by OMJ Ryan
The man chortled. ‘Two reasons, Lachlan. The first being, I want to see your face when you realise who the Copycat Killer actually is. And the second being, this information is worth a lot of money, and I want what I’m owed. In cash.’
‘How much do you want?’ Sims asked.
‘Five grand should cover it.’
‘Five grand?’
Sims locked eyes with Townsend, who shook his head and inverted his thumb, indicating Sims should go back with a lower offer.
‘I don’t think I can access that kind of money.’
‘Well, then I’ll take my information to a paper that can. Goodbye, Lachlan—’
‘No! Wait. Wait. I’m just a junior reporter. Let me speak to my boss.’
‘Is he there now?’
‘Yes, he is.’
‘Well, talk to him. I’ll call you back in five minutes. No money, no story.’ The phone went dead.
Sims stared at his phone for a long moment before turning his attention to Townsend. ‘He says if we don’t give him the money, he’ll take it to another paper.’
‘Do you believe him?’
‘I don’t know.’
Townsend sat forwards. ‘Has he said how he knows who the killer is?’
‘No. Just that he does and, to be fair, he was the one who made the connection between the current murders and the historical cases. I would never have put it together without him, so I think we should take what he says seriously.’
‘And what if he’s the killer?’
Sims scoffed. ‘Well, if that was the case, why admit it to me? He must know we’d have to inform the police.’
Townsend sat in silence for a moment. ‘I’m wondering if we shouldn’t inform the police already. If we have a source that has information regarding an open case, we’re duty-bound to report it.’
‘Oh come on, Don. If we do that, this story’s finished. And besides, we have absolutely no idea if he’s telling the truth or not. Why don’t you let me check him out and if I hear anything that I think the police should know, I’ll tell them.’
Townsend considered his suggestion before nodding. ‘Ok. I can live with that.’
Sims grinned. ‘All we need now is the cash.’
‘Well, there is source money in the safe for this sort of thing,’ said Townsend.
‘How do we get access to that?’
‘As a senior reporter, I have access, but the brass won’t like it if you spunk five grand on some loony who’s full of shit.’
‘So, what do we do? Maybe he is talking bollocks, but if he’s not and he does know the identity of the killer, this is the story of a lifetime, Don.’
Townsend appeared deep in thought. ‘Ok. Here’s what you should do. Tell him he can have the five grand, but only if he has concrete evidence to back up his claim. Theories are out. We want hard facts.’
Sims nodded eagerly.
‘And it’ll come in two payments. Half now if it looks like good intel, and half once our editor approves the story. See what he says to that.’
‘Ok.’ Sims’s phone began to vibrate again. ‘Hello?’
‘Did you get it?’
‘Yes. But there are a couple of conditions.’
‘I’m listening.’
‘I can give you two and half grand up front if the info is kosher and factual…’
‘Go on.’
‘And the other half once the editor approves my story and we run it.’
Silence.
Sims’s heart beat so loudly, he was sure the man could hear it on the other end.
‘Ok, Lachlan. You’ve got yourself a deal. Meet me at ten p.m. tonight—’
‘Tonight?’
‘No sense in wasting time, Lachlan. We’re both on a deadline.’
‘Where?’
The White Horse pub in Woodford. Do you know it?’
‘I’ll find it.’
‘Good.’
‘How will I know what you look like?’
‘You won’t. But I’ll know you. And come alone. I see anyone else, I’m gone.’ The man hung up.
Sims stared at the phone before replacing the receiver.
‘He went for it, then?’ asked Townsend.
Sims let out a nervous laugh. ‘Yeah, he did. I’m meeting him at The White Horse pub in Woodford, in an hour.’
‘It’s not a bad boozer, that.’ Townsend stood. ‘I’ll be back in a minute.’
‘Where are you going?’
‘To get your money.’
Ten minutes later, he returned with five bundles of notes, which he deposited on Sims’s desk. ‘Et voilà, two and a half grand,’ he said.
