been left well alone in many areas. The old adage, ‘If it ain’t broke, don’t fix it’, was still sound advice, though usually fell on deaf ears.
At fifty-eight, Ron was disenchanted with cutbacks, piss-poor management and what seemed like monthly changes to routines and shift patterns, which were aimed at saving money, but were continually presented as progress and the way forward, into chaos, by a department that had lost the plot.
Now, Ron had a plot; a plan of his own. He was starting a week of nights the following Tuesday, and had decided – in cold rage and a disturbed state of mind – that the same kind of scum who had taken his daughter’s life would not continue to be guest’s of her Majesty at the taxpayers’ expense. They would no longer demand escalating rights, watch TV and DVDs, play pool and snooker, and learn computer skills in the education department. He thought it fitting to mete out the sort of justice that they could have expected in bygone years, up until the abolition of topping. Fuck the do-gooders and prissy-arsed liberals that spouted off about the death penalty not being a deterrent. He had seen convicted murderers released to kill again, but had never heard of a hanged man re-offending.
On the first evening of his scheduled nights, Ron packed his holdall, placing inside it his sandwich box, thermos flask of coffee, a Wilbur Smith novel that he intended to finish, two boxes of heavy-load cartridges, and last but far from least, his over and under Browning Medallist 12 gauge shotgun, shortened into a sawn-off weapon that fitted into the bag without having to be dismantled.
“Look after her, Margaret,” Ron said, leaning over the back of the settee and kissing Brenda on her cold forehead; the skin of her face now drum-tight over cheekbones that threatened to pierce the taut parchment it had become.
“Don’t worry, Ron, we’ll be fine. You have a good night,” Margaret said, smiling, but not with her eyes.
“Oh, I will, I will,” Ron said, picking up his bag and his car keys from the telephone table in the hall, before leaving the house and closing the front door behind him for the last time.
CHAPTER SIX
SITTING under the hot lights, Laura could feel the perspiration prickling her scalp and dampening her armpits. Her blouse was stuck to her lower back. Opposite her, looking cool, fresh and smug was Trish Pearson, wearing a navy-blue power suit and silver Versace top, probably purchased from a discount designer outlet.
Laura needed this interview like a hole in the head, especially with this supercilious bitch conducting it. Unfortunately it had to be done. This wasn’t Crimewatch , but it would have to do for now. It was a chance to appeal for witnesses, and to warn young women of the threat that was out there, via what was a popular regional news show.
An anonymous voice counted down from five, and a red light blinked on, its ruby glow signalling that they were on air.
“Chief Inspector Scott,” Trish started, shooting from the hip after first greeting her viewers. “Is it correct that a serial killer known within your department as The Tacker is on the loose, preying on young women in the York area? And is it also true that the police...you, have no clues as yet to his identity?”
Laura cleared her throat and somehow resisted the overwhelming temptation to push ‘Barbie’ off her chair.
“It’s Detective Inspector,” she began, outwardly composed, fighting the urge to allow her temper out of its kennel like a rabid dog to attack the interviewer. “And yes, it is true that four murders have been committed, that we are attributing to being the work of the same individual. There is no apparent rational motive for the killings, and our investigation is ongoing.”
“Is it fair to say that you have no leads, and that we can expect more deaths?” Trish asked, shaking her head ever so slightly in a disdainful Thatcheresque manner
At fifty-eight, Ron was disenchanted with cutbacks, piss-poor management and what seemed like monthly changes to routines and shift patterns, which were aimed at saving money, but were continually presented as progress and the way forward, into chaos, by a department that had lost the plot.
Now, Ron had a plot; a plan of his own. He was starting a week of nights the following Tuesday, and had decided – in cold rage and a disturbed state of mind – that the same kind of scum who had taken his daughter’s life would not continue to be guest’s of her Majesty at the taxpayers’ expense. They would no longer demand escalating rights, watch TV and DVDs, play pool and snooker, and learn computer skills in the education department. He thought it fitting to mete out the sort of justice that they could have expected in bygone years, up until the abolition of topping. Fuck the do-gooders and prissy-arsed liberals that spouted off about the death penalty not being a deterrent. He had seen convicted murderers released to kill again, but had never heard of a hanged man re-offending.
On the first evening of his scheduled nights, Ron packed his holdall, placing inside it his sandwich box, thermos flask of coffee, a Wilbur Smith novel that he intended to finish, two boxes of heavy-load cartridges, and last but far from least, his over and under Browning Medallist 12 gauge shotgun, shortened into a sawn-off weapon that fitted into the bag without having to be dismantled.
“Look after her, Margaret,” Ron said, leaning over the back of the settee and kissing Brenda on her cold forehead; the skin of her face now drum-tight over cheekbones that threatened to pierce the taut parchment it had become.
“Don’t worry, Ron, we’ll be fine. You have a good night,” Margaret said, smiling, but not with her eyes.
“Oh, I will, I will,” Ron said, picking up his bag and his car keys from the telephone table in the hall, before leaving the house and closing the front door behind him for the last time.
CHAPTER SIX
SITTING under the hot lights, Laura could feel the perspiration prickling her scalp and dampening her armpits. Her blouse was stuck to her lower back. Opposite her, looking cool, fresh and smug was Trish Pearson, wearing a navy-blue power suit and silver Versace top, probably purchased from a discount designer outlet.
Laura needed this interview like a hole in the head, especially with this supercilious bitch conducting it. Unfortunately it had to be done. This wasn’t Crimewatch , but it would have to do for now. It was a chance to appeal for witnesses, and to warn young women of the threat that was out there, via what was a popular regional news show.
An anonymous voice counted down from five, and a red light blinked on, its ruby glow signalling that they were on air.
“Chief Inspector Scott,” Trish started, shooting from the hip after first greeting her viewers. “Is it correct that a serial killer known within your department as The Tacker is on the loose, preying on young women in the York area? And is it also true that the police...you, have no clues as yet to his identity?”
Laura cleared her throat and somehow resisted the overwhelming temptation to push ‘Barbie’ off her chair.
“It’s Detective Inspector,” she began, outwardly composed, fighting the urge to allow her temper out of its kennel like a rabid dog to attack the interviewer. “And yes, it is true that four murders have been committed, that we are attributing to being the work of the same individual. There is no apparent rational motive for the killings, and our investigation is ongoing.”
“Is it fair to say that you have no leads, and that we can expect more deaths?” Trish asked, shaking her head ever so slightly in a disdainful Thatcheresque manner
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