Read Online A Need To Kill (DI Matt Barnes) by Michael Kerr - Free Book Online
Authors: Michael Kerr
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had determined to seek them out, hear their contrition, and send them back to the hell that had spawned them. Their destruction alleviated the sense of injustice that gnawed away at his psyche, threatening to devour him if it was not fed.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Stumpy – as Pete had unkindly nicknamed the dwarf at the apartment block in Pimlico – kept up a barrage of questions as he accompanied Pete and Errol up to the sixth floor, to where a uniform was sitting on a plastic contour chair outside the door of Marsha’s apartment.
“ Thanks, Stum...er...Mr. Sumner, we’ll take it from here,” Pete said as the little man made to accompany them along the corridor.
A forensic team had swept the apartment, but Pete and Errol still donned gloves. They did not want to contaminate a scene that may yet throw up further clues.
“ So where do we look for a bunch of video cassettes?” Errol said. “They must take up a fair bit of room.”
“ Not if they’re on flash drives or those mini-tapes. But there should be a camera. Was one found?”
Errol had brought a copy of the inventory listing everything taken from the apartment. Ran his finger down it and shook his head.
“ Start in the kitchen,” Pete said. “I’ll turn the lounge over.”
It was ninety minutes later that Pete entered the bathroom. There was only one obvious place to look that was big enough to stash a camera and associated equipment. He checked the screws that secured the side panel of the bath. Slot, not cross headed. He made a trip to the kitchen – where Errol was on his knees, removing facia boards from the front of units to look behind them – and took a knife from the cutlery drawer. Back in the bathroom, Pete used the rounded tip of the knife’s blade to remove the screws. The gloomy space beneath the tub appeared to be devoid of anything but a coating of dust and small pieces of ceramic wall tile. But in a corner behind the water pipes that connected up to the base of the taps, in shadow as black as pitch, the beam from Pete’s penlight torch spotlighted an oblong shape. Laid flat out on the vinyl-covered floor, he stretched his arm out to retrieve it.
Bingo! It was a nylon carrying case of the type that held video cameras. Sitting with his back up against the rim of the bath, Pete pulled open the Velcro fastening to reveal the camera, batteries, leads, and most important, mini DV tapes crammed into every available space.
“ I think we hit the jackpot,” Pete said to Errol, holding up the bag as he walked past the kitchen door to the lounge. “Let’s have a quick shufti and see if this is what we’re after.”
Pete inserted a battery, turned on the camera and opened up the LCD screen, then selected a tape at random, loaded it and pressed the play button.
A title appeared first: John McAllister. 15/Nov/09.
“ Not the journalist who’s always ranting on about police brutality and civil rights?” Errol said, his broad smile revealing the small diamond that was imbedded in his left front incisor.
“ We should know any second,” Pete said as the writing faded and Marsha’s bed materialised. An image of the woman who he had last seen laying dead on the floor of the lockup walked into view and sat down on the edge of the bed. She stared straight at the camera while unfastening the black lacy bra and unleashing her enhanced but nonetheless magnificent breasts.
Errol sucked in his breath. “I think I’m in lust,” he said.
The man appeared in front of her, his broad and hairy back to the camera. He was naked, and as he went to her, she turned sideways and manoeuvred him into a position that disclosed his features.
“It is that bastard who badmouths us,” Errol said with feeling.
They watched as Marsha stage-managed the resulting session. McAllister ended up taking her from behind, facing them as he held on to her breasts as if for dear life. His face turned beetroot red as he
CHAPTER SEVEN
Stumpy – as Pete had unkindly nicknamed the dwarf at the apartment block in Pimlico – kept up a barrage of questions as he accompanied Pete and Errol up to the sixth floor, to where a uniform was sitting on a plastic contour chair outside the door of Marsha’s apartment.
“ Thanks, Stum...er...Mr. Sumner, we’ll take it from here,” Pete said as the little man made to accompany them along the corridor.
A forensic team had swept the apartment, but Pete and Errol still donned gloves. They did not want to contaminate a scene that may yet throw up further clues.
“ So where do we look for a bunch of video cassettes?” Errol said. “They must take up a fair bit of room.”
“ Not if they’re on flash drives or those mini-tapes. But there should be a camera. Was one found?”
Errol had brought a copy of the inventory listing everything taken from the apartment. Ran his finger down it and shook his head.
“ Start in the kitchen,” Pete said. “I’ll turn the lounge over.”
It was ninety minutes later that Pete entered the bathroom. There was only one obvious place to look that was big enough to stash a camera and associated equipment. He checked the screws that secured the side panel of the bath. Slot, not cross headed. He made a trip to the kitchen – where Errol was on his knees, removing facia boards from the front of units to look behind them – and took a knife from the cutlery drawer. Back in the bathroom, Pete used the rounded tip of the knife’s blade to remove the screws. The gloomy space beneath the tub appeared to be devoid of anything but a coating of dust and small pieces of ceramic wall tile. But in a corner behind the water pipes that connected up to the base of the taps, in shadow as black as pitch, the beam from Pete’s penlight torch spotlighted an oblong shape. Laid flat out on the vinyl-covered floor, he stretched his arm out to retrieve it.
Bingo! It was a nylon carrying case of the type that held video cameras. Sitting with his back up against the rim of the bath, Pete pulled open the Velcro fastening to reveal the camera, batteries, leads, and most important, mini DV tapes crammed into every available space.
“ I think we hit the jackpot,” Pete said to Errol, holding up the bag as he walked past the kitchen door to the lounge. “Let’s have a quick shufti and see if this is what we’re after.”
Pete inserted a battery, turned on the camera and opened up the LCD screen, then selected a tape at random, loaded it and pressed the play button.
A title appeared first: John McAllister. 15/Nov/09.
“ Not the journalist who’s always ranting on about police brutality and civil rights?” Errol said, his broad smile revealing the small diamond that was imbedded in his left front incisor.
“ We should know any second,” Pete said as the writing faded and Marsha’s bed materialised. An image of the woman who he had last seen laying dead on the floor of the lockup walked into view and sat down on the edge of the bed. She stared straight at the camera while unfastening the black lacy bra and unleashing her enhanced but nonetheless magnificent breasts.
Errol sucked in his breath. “I think I’m in lust,” he said.
The man appeared in front of her, his broad and hairy back to the camera. He was naked, and as he went to her, she turned sideways and manoeuvred him into a position that disclosed his features.
“It is that bastard who badmouths us,” Errol said with feeling.
They watched as Marsha stage-managed the resulting session. McAllister ended up taking her from behind, facing them as he held on to her breasts as if for dear life. His face turned beetroot red as he
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