the police are calling so be careful.' Requested Ian to PC McGeorge who was already closing the file and standing to exit the room, collecting the empty white plastic cups which had been left there by the previous incumbents'.

Chapter 3 – 'Andguibh'

DI Ian Carragher was standing outside the Honey Club, he was wearing his new suit, freshly polished shoes, his best shirt and tie and on reflection far too much Hugo Boss aftershave. It was 9:50 p.m. on a Sunday night and he was early, nervous and needed a drink. He took a deep breath, walked up to the front door and pressed the buzzer. A small house answered the door...not in the surreal sense, but in the sense that the bouncer was so huge if you could hollow him out a family of four could live quite comfortably, or alternatively fifteen illegal migrant odd job men. The bald head, hands like shovels and a nose which had been broken that many times the outline was like the map of the United Kingdom

'Ello' boomed the bouncer looking down at Ian

'Err, hello, and yes I am here to see Mr Hurry, I am DI Carragher, here is my badge'

The look of disgust on the bouncers face as he stepped aside only made Ian even more nervous. As he moved into the club he heard the jangle of the two inch thick gold bracelet slide down the bouncers' tree like arm as the huge gold sovereign ring caught Ian's eye.

'Follow me guv'

As the inner doors were opened and he entered the club, the scantily clad women milling around waiting and chatting stopped and looked over. Ian tried to focus and look professional but there was far too much ass and cleavage on display for that. He felt embarrassed and actually thought he was dribbling, a casual swipe of the mouth discounted that theory and he managed to mumble 'evening ladies' as he walked past them and did his best to look at their faces. As he walked past the bevy of beauties he felt a resounding slap on his backside and as he turned around feeling as if he could give a beetroot a run for its money in the colour department the girls fell about laughing, patting each other on the shoulder as boobs wobbled and faces were contorted with frivolity. The club was just opening and so the girls were in their 'pre-match' high spirits, as well as alcoholic spirits for that matter judging by the rainbow of colours in their drinks as well as on their matching umbrellas, stirrers and straws. Ian noted that the straws and tops of the glasses were heavily coated in lipstick where the excessive application of said lipstick had departed from its host onto anything it touched. 'Oh to be that straw' thought Ian mischievously as he looked up to the heavens for both forgiveness and remembrance.

The bouncer smirked before shouting 'This way Detective Inspector Carragher, Mr Hurry is waiting for you'. Ian thought time itself had been frozen as all nine women stopped dead in their tracks, mouths open and shock etched all over their faces.

The bouncer knocked once on the door and opened it immediately. Jake Hurry stood up from behind his desk in the office at the back of the club, hand extended affably; from someone who clearly realised he had landed the dream job. Mr Hurry was tall, confident and had a good natured manner which must have gone down well with customers, lap dancers and bouncers alike.

'Would you like a drink DI Carragher?' queried Jake

'Ideally a bucket of vodka and ladle after what I have just seen out there, but seeing as I am on duty can I just have a coffee please, two sugars, no milk'

'Of course, of course, err Darren, please would you ask Abby to bring in a coffee and my usual please'

'Of course Mr Hurry' said the bouncer as he made his exit and closed the door behind him, dipping his head to avoid a nasty collision, although the door frame would probably have come off worst

'Now what can I do for you inspector?'

'Unfortunately I have some bad news. James Benjamin Langan is dead. He was murdered this morning in his office at the Honey Club. I have been told you were there and so wanted to ask you a few questions'

'DEAD....Jesus, I only saw him last night and he was in fine form, how can he be dead' Jake Hurry just sat there dumb-founded; it had clearly been shocking news.

And with that there was a moment of silence as Jake Hurry took in the news that his boss and good friend was dead. He knew JB was into some bad stuff, had some enemies and on many occasions Jake had met people who simply scared him just by smiling.

The dichotomy he found himself in was that he wanted JBs killers brought to justice but did not want to implicate himself or his former employer and friend in any serious wrongdoing. Indeed Jake Hurry owed a debt of gratitude to JB as he had been barman in the Honey Club six years ago when taking a break out the back of the club in the adjacent alleyway. He had seen some people attacking JB. JB had parked his BMW Z3 convertible round the back when he was checking on club matters so when he saw him being attacked Jake had rushed over and flew into JBs two assailants. They had both been carrying knives and he and JB had been quite badly cut, but compared to the severe beating they had dished out on the two teenage black hooded assailants, who had then been bundled into the back of a van which turned up thirty minutes later and were never seen of again they had got off quite lightly. Since then JB had always looked out for Jake. He had paid for him to go on a business & finance course at college and then put him in charge of the Honey club paying him a nice salary, giving him good birthday and Christmas presents, always inviting him to the messy drink, drug fuelled parties where scantily clad women were in abundance and their morals were checked in with their coats at the door.

Jake had managed to steer well clear of JBs criminal activities. He ran the Honey Club efficiently and effectively and made sure all relevant licenses and laws were followed. The girls were looked after well and the place was always full of 'City Boys', especially just before Christmas or in February once they had all been paid their bonuses and were throwing the cash around like nobodies business. The only blemish as to the lawfulness of the place was that the December to February period was also when JB put a lot of his drug money through the business as it provided adequate cover against curious police forces or the Inland Revenue and allowed JB to keep 100% of the take rather than have to launder the money through other means and pay 20% for the privilege.

He decided to tread carefully and not give too much away. Maybe with the help of JBs other 'business associates' they could find out for themselves who did it and inflict their own form of justice on the perpetrators. Jake also thought with JB out of the way that the Honey Club was his. He was down as joint owner on the deeds so even though he had lost a good friend he realised the importance of co-operation so this whole mess could be put to bed and he could inherit the other half of the club.

'So then Jake' began Ian 'can you tell me your relationship with Mr Langan.

'Of course, yes, I started here a number of years ago as a barman and have been running this club for about five years now'

'And what was your relationship with Mr Langan'

'Purely business. I was the manager and joint owner of one of his clubs and he was my boss. He would come over and check on the club each week and I would report to him on a monthly basis how the club was doing.'

'And can you explain why you were with him last night and not here on your busiest night of the week'

'Of course, the club pretty much runs itself. I keep a tight rein on the money, Darren the bouncer who showed you in is an old friend of mine and I trust him implicitly. Everyone here knows that if there is any wrongdoing or fiddling, it will be Darren they have to answer to and if there is anything left of them afterwards I will deal with it.'

'Not in a violent way I presume' questioned Ian

'Of course not, the issue has never come up. Once you have seen Darren the last thing you want to do is get on his wrong side'

'Okay then so why were you there last night'

'Well the club has had a good month so I was in JBs good books. When this happens I get invited over for drinks.'

'I see, and so why were Crystal and Phoenix there?'

'Let's just say JB liked to be entertained now and again. Crystal and Phoenix are, sorry I mean were his favourite girls here and so he liked to make sure their act was still up to scratch and their assets were in peak condition shall we say'

'Was it a sexual relationship, I thought Mr Langan was married'

'Lets just say it was sex and leave it at that. When you meet his wife and compare her to either, Crystal or Phoenix you will realise that his wife is non league Kidderminster Harriers whilst these two are definitely Barcelona Champions League quality.

'Okay then so can you please explain the nights activities. Key times etc and then I'd like to interview the two ladies please'

Jake Hurry recounted the story with Ian making copious notes. 'I went over to the Booty club at 10 p.m. taking Crystal and Phoenix with me. We went up to the office where JB was already quite hammered. The club was just about getting ready to open. There was a raucous crowd outside already. Inside Bacchus was there as well and it was clear the two of them had been on it for some time. There had been an Arsenal football match on at midday so they had begun then and essentially gone all the way through the day. Arsenal had won 4-1 so they were in boisterous mood, all smiles and hugs, offering us all drinks before we had barely said hello. We all continued drinking and then at about 1 a.m. the head barman joined us. We had drunkenly discussed business for a while and JB had shown me some documents from his safe relating to a new club he was opening. Admittedly we were doing cocaine, but I would like to quite categorically state that it had already been there when I got there and I did not know or ask where it had come from. I left about 4 a.m. taking Phoenix and Crystal with me and leaving Bacchus with JB as the barman also left with us at 4 a.m. as well, as the club was shutting and the bouncers were getting everybody out as the bar staff collected glasses and took out the empty bottles.'

'This morning the safe was wide open. Now without necessarily giving too much away we know Mr Langan was into illegal dealings and we need to know why there was a gun in the safe.'

Jake thought for a minute. Luckily at that moment there was a knock on the door and a barman came in with the coffee for Ian and a large brandy for Jake. Jake swilled it round the glass before smelling it and then downing it in one. He grimaced as the brandy met his taste buds and he got that unmistakable hot sensation down his throat. But it gave him time to think... Of course there was a gun in the safe. It was JBs Browning Buck Mark 5.5 handgun. He had bought it off Bacchus. It had been used at least three times that he was aware of. Best just to pass this off and move on he thought. As Jake put the glass back on the table he answered 'Actually he kept it for safety. I have seen it but he has had it ever since I have known him, it was a browning Buck Mark 5.5 pistol. He loved messing about with it and I did hold it once so you may find my prints on there but I promise you I have never known it to be used. He said he kept it for protection. I imagine you know the issues with protection rackets, selling drugs in clubs and the territorial issues which go on in London Club life, especially in the more dubious areas like Brixton, Lambeth and Tower Hamlets'

'Thank you for that. To be honest there was no gun in the safe this morning, but there were a number of cartridges all over the floor so it looks like someone has stolen the gun which is of course a very serious issue.'

'More importantly Mr Hurry, did Mr Langan have any enemies, or should I re-phrase that to how many enemies did Mr Langan have'

Jake thought for a moment before answering 'Being honest with you DI Carragher, it's not a question of who but how many. Should I start with the new Polish gang over on Edgware Road who have been causing trouble lately, or how about Jamie's old gang? Then of course there are the hundred other gangs dotted all over London plus then the other hundreds of people who have got annoyed with Jamie over some business deal, or fought out turf wars and settled old scores actually inside Jamie's clubs. There is no one that particularly sticks out and no one I could point the finger at as such. I run THIS club' stated Jake emphatically, his thumb pressing down on his desk for effect. 'THIS is my business, THAT was his. I kept out of all of that for this very reason. I am not a criminal DI Carragher, just a manager of a club which happens to be owned by what you would describe as a killer and I would describe as a friend. He helped me a lot over the years, and I owe him everything, and the fact he is now dead fills me with both rage and sadness....am I going to do anything about it, at this point in time I would of course say yes but once I have slept on it and calmed down of course I won't because I am not like that. I will make sure his family is fine, I will make sure the funeral arrangements are made and it doesn't turn into a pitched battle of London's finest gangs as he is being ceremonially delivered into the crematorium but beyond that DI Carragher I very much doubt it'

The atmosphere had turned frosty. Not hostile as such but something had definitely been set off inside Jake just then. It was obvious he knew far more than he would ever let on. The silence was only broken by Jake's heavy breathing as he tried to control himself by breathing forcefully through his nose, making that noise like a raging bull about to charge.

Jake realised he had let his guard down. He had tried to remain calm, controlled, and vigilant. He waited for DI Carraghers next move.....

'Well that was interesting' pointed out Ian sarcastically as he looked Jake dead in the eyes. 'A simple no would have sufficed I suppose but I will take that. Its interesting Mr Hurry that you casually say JB had lots of enemies which of course you know nothing about but then mention the Polish gang on Edgware Road, The Bobo Gang I believe you are referring to, any reason for that Mr Hurry?'

Jake shook his head defiantly it was pointless labouring the point. Ian knew Jake had let his guard down. It was certainly a good place to start looking anyway. Other possibilities might show up but this was good enough for now. 'Anyway I will skate over that issue at this time and can I ask you to send in Crystal and Phoenix... oh and by the way what are their real names?'

'Well Phoenix is called Sandra Smith and she is from Bolton. Crystal is called Bonnie Woods and she is from Las Vegas'

Jake Hurry stood up and left the room to fulfil Ian's request to bring in the two women in question. Ian decided to swap chairs so sat where Jake had been and pulled up another chair so there were two facing him. Just as Ian had sat down, checked his tie, took a deep breath and wiped his slightly sweating palms on his trousers in walked heaven on legs, followed by Heaven II on legs 'The return'. Phoenix was the first in. She was about five foot ten, easily six feet in her high heels. She was white, with short very blonde hair, an all over tan (probably!!) and a superb hour glass figure. Her breasts were spilling out of her sequined wonderbra as she walked over to the desk in that demure way good looking women do and said in a friendly way 'eh up chuck I'm Sandra. Stage name is Phoenix and this is 'Crystal' she stepped aside to reveal a slightly shorter and slightly darker woman who had an even better figure. 'Hi handsome' said Bonnie in a mischievous way. 'Sorry about slapping you on the ass before, I thought you were someone from the drinks company who supply the booze to this place'.

At this point Ian had lost all power of speech. He was never very good with women, even in his early twenties when he should have been chasing everything in a skirt (excluding men in kilts of course) he would go out with his best mate, get very drunk and would just stand there all night whispering such immortal lines as, 'she's nice, did you see the norks on her, and good lord, just five minutes with her over there, that's all I'd need, just five minutes.'

'Andguihb' mumbled Ian 'err DI Ian Carragher' stated Ian recovering from his loss of all motor neurone skills and regaining his composure'

'Now ladies please can you let me know your relationship with Mr Langan'

'We're shagging him regularly' blurted out Sharon as she and Bonnie fell about in fits of laughter. 'And he's got a big un, like a babies arm holding an apple' Sharon continued in her broad Northwest of England accent. At this Bonnie let out a scream of laughter. Sharon was always making Bonnie laugh, she never took anything too seriously. It was probably her Northern outlook on life. Enjoy yourself and have a laugh along the way was Sharon's mantra.

'Well you won't be doing that anymore ladies as Mr Langan was found murdered this morning' Ian stated in a matter-of-fact way as he brought his hands down on the desk with a resounding thud for emphasis.

There was a stunned silence. Sharon and Bonnie froze. It was almost like time had stood still. Hair had stopped moving, breasts had stopped wobbling and jewellery had stop jangling as the two of them took in the terrible news. Sharon started shaking and there were tears in Bonnie's eyes. As Ian leaned forward and handed his handkerchief to Bonnie a tear ran down her face, paused at the bottom of her left cheek and then dropped silently onto the glass desk as she reached over and accepted the handkerchief. Ian accidentally looking down her cleavage. He couldn't help it. It was definitely an evolutionary thing. She had noticed but had neither said nor intimated by gesture that she was bothered. It was probably something she had become accustomed to, and anyway they were absolutely superb so it would have been a shame not to have a quick look.

'I am sorry to have just said it like that ladies but this is a very serious situation and we need to move quickly in order to catch the person, or persons who have done this.'

'Of course, of course' Sharon and Bonnie muttered sombrely. The two of them then went on to describe their relationship with JB. How he had seen them perform two years ago and nearly fallen off his seat. How he had sent them flowers, plied them with champagne and then started a highly sexual relationship with the two of them and in response he had put them up in a swanky London flat, given them both cars and paid all their bills. They knew about his wife and two kids but felt it wasn't really any of their business. They then went on to describe how they almost always went over to the club on a Saturday with Jake, the Honey Clubs manager and it always ended in drink and drug mayhem before going back to the flat where they would 'service' JB with all his requirements. They talked openly about the fact he was so wasted that he had said he was just going to collapse on the sofa in his office and get some sleep and that by the time they left at about 4am with Jake and the head barman there was only Bacchus and JB left and they were both in a terrible state.

Ian checked over his notes, confirming some of the details which had been lost in his pathetically poorly structured hand writing which had been made worse by having to write quickly. There must have been baboons in Borneo who could write more tidily than Ian. Anyway once all the details had been sorted and the girls had been given a stiff one, drink that is, of Brandy just to calm the nerves Ian thanked them for their time, stood up, retrieved his handkerchief which was by now covered in eye make up and smelt of women's perfume. He tucked it back into his breast jacket pocket, opened the door and strode out of the club, only stopping to shake hands with Jake and Darren the bouncer before exiting onto Praed Street on a slightly cold evening....it was time to catch up with this Bacchus and ask him a few questions.....

### Chapter 4 - and now Bacchus was concerned

On that same Sunday evening at 8 p.m. PC McGeorge and her fellow officer PC Greg Robinson arrived near 57 Abbey Road. It was a busy evening. The Salt House pub was packed. The customers were enveloped in the warmth of the pub tucking into their fish and chips with mushy peas and Salt house burger and chips accompanied by wine or beer and sometimes both. A few hardy souls were sitting outside. Their acceptable decibel level when interacting with each other increased with each passing round of drinks. As the two policemen got out the noise levels dropped and the owners of the Italian deli and Chinese takeaway opposite the Salt House pub craned their necks to see which way the officers were heading.

They walked up to the green wooden double doors of 57, which was sandwiched between an Albanian café and an off licence. There were a number of Albanians in the coffee house and PC Robinson wondered what they were talking about as they stood in the doorway and pressed the buzzer for flat 3 57a Abbey Road. PC McGeorge rang the buzzer at least three times until someone answered.

'Ello' barked an annoyed voice at the other end of the comms link.

'Hello sir, is that Richard Bird'

'Yes it is, who wants to know'

'We need to talk to you Sir, I am PC McG....' There was a click as the line went dead.

PC McGeorge kept trying the bell but to no avail. Finally she said 'Go on then Greg do your stuff' and with that PC Robinson took a couple of steps back before launching himself at the door. It was quite an old door and as his six foot two inch seventeen stone frame connected with the wooden door the small metal hinges gave way with a resounding ping as screws went flying before the door slammed into the wall, leaving an indentation in the plaster wall behind.

They made their way slowly up the beige carpeted stairs, keeping their backs against the cream walls which had various black lines and indentations where numerous tenants had scraped the wall with their TVs, sofas, pictures and boxes of junk they lovingly referred to as ornaments and possessions.

Flat 3 was on the third floor; however the front door was on the second. PC Robinson took over this time; loudly knocking on the door and announcing in a booming voice 'Mr Bird, open up this is the police. We would like a word with you about an ongoing investigation.' There was silence. PC Robinson was not amused. He had no time for criminals, if he had his way they would all be shot which of course would make life much easier....everything was always very black and white with Greg Robinson.

Finally PC McGeorge moved PC Robinson to one side and shouted at the door 'Mr Bird, we need to have a word with you about the possible murder of a James Benjamin Langan. He was found dead this morning and you were possibly the last person to see him alive. We are not here to arrest you but we would like to ask you a few questions.' As they waited for an answer the stairwell lights went off. PC McGeorge found the switch. It was a timer switch which seemed to time out every thirty seconds. This was annoying. Lisa McGeorge also noticed that the fire alarm button was right next to the light switch. That seems ridiculous thought McGeorge; any idiot could press that in the dark instead of pressing the light switch. That would be an absolute nightmare waiting to happen.

On the other side of the door in flat three there was a pause as Bacchus mulled over the options and possibilities, a momentary silence and then Bacchus spoke incredulity 'JB is dead...that's impossible, I only saw him twelve hours ago and he was passed out on his sofa in the office.'

'Please Mr Bird; we only want to ask you a few questions. We can either do this the hard way and I can call for backup and have you arrested or I can ask you a few questions now and we can be on our way.'

Richard Bird aka Bacchus thought for a minute and decided to risk it, he opened the door and requested they sit on the stairs and chat although he had to be brief as if he got caught talking to the police there could be problems for him. Once agreed, the heavy white fireproof door was slowly opened fully and the two police officers stepped inside. The hallway was narrow, with a small bathroom to the right which contained a white suite and laminated wood flooring. To the left were a few steep stairs with the same heavily worn beige carpet that was on the stairs as they entered the building. Richard Bird was sitting on the top steps looking down. He was a relatively small man, about five foot six, slim but relatively muscular with a hard face and some scars on his neck and arms where he had clearly been in a few scrapes. The small diamond earring in his left ear glinted in the light from the upstairs skylight and the gold Rolex, bracelet and rings showed he had certainly made some money from somewhere. The look on his face was a mixture of trepidation, fear and disgust.

As Bacchus was keen to get rid of the police he quickly opened up and explained how he and JB had been friends for a few years now and were drinking buddies. They had been out 'on it' all afternoon watching the football on Sky Sports just round the corner from where Bacchus lived. It was a classy Irish pub where the locals seemed near to deaths door and the only sustenance their bodies encountered were the ten daily pints of Guinness which acted as both a solid and a liquid. The pub had been full of Arsenal fans. They had been lured there by the promise of a big screen TV and cheap pints of lager. As Arsenal had romped to a 4-1 win the generosity of the supporters had spilled over at full time and pints were bought by the tray load and handed out to anybody in an Arsenal shirt. JB and Bacchus had entered into the party spirit and ordered a solid round of whiskies which were dispersed and dispensed with as quickly as they were poured. The round had come to £200 but JB didn't care, his team had won and he was happy. Once the pub had started emptying at about 3 p.m. they had sauntered off into town to keep the mood and the drink flowing before heading back to the Honey Club for some more drinks from about 7 p.m. On questioning, Bacchus admitted there had been cocaine present but that he did not know where it had come from or whose it was but he had partaken as a way of keeping the party going. He verified the story from the head barman, and also that of Jake Hurry, manager of the Honey club and the two lap dancers Crystal and Phoenix. He clearly stated that at about 5 a.m. and definitely no later he had left and taken a taxi back to St Johns Wood. He had got the taxi outside of Paddington train station at the taxi rank there and there were cameras all over the station so this would be easily verifiable.

Just as the questioning was coming to an end PC McGeorge's radio sparked into life.

'PC McGeorge are you there over, this is DI Carragher'

PC McGeorge quickly went out the front door into the stairwell and spoke quietly into her radio careful to turn down the volume so only she could hear his words.

'Are you with Bacchus McGeorge' said Ian Carragher anxiously.

'Yes, what is it guv'

'Arrest him; we need to put him under some pressure. I am getting a search warrant. I think he is selling illegal firearms or drugs and we need him brought in now. Something is definitely not right. He was the last person to see him alive and we need answers. He has a dodgy record and if we can find something on him that should pressure him to tell us more'

PC McGeorge turned off her radio and opened the door. She gave a careful nod to PC Robinson who in one motion grabbed Bacchus by the sole of his expensive Nike trainer and pulled him down the stairs. Bacchus had no time to react. He thudded down the stairs as his head hit four steps in quick succession. In the same motion PC Robinson grabbed him by the shoulder, turned him over, shoved his knee into the small of his back and took out the handcuffs.

Bacchus, AKA Richard Bird let out a small shout as the knee slammed into his back, and as he lay there with his face shoved into the worn out beige carpet PC McGeorge read him his rights. And now Bacchus was concerned, as upstairs in the small bedroom just lying on the bed were three more Browning Buck Mark 5.5 handguns which an acquaintance was coming over to pick up, not to mention assorted other weapons and bullets which were stashed all over the flat. Bacchus gulped as his thought processes began to kick in and he realised he was going to jail for a very long time.....

### Chapter 5 – Ian hated Jeremy Kyle

DI Ian Carragher awoke early on Friday 7th September. It was the last day of his shift and he always enjoyed the weekends off. The alarm had gone off and the dulcet tones of Mr Chris Moyles, the self styled and proclaimed 'saviour of Radio 1' had filled the room as he was ranting away about what had annoyed him this week in his usual sarcastic and vitriolic way. It was 7:20 a.m. far too early to actually get up as he was not required into the office before 10 a.m. but it was essential as he liked to shave, shower, dress, and then make himself a full English breakfast to set him up for the day. All the best healthy ingredients were there, eggs, bread, sausages, bacon, mushrooms, tomatoes, black pudding, and to give it that certain 'je ne sais qua' they were all thrown into a piping hot frying pan with a liberal splashing of cooking oil. His wife was always having a go at him when she was around and he was cooking up this melange of assorted fat & farm animals, as she sat there holier than thou eating her low fat low carb, no sugar, no fat, no bloody taste more like, muesli, with skimmed organic soya milk. Ian just could not bear muesli; as far as he was concerned it reminded him of the bottom of his friends' rabbit hutch just before it got cleaned out. Ian had visions of a muesli factory where rabbit hutches were piled high in their thousands and every morning a team of child slave labourers cleaned out the hutches, and put the contents straight into a cardboard box where it was despatched over to Waitrose, Sainsbury's and Tesco's stores to be sold at an inflated price to people who seemed desperate to actually want to be healthy so they could prolong their life, which in effect meant a few more years of senility in an old peoples home absent-mindedly pissing themselves and being pumped full of the drugs so the heart was beating but the mind had long since dissipated into the ether of space and time, and was awaiting the moment it could be reconciled with its earthly body once more. No, Ian was aiming for death in his early seventies ideally in some sort of drunken stupor with his fourth wife, the twenty one year old blonde bombshell lying naked, exhausted but satisfied at his side....

Ian had just finished his breakfast and was scooping up the last remnants of fat, tomato sauce and runny egg yolk with his last piece of bread when his mobile phone rang. He answered it with a muffled 'hello' as he chewed his food and gulped it down three chews before he should have done.

'Hi guv it's McGeorge, you need to get over here, there has been a brutal murder and you need to see it.'

'Okay, where are you?'

'Strangely I am in Abbey Road again, further up this time near the lights where the council estate is, number 62 on the sixth floor. Can you get here right away as the crime scene team are all over this and you have to see it to believe it?'

Ian picked up his keys, threw his plate in the sink, grabbed his jacket from the hall and slammed the door behind him. Ian was lucky enough to live in a small two bedroom house in Hammersmith. It had been given to him by his parents. They had in turn received it through the last will and testament of his Grandmother on his mothers' side, the wonderful Edith Douglas, ten years ago. His parents lived a good life up in Scotland. They had moved up there when they had both retired. They lived an extremely comfortable life as they had both been hugely responsible and sensible and saved all their lives. The only requirement was that he had taken out a mortgage of £90,000 which had then been passed onto his sister, Karen who was unfortunately rather less sensible than their parents and had literally no sooner received the money in her account than she was off on her travels around the world. He had received various postcards over the next two years from far flung places like Singapore, Kuala Lumpur and Sydney. As time went on the postcards had gotten fewer but she was still travelling. She had got into teaching English and loved every minute of it. So as a result his parents then had two worries on their hands. One worry was the thought of him getting shot or stabbed to death, which in all fairness was a slight concern to him as well. His mother always watched the news and liked to send a text message every other day just to check he was okay. The other was now his sister who literally could be anywhere in the world from one week to the next. She had given up coming home but at least now she sent a weekly email to their mother and him which helped dispel the pangs of worry.

As Ian exited the house he realised he hadn't logged in and read this weeks instalment from Karens life on the road, he would have to do this another time now as he had to go. It took him thirty minutes to get to the flats on Abbey Road, but then another fifteen minutes to climb the stairs as the lifts were broken. The stairwell was surprisingly clean and the walls looked like they had just been painted as they were a gleaming white and only the odd element of graffiti had been added so far. The usual stuff, Steve was ere, Jason loves Chantelle, call this number for a good time 0752125625. One of Ian's worst nightmares was to be walking through some rough housing estate and seeing his number plastered in huge letters across a wall, and even worse....no one had rung him! As he finally got to the sixth floor, heart pounding, sweat developing on his forehead, he leaned against the wall for a minute thinking that maybe he should give muesli a try after all; McGeorge came out of the flat and shouted him over.

Ian collected his thoughts and his breath before walking into the tiny flat. He was taken aback by the scene in front of him. The old green front door had been leaned up against the wall on the right where it had been forced open by the police, the lock, hinges, splintered wood and screws were still lying scattered on the floor of the heavily soiled dark blue carpet. On the left was a small bathroom, but the fluorescent lighting and white tiled walls and floor gave it an almost hospital operating theatre type glare. And strangely enough that's what it had been used for, as lying on some plastic sheeting with a ring of towels which had seemed to act as some sort of absorbent dam lay a man, completely naked, a huge whole where his face should be and a cavity in his side which had been opened up from his belly button round to the base of his back. Blood lay in a thin, motionless even pool all around him. The towels were a well worn yellowy-white on the externality of the circle but were a deep red internally where the blood had been absorbed. Intestines poked out of the victims' side, still seeping residue which ran down the victims' body and silently joined the red lake which surrounded him. As his eyes were taking all this in, the smell enveloped his nostrils and reached the back of his throat where he almost tasted the death and decay. The body had probably been lying there for a couple of days. Ian surveyed the rest of the bathroom quickly. Everything had a tinge of decay to it, the old toothbrush with the splayed bristles, the twisted tube of toothpaste with old toothpaste hardened and yellowing around the rim. The dirty shower curtain, the grime in the corners of the tiles and the bath with a ring of awfulness that practically breathed it was so dirty.

Ian's mouth began to water and he felt faint and ran into the kitchen where he threw up in the sink. He regained his composure as he stared out of the dirty window at the superb views over London on a lovely Friday morning, the contrast of the relative calm scenery and the mayhem that was in the flat was stark. Looking around the grotty oak panelled kitchen, with its white hob cooker, small fridge and four cabinets he saw numerous empty vodka bottles. They all simply said 'Vodka' on them with a black and white label and were the type sold at local corner shops for £5 to all those who couldn't afford a branded version. In the sink lay assorted plates, cutlery and an assortment of old stained and chipped mugs, some still with the tea bags in. He had more dry heaved than thrown up he noticed, which was lucky as the forensics mob would have a go for messing up a crime scene if he had chundered over the entire place. The whole place gave off an odour of staleness and poverty and he wondered if Mr Barraghan would even be missed and was maybe in a better place, even if getting there hadn't been too pleasant. He walked out of the kitchen and this time turned right, down the hall into the living room. The room was packed full of crime scene investigators, cameras were flashing, people were walking round in white suits, there were more empty vodka bottles, an old black and white portable TV, a cheap looking cd player and speakers, and an old sofa and chair which had definitely seen better days. All around the stained armchair lay feathers and to the left a cushion with a gaping hole in it, in front of the armchair was an expanse of blood and brains which had soaked into the carpet, the rug, the old newspapers, pizza boxes and empty cigarette packets. DI Ian Carragher was speechless.

'What the hell has happened here?'

Crime Scene Investigator (CSI) Belinda Nicholls explained. 'The victim is fifty two year old Saul Barraghan. We don't know too much about his history as yet but it looks like he is, sorry was, an alcoholic. He claims disability allowance as his claim book is in the kitchen drawer. He was shot in the back of the head; the pillow was used to muffle the sound. He fell forward onto the floor and was then put onto the plastic sheeting and dragged into the bathroom. The incision in his side is clean and precise and although the coroner will have to confirm it the team have taken a look and his liver has been cut out and taken.'

'Taken' said Ian incredulously.

