‘Mark, is your medical history really relevant to the bombing in Braintree?’ Rouse interrupted.
‘I believe it is, sir, yes. The way my brain is built, things that I hear can be translated into tastes in my mouth, and occasionally the other way around. It’s called synaesthesia. These things aren’t hallucinations, they’re a mix-up in the way that sensory input is treated within my brain.’ He glanced briefly at Morritt. ‘And as you know, sir, according to various medical experts it has no effect on my abilities as a detective.’
Rouse nodded. ‘I’ve seen your medical file,’ he confirmed, ‘and I have full confidence in your abilities.’
‘Thank you, sir. I would argue, in addition, that the synaesthesia enhances my abilities as a detective. I sometimes taste tropical fruit when someone is lying to me. That sounds like New Age witchcraft, but it’s actually my brain picking up on the subtle signs of stress in someone’s voice and bringing it to my attention via another route—’
Morritt breathed out through his nose, dismissively.
‘I’ve recently become aware of another way in which my synaesthesia can help me in my job. You remember that I am dealing with of the Catherine Charnaud murder?’
Rouse nodded briefly. ‘The newsreader,’ he murmured.
‘While at the scene of the crime,’ Lapslie continued, ‘I had what I can only describe as an auditory experience. I heard a noise, a very particular noise, which I now believe was associated with a smell lingering at the scene – a smell associated not with the murder victim, but with the murderer.’
Rouse was now watching Lapslie with considerably more interest than he had started with. Morritt was also watching Lapslie, but his expression was unreadable.
‘While investigating the bombing at Braintree Parkway,’ Lapslie went on, ‘I also heard that noise. I believe it to be linked again to the killer – this time because they had urinated on a rooftop overlooking the station while they waited for their preferred victim to arrive.’
Rouse was leaning forward in his seat, eyes fixed on Lapslie’s face. ‘Are you suggesting that the two cases are linked?’
‘There’s more, sir.’ Lapslie took a deep breath. This was going to be the really difficult one to swallow. ‘I think the killer was at the press conference. That was why I collapsed. I was just … overwhelmed … by their presence.’
DI Morritt snorted. ‘This is bollocks,’ he said. ‘Absolute bollocks.’
Rouse waved him down. ‘Let’s hear Mark out.’
‘Thank you, sir. I believe there’s a possibility that the killer in the Catherine Charnaud case used the toilet in her house. Even if they had flushed, there would be remnants of their urine on the upper reaches of the porcelain and perhaps splashes on the seat. I now think that’s what I was picking up on.’
There was silence in the room for a few moments, broken only by Rouse drumming his fingers on the table.
‘Two murders, each done in a different way, no connections between the victims that we can ascertain, and you’re telling me that they’re both done by the same person? And that person was at the press conference. It’s hard to credit.’
‘I second that,’ Morritt said. ‘Investigation throws up evidence which leads to theories. Resort to the sniffing out of criminals throws us back to the Dark Ages. Why not use phrenology as well? Why not profile the killer based on their likely star sign?’
Rouse gazed at Lapslie. ‘I take your point, Dain,’ he said slowly. ‘Mark, assuming you’re correct – and it’s a stretch – then what kind of killer are we looking for?’
‘Someone cautious,’ Lapslie said. ‘Someone who needs to kill, rather than someone who is doing it for fun or for gain. Someone who is making every effort to ensure that each murder is completely different from the last – different means of killing, different profile of victim, probably different lengths of time between the killings. Which means there will have been more deaths, in the past. Unsolved cases.’ He paused, waiting for his thoughts to catch up, and a parallel occurred to him, one that Rouse would probably appreciate. ‘The way I tend to think of it, sir, is it’s like wine-tasting. If you’re serious about it, there’s two different ways you can do it. There’s a vertical tasting, where you take different years of the same wine and taste them against one another, looking for the differences. That’s the profile of most serial killers – they use the same method, and the only difference is the timing. Remember Madeline Poel, last year? She always used poison, always made the poison from some garden plant or other, always chose old ladies as her victims, and always mutilated their bodies in the same way. But there’s also the horizontal tasting, where you choose wines all from the same year, but different grape varieties and different soil types, and look for the differences there. And that’s what we have, I would submit – a horizontal set of murders, each one different from the others. The only common thread is the person who commits them.’
Rouse nodded slowly. ‘You’re presenting me with a difficult choice,’ he said. ‘Do I combine the investigations, based on your unproven and frankly implausible suggestion, or do I let them continue separately and risk missing some crucial evidence?’
‘There’s another option, sir,’ Lapslie said. ‘You could keep the investigations separate but assign me to sit above them all, looking for connections. If there are any.’
Rouse glanced at Dain Morritt. ‘Dain – opinions?’
Dain Morritt pursed his lips. ‘I don’t believe that the investigations are connected, which means that I don’t want the separate teams combined into some bloated superteam. On the other hand, if they are, then DCI Lapslie is effectively a busted flush. He’s lost credibility in front of the press, and placed the police force in disrepute. I respectfully suggest that the investigations are taken away from him and given to … a qualified officer familiar with at least one of the cases.’
