Deadly Obsession

by OMJ Ryan

  ‘Some soft-hearted bureaucrat thought it would be a good idea to let him out early,’ added Phillips.

  Bovalino scoffed. ‘Typical.’

  Entwistle continued. ‘In 1970, he got a job working with chemicals in Bovingdon. His employers were aware that he had served time at Broadmoor, but not the reason why he was there. And it wasn’t long before he was up to his old tricks, poisoning seven more people by spiking their hot drinks at break times. Interestingly, it was Young himself who inadvertently brought the police to his door by asking his bosses if they’d considered thallium poisoning. They reported it to the police, who discovered his past crimes and raided his house. They found all the evidence they needed to convict him, and in 1972 he was sentenced to life.’

  ‘And this time there was no cushy time at Broadmoor,’ Phillips cut in.

  ‘Indeed,’ said Entwistle. ‘He was sent to Parkhurst on the Isle of Wight, where he died of a heart attack in his cell, aged forty-three.’

  Harris smiled. ‘Very thorough.’

  Entwistle blushed slightly.

  Phillips turned to Bovalino. ‘Let’s see if you were paying attention, big man. Fill the doc in on Gillian Galloway and Steve Wright.

  Bovalino nodded, tapping his copy of the file on his desk. ‘As you say, Guv, Galloway’s killer appears to be mimicking the murders of Steve Wright, also known as The Suffolk Strangler. His killing spree began in October of 2006, and lasted only a couple of months. He was arrested in December of the same year, but still managed to kill five women in under two months. Galloway, like Wright’s third and fourth victims, was found naked in woodland, laid out in a cruciform position, and – again, like Wright’s victims – she’d been strangled. There was no sexual assault, which also matches the historical victims.’

  ‘And where is Wright now?’ asked Harris.

  Bovalino scanned his file for a moment. ‘Er, says here he’s currently serving a full life tariff in HMP Long Larton, Worcester. It’s maximum security and he’ll never be released.’

  ‘He looks bloody dangerous,’ said Jones, pointing to Wright’s mugshot in the file.

  Phillips nodded. ‘The judge thought so too, which is why he’s never getting out. Thanks, Bov.’ She turned back to Entwistle. ‘You know Denis Nilsen better than anybody. Talk us through his connection to our third victim, Sean Hamilton.’

  Entwistle wasted no time. ‘Like all of Nilsen’s victims, Hamilton was a young gay man, living alone in a new city. And, like in a number of the Nilsen cases, his body was found burning on a fire on remote wasteland. The post mortem revealed Hamilton had been drowned in a domestic setting, such as a bath, sink or maybe even a bucket, then set on fire along with a car tyre. Exactly like Nilsen’s at least twelve victims, who were murdered in London between 1978 and 1983, each of them gay, and each of them loners or estranged from their families. He got the nickname “The Muswell Hill Murderer”, and was eventually sentenced to a whole life tariff. He died in HMP Full Sutton in 2018, aged seventy-two, of a pulmonary embolism.’

  ‘Good riddance,’ said Jones.

  Phillips took the lead now. ‘As for our latest victim, Wiktoria Szymańska, I remember hearing tales about The Beast of Manchester, aka Terry Hardy, when I was a young PC. Whoever killed her copied the murder of Wanda Skala in 1974 in almost forensic detail. Both women were battered about the head with a concrete block, mutilated, and left on a building site in the Moston area of Manchester. And both of them had a single nipple bitten off.’

  ‘I still don’t know how anyone could do that,’ muttered Bovalino.

  Phillips continued. ‘Hardy loved violence of any kind. It was said that when he walked into a pub, people would immediately walk out, such were the odds of him delivering a horrific beating to innocent bystanders for absolutely no reason. He even tried to kill his own brother for reporting him to the police. A real piece of work, who was sentenced to life in 1978. He died of a heart attack in Wakefield Maximum Security Prison in 2012, aged sixty-seven, after thirty-seven years inside.

  ‘Very impressive, guys, and quite the rogues’ gallery,’ said Harris. ‘Any thoughts on what motivated them to kill?’

  ‘We were hoping you could tell us,’ said Phillips.

