The Writing's on the Wall

By Philip Mordue

A cryptic declaration is smeared across the wall in blood. A man lies dead, strapped to a nearby table. Nobody knows who would do this, why they would take the organs, or what the message means.

D.S. Victor Trimm is bored of the typical mundane cases. When the killer's previous exploits come to light, he knows this is someone who needs to be stopped. Unfortunately he's already made some clandestine promises to the more organised criminal enterprises in the city. These people won't accept failure lightly.

As the pace of the murders quickens, time becomes a luxury Trimm can't afford when all the clues reach dead ends. The only thing that remains is deciphering the writings on the walls or accept the increasing possibility that he can't stop this murderer.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Philip Mordue
• Release date: Nov 30, 2014
• ISBN: 9781505648409

Book preview

Chapter 1

The owner had made a mistake. His poor decision had resulted in the pub’s dim interior. Misunderstanding the details on the boxes, he’d purchased significantly lower wattage bulbs. His hopes had been set on greater savings, but instead it had driven out fresh customers. The majority thought it made the place dark and unpleasant. This suited Victor. The two gaming machines remained silent. Only one couple was making noise. Hushed voices came from their booth at the back. Polishing the clean glasses, the barman scanned his meagre supply of customers. A man at one table read the paper while nursing his pint of lager. Two men sat at a table opposite the television. They were reading the Sky Sports News updates. Sat on a stool at the bar, Victor Trimm analysed the sticky surface. Consumed by his own thoughts, he alternated between swigging his bottle of lager and consuming shots of bourbon.

Another over here please. He signalled the barman without making eye contact. The familiar ache had been powerful today. Reaching inside the jacket of his navy blue suit, Trimm gently rubbed the sore part of his chest. Another shot would dull the radiating pain. The jaunty squeal emanating from his mobile made Victor jump. Sighing, he accepted the call. Motioning towards the tumbler, the bartender acted casually, like he was just serving another customer on an ordinary evening.

Two-seventy, mate.

Double it. Placing the phone to his ear, he nodded a thank you. Trimm.

Vic, we’ve got a murder. I’ve been told to bring in any of the team I could raise. The voice was serious and professional. Anyone else would have detected the warmth too. There’ll be some good overtime from this one, that’s for sure. You owe me.

Great. Flat and disinterested, he rolled the tumbler in his hand. Where?

I’ll text you the address. Should be fun. The line went dead and the comfortable silence returned. Picking up the glass of freshly poured liquor, he had a long sniff. His captivation by the scent of the bourbon was broken by the appearance of a figure in his peripheral vision. What does he want? He needs to piss off and leave me alone. He focused on his drink again, another swig from the bottle. Reaching out a hand, the figure placed a folded newspaper on the bar next to his drinks.

We’ll be in touch with instructions as usual. The figure receded into Trimm’s peripheral vision as quickly as he’d appeared. It better be a bigger packet this time, he thought. Why did he even care? What was the point in this? It didn’t feel like him, yet here he was. Felt almost like he was acting on autopilot. Was that how he got by? How he rationalised it? Or was it simply that he couldn’t be bothered to live his life on anything but autopilot these days? He had no answer. A dull ache radiated from within his chest. Another swig washed away the thoughts and pain. Away once again. For now.

After finishing up his lager, he tossed some money onto the bar and grabbed his hat. Nobody noticed as Trimm left the building with the newspaper under his arm. Nothing but the squeak of the door remained. Standing for a moment outside, Victor rummaged in his pockets. People passed by, but nobody paid any attention to him. They would have seen his long scruffy blond hair dancing in the wind before he placed the black fedora down on his head. Shivering and swaying in the wind, he retrieved a packet of mints from his pocket. Two would suffice this time. Munching on the white breath tablets, he felt the chill from the night air amplify in his mouth. The shiver became intermittent. There was no more swaying; he walked off into the darkness.

*

As he pulled the car to a stop outside the address on his phone, Trimm was mesmerised by the blue lights for a moment. Reaching over towards the passenger seat he lifted the newspaper. A neat white envelope, unsealed, was nestled between the sheets. Peering through the gloom into the envelope, thumb and forefinger flicked through the contents. There had to be circa five thousand pounds in there. He wondered what would warrant such an outlay. Perhaps they were just keeping him sweet. Giving him credit for something he hadn’t even done. He could take the bonus and claim the credit without anyone batting an eyelid. Slipping the envelope into his jacket, he scanned the nearby cars. His gaze came to rest on a blue Rover, causing him to hit the steering wheel with his fist.