Rouse slapped his hand on the table decisively. He almost made it look as if he was making a spur-of-the-moment decision, but Lapslie suspected that he’d been planning this moment for a while. ‘It’s decided, then. Dain, you’ll co-ordinate across the two investigations, looking for connections. Keep me informed. Mark, I realise this is unwelcome news, but you need to stay back from the investigations. If the press find out about your medical history they’ll have a field day. I presume that you will be thinking of taking early retirement on medical grounds, and I can promise you that I will not query any paperwork you care to submit. Are you okay with this?’
Again, it sounded like a question but Lapslie knew that it was more of an instruction. Bitterly, he nodded. At the end of the hospital bed, DI Morritt nodded as well. He was smiling.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Seething with repressed anger, Carl Whittley watched Emma Bradbury and her lunch companion until they had finished their meals and were sipping at their coffees. The woman kept leaning across and touching the hand of the man on a couple of occasions. Every time she did Carl had to punch his thigh with his clenched fist, asking himself why he had never been in a restaurant with a woman like that, touching his hand with the closeness of two people who cared for each other.
Because of his father, that’s why. Because Carl had to spend most of his time at home, making sure his father was safe and well; cleaning the raw flesh of his stoma, where what was left of his intestine had been stitched to a hole in the abdomen; emptying the shit from his colostomy bag into the toilet, cleaning and disinfecting it, then reattaching it to the raw pink wound. What time did he ever get to be with women? What woman would ever want to spend her time with him?
It was painful watching them, but he forced himself to do it. He needed to know about them – about her. They were obviously close, although the man wasn’t as physically demonstrative as Emma was.
He realised that he needed to go to the toilet, but he was worried that they might leave before he got back so he forced himself to wait. Patience, patience. The pressure on his bladder was making him uncomfortable, and th
e regular thudding of his fist on his leg was just making it worse, but he couldn’t afford to make a move.
Finally, while they were having their coffees and before either of them could attract the waitress’s attention to ask for the bill, Carl snagged her and got in first.
The man who was with Emma still bothered Carl. The way he carried himself – confident, watchful and not at all self-conscious – put Carl in mind of the men who had worked alongside the Essex Hunt – the dog handlers and farriers. Hard men. Self-reliant men. If he was present when Carl killed Emma then he might cause trouble. Carl would have to make sure he was out of the way. Or he would have to kill him as well.
Kill both of them? The thought took him aback. Until now, each of his murders had been single ones. Years of reading through his mother’s textbooks, lecture notes and case files had taught him that the most common reason why serial killers got caught was that they repeated themselves. Not that he actually thought of himself in those terms, but Carl had fought hard to vary the characteristics of his victims and the manner of their deaths; close-up and personal, far away and impersonal, apparently accidental … But there was one common thread, he realised with a sense of shock. He had always killed one person at a time. Individuals. Even at Braintree Parkway station he could have killed five or six people together just by exploding the bomb five minutes before he actually did, but he had deliberately waited until there was only one person standing within the blast radius. If he was serious about the murders – and he was – then at some stage he needed to kill more than one person at once. A carload, perhaps. A busload. A trainload.
But not this time. He wanted that man out of the way when he killed the man’s lover. He struck Carl as being dangerous.
Carl’s bill arrived just as the man got up and walked towards the toilets. Watching him go reminded Carl again of just how badly he needed to empty his bladder. The man had obviously been in the restaurant before; he didn’t hesitate or look around but headed straight for the dark corner where the toilets were located. As he went, Emma’s phone rang.
‘Hello?’ she said, then, ‘Dr Catherall? Is that you? Can you hear me?’ A silence while she listened, screwing her face up as she tried to make out the reply. ‘Hang on – I’ll head outside to get a better signal.’ She got up and moved rapidly towards the door.
Leaving her handbag hanging on the back of the chair.
This was his chance. Carl stood, placing a ten pound note on the table and picking his coat up from the back of his own chair. The money would cover his food, plus a tip that wasn’t memorably large or memorably small. He moved towards the table where, moments before, Emma and her companion had been sitting. Carl glanced towards the toilets to see whether Emma’s companion was returning, but he wasn’t in sight. Carl moved in that direction, his path taking him directly past their table. His gaze scanned quickly across the restaurant, checking whether anyone was looking in his direction, but as far as he could tell he was unobserved. Emma was visible through the large front window; her back turned, talking into the phone. The only person who might have been scanning the room was the waitress, and she was busy scooping up the ten pound note with her back to him. Without deviating from his course, he let the hand holding the coat trail down, his fingers curled slightly beneath the cloth so that they caught on the strap of Emma’s handbag. The bag slid off the back of the chair and the coat draped over it. Carl’s hand took the weight without him having to shift his posture. He kept moving at the same speed, waiting for an outcry behind him, but there was nothing. He did his best to keep walking in a straight line and not dip or twist his shoulders. Odd movements like that tended to attract attention.
The man was just leaving the washroom as Carl entered. Carl kept his chin down, allowing his face to be shadowed. The handbag was clutched tightly beneath his coat.
