by Luke Delaney
His hands remained clamped around her neck for a long time after she’d stopped moving and her hands had fallen away from his wrists. He was frozen with the fascination of how dead she already looked. He hadn’t expected such a rapid transition from life to death — it was the first dead body he’d ever seen.
Eventually the cold night rain drifting into his face brought him back to this world. He hurriedly released his grip from her throat as if he’d had an electric shock, as if he had no idea how his hands came to be there in the first place. He shuffled away from the twisted body, aware that he was breathing heavily and that the salt he could taste on his lips was his sweat as it mixed with the rain that ran down his face. A calmness he’d never before experienced began to wash over him. A sense of control surged through him, clearing his mind, giving him focus and purpose.
Remembering what he needed to do next, he crawled around the body using only the light from the stars and moon to search for her meagre clothing, his eyes by now well adjusted. Having found the garments he stuffed them into his pocket, then stood and began to walk steadily away from the patch of forest that would forever be haunted by what it had witnessed. As he walked he thought nothing of Karen Green. She had already faded to a distant memory, something that had happened a long time ago.
His thoughts had shifted to the next woman he would be visiting, the woman he knew was the real Sam.
5
Friday, seven thirty a.m. and Sean found himself driving towards the scene of another tragedy the rest of the world would probably never even notice. The closer he got to the scene, the more Louise Russell’s attractive face etched itself into his mind. But what would she look like now? Would she be mutilated with ugly stab wounds or would the visible damage be restricted to a few telltale signs of strangulation around her neck? Perhaps her scalp would be matted in sticky red hair, like burnt jam, her skull caved in. He couldn’t be sure how she’d died yet, at least not until he saw her, but somehow he already knew she would be naked and uncovered — that her killer would have made no effort to conceal her body or destroy forensic evidence, other than possibly dumping her in running water.
He rolled his car along the dirt road through Three Halfpenny Wood, looking for the obvious signs of a police presence and soon spotted two uniform patrol cars and Donnelly’s unmarked Ford at the side of the road. Blue-and-white tape cordoned off the road ahead and the forest edge close to the parked cars. Ignoring the aches and tiredness that tried to distract him from what he had to do, he sat on his bonnet and awkwardly pulled forensic protective covers over his shoes before striding towards the two uniform officers who guarded the cars and entrance to the scene, his thin mackintosh coat trailing behind him as he approached. He tugged his warrant card free when he was close enough to the men for them to be able to see it clearly. ‘DI Corrigan,’ he announced himself. ‘Where’s the body?’
‘About fifty feet into the woods, sir,’ one of the uniforms replied. ‘Just head straight in and you should find your DS easily enough.’
Sean peered into the woods, pausing for a couple of seconds before turning back to the uniform officer. ‘Thanks,’ he said, and ducked under the tape. He began to walk into the woods, always studying the ground ahead for evidence before moving forward a few steps. It was difficult to work out which route the killer had taken in and out of the wood as so many paths had been made by people and animals trampling through the vegetation, but he was sure the killer would have taken the most direct route in and out — he wasn’t trying to cover his tracks. It would probably be easier to track backwards after he’d seen the body. He looked up and through the trees to a clearing where he could see Donnelly casually chatting to two more uniform officers. A twig snapped under Sean’s foot and made all three look in his direction as if he was an unwanted intruder.
‘Guv’nor,’ Donnelly greeted him.
‘Is it Louise Russell?’ Sean asked bluntly.
‘Who else could it be?’
‘Have you seen the body?’
‘I didn’t get that close,’ Donnelly told him. ‘It was already confirmed that she was dead, no need for me to trample the scene. But I was close enough to see it’s a young white woman with short brown hair, so unless you know different, I’d say it’s her.’
‘If that’s the description, then it’s her.’ Sean felt his spirits sink further, any last hope it could have been a female vagrant dying of exposure or a young suicide victim leaving him. ‘Where is the body?’
‘The other side of that raised ground, in a clearing. Do you want me to fill you in on what I know so far?’
Sean shook his head. ‘No, I’d rather see her myself first.’
‘Fine,’ Donnelly agreed. He wasn’t insulted — he knew how Sean liked to work.
‘Who found her?’
‘A man taking his dog for an early morning walk. The dog did the finding.’
‘Don’t they always?’
‘Any suspicions about the walker?’
‘No. He’s just an unlucky witness, but we’ve got him at the local nick anyway, reluctantly handing over his clothes and giving samples, intimate and non-intimate.’
‘Good,’ said Sean. ‘Make sure we get hairs from the dog too.’
‘You what?’
‘I want hair samples from the dog,’ Sean repeated.
‘Why would we want that? If we find any hairs on the body, DNA will tell us whether they’re human or canine. If they’re canine, we’ll know where they came from — the walker’s dog.’
‘And how do you know her killer doesn’t have a dog? How do you know he didn’t bring his dog out here with him? How do you know he didn’t keep her somewhere where he also kept a dog or dogs?’
Donnelly sighed before answering. ‘I don’t.’
‘Fine, then let’s take the samples from the dog and get someone to do a cast of his paws too, for comparison with any found close to the body.’
