by Val McDermid
He is a persistent fantasist and daydreamer. His fantasies are elaborately constructed and seem more significant to him than reality. His fantasy world is where he retreats both from choice and also whenever he faces any kind of setback or obstacle in his day-to-day life. The fantasies are likely to involve violence as well as sex and may also be fetishistic. These fantasies don’t remain static; they lose their power and have to be developed further.
He is certain that he can act out his violent fantasies without anyone being able to stop him. He has supreme confidence that he is smarter than the police. He is not planning for the day he will be caught. He thinks he’s too clever for that. He has been very careful to erase forensic traces, which is why, as I have already outlined to Inspector Jordan, I am convinced that the fragment of Russian deerskin left at the scene of the fourth killing is a red herring of the grossest kind. He is almost certainly keeping a close eye on the investigation, and will doubtless be laughing his socks off as we run round trying to source the leather. Even if the police do trace it, I suspect that when we find the killer there will be nothing among his possessions that will remotely connect to it.
If he has any criminal record at all, it is likely to be a juvenile one. Possible offences include: vandalism, minor arson, stealing, cruelty to younger children or animals, assault on teachers. However, somewhere along the line, our killer has learned enormous self-control, and he’s unlikely to have an adult record.
He will keep abreast of the investigation as much as possible, and will thrive on publicity as long as it appears to accord him the glamour and respect he craves. It is interesting that Adam Scott’s grave was desecrated shortly after the second murder. This may have been an attempt to raise the profile of his crimes. He is possibly someone who has contacts with police officers, and if he does, he will endeavour to use this to gain information about the progress of the investigation. Any officer who feels they are being pumped in this way should be encouraged to report it to senior officers in the murder squad.
Tony saved his file and read the whole thing through again. Some of the psychologists he’d worked with incorporated great slabs of background about the likely childhood background of the killer, as well as a checklist of behaviours that the killer would possibly have exhibited when he was growing up. Not Tony. There was time enough for that sort of information once there was a suspect ripe for interrogation. Tony never forgot that he was dealing with coppers who were out there at the sharp end. Men like Tom Cross, who didn’t give a toss what kind of hideous childhood their suspect had endured.
Thinking of Tom Cross sharpened Tony’s critical eye. Convincing him of the value of the profile was going to be a nightmare.
The first edition of the Bradfield Evening Sentinel Times hit the street just before noon. The eager searchers after flats, jobs and bargains snatched the first copies from the street vendors without even looking at the front page. They turned straight to the section of small ads that they hoped would meet their needs, holding the front and back pages up to the advantage of passers-by. Anyone curious enough to glance at the banner headlines on the front page would have discovered ‘ MURDER HUNT BOSS DUMPED. Exclusive, by our Crime Correspondent, Penny Burgess.’ Further down the page, the bottom right-hand quarter was taken up with a photograph of Tony, saying, ‘MURDER COPS FOLLOW BEST LEAD. Exclusive by Penny Burgess.’ If they’d been intrigued enough to buy their own copy, they could have read a sub-headline saying, ‘Top shrink we chose joins Queer Killer hunt, see story p. 3.’
In an office high above the bustling streets of Bradfield, a murderer stared at the paper, excitement churning inside. Things were working out beautifully. It was as if the police were acting out the killer’s own fantasies, proving that wishes do come true.
F ROM 3" DISK LABELLED: BACKUP. 007; FILE LOVE. 012
The world was out in the city streets, buying Christmas presents they’d still be paying for at Easter, the fools. I was in my dungeon, making sure I would have a Christmas I’d never forget. Even though it was to be Gareth’s last on this earth, I was sure every detail of it would be as clearly etched on his memory as it was going to be on my video tape.
I’d arranged our meeting with all the care and precision I could. The advent of the bitch meant I couldn’t take the chance of capturing him at home as I’d done with Adam and Paul. I’d had to make alternative plans.
I sent him an invitation. I reasoned that Christmas Eve would be spoken for, either by family or by the bitch, so I chose December 23rd. I couched it in terms I knew he wouldn’t be able to resist and that he’d never dare show the bitch. The final sentence read, ‘Admission by invitation only.’ A clever touch, that. It meant he’d have to bring with him the only evidence of contact between us.
