A Need To Kill (DI Matt Barnes)

by Michael Kerr

“You make me feel like I’m some kind of bogeyman.”

  “You are in a way. You live cheek by jowl with violence and death. Part of you thrives on it. You have the capacity to take life, or to risk giving up your own for a lost cause.”

  “Wrong, Beth. I’m now a rebel with a radically modified cause. I still intend to do whatever it takes to nail these...flakes, but with the proviso that I don’t personally risk bringing them to my door, or to yours…especially yours. I gave it a lot of thought while you were across the pond. You not being here gave me a taste of what it would be like if it was permanent, and it scared me into seeing the light. I don’t want to lose you. I need for us to be together. I’ve come to know that we are more important than the victims I never knew, and who cannot be saved.”

  “I don’t want you to try to change for the wrong reasons.”

  “I can’t think of a better reason. Before I met you I had nothing in my life to make me value my own good-for-nothing hide.”

  “What about Linda?”

  “What about her?”

  “You must have been committed. You’d set up home with her.”

  “I made a mistake. I did it for the wrong reasons. She wanted to be with me, and so I went along with it. But I didn’t change, or even try to. I was probably the worst thing that could have happened to her. She loved me, but I couldn’t love her back in the same way.”

  “I shouldn’t have brought her up. I’m sorry. It’s none of my business.”

  “Don’t be sorry. You know how I feel about that word. And everything about me is your business. I don’t want for there to be any blanks; any parts of our lives that are buried and kept hidden away.”

  “You sound as if you’ve got a past that I would be shocked by.”

  “The only thing you don’t know about me, is that I was in love with a girl when I was a teenager. She died, and I felt a part of me dry up and blow away. That might have been a factor in why I turned out the way I did. I lost something special and had to find new purpose. Now, with you, I don’t feel the need to be as driven. I want us to be able to count on each other and pull in the same direction.”

  “Do you want a drink?”

  “Yeah. My mouth’s dry, and I’m sick of listening to my own voice.”

  “I’m not. I feel a lot better for hearing what you’ve just told me.”

  “Have you just added what I said to your psychological evaluation of me?”

  “Of course.”

  “How do I score on a scale of one to ten?”

  “Are you looking for a little flattery?”

  He grinned. “Everyone likes to hear good things about themselves.”

  “Then you get top marks in almost every department.”

  “Almost?”

  “Yes. You don’t shave enough. My cheek feels as though it has been sand papered.”

  “Easily remedied. I’ll go have a shower and shave while you fix the drinks.”

  Beth put a Kate Perry CD on and poured them both large JDs over ice. She felt better than she had for a long time. Could envisage them being together in a relationship that would grow even stronger than it already was, if that were possible. Understanding Matt’s personality from what had happened in his life was so enlightening. She also knew how hard it must be for him to be so forthcoming. He was in essence a very private man, who she would not have expected to open up so much, even to her.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  She slipped off the robe as she led him through to the small lounge. Knew that his eyes would be glued to her bottom through the sheer material of the negligee. She never wore panties.

  Sitting down on the sofa and patting the cushion next to her, she said, “Are yer married, love?”

  He smiled and shook his head. He had been going to get straight to it, but decided to play along and act like a regular punter. There was no hurry, and it would be fun.

  The older she got, the older her clients became. Her main trade was fifty to sixty year olds who had trouble getting it up, and who just wanted to pop and leave a lot quicker than they had ‘come’. This was a novelty; a young guy who didn’t look as if he should have to pay for it. He had strong features, and eyes almost the same green as her own. And he had ginger hair. She could almost be his mother, judging by his age and looks. Maybe he would be able to float her boat. It wasn’t all about money. She was still capable of enjoying a good jump. Funny, but now that she was in her forties she felt a lot hornier than she ever had as a slip of a girl.

  “Why don’t yer slip yer jacket off an’ make yerself comfortable?” Pamela said. “There’s no need to ’urry. I ’aven’t got anyone else lined up fer this evenin’.”

  He took his car coat off and sat down. Noticed that she was staring at his overalls. He did not give an explanation.