Within moments he was in the toilet; a small room with a single porcelain toilet bowl, a sink and a hand dryer. He quickly locked the door behind him and rifled through the bag’s contents, his hand still wrapped in the thin material of his jacket so that he would not leave any fingerprints. A chunky red leather purse caught his attention, and he hooked it out. He flipped it open: Emma’s driving licence was obvious inside. That would be enough to give Carl her address, but he had to make it look like a robbery rather than a fishing expedition for information. The woman was a police officer, after all. Slipping the purse into a pocket of his jacket he thrust the handbag behind the toilet bowl and then, unzipping his flies, emptied his bladder into the toilet bowl with a deep sigh of relief. The urine was purple against the white of the bowl, swirling like blood into the drain, but he thought it wasn’t as dark as it had been. The haematin tablets were kicking in.
Emma was still outside the restaurant, talking into her phone when he emerged. Her companion had returned to the table and was waiting for her. His gaze – grey and emotionless – swept across Carl, evaluating him for a heart-stopping moment, and then moved away to look at something else once he had dismissed Carl as a threat. He hadn’t noticed yet that the handbag was missing. Heart pounding, Carl kept on walking; past him, past the waiter, past his table and out through the door into the street, making sure that he turned immediately away from Emma so that all the woman would see of him was his back.
He stopped fifty yards or so down the street, looking in the window of a charity shop. A faint mist of rain coated the shop window from the outside while humidity steamed it up from the inside, rendering the candlesticks, flowery blouses and porcelain horses inside into objects of mystery rather than assorted knick-knacks that would only swell the charity’s coffers by another pound or so if they sold. Back along the street Emma finished her phone call and re-entered the restaurant. Nobody came running out looking for Carl. He imagined the confusion, and then the panic inside as Emma realised that her handbag was gone; the fruitless searching under the table, the questioning of the waitress and anyone sitting nearby. Someone appeared in the doorway; he couldn’t tell whether it was Emma, her companion or the waitress, but whoever it was looked around and then went back inside.
Carl wanted to walk back past the restaurant again, partly to see what was happening inside and partly to establish himself as a harmless patron who was ambling up and down the street rather than a handbag-snatching thief, but he decided against it. There was no point in tempting fate, and he had what he needed. Instead he walked away from the restaurant, slowly so as not to attract any attention, stopping every now and then to check other shop windows. Just another shopper, idling the hours away.
Back at his car, he checked the contents of the purse. Fifty pounds in notes plus a small amount of change; twenty euros in small bills; three different credit and debit cards in the name of Emma Bradbury, several receipts, an old raffle ticket; three first-class stamps in a cardboard folder; a plastic bubble pack of aspirin; a Starbucks loyalty card; a condom in a creased foil wrapper; and a handful of business cards. No warrant card; she probably kept that in her jacket. And there, at the front, was the driving licence: a lilac plastic card with Emma’s photograph on it alongside a tiny facsimile of her signature and, in print so small it was almost unreadable, her address.
Carl breathed a silent sigh of relief. He had been worried that the woman was living in a police section house somewhere in the region, which would have made a long-range shot tricky if not impossible, but the address appeared to be a block of flats in Brentford.
He drove back home carefully, not attracting any attention. He would have to spend some time in Brentford, he decided. Scope out the flats and any possible vantage points and lines of sight; establish escape routes; understand Emma’s pattern of life – what time she got up, what time she left for work, what time she got back, what she did at weekends. He would have to work it around his father, popping back at regular intervals to check on him, but Carl was willing to make the sacrifice if it guaranteed him a clean shot.
It was what he had done with Catherine Charnaud. He nee
ded to know everything about her and the way she lived if he was going to successfully kill her. Not, he reminded himself, that killing her was the aim. It was a means. The aim was to get his family back together, and everything was subordinate to that. It was like hunting and killing animals; doing it for a reason, like because you needed food, or pelts for clothing, was okay. It was when you did it for fun that it became difficult to defend. That was why he’d eventually stopped following the Essex Hunt. He was just too uncomfortable about the pleasure the hunters took from the chase and the kill. When he killed, there was always a reason.
Twenty minutes from home he realised that his mother’s place was only a short detour away. He made a quick mental judgement; his father was probably going to be okay for another half hour, and he would really like to know what was happening to the case she was working on. And he could do with using the toilet again. Damn this stupid illness!
He parked outside her house. Her car was there, so she was in. Probably working.
She seemed surprised to see him when she opened the door. She was wearing a long dress that clung to her figure, and her hair was loose across her shoulders and down her back. He got the impression she was waiting for someone else. The house smelled of tomatoes and garlic. Was she cooking for someone?
‘Sorry to barge in,’ he hurried, bladder suddenly feeling so full that it overrode all other concerns. ‘Can I use your toilet?’
‘Of course,’ she said, puzzled. As he pounded up the stairs, she called after him: ‘Carl! Is this another attack? Have you seen a doctor? You know you ought to be on medication if you’re having another attack.’
‘I’m on medication!’ he called down the stairs. The pressure in his groin was so heavy now that he could feel shooting pains along his forearms. He’d only been to the toilet half an hour before! How could he need to go again?
Tooth and Claw Page 20
