A Murderous Mind

by Jane A. Adams

  ‘Hes is making cake and we can open a bottle.’

  Tom nodded. ‘Sounds fine to me.’ They wandered back inside and Tom smiled fondly at the women in his life – the absent one included. He’d done a good job as a husband and father, he decided and it was the source of some professional pride that he could say so. Pride was at least an emotion he could fully comprehend even if there were oh so many that he could not. Pride in his work kept him on track, kept him doing the right thing, created a level of admiration and loyalty in others, made him acceptable.

  And pride in his work made him careful, thorough. Out of reach and hidden from those that might want to do him harm.

  THIRTY-TWO

  Gregory sifted slowly through the mass of printouts on the dining table. Nathan had stacked the paperwork on a case by case basis, but Gregory had his own notion of what was useful, placing images side by side that came from different crime scenes.

  Nathan watched him, silently. Nathan had long ago learned not to interrupt a thinking man. He wondered what Gregory was seeing that he had not but was willing to wait for the explanation. His contact had sent him seven different sets of information garnered both from HOLMES, the Home Office Large Major Enquiry System and ViCLAS, the Violent Crime Linkage Analysis System and from her contacts in other forces. She was an ex-colleague of his one-time guardian and mentor, Gustav Clay, and high enough up in the system that she could collate intelligence from a variety of sources without anyone questioning her reasons. She was one of the few contacts left operating at such a high level and Nathan was grateful that his relationship with her had continued uninterrupted after Clay’s death. Slowly, Nathan was compiling a network of his own, but such enterprises took time and Nathan made use of anything he still had in that direction.

  Nathan watched as Gregory compared the images of Leanne Bolter and the old lady, Martia Richter with that of Rebecca Arnold and Sadie Rahman, a young woman whose death had happened three years before Rebecca Arnold had been killed. He had found those images that depicted the most similar poses and laid them out side by side. Below those he placed the images of William Trevenick, Keith Allen and the youngest of the group, fifteen-year-old Trey Baxter. The only black victim. Sadie Rahman’s parents had come from somewhere in the Middle East though the police report conflicted as to whether that was Israel or the Lebanon. Nathan wondered how anyone could have got those two such disparate cultures confused and wondered if it had relevance.

  Gregory stepped back and Nathan judged it safe to talk. ‘You think they’re all the same man?’

  Gregory nodded. ‘I think we’re missing three,’ he said.

  ‘Three? How do you work that out?’

  He stepped over to the table and stared at the images, hoping to see what it was his friend had spotted.

  ‘I’ll make it easy for you,’ Gregory said. He rearranged the photographs in date order speaking as he did so. ‘I think there must be at least one before the old lady.’

  ‘Martia Richter.’ Nathan nodded in agreement.

  ‘Then we’ve got the youngest victim. Fifteen years old, went missing at a street carnival. His friends assumed he was with his family, family assumed he was with friends. Found dead eight hours after he went missing. Found in the flat of the older sister of one of his friends – which implies intelligence gathering before the act and a deliberate attempt to unsettle.’

  Nathan thought the word ‘unsettle’ might be a bit mild, given the circumstances, but he let it pass.

  ‘This wasn’t connected,’ Nathan said. ‘Why?’

  ‘Not all old cases or cold cases have been uploaded on to the system yet. There have been several revisions of the HOLMES and ViCLAS systems,’ he said, ‘and the rate at which that happened varies from force to force. Anyway, next we know about is Sadie Rahman. The boy was killed just on two years after Martia Richter, the girl, Sadie Rahman, nineteen years old, was killed three years and four months before Rebecca Arnold.’ He placed the picture, leaving a deliberate space between the images of Sadie and Trey. ‘Our second missing person,’ he said.

  ‘Why.’

  Gregory ignored him, laid down the picture of Rebecca Arnold. Then William Trevenick and Keith Allen. ‘I think there’s a missing piece between Allen and the student that’s just died,’ Gregory said. ‘Now look.’

  Puzzled, Nathan looked at the sequence, trying to see what Gregory had spotted. Trying to visualize those missing in between. ‘Try thinking like Patrick would,’ Gregory said.