  She offered him a cup of tea, which he thought quaint, so accepted. While she was in the kitchen, he took in his surroundings: the thick curtains at the replacement bay window and the shag pile carpet were the same shade of pink as the flimsy garment she wore. And the furniture was cheap but cheerful. The fleurs-de-lis patterned flock wallpaper and red-shaded faux Art Nouveau-style wall lights brought the image of a Victorian bordello to mind, which he thought fitting. An abundance of Franklin Mint plates depicting cats made him uneasy. He hated cats, due to a belief that they could see into his soul and were aware of his intentions. They were highly-tuned to human emotions, and never came near him, sensing his animosity toward them.

  “There yer go, love,” Pamela said, setting a cup and saucer down on a glass coaster on top of a nest of tables next to him.

  “Thanks,” he said, offering up a boyish smile. “Do you keep cats?”

  “No, love,” she said. “The plates were mi mum’s. I ’adn’t the ’eart to get rid of ’em when she passed. I wouldn’t ’ave a moggie, not with Sid in the ’ouse.”

  Warning bells clanged. Who the fuck was Sid?

  Pamela saw the look of apprehension cloud his face. “Sid’s mi canary, love ’e’s in the kitchen, bein’ as ’ow I spend most of my time in there when I’m not…entertainin’.”

  Lucas relaxed. Drank his tea and let Pamela rabbit on about nothing while he readied himself to kill her.

  “Yer wanna go upstairs?” she said, reaching out to stroke the bulge at his crotch.

  “Yeah, that would be nice,” he said, fondling a breast and rolling the large nipple between his finger and thumb until it stiffened like a hat peg.

  The bedroom had a mirrored ceiling. And a table lamp with a low wattage red bulb gave the room a sexually-loaded ambience. Pamela slipped off the negligee and lay back on the bed, opening her legs to let him see the shadow-filled nucleus of her body.

  “Don’t be shy, love. Get yer gear off and ’op in, I’m achin’ fer it,” she said, beckoning him with one hand and slipping two fingers of the other into her slick cleft.

  He unbuttoned the overalls and let them fall. He wore nothing beneath.

  Pamela froze in awe at the sight of his body. The tattooing covered him up to the neck and down to his wrists and ankles. He was a living work of art. A large wolf’s head adorned his chest, and whorls and intricate patterns snaked out from it to encompass him.

  “I’m a tattoo artist,” he said. “A walking, talking advertisement for my own work.”

  “Give us a twirl, love, and let me see the back,” Pamela whispered.

  He turned, and could almost feel her eyes inspecting and appraising the complex illustrations. He had obviously not been able to do all the work himself. A guy he knew in Birmingham had done the work on the parts of his body he could not reach, to his detailed designs.

  “I’ve never seen anythin’ like it in mi life,” Pamela said as he turned back to her.

  He went to her, let her reach up to fondle his shaven genitals, and then drove his fist into her temple, to stun her. As she moaned and fought to stay compos mentis, he gagged and bound her.

  “And you never will again, sweetheart,” he
said to the dazed and bewildered woman.

  “It isn’t me, you sad little fuck. None of them are me,” a voice that seemed to come from the air around him said. He recognised it. His mother was with him, always a spectator to what he did.

  “I know it isn’t you, Mum. But I get off on fantasising that it is, so shut up and watch, or go back to whatever corner of hell you’re stinking up.”

  When Pamela regained full consciousness she could not move. Her wrists were bound to the bed head with stockings that she surmised were her own, and her ankles were likewise held in place. Her mouth was covered by tape. The realisation of just what trouble she was in struck home. Maybe he would just beat, rape and rob her.

  He pulled on a pair of the thin latex gloves he used in the studio, opened the top drawer of the bedside cabinet and was not surprised to find a large pack of condoms. The slut probably bought them wholesale. He ripped open one of the foil packets and quickly rolled the rubber over his pulsing member. Climbed on the bed between her legs and put his hand under her bottom, to raise her up and then enter the tightness of her back passage.

  Pamela stiffened beneath him. Her eyelids snapped wide open and she uttered a muffled cry of pain.

