by Michael Kerr
“Don’t forget the cardinal rule,” Beth said. “Don’t bring him to our door.”
“I won’t. What’s your initial take on it?”
“I haven’t got one. I work with children now.”
“Humour me. You still have the gift of being able to look into the minds of psychopaths. It’s like riding a bike or swimming, once you can do it, you don’t forget how to.”
Beth was a little annoyed at having to admit, to herself, that she was still interested in the mindset of serial killers. “You haven’t got any details yet for me to look at,” she said. “When you have I’ll give it the once over and see if anything clicks. My initial gut feeling is that these are revenge killings; carving Guilty on their backs points to that. And putting masks on their faces is a behavioural signature he’s adopted, that I doubt has any real significance.”
“I’ll know a lot more tomorrow after I’ve met with the DI handling the case in Barking.”
“You hungry?” Beth asked.
“Peckish. What’s on offer?”
“An omelette. I’ll throw some bacon, cheese and mushrooms in the mix. You go and shower while I make it.”
It was ten-thirty a.m. when DS Pete Deakin parked the pool Mondeo in the yard at the back of Barking police station.
Matt pressed the bell push on the jamb of the rear door to the building, as he held his wallet open to show his warrant card to the fisheye lens of the camera that was positioned above him.
They were expected. A WPC let them in and showed them to the small office that DI Tony Underwood was in, sitting behind a cluttered desk with his tie pulled loose and the button at the collar of his shirt undone.
“Morning, gents,” Tony said, standing up and stretching his right arm across the desktop to shake first Matt’s hand and then Pete’s. “I’ll go and rustle up some coffee. The files are on the desk, top of the pile.”
There wasn’t a lot to read about the most recent victim. Just reports made by the first officers to arrive at what was obviously a secondary crime scene; a dump site. The autopsy was scheduled to be performed later that day, and the guesstimate of TOD (time of death) by the Home Office pathologist that had attended, was at least forty-eight hours and probably a lot longer. But they knew the victim’s identity. He had been one Virgil Simpson, and although naked, his wallet had been discovered taped to his ankle like an electronic tagging device. The driving licence and credit cards in the wallet ID’d him. He had lived alone in a one bedroom council flat in Forest Gate, and had been the only viable suspect in a murder inquiry. He was known to have kerb-crawled in Kings Cross and Balham, and had form for GBH on two prostitutes, who he subsequently said had attempted to rob him. He had served a nine month prison sentence. Three months after his release, the prostitute that had basically put him behind bars with her testimony was found beaten and strangled to death in an alley. There was not enough evidence to charge him, but there were no other viable suspects.
“What do you think, boss?” Pete asked Matt.
“From what happened to the first victim and now this, I think we have some Looney Tune character playing vigilante.”
“A creep with a God complex?”
“That could be exactly what he is, Pete. Playing God and believing that he has the right to decide who lives and who dies. He’ll think that his actions are wholly virtuous. He could view himself as a public servant, ridding society of lowlife that the law can’t deal with.”
“Like a heavy-duty comic book hero?”
“Yeah, The Dark Knight.”
They opened the much thicker file on the first victim as Tony returned with three mugs of black coffee on a round metal tray, which had been liberated several years ago from The Spotted Dog public house on Longbridge Road by a totally wrecked detective constable.
“Anything?” Tony asked as he put the tray on top of a file cabinet.
“Just looking at the file on Neil Connolly,” Matt said. “But it would help if you gave us your take on it.”
Tony passed one mug of coffee to Matt and the other to Pete. He took a noisy sip from his own and said, “Connolly was at time of death a fifty-eight year old man who had raped and then strangled a fifteen year old high school girl, Josie Madsen, way back, and in the same park where he was found dead. He pleaded guilty to manslaughter, due to there being DNA evidence, but said that he had not intended to kill her. The Crown Prosecution Service played it safe and reduced the charge to be sure of a conviction. He was given an eighteen year prison sentence. That was back at the beginning of ninety-nine. He got parole and was released on licence three months before he was murdered.”