  Harris sat forward in her chair. ‘Ok. From a psychological standpoint, there are certain common traits that we see in the make-up of a serial killer, such as childhood abuse – sexual or physical, sometimes both – or being separated from their families at a young age. Childhood trauma, like losing a parent or close grandparent – as was the case with Denis Nilsen, who adored his grandfather and was heartbroken when he died at just sixty-eight. After he was caught, he admitted that it was seeing his grandfather in the funeral home that prompted him to keep his victims’ bodies in his flat for days and weeks after death. He felt close to their corpses and didn’t want them to leave – as with his grandfather.’

  ‘That’s so messed up,’ said Bovalino.

  ‘Yes, it is. But sadly, childhood trauma is the biggest cause of mental health issues in adults that we know of, and each of the historical killers suffered from one or more of these – apart from Hardy, that is. There’s no clear early-life reason for his behaviour other than he was unstable and violent. His crimes started with fighting in pubs, progressed on to beating women, and culminated in him raping and battering them to death.’

  ‘So do you think our killer – or killers – suffered from childhood trauma?’ asked Phillips.

  ‘Statistically speaking, I’d say it’s highly likely, yes.’

  ‘Knowing that doesn’t help us catch them any quicker though, does it?’ added Jones.

  ‘Maybe not, but it can certainly help build a profile of the killer and narrow down your suspects.’

  ‘If we had any suspects,’ said Bovalino.

  Harris ignored the remark. ‘Chief Superintendent Carter mentioned you weren’t sure whether you were looking for one killer for all of them, four single killers, or two killers working together.’

  ‘That’s right,’ said Phillips. She couldn’t help feeling more and more undermined as the details of Carter’s private briefing with Harris unfolded.

  ‘Well, based on the evidence so far, it’s my belief that you’re looking for one killer for all four murders, working alone: a man who has been emasculated all his life and grown up around abuse.’

  Phillips folded her arms across her chest. ‘Oh? Why do you think that?’

  ‘Well.’ Harris cleared her throat. ‘I’d say it’s a man because it’s so rare for women to strangle, batter or mutilate, and the chances of coming across a single copycat killer are quite remote. Most serial killers are driven by their past, which is individual to them, and manifests itself in their method of murder. For example, it would be highly unlikely that, say, two people shared the exact same early life issues and motivations and, as such, subsequent killing methods. I mean, it’s not impossible, but it’s highly, highly unlikely. But for four individual people to have the exact same issues and motivations as previous killers, and then act out their rage in the same way? Well, in my experience, that would be pretty much impossible. Especially within a period of just a few weeks and within the same city.’

  ‘So, if it is one man, why is he copying different killers?’ asked Phillips. ‘Why not just repeat the method that matches his own issues over and over?’

  ‘Well. I think your killer’s issues and motivations are actually being served by him copying murders committed by different people – in this case, the crème de la crème of British serial killers, some of the most infamous, high-profile killers ever witnessed in this country.’

  ‘What about Peter Sutcliffe, the Yorkshire Ripper?’ said Entwistle. ‘He’s probably the most famous of all, and he’s not been copied.’

  ‘Not yet, but I fear he’s on the list,’ said Harris.

  ‘Why do you think that?’ Phillips asked.

  Harris tapped the file with her finger. ‘Look at the crimes. In chronological orde
r, he starts with a poisoning, moves on to strangulation, then drowning, and finally, he beats Szymańska with a brick. He’s getting more and more violent – probably increasingly confident too. I’m sorry to say this, but I fear his next victim will suffer an even more violent death than Szymańska’s. Sutcliffe’s crimes were horrifically violent – one of the most brutal killers ever seen. So, he could well be on our killer’s list to be copied as he escalates.’

  ‘God, that’s all we need.’ Phillips exhaled loudly. ‘You say his motivations are actually being served by him emulating previous murderers, but how?’

  ‘Like I said, the men he’s copying are some of the most infamous killers ever seen, god-like in some people’s twisted fantasies. If I’m right and he was abused and emasculated as a child, then by copying them, he’s saying to the world that he’s as infamous as they were, as powerful, as fearsome, as evil. I suspect he was never allowed to think for himself or to make up his own mind, so he has little frame of reference for what constitutes success other than to look at historical cases and the terror they inflicted, then copy them. If he does it right, then he’s achieved his goal.’

