Needing (13 page)

Chapter Eleven

Ronan Dougherty looked disgusting. No other word for it. Not only had his arms been hacked off, but he’d been eviscerated, his insides outside, much like Glenn’s mother. They sat in a pile on his stomach, the skin of which was pulled back like a half-peeled orange, forgotten by the person who had wanted to eat it. Blood coated the beige carpet beneath him, a living room carpet that, everywhere else, was clean and well cared for. Ronan’s place was tidy—a man who liked order, cleanliness, Oliver guessed—the surfaces recently polished, now marred by arcs of blood splatter that spoke of a frenzied knife attack. The way the blood had landed on the walls and ceiling indicated it had been cast off, droplets flying off a knife before the blade was plunged back into the body.

Alex had been angry here, unable to contain it. Had stabbed and stabbed, possibly long after Ronan had died. Those drugs, God, they changed a human into a monster.

Langham sighed, standing on one leg to put on a protective bootie. “I’ve seen angry kills before, but this is something else. Think of Louise. Imagine what she’d have looked like if you hadn’t turned up. Yep, Alex went back, finished what he’d started, but her body wasn’t like this one. This resembles Glenn’s parents. It’s like they killed her together—but we know they didn’t.”

“Maybe they escalate with each kill.” Oliver cocked his head, waiting for Ronan to make contact. He wasn’t sure if he could take that now, if he could listen to what the poor man had to say. He was tired. So fucking tired. “Maybe the drugs make them worse the longer they take them. Higher doses or whatever. Could produce differing results from the same killer.”

Bootied up, Langham stepped forward, then crouched beside the body. “The strands are here. Most definitely Alex’s work.”

Oliver stepped from foot to foot, his booties rustling. No way was he getting any closer to that body. Like Louise the second time around, Ronan had no face. His scalp had been treated like an orange too, yanked back to expose a bloody, rounded dome of skull with a harsh, jagged divot marring it.

“Blunt force trauma,” Langham said. “Looks like the butt of a gun. Rectangular.”

“But if Alex had a gun and just wanted to kill to stop Ronan speaking out, why not just shoot him?”

“Because the drugs make him want to kill in a frenzy, to obliterate the victim bearing any resemblance to a human being. I’m guessing, by the way, but that makes sense to me. Feels like I’m on the right track. If you just want to kill someone, to keep their mouth shut, you generally don’t see this kind of rage. Rage means emotion, a connection, that it’s personal.”

“So Alex took it personally that Louise and Ronan had made moves to expose him, the Privo shit, is that it?”

“Who knows?” Langham stood, stared down at the body. “He was messed up well before the drugs by the sound of it. Those strands, his grandmother—can’t have been a healthy upbringing,
if
he’s to be believed. The old dear might not have done any of it, like Mark said.”

Oliver thought about the similarities between himself, Alex and Glenn. He could so easily have been them. Mean parents, being taunted all his life, not fitting in anywhere. But he hadn’t turned out bad, and who knew, maybe Alex and Glenn wouldn’t have if they hadn’t been force-fed drugs. Force-fed. Sounded more like they’d taken them willingly, so he couldn’t even blame that on whoever had given the strands to them.

Of course they’d have taken them fucking willingly. Who wouldn’t mind eating a doughnut like that if one was offered? Who’d suspect the strands on top would contain something that would change their lives forever?

Not Oliver. He’d have accepted it like he’d accept a biscuit with his cup of tea. Not Alex, who may well have been given one when he’d gone to blackmail Jackson. And not Glenn, who’d been probably so starved of not only love but confections, that she’d gobbled it down eagerly.

Like Langham had said, this was a fucking nightmare.

The coroner’s men loitered, waiting for Langham’s nod before they went about their business, removing the body and taking it to a place where the secrets hidden from the casual observer would be revealed. The morticians had one hell of a job on their hands today, the amount of bodies turning up in the state they were. Murders weren’t unheard of here, but the volume, all at one time, was.