‘If you really think it’s necessary.’
‘I do — so let’s make sure it’s done.’ There was a pause, then Sean spoke again. ‘I need to see the body.’
‘Forensics won’t like it.’
‘They’ll survive. Besides, I want Dr Canning to examine the body in situ before Roddis’s team crawl all over the scene. I’ve already asked him to meet us here. Are forensics on the way?’
‘Aye,’ said Donnelly, ‘they should be here soon enough.’
‘Keep them at bay until Dr Canning’s been and gone, OK?’
‘No problem.’
Sean looked at the moss-covered patch of raised ground formed by the undergrowth spreading over an ancient fallen tree. He knew what lay on the far side and he knew it was time to enter the other world that existed beyond the world that most walked: a world of pain and suffering, of mindless violence and the death of innocence. ‘I need a few minutes alone with her,’ he told Donnelly, then set off towards the grassy knoll, moving slowly, making a show of searching the ground in front of him, hoping the watching police would assume he was being careful not to tread on any evidence. The truth was he needed time to prepare himself for what he was about to see — for what he was about to feel. He needed time to prepare himself for the person he was about to become.
He reached the raised ground and circled it carefully, walking a wide arc, unsure of what position the body would be in, not knowing whether he would first see her head or her feet.
As he rounded the tiny hill his heart began to pound, not with fear, but with excitement and anticipation at what he would find — at what bit of himself the killer had left behind for him to discover, for him to experience, knowing the more he shared with the man who had been here in the night, the closer he would be to catching him.
When the shattered body came into view Sean looked away, giving his mind vital seconds to prepare itself for what he had to see and what he had to do. He looked up to the blue sky, his vivid imagination turning the daylight to darkness, the sunshine to cold rain. He imagined th
e forest in the dead of night, the freezing wind and the pale lifeless body lit by the moonlight that bounced off the clouds. When he looked back at the body he saw his instincts had been right — she was naked and uncovered, lying on her back with her arms limp at her sides, her legs somewhat bent at the knees and slightly spread, as if the killer had deliberately posed her in a sexual position. Sean doubted it was caused by anything deliberate or premeditated, although he was sure she would have been violated at some point, probably repeatedly. He pictured clouds looming over the moon, turning the forest pitch-black as the killer kneeled over her, his hands wrapped around her neck as her legs scraped in the mud. Sean went in closer, almost close enough to touch the imaginary dark figure hunched over his victim, faceless and vague. He drew even closer, moving as slowly as a snake before it strikes, reaching out his hand, only inches away from where the killer would have crouched, the woman’s body still writhing under him. Sean’s fingers uncoiled and stretched towards where the killer’s face would have been, imagining himself staring into the killer’s eyes, as if by looking into those eyes he would understand why — why the man he hunted had become a monster, why he felt compelled to do the things he’d done, things no one else could understand — except Sean, perhaps? Understand, but not forgive.
A moment later the vision deserted him as quickly as it had arrived — night turned back to day, rain and wind to spring sunshine and morning stillness. Sean was left momentarily confused and disorientated; the extraordinary vividness of the images from the night before had made them feel somehow more real than the stark loneliness and surrealism of standing alone, inches away from the quiet, still, pitiful body of another murder victim killed and dumped without compassion or mercy.
Usually he was able to control his imagination, use it as precisely as a surgeon would wield his scalpel, but today the images in his mind had been almost beyond his control, taking on a life of their own, showing him all too clearly the last moments of Louise Russell. He knew what it meant — that he was already forming a strong connection with the man who had committed this crime.
A distant-sounding voice pulled him further back to here and now.
‘You all right over there, guv’nor?’ called Donnelly. ‘I thought I heard you say something.’
‘No,’ Sean answered. ‘I’m fine.’
Dismissing Donnelly from his thoughts, he stared once more at the frail body lying amongst the dead foliage, questions rushing into his mind, the answers hard on their heels, preventing him from analysing and ordering them logically and systematically as he knew he must. Closing his eyes, he breathed deeply and slowly, deliberately blocking the flow of information to allow his mind to settle. When at last he felt the peace he needed to move forward, he opened his eyes to see the yellow morning sunlight piercing the branches of the trees. It was as if the light was split into hundreds of individual sun rays, the rain of last night turning to mist as it warmed, magnifying the beauty of the rays as steam swirled in the ghostly light beams. Everything around him appeared magical, like a scene from some enchanted fairytale — everything except for the broken body lying inches from where he stood.
The questions and answers were starting to come again, but this time he was ready for them and able to control them. Sean moved as close as he dared to the body, close enough to see all that he needed to see. He knelt and scanned her from head to toe, over and over, the injuries telling their own tale: the split lip that showed signs of healing, well-formed dark-brown bruises that must have been inflicted days ago, in contrast with the fresh wounds to the side of her head and her blood-soaked ear. New bruises to her right knee and right elbow. Her right hand too had recently been injured, the skin of the knuckles scraped away, the fingers swollen, possibly broken; the lack of bruising suggested these too were fresh injuries, like the countless lacerations to her feet. Her entire body was covered in bruises in a variety of shades, as if she’d been repeatedly stabbed with a blunt object over a period of time.
