Saxon

by Stuart Davies

  Parker played devil’s advocate. ‘But would he kill Barbara Jenner’s friend as well, just to inherit a house?’ Parker leant back in his chair and gazed at the ceiling for a moment. ‘A bit savage, even if you leave out all the chopping up of limbs and planting of fingers in potted plants. And dare I mention the cooking bit?’ He looked across to where Saxon was sitting. ‘He’d have to have a reason for doing that, it can’t just be to get the house.’ He paused. ‘No, boss, my money’s not on Jenner as the killer.’

  Saxon stood up and turned round. He walked across to the window and opened it. The temperature was rising fast. The weather forecast was spot on. He held on to the sides of the open window with his hands above his head and cooled himself in the draught, thinking to himself for a few seconds.

  ‘I don’t know, Parker. People will do unbelievable things to each other for money, usually to their own family. Maybe our second killer, if indeed there is a second killer, is devious enough to try to blame the Anvil Wood House murders on the current weirdo doing the rounds.’

  Parker nodded. ‘Could’ve been a spontaneous thing, taking advantage of the timing of the other murders,’ he agreed.

  ‘If only we had at least one clue about the killer.’ Saxon sounded exasperated. ‘But there is absolutely sod all.’ He rubbed his face with both hands in frustration and slowly wandered back to his chair. He sat down and leaned forward on his elbows.

  ‘We know a bit about the victims, mostly about Babs though. Strange isn’t it, Parker, how some people lead interesting, and fascinating lives. They get up to all kinds of escapades, some good and some not so good. The more the person interacts with other people, the more you’ll learn about that individual. Then you come across Miss Penelope Field, and there’s bugger all to say about her – not even a speeding ticket. If it weren’t for a few photographs in an album, you’d never have known she’d even been on the planet. We don’t even have a clue who she was involved with before she met Babs. But I suppose if we look on the bright side, we’ll know even more about Babs Jenner after these next two interviews. But I doubt it will tell us anything about the killer,’ he said despondently. ‘Come on, Parker,’ he went on. ‘Suggestions, please. Why is it that we have no forensic evidence? Does our killer not have fingerprints? Or come to that, does he have any hair? Is he bald all over? As for the footprints, I just don’t know what’s going on there. When he does have them they are non-human and what does he do for the rest of the time…hover?’

  Parker shrugged and suggested another drink and left the office, he returned a few minutes later with two cups of water. And, after placing one on each desk, he took off his jacket, complaining mildly about the heat. Saxon interrupted his meteorological comments.

  ‘You know, Parker, the more I think about it the more I’m convinced that this guy, whoever he is, is definitely a serial killer. I’m sure we are after one killer, not two. He is very clever, and he’s deliberately not keeping to the rules. You know as well as I do that with serial killers, they tend to follow the same routine when they kill. Almost like a ritual.

  ‘They always take trophies, such as clothing or other personal items. Some of them even try to interact with the police. They can’t help it, the compulsion overwhelms them.’

  Parker was knowledgeable about the field too. ‘The Rillington Place bloke, Christie, kept pubic hair, teeth and sometimes underwear from his victims,’ he said. ‘You don’t get much more personal than that.’

  Saxon nodded. ‘The psych guys will tell you that the reason they do this is so that they can relive the experience at a later date. Either they toss themselves off or they just enjoy remembering the power they possessed over their victims before they killed them.’

  In their database, the Unit had extensive records of every serial killer ever traced as well as information on the as-yet-unsolved crimes.

  Saxon continued his musing. ‘There is also plenty of evidence to show that some serial killers like to revisit the crime scene,’ he said.

  ‘Yes, boss,’ Parker agreed. ‘They could do a walk past as we arrive and we’d never know.’

  ‘The more I think about this case, the more I’m sure that what we have is a very bright and unusual serial killer who can change his tactics and twist the so-called rules,’ affirmed Saxon.

  ‘But does that mean he’s doing this for fun?’ asked Parker. ‘How else does he overcome the irresistible urge to follow a pattern, like the usual serial killer?’

