A Murderous Mind

by Jane A. Adams

  Boroughs nodded. ‘Can you write up the process for me? Who requested what, inputted what data, what force and so on? I’ll take another swipe at it.’

  ‘Thanks,’ Tess said, ticking one job off her list at least, though, at the same time, not sure she wanted to be hands off. The Home Office Large Major Enquiry and its newer counterpart, ViCLAS, the Violent Crime Linkage Analysis System could be awkward to navigate. Like all databases, the results you got could depend so much on the way you searched and she’d have liked to know what parameters were being used.

  ‘So the first victim was?’ Field prompted her.

  ‘First known victim was an eighty-six-year-old woman called Martia Richter. Unmarried, lived alone. PM has cause of death as blood loss. She was eviscerated and the presumption is that she died of shock and blood loss. He didn’t cut her throat or smother her – as he did with Rebecca Arnold. PM records that there were no hesitation injuries and the body was posed, sitting upright against her bed. He’d combed out her hair. Friends and neighbours testified that she’d always worn it up, though she’d kept it long and that she braided it before bed at night. The braid had been carefully undone and the hair combed and fanned out across the bed behind her.’

  Tess took the photo of the crime scene that showed the final position of the body and affixed it to the board. She heard the shocked murmur of response. Get used to it, she thought bitterly. It won’t be getting any better.

  ‘Who found the body,’ someone asked.

  ‘Her niece. She had a key and when she couldn’t get a reply to her knocking, she let herself in. They’d been planning a shopping trip and lunch. A regular fortnightly thing, though apparently someone from the extended family made contact every day, even if it was only a phone call. No one reported strangers hanging around, no forensics that can be directly attributed to the killer. She was drugged with ketamine, but unlikely to have been unconscious. There’s one thing worth noting, maybe, that’s the niece saying that her aunt had been worried about someone she had seen the last time they had been out together. She’d not mentioned it at the time, but a few days later confessed that ‘a man’ she had spotted when they’d been out for tea with friends had been preying on her mind and that she was sure she had seen him since. The niece wasn’t sure what to make of it and suggested that if she was worried she should report him, but the thing was, there was nothing concrete to report. Her aunt just had a feeling, a sense that there was something strange or odd or dangerous about this man. That was all.’

  ‘Do we have contact details for the niece?’ Field asked. ‘It might be worth talking to her again.’

  Tess nodded. ‘She’s made sure she’s kept in the loop, apparently. Even when she moved house she made certain the local police knew where she was going and she called the SIO on a regular basis until he retired.’

  Another murmur, a brief burst of laughter, out of place but relieving the tension.

  ‘The next we know about was Rebecca Arnold, almost ten years later. So I’ll hand over to Alfie for that as he was first on scene.’

  First, with Joe Jackson, she thought. She listened as Alfie outlined for the team what he has already outlined for her. How they had been only a street away and run to the Arnold house. The mother screaming and the father on the phone desperately calling for assistance.

  ‘Tox from the Leanne Bolter murder suggests that ketamine was used to render her partially unconscious whereas he pressed Rebecca Arnold face down into the pillow and smothered her.

  ‘Blood spatter indicates Leanne Bolter was still alive when he cut her, but only just. There was less arterial spray than might have been expected. The pressure was already lowered.’

  ‘So he can improvise,’ Field said. ‘Differences in MO.’

  ‘And which might indicate that he can occasionally be impulsive. Choose a victim without time to go equipped,’ Alfie agreed.

  ‘And the third was male. After a three-year gap. Thirty-two-year-old William Trevenick. IT support for a local computer retailer. He came home from a night out to find his killer waiting for him. Friends shared a taxi with him, watched him to his door and then went off home. Apparently he was very drunk, barely managed to make it up the garden path and get his key in the door. He wouldn’t have put up much of a fight. No ketamine, but the throat was cut and the body posed. On the bed. His hair was short but it seems to have been combed. William’s friends said he used a lot of product in his hair. Wet look gel. The killer had found a bowl in the kitchen, brought it to the bedroom and washed the hair before combing it through.’

