She fell backwards onto the hall floor with a dull wet thud, blood shooting up into the air above her head and down onto her face as she hit the floor. Babs thrashed about for a few seconds, staring at her killer. Her mind was screaming “Why?” But no words came from her lips. She was dead before the killer rained another six stabs into her chest.
He climbed the stairs, slowly and silently; the visit to the house some weeks ago proved invaluable. He had an excellent memory and could have made the journey through the house blindfolded.
Quietly, he turned the doorknob to the bedroom and slid in, opening the door only just wide enough, standing in the bedroom for a few minutes, savouring the thrill of what was to happen. The voice in his head that had urged him on this far fell silent as he slowly moved towards the sleeping Poppy. He climbed onto the bed. Slowly and carefully he straddled her. He remained still, knowing that Poppy would wake up eventually.
Poppy did wake and in a sleepy but affectionate voice said, ‘You know I’ve got an early start tomorrow.’ She put up her hands to feel Babs’ ample breasts, and was instantly and completely awake in blind terror. She had no idea she was feeling the smooth texture of latex rubber. All that registered with her was that there were no breasts. She screamed and struggled, but lacked the bodyweight to make any impression, the weight of the killer was simply too much for her. The nauseating smell of latex hit her nose as a large hand covered her mouth, and she started to gag.
She was still screaming as the knife blade was slipped slowly through her liver and past her spine into the mattress – then all she could do was gasp. Thirty seconds later she was dead. He was slow to climb off the still, but warm, body of Poppy. He had started to enjoy this one. Already he could hear the voice in his head. He heard the pleasure in the voice.
The killer dragged the body of Poppy down the stairs and set about carefully dismembering the victims – taking his time, he started spreading the body parts around the house.
Chapter 7
Wednesday, May 15, Saxon’s Apartment, 7.35AM
Saxon was used to phone calls at this time. His days tended to start early and finish late, sometimes blending into one big day. But even on the phone, Saxon could sense the tremor in Parker’s voice and he realised instantly that what he was about to hear was serious shit. Parker spelled it out in graphic detail, the horror of his words being reinforced by the shock in his voice.
While he listened to Parker’s description of the scene inside Anvil Wood House, Saxon was shocked too. Not just because it was gruesome but also because it was not what he’d anticipated. Could it be connected to his serial killer? They rarely changed their MO. On the contrary, they thrived on routine and ritual. This made no sense. It couldn’t be connected – or could it?
Saxon prepared himself mentally for what he would see back in Sewel Mill this time. He told Parker to keep everyone out of the house, even the forensics guys, until he had viewed the situation.
Wednesday, 15 May, Anvil Wood House, 8.15AM
When Saxon arrived at the house, it was crawling with forensics people. Superintendent Mitchell had made an early appearance, although he was in no condition to talk to anyone now, given that Saxon could see he was busy throwing up in a hedge.
Parker appeared next to Saxon as if from nowhere, visibly shaken. ‘Sorry, sir, I was out-ranked; the superintendent just barged straight in there. He ordered the forensics people in, telling them they didn’t have to wait for you.’
Parker gestured at the house. ‘Then he skidded on a few bits and pieces lying around in the hallway…’ Parker’s voice faded slightly.
‘Over his vomit-tolerance level, was it?’ Saxon asked, not unsympathetically. They’d all been there at some time or other. It went with the territory.
Parker nodded grimly. ‘Yeah, I reckon it was.’ He smiled for the first time that morning. ‘He had to dash outside before he ruined parts of the crime scene with his breakfast.’
The two of them looked towards the house. ‘Both of them downstairs?’ Saxon queried.
‘Ground and first floor,’ answered Parker. ‘All over the place.’ He leaned forward, his hands on his knees. Saxon moved back slightly…just in case he too was about to throw up. Then he pulled himself up slowly to his full height again.
‘Before you go in, sir, you’ve got to know. It’s like nothing you’ve seen before.’ He shook his head. ‘It’s like a fucking horror film in there.’ His voice wavered again.
‘Okay, thanks for the warning, Parker,’ replied Saxon. ‘So, tell me, who found the bodies?’