  Saxon was confident. ‘I reckon it’s because our guy knows that if he does that, then we’ll get him. It means that not only is he clever but he’s also educated and, specifically, he knows about serial killers. He’s probably studied them.’

  Parker saw it too. ‘So you’re saying that he knows what to do so that he doesn’t get predictable?’

  ‘Afraid so…I think we should get Professor Roger Ercott to do a profile based on what we know so far. He’s done well in the past.’ Saxon looked through his address book for Ercott’s number. After a minute of searching, he threw the book on his desk. ‘I can’t find it – see if you’ve got it somewhere. He’s getting on a bit though, and he doesn’t take on all work that comes his way. Good enough to pick and choose I guess.’

  Parker was rummaging through his notes desperately trying to find Ercott’s address. ‘Ah, found it. That’s handy,’ he said. ‘He lives in Worthing, boss.”

  ‘Right. Call him and arrange a meeting as soon as possible, I don’t want to waste time on this. Ask him if we can talk with him this afternoon, and after that we’ll be back here to talk to Mrs Bishop at about four o’clock.’ Saxon switched on the fan on his desk and then opened his office door to let the air flow through.

  ‘What’s next? How about our friend Dr Marks, anything on him?’ Saxon so wanted there to be something juicy on Marks.

  ‘He’s being checked out as we speak and breathe, sir. We’ve had Surveillance and Technical Intelligence put a minor tail on him over the weekend but as he’s not a major suspect, we haven’t been searching his rubbish bins yet. But he does frequent some interesting pubs. Let’s say the kind of places where you and I would stand with our backs to the wall while we drank our beer.’

  ‘And what pubs would these be, Parker?’ Saxon paused for a second. ‘Is he married by any chance?’ he continued.

  ‘Oh yes, sir, he’s married all right but, I suppose he’s a train that uses both tunnels if you’ll pardon the expression. His main drinking, and apparently poking, hole is the Speckled Cat, over in Kemp Town. It’s outside his catchment area for patients so he’s unlikely to be thrust up against anyone he knows. By the way, sir, his name appears in Barbara Jenner’s book with the number seven next to it – whatever that means.’

  ‘Okay, Parker, ensure STI stays on him wherever he goes for the next week, and I want hour-by-hour updates. If he goes back to the pub, they are to follow him home afterwards. If he picks anyone up, I want his name and address as well. We need to be sure that he’s tucked up in bed every night.’

  Monday, May 20, Victoria Tube Station, 11.00AM

  The London Underground is a good place to be lost. That is, of course, if you want to be lost. The man knows that he can blend into the sea of humanity that surges through the turnstiles every day, and never be noticed. His goal is to be seen only when he wants to be seen. He is confident that he can achieve this at will.

  He is jostled slightly in the crowd and resists the temptation to push back at the tourist who pushed his way through the crowd, with no care for who he knocked aside on the way. The man follows the backpacker briefly along the platform of the Circle Line, but turns aside when he sees him join a group of three other similarly clad and equally well-laden young people.

  There are as usual so many people that if he looks everyone in the face as they pass by, even just for a moment, then he will get dizzy. Endless faces, moving across his line of vision. After a few seconds, his perception shifts. They are no longer individual people, but j
ust souls that are clean or dirty.

  He feels faint. He mustn’t pass out. Because to do that will draw attention to himself. He can’t afford that. The cameras are everywhere. Being spotted by the Transport Police – because he is acting suspiciously – would be a disaster.

  His weakness is not a sign of poor health. Far from it. The master ensures that he is fit, that his body is in perfect condition. Every day, the man is awakened by the master’s voice urging him to exercise, to do push-ups and sit-ups, to use the equipment at home for an hour every morning. He must maintain himself in peak condition.

  He pauses for a moment by a vending machine, studying the contents. He breathes slowly. The mission is too important for him to fail. It’s all down to him and he knows it. Right now he has to look and act like every other normal person.

  Standing there, nobody notices him. He is almost invisible. He knows the true secrets of camouflage and it comes from within the body as well as on the exterior. His clothes are not his own. They would never be found in his home simply because he stores them underground somewhere in a wood in Sussex, sealed in a waterproof container. Each time he decides on the persona he will adopt, he can dress accordingly.

