by Michael Kerr
“It’s a state of mind.”
“So maybe I’ve got an old state of mind.”
Hugh keyed the engine into life and drove off, waving to her as he made a left past a line of cars and headed for the barrier.
CHAPTER TWENTY
LARRY Hannigan took the napkin and folder from Laura and listened to what she had to say as he placed the small parcel on the Formica top of a work bench, unwrapping it carefully to examine the contents, before opening the document wallet, removing the photos from it and studying them.
“This has to be off the record for the moment, Larry,” Laura said, giving the bearded odontologist a conspiratorial wink.
Larry looked over the top of his tinted ‘John Lennon’ spectacles, which were part of his image; a hippy growing old disgracefully, complete with a faded T-shirt featuring a picture of Bob Dylan on the front, and patched, flared jeans under his open lab coat. “You want me to do an unauthorised comparison with the boob bites, then report back to you personally. No pen to paper, uh?” he said.
“That’s right, Larry. I know it won’t match. But I need to eliminate it for my own peace of mind. Can you do that for me?”
“Cool,” he said. “I’ll get to it as soon as I finish up the job I’m on now. It’ll be later tonight, maybe ten or so before I’ll have anything.”
“I’ll give you a bell in the morning,” Laura said, turning to leave. “And thanks, Larry, I really appreciate this.”
“Make it after nine. But what if it is a match?”
She stopped, pulled out her note book, scribbled her home and mobile numbers down, ripped out the page and handed it to him. “If it is, then call me, no matter what time you get finished up. Then it will be official.”
“Rock on,” Larry said, giving her the peace sign; still in Woodstock time-warp mode, from his long, greying hair, down to his open sandals.
“Yeah, groovy, man,” Laura grinned, returning the sign and making for the door, her short heels clipping like horseshoes on the tiled floor as she left.
Larry poured himself a coffee, put an ancient LP vinyl record on the turntable in his office, cranked up the volume and, leaving the door wide open, went back to working on a reconstruction of a jaw that came from a corpse found by hikers on the North York Moors. The body had been face down, head and shoulders in a stream, just half a mile west of Rievaulx Abbey. There had been nothing to identify it, and decomposition had reduced it to a near skeleton. It was estimated that it had lain unfound for between three and six months. The damage to the skull had indicated foul play, with fractures resulting from blunt force trauma to the temporal plate and the mandible, which had split in half and was missing several teeth. Larry was basically putting the jaws back together and resetting the teeth that had been recovered. He had painstakingly realigned the lower facial bones, cementing them together, with the result that an individual occlusion – whereby the maxilla was positioned behind the mandible – would assist identification, once a cast had been taken and a reconstruction expert had fleshed out the copy skull with clay or Plasticine to build up facial musculature prior to overlaying it with features. It wasn’t an exact science, but could in many instances produce a likeness to the deceased that could help with recognition.
The music from the flower-power days he was fixated on seemed to make time fluid and speed by unheeded as he performed his art, pausing only to change discs, to hum along to Dylan, Joplin, the Byrds and their ilk.
It was almost nine-thirty when Larry cemented the last tooth in its socket and stood back, putting his hands up to massage and knead his aching neck. Going back to his office, he removed his lab coat, opened the window, took a joint out of a cache at the back of his desk drawer and lit up. Time to chill out, then hit the road, man, he thought, sitting back with his feet up and eyes closed, enjoying the mellow hit of the weed.
Ten minutes later, approaching the door with his finger reaching for the light switch, he was all set to lock up for the night when his eye caught sight of the napkin on the counter. Shit! The fucking pie that Laura had left for comparison. He had said he would check it out, tonight. She would be phoning him in the morning for the result. He couldn’t let her down. Laura Scott was a cool babe, knew where he was coming from, and reminded him a little of how Joan Baez had looked in the seventies, apart from the short hair.
