by J. D. Weston
Harris used a red marker to mark the journey by road using the A10, and a green marker to highlight the public transport journey by bus and train.
He marked the journey times beside each coloured line. The journey by road was fifteen minutes faster, not enough to make a huge difference, which left both methods of travel open.
The door to Harris' office opened, and one of his researchers poked his head inside.
"Those reports you asked for, sir," he said, offering a blue folder.
"Thanks, George," said Harris. "Anything of interest in there?"
George held his gaze. "I think you should take a look, sir."
Harris caught the tension in George's voice. "Come in," he told him. "Take me through it."
A round, four-seater meeting table stood in the centre of the office. Harris cleared the surface of his files and allowed George to begin taking him through his findings.
"So, sir," he began, "let's look at this objectively. We identified that the Finn and Small murders were out of the ordinary, and by that I mean they were not your average gun to the head or throat sliced jobs, right?”
"Right," agreed Harris.
"Okay, so we ran a few searches to begin with to give us a pool of data. Homicides in the last week, month and year. There's a fair amount of data, so we narrowed that down to unsolveds and in progress, which narrowed the data down to a manageable amount."
"Good. How many are we talking about?" asked Harris.
"Still a couple of hundred, sir," replied Harris. "But after that, we removed all the gun crime and knife crime. This had a great result and left us with enough that we could then go through manually and remove any other run of the mill murders. The results speak for themselves, sir."
"Go on," said Harris. "Where does it leave us?"
"Three, sir," said George, "including the King's Lynn burning."
"Three?" said Harris. "In how many years?"
"One, sir," said George, "well, two weeks, actually."
"Two weeks?"
"Do you want to see them?" asked George, tentatively, as if he didn't actually want to see them himself.
Harris looked at the closed file with George's hand laid flat on top. "Open it up," he said.
George reluctantly opened the cardboard folder. Harris was met with a photo of a man who'd had his face peeled off. There had been an incision from the bridge of the nose to the nape of the neck, and the skin had been forced down revealing the skull.
"He has a taste for the extreme this one, George."
"Forensics results are a bit bizarre on this one," said George.
Harris tore his eyes away from the horrific photo and met George's.
"From the tissue they found beneath the guy's fingernails, the angle of the cut and the way the skin had been pulled down, they reckon he did it himself, sir."
"He did this to himself?" asked Harris, his eyebrows raised.
George nodded, unable to reply.
"Where was he found?"
"In a forest, sir. A small village near Canterbury."
"A small village you say?" asked Harris.
George nodded. "Yeah, Queensbridge I think, sir."
Harris turned to his map and found Canterbury.
"East of Canterbury, sir," said George, seeing what his boss was doing. The map of the British Isles was too high level to show small villages, so Harris circled the approximate area.
"Who was he?" asked Harris.
"Rimmell," said George. "Anthony Rimmell."
"Anything on him?" asked Harris.
George sighed. "He's on the list, sir."
"The list, George?"
"The sex offender registry. It-"
"It's okay, I know what that is," said Harris. "Had he served his time?"
"He was released a few years ago," said George. "Reports and statements from his neighbours state that he kept himself to himself, had a council job and lived a quiet life."
Harris pulled four magnets from the top corner of his board and stuck the new image below the Norfolk murder.
"Who's next?" he said to George.
"Elaine Stokes.”
"A woman?" asked Harris.
George nodded. "Her body was found in the Lake District, in a-"
"Small village?" finished Harris.
"Little Broadwater, sir."
"On the-"
"Registry?" finished George. "Yes, sir. She served five years. Had a fetish for-"
"Spare me the details, George," said Harris.
"You want to see the photos?" asked George.
Harris nodded slowly.
George revealed the next photo. Elaine Stokes had been tied to a tree, her fingers had been severed, her tongue cut out, and her eyeballs removed.
"Post-mortem report suggests the victim was alive throughout the ordeal," said George.
"How did she die?" asked Harris. "Blood loss?"
"No, sir," said George. "Heart attack."
"I guess it all got too much for her," said Harris. "Any sign of-"
"Sexual interference, sir?" said George. "No."
Harris put the picture on the magnetic wall and marked the village location on the map.
"What dates do we have, George?" said Harris. "Let's see if we can understand this guy's travel patterns."
"Canterbury was ten days ago. Lake District was seven days ago. Norfolk was four days ago, and Dunmow was one day ago."
"Every three days?" said Harris. "Seems weird that the timings are consistent."
"Three days is easily long enough for somebody to get from one to the other by public transport, sir," said George.
"Hotels," said Harris. "Get onto them. I want the names of anyone who stayed in a hotel in those areas at those times cross-checked. Start with a five-mile radius then move out to ten. You know what to do."
"That's not the end of the report, sir," said George, making a note on his pad to check the hotels.
"There's more?" said Harris.
"I ran a search, sir, for similar methodologies, similar victims. You know, scratching at anything I could. I extended the time frame of the search."
"Go on," said Harris.
