Next Victim

by Helen H. Durrant

  “Rough sleeper? What do you think?” she asked.

  “The burning makes it difficult to tell,” Butterfield said. “Ordinarily, with a rough sleeper you’d expect the feet to be dirty, and the teeth not cleaned for a while. Given the extent of the burning, and the muddy canal bank, that doesn’t apply. There is debris under his fingernails but again, that could come from where he was found.”

  Rachel sighed. They needed more if they were to find out who he was.

  “I may have found something.” Butterfield was wiping the grime from the soles of the young man’s feet. “He has a tattoo, here on the right arch.”

  “What is it?” Rachel asked.

  “Not an image as one might expect, but a word.” Butterfield took a magnifying glass and examined it carefully. “A name, in fact.” He smiled.

  “C’mon then,” Rachel said. “Don’t keep us waiting. What’s the name?”

  “Alfie.”

  Chapter Five

  Back in the incident room, Rachel addressed the team. “We may have a name for our victim. He has ‘Alfie’ tattooed on the sole of his right foot, on the arch to be precise. That needs research. Contact the tattoo parlours. It’s an odd place to have one, so someone might remember.”

  Rachel was not in the best of moods. Although she wasn’t squeamish, post-mortems still upset her. They gave her an uncomfortable feeling in the pit of her stomach. Brought home all the horror of the inevitability of death. A year after her divorce, Rachel had lost both her parents in a car crash. As their only child, she’d had to identify the bodies herself. Their faces were imprinted on her memory. The two people she most loved, staring up at nothing with empty, sunken eyes. The image would stay with her forever. These days, she couldn’t enter a morgue without remembering those faces. It was particularly poignant just now, because it was almost the anniversary of their deaths.

  “Have we heard anything from forensics?” she asked, shaking her head to rid herself of the memory.

  “Yes, ma’am,” Jonny said. “Apparently they found a number of interesting objects at the scene.”

  “Objects? What objects?”

  “A number of nuts and bolts.”

  Rachel shrugged. “They are significant how?”

  “According to one of the forensic bods, it’s like someone removed gloves or a cloth from a pocket, for example, and they fell out. They may have been dropped by the killer. So far forensics have recovered a dozen or so, all picked up between where the body was found and the kill site.”

  “That area was covered in debris. I don’t see what makes these items so significant.”

  “They are new, ma’am. They hadn’t yet become soiled from mud or the weather. That means they hadn’t been there long.”

  Rachel turned to the rest of the team. “Any ideas?”

  “There’s a small industrial estate a few hundred metres further on from the scene and on the other side of the canal. One of the firms there deals in bolts,” DS Elwyn Pryce said.

  “You and me will pay them a visit.” This could lead somewhere. Right now, it was just what they needed. “What about our guest? How’s he doing?” The elderly rough sleeper was a witness. He had important information which might help.

  “Last I looked, he was snoring his head off,” Amy said. “D’you want me to get a uniform to wake him up?”

  “No. Just keep an eye on him for the time-being. If he does wake, be gentle with him. If we are to get anything from him, he’s got to trust us. We want the man’s help, remember.”

  “You don’t think he’s our killer?” Jonny asked.

  “Did you take a good look at him?” she said.

  “Sort of.”

  “Well I did. He’s old, small, thin, and riddled with rheumatism. Give him a push and he’d drop like a stone. I doubt he’d have the strength to do what was done to that lad.”

  “There was a call for you earlier, ma’am,” Amy said. “Someone called Adrian Percival.”

  Rachel nodded, knowing who this was. It was nothing to do with the case. Ade was the builder Alan used. He’d want to know when it was convenient to visit the house. She’d text him later. She said nothing to the others.

  “Anything from the CCTV?” she asked.

  Amy and Elwyn both shook their heads.

  “Amy, you and Jonny carry on while we’re out,” Rachel said. “I want movement on this. And don’t forget the tattoo parlours. I’d like an ID at the very least, soon. The poor lad could have family out there somewhere.”