It ended up being eleven-fifteen when Larry returned to the lab. He had met his partner of six years, Zandra, at The Bombay Garden, a first-floor Indian restaurant on Coney Street, and had consumed a feast fit for a Maharaja, washed down with a couple of lagers to cool the fiery vindaloo. He’d then phoned for a cab, for Zandra, promising to be home by two a.m., latest.
The last partial bite into the firm meat of the pie had left a near perfect impression. The 10x8 close-up shots of the teeth marks that had removed the nipples of two of the Tacker’s victims, plus the casts made from the wounds were enough for a visual confirmation that the same person who had been eating the pie was responsible. He had tests to run, but the spacing and slightly exaggerated overbite looked identical.
Larry’s balls tightened, and the hair on his forearms tingled. He realised that Laura must have been with the killer that day.
It was a little after one a.m. when he was certain beyond all doubt that he had a positive match. He reached for the phone, retrieved the piece of paper from his lab coat pocket and punched in Laura’s home number. On the fifth ring she picked up.
Laura scrabbled for the phone and lifted the receiver, pulling herself up into a sitting position in the dark. “Uh, yeah,” she croaked, still more asleep than awake.
“Laura? It’s Larry.”
“Yeah, Larry. What can you tell me?” she said, a stab of apprehension sharpening her senses.
“I got a near as damn it positive result. I’d need more for a courtroom, but I’d bet my house on it that the bites are from the same teeth. Whoever was eating that pie is your killer.”
“It can’t be!”
“Believe me. There’s no doubt. I double-checked, then double-checked again.”
“Okay, Larry, now it is evidence. Stick it in the freezer, or whatever you do with something perishable. And do the bookwork. I’ll get back to you. And thanks, Larry, I owe you. Goodnight.”
The click and subsequent unbroken tone sounded loud in her ear, like the steady purr of a big cat. She kept hold of the receiver, reached for the bedside light switch with her other hand, fumbling, nearly pulling the lamp over as her trembling fingers searched for the button. The sudden sensation of not being alone made her pause, and then stiffen and gasp as a cold, solid object was pressed against her throat.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
AFTER leaving the station, Hugh drove across town to his flat, pulling into the small, walled car park through a porte-cochere that bore a large overhead sign stating: Sherburn Tower Apartments. Residents Only; and below in large red letters the warning: 24 hour security. Unauthorised vehicles WILL be clamped. The sign dissuaded all but the most stupid or dyslexic of space seekers from using the prime city centre parking area.
Standing at the window in the shadow of the Minster, Hugh casually separated the junk from his mail, tearing up Readers Digest crap, which for what seemed like the thousandth time informed him that he was a winner, and urged him to read the contents carefully and return the Yes or No envelope within Christ knows how many days.
The flat was his official residence; the only address that the force, bank and every other relevant party had on file for him. He passed through at irregular intervals and unpredictable times, made a point of being on speaking terms with his neighbours, and even stayed overnight once in a while. The interior of the apartment was little more than a carefully staged set, furnished to appear to be what he thought would be a typical bachelor pad. It was reasonably tidy, with just enough clutter and appliances to convey the desired effect. He kept beer in the fridge, CD’s and clothes on view, and the bed carefully unmade, with an open Ian Rank
in paperback face down on top of the bedside cabinet. All the little touches were there to allay any possible suspicion. He even had photographs of a make-believe family on display; the bounty from a raid on a photographer’s in Hull, when he had been on detached duty there as a young PC. They had found several hundred prints of children performing every lewd sexual act imaginable, with both other children and adults. The guy ran a respectable trade as a front, doing weddings and portrait stuff, but had a more lucrative tax free sideline in child pornography. Hugh had lifted a couple of envelopes of uncollected regular shots, and used the odd one to strengthen the false image that he had invented, by framing them for the rare visitor to see.
