Captive

by Jay Nadal

  Scott left Mike, Raj and Helen in a flurry of activity as they busily hit their phones as its new angle brought in fresh optimism.

  Scott and Abby’s next appointment was at the post-mortem of the victim they had found this morning. They were just about to leave when DCI Berry invited herself along, much to Scott’s annoyance. After the exchange they had earlier, the prospect of being in the same room as Abby, Cara and DCI Berry filled him with nothing more than a gut-wrenching dread.

  The only thought that crossed his mind was whether Berry was going to drop any more innuendos in front of Cara.

  41

  There was an awkward silence in the car as Scott, Abby and Berry drove to the mortuary. To her credit, Abby tried to offer passing comments to break the silence, but the conversation stayed muted at best. Scott occasionally glanced in his rear-view mirror and caught a glimpse of Berry staring back without expression. At times, Scott felt like she was fixated on the back of his head as he drove, a feeling that made the hairs on the back of his neck prickle.

  After being let in by one of the mortuary technicians, they were shown to an area where they prepared with appropriate robes and wellies. Berry opted to view the post-mortem from the raised inspection area. The bitter combination of decaying bodies, bodily fluids and disinfectant hung in the air like an invisible cloak and assaulted their nostrils. Of the three, Abby appeared to find it hardest to put up with the smell, as she grimaced right away. A farmyard and its associated odours would appear a better bet than the mortuary today.

  The cadaver was laid out on the table with the examination of her body already advanced. With the preliminaries like her weight and height already recorded, Cara was deeply engrossed in a closer examination of the victim’s neck region as she took swabs.

  “Thanks for scheduling this PM so quickly, Dr Hall. What have you got so far, other than a stronger than usual aroma here today? Have you been cooking again?” Scott jested.

  Cara offered a sarcastic raised brow. “I can’t smell anything other than your BO,” she retaliated, as she pointed a thin pointed instrument in his direction. “Anyway, the smell you’ve picked up is from the body of a thirty-five-year-old man who was found dead in a burnt-out car. So as you can imagine, he was a bit crisp around the edges.”

  Cara paused and stood back in the way a sculptor would admire their work. “With regards to this lady, she has hypostatic discolouration from both knees downwards. This would suggest her final resting position was the one we found her in and the position she was killed in. I’d also say that she’d been dead for between twelve and eighteen hours. I can’t be more precise than that without knowing precisely what the temperature was outdoors last night, and what her body temperature was when she was taken to the scene.”

  The officers nodded.

  “She also has discolouration through extensive bruising around the upper abdomen, armpits and chest regions.”

  “From?”

  “My guess would be that these types of mark are consistent with what you might get if the victim was dragged in a bear hug type of hold.”

  Scott took in each piece of detail as he built a mental picture of the final moments of the victim’s life. However, he found it hard to concentrate during the visit. His mind and indeed, his attention flicked to Berry who stood motionless with her arms folded as she stared at the scene below her.

  Abby wasn’t in much of a better mood as she sensed Scott’s unease, and took notes to keep herself from casting bitter looks in Berry’s direction.

  For Scott, any mental picture he could conjure up would be a blessed relief to seeing the cadaver with its rib cage levered open, the brain missing and the rest of the vital organs sitting on a large silver tray, as if waiting to be served up as a delicacy to a tribe of cannibals from Indonesian New Guinea.

  “Can you tell me anything about the knife wound?” Scott was keen to hurry up this discussion and leave the claustrophobic environment that felt like a vice-like grip around his neck. The longer he stood here the more frustrated he became.

  Cara nodded.

  “The wound was more than likely created by a kitchen knife or something similar which has a short, thin, stiff blade about four to six inches long. The wound area has clean-cut edges and the entry point is here, and the cut was done left to right,” Cara said, pointing it out as she moved her hand across the body. This would indicate a right-handed person.

  “And is the cause of death still from blood loss?”

