Owen nodded. “Yes, the two are and a few years older. There’s also another player who was a regular when they were using the simulator but as I’ve said, when we interviewed the other two they were both concerned about this other pilot. They couldn’t tell me why but they both felt uncomfortable talking about him or her. Something within his messages didn’t ring true.”
“So we can’t find out who that person might be or where they are in the world?”
“At present, no.”
“So maybe these two boys could have been murdered possibly by someone who interacted with them on the Internet and we can do sod all about it?”
“Takes time and the correct procedure and process. It will happen but…Digital Forensics are, let’s say, trawling.”
Cyril picked up the catalogue. “I want a full briefing in two hours and Owen, I mean full. Everything we have. And Liz, I want a clearer focus on your thoughts on Miss Pamela Shepherd. Obviously something’s causing you to have doubts.”
He waved the rolled-up catalogue as if to swat a fly and Liz and Owen left his office.
Cyril looked at the wrapped jar within the transparent plastic bag.
He took a ten-pound note out of his wallet and placed it under a paperweight. “If this isn’t to do with Mrs bloody Kenyon, then that tenner goes to charity.” He said to himself.
Within the hour Cyril’s phone rang.
“Bennett.” He listened as his fingers tapped the top of the paperweight. “Another jar found and the correct labelling device. Right bring her in. Don’t charge her, just try to get through to her the seriousness of wasting police time and get onto Social Services and Mental Health, she’s known to them. Handle this carefully and sensitively.” He listened again. “Yes, ensure her son comes too. I’ll speak with him and make sure you thank him for his support. She’s been sectioned on two previous occasions.” He put the phone down and slid the tenner from beneath the paperweight and popped it back in his wallet. “If we could solve them all as easily as that.”
He checked his watch, shook it and looked again. He then slipped the electronic cigarette between his lips and inhaled. He’d take five minutes before the briefing.
Chapter Seventeen
Carl had been moved for the first and final time to the grubby bed away from the commode. His eyes, only partially open, stared transfixed at some indeterminate object. They rarely blinked. His lips moved, only small, involuntary movements, but it appeared as though he were in conversation with the object at which he was staring. The figure moved quickly within the space, collecting various pieces of tattoo equipment and placing them strategically on a small, round table near the commode. Carl’s naked body twitched, his left arm went into spasm as his legs curled into what appeared to be a foetal position. At the same time, a rasping sound was heard as air was quickly drawn in through his tight lips. All went quiet for a moment. The figure stood and rested a gloved hand on Carl’s head.
“Shhhh! You can go, Carl. You don’t need to stay here any longer. You are sweet enough. You have my permission, it’s alright.”
The boy seemed to relax and curl up, gently tucking his knees even more tightly towards his chest before his final breath escaped in a steady rush. There was a pause, the body fought against death and as if through pure instinct inhaled again. This time it was a shorter, more desperate breath. His upper arm shook slightly and his eyelids fluttered.
“It’s alright Carl, it’s alright. You can rest and go. You have my permission. You are no longer bitter you are sweet and beautiful. You can leave me.”
Carl’s eyes closed again until there was only the narrowest of gaps between the lids. He exhaled gradually, the breath vibrated the vocal chords for the final time creating a faint but audible note that lasted only as long as the expiration. There would be no further movement of the body, only the occasional sound of escaping gases as the internal organs began to contract when it was lifted and returned to the commode. Carl’s head lowered involuntarily as his right arm was taped at the elbow and the wrist, palm facing upward, to the chair’s arm.
Within three to four hours, the chemicals within his muscles would change and the onset of rigor mortis would begin, slowly at first, the eyes, the neck and the jaw would be the initial muscles to be affected. The rest of the body would follow. Within twenty-four hours there would be a total reversal, as the body would revert to its flaccid state. It would be then that the work would begin.
“There, you see, you’re happier now. I told you so. This is where the fun begins. Tony didn’t seem interested too much either but the results were wonderful. You just wait and see.”
