by Jay Gill
“We’re alright.”
“Yeah, we are, aren’t we?” She tucked the kitchen roll in her sleeve and sat up straight. “Don’t let it get cold. Eat up. I want to see you open your presents.”
“This is good, Mum. The sausages are lovely.”
“They’re just cheap ones.”
“They’re nice.”
“I’ll get my phone. I want to take some pictures of you.”
“Really?”
“Yes, really. Mums like having photos. It’s one of the things that make us mums.” She disappeared into the other room and he looked at the clock.
He was keen to get to the park and take a look. He couldn’t leave her, not yet. He’d go out later. Run an errand of some kind and at the same time pass by. He felt sure the place would be swarming with police. He wanted to see.
“Smile. Come on, give me a big birthday smile. That’s better.”
“All done?”
“You are an old grump, you know. You take a good picture. You’re very handsome. You should have a girl, you know.” She started looking at the pictures and showing him.
“What about that girl from college? What was her name? Polly, Pippa?”
“Poppy.” He felt himself flush with tension. “She was nothing.”
She turned her back to him and plugged in her phone. “That’s a shame. She seemed lovely.” She paused, then said, “You’re a man. And I know a man has needs. Mrs Schumann can help. We could call it a birthday treat.”
“For Christ’s sake, Mum. Can we not talk about this? I’m eating my breakfast.”
“Okay, but I understand. I do. And she only keeps, you know, clean girls. I just don’t want you taking any chances. She said you’re always welcome.”
He put down his knife and fork. “You talked to her about me?”
“Not really. I just bumped into her at the chemist and I mentioned your upcoming birthday.” Recognising her unintentional play on words, she tried to hide her smile.
He stared at his breakfast. “Can we please change the subject? I don’t need Mrs Schumann or her tarts.”
“Of course,” she said. “Just so long as you’re sure.”
“I’m sure.” He started eating again, then, shaking his head, said, “Mrs Schumann? What are you like?”
After a moment’s silence they both burst out laughing.
“She only keeps clean girls,” he said, mimicking his mother’s voice.
Chapter Ten
With only two victims from which to build the killer’s narrative, I knew it would be hard to pin down his motive. The sad truth is, the more victims, the easier it is to find important similarities between them and get closer to the killer himself.
In cases like these, I usually start with the victims and why a killer would choose them. Often, a victim’s appearance or personality type plays a role in why they were chosen.
In the case of Ceri and Julia’s killer, did he go out with the intention of killing a young woman, any young woman? Did they look at him the wrong way? Did they speak to him? How had he approached them? Why did he choose them over all of the other women who must have been in the area at the same time? Why did he feel the need to not only rape them, but kill them too? And why so brutally? The attacks had been ferocious, and this killer’s choice of weapon showed he wanted to inflict maximum damage. It wasn’t enough to just kill them but he rained down blow after blow after blow. Why did he hate them? Who or what did they represent to him?
Think, Hardy. There were two major crimes here. Rape and murder.
But … what if this wasn’t about the sexual attack? Maybe this was about the killing. That would make sense. That might be why DNA samples collected from the victims didn’t match any offenders in the DNA database. Rapists often work up to rape over time; they’re often found to have committed crimes likes public indecency first. The sexual aspect of Julia’s and Ceri’s murders was perhaps a further humiliation he wanted to inflict on his victims rather than his primary motivation.
Flashes of the crime scene were mixed in my head with memories of Ceri’s smiling face. I could see her crouched beside Alice and Faith listening to their stories. Stroking Mr Puppy’s ear while Faith asked her about Wales and her parents and family.
I looked around. My eyes followed the edge of the lake to a huge willow tree, then to the bandstand where Ceri was found. I turned and could see more large trees. Tall grass. Shrubs. Oak trees. Large expanses of lawn. Paths weaving through it all.
How did the killer know he wouldn’t be disturbed?
He knew the park. His home must be nearby.
Out of nowhere a cyclist whizzed past me ringing his bell furiously. I stepped sideways to get out his way and nearly fell. I held up my hand to apologise. I’d been miles away and hadn’t seen his approach.
I hadn’t seen him approach. I hadn’t seen him approach.
I took off at a run towards the willow tree, then ran from one crime scene to the other, praying I would find what I was looking for. I took photos on my phone and compared them. The grass was disturbed the same way at each scene.
“He approached on a bike. They hadn’t seen him until it was too late,” I said to myself out loud. “He dropped the bike and went straight at them. He as good as came out of nowhere. He shocked them, then attacked.”
I looked up and down the path. I paced up and down, furiously trying to picture what had happened.
“You approached from the front. Casually getting a closer look. But you didn’t stop. You cycled past. You kept going. You knew the way was clear from your approach so you continued past to check the coast was clear from behind. Satisfied, you turned around and then came straight back at them from behind.”
I raced home and locked myself away in my study. I furiously made notes and drawings. Piecing together what I’d learned. From what I knew now, could I build a picture of the killer? I needed to build a solid profile I could put to Fuller and Jensen.
As soon as I had enough I called Fuller’s mobile phone. He didn’t pick up. I immediately dialled Jensen’s number.
