by Michael Kerr
“Bondage, sadomasochistic sex. It will have escalated to a point at which she feared for her life. I would think she somehow found the strength to break away from him. He would have found that totally unacceptable. When she started seeing someone else, he had to act. If he couldn’t have her, then nobody else could. And the collection of panties are trophies of his conquests. I do not see him as being the sort of pervert who took them off clotheslines at night. He took them from willing or unwilling partners. They give him a sense of validity. God knows how many people he has already got away with terrorising, or killing. There are teenage girls drifting into the city every day, who nobody would miss if they disappeared.”
“What chance would you give Kirstie Marshall of surviving?”
“Given what we know about him now, I’d say if she isn’t already dead, she soon will be. By all accounts she has a strong character. She’s a gutsy woman, but even if she tries to adapt and go with the flow, he’ll see through the act and eliminate her.”
“We’re so close,” Matt said. “We know who he is, the approximate area he’s in, that he has a German shepherd, and who his intended victims are. He’s almost locked up tight and doesn’t know it.”
“The dog, Hannibal, might be the key,” Beth said. “It means more to him than anything else. It offers everything he demands, obedience and unconditional love. And it depends on him for its very existence.”
“How does that help us?” Tom said.
“The dog is his only friend, Tom. He will care for it in his own warped way. That means it will be vaccinated, wormed, and taken to a vet’s whenever the need arises.”
“But even if it is treated, he wouldn’t be stupid enough to use his real name, or the dog’s.”
“We can canvass every veterinarian practise in the area you’ve circled, and show them photographs of him and the dog,” Matt said.
“The one of Sutton is almost five years out of date,” Tom said. “He isn’t a chubby-cheeked teenager anymore. By all accounts he’s thin, like most hypes. Dick Curtis, the artist, is going to meet with Mercer and work something up for us to put out.”
They’d covered it all. Beth and Matt went down to the incident room, and while Beth poured the coffee, Matt went through the vet angle with DCs Phil Adams and Mike Henton. Within twenty minutes there was a list printed up of all veterinary surgeons in the area they were interested in. Any that could be contacted immediately would be, but many would no doubt be away for Christmas and would have to be seen after the holiday.
When the phone rang, Matt picked up.
“Detective Inspector Barnes, can―”
“Wow! That’s spooky, Barnes. I thought you would be off duty, at a Policeman’s Ball, or doing whatever the filth do when they’re not pounding the beat. Don’t you take time off to get pissed and recharge your batteries?”
Matt could hardly believe it. The most wanted man in Britain was at the other end of a line that was automatically being traced as they spoke.
“I tend to get more overtime when there’s a psycho needing to be rounded up,” Matt said. “And why the husky voice, Paul? We know who you are, remember? Or have you got the hots for me?”
“I didn’t call to chitchat, copper. Just to tell you that I’m going to do a Garrick on the lovely Kirstie before morning. I’ll dump what’s left of her and get back to you, to let you know where to take the body bag.”
“Does killing kids, women and old men give you a boner, Paul? Did running Sandra Beaumont down make the world a better place? Do you really think that murdering a few people will cause any ripples? Killing is a sign of weakness, not strength. You aren’t impressing me or anyone else. Your stepfather was a pathetic rapist, and I hope he died hard.”
“Fuck you, Barnes,” Paul screamed, almost deafening Matt. “You’re just trying to keep me on the line while you trace the call. But you won’t. I’m in a moving car, a long way from where I’ve got the woman stashed.”
“You’re boring me, Sutton. Whatever you do doesn’t keep me awake at night. Do you really expect me to give a toss about what you do to a bunch of strangers? Get a life,” Matt said and ended the call.
“You think upsetting him is the way to go?” Beth said.