The mortgage on the farm had already been paid in full when his father had been crushed by the tractor. His mother had been left everything; the property, over forty thousand pounds – that she had not known existed – and a fat insurance payout, due to the old man’s accidental death. Later, after the car crash that had killed the slut and the councillor who she’d been screwing, Hugh had inherited the lot. The farm was now his secret lair. There was no phone, and he had nothing delivered there, and no work done by outside contractors. No one had reason to visit the place. The utility bills were paid by standing order under an assumed name, and a sign at the entrance gate, that stood a quarter of a mile from the house, warned of guard dogs. Over the years, the hedges and trees around the perimeter of the property had grown unchecked, until the house was hidden by a profusion of trees, bushes and tall undergrowth. The weathered, mainly wooden outbuildings had faded with neglect, to blend with their surroundings. For years he had led a well-planned double life; the flat and his career being the perfect cover for his separate alter ego of serial murderer.
It had been a split second expression on Laura’s face that had revealed to him that he was in danger. He had seen the workings of her mind in that single fleeting moment. The cop in her had subconsciously put it together. She had momentarily looked past his being her easygoing and likeable DS, to view him as a potential suspect who fitted the Yank’s description. It was as if a dark thunderhead had passed in front of her eyes as he had lifted his glass...left-handed. Eureka, he was suddenly on the list that he had compiled and obviously left himself off.
It had been a shock when Elliott targeted the area that the farm was in. The ex-FBI shithead really was good. He’d done his homework and put it together that the common denominator was the locality that so many girls had been abducted from. Hugh had not thought it significant at the time, but now the skeletons in his cupboard – or to be more precise, under the barn floor – were back to haunt him. He knew that at some stage Laura would check him out, to convince herself that he was not the blonde, blue-eyed six-footer they were after. He couldn’t take the risk of her digging too deep. His cover might hold, but he wasn’t going to put it to the test. Her next revelation might be that he had personally come up with Cox as a suspect. Even Stevie Wonder would be able to clearly see the possibility that he had planted the rope in the guy’s garage. It was a bitch. He didn’t want to kill his boss. He had a lot of time for her; had grown to respect as well as like her. They had hit it off from day one, and he valued her friendship and considerate nature. That she had insulted and taunted him on the TV was okay, he would have done the same; although he had chastised her with the letter and the ear, laying some guilt off on her for the girl’s suffering. Now, in the short term, he would have to take her out of the picture, while he put the final touches to a plan he had hoped he would never have to use. If all went well, Hugh Benton Parfitt would vanish from the face of the earth, to resurface down south in a week’s time, his appearance changed and safely embarking on a new life. He had laid the foundations down over three years ago; his prospective alias risen from a Leeds graveyard; a dead child who would have now been his age was firmly reborn with driving licence, bank account, passport and a history that would stand up to any amount of close inspection in this computer dependant society. He would soon be John Anthony Lyndhurst, with dark hair which he would grow shoulder length, and wearing green contact lenses. His new home would be somewhere in London, blending in with the seething masses; a shadow and nonentity. Once established, he would seek out his mother again in all her guises, being more careful in future, learning from his past mistakes. That he would have to lose the farm and flat was annoying, but he had funds and had always known that this day might come. Nothing lasts forever.
Leaving the flat, he made small talk with an elderly neighbour who was standing at her open door, taking the air. He even stooped to stroke her stinking tomcat, which wound around his legs, jabbing its face against them. It always seemed to smell of piss, and he would have loved to snatch it up by the scruff of the neck and hurl it over the balcony. It would be interesting to see if cats really did always land on their feet.
“Oh, by the way, you won’t see me around for a couple of weeks, Mrs Harriman. I’m off to Florida for a holiday, so don’t be concerned,” he said to the blue-rinsed old fart, knowing that she missed very little of what went on in Sherburn Towers.
“Well, say hello to Mickey for me, and have a good time,” she replied, her ill-fitting dentures clacking loosely in her pursed mouth.
“I’ll even send you a postcard,” he lied, making his way down the first flight of stairs.