  Even if someone should happen on his hidden wardrobe, the clothes are not traceable. The labels have all been removed and a receipt or two, picked up in the street, has been placed in one or more of the pockets, to throw any meddling police who become involved off the scent. The emperor’s new clothes make the emperor invisible, he thinks to himself triumphantly.

  Of course, the British Transport Police are just doing their job, much as he is doing his. On the other hand, it could be said that they were not doing their job. He knows that they see what he sees and still they take no action. But he also knows that they would stop him if they could, if they knew what he was doing.

  The man shakes his head. It is so wrong. Because if he were to be stopped, then who is going to save them all from what is obviously already happening to the world? Perhaps it isn’t their fault. How can they be expected to understand? Nobody else does either.

  It worries him sometimes though. Is he really the only person called upon to deal with this?

  He moves on from the vending machine, having purchased a carton of juice and sits to drink it. The trilby hat he’s wearing doesn’t look out of place. It hides his hair and much of his forehead. His glasses are twenty years out of date and tinted to hide the true colour of his eyes. Subtle use of makeup has changed his facial structure and his moustache is of a suitable standard for close-up filming. Yes, he has control of how he is seen by others. He is grey and rather dull. Why would anyone look twice at him? He is boring and slightly hunched. Satisfied that nobody has noticed his moment of hesitation, he looks around.

  The people to be cleansed are here, just as they are everywhere. No need to look too hard for them. And he knows better than anyone that the population need to be dealt with.

  The master is surely using others too. But why then is it only his achievements that are announced in the press and on TV? Are the others working in secret? No, it seems he is alone. It is up to him to prevent the impending disaster with his own contribution. Is it enough though? Will it ever be enough? Sometimes he wonders how many innocent lives he has already saved.

  He functions with no remorse for his actions, no pity for his victims or their loved ones. They are bringing it on themselves with their selfish lust for pleasure. Pleasure at any cost to themselves, even at the cost of bringing a curse to humanity. To Her.

  Then he sees the girl. She is sitting at the side of the platform; her dog slumped forlornly against her side. They both looked pathetic. Several people appeared to have made a donation but the girl was unresponsive, her expression glassy, her pupils dilated. Her soul was dirty and the master would be pleased.

  Monday, May 20, Brighton Police Station Canteen, 12.30PM

  PC Michael Lucas always wanted to be in plain clothes. He decided that one way to make his mark and be noticed would be to catch a killer single-handed. He figured that if the killer was targeting gays, and he went to the Speckled Cat, maybe the killer would try to pick him up and he, PC Lucas would catch him all by himself and be a hero.

  He ran the idea by PC Barry Ryan as they tucked into pasta and chips.

  ‘You can’t be serious, Mike,’ Ryan said, incredulously. ‘We would be in big trouble if we were found out,’ he argued.

  ‘I am very serious. Couldn’t be more serious, Baz,’ Lucas answered with a smile. ‘And we definitely wouldn’t be in trouble if we were instrumental in catching a killer that everyone is struggling to get anywhere near.’

  ‘But we’d stick out like sore thumbs in a gay pub, wouldn’t we?’ Ryan didn’t like the idea at all. ‘We’re not gay and they’ll notice.’

  ‘But the killer might not be gay, so how’s he going to know?’ replied Ryan. ‘No, I think it’s a great idea. Someone’s probably already planning something like this, it’s just that we’d be ahead of them if we do it sooner rather than later.’

  Their conversation was interrupted when they were joined by a couple of other PCs. The conversation turned to the weekend’s football.

  Barry suggested a beer after work in the nearest sports bar and they agreed to meet up there. ‘See you there, Mike,’ he said pointedly to Lucas.

  Lucas smiled. ‘Yeah, okay, see you there.’

  Monday, May 20, Worthing, 3.00PM

  ‘Ah, gentlemen of the constabulary, you are very punctual, welcome. Please come in, and make yourselves at home. Tea? We have tea. Or coffee, if you would rather? Let me see. Or could I offer you a cold drink.’ Ercott radiated boundless energy as well as, at this precise moment in time, genuine hospitality.