Matt lit a cigarette, inhaled deeply and attempted to calm his shredded nerves. “I don’t know,” he said, expelling a gust of hot smoke in the direction of the nicotine-coated NO SMOKING sign that was screwed to the wall. “Trying to appeal to a better nature he doesn’t possess would just feed his ego and wouldn’t stop him. He expected a different reaction from me. I represent the authority he despises and wants to hit back at. He wanted to shock and horrify me, so I thought it was a good idea to act unfazed and not give him any satisfaction. What’s the old saying, ‘starve a cold’?”
“I can see that being as good a way as any to redirect him. But it’s a dangerous game.”
“I’m not trying to play any games, Beth. I didn’t set out to attract this creep. They’re like leeches that latch on and try to suck the blood out of society. I’m just the salt or a lit cigarette end that tries to burn them off.”
“The comments you threw in about his stepfather were to say the least provocative. You are personalising the situation and challenging him.”
“What should I have said? Please stop slaughtering innocent people, Paul, and let’s go for a beer together and talk it through, I’m sure we can work something out.”
“Irony and a little anger infused with sarcasm doesn’t alter anything, Matt. You know exactly what you’re doing. You’ve been there before...got the T-shirt. You seem to have a compulsive desire to play iron filings to these magnets. You can’t distance yourself from cases.”
“I get involved. And you’re probably right. But if I do throw down the gauntlet, it’s unintentional. I don’t set out to make it personal. I just lack the ability to remain emotionally distant from murder. Some cops, like Tom, can keep it separate. That’s not how I operate. I admit to being totally focused on finding and stopping Sutton, by using any means I can.”
“But you’re putting yourself in the firing line.”
“I try to disconcert and distract the bastards. They always have patterns and a plan. If I can throw a spanner in the works and bring the cogs to a stop, or at least slow them down and buy some time, then I will.”
“He may attempt to kill you.”
“So I shouldn’t have followed my father into the force, or got myself into the Serious Crimes Unit. I just didn’t see myself as a uniformed patrol cop, or a desk sergeant. I wanted to go after the worst scum out there. I must have a need to be out on the edge, although since meeting you I have a reason to look after my own skin. Sutton will want to impress me and demonstrate how clever he is. He wants a reaction from me that he isn’t getting.”
“And if you’re wrong?”
“I’m not. He’s a sneak killer who doesn’t go up against anyone who poses a potential threat to him.”
“I hope you’re right. Think about what he did to Garrick, and hold on to the thought that you could end up like that if he feels invincible and unstoppable. Don’t make the mistake of believing that you can get into his mind and outguess him. He’s adaptable and capable of switching priorities.”
“You telling me to be nice to him if he calls again?”
“No. Just more detached. Keep him out of our lives, Matt. Please.”
They went back to Beth’s to spend the night. The trace on Sutton’s phone call proved useless to them. He had been cruising north of the city. They couldn’t get a fix.
Two large scotches relaxed Matt. They undressed each other in the lounge, with the main lights off. Only the silver twinkle of Beth’s Christmas tree lights danced on their skin. Matt was so hard that it hurt as Beth hooked the fingers of both her hands either side of his grey marl Ben Sherman hipster shorts and slid them down over his thighs. She hunkered down and let her tongue trail over his stomach.
“You’re driving me crazy,” he gasped when she st
raightened up and pressed against him.
“That’s the intention. I love you, Barnes.”
“I love you, Beth.”
It went far beyond what that one small, overused word could properly convey. He was totally overwhelmed by his adoration of her. She was the meaning his life had been lacking. The reason for his being. It was an almost metaphysical sensation. Their intimacy electrified him with ever-fresh waves of indescribable pleasure. Her nearness sapped him of strength and self-will. As they held each other, he would not have been surprised if their flesh had fused together to create the oneness he felt. They kissed, and became lost in a vacuum of their own making; a place where no thoughts or diversions could disrupt the ‘now’ that they were existing in. He hardly knew that his lips were on her smooth neck, then her breasts.
For just a short while, Paul Sutton and all the other evil that existed in the world was driven out of their minds by a far superior force.
“Phew! How do we follow that?” Beth said a few minutes later.