Aaaah, shit! Eyes glazed, he sighed and looked around. Was there ever a way out when you needed one? Stepping out of the car and rummaging in his pocket, Trimm withdrew the packet of mints once more. The mint gave a satisfying burst of freshness as he crushed it between his teeth. A young woman came trotting up to Victor. Until this point he’d been ignored by everyone on the street. Uniformed officers were dotted around, keeping the area secure. Others were keeping the press engaged down the road behind the police tape. Hat clasped in one hand, he groaned inwardly.

Vic, where the hell have you been? She gagged at the smell. The mints aren’t enough if you spill it on your clothes you know. Giving her a glassy look, he swallowed the remnants of the mint and brought his hoarse voice back to life.

Fewer words Liz. They walked side by side towards the scene of crime tape. Each step saw him produce a fresh, muffled groan. Holding up the tape, Elizabeth Briggs was illuminated by a combination of the street lights and the intermittent flash from each car. Her cold blue eyes sparkled in contrast to her dyed hair. The blood crimson strands flowed over her shoulders. Keeping her hair neatly brushed was a matter of personal pride for Liz. Her black wax coat covered a skinny body, drawing attention to her pale face. Victor had never thought she was particularly attractive, and yet the blue light on her pale skin was a remarkable sight. Okay, what have we got? He bent under the tape.

A real mess inside. Whoever did this sure didn’t care about us finding out how they did it. She paused for a moment as they approached the house. I hope your stomach is ready to take this, Vic. There’s blood everywhere and the perpetrator even left us a cheery little message on the wall.

My stomach is fine. It’s my head that hurts from you being so vague.

Ha! Let’s get on with it then. A cheeky grin lit up her face before she led him inside.

*

The front corridor had a flight of stairs to the left and two doors downstairs. One straight ahead led through to the kitchen, while the other was barely a metre along on the right, leading to the lounge. The kitchen appeared cluttered with pots, pans and utensils spread across the worktop. One serving spoon seemed out of place on the floor. They took the door through to the lounge. The impact of the scene was painted on Victor’s face as he began to realise the full horror of what had gone on in the room. It contained a sofa and two chairs which had been pushed back against the walls. The small wooden coffee table was placed upon the sofa itself. A dresser and a television sat side by side in the corner of the room, two tumblers of whisky on top of the TV. In the other corner was a drinks cabinet which had been opened. The items were all covered in black fingerprint dusting powder, highlighting the areas most frequently touched. The drinks cabinet appeared to be in heavy use. In the centre of the room was a large table which had probably been dragged in from somewhere else. On the table lay what could have been loosely described as a corpse. His chest cavity was open and all the organs appeared to have been removed. The top of the skull had been cut off and it appeared that the brain had been taken out of the cranial cavity. Turning around, Victor beheld the message on the wall behind him. The crude writing had left blood to dribble down from each individual letter of the phrase: Rise to vote sir.

Victor took in the crime scene with a careful movement of his eyes, trying not to miss anything. Liz grinned at him.

It’s what I would have done if I’d run out of paint too.

You’re sick, you know that Liz? Seriously, seek help. He tried to stare out her grin, failing to notice the tall man entering the room. Standing over six foot three, it was difficult to miss the boss. The smart black suit and dark overcoat set the tone of someone who wanted to be viewed as the ideal professional detective. Briggs jumped as she spotted him.

D.C.I. Cash, sir. I thought you were dealing with the press?

They’re dealt with. His curt authoritarian voice always made Liz look sheepish. This is just sickening. Has the doctor or forensics given us an idea what happened here yet?

Some surgeon got lost on the way to the operating room, sir? Trimm had hauled himself away from the writing. Or maybe this guy died because someone was just too curious to see what his insides looked like.

Timothy Cash was a proud man. He squared up to Victor. D.S. Trimm, I’ve allowed a certain leeway for you ever since the incident involving the Westland Park killer. He paused. But I will not tolerate any unprofessional behaviour on a murder investigation.