"Nine years ago, in a small village here in Essex, a dog walker found Roland Dyer dead in a forest."
Harris was intrigued with where George was going with the story and sat on the edge of his desk listening intently.
"He'd peeled his own face off, sir," said George. "Same cut, same everything."
"He's done it before?" said Harris. "The killer, I mean?"
"Seventeen years ago, Debbie Taylor was found tied to a tree in the middle of a field in Sussex."
Harris' eyes opened wide. "With her fingers, tongue and eyes removed?"
"Yes, sir, same methodology," said George. "But Elaine Stokes died of a heart attack; Debbie Taylor had to be finished off."
"Is there more?" asked Harris.
"Thirteen years ago, Eric Dove was found in East London with his limbs burned off. Just the charred stumps of his arms and legs and his brutally beaten torso."
"Any convictions for any of these?" said Harris, shaking his head in disgust.
George shook his head. "All of them in the unsolveds, sir. Essex police have a pile of files three feet high, all brutal murders, all victims were sex offenders, or at least on the list, and all of them unsolved."
"All in Essex?" asked Harris.
"Seem to be. Essex and East London anyway, and the surrounding counties."
"But these recent murders span the country?"
"Maybe he just passed his driving test, sir."
"Right," said Harris, ignoring George's poor taste in humour. He pushed himself off the desk. "Let's separate them. Two columns, old murders and new murders."
Harris began to re-arrange the victims on the magnetic board.
"When was the last of the old murders?"
"Two or three years ago," said George. "Some guy was found boiled to death in one of those old copper bathtubs lik
e you see in the films."
"Boiled to death?" said Harris, disgusted at the thought.
George nodded.
"What the bloody hell are we dealing with here?"
"I don't know, sir, some kind of vigilante, I suppose."
"Boiled in a bath, George?" said Harris. "Was the victim on the list? I think I remember reading about that in the paper."
"He wasn't actually on the list, sir," said George. "But he was found in a basement with a known sex offender tied up beside him."
"Alive?" asked Harris.
"He's serving his time now," said George. "Pentonville Prison."
"Can we talk to him?' asked Harris.
"Not without a few questions being asked."
"Questions, George?"
"Like what exactly are we doing here? We're not exactly the right people for this job, are we? This is nationwide, sir. Government stuff."
"Yes, but the government aren't looking, are they?" asked Harris. "And we are. Right, here's what I want to see, a map beside this one with every one of those unsolveds on."
George nodded. "Easy."
"Then," continued Harris, "beside that, I want to see a list of the murders. Don't worry about the names of the victims. I want to see methodologies."
Harris began to pace. His mind was piecing the information together. "Two columns, new murders, old murders. Got that?"
"Yeah, we can do that," replied George.
"Put Elaine Stokes beside Debbie Taylor, Eric Dove beside the Norfolk guy, and Anthony Rimmell beside Roland Dyer. I think the killer is reliving his past. We should be left with a list of methodologies that he hasn't re-enacted."
"Right, sir. A list, sir," said George, making another note. "Got it."
"Then, get someone to do some research on known sex offenders already released, due to be released, or pending trial. Find the official sex offender registry, check the names on that, plus there's about a dozen unofficial lists online. Check the names on each list, discount any that do not contain the names of all the recent murders. Bring me the lists that do contain them. We may find the list that the killer is using to find his victims."
"Right, I get it, sir. So we'll have a map with all the old murders on, a list of methodologies, and a list of potential victims."
"Yeah, that's right," said Harris. "Hold on, George."
"Sir?"
"Noah Finn? Has the methodology been-"
"Edward Constable was found glued to his bathtub with his stomach slit open and his entrails on his lap," said George. He then took a deep breath. "They also found his testicles in his mouth. Eight years ago, sir."
Harris listened to the description and tried to fight the image forming in his mind.
"George, are you up for this?" asked Harris. "It could be quite a sensitive case."
"I'm game, sir," replied George. "But there's one thing I don't understand."
Harris looked across the room at him standing with his hands in his pockets and staring at the photos on the wall.
"Why would somebody be so vicious?" he asked. "I mean why go to these lengths to hurt these people? We're not just talking about murders; these people died slow and painful deaths."
"Easy," said Harris, turning back to the board, "suffering, George. He likes to make them suffer, just like their own victims."
George stood silent then asked, "But why?"
"Because he's suffered, George."
"I used to come here as a kid," said Melody, looking at the lazy river roll past and the trees blowing gently in the soft breeze. "Dad would bring us here for a day of fishing, so we'd wait for him to tire of us being too noisy then we'd head off into the trees. I do miss England, Harvey."
Harvey didn't reply. He stared at the water rolling past.
"You're keen to get back to France, aren't you?"
"I'm keen to get on with my life, Melody."
"Our lives, you mean?"
"Yeah."
"You don't sound so sure about that, Harvey."
"I'm just not used to doing nothing, Melody. I'm adjusting. I feel like I need a run. We've been cooped up in that van for two weeks now."
"We'll be home in a few days. Let's enjoy it while we can, and before you know it, you'll be running along the beach again."