The directions on the back led, if he cared to check it out in advance, to an isolated holiday cottage high up on the moors between Bradfield and the Yorkshire Dales; the opposite side of the city to Start Hill Farm and my dungeon. I anticipated that the cottage would be let over Christmas. But I had no intention of allowing Gareth to get that far.
It was a Christmas-cliche sort of night; bone-white crescent moon, stars twinkling like diamond chips on a cocktail watch, grass and hedgerows heavy with rime. I pulled over on to the verge of the single-track moorland road that led up to the holiday cottage and a couple of farms. In the distance, I could see the dual carriageway leading into Bradfield like a ribbon of fairy lights strung across the Pennines.
I turned on my hazard lights, got out of the jeep and opened the bonnet. I placed what I needed near at hand, then I leaned against the front wing and waited. It was freezing, but I didn’t care. I’d calculated well. I’d only been waiting for about five minutes when I heard the sound of an engine straining up the steep incline. The lights swung round the bend below me and I stepped out, waving furiously, looking frozen and worried.
Gareth’s elderly Escort stopped abruptly in front of the jeep. I took a couple of hesitant steps towards him as he opened the door and got out. ‘Some kind of a problem?’ he asked. ‘I’m afraid I know next to nothing about cars, but if I can maybe give you a lift…?’
I smiled. ‘Thanks for stopping,’ I said. There was no flicker of recognition in his face as he drew nearer. I hated him for that.
I stepped back towards the jeep, gesturing under the bonnet. ‘It’s not a big problem,’ I said. ‘Only, I need three hands. If you can just hold this part in place so I can get a spanner on this nut…’ I pointed into the engine. Gareth leaned over the bonnet. I picked up the spanner and let him have it.
Within five minutes, he was trussed tighter than a turkey in the boot of his own car. I had his car keys, his wallet and the invitation I’d sent him. I drove back down through the city to the farm, where I dumped the unconscious body unceremoniously down the cellar steps. I didn’t have time to do any more then, not if I was going to get back to the jeep.
I drove Gareth’s car into the centre of Bradfield, leaving it in Temple Fields in a back alley off Crompton Gardens. Nobody noticed me; they were all too busy partying. It was a mere ten minutes’ walk across town to the railway station.
A twenty-minute train ride and a brisk fifteen-minute walk brought me back to the jeep. Cautiously, I approached. There was no sign of life, no suggestion that anyone had been poking around. I drove back to Start Hill Farm whistling ‘Hark The Herald Angels Sing’.
When I switched the cellar light on, Gareth’s dark-grey eyes flashed angry fire at me. I liked that. After the pathetic terror of Adam and Paul, it was refreshing to see a man who had some guts. The muffled sound that came from behind the tape on his mouth was more like an angry grunt than a plea.
I stooped over him and stroked his hair back from his forehead. At first, he jerked away from me, then he became calm and still, calculation in his eyes. ‘That’s more like it,’ I said. ‘No need to fight, no need to resist.’
He nodded, then grunted, signalling down towards his gag with his eyes. I kne
eled beside him and picked at one corner of the surgical tape. Once I had a good grip, I ripped it free in one swift movement. It’s kinder than doing it gradually.
Gareth worked his jaw, licking his dry lips. He glared at me. ‘Some fucking party,’ he snarled, his voice a little shaky.
‘It’s exactly what you deserve,’ I said.
‘How the fuck do you work that out?’ he demanded.
‘You were meant for me. But you took up with that slag. And you tried to keep it a secret.’
Light dawned in his eyes. ‘You’re…’ he started.
‘That’s right,’ I interrupted. ‘So now you know why you’re here.’ My voice was as cold as the stone floor. I stood up abruptly and walked over to the bench where I’d laid out my equipment.
Gareth was talking again, but I shut out the sound of his voice. I know how persuasive lawyers can be, and I wasn’t about to be deflected from my course by any amount of sweet talking. I opened the ziplock bag and took out the chloroform pad. I turned back to Gareth and kneeled beside him. With one hand, I gripped his hair and with the other I applied the pad to his mouth and nose. He struggled so convulsively that I ended up with a clump of hair in my hand before he subsided into unconsciousness. Just as well I was wearing my latex gloves, otherwise his hair would have cut me. The last thing I needed was my blood mingling with his.