'Yes, not sure if we are dealing in some Silence of Lambs-esque killer here or what but this is quite brutal.'

'Any witnesses, any evidence?'

'We have spoken to the neighbours. Saul was a nice enough chap who was an alcoholic. He kept himself to himself really. His neighbours said he liked a drink and he loved listening to Frank Sinatra, sometimes a bit too loud, but never for too long. Anyway speaking to his next door neighbour, a Miss Kathy Bishop, she said she heard him laughing two nights ago with someone else. She thinks she heard a woman's voice and the laugh sounded female as well. The music was playing for a couple of hours and she said about 10 p.m. she heard what she thought was a dull thud and had assumed Saul had maybe fallen over or something. Anyway fifteen minutes later the music went off and she heard the door close just after midnight. The only reason he was found was because she used to get him his early morning paper and when he didn't answer she looked through the letterbox and saw blood near the bathroom door so called the police.

'Good god and how about any evidence?'

'We are cataloguing items now. The murder weapon has been bagged and PC McGeorge was just going to take a look at it now downstairs'

Ian pondered what to do next. He was interested to see the murder weapon and work out what the next steps would be, but as he exited Saul's flat he saw Kathy Bishop, at her front door, trembling and chain smoking as her eyes looked off into the distance at everything and nothing at all.

'Ms Kathy Bishop is it?' Ian stated as gently as possible. There was no response, she stood there, rooted to the spot, her chest gently moving in and out the only signs of life, the cigarette in her hand smouldered away, the smoke being whisked away on the wind, down the corridor and back into her flat, the embers glowing at different rates as the wind picked up and then ceased. 'Err, Ms Bishop, are you okay?' Ian touched her on the arm and she jumped slightly, the ash falling off her cigarette and onto the left arm of Ian's jacket. She snapped back into the present from wherever her mind had wandered, perhaps as a defence mechanism to take her away from the awfulness of what had happened next door.

'Sorry luv, I was bloody miles away there....bit of a shock this, you understand.' Kathy took a long drag on the cigarette and exhaled diligently as a way to get the nicotine into her bloodstream and try to calm her nerves. 'Would you like to come in; I've got the kettle on? There is so much going on next door I don't want to be in my flat on my own...but then I don't really want to be out here either.'

Kathy took a final drag on her cigarette, it came to within millimetres of the filter, before she nonchalantly stubbed it out on the wall and flicked it clean over the side of the flats, it sailed over before being caught by the wind and thrown left and downwards. 'Come in then,' She proffered Ian an opening to enter her flat, as he did so the stale smell of cigarettes and ancient furnishings crept into his nose. As he walked down the hall he saw the yellowing wallpaper, and the endless photographs of family and friends, the black and white wedding photos of a bygone era, the virgin bride (was there any of those any more) looking happy with her new husband and assorted relatives, the colour photos from the seventies, huge collared shirts and flares competing against even larger sideburns on the men and big hair for the women.

Ian entered the living room and sat down on the aged brown sofa, it was made of a corduroy like material and he sank down into it until he was nearly sitting on the floor.

'Milk and sugar in your tea luv?'

'Yes please luv...err sorry, Ms Bishop, three sugars and a splash of milk please.'

'Three sugars...you've got a sweet tooth haven't you?'

'To be honest I normally have four but the wife has asked me to cut down'

Kathy entered the kitchenette, it was one of those through rooms which were actually open to the living room but you had to go through an archway, it was a way of pretending that the kitchen was separate when of course it wasn't. Ian took in his surroundings. The television was on, but the sound was right down. Jeremy Kyle was on. Ian hated Jeremy Kyle. The exploitation of the chav's, pikie's, the illiterate and the brain dead was all well and good but the outcome of the shows only benefitted the audience as the guests were left in tears or either sadness or anger, their worlds crushed for the benefit of the viewing public as Tracy, Sharon, Mercedes or Chardonnay admitted to adultery, or that the father of the child wasn't actually him before another gormless lowlife would come out on stage in their best tracksuit and Burberry cap, concentrating on actually being able to walk in a straight line. The two men would square up and push out their chests like sparring gorilla's as the bouncers intervened and the crowd whooped with joy and begged for chaos, violence and fury like it was the Coliseum in Rome and the Caesar was deciding whether the fallen Gladiator should live or die before the Christians (not the nineties pop band, the other lot) were herded out into the arena and the malnourished lions were released to feast on blood and gore for the massed ranks of Romans sitting in the blazing Italian sun eating monkey hearts and sheep's testicles and all the other weird stuff they ate in those times. Ian thought it would be a good idea to incorporate lions into the Jeremy Kyle show, at the end all of the guests would fight to the death before the 'winner' was fed to the lions...along with Jeremy Kyle for that matter......

Getting past Ian's angst at daytime television he also saw a vast array of teapots on the shelves, there must have been at least thirty, some quirky, some old, some elaborate, some colourful, some large, some small but all of them shit. He could, even from this distance see that they were all immaculately clean. Clearly Kathy's day was filled with tea, cigarettes and polishing her teapots all day. Why do people collect things? It must be something genetic. From when man first walked the earth and needed to hoard things to survive, maybe it was something simpler than that, the brain needing something to keep occupied with. Collecting things was very much ingrained in a humans psyche, it was evolutionary, people collected everything, comic books, chess sets, tea towels, fridge magnets, plates, cars, coins and stamps. The only thing Ian seemed to collect was losing betting slips which were always scrunched up and tossed on the floor of the bookmakers as yet another horse, football team or dog failed to win, obviously due to the massive pressure of knowing Ian had thrown £5 on it to actually do well.

'Here's your tea luv,' Kathy motioned as she placed the cup and saucer on a small side table to Ian's left. Kathy then sat on the other end of the sofa and lit a cigarette.

'So how long have you lived here Ms Bishop?'

'Oh about twenty six years now luv, I moved here in nineteen eighty one, the council had just done this place up. My husband had left me the year before. I had two kids, two boys, they are away somewhere, not sure where to be honest. Their dad didn't contact them for a while and then all of a sudden out of nowhere he turned up at the door, said he had a great job in America and did the boys want to go over there and stay with him for a bit. Well they never really got on with me anyway, and round here, there was nothing for them but drugs and crime, and unfortunately they had taken part in both. So they just packed, kissed me on the cheek and said see you later, that was ten years ago now...never heard from them again....its been lonely since then. I am originally from Scotland, Glasgow, so I don't really know anyone down here. When I moved in everybody seemed to keep to themselves that was until Saul moved in.'

Ian awoke from his thoughts at the mention of Saul Barraghan's name 'So you knew him well then did you? Can you tell me anything about him? It would be good to get some background information' Ian took out his notepad and pen, and was poised to annotate any details Kathy could give.

'Well let's see, Saul must have moved in about eight years ago. I heard him moving for a couple of hours but didn't go out to see what was happening. However thirty minutes later he knocked on the door. He had a small box of chocolates and introduced himself as Saul Barraghan, her new neighbour. She invited him in for a cup of tea and he ended up staying there for about three hours. She had told him her woes about the failed marriage and the fact that her sons had left to be with their dad. Saul had an equally sad tale, probably worse. He was forty four years of age when he moved in. He was dressed in trousers and a shirt and his shoes were buffed to an almost mirror like shine. He had had some bad luck recently. His father was taken ill five years earlier and he had thus been instructed by his mother to take over the management of their Lebanese restaurant. It had been opened by his father in 1964 when they had come over from Beirut to work. The restaurant had always provided a reasonable income and there were three flats upstairs whose rent got them through the quiet times.

The whole family worked there. His mother was the patriarch of the outfit; she would sit at reception and welcome the guests. His sister worked in the kitchen along with his wife Isolda. His two daughters, Rashida and Jamila worked there during weekends when they were not at school and continued to do so when they went to the local university to study Law and Chemistry respectively. Saul was very proud of his daughters and knew they would do well one day.

The restaurant wasn't the best so Saul decided to take out a loan to improve things. He did the place up a bit and got a trained chef in as well. With the improvement in food and the restaurants décor it became successful. He worked diligently as he wanted to make the family proud of him. His father was dying of cancer but he would brighten up when he saw Saul who told him how well the restaurant was going.

After about six months Saul bought another restaurant and kitted it out in exactly the same manner. However it became a disaster. It started well as he managed the second restaurant initially before handing it over to an experienced restaurant manager. However the recession struck in the mid nineties and the second restaurant failed. Unfortunately he had taken out additional loans to cover the costs of both restaurants putting the first restaurant up as collateral. When the banks finally called in their loans the family was finished. The stress and worry accelerated his father's death and whilst the family were still in mourning the bailiffs came to repossess the property. In shame his family disowned him. His daughters, having freshly completed their degrees moved to the US to work whilst his wife and mother moved back to Beirut to stay with relatives.

Saul had nowhere to go; he had lost his family, his friends and nearly all of his possessions. When he moved in here all he had was one suitcase, some photos and a box full of books and small ornaments. Despite this he was determined to get back on his feet. He registered at the local job centre and would always look clean and ready to work. He went for what seemed like hundreds of interviews. He would come back here and knock on my door and I would make him tea and listen whilst he went on about how he was told he was over qualified for this job, and under qualified for that job. After six months he stopped trying, his stubble became a beard and he would be in the same clothes for days. Unfortunately he sought solace in the easiest of places, alcohol. It was a slippery slope from there. He was still Saul, but he was a changed man. Defeated, desolate and depressed. He would say hello to me less and less but I would knock to make sure he was okay now and again. He never forgot my birthday and there was always a tin of biscuits and a card at Christmas. It was a shame really. He was so full of optimism, ready for a new challenge, make himself a success again and contact his family to tell them how well he had done but it wasn't to be.'

There was silence for a minute or so as they both thought about the plight of Mr Saul Barraghan before Kathy added 'that's what this place does to you, defeats you. There is no hope here, just decay and ruin. These people aren't living, we are existing, and for what....a few pound every other week so I can drink tea and smoke my life away'.

A tear dripped down Kathy's face. Ian instinctively gave her his handkerchief. She sniffed and dabbed at the tears, before looking Ian directly in the eye 'Find the killer will you. Please care about him; he was a good man who was dealt a bum deal in life. He was an alcoholic but he was still a human being, and he didn't deserve to die like this...no one does.'

Ian sat there for a while comforting Kathy before promising to do everything he could to find the killer. She handed him back his handkerchief but he let her keep it. 'Look after yourself Ms Bishop, we'll find the killer, don't worry'

'I hope so love, between the murders, the gangs and those Polish lone sharks hassling me night and day its difficult to get any peace around here'

Ian stopped, furrowed his brow in contemplation and this latest admission from Kathy and turned round to face her 'Did you say Polish loan sharks?'

The question hung in the air. Kathy had let her guard down momentarily and when she realised, she tried to bat the question away. 'Nothing love, just nonsense'

'Now come on Kathy, I know what you said. Look this is completely confidential, I am not writing any of this down, it probably has nothing to do with what's happened today but can you please just tell me who you are talking about, descriptions, what they do, anything really'

Kathy thought for a moment. The never ending cigarette smoke from yet another cigarette wafted up into the air in a perfect straight line before dissipating into the ether near the ceiling where it would linger before being absorbed by the paint, turning the room a dirty yellow over time. 'It was only a year or so ago. They came round nice as pie, brought boxes of chocolates and cans of beer and said they were a new local company offering loans to those who struggled to make ends meet.' There were three of them at the time but I see lots of different ones now. The original three looked fairly nondescript really apart from the main man. He had a suit and tie on but he looked about as convincing as King Kong in a tuxedo. Shaven headed, he tried to smile but he had mean eyes, there was no sparkle in them, no honesty, just coldness. The other two with him were medium build, short black hair, they looked a lot more normal, and actually in a suit looked quite respectable and honest. I happened to take out a small loan of £100 as my gas fire packed in, I had to get it fixed, it was essential. They loaned me the money and were really nice for a couple of weeks. So nice in fact that I told Saul about them. I don't believe he ever borrowed off of them, at least if he did he never told me. However then they got nasty. From owing £100 I owed £1,000. I have nearly paid it off but it wasn't easy.'

'I don't suppose they give you some kind of payment book or anything do they?'

'They did initially, but of course when the costs suddenly spiralled they stopped.'

'Can I take a look?'

Kathy got up from her seat and rifled through one of her drawers. She finally pulled out a small booklet no bigger than her hand. On the front it stated

Edgware Road Loan Company

1st Floor

37 Edgware Road

London

W2 4TG

Telephone 0207 221 6568

This was the same address as a Polish gang he knew of on Edgware Road. They had a coffee shop there.

Ian had to get next door and quick. Forensics needed to look for this to see if there was a possible connection. He made his excuses to Kathy, politely left her to it and went next door.

Ian tapped Belinda Nicholls on the shoulder. She was bending down examining the crime markings on the pillow at the time. She stood up and leaned into Ian raising her eyebrows.

'sorry to bother you again Belinda but could you please ask your lot to search everywhere and see if they can find a small booklet with the words 'Edgware Road loan Company' on it please.'

Belinda looked round at the table where the bags of evidence were being catalogued. 'Oi Tom, didn't you find something with Edgware Road Loan Company' on it?'

Tom nodded matter-of-factly and held up evidence bag number 67 and pointed. Ian could see it. There were blood splatters on it as it had been on the floor near the radiator at the time. Ian smiled. Twenty minutes ago he wondered what on earth the world was coming to and how the hell was he going to work out who had done this. But then a throw away remark by Saul's next door neighbour and suddenly there was a light at the end of the tunnel. Ian loved detective work sometimes.

Ian left the crime scene, absorbing the sights, sounds and smells he had just encountered as he went downstairs. He found it much easier going downstairs and walked slowly as he absorbed all the details that had been thrown at him. As he got to the bottom of the apartment block and walked towards the fleet of police cars and vans he saw PC McGeorge just staring at a small clear evidence bag.

Ian walked over and asked 'what you got there McGeorge and why are looking so surprised?'

She held up the bag. Ian blinked, as if not believing what was in front of him, as in the bag, right before his eyes was a Browning 5.5 Buck Mark pistol, the same type of pistol that had gone missing from James Benjamin Langans safe under five days ago....

Chapter 6 - 'Nice one McGeorge see you later on'

'So what do you reckon the score will be this weekend Mcgeorge?'

'I've got no idea Ian, I don't really follow football. I normally go shopping on a Saturday afternoon if I'm not working'

'But I thought you liked football, don't you follow the dirty filthy Manchester United scum?'

'No...that was ages ago, and it was only because my boyfriend was so into them I had no choice but to watch them. He used to work during the week and during the weekend it seemed to be about organising ourselves around when they were playing as opposed to him actually doing something special with me'

'You mean like shopping....'DI Carragher let that hang in the air and looked at McGeorge with one eyebrow raised

'No...NOT like shopping, just stuff really. Maybe going out for lunch somewhere, spending the day in the country, anything but bloody football'

'Well what do you expect, going out with a dirty filthy Man U scum fan?'

'Will you stop calling them that...it's ridiculous, its not as if they killed anybody, or did anything wrong is it, stop being so bloody childish'

'Me...childish' Ian paused as McGeorge gave him her usual look 'oh okay fair point. But seriously, men are different from women personally I don't understand the whole shopping thing. I go once a year in January for the sales, get a load of stuff and that's the torture over with for another year. I also take the wife and spend a bit of money on her. I get tense, frustrated, nervous, twitchy...'

'What because you are actually spending some money for a change'

'No not because of that. It's the crowds I don't like. It's too manic. We always have to go around Covent Garden and it's just crazy. Everywhere is packed. I sit there in women's shops like a lost puppy looking around for something familiar and welcoming like a pub...or even better a bookmakers'

'Surely you can do a few hours, and the wife must appreciate it'

'Yeah she does a bit, and in the evening I get a decent dinner and get to watch Match of the Day so there are always benefits. Anyway enough chat, come on, let's get into interview room 2 and have a little discussion with Bacchus or whatever that idiot is called.'

'Ian, don't be stupid, call him by his proper name, Mr Richard Bird'

'So what does Bacchus actually mean anyway then??'

McGeorge responded in a hushed tone as they opened the door to interview room 2 'I looked it up and apparently it's another name for Dionysus who was the mythological Greek god of wine and intoxication'

Ian looked at Mcgeorge and smiled, he turned to the expectant Mr Bird and his lawyer and said 'Greek god of wine my arse, he's a fucking dickhead!!'

Mr Bird's lawyer looked at Ian and simply made a note on his pad. Mr Bird, or Bacchus, looked down at his feet, embarrassed and McGeorge just moved professionally on as if that hadn't just happened and they settled down to begin the interview.

Ian studied Mr Bird's _lawyer. He looks a right self righteous twat,_ thought Ian _probably goes home and admires himself in the mirror...whilst wearing a pink taffeta ball-gown, sipping a pink gin whilst roundly whipping his rent boy._

McGeorge nudged Ian. He had drifted off into irrelevancy and idiocy again. Interviews bored him. Ian's favourite Greek God which he must have worshipped to at least twice a week was looking pensive. He was still wearing the clothes he had on two days ago when he was arrested. He had that smell of a criminal, 'eau de guilty' the five o'clock shadow, the tired eyes, where sleep had deserted him as he knew he was fucked. He looked smaller. Ian had seen him when he was being processed. Once you took away the gold jewellery, the big watch, the cleanly shaven immaculately kept look his superiority withered and he looked more normal now, more like a two bit criminal.

Ian remembered being at university in Sheffield. It was the usual student life, no money, not enough booze, too many lectures, well actually one was considered too many, it was just they always seemed to be before 11 a.m. which was hugely disappointing, and he remembered being really pissed off in his first year when the university had the cheek to give him four hours of lectures in a single day. He wasn't going to get anywhere near the pub before 5 p.m. How was he going to cope? So one drunken afternoon him and his mates saw a sign up which said

NOTICE

Police line up volunteers required

2 hours work

£10 plus refreshments

After initial discussions all round it was considered this was definitely a good idea as back then £10 got you seven pints in the students union, or if you were a bit of a light weight six pints and two packets of crisps. The line ups were easy. It was always the same. Six grinning students, dressed like tramps, barely shaven or washed, slightly pissed, idiotic look on their faces. Actually come to think of it, looking exactly like the criminals. But the dead give away was always the look on the criminals face. It was a slightly vacant, resigned look of, yes, I did it, and can we get this out of the way and just get me to court. The smell was never pleasant either, even worse than the students smell. Plus as well no matter where the accused was placed the rest of us would always surreptitiously move a couple of inches away from him. As soon as the victim came in they always looked directly at the accused and would whisper to the policemen......the whispering was always the sound of inevitability whereby the students were bussed back to the Students Union bar where we would triumphantly stroll into the bar and order a round, toasting our new found wealth, telling all and sundry who would listen about the exploits of the day before taking the piss out of the poor unfortunate who was going to be spending some time behind bars.

'So Mr Bird, Mr Richard Bird, or should I call you Bacchus....' Ian teased

The ball-gown wearing, pink gin sipping, house boy whipping, self righteous twat (allegedly), took off his glasses, stared at DI Carragher and stated very matter of fact, 'Mr Bird will suffice thank you officer'

The interview lasted well over two hours. He had no chance of a reprieve. The guns, ammunition, cash and drugs had all been found at his flat. His fingerprints were all over them. He was about as guilty as a puppy sitting next to a pile of poo. His only hope was co-operation. The gun which had been in the possession of James Langan and was now in an evidence bag upstairs had indeed been sold to him by Mr Bird. They had been shipped in from Amsterdam a number of years ago. Mr Bird had not done the shipping (of course!!) and those were the only guns he had to sell. It was a new line of work for him. This questioning had become difficult under pressure as he realised it was only a matter of time before the gun was linked to other murders. He was really struggling. His lawyer tried to calm things down and requested a five minute recess or alternatively to move onto another subject for a while. Ian thought about it and decided to find out a lot more about James Benjamin Langan.

'So Mr Bird, how long have....sorry, had you known the deceased, Mr Langan?'

'All my life really, we grew up together in Brixton.'

'So how did you both end up on the wrong side of the law, and I suppose can you shed any light into why Mr James Benjamin Langan ended up on the wrong side of death'

'What can I say, we grew up together. Our mothers were best friends. We lived on the estate just off Brixton Road, near where the big Tesco's store is now. Our dads seemed to be having a competition as to who was the most useless...and abusive. Our mothers went through a lot when we were growing up, and when our dads left us when we were about six and eight, our mothers moved in together. We became like brothers. School was hard. James, or Jamie as we used to call him at school, was two years above me. He would always look out for me. Although at Primary school we were just as small as each other. Jamie got picked on a bit by the older boys but they regretted that once we got to Secondary school.'

'Why was that?'

'Well once Jamie turned twelve he shot up in size. By the time he was fourteen he was six foot tall, muscular, and very athletic. He was in all the teams, football athletics basketball. Not the swimming team though...he never learnt to swim. However he then took it in turns to repatriate his pride and self worth on those who had tormented him as a child. I covered for him on numerous occasions, saying he was with me when really he had been kicking the shit out of another one off his list.'

'So when did things go really bad then?'

'Well there was this time he actually got caught. Ironically it wasn't his fault. Those he had battered decided to get him back, however he took all four of them on. Obviously he couldn't remain unhurt and the whole school had turned out to watch it. When he got sent to the head of the school he was banned from all sports for six months. He couldn't believe it. He told the head to go fuck himself and walked out of school. He never returned. His mum didn't find out for six months. She was mortified. Her little boy had turned into an angry young man. He had taken to stealing. Then he got in with one of the local gangs and started helping with drug runs, getting involved with fights with other gangs, that sort of thing. When his mother had found out he had left school he told her he had found himself a full time job. She let him off and was pleased with him as he was giving her £50 a week which came in really handy. He had vowed when we were younger to look after his mother, as she had brought him up right, but he had just got involved with the wrong people, he had needed a father in his life, and instead he got one of the hardest gangs in Brixton to look out for him.

'So where is his mother now? We didn't find any evidence of her being here?'

'She left, after Jamie turned twenty three she went back to Jamaica. She found out what Jamie was actually doing when he was seventeen. But by then it was too late, and she was too used to the money. She would go to church every Sunday and pray for him but at the same time she would always pick up the money that he left for her on the kitchen table. By the time Jamie was twenty he was in charge of the gang. I had joined a year earlier and between the two of us we ran the place. It turns out Jamie's ruthless streak helped, and he did have a business head on him after all. The money flowed in and he laundered it by buying cars, jewellery, electronic gadgets, then when he had too much he bought the strip club and then the nightclub plus a few other properties along the way. When his mother left he was gutted. But he never talked about it, he closed himself up. We became even closer, always looking out for each other. I did what I could for him....and lets be honest, I was well rewarded. I have made mistakes, and have got caught up in all this nonsense, I realise that now, which is why I am talking and would like a deal as I don't want to go inside, not again. I also don't want to end up like Jamie. He was only thirty six. I need a new start in life, to get away, can you help me? What do you think??'

'We can get onto that. Can you tell us who would want to do this to Jamie? Who were his enemies?'

'Well where do I start, the Noo Crew out of Brixton. They were his old gang before he got too big for them. Dumped all of them apart from me, when you are in a gang you are supposed to be a member for life. They are nothing now, just hanging out in the park near the church on Brixton high street, drinking cheap cider and smoking spiffs. They hate him, would kill him in a heartbeat if they had a chance. Mind you, they are that stoned and pissed all the time they would struggle to kill an ant. Then there is the Polish lot. God knows what their real names are they only go by single letters, when they are all together it's like a fuckin' episode of Countdown!! They operate out of a small café on the Edgware Road near Paddington. You will never see any customers in there apart from that lot, it's only a small place, but I bet if you checked the books it's the most profitable café in London. They launder all of their drug and protection money through there. They came over here six years ago. Started treading on Jamie's turf he got them sorted out and they backed off but that was a couple of years ago when they were a lot weaker. I would definitely start with them. News is that their territory is expanding. I know they had the cheek to try and get someone inside Jamie's club to sell drugs. We caught him and I think the only drugs he sees these days are the ones coming through his I.V. straight into his arm. Not a pretty sight. I think they go along with the name Bobo gang as they are from Bobolice in Poland. Just another Polish shit hole probably. They send money over there and I have heard they are building houses and basically trying to buy the whole town so they must be doing well. Start with them. They are psychopaths and definitely in search of revenge.'

Ian looked at PC McGeorge, she had made copious notes and they both acknowledged to each other that they had enough for now.

'So any chance of getting my charges reduced now I have given you all of that? Is there any way I can get out of going to jail at all?' Richard Bird looked scared, he knew he had no chance but was desperate.

'I am afraid I can only give you two options son'

'Okay I'll take anything, what are the options?'

'Would you like an east or west facing prison cell for the next twenty years?'

Ian stopped the tape, gathered his stuff together, nodded at the gay cross dressing lawyer (allegedly) and walked out of the room with PC McGeorge in tow.

As he shut the door behind him and walked towards the lift he looked at McGeorge with a smile on his face and said 'Looks like we have a lead now. See what you can find out and we can take it from there'

'Yes guv, okay will do. Let's catch up tomorrow then.'

'Nice one McGeorge see you later on'

### Chapter 7 –'So what's the plan then?'

Carol Mormech breathed a huge sigh of relief. She was finally home and was looking forward to seeing her boyfriend Mel Johnston. She had spoken to him three days ago about her impending return from the week long hen party she had been on in Marbella. Her best friend Leigh Shah was getting married in November and the week in Marbella had been paid for by her rich husband-to-be Deenal Nevers, who was big in IT, but she wasn't sure which bit, probably all of him Mel had sarcastically responded on numerous occasions before now. However whatever bit it was she was grateful to it, for the free five star hotel the complementary spa, the champagne and the excellent food which had been laid on.

She had not wanted to go initially but Mel had insisted as he knew she was getting stressed in her accountancy role at Visa, with its never-ending month-ends and reports, reports, reports. But she was back now, refreshed, relaxed and tanned. She had phoned Mel twice since yesterday but only ever got the answer phone. She wasn't too worried though as Mel was either at work until 9 p.m. or out running. However it was now Sunday morning so he should have been back from his run hours ago as it was already 10:40 a.m. and by rights he should be ensconced on the sofa, freshly showered with the Sunday Times by his side, watching 'The Sunday Supplement' on Sky Sports 1. Both the running and work were his passion, which was even more impressive when she thought how he had nearly died two years ago due to two faulty valves in his heart which had given in during the Paris marathon. Luckily he had been well looked after and was flown back to London to have the operation. His recuperation had been slow and his desire to don his running shoes again was a constant worry but he had got harder, better, faster, stronger and was now training to re-run the Paris marathon. She wheeled her grey samsonite suitcase and matching hand luggage down the path of their building in Hampstead, the duty free Smirnoff black label vodka and Baileys clinking together in unison to her footsteps. She hauled the bags up the red tiled steps and pressed the buzzer for their top floor flat on Fitz Johns Avenue.

'Come on Mel, the least you could do is being in when I got back' Carol muttered disapprovingly at the intercom.

After three rings she knew he wasn't there, so she rifled through her handbag looking for the keys. When she had finally dug them out from her handbag, having pushed aside, lipstick, mobile phone, eye liner, purse, tissues and all the other paraphernalia women seem to keep in their handbag she let herself in.

Carol dragged the bags up the steps and into the hallway. She had a quick check and their mail was still sitting in their tray awaiting collection. This seemed strange as there was too much there for just one day's delivery, especially as one of them was 4-4-2 magazine, Mel's favourite football magazine which he avidly ripped the cellophane off every month as soon as it came in order to read about football stories from all over the world like a little kid, mind you most of the time he acted like a seven year old, thought Carol.

She tucked the mail under her arm, left the suitcase for Mel to come and get later and walked up the three flights of lush burgundy carpeted stairs and expensively wallpapered walls, hanging onto the wooden stair rail which had been stained a deep brown colour. As she finally got to the top and opened the door all seemed still in the flat, she walked up the stairs and into the open plan living room / kitchen.

Carol dropped her keys and put her hands to her face. Time seemingly slowing down as the keys fell silently through the air before crashing on the wooden laminated floors of their one bedroom penthouse apartment. She opened her mouth to scream but nothing came out, finally on her third attempt she screamed a loud horrific 'NOOOO' as tears began to well up in her eyes and she started to shake uncontrollably. More screaming followed from the very depths of her body, before their downstairs neighbour who had just got back from playing golf came running up the stairs shouting 'Carol what's happening, you okay, what is it.....' Phil Haider stopped in his tracks, and pulled Carols head to his chest to protect her from the most sickening sight he had ever seen. For on the floor in the living room was Mel Johnston, calm and peaceful, serenity in his eyes, no movement, no sound, and the sunlight shining brightly on him from the balcony windows. He was wearing his Nike Air running shoes, white ankle socks, his old blue running shorts and his digital watch beeped every minute as the timer was still running, however his running vest lay in pieces, and where his chest should have been was a gaping, festering pungent smelling bloody chest, ribcage torn open and a hole where his heart should be, his insides and a sizeable amount of blood lay all around him, on a piece of clear plastic sheeting, surrounded by towels and bed linen......Phil Haider, dialled 999 on his silver Nokia 6300, with trembling hands, stabbing his thumb at the 9 key before requesting the police and ambulance. He hung up and hugged Carol as tightly as he could and turning away closing his eyes, a tear running down his face as he thought to himself 'who could have done such a terrible act and why?'

At New Scotland Yard, on that same day, 10th September, at 11 a.m. DI Ian Carragher waited impatiently in the corridor, outside Chief Superintendant David Bishop's office. His blue striped tie, which had been a Christmas present from his wife, dug into his neck uncomfortably. Ian was not a tie man. If he had one on, it was usually part undone with his top shirt button undone and open at the neck. He hated ties, always had done, he had gone through his school days either with it tied around his head, knotted nearer to his belly button than his neck, in his school blazer pocket or hidden in the depths of his sports bag, anywhere in fact but where it should have been. And now, sitting in the corridor he felt like he was eleven years old again, sitting outside the Headmasters office, awaiting the call, to find out his punishment for cheating in his weekly history test, all over again. He thought back to his school days as he swivelled his white plastic cup of vending machine coffee around in his hands, as fellow officers walked past, carrying various case files and evidence bags or just chatting to one another as they went about their daily business, their shoes squeaking on the blue and black tiled floor as they walked past.

Ian, jumped slightly as the door to the office was flung open and a large man with a barrel chest and bags under his eyes came out, a dash of golden blonde hair on his head, arm extended in an expectant handshake manner.

'Morning DI Carragher, good to see you again, it's been a while, please, please come in and take a load off'

'Thank you Chief Super' Ian responded and in one movement he shook his hand, walked through the doorway and sat down on a plastic chair, placing his cup of very poor coffee on a coaster on the Chief Supers desk.