  “Shhhushh!” he said. “Little whores should be used and not heard. Grit your teeth and enjoy it, and then we’ll get down to the real reason why I’ve selected you to die tonight.”

  It was three hours later when Pamela Clough was finally given release, to escape from intolerable pain and horror, after he had removed the tape from her mouth to talk to her. The stocking that bit into her neck, chafing the skin, eventually became a blessing in disguise. She could hear the throaty birdlike caw that would be the last sound to escape her spittle-covered lips, as she looked up into eyes full of madness, before blackness flooded her sight and all the pain dissolved.

  Lucas waited until his thumping, racing heart slowed to a more sedate rhythm, then climbed off the bed. He was totally exhausted, now that the deed was done. His hands ached from the multiple times he had strangled her to the point of unconsciousness, only to let her recover to suffer more pain and humiliation. But very little worth having comes easy. You have to work for it. She had repented for her corrupt and misspent life of whoredom, and begged that she might live and be a better person. Alas, he was not Christ, and therefore not qualified to grant her deliverance from sin and damnation. He sent them to a higher plane, where they could seek redemption in person, or spirit, from an expert redeemer. He knew his limitations. The expiation of these fallen women’s transgressions was subject to divine law. He did his part, the rest was beyond mortal intervention. He had removed and affixed the gag repeatedly, listened to her plaintive promises, and even held cigarettes to her lips, for her to suck into life as he held the lighter. It was fitting that she ignited the instruments he employed to sear her flesh with. He would have left the tape off, had he been convinced that neighbours would mistake the resulting screams for outcries of orgasmic pleasure. But the sound of agony could not be misconstrued as ecstasy. It had its own unambiguous quality.

  Reapplying the tape to her partly open mouth, he left her as she lay, with the addition of a little surprise for the authorities to find, he dressed, went downstairs and washed the cup he had used. He had touched nothing else before putting his gloves on, save for the doorbell, that he had pressed with his knuckle. As for any fibres or hairs, he was not unduly concerned. The forensic team who would soon scour the scene, would no doubt find traces of dozens or scores of men who had been entertained by the now less than fragrant Pamela.

  He left by the back door, out through the small yard and into a murky alley that was littered with rubbish. A number of rats scurried away at the sound of his footfalls. This was how Sodom and Gomorrah must have been; filthy cities infested by vermin of the human as well as four-footed kind. He could not cause brimstone and fire to rain down from heaven on the morally evil, but would play his part by immolating a great number of deserving sinners, who had irretrievably fallen from grace in his eyes. There was too much for one person to do, but whatever small impact he made would be a worthy contribution. His need was not wholly selfish. He was furnishing a free service to the community at large.

  It was six a.m. when the phone rang. Beth slid from under Matt’s arm, got out of bed, pulled a robe on and headed for the lounge. She did not hurry. It would be the Yard for Matt, and whoever was calling would let it ring and ring.

  She answered the call. “Yes,” she said.

  “Er, sorry to disturb you at this time, Dr. Holder. It’s Pete Deakin, I’m trying―”

  “To get hold of Matt. Hold on, Pete.”

  Matt came up into a sitting position as Beth tapped his shoulder and took a pace back. He sometimes reacted like a man being attacked when woken suddenly; had lashed out once and almost made contact with her throat. The hard edge of his hand might have fractured her larynx if she had not jumped back in time. It showed that even in sleep he was tense, keyed-up, and ready to respond to a supposed threat.

  “Uh, yeah,” Matt mumbled, almost awake.

  “Your sidekick is on the blower. Tracked you down like the good detective he is,” Beth said.

  “He was trained by the best,” Matt said, pulling his boxers on and heading for the lounge.

  “What’ve you got?” he said into the phone.

  “Another vic, boss,” Pete said. “Same MO. The killer gave us a bell and asked for the incident room. I spoke to him, and it’s on tape. He gave me the patter of how he had sent another penitent to her final judgement, and an address in Wandsworth. I arranged for the nearest patrol car to check it out, and they found a body.”

  “When was this?”

  “Just now, boss.”

  “Give me the address, and then arrange for Crime Scene and a pathologist to attend. I’ll meet you there.”

