by Michael Kerr
Undressing, he went down to the cellar. Kirstie proved to be a willing and warm partner, and he praised himself for having the gumption to keep her alive thus far. Pussy on tap was an indulgence he would now be loathe to give up. Could he just keep her indefinitely? he wondered. The idea formed unbidden, and was not without merit. He could send her hubby photographs periodically, just to maintain the tension of the situation. After all, he had plenty of other prospective victims to deal with.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
MATT left the building on the run, with DC Dean Harper following in his slipstream. They had left Marci Clark to hold the fort, arrange for units to converge on the barrister’s house and to contact Pete Deakin, who was off duty.
The call had been traced to the home of Lionel Garrick. And Matt knew that name. Garrick had been the QC who’d headed up the prosecution team against Ted Roberts.
This was an unexpected change of MO. Matt phoned Beth as Dean drove the unmarked Astra at high speed through city streets.
“Beth, it’s me,” he said. “The killer, Sutton, phoned me at the Yard. It looks like he’s been busy again.”
“Kirstie Marshall?”
“No, the QC, Garrick. I want you to take a look at the scene.”
“Are you there?”
“I’m on the way, now. Have you got a pen handy?”
“Shoot.”
Matt gave her the address, then ended the call and hung on for dear life as Dean jack-knifed the car with a hand brake turn and came to a stop between two patrol cars on Charles Street.
“Jesus, Dean, you’ve been watching too many Yank cop shows.”
Dean grinned broadly. He jumped on any excuse to display his advanced driver skills.
A uniform walked across to them from the steps outside Garrick’s house. He recognised Matt and nodded.
“What’s inside?” Matt said.
PC Ian Owen licked his lips. He had been a copper for ten years, but had never witnessed anything like this. A shiver of revulsion ran through him.
“Two bodies, sir. One woman, one man,” he said. “They’ve been murdered. There’s no one else in the house. Whoever did it has gone.”
“Get on the radio and jack-up forensics and a pathologist,” Matt said to Dean as he made his way up to the lacquered door, that shone like black ice in the reflected light of a nearby street lamp.
The sight of the woman’s disrobed nether regions shocked him, as he knew was the intention. He moved around the body, squatted down next to it and studied the frozen expression of horror on the face. The head was resting on its right cheek in a thickening pool of blood. A raw, gaping knife wound to the throat was the obvious cause of death. She had suffocated or bled out.
“The main event’s in here,” a uniformed sergeant said, appearing from a doorway just six feet away. “Whoever did this is a fucking maniac, sir.”
The cop’s eyes were blinking rapidly, and his face was ashen.
“Are you all right?” Matt said.
“No,” Sergeant Trevor Curry said, walking out past Matt. “I need to go outside, now, or I’ll throw up and contaminate the scene.”
Matt ventured inside the study and saw something that at first glance resembled a butchered beast in an abattoir. Only the overall shape of the figure taped to a chair bore any likeness to a human being. Eyes bulged from pulpy flesh that had been stripped of skin, and both ears lay detached in the corpse’s blood-soaked lap. For the first time in his career Matt turned away momentarily from the grotesque form in front of him. He sucked in air that was heavy with the worst of human odours, inhaling the repugnant mix as he reached for his cigarettes and lighter, as though the burning tobacco and its emissions of deadly chemicals would somehow purify the foul atmosphere that pervaded the room. Damn! He couldn’t smoke at an unprocessed scene. He stuffed the cigs and Zippo back in his pocket. Forced himself to inspect the corpse more fully.
The ends of all the fingers and both thumbs had been severed and were scattered around the chair like small sticks of white school chalk that had been dipped in red poster paint. And there was much more. This was not just murder, it was a blood-fest carried out by a man who was consumed with a hatred of such magnitude that Matt could not properly incorporate it into his psyche. Only a very seriously disturbed individual could commit such an atrocity on another person.
Stepping forward, careful not to stand in the blood, Matt read the gold writing on the Post-it that had been affixed to the tape that covered the mouth, to read: ‘How’s this for variety, Barnes’?