Superintendant Bishop closed the door and walked around his desk before depositing himself in his luxurious, high backed swivel leather desk chair. The chair was deliberately high so, for psychological reasons the Chief Super could look down on anyone sitting opposite him, even his boss, who dropped in from time to time.

'Right then Ian, it seems we have a murderer on the loose, this case involving Saul Barraghan, quite horrific by all accounts, have you got any leads, found anything out as yet, particularly with the possible link to the James Benjamin Langan murder case'

'Nothing as yet Chief, the gun is still with ballistics, as is the bullet. The markings on the bullet are being verified and we will be looking for a link to any other murders. The bullet itself has been identified as CCI Standard Velocity Ammunition 22 Long Rifle 40 Grain Lead Round Nose ammunition. This is the same make and type as the bullets found on the floor at Mr Langans murder crime scene. The gun itself is a Browning 5.5 Buck Mark pistol and is being analysed for finger prints and DNA belonging to the murderer, or Mr Langan. We are also hoping to find some evidence that it was handled by a Mr Richard Bird, AKA Bacchus who has been arrested and charged with gun possession. We got a warrant for his flat and the search uncovered three more guns of the same variety, plus the same make and type of bullets, as well as assorted other weapons and ammunition plus a lot of cash and some class 'A' drugs. At the minute Mr Bird has given us plenty, so we can use that hopefully.'

'Okay then and any link yet to the Barraghan murder?'

'Well Mr Barraghan has had his liver removed. This has been verified by the pathologist. Mr Langan had his eyes removed, however at this juncture there is no obvious link as Mr Langans death was probably more gang related but the real question would be why kill Mr Barraghan and then remove his liver. My initial summation was that he was targeted by someone. Perhaps as he was a loner he was easier to get at, the killer knew there was no-one to disturb him so he was a relatively safe target. The other possibility I am working on is that he was killed by a Polish gang who work out of a café on Edgware Road. They are called the Bobo gang as they originate from Bobolice in Poland. I have been doing some research along with PC McGeorge and from the intelligence gathered they have been over here about six years. It's the traditional stream of crimes, starting off small and then increasing. '

'Now that does sound interesting Carragher, carry on, do we know who they are, where they live, have we got anything on them.'

'Well let's see' Ian paused as he quickly scanned the document which had been diligently printed off by PC McGeorge but he had then annihilated with his scrawling and scribbling and now couldn't even read his own writing. Okay here we go; the main man is a Piotr Przemek. Not the easiest thing to say obviously, luckily he goes by the name 'P'. Bit of a hard case this one. Looks like an albino Ving Rhames, big thick neck, I am going to kill you eyes and shoulders like a gorilla. He was the first over here by all accounts. Started by conning the state out of housing benefits, child benefits unemployment benefits. He got caught but not before he had racked up over £30,000 in dodgy claims. From there it was on to stealing cars for a few dodgy fellas' down in the East End before he branched out on his own.

He has two accomplices, Yevgeny Dubzcekh; known as 'Y' he's half Russian, half Polish, and half mental. He looks friendly enough, he's six foot four and a slim build, and his smile makes it look like butter wouldn't melt in his mouth, however get on the wrong side of him and he could probably freeze the butter and beat you to death with it...he's been up on all sorts of violent charges, affray, ABH, GBH. He was charged with stabbing two men in the legs however when it got to court the witnesses suddenly weren't so sure he had done it. The fact that one of the witnesses houses had actually burnt down the prior week may have helped them decide how best to proceed. The third one is Lech Walesey, known to his two associates as 'L'. He seems to be more of the brains behind the other two. No violent convictions, but rumour is he is the one who calmed the other two down. Made them more devious not as obvious in their actions. He came over about three years ago we think. Since that time P & Y's conviction rate has plummeted whilst their assets and influence seems to have increased significantly. The three of them are now driving around in BMW M5s, all black, with personalised plates. The coffee shop on Edgware Road also has a two storey flat above it. It's rumoured to be an unlicensed brothel; they bring Polish girls over here, promise them the earth then get them whacked up on heroine and force them into prostitution. The property was paid for in cash by a company listed in Bobolice, Poland called the PYL Corporation, not the most imaginative of names and they don't seem too bothered about hiding their business. It's almost a two finger salute to us that they can so easily get away with things like this'

There was a pause as Ian reviewed more of his notes and Chief Inspector Bishop took in the information at hand

'So, what's the plan then?' Enquired Bishop

Ian thought for a moment, looking up at the ceiling for inspiration but finding only plain white paint and fluorescent lighting 'I think we have two options, we can go down there and ask a few questions have a look around or we can go in mob handed, search the place, get into the flat upstairs, let them know we are after them.'

Bishop leant forward putting his elbows on the desk he clasped his hands together and pursed his lips in contemplation. 'Fuck it, let's go after them. We need to be seen to be doing something. Sounds like raiding the flat is a home banker, and you never know they may have got sloppy and have left evidence lying around. Let me make the calls, we go in four days time at 10 a.m. no messing, I will arrange everything.

'So aside from that we need to get more resources on this. Are forensics and the investigative teams moving fast enough?'

'At the minute, yes, I have no complaints as we don't have much evidence to go on and these things do take ten to fourteen days to analyse, so hopefully by the middle of next week we should start seeing some evidence and maybe a motive, and potential suspects will become apparent'

'And do you think there could be more killings? The Bobo gang lead is promising but what are the alternatives?' enquired the Chief Super 'Are we dealing with some Hannibal Lecter-esque serial killer?'

'I don't think we should be rushing out looking for people buying fava beans and a nice bottle of Chianti just yet chief.' Just as Ian was about to continue his mobile started ringing. The Chief Super looked at him accusingly; he was always forgetting to put it on silent before going into meetings.

'Well you may as well answer now Carragher you idiot' lectured the Super.

'Hello, DI Carragher speaking'

Ian listened intently before putting his hand to his forehead and letting out a deep sigh. 'Okay then, I am on my way' he pressed end call on his mobile, looked up at Chief Superintendant Bishop and said 'Looks like we may have another one after all Chief..'

### Chapter 8 – 'But why don't you know who did this'

Carol Mormech sobbed again, for the tenth time in just over one hour. This was hopeless. DI Ian Carragher and PC Lisa Mcgeorge looked at each other. It was no good, this was too early. She had insisted on coming in for an interview at the station so she could try and shed some light on the matter. But it was no good. She had described how she had found him; there was nothing untoward in what she said. Most of what she said was slightly inaccurate anyway. Her mind had been distorted by seeing her husbands lifeless body opened up like an old chicken carcass on the living room floor. Ian and Lisa let her talk but had stopped taking notes. The interview was being recorded but they had no intention of listening all over again to this.

She recalled how they had met eight years ago in Maidenhead. Mel was working at a labels company as a Finance Analyst and Carol had joined two years later on the graduate scheme. At the time Mel was really putting the hours in at work but he always found time to get home on a Friday and get out to the classy establishments that Maidenhead had to offer. Everyone from work used to come out as the atmosphere there had been great, then the older ones would head off home at closing time whilst the rest of the rabble would continue onto the local nightclub called Roots until about 2 a.m. before falling back to the house for a few more drinks. It had been a gradual thing. Mel had not been the greatest hit with the ladies. He was very shy, and between working sixty hours a week and drinking for another twelve there weren't many daylight hours left for him to even consider women, although one or two did seduce him every now and again.

They had got on really well together, and as the six or seven people who had come in on the graduate scheme gradually left Maidenhead to pursue other avenues and places a little more exotic than Maidenhead they had found themselves living together. Then it was over to Switzerland for two years still with the same company. The change had been excellent and they had got married but then Carol had wanted to come back to England in the hope of starting a family in the next couple of years. Obviously Mel was up for the practice sessions so agreed and they found themselves living in London. They had struck upon the flat to rent and loved it immediately. They had been living there for just over two years now but there was no way she could go back into that flat, their dreams had been destroyed and she could just not understand why. She was filled with anger, confusion and fear and at this point in time neither the police her lawyer or anybody else could help.

'But why don't you know who did this' exclaimed Carol in anguished tones between sobs. 'I just don't understand....did nobody hear anything or see anything?'

'I'm afraid at this point we don't have any information to share with you Mrs Mormech. I realise this has been traumatic but nobody seems to have seen or heard anything. We spoke to your neighbour he said he hadn't heard a thing for a couple of days now. It's quite a busy road out there so we will be putting up signs for people to get in touch. Also forensics are there and if there is the slightest bit of evidence I promise you Mrs Mormech, we will find it.'

There was silence for a while as everybody just looked at each other. There was nothing more to say. It was a case of gathering the evidence together and seeing what they could find. Ian was worried, as at this juncture, they had nothing....

### Chapter 9 – 'Sorry Chief'

'Good morning listeners, this is Chris Moyles, the saviour of Radio 1, it's exactly 7 o'clock on Thursday 14th September and this is the new single by...'

Snooze

'And then I was out last night with my bird and Comedy Dave and we accidentally fell into the...'

Snooze

'London's first sperm bank was a total disaster. There were only two donors, one missed the tube and the other came on the bus'

'Ha, ha ha ha...brilliant', Ian mumbled as he came round from his slumber, before hitting the snooze button for a third time on the clock radio.

He yawned loudly, rubbed his eyes and turned over to look at his sleeping wife, giving her a playful poke in the ribs. She jumped suddenly, opened her eyes and whispered 'I got in from work three hours ago, will you just get up and out so I can go back to sleep.....and if you try and prod me again with your finger, or anything else for that matter which is unfortunately the same size as your finger I will break it off, snap it in two and post it to your mother....' And with that she turned over in a single motion and pulled the duvet over her head.

Ian lovingly smiled at his wife momentarily, the smile then turning mischievous as he turned over and silently reset the alarm to go off in another thirty minutes with that loud and annoying 'BEEP BEEP BEEP' sound which brought anguished sighs and resigned looks onto peoples faces all over the world as the realisation kicked in it was time for work.

He pulled back the duvet and sat upright, placing his feet firmly on the floor and using his arms to propel him upwards into a large stretch and yawn, his scrawny arms outstretched, his slight beer belly protruding over his England boxer shorts. He made his way to the bathroom in that sort of sleepy early morning shuffle people do, across the slightly worn red carpet and out into the hallway for the short walk to the bathroom. The light switch cord was pulled and the bathroom became bathed in a brilliant white light which was a shock to the system. Ian let out a little whimper and blinked repeatedly as his eyes tried to re-adjust to the excessive lighting, his dazed look, five o'clock shadow and scruffy hair reflecting back from the mirror above the small white sink.

Ian still didn't do mornings. He was not sure why, whether it was because his parents always let him lie in bed when he was younger, or maybe it was genetic. Ian had this theory whereby whatever time you were born decided whether you were a morning or night person. He had asked lots of people over the years and only a few had gone against his general theory. He was born at 11:30 p.m. and so this made him a night person, which explained no matter what shift he did or when he got back home he always felt awake about 7 p.m. His wife on the other hand had been born at 6 a.m. and seemed to be far too happy in the mornings, along with sometimes wanting a bit more happiness thrown into the bargain, but then Ian wasn't complaining as it was damn sight more pleasant a wake up call than that bloody alarm clock, although perhaps less messy. Alternatively it was all the going out he did when he was younger, when 7 a.m. normally signalled the end of the night rather than the beginning of another day, but Ian was definitely not a morning person

Ian removed his boxer shorts and got into the shower. Turning the dial clockwise the system kicked into life and immediately sprayed cold water all over his lower torso and legs.

'Ow ow ow, too cold, too cold' and then the hot water emerged a few seconds later 'ow ow ow too hot too hot'. Ian quickly reached for the dial and turned it down. His wife was always having showers with the water way up on the 9 setting, far too hot for him, 6 was about his maximum and he always forgot to check in the mornings as he had to concentrate on more mundane tasks such as breathing and standing up, before graduating up to more difficult issues such as how hot the shower was or even where the hell was he. He did keep asking his wife to turn it down again after she had finished but she never did. However woe-betide him if he ever left the toilet seat up. He didn't any more as it had become an involuntary action these days...he had been trained, cajoled and punished over the years so was now considered 'house trained' just like a dog, perhaps he should just change his name to 'Rover' and start sleeping in a basket in the kitchen...although the thought of having to lick his own balls was maybe a little bit too excessive Although, come to think of it.....

After a quick shower and shave with his electric shaver, he dried himself off, sprayed himself liberally with his deodorant and went to get dressed. Sneaking around the semi darkened bedroom he sat on the bed and put on his dark blue socks before taking his trousers off the hanger and putting these on then opening his side of the fitted wardrobe (which was about fifteen per cent of the total, but then wasn't that the case for all men) then rifling through his shirts before realising that although there were six very clean shirts hanging up not a single one of them had been ironed. Rather than go through the rigmarole of taking the ironing board out, filling the iron, turning it on, waiting for it to heat up, blah blah blah he put a shirt on and vowed to keep his jacket on all day. Besides his little alarm clock joke he had set for his wife was going to happen in the next ten minutes so he needed to get out of the house and fast.

A quick bowl of Kellogg's cornflakes in the white Jasper Conran bowls that had been given to them as a Wedding present was wolfed down before the bowl was put into the sink...but not before he had drunk the last drops of milk directly out of the bowl of course, a thin sliver of milk ran down the side of his mouth which he expertly caught in one motion with a green tea towel as he put the bowl in the sink.

Then it was a case of grabbing his jacket, keys, wallet and police ID before slipping on his regulation black shoes and opening the door. Ian paused briefly and looked at his watch....'three, two, one, go'

'BEEP BEEP BEEP' came the noise from upstairs, quickly followed by the sound of rolling thunder as Louisa turned over and thwacked the cancel button before throwing the clock across the room where it sailed into the corner and rested in the laundry basket snuggled between Ian's England boxers and Louisa's nurses uniform which she had flung there at four a.m..

'I'll get you later for that Carragher' she shouted down the stairs before turning over again and going back to sleep, the hint of a smirk on her face

'I hope so' was Ian's riposte as he closed the door and got into his blue Ford Mondeo. Granted it wasn't his car of choice but he got it cheap from the force one and a half years ago and with the increases in interest rates at the time money was being absorbed by the mortgage and the Labour government's constant tax hikes and poor pay increases for the police force. Plus they had been saving for a baby. Not literally of course, they weren't going to purchase one off the internet or anything, more to have some money tucked away so when the time came they had a financial cushion to cope with the multitude of nappies, clothes, toys, prams, buggies and baby food which was required. Unfortunately six months later the news had come through that Louisa had a miscarriage. She had been nearly three months pregnant at the time and they had been dying to tell everyone, however they had decided to wait for the three month scan to confirm everything was fine. Louisa had awoken suddenly one night with a pain in her stomach, she had immediately blurted out 'there's something wrong with the baby' they had not bothered with an ambulance, one of Ian's few decisive moments in his life had been to get dressed and take his stricken and crying wife down to accident and emergency where they had been fast tracked through and the doctor had confirmed their worst fears.

Ian secretly thought back to that night every now and again, he could remember every last detail. The doctors name, all his features, his silly Homer Simpson tie, the Gold Rolex watch on his left wrist, the sign in the booth they had been in, recommending a flu jab for people at risk, old age pensioners, the very young, pregnant women....he remembered the pregnant women phrase in particular, as he hugged his wife who was crying silently in his arms, her tears dripping down the back of his blue Diesel jumper with the number seven on the left breast, he had stared at that sign, a knot of pain in his stomach, a tear running down his cheeks, the pain as he had dug his nails into the palms of his hands until his knuckles were white and there were red marks on his hands, 'maybe someday' he had thought as he read that sign over and over and over again.

That had been well over a year ago now, they had never mentioned babies again, had only really had sex a few times, predominantly a drunken fumble after a big night out when the alcohol had made them forget the past and they just both wanted to show to each other how much they meant to them, how much they loved each other. However at all other times it was this strange invisible object in their life which they carried everywhere and saw everywhere, from toy adverts on the television, to young mums out in town doing their weekly shopping, friends having children and coming round, it was omnipresent in their lives and neither one of them was prepared to even mention it. So they had just got on with their lives. Louisa had thrown herself into her nursing job, doing extra shifts (the money had come in handy as well), going out with friends more, even taking up French lessons. Ian had done the same, he had started learning French with his wife but two things got in the way. Firstly, once he knew all the swear words, he had lost interest, but also and more importantly Monday night was football night so it worked out quite well, Louisa would go for her two hour lesson and Ian would shout at the television and drink a few cans of beer. The baby savings account had been quietly forgotten about, the £300 direct debit still came out of their account but neither one of them wanted to suggest cancelling it, or maybe using the money for something else. There was nearly £7,000 in there which could have bought a new car, a few decent holidays or maybe a new bathroom as the old one was getting a bit tired. However if that happened that would mean giving up on baby, the final physical piece of evidence that Louisa had once been pregnant, that their hopes for the future had seemed to stretch out for miles ahead, so the balance just kept getting bigger, month on month, but that was okay as even though sex was infrequent and they had not mentioned children since the incident Ian never gave up hope, one day it would happen. He clung onto that in times of despair and unhappiness and was sure that Louisa did to....one day.

Ian arrived at New Scotland at 8:50 a.m. the London traffic had been its usual horrendous mayhem but he had made it with ten minutes to spare before the meeting to discuss the evidence and the results from the DNA testing and lab work. It was a nice sunny day today, only eighteen Celsius according to the weather report on the radio but that was enough as far as Ian was concerned. He figured he would go out for lunch today after the meeting as it was going to be a long one and the ensuing follow up work would be horrendous so he would need time to prepare and think things through, and what better way to do this than with a nice pint of 6X bitter accompanied by steak and kidney pie and chips and lashings of tomato sauce, oh and a side order of peas.

After the death of Mel Johnston things had really started to escalate. The death had been all over the news. The press weren't too bothered about a drug dealer or nearly dead penniless alcoholic but Mel Johnston had been a 'normal respectable' person, plus the manner of death had been awful. The Chief Super had trebled the manpower on the case and the Forensics team were told in no uncertain terms to fast track the work required and as the Chief Super put it 'I don't care if you have to work twenty four fucking hours a day, just get it done and lets catch this madman'. He could be quite succinct when he wanted to be, the Chief Super, however at other times his philosophy seemed to be why use one word and two minutes when you can use thirty words and ten minutes.

Ian made his way to the second floor for the briefing, in the newly refurbished presentation room. This used to house an overhead projector, a chalk board and twenty plastic chairs. It was now akin to a Bill Gates wet dream. There was an integrated sound system and digital projector linked up to a computer, it was all wi-fi'd, networked and integrated (whatever that meant). The plastic chairs had gone to be replaced by an L shaped table which could seat twenty and had microphones in so people could be conferenced in if required wherever they were in the world. It was all very impressive but Ian liked the simple things in life. There was always something wrong in here, whether the system needed rebooting, the conferencing system cut people off or the computer crashed. Lets face it you didn't need to reboot a chalkboard did you, and if people couldn't hear you, you simply talked louder rather than having to phone IT to ask them where the volume control was.

The room was already packed. The investigative team had expanded to sixteen people who were all here this morning. Ian settled into his seat near the front. He wouldn't normally sit so close but there was good reason today. Just as he was tapping his pen on his opened pad in walked the vision of loveliness that was Nicola Trenchyard, a former primary school classmate and now Forensic scientist at the Met. Behind her came Chief Superintendant Bishop carrying the box of physical evidence which he carefully carried and put down on the front desk after a simple nod from Ms Trenchyard. She looked around the room then gave Ian a warm smile. They had been friends for a long time, firstly meeting at Primary school before going to high school together. They had kind of dated each other when they were sixteen, but when their paths diverged, she went to college to study for her A levels in chemistry, Biology & Physics and he went away to police training. They had kept in touch and it had been him doing all the phoning. By the time he got back from three months training she was already dating the sixth Form Rugby captain which had been the rumour his best friend Tony Hankinson had told him on the train on the way home. He had vowed to 'knock his block off' as soon as he saw him, however on meeting the two of them in the pub that very night he changed his mind as her new beau was, to coin a phrase 'built like a brick shit-house', so he had bit his tongue and behaved impeccably all night as although he knew he would never be going out with Nicola again, he didn't want to lose her as a friend.

As Ian was lost in teenage parties past and memories of fumbling with the clasp on Nicola's bra the Chief Super stood up and with a loud clap called the meeting to order.

'Now gentlemen, and ladies of course' he turned apologetically to Nicola who gave him a slight nod of acknowledgement 'we finally have all the information back from the forensics department and Ms Trenchyard here in the next two hours will be giving you all a full debrief'

Ian smirked like a little school boy at the weak double entendre and casually hid his grin behind his cup of coffee. As he looked over Nicola had spotted it straight away and gave him a knowing glance with one raised eyebrow as if to emphasise that even at thirty three Ian was still just a childish boy.

'So anyway I will now hand this meeting over to Ms Trenchyard' the Chief Super said in closing. Nicola stepped forward, remote control in hand, stood to the left of the projector and began her presentation.

'Right then, morning ladies and gentlemen, we shall begin with the agenda where we will go through the following items

The murder scene of James Benjamin Langan

Finger prints

DNA samples

Markings on assorted drinking glasses

Other potentially related evidence

The murder of Saul Barraghan

Finger prints

DNA samples

Other evidence

The murder of Mel Johnston

Finger prints

DNA samples

Other evidence

Summation of findings

Conclusion

So forensic scientist Nicola Trenchyard began with murder one. 'Okay so at the Honey club here are various photos of the crime scene.' The next twenty slides were assorted photos ranging from the bloodied corpse of James B Langan to the open safe, the scattered drugs on the desk, the assorted drinking glasses, the empty bottles, the gun cartridges and the money on the floor. They were shown in silence as a slideshow, Nicola pausing for fifteen to twenty seconds to let everybody survey the photos and absorb the detail. The room was silent apart from the whirr of the cooling fans in the laptop and the slight noise of traffic which invaded through the double glazed windows with the silver shades pulled down which also banished the warm September weather to purely outside of this room.

'Firstly finger prints. The forensics team picked up well over forty prints in that room; they were reduced down to what were considered twelve fresh prints of people who had been there that day and prior evening. With the help of all of you here today we have found all twelve persons associated with these prints which are:-

James Benjamin Langan (deceased)

Crystal – Bonnie Woods (dancer)

Phoenix – Sandra Smith (dancer)

Bacchus – real name Richard Bird of Flat 3 57a Abbey Road, St Johns Wood who has now been arrested and charged with possession of firearms, buying and selling of weapons, counterfeiting CDs & DVDs, and drug possession / drug dealing.

Jake Hurry – Manager of the Honey club

Edward Grant – Honey Club Bar manager

6 bar staff that had all gone up to serve drinks. They are Paul Smith, Timothy Maas, Jamie Sabiela, Catherine Bishop, Lynda Hervey, and Madelyn Priest.

Nicola efficiently went through another five slides explaining the DNA evidence, how they had taken swabs from all the parties mentioned above which had then been analysed and cross referenced with the available physical evidence before getting to the next point.

'Now gentlemen finally something interesting, of the glasses a number were ruled out through the original fingerprints analysis, DNA match ups and also finding out the lipstick make and colour used by Ms Smith and Ms Woods. Once this was complete there was one glass which proved useful. This was the glass that had James Benjamin Langans fingerprints on but also a lipstick marking which was not that of Ms Smith and Ms Woods. However there were no other prints on the brandy glass which leads me to suspect that the murderer could have been female and was wearing gloves to stop leaving any prints. Quite why she did this is unknown, as taking a drink and leaving some evidence behind when she had taken care to wear gloves is interesting. Unless this is just meant to throw us off the scent by giving us false evidence and making us assume the killer was a female.

Other interesting pieces of evidence are the open safe and the money and gun cartridges on the floor. It has been confirmed by the bar manager that there should have been over £10,000 in the safe but instead there was simply a few hundred on the floor. Also in the safe was a substance which is consistent with the oil that a gun is cleaned with and has been identified as Bisley Silicone Gun oil where a case of this was also found at the flat of Richard Bird a.k.a. Bacchus along with the same type of gun cartridges which were found on the office floor. Therefore this seems to suggest that the money and gun have been taken, although this was probably not the motive for the murder, it looks as if the safe was open when the killer was there so simply took the opportunity to grab a few extra items.

There were also a few grams of cocaine on the coffee table and desk and the test results shows Mr Langan had consumed a few grams himself as the levels in his body were very high. Also in his blood stream was an extremely high level of alcohol, cannabis, amphetamines and Valium. We think after such a crazy night he was so high he consumed two Valium which would have knocked him out for quite a few hours which would have actually made it easier for the killer to get at him. Whether the killer had prior knowledge of this is another matter.'

'We also have this' Nicola clicked the remote control and up on the screen came the CCTV footage of the Bobo gang. 'I appreciate this is tenuous as there is no real connection with anything else other than that the Bobo gang were enemies of James Benjamin Langan. However it could be noteworthy so has been included. This is also relevant once we get on to Saul Barraghan's murder.

Moving onto murder two again the first twenty slides show assorted photographic evidence of the murder scene. Note the door was broken by the police on entering the flat. The next five slides are of the kitchen, nothing much here really apart from empty vodka bottles and used tea bags. The next six slides show the living room of Mr Barraghan's flat. Note the hole in the cushion which was used to muffle the sound of the gun. Here is the stereo which was turned up to assist in concealing the sound of the shot.'

On this slide was the cheap small green stereo with FM/AM radio, a tape player and flip top lid for the CD player. To the left you could see the cd case of 'Frank Sinatra's greatest hits'.

'Bloody wonderful album that Ms Trenchyard' came a voice from the back

'He certainly went his way didn't he' came another shout from the back.

'Quieten down please gentlemen' insisted the Chief Super as he stood up and craned his neck to see to the back of the room and the potential instigators of the unnecessary comedy lines. 'I'm watching you PC McKeverne, be quiet and when you think you are about to say something....DON'T' admonished the Chief Super.

'Sorry Chief' came the response.

'Anyway as I was saying' continued Nicola 'you can see that there is blood on the floor from just outside the living room to the bathroom. And as you can see from the shots in the bathroom this is where he was opened up. You will note he is lying on a rug which we assume was in the living room. He then either fell onto it or was pushed onto it before being dragged into the bathroom for his impromptu operation'

And at that the room went silent as the blood stained ring of towels, the open wound on Mr Barraghan's side, the old fashioned thick rug which was a dark red colour and the pool of blood and entrails which circled the body were all up there on the giant screen in glorious full colour and high definition.

'It has been noticed by the pathologist that there was actually already a mark on the murdered victim's side. Unfortunately for him he had already had an operation eighteen months ago now where his liver had been replaced due to years of alcoholism. He had actually been alcohol free for the first six months but he inevitably got dragged back down into alcoholism and was certainly on his way to ruining another liver'

'From the statements taken from the next door neighbour it is apparent that there was a woman present, however she was not seen and so we have absolutely no evidence as to what she looks like. There are actually a number of surveillance cameras in the area however the local gangs made short work of them one bonfire night and so they have not been repaired for over ten months now. We have struck lucky however as we have found a washed mug in the sink which contains a half a fingerprint which is the left hand thumb. The murderer was careful enough to clean up after herself however she missed a small section of the mug which contains her print. Unfortunately there is not enough there to allow for a full scan so we can run it through the police database but if we catch her we can get a match.'

'However the extremely interesting fact is this' And with that Nicola brings up another slide of a clear plastic bag holding a gun inside. 'This is a Browning Buck Mark pistol. However it is not just any Browning Buck pistol. This is the pistol that Richard Bird a.k.a Bacchus sold to James Benjamin Langan and was subsequently stolen from his safe. It is also the pistol which has been used on two murdered drug dealers over two years ago where James Langan was the main suspect but no evidence was found against him. We therefore have a clear link between the two murders. Another piece of interesting information, which unfortunately is again a little difficult to link with hard evidence at this stage is this' Nicola looked at the screen as a close up of the business card from the 'Edgware road Loan Company' was displayed. 'To explain, this is one of the companies which the Bobo gang use and is essentially a loan shark company. We will need to ascertain whether Mr Barraghan actually owed any money to the Bobo gang or not before this piece of evidence becomes significant however Chief Inspector Bishop will discuss that at the end of this presentation'

'So that brings us nicely onto the latest murder of Mel Johnston.' Another twenty slides are shown, showing the murder scene, the close up of the bruising on Mel's neck, the open chest wound, the same ring of towels around the body.

'We are assuming that Mel was about to go out running. His stopwatch was actually still running so we know the exact time of the confrontation at least was 6 a.m. We are assuming that somebody was waiting for Mel to appear or that they rang the bell. The assumption is that they were waiting for him and as Mel opened the door they produced a weapon and got him back up to the flat where they sat him down on the black leather sofa and hit him across the back of the head. This slide shows the statue that was used to hit him with. The slide on view was of a modern statue all twisted metal that resembled absolutely nothing. The base was a heavy rough hewn rock which had been flattened on the underside so it stood up of its own accord. The lump of rock looked solid and there was a blood stain all over one part of it where they had connected with the back of Mel's head. He would then have slumped forward or fell onto the floor. They then rolled him over, prepared the scene and operated on him removing his heart. The alarming thing is he had only just received a new heart eight months ago after complications when running the Paris Marathon. We are looking into the donation of the organs for Mr Barraghan and Mr Johnston. We do not know whether Mr Langan had any organs replaced as we are still looking into the files. As you can understand Mr Langan liked to keep a low profile so records of his movements are sketchy but we will continue to search. Also at this stage there is no obvious link back to the Bobo gang'

'Still just in case there is a link I will task DI Ian Carragher to go down to the records office of NHS UK transplant to investigate any possible link. And there is of course the operation which Chief Inspector Bishop will be telling you about in a minute. I have already requested a court hearing in order to get the necessary paperwork from NHS UK as of course this kind of information is kept secret in order to protect the donor's identity and also the recipients. We should be getting this later on today so DI Carragher, you can go there tomorrow and see what you can find out'

DI Carragher nodded an acknowledgement and Nicola Trenchyard carried on.

'So in summary it looks like all three murders could well be linked. The murderer killed James Benjamin Langan and then stole the gun and £10,000 from the safe then moved onto Saul Barraghan who was shot in the back of the head before taking his liver and leaving the gun behind. They then moved onto Mel Johnston, attacking him in the early hours of the morning and leaving unseen at an un-established time of day. In short we are dealing with someone who has developed a taste for murder. They may have murdered a number of other people in the past so we are looking into unsolved murders in the London area, as you can imagine there are lots of them but we are paying particular attention to the two drug dealers already mentioned plus any other murder where body parts were taken. We need more clues here as at the minute we only have the lipstick mark on the glass from Mr Langans club and a half a thumbprint from Saul Barraghan's flat where they washed a mug but did not do it thoroughly enough. Also the link to the Bobo gang is an interesting one but we need to keep digging as we simply do not have enough information at the minute. To understand whether it's a psychopathic serial killer or a well known dangerous Polish gang is key as the clock is ticking. We have a lot of work ahead of us so let's get to it'

Ms Trenchyard clicked off the overhead projector and switched off her laptop. A murmur went around the room as the officers all began talking about what they had just seen, the severity of the murders and who could possibly have carried out these types of attacks. They argued between themselves as to whether it was gang related or was it something else...only more evidence would suffice.

