by Michael Kerr
The evaluation of the specifics of the Preston crime scene was represented by the tape. The scene of the abduction and the final placement of the body were secondary to where the mutilation, rape and murder had taken place. Beth had to assume that the offender took his prey to an isolated location, where he would feel safe to work on them. Apart from the apparent background of a cellar in the Polaroid of Laura, there was no other clue as to its whereabouts.
Taking another mouthful of the full-bodied wine, Beth savoured it, and then swallowed it slowly. She was frustrated at having so little information. With only one recovered body it was impossible to assess signature aspects of the crime. This wasn’t a straightforward stranger-on-stranger repeat killer at work. Human monsters were on the increase, and were becoming almost commonplace. The phenomena was of epidemic proportions in America, where most of the techniques to understand and try to seek them out had been developed by the FBI’s Behavioural Science Division. Thrill killers and mass murderers were changing the pattern of homicide investigation. And psychology was the modern tool used to understand critical offender characteristics and assist the police by suggesting proactive strategies.
The problem with most random killers was, that they could quite literally be the good neighbour next door, or a pillar of the community who on the surface was a happily married and hardworking family man. This was different. It was someone with a clear motive, and with a predictable game plan. They were almost sure of his intentions, knew his real identity, but did not know his schedule or location.
Beth had originally thought they were hunting for a sadistic personality type; unstable, emotionally damaged and without the capacity to show any compassion or mercy. Nothing that had happened so far gave cause for a change of mind. She had to treat him as just another repeat killer. The reasons for his actions were, to a point, immaterial. Something always triggered them off. In this man’s case, it had been the imprisonment and subsequent death of his stepfather. All it took was a catalyst to unleash a dormant inner compulsion to turn an already disturbed person into a killing machine. And there was no off button. Even if they did not realise it, they would invariably escalate and be powerless to stop. Within a supposedly more sophisticated and overpopulated society, the serial murderer was a growing enigma, who could hide behind a guise of normality.
“Supper’s ready,” Matt said from the kitchen door. “Come and get it before it goes cold.”
They drank more wine with the meal, and began to unwind. The mind had to relax; to back-off and recharge itself.
“That was delicious,” Beth said, dabbing her lips with a paper serviette. “You make a mean cheese and chive omelette. I’ll wash up. You open another bottle of red and go put on some music-to-chill-by.”
They both laughed as Matt struggled to remove a stubborn cork. He ended up with the bottle between his feet, tugging on the corkscrew with far more effort than the young Arthur had expended when supposedly drawing Excalibur from the stone. With a loud pop, the cork suddenly gave up its grip. Matt fell back and slid down a unit, to end up sitting in an ungainly heap on the floor.
Beth had a giggling fit. Tears streamed from her eyes, and she had to sit down and hold her now aching stomach muscles.
“I could have been really hurt,” Matt said. “I bet you laugh at people who slip on banana skins.”
“You’re right,” Beth said. “That’s the first time I’ve ever seen somebody lose a wrestling bout to a bottle of cabernet.”
“I didn’t lose,” Matt said, holding up the corkscrew to display his trophy.
They drank the wine, listened to Sinatra, and then went to bed, almost but not quite too inebriated to make love.
DC Chris Mallory flushed the toilet and was rinsing his hands when the postman pushed a bundle of mail through the letterbox. It was sod’s law. Dennis Marshall was in the kitchen, pouring boiling water over tea bags, and it was Faye that ran out into the hall and picked up that morning’s delivery.
Faye went back into the lounge, quickly sorted what looked to be Christmas cards from dross and opened a red envelope that was addressed to her.
Shock initially prevented her from crying out. She was unable to comprehend what she was seeing. The envelope fluttered down to the carpet as she stared at the photo and recognised her mother, who had no clothes on and was holding a newspaper out in front of her.
A scream broke the silence. Dennis ran out of the kitchen as Chris bounded down the stairs.
“What is it, Peanut?” Dennis said from behind Faye.