  ‘Which is?’ said Phillips.

  Harris locked eyes with her. ‘To strike fear into the hearts of the people of Manchester. To know for sure that they are as scared of him as people of the past were of Graham Young, Steve Wright, Denis Nilsen and Terry Hardy. Plus, by changing his MO each time, there’s less risk of creating a pattern that could help you stop him.’

  Silence descended on the incident room once more as the realisation of what they were up against began to sink in.

  Phillips stared at the dossier of killers with a heavy heart. Everything Harris had said made sense, and if she was right, then their killer would soon strike again, with even greater violence. Though she resented how Harris had been brought on board, she had to give the woman credit. She now had a better picture of what they were looking at, when previously all there had been was an apparent mess and confusion. She wasn’t sure, yet, if she was willing to forgive Carter, though. As for their solo killer, where, when, and who were the questions. In twenty years of policing, she had never felt more powerless.

  Her phone rang. It was Chakrabortty. Phillips excused herself and stepped away from the group. ‘Tan. Please tell me you have the DNA results.’

  ‘I do.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘Nothing in the system, I’m afraid,’ said Chakrabortty.

  ‘Damn it!’

  ‘But I can tell you, you’re looking for a white male.’

  ‘Well, that narrows it down to just twenty million or so suspects.’ Phillips’s tone was sarcastic.

  ‘Don’t shoot the messenger, Jane,’ Chakrabortty hit back.

  ‘I’m sorry, Tan. I was just so hoping we would get a hit on this guy.’

  ‘I know. I’m sorry we haven’t got better news for you.’

  ‘Well, thanks for the update. Look, I’d better go.’ She rang off, and walked back to the team. ‘No match on the DNA. But we know he’s a white male.’

  The guys groaned in unison.

  ‘So, we’re gonna have to do this the old-fashioned way. I want a list of all the violent serial killers convicted in the UK, ASAP.’

  ‘How far back do you wanna go?’ asked Jones.

  ‘Let’s assume his starting point is Graham Young. So, anyone who was convicted after he was put away for the second and final time. So, 1972 onwards.’ Phillips looked at Harris. ‘Do you agree?’

  ‘Yes. That makes sense.’

  ‘Good,’ said Phillips. ‘Let’s see if we can figure out who he’s gonna try and copy next.’

  30

  Gabe watched from the darkened cab of the van, parked up in the shadows of the city-centre back street. Outside, the temperature had dropped below freezing. The heavy snow that had started in the afternoon was set to continue well into the early hours, so he had the heater running at full blast. He wanted the van nice and cosy, welcoming, even. Twenty minutes later, he spotted her as she stepped out of the service entrance of the hotel and into the alley. She wore a thick coat, woolly hat and scarf against the weather, and carried a large handbag over her shoulder. She strode off towards the main road and her bus home. He knew that last part because he’d watched her do it for the last three nights in a row, as she finished her late shift. He waited for her to turn right at the end of the alley and disappear out of sight before making his move. He checked his watch. It was 11.03 p.m., and he had just eight minutes to execute his plan before her bus arrived. He quickly reversed back down the alley to the next junction, pulled the van left onto the adjacent road, then left again and finally another left onto the main drag. Stopping at the red light, her could see her up ahead, sitting alone at the bus stop. Perfect. As the light turned green, he moved forward at a steady pace, then indicated and gently pulled the van towards the kerb. The old brakes squeaked as he came to a stop. Leaning across the seat, he wound down the window. ‘Hello Wendy, do you wanna lift?’

  Wendy flinched, appearing startled as she stared into the dark cab. She clearly didn’t recognise him, so he flicked on the light above his head. ‘Wendy, it’s me.’

  Wendy’s face softened suddenly, and she let out an audible sigh of relief. ‘Oh hello. Sorry, I didn’t realise who it was. I thought it was some weirdo.’

  Gabe chuckled. ‘Yeah, sorry about that. Seriously though, do you want a lift?’

  Wendy checked her watch. ‘No, you’re all right. My bus will be here in five minutes. I’ll be fine.’

  ‘You live in Moss Side, right?’