  “Without a doubt. She was barely alive. There’s discolouration above the ligature marks on both wrists. This would suggest she was alive, as blood was trapped above the ligature. There’s no evidence of a struggle. By that I mean, there are no scratches or bruising that would suggest that she had been hit, and there are no skin scrapings beneath the nails. But we do have this.” Cara moved towards the feet of the cadaver and pushed each foot outwards. “We had the same type of oily residue on her heels as was found on the first victim. I’ve taken samples to send away for analysis, but I’m pretty confident that it will come back as a match in composition to the first set of samples.”

  The evidence was further confirmation, not that he needed it, that this victim was killed by the same perpetrator who’d committed the first crime. More importantly, both victims were more than likely kept at the same location, which in Scott’s mind was around the Shoreham area. Cara had taken blood samples to do a DNA match against hair fibres that had been taken from Rebecca Thorne’s hairbrush. Scott was pretty certain just from looking at the cadaver, that this was indeed Rebecca Thorne.

  Scott took a moment to cast his eye over the body. The picture of her on the incident board showed a vivacious, cheerful and attractive young woman. On the cold silver gurney, she’d lost the fresh and rosy pinkness of her skin tone. They’d been replaced by a pale, ashy look much paler than the natural, living hue that she exuded in the picture. He had on many occasions tried to describe what a cadaver looked like when asked. The closest explanation he could offer was it was whatever the person would have looked like in life after just receiving a terrible shock and having the blood drained from the capillaries of the skin in their face. It was a light cream-coloured complexion that stayed with them for about a week or so before they started to turn darker.

  Thankfully, this cadaver hadn’t reached that stage where the body turned black as mould started to grow on it, much in the same way that mould grows on old bread.

  Cara continued with her analysis and feedback. “Upon closer examination, there were many puncture marks in and around the lower abdomen and thigh region, conducive with repeated injections.”

  “A user?” Abby asked.

  Cara shook her head. “Not on this occasion. She was a diabetic, and reliant upon insulin injections.”

  The news caused Scott and Abby to exchange a surprised look.

  Seeing the surprise on their faces, Cara continued, “I’m afraid so. Type one diabetics need regular insulin injections. There are early indications of diabetic damage to the organs, namely heart disease, and damage to her kidneys, both of which are common in diabetics. The chances are her body ran out of insulin, which resulted in hyperglycaemia and then diabetic ketoacidosis where the body basically runs out of insulin. This generally starts with an increased thirst from dehydration, headaches, problems concentrating and blurred vision before other symptoms kick in like rapid breathing, confusion and chronic fatigue.”

  Scott’s mind raced as his stomach knotted. He was awash with emotions. He felt saddened that they hadn’t been able to find her in time, and angry at what the sick, twisted bastard had put her through since her capture.

  Just before leaving, Cara had left them with a parting thought. She had gone on to say that the chances were that this particular victim was either semi-conscious or completely unconscious within twelve to twenty-four hours of her capture, so would have been spared the final moments of her life.

  42

  He wasn’t going to
fail this time. Not capturing his project on the first attempt had frustrated him. He wasn’t a man who coped well when things went wrong. He had spent weeks putting in the legwork. He’d identified suitable projects, built a strong understanding of their day-to-day lives. He knew the places they visited, the times they left their houses and the times they returned. He knew their preferred style of dress, who their friends were, right down to what they enjoyed eating. In his eyes, failure wasn’t an option.

  He was on a mission, to enjoy the beauty of flame-haired vixens, and of course to make Sally, his Sally, proud of him. She had said on many occasions that with time, and the right level of care, he could perhaps look forward to experiencing a relationship. He was convinced that she had said that last bit as a subtle hint. With time they could look forward to a relationship. Together with Sally, his beautiful Sally. He loved the way that she gave him her undivided attention. Nothing else seemed to matter. She never glanced at the clock or her phone. Her eyes were just purely focused on him.

