The Photographer (Book #1 D.I. Marsh series)

By Samantha Franklin

It had taken a long time to plan, to think things through, covering every detail, every possibility and now it was time to begin his work. He was not going to be second best any longer he was to take centre stage and be noticed. Yes, he most certainly was going to be noticed and prove to her that he was the best.

Taking a couple of steps backwards produced a smile across the now sweating face. It had been hard work but the results were very pleasing. A true artist has to put 110% into every detail of the planning and execution, yes that was the appropriate word, execution; the planning and execution of every artistic creation should be a window into the genius of the artist themselves.

This exhibition was very pleasing. Taking a last look around and straightening a black frame on the wall the artist collected the last of the preparation tools.

“Now for the public to marvel at my work and the journey to begin, my first exhibition is OPEN!” The Artist walked towards the door replacing the black leather gloves over long fingers, a satisfied grin broke through a cruel mouth. “Now Detective Marsh what will you make of my artistic style?” The door closed with a quiet click.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Samantha Franklin
• Release date: Feb 2, 2013
• ISBN: 9781301642786

Samantha Franklin

Books have always been a large part of my life from an early age. All my family were and still are passionate readers, therefore to progress onto becoming an author seemed natural. Most writers need to search for material or experiences to base their work on, this is were I differ from most writers; to say I have led a colourful, eventful life is possibly an understatement. Through a number of reasons I have experienced a variety of things such as, being an athletic champion, escaping an abusive marriage, working with young offenders, being a top field designer, a part time actress and model, and also being the victim of a murder attempt. Many people have suggested that I should one day write my life story, to which I answer "no one will ever believe it is a true story" therefore instead I use my experiences as a base for my novels. It is up to the reader to determine just which part I actually lived.

Book preview

The Photographer

By

Samantha Franklin

Published by Samantha Franklin at Smashwords.

Copyright Samantha Franklin, 2012.

The moral right of Samantha Franklin to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Design and Patents Act of 1988.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior permission of both the copyright owner and the publisher of this book.

This work is fiction. All characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either product of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously

To my family and friends who suffered my endless badgering for proof reading and constructive comments, I thank you all.

Prologue

It had taken a long time to plan, to think things through, covering every detail, every possibility and now it was time to begin his work. He was not going to be second best any longer he was to take centre stage and be noticed. Yes, he most certainly was going to be noticed and prove to her that he was the best.

Taking a couple of steps backwards produced a smile across the now sweating face. It had been hard work but the results were very pleasing. A true artist has to put 110% into every detail of the planning and execution, yes that was the appropriate word, execution; the planning and execution of every artistic creation should be a window into the genius of the artist themselves.

This exhibition was very pleasing. Taking a last look around and straightening a black frame on the wall the artist collected the last of the preparation tools.

Now for the public to marvel at my work and the journey to begin, my first exhibition is OPEN! The Artist walked towards the door replacing the black leather gloves over long fingers, a satisfied grin broke through a cruel mouth. Now Detective Marsh what will you make of my artistic style? The door closed with a quiet click.

Chapter 1

Displayed as though on show in an art gallery, the grotesque photographs, explicitly enlarged and in thick black frames hung on the walls of the one bed roomed flat, themselves acting as a framework around the horrific central exhibit; a ‘sculpture’ of a mutilated female body. The young woman had been suspended by wires fixed into the ceiling, she had been placed in a macabre imitation of a ‘glamour pose’, and a large, folded piece of card had been placed by her feet on which bold black lettering read ‘Glamour’. Each photograph had been taken as a detailed recording of the stages of her death and mutilation and had been numerically placed with a large number scrawled elaborately beneath each one. There were eighteen pictures in total; the photographer had obviously taken his time to record each dissection in detail. At the top left corner of the first image, that of the young victim tied to a chair visibly pleading for her life, was a piece of paper with the words cut from a newspaper proclaiming, ‘The Beginning’. The two Police Officers who had been the first to arrive could do nothing at first but gape in horror at the scene on display before them. The younger of the two vomited loudly in a corner.

My god, I thought I’d seen most things, but this! I’d better call for the big boys, Officer Mike Rogers, the elder of the two stepped back out through the doorway to the flat, took a deep breath and radioed Headquarters with the details.