  ‘That’s just fucking creepy,’ someone commented and Tess nodded. Strange, she thought, how it was sometimes the smaller details that got to you. ‘Afterwards he emptied the water out in the bathroom and left the bowl there, together with a wet towel that he’d used to partially dry the hair.’

  ‘And no evidence that William Trevenick was worried or scared?’

  ‘None,’ Tess confirmed. ‘He’d had a night out with friends, had too much to drink, gone home.’

  ‘Fourth was two years after and another male. Keith Allen, thirty-seven, a mechanic at a family-run garage. Keith was a cousin of the owner. The set up was the cousin had a house next to his business premises and the cousin Keith Allen had a flat, like a granny annex, next to the house. If you look at the photo of the premises it looks like it was originally an old coaching inn with the gateway with a padlocked gate through to what would have been the stables and was converted into a workshop.’ She pointed. ‘Keith Allen’s flat is that bit of the building, there. You had to come into the yard to get to it. The door faces on to the yard and there’s only a small window on the outside wall and that runs alongside a road. Not a busy road, but … best guess was that the killer had come in through the front door.

  ‘Keith Allen was expecting his girlfriend so he’d left the door on the latch and the padlock off the gate.’

  ‘So, the killer was familiar with him. With his habits?’ Boroughs speculated.

  ‘It seems a fair assumption.’

  ‘And the girlfriend?’

  ‘Found the body. Just missed the killer. He’d been dead less than an hour. His cousin had spoken to him only two hours before. There was a narrow window of opportunity and the killer took it.’

  ‘Maybe he didn’t know about the girlfriend?’

  ‘He seems to have known about everything else.’

  ‘Unless it was a chance thing? He spotted the gate, let himself in, found the door on the latch.’

  ‘Ketamine?’ Field asked.

  ‘Was used this time.’

  ‘Which suggests preparation. Mitigates against it being opportunistic.’

  ‘Allen put up a fight, the place was a mess. He also had a head wound so it’s likely he was subdued first and then injected. None of the victims seems to have been tied up or gagged but all show signs of petechia which is associated with asphyxia. So, the possibility that breathing was restricted in some way. One of the side effects of ketamine is that it actually opens up the airways and improves rather than depresses circulation, apparently. A couple of the PM exams point this out and that it may have an evidential effect that they can’t predict. So there’s a good chance he did something else. Something that restricted their breathing but left little obvious trace.

  ‘The last death we know about is the present case. Leanne Bolter.’ She paused, waiting for questions. ‘Crib sheets will be available after the briefing.’ She pointed to the side table where the notes had been laid out. ‘There are a couple of names that are worth following up,’ she added. ‘The consultant forensic psych on two of the cases and who did a review after Keith Allen was a guy called Reg Fincher. He’s since retired but …’

  ‘Follow it up,’ Field said.

  ‘And there’s a witness statement from a woman called Deborah Tait who said she saw Keith Allen having an argument with a tall, bearded man outside the garage a couple of days before the murder. I also think it’s worth re
interviewing the relatives. You never know.’

  Field nodded. ‘Your team can handle all that? Good. So, where are we with the current investigation? Don’t go away, Tess, I want you to brief us on what the Friedmans had to say.’

  Tess nodded and stepped aside, waiting for her next turn.

  Patrick and Harry had wandered over to see Naomi and Alec that evening and they had all walked down on to the beach. Naomi let Napoleon off his harness and took Patrick’s arm. Behind them, she could hear Alec and Harry chatting as they threw a ball for Napoleon, their pace slowed by the game, their voices grew more distant as Patrick and Naomi strolled on.

  ‘So,’ she asked him. ‘How are you? What have you been up to?’

  Patrick laughed. ‘Well that’s another way of asking,’ he said. ‘I’m fine. Everyone is upset and a lot of people are scared and some have gone back home.’

  ‘Understandable, I suppose.’ She felt Patrick nod.