Harvey didn't reply.
"Do you still want to go to Theydon Bois tomorrow? To see your parents' graves?"
Harvey nodded and laid back on the grass. The graves of his parents were unmarked and hidden in an orchard on his foster father's old estate. The visit would awaken many memories for Harvey.
Boon took Harvey's laying down as an invitation for him to move in for some attention, but Harvey held his hand low in a silent command, and Boon simply laid by his side.
"Do you mind if I head into town?" asked Melody, sensing Harvey's need to be alone. "The town centre is just a few miles away. I'll be gone a couple of hours."
"Fine by me," said Harvey. "I might take this dog for a run."
The pair said goodbye, and as Melody steered the big vehicle onto the track that led from the trees to the main road, Harvey began to slow jog along the riverbank.
The run felt good, it always did, and soon, Harvey began to feel more like himself. He sprinted for a long flat stretch then slowed for a short burst between the trees. He found an old stone bridge and crossed over to hit a big hill that lay on the far side of the river.
Boon stayed at his heels the whole time, loving the exercise as much as his master. He would occasionally split off from Harvey to bound through the long grass or run through the shallows of the river, but his eyes never lost sight of Harvey.
With his arms pumping and his breathing in a locomotive-like rhythm, Harvey sprinted up the hill. At the top, he stopped and immediately stretched his muscles, taking in the view below him. A blend of yellow, brown and green fields lay in random patchwork formation across the landscape, broken only by the dark green lines of hedgerow and small pockets of trees. Melody was right; England was a beautiful place, he thought.
But England also held dark memories that Harvey would sooner forget.
The dreams had gotten worse since they had arrived in Essex. The memories were so much more alive. They had even passed a field the previous day where Harvey had once buried a man alive. The horrors of Harvey's life, the faces of the dead, and the guilty pleasure of killing were coming together at once, and there appeared to be no escape for him.
Harvey sat down at the top of the hill. Boon slunk between his legs and curled up in the space.
"What's it all about, boy?" he asked Boon as if the dog could read his mind.
Boon looked up and nudged him, but Harvey didn't respond.
From where he sat, Harvey's view was unobstructed in almost every direction, save for the forests that ran beside the river. But inside, there were too many obstructions.
He laid back, enjoying the peace and quiet. The birds chirped and the breeze lightly rustled the grasses and the leaves in the trees. Boon curled into him, closed his eyes and soaked up the summer sun that warmed his face. Harvey's tired mind and the serenity of his surroundings soon carried him away into sleep.
Old memories began to come alive once more.
Flashes of visions and the terrible things he'd done were captured as if a bright light had frozen them in time and etched them onto a photographic film in his mind.
The face of the man he'd buried alive flashed once, just as Harvey was covering the last trace of his face with soil. He'd left a hosepipe in the man's mouth, to allow the sick pervert a few more agonising minutes of life while Harvey had filled the hole.
The flashed image of the man's face eased into the sickening memory. Harvey had finished with the shovel and covered all traces then slowly tightened the end of the hose, gradually restricting the man's air. Then he released the hose and heard a lengthy gasp, as the weight of the soil took its toll on the body below.
Harvey had put the excess hose flush in the ground so that pass
ers-by wouldn't find it, and then he'd left the man to die a slow and painful death.
Boon's barking woke Harvey with a start. He sat bolt upright and wiped the sweat from his brow. His shirt was wet, and his breathing heavy from the vivid dreams.
Boon barked once more.
Harvey slowly recovered from his doze and rolled onto his side to find Boon sitting beside the corpse of a man who'd been pinned to the ground with wooden stakes through his wrists and ankles. He was crucified with his arms outstretched, like Jesus but with his throat cut.
Harvey dizzied. He remembered the scene. It was almost identical to one of his dreams, and to a previous kill.
He moved away, scurrying backwards on his hands and feet across the grass. But the ground was sticky. Blades of the fresh and lush green grass stuck to his bloodied hands.
His shirt too was spattered with red. Harvey recognised the spatter. It was horizontal and arced. The result of a sliced throat.
"Boon, come here," called Harvey, as the dog began to sniff the stiffening corpse. But Boon's ears flattened against his head. His tail dropped low, and he looked around him as if confused.
"Boon," said Harvey. "Here, boy."
The dog eyed him with caution.
Harvey stood, but Boon bolted away down the hill. He looked back briefly and saw Harvey chasing after him, so the dog picked up speed.
Harvey tore across the bridge after the panicked Boon and narrowly missed a small family who were out enjoying the sunshine, walking the path along the riverside. Boon was gone, and the family gathered behind the father, who stood like he was protecting them.
Harvey stared at his sticky hands again then back at the family, and down at his bloodied shirt.
"Your phones," said Harvey. "Put your phones on the ground, one at a time."
"Get away from us," said the man, his arms outstretched behind him holding his daughter and his wife.
"Throw your phones on the ground, and I'll leave you alone."
Two phones landed beside each other in the grass.