A foot touched the pedal and the machine, the tattoo gun, buzzed frenetically as the needle moved fractionally from the gun.
“Like a million bee stings! Another day and we’ll be ready, just another day and we can start all over again. Another naughty boy will take your place and I’ll then be able to throw you away.”
***
Cyril took control of the briefing immediately. “The last jar found is rogue and we need to be aware of that for future reference. The more the public knows about these cases, the greater is the chance of this happening. While I feel it’s important that we seek the support of the general public, we also need to guard certain pieces of information. I’m aware that all the press releases have been cleared to date but let’s just ensure that what’s said away from the station does not lead to leaks and therefore compromise our ability to get this task done. Secondly we have checked the Brunswick Tunnel and the other tunnels within thirty miles of Harrogate. They are secure.”
Cyril left the room briefly returning accompanied by a gentleman who immediately looked to Owen to be a teacher.
“I should like to introduce a Dr Christian Macauley, Head of Applied Linguistics at Leeds and a qualified psychologist. So today you get two for the price of one.” Cyril smiled at his own joke. “He’s gone through the poems we’ve received and is here to express his thoughts and how they might have a bearing on the case. Dr Macauley.”
The tall, relatively young man moved to the front and stood next to the interactive screen. His nervous smile broke across his lips.
“Thank you, Cyril. Please call me Christian when it comes to questions but first let me give you my thoughts.” He tapped the screen and the poem by Charles Hamilton Musgrove appeared. “I believe you’re familiar with this by now and I know you have your own interpretations, but let me give you mine. By no way are they definitive but…Let’s leave the title for the minute. First line ‘crouches’ and ‘voiceless’ tell us that his victims are at his mercy, they are vulnerable and controlled, maybe that is a position that has been reversed from the past. They are victims like he once was.” He added the notes around the sides using a tablet. “’Tomb-like cell’ gives us a clue as to location. It will be windowless, so yes, shipping container, drain, garage, lock-up, old box van or wagon. This might mean that the perpetrator has the ability to move around. The words ‘his iron grate’ makes reference to either steel doors or draining cover. The second line tells us that the kidnapper has no compassion, only hatred for his captives. ‘For him no coming day or hour shall spell deliverance or bid his soul await’. Reinforces that there is no mercy or reprieve, probably because the kidnapper experienced similar.”
He paused and looked around. A number of the officers were adding the notes to a copy of the poem.
Pointing to the screen, “Now if you look at this line,” ‘The black night hides his hand before his eyes’, refers to the darkness the boys find themselves in, a darkness that conceals their perceived evil, that keeps them in the dark, keeps them from their usual evil ways until he can enforce his revenge is clearly demonstrated in the line. I also believe that this could refer to the fact that the victim is hidden in plain view, close to where we are right now. ‘Waiting the hour when he at last shall fling The stain in God’s face, shrieking as he dies.’ I think the shrieking is not a reference to the victims
but to the kidnapper. His perceived mania and sense of omnipotence is clear in the last line where he again refers to ‘unconquered’.” Christian took a drink from the glass on the table. “There’s more but can I ask for questions so far?”
“You reference the perpetrator as a he, is that deliberate or is there evidence from the text used to suggest gender?”
“No, thanks for bringing that important point up. No, I merely use the term. From the evidence in the written word, your kidnapper could be either sex.”
“Are the clues given through some self belief that they’ll not be caught, an arrogance?”
“It seems to me that this person is giving you a path to follow, so yes, total arrogance. Remember, he need give you nothing but I feel he believes himself to now be untouchable, above God!”
“Is he or she seeking recognition for a perfect crime or does he want people to see that he’s taken his revenge for something that has happened in the past?”
I’m sorry, but I cannot answer that. What I can do is give you my educated judgement on the reason this text has been sent to you.”
“What about the line, ‘The grim clenched hand still burning with the sting’?”
