PEEL-BEHIND THEIR EYES. Book 1 (Complete)

Chapter 3. The nick

Detective Chief Inspector Robert Peel stood leaning with one hand high against the large steel frame window, and peered down into the recently refurbished courtyard. He kept his other hand below the window-sill; he didn't want his work colleagues in the opposing offices to see his glass of scotch, not so early on in the day anyway. Drinking whilst on duty was absolutely forbidden, but only until you rose in rank, then it was merely frowned upon as long as you kept it hidden, and DCI Peel was good at hiding things.
Looking down he watched as two constable's rushed from the car park and ran across the newly installed lawn area, they were taking a short cut to the back entrance of the station, he guessed. He recognized one of them as Officer James, a perpetually late young man who had the potential to become a detective given time, if only he could sort out his time keeping. The other stockier officer he didn't know, he frowned again "The turnover of staff was becoming alarming. You couldn't turn a corner without bumping into a rookie"

Robert gulped his drink and dropped his hand back below the sill. He closed his eyes and savored the Scotch as it burned its way to his stomach, the satisfaction only lasted moments before the empty feeling returned, begging to be filled by another hit of scotch. Robert knew he would eventually fall asleep drunk before the void of his gut was full, but first he had work to do. He watched Constable James disappear through the entrance, and thought "Yea, I think he'll make a half decent detective"

Making his way across the burgundy cord carpet, he stepped behind his desk and fell into the comfortable, but worn leather swivel chair, opening the top draw of his teak veneered desk, he placed the scotch soak glass at its back,

"to keep the bottle company" he mused.

Robert hated to drink, but he felt there was no other way to keep things quiet in his busy head. He slammed the draw shut, and returned his attention to the file he'd been studying earlier, the one he always tried to avoid, the one that gave him a sense of dread every time he dug it out. Unwinding the string that held it closed, he flipped the pallid green cover open and scanned the first page. He had read this file four times over the years, and now as suggested by his psychiatrist, this would make five. He had always read and re-read every detail of the evidence gathered and question every eye witness statement until he was sure he had not missed a single piece of the puzzle, no matter how insignificant. The need to understand his father's last case, his father's unsolved case had weighed heavily on Roberts mind. He felt no need to absolve his father's failure, he did not care about his father's reputation, he just wanted to understand why the man cared so much about the Barringer girl and so little for his own family, why as he realized his failure he had taken it out on his own son and wife, and ultimately had ended his own life

"Why did you give a fuck about them and not us?"

Placing an elbow either side of the age stained folder, he rested his aching head in his hands, and began the laborious task of studying the file yet again, hoping that this time he would somehow find something that he and his father had missed.

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Roberts head was pounding now, and rehashing his father's old personally hand written case file wasn't helping him any. Digging out the crime scene photographs he spread them evenly across the desk their color where already fading, but the detail was still crisp. Each picture showed the Barringer living room from several angles. In each picture the gruesome arrangement of Heather and John Barringer bodies took center stage. Even though their wounds and spilled blood was now more fuchsia than red, it was still horrendous to look at. The father's body had been discarded into the corner of the room, his arms and legs tangled. His face had been cut to ribbons, his arms and hands also cut up,

"Defensive wounds, he had fought back" Robert surmised.

The mother had been given more consideration. Her body had been carefully placed in a chair by her husband. Sat upright with a carving knife taped in to her hand, she appeared to be ready to strike another cutting blow. The idea that Heather Barringer had somehow committed her husband's murder and then had slit her own throat was discounted instantly. But the most disconcerting and sickening part of the entire scene was the sightless stare that the mother imposed on the room. Robert quickly retrieved the still damp glass and its parent bottle. Pouring two fingers worth, he chucked back half before looking down at the pictures.

"Jesus"

He wiped his lips with the back of his hand. Even though he had seen the pictures before, it still turned his stomach to see their empty bloodied eyes sockets staring out at him. He could see that Heather Barringer had had her eyes removed violently whilst still fighting for her life. Reading his father's notes Robert had to agree that if her eyes had been removed after death there would have been less damage to the surrounding tissue and a lot less blood.

"Jesus Christ almighty"

Draining the glass dry, he allowed his mind to concentrate on the burn rather than the pictures. Placing the photographs back into the folder, he closed it. Robert read the last thing written on the page, four words his father had circled several times,

"Eyes missing from scene"

The real suprise for his father and investigating team though was when the body of the father, John Barringer, who had been pronounced dead at the scene, suddenly jolted as if electrocuted. He was alive. He had been left by the Gouger, terribly injured both physically and mentally.

"Oh, Fuck"

He knew what he would find if he turned the page over, another message scrawled by his desperate father across the entire page,

"Why Julia, why?"

Reading his father's plea, Robert still felt a sense of betrayal from his father even after 37 years and the man's death. Robert knew it was well passed time he should let go of his resentment against his failed father, let go of his anger, and let go of this file, he knew that there was never going to be answers in its pages, just reminders of how his father cared more for this case than for him. Clinking the bottle against the lip of the glass, he began to pour. The door to his office flew fully open, bounced off of the hidden spring door stop and swung just as fast back, almost slamming the rooms intruder in the face, but Detective Grayson 'Muck' to his friends, had slammed open the door so often he already had a hand up waiting to receive it.

"We don't knock anymore!" DCI Peel asked raising an eyebrow and lowering his glass.

Muck was quite plain, both in features and dress sense, his lank blonde hair matched his pale grey eyes in there blandness, a small yet sharp nose hung over his chinless mouth, and his skin was all but translucent. He wore black brogues, brown cotton trousers with a neatly ironed crease down each leg, and a shirt that was a close variation to his many other beige pin stripped shirts. All in all, he was several rungs of the ladder below ordinary, yet DCI Peel knew that this 30 something man was one of the sharpest tools he had in the box.

"Oh, sorry boss, but this transcends manors, there's been another!" Muck said hurriedly.

DCI Peel returned the glass and bottle back to the confines of the draw, and tiredly climbed to his feet. Staring at the ceiling with his eyes shut, he moaned.

"Shit, that makes three" looking back down at Muck he said "alright, gather the squad. Have everyone in the incident room in tens minutes"
Muck nodded and left the room as fast as he had arrived.

"I'd better tidy myself up" Robert thought as he blew into his hand and smelled his own stale breath.

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