His plan was simple. He would get rid of Trish, permanently, then abduct Laura and install her in the cellar. With her safely stashed, he would have the breathing space necessary to carry on as normal for twenty-four hours, or even longer. He would go to work as usual in the morning, find time to make large cash withdrawals from his two bank accounts, and also collect the several thousand pounds that sat idly in a safe deposit box. Going off duty as scheduled, he would dump his car in a city car park and steal another to drive down to the capital. The only possible threat was the Yank. He was a loose cannon and unpredictable. But an idea was already taking shape in his mind to wrong foot the clever bastard. He would have him racing around like a clockwork mouse, searching for the lovely Laura in all the wrong places.
Laura had driven home feeling stupid and more than a little ashamed. She recalled all the good times that she had experienced while working with Hugh. He had always been protective, never above showing that he cared for her, and more often than not able to cheer her up when she felt down. It was inconceivable that he could be a cold-blooded killer, let alone one who would have sent her the photo, note and ear. He had been as shocked and mortified as her when the package had arrived; as angry and upset as she had ever seen him. Up until today she had been convinced that if they found the murderer, then Hugh might have to be restrained from attacking him. But now, because Jim suspected that it was a copper, she had even doubted the closest colleague she had. There had been a time, shortly after her transfer, when she and Hugh had been only a whisper away from being lovers. They had gone to a colleagues retirement ‘do’, and she had overindulged. Hugh had driven her home and stayed over, sleeping on the settee downstairs. Had he not been her DS, and so much younger, then who knows? He was attractive and personable. She’d still had needs that she had suppressed, but like thirst and hunger, the urge to satisfy her sexual appetite was gnawing at her. Abstaining from sex hadn’t been a conscious life choice, and her libido was still strong. If Hugh had come on to her, she may have had something to regret or be happy about the following morning. Maybe he just hadn’t fancied her. But screwing a junior officer on her team was a no-no. Like birds, cops shouldn’t shit in their own nests. Being emotionally involved with a work colleague could only cause problems. It clouded the issue and interfered with decision making.
Now that Jim was back in her life, she was glad that nothing had happened. Bottom line was, she had trusted Hugh and hated the fact that she felt the need to eliminate him from any shadow of guilt. When Larry confirmed that Hugh’s bite marks did not match those on the corpses, she would feel even more foolish and a little ashamed...but very relieved.
She o
pened the windows front and back to create a through-draught and let some of the day’s built-up heat escape the cottage, before taking a ladder-backed chair outside the kitchen door to sit down on it, smoke a cigarette and drink a cup of tea as she enjoyed the quietude of her surroundings and the scent of blossoms and pine that drifted invisibly across to her from the garden and the dense woodland beyond. Tomorrow, Jim would be here, and the thought of his imminent nearness excited her. If he had been with her that second, then she would have led him into the woods, stripped both him and herself and lain naked in a cool glade amongst waist-high ferns that would hide them from view. She closed her eyes and imagined the breeze to be his breath, and of what they would do together.
Stop it, woman! Standing, she walked back into the kitchen. The fantasy had made her feel as horny as hell.
She ate late: Weight Watchers sweet and sour chicken with rice, which took all of fourteen minutes to cook from frozen in the microwave. With a calorie-laden brandy and ginger ale, she ate half of the bland meal, and then settled with her feet up on the couch and watched the last forty minutes of a prehistoric movie – The Philadelphia Story starring Cary Grant and Katharine Hepburn – before going to bed feeling mellow, relieved that Larry hadn’t phoned, and that the saga of the partly eaten pie was over with and Hugh was in the clear.
He drove back to the farm and changed into shorts and T-shirt and a pair of old trainers, before going out to the barn with a spade and digging a hole in the earth. It was a three-foot-deep rectangle, just long enough to accommodate a body when the time came. At the moment it was no more than an excavation with a pile of dirt behind it, but would soon be a grave, with the earth shovelled back over a fresh corpse, and a deep covering of straw strewn across the barn floor to at least buy some time before it and the other remains were discovered.