Sorry sir. Victim was subjugated from behind in the kitchen, dragged through here and strapped to the table. The killer is someone they don’t know, probably writing this on the wall to try and confuse us. Make us think there’s actually a personal connection.

Silence followed until it was broken by Liz. It does seem like that’s what happened, sir. The doctor said the cuts were clean. Almost surgical. And the victim is a Dr Charles Weisse.

D.C. Briggs, when I want your opinion I’ll ask you for it. Cash glared at Trimm. The vast majority of murders are committed by someone who knows the victim well. Though the writing here feels very biblical.

Biblical sir? Victor was sceptical. What’s biblical about voting?

A floating hand appeared before King Belshazzar at a great banquet. The hand wrote incomprehensible language on the walls. It foretold his death.

Trimm took a deep breath, clenching his fist behind his back. Fascinating as religion is, I don’t think it’s relevant here.

I think we need to focus on immediate family and friends. If anyone is particularly religious, then they’re our prime suspect. Understood?

I disagree.

What? Incredulity filled Cash’s features.

Look at what our forensics lads left behind. Look at the two glasses, neither one has had anyone’s lips against it. The dusting reveals no prints. But! Holding up a finger, he stooped to take a ginger sniff at one of the tumblers. Bleach. As I thought. He’s destroyed the forensic evidence on purpose. A calculated move. Trimm marched over to the drinks cabinet. Now we could think that our killer did know him, and that’s why he wiped down both glasses with bleach. Or. The silent pause was filled with the gentle clinking of glass bottles as he shuffled the collection of hard liquor around. Or I will bet twenty quid that the whisky came from this bottle.

Squinting at the bottle, the D.C.I. shook his head and scoffed Why that particular bottle? Are you identifying whisky by scent now?

Actually, an expert probably could. I know it already though. Look at the label. It’s faded around the middle, and… He sniffed the label. Bleach caused it. Why would you do that unless you don’t want us to know you’ve touched this bottle? A wry smile spread across Trimm’s thin lips. The killer took the bottle, poured the whisky into the two glasses, staggering the amount to make it look like Weisse had a guest round. Thus sending us after the obvious answer, that it was someone who knew the victim. I wouldn’t be surprised if this writing on the wall also turned out to be a bit of misdirection.

More silence followed as Cash weighed this up in his mind. We can discuss this as a team later. Just go take the witness statements.

You’ve got to be bl-

Yes, sir, we’ll get right on it, interjected Liz. She hurried between the two men and pulled Victor away. Her apologetic smile to Cash was acknowledged with a nod as he left. Turning around, she caught Trimm’s glare.

So we’re going to get right on that are we, Liz?

Sorry. She looked to the ground for answers. We both knew this was what would end up happening anyway.

And we leave brainless over there to try and catch a cold? He fucked up the Westland Park investigation and… The sentence trailed off as Victor looked away. The ache was pressing on stronger than ever. I knew it then and he was too interested in his sodding career to listen.

It’s not your fault. The touch of her hand on his forearm made him feel weak. Nobody could have predicted she’d go through the park that night. He pulled his arm away, feeling her staring at his back in silence. Her voice was even softer than her touch. Hey, Vic. We should get to work.

Yeah, you’re right. Focus on the job, he thought. Turning back towards the bloody writing on the wall, he took a deep, cleansing breath.

So what do you think?

Has anyone talked to the neighbours yet?

No, the uniforms have just secured the area. We’re waiting for D.I. Dooley to arrive. I guess, since Cash is leaving, you’re in charge. They stepped outside, surveying the neighbourhood.

Victor brushed his hair back and adjusted his hat before responding. Right. He sighed and looked around. Once some more PCs get here we’ll get them to help collect statements from all the neighbours. Once we’ve got that the D.I. should have arrived and he can take over. They continued to walk while he thought out loud I guess we can start that right away, take a look at the people either side. They meandered down the street and through the gate of the house next door.

Liz rang the doorbell while Victor made a lazy attempt to tuck his shirt in. A few seconds passed before the door was opened quietly by an unremarkable man standing around five foot seven with hazel eyes. A slightly receding hairline was barely visible in neatly cut brown hair that was currently a total mess.

Good evening, sir. We’re sorry to bother you at this hour. I’m D.C. Briggs, this is D.S. Trimm. We’re investigating an incident next door which occurred this evening and were wondering if we could ask you some questions?