Matt looked for clues. There were a couple of partial bloody footprints, the pattern suggesting that trainers had been worn, but nothing else. The problem was, that even if they found latents, hair or fibres, they would be of no use without the suspect to match them to.
Rita Mendoza bustled in like a small whirlwind. The pathologist snapped on gloves, set her battered metal case down alongside the woman’s body and began to examine it. She looked up as Matt stepped out into the hallway.
“You look green, Matt,” she said. “Something you ate?”
He tried to force a smile, but it came out as false as it felt. “Something I saw, Rita. You’ll get round to it when you’ve finished up with the appetiser.”
“That bad?”
“Yeah. Nobody should die so hard. This is the worst thing I’ve ever seen done to one human being by another.”
Rita carried out her preliminary examination. The woman looked to be in her sixties. Her wide, apoplectic eyes were still full of frozen, painful surprise. The right side of her face was resting in a crimson pool, and her matted grey hair had soaked up the viscous fluid like a sponge or litmus-paper would. She could have been anybody’s favourite aunt or grandma. Her face would have been soft and kindly, had the manner of her death not caused her lips to be drawn back in a snarl that displayed too-white and even National Health dentures.
Just one wound. A gaping rent that had completely severed the trachea. The woman had suffocated, unable to draw air into her bronchial tubes. There was the telltale bluish discoloration of the lips, skin and nail beds; cyanosis. The bowels and bladder had relaxed. Death could be a messy business.
Rita finished up and looked to where Matt was just standing, now with an unlit cigarette in hand, staring at a framed Monet print on the oak-panelled wall.
“This was done by the same guy that raped and murdered the Preston girl,” he said, turning to face Rita.
“You sure of that?”
“Positive. He called me when he’d finished up. Wanted us to get here quickly and see his work while it was still fresh. He’s like a kid showing off when he learns to whistle. Has to let everybody know what he’s capable of. He hadn’t got the patience to wait for them to be found. The main event is through here, Rita.”
She followed him into the study to be faced by the abomination that had been Lionel Garrick. It was beyond doubt the most loathsome sight she had seen outside of a mortuary. The body appeared to have been worked on by a wannabe pathologist who had no idea of what an autopsy procedure entailed, and just gone with his instincts. Jack the Ripper might have paid a visit, to cut and rip the victim beyond recognition. The savagery employed was not something that a sane person could perform.
The face was missing, apart from the mouth area that was covered by tape. Rita read the note that had been left for Matt, then visually examined the physical state of the cadaver. There was no apparent single cause of death. Apart from the removal of the ears, nose and fingers, the stomach had been opened from below the sternum to the crotch. Much of the intestines were hanging out, stretching down to the floor and glistening like crimson coils of a lumpy hose pipe, or a surreal painting by Giger.
Dean Harper appeared at the door. “Fuck!” he said, averting his eyes from the scene, but too late to not have it imprinted on his brain in all its gory detail. “Dr. Holder is outside, and the forensic team have arrived, boss.”
Matt went out to where Beth was waitin
g. The flashing lights of official vehicles lit her face a flickering blue. She looked so vulnerable, standing alone with her hands deep in the pockets of an overlarge sheepskin coat. She was beautiful, and he felt protective and had no intention of letting her view the atrocities in the house behind him. He gave her a hug. “I called you out for nothing. Sorry,” he said.
“What do you mean? I’m consulting on this.”
“I don’t want you to see what’s inside. Okay?”
“No, it’s not okay. If this is Sutton’s handiwork, then I need to see it. It’s the only way I can get into his mind and―”
“I don’t want you in this monster’s mind. In fact I want you off the case.”
“You’re overreacting. This is what we do. It goes with the job. Now stand aside before I lose my temper.”
“He not only called the Yard and asked for me by name, Beth. He left me a note, here, on one of the victims’ bodies.”
“One of?”
“Yeah. He killed a woman. And judging by the way she’s dressed, I think she might have been Garrick’s housekeeper. Point is, he’s making it personal. He watched the press gig on TV and took exception to some of my comments. And when he phoned, I wasn’t too polite.”