On the third floor of the Police Headquarters sat the division of the ‘Main Incident Team’, this morning had started like most mornings for the team, sifting through the witness statements and then to try and isolate the ones that were actually genuine and were not punctuated with questions regarding the possibility of reward money for their information.

It never fails to amaze me, you know, the fact that some people would actually refuse to provide crucial information unless they received money, or the fact that they’d say whatever you want just to get money. Some people really exist on a different planet to the rest of us. D.I. Marsh sat at her desk scanning through a recent witness statement from a ‘supposed girl friend’ of a drug dealer.

Marsh! The booming vocals of the Chief Inspector rang throughout the offices, My office now.

After no more than a couple of minutes she returned with an unpleasant expression on her face.

Ah shit! D.I Marsh exclaimed. She walked across the office she shared with her partner Detective Barlow with the details of a recent murder they had been told to attend. Coffee breaks’ over it looks like we’ve got a new real sick bastard out there.

An ashen faced Constable approached them as they reached the brightly lit first floor corridor of the recently refurbished block of flats, he was a middle aged man, well built and normally unemotional, but now he was obviously visibly shaking.

I was first here ma am, control got a call about half an hour ago a male voice said there was a present for us in flat 6 Bailey Terrace. We had to contact the landlord to open up. He’s in ‘number 5’ getting a cuppa. Poor old guy passed out when he saw this lot; mind you I nearly did too. Smithson here he saw his breakfast again round that corner.

The Constable handed D.I. Marsh the landlord’s details and went outside for some fresh air himself. The Forensic team passed him on his way out of the main door and he shakily directed them up to the first floor flat. Marsh and her partner Barlow opened the plain white wooden door and entered a scene from an X rated horror film. The diabolical smell invaded their lungs causing them both to gag refusing to accept anymore of the foul aroma, even before their eyes had had a chance to focus on the atrocities laid out before them. Fighting against the natural repulsion instincts that hit them both they scanned the display before them. Barlow spoke in a deep throaty tone as he tried to control himself.

This guy is too organised to be a one hit wonder.

I agree, he’s precise and too detailed, look I need air for a minute, do you mind if I step out for a second? Marsh felt her stomach cramping and made for the door.

You sure, you are alright it’s not like you to come over all girly. Barlow looked at her paling face.

Ya I’m fine just a dodgy stomach this morning, think I may have a bit of a bug that’s all. I won’t be a minute and less of the girly bit. She turned for the door and closed it behind her welcoming the cleaner air.

In that short exposure the sickly sweet stench of blood and raw, rotting human flesh seemed to have crawled over every inch of her; digging into the depth of her pockets she found her trusty supply of peppermints, a tip she had learned from her family of detectives. Taking out a couple she popped both into her mouth and relished in the overpowering taste masking the aroma of the violent death. Leaning against the newly painted corridor wall she surveyed the layout of the floor. The three other apartment’s occupants on the first floor had been due to leave for work so after supplying their details and unhelpfully claiming not to have heard or seen anything, had left, leaving the remaining occupant of number 5, a pleasant retired woman with partial hearing but whom again could provide nothing useful, but had however kindly offered to take care of the poor landlord until the ambulance arrived. Marsh could not understand how all the occupants had said they had not heard or seen a thing, and yet so many atrocities had been committed in there. This was not exactly a noisy neighbourhood; in fact it was quite a respectable suburban area, so why no information, none of the people seemed to be too afraid to come forwards, they genially seemed to not have witnessed anything.

The blue and white crime scene tape was fluttering gently in the welcoming breeze from the open window at the end of the corridor, almost resembling party bunting, when the noise of advancing footsteps on the staircase caught her attention.

Hi Andrews, just arrived myself, seems we got a real nice one for you! Marsh signalled to them as they rounded the top of the stairs.

Malcolm Andrews a man of around forty but looked more like fifty, too many late nights, late meetings, late call outs, and too late to save his marriage had placed a look of ‘so what’s new’ on his face.

Morning Marsh, I’ve got John Taylor with me today he’s just transferred over from Liverpool.

Andrews introduced his colleague as they reached the door to the flat. John Taylor was a typical too tall, too dark, and much too handsome guy, with a boyish grin on his clean shaven face.

‘He won’t last a month’ she said to herself.

Flashing his smile in her direction he reached out his hand to her.

Not the best of timing for an intro I know but it’s nice to meet you D.I. Marsh, Malcolm here has told me briefly about you on the way over. ‘Got the looks of an angel but not a thug north of the gap would want her on their tail’, unquote.