The Chief Super rose and brought the meeting to order again. 'People' he boomed with a clap of his hands 'tomorrow will go some way to understanding this current conundrum. DI Carragher thinks that the Bobo Gang could be linked. We have a lot of evidence to link them to it in some way. Whether they have hired some sadistic bastard to actually do their contract killing is another matter. They may have a new member of their gang who we know very little about as it's not like them to do this sort of thing. But tomorrow at 11 a.m. we will find out. We go in hard and we go in fast. There will be an armed unit on standby and I want the café closed and sealed off, all three members of the gang need to be there as I want them all arrested, a thorough search of the café needs to be carried out and I want the flat upstairs emptied, Anybody in there take them in for questioning. Get forensics crawling all over the place.

### Chapter 10 – 'Would you like another drink?

'Would you like another drink?' enquired Ian to Nicola.

'Yes please, another glass of Orvieto thanks, just a small one though as the large ones look like gold fish bowls in here'

Ian stood at the bar, elbows crossed, with a £10 note pointing skyward held between two fingers. The barmaid looked up and saw him standing there. She came wandering over, all gold chains, rings and cleavage, blotchy face and a tight blonde perm that wouldn't look out of place in a 1970s German Porn film.

'Ello luv, wot can I get yer' she bellowed in her friendly cockney accent.

'Another pint of 6X please petal and a small glass of white wine, the Orvieto please.'

She efficiently pulled the pint three quarters full before letting it settle and pouring the white wine. Coming back over she topped the pint up until the beer poured over the side and there was a perfect head of froth. Ian delicately picked up the pint and gulped down a fifth of it so it was easier to carry over and wouldn't spill all the way over to the corner table where he and Nicola Trenchyard were sitting.

'Here you go petal, get your laughing gear round that then' Ian said as he sat down. He moved his now empty plate to one side. The Steak & Kidney pie with chips, peas and gravy had been immense. He had wanted to order the jam roly poly and custard but there was simply no room so he had to give it a miss.

'So how was your Caesar salad Nic?' enquired Ian

'Err it was kind of okay, not exactly sure it was a proper Caesar salad. I think the dressing was actually salad cream and the lettuce looked like it had seen better days.' retorted Nicola.

'Well that's what happens when you order rabbit food. And anyway I don't think the Emperor Caesar actually ate salad did he? I thought the Romans all ate ridiculous things like pigeons hearts stuffed with otter eggs and white truffles.'

'I don't actually think otters lay eggs Ian you idiot' laughed Nicola as she picked up her wine and took a sip 'and anyway a Caesar salad has nothing to do with the Emperor Caesar. Caesar salad was invented in 1903 by Giacomo Junia, an Italian cook in Chicago, Illinois. He named it after Julius Caesar who he considered to be the greatest ever Italian.'

'Ooh hark at the brainy one over there. I know Otters don't lay eggs, I was being facetious. However I am not sure Julius Caesar was the greatest ever Italian, what about Roberto Baggio'

'I think you probably mean sarcastic as opposed to facetious, but well done on using a good word for a change, and I am not sure you can compare a footballer to one of the greatest politicians and generals the world has ever seen'

'I will take that as a complement I suppose. But hang on a minute, did Julius Caesar ever get to a World Cup final...No I didn't think so. Anyway enough messing about, what's this about getting me to check out the NHS Donor records tomorrow?'

'Well as you have become the lead detective on the case I naturally assumed you would want to go. I heard about your little escapade at the Honey Club. Lisa told me all about it, she couldn't stop laughing either.'

'Lisa....oh you mean Mcgeorge. Yes very funny, I am sure you all had a great laugh at my expense. So come on then, we are getting off track again, who am I meeting tomorrow anyway?'

'Oh right hang on let me check my notes' Nicola grabbed her briefcase that was on the floor to her left, opened her briefcase and rifled through some papers before pulling out a sheet of A4 paper which had been printed off of her computer and was in the form of an email. 'I was going to just tell you but you would never write it down and then end up forgetting it so here you are.'

She handed the paper to Ian who scanned it quickly. 'I am going to see a Mrs Sylvia Lawson...oh hang on they are based in bloody Bristol. That's pissing miles away for God's sake. Fox Den Road, Stoke Gifford, Bristol....do they have roads in Bristol? Running water? Electricity?' asked Ian hopelessly. 'Oh and Jesus H Christ, the appointments at 10am....I am going to have to get up at five to get there for ten, that's horrendous, you know I don't do mornings, you did this on purpose didn't you, just to bloody annoy me'

Ian looked up from the letter with an expression on his face like a lost puppy. Nicola was bent over laughing, her left hand over her mouth , tears running down her cheeks as she tried to hide the guffaws of laughter she just could not help from letting out. 'Stop it....please...your killing me, my sides are aching and my mascara is running. Stop making me laugh'

'Laugh...you're not the one who's going to have to get up when its still bloody dark are you. I bet you I get on the wrong train....I am useless in the mornings, I'll end up in bloody Aberdeen or something!!'

'No you won't. Its okay, I'm coming with you. I have some other business over in Bristol as well so I will pick you up, you can sleep in the car and then get the train back in the evening.'

'Oh, okay then, that's a bit better....will you be making bacon sandwiches and a flask of tea for the journey?'

'Piss off....who do you think I am, your flaming mother. Make your own sandwiches.'

The two of them sat there for a couple of hours. It was three wines and five pints later before Ian looked at his watch. 'Oh bloody hell its 7 o'clock, I've got to get home. I was meant to have dinner ready now. Looks like I will be in the spare room again, especially when I tell her who I have been with.'

'Oi, don't say that. I would never do anything behind your wife's back, and besides I don't fancy you.'

'Of course you do...all women do. I have an immense physique; it's just slipped a little that's all.'

'You need liposuction' Nicola joked as she poked him in his beer belly.

'No I do not, I need lipo-relocation...I need it taking off my belly and shoving onto my arms and legs. Anyway I have to go, see you in the morning hot stuff, bright and early.' Ian bent down and kissed Nicola on the cheek.

She responded and said 'See you at 5 a.m. and don't sleep in'

As she said this Ian stood up and accidentally looked down her top at her lovely orbs. She caught him and looked at him accusingly. 'I'm sorry, I couldn't help it, it's a male thing...and anyway don't be embarrassed I've seen them, and had a good rummage'

'That was fourteen years ago Mr Carragher, they have developed since then'

'You're not wrong there love' replied Ian. And with that Ian was gone, past the pool table, the flashing fruit machine and through the double doors, only pausing to let two men in first, dressed in builders work wear in need of their first and most definitely not their last pint of the night.

Unfortunately an hour later he fell through the front door. The five pints had well and truly kicked in and the evening air hadn't helped either. All the lights were on and he knew he was in trouble. He had bought two portions of chips on the way home but knew his actions would prove irrelevant.

'And where have you been...as if I can't tell. I have been working a double shift and am absolutely knackered. I was hoping for some tea and thought we could watch TV together for a while but you have messed that up haven't you. And what's that smell, it's that a woman's perfume?'

'Its okay, its only Nicola's, she did a presentation today about the possible murderer on the loose and we went for something to eat, and before you know it I had accidentally drunk five pints.'

'Nicola...oh that's great, I'm working all day and you are out flirting with your ex. I'm having a bath then going to bed. You know the routine; you are in the spare room...and another thing...'

'What's that dear?' asked Ian

'You can shove those chips up your arse you bloody drunk' shouted Louisa as she stomped up the stairs, with a glass of wine in one hand and some toast in the other.

Ian drunkenly wandered into the kitchen. He sat down at the dinner table and shoved the chips into his mouth with his hands. He boiled the kettle during mouthfuls, careful to use his knuckle to turn the kettle on so he wouldn't get grease on the kettle. He made a pot of fresh coffee, drank two cups, wolfed down the chips then wandered upstairs to the bathroom. He knocked quietly before entering.

'What?' said his wife unhappily.

'I'm sorry petal. I just didn't realise how late it was. She finished her presentation at two thirty this afternoon so I asked her to come to the pub for some lunch. We got talking about the case and how each of us was doing and before you knew it, its 7 o'clock. Honestly, come on, you know I love you and me and her are history, we were just kids'

'I know, I'm sorry, its just its been a busy day, the wards were crammed today, a patient died and another threw up everywhere, it was horrendous. I was looking forward to coming home and relaxing that's all.'

'I know I'm sorry. Look, finish your bath, I will open a bottle of wine, and we can try that red we got the other day, the Marrameiro Inferni Montepulciano. I bet it's a cracker. We can get a film off Sky as well if you like, your choice'

'Okay then, go on. You go and clean yourself up and I will meet you downstairs.'

'Oh and one other thing, I have to go to Bristol tomorrow so will be up at 4:30, its okay I will sleep in the spare room so I don't disturb you.'

'Okay then, that's fair enough. Will you be back in the evening?'

'I certainly will...and I'll be sober.'

So that night they settled down for a film and finished the wine. Louisa fell asleep on him and he sat there lightly stroking her brow. She could be awkward at times but he did love her, and she knew she loved him...lets face it the amount of crap and idiocy she had to put with she had to. Ian woke her up at ten and carried her to bed, before going in to the spare room and collapsing on the bed, he was up in about six hours so needed the sleep.

### Chapter 11 – 'Wake up lazy bones we're here'

'Wake up lazy bones we're here.'

'Eh..what...where, oh right yeah.' Ian sat upright in the passenger seat of Nicola's Mercedes. He had got in the car at 5 a.m. croaked a hello then put the seat back and slept all the way there. They had made good time and were outside the offices of the NHS UK Transplant centre at nine. Ian wiped his left cheek where he had been drooling in his sleep. He wiped the leather seat head rest he had managed to drool all over with the sleeve of his coat. Thank god it was leather thought Ian.

'You were snoring lazy arse' stated Nicola as she shut her door

'No I wasn't...' replied Ian

'Well how would you know stupid, you were asleep'

'Oh yeah, well never mind eh, that car is very comfy, shame you aren't driving me back as well.'

'Don't push it Carragher. Come on we can get a sandwich and a coffee from that café over there as we have an hour.'

At 9:58 they walked into the building, through the glass rotating doors and up to the large polished wood and chrome reception desk. The girl with the nice eyes and a friendly smile asked 'Yes Sir, Madam, can I help you?

'Yes hello, we are here to see Mrs Sylvia Lawson please.' Nicola stated as she held her Police ID in front of her as confirmation of who she was.

'Thank you Inspector Trenchyard, Mrs Lawson is expecting you so I will phone her now to come and get you, you may take a seat over there.' The receptionist said, pointing at two cream sofas in the corner to the left.

Ian and Nicola sat down. There was a large forty two inch flat screen TV on the wall showing Sky News. Luckily for Ian they were showing the sport report and he sat forward, craning his neck so he could hear what was being said. The volume of the TV was very low so it was tricky. Nicola picked up the Financial Times and began to read. The two of them were expecting to wait a while. However no sooner had Nicola finished the small front page article on the impending credit crunch in the US when a woman, probably in her fifties came bounding over. She wore a long black skirt and standard issue office white blouse with a long pearl necklace, gold watch and small black framed glasses perched on the top of her head, attached to a silver chain which was around her neck. On first glance Ian noticed she looked a little agitated but then didn't most people when they were at work.

'Hello Officers, I am Sylvia Lawson, how may I be of assistance?'

'Hello, my name is DI Ian Carragher and this is Inspector Nicola Trenchyard. We are with the Metropolitan Police and would like to ask you some questions about donation of organs and their recipients.' Ian responded in an official tone.

'Well okay then, please come this way.' Sylvia turned on her heels and led them through the security barriers and up to the silver doors of the elevators. As the button was pressed the elevator to the far left pinged and the doors opened. They went inside and stood in silence (as all people seem to do in lifts for some reason) and exited at the fifth floor. Sylvia escorted them to a small meeting room, with a table and six chairs. The strip lighting was quite severe so Sylvia turned the lights off and opened the grey roll top blinds. 'I do so hate artificial light, it gives me terrible headaches, and I much prefer the natural stuff, don't you?' Before they could answer she continued 'Now please make yourselves comfortable and can I get you a drink, its either water or brown sludge I am afraid, the coffee machine here leaves a lot to be desired.'

'Coffee for me please Mrs Lawson and can you put three sugars in it, and Ms Trenchyard here will have a water.'

Sylvia exited the room to get the drinks. Ian and Nicola took off their jackets and put them on the backs of the chair. Nicola efficiently set up her laptop and got out all her notes. Ian put his mobile phone on silent and put a small notepad and pen on the table.

'So you are telling me what to drink now are you DI Carragher' Nicola said in a slightly annoyed tone.

'Oh behave Nic, come on, you only ever drink water....or wine, and I figured at ten in the morning a large glass of Pinot Grigio is out of the question.'

Nicola was about to answer when Sylvia came back in the room holding two white plastic cups which she put down on the table. She was actually shaking slightly and nearly knocked the water all over Nicola's laptop.

'Are you okay Mrs Lawson?' enquired Nicola.

'Yes, sorry, I am getting a bit old and the nerves aren't what they used to be. Also I have a lot of work on this week and am a bit behind so if I am being honest I could have done without this meeting today. Anyway never mind that, now before we proceed please can I see the court order which allows you to ask me questions.'

Nicola handed over an official looking document which had been signed by a judge confirming that the questions asked needed to be answered as best as possible but on the proviso that anonymity of the donors and recipients be kept intact as best as possible. Sylvia read the document page by page. There seemed no need to do this but she seemed to want to read every word so Nicola and Ian just sat there in silence for ten minutes waiting for Sylvia to finish.

'Okay then, that all seems in order. Now please note it does say we must try and keep the anonymity of the donors and recipients intact so please don't be offended if I ask you to re-phrase or refuse to answer your questions.'

'Of course Mrs Lawson, we appreciate the need for confidentiality in these matters?' answered Nicola.

'Anyway Mrs Lawson?' interrupted Ian 'We would like to discuss a murder enquiry which is going on in London at the minute. You have probably heard there is a possible serial killer on the loose, it's been on the news and in the papers extensively.' Ian paused as Sylvia nodded slightly to confirm she was aware of the murders. 'So what I would like to do is give you three names and I would like you to tell me who the donor was please. So firstly we have a James Benjamin Langan. He had his corneas replaced about twelve months ago. Next on the list is Mel Johnston. He had two heart valves replaced over two years ago and last on the list is Saul Barraghan, he had a liver transplant eighteen months ago. We would like to know if there is any link between the three as at the minute it seems hugely coincidental that three people have been murdered who have all had an organ donation in the last two years.

'Okay, I have those details I will go and look. However please note officers you would be surprised how many people have actually had an organ donation in this country. Do you know that on average there are about three thousand operations a year, predominantly kidney transplants in about eighteen hundred cases but there are also operations for heart, liver, lungs, pancreas, small bowel, corneas, heart valves and bone can all be transplanted. Tell me, do you two have an organ donor card?'

'Yes I do, Mrs Lawson, but to be honest I am not sure my bits are up to standard as I seem to abuse my body on a daily basis.' Answered Ian almost immediately.

Sylvia gave Ian a funny look before exiting the room. Nicola looked at Ian, gave a large sigh, shook her head then continued to read her emails.

Sylvia was gone for about thirty minutes. When she came back she had various files with her which she loudly deposited on the desk before sitting down and placing her reading glasses on her nose. 'Now then officers, I have had a look through the records and I have found the files on Mr Barraghan and Mr Johnston; however I am unable to find the files on Mr Langan. I will have to take a look for those. Somebody has probably got them on their desk somewhere. Anyway I would like to confirm to you that there is no link between the three people. If you don't mind I won't mention any names but I can confirm that Mr Barraghan received his liver from a donor in Chorleywood, Hertfordshire and Mr Johnston received his heart valves from a donor in Brighton. I will confirm the donor of Mr Langans corneas once I find the file.'

'Ah, that's a shame.' Replied Ian 'I thought there would have been a link as it is a strange coincidence. Could you please show me the file or at least some of it so I can confirm the details?'

'Please Mr Carragher, I would rather not. Please just accept my word that this is the case. As the court papers state we must try and keep the anonymity intact.'

'Yes I know that Mrs Lawson but please just for my own confidence just show me a part of it.'

Sylvia got more agitated and shaky. 'To be honest DI Carragher, it's a bit embarrassing really but we are having IT difficulties at the minute, there are a few teething troubles and to be honest I am getting on a bit now and it takes me longer and longer to work out how to work the new system. I will show you what I have but I need more time please in order to do a proper job.'

She took the file on Mel Johnston and covered most of it up before showing that the donor had been one Nicholas Donovan, and that the operation had taken place in Brighton. For the folder on Mel Johnston she was even more cautious and just showed them that the operation had happened in London but that the donors address was actually in Chorleywood, Hertfordshire.

Nicola looked at Ian and seemed satisfied with the explanation. But there was something knawing away at Ian which he didn't quite like...then again that could have just been the sausage sandwich he had consumed earlier.

Ian and Nicola asked various other questions but the answers from Sylvia were often rambling and provided very little detail.

'Okay then well thank you for your time Mrs Lawson, we won't keep you any longer.' So Ian and Nicola stood up, Nicola packed away her things in two minutes and Ian put his jacket on and shook Sylvia by the hand.

Sylvia escorted them downstairs where they were then signed out and left the building. Ian was in contemplative mood. Nicola looked at him and asked 'Is there something up?'

'I'm not sure Nic, she seemed a bit too agitated to me, and why not show us the files, it's no big deal surely. I am going to ring somebody else up on Monday and get them to find the Langan file.'

So the two of them got in the car. Nicola dropped Ian off at the station where he caught the 13:30 back to London from Bristol. He was playing the events through in his head when he nodded off. He slept silently all the way back to London.

Meanwhile back in Bristol, Sylvia was making a phone call. She was twirling the phone cord around her hand, she still smelt of tobacco as she had been outside where she had just consumed three cigarettes in a row. She knew she had been nervous when the police were there but it seemed as if she had gotten away with it. However she was now more concerned with the phone call, what on earth had she started? How had it come to this? Was it all her fault? She needed answers, but the phone just kept on ringing......

Chapter 12 – 'It's pronounced Shemek you idiot'

Back in London at 10:59 a.m. on Edgware Road all was quiet. Well as quiet as it could be on Edgware Road. There were still two lanes of traffic in either direction. Buses stopped and started impatiently, taxi drivers nipped in and out of lanes in order to move that extra one centimetre towards their final destination. Other car drivers beeped their horns incessantly, talked casually on their mobiles whilst others had the music on full volume and all the windows down, intent on letting half of London know that they liked Jay Z, Beyonce, Delphic, hard core rap music, hard trance music and even the latest warbling's from the Middle East about God knows what, well actually lets face it, probably about God.

The café, on the corner of George Street and Edgware Road was quiet. There were some Middle Eastern men playing dominoes, sipping on monstrously strong sugary tea whilst imbibing a shisha, the smoke from which chased the myriad of cars buses and bikes down Edgware Road as the wind caught hold of it on their way past the café. The Cafe itself had a plain brown sign. It was dimly lit inside so it was not the easiest place to look into from the street, which is probably what the Bobo gang liked.

Inspector James Fitzsimmons was surveying the scene. It was his operation this morning and he wanted it to go well. There was a blue transit van with twelve policemen sitting inside about one hundred yards up George Street. There was also a Police van en route with another twelve officers inside coming down the Edgware Road. James was going to time it so both vans arrived at the same time. The idea was simply to get in there as quickly as possible. The police from the police van would storm the shop whilst the transit van police team would break open the door of the flat and get up there as quickly as possible. There were also a couple of plain clothes officers in their cars stationed around the building so they could keep an eye out for anybody leaving the scene in a hurry. Everything was set.

'GO GO GO GO GO' shouted James into his radio. The blue transit van stormed down George Street and skidded to a halt just as the police van drove up the pavement and parked right in front of the Café. At the same time James ran across the road and actually led the charge into the shop. As he threw open the door he saw out of the corner of his eye the other team break open the side door which accessed the stairs and led up to the flats above, perfect timing.

In the café, nobody moved which, wasn't hard as there was nobody in there apart from the table to the left. It was on a raised platform away from prying eyes. James quickly split the officers up, four to secure the front of the shop, four to search the kitchens and four to follow him over to the table in the corner. There was no need to rush, everything was calm. At the corner table sat the scary looking Piotr Przemek A.K.A. 'P', the casual and trust-worthy looking Yevgeny Dubcekh A.K.A 'Y' and to the right the devious and defiant Lech Walesey A.K.A 'L'. All three of them were dressed in blue jeans and designer T shirts. On the table sat their BMW keys along with a whole host of others, the addresses and usage of which would be good to find out about along with bulging wallets, sunglasses, mobile phones and Blackberry's.

'P' nonchalantly sipped his coffee, looked Inspector James Fitzsimmons straight in the eye and casual as anything, without a hint of irony enquired 'Have you got the wrong address officer?'

'I don't think so Mr Przemek.'

'It's pronounced Shemek you idiot'

'If I actually gave a flying fuck I would try that again. Anyway Mr Przemek (this time getting it right) we need the three of you to come down to the station to answer a few questions in our ongoing enquiries.'

'And what are the questions about?'

'A whole host of things really. For instance how is this one of the most profitable cafes in London yet no one ever uses it, why is there a brothel upstairs in flats that you own, how can the three of you drive top of the range BMWs when you aren't actually registered to pay tax' James paused for effect 'Oh and also to ask you about the murder of James Benjamin Langan'

Finally there was a flicker of emotion. As 'P' was about to answer James saw his eyes following something behind him. Out of the kitchens came four officers attempting to restrain three rather angry kitchen staff. None of them spoke English or understood what was going on. There had been quite a noise in the kitchens and it seemed that these three probable illegals had put up some resistance. They continued to shout angrily and flail about like an angry fish caught on a fishing line. That was until 'P' shouted at them. The words were incomprehensible but they were delivered with a short sharp point of the finger and angry stare. All three of them stopped in an instant.

Just as the situation inside was calming down, outside it was just beginning to kick off as the flotsam and jetsam were expunged from the flats above. There was quite an eclectic mix of women wearing very few clothes to embarrassed looking men in various states of undress. The only one of them who wasn't putting up a struggle and causing merry hell was actually dressed in full S&M gear including gimp mask. He had been handcuffed...or actually he may have already been handcuffed and perhaps was enjoying it a little bit more than the others.

A couple of hours later and things were getting complicated. 'P' 'Y' and 'L' were all in separate interview rooms. None of them had spoken and in-fact refused to speak until their lawyers arrived. When their lawyers arrived it was obvious they were top draw. Immaculate blue pin striped suits, expensive watches, official looking brief cases and an air of superiority gained from a large bank account and in-depth knowledge of all things legal. They were going to make Ian and the other investigating officers look like a bunch of five year olds who've eaten too many sweets and have got a bit over excitable and boisterous.

The interview team were having a meeting in the chief super intendants office. The Chief Super was trying to keep an element of calm on the proceedings however he was getting caught up in the heat of the moment as well....

'SO CAN I JUST CONFIRM WITH YOU DI CARRAGHER EXACTLY WHAT YOU ARE GOING TO CHARGE OUR THREE POLISH FRIENDS WITH...?'

'Erm' retorted Ian meekly. 'Hadn't thought that far ahead chief to be honest, I have only just got back from Bristol, I'm knackered'

An exasperated collective sigh was let out by the rest of them.

'So we just release them do we? After an operation involving over twenty officers, we have arrested a number of alleged prostitutes and their clients, including I might add somebody in a gimp mask who is actually refusing to take it off.'

Ian smirked along with his other four colleagues. 'Well look lets interview them. We will use the separate interview rooms. Let me take a go at the madman Piotr Przemek a.k.a P. Doug, Rob you go into Interview room 2 and see if you can rattle Yevgeny Dubchekh a.k.a. Y. He is definitely the weak link. Jacob, Joseph you can take Interview room 3 and Lech Walesey. But be careful, he's the clever one, it will be a real test but you can use all of those qualifications of yours to see what you can find.

Everybody nodded in agreement. It was 5 p.m. They realistically had about two hours to see what information they could glean out of the Bobo gang. There was a knowing nod amongst them all as files were collected, ties straightened, shirt's adjusted, white plastic cups drained of machine brewed coffee before being crushed with a determined fist and thrown into the bin. They all entered the interview rooms in unison.

Ian entered Interview room 1. Piotr and his lawyer were conspiratorially conversing in hushed tones. The abruptness of the polish language was evident and there was an air of cockiness in their demeanour. Ian introduced himself as DCI Carragher and went to shake the hand of Piotr's lawyer. The lawyers hand was proffered with an element of resistance as he simultaneously handed over his business card and introduced himself as Simon Wall of Wall, Hardwick & Baines Solicitors, office's in Canary Wharf.

Ian stared at the business card as the two of them sat down. He had already been told who the lawyers were and was impressed. Wall Hardwick and Baines, WHB for short (not to be confused with pencils of course) were famous, or rather infamous. In the Met it was almost a sure fire guarantee that they were top draw criminals when anybody from WHB turned up, however to actually have the founders was another step up, obviously business was booming for the Bobo gang.

Ian was about to begin when Wall stepped in and matter-of-factly stated 'DCI Carragher please note my client is here of his own accord, he will answer a limited number of questions and if you have not completed your questioning by 6 p.m. then we will be leaving'

Ian glanced at the two of them repeatedly, before letting out a loud sigh of indignation and firmly stating 'And can YOU please note Mr Wall that I am investigating multiple murders of which your client seems to be inextricably linked in numerous ways.'

Ian focused his attention on Piotr. 'AND please note that my questioning will be direct and to the point about such evidence and if I have not finished in time I will charge him and keep him in overnight...however with a little bit of co-operation we can get the questions completed and you can be home in time for dinner MR Przemek.'

There was silence between the three of them as they sized each other up, wondering what to say, where to probe, how to handle the next hour.

'So Mr Przemek, it appears that you have been running a brothel in the upstairs area of your building above your café, could you please comment on this'

Piotr sat there, stock still. Arms crossed, head slightly down, he glared at Ian like an angry Rottweiler through a cage. There was a slight pause before Mr Wall interjected 'Please note my client knows nothing about this, the upstairs area was actually rented out to a Mr Smith some years ago, here is a copy of the deeds. We were as surprised as you were when you raided the place and found all of those alleged prostitutes and their clients'

'And I don't suppose you have proof of this alleged tenant of yours do you?'

'I took the liberty of bringing a copy of the lease with me officer, here is a copy for your records' Mr Wall handed over a file which contained a standard lease agreement signed by a Mr Smith'

'And as far as the rent payments go these were included in all tax returns I suppose?'

'Of course DCI Carragher, my client wouldn't dream of not paying all of his taxes, I have a copy of the accounts if you would like to see them?'

'No actually don't bother, I can see you have all of this covered. Lets' get onto one of your other businesses Mr Przemek, The Edgware Road Loans Company'

'And what about this business DCI Carragher?' enquired Simon Wall

'It seems your funding methods and loan percentages are rather extortionate Mr Przemek'

'My client knows nothing about this. All rates are clearly laid out in the form that the customers sign. Tell me DCI Carragher if you have anybody who has complained we would be delighted to follow up with my client's customer care department'

'I'm sure you would Mr Wall although I am not sure fists and threats are the standard norms for a customer care department Mr Wall'

'I believe that is slanderous DCI Carragher. My client does not take kindly to accusations of improper practice, again if we could have the names we could investigate, however if you have no corroborating evidence I believe this line of questioning is at an end D-C-I Carragher' Simon Wall emphasising the last part for impact.

Ian took a deep breath; he knew this initial questioning was virtually irrelevant. The likelihood of the Bobo gang actually killing Saul Barraghan was considered far fetched anyway. The raison d'être for any loan shark is to bleed the victims dry over a long period, also having reviewed the amounts Saul had only lent a small amount, it was irrelevant. What Ian was really interested in was the Bobo gang's interaction with James Benjamin Langan, the surveillance camera footage from the 'Booty club' showing them entering the club and defiantly, obviously, interestingly looking directly into the lens as if staring into the eyes of James himself.

'So when did you hear James Benjamin Langan had been brutally murdered Mr Przemek?'

Finally there was a change in the demeanour of Piotr, he stifled a satisfied smile, but the pleasure in his eyes gave him away. Simon Wall noticed this and quickly drew Ian's attention 'In what respect would my client have known or indeed wanted to know this DCI Carragher'.

Ian made a fuss out of looking through files, folders, papers in order to try and relay the fact he had mountains of evidence against Piotr, however it wasn't working. 'Well lets see shall we, you are an 'alleged' drug dealer' Ian put up his hand to delay a response from Simon Wall 'you run a loan sharking company and have developed a requirement to own bars and strip clubs which are all impinging on James Benjamin Langan's turf. We have evidence of you flagrantly wandering into his nightclub, The Booty club and our various informants around London say you were making headway into his illegal empire and the two of you were essentially at war.'

The last statement hung in the air for a while. Piotr was desperate to say something but his lawyer was keeping him calm collected and assured. 'My client will not respond to hearsay and rumour DCI Carragher, if you have hard evidence please show us so we may more accurately respond'

Ian silently and deliberately pulled out a crime scene photo. It was a close up of James Benjamin Langan's face, the holes where his eyes had been were illuminated by the powerful flash of the camera, the otherwise dark holes showed up the blood red sinews and tissue at the back of his head, the blood had dried and was streaked across his face ending at his earlobe where it had dripped onto the floor. His mouth hung open and the tongue was swollen, but there was no look of horror on his face, he had been dead way before this, looking further down the gruesome photograph James's neck hung open with a clean cut right across his Adam's apple, you could almost see down his throat at what he had eaten for dinner.

The clean detail and gory closeness of the image made Simon Walls face twist in horror, his measured demeanour broken in an instant as he stood up, taking in deep breaths as he fled to the other side of room.

In front of Ian, Piotr leaned forward. He was studying every detail, committing every last sinew and splatter of blood to memory. He looked on fascinated and satiated like a lion sitting in front of newly slaughtered prey as the last desperate breaths of the fallen animal are taken before the lions pounce for their feast. He looked Ian straight in the eye and smiled, he couldn't resist commenting and whispered to Ian 'When you find the killer, tell him I said thank you.'