It was Chris who saw the envelope on the floor. He knew immediately that he’d fucked up with a capital F. He took the Polaroid from the girl’s trembling hand as she turned around to be held in her father’s arms.
Glancing at the colour shot of the woman, Chris then looked at the back and read the message: Kirstie is with me in every sense of the word. You are unworthy of her, you dull, simple, pathetic excuse for a man.
With a sense of apprehension and failure, Chris used his mobile to call the squad room.
“Yeah,” Phil Adams said. Everything okay?”
“No,” Chris said. Is the sarge about?”
“Yeah. Hold on, I’ll put you through.”
Chris took a deep breath and waited to put his head on the block.
“Yes, Chris?”
“We got mail from the killer, Sarge. A photo of Mrs. Marshall. It was addressed to the daughter. And I’m afraid she got to it first and opened it.”
“You’ve got to be fucking joking!”
“I wish. I was taking a leak when it was delivered. And Mr. Marshall was in the kitchen. Faye saw that it was addressed to her and―”
“Was the woman alive?”
“Yeah.”
“Thank God for small mercies. I’m on my way. Try to keep things calm. Point out to the husband that at least we know she’s not dead. Turn it into a bonus.”
Pete phoned Tom Bartlett’s extension. Matt was upstairs with him, updating him with Beth’s general evaluation.
“Bartlett.”
“It’s DS Deakin, guv. We just got word that a photo of Kirstie Marshall has been delivered to the house. I expect DI Barnes will want to come over there with me.”
“He’ll be with you in two minutes, Sergeant,” Tom said.
“What is it, Tom?” Matt asked.
“Confirmation that whoever took the chief’s daughter has the Marshall woman. He sent a photograph to the house.”
Chris opened the door before they got through the garden gate. They went into the lounge where Chris removed the envelope with the Polaroid now back inside it from his pocket and handed it to Matt, holding it by the edges. “I’m sorry, boss,” he said, looking nervously from Matt to Pete and back again. “I was only in the loo for a minute. I―”
“It’s like comedy, Chris,” Matt said. “All about timing. Get it wrong and nobody laughs. How’s the girl and Marshall?”
“They’re upstairs. The girl is taking it badly. Her dad’s trying to calm her down.”
“Get a WPC in to make tea and small talk,” Matt said. “And tell her to stay until they’ve got their heads around it.”
Matt and Pete studied the photo. It had obviously been taken at the same location in which Laura had been kept. The killer wasn’t moving around. He had a permanent base. A pattern was now presenting itself. The naked woman was holding a newspaper up so that they could see the date.
Matt studied the writing on the envelope and the back of the Polaroid. A gold fibre tip had been used, and it went without saying that the handwriting would be a match.
“If he stays with plan A, we’ll get a phone call next, then a finger or other body part,” Pete said.
“Yeah,” Matt sighed. “And Dennis Marshall will be given the run-around, before being led to his wife’s corpse.”
“How do we nail him before he kills her, boss?”
“I don’t know, Pete. I just don’t fucking know.”
CHAPTER SIX
TEEN
IT was December twenty-fourth. Christmas Eve. He was disturbed and highly agitated. Sleep had eluded him, and the blood seemed to fizz hot in his veins. And it wasn’t for lack of high quality H or a couple of lines of coke. He needed a fix, but not of anything that he could inject with a needle, or snort. He’d cleaned up his act. Girls were made to love and kiss, and since making the decision to keep Kirstie around for awhile, he had considered his MO. The police were now full of expectation, and would be suitably confused when he did not conform to the pattern that they presumed he would follow. A spokesman for the filth, one DI Barnes, had appeared at a TV press conference just the previous day. He had shown his full hand, named the man they wanted to interview in connection with the abductions and the murder of Laura Preston, and asked members of the public to come forward if they knew Paul Sutton, or anyone who they believed fitted his description or resembled the out of date photograph of him that filled the screen for ten long seconds. The cop said that he, Paul, was a homicidal maniac, and that it was only a matter of time before he was apprehended. Kirstie’s husband had subsequently made an appearance, pleading for her safe return; his tears and obvious state of distress a pleasure to behold. The obnoxious cop who had badmouthed him reappeared to answer questions from the assembled media. Paul closed his eyes and replayed the question/answer session in his mind...