‘The groom, sir, poor sod.’ Parker had regained his composure. ‘Thank Christ it wasn’t one of the schoolchildren, the ones who help out here. The groom’s a youngish lad, name of Peter. He’s pretty shaken up. He’s sitting in the stable talking to one of the local bobbies.’
‘Has Dr Clarke been inside yet?’
‘Yes, sir, he left quite quickly too – he just walked in spent about five minutes poking around, came out, said they’re dead, and left. I guess it’s quite easy to pronounce someone dead in these circumstances.’
As Parker finished speaking, Mitchell had recovered enough to walk again, and he approached the two of them, slightly subdued by the events of the past few minutes. The remains of half-digested corn flakes clung to his chin; the odd bit dropped off as he spoke. Saxon was embarrassed for him and offered him a handkerchief, which he took with a trembling hand.
‘Commander,’ he said, mustering as much authority as he could, given that his knees were still shaking, ‘before you say anything, I must emphasise that I don’t think this is connected to the other killings, completely different MO.’ He paused to collect his thoughts further and to steady himself. ‘We can see that clearly the other killings are almost, dare I say, gentle, when you compare them to this carnage.’
Saxon cringed inside. Prat, he thought. Knowing Mitchell as he did, it was obvious to Saxon that Mitchell’s main concern was whether he had a serial killer on his territory. He didn’t want one, not if it could be avoided. Saxon knew Mitchell would be well aware that, chances were, a serial killer was hard to trap. The crimes might not be solved and that was not going to be good for the statistics. His monthly crime figures would suffer.
Saxon wondered if it was worth pointing out that there was another way of looking at it. If Mitchell was party to solving the crimes, to catching a serial killer, then the possible rewards could be both significant and long-lasting.
However, Saxon abandoned that train of thought as a waste of time and effort. Instead, it occurred to him, not for the first time, that it must be awful to be such an arsehole; a narrow-minded one at that.
‘Alex, under normal circumstances I would agree with you completely, but until I have all the facts I’ll reserve judgement,’ he answered quietly. ‘However, I don’t think we should dismiss the possibility that maybe our killer is losing control.’ He gave Mitchell time to digest this possibility.
Suddenly he realised what it was that was niggling away at his subconscious. It was the smell of cooking that he was aware of, even outside the house. He called to Parker. ‘They must have left the oven on. Better switch it off, before the whole place goes up in smoke.’
Then he turned back to Mitchell, who was still defending his view that the killings at Anvil Wood House were unconnected to the other three murders.
‘Well, I’ll be surprised if you find a connection,’ he went on. When Saxon didn’t answer, he continued. ‘They’re not the same age group, they didn’t live alone.’ Mitchell was sounding more like his old self. ‘Quite honestly, I can see nothing to link them to the other deaths, and the MO just underlines the fact that it must be a different killer. I have to admit I wasn’t in there long enough to take a thorough look around but…’
‘Nevertheless, we have to…’ Saxon began.
‘Yes, of course,’ Mitchell interrupted impatiently. ‘Nevertheless, we shall look for a connection and, if there is one, I will have t
o agree with you,’ he said, making it obvious that he expected no such thing to happen. ‘Let’s hope we find it soon. I don’t like this kind of spotlight on us.’
Saxon could see that there was no point at all in pursuing this line of thought with Mitchell. It was getting them nowhere. He was anxious to have a look himself and form his own opinions, so he started to step around Mitchell to head for the house. ‘Shall we?’ he suggested.
Saxon hadn’t planned it that way, but it was this move on his part that suddenly reminded Mitchell of urgent business back in Brighton. Going into the house and looking into the crime at hand could safely be left to his staff and to the commander, who after all professed an expertise in these matters. What was needed back at HQ was a clear head to co-ordinate and manage the situation, to provide focus. Had he articulated these thoughts aloud, he would have had complete agreement from Saxon.
Mitchell got one of the patrol cars to take him back to Brighton. His uniform was in such a state that he didn’t want to use his own car. One of the PCs would take his car back later.