“Knowing what Cyril has told me, I can assume that this refers to his past frustration at something that brought anger and deep anxiety, possibly clinical depression. The hand closing in on itself and making the fist, it demonstrates a threat to his way of life. But the sting, I know that someone who dies has experienced death’s sting but I feel that might be too simple an explanation. So, this is only my interpretation again but it could also pay reference to the bee and Royal Jelly. By using honey he is restoring something, maybe his confidence, his old life once the anarchists have been dealt with.”
Cyril put his hand in the air to ask a question.
“I think the Chief Inspector needs the loo!” Owen said quietly.
Cyril pulled a face at Owen expecting some sort of jibe. “I shall reward you later, Owen with a difficult task.” Laughs rumbled around the room and some of the tension was relieved.
“You have a question, Cyril?” Christian asked.
“Why would someone refer to two fourteen year old boys from good backgrounds as anarchists?”
“We all know that an anarchist is someone who tries to bring about anarchy and that anarchy is a state of disorder or, and I believe this is one of the keys you are looking for, un-recognition of authority. I know many people who find the teenage youth fighting against authority whether it is in the home, in school or in the street. Just take the way we’ve all tried to find our own identity as we travelled through puberty. Fourteen year olds…they are simply pushing the boundaries. If someone shows some weakness when working or dealing with kids of this age, they can, in my experience, be totally cruel and selfish. If working in a small group say in a classroom, they can destroy a teacher’s confidence and in some cases a career. Let me bring you back to the passage, ‘hate’, ‘no deliverance’. As we have said revenge.”
There was silence as each person looked through his or her notes. Liz particularly noted the reference to teaching.
“And for what it’s worth, the tattooing of flesh makes the victory permanent, indelible. The victim is marked for life and some might believe death. The victor is showing that he is unconquered. Invictus.”
He collected up his pad and papers. “Just two other thoughts I can leave you with. Firstly, the term ‘jailer’ suggests someone more powerful that just a prison guard as if he is meting out the punishment without judge and jury. The ‘sting’ signifies the punishment and secondly, a little more abstract in thought but maybe…prison might be a biblical reference…eye for an eye etc. Thank you for listening. Any more questions?”
The room was quiet.
“If you need anything, Cyril has my contact details.”
Christian left the room and Cyril escorted him into the corridor. They shook hands.
“Don’t know if it’s been useful, hope you find something in it.
“I’m grateful. Thank you.”
Cyril returned to the briefing. “So where do we go from here?”
There was a pause before Liz spoke. “I’m back to Pamela Shepherd, taught fourteen year olds, also could have been seen to be weak owing to his reluctance to conform to, let’s say a more male way of dressing, maybe they picked up on his transgender, and just maybe he made that deliberately easy.”
“The more we find, Liz, the more I have to agree with your intuition.”
“I want vehicle stops, box vans, those with no windows and metal rear doors all checked. I also want you to investigate any wagon trailers that seem to be popping up as impromptu advertising hoardings in fields next to main roads. Stuart, that’s for you. Also you might get the lads to pop around the farms to see if there are any used for yard storage.”
Brian Palmer just raised a finger to attract Cyril’s eye. “Sir, I’ve been checking my crime time-line, starting from the first abduction to the release of the jars and then to the second kidnap, followed by the dumping of the body. If Tony were poisoned over a period of time, that time is either up or getting close for Carl. We really need to step up a campaign in schools warning the kids about drinks labelled Ichor or to make sure they think before accepting anything free, no matter how professional the label or how well known the product is to them. I’m also aware, Sir, that the more info is in the public domain, the more problems it might bring us from copycats, but it just might prevent another kidnapping which, according to this timescale is imminent. Might I suggest community officers visiting schools to speak in school assemblies targeting fourteen year olds?
“Good, yes, thank you. Please organise.”
“Liz, get someone to lead a more thorough check on Pamela Shepherd’s history, detailed search on parents and anyone connected to them. I’m curious to know more about her father and also the guy her mother met on the Internet.”