Oliver moved out of the way, standing close to the wall beside the door as Ronan’s body was taken out, prone on a stretcher, the sight of him covered by a black bag from any prying eyes that might glance his way out there on the street.

What a shitty way to die.

“It is, isn’t it?”

Oliver tensed. “Is that you?” He flapped one hand at Langham.

“Me? Yes, this is me.”
The man chortled. “
Didn’t expect to see myself being carried out like that, but there you go. Life’s full of surprises.”

Oliver smiled at Ronan’s upbeat tone. “You sound all right about it.”

“Well, there’s nothing I can bloody do about it now, is there? No point pissing and moaning about something I can’t change. May as well get on with my lot and be done with it.”

“Good way of dealing with it, I s’pose. So, you have something you want to tell me?”

“Damn right I do. That’s what I’m here for, isn’t it, a bit of gossip and all that?”

Oliver knew he’d have liked Ronan in life. “What can you tell me? What do you remember?”

“Well, after I started sticking my nose in where it clearly wasn’t wanted”
—another chuckle—“
I found out something a bit surprising. I mean, it all points to it being Jackson, doesn’t it? I thought the same, but the man hasn’t got any fucking idea what’s going on right under his nose.”

Oliver frowned. “But that doesn’t make sense. After we visited Privo—”

“Yep, I know. I kinda tagged along for the ride there. He was getting rid of some other stuff. Been making drugs for a rival company, hasn’t he, the dirty bastard. He doesn’t own Privo, just runs the place. The owner leaves it to him, no questions asked, just rakes in the cash, thanks very much.”

“So he was removing other drugs? Totally unrelated to the strands?”

“Yup. Shitting himself, he is. Funny to watch. Anyway, the owner would be a bit pissed off about Jackson making money on the side, so Jackson’s covering his arse by removing them.”

“So does the owner have anything to do with the strands and what’s going on there?”

“Fuck, yes. She’s in on it.”

“She?”

“Yep, and you wouldn’t think it to look at her either. Not mentioning any names and all that, but some of us who’ve spoken to you haven’t been telling the truth. Put it this way, they haven’t lied, they just haven’t told you everything. Maybe they’re in denial, who knows?”

Oliver thought on who’d contacted him. Louise. Glenn’s mother. Mark Reynolds. “Who?”

“Ah, I wouldn’t like to say. It’d take the fun out of your investigation, wouldn’t it?”

“But by you not saying, you’re hampering it.”

“So what do the police do when they don’t have someone like you, who has someone like me filtering them information? They investigate, that’s what.”

Ronan’s voice began to fade.

“Come on now, Ronan. That isn’t fair. This isn’t a game. You can’t leave it hanging like this. Just give me a name. I can’t contact spirits—they have to contact me—so it’s not like I can burst into their death sleep or whatever and demand answers.”

“Louise.”

It came softly, a whisper of sound Oliver barely caught.

“You need to look into Louise.”

“Into? As in, literally?”

Ronan didn’t answer. His presence had gone, leaving Oliver battling a wave of fatigue.

“What did you get?” Langham asked, his face full of concern.

“Give me a second.” Oliver held up his hand. “I’m knackered.” He shook his head, willing some life back into his aching limbs. His broken finger throbbed so hard he had the urge to yank it off.

“Come on, into the car.”

Oliver followed Langham outside, leaving the other detectives to it. Inside the vehicle, Oliver rested his head on the seat, eyes closing. It felt like he hadn’t slept in days, like the first call from Louise had been months ago. He berated himself for not asking Ronan about Shields, but the conversation had taken on a life of its own.

Langham drove away, and Oliver kept his eyes closed until the car stopped again. He looked around, seeing nothing but a dingy street, the side walls of aged houses either side, the bricks uneven, knobbles and gouges spoiling them. Langham had parked, sandwiching the car between two others, and with no pedestrians in sight, it felt as though they were the only people on the planet.

“Talk to me.” Langham leaned across, placed his hand on Oliver’s thigh.

A shiver of…
something
snaked through Oliver. The contact was intimate yet bordered on friendly. Nothing to write home about. So why did his body hum the way it did? Stupid to ask himself that, really. He knew why.