And that was it. Piotr looked at his lawyer. A simple nod of the head confirmed he had enough and wanted to leave. Simon remembered he was a lawyer again and asked 'So if you are not going to charge my client then I guess we are finished here DCI Carragher'

Ian knew it was pointless to carry on. He had gleaned no further insight into the possibility that the Bobo gang had killed JB Langan; he just hoped the others had more luck. So Ian finished the interview, Simon held out his hand for a final handshake and Ian simply ignored it and him, he turned the recording off and stated in as calm a voice as he could muster 'You do realise Mr Wall that you are no better than the clients you represent. The Rolex watch may be gold, the suit may be tailor made but you are in a very dangerous position and one day one of your clients will seek revenge when you mess up.' Then turning to Piotr 'We are after you and your gang Mr Przemek, we know what you do, we know how you do it, we know who's involved and one day, we will catch you, but for now.....you are free to go gentlemen' Ian managed one of his warmest and most sarcastic of smiles as he opened the door and passed the two of them onto the duty officer who escorted them out of the building.

He walked into the office adjacent to interview room 1 and saw the rest of them sitting there in dejected silence. Chief Superintendant Bishop looked up and with a hopeful expression asked 'any luck son?'

'Sorry chief, nothing, we knew he was the hardest one to crack and that lawyer of his knew what I was going to ask before he did. Any luck with the other two?

'Nothing I'm afraid, the other two didn't even answer any questions apart from confirming their name. Apparently they are over here on holiday would you believe, visiting Piotr who is looking after them. We quizzed them on the length of time they have been here, what they have been doing, where they have been staying what they do for money but its all nonsense. Let's face it, we've messed up. We have nothing. We will keep digging and maybe put them under surveillance to make their lives a bit more difficult but in the end, unless we get a break somewhere else, this could well be a dead end'

'But they have to be involved Chief, it fits. I know we only have circumstantial evidence at best but we know they have been at war, we know the Bobo gang have been winning and stealing business away from JB Langan. Okay so they may not be involved in Saul Barraghan's death but if they are not then are any of these murders even linked? It could just be coincidence that we have had three brutal murders in a couple of weeks. London is a crazy place, nothing surprises me any more, in fact the only thing that would surprise me is if we managed to get through a weekend without a stabbing, murder, drug incident, fighting, robbery and all the other mad stuff that we can never seem to control. At the minute we have the square root of fuck all and are struggling, what the hell are we going to do?'

Chapter 13 – 'Sorry darlin'

On the fifth phone call and the sixth ring a voice finally answered the telephone 'Hello'

'Jane is that you, its Sylvia here.' There was a silence at the other end of the line. She sensed Jane wasn't sure whether to hang up.

'Jane this is serious, what have you done......'

There have been three murders so far and all the donations have come from Nick. What are you doing? Have you hired someone? When we discussed the situation of Nick's donations I didn't mean for you to go and do something about it and use the information to try and redeem the situation in some twisted way.

'Its okay, everything is clear now. After Nick's death when I was in the midst of my nervous break down, you helped me and you showed me that God was there to help. Converting to a Jehovah's Witness was the best thing I could have done. My life now has purpose, I know what needs to be done, I have taken charge of things and am sorting this out. The Lords word has been translated as meaning that organ donation is wrong, as you told me as well and I cannot think of my Nicholas up there with our Lord, incomplete, unable to rest until he is whole again. Doesn't worry Sylvia, my work is nearly complete. I have to go now, I need to complete what I started....for Nick's sake'

Jane hung up, the disengaged dial tone filled Sylvia's ear. 'Jane, Jane!' exclaimed Sylvia, 'oh God what have I done, this is all, my fault, I have to get out of here.' So Sylvia got up switched her computer off and picked up her bag, put on her coat and marched out of the building proclaiming she felt ill and needed to go home. She got in the car and began to cry, she threw her bag on the floor and out fell a brown cardboard file with a small sticker which simply said 'Donation 46576554 James Benjamin Langan – Corneas'. Sylvia lit a cigarette, opened the window and sped out of the car park. She was not sure what she was going to do or where she was going to go but she knew she was in a lot of trouble and needed an escape plan......

Jane pressed the red button and ended the call to Sylvia. It was 12:37...lunchtime thought Jane. It was a lovely sunny day outside, there were a few clouds in the sky and a light breeze, Jane noted as she held back the curtain and leant out of the window of her bed & breakfast room on the second floor, on Olney high street. Lunch in The Swan, decided Jane as she picked up her bag and cream summer jacket and headed out into the glorious sunshine.

She sauntered up the high street, only pausing to recover her sunglasses from her bag. She felt at one with herself. The 'departures' of her other projects had been stressful and sometimes she had called into question what she was doing. However with each passing day, as the persons concerned were dealt with and the body parts returned to their rightful place she knew what she was doing was right. She could almost picture her Nick, whole again, free again, once complete she wasn't sure what she was going to do. Her actions did sometimes weigh heavy on her shoulders, but the ends justified the means as the saying goes. There were difficult decisions ahead but she knew in her heart what she truly wanted.

Jane walked into The Swan public house in Olney and delayed slightly as she opened the door. The low ceilings and small windows kept out most of the light of the day and it took a while for her eyes to adjust, once she had removed her sunglasses. There were some people eating already and a trio of fat, middle aged men in rugby shirts boisterously discussing what seemed like a game they had just played, judging by their still wet hair, soapy smell and matching sports bags at their feet.

She walked over to the bar where the landlady was politely waiting for her.

'Yes dear' said the barmaid

'Hello, what a lovely day it is outside. Could I please have a gin & tonic?'

'Certainly, madam, ice and slice of lemon'

'Of course'

'Go and sit down dear, I'll bring it over to you, will you be having lunch today?'

Jane nodded and walked over to the small table in the corner. Over lunch she went over the key facts again.

She had found David Holmes a couple of days earlier. He lived on Wagstaff Way in some new looking flats overlooking Emberton Lake. They had been built on the old tannery and the views were excellent. She had followed Mr Holmes now off and on for the best part of three months. He lived alone; he worked at the local garage and car dealership called 'Souls' as a mechanic. He drank every Monday, Thursday, Friday and Saturday in The Castle pub which was at the opposite end of the high street from The Swan. She had been in there, but only once as quite frankly the place was a mess. It had a pool table which had various drink stains on it, a jukebox which seemed to play either heavy metal or some ridiculous song filled with nonsense, something about someone going to a place called Amarillo or something. It seemed to qualify to drink there you either had to be, stupid ugly or an alcoholic and judging by a few of them they qualified under all three categories with flying colours. Still the locals liked it and when she went in there the place had been in full swing with pints over flowing and shots of something called Goldshlager being downed with relish and abandon as quickly as possible. The grimace on the imbibers faces testimony to the harsh after taste and alcoholic content.

She had talked to David one night in the Castle. It was a particularly boisterous Friday night. The Rugby team were having their annual, or was that maybe weekly 'piss up'. There were about twenty five massive blokes in white shirts and ties, the blazers long since discarded in the corner in a volcano-esque structure of heavy blue cotton and black shiny inner lining. The glass collector was struggling to keep up with them, although in all fairness even the glass collector was absolutely smashed. She had watched him wandering around picking up the empties. He was an old chap, probably early sixties and he walked with a slight limp. The tattoos on his arms gave him away as an ex navy man but Jane doubted very much whether he had managed to scale the ranks. Scaling the ladders on the ship was probably complicated enough for this one. His false teeth shined brilliantly, an oasis of cleanliness in a sea of old age, body odour and drink. Everybody seemed to know him, 'Ello Charlie you old fucker', 'alright granddad, here you go mate', 'Cheers you old fart' were among the matey jibes which were bellowed his way as they handed over the empties. He wasn't shy in drinking the dregs either. In-fact between that and various people handing him halves of beer, cider and assorted shots old Charlie was probably the happiest man in Olney.

David had mistakenly bumped into Jane about eight thirty that Friday night. Jane was sober, with a small glass of white wine in front of her, sitting at the bar. Various people said hello as they walked past however, despite the entrance to the main bar being several feet wide David Holmes struggled to make it all the way through without brushing against both walls. He was the proverbial piece of cotton being steered through the eye of a needle. And judging by the angles the unseen person steering the cotton thread called David Holmes was a blind man with Parkinson's, on roller skates, during an earthquake measuring about three hundred on the Richter scale.

'Sorry darlin' drawled David as he fell into Jane.

Her white wine was now dripping over the bar into the sink which was hidden under the bar. The glass quietly rolled, stopped and then toppled into the sink, smashing and causing the pub to pause for a split second and a small cheer going up as they realised that Mr David Holmes had yet again broken a glass. The barmaid came over shaking her head in admonishment before smiling slightly, looking up to the heavens for forgiveness and replacing Jane's wine in a single motion.

David composed himself and began speaking to Jane. It wasn't long before they were in conversation. David was one of these drunks who would tell you their life story within five minutes of meeting you. He was popular enough and seemed to know everybody. David had lived in Olney all his life, he knew everyone, had been to school with the younger ones, therefore knew the parents and then of course knew the kids of the school friends. He had a simple life. The local school never held much hope for him but he always tried to work doing various jobs along the way. Finally he had got himself on a mechanics course after his worried mother was concerned her son would still be sleeping in his single bed and still be living with her until he was an old man. He found that he was more practical and found being a mechanic something he actually enjoyed. He had worked at Souls garage now for about five years and had got himself a nice little niche in life. The flat near Emberton lake was very small but more than met his needs. His money just about lasted but he did have a loan which he was paying off and the credit card bills were mounting up again. He had got pissed off with Olney a few years back and thought fuck it, let's get out of here for a bit. So he went to Ibiza for the summer. Imbibing all that the island had to offer he came back to Olney at the end of September with an abused liver, a monstrous headache but an excellent tan and lots of very good stories which he shared with everybody on his triumphant return to Olney. However getting back on his feet again had proved elusive so the credit card bills had piled up. Finally sorting himself out he turned the bills into a loan so he was clear however he was now starting to spend again, going into intimate detail about the new fishing gear he had bought, the new mountain bike he just couldn't resist and probably more disappointingly the amount of cash he had 'invested' behind the bar of the Castle.

And so the key pastime she had discovered apart from drinking was fishing. He used to go night fishing, every weekend on a Sunday night. He was off on Mondays as he always worked all day Saturday; usually it seemed with a hangover. Today was Friday, only two more days and she could strike.

Chapter 14 – and that included David Holmes

Sneaking out of the Bed and Breakfast on a Sunday night at 2 a.m. was no easy feat. It was pitch black; Jane daren't turn on any lights. It was deathly quiet, and all sounds, no matter how small seemed to be magnified a thousand times. Once she was at the front door she put down her boots, she had decided walking around in socks, although more slippy, was far quieter. Carefully unlocking the door, the bolts clicked, at what seemed like a thousand decibels, she turned the handle and opened the door. The un-oiled hinges gave out a whine which to Jane sounded like a hundred wailing banshees but in truth was no more than a squeak. Carefully picking up her boots she exited the building and shut the door behind her. Listening out for any noises and waiting for lights to be turned on, she heard and saw nothing. Letting out a sigh of relief she quickly fastened up her boots, zipped up her coat and walked up the high street. At 2 a.m. on a Sunday morning the place was deserted. No cars came through, all the shop-fronts were dark, and the street lights provided the only illumination as curtains were drawn in all the houses. The stars twinkled above in the night sky but it was a moonless night as the clouds gathered and expunged the starry night one star at a time as Olney slept.

And that included David Holmes. As usual he had set up his rods with the best of intentions. Having taken an hour to set up his rods, tent, folding chair, cool-box on the right hand side, sandwiches on the left, and settled down with his iPod playing some chill out music he had downloaded earlier in the day, he began to drink. However after six cans of Stella Artois, and not a single movement of his fishing rods, with Morcheeba's latest track coming into his ears he began to nod off. Within ten minutes he was fast asleep.

Jane pounced. A needle was inserted straight into his neck and fifty milligrams of Sodium nitroprusside went straight into his bloodstream. David sprang out of his chair and held his neck. Turning incredulously he looked at Jane, who was standing still with the syringe in her left hand. David's chair had fallen sideways and knocked over the cool-box, he had stood on his food bag, and just as the world went black he heard the splashing noise of his rods as he fell backwards, hitting his head on a half submerged rock with a dull thud. He was out cold, his submerged head and part submerged body lay shaking as his body made a number of reflex actions, as it ran out of oxygen before stopping, motionless. The only movement was the ripples in the water as they expanded out into the lake and the pool of blood which bloomed like a flower from the top of David's head. The noise had died away quickly. The birds returning to their slumber the ripples on the water reducing as they spread. Jane stood stock still. Listening for any strange sounds or voices which would substantiate her need to just get out of there but there was nothing. After a couple of minutes when stillness and quiet had returned she knew she was okay.

Jane worked quickly. Opening her bag, she pulled out a head-torch which she turned on and placed on her head after removing her baseball cap. She pulled out a large surgical knife which effortlessly cut through David's clothing. She exposed his stomach and managed to turn him onto his side. She picked up a smaller knife and made a careful incision across David's side and then up his flank in an upside down 'T' shape. Jane then carefully moved the liver and cut away at the pancreas....'Nick's Pancreas'. The whole operation took no more than thirty minutes. And fifty minutes later Jane was in her room, lying in the bath, all the clothes she had been wearing had been carefully removed and placed in the bin bag. David's pancreas had been placed safely in a small cool-bag. After her bath she sat in the dark, in a high backed chair, just looking out of the window, up at the stars. As she dozed off about an hour later after running through the nights events in her head and offering a small prayer to God to keep her Nicholas safe, she thought to herself 'One more, just one more piece and my Nick can rest in peace.'

Chapter 15 – 'Hello police'

Marilyn awoke early. It was the first day of her new job and she was keen to get organised. It was 6:15 a.m., her alarm wasn't going off until seven but she decided that a run around Emberton Lake would set her up nicely for the day. Donning her cycling shorts, London Marathon T-shirt and her Asics trainers which had quite a few miles on the clock she exited her flat and ran down to the lake. It was a crisp Monday morning, everything was still, and there was a light mist which hung over the lake and surrounding fields. There was no one about at this time and the only noise was of the birds in the trees and the few vehicles which drove down the A509 towards Milton Keynes and the M1 Motorway. On her first lap she passed numerous tents, all with fishing rods and fishing gear near them. Emberton Lake was a popular spot for night fishing. It also encompassed a rowing club and caravan park so was always reasonably busy.

As she was coming up to completing her first lap after passing the rowing club she saw a small green tent near the waters edge. From a distance it looked a bit of a mess as there was a chair on its side and various bits of fishing gear all over the place. As she got nearer she realised that the rods were all actually in the water and there seemed to be something else in the water too, filled with curiosity and a touch of fear she began jogging over there to check everything was okay, however as she got to within thirty feet of the scene and finally got a clear view she realised that the shape in the water was actually a real person, motionless in the water and all around the body was red water. The body was part submerged, the face was fully submerged which spared Marilyn too many gory details and adding a personalisation to the scene which would have magnified the intensity of her horror. The person's clothes were soaked through where the water had gradually been absorbed by the materials. The empty beer cans, fallen chair and cool box added to the mayhem of the scene. Marilyn stopped in astonishment, put her hands to her face and then screamed. Two men who had just entered the park on mountain bikes came racing over at a great pace. They instantly saw the scene of carnage before them. One of them grabbed Marilyn and turned her away from the scene, walking her down the path so she could escape the grisly scene. The other man, Elliot quickly grabbed his mobile phone and called 999.

'Hello police, a man is dead near Emberton Lake, you need to get here now. He's lying half immersed in the water, there is blood everywhere, he...he isn't moving'

'Okay Sir, please keep well away from the area, a police car will be there shortly.

Within an hour Emberton Park was overflowing with police, police cars, ambulances, forensics teams, sniffer dogs, plain clothes officers. The severity of the attack had meant that Emberton Park, and Olney, a quiet village in the middle of the green Buckinghamshire countryside was in lockdown.

No one was allowed in or out of Emberton Park. There were six policemen and two squad cars at the gate turning people away. The various entrances to the park were sealed off and there were three officers on each entrance. The Olney locals who were coming to the park to walk their dogs, jog, cycle or take their kids for a stroll were all turned away. Further in Emberton Park at the caravan site there was bedlam. No one was being allowed out and they were asking all residents to stay in their caravans until they had been questioned. Numerous families were becoming irate at this annoyance and there was still some confusion as to what had actually happened and what it had to do with them. The police were calmly and patiently repeating the mantra that there had been a serious incident in the park and all persons details needed to be taken; they had to be questioned and to verify where they had been last night.

There had even been a few arrests where one rather annoyed man who had more tattoos than brain cells, (four) had tried to put his family in the car and drive off. He had even tried to nudge the police car out of the way which was blocking the entrance but this had only led to his driver's airbag going off and his seat belt tightening and trapping him in the driver's seat. The police officer's had opened the door to a cacophony of profanities and air filled plastic and his wife repeatedly called him a moron and how she told him it had been a stupid idea but would he listen...ohh no of course he wouldn't, whilst all the while in the back seat, tightly ensconced in a baby seat was a two year old boy with bright blue eyes, a shock of blonde hair, who was still in his breakfast coated clothes playing with his transformer oblivious to the commotion at the front of the car. However after this arrest and two others the place calmed down and the police finally managed to take it in turns to go over the stories of the parties concerned and take all relevant details. It was pretty unanimous that nobody had seen anything. But the police officers diligently went from caravan to caravan, tent to tent, person to person to get their details and build up a detailed list of whom was there and what they had seen. In all fairness most of them were families so would surely have been tucked up in bed asleep reasonably early so everything seemed in order.

Meanwhile back at the crime scene the full horror of the incident was becoming more apparent. David Holmes and his fishing gear, empty bear cans, stale sandwiches, reclining chair and tent were all now under the cover of a large white tent. His body still lay in the water as the evidence team carefully brushed for fingerprints, as the flash and subsequent whine of the camera flash recharging filled the tent with an intense white light. Over two hundred photos were taken in total. With the improvements in technology these were all now taken on a high resolution digital camera. The images would be loaded onto a PC and sent back to the police station immediately for analysis.

The gruesome murders which had occurred in London had obviously been all over the news and when the team realised that David Holmes' pancreas had been removed then a call was made directly to the Met police headquarters at New Scotland Yard in London.

### Chapter 16 – 'Not far now.....come on'

Not far now.....come on, it's only about five hundred metres away. DI Ian Carragher was just plain old Ian at the minute. He had decided to go out for an 'I'll show her' jog. Due to Ian's distinctly high fat, high sugar, barely no fruit or vegetables diet, coupled with a likeness for jogging similar to a Jewish persons liking of a pork sausage, he had developed a beer belly and the sort of physique which had him struggling to do such rugged activities as climbing the stairs, mowing the grass or washing the car. All of which he had managed to 'outsource' to a gardener and the local cash in hand clean your car for £5 cash immigrants who only recognised the words 'inside' and 'outside'...even a friendly hello could lead to confusion as the latest Pole, Bulgarian, Indian, or African person would stare back for a few seconds before asking 'Inside outside ?' Obviously the outsourcing of walking up the stairs was proving trickier. He had glanced at a Stanner stair lift once, but even he realised this was too much. So now, there he was, in his old Liverpool shirt, his blue Nike shorts which had seen better days and his running shoes, which still looked pristine even though he had bought them three years ago, although this had more to do with their lack of mileage than any sort of cleaning regimen which Ian had employed. So having been out for a massive twenty minutes he was now on the final straight and attempting to sprint the last two hundred metres before walking the last hundred to his front door. The roads were quite busy in Hammersmith, but then they always were. London was a crazy place, no matter what day and what time of the day it was there was always traffic. Hammersmith in particular had quite a lot due to the various roads which led through Hammersmith and into central London. It was a good place to live and ideally situated for getting in and around London without too much hassle but the constant noise and mayhem did sometimes become too much. Ian finally stopped sprinting. His legs were wobbling, his arms were tired and his face was crimson with strain and effort. The last hundred metres were a kind of walking stagger, past the traditional kebab shops, fast food outlets, coffee shops and corner shops that were endemic all over London, all over England in fact. Ian always wondered where people went who didn't like coffee, kebabs and burgers. They must stay in as there was clearly nowhere to go otherwise.

By the time he got to his front door he had regained an element of composure, although his Liverpool shirt was cloaked in sweat. His legs were shaking and his heart was doing the sort of beats per minute which would have had any 'Hard Dance' music aficionado jumping around like a madman. Ian wiped his forehead onto the left sleeve of his shirt and opened the front door. His work phone had been on the side table with his car keys and police ID. The phone flashed up '10 missed calls'. He knew something was wrong, and as he made his way through the ten voice messages an increasingly irate Chief Constable used an increasing amount of swear words as in each message the volume also went up as he was being asked 'Where the Fuck are you?'

Ian dialled immediately and the Chief Super picked up.

'Sorry Chief, I've been running' Ian stated in an exaggerated breathless manner in order to substantiate his answer and reason for not being available, before the Chief Super could get a word in.

At this the Chief Super began to laugh and asked 'Sorry, this is DI Carragher isn't it? Gabri Haile Selassie hasn't accidentally called me has he?'

'Very funny chief, of course it's me, what's happened?'

'We've got another one Carragher' stated simply

'Another what chief?'

'Well what do you think Carragher...my God man, another body? This time in Olney in Buckinghamshire. You need to get in here and then get up there fast. This one has had their pancreas removed?'

Ian just couldn't take this in. The murders had spread. At least confined to London there was a search area, but if this madman was now touring the country they were in big trouble?'

'But chief, how do we know it's him?'

'Well I suppose in all fairness we don't, its just Olney, which, funnily enough does not have a murder rate similar to New York, and there are not hordes of people wandering around the Buckinghamshire countryside killing people and removing their organs'

'Sorry boss, fair point, I am just surprised by the whole thing and am struggling to take all this in. Let me get changed and I will see you in about forty minutes.'

'Well hurry up, we need to get you up there ASAP...oh and by the way Carragher can I ask you something'

'Of course chief'

'Will you be taking the car up to Olney or in your new found world of fitness fanaticism would you like to run the fifty miles instead'

'Oh very funny' as Ian hung up he heard the laughter emanating from the other end of the telephone line.

Ian hobbled up the stairs to get ready, thinking to himself ' _maybe that stair-lift would be a good idea after all_.....'

Ian arrived in Olney at 2pm. Compared to the mayhem of five hours ago everything was much quieter. The residents of the caravan park had all been interviewed and were being fed and watered care of the Milton Keynes police budget in order to keep a semblance of calm, it was amazing what a free cup of tea and a bacon sandwich could do to a madding crowd, but that was caravan owners for you.

In fact the only people causing a scene were the throngs of newspaper and television reporters and vans. There had been a couple of helicopters overhead but these had been ordered away. Ian made his way through the crowd at the entrance and flashed his ID. As he was parked up and got out of the car he could hear reporters shouting in the background various questions, 'Had the London body snatcher struck again'. 'Was it a Mr David Holmes who had been killed', 'Did he still have a head?' plus all sorts of other crazy ideas and questions. The local detective in charge a Ms Abbie Haynes greeted DI Carragher as he central locked his car, a quick beep and a flash of the lights confirming the completed locking procedure.

'You must be Inspector Haynes' stated Ian

'Yes sir, that's correct.'

'So have you found out much so far, what has been the procedure?'

'Well we got here in less than twenty minutes, however it took another two hours to get significant forces in place as we had to call the surrounding regions. Forensics arrived here within two hours and we had sealed off the park about the same time. We have interviewed all residents of the caravan park but to no avail. They were all in bed by midnight as they are here with their families. There were a couple who were night fishing but they didn't hear anything and were right next to the caravan site when it happened so were on the opposite side of the lake. We searched all the caravans and the surrounding area but to no avail. It looks like there are some tracks leading to the deceased. Actually we are nearly there so I can show you.'

Ms Haynes tracked alongside the police tape which had been unfurled to keep people away from the possible murderer's footprints. They seemed quite small, no more than a size six. The indents in the soil were quite shallow too so the person could not have weighed much. DI Haynes essentially said the same thing as they walked to the forensics tent. As they got there she introduced DI Carragher to the forensics lead who was a Paul Kirton.

'Hello DI Carragher, how are you doing?' enquired Paul

'Better than our Mr Holmes I would suggest' countered Ian jokingly, however this did not go down well. On reflection Ian should maybe not have been so blasé with a complete stranger and it immediately put him on the back-foot as Paul Kirton's brow furrowed and he turned on his heels and led Ian to the scene of the crime.

'So from what we can gather Mr Holmes was fishing last night. He had consumed six cans of Stella plus some ham and mustard sandwiches and we would suggest that he had fallen asleep. His attacker came from the direction you have just come from and sneaked up behind him. He actually has a small puncture wound in the side of his neck and so we believe the killer actually injected him with something first which knocked him out. His last act was to stand up and then promptly fall forward into the lake. Even worse for Mr Holmes, or perhaps better judging by what happened he hit his head on a part submerged rock which led to a significant fracture of the skull and a three inch hole which bled profusely. He would have died instantly, and lay there face down in the lake with his body just below his chest still on the bank. The killer then looks to have sat down next to him and moved his body slightly upwards putting a rock underneath him. He was then in the correct position for what can only be described as an operation to remove his pancreas. His liver is actually still there. The pathologist can confirm all of this. We would maybe not have looked in such detail at the scene of the crime but with these murders in London it seemed prudent. The killer then took the pancreas and escaped leaving the gaping wound in Mr Holmes side open to the elements. Then Ms Bishop found him this morning and a call was put in by an Andrew Frost to the police who was cycling past at the time.'

'Estimated time of death?' enquired Ian, trying to take all this in.

'I would estimate between two to four am. We know he left his house at ten p.m. as this is a routine of his. He drank six cans of Stella Artois five per cent lager which must have taken him about two hours or so, add twenty minutes to walk here and thirty minutes to set up his rods etcetera, plus he then fell asleep so that would be about two a.m. I suggest four a.m. maximum due to the sheer level of blood loss and also it would be getting light at about five thirty a.m. so the killer would have to have been long gone by then'

'So how long will you need to finish your forensics studies and get a report completed?'

'Well we have a team coming up from London which will triple our manpower on this one. I know the Chief Super is throwing as many resources behind this as he can lay his hands on so three days max I would say if we worked round the clock.'

'That would be good Detective Kirton but the killer will be long gone by then. We need key findings by tomorrow night and constant updates. We are still nowhere nearer to establishing the motives or who the killer is. This looks like its been planned in minute detail which is alarming. I need to speak to Inspector Haynes again, can you get her for me'

Ms Haynes and DI Carragher talked for another thirty minutes. They concocted an action plan which had all available officers going to all guest houses and hotels within a ten mile radius to check who had stayed, who had checked out and who they were. Unfortunately the road to Olney did not have any cameras so there was no surveillance apart from the camera which showed the junction to the M1 motorway at Milton Keynes. The transport police were to be notified and a copy of that morning's traffic video would be made available. All vehicles joining at junctions thirteen, fourteen and fifteen were to be reviewed and owners traced. It was probably a lot of work for no return but they needed something...anything.'

DI Carragher sat at his table in Café Brio drinking his cappuccino. Well actually he was staring into his cappuccino, the white froth on top was slowly losing its mass as the air receded out of the frothy milk, and he could just about hear the tiny sounds of the air escaping as the chocolate powder on the top descended to its inevitable submersion into the brown liquid beneath. He had yet to add his customary three brown sugars, as what he had just seen left him puzzled. In three weeks he had seen four terrible murders, all with one obvious thing in common, and therefore surely linked, a part of their bodies had been physically cut out and taken away. It didn't smell like some form of cannibalism as although the liver could be fried up with onion gravy, with a solid portion of potato mash and peas, he just could not see himself sitting down to a 'Spaghetti Cuore' or roast pancreas surprise...although I suppose if he was served roast pancreas it would be quite a surprise.

All the murders had been committed with absolute precision. The right time of day, the right place, the right conditions. There was very little evidence to go on, and what there was had been of no use so far, from the part fingerprints on the part washed glass at Saul Barraghan's alcoholic flat, well, actually it was Saul Barraghan who was the alcoholic, not his flat, to the complete lack of evidence at Mel Johnston's place, to this current murder where some footprints had been found but they were very non descript, also as Mr David Holmes had been submerged in water for a number of hours any potential clues on his body would have deteriorated quicker so there was maybe not much to go on there either, but they would find out soon enough.

There was also the question of whether the murder of James Benjamin Langan came into this? He had been murdered, and was definitely dead, although if he hadn't been he certainly was now as he had been six feet underground for the past two weeks and his eyes had been cut out. This fitted more the profile of the warring gangland culture than somebody else, however what if this murder was also linked. If there was a link the evidence should be compared. The prints of the 'unknown' person on the whiskey glass in Mr Langan's office could be compared to the prints on the glass from Mr Barraghan's place.

Ian Carragher broke away from his thoughts for a minute to add three sachets of brown sugar to the now deflated coffee and stirred slowly. He looked out of the window onto the relatively quiet Olney village scene, pushchairs being pushed (hence the name) along by variously aged women dressed in a wide range of attire, from the designer label jeans and smart casual look to the teenage, large gold ear-ringed, pink velour 'Juicy' tracksuit wearing young mothers. Some babies were quietly sitting there, being pushed along in the sunshine with not a care in the world whilst others were screaming as if they were being attacked by a pack of wolves, their bodies jolting, legs and arms kicking and flailing everywhere as if they wanted to be free from their mobile prisons, so they could cover themselves in chocolate and dirt and be fascinated with anything and everything, from a bird flying past to someone who was fat or ginger, or even worse, both.

Ian thought about his trip with Nicola Trenchyard to Bristol, when they enquired about a possible link to organ donation. It had seemed a little tenuous at the time but it had been the only real link there seemed to be. And with this new murder, this surely wasn't a coincidence. He had yet to get any information on David Holmes but he already knew that he would have been the beneficiary of a pancreas donation in his recent past.

He called Inspector Haynes to ask her to look into Mr Holmes medical past, especially any major operations he had over the last few years. He then put a call in to the Organ Donation centre in Bristol.

'Good morning organ donation centre, how can I help?'

'I would like to speak to Ms Sylvia Lawson please?' requested Ian.

The receptionist hesitated for a moment before asking Ian to wait on hold for a minute.

After twenty seconds of Mozart waiting music he was put through.

'Hello is that Ms Lawson?'

'No I'm sorry, this is her manager Stephen Keane, and did I understand you are a police officer Sir'

'No, I am Detective Inspector Ian Carragher, I came over to your centre on Friday and was helped with my enquiries by a Ms. Sylvia Lawson, is she there please?

'I'm afraid not, I actually thought you were calling to give me some details about her whereabouts?'