“Jensen. I need to meet with you and Fuller, straight away. I’ve built a profile, and from that, we can narrow down the search. It’ll save days.”
Jensen stopped me. “Haven’t you heard? We have him in custody. He came in and confessed. He’s with Fuller now.”
I sat back in my chair. “What? That doesn’t make any sense.” The idea he’d hand himself in knocked me sideways. I looked at my notes. Something didn’t fit.
“I’m sorry, Hardy. It’s been crazy here. I thought Fuller told you.”
“Forget that. How old is your suspect?”
“Give me a second.” There was a long silence while Jensen went and found out. “He’s sixty-two.”
“I’m coming straight over. Tell Fuller he’s not your man.”
“What?”
“Just tell him.”
Chapter Eleven
I met Jensen outside the interview room. Fuller was sat with the suspect going over his statement.
We watched on monitors. The suspect looked frail and nervous; I could see his hands trembling as he turned and slowly read each page of his statement.
“Tell me what happened,” I said. “Who is this guy?”
“His name’s Peter Richards. He’s a widower who lives alone just outside Maidenhead. He’s a retired financial advisor, specialised in pension plans.
“Fuller got a call this morning from the front desk to say Richards wanted to see him. Richards told the front desk he had evidence on the Regent’s Park Ripper investigation. Once he got upstairs to us he said he’d murdered Julia and Cerise. Fuller showed him into the interview room and he’s been with him on and off all day.”
I watched as Richards took out a handkerchief from his pocket and wiped his glasses. Having signed the statement, he took off the glasses and tucked them inside his jacket pocket. Was this really our killer?
Having taken DNA samples from Ric
hards, we’d have to wait a couple of days at least for DNA comparison results to come back. Meanwhile, the real killer could be preparing to attack again. We needed a way for Richards to rule himself out of the investigation or, if he really was our man, rule himself in.
“You don’t look convinced,” said Jensen.
I was pretty sure Jensen had doubts herself, but she would follow her superior’s lead.
I didn’t want to rain on Fuller’s parade. I’d already sampled his temper and we needed to work as a team. It was important I didn’t make him feel stupid. But time was short.
“Does he look to you like the man who overpowered Julia and Ceri?” I asked Jensen.
“He might look like a weak old man but sometimes you never know.”
I got to my feet. The investigation didn’t have time for this. I knocked and waited for Fuller to excuse himself.
Fuller looked delighted with himself as he closed the door to the interview room. He held up the statement.
“It all seems to fit,” he said. “He’s confessed to the two attacks. When I pressed him he admitted three other earlier sexual assaults. He claims it’s only recently he’s felt the need to kill. He’s a deeply troubled man. He claims his dark side has been growing for decades, but since his wife passed away four years back, he no longer feels the same compulsion to restrain them.”
Fuller put his hand on my shoulder. “Jensen mentioned your doubts, but she’s young and she’s learning. We both know sometimes we get lucky and things fall into place. Today was one of those days. Be happy—we’ve got all we need right here.” He waved the statement. “I guess you can go back to working your own cases. We didn’t need Scotland Yard’s greatest psycho-killer detective after all.”
Beside me, I heard Jensen clear her throat and could feel her shift uncomfortably.
I wasn’t sure what was going on with Fuller. He seemed to have a massive chip on his shoulder about something, and perhaps one day he and I could talk about it, but right now wasn’t the time.
“He’s not our guy,” I said bluntly.
Fuller looked at us both. “What the hell are you talking about? He confessed.”
“I can see that, and I don’t know why he confessed, but the killer is still out there and we need to catch him.”
Fuller looked at Jensen, who shrugged and said, “I’m young. I’m learning. You said it yourself.”
Chapter Twelve
“Listen to what I’ve got to say, then decide whether to go to Webster,” I said. I was trying to prevent Fuller from making a fool of himself, but he couldn’t see it. He looked uneasy. Finally, he nodded in agreement.
“Attacks of this kind point to a younger man,” I began, “somewhere in the region of twenty to forty. That’s based on the ferocity of the attack and the way the victims were beaten to death. I also believe the killer lives locally; he knows the park. He knows the busy times and the quiet times. He knows places he can observe users of the park without being noticed.”
“Is that it?” scoffed Fuller.
“You really think Richards drove all the way from Maidenhead to Regent’s Park to attack these women? What’s that, a sixty-minute drive?”
“Probably more, the way traffic usually moves on the M4,” remarked Jensen.
“There is no reason to think he didn’t drive there to do exactly what he said he did,” said Fuller. “And if you’ve got nothing else, I’m going to take this statement and give it to Webster. I’m sure the chief will be delighted the case is closed.”
“I’ve got plenty more, but there isn’t time. We need to get Richards to eliminate himself from the enquiry so we can move on.”
Fuller looked at me blankly. “How do you propose we do that?”
“With some proper police work. Jensen here is going to ask Richards some questions about the murders and the crime scenes. I’m guessing he’ll give you an answer to them all. Even the made-up ones.”
I turned to Jensen and said, “Ask Richards why he bit the victims and why he put coins in their mouths.”