When he was out cold, I cut his clothes off. I took the strap from the Judas chair and fastened it round his chest, under the armpits. I’d fixed a rudimentary pulley and hoist to one of the ceiling beams, and I attached the hook to the strap. I raised Gareth’s body with the hoist till he swung like mistletoe in a draught. Once he was up in the air, it was the work of moments to undo the handcuffs and fasten him to my Christmas tree.
I’d bolted two planks to the wall in the shape of a St Andrew’s Cross, and covered them thickly with prickly boughs of blue Norwegian spruce. To each arm of the cross, I’d attached leather straps, which I fastened around his wrists and ankles. I opened up Gareth’s curled fists and taped his hands open to the cross. Finally, I removed the hook and let the wrist straps take the strain. His body slumped alarmingly, and for a moment I was concerned that I hadn’t fitted strong enough straps. There was a brief creaking of leather on wood, then silence. He hung like a martyred apostle on the dungeon wall.
I laid out my club hammer and the sharpened cold chisels I’d chosen for the job. We’d be together now till Christmas night. I intended to savour every minute of our forty-eight hours.
12
Very few men commit murder upon philanthropic or patriotic principles… As to the majority of murderers, they are very incorrect characters.
The four detective inspectors sat stony-faced in what had been Tom Cross’s office as John Brandon gave them the official version of the superintendent’s suspension. Sometimes, Brandon wished he was one of the lads again, able to explain his reasons without appearing to undermine his own position by doing so. ‘What we’ve got to do is put this behind us and move this enquiry forward,’ he said briskly. ‘Now, what’s the score with McConnell?’
Kevin leaned forward in his seat. ‘I did as you instructed, sir. He left our custody just before midnight, and I’ve had a team on him ever since. He hasn’t put so much as a toe out of line so far. He went straight home, seemed to go to bed, judging by the lights. He was up at eight this morning, and he’s gone off to work. I’ve got one lad in the gym, posing as a new member, and another one out on the street.’
‘Stick with it, Kevin. Anything else? Dave, anything interesting coming out of the computer yet?’
‘We’re following up a lot of car numbers and blokes with previous for any gay-related offences, both on the gay-bashing and the gross indecency side. We’re also about to cross-check those lists with the ones Don Merrick’s been getting from travel agents of people who have booked holidays in Russia. Once we get the profile, we might be able to develop some suspects, but it’s uphill at the moment, sir.’
Carol chipped in. ‘Some of the weightlifting associations said they’d supply us with lists of their members who’d either been to Russia or competed against Russian teams.’
Dave pulled a face. ‘Oh goody, more bloody lists,’ he said.
‘I’ve got a contact in the leather business,’ Stansfield said. ‘Biggest importer in the UK. I asked him about the leather scrap and he said that with it being deerskin, it’s probably not your common-or-garden labourer’s jacket. He said it was likely to be someone with a bit of clout but not real power. You know. Somebody like a DI,’ he grinned. ‘Or a town-hall official halfway up the greasy pole. A deputy stationmaster. The second mate on a ship. That sort of thing.’
Dave grinned. ‘I’ll tell HOLMES to keep an eye out for ex-KGB men.’
Brandon started to say something, but he was cut off by the peal of the telephone. He grabbed it and said, ‘Brandon here…’ His face lost all expression, turning as wooden as the coffins he looked as if he should be carrying. ‘Yes, sir. I’ll be there right away.’ He put the phone down gently and stood up. ‘The Chief Constable is interested in hearing how this evening’s paper came to look the way it does.’ He crossed the room and paused by the door, one hand on the handle. ‘I’m sure the person who washed our dirty linen in Ms Burgess’s sink will be hoping I can persuade him not to make an example of him.’ He gave Carol a frosty smile. ‘Or her, come to that.’
Tony locked his office door behind him and gave the project secretary a happy wave and smile. ‘I’m going out for a bite of lunch, Claire. I’ll probably go to Cafe Genet in Temple Fields. Inspector Jordan’s due at three, but I’ll be back by then. OK?’
‘You’re sure you don’t want to return one of these calls from the journalists?’ Claire called after him.
Tony swung round, continuing to walk backwards across the office. ‘What journalists?’ he asked.
‘First off, that Penny Burgess from the Sentinel Times. She’s been trying every half-hour since I came in. Then, in the last hour, they’ve been on from all the national newspapers, and Radio Bradfield.’