“You seem to attract these headcases, Matt. Do you go out of your way to upset them?”
“No. It must be my natural charm.”
“We need to find him. So don’t try to hinder me. I’m going in, and if you stop me, then I’ll go above you. This isn’t about us. It’s about Laura, Kirstie, what’s just happened here tonight, and other people who might end up dead if we don’t do our jobs.”
Matt stepped aside. She was right. He looked up and down the street. Was the killer standing in the vicinity, hidden by shadow? Or sitting in a parked car and gloating as he watched? He called Dean over. “I want the street sealed off and checked, Dean. He might still be in the area.”
“What about the pub, boss?” Dean said, inclining his head to the public house fifty yards down on the other side of the street. It was still open.
“Eyeball everyone inside. I don’t think he’ll be there. Not unless he had a shower and changed his clothes before leaving the house.”
Beth wanted to rearrange the woman’s skirt, to afford the deceased some dignity, but didn’t. The scene had to be photographed. The man who had gained entry here was depraved. She stared off into an unfocused middle distance and allowed her mind to fabricate a shadowy figure, who had cut the woman’s throat, then partially undressed and posed her, demeaning her even in death by revealing her most intimate parts for all who entered to see. He was a callous killer with a perverted sense of humour. She could sense the heightened state of excitement that drove him. Looking back down, she swallowed hard and surveyed the pale bottom and the waste that soiled it; saw the shoeless foot and the small marks that lined the thickly polished wooden floor. Poor, poor woman! It was obvious that her feet had frantically drummed a death roll, and that the hard toes of the leather shoes had pounded and scuffed the previously pristine surface.
Matt appeared at her side. “Not a pretty sight, eh?” he said.
“Where’s Garrick?”
“In the study. Follow me, and be prepared to see something that you’ll have nightmares over.”
Rita was finished up. She smiled grimly at Beth and then addressed Matt. “I’ll do the autopsies in the morning. It’ll be the first time I’ve done one on Christmas day. But I know you need anything that might help you to stop this animal. Give me a call, or drop by the mortuary at lunch time.”
“Thanks, Rita. I appreciate this.”
“No problem. If I was at home I’d only be carving turkey. I may as well be getting paid for cutting meat.”
Matt watched her leave. Pathologists had the same warped sense of humour as coppers and many other workers that came into regular contact with violent death. It was a buffer to keep morbid reality at bay; to lessen the turpitude of it.
Beth found the sight of the corpse so appalling that it could have been created by a special effects team for a horror movie. She could not wholly accept that what was slumped in the chair, taped to it, could have – up until only a couple of hours’ ago – been a living, human being. The psycho had not just killed him, but dehumanised him; transformed him into an altered state. She absorbed the scene, then closed her eyes and felt a detached simulation of the emotions that would drive someone to commit such an act. This was a hatred that demanded more than just the satisfaction of killing the subject. It was annihilation; an attempt to dismantle the very essence of the victim. There was a fury at work that went far beyond the parameters of any other crime she had been involved with. And this was not a cold-blooded act. The emotions behind it were as volatile as any extreme of nature. Though this was far removed from a mindless occurrence, such as an earthquake, hurricane or volcanic eruption. This was the intended result of a sentient, crazed person, unbounded by any inhibitions.
“Any insight?” Matt said.
“He’s on the edge of sanity.”
“The edge? You mean an almost sane person carried out these acts?”
“In the legal sense, yes. He knows exactly what he’s doing, has an agenda and a premeditated plan of attack. What he does is worked-out ahead of time and meticulously executed. He knows everything he needs to about his targets. There is a great deal of preparation. I think he lost control and red-misted with Garrick, though. I imagine him as having been in an almost fugue state when he did this to the man.”
“Explain fugue state.”
“That he was totally unaware of his own identity or of his environment for a while. In other words, he lost the plot. He let whatever fuels his anger take over. This is one sick puppy.”
“Charming. I always seem to get on the bad side of these weirdos.”
“You should have let Tom head up the press conference.”
“He delegated. Being stupid isn’t in his repertoire.”