  ‘Oh, sure, but we both know it wouldn’t make any difference. If someone had targeted you it would take more than a change of address to stop them and if you’re not a target, then you have nothing to worry about. And as none of us, at any time, have any idea that a crazy might have us in their sights, well it’s kind of academic, isn’t it?’

  ‘You’ve spent far too much time around the likes of me and Gregory,’ she said. She tried to keep the comment light, but the truth was, Patrick’s statement had concerned her. ‘You’re far too young to be thinking like that,’ she said at last.

  ‘Age has nothing to do with it,’ he said.

  ‘Then you are far too experienced.’

  ‘Maybe. But there’s nothing anyone can do about that is there.’

  ‘Unfortunately not. How are things with your artist?’

  She felt him relax a little. ‘Bob has started a new body of work,’ he said. ‘The central theme is The World Tree and it’s going to be amazing. He’s starting to teach me some restoration techniques. He reckons it’s a good fall back for times when no one wants to buy pictures.’

  ‘And did Bob ever need a fall-back position? I thought he’d been successful forever.’

  Patrick laughed. ‘No one is successful all the time, especially not at the start. But working with Bob will give me a real leg up. I know that. I just love it, Naomi. I’m just learning so much.’

  ‘I’m glad. You have a talent and you work hard. You deserve the attention.’

  He shrugged. The arm holding hers jerking a little as the shoulder raised. ‘Bob has to verify works of art sometimes,’ he said. ‘There’s a picture that arrived that is probably a fake and he’s got to do a report on it for the owner, but the thing is, it’s so beautiful. The man who did it … who Bob is pretty certain did it … he was a real master. He understood so many techniques and Bob says he could copy about a dozen other artists so perfectly that he’s certain some of the fakes have made their way into national collections. And I don’t get it. He was so bloody brilliant, Naomi, so why didn’t he make a success of his own work? How come Bob Taylor made it big – I mean, Bob is amazing and deserves it, but this other artist, Bob says he was a genius but …’

  ‘I suppose a lot of it is down to luck,’ Naomi mused. ‘And consistency and reliability and maybe just down to being identifiable. I mean, you look at a Bob Taylor work and it’s instantly recognizable. You look at one of your pictures and it has Patrick Jones written all over it. Maybe if you dissipate your efforts … maybe if no one knows what you are, it’s harder for them to get into what you do?’

  ‘Maybe. The picture Bob’s looking at is a Madonna and child with St Anne. It’s small, the sort of picture you’d keep for personal devotion, Bob says. So you’d like, keep it in your bedroom or whatever.’ He laughed. ‘That’s where I’d keep it, anyway. You can’t look at it and not feel happy. It’s got a kind of glow to it. There’s an egg tempera underpainting and then oil glazes and it’s on a gesso panel so the light just bounces back through all the layers and Bob says that if it turns out to not be genuine then the owner has the legal right to just destroy it. I hate that idea, Naomi. And you know what scares me? About me, I mean?’

  ‘Is that the thought of that picture being destroyed hurts you almost more than the idea of that girl being killed,’ she said softly.

  She felt him nod.

  ‘That’s fucking awful, isn’t it? I mean, what kind of person thinks like that?’

  ‘Patrick, listen to me. You grew up in the shadow of loss and grief. It overwhelmed your life and the lives of everyone around you. Since then you’ve seen more, done more than anyone of twice your age should have ever done. And now you’ve started to carve out a niche for yourself, to discover who you really are and where you belong and that’s all separate from the stuff you’ve grown up with, from what you’ve had to take on. It’s yours, it’s precious, it’s intense. Of course you feel some things more acutely than others. Your life is overwhelmed by things that matter, by life and death and loss. You can only take so much of that before you need to escape from it.’

  ‘Yes, but—’

  ‘Patrick, you are one of the most loving, caring and compassionate people I have ever known. You have nothing to feel guilty about.’

  They walked on in silence for a while. The wind had changed direction and was now blowing off the sea, cold and chilling and heavy with salt. Naomi turned to face the ocean, relishing the sharpness of it.

  ‘I take it you’ve talked to Gregory about the murder,’ she said.