Matt grinned. “We could call it a night, hit the sack, and see if what we just did can be improved on.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
HE liked the black Trans-Am. It made him feel like Burt Reynolds in Smokey and the Bandit. He was wearing snakeskin western-style boots with stacked heels, but did not own a Stetson. A cowboy hat would look a little out of place and would result in unwanted attention. Maybe he should take another vehicle. The Trans-Am could be worked on and restored. It was the only Yank car in the yard.
Settling into the softly-sprung seat of a nondescript Toyota instead, he pulled out through the gates, stopped to go back and lock them, then drove the mile along a back road into Goff’s Oak, and out on the B198 to pick up the A10 and speed southbound.
Next to him on the passenger seat was a carrier bag containing all he would need: a pair of latex gloves, reel of duct tape, glass cutter, Polaroid camera, compact cassette player/recorder, secateurs and his trusty knife.
He ran through his loosely scripted plot. He would park a little way from the swank house in Highgate, then approach from the rear and scale the high wall that enclosed it in mature gardens. The privacy was a double-edged sword, which he was more than happy to take advantage of. If necessary, he would cut a hole in the window of the kitchen door. He knew the judge’s habits backwards, and everything pertinent about the decrepit old bastard’s life. Judge Miles Patterson was seventy-two, married, and the father of a middle-aged chinless wonder, William, an architect who lived in Canada with his wife and three kids.
The judge was a skinny runt with heavy-lidded eyes and a beak-nose, who looked the part when in wig and gown, trying to stay awake as he directed proceedings and audaciously, capriciously overbalanced the weighted scales of justice. There was some equity, though. Patterson suffered from emphysema; an irreversible condition that was unhurriedly damaging his lungs beyond repair. The man was dying by the day, and Paul was more than happy to let nature take its course. It was his stick insect old wife, Patricia, who he wanted to slice and dice as the judge was bound in a front row seat to watch every finger-licking slash and hear every pain-filled bleat. Surely small penance to pay after enjoying such a long career of earning his blood money by sitting in sanctimonious judgement of others.
He did a drive past. Most of the house lights were on. Fuck! Even the grounds were floodlit, and he had a second’s glimpse of a man and dog through the bars of the wrought iron gates. He passed without slowing. His headlights picked out the shapes of two men sitting in the front of a Vauxhall Carlton parked in a line of other cars at the kerb. Police. The judge and his wife were under heavy protection. He would have to abort.
Rage boiled in his brain. He felt cheated as he headed not back towards home, but onto the M25, to give the old Toyota its head. He needed to think. The acute disappointment of not being able to carry out his plan was mind-numbing. He had been thwarted and was infuriated. This was the cop Barnes’s doing. It was obvious that not only the judge but all the jurors were now being guarded against him. Nobody said it would be easy. He would just have to make do with Kirstie for the time being, and keep a check on his intended victims. Revenge didn’t have a shelf life. He would pick them off at leisure, over whatever period proved necessary.
He kept driving, and used his mobile to call the Yard and ask to be put through to the incident room investigating his crimes. He had begun to experience a deep sense of satisfaction in the knowledge that so much effort, expense and manpower was being committed to what would prove a futile pursuit. They were on a fool’s errand.
Barnes answered. The detective was dogged if nothing else. But he would ruin his day completely by telling him that he was about to butcher Kirstie.
Less than three minutes later he threw the Nokia full force at the passenger side window. It rebounded onto the seat, and a loud blast of a horn and the flashing full beams of a lorry thundering up behind drew his concentration back to the road. He had slewed into the middle lane as Barnes badmouthed him, his father, and also accused him of murdering Sandra, before hanging up.