A surge of excitement shot through Sims’s body. He’d never seen so much cash in one place. ‘Bloody hell, Don. That’s amazing.’
Townsend handed him a docket. ‘Well, don’t get too excited. With large amounts of source-money comes great responsibility. You need to fill this out. This is your story, and your balls on the line. Make sure you get what you’re paying for, or your glittering career will be over before it’s even begun.’
Sims nodded, and proceeded to fill out the requisition order.
‘That’s a lot of money to be carrying round on your own. Do you want me to come with you?’ asked Townsend.
‘No. He expressly told me to come alone. Said if he saw anyone else but me, he’d disappear.’
‘Ok. But be careful,’ said Townsend. ‘A lot of nutters call us every day claiming they know who killed Diana, or that John Lennon is still alive and living in Gorton above the Domino’s Pizza. Dealing with crazies is an occupational hazard in our line of work. My advice is, get there before he does and choose a seat that’s visible to other customers or the bar staff – better still, both. If you suspect anything is off, that he’s a crazy or a weirdo, or you feel threatened, just make your excuses and leave. Believe me, no story is worth getting hurt over.’
‘Thanks, Don. I’ll be careful.’
Townsend checked his watch. 'Well, in that case, you’d better get going.’
Sims nodded, and began packing the money into his backpack.
‘I’ll be here for another hour or so, but my mobile will be on all night. Call me if you need me, ok?’
‘I will,’ said Sims, standing. ‘Wish me luck.’
‘Your Pulitzer Prize awaits!’ said Townsend, affecting a fake American accent.
‘Piss off,’ chuckled Sims, then grabbed his bag and car keys, and headed for the lift.
52
‘Take a look at this, Guv,’ said Entwistle, angling his laptop so Phillips could see his screen.
Phillips placed the file she’d been reading on the desk and moved to his shoulder.
‘I found this in one of the folders on here,’ Entwistle tapped the screen with an index finger. ‘A bunch of old newspaper articles on each of the killers, plus a load of others we’ve not encountered yet. There must be thirty or forty different names listed here.’
‘Jesus. His next kill could be a copycat of any one of them. Is there anything in there on the Crossbow Cannibal?’
Entwistle scanned down the long list of files on screen. ‘Doesn’t look like it, Guv.’
Phillips removed her glasses and rubbed her hand down her face. ‘Well, if that’s the case, then we’ve been chasing our tails on the crossbow angle.’
‘I think you’re right, Guv,’ said Bovalino, dropping his pen on his notepad with a sigh. ‘I’ve found nothing online to link Anderson to any of the crossbow associations, and I’ve checked them all.’
‘Well, we can’t afford to waste any more time on it if that’s the case. Park it and let’s move on.’ Phillips turned her attention back to Entwistle. ‘Can you print off each of the old articles?’
‘Sure. It’ll take some time, though.’
‘Do it. Run them off in alphabetical order, and we can start working through them.’
Entwistle nodded, and got to work.
At that moment the door to MCU opened beh
ind them, causing Phillips to turn.
‘I thought I’d check in on the troops,’ said Carter as he strode across the office. ‘How are you getting on?’
‘Slowly, sir,’ said Phillips. ‘Entwistle’s just found a stack of old articles on Anderson’s laptop related to historical serial killers. There’s between thirty and forty names, including the killers he’s copycatted so far.’
‘Bloody hell,’ said Carter, frowning.
‘But…nothing related to the Crossbow Killer. So, with time running out, we’re ditching that theory. Entwistle’s printing each of the articles off now, and then we’ll start working our way through them.’
‘Need some help?’
Phillips smiled. ‘That would be great, if you have time.’
‘Well, as there’s no-one at home at the moment, I’ve got all the time in the world. Plus, I can’t let Dr Harris take all the credit, can I?’
Harris looked up from the file she was working on and smiled.
‘Where do you want me?’ asked Carter.
‘Take that desk.’ Phillips pointed to one on her right.
Entwistle returned from the printer with the first few printouts, which he handed to Phillips.