  “Have you got time for a coffee?” Beth said as he racked the phone.

  Matt nodded and followed her into the kitchen. “It’s the same guy,” he said as Beth half-filled and switched on the kettle. The coffeemaker would have taken too long.

  “Do you want me to come with you?” she said.

  “Have you lost the plot? We agreed that you don’t put your head up over the parapet for some lunatic to take pot shots at. I don’t ever want to put you in the sights of one of these animals again. You’ll get all the paperwork and photographs to work with.”

  Beth nodded. For a second she had actually wanted to be more involved. Had been prepared to jump in the deep end again. Matt was right. This was the way to play it, with a certain amount of detachment. She made the coffee while Matt went to get dressed. Opened the stainless steel door of her new refrigerator, but could still see the old, white fridge, and the broad crimson streak that had been left as Marion Peterson slid down it into a sitting position, to die in a pool of her own blood. Marion had been a CPN – Community Psychiatric Nurse – who became infatuated with a patient; the killer, Gary Noon. Marion had become his partner in crime, but on seeing him for what he really was at Beth’s apartment, she had turned on him, and in so doing given up her own life to make amends, by attacking him with a steak hammer, only to be shot and killed.

  Beth had also had a new kitchen floor laid, and changed the furniture in the lounge, but could not rid herself of the images of what had happened that night. She would never be able to disassociate the horror from the surroundings in which it occurred.

  Matt drank half the coffee, then hugged and kissed Beth. “I’ll call you when I get chance,” he said.

  Beth locked up after him, put the TV on for distraction and went to shower and get dressed. She had a meeting at Northfield to attend at ten a.m., and an evaluation and assessment to do on a disturbed female patient who had murdered her husband and three children while they slept. It was sometimes very difficult to hold on to the thought that there was a power of good in the world. The legacy of evil acts throughout human history seemed to have the accumulative influence to over
lay all that was admirable and virtuous. How many movie-goers were in some way pleased that the fictional character of Hannibal Lecter had escaped and was loose to torture and eat body parts of more victims? And why were so many women captivated by convicted killers, to the extent that they wrote to and visited them in prison, and in some instances married them? What facet of depravity did people find so attractive? Even as a criminal psychologist, Beth had no definitive answer to so many questions that she could pose to herself. Her expertise, however limited, was in the field of understanding the motivational forces that drove disturbed individuals to commit the foulest of deeds, not the flawed personalities of their admirers. Was the power of evil so strong that it could demand respect as well as produce fear?

  Beth used the stairs, for some reason not able to face the claustrophobic confines of the small lift. She climbed into the Lexus and locked her doors, before setting off into the grey light of a day that had been soured by her daunting reverie.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  He stepped out of the phone box and removed the gloves. He felt as though he was walking on a cushion of air, above the ground. What a night! What a truly magnificent and sublime time he had revelled in. Pure bliss was the term that came to mind. He had once more exorcised the ugliness and debauchery that dwelt within the outwardly attractive shell of the host it fed off. He had decided that people and badness were two separate entities. The swarms of invisible parasites could latch on to any weak-minded individual and work from within them to feed their every insatiable, lascivious desire.

  He arrived home and sat in the gloom for a while, to close his eyes and use the darkness as a screen to project his latest conquest upon as he masturbated. He stopped with a jolt, and the picture of the mature, naked redhead spread-eagled on her bed plinked out of existence. His penis wilted with the rapidity he remembered from being in hospital as a youth with pneumonia. On the mend, he had been prone to raging erections when the nurses attended him. One Irish nurse – who he fantasised might shed her starched uniform and jump in bed with him – would pull back the tented sheet and flick the tip of his penis with her finger, causing it to shrivel with the speed of a tortoise withdrawing its head to evade the attention of a predator. But she had seen his need and visited him in the dead of his last night there, to draw the curtain around the bed and let him fondle her as she took him in hand and gave him relief. It had been a momentous event, to be surrounded by the noises of other patients’ snoring, wheezing, coughing and farting, as he surreptitiously enjoyed his first sexual encounter.