  “The super showed his face earlier,” Elwyn said.

  “What did he want?”

  “Looking for you, I presume. Stuck his head around your office door and then left.”

  Rachel groaned inwardly. The last thing she wanted right now was a conversation with Detective Superintendent Stuart Harding. He was hard work, and she wasn’t in the mood. “He’ll want an update. I bet the press are clamouring. If we have nothing at the end of the day, a statement and possibly an appeal might be on the cards.”

  “Do you want a word before we leave?” Elwyn said.

  “No, I don’t. In fact, let’s get out of here before he comes back.”

  The two of them took the stairs. “I’ll drive,” Elwyn said. “Why not get yourself a coffee from the machine?” There was one in the entrance.

  She smiled at him. “You don’t have to mollycoddle me, you know.”

  “I don’t know about that, Rachel. You’re looking a bit ropey these days.”

  “Thanks a million. Right confidence booster you are!” She laughed. But he was right. She caught a glimpse of her reflection in the glass front of the machine. She looked tired, pale and thinner in the face. Not just in the face either. Her clothes were looser around the waist and hips. Missed meals and lack of sleep did that. Not to mention worrying about why Jed McAteer suddenly wanted back in her life. She ran her fingers through her curly red hair. It was cut to chin length, and complimented her deep blue eyes. Well, normally it did, but now, with her pallor, it simply made her look peaky.

  Elwyn looked at her. “I do know what month it is.”

  The anniversary of her parent’s death. Like she needed reminding. She sighed. “Everyone else in my family seems to have swerved it, whether that’s deliberate or not, I can’t tell. The actual day is next Monday. I haven’t said anything to the girls. Both of them are so wrapped up in their own lives, and I don’t want them upset.”

  “What about Alan?”

  “I doubt he’ll remember either. He has a new project. He’s planning on joining our two houses together.” She laughed. “God knows what’s going on inside that head of his.”

  “Wants you back. Plain as the nose on your face.”

  “Do one, Pryce. Been there, done that and don’t want a repeat performance, if it’s all the same.”

  “My parents are off to Spain for a couple of months. That means their cottage in Rhos on Sea is empty. You have time owing. If you want to get away, it’s yours.”

  “Thanks, but I couldn’t. There’s the case for a start. The girls have school and uni and won’t leave their mates, and I couldn’t go alone.”

  It was kind of Elwyn to offer. He was a good friend and did his best to look out for her. In another life, they might have been close. Elwyn was easy to get on with and he wasn’t bad-looking, still lean, and with a full head of dark hair. At forty-four, he was only a few years older than her. He was married, to Marie, but they had no kids. As far as Rachel knew, they were happy. He never said otherwise.

  “Might do you good. North Wales. Get some reasonable weather, and the place is glorious.”

  “Thanks, Elwyn, but I’m a lost cause at the moment. I’m no good for anyone, not even myself. Work is the only thing that’ll get me through the next couple of weeks.”

  Chapter Six

  It was time. The house was empty and he was alone. He’d retrieved the lad’s stuff from the shed, and with the incinerator ready to go, the man was all set.
<
br />   He wore rubber gloves. His victim had been a rough sleeper. His clothing was old and dirty, no doubt sourced from charity shops. There were enough of them about. Problem was, touching it could play havoc with personal hygiene. He could pick up anything from this little lot. But it was satisfying work. Each item he retrieved from the bag took him back to a moment of intense enjoyment. The lad had been a beauty. A blond, smooth skinned, godlike creature. Just like the one from his past, the lad seemed to radiate innocence. But the man knew the truth. He knew that the lad’s heart was filled with hate. He needed to be got rid of, and it had been easy. A few words, a smile, and the die was cast.

  One by one he threw the items into the incinerator. Underwear, socks and trainers. His nose wrinkled in distaste as he handled the lad’s jeans. They were heavily soiled and smelled bad.

  How he had enjoyed pulling them from those long legs! He closed his eyes. He could see the lad now, lying there, limp, naked, helpless.