‘You can get stuck into these, sir,’ she said, passing them over to Carter. ‘You’re looking for any similarities to his previous murders with regards to scale and profile. And, based on the pattern that’s emerged, a different method of murder to any of his kills so far.’
Carter took a seat and began working his way through the sheets.
Phillips walked across to one of the large whiteboards fixed to the wall and began writing. ‘Also, look for anything that makes sense of the clue: “The Angel of Death walks amongst your own kind, DCI Phillips. Like the good shepherd you are, follow the guiding star to find your salvation”.’
Entwistle produced another set of printouts.
‘I’ll have those,’ said Phillips, and took her seat at the desk next to Carter’s.
Over the next thirty minutes, Entwistle continued rolling off the articles and, in turn, Jones, Harris and Bovalino began trawling through them; the only sound in the room came from the heavy-duty printer working overtime in the corner.
Having exhausted her stack, Phillips sat back and closed her eyes for a moment. She’d found nothing relevant. Opening her eyes again, her gaze fell on the whiteboard and the clue. ‘“The Angel of Death walks amongst your own kind, DCI Phillips. Like the good shepherd you are, follow the guiding star to find your salvation”.’ She whispered it over and over until the words no longer seemed to make sense. It was time for a break. ‘I need some air,’ she announced, and left the room.
She made her way out into the rear yard, located next to the custody suite. The cold night air was crisp, her breath visible in front of her. The skin on her cheeks tightened as she folded her arms across her chest to keep warm. Uniformed officers milled around the yard, chatting, smoking and laughing. For a moment, she longed for the simplicity of street policing. No riddles, no games, just the chance to lock up villains with every single shift. Right now, with the clock ticking and no idea what Anderson was planning next, that life seemed like heaven. She ran the clue over in her mind once again. If he wasn’t referring to a copper when he said “your own kind”, then what did he mean?
The automatic gates to the yard began to roll open and, a minute later, a patrol car moved through, coming to a stop in a parking space just a few feet from where Phillips stood. Two officers jumped out. The fact that they were both women caught her attention. Chatting away, the pair made their way inside, nodding and offering respectful ‘Ma’am’s as they passed her. She watched them until they disappeared inside the building, the double doors closing behind them with a heavy thud before the automatic lock clicked into place. Then it suddenly dawned on her. ‘Your own kind…your own kind…that’s it!’ she muttered under her breath, then rushed inside and upstairs.
A few minutes later, Phillips burst through the door of MCU. ‘I think I’ve figured out what he means by the Angel of Death walking amongst my own kind!’
Everyone stopped what they were doing and stared at her.
She continued. ‘We initially thought my kind was referring to me being a copper, but now we know the killer is Anderson, we can rule that out. So, the next most obvious thing I am is a woman.’
Puzzled looks filled the room.
‘But Anderson’s a man, Guv,’ said Jones.
‘Yes. I know he is. But for every murder he’s committed, he’s pretended to be someone else: a poisoner, a strangler, a gay guy, a vicious maniac, a stalker… Why couldn’t he pretend to be a woman for his next kill?’
‘It would certainly fulfil his desire to go one step further with each murder,’ said Harris.
Phillips felt reenergised. ‘Right. Entwistle, set your laptop up in the conference room and pull up the names of every female serial killer from the last fifty years. We’ll go through them together, one by one.’
Soon after, the team was huddled around the large conference table, their eyes locked on the screen on the wall. One by one, as female mugshots appeared, Entwistle narrated their crimes: ‘Myra Hindley – murdered children with her boyfriend Ian Brady; Rose West – killed her own children, as well as lodgers, with her husband Fred, then buried the bodies in the house and garden; Beverley Alit – the paediatric nurse who murdered sick children in her care. And according to this, Guv, she was nicknamed The Angel of Death.’
Was Alit to be the next copycat? Phillips wasn’t so sure. ‘The nickname makes her the obvious choice, but she only killed kids. Our guy has stuck to adults through the five murders so far – six if he was responsible his wife’s death. I’m not an expert, but is it likely that he would he suddenly stray from that pattern, Doc?’