The man looked puzzled for a moment and rubbed his eyes in an attempt to wake himself up properly. Yes. Yes of course, come in, he said in a sleepy and slurred fashion to the officers while motioning them to follow him into the house. Liz and Victor accompanied the man down the hallway and into the kitchen where he began to fill the kettle with water. Sorry, but I’m just not with it at the moment. He paused for a moment before opening a cupboard over the draining board. Would you both like some tea?

Liz responded with a pleasant smile. Yes please, that’d be lovely.

In contrast, Victor simply grunted from across the room. No thanks. Pulling out two cups, a matching china teapot and sugar bowl, the man flicked the kettle’s power switch to the ’on’ position. Retying his dressing gown, he showed the two detectives through into his sitting room. He was wearing a simple navy blue dressing gown with no pattern, along with some maroon pyjama bottoms showing beneath. These then met with the cushioning velvet of some nice looking maroon slippers.

Liz entered the sitting room first and made her way towards the sofa to sit, while Victor followed her in and made a left towards the bookcase. The room was laid out nicely with a beautifully patterned red and royal blue carpet. To the right of the door, as they entered, was a three-seater leather sofa with a glass coffee table right in front of it. On the coffee table lay a selection of puzzle books stacked neatly next to three coasters at precise ninety degree angles.

Over on the other side of the room, where Victor stood, were the patio windows that led into the small back garden. To his right stood a bookcase, crammed with titles. To his left was a wooden desk and a bin containing today’s paper with the completed crossword showing. The man entered the sitting room now with a tray, pouring two cups from the pot and passing one to Liz. She opened her notebook and waited for him to sit before beginning.

So, you are Mr…

The gentleman stiffened slightly in his seat as the tone of her question petered out into silence. Liz took notes as they spoke. Drake. Louis Drake. That’s spelt L-O-U-I-S.

So, Mr Drake, do you live alone?

Yes.

She went on to establish Drake’s address, telephone number and how long he’d lived there.

Victor’s eyes browsed the desk next to him. It held various stationery items and a laptop. This prompted him to interrupt Liz’s interview. You got a wireless connection here, Mr Drake?

Yes actually. I’m not really much of a computer expert, mind you. I just know my way around them.

I’m exactly the same. I can use it, but damned if I know how to set things up properly or mess about with all the little things. Louis seemed to warm to Victor slightly and smiled as he observed him admiring the collection of books on the bookshelf opposite the desk.

Liz brought things back to the questioning. Mr Drake, were you in between 10:30 and midnight?

Yes, I was. He nodded and then took another sip of his tea.

Could you tell us if you saw or heard anything unusual during those times while you were here?

Putting his tea down on the table in front of him, he looked thoughtful for a moment before he replied. Well, I do remember one odd thing. His eyes flickered between the two detectives. A car alarm went off at around quarter to eleven. I looked out my window here to see what was going on. Louis showed the officers the window directly behind his chair. It gave a poor view, onto the street outside. I could vaguely see a chap loitering nearby, and I thought I’d have a neb. He chuckled. So I put my dressing gown on and pretended to put out my rubbish. When the guy saw me, he headed off up the street. Still puzzles me what he was up to. Sitting back down, Louis sipped at his tea once more while Liz curiously inspected the poor view from the window.

Victor took a step back from the bookcase and motioned towards it as he spoke. Got an interest in chemistry?

Louis was caught off guard by this question and stumbled slightly before replying. Err, yeah. Yes, I picked up a first in chemistry at uni.

What’s your occupation? asked Liz.

I’m a warehouse worker. He described working for the third party logistics company as simple work, done on a shift rotation. They moved products for consumer goods companies, pharmaceutical companies, clothing companies and even the rail industry. I’m retraining as an electrician. Keeps me very busy.

Victor was drifting in and out of the conversation, examining the titles all the way down the bookcase. Books on chemistry, scientific method, physics, astronomy, ethics, philosophy, poetry, business best practice guides and even the odd self-help book were mixed in amongst some classic pieces of literature. An entire shelf was dedicated to wordsearch books, sudokus and crosswords. He picked up the conversation with Drake as if Liz had never spoken.