Fuller said, “There were no bites or coins?”
“Exactly,” I said. “Only the real killer will know that.”
Jensen went back into the room, and we stood outside watching her and Richards. Fuller looked seriously pissed off. I didn’t care.
After no more than twenty minutes she rejoined us.
“I guess you heard all that?” said Jensen.
“Every word,” I said.
“When I asked him about the bite marks, he hesitated but then took no time coming up with a reason for doing it. Same with the coins left in their mouth. He had answers for everything. He even went on to tell us how he strangled them. Which is bizarre, given that earlier he explained how he’d used a wrench to bludgeon them.”
“He wanted to please you,” I said. “It’s not uncommon.”
“What did you make of his manner when you confronted him about the false questions?”
“That’s when he broke down and started crying. As you heard, his obsessions and fantasies about young boys are overwhelming him. He claims he’s never actually followed them through. But he’s scared he will and wants to be arrested. He wants help.”
Hearing all this, Fuller finally lost his cool. “This is bullshit,” he said. “The guy’s a fucking loser, and he’s just wasted my day on his depraved fantasies.” He kicked over a chair. “I’m going to get some air. Jensen, deal with that loser. Get somebody down here who can get him help—whatever that looks like? Just get that animal out of my interview room.”
It wasn’t pretty, but I’d got the result we needed. Richards had ruled himself out.
“He’ll calm down; he just needs to walk it off,” said Jensen, looking in Fuller’s direction. “He gets like that sometimes. He takes things very personally. Deep down he’s a good guy.”
“How deep?” I joked.
“Deep, very deep,” Jensen said, laughing.
“Fuller wanted it to be Richards and that’s what Richards used,” I said, trying to sound sympathetic and not quite succeeding.
“So what now?” asked Jensen.
“We go after our man by building a profile from what we know.”
Jensen looked excited. “Let’s get some coffee and go to work.”
Chapter Thirteen
Jensen handed me a coffee. She also put one down for Fuller, who had spent the last hour with Chief Webster. He’d calmed down and apologised for losing his cool.
No apology was needed. We all wanted the killer off the streets, and with the clock ticking we were all feeling tense. That sort of pressure we each handle in our own way.
The clock on the wall loomed over us unnervingly.
“I don’t want to bring a downer on our position, but it does feel like we’re back at square one,” said Fuller.
“I have to agree, Hardy,” Jensen told me. “It feels like we should be out there, doing something.”
I finished putting my notes in order. “Hardly,” I said. “From what you’ve given me I’ve been able to put together a profile of our man. Without this, we’re going out half-cocked.” I pointed to my scribbled notes. “This is the key to bringing him down.”
I could see scepticism in their eyes. I wasn’t used to justifying my approach to anyone, and this was why Webster rarely partnered me up with anyone. He and I both understood I worked best alone. But I could see that this time I needed to play nice. Though it all appeared perfectly logical to me, I hoped that by patiently explaining my findings—a combination of my own psychological profiling plus the evidence the others had gathered—I could convince Jensen and Fuller to get on board.
“Let’s have it,” said Fuller. He and Jensen opened their note pads and began to write as I spoke.
“The spontaneous nature of the attacks and the high level of risk he was prepared to take indicates a young male,” I said. “I’m sure we’d all agree, an extremely angry individual. Something or someone has caused him a lot
of resentment. His anger may have started years ago but has now reached a point where it can’t be contained any longer. Apart from bringing the weapon, neither attack showed any sign of planning. A lack of finesse before, during and after the crime suggests low to average IQ—there’s no sign that he made any attempt to cover up his crime. Quite the opposite, in fact: there is a possibility he may have taken a degree of pleasure in knowing there would be shock felt by those discovering the bodies.
“He knows Regent’s Park well; that would indicate he’s local. He has most likely spent a lot of time there over the years, especially his adolescent years. He feels comfortable in the park, possibly watching people and fantasising about how it would feel committing the murders. It’s unlikely he would have picked a park the size of Regent’s Park without knowing the exits and the many routes around it; he wouldn’t have wanted to get lost after the attacks. The park might have meaning or relevance to him, or maybe its great expanse simply offered opportunity.”
I watched Fuller and Jensen and they seemed to be following my thought process, which buoyed me.
“If he works at all, it will most likely be a manual job. He most likely lives at home with his parents. The sexual aspect of each attack suggests he’s unlikely to have had much success forming personal relationships. Sexual relationships will have been a particular problem. He’s probably been rejected more than once, which he finds difficult to manage emotionally.”
Jensen looked up from her notes. “Lives locally and at home?”
“Relationships will have been a real problem,” I repeated. “He’s detached from the rest of society. I feel there is a strong possibility he lives at home. Outside the home environment he’ll be a loner.”
“Why couldn’t this be an older man, someone in their fifties?”
“The pattern of behaviour doesn’t fit. Older males will be more cautious. Their crimes are more orchestrated and more sophisticated. Certainly less risky. Yes, they can still be horrific in nature, but the spontaneity of these two crimes along with everything else suggests to me a younger man.”