“That was Ronan.”

“I gathered that. And?”

Oliver turned his head, looked at Langham. Saw the crags from the detective being tired, the wrinkles beside his eyes that appeared deeper, more pronounced. Was that a smattering of grey at his temples too? Where had those hairs come from? “He said someone else lied to me. That we had to look into Louise. Whether he means inside her body or look into her life, I don’t know.”

“Louise? Did she give you the impression she was lying?”

“No, she sounded genuine enough, but now I think about it, she was hesitant. And she didn’t give the right information. Remember? We thought she’d worked at Privo. She implied that. And she mentioned a ‘she’. Wasn’t too happy about her son being with her mother if I recall correctly.”

“Family feuds happen all the time.” Langham squeezed Oliver’s thigh. Lightly.

“So what d’you reckon Ronan meant?” Oliver sighed out the words.

“She’s probably got something on her, some evidence, something that will help us. If being dead is like I imagine it to be, you can float about all over the damn place and find out information. He’s probably done that. Whatever, it all helps—any information helps.”

“We still need to find out about those eyes, why they glow like that.”

Langham stared at him, as though he thought of nothing but Oliver. That the case and all it entailed didn’t swim around his brain. “There’s a lot we need to do. Detectives all over the place, all dealing with different victims. What started out as a case between me and Shields has expanded. Possibly too many chefs in the kitchen, but what can we do?”

Oliver didn’t know. “And shit, I forgot to say. Jackson isn’t in on it.”

Langham frowned. “You’re kidding me. That man looked guilty as fucking sin.”

“He
is
guilty, but not of drugging Alex and those kids. He’s working for the competition, using Privo as a place to mass produce drugs for them. That was what he was getting rid of.”

“Fuck me. If we’d known that before… What a waste of time and resources. Gimme a sec.” He grabbed the radio, asking for, then being connected to the detective dealing with the Jackson side of things. “Yeah, you got Jackson at the station now? Okay, is he talking? Ah, right. A lot of denial. That’s because he doesn’t know what the fuck you’re talking about. Ask him questions leading to an answer on whether he’s making a quick quid on the side. See if he grabs the chance to admit to that—it’s gotta be better for him than taking the blame for this other shit. Yeah, right. That’s what I thought.” He relayed what Oliver had told him. “Okay? So go with that. Thanks.”

“A massive can of worms.” Oliver watched the tic flickering beneath Langham’s eye. Wanted to kiss it to make it stop.

“It is. I need my bed.”

Could Oliver be bothered to give one of his usual retorts? No, he couldn’t. He needed his bed, too, more than he ever had before. Speaking to so many dead people in one day had taken its toll. Zapped the energy out of him. He could just close his eyes now, sleep forever, using Langham’s crotch as a pillow.

“Too much to do, though,” Oliver slurred, giving in and allowing his eyes to shut.

“Yep. We need to run that Mercedes plate. Need to find out who owns Privo. Need to deal with Louise.” Langham sounded as weary as Oliver felt. His voice was closer, his breath hot on Oliver’s cheek. “Need to make good our date.”

Langham’s tongue did
not
just dart out and taste Oliver’s lips then. Did it?

The wetness on Oliver’s mouth proved it. He licked his lips, keeping his eyes closed, and waited to see what Langham would do next. It only took a smidgen of time before the detective pressed his mouth to his. Oliver, shocked yet insanely pleased, responded by opening up. His first kiss with the detective was better than he’d imagined it would be, all soft, probing tongues and heated breaths. Wandering hands, touching so lightly it was like they barely touched at all. Tiny groans from the pair of them, intermingling to become one. Fuck, this was hot, something he’d wanted for too long now. It was just a shame they were bang in the middle of a case, sitting in a car in a street where anyone could peer inside the car should they have a mind. Hardly the time and place to be indulging in carnal pleasures, but Oliver was damned if he could pull away, to stop the kiss that made his cock throb, his balls tighten and his nipples harden.