Cheers for that Andrews, Marsh gave a half smile towards her old friend and turned back to his new partner, see how your stomach copes with that lot Taylor and we will see if you can stay the distance.

D.I. Marsh opened the door and the stench hit her again like a wall. The three of them stepped into the flat and Andrews involuntarily placed his gloved hand over his mouth. Taylor stifled a wretch and surveying the room before them; he turned to face them both and shook his head.

This is only the beginning you do realise, the simple fact of him displaying like this and the obvious attention to detail, there will be more.

Angela Marsh looked at him sarcastically, No shit Einstein, I think I’d already had that thought. No bastard spends this amount of time and effort on a one off, this sicko is here for the duration, he’s having too much of a good time.

Malcolm Andrews began walking around the small bedsit, Dictaphone in his hand he began recording his findings.

Small flat, one of a block of ten over three floors; all furniture had been removed previous to the incident; this is evident by the marks on the wooden floor. A Kitchenette is to the right of the entrance door which leads directly into the small Lounge area; eighteen photographs are hung on the walls in groups of six all are in mounted in black frames and numbered in numerical order, size approximately 12’x10’ all in colour and, oh my god, they show the detailed torture and murder of a young, blond white female; age about early twenties. The numbers are written in a red substance presumably victims own blood. The first image has the words ‘the beginning’ made up of words taken from a newspaper glued to a plain sheet placed in the top right corner of the frame. The victim’s body is placed in the centre of the lounge suspended by a series of wires attached to the ceiling. Hooks have been pushed through the limbs to hold them in a posed position, this pose is a typical ‘glamour’ style used in the model industry. Victim’s right hand is placed behind her head, at this point he had to stop talking unable to control the revulsion in his voice. It appears the hand has been nailed to the head, the left hand has been nailed to the left buttocks. Again Andrews had to stop and control his emotions for the recording of clear descriptions of the crime scene. The victim’s lips have been sewn together in a sort of pout and false eye lashes have been glued to her eyelids which also appear to have been sewn shut.

A shout came from the other side of the room, a detective had been investigating the closed doors one of which was the bedroom again empty of furniture, and the second was the bathroom.

Hey ma am I think you had better see this.

Moving carefully around the exhibit, Angela Marsh approached her colleague standing by a door in the far right corner of the lounge. He explained his discovery as she got closer.

Thought I’d better check the other rooms in case there are any other ‘exhibits’; I found more pretty gifts from our sick friend.

Following his gaze she ventured into the pale green room. In the white bathroom sink the young woman’s eyes and tongue lay in a small amount of water. Ah fucking hell! It gets worse; no wonder no one heard a thing he had cut out her fucking tongue! Hitting the wall with the palm of her hand the Detective Inspector stormed out of the room. Get prints off everything, and I mean everything, I’m getting some air. Ya, I know again.

An incident room was set up immediately at the Police Headquarters and of course the press where crawling all over trying to get any photographs and information available.

Is it true the girl was dissected? shouted one reporter.

Was her head really on a stake? one female reporter lurched forwards with a microphone. The two detectives fought their way from the car park as the press surrounded them, cameras flashed in their eyes and questions where shouted at them as they tried to ascend to the main door. An extra large microphone was thrust under D. I. Marsh’s nose.

Any comments you’d like to make on this murder Detective?

I thought you’d be here Alison, queen of the vultures around a fresh kill. She directed this comment towards an overly made up platinum blond that of course held the over sized microphone.

Well you know me D. I. Marsh. I’ve got my informants everywhere. She almost cooed as she spoke her Botox plumped bright red lips gave a well rehearsed smile displaying brilliant white teeth.

Ya the one that talks the most shit always attract the most flies. Hey I notice you’ve had the Botox again, this scoop going to pay for your next lot? The retort was instant and received sniggers from the other reporters and photographers; a razor sharp, cold hard glare from the blond silenced them immediately.

Storming into Headquarters Angela could have kicked herself for letting that woman get to her. Alison Sinclair always seemed to be in her face when she least wanted it, she supposed she was only doing her job but did she have to enjoy it so much. She wasn’t the one who had to see the gore up close and has to tell the victims’ families what had happened. Aragh, sometimes she hated this job. It had been a long time since she had taken time off, maybe she needed a holiday. Bursting into the office she shared with three other detectives Marsh collapsed behind her desk and placed her head in her hands hiding behind a pile of paperwork.

