The Rain Killer. Luke Delaney
to go see some of your lot in hotel rooms, but you don’t see your type cruising much. I assumed it was a cultural thing,’ she told him.
‘What’s your name?’ he asked, ignoring her observations.
‘Cantara,’ she answered. ‘My mum heard it somewhere when she was expecting me and liked it, so that’s me. Turn left up here then drive to the end of the road and turn right. A nice quiet little spot.’
‘You talk a lot,’ he told her unsmilingly. ‘The others didn’t talk too much.’
‘The others?’ she asked. ‘So I’m not your first then?’
He turned his head slowly towards her, his face a granite sculpture. ‘No,’ he told her. ‘You’re not my first.’ He followed her directions into a lifeless road with closed businesses on one side and a boarded-up building site on the other. He turned the headlights off and let the car roll to a halt by the kerb. As soon as the car stopped Cantara moved to open the passenger door, but his hand came from nowhere and gripped her tightly around the bicep. Her head spun back to look at him and for the first time he sensed fear in her – could see her eyes registering danger – but he knew she wouldn’t try to escape. Like all the others she would risk her life to get the cash she needed to buy her next fix of whatever it was she was addicted to: crack, heroin, alcohol, gambling. ‘Going somewhere?’ he asked coldly.
She managed an unconvincing smile before answering. ‘The back, of course,’ she explained. ‘We can’t do it
He stared deep into her eyes before releasing his grip. ‘Okay. We’ll get in the back.’
‘Leave the engine on,’ she told him casually. ‘I don’t want to freeze my tits off.’ He half nodded and watched her climb from the car only to reappear within seconds in the back – the doors closing so quickly one after the other that he could almost detect only one slamming sound. ‘You coming or what?’ she tried to hurry him. ‘I ain’t got all night, you know.’ He took a long, silent breath to calm his surging, almost uncontrollable need to devour her. Soon – soon the Great Snake would be feeding on her young, delicate body.
He slipped from the driver’s seat and into the freezing cold night air, the contrast with the warm comfort of the car invigorating him even more – tensing and preparing the muscles in his body for the exertion that lay ahead. It was as if he could feel the Great Snake awakening – its scales shifting slightly on top of each other as it began to uncoil and flex its huge muscles – stretching its jaw in preparation for swallowing its victim whole. He enjoyed the moment for as long as he dared before opening the rear door and climbing in the back next to Cantara, who was already loosening her clothing. For a moment he could do nothing but stare at her – so close to perfection – her slim neck and pale skin, her straight black hair and brown eyes. And she was young too – no more than twenty-three or four. She was almost everything he had hoped for. His heart began to beat faster, pushing blood around his body, oxygenating the muscles of the Great Snake – swelling its head as it prepared to seize her in its powerful jaws, from which there would be no escape.
‘D’you mind if I just pull my knickers to one side?’ she asked, ‘or d’you want me to take them off? Either way, you’ll have to wear one of these.’ She showed him the condom already palmed in her hand. ‘Can’t be too careful these days.’
‘You don’t understand, do you?’ His words confused and scared her. ‘You don’t understand what is happening to you.’
‘Hey,’ she told him, nervously pulling her clothing tight against her chest, ‘if you just want to talk – get something off your mind, that’s fine by me, but you still got to pay.’
‘The Great Snake
***
Detective Sergeant Sean Corrigan entered Streatham Police Station in south-east London and jumped the queue of customers
‘Through that door,’ he nodded, ‘then up the stairs and straight ahead on the first floor. It’s about halfway down the long corridor on your right. I think they’ve got a sign on the door or something.’
‘Thanks,’ Sean told him. He pushed through the now-open door and immediately entered the inner sanctum of a working police station, although without a lot of the noise and bustle he was used to. Most of the control and custody facilities had been moved away to Kennington and Brixton Police Stations since the Met introduced the borough policy for policing, leaving Streatham to be manned and run predominantly by constables and sergeants – those left behind feeling like a doomed patrol in some forgotten outpost, waiting for the ever-growing enemy forces that circled outside to finally wipe them out.
Sean climbed the stairs and walked along the narrow corridor, searching for the Heather Dylan Murder Enquiry Office. Since her death there had been four more victims, but as she was the first to die at the hands of the man the media had labelled The Reaper, the investigation would forever bear her name. Through her own violent death she had achieved infamy.
He spotted a couple of detectives spilling out from a door and assumed correctly it would lead to the incident room. This was not his usual stomping ground. Even as a fellow detective he was an outsider here – respect and trust would have to be earned. The investigation had already been running for almost a year and still no significant arrests had been made. His sudden appearance would be treated with great suspicion and he knew it. Don’t be a bull in a china shop, he warned himself. Take a little time. Keep your eyes and ears open and your mouth shut. He took a steadying breath and entered the office.
If he’d been expecting the room to fall silent and all heads to turn towards him then he’d have been disappointed. His entrance was met with complete indifference. Outside a police station a cop’s instinct was always to look at anyone and everyone who walked through the door, but inside was very different – as if outside rules didn’t apply here – as if it was safe ground.
Sean grabbed the attention of the first person who tried to walk past him – a female detective in her early thirties. ‘Excuse me,’ he asked, without telling her who he was. ‘Where can I find DI Ramsay?’
She looked him up and down for a second before jutting her chin towards a tallish, slim, athletic-looking man in his mid-forties with greying black hair and olive skin, wearing heavy-rimmed spectacles that enhanced his unarguably handsome features. ‘Over there,’ she told him.
Sean immediately picked out the man she meant from the small group of detectives who surrounded him and appeared to be hanging on his every word. ‘Thanks,’ Sean acknowledged her and headed towards Ramsay feeling calm and collected. He might be the outsider here, but he knew he had no small amount of power over the situation, and he enjoyed it – as if being assigned to the struggling investigation had given him an excuse not to try to fit in for once: if people didn’t like or understand him, it wouldn’t be his fault – it wouldn’t be because he could do things they could not, see things they could not, it would just be because he’d been parachuted into the middle of another Murder Investigation Team’s case. He didn’t expect to be accepted
When he reached the huddle he stood silently and a little closer than the accepted norm until the group eventually stopped talking and turned towards him. Ramsay spoke first. ‘Can I help you with something?’
‘DI Ryan Ramsay?’ Sean asked, offering his hand and an assassin’s smile.
‘Yeah,’ Ramsay answered, looking him up and down with unconcealed suspicion. ‘That’s me. Can I do something for you?’
‘DS