'I'm sorry...' Ian said quizzically

'Ms Lawson hasn't been in the office today, she rushed away on Friday after you had left and she looked ashen faced. We were really worried about her. A couple of the staff tried to call her over the weekend as she missed her ballroom dance class on Saturday and Sunday afternoon tea at Mrs Riley's house, then when she never turned up for work this morning we tried to contact her but to no avail. We rang the police but to be honest with you they did not seem overly bothered.'

'You mean Ms Lawson has gone missing?'

'We believe so, although the officer I spoke to suggested she may have had to go away for a few days suddenly and would probably be in touch so not to worry, except we are worried, she has been working here for nearly ten years now and has never done this sort of thing before. Her husband passed away from a heart attack several years ago and her daughter moved away so she lives on her own. All her immediate family, i.e. brothers and sisters live in Canada and Australia so we just don't know where she could have gone.'

'Mr Keane, can you please look into some information for me. Originally we requested Ms Lawson to look into the organ donor to a Mr James Benjamin Langan and a Mr Saul Barraghan. Can you also look into the donor for a Mr Mel Johnston and come back to me as soon as possible.'

'Of course, shouldn't take too long, let me do it now and call you back.'

Ian thought for a moment, what was going on here? This was strange; he didn't like the sound of this at all. 'Also Mr Keane, can you please give me the details of the officer you spoke to and I will chase this up for you.'

'Ah, thank you DI Carragher, hang on a minute, its here somewhere' there was background noise as papers were shuffled, drawers were opened and closed and Stephen was whispering to himself 'now where is it, I had it yesterday, what did I do with it'...finally with a resounding 'Aha, here it is' he came back on the line.

'Right then, it was an Officer John Brady, 0117 564 5236, which is the police station he resides at.'

'Thank you Mr Keane I will get right on it.

Ian dialled the number and got put straight through to John Brady. He asked about the case of the missing Sylvia Lawson and was getting annoyed by his blasé attitude.

'Look Brady, I suggest you get round to that house and take a proper look, for all you know she could be lying unconscious somewhere...get back there and break the door down if you have to.'

'I will have a word with my superior DI Carragher and see what he says' retorted Brady tersely

'No you wont, you will put me through to your superior and I will tell him'

Brady unwillingly forwarded the call onto his Superior.

'DI Mainwaring speaking'

Ian then had a conversation with DI Mainwaring, explaining his recent trip to Bristol, the circumstances of the investigation, his concerns to the whereabouts of Ms Lawson, and why it was important to treat this with the utmost priority.

DI Mike Mainwaring finished the call with 'Of Course Ian, we will get two officers over there first thing in the morning, we will call you tomorrow morning with any news. I do think we should leave it today to give twenty four hours for a disappearance. She may just be ill but I promise no matter what I will get someone over there tomorrow morning if she still hasn't turned up'

'Thank you Mike, I will be waiting'

Ian disconnected the call. As he did so another call came in. Ian's ring tone of the Rocky theme tune kicked into life. His work colleagues and his wife gave him a lot of stick over his ringtone but he liked it.

'DI Carragher, this is Stephen Keane from the Organ Donation centre, as soon as I got off the phone from you I looked for those files you requested on Saul Barraghan, James Benjamin Langan and Mel Johnston, however it seems they are missing.'

'Missing....well don't you keep electronic information Mr Keane?' asked Ian

'Well we do, however this information has been deleted. I asked our IT department and it seems the files were deleted by Ms Lawson two days ago.'

'WHAT, you mean the now missing Ms Lawson deleted the files and hasn't been seen since?'

'I'm afraid it looks that way DI Carragher'

'Thank you for getting back to me so quickly Mr Keane, it's appreciated.'

Ian hung up the phone. He put his head in his hands and shook his head slowly. He was developing a headache.

How was Ms Sylvia Lawson involved in this?

Where were the missing hard copy files?

Did Ms Lawson lie and all the body parts were from the same person after all?

Did Ms Lawson know the donor?

Did she know the relatives of the donor?

Did she give the information to someone else who has then killed her?

Was Ms Lawson the killer?

Who was next?

### Chapter 17 – 'Please forgive me'

Officers John Brady and Becki Smith knocked on Ms Sylvia Lawson's door for a fifth time. Becki looked through the letterbox. She couldn't see anything but she could faintly here some music. Having shouted 'Ms Lawson are you in there' for a third time, she then stood up, moved out of the way and nodded to John to break the door open.

He lifted the heavy metal device to the door, took two swings to get the momentum up and then smashed it hard against the lock. The door gave way immediately. It opened up and wobbled under the impact before rebounding off its hinges towards the officers. John had waited for this and the metal device in front of him took the full impact again, this time the door opened fully. He put his size eleven boot up against the door so it settled up against the wall and headed into the bungalow.

They both walked slowly down the hall way. The bungalow was warm, they could hear the boiler firing up in the kitchen which they past first. The kitchen was very clean, no dirty cups or plates, the living-room on the right was equally tidy, and the television was off. They could now definitely hear music. Dean Martin was singing 'Que Sera Sera'. The noise was coming from the bathroom. The two officers looked at each other, withdrew their truncheons as a precautionary measure and walked into the bathroom.....

They stood there for a moment in complete silence. Ms Lawson was in the bath, completely submerged apart from her head which rested on a pillow. On the floor was an empty bottle of brandy, a discarded box of Paracetomol tablets, the plastic containers on two of them having had their contents emptied via the foil packaging and thrown down near the box. She didn't move, the bath water was a deep red, her deeply cut wrists were visible and floating on the surface of the water. They looked at each other incredulously, as they did so they looked down and at their feet were the missing files from the Donor centre and an A4 white envelope with one simple word written on the front in large bold hand writing 'Sorry'.

Officer Smith clicked her radio and called it in.

Within thirty minutes the bungalow was crawling with police, forensics teams, ambulance and medical staff, even sniffer dogs and yet more police. After an initial search of the grounds and the house the files and letter were removed and DI Mainwaring sat at the kitchen table and opened the letter. With some trepidation and disbelief he began to read....

To whomever opens this

I have made a terrible mistake and this seems the only way out. I know who has been killing all these people and taking their organs. The reason this has happened is that two years ago her partner died in a nightclub. They had been together for three years at that point. They had met in The End nightclub and instantly hit it off. He was a student at the time at the London Business School studying economics. He was only 21 when they met and she was 27. She had just qualified to become a doctor and was now training to be a surgeon as this is what she wanted to specialise in. After a year, they moved in together as he had finished his degree and got on a graduates program at the Bank of England. They lived in a small flat in Swiss Cottage but were always out all of the time anyway with their numerous friends. I found out after the incident that they took drugs every weekend, cocaine, amphetamines, ecstasy, and God only knows what else. They both worked very hard and at weekends they would let loose and just enjoy themselves with equal vigour.

_The incident happened nearly two years ago on 28_ th _September 2005. They had been out all weekend yet again. He had been working fourteen hours a day for a number of weeks and though he needed a break she constantly would talk him round saying 'they were only young once' and 'they could rest when they were dead'. So on the night of Saturday 28_ th _September they were in The End nightclub and he just collapsed. His heart couldn't take the strain anymore. He had been so full of drugs the coroner stated he was surprised it hadn't happened earlier as there were numerous signs of consistent alcohol and drug abuse._

His name was Nick Donovan and her name is Jane Lawson and she is my daughter.

After his death she had a terrible time coping. I was there for her but after a month despite her spirits seemingly getting better she got really ill one weekend and I had to call for an ambulance. It was horrible. In the middle of the night she just started screaming. I rushed out of bed and into her room. Turning the light on she was laying there, the covers thrown off and she was doubled over in pain, there was blood between her legs, it was awful. It turned out that she had been pregnant and with all the stress she had lost the baby.

This was too much for her to cope with and sent her into another depressive spiral. She stayed in all the time, I couldn't get her out of bed and she barely ate. Her friends kept coming to see her but one by one the visits became less as she said very little. In order to get her out of the house she came to church with me on Sundays. She began reading the bible and turned to religion which I took as a positive thing. However one day she stated that God had punished her for the life she had led and that she was a bad person who didn't deserve to live. She tried to end her life twice, both times with sleeping tablets. I managed to save her twice. She was rushed to hospital and had her stomach pumped the first time. She almost died then. The second time she went really quiet for days and I knew what was going to happen, call it a mothers intuition. I would surreptitiously check on her every twenty minutes. I heard the rattle of the Paracetomol bottle but waited five minutes to catch her at it so she could not pretend she just had a headache. I burst into her room and grabbed her. I dragged her into the bathroom and shoved my fingers down her throat before she even knew what was happening. We both sat on the bathroom floor for hours just crying. She fell asleep a few times but would then wake up suddenly. I sat on that floor all night, comforting her when she was awake and watching over her when she was asleep. That night had a deep impact on me and I started to get very stressed and anxious.

I was getting desperate to find something to bring her out of this and to also help me. I worked at the Organ Donor centre and even though it was against the rules I looked up Nick Donovan's records. His organs had been donated to a number of people which had allowed them to lead better lives. I wrote down some information about some of the donors and shared this with her. It seemed to help as after a few days she actually said she was hungry for the first time in a long time. Obviously I was delighted with this and so a week later I told her about Mel Johnston, how the new heart valves he had gotten had improved his life immensely.

When she asked about other donors I promised her this information every couple of weeks provided she improved. After another two months she actually went back to work part time. She became very religious and visited the small chapel at work at the Hospital of St Johns & St Elizabeth in St Johns Wood every day.

One day some Jehovah's Witnesses came to the door and she invited them in. Through the course of the next few hours she told them everything that had happened. However just as they were about to leave one of them stated that even though it was a good thing that she was on the road to recovery and had found God, as a Jehovah's witness they did not believe in organ donation as the faith opposes any movement of blood from one person to another. After they had gone Jane looked this up on the internet where it stated that 'Jehovah's witnesses view an old testament prohibition against 'eating' of blood as meaning that blood from one person should never enter another's body. Therefore blood transfer bans organ donation and the denomination therefore revokes the membership of anyone who participates in a transfusion even if it is to save a life'.

Jane could not quite believe this and this knocked her back into a depression. She decided to go away for two weeks so booked a holiday at The Chedi hotel in Muscat, Oman. When she came back she seemed very calm but a little distant. She began asking me for all the information I could gather on who got Nicks body parts. When I said I couldn't she said if she did not receive all the information she would fall into depression again and try to kill herself. As her mother I just could not have this as it had taken her a year to get to this point so to fall back to the dark old days would have been horrendous and probably sent myself over the edge as well as her.

I gave her all the information I could lay my hands on. From James Benjamin Langans corneas, Mel Johnston's heart valves, Saul Barraghan's Liver & David Holmes Pancreas.

When I read in the paper that James Benjamin Langan had been killed and had his eyes cut out the papers seemed to suggest this was a gangland killing. When Saul Barraghan was found with his liver removed this began to raise my suspicions. And when Mel Johnston was found that was when it really hit home.

I confronted Jane about these killings, or at least tried to. But I could not track her down after I had phoned her once the two police officers had left. I went to her flat in Swiss Cottage but she had moved out of there six months ago and left no forwarding address. I went to the St Johns & St Elisabeth hospital in St Johns Wood to find her but she had been signed off ill again and had not been in work for over four months. I finally got through to her on her mobile and it must have been the night David Holmes was killed. I tried to reason with her but it was too late. She had somehow got this whole religious idea that until she could make Nick whole again he would never rest in peace.

As a mother I simply cannot turn in my own daughter. As a good Christian I hope the Lord forgives me and somehow some good will come out of all of this.

There is one donor left. Her name is Sally Jensen. She is 8 years of age and lives at number 3 Randolph Avenue in Maida Vale London. She was given Nicks kidneys which saved her life. Hopefully you will get this note before it's too late.

The anniversary of Nick's death is a 2 weeks away. I hope for all our sakes you are not too late to save her.

Please forgive me,

Sylvia

DI Mainwaring sat there incredulous. He just could not take all this in. Around him, medical staff, forensics teams and police officers were diligently going about their various tasks as he stared out of the window, the branches of some oak trees were blowing from side to side, silently through the window. The flash of the lights from the ambulance were still switched on, as were some of the police cars lights and so the window was constantly changing colours, making the sky a melange of blues, reds, yellows and whites, always changing, always different. How could this have happened? He had lost relatives in the past but maybe not in this manner. He could understand that Jane must have partly blamed herself for what happened, if she had always been the one to persuade him to go out. Death or serious injury was probably not something she ever worried about, especially as she was training as a surgeon she must have seen it everyday and thought she was immune. The depression spiral she went through must have been horrendous. And all the time her mother was caught in the middle, the love for her daughter fighting against the will to do the right thing, and as she played with the scenarios over and over in her head she came up with a way out which in the end benefitted no one, and solved nothing apart from her own guilt.

In all his time on the force he had seen suicide victims numerous times and it was the one thing that always affected him. The state of mind that person must have been in, the circumstances they must have encountered when they turned round and thought, that's it, I can't take anymore, life is pointless. He never understood that to be honest, but then I suppose nobody does. How on earth can you. There are some evil people in the world, who take lives, take advantage of others and have no value for any human life apart from their own, but to take your own life, is really the supreme sacrifice and a strange dichotomy as on the one hand it can be seen as a cowardly thing to do, to give up, to give in, but on the other you are voluntarily over-riding your innate evolutionary instincts to survive at all costs, which has shaped the world and the universe for billions of years. To willingly, hurt yourself, knowing that is the end could also be seen as the bravest thing in the world.

DI Mainwaring slowly stood up, closed the file, handed it to one of his team and walked outside. He paused on the front door step and took a deep breath. He walked to his car and sat inside, closing the door behind him with a thud. He felt, sitting in the car that he was far enough away from the mayhem in the house. Taking out his mobile he rang DI Carragher to tell him everything.

DI Carragher listened intently. He was noting down the key points as DI Mainwaring spoke. Everything was slotting into place. The link with the other murders, the reasons for those murders, the spiral that the killer had gotten herself into. However there were still questions. The leap from thinking about what to do next to actually carrying out a murder was something that fascinated Ian, especially in this case where a perfectly bright, law abiding happy young woman had turned into a cold, ruthless serial killer carrying out a series of murders clinically and efficiently in such a short space of time. Once the first murder had been completed he imagined the others got easier and easier as she detached herself from the primeval emotional requirements of killing, to making it seem like what she was doing was actually a good thing, a just cause. It wasn't a person she saw when she was killing these people, just the parts of a man she used to love, her twisted thought process of redemption blinding her to the irrefutable truth that what she was doing was inherently wrong on so many levels.

The last person who had received Nick Donovan's body parts was an eight year old girl called Sally Jensen. She lived at number three Randolph Avenue in Maida Vale London, one of the best addresses in London. The question was how to proceed? Should he go down there sirens blazing, cordon off the street and move the family to a safe house? What if Jane was already in the house? What if by doing that he actually caused her to kill the girl as there was then no way out for her? Her ultimate goal was to re-unite Nick into a whole person again, but then what? Was she going to kill herself afterwards, was she going to run away and hide? What about the news of her mother? It would be on the local news soon and maybe even national news by this evening. If she heard that it would mean all of her reasons to stay alive had disappeared. Not caring about her own well being made her a more dangerous proposition. There was also the uncomfortable thought running through Ian's head that maybe she had even developed a taste for murder. The murders she had committed came attached to a particular situation in her life, however if she had somehow reasoned that her actions were just, why not other victims, other murders, other reasons.

_No, that settles it_ reasoned Ian in his head. She needed to be caught. He was going to drive to Randolph Avenue, politely knock on the door and make sure the family were safe, but under the guise of a neighbourhood security check. Then he would get surveillance down there at either end of the street and maybe the street behind if that was necessary. He wondered what else he would need. He called PC McGeorge for assistance.

'Hi McGeorge, how are you doing?'

'Alright thanks DI Carragher. The case against our friend Bacchus has been going very well. Looks like he's going down for about fifteen years the way the case is going. Is that why you are ringing me up?'

'Err, not exactly, there have been a few developments since we last met'. Ian filled her in on the details and his current plan.

Mcgeorge listened and also suggested she give her mate a call who could get a thermal imaging van down there. That way they could keep tabs on the occupants without too much interference. The general idea was to wait it out for a day or so and see if they could catch Jane.

'Good thinking McGeorge...lets get all over this shall we....its 3 p.m. now lets have everybody in place by 6 p.m.'

DI Carragher went straight in to see Chief Inspector Bishop. He told him everything, outlined the plan and asked for full co-operation from whomever he needed.

'Abso-bloody-lutely' stated Chief Bishop. Anybody gets in your way get them to call me straight away. The Mrs has put me on a diet at the minute so I am constantly eating bloody steamed vegetables which is hugely disappointing and nowhere near as tasty as cheese, pork pies and fresh cream cakes, so I am in a particularly bad mood and would enjoy tearing a few strips off someone, will be good for morale...mainly mine of course, but go on then, get on with it, good luck and for Gods sake make sure nothing happens to that little girl'

Ian was out the door as Bishop was finishing his sentence, straight in his car and on his way to Maida Vale.

'Surely no one is heartless enough to want to kill an eight year old girl, surely' thought Ian as he sped through the streets.

### Chapter 18 – 'Hello Spotty, where's Superted?'

Ian parked his old Mondeo at the end of the street. He could see number 3 easily. There was scaffolding up and builders were just finishing up for the day. He had got there at 4:30 p.m. As he parked up, the last stragglers from the local Primary school were departing in various directions, either walking in small groups or climbing into their parents Porsche Cayenne's or BMW X5's. _These off road vehicles were more a reflection of the modern parents over blown protectiveness of their little darlings than any requirement to actually do any off road driving. People's innate desire for protection on all levels led to a kind of secret arms race between parents, where once they were all driving small cars, then it was the estate cars and the Volvo's and now the 4x4, Ian wondered when one day an over zealous parent would think, hmm an Abrahms tank might be a safer option as it can ride over the 4x4 with ease, I wonder if you can fit a baby seat and whether they come in pearlescent black or indigo blue, I must check on eBay when I get home._ He got out of his car, shaking his head at the constant stream of 4x4s as they sped off, and put his coat on, lifting the lapels and doing up all the buttons on his three quarter length coat to block out the wintry wind which was blowing down the street, bringing with it the flotsam and jetsam of modern living, crisp packets, empty coke bottles, leaves and various other assorted items. It had been a sunny day, but as the sun descended the cold was enveloping everything and squeezing the warmth out of cars, buildings and people.

Number three had a black door with the heavy silver knocker and was half open when he approached it. A small bell to the right of the door was lit up by an external light. He pressed the bell and a sharp ring was heard from inside. A woman's (at least he hoped it was a woman) high heels click clacked on the dark wooden floorboards. It didn't take long for her to come down the hall. She opened the door and Ian saw she was dressed smartly in a long blue pin strip pencil skirt with white blouse. Small diamonds elegantly sparkled from her ear lobes, necklace and her left hand. In the background a chandelier gently swayed as the wind from outside was allowed in and through the hallway, a faint clinking as the crystals barged into one another could be heard resonating down the hallway, disappearing on the wind down the street.

'Can I help you?'

'Yes, Madam, my name is DI Carragher and I am in the area calling on residents asking about neighbourhood watch programs. Are you Louisa Jensen?'

'Yes I am' She proffered her left hand by means of an introduction, as DI Carragher held up his warrant card for inspection, Ian shook her hand gently and actually almost curtseyed as she had that upper class, almost regal air to her. The diamond engagement ring on her left hand was a monster, he'd seen smaller chandeliers. The house must have been worth a few million as well. Over her left shoulder Ian noticed a number of pieces of artwork hanging on the walls of the hall, all with their own light fixture which illuminated them in just the right manner.

'Also for my records can I just confirm your husband's name, occupation and whereabouts, and also that of your daughter, Sally?'

'Well my husband is currently away on business in New York. He is in corporate finance and is putting together a big deal over there. I have just got in actually, I am a lawyer in the City, but then you probably know that as you seem to know a lot of things already inspector. Anyway the nanny has just left and my daughter, as you can hear...is in the kitchen, drawing, which is something that children feel the requirement to do rather noisily despite constant reminders... SALLY, PLEASE BE QUIET IN THERE' shouted Louisa rather sternly through to her daughter in the kitchen. It was clear that Ian needed to leave them to it. They were both safe and Louisa did keep looking round in the hope that Ian would get the message, she was far too polite to tell him to piss off but if she looked any further down her nose at him she was liable to fall over.

'Sorry to have kept you Mrs Jensen, do you have any issues with security at all? Is the neighbourhood watch to your satisfaction?'

'Well to be honest we do have an alarm although it's been turned off for the past two weeks as the builders have been here doing some external improvements whilst also installing a new bathroom upstairs. The place has been a bit messy but they are nearly there. The neighbourhood watch are fine; nothing ever seems to happen here to be honest. But thank you for your time inspector'

Before Ian could say thank you Louisa was off down the hall, berating Sally as she got nearer the kitchen. No worries so far then. Looks like he was in time. Once the surveillance was set up they could just sit and wait.

By 6 p.m. the two teams were in place at both ends of the street. Doug Livermore and Robert Paisley had parked near Ian's car opposite number 1. They had a decent view and were screened by a blue van so anybody coming down the street towards them wouldn't necessarily see the car from too far away. It was a standard issue silver grey Mondeo. The two occupants would keep each other entertained, usually with dirty jokes, constant verbal abuse and sexual innuendo, lubricated with enough coffee and scotch eggs to keep a whole army on their toes. Doug and Bob were old school, early fifties far too fat, and sick to the back teeth of policy procedure paperwork and political correctness. They didn't class themselves as sexist, racist or any other type of 'ist' for that matter, but they did prefer 'the good old days' when you could give someone a slap and they knew to behave. But they had a wealth of experience and some very good arrests under their belts. They were career coppers, once out of the force they would probably die early of a heart attack and boredom. Policing was their life...well policing interspersed with drinking, gambling and constant swearing, as well as looking at anything in a skirt under forty within a hundred metre radius. However their letching at the ladies had been reduced somewhat after the incident a few months back when they had the unfortunate notion of letching at someone as they walked into the station only to realise it was actually a man in drag. They didn't live that down for several weeks.

The other car was in place ten minutes later. The two other detectives were youngsters by comparison. They had a more modern approach, fresh out of University, they had all the qualifications but without any real experience, although it didn't stop them thinking they knew everything. Jacob Williamson and Joseph Lawrenson had joined the force at the same time and followed the same path. They were together all the time and took constant stick. 'The two disciples' they used to be called rather affectionately by the rest of the lads. Doug and Bob in particular loved the religious connotations of their first names. Doug's favourite was 'Oi Jacob and Joseph, can you just give your dad a ring and ask him what time is he expecting me'. Bobs favourite was constantly asking Joseph if his latest girlfriend was pregnant or not. If she is and its not yours make sure she doesn't blame a 'higher power' for god's sake. Look at the last woman who did that, she told a little white lie and they are still talking about it two thousand years later.

It was getting dark when the thermal imaging van arrived. The van was actually a dark blue Ford Transit van. They didn't even bother cleaning it; the theory was it just looked like hundreds of other vans. As Ian went round to the back of the van and opened the door he saw various aspiring comedians had written in the dirt 'Clean me', 'sshh..Immigrants sleeping' and Ian's favourite of the three 'I wish my wife was this dirty'. Ian climbed into the back and was amazed to find it was full of high tech equipment. There were screens, keyboards, knobs and switches everywhere. There wasn't much room either. Ian had to squat down in order to talk to the two people in there, the 'tech-ees' as they were known. The equipment looked like something out of a nuclear submarine, however its occupants looked more like they won first and second prize in the Bill Gates lookalike competition. Steve & Steve...which obviously wasn't helpful, however Ian knew them more colloquially as Spotty Steve and hippy Steve, and was never afraid to call them this either.

'Hello Spotty, where's Superted' said Ian giggling. Such a corny line but he loved that one. 'Hello hippy, how's things?'

'Piss off Ian' they both retorted in unison. Rank meant nothing to these two. As clearly neither did soap or a barbers shop but never mind. The stick they got probably warranted a frosty reception so Ian let it pass.

'So lads, what have you got for me, are you all set up?'

'It will take about ten minutes to get everything up and running. We would explain what we are going to do but unless it's about football, women or fatty foods you probably won't understand so we won't bother' said Spotty Steve frostily.

Ian picked up a rather rough looking copy of Stuff magazine and flicked through it whilst he waited. Some of the gadgets in there were amazing, the new HDTVs, the Wii, the new laptops, however a lot of the narrative was beyond him and sometimes even what he was meant to be looking at. On the plus side there were a few pages where he knew exactly what he was looking at, a hot woman with hardly any clothes on holding some new gadget. In all fairness it took a while to work out that she was actually holding anything apart from his thorough and undivided attention.

Hippy peered over and said 'She's holding an external hard drive, in case you were wondering'

'Never mind her; I think I'm holding an external hard drive of my own. Ding dong I never realised technology could be so interesting.'

Hippy snatched the magazine away from Ian and pointed at a large screen on the wall which had varying colours, some blacks, reds, yellows and a thousand others. All denoting the level of heat being given off by a particular object. The scaffolding was coming up black. The doors and windows had a light red colour and there were various other coloured shapes in the house. Hippy and Spotty adjusted knobs and switches and typed various things out with their keyboards whilst moving their mice at speed.

'Just sharpening up the image DI Carragher will be with you in a minute'. After a couple more minutes they confirmed they were ready.

'Right then here we go' began Spotty. 'So you can see the little girl there top left. That must be her bedroom. A small light is on in her room, and you can see that the landing light is also on. The bright square object downstairs will be the television. Looks like a forty two inch plasma from here. You can see her mother is sitting on the sofa. Now what else have we got?'

'Err, Steve, what's this?' Spotty enquired to Hippy as he pointed at a large heat source upstairs.

'Is it the boiler, looks about the right size?'

'I don't think so, it's a bit misshapen and to be honest I actually think it might be a person...in fact confirmed that is a person, as if it is a boiler its just grown arms and stretched them above their head. Is that the husband then Ian?'

Ian looked at the screen, the colour drained from his face and he leant forward to get a closer look.

'The father is in New York boys...that means there is somebody else in the house......oh shit, can you confirm exactly where she is?'

'She...how do you know it's a she guv'

'Well the only other person who would be anywhere near that house, and especially hiding like that is Jane..She's already in the house. She beat me here, she's in the bloody house, shit shit shit..quick where is she exactly'

Spotty and Hippy reviewed the information before giving the really bad news 'It looks like she is in the child's room, in her cupboard...it must be a small walk in wardrobe. She's sitting on the floor.'

Ian slowly swept his hand through his hair and stared at the red blob on the screen. This was bad, very bad. 'What the fuck are we going to do now boys....'

### Chapter 19 – 'Okay I like it'

Ian stared at the screen. It was decision time. Did they wait and see if she moved, should they storm in now and grab her, should they ring the bell? This would alarm everyone. Ian was nervous, if he got it wrong an eight year old girl would die and he knew he would never be able to cope with that. He took out his mobile phone and rang the Super.

'Chief, we have a problem' Ian explained the situation. There was just silence at the other end of the phone.

'You still there Chief'

'Of course I am Carragher, I'm thinking, just shut up will you.' There was a long pause before the Chief Super spoke 'Right then, lets see, I'm going to call the armed response unit, we need to get some sort of cover on the little girls room. What are the lines of sight like there?'

'Hang on, I'll take a look'. Ian quietly stepped out of the van and looked up. The scaffolding went all the way up. Across the road were more houses. 'It looks like we have two options we can either scale the scaffolding or knock on one of the houses opposite and get in from there with a line of sight.'

'Let's go with the first option, no point scaring all the neighbours at this point. I will have them there in forty minutes, sit tight, but if she moves you better get in there...is that understood.'

'Yes chief' responded Ian.

Ian ended the call and climbed into the van. He got a line open to the two cars as well as everyone else so he could relay the message. 'Okay everyone, armed response will be here in forty minutes. Jacob, Joseph, I need you out of the car and standing near the door under cover of the scaffolding with the ram-rod. If I start yelling you start ramming, get into the house and up the stairs as fast as you can, okay. Doug and Bob if they move I want you two out of the car and in after them as quick as you can. I will stay in the van with the two Steve's and if she moves an inch I want to know about it.'

There was silence for a while and then Steve pipes up 'She's moved an inch boss'; the other Steve got a smile on his face and repeated 'Boss, she's moved an inch'. From there it descended into chaos as Doug and Bob joined in a volley of 'She's moved an inch Boss'....even Jacob and Joseph joined in.

'SHUT THE FUCK UP YOU FUCKING COMEDIANS...this is serious, come on, you know the drill now lets just get on with it.

'Sorry Boss' was relayed numerous times by the co conspirators. The team settled down then, no words were spoken.

Doug and Bob sat in the car ready and waiting. Joseph and Jacob were standing under the scaffolding near the front door they were cold but didn't complain. The gloves and woolly hat helped but the chill wind cut through them from time to time and they shivered involuntarily.

In the van the two Steve's and Ian just stared at the screen. There was very little movement from the walk in wardrobe. Sometimes Jane's head moved, other times her arms moved as if she was wiping her face. They had a good close up view now and they could see her shaking.

'I think she's crying' said Steve.

'Do you think she's lost it' said the other Steve

'Surely all of this has taken its toll. Maybe she has realised what she has done.'

'I think you're right Steve' interjected Ian 'surely seeing an eight year old girl just lying there all helpless must have sparked something off inside her. To kill four times already in what seems like a crazy three week period is one thing. Perhaps because she has waited longer for this last one it has made it different.'

As they were pondering these thoughts there was a light tapping sound on the van doors. The armed response unit had got there in thirty minutes.

Ian opened the door to see his old mate from school Mark Goodwin standing there.

'Ello numb nuts' was Mark's opening greeting.

'Hello Mark you tosser, how's things?

'Okay, mustn't grumble I suppose. I've got two of the other lads here can we squeeze in so we can see what we are dealing with.'

Into the van also stepped Mark's two other officers. All six of them were now crammed into the van. Ian went over the details and what the plan was. Mark was happy but changed some details. He suggested one of them stayed near the front door so they could get in that way if there was any movement before they were ready. Also Mark and his other officer would climb up. His officer would lie on the floor ready to break the window with the butt of his gun. Mark could then turn, set and aim through the window without the added hassle of either breaking the window or shooting through it which could add vital seconds to their response time.

'Okay I like it' Ian stated. 'Lets do this'

Mark and his two officers exited the van and walked over to the house. They had a quick chat with Jacob and Joseph. One officer stayed with them as agreed whilst the other climbed the scaffolding with Mark. The two of them climbed efficiently, effectively and most importantly silently. They were careful not to allow their guns to hit against the scaffolding as this would probably alert the whole street, never mind Jane. Plus in the dead of night every sound seemed to be ten times as resonant as during the day there were other sounds to compete with, but at 11 p.m. on a chilly September night there was very little about to actually generate any noise.