“So the girl’s father was the principal suspect?” Matt said.
Tony nodded. “Yes, but he had a cast-iron alibi. He and his wife had been in Oz for six weeks visiting their son in Melbourne. And the Madsen’s relations, close friends and workmates were all interviewed. No one looked good for it.”
“What’s your gut feeling?”
“Until now I believed that Madsen arranged for Connolly to be murdered while he was ten thousand miles away. But after this, I don’t know. It’s totally unrelated. I don’t peg Madsen as a serial killer.”
“We’ll go and take a look at where Simpson was dumped.” Matt said.
“I’ll drive you, it’ll be quicker.”
“Thanks.”
Tony drove out to the scene, through the trading estate towards the Thames estuary. “There are a lot of security cameras,” he said. “I’ve arranged for all tapes and copies of hard discs from those that would show passing traffic to be lifted. It’s odds on that the body was dumped well before dawn. Maybe we’ll get a hit. And whoever found the body and called it in sounded like a youngster putting on a gruff voice. If teenagers were here, then they probably cycled or walked through the estate. They could be on tape coming and going. Although all they could admit to was finding it. The killer would have been long gone.”
“Sounds good,” Matt said.
There was nothing to see. The tide was in. Matt and Pete both thought that this out of the way location was known to the killer, though. The wrapping and dumping of the body had been planned. They hoped that it meant that the perpetrator was local man.
Back at the station Matt said to Tony, “We’d better take a look at the body, before it gets to be sliced and diced.”
“It’s at the mortuary in Islington,” Tony informed them. “We don’t have the facilities here. Sign off on the files and the evidence, and I’ll let them know that you’re on the way.”
With the masks, wallets and also the plastic sheeting from the second slaying bagged and in the boot, Pete drove back into the city, while Matt read through everything in the two files and studied the crime scene photos.
Viewing the body was a formality. Apart from the deep gash to the throat and the word carved in the now decomposing flesh of the cadaver’s back, there was also a single blunt force injury to the side of the head and multiple bruising to the torso.
Pete shook his head as he looked at the dead man’s bloated face, and at the milky-blue film that coated the irises of his open eyes. “Hell of a sight to look at before lunch,” he said. “I never get used to it. Makes me realise that I could wind up laying bollock naked on a gurney, waiting my turn to be butchered.”
“Don’t sweat it,” Matt said. “You won’t feel a thing, or know that it’s happening. Now let’s get out of here. I’m ready for a pint and a sandwich.”
Pete pulled off Tottenham Court Road and into the small car park at the rear of the Kenton Court Hotel. They entered by the unlocked kitchen door and were recognised by the cook that Ron Quinn employed to prepare bar meals. It wasn’t a full board hotel, but offered breakfast and light snacks at lunchtime.
“Hi Tommy,” Matt said. “Is the big guy in?”
“He’s always in, Mr Barnes, behind the bar in the residents’ lounge. I sometimes think he’s part of the fixtures and fittings,” Tommy said with a grin. “But don
’t tell him I said that, or he’ll probably pick me up and hold me upside down over the griddle.”
“My lips are sealed,” Matt said, following Pete out of the kitchen, down a short hallway and into the lounge.
“Look who’s sneaking around my hostelry,” Ron said as they walked through the door. “The infamous Inspector Barnes and his sidekick. Is this a raid, or are you here to sit in front of the fire and have me serve you up ale and meat pies?”
“Two pints of the usual. And I’ll risk a beef and onion pie,” Matt said.
“Ham sandwich for me, and a packet of plain crisps,” Pete said. “And I’m not his sidekick, you big ape.”
“Touchy,” Ron said. “Are you on the male menopause, or just badmouthing me because you’re feeling suicidal?”
“The bigger they are, the harder they fall,” Pete replied, tilting his head back to look up into Ron’s face.