Tony frowned, baffled. ‘Why?’ he asked. ‘Did they say what they wanted?’
Claire held up the copy of the Sentinel Times she’d nipped out to buy from the campus newsagent. ‘I’m no psychologist, Tony, but I think it might have something to do with this.’
Tony stopped in his tracks. Even across the office he could read the headlines and make out his own photograph splashed across the front page of the paper. Like an iron filing pulled by a magnet, Tony moved closer to the paper till he could read Penny Burgess’s name on both stories. ‘May I?’ he said hoarsely, reaching out for the paper.
Claire relinquished it and watched his reaction. She liked her boss, but she was human enough to relish his discomfort at being exposed in the evening paper. Tony hastily flicked the front page over, hunting for the full story about himself. With a mounting sense of horror, he read:
Dr Hill is well equipped to enter the twisted mind of the Queer Killer. As well as his two university degrees and a wealth of experience in dealing directly with the criminal perverts who have terrorized society, he has a reputation for dogged determination.
A colleague said, ’He’s married to the job. It’s all he lives for. If anyone can catch the Queer Killer, it’s Tony Hill.
‘It’s only a matter of time now, I’m convinced. Tony is relentless. He won’t give up till this bastard is nailed down tight.
‘Let’s face it, Tony’s got a top-class brain. These serial killers might have high IQs, but they’re never very smart when it comes to staying out of custody.’
‘Dear Christ,’ Tony groaned. Apart from the fact that no self-respecting colleague would ever have given quotes like that, the article was tantamount to throwing down the gauntlet to Handy Andy. It read like a challenge. He felt sure Handy Andy would find a way to respond to that. Tony threw the paper down on the desk and scowled at it.
‘It is a bit over the top,’
his secretary said sympathetically.
‘It’s bloody irresponsible, never mind over the top,’ Tony raged. ‘Oh, bollocks to it. I’m going for lunch. If the Chief Constable rings, tell him I’ve left for the day.’ He walked off again towards the door.
‘What about Inspector Jordan? What if she rings?’
‘You can tell her I’ve left the country.’ With the door open, he paused. ‘No, only joking. Tell her I’ll be here for our meeting.’
As he stood waiting for the lift, Tony realized nothing in his experience had prepared him for a direct confrontational challenge with a killer. This was one he’d have to fly by the seat of his pants.
Kevin Matthews drained his pint glass and waved it at the barmaid. ‘Even if it is a red herring, he’s still got to have had access to this bloody obscure bit of leather in the first place, hasn’t he?’ he demanded stubbornly of Carol and Merrick. ‘Same again?’
Merrick nodded. ‘I’ll have a coffee this time, Kevin,’ Carol said. ‘And chuck us a menu, would you? I’ve got a feeling I’m in for a long session with the doc, and he’s got a nasty habit of forgetting about food.’
Kevin ordered the drinks then turned back to Carol. With the persistence that had won him promotion, he said, ‘I’m right though, aren’t I? To plant the leather like that, not only has he had access to it, he also knows how unusual it is.’
‘Agreed,’ Carol said.
‘So it’s not a waste of time trying to source it, is it?’
‘I never said it was,’ Carol said patiently. ‘Now, are you going to fill me in on what happened with Tom Cross, or do I have to copy our murderer and bring out the torture gear?’
While Kevin explained what had happened, Merrick’s attention drifted. He’d already heard the tale more times than enough. He leaned against the bar and surveyed the clientele. The Sackville Arms wasn’t the nearest pub to the Scargill Street station, but it sold draught Tetleys from Yorkshire and Boddingtons from Manchester, which inevitably made it the police local. The pub was on the outer fringes of Temple Fields, which had given it an added attraction for the local officers when Scargill Street had still been open. The location had meant that hookers or petty villains who wanted to drop a word in the ear of their personal contact on the force could manage it unobtrusively. However, in the few months that Scargill Street had been mothballed, the pub had subtly changed. The regulars had got used to having the place to themselves, and there was a clearly discernible distance between the coppers and the rest of the customers. The officers who’d been using the pub in an attempt to recruit new sources from the community’s underbelly had met with a chilly reception. Even with a serial killer on the loose, no one wanted to get back into the habit of informing now they’d kicked it.