Mark's officer got onto his knees and crawled into position, on his back under the window. His Heckler and Koch assault rifle ready to smash through the window in an instant. Mark quietly rested on the scaffolding. His knees slightly bent, his backside on the inner scaffolding, his back resting up against the wall, his rifle slung across his chest. He checked his sights. The night vision setting was on and he carefully leant over and peered into the room. The young girl was asleep in her bed directly in line with the window. She had a small night light on her pink bedside cabinet which glowed slightly. Mark adjusted his night vision accordingly. He looked over to the left and saw the walk in wardrobe. There was a rocking chair in the corner just behind the bedroom door. In front of the wardrobe in the middle of the room was a rocking horse. Jane would have to get round this to get to Sally and he decided that if she got past the rocking horse that would be the last thing she would ever do. Mark had young kids of his own, and he couldn't quite believe what he was hearing when he was de-briefed personally by the Chief Super over an hour ago. Surely a woman...any woman just couldn't kill a child. He realised she had been through a lot, but surely this would be taking things too far. Mark swung back around and rested against the wall. He pressed the small button on his earpiece and whispered 'If she moves, let me know and I will take her out once she gets past the rocking horse in the middle of the room.

'Roger that, Mark' Ian whispered.

They waited there for an hour, it had gone midnight. Mark and his officer were getting cold but still diligently stayed in position. Jacob and Joseph thought hypothermia was setting in. Ian had dutifully taken the three of them cups of coffee to keep them warm. He had felt guilty sitting in the warm van. It was strange really, the two Steve's and himself had just sat there silently, drinking coffee and staring at Jane. All of them, questioning how she had got to this point. How everything had fallen apart over a number of years, the way she had so nearly recovered from Nicks death only to spiral downwards to a point where the strangest and most bloody outcome had seemed the most reasonable one. And what if they were successful and brought her out alive. They would then need to tell her that her mother had died and she had caused that as well. She would be left with nobody, having lost everybody and everything.....

### Chapter 20 – 'Roger that guv'

'She's moving.....'whispered Steve almost to himself. Then the realisation set in 'Ian, Steve, everybody, she's on the move...SHE's ON THE MOVE'.

Ian stirred from his slumber. He had nodded off a few times. The drool on his left shoulder confirmed as much, he roused himself belatedly as all around him mayhem and voices ensued. He had a flashback to what he had been dreaming about, he had been playing a round with Keira Knightley...not around, a round, disappointingly they were playing golf and she had been fully clothed, what kind of bloody dream was that. Ian's fuzziness and the thought of a naked Keira Knightley subsided as he realised the gravity of the situation he was in.

'Quiet everyone' stated Ian matter-of-factly over the radio. 'Confirm status lads, we ready to rock and roll....Jacob, Joseph, be ready to assist.'

'Roger that guv'

'Mark you and your chaps still in position?'

'Of course, haven't moved in three hours....ready to go, you give the word and we'll take her out'

'Doug, Robert, you there?' there was silence. 'Doug, Robert, come in over, repeat, Doug, Robert, come in over, OI DICKHEADS WAKE UP!!'

'In the other car Doug and Robert awoke with a start....the car was cold, the chain smoking duo had meant the car smelt stale and dry. The two of them kicked the empty sausage roll, pastie wrapper, crisp and chocolate wrappers...the clunk as the empty cans of bitter rattled into each other was voluminous in the quiet of the night. Everybody could hear the two of them grunting and swearing, it sounded like two hippos with tourettes were having a wrestling match.

'Sorry guv, must have dozed off there...we're ready, willing and able' stated Doug apologetically.

'About fucking time, Jesus Christ lads were you having a party in there or something. Anyway listen everybody she is stirring. Be ready; if I shout go three times then its game on Mark. But remember we must wait...nobody dies tonight, okay...nobody.'

'Right she's definitely going to do something. Okay she is standing up now, just getting to her feet....she's reaching down again...picking up a bag....she's reaching for the door handle of the walk in wardrobe...she's pausing' Ian could see on the screen that she was taking a few deep breaths.

'Doesn't look like she's got anything in her hands. Okay, door is being opened...very slowly....she's taking her first step, just coming out of the wardrobe now....she's closing the door behind her' Ian could see she was doing her best not to make any noise. The white shape was moving very slowly. Move straight for the door Jane, please, thought Ian, no more deaths.

'She's standing in the room...no movement....okay she's moving towards the girl....standby everyone, standby.'

'She's moving closer, about six feet away from the bed now, two more feet and we're gonna do this.

'Standing by', stated Mark calmly. He took the safety off his gun, moved ever so slightly, a couple of centimetres at a time. It took a few seconds before he was in the right position. As soon as he heard Go Go Go he would be up. He knew exactly where she would be. He had seen in the room earlier on and and mentally marked his target. If anybody had to die tonight it was not going to be the little girl....no way.

'Okay she's moving closer, one more step needed....hang on, hang on....she's stopped, I repeat she's stopped.' Ian stared at the screen intently. Everything seemed to have stopped, Jane, the noise from the equipment, the air outside, time itself even. His heart was pounding. He was about to give the order to kill someone and he just could not take this in. He had never been in this situation before. The nearest he had ever got was way back in ninety five when he was a regular policeman at a football match. He had the unenviable task of policing a Millwall game. They were playing Cardiff...nutters versus madmen it was called. Trouble had flared up after the match. It had been an evening kick off in December. It was cold, wet and the atmosphere was filled with hatred. There were pockets of disturbances all around the ground outside. The game had been fairly boring....it was petering out into a dull 0-0, both sets of fans were happy for the final whistle to end proceedings so they could sink a few more jars in the pub and get out of the cold and back home. Then well into injury time the referee gave a penalty to Cardiff, who duly despatched it with the last kick of the game. All of a sudden the atmosphere turned evil as the Millwall fans spat vitriolic abuse at the referee as the Cardiff fans repeatedly gave 'V' signs to the home fans and danced around in mocking conspiratorial happiness.

The police knew what was coming. They had been well organised and managed to quell most of the violence but him and a few others had ended up battling with twenty odd Millwall fans. It was close quarters stuff; he could remember the smell of alcohol and cigarettes on the man's face as he screamed abuse at Ian....his body odour, almost over powering. PIG, PIG, PIG, FUCKING PIG'. Ian had tried to keep him at arms length but it was no good. He had produced a knife and suddenly and without warning just plunged it into Ian's leg. He had given out a scream and fell to his knees. His fellow officers had seen what happened and poured in to protect him. The mounted policeman had arrived just in time to wade through the Millwall fans and knock them all flying to the ground. Officer down, backup needed had been screamed over the radios and within second's ten highly armoured officers with batons and shields had come storming round the corner. Anything that moved got hit, arms, legs, heads, all of them were left battered, bruised and bleeding as they were restrained on the floor and handcuffed. Numerous vans, their sirens wailing and their lights blazing had arrived to transpose the so called fans down to the police station for charging. The one who had knifed Ian in the leg got a few accidental kicks and punches on the way to the van, and on the way to the station.

He had recovered from that with no issues. Two weeks off work was enough. But that had been it, and here he was, the lead investigator tracking down a serial killer, and they had found her. She was now one step away from getting multiple bullet injuries and probably death. The little girl would have nightmares for months, the mother would be a mess, this was all going to get very complicated, there would be inquests, the Police complaints commission would step in....how did she die ? Who gave the order? What were the alternatives? His mind was racing. All sorts of thoughts were going through his head...he needed a holiday, he needed some sun, he loved his wife, he wondered what she was doing, he was going to quit the force, be something else, move away, anywhere but here, where he was right now, why couldn't it be someone else.

And then she stopped....No movement, nothing. Jane was stood, absolutely still, not a single movement. 'She's stopped, I repeat she has stopped. No movement, she is still just standing there'

Mark who had been crouched ready and waiting was shaking. He had been ready to move, set himself, aim and fire. Another minute and he was going to have to move. His left leg began to shake under the strain as sweat began to gather at his brow.

In the bedroom Jane stood there. She just stared at Sally. The nightlight was casting half of Sally's face in pale light, the other half like the dark side of the moon. She could see Sally breathing, her nostrils flaring up and down, her chest rising and falling ever so gently. Jane put her hand to her heart. She wasn't even sure she was breathing. She felt her heart beat under her sweaty palm. Her emotions were a maelstrom of sadness, unhappiness, fear, loneliness. It felt as if for the last six months she had been rushing round at the speed of light, the world struggling to catch up with her. She couldn't remember the last time she had eaten. Sleep had come in fits and starts. Her watch never seemed to move and then she would blink and it would be an hour later, a day later, a week later. She caught a glimpse of herself in the full length mirror, the light from the street lights and Sally's nightlight gave her a ghostly presence, as if half of her had already disappeared. The clothes she was wearing were simple, just a pair of jeans, a t shirt and an old fleece jacket, no, correction, Nicks fleece jacket. If she concentrated and put her nose into the material she could still smell him, still see him.

Her hair was a mess. She had cut it short so as not to be recognised during her 'mission'. The days of her long blonde hair, always clean, always shiny, always styled to perfection were long gone. What had she become? She had been kidding herself for a long time. She looked in the mirror and all she saw was a stranger, as if there was no mirror and she was actually looking at another person. She had to get out of here. Get out of the house get out of London, out of the country. The weight of everything she had endured the people she had hurt, mentally, physically. Loved ones and strangers alike each death was meant to make her feel better, meant to help put right what had gone horribly wrong. But if she was honest with herself it never had. Her shoulders slumped as if the last two years had metamorphosed into a physical object which had been placed on her shoulders.

Jane shook her head, trying to clear her thoughts. She took one last look at Sally and turned towards the door.....

### Chapter 21 – 'GO GO GO GO GO'

'She's moving away from the girl, she is moving towards the bedroom door. Mark, ease off, the danger is passing, she is moving away.' Ian's relief was palpable. He quickly re-assessed the situation. 'Okay people get away from the front door, she will be coming out, let's take her as soon as she gets onto the street. She may be armed so proceed with caution, repeat, proceed with caution.'

Jane moved quietly out of the bedroom. Closing the door behind her she stealthily moved to the stairs and inched down them. Each step was given the care and attention she had once experienced as a surgeon. The slightest sound seemed to echo across the whole of London. She was going to get out, go to Africa, work in an orphanage, work in a hospital, and make amends for the last two years. She could never forgive herself for what she had done, the memories, the nightmares, the hurt, the anguish would always be there, but if she could help others, save other peoples lives then maybe that would help ease the guilt. A second chance a new beginning a fresh start.

'Okay get ready everyone she's at the front door. Once the front door closes and she steps onto the street I want everyone on her.' Ian instructed the team. Outside the house everybody was ready to pounce. Jacob and Joseph were crouched down with Mark's other armed response unit member Tony. Tony had unsheathed his hand gun and released the safety. Tony gave Jacob & Joseph a nod, he was ready. In the car Doug and Robert were waiting near their car now, their hands poised on the door handles or resting on the boot of the car ready to sprint as soon as the shout came, to rush over, assess the situation and do the right thing.

Jane lifted the catch on the front door. The door eased open. The cold night air invaded the warmth of the house. It breathed freshness into Jane's face, and rushed around her, invading the opening in her fleece jacket, and causing her to shiver ever so slightly. This wasn't the end, but the beginning. In the distance the sky was a beautiful clear night, the stars were twinkling and the moon was a large orb illuminating the black canvas all around.

She closed the door behind her and stepped down onto the street, doing up the fleece on her coat and walking down the street.

'GO GO GO GO GO' bellowed Ian. Jacob, Joseph and Tony sprang into action. Jacob and Joseph aimed at Jane.

'Hands up down on your knees, hands up down on your knees' they shouted in unison. Jacob lunged towards Jane, making a grab for her outstretched left arm. At the same time the van doors across the street exploded open and Ian rushed out. He sprinted across the street to get to Jane. From both ends of the street officers came rushing over. Up above Mark had his sights trained on Jane. He realised in an instant there was no need as Jane was wrestled to the floor.

'Guns to safety, guns to safety' Ian shouted as he and Joseph handcuffed Jane. There were no weapons, no danger; Jane lay there, silently, incredulous. The last ten seconds had seemed like ten hours. For a fleeting moment she felt liberated, absolved of the past, fresh, renewed, reborn. Then within seconds she was back to her old self, withdrawn, fearful, hurt. This was it, the end had come. Strangers bellowed, the wind seemed to whip up around them as if it had also been caught by surprise and was rushing for cover.

Mark put the safety on his weapon. Tony pointed his handgun to the sky and put the safety on. Jane was dragged to her feet and quickly searched for any concealed weapons. Her small rucksack was being rifled through in an urgent and vigorous manner, causing her to bend over backwards as the stranger rifled through the bottom of the bag.

'Nothing here chief, no issues'

Ian looked Jane in the face and repeated the words he had said a thousand times before 'Jane Lawson, I am arresting you for the possible murders of James Benjamin Langan, Saul Barraghan, Mel Johnston, and David Holmes and the possible attempted murder of Sally Jensen. You have the right to remain silent and refuse to answer questions. Do you understand? Anything you do or say may be used against you in a court of law. Do you understand? You have the right to consult an attorney before speaking to the police and to have an attorney present during questioning now or in the future. Do you understand? If you cannot afford an attorney, one will be appointed for you before any questioning if you wish. '

Jane remained silent throughout. There was a slight nod of the head but nothing more. As Jane was led away to a waiting police car the commotion which had been caused had awoken the neighbours. Lights had come on intermittently up and down the street as residents were awakened from their slumber by screams and shouts. The police cars only added to the intrigue as the citizens of Maida Vale craned their necks and lent out of their windows to almost toppling angles in order to understand what was going on. Various Police officers were already knocking on doors, letting people know it was all under control and that they could go back inside now. The police quickly made sure the street was sealed off. Police cars were now moved into position, lights on, blocking both ends of the road, lights flashing. This would be the safest street in all of London tonight that was for sure.

It was 3 p.m. the following day at New Scotland Yard and DI Ian Carragher along with PC Lisa McGeorge were sitting in number 2 interview room awaiting the arrival of Jane Lawson and her lawyer. two cups of brown sludge loosely termed coffee were steaming away in front of them. The flimsy white plastic cups were too hot to pick up and Ian's still had the thin white plastic stirrer in his, along with a few grains of white sugar which were still clinging to the edge of the cup. The three sachets of sugar Ian had poured in were thrown in with a casualness which had left the interview room desk covered in grains of sugar. He'd also managed to spill some of the coffee as he had stirred and the liquid had formed a ring around the bottom of the cup.

They both sat there in silence. Ian had gone home for a few hours after they had taken Jane to the station. She had been read her rights then allocated Cell 1. Her backpack and residual items found in various pockets about her person had been placed in clear plastic bags and itemised. The mood in the station was one of relief and pity rather than happiness at another success. As the details had emerged and spread around the station, Jane now commanded some sympathy from various people. After all she had spared the young girls life.

Ian had got home at 6 a.m. feeling exhausted. As he opened the door his wife, Louisa was standing there. She cradled a cup of coffee in both hands as she looked and listened to the BBC news bulletin on the kitchen television. They walked towards each other and just held each other. As Ian looked over her shoulder he saw himself on the television. He hadn't really noticed but there had been camera crews outside as he had left the station to go home.

'Are you okay love?' Louisa asked compassionately. Ian nodded but didn't say anything.

'I've taken the day off work. Didn't want you coming home to an empty house.'

'Thanks'

'Look you go and lie down and I will bring you a drink up. You look awful'

'Oh thanks very much...that's no way to talk to a television personality you know!' Ian smiled ruefully and hugged his wife again before kissing her on the lips. 'I need a shower and some sleep. I have to be back there for three for the interview.'

'No problem, you go up and I'll see you in a bit'

Louisa brought a cup of tea up to the bedroom. She hadn't heard the shower going and wondered what had happened, but she had a good idea. Sure enough, as she opened the bedroom door, there was her husband lying facedown on the bed, fully clothed; he even still had his tie on. He was fast asleep. She put her tea down by the side of the bed, lay next to him and just held him. He let out a little sigh and edged closer, almost as an involuntary reflex.

When he awoke at 1 p.m. he awoke with a start....his dream had been vivid but had been forgotten as soon as he opened his eyes. He turned over to see Louisa sitting up in bed reading a book. Some female Catherine Cookson nonsense set in Edwardian times, where the gentlemen challenged their foes to a duel at dawn over some slight which had been proffered at Lady this or Sir something or others country ball and where the ladies were as shy as the bosoms were plentiful, aided by the corsets and dresses of the day. They were full of sex as well (not the women the books). He'd read some of it once. Absolute filth. And it had gone on for pages and pages. After the third page of bodies entwined like vines on a country house and thrusting's, moanings and all sorts of heights of pleasure Ian felt this was the sort of stuff that needed to be on the top shelf. never mind such classics as Asian Babes, Readers Wives and Playboy.

He rolled onto his back and let out a long sigh. Louisa put her book down and lay down next to him. He opened his left arm and she rested her head on his chest, her left arm draped over his stomach, her left leg bent at the knee covering his legs. Ian briefly thought if this was a Catherine Cookson novel they would romping all over the house for the next three hours in various stages of embrace. However as it wasn't and this was real life Ian actually needed a cup of tea, a shower and an exceedingly large shit....but not necessarily in that order.....

'Are you feeling better now love.....it's been all over the news you know. London serial killer finally caught. What's she like? Is she as crazed as they say she is?'

Ian thought for a moment. He remembered the look in her eyes as he had read her, her rights. 'Far from it I'm afraid. She's very mixed up and if anything needs help. I know she killed people but you should have seen her. It almost wasn't her. It was horrible.'

Louisa had a million other questions but she could see the worry lines on Ian's face.

'Look Ian, I've been thinking. We've both been working so hard lately; we've hardly seen each other. I'm worried we have been drifting since...well you know...since the miscarriage, and I think we just need to get away somewhere. After the case of course. I've looked at the...err...savings account we have had going for these last few years' Louisa just about stopped herself from calling it the baby account. 'We've got nearly seven thousand pounds in there, let's spend it. Let's think of somewhere we've always wanted to go and do it.'

Ian thought for a second. He was amazed, shocked and surprised at this. He'd always thought the baby account was a no go area, but it was clear his wife was thinking the same thing he had been, its just they'd both been frightened to talk about it. 'Sounds like a great idea. I've been meaning to mention something similar now for a while but just thought I shouldn't bring it up.'

'Well you know with everything that's happened lately, this serial killer business has really taken it out of you and I think we have both been thinking a lot and talking too little.'

Ian looked Louisa in the eyes 'I know I never say it but I do love you. Let's do it, let's go somewhere really cool, lets live a little.'

They both paused, looking at each other. They were saying a million things to each other without speaking. Finally Ian said 'I hope it doesn't take a serial killer to make us actually talk to each other.....in twenty years time there will be no one left in London but at least we'll be together eh !' Sarcastic as ever Ian rolled on top of Louisa, maybe he did have a spare thirty minutes after all...mind you who was he kidding, fifteen was probably enough. They enveloped each other in some Catherine Cookson-esque romping.......

Ten minutes later Ian was standing in the shower, a broad smile on his face. His wife wasn't exactly lying dazed and shattered in the other room unable to move through sheer exhaustion but they had both enjoyed it. And anyway it wasn't the act itself that had mattered, more the fact it had happened at all. A barrier had been broken, he felt refreshed again. There was a goal now. Get the case wrapped up, take a few weeks off and go and live a little. He thought about where to go. He had done all the usual stuff. Spain and France with his parents when he was a kid. Greece with the lads when he was eighteen. Wandering around Europe on the train after University on a diet of cheese and beer. He thought of far flung destinations like the Cayman Islands, Tahiti, Rio, Sydney but in the end fancied Egypt instead. He'd wanted to go and see the Valley of the Kings, and all that stuff. He also remembered Louisa wanting to sail down the Nile on a felucca. Originally Ian had thought felucca's were what you got on your foot, however after being admonished by Louisa and called a retard he had been informed that they were verrucas, which to be honest he had known but he was never one to pass up the opportunity of a joke, no matter how weak.

Having showered, shaved and also had that dump he'd promised himself he walked back into the bedroom and stated 'Lets go to Egypt. You can sail down the Nile on a verruca just like you've always wanted to' Louisa gave him a knowing smile before countering with 'Excellent, I like it. I will take a look over the weekend.'

Chapter 22 – 'Shall I continue?'

The door to interview room 2 was opened and in walked the forlorn figure of Jane Lawson and her lawyer, a Mr Smith. Mr Smith introduced himself having plonked the traditional two metres of paperwork and files on the desk. As he extended his hand the cufflink became exposed from under the sleeve of his suit jacket and the word 'hot' could be seen on a small tap. Ian shook his hand and gestured at the cufflink saying 'do you think it would have been more appropriate to shake with your other hand?' in a reference to the way lawyers could be traditionally difficult and abrasive when defending their client. Some of them had clearly seen too many films and thought that being obstructive and defending their clients at all cost was a matter of life and death. However Mr Smith was not like that. He was professional but reasonable, his only Achilles heel being the fact he liked to wear novelty cufflinks. Ian had briefly thought about a new business empire making novelty abusive cufflinks. Classics such as 'Dick – Head' or 'Shit – Head' or 'Up – Yours' had sprung to mind. Obviously this genius had only come in the pub after six pints of Stella and his equally childish mates had roared with laughter coming up with a few of their own which were even ruder, coarser and bordered on illegal. The outright winner had been 'Fuck You'. Not necessarily because it was the most obscene but because of the situational comedy it had invoked. Being in an important meeting with a big client, shaking hands with the head honcho as he casually asked what do your cufflinks say and the answer being a straight talking 'Fuck You' and a retort of 'Well I was only asking.'

Ian looked at Mr Smith, Jane, and then gave a nod to PC McGeorge who started the record button signifying the beginning of the interview.

Ian began 'The date is the 20th of September 2007. The time is precisely 3 p.m. In attendance is DI Ian Carragher, PC Lisa McGeorge, Mr Mark Smith, the defence lawyer and Ms Jane Lawson, the accused.'

'Ms Lawson, You have been charged with the murders of James Benjamin Langan, Saul Barraghan, Mel Johnston and David Holmes. Along with the breaking and entering of the house of Louise Jensen. Do you understand the charges brought against you?'

Jane replied meekly 'Yes I do'

'And how are you pleading to these charges??'

'My client is pleading guilty although with a plea for diminished responsibility.'

'And is she willing to co-operate fully with the investigation'

'Yes I will' interjected Jane. 'This nightmare just needs to end, I've had enough. What I have done is unforgivable.' Tears began to well up in Jane's eyes. 'Can I have a glass of water please, then, we can begin.'

She gulped down her first glass, then another, then another. She composed herself and nodded at Ian to begin questioning.

'So, Ms Lawson lets start with James Benjamin Langan. Why and how.'

'Actually before we start I do have one question.'

'And that is?'

'When will I be able to see my mother? Have you contacted her? Does she not want to see me?'

Ian, Mark and Lisa just looked at each other. Her mother was dead. They all knew that but the lawyer hadn't mentioned it. Mark Smith gestured at Ian to have a quick chat outside. They hastily left the room and whispered to each other in hushed tones.

'Why haven't you bloody told her her mothers dead Mr Smith'

'Because as of midday today after her psychiatric evaluation it was advised to not tell her. It's important we get this over with as quickly as possible, then she can be medicated, moved to a psychiatric hospital and be told there in a manner which will not send her over the edge.'

'Jesus....I didn't realise that, where's the report, nobody has mentioned it to me.'

'The report is on your desk waiting for you to read it. Did you not go to your desk when you came in this afternoon?'

'Well no, I was a bit late and just came straight down here.'

'Well in that case don't give me a hard time about it. As I said lets get this over with and get her out of here.'

The two of them nodded in unison. They both checked their ties nervously as if they were heading into an important interview and entered the room.

Ian looked at Jane. She was waiting for an answer and the best he could come up with was 'Lets get this interview over with and provided you co-operate fully we can then discuss your mothers' situation.'

Jane seemed happy with that and began.

'When Nick died two years ago I was a mess. My mother and friends tried to be supportive but I wasn't interested. I lost Nicks baby when I didn't even know I was pregnant. I retreated within myself for months. My mother managed to get me out of the house by taking me to church every Sunday. It felt peaceful in there. And the thought of Nick in heaven helped me to come to terms with his death. However some people came to the house who were Jehovah's witnesses. They said that people who donated organs did not go to heaven. I was still fragile at this time and my thoughts then turned to Nick not actually being in heaven, just being nowhere. In my mind I reconciled the fact that if he was whole again he would be at peace, he would be in a good place, and therefore I could also be at peace and hopefully get on with my life.

I persuaded my mother to give me the details of who Nick had given organs to. The donor card had been my idea. It was something I didn't really give much thought to. As a surgeon I had seen all sorts of people who needed livers, pancreas, corneas etc and the life changing benefits they could bring. I never really thought about God, or religion, or to be honest even dying. Everything was my fault at this stage. The drugs we had taken the night he died I had given him. The crazy weekends we had together were my idea. Being a surgeon was very pressured and my release was to just go crazy every weekend. Nick preferred a slightly quieter life but he came along for the ride and I pushed him and I pushed him and in the end I as good as killed him.

Peace of mind can be a crazy thing. The more I thought about my project the more it made sense. The people who had his organs were an irrelevance. James Benjamin Langan was easy. He was scum. He was a criminal who sold drugs, hurt people and was only ever interested in himself. I followed him for weeks I kept a diary of where he was and who he was with. Deciding when to strike was obvious. Every Saturday he ended up sleeping at the club. As each week passed he seemed to start drinking earlier and earlier. I went to the club a few times and watched him stagger about the place. The night I did it I just waited outside in the car. I had been into the club and saw who had gone up. When the club closed it was just a matter of waiting it out. His best friend Bacchus was an idiot. He used to fall out of the back entrance; he could barely stand or see. Always left the door open. As soon as he fell into a taxi I gathered my things and went in. As I crept up the stairs there was no sound. I peered around the door and there he was. Completely passed out. I stood there for a while but then thought lets just do this. I walked straight over to him, took out my scalpel and cut his throat. He was dead before I had finished. I put a cloth over his eyes I had brought with me so I didn't have to look at his face and cut his eyes out. I just visualised being in the operating theatre. I put the eyes in a sealed canister, then a plastic bag. I did feel a bit nauseous so I took a big gulp of whisky which helped to steady my nerves. That was when I saw the safe was wide open. I'd never thought about using a gun. I didn't even know how I was going to get one. But it was there and it seemed an opportunity too good to miss. Also there was money everywhere. It was crazy. I am not sure whether it was the night's takings or what but I took what I could. Must have been thousands. It helped me conceal myself these past few weeks as I never needed to use my bank account at all. That's what the cash is in my bag. Its not all there, the rest is.....' Jane trailed off

'Where is the rest Jane? Where have you been hiding all this time? We found a door key in your bag but there's no evidence of an address or anything. What's it for?'

Jane went silent. She ignored the question and carried on. 'Saul Barraghan was another easy one....I couldn't believe it when I tracked him down. I walked past his grimy flat as he was opening the door. I looked him right in the eyes. He was a mess. Blood shot eyes, a near full grown beard, emaciated features, greasy limp hair. I could smell him from four feet away. I hid my emotions and asked him if Tessa was in? he looked puzzled but was actually quite polite and stated I must have the wrong flat as he had lived there for ten years. I got talking to him and when he said he was going to the local shop I pretended I needed some stuff as well. We spoke a little on the way there. It was 10 a.m. and when he bought a litre of the cheapest vodka that sealed the fact he was an alcoholic. I couldn't believe it. Not content with destroying his own liver he was now well on the way to destroying my Nicks liver and I wasn't going to have that. Over the course of another two weeks I checked up on him. Every day he went down to that shop at 10 a.m. Everyday he bought a litre of vodka. Sometimes he would buy a loaf of bread or some own brand beans but it was always the vodka first. He was the only recipient I really hated. A no hoper whose life added up to zero. He had done nothing, achieved nothing and was nothing. On the day I freed my Nicks liver I paced around all day. I ended up going for a walk. It was all a blur. I walked for hours but took nothing in, sights, sounds, smells. I called in at the Tesco store just off St John's high street and bought two litres of Smirnoff vodka. I went round to his flat at 8 p.m. and knocked on the door. When he opened the door he was initially surprised. He was well on his way to drunkenness and as I held up the two bottles I was about to go into a well thought out reason why I was calling round again but he simply invited me in and was prowling around me staring at the vodka bottles like an expectant cat waiting to be fed as its owner spoons the cat food into a bowl.

I handed him one of the bottles and said that was for him and the other was mine. He took it from me and meandered back into the living room. He pressed play on the CD player and beckoned for me to sit down. He poured himself a large glass which he drunk with relish, letting out a satisfied sigh. I took out the paper cups I had brought and used one. The other bottle I had was actually filled with water.

We sat in silence for a bit but then he started to ramble on. The words were slurred and incoherent; the randomness of his vocal tirades was surreal. I heard things like 'in the 60's', 'the fucking bitch', 'bloody government'. In the end I just kept pouring and making him drink as quickly as he could. But he seemed to absorb it like a sponge. I couldn't take anymore.....I went to the bathroom taking my bag with me. The gun was in there. It felt cold to the touch. The heaviness of the thing stressed its dangerousness to me, the power it held, the consequences of its use, the destroyer of men. I put it in my coat pocket and walked back in. I turned up the stereo and walked behind him. He didn't change, he didn't look, and he just kept on talking. I put the pillow to the back of his head and fired all in one motion....the noise wasn't as loud as I thought it would be, although the ferocity of the kick back and the damage it had caused were undeniable. The gun fell out of my hand and I dropped the pillow to the side. I just stood there. Probably for about ten minutes or so. Frank Sinatra was belting out the tunes as I was just staring downwards. The force of the blast had torn a hole in the drunks head. He had fallen forwards onto his filthy rug. It was this big thick mottled thing which was absorbing the blood and gore. He meant more to me dead than alive. At least dead he was useful. At least dead I could proceed; at least dead he was no longer a burden to the neighbours, the government, the world.'

She paused for a minute then. The interview room was still. The only noise was from the recording equipment. She was staring at the table, her breath shallow, her arms folded across her chest as if comforting her from the maelstrom of emotions and memories which were coursing through her brain.