  He used to look forward to seeing her. He’d wait outside at least thirty minutes earlier than agreed. He’d pace nervously up and down the road. Excitement would bubble up inside of him like a teenage boy waiting for his girlfriend to arrive for their first date.

  The flurry of hysteria came in waves, each wave replaced by a sense of serenity and calmness as his thoughts drifted back to the present.

  He had a new project to acquire. He had found the perfect location where there was very little passing traffic, unlike his first attempt in Moulsecoomb. He needed to be somewhere where he wouldn’t look out of place.

  His position was well concealed. The thunderous traffic of the A27 rumbled past just metres away. It was hidden by dense shrubbery that formed a natural barrier between the busy dual carriageway, and the side road where he had positioned his car. Adrenaline coursed through his veins like a rampaging river in flood, and yet on the outside, he felt calm and still. It was an unusual combination of bodily sensations that he had experienced for as long as he could remember, and yet no one had been able to explain them.

  This was only his second attempt at acquiring a new project in such a public place. The traffic on the other side of the hedgerow would be oblivious to his presence, and to his audacity. He was cunning and clever. He was about to prove that he was afraid of nothing. He had watched her like he had done with the others. He had built up a pattern of her behaviour for weeks, including what times she cycled past and who she talked to. He knew the routes she travelled.

  He knew that her favourite meal was a quinoa and couscous salad with added tomatoes, black beans and green onions. For breakfast she had the Sainsbury’s basic range whole-wheat biscuits. After rummaging through her dustbin, he’d discovered that she preferred tampons to sanitary towels, and that she preferred Lil-Lets to Tampax as a brand. Oh yes, he knew everything about her.

  He stood by the side of the road, at the junction with the turning into Stanmer Park. She was just moments away, and with the disguise that he’d donned this time, she would stop to help a person in need.

  His pulse quickened as he saw her approach in the distance. He put the weight of his body on one side as he perched precariously with one crutch and used the other to flag her down. Her pace slowed as she brought her bike to the kerb.

  Sam Tearl greeted him with a warm smile. “Is everything okay?” Her voice was soft and slight.

  “I’m so sorry, my dear. I’ve been on these crutches for weeks now, and I just needed to get out for some fresh air. I came over to the park,” he said as he flicked his head back in the direction of the park behind him. “When I returned to the car, I discovered that I had a slow puncture. I can’t believe my luck. First, I damage my ankle, and now I get a puncture.”

  Sam looked beyond him to the blue Ford Mondeo parked a few metres behind with the boot lid open. “Oh bummer, is there anything I can do to help? Would you like me to call anyone?”

  He offered the warmest of smiles that he could muster. “That’s very kind of you, luv, but in all honesty, it will be at least an hour before the recovery truck turns up. I’m just better off replacing the wheel with my spare. To be honest, I can pretty much handle most of it myself, but I could just do with a little bit of help getting the tyre and jack out of my boot. If you could help me do that, I’d be really grateful.”

  Sam hesitated for a few moments, keen to continue her journey. But she would never forgive herself if she carried on and left him stranded. She smiled and shrugged before saying, “Well, I will certainly try. It might be a bit too heavy for me.”

  “That’s all I can ask of you, luv,” he reassured her as he swivelled on his crutch and hobbled back.

  She dismounted and pushed the bike alongside them. “What have you done to your ankle?” she asked.

  He feigned the effort it took to walk on crutches, and blew out his cheeks. “You’re going to laugh, luv, but my ankle gave way on the last few steps at home. I twisted it so badly that I damaged the Achilles tendon.”

  Sam winced and said, “Ouch, that does sound painful.”

  “Oh, trust me, it does. And now I struggle to get around. I haven’t been out to do food shopping in weeks, and the house is a mess. It’s surprising how something so little can cause so much distress.”

  Sam nodded sympathetically as they stopped by the rear of his car. “Right, what do you want me to do?”