Nobody was sorry to see him go. Interestingly, nobody was particularly snide about Mitchell’s emptying his breakfast all over the hedge. Everyone there could remember their first murder scene and, although the topic hadn’t been discussed between them yet, it would subsequently be agreed that they had never, any of them, seen anything quite like this before. It was the stuff nightmares were made of. Mitchell’s route to the lofty heights of superintendent hadn’t included much in the way of vicious killings that could have prepared him for this.
Wednesday, May 15, Newhaven, 9.00AM
Alan Turner normally sailed out of Newhaven Harbour with up to ten fishermen, or aspiring fishermen, and a cold box full of beer. He would take them to one of the many submerged wrecks to fish for conger eels or, if they weren’t biting, to look for a shoal of mackerel. It was a nice little business and he enjoyed it.
Today was different and he was alone. He did this maybe twice a month and made as much money out of it as all his little chartered fishing trips put together.
He was after bigger fish today. Somewhere between eight and ten miles out, he would meet up with another small boat. Turner wasn’t sure if he would recognise the captain or not. No one was expected to exchange names, so it didn’t matter really. It was probably best not to know.
He didn’t hang about out there. He’d be back in Newhaven by early afternoon. Better to do it in broad daylight. Less suspicious.
He didn’t keep the stuff either. It was passed on the same day. What happened to it after that was none of his business. He couldn’t have cared less, so long as he was paid on time.
Wednesday, May 15, Anvil Wood House, 9.15AM
Saxon and Parker kitted themselves out with gloves and shoe covers, then decided to take the advice of the forensics boys and go for the overalls as well. They were glad for the tip. As they shone their torches around, Saxon realised that the scene that faced them was surreal, no other word for it. The killer had closed all of the curtains on the ground floor, and then removed all of the fuses. He had smeared blood over the walls with a large house-painting brush and left a bath running on the first floor. The fire brigade had attended to push holes into the ceiling plaster to allow the water to drain through, before the sheer weight pulled the whole lot down.
Saxon looked around with dismay, and said gloomily, ‘If there was any forensic evidence around the place, there sure as hell isn’t much now – fucking place is almost washed clean.’
‘Sir, do you suppose the sick bastard set out to create this kind of atmosphere to indulge some fantasy or other?’ Parker asked.
‘Well, either that, or he’s deliberately setting out to shock us, or to try to set us off on the wrong track.’ Saxon was running several different possibilities through his head. ‘If this is the same killer that did Janson and the others, then the change in MO is so drastic that it really does look like the work of someone new. Don’t ask me how, but I know it’s the same fucker – he’s out to try and fool us.’
‘Maybe a robbery gone wrong? Kids who came in to nick the TV and the video, but who panicked and then got carried away when one of the women came downstairs and surprised them?’ offered Parker.
‘Don’t think so, very unlikely,’ mused Saxon. ‘But why wouldn’t there be the normal signs of a burglary? Let’s face it, kids don’t usually go round doing this sort of thing.’
‘Yeah, and nothing much seems to be missing,’ added Parker, as they left the sitting room. ‘All the normal stuff seems to be still here, as far as I can see.’ He paused. ‘Oh, my God,’ he said, gesturing as the shaft of light from his lamp cut through darkness and the raining drops of water.
Bits of Babs and Poppy were arranged up the stairs. Fingers were delicately planted in a large ceramic pot containing a huge rubber plant, by the front door.
They followed their noses – the slightly sickly smell of cooking was coming from the kitchen. When it dawned on everyone exactly what it was that had been cooking, several more people had to leave the building, clutching their hands over their mouths.
‘What in God’s name makes someone do this?’ said Parker quietly, almost to himself.
Saxon stood nearby and pondered for a while. Then, thumb on one temple and fingers on the other, he said, ‘It could be any one of a number of reasons, Parker,’ he began. ‘Abuse in childhood is supposed to be the main culprit. But people forget that some bastards are just born evil. Then it might be a desire to be noticed. Who knows?’