…“Do you know Sutton’s motive for carrying out these crimes?” one hard-faced bitch enquired.
The cop nodded. “Yes. His stepfather was a convicted rapist who died shortly after being released from prison on licence. It would appear that this young man is mentally disturbed, and has decided to mete out a twisted form of revenge on all those who played any part in the case against the deceased sex offender. He is selecting family members of anybody concerned in the arrest and trial of one Edward Roberts. They have all been warned, and are under police protection. It would be in his best interests to release Kirstie Marshall unharmed, and to contact the incident room dealing with this case.”
Paul let the image of the cop fade, opened his eyes and repeatedly punched the tiles on the kitchen wall above the sink until they were smeared with blood from his split knuckles. He would see to the cop in his own time. Let him be acquainted with how it felt to lose someone, and hope that he would know true grief. He didn’t care what his ‘dad’ had done. So what if he had raped some worthless piece of skirt. That’s what women were for, taking when the urge demanded. All the naturalists kept spouting on about how we were only animals, so why the high dudgeon when we acted accordingly. Rape and killing were a natural part of the animal kingdom, of which humans were just one species. It seemed unnatural to suppress inborn instincts. No wonder there was so much stress-related illness. The fact that physical sports and violent movies were so popular, disclosed just how close to the surface most people’s basic instincts lay. Nobody watched boxing for the pugilistic skill involved. They wanted blood and sweat and pain, and for one of the combatants to be knocked senseless. The same adrenaline-fuelled crowds would be happy to watch gladiators fight to the death in a coliseum. There was a need to release the pressure of emotions. Violent death made for good news, to a public who in the main were ghouls and would feed the darker side of their natures by slowing down at the sight of a car, rail or plane crash, horrified on one level, and yet enthralled and stimulated by the carnage. He was prepared to let loose his inner self, to allow himself the gratification of acting out his fantasies, make his own judgements, and punish anyone who he regarded deserving of his attention. Credit where due though. They had been quick to home in on the motive for his mission. But it would not help them. He was now Paul Savage. Ha! Savage by name and savage by nature. His new identity would stand up to any scrutiny. His time spent learning computer skills had not been wasted. He had built himself a background that appeared as real as the full gamut of documentation he held. And the house and breakers’ yard was in his new name, bought and paid for from the proceeds of extortion. A well-known captain of industry had handed over three hundred grand for the safe return of his wife. The man had acceded to his demands in full. It was amazing just how easy it had been to part the CEO of a nation-wide high street chain of shops from his money.
As he ran his throbbing hand under the cold water tap and watched the blood become diluted as it swirled around before vanishing down the plug hole, he recalled the crime: the stalking before he kidnapped the fat cat’s much younger wife from her own garden. And then the immediate follow-up phone call to Sir Colin Gibson, to convince him that it would be in his best interest not to contact the authorities. It flooded back:
“This is extremely urgent. Please put me through to Colin Gibson,” he had said to the receptionist. “His wife has been seriously injured in an accident. I am Dr. Malcolm Stevens.”
He had not been put on hold, or made to suffer music that was more suited to the confines of a mental institution with a captive audience doped-up with Thorazine or Prozac: music to drool by.
“This is Colin Gibson, Doctor. What has happened to Camilla?”
“Your wife’s condition is stable. Though if you don’t listen very carefully to every word I say, she will not survive.”
“What the hell―”
“Your wife has been kidnapped. Be advised that if you contact the police, she will die. This is not television drama, Gibson. You will pay a ransom for her, or lose her, it’s that simple. Now take a few moments to digest the situation, and treat this as you would any other business deal.”