‘I don’t think so,’ said Harris. ‘As much as he’s a psychopath, as you rightly say, his victims up to now have all been adults. After five kills, I can’t see that changing. I agree. I think his next target will be an adult as well.’
‘Just in case, let’s keep Alit in mind, but I’m keen to see if we can find anyone else who fits his MO more closely,’ Phillips said.
‘So, going back to the wife. Does her death look like it could be a copycat?’ asked Jones.
‘The honest answer is, we don’t know at this stage,’ said Phillips. ‘There’s nothing obvious to suggest it was, but we’ll know more once we get the post-mortem results in a few days.’
‘Having seen the preliminary SOCO report on the crime scene, I’d say that, unlike the rest of the murders, his wife’s death looks unplanned,’ said Harris, ‘and certainly not the crime he’s imaging in his messages. In his mind, whatever he’s referring to in those will need to be a lot grander than strangling his wife at the bottom of the stairs.’
‘I agree,’ said Phillips. ‘And even if it does turn out to be a copycat, it’s not going to help us catch him now. So, let’s get back to the search.’
Entwistle obliged. Maxine Carr, the co-conspirator in the Soham murders in 2002, where two young girls were lured into her boyfriend’s home and murdered, appeared next.
‘Kids again,’ said Phillips. ‘Move on.’
The next mugshot to appear on the large screen sent a chill down Phillips’s spine. The face staring back at them epitomised evil. Black eyes, framed by lank brown hair, with a large star tattoo filling her right cheek.
‘Joanna Dennehy, aka the Peterborough Ditch Murderer. Stabbed four men in March 2013, killing two of them, before dumping the bodies in drainage ditches outside Peterborough,’ said Entwistle.
‘God. I remember her,’ said Bovalino.
‘Me too,’ added Carter.
‘It was a huge case in the profiling world,’ said Harris. ‘Mainly because it was the first time a woman had committed multiple premeditated murders on men as the aggressor – as opposed to acting in self-defence.’
Phillips stared at the face for a long moment, then walked up to the screen
. She tapped her fingers on the large tattoo. ‘Follow the guiding star,’ she said, then turned back to face the team. ‘Joanna Dennehy. A masculine woman who committed a series of high-profile murders in the glare of the media, famous for the star tattoo on her cheek. My gut’s telling me she’s our next copycat.’
53
Sims arrived at The White Horse pub twenty minutes early. It was relatively busy, and the hum of chatter hung in the air. After ordering a diet coke, he sat down at a booth in full view of the bar, close enough to neighbouring tables to be seen, but far enough away so as not to be heard. He placed his bag containing the cash out of view on the bench next to him, pulled out his notepad and pen, and waited.
Ten minutes later, a long-haired man wearing a beanie hat, with a facial tattoo and dark painted fingernails, sat down opposite him, cradling a bottle of cider.
‘That seat’s taken,’ said Sims, unimpressed.
‘I know it is. I’m sitting in it.’ His voice sounded masculine, but high-pitched and affected.
‘Look, I don’t mean to be rude, but I’m waiting for someone. They’re due any minute.’
‘They’re already here, Lachlan,’ said the man.
Sims’s brow furrowed.
The man offered his hand. ‘I’m Gabby.’
Sims was confused. A man with a woman’s name?
‘I’m your source.’
‘I’m sorry?’
‘Do you have my money, Lachlan?’
Sims frowned. ‘You’re the person I’ve been talking to about the Copycat Killer?’ His voice was almost a whisper.
Gabby grinned, then took a swig from the bottle. ‘You were expecting somebody, or maybe something, else?’
‘Well, yeah. I guess so. You sounded different on the phone.’
‘Everyone says that. So, back to my question. Do you have my money?’
Sims shot a glance down at the bag, then back at Gabby. ‘Yeah, but as we agreed, I need printable facts before I can hand it over.’
‘Oh, I’ve got plenty of facts, Lachlan. I know everything there is to know about the Copycat Killer.’