  Get a grip. She’ll be back any time. She can’t find you in this state!

  He shook himself back into the here and now. There’d be time for memories. Now he must get this over and done with. All trace of the lad must be got rid of. He smiled, proud of what he’d done. It was testament to his ability to formulate a plan and for it to work perfectly, right down to the last detail. And there was more to come.

  The lad had been his first kill. An unsuspecting victim, who was only too willing to do the man’s bidding for money. The man had often seen the lad on Canal Street and had come to know his habits. He wondered if the police had found the items he’d left behind, and if so, what they’d made of them. They would soon discover where they’d come from, and then there’d be questions, interviews. It was the only lead the police had, so they’d be thorough. Served the pompous old bugger right. He was another man from the past he ached to get even with.

  The clothes were rapidly turning into a pile of ash. Shame, he was enjoying reliving the act. Inflicting the horrific burns had been the final touch, and the most satisfying. His final victim must suffer the same fate — the burning was the whole point. He would scream, and then know just what he’d done. But he had to get it right. The man had expected the boy to shriek and beg for mercy, but he hadn’t. He’d caused him too much pain, and it had made him pass out. That, plus the Rohypnol, liberally laced with diazepam that he’d put in his lager. Next time, he wouldn’t make that mistake. The pain was a big part of the fun. He’d have to measure it out carefully if he was to get the right effect.

  Nearly done. Only the lad’s jacket to go now. The thing was old, soiled, and he went through the pockets gingerly. He’d no idea who the lad was, and at the time he’d not wanted to know. He’d said his name was Alfie, but that was probably a lie. Now it was all over, he was curious. The pockets were empty apart from some cash, a debit card and a student identity pass in the inside pocket. Not expected given the lad was living rough.

  The student ID card had the lad’s image on it, and his full name. The man had been right, it wasn’t Alfie. It was unlikely he was a rough sleeper either. He’d been a student studying journalism at Manchester University. So why pretend otherwise, what was his game? Suddenly an alarm bell rang in his head. Where was the lad’s mobile? He went through the pockets again. Nothing. Had it been in the jeans?

  Think, man, think. It was important. That phone was vital evidence. He took a metal bar and started to rake through the ashes. There was no way of knowing for sure whether it had been burned. He closed his eyes. He would have to chance to luck. It was too late to do anything else. But then it struck him. Why not try ringing the number? See what happened. But if it was already in the hands of the police, they might trace him.

  He sat down in a garden chair. Worst case, the police had it. They’d look at the calls and texts, nothing to incriminate him there. But there were fingerprints, even DNA, to consider. But his weren’t on file. There was no way the police could trace that mobile back to him. Relax, he told himself. You’re safe. The police might not have it anyway.

  The clothing was soon consumed by the flames. Gone. All that remained were the memories of this, his first kill. Now he craved more. High on his first success, he had an urgent need to line up his next victim. Hanging around the gay bars waiting to spot a likely candidate was risky. He didn’t want people to start recognising him. So, last night he had registered on a gay dating site using a fake profile. From now on, his prey would be chosen with more care.

  “You still at it?” The familiar voice rang out from the back door.

  She was home. He had to be quick before she wanted to see what he was up to.

  “Coming, sweetie,” he said. “Just getting rid of some rubbish.”

  Chapter Seven

  Paul Greyson, the owner and manager of Greyson’s Hardware, showed Rachel and Elwyn into his office. The walls were lined with wooden filing cabinets and a huge oak desk dominated the room. Rachel glanced at the photos, but all showed men in suits shaking hands with Greyson. Business associates, not family. The single window looked out over the yard.

  They introduced themselves, and Rachel got straight to the point. “We’re investigating the murder of a young man that took place sometime last night. He was found only a few hundred metres away from your warehouse.”

  “Got nowt to do wi’ us, love. I know what types use the arches over yon. We keep well away.”