I studied criminology and psychology myself, but then again, most people didn’t really study. They just showed up for the parties eh? said Trimm

Louis laughed at Victor’s remark. Yeah. Education isn’t what it used to be.

Victor moved towards the door and nodded at Louis. Well, we’ve taken enough of your time, Mr Drake. A uniformed officer will come at a more sociable hour to sort out a formal statement if you don’t mind.

Louis finished the rest of his tea in one gulp before he replied cordially. No problem. What’s happened exactly?

Your next door neighbour, Dr Weisse, was found murdered tonight.

Oh my God! Louis’s eyes widened and he looked to the ground for answers before continuing. I don’t really know what to say. We weren’t friends, we didn’t really talk.

Victor opened the door and shot Liz an instructive look. It’s okay, Mr Drake. It’s a lot to take in. Thanks again for your time. Liz walked through the door ahead of Victor as he finished speaking. Louis pursued, closing the front door behind them. Outside, Liz and Victor spoke quietly.

He seemed a little odd, don’t you think? Gave me the creeps, she said.

Victor placed his fedora on his head and pulled it down slightly. You thought I gave you the creeps when we first met.

You know what I mean. He was like, far too nice.

Yeah. Never trust anyone trying to be helpful. They’re usually playing an angle. He paused and began walking towards the front gate before continuing, Though he has helped us. We know someone unknown was out here.

A dark red Ford Mondeo pulled up at the curb and a portly man in his early fifties stepped from it. He withdrew a packet of cigarettes from his pocket and dutifully lit one. The man lumbered towards the two detectives, taking two lengthy drags in the process.

Inspector Dooley.

D.I. Dooley nodded and adjusted the waistband below his belly before replying to Liz. That’s me. Edward Dooley was a veteran detective of Blackbridge C.I.D. considered by everyone as the wise, supportive old warhorse of the team. He’d been part of teams closing murder investigations for over thirty years. We need to get things up and running to gather what we can. I understand the forensics guys are almost finished tidying away their gear in there. They’ve got some knife they found on the floor that they think could be the murder weapon. Add to that the extra woodentops on the way and I’d say everything is in hand. You two can go home and get some sleep, ready to hit the briefing room at 9am sharp tomorrow morning. Another drag from the cigarette, followed by smoke drizzling from the corners of his mouth. Dooley blew the remainder before turning and heading for the house.

Righto, sir! Liz skipped after Victor, who’d already been making for his car. Catching up with him as he drew his keys from his pocket she spoke triumphantly. Oh no you don’t! I’m driving. Get in the other side.

The disinterested Victor grunted before handing over the keys. After he had walked to the other side of the car they both got in.

Since you’re going to need my car to get home, Liz, you can pick me up for a change. About 8:30 would do nicely.

Very funny. I’m only doing this because you’re a danger to other people on the road. Drink driving is very dangerous. I should report you.

You won’t do that. The comment caused Liz to fall silent. She drove in silence for a few minutes, the light from the street lamps glinting against the sharp crimson of her hair. Victor was slowly passing out when she spoke again.

What’s your feeling about this one then?

What you mean?

Well, you get these feelings about cases and they’re usually fairly accurate.

They’re not feelings. It’s simple logic and knowledge. We’re taught the basics in training and the rest is just that little extra understanding.

Whatever. What do you think?

I think whoever did this probably has no ties to the victim. It was brutal so it was probably motivated by fantasy. This would indicate someone who’s not treating their victim as a human. They’re something less, something disposable. Removing the organs was probably part of a fantasy and they’ll show up somewhere nearby. They appeared to leave the weapon behind so it was either a heat of the moment thing or they’re just thick. The rubbish on the wall is just a distraction. We’ll probably get into the victim’s life and find out who would gain from the death or who simply hated him enough. But I’m not convinced that’s going to help us. He paused for a moment to allow Liz to take it all in. All in all, this one’s gonna be tougher than Cash thinks. Settling back in for the rest of the ride, Victor coughed and swallowed before falling asleep.