Sean leaned closer, drawn by something unusual in the crook of her arm: bruising and needle track marks. She’d either been forced to inject herself or he had done it to her.
Glancing around to check that he wasn’t being watched, Sean snapped on a single rubber glove and carefully brushed the hair from her face. What he saw stopped him dead as he tried to make sense of it. After a few seconds he began searching in his inside jacket pockets, certain he’d remembered to keep a photograph of Louise Russell close to hand. He found it in the last pocket he searched, holding it in front of him so he could compare it with the face of the woman lying on the ground. He strained to recall the Missing Persons Report, searching his mind’s image of it for the Marks amp; Scars section, recalling that Louise Russell had had her appendix removed when she was a teenager, leaving a four-inch scar on her lower right-side abdomen. His hand moved down her body, floating inches above her skin until he reached the place where the scar should have been, but the skin was pure and unblemished. ‘Jesus Christ,’ he said quietly, struggling to comprehend what he had discovered.
His eyes searched her body for other signs this was not who she was supposed to be, but he could find no more unique marks or scars visible on her front. Carefully he gripped her right wrist and slowly rotated her arm, exposing the underside and the cheap-looking colourful tattoo of a phoenix. Something about it seemed childlike and unreal. There was no mention of Louise Russell having a tattoo. This couldn’t be her.
Sean stepped back, never taking his eyes away from the body. ‘Louise Russell wasn’t your first, was she?’ He spoke to the spirit of the killer whose malignant presence had stained the ground he now stood on so indelibly it was as if he was still here. ‘This was your first. You took her and then you took Louise Russell. But why? What are you thinking? What’s making you do these things?’
He stopped, stood in silence, letting his mind roam, exploring each avenue of possibility before speaking again. ‘They’re the same. The two women are the same — late twenties, early thirties, slim, short brown hair, same nose, face shape … This was no coincidence, was it?’ Once more he paused, thought in silence, letting the answers come to him, not forcing them. ‘They reminded you of someone … No,’ he reprimanded himself, ‘more than that. When you saw them, they became someone, someone you loved, someone who rejected you, who betrayed you. They betrayed you, and so you take these women to be with her again, don’t you?’ He was unaware that his hands were pushing the hair on the sides of his head back continuously as he spoke, the effort of concentration subconsciously manifesting itself. ‘But why this?’ His hands now both pointing towards the body, palms upturned, standing, waiting for further revelations. ‘Did she reject you as well and you couldn’t deal with that again, so you punished her?’ He stopped himself, paused, shook his head. ‘But that doesn’t explain this.’ He looked down at the body. ‘This was an execution. You killed her as quickly and painlessly as you thought you could. There’s no rage here, no leaving the body displayed to humiliate her. So tell me, you sick fucker, what made you go from loving her to dumping her here like a dead animal?’
Realizing he was standing with his arms outstretched, he quickly tucked them into his coat pockets to stop any more involuntary gestures. Then he stood motionless, processing the information, dissecting it with diamond-sharp clarity, drawing conclusions he would never be able to explain to the rest of his team, let alone an outsider. There was only one other person who would understand what he was thinking — the man who had tortured and strangled the life out of the pretty young woman now lying amongst the fallen leaves and crawling insects.
Sean suddenly turned on his heels and strode towards Donnelly, speaking as he closed the distance between them. ‘It’s not her,’ he announced.
Stunned, Donnelly opened his mouth to reply, but before he could speak Sean cut in:
‘The victim — it’s not Louise Russell.’
‘It fucking looks like her to me, guv.’
‘It’s n
ot her,’ Sean repeated. ‘Similar in every way, but it’s not her. Louise Russell had her appendix removed when she was a teenager. This woman has no post-op scarring and she has a tattoo on her arm. Louise Russell does not. This is not her.’
The weight of what Sean was telling him took Donnelly a few seconds to translate. ‘Oh fuck,’ he finally declared.
‘Oh fuck indeed,’ Sean agreed.
‘So if she’s not Louise Russell, then who the hell is she?’
‘I have absolutely no idea,’ Sean answered, an admission that spurred him to action. ‘OK. I want you to get hold of Sally and tell her to check all the recent missing persons reports for south-east London — but only for women of similar description to Louise Russell. She won’t find many, but let’s hope there’s at least one. When the Lab Team get here, have them photograph the tattoo on the underside of her right forearm — there’s something off there, something odd about it. Get a copy of the photo and give it to someone you trust to research it — local tattoo shops, Internet, etc. Someone may remember doing it for her.’
‘I’ll give it to Zukov. He likes a little project,’ grinned Donnelly.
‘Fine. Meantime, you stay here and liaise with forensics when they arrive. Tell them we need the scene and everything from it processed as a matter of the utmost urgency. They’ll moan like drains that the anti-terrorist boys have got them buried under an avalanche of work, but do it anyway. Make sure they know we still have an outstanding missing person who will be turning up in some other wood making them even more work if they don’t get this rushed through.’