“It might not be as bad as you think. I don’t see the killer treating you as a target.”
“Why not?”
“He wants to show off, and I believe that you are the embodiment of what he considers to be the opposition against him. I think he needs to fixate on somebody. You will probably get more phone calls and notes. He’ll need to taunt you and brag about his exploits.”
“I’ve always wanted a pen pal.”
“You don’t need one, you’ve got me.”
“All you write are profiles and official stuff.”
“What do you want, dirty letters?”
“Sounds good. Now let’s get out of here. I need a drink.”
As Matt told Dean to write it up, and to make sure that all the team members on standby were in the following morning, – after those with kids had completed the ‘present opening’ ceremony – Pete arrived. He was unshaven, wore a multicoloured fleece over a black polo neck sweater, and his blue jeans had frayed bottoms.
“You Starsky or Hutch?” Matt said.
“Neither, boss. This kit was nearest to hand when I was so rudely interrupted and summoned here.”
“What were you interrupted doing?”
“That’s not something I can go into with Dr. Holder present, boss.”
Matt smirked. Pete had been sniffing round Gayle Harmon – a lab assistant in Ballistics – for months. Seemed he’d pulled. It was to be hoped that Gayle would keep the bed warm for him and not leave. She may not take kindly to her new beau deserting her late on Christmas Eve. It took a special kind of woman to put up with an ambitious cop, especially a detective of the Serious Crimes Unit, who was not subject to any recognisable shifts or set days off duty.
“It’s all yours, Pete,” Matt said. “Stay on top of it until the techies have finished up. And give me a bell if they find anything. You need to check out Garrick’s phone records and diary, and arrange for a door-to-door in case anyone suspicious has been hanging about.
“And a Merry Christmas to you too, bo
ss.”
“Thanks. Same to you. I’ll see you in the morning, bright and early.”
Matt climbed into Beth’s Lexus. “Let’s go and have a couple of drinks at Ron’s,” he said, buckling up as Beth eased away from the kerb.
Ron Quinn was the owner of the Kenton Court Hotel, where Matt had stayed for a while that summer under the alias of John Gabriel, when under threat from Frank Santini’s hitman and Gary Noon.
Quinn was a ruddy-faced west countryman, who at six-four and with flame red hair and beard, cauliflower ears, and a nose that had been broken several times, was an imposing figure. But beneath the somewhat threatening facade was a gentle giant of a man, who Matt and Beth had become firm friends of.
“Residents only,” Ron said, a broad smile creasing the rugged planes of his face as he opened the door.
“So we’ll reside for the night,” Matt said.
The three of them hugged, and then went through to the small but well-stocked bar.
“No gangsters or hitmen on your tail, are there?” Ron said as he poured three Spanish measures of his finest French cognac.
“No. Maybe just one homicidal psychopath, who I think I’ve upset,” Matt replied.
Ron winced. “How come I just know you aren’t kidding?”
CHAPTER NINETEEN
HE couldn’t sleep. He was exhausted and yet wide awake at the same time. His brain felt like the pinprick fibre-lighting of the Christmas tree he had plugged into the socket next to the bed. The ends of myriad hollow nylon tubes glowed brightly with ever-changing colours: purple, orange, yellow, green, blue, white and red. The shimmering mini galaxies were mesmerising in the darkness. He soon realised that there was a sequence to the display, as with traffic lights. Was everything governed by built-in order? Yes. The revelation was depressing. He thought about it. There was a certain overall predictability in the natural world. Nothing could survive the somehow preordained destiny of its origin. The number of passing heartbeats and seasons remorselessly took their toll of all living things. Only time itself was eternal. But would it too cease to exist if no one was left to mark its passing? He had been troubled once when reading an article that posed the question: If a tree fell in a forest, did it make a noise if there was no one there to hear it fall? He almost understood, now. Reality was a sham; a fleeting experience that was of no significance or consequence. Modern man had only existed for approximately sixty-thousand years, and in that blink of time just a few men and women had spawned the billions that now crowded, polluted and defiled the planet. It was hard not to be weighed down by the futility and inevitability of it all.