***

Chapter 2

The sun shone through the windows of Victor’s apartment. He’d skipped breakfast again, in exchange for several glasses of water. Waiting for Liz, he was flicking through cash in a shoebox. He needed some money for the day, and this was the ideal time to use forty or fifty pounds from his stash of ill-gotten gains. It would mean he could avoid going to a cashpoint. The noise of a car horn blaring outside came through the open window. At this sound, Trimm downed the remainder of his water and grabbed his coat and hat on the way to the door. Downstairs Liz stood next to the car. 8:28. Excellent timing was one of Liz’s specialities. She watched as Victor emerged from the door of the building and greeted him as he approached the car.

Morning, sunshine.

Victor grunted at this before getting into the car. Why are you always so cheerful?

Why aren’t you?

Victor smiled wryly at the comeback before putting his seatbelt on. Rummaging in his pocket he found his packet of mints. Trimm popped one in his mouth and offered them to Liz. She took one and began to suck on it as she drove off. The journey to the station was quick and uneventful as the two detectives headed straight for the briefing room. 8:55 on the button as they entered through the double doors.

Ahhhh Trimm, Briggs. D.C.I. Cash was waiting at the lectern to begin his presentation. He beckoned them over. Got a pressing assignment for you.

Cool. We’re here for the briefing, sir. D.I. Dooley told us to be here at nine. The enthusiastic tone of Liz’s voice nearly brought up Victor’s stomach contents as he tried to avoid eye contact with the man he despised more than most criminals.

There’s been a change of plan, Briggs. You and Trimm are not needed for this investigation. Should be an open and shut case once we’ve found out a little more. I’m going to try and use manpower as effectively as possible, what with the A.C.C. asking us to meet so many targets.

What’s the job, boss? said Liz.

We’ve got a tip on a suspected drug dealer who’s dealing to various teens in the area. If you could get on it without getting in my way please. I’ve got this briefing to do then a press conference at half nine. D.I. Dooley will deal with you once you’re done. Okay? A smile crossed the face of Tim Cash. The man clearly took pleasure from the power of his role and never more so than when he was exercising it against the will of others. Off you go then.

Waving them away he started to browse through his prepared notes. It was as if he was trying to make a point of ignoring the two detectives until they went away. Probably another little psychological power game, thought Victor as the two put a respectable distance between themselves and the chief inspector.

Yeah, and you just want extra brownie points with the press and the chief constable by making it look like you caught a brutal killer single handed, Victor muttered to himself while Liz read the short file she’d taken from D.C.I. Cash on the drug dealer. The file told her all she needed to know about a lad called Harry Lawson who was only 17 years old and still lived with his mum. The case required detectives, but it wasn’t a very grand case at all. Typical of the sort of garbage Cash dumped on their desk every chance he got.

Come on, Vic, we’d better get going.

One sec. I wanna find Ed. Victor slurred his words as he headed through the door into the main office. Desks for each detective filled the room like a checkers board. Over on the far side, sat in his chair, was Inspector Dooley. Trimm manoeuvred around the other desks, calling to the inspector.

Ed!

Well if it isn’t the homeless chap we get to solve the odd crime. He smirked at his own poor excuse for humour. Come to give us the enlightened viewpoint on the briefing we’re getting in a moment?

Actually I’ve been sent off on some crap small time dealer bust.

Oh. I take it Cash hasn’t taken kindly to your flair for the job eh?

Probably. Anyway, what have you guys got?

On the organ donation victim? Chuckling, Dooley closed the file in front of him and leaned back in his chair while he thought. Well, forensics still haven’t got back to us yet and the body still needs a post mortem today. I’d guess blood loss killed him. At least I hope it did before he had the top of his head sliced off.

Victor’s eyes narrowed. He already knew these things from his own inspection of the scene. Did the organs show up?

Nah, killer must have taken them as a trophy or something. Sicko.

Witnesses or suspects?

From the people on the street who saw something, they confirmed the story that you got from that witness next door. So at the moment we’ll be running down-

People who know him. Yeah, I know the drill. Though… Victor hesitated for a moment, seeming almost unsure how to express himself best. There’s just something about this which feels a bit off.

That’ll just be the scene making your tummy queasy. Don’t let it get to you. The inspector patted his own stomach as his rose from his chair. Nothing a good bacon sarnie won’t fix. I’d better get into the briefing. Try to stay out of trouble, Vic. Grabbing his jacket from the back of his chair, D.I. Dooley was off out the door, leaving Victor alone with his thoughts.

Yeah Ed. I will… His trailing words left