  ‘Like Patrick?’

  ‘Like an artist. Like someone who sees patterns, sequences, relationships.’

  ‘I don’t—’

  Suddenly he did. ‘Oh.’

  ‘Yes. Oh.’

  Nathan studied the pictures closely, the poses were at first glance very similar, victims resting either on or against a bed, laid open from sternum to pubic bone. The women’s hair had been combed out. But now Nathan could see that there was movement between the pictures, a flow from one to the other. The old lady had her hands resting on her thighs, palms up, face turned slightly to her left. Trey Baxter had one hand, his right, palm down, his face turned out towards the viewer, but still a slight tilt to his left. Sadie Rahman faced the viewer straight on and her right hand rested on her thigh, palm up, the right rested on the floor had been turned palm down.

  ‘There’s a gap between Trey and Sadie. The hands … the sequence is incomplete.’

  Gregory nodded. ‘I might be wrong. It might be chance, but the posing seems precise and deliberate. From image to image we get the little changes, like he consulted the last images and then made a tiny change. One leads on to the next.’

  ‘Two of them are posed on the bed, the rest beside it.’ Nathan felt he ought to play devil’s advocate.

  ‘And look at the layout of the room in both cases, what you can see from the door.’ Gregory tapped the appropriate photos. ‘What matters is what those who found the bodies saw first. The position is designed to cause the biggest impact.’

  He had a point, Nathan thought. ‘So, if you’re right, there are ten victims,’ Nathan said.

  ‘Plus whatever practice runs there were before he got it right.’ Gregory speculated. ‘Minor assaults to start with, probably, moving up to murder as the confidence grew.’

  ‘I don’t like your thinking,’ Nathan said. ‘The locations of the Rebecca Arnold and Leanne Bolter murders are only a couple of miles apart.’

  ‘And Martia Richter and Keith Allen were in the same town. The rest seem scattered. Furthest south is Sadie Rahman in Haringey. Furthest north are Rebecca Arnold and Leanne Bolter.’

  ‘How many murders do you think Alec’s colleagues know about? My contact is going to send an additional briefing, but it’s possible they have the missing ones?’

  Gregory shook his head. ‘I think your contact is in a better position to gather the intel,’ he said. ‘But we’ll have a chat to Alec and Naomi later, see what they know.’

  ‘Probably a lot less than we do,’ Nathan observed.

  ‘Then we’ll have to bring them up to speed, won’t we,’ Gregory said.

  Patrick was in his bedroom, painting. Harry brought him a hot chocolate and the suggestion that it was time to turn in for the night. Patrick’s desk was scattered with photographs Bob had taken for him together with colour notes and articles on techniques. A board, ready prepped with chalk gesso sat on Patrick’s easel and he had begun to transfer a drawing, the paper pricked along the lines of the drawing and placed in position ready for the charcoal and chalk mix to be pounced through.

  ‘You’re not going to do that tonight,’ Harry said. He knew the process took time, the dots that were transferred to the board then had to be joined up with dilute ink or paint and it was a process better done in one operation before anything had the chance to smudge.

  ‘No, I’m too tired. I’ll get on to it in the morning. Then I suppose I’d better get the essay finished ready for Monday.’

  ‘How�
�s it going?’ Harry asked.

  Patrick shrugged. ‘It’s OK, I’d just rather be painting.’

  Harry set the mug down on a bare corner of the table and leaned in to scrutinize the photographs. ‘It’s really something, isn’t it? Are you planning on making a copy or—’

  ‘A copy first,’ Patrick said. ‘I want to get to grips with the technical stuff before I try experimenting. One day I might be capable of making a proper copy, just now I’ll be glad just to figure out how the hell he did it.’

  Harry laughed. ‘How are you?’ he asked.

  ‘I’m OK, everyone’s anxious and on edge, but I suppose that’s inevitable. Sam’s moving into his new digs this weekend. Ginny’s gone home. I doubt she’ll be back.’

  ‘You’ll keep in touch?’