'I turned the music down then. I dragged his body into the bathroom. The blood was everywhere and was going to get a lot worse. I found all the towels he had. They were grey, shabby, and rotting away...just like he had been. I put them around the body, took out my equipment and performed the operation in a few minutes. It was easy. I was going to sew him back up again but then thought why bother. He had no dignity in life so why should I give him any in death. I put Nicks liver into the freezer bag and walked out. I never even looked back. As I got outside I closed the door quickly and a little too noisily, but no one cared, no one stirred, no one bothered. I put my hat back on, pulled the collars of my coat up and got out of there quickly. When I got home, I immediately showered. I felt dirty. I needed to wash away the filthy life that he had led. I made myself a drink and went to bed. I felt no remorse, no anger, no pain. Just contentment, satisfaction, almost pleasure. It spurred me on to complete my task......that night I slept soundly for the first time in two years.'

Ian Carragher and Lisa McGeorge just glanced at each other. The last ten minutes had been illuminating, and had given a real insight into the type of person who was sitting in front of them. The type of person who had begun this killing spree with a crazy mixed up idea in their heads, the type of person who may illicit pity, show remorse, and realise the absurdity and brutality of their work to one who had gotten a taste for it. The reason for killing was now almost secondary to the release and serenity with which killing gave them. He imagined she couldn't wait to kill again. This explained the frequency of the murders. Once Saul Barraghan had been despatched the rest had to follow quickly to satiate her need to kill. All sympathy exited Ian Carragher at that moment for he knew the original innocent, poor mixed up and deluded Jane had been lost.

'Mel Johnston was next on the list' Jane continued without being prompted or cajoled. 'I had watched him the closest. He and his wife Carol had a great life. A lovely flat in Hampstead, two good jobs. I used to follow them as they went out and about around London with their friends. To restaurants, to bars, to the theatre, to art galleries, to concerts. They were so happy together. The more I followed, the more I saw and the more I thought how that was the life me and Nick should have had. Over the weeks I had originally followed them I went from a feeling of sadness to one of jealousy, envy and hate. They had become everything I had wanted. They were everything I needed. I wanted them to feel my pain, to understand the hurt of losing someone. If I could share the burden I thought it would help. Maybe it would somehow appease my pain. To know that someone else was going through what I went through.

The night before I didn't sleep at all. I stayed up all night just staring out of the window. The memories of me and Nick going to the cinema, to restaurants, bars, the theatre, blended with the observations I had made of Carol and Mel until they all meshed together into an incomprehensible mix of thoughts and feelings. My head needed to be clear. The memories of me and Nick must be kept intact. Once Mel was dead my thoughts would be clear, the memories restored to their original state and I would be okay again.

Mel ran every morning without fail. His timekeeping was almost robotic. There were times when my watch would tick to exactly 6am to the second and the front door would open. I was so confident of this I walked up to the door at 5:59:30. No need to ring the bell, no need to cause alarm. I heard him coming down the stairs. As the bolt on the door clicked and he opened the door I stood there, the kitchen knife at waist height. As he looked up the incredulity of what greeted him was etched all over his face. He kept looking at my face and then the knife, the knife then my face. He was gob smacked. I flicked the knife towards the stairs and he retreated slowly. I closed the door behind me and led him up the stairs. He tried to speak, tried to reason with me but I shut him up every time. His body was tense with fright. The fight or flight instinct was being submerged under his conscious will to live and therefore only co-operation at this juncture would suffice. We got into the flat. As he turned round I brought my hand up and in one motion struck him on the side of his temple with the statue. He fell over and hit his head on the coffee table. He was out cold. Blood was oozing from where I had hit him and the other side of his face was expanding with a dark purple shade as the force of the smack on the coffee table led his face to bruise over quite quickly and heavily. I injected him in his neck and he was stone dead within five minutes. In that five minutes I went to the bathroom cupboard and took out the towels he had, putting them in a ring around him. Cutting him open and taking out his heart was messy work, but I covered him up as much as possible so only his chest was visible. It made him seem less human that way. Cutting his ribcage was tough and there was blood everywhere, but the towels did their job. As I took off my overalls afterwards having packed everything away I saw the photos of the two of them everywhere. On top of the television, on the kitchen table, in the bedroom, the bathroom, everywhere. Both of them always smiling, always happy, a look of contentment and love forever captured, printed off and framed for all to see......I smashed every one of them. It felt symbolic. The happiness had ended....'

Jane shifted in her seat. She picked up her now cold coffee and drank what was left. She took a deep breath, shook out her arms as if warming up for a fitness class and looked at the two officers.

'Shall I continue?'

Ian and Lisa just nodded in unison. Lisa had stopped making notes. She felt a hint of guilt as she became absorbed in the detail, as Jane bared her soul she was fascinated at the journey she had taken, the person she had become. She didn't hate Jane, in-fact it probably didn't matter who was sitting in front of her, it was more the gravity of the situation that got to her, the fact that a fellow human being was sitting opposite but that she almost seemed like she was from another planet.

Jane continued...'Olney was a lovely place. I enjoyed it there. I was originally going to stay for two nights but it was that nice I stayed longer. The small shops, the open countryside, the village atmosphere was lovely. It felt like a holiday. To get out of London was exhilarating. I had been enveloped in the madness for too long. The clarity of my thoughts sharpened. David Holmes was no longer David Holmes, it was just another thing. A task which needed to be completed no bigger a deal than washing your car, doing your ironing or buying the weekly food shopping. I knew he would be fishing. What a ridiculous pastime, just another excuse to get drunk and waste your life away. To this day I still can't remember what he looked like. I knew his routine. I got up in the middle of night and slipped out. He was already fast asleep when I found him. The needle in the neck certainly woke him up but he didn't even look round before falling into the water. Cutting him open was clean and easy, the water took away the mess and I could operate unrestricted.'

'Do you not realise the pain you caused his family?' enquired Ian. 'His parents, his sisters, his brothers, his friends? What did David Holmes ever do to you? Since when did he become worthless? He was a human being, with every right to live as all your other victims. If you are so cold, so calculating, so insensitive, so evil, then why couldn't you kill little Sally Jensen? Surely she was nothing, just another 'task' another 'action' to tick off your 'to-do' list.' Ian let the questions hang.

Jane's face changed when she heard the name Sally. It seemed to soften, the steeliness in the eyes, the tight lipped crossed arm crossed legged head down fury and defensiveness seemed to fade. She leaned forward and whispered in a barely audible voice 'because she reminded me of me...' Tears welled up in her eyes. She began to cry, just tears at first sneaking out of her eyes and down her cheeks. But then the sobs started, great heaving sobs, the tears cascading down her face. She doubled over putting her head in her hands, her nose was running through her fingers, the tears kept on coming...it was time to take a break. Ian quickly stated for the benefit of the tape, 'Interview suspended for fifteen minutes'.

He got up and walked out of the room, not bothering to look back. Jane's sobs following him down the corridor. He didn't stop until he got outside. It was 5 p.m. He was standing on the ground floor of the multi storey car park in the smoking area. He had never felt the need for a cigarette until now, but instead he just paced up and down, with his hands in his suit jacket pocket. He looked at his watch for what seemed like an eternity. The time didn't really register. It had been a traumatic day. He wanted to speak to his wife. He took out his mobile phone and called her. She didn't answer. It went to voicemail after six rings. She must be working he thought. He couldn't even remember. The beep of the voicemail prompt surprised him and he took a couple of seconds to gain his composure. 'Hello hot stuff, only me. Sorry I haven't been in touch, the interview has been going on all this time. Its quite heavy stuff. Just wanted to speak to you to hear your voice, but its okay. I will be home by ten. I love you.' He pressed cancel to end the call. He hadn't said 'I love you' so much to his wife in a long time. Jesus Christ, he thought, if it takes a serial killing psychotic woman to make him tell his wife he loves her he's in serious trouble.' Strangely he laughed to himself. He didn't really know why. Maybe his body just needed a release. He composed himself, straightened his tie, brushed down his trousers and jacket, put his hands through his hair and headed back inside. 'Let's get this over with and get out of here' he thought to himself as he opened the fire door and headed back inside.

Chapter 23 – 'She wants what?'

Jane was calm and composed when the interview re-commenced. Her eyes were red and she was still sniffing a little. A tight ball of tissue paper was in her left hand and she dabbed at her nose as she sniffed as Ian began the questioning.

'So why did you leave Sally that night then Jane? Why could you not go through with it? What was going through your mind when you were sat in the walk in wardrobe for hours on end?

'Because I'm not a monster' Jane paused for a while, lost in her thoughts 'If I'd kept my baby I wondered if she would have looked like Sally. She was laying there, asleep, innocent, contented. As two people we could not have been further apart. It was at that point that I knew it had to stop. It had gone far enough. There was a final act I would have needed to do but that's irrelevant now. When you caught me, I didn't know what to do. It was never something I considered. My life meant less to me than the victim's lives I took. I felt nothing.....' she let her words hang in the air as she stared at PC McGeorge and DI Carragher.

'But where have you been living? What have you done with the other body parts? The other families need closure on this. Please Jane, you need to tell us, you need to at least try and make some amends for the damage and grief you have caused.'

Jane considered this for a minute. The whir of the tapes in the tape players and the buzz of the lighting were the only sounds. 'I will take you there. I will show you. But I will only show you, I will not give an address, I will not give you any clues. If I can show you then that will give me closure, after that, whatever you do to me is fine by me.'

Ian considered this. He looked at Mcgeorge who simply shrugged.

'I will go and ask my boss. If he agrees we go tomorrow, case closed, all ends tied up. For the benefit of the tape interview closed at 6:25 p.m.'

PC McGeorge led Jane away, back down to the cells. He went straight up to see Chief Superintendant Bishop. He knocked on the door and entered, not bothering to wait for a reply.

Commissioner Bishop was on the phone. He looked up and frowned at DI Carragher but quickly ended his call and beckoned Ian to sit down.

'Well?' Bishop asked, with raised eyebrows

'Interview has gone well, its all on tape. The only thing missing is the whereabouts of the body parts. She has offered to take us to them but she refuses to tell us where they are.'

'She wants to what?'

'She will show us where she has been hiding, we can also collect valuable evidence and retrieve the body parts but she wants to take us there.'

Bishop leaned back in his chair and contemplated the decision. The case could be put to bed by tomorrow if he agreed. The kudos from his bosses for a case well handled would be immense. He couldn't resist.

'Okay, but do it quietly. 6 a.m. get her out of here in an unmarked car. Just you her, and PC McGeorge and keep her handcuffed. Get her there, call it in, and get her back here. No risks, no tricks, no silly ideas. Got that....'

'Yes chief, excellent, lets do it.' Ian stood up and was making his way out when Bishop interrupted his exit...

'Oh and DI Carragher, it pains me to say this but well done. Excellent work'

'Cheers big man' Ian responded in that stupidly over friendly manner of his. He closed the door behind him and went to tell McGeorge the news. He then picked up his stuff, got in his car and went home. Tomorrow was the day, the case would be closed, and he could file the report and take some time off. He looked at himself in the rear view mirror. He looked a mess, bloodshot eyes, three day stubble, and his odour was in between disappointing and disgusting. He smiled slightly. It had been a crazy few months. The case had been a difficult one, the stresses and strains had started to take their toll but the case had also helped him. He'd realised what was important in life. He realised he and wife needed to move on. They needed to start enjoying life. A couple more days and that would be it.

_Let's see what tomorrow brings_ thought Ian.....

### Chapter 24 – 'Oi Ayrton...you wanna slow it down a bit'

'Click click click click click...the indicator roared as DI Ian Carragher turned left out of New Scotland Yard. It didn't really roar, that was an exaggeration, only lions roar, but Ian hated that noise. It was one of his pet hates. How stupid do you need to be to not realise that your indicator is on. He was never sure why it actually annoyed him but it did. When he was driving about if someone coming towards him had left their indicator on he would flash his lights and point vigorously whilst mouthing the words 'you have left your indicator on, you have left your indicator on' as his mind inadvertently finished the sentence with 'you stupid fucking retard'. On the motorway if he saw someone doing it he would pull up alongside and point vigorously, like an Englishman on holiday in a shop who can barely speak his own language, never mind somebody else's. Sometimes he would get a polite thank you or a thumb's up. Other times he would just be ignored, which got him even more wound up. Somebody had once completely blanked him. He must have spent ten minutes trying to get him to turn it off. In the end he sped off swearing like an over excited teenager with tourettes. What he had really wanted to do was pull the idiot over, drag him out of the car, pull his arm off and wave it in front of the mans face shouting 'TICK TICK TICK...do you realise you have even lost your arm you fucking Neanderthal', before beating him to death with it then getting rid of the evidence (but not before turning his indicator off of course).

It was early, 5:50 a.m. They had borrowed an unmarked police car. It was a brand new VW Passat. Black, non-descript, standard interior, plastic everywhere. PC McGeorge was in the back. She was in plain clothes. He had told her to dress down, she had wondered whether jeans and a t shirt would be okay and Ian had mentioned the fact a bikini would be just fine with him, which of course had led to the usual five second icy stare from McGeorge and a brief shake of the head in admonishment of his error before she'd turned and wandered off. She was in the back seat handcuffed to Jane. Ian had a whole host of comments lined up as she pulled out the handcuffs but McGeorge just looked at him and said coldly 'not a fucking word, just for once, don't say it.'

Ian yawned, for about the twentieth time that morning. He had got up at 4 a.m. His wife was on nights so it was up to him to get himself up. Between the bedside alarm, his phone alarm and his watch alarm he had managed it. His zombie like state had continued up to this point. The cup holders below the CD radio player of the Passat held Ian's starbucks Grande cappuccino. He had ordered an extra two shots of caffeine and shoved five sugars in it. The wooden stirrer had practically stood up in the drink. The twin stimulants of caffeine and glucose were just starting to hit his blood stream.

In the back Jane was sitting there, absent-mindedly staring out of the side window. Ian watched her in the rear view mirror. She never blinked, never turned her head to focus on something interesting she had seen. The world raced past her, nothing registering. She was sitting there in new jeans and a plain white t shirt. A blue cap with an NY motif on the front in white, pulled low over her eyes. She had pulled the ponytail of her shoulder length brown hair through the back of the cap. She looked tired. Worn out. Finished. She had refused to tell them the exact address, simply saying 'head for Brighton, go down the M23 and I will tell you when to turn off'. There had been nothing else. They had tried but Jane knew as soon as she told them it would jeopardise her chances of actually being taken there.

The roads were reasonably empty. However the day had started cloudy. There was a storm in the air, as the clouds began to gather in the distance almost like a metaphor for the day's troubles ahead. The radio was tuned to classic FM. The volume was on low, the violins, piano concerto's and clarinet symposiums a distant melodic sound which could be heard but lacked the voluminous depth required to fully comprehend the composer's mood.

McGeorge was making her way through a stack of magazines. Heat, Marie Claire, Okay, Hello. Ian hated those magazines, didn't all men. But then at the same time how many men had actually read them. All of them in most likelihood. It was like a visual drug. What was Brad Pitt, Angelina Jolie, Puff Daddy or P Diddy or Duff Paddy or whatever the hell he was known as this month up to? To see George Clooney with yet another bevy of beauties in some idyllic location, sipping champagne at a top hotel or multi million dollar mansion meant hints of jealousy and envy came to the fore. I _bet you he hires someone to turn off his car indicator light_ thought Ian with a smirk. Turning the pages and seeing Jessica Alba, Gisele Bundchen, Cameron Diaz et al looking hotter and hotter, wearing less and less. He had once idly picked up Hello magazine and seen Elle McPherson topless on a beach and nearly wept with joy.....he was almost moved to tears thinking about it now. 'Ding Dong' he whispered absent-mindedly to himself.

'What?' McGeorge looked up inquisitively.

'Err, nothing, its okay. I was miles away there.'

'Jane, how are you doing back there? Do you need anything' Ian asked quickly trying to change the subject.

Jane looked up and shook her head as minimally as was humanly possible.

They had left London behind without incidents or traffic jams. The M25 was unrecognisable. There were only a few cars on it and Ian actually gunned the accelerator and hit a hundred MPH. The engine roared in response and the noise coming in from the slightly ajar windows increased significantly.

'Oi, Ayrton...you wanna slow it down a bit.' Scolded McGeorge.

'Sorry, but look at it, it just had to be done.'

They carried on and joined up with the M23 heading South. They headed past Crawley and Gatwick airport. The planes were coming in and out very regularly. Ian looked up and wondered, as everybody probably does, where was it going? It was the wrong time of the year for the hillbilly express to Torremelinos or the chav's flight to Kos. Full of girls in pink velour tracksuits and gold jewellery, lads in baseball caps, number one shaven heads, and tracksuits...already acting crass and rowdy as they emptied the bar of all available alcohol. Both sexes looking round the plane, eyeing one another up like two tribes. Trying to see who would be their first notch on the bed post after a night of tacky music and immense amounts of alcohol. The British on tour what a lovely advertisement for the country

As they got onto the A23 Jane looked up. 'Head for Brighton' She stated obtusely.

'And whereabouts in Brighton are we headed then Jane??'

'Who says we are headed anywhere near Brighton?'

'Fair enough...' Ian knew it was pointless. When they got there, they would get there.

They came over the hill and could see the sea. Ian hadn't been near the sea in ages. The great metropolis of London had consumed his and his wife's time. They had become sucked into the maelstrom of a capital city, which was full on twenty four hours a day, where the days merged into weeks, the weeks months, and then the months, years. They hadn't had a holiday for three years. They had taken time off but never really done anything. It had always been quite subdued and they had never really taken long off anyway, preferring to take the available overtime at their respective places of work and just get on with what they felt comfortable with. It was only when he saw the sea that he knew he had to get away. The holiday he and his wife were planning now had to happen. It was time to get on with life, move on, enjoy life again.

As they got to the roundabout near the famous Brighton hotel 'The Grand', 'Turn left', Jane stated matter-of-factly. Head for Rottingdean. They drove slowly along the coast. The sky was a battleship grey, the sea matching the sky's dowdy foreboding colours like a mirror. The sea was rough, white crests of colour were interspersed over the horizon as far as the eye could see. There were some ships out on the horizon, vast container ships laden with hundreds of containers from around the world, filled with everything that mankind could make, from toys to engineering equipment, furniture, clothing, electrical goods, the lot. Nearer to the shoreline Ian could see the fishermen heading back in from their expedition. Their nets neatly stacked at the back of the boat, seagulls flying round and round like protective jets around an aircraft carrier. Just waiting for any morsel which would be thrown overboard and they could dive down and get. Their noisy squawking a plea to the fishermen to share their bounty could be heard even with the windows of the car closed. They continued on their journey, all three of them lost in their own thoughts as the minutes ticked by and they got ever nearer their final destination.

As they got to Rottingdean, they were then instructed by Jane to head past Rottingdean and on to Peacehaven.

As they entered Peacehaven Jane became more animated.

'Here, you will need to park here.' She stated emotionally vigorously pointing to the car park area which was obvious to the eye and more showed up the feelings that were stirring within Jane.

Ian saw a small car park. He looked a little confused. There were some houses to the left, that must be it he thought.

Ian turned off the engine. He asked McGeorge to wait in the car a minute. Ian got out, stretched and looked around.

They were now all out of the car. Jane was still handcuffed to McGeorge, a coat was draped between them and they stood close together so as to hide the prisoner's shackles. Jane began walking. They headed across the road and walked down a small path to a row of four terraced houses. They were simple two up two down affairs. Red brick, old fashioned chimney stacks, large sash windows. The views out to sea were wonderful.

They stopped outside number four. Ian looked at Jane 'So come on then clever clogs, how, do we get in? You don't have a key?'

'Look under the plant pot' Jane motioned with her head. Sure enough under there was a key to the front door.

'That's not original, is it? Aren't you frightened you might get broken into and robbed?'

'Oh lets see shall we' began Jane sarcastically, 'I've been wandering around the country in a daze of unhappiness, despair, looking for redemption by killing people and extracting various body parts...so no, I AM NOT FUCKING BOTHERED!!'

Ian raised his eyebrows. It was a stupid question he reasoned. Anyway he shook his head and put the key in the lock. He turned it left, then right, he kicked the door, he barged the door with his shoulder, it never moved.

'No no no, for Gods sake what are you doing?? You have to have a knack with it, let me try' Jane stated.

Ian pondered this for a minute. He wanted closure and they were virtually there. 'McGeorge, take the cuffs off. We are here now. The rest of the team will be here in fifteen minutes so we have no worries. Let's just get in and get this sorted.'

'But Ian you can't do that, it's risky.'

'McGeorge just do it.' Ian commanded interrupting her mid-flow.

McGeorge took the cuffs off. She and Ian both stood in the way of Jane. Without hesitation she grabbed the door and did this weird twisting key, pulling the door towards her thing. After even more jiggling (of the door, not Jane) it opened. The door creaked open in slow motion like in an old black and white horror movie. The house was still. There was no hallway; they were straight into the living room. They all walked in and closed the door behind them. Jane looked round affectionately. Ian and Lisa looked around in astonishment. The whole of the living room had photos of her and Nick up. There was a large one which had been blown up. It was of seven very happy people in a nightclub. It was obvious this was the night it happened. Ian recognised the clothes Nick was wearing. It was all in the report on Nick's death. All seven of them had eyes as wide as saucers. Over the rest of the walls were standard photo sized pictures. There were hundreds of them. Various scenes and states of dress, on a beach, in a bar, in Paris, with friends, on Primrose Hill having a picnic. All sorts.

'When I am here I just sit here and stare at them' Jane said breaking the silence. 'Sometimes I lose whole days just looking. The picture on the wall is the last night we were together...the night Nick died. Look how happy we all are. We had a great life. It was perfect. And then it all went so horribly wrong. I've lost everything, my job, my money, my friends, my health, my happiness, my Nick and now my life....'

The words hung in the air. Finally Ian walked through into the kitchen. He looked out into the tiny garden and saw everything. There was a small brass plaque surrounded by four small lights. The plaque simply said 'My nick' and surrounding it were four fresh mounds of earth.....Benjamin James Langans corneas, Mel Johnston's heart, Saul Barraghan's liver and David Holmes pancreas...or I suppose according to Jane, Nicks corneas, Nicks heart, Nicks liver, Nicks pancreas. Ian let out a sigh, shook his head and muttered under his breath 'it's over....'

### CHAPTER 25 – 'I'm okay, I'm okay....'

There was a commotion in the living room....Ian heard McGeorge let out a yell then there was a terrible crashing sound. Ian awoke from his thoughts and raced into the living room. Mcgeorge was lying on the floor she had gone straight through the glass coffee table. There was blood everywhere. She lay on her back, dazed and confused, covered in tiny shards of glass, numerous cuts covered her face and arms and there was a nasty few slices on her body where pieces of glass were either sticking out, or had badly sliced her skin. She was shaking and staring upwards at the ceiling, her breath was shallow and rapid

'LISA, LISA, ARE YOU ALRIGHT, ARE YOU BADLY HURT ANYWHERE.' Ian bellowed at her. He was shaking himself now, the shock and mayhem which had erupted from the moment of serenity not twenty seconds before was palpable.

'I'm okay, I'm okay, they will all be here in a minute, for Gods sake go and get Jane.'

Ian jumped up and out the door. In the brief struggle with Lisa, Jane had lost her baseball cap. She was running towards the car, her hair was blowing in the wind. The weather had really taken a turn for the worse and the rain lashed down with a vengeance. Ian tried to run but he was wearing his work shoes and so grip was an issue. He couldn't really get any real pace into his stride as he slipped and slided on the wet grass like a latter day Bambi on ice. Plus Jane was running like a woman possessed. He screamed after her 'JANE, JANE, STOP, WHAT ARE YOU DOING, STOP.' But it was pointless. She ran straight across the road directly towards the car. A car coming the other way screeched to a halt. The driver leaning on his horn and shouting obscenities at her as he missed her by inches.

She was near the car now. Ian thought he could catch her by the time she got into the car but then he realised it wasn't the car she was headed for. She ran straight through the small car park, over the small barrier fence and off towards the cliffs.....

The rain was really lashing down hard now. The wind was whipping it round with a fury as it rumbled off the English Channel. He had only run a couple of hundred meters but his heart and head pounded. The adrenalin was coursing through his veins; he ignored the pain in his legs and the stitch in his side as he pounded on towards Jane.

Jane had stopped on the edge of the cliff. On a part that jutted out into the sea. She was practically over the edge already. Ian came to a skidding stop six or seven metres away from her. Jane stood there. The wind and rain were pummelling her from all sides. Her white t shirt was soaked through, revealing her bra underneath as it clung to her body. Her hair was almost horizontal in the wind. Some of it was stuck to her face. She swiped it away so it joined the rest of her hair trailing in the wind. She took a deep breath and looked at Ian. She smiled at him, a calm knowing smile. Her eyes finally looked happy again. The years she had seemed to pile onto her face over the last few days had vanished.

'JANE, PLEASE DON'T DO THIS, YOU NEED HELP, YOU CAN GET OVER THIS, WE CAN HELP YOU, YOU HAVE BEEN THROUGH SO MUCH, DON'T DO THIS, DON'T....'

Jane took a longing look out to sea and launched herself forward. Ian jumped at her, and lay sprawled in the colourful heather that clung to the hillside. He looked over the edge; the waves pounded the shoreline with immense power. The froth and the sea spray were rising halfway up the cliff face. He looked through the rain, the wind, the waves, but there was nothing...she was gone.

Officers came racing over to where Ian was lying. He was now laying on his back, covered in mud, soaked through, a complete mess. He was shivering as well but he didn't notice. Two officers tried to say things to him but he couldn't understand, it was like he was underwater. He just stood up slowly and whispered, 'she's gone, she jumped, there was nothing I could do...I tried to save her...I tried to....'Ian trailed off

They headed back to the small car park. There was an ambulance and various unmarked and marked police cars there. A medic headed over and placed a blanket round his shoulders. He was about to ask but he saw Lisa McGeorge on a stretcher being carried out of the house and coming towards the ambulance.

She looked at him as she was being put in the ambulance and Ian just shook his head. She looked awful. There would be some serious questions to answer over this, but he didn't care. It had all been too much, he'd had enough. He had been sleep walking through the past three years and it was time for a change. His wife needed one too, and he was going to make damn sure they got it.....

### Chapter 26 – 'I was going to wait until tonight but I can't'

Ian put his arm in the air to attract the attention of that most joyous of sights, the afternoon tea trolley. He was lying on a luxurious recliner by the pool hiding under a parasol, keeping one hundred percent of himself in the shade as if he had vampire blood coursing through his veins and the slightest ray of sunshine to hit him would have him hissing in pain before going up in a puff of smoke. It was probably classed as far too hot for tea. It was a solid thirty three Celsius so it was well on its way to a hundred Fahrenheit pretty soon.

However no matter the temperature a cup of tea was essential, and besides you couldn't adequately wash down three slices of cake with a glass of water. Louisa was lying next to him, engrossed in another romantic novel of swash buckling derring do. She was tanning nicely, the factor 6 sun cream had been applied liberally and was a good step down from the initial factor 25 she had started with two weeks ago. It was early November and they were both lying by the poolside of the Crocodile Island resort in Luxor, Egypt. The resort was, as the name suggests on an island out in the river Nile, however the Crocodile bit was false, which was a relief. It had a number of bungalows spread liberally across the island, where they also grew their fruit and vegetables and tried to be as organic and kind to the world as possible. In the last two weeks they had visited the Valley of Kings, taken a balloon ride at sunrise, sailed down the Nile on a Verucca...sorry, Felucca and just relaxed by the pool and chilled out. Ian looked out over the pool and south down the river Nile to the distant bridge that spanned its width as the waiter deposited his tea and cakes next to him on the table to his right, briefly blocking Ian's view but quickly moving on to the rest of the sun worshippers. Ian picked up his tea and took a sip, allowing his mind to wander and take stock of the last six weeks.

The aftermath of Jane's suicide had proved quite an experience. He had been interviewed by the Police Complaints Commission, Chief Superintendant Bishop, his own direct boss and various other committees. The news of the suicide had been front page news for over a week as the details seeped out into the public domain. Meeting after meeting he had repeated his story like a shamanic mantra, over and over again. He had taken full responsibility for his actions, openly admitting letting PC Lisa McGeorge take Jane Lawson's handcuffs off. In the end they all wrote the same thing which was it was a mistake but that his other actions relating to the case such as saving the eight year old girl and at least initially managing to bring Jane to justice without incident was commendable. He had requested some time off. Initially he was going to take holiday leave but after being given a psyche evaluation he was signed off work for two months for stress related fatigue.

However before going on leave he was approached by various newspapers for his inside story on the events leading up to her death. They were camped outside his house for days. He ended up having a couple of his colleagues posted outside to prevent intrusion. He initially said no, but the offers kept escalating until he ended up getting a call from Max Clifford who had helped many a star tell their story. Max offered to sort everything out from a contractual point of view and get him the best deal he could. After another week of phone calls phone calls and more phone calls Ian handed in his notice with the police and accepted an offer of £500,000 for his story from The Sun newspaper who were going to dramatise his recollections over a two week period. It had been easy money. He had sat down for two, four hour sessions with the reporter. They recorded everything and allowed Ian to freewheel through the story in the first session before asking more specific questions during the second session. As part of the contract he had been allowed to read the whole transcript and also agree to the content of the first week's stories and photos that would be run. The Sun had done its usual and overly dramatised some elements but he had been advised that it was going to happen as they had to sell newspapers. Actually his main priority was to see that Jane Lawson wasn't vilified too much and that the whole essence and ingredients of how she ended up doing the killings was fully conveyed. In the end the whole thing turned out nicely and he was offered additional guest appearances etc which he stated he would do when he got back from Egypt.

He'd had a great leaving party from the police. Most of them understood where he was coming from and so there was no animosity towards him. He was certainly going out on a high, and the drunken revelry that ensued was immense. He had forgotten most of it when he woke up on his sofa at 7 a.m. still fully clothed the stench of alcohol and the huge headache testimony to his imbibing largesse the night before. McGeorge had been promoted due to her part in the whole case, where she had exceeded her duties a number of times but was commended for them from all and sundry, and she still had nice boobs!! She'd admitted at Ian's leaving do that she would miss him but maybe not all the childish jokes and double entendres that flowed out on a daily basis.

So here he was lying on a sun lounger, just relaxing when his wife Louisa sat up and said 'I have some news'. Ian looked her in the face; she looked concerned, which was never good.

She paused for a minute then blurted out 'I was going to wait until tonight but I can't...I'm pregnant'.

The words hung in the air, Ian absorbed them slowly before a beaming smile flashed across his face and he just started laughing. He roughly kissed his wife on both cheeks and then her stomach before childishly dive bombing into the swimming pool and letting out a shout of happiness. He triumphantly stood up and raised his arms aloft 'Get in there you beauty' He looked to the clear blue sky, closed his eyes and thought, what a superb way to end a story, I should write a book about this, surely its easy, any idiot could do it.......

THE END