  ‘Dad has. Gregory wanted to come down but Dad said no need. I think he just wants the reassurance that Gregory is there, you know. They like each other, which is weird, considering.’

  ‘The hired killer and the accountant.’ Naomi laughed.

  ‘Except Gregory isn’t for hire these days and Dad is a very reluctant accountant. Gregory’s promised to teach him to sail, did you know that?’

  ‘What, boats!’

  ‘I think that’s usually what people sail. Yes. Dad’s dead keen.’

  ‘Well, you do surprise me. I suppose we’d better turn back. I think it’s going to rain, you can feel it in the wind.’

  They turned, Patrick on the shore side this time, Naomi closest to the sea. Ahead of them they could hear Alec and Harry laughing about something and Napoleon barking as he chased in and out of the waves.

  ‘Wet dog,’ Patrick said. ‘And he’s found something to roll in.’

  ‘Oh, joy. Never mind. I’ve got an old towel in my bag. We’re used to cleaning him up before we head home. He loves it down here.’

  Patrick nodded. He was watching the dark as it crept in from the horizon, clouds promising rain as Naomi had predicted. The cloud shadow moving across the water, blurring the vanishing point. Up ahead the beach narrowed and the promenade wrapped around, ending at the fairground, the rides still cloaked and covered before the tourist season began in a few weeks’ time. A few people wandered along the promenade, some hurried, fleeing the coming rain or simply wanting to get home from work, Patrick supposed. One figure stood beside the railings, looking back out to sea and Patrick was drawn to the stillness of it. As Patrick watched, the man straightened and moved away and something in the way he walked reminded Patrick of the man who had come into the hotel when he had gone to see Ginny and Sam. He tried to think what it was that was familiar, but could not quite define it. Something in the way he consciously straightened his body, in the way he moved so purposefully?

  ‘Penny for them.’

  ‘Not worth it,’ Patrick told her, but the feeling nagged that something was wrong. That there was something he should be able to remember.

  Napoleon ran up to them, greeting Naomi with a happy and sodden tail and Patrick let the thought go as he bent to pet the wet dog and help Naomi dry him off before putting his harness back on.

  When he looked again the man was long gone.

  They were getting closer now and the boy glanced his way again. Tom turned and walked back through town towards wh
ere he had left his car. The boy, Patrick, would recognize him and he wasn’t ready to be recognized. Not yet.

  He had watched the four of them and the big black dog descend the steps from the promenade and walk along the beach. The dog’s harness had been removed and the dark-haired boy, Patrick, had taken the blind woman’s arm. He did so naturally and easily as though this was a familiar thing and the two of them walked ahead of the men, their path along the firm sand newly wetted by the slow, incoming tide. The two men chatted and threw a ball for the dog, lagging behind as they occupied their canine companion. The dog looked happy, he thought. Running in and out of the shallows, rolling on the sand, chasing his toy, like a child just let out of school and chasing across the playground.

  He knew now who the woman was, and that their paths had crossed a long time ago and that intrigued him. He liked to look for patterns and coincidences, finding them oddly pleasing.

  ‘So you were the child that Joe Jackson made such a fuss about,’ Tom murmured. ‘Little Naomi Blake.’

  He had gone back over her records and discovered that he’d done two assessments with her before handing her on to a female colleague for counselling and that DI Jackson had been very concerned about her progress, checking in frequently to see how she was coping. She had been thirteen, Tom recalled and her best friend had disappeared. Everyone knew that she must be dead. Naomi had felt so guilty, had withdrawn into herself, taken the pain of it inside of herself and been a long time learning to open up to life again.

  And Tom had played a part in that recovery. Was that a good thing? He thought it probably was. Did that mean she owed him? He thought it probably did.

  He watched from the promenade railing, the strong wind blowing in off the sea chilling his face and hands and uncovered head until the party turned back and began to walk towards the steps. At one point the boy had looked in Tom’s direction and he could read in the young man’s body language that something caused him concern. A sudden stiffness and caution though Tom fancied not one in a thousand people would have registered it.