Ron laughed, deep and loud, sounding much like the actor Brian Blessed. “In your dreams, Sergeant. I’d break you like a twig, and you know it.”
“That’s enough, children,” Matt said. “Stop the friendly banter, I’m parched and starving.”
Sitting near the fire, Matt and Pete discussed the case.
“The footage from one of the CCTV cameras could wrap this,” Pete said.
“Perhaps, but I don’t think we’re going to be looking for a mad dog killer. This guy seems to be organised. He goes to a lot of trouble, so he would know that there were cameras.”
“Maybe,” Pete said. “Wouldn’t be the first time a nutter made a basic mistake. He could have felt safe at night. And once he got down to the mudflats he would have been in total darkness.”
Matt shrugged. “Doesn’t harm to hope for the best, but I’ll be surprised if it’s that easy.”
“Your beer’s on the counter,” Ron said. “If I bring it over I’ll have to put a hefty gratuity on the bill, because I’m not a bloody waiter.”
Pete got up and collected the drinks, and soon after Tommy came through from the kitchen with the pie and sandwich.
Forty-five minutes later they were back in the squad room. Matt was eager to get everything from the files copied and put up on the boards. He was feeling hyper, knowing that they needed to find and stop the killer, and hopefully before he struck again.
CHAPTER THREE
THE face that had been the front half of an inexpensive plastic blow mould mannequin head was now with FS. Matt did not believe that there would be any fingerprints on it, but just hoped that the Forensic Science Section proved him wrong, or found trace of perspiration or anything else that could give them a DNA profile of someone other than the victim. The plastic clown mask from the first murder had been of some value: the inside of it had been covered with an array of impact droplets of expirated blood spatter and saliva trails, demonstrating that the victim had been alive when his throat was cut. The blood had passed up through his windpipe, to be blown out of his mouth and nostrils. This gave some insight as to the killer’s MO, and perhaps his warped personality. He had not committed murder and then placed the mask on the corpse’s face. The victim had been beaten and masked before the knife had been employed.
DC Marci Clark used a black marker pen to write up what they knew on the white boards, and also affixed 8x10 photos of the victims. She then picked up the plastic clown mask. It reminded her of Pennywise, the clown from the Stephen King book IT, as subsequently and demonically portrayed by Tim Curry in the old TV mini-series.
“It’s obviously the same killer,” Matt said to the assembled team. “Give me your first impressions.”
“Both victims were ex-cons,” Errol Chambers said. “The first, Connolly, had served time for rape and manslaughter, and the second, Simpson, was the only suspect in the murder of a prostitute he had previously put in hospital, and who had testified against him, which led to a guilty verdict and a few months in prison for GBH. I think that they were targeted specifically because of their past crimes.”
“Are we looking for a psycho vigilante?” Phil Adams – no relation to Detective Chief Superintendent Clive (Grizzly) Adams – asked.
“That’s how I see it,” Matt said. “There’s no apparent sexual motive with the first victim, and I don’t expect there will be with the second: we’ll know for sure when we get the results of the autopsy. We may have a man, or woman, that is on a personal crusade, full of the belief that these are righteous acts.”
“Heavy shit,” Errol said. “That gives us a list of potential targets as thick as a telephone directory.”
“True,” Matt said. “But if Connolly was the first victim, then it could be linked to the murder he committed. We’ll interview the father of the girl that was raped and strangled; start at the beginning and re-examine everything that we have from square one.”
It was the following morning when Nancy Madsen opened the door to Matt and Marci. Matt held out his warrant card for her to inspect, but she hardly glanced at it. They had arranged the informal interview through Tony Underwood, so were expected.
“You’d better come in,” Nancy said. “Although I can’t think of a single reason why you would want to talk to my husband or I.”
Nancy ushered them into the lounge of the detached house on a cul-de-sac in Romford. “Take a seat,” she said. “I’ll go and get David, he’s pottering about in the shed.”
Matt and Marci sat on a three-seater settee and waited. A minute later Nancy returned with her husband.