He looked at Parker, who hadn’t necessarily anticipated a response to what was clearly something of a rhetorical question, and smiled grimly. ‘You and I both know that, in more cases than not, the people who do this stuff are ordinary everyday people. Nothing particularly special about them. People that you wouldn’t look at twice if you passed them on the street.’ Parker nodded. ‘Also, don’t forget, Parker, our killer, in his own mind, might well think he’s doing nothing wrong.’
‘What, like he’s on a mission?’ Parker asked.
‘Hmm. Suppose there’s a link between these people that we don’t know about. A connection that doesn’t necessarily make sense to us, but makes sense to the killer.’
‘I still think it’s got to be a head case,’ said Parker.
‘Well, it’s a safe bet that whoever is doing this isn’t thinking about it the same way we would, that’s for sure,’ Saxon answered.
They carried on their inspection, careful not to move anything or brush up against the various body parts scattered around the house. It made for a grim progress.
They wandered from room to room, looking for clues but realising quickly that there were none to be found. The only things that told them anything were the footprints in the blood on the dry areas of the floor. They looked like stumps. Big round stumps. Vaguely foot-shaped, but more round than long. The stumps were everywhere – even places the killer needn’t have gone. It seemed to Saxon that Mr Stumpy from Stumpy land had paid a visit to show off his new stumps. We are being taunted. The last stumpy print was on a plate, on top of the cooking range.
Wednesday, May 15, Thicket Road, Upper Norwood, 3.00PM
Keith Jenner took his car keys from the Versace dish on the hall table and flicked the remote control for the Bose sound system. Leaving the house, he used another remote for the car. His wife also had a BMW, although hers was only a 3-series.
Michelle was relaxing at the back of the house, on one of their three patio areas. Her sister was round. Again. It was beyond Jenner’s understanding as to why whenever they had anything new, Michelle had to invite Carly round to see it. This time it was the new garden furniture, recently imported from Thailand via some store in Sloane Square. He personally couldn’t see the difference between the old stuff and this new furniture, apart from the price tag, of course. Still, it made Michelle happy, and if Michelle was happy, she was off his back. He couldn’t ask for more than that.
He looked at h
is Rolex – a real one, not a fake, mind. Telscombe Cliffs was about an hour and a half away. He had plenty of time before he had to meet his sister.
Wednesday, May 15, Brighton Mortuary, 4.00PM
Saxon and Parker attended the post mortems of Barbara Jenner and Penelope Field. It wasn’t exactly something they looked forward to, but a post mortem could provide vital information and Saxon was desperate for something to that might kick-start the investigation again. There was no way he would have missed this particular one. He also knew the pathologist and valued his input.
The pathologist was Dr Richard Clarke. He was a powerful man with a powerful personality that often left people in his wake reeling, wondering what had hit them. Some found his presence disturbing and intimidating. Others found him charismatic and empowering.
Saxon was somewhere in the middle. He was not at all intimidated by Richard’s somewhat larger than life personality, although he could easily see how it could irritate or upset some people. Saxon viewed Clarke as an equal, both from a professional and a social point of view. He also quite liked him; he seemed to be such a thoughtful sort of person. Occasionally they played squash and had a drink together when their paths crossed at the gym. Clarke kept himself very fit and Saxon rarely managed to get the better of him on the squash court.
Parker’s reaction to the pathologist, on the other hand, was less favourable. He found Clarke to be loud and overbearing. Unusually for him, Parker tended to become tongue-tied in his presence and, when he could manage to utter a few syllables, they often came out in the wrong order. Nevertheless, he put his personal feelings about Clarke on one side, as always, because they were irrelevant.
They dressed for the occasion as required. Parker used to think that they looked like choirboys, but he no longer noticed. Fully togged up in protective clothing, they went to join Clarke and his team, and what was left of Babs and Poppy.
Apart from his day-to-day work as the area pathologist, Clarke was also the police doctor. It increased his workload dramatically – his excuse for taking on the extra work was that he always wanted to play Sherlock Holmes. Saxon couldn’t imagine how he managed to stay so fit; Clarke absolutely radiated energy and health, no matter how many times in the week he worked twenty hours a day. He envied the pathologist.
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