  He was a thin and gangly six-foot-two of dignified hyperactivity. His hair was still thick but it was completely white. It had been cut but not recently. It had been combed but quite possibly not today. And, although nearly seventy-three, his appearance somehow managed to give him the air of a schoolboy on occasions.

  Ercott had gone into psychology in the days when people raised their eyebrows whenever a shrink was mentioned. He had long since forgotten how many times he had heard – and ignored – someone say, “Anyone who sees a psychiatrist needs their heads tested.” He had moved over to criminology simply because, as an overgrown child, he saw it as jolly good fun. A bit of a wheeze.

  Offender profiling was now his main passion, and he once amused his grandchildren by boasting that he could tell which milkman was doing which shift, by the position the bottles were placed on his doorstep. And he was right. His grandchildren thought he was way cool.

  Ercott led Saxon and Parker down the hallway to his study, which apparently was not confined to one room but spread over the entire ground floor of the house. The main walls had been knocked out so that a large gentle arch divided each room. At the back of the house were large French windows leading out to a patio and a long garden with a well-trimmed lawn.

  ‘Please come into my study, gentlemen. And have you decided, tea, coffee or lemonade?’

  They settled on coffee and Ercott passed on the order to a small round woman wearing an apron. She had appeared as if by magic, just as he turned to look for her. Saxon guessed she must be roughly the same age as Ercott. She nodded at both of them.

  He smiled at them, inclining his head towards her. ‘Oh, I’m sorry. Forgive me. I didn’t introduce you to my housekeeper, Hettie. She has been with me for a long time, and you know I really can’t remember exactly how long. Sign of my age I suppose. Hettie, my dear, these gentlemen are from the police.’

  Hettie nodded again and disappeared in the direction of the kitchen. Social graces were not her forte.

  Ercott’s old world ways and courteous manners struck Saxon immediately. Ercott wore an off-white colonial-style suit, with cuffs that had definitely seen better days; he resembled Saxon’s idea of a British embassy official in the 1920s, somewhere tropical. As he spoke to Saxon, he repeate
dly removed his steel-rimmed glasses and held them up to the light as if he couldn’t believe there was nothing on the lens restricting his vision. Periodically he wiped them and put them back on only to remove them a few minutes later for another polish.

  Every inch of wall space was covered with bookshelves starting at floor level, and the top books touched the ceiling in places. Saxon was able to see at a glance that they were mostly books on psychology, criminology, and true-life crime – particu-larly murder.

  While Ercott dithered around trying to find somewhere sensible to put the papers and books that had covered the sofa, Saxon and Parker stood in the centre of the room like two boys in the headmaster’s study, waiting for a good talking-to about something found stuck under a desk.

  Eventually Ercott lost patience with himself and swept pretty much everything from the sofa to the floor. He apologised for the apparent chaos, but explained that he knew where everything was and could generally lay his hands on what he needed. So the filing system – or lack of it – suited him very well. He gestured for them to sit down in the newly available space.

  ‘Now, officers, what is it that I can assist you with?’ Ercott seemed exhausted as he slumped in his desk chair.

  Saxon slowly expounded the entire story so far, as Ercott made careful notes, stopping Saxon every now and then so that he could catch up and occasionally clean his glasses. The only real pause was when Hettie reappeared with tea instead of coffee. Nobody said a word, other than to thank her. They didn’t want to cause any embarrassment to the old woman.

  ‘I’m sorry, gentlemen, but she never quite gets it right,’ Ercott apologised. ‘Can you suffer with your tea instead of coffee?’

  ‘No problem, I’m sure it will be fine, Professor.’ Saxon felt sorry for the old dear.

  ‘Do call me Roger. After all, that’s what I was christened, not Professor,’ Ercott said, beaming at them.

  Saxon could tell even from that first short meeting that he and Ercott were going to have no communication problems at all. He liked Ercott; indeed, it was difficult not to like him.