What makes people do such atrocities to each other?

The sickos get sicker and the victims easier to find with the help of the internet. Detective Millington sat at his desk which was opposite to hers.

Hi sorry I didn’t see you there, I’ve just got a new bad case, possibly a serial it’s got all the markings of a really serious one. The press will have a field day with this.

Just then there was a tap at the office door as it opened and a female uniformed officer entered with a large white envelope for D.I. Marsh, she placed it on her desk as Detective Barlow entered with three coffees.

Front desk just brought it up ma am said a kid had been told to hand it in; it’s addressed for the personal attention of D.I. Angela Marsh.

The address had been type written, she looked across her desk towards both Barlow and Millington, all her senses were on full alert. It was too late for finger prints but still she carefully opened it. Inside there was only what looked at first like a single sheet of white paper, sliding it out she began to read. Colour drained from her face, Barlow jumped to his feet,

Ange are you ok? What is it, what’s it say?

"The bastard has made a list of themed killings he is planning and has sent it to me. He had been recording us somehow when we found the crime scene and he knew I was going to take time off!

Taking the letter from her hands, Barlow began to read.

‘Good afternoon D. I. Marsh.

I do hope you enjoyed my art exhibition although you did look quite shocked when you first saw it. You have no idea how much planning it took to ensure it all came together on time; after all you where about to go on leave and I so wanted you to be the first to appreciate my work. Now you have my exhibition programme you can look forwards to viewing all of my displays and I will look forwards to hearing your reviews.

Shadows can hide the glow from a genius you know and to remain hidden with such a talent as mine can oft be too much to bear, so one must break out and show the world that which was once subdued. You will acknowledge me and tell the world that I am the superior and you will have the honour of being my final greatest piece.

Glamour

Portrait

Swimwear

Topless

Fetish

Nude

I must specify that I do insist YOU are to lead the investigation. YOU must be one of the first to view each of my exhibitions and YOU must address the press. I will only communicate with YOU and YOU ALONE. If my requirements are not met then I am afraid I may have to change the order of my themes.

I look forwards very much to our partnership.

The Photographer.’

For a moment the room held a deathly silence, Barlow, Marsh and Millington stared at each other; it had been personalised. They were jolted back to earth when the impressive bulk of Chief Inspector Bradshaw dominated the doorway.

Barlow! Marsh!Incident room two in five minutes you too Millington and where’s Dickens?

We had better show you this first chief, Barlow handed the letter to him. Front desk brought it up a couple of minutes ago, said a kid had been told to deliver it.

Detective Chief Inspector Bradshaw’s huge hand took hold of the sheet of paper. He was a giant of a man in every sense of the word; dark black skin, balding head and bearded face, 6ft 5’ tall, large barrel chest and huge shoulders, not blessed with the dark good looks of his mother he had more the appearance of an ogre with a booming voice to match. He read the letter and deep creases formed in his brow.

This is not good, this creep is personalizing his work, turning his attention to Marsh he asked, Do you know any photographers Marsh?

No, I don’t think so sir.

Think harder. Right well at least we got some idea about him now. Incident room now, you three we need to brief the rest.

Grabbing pens and notebooks the three detectives followed the ogre down the brightly lit corridor past the desks of the other C.I.D. Officers. Meeting room number two had been transformed into the base for the duration of this murder case. It was already a mixture of chairs and people, a map of the area where the body was discovered hung on one display board whilst photographs of the grisly murder scene and copies of the ‘exhibition’ hung on two others;taking centre stage the D.C.I. cleared his throat and addressed the group seated before him.

We seem to have a possible serial killer on our hands but I want to nip him in the bud before he develops into one. This guy is sick with a capitol S, as you can see from these images he has taken great enjoyment from both the killing and the planning. This individual has planned this act down to the last fibre. However, what has just come to light, takes this crime to a different level. D. I. Marsh has just received a letter from this guy; he has listed other themed killing he is planning and specifically requested she leads this case and that she alone liaises with him. It also turns out that he was filming our discovery of the body. I will have a copy of this letter given to each of you. At this point he handed the sheet of paper to a uniformed officer requesting a dozen photocopies be made immediately. Before I continue have any of you any questions?

A middle aged female with short spiky dark hair asked "do we have any idea