A mile from the turnoff for the MI, he pulled into the gravel-topped car park of a large café that stood on the site of where a car showroom had once been. He parked in a slot near the entrance door and cut the engine. He needed to think, and for the first time in months, wanted a fix. He had never been a big user, and had not liked being out of his head. Drugs were for losers with no future. He wanted to be in full control of his thoughts and actions, and crackheads weren’t. Wringing his hands together and trying to compose his shot nerves, he thought back over what Barnes had said. The cop could not know that he had killed Sandra; wouldn’t even have heard of her...unless he had been talking to his dumbfuck mother. Barnes would have no doubt been in his room, searched it, and found photographs and the book full of his innermost thoughts. He should have destroyed everything, but had been a little crazy, not thinking straight. He had just walked away from his life as Paul Sutton and become another person. And Sandra had asked for what she got. The bitch had belonged to him, and couldn’t just piss off and start screwing around with some pimple-faced shithead, not without expecting reprisal.
He had stalked her for weeks, then run the cow down in the street. He could still recall the look of terror that filled her eyes a fraction of a second before she impacted with the bumper and was hurled up into the windscreen, to sail high into the night sky. Looking through the rearview, he had seen her broken body crash back down onto the asphalt. Reversing over her head had ensured that she would not survive to be able to identify him. He had then dumped the stolen car on waste ground a mile away and torched it. If Sandra had only remained faithful to him, then she might still be alive. He had expectations of people that they seemed incapable of living up to. Now, his own mother was conspiring against him with the imperious, no good cop.
He got out of the car and entered the building. The toilets were on his left. He went into the gents, rinsed his face and held his wrists under the cold water tap. Although the temperature outside was probably below freezing, his blood seemed to crawl like hot lead through his veins. After a while he dried his hands under the air blower, combed his lank hair and went into the self service restaurant to get black coffee and sit down for awhile.
He was thankful that the place was almost empty. Most people were settled in somewhere at this time on Christmas night. A lone girl was sitting a few tables away. She had the forlorn look of the homeless; in limbo with no fixed abode or purpose. Her leather jacket was old, ripped, and two sizes too big for her slight frame. Her jeans were crumpled, maybe from being slept in for many nights. Appraising her was a convenient distraction. He gave her his undivided attention. Her trainers were coming apart at the seams. Now her face. Her expression was one of despondency. She had even features, high cheekbones and dark cheerless eyes that looked like a sad spaniel’s under the fringe of mousy hair that hung down over her brow like a piss-coloured waterfall. This was human flots
am; a waste of space.
Sixth sense told Anita that she was being watched. She looked up and stared back at the young man who was taking more than a passing interest in her. Their eyes locked. He smiled but did not avert his gaze. Was he a kindred spirit? Could he be half as desperate as her? No. His clothes were not shabby, and curls of steam rose up from the cup in front of him. He had money. Maybe he smoked. She gave him the strongest smile she could raise, and he returned it, showing white and even teeth. He reminded her of a young Mark Owen, the Take That boy band member, who she had always thought had a haunted and vulnerable look.
He knew she would come to him. She could not detect the menace he hid behind a mask of wholesome trustworthiness. He gave her his best, ‘butter wouldn’t melt in my mouth’ smile and waited for her to make a move.
She got up, hesitated, then walked unwarily into the shadow of death.
“Could you spare a cigarette?” she said.
“Yes,” he said, reaching for his pack and Clipper lighter. “Would you like a coffee or anything?”
Using long but dirt-rimmed nails as pincers, Anita withdrew a cigarette by its filter tip. “Thanks. I haven’t eaten or had a hot drink today,” she said.
He took out his wallet, slipped a tenner from a compartment and pushed it across the table to her. “Here,” he said. “Get whatever you want.”
She went over to the end of the counter, picked up a brown plastic tray, put a plate on it and walked along sideways like a crab. Her eyes may as well have been on stalks as she feasted them on the stainless steel containers laden with rashers of bacon, sausages and other goodies.
It was at the moment she returned and set the steaming plate of food down on the table that he determined to kill her. He pocketed the small amount of change she handed him and went for another coffee as she tucked in to what would be her last supper.
“Thanks,” she said when he retook his seat. “My stomach was beginnin’ to think my throat had been cut.”