  ‘We’ll try. It won’t last. She wants to get away from everything. She doesn’t understand that it’s inside of her now. She can’t run away from what she saw and she’s better off keeping close to the people who understand it. But she doesn’t know that yet.’

  ‘I wish you didn’t know that,’ Harry said.

  ‘Dad—’ Patrick picked up the mug of chocolate and sat down on the edge of his bed – ‘Dad, I am what I am because of everything. It’s all right. I’m OK with it all.’

  Harry nodded. ‘I’m proud of you,’ he said. ‘Well, goodnight. Don’t stay up too long.’

  Harry made his way back downstairs, checking the locks and making sure the world was closed out for the night.

  Patrick’s phone chimed. It was a text from Daniel. ‘Want to help Sam move on Sunday? My uncle’s letting us use his van but only if he drives.’

  ‘What time?’

  ‘Be about three. Meet up at union building?’

  ‘OK. Does Sam have to get his stuff?’

  ‘Police are getting it for him. See you then?’

  ‘OK.’

  He’d have to make sure the essay was finished, Patrick thought. He wondered how Ginny was doing and if any of them would hear from her again.

  THIRTY-THREE

  Reg Fincher was not used to late-night guests and he had heard no car pull up outside the bungalow. He twitched the curtain aside and peered out, trying to see who was standing at his front door. Perhaps attracted by the sudden light through the curtained window, his visitor stepped away from the door and turned to look at him.

  Fincher let the curtain drop.

  It’s late, he thought. Do I really want the bother of him this time of night?

  Do I really want to let him in at all? Do I really have the options?

  Reg Fincher closed his eyes and when he opened them again a familiar figure was standing in the hall.

  ‘I still have the key you gave me,’ he said. ‘I thought I’d better ring the bell first, though. I didn’t want to give you a fright.’

  It’s a bit late for that, Fincher thought. You’ve been scaring the living daylights out of me for years.

  ‘I don’t remember giving you a key.’

  ‘No? Well, I can leave it with you when I go. It’s not a problem. I brought a bottle with me. Thought we could have a glass or two and talk about old times. I miss working with you, Reg.’

  Fincher wasn’t sure he could say the same. He fetched tumblers, knowing the bottle would be Scotch and that it would be a good one. Macallan or Dalwhinnie, perhaps. He knew Reg didn’t like the really peaty varieties. His guest had taken off his coat and sat down in the chair that had been occupied by the policewoman who had come to see him the day before. Tess, Fincher thought. Her name had been Tess.

  He’d been right in his guess about the whisky. He set the glasses down not offering ice or water. One thing they both felt was that if a Scotch was good enough to drink then it was an insult to dilute it, though Reg had no such qualms about drinking ginger with a blend.

  He raised his glass. ‘Good health,’ he said.

  ‘Good health indeed. This is not the kind of place I expected you to move to. Not your sort of thing at all.’

  ‘I like the quiet. I like to walk. I like the security of it.’ He thought how stupid that sounded considering who his visitor was. ‘I didn’t hear your car.’

  ‘I didn’t want to disturb the neighbours. It’s late. I walked through the wood.’

  So, he’d come over the wall, Fincher thought. He felt a tightness cramping in his belly. No one had seen him at the gate.

  ‘You know about the student. The girl who got herself killed the other day?’

  Reg Fincher nodded. ‘Know about her, seen the pictures. Poor little sod. What did she do to deserve that?’

  ‘Wrong place, wrong time. What it comes down to for all of us in the end, I suppose. That or old age, or sickness … and I’ve always wondered about that, you know. If sickness is down to being in the wrong place at the wrong time and something gets triggered to go awry that wouldn’t do if you hadn’t been there.’

  ‘That’s nonsense and you know it.’ Fincher poured himself another drink. If this was his wrong place, wrong time, then he was going out with a bellyful of the good stuff inside of him. His guest watched as Reg knocked it back.

  ‘It’s meant to be sipped,’ he said. ‘Enjoyed.’

  ‘Is it. Is it really?’

  Silence fell between them for a while and it was an oddly companionable one … considering. Reg Fincher could feel himself getting sleepy, his vision blurred. ‘It’s bad form to spike a man’s drink,’ he said, but his voice slurred and he wasn’t sure the words made any sense.