“Sir, one other thing.” It was Brian Palmer again. “I’ve Googled the meanings behind all the key names we have to date in this case and interestingly, the name Pamela was created by a Sir Philip Sydney for use in his poem ‘Arcadia’. He possibly wanted it to mean ‘All Sweetness’ from the Greek word pan meaning ‘all’ and meli, ‘honey’. I just found the connection with another poem and sweetness and honey interesting.”
Cyril just looked at Brian and nodded. “The power and the destruction of the Internet demonstrated within thirty minutes. Good Brian, thanks. Add it to the board.” Cyril then looked at Liz and raised an eyebrow. “Food for thought. I wonder why she chose Pamela?”
“Nectar, Sir!”
“Now, grab a coffee and spend some time assimilating the info you’ve got, check the boards and then double check. You might want to get straight on with your lines of enquiry but, we’re missing something and I feel sure it’s in here somewhere.” Cyril slipped his cigarette into his mouth. “Owen!”
Cyril and Owen moved through to his office. “I want some TV coverage for an update organised for tomorrow at the latest. I also want you to pay Carl’s father a visit. You have all the details of his computer history with that war subscriber site. See if he knows anything, see if Carl mentioned this other pilot whom the others were concerned about. I understand that it will be an uncomfortable situation for you because we have nothing to give him in return, other than we are now working on some new leads.”
***
The haunting buzz of the tattoo needle as it penetrated Carl’s dead flesh was masked by the rock music that seemed to be squeezed from two small speakers attached to an iPad. The camera situated just over the tattooist’s left shoulder caught every movement and tracked the progress of the lettering. The inked, stencilled lines could be seen running up the white flesh of the boy’s inner arm. Blood had pooled at the bottom of the arm leaving it mottled and purple, a mark that would remain. Any part of the body that was connected with a hard surface demonstrated the same marks. The Pathologist would know it as
livor mortis or post mortem lividity.
A gloved hand wiped away the excessive ink. “See Carl, that’s not too bad all things considered. From the once strong, now comes the sweetness. I know, Carl that it’s incorrect but it will serve its purpose. Tomorrow I shall remove it and serve it in one jar. Now, my beaten, young friend, I’ll leave you to sleep.”
A hand tapped the button that glowed deep blue on the top of the speakers and the room was immediately silent. “Until tomorrow.”
***
The television crew set up in the Police car park. Cyril checked his appearance in the mirror, before shaking his watch; he had fifteen minutes. He read through his notes quickly, they had been scrutinised by a Corporate Communications Officer. He had been assured that although it was unusual to go live on kidnap cases, it was essential and he was confident that his brief followed the strict established guidelines. The words ‘without fear or favour’ came into his head; it was something that had been drummed into him when he was dealing with the media. He didn’t exactly feel nervous, just a little self-conscious. It had taken slightly longer for the police press team to arrange the interview than anticipated but better late than never.
Opening the file Owen had left on his desk, Cyril noted that there was nothing from Carl’s father other than disappointment; his belief was that nothing appeared to have been done. Maybe this interview would either demonstrate that there was a thorough and continuing investigation or, to some, an admission that they held no real clues. He straightened his tie and left to face the cameras.
Cyril completed the television interviews and felt the same as he had on previous occasions. It was a feeling of impotence, a feeling that he was purely going through the motions. He had offered the warning regarding children accepting or consuming strange energy drinks and had advised being accompanied when playing or travelling to and from school. He was also aware of the chaos this would cause with parents suddenly but rightfully becoming over-protective. He’d explained that more foot patrols would be made available, particularly across The Stray. His parting comments requested that the public remain vigilant and to telephone or email details of anything that was out of the ordinary or suspicious, no matter how trivial they might seem. The incident telephone and email details had been scrolled along the bottom of the screen during the four minute interview. He knew requests such as these could have a negative effect and that they could be a curse or a blessing.
Flesh Evidence: a heart-stopping crime thriller Page 10