“How do I know that you are telling me the truth?”
He had put the phone to the woman’s mouth.
“Colin, for God’s sake do what he says. I’m―”
“Satisfied?” Paul said.
“If you harm her―”
“Then it won’t really matter what threats you make, because she would by then be dead. Now shut up and listen. You will meet someone at a designated time and place, alone, and with a specified amount of money. Once the cash has been checked for dyes and any apparent sequential serial numbers, you will be told the location of your wife. If you are being followed, we will know. There will be no further negotiation. You will naturally be tempted to call the police. All I can say is, that if you do and we are captured, then a third party not implicated with this transaction will kill your wife at a later date. As in your business dealings, we have likewise considered all eventualities. Do you understand?”
“Yes. I will do nothing to endanger my wife. Please do not harm her.”
“Her ultimate safety is firmly in your hands, Colin. You have the ball, it’s up to you how you play it. If you believe you can outsmart us, then be prepared to have Camilla returned to you piecemeal, like a butchered cow.”
He smiled and patted the raw knuckles with a towel. The knight of the realm had paid up and kept his end of the deal. Apart from raping the upper crust bitch, he had not so much as smudged her makeup, before releasing her at night on a lane not half a mile from Gibson’s country mansion. She had been blindfolded throughout her ordeal, and he had rightly believed that the incident would be kept a close-guarded secret.
Now, he felt increasingly restless and needed to kill, to respond to the detective who had all but challenged him at the televised press conference. That all potential victims were being protected was a blatant lie. In reality, the plods expected him to deal with Kirstie before abducting anyone else. Wrong. He would surprise them all, tonight.
He decided who to kill, and immediately felt cheered, more relaxed and even a little festive. He went out shopping, returning home with a small artificial Christmas tree with built-in fibre optic lighting. He’d also purchased two felt Santa hats, a present for Kirstie, and some booze and food, including a large knuckle of pork for Hannibal.
“Get another shower if you want,” he said, throwing the padlock key to her to free her ankle from the shackle. He did not consider her a threat, but was not going to bend down again next to her. Desperate people wer
e unpredictable. And he had never trusted a woman. If she attempted to escape, he would have to hurt her, and that would spoil his mood. He followed on behind as Kirstie walked through to the shower area, prior to leaving her alone.
After she had showered and was back in the living area of the cellar wearing fresh clothes, Kirstie was surprised to see the package on the bed. It was roughly the size of a spectacle case, wrapped in shiny gold paper, with a gift tag taped to it. She stared at it, suspicious as to what it might contain.
He appeared in the doorway. Told her to sit on the bed and replace the shackle and lock the padlock, and to throw the key to him.
“It’s a Christmas present. Read the card, taped on the top, then open it,” Paul said as he slipped the key in his pocket. “It won’t bite you.”
Kirstie picked up the parcel and turned the gift tag over to see neat script on the back, written in gold metallic marker pen. It read: ‘You’ve got one minute. Don’t waste it. Merry Christmas’.
She tore the paper off to find a mobile phone. “You mean I can phone home?” she said, swallowing hard as a lump formed in her throat.
“Yes. Just like E.T. But when you’ve been on exactly sixty seconds, I’ll take it away.”
She punched in the number, and after five rings Dennis answered. “It’s me, love,” she said. “I’ve only got a few seconds.”
“Where are you, Kirstie? Are you all right?” he said.
“I don’t know where I am, but I’m all right. I love you. How is Faye bearing up?”
“Ask her, sweetheart. She’s here with me.”
“Faye,” she said.
“Mummy, Mummy! When are you coming home?”
“As soon as I can, darling. You be a good girl, and look after Daddy. Will you do that for me?”
“Yes, Mummy. But please come home tomorrow, it’s Christmas Day.”
“I’ll try. Now blow me a goodnight kiss and put daddy back on.”
As Faye handed the phone to her father, Paul took the mobile from her, switched it off and removed the SIM card from it.