  Paul Greyson was a big man. He didn’t so much talk as bellow. Rachel could imagine the workforce cringing at his every word.

  Elwyn showed him his phone with the image of the nuts and bolts. “Do you manufacture these?”

  Paul Greyson shook his head. “We don’t manufacture anything. We import all our stock and sell it on to our customers.” He took a catalogue from his desk and passed it over to him. “All the items we carry are in here.”

  “It’s quite a range,” Rachel commented, looking over Elwyn’s shoulder. “You have a warehouse and staff?”

  “Yes. I’ve currently got ten warehouse staff, plus Mrs Andrews in the office, a nightwatchman and my three drivers.”

  “But can you confirm that this is your stock?” Elwyn enlarged the image of one of the bolts.

  “Aye. It’s come from here, alright. See that stamp there?” He pointed to a set of numbers on the image. “That particular bolt, and thousands like them, was delivered last week from a firm in China we deal with.”

  “Talk us through what happens when stock arrives, Mr Greyson,” Rachel said.

  “I’m sorry, Miss,” he looked Rachel up and down, “but I don’t see where this is getting us. I’m a busy man with clients to see. This is wasting both your time and mine. The folk who work here had nowt to do with any murder.”

  “We’ll be the judge of that, Mr Greyson,” Rachel said. “How can you be so sure anyway?”

  “Because it’s dead simple. The lorry with the stuff arrives out there in the yard, we unload and then the staff store it away. When we get orders in, we generally use our own transport, but if that isn’t feasible we use a carrier.”

  “You’re sure that nothing leaves your buildings unless it’s for a customer? Boxes don’t get dropped or disposed of, out there for example? The nuts and bolts that were found are small. They could have been left at the bottom of a box.” She nodded at the tract of waste ground in front of them.

  “No way. We dispose of our rubbish properly. They might only be small items but we deal in bulk. Some of the country’s largest companies are our customers. Can you imagine if we were found to be illegally dumping rubbish? A lot of our customers would stop dealing with us.”

  “Do your staff ever help themselves?”

  “No. It’d be the sack if they did, and they know it.”

  Greyson was obviously getting annoyed with this line of questioning. “You heard about the body that was found in the canal?” Rachel asked.

  He nodded. “It were on t’news.”

  “Can you offer any explanation as to why s
ome of your stock might be found at the scene?” she said.

  Greyson’s face turned red and he loosened his tie. He was no doubt wondering where these questions were going, and not liking it. This man must rule his little empire with an iron fist. He wasn’t used to anyone doubting his word.

  “You’ve got it wrong! They weren’t from here. No way!”

  “But, Mr Greyson, you’ve just identified them as coming from your stock,” Rachel said.

  “I don’t know what you’re trying to prove, young lady, but it won’t work with me. No one here has murdered anyone. There must be some mistake.”

  “This wasn’t the only nut and bolt we found. There were six in total,” she said. “Since you haven’t offered me a reasonable explanation, we’re going to have to interview your staff. They’ll need to provide alibis for last night. You too.”

  “Nonsense! All this fuss for half a dozen nuts and bolts! You’ve got this all wrong. None of the stock leaves here unless it’s part of a consignment.” He was shouting now.

  “We’re investigating a murder, Mr Greyson. Pieces of your hardware were found at the murder scene. Unless you can offer me an explanation, we must investigate.”

  “Have you had a break-in recently?” Elwyn asked.

  “No. I have good security, a watchman and CCTV.”

  “We’ll need to look at that too,” Rachel said.

  “You’re making a huge mistake. No one here had anything to do with any murder. Who was killed anyway?”

  “We don’t have a name yet,” Elwyn said.

  “Well, you’ll get nothing from us. We can’t help. You can have the CCTV and access to my staff but don’t expect anything. They’ve been with me a while, and all provided good references. I don’t see any of them being a killer.”

  “You’re probably right, but we do have to follow it up. I’m sure you can see that. If you could give us the CCTV, we’ll be on our way.” Rachel forced a smile.