“Would you like a drink?” Nancy asked them.
“Coffee, black no sugar, please,” Matt said.
“Same with a dash of milk,” Marci said.
“What do you want?” David Madsen asked; his tone of voice cold.
“To go over old ground,” Matt said. “We need to find a murderer, and the link is in your past.”
“It may be old ground to you,” David said, “but it’s still a fresh, open wound to us. If it’s anything to do with that bastard Connolly, who eventually got what he deserved, then I don’t care.”
“Someone decided to murder Connolly,” Matt said. “And now another person has been killed in the same way”
“They probably deserved it.”
“I can understand how you feel Mr―”
“No, you can’t understand how I feel Inspector, unless you’ve had a daughter raped and strangled to death, so don’t expect me to give a flying fuck if more scum are being taken off the streets. Someone has to deal with murderers, because you lot don’t seem to be making a very good job of it. Locking someone up for a few years isn’t enough. They don’t deserve a second chance. Their victims don’t get to start over. Dead is forever.”
Nancy brought their drinks in, put them down on a round occasional table and then just stood next to her husband with her arms hung loosely at her sides.
“There’s every chance that this killer will victimise someone who is innocent,” Marci said. “We need to stop him before he does.”
David sighed. “There’s nothing we can tell you,” he said. “After Josie was murdered they arrested Connolly and charged him with manslaughter instead of murder. My daughter’s death was bargained over by police, barristers and the Crown Prosecution Service. Do you call that justice?”
“If they’d charged him with murder he could have got a not guilty verdict and walked out of court a free man,” Matt said. “He was willing to plead guilty to rape and manslaughter, which guaranteed that he’d go to prison for a long time.”
David slumped in a chair. “Nobody even told us that he’d been released. The bastard came back to Romford to live. How do you imagine that made us feel?”
“After he was murdered, the police seemed disappointed that David had an alibi,” Nancy said. “It was as if they wanted to be able to arrest him for it, just to solve the case. I still think that you believe we know who did it, but we don’t.”
“Whoever did it carved the word guilty in block capitals on his back, Mrs Madsen. It was a revenge ki
lling. It would appear that someone who knew you or your daughter felt strongly enough about it to take the law into their own hands. And now whoever did it is escalating. We need to find him.”
“The local police have a list of all our relatives and friends, and have interviewed all of them,” David said. “We have no idea who murdered Connolly, but I’m delighted that it happened. It doesn’t bring Josie back, but it gives us a degree of closure to know that he’s now rotting in hell.”
That was it. They left the house and drove to the next address on their list, to interview David’s younger brother, Richard Madsen; Josie’s uncle. He lived in a bungalow just five minutes away.
Richard gave both of their IDs a close inspection, and then asked them in. They knew that he was forty-nine years of age, and were surprised to see that he looked at least a decade older than that, had thinning grey hair and walked with crutches. He only had one leg.
The house had a ‘lived-in’ look, clean but untidy. No woman’s touch.
“David just gave me a call,” Richard said. “So get to it, I’m busy.”
“Who do you think murdered Neil Connolly?” Matt asked.
Richard grinned. “That’s to the point,” he said. “I like straight talking. Would you both say yes to coffee?”
“Black,” Matt said.
Marci declined.
Richard switched on the coffeemaker. “You think it could be me?” he asked.
“It would be sweet if it was,” Matt said. “But I usually have to work harder for a result.”
“I’d have topped him, given the right circumstances, but I didn’t get the chance to. Someone beat me to it.”
“That’s a serious thing to say,” Matt said.
“It’s the truth. I killed a few people I didn’t even know, back in oh-three in Iraq. That wasn’t personal; I was just doing my job as a soldier, until an IED took my leg off. With Connolly it would have been personal. Josie was a beautiful, intelligent, caring girl. And that tosser robbed her of a future. He deserved what he got. I just hope he really suffered. I’d like to think that he experienced great fear and pain before his throat was cut.”