  ‘So, drink a little more.’

  Fincher lifted the glass. His hand was unsteady and the glass chinked against his lips and then his teeth. He managed to swallow but he could feel the tumbler sliding from his fingers, then feel a hand gently taking it away.

  Blinking, trying to focus, Reg Fincher noted that his companion’s glass had not been touched.

  ‘You should have stopped,’ he said. Or tried to say. His lips felt loose and dry and then wet as he realized that he could no longer close his mouth and saliva dribbled down on to his chin.

  ‘Sit back in your chair.’ The man rose, eased Reg back into his seat, leaning his head gently against the wing of the armchair. Wiped his face and closed his eyes.

  By the time he left a half-hour or so later, walking back the way he had come, Reg Fincher was dead in his chair. He had cleaned the glasses and the bottle but left them on the little table they had used and, as promised, he had placed the front door key beside the glass. It pleased him to provide another puzzle, a further irritation. Reg would have appreciated it, he thought as he drove away. It was just the sort of detail that gave him a thrill.

  There was a back entrance to the house. Strictly speaking it led up a fire escape, one of two attached to the back of the building. The lower flats shared one but when the conversion had been made a separate fire escape had been built, leading only from that top flat beneath the eaves and it was this rear door that he had always used. The official front door, the one that led through the main body of the house and gave access via communal stairs was rarely opened. Deadbolts secured it from the inside and any post the flat might receive – junk mail excepted, of course, and that, like all the house mail, was simply dropped on the hall table by whoever noticed it first – was diverted to a PO box.

  He rarely even saw the other occupants of the house. He visited once or twice a week, usually in the evening and on no regular basis. Paid his rent regularly and was known to the landlord as some kind of rep or commercial traveller with a lifestyle that took him away a lot.

  Tom let himself in and stood in the kitchen listening to the familiar silence. The kitchen was equipped with basics and he even made use of lights and cooker and electric fire enough that the flat attracted a low but viable bill. It was simply furnished with a mix of items owned by the landlord and a few bits he had picked up at charity shops and flat-pack outlets. He slept occasionally in the small bedroom and watched television sitting in one of the old armchairs in the small
living room.

  It looked acceptably inhabited should anyone visit, but so far, no one ever had.

  Tom propped the walking stick he had brought with him against the unused front door. Maybe he should buy a stick stand, build a collection around this one lonely souvenir? He quite liked the idea. Reg Fincher’s stick, robust though it was, did look a little odd on its own. A clearly personal item in a very impersonal environment.

  It was a more substantial souvenir than Tom usually went for but then, Reg Fincher had been a more substantial part of his life than any of the others which was why it had been appropriate to give his old friend a peaceful and non-traumatic end.

  As he usually did when he came to this small, secret place, he checked on his other remembrances. Nestled in a sideboard drawer were small boxes and packets, none of which he had to open to know their contents. Strands of hair tied with ribbon, a ring, a key on a chain that used to be worn around a neck. A poetry book that had sat on a bedside table and was inscribed to a lost love. A postcard of Llandudno. His choice of objects eclectic and usually small, chosen because they must have meant something to those whose lives he had taken.

  He did not stay long this evening. Friends were coming over for supper and he didn’t want to be late home.

  Checking that all was well, Tom Reece switched out the lights and locked the door, pausing at the top of the fire escape and listening to the faint sounds of televisions and voices and people in the street before descending once more into their world.

  THIRTY-FOUR

  Tess headed back to Fincher’s home mid-morning. News of his death had been relayed via the local police – professional courtesy having led Field to let them know previously that Tess and Vin would be making enquiries on their patch.

  ‘Found dead by the window cleaner, this morning,’ Field had told her. ‘The curtains were partly open and he could see Fincher sitting in his chair. He thought it was unusual. Fincher usually came out for a quick conversation while he worked and was always ready with the money when he’d done. He knocked, thinking the guy might be asleep but getting no answer came to the conclusion that the professor might be ill, so he called the gatehouse. The doctor came, thought he might have had a heart attack.’