  ‘Wow. You’ve got a good memory.’

  ‘My wife doesn’t think so,’ he joked. ‘I’m going that way and the weather’s awful. Come on, jump in. I’ll drop you off.’

  Wendy glanced up the street, then up at the snow falling in big white clumps. ‘Oh, go on then,’ she said, and stood.

  He opened the door, and a moment later she was in the cab.

  ‘Oooh, it’s lovely and warm in here,’ she said as she pulled the door shut.

  ‘Better than a bus,’ he replied with a smile, before switching off the light and pulling away.

  ‘I didn’t mean to be rude back there, but I never expected you to be driving a van,’ she said as they headed towards Mancunian Way.

  ‘Especially not one as old and knackered as this, hey?’

  Wendy smiled coyly. ‘No, I guess not.’

  ‘It’s my dad’s. I’ve been dropping off some old furniture to a friend of his in Failsworth. I should have been home an hour ago, but she’s a little old lady and a bit lonely. She wouldn’t let me leave and kept plying me with cake. I feel a bit sick now.’ He patted his stomach.

  ‘Sounds like my grandma. I put on a stone every time I go to visit her.’

  He smiled.

  For the next few minutes, they drove in silence as he savoured her scent. He had been mesmerised by it the first time they had met, and it was just as intoxicating as he had remembered; a mixture of the oil she used to straighten her Afro-Caribbean hair, and the moisturiser on her dark, perfect black skin.

  ‘Busy day?’ he asked.

  ‘Long,’ she said, looking out of the window. ‘Twelve hours dealing with whinging hotel guests, moaning about hairs in their bathtubs, not enough towels or too many towels, the price of the mini-bar and anything else they can think of.’

  Gabe chortled. ‘You have more patience than me.’

  ‘Sometimes.’

  He indicated and took the exit signposted for Hulme. ‘You’re on Kenside Street, aren’t you?’

  Wendy smiled. ‘Wow, you really do have a good memory. I’m impressed.’

  ‘I do my best,’ he said with a chuckle.

  A few minutes later, they drove under the Hulme Arch, then passed between the ASDA superstore on the right and the Heineken Brewery on the left.

  ‘You want to take the second road on your right,’ she said, pointing ahead.

  Gabe nodded,
but didn’t reply.

  ‘You’ll need to get onto the right lane or you’ll miss it,’ she added urgently.

  Again he said nothing and continued driving on past the road.

  ‘You’ve missed the turning!’ she said, swivelling in her seat to look back.

  He nodded.

  ‘Are you gonna turn round?’

  He shook his head.

  ‘What’s going on?’ Her voice cracked slightly.

  ‘We’re taking a small detour,’ he said, without looking at her.

  ‘What kind of detour? Where?’

  ‘You’ll see,’ he said, and began to accelerate.

  ‘Seriously. This isn’t funny. You’re scaring me.’

  He glanced sideways at her for a moment, then turned his attention back to the road.

  ‘Can you stop the van, please? I want to get out.’

  He continued to stare at the road ahead in silence.

  She pulled at the door handle next to her. ‘Stop the van. I want to get out!’

  ‘Soon.’

  ‘Stop it now!’

  Gabe laughed. ‘I’ll stop when I’m good and fucking ready, Wendy.’

  She began to cry. ‘Please stop the van. I want to go home.’

  He remained silent and continued driving at speed up the Parkway.

  Fishing in her bag, she pulled out her mobile phone. ‘If you don’t let me out, I’m calling the police.’

  Without looking, he snatched it from her hand and threw it to the floor. ‘No, you won’t,’ he growled, then moved the car into the right-hand lane before stopping at the intersection, then turning right down Mauldeth Road West.

  ‘Where are you taking me?’ she cried through her tears.

  ‘Somewhere we won’t be disturbed,’ he said with a wicked grin.

  ‘Why are you doing this?’

  A few hundred yards farther down the road, he turned left and drove straight onto the Hough End playing fields, and a minute later brought the van to a stop. He switched off the engine and turned to face her.

  She stared back at him with wide, terrified eyes, then started screaming as she yanked wildly at the door handle. It wouldn’t budge. He had made sure of that, fixing it so only he had the knowhow to release it.