  “If you could reach under the boot mat and grab the silver jack, and the spare wheel. I can try to help with one hand whilst I steady myself on the other crutch.”

  “You sure that’s a good idea?”

  “Of course. I feel bad enough as it is. The least I can do is try to help you.”

  Sam looked around, to find a suitable place to park her bike before she headed over to the nearby trees and rested the frame against a tree.

  Upon her return, she retrieved the jack from beneath the mat and began to haul the large spare tyre out of the boot. It took some effort to begin.

  The man reached in, keen to offer a degree of assistance. His mind raced. With her bent over the way she was, his groin ached, he wanted her here and now. There was something about a woman bent over that he found deeply erotic. Perhaps it was a sense of control that he could have if he took her from behind.

  Sam let out a couple of exasperated gasps as she toiled with the cumbersome object. “It’s stuck in the well.”

  “You’re doing so well, it’s nearly out. Let me help you.”

  The man took a step backwards and glanced around. He needed to move away from her as quickly as possible. He raised one crutch high above his head and brought it down with all the effort he could muster against the back of her head. The impact pushed her head forward causing it to strike the wheel rim. She slumped into the boot unconscious. He dropped his crutches and immediately grabbed her around the waist. He groaned as he hauled the rest of her body into the boot and pushed her knees up into the foetal position. Speed was of the essence, there was always the risk that at any moment a car or some groundsman would pass by.

  He decided to leave the bike against the tree. For many, it would just be a case of someone who’d forgotten their bike, or it had been abandoned. The Mondeo slowly slipped out of the side road and turned right towards Brighton. He breathed a sigh of relief. His audacious plan had worked. A warm sense of fulfilment and contentment washed over him as his body finally relaxed.

  Mission accomplished.

  He pulled up the roller shutters enough to reverse his car back in before closing them and escape the late afternoon summer heat. In the semi-darkness of his sanctuary, he could relax.

  The box had been prepared in readiness for her arrival. All traces of its former inhabitant had been wiped away with copious bleach wipes. It was spotless and sanitised. He had taken his time to strip her naked. She was small and petite, he guessed no taller than five-foot two inches, which made her light and easy to manoeuvre. It would prove an easy task to place her inside the met
al box later.

  He could explore her body as she lay unconscious. He began by cutting a small lock of her hair and placing it in a small trinket box to go alongside the other souvenirs he’d gathered. She has smaller, more pert breasts than the other two projects, almost adolescent looking, he thought. Her nipples were lighter, smaller and less pronounced. But she did share similar qualities to Rebecca and Hailey. Her skin was smooth and soft, her body was toned and her hair was flame-red. Her chin was more angular and pointed than the other two, but with a broader mouth and fuller lips.

  With his finger, he traced the outline of a body following the outer edge. He stroked the firmness of her belly and admired the thin landing strip of pubic hair that led to her bulbous lips. She had clearly found it more artistic and appealing, than being cleanly shaved, which was something Rebecca and Hailey preferred. He had read that it was called a Hollywood. He mused as to where people came up with such names. He preferred something more simplistic, they were either shaven or unshaven.

  He stroked her thin, lean legs that led to pretty feet that were spoilt by unpainted toenails. He gritted his teeth in disgust. How could she have not prepared for me, when she knew I was meeting her?

  43

  Alexis wasn’t too sure what time it was, or how long she’d been asleep. Forty-five minutes? Perhaps two hours? She couldn’t think straight. Her mind felt foggy, her head pounded and her body felt weak and achy. She felt like she’d been hit by a bus, and the throbbing pain at the back of head certainly seemed to suggest that.

  Had she been drinking? Had someone spiked her drink? Had she eaten something that had wiped her out? She could barely recollect the last thing she had done, but here she was now, under a cover, facing the wall. Was she dreaming? She couldn’t tell; everything was a hazy blur. Was her mind playing tricks on her?