by Michael Kerr
“Good. Let’s drop it now. I’m starving. Do you want to go shopping, or shall we get a takeaway?”
“Shopping? Like in supermarket and trolley shopping?”
“Yes. Domestic bliss. You can be in charge of the trolley, and I’ll fill it.”
“I’ve got food in.”
“You’ve got half a loaf of stale bread, a piece of cheese that a mouse would turn its nose up at, and a few cans of soup, beans and the like.”
“So what do you want to do, shop, eat out, or pick up a Chinese?”
“We’ve never done a shop together. I think it would be fun.”
“I don’t see it that way. When we sell our places and get to live under one roof, you should order groceries on the ‘net. It’ll save queuing and the hassle of people crashing into your ankles with their wonky-wheeled trolleys, and of listening to kids bawling if they can’t have sweets.”
“Deal. When are we going to go house hunting again?”
“We could pick up some details and go give a few places the once over on Sunday.”
“I’d like that.”
Matt put his drink down on the coffee table, tossed his cigarette after it, and put his arms around Beth.
“Let’s drive over to Tottenham and have a bar meal at Ron’s, then pick up a few essentials on the way back,” he said.
“Sounds good. I’ll drink tomato juice, or we’ll both get wrecked and have to stay over.”
“Why, if it isn’t Mr. Gabriel and the lovely Beth,” Ron Quinn said as they entered the small residents’ bar of the Kenton Court Hotel. “Will you be checking your handgun in before ordering?”
Ron had become Matt’s friend– or as near to a friend that anyone would ever get to Matt apart from Tom Bartlett. The giant west countryman had helped Matt in the past, when he had been hiding out at the hotel from a psycho, a Yank hitman and the Santinis’, who were all trying to locate and kill him. He had stayed under the alias of John Gabriel, but Ron had soon figured out who he was. The newspapers had run with the story of how Matt had been the only survivor of an attack on the bungalow where a grass, Lester Little, was being kept under police protection. The photo of Matt and the fact that he was wearing a full leg cast, was enough to jog Ron’s memory and realise who his paying guest was. Even though Matt had pointed out that his being at the hotel might put Ron at personal risk, the big man had insisted that he stay, and had given Matt a lot of unsolicited help.
“I’ll keep my weapon, landlord. But I promise not to shoot the place up, as long as you don’t water the scotch down.”
Ron came out from behind the bar, hugged Beth and kissed her on the cheek, before slapping Matt across the back with a hand as big as the proverbial shovel.
Matt was slightly winded. “You don’t know your own strength, you big ox” he gasped, flexing his spine to see if any vertebrae had been crushed.
“Don’t be such a wimp,” Ron said. “That was just a friendly tap. And don’t call me landlord. I’m no lord, and I don’t have any land. I’m an hotelier.”
“Whatever, Quinn. Why not just get back to the business side of the counter and pour the drinks. Mine is a double malt, Beth is on diet Coke with ice, and have one yourself.”
Ron flashed Matt a wide grin as he went to get the drinks. “Are you two on a case?” he said. “If so, tell me all the gory details that you can. I’m a sucker for true life crime.”
The small residents’ bar was empty, save for the three of them. A large log was crackling in the grate, and the lighting was low; not dismal and oppressive, but warm and homely. Ron brought the three glasses out and placed them on a table in the nook to the right of the fireplace, sat down and beckoned them to join him.
“The main event at the moment is a psycho who stubs his cigarettes out on working girls, then strangles them with tights or stockings,” Matt said. “Just your average twenty-first century serial killer. If I gave you any more details than that, I’d have to shoot you.”
“I read about the murders in the paper,” Ron said. “How do you prioritise them? Someone seems to be getting topped every day of the week.”
“A lot of murders are domestic, spur of the moment acts, Ron. Or killings committed by thieves and armed robbers who panic. And the number of gang-related incidents is on the increase. There are thousands of firearms on the street. Having a ‘piece’ is getting to be as common as carrying a mobile phone by some factions of society. It’s almost a fashion accessory. It used to be just knives, but time moves on. Kids with guns were a rarity, but not anymore. The unit I’m with gets the heavy stuff. Repeaters are our worst nightmare. They prey on strangers to them who happen to fit certain criteria. If they aren’t stopped, they keep going. There’s no off button.”
“Do you think you’ll find this one?” Ron said, totally enthralled, in the way that most people are attracted to violence; detached from it, abhorring it, but finding something in their psyche drawn to it, feeding a deep, suppressed instinct that they do not admit to possessing, even to themselves. How many traffic jams were caused, not just by an accident, but by drivers slowing down in an attempt to see the aftermath of serious injury and death. A small kernel of primitive barbarity was part of the human condition, enduring from when man first stood upright and killed to eat, to ward off competition, and to protect what territory and possessions he deemed to be his property. Modern Homo sapiens were not too far removed from their hunter-gatherer forebears.
“We probably will,” Matt said. “Hopefully sooner rather than too late to save more women who are in the shadow of death and don’t know it.”
“I need some scotch in this Coke,” Beth said. “It isn’t hitting the spot. I came here to relax and have some time out, not to talk about work-related stuff. We could have stayed home and done that.”
“Sorry, Beth,” Ron said, going to the bar and bringing a bottle of Glenfiddich back with him, rather than just filling a glass from the optic. “My fault. I spend too much time chitchatting with sales reps and other boring farts who think a bad day is not hitting their targets, or picking up a parking ticket. I have all sorts of crap bending my ears behind that bar. I hear about broken marriages, lost love, and all the shit that they can only offload to a stranger when the booze has loosened their brains and tongues. I sometimes think I should charge extra for the service I provide.”
“It’s all right, Ron. I’m just feeling a little saturated with mans’ evil ways,” Beth said. “Same as I might get sick to the stomach of chocolate if I worked in a factory that made the stuff.”
“We’re working a case,” Matt said. “I find it hard to put the subject aside. I can’t hang up a ‘closed for business’ sign and walk away from it.”
“I know that, Matt,” Beth said. “You haven’t learned how to, yet. Sometimes it helps to step back from a problem; like leaving a bottle of wine to let the lees settle out. Once the sediment has found its own level, you have a clear and better tasting drink.”
“I don’t think I like analogies. I’m not a kid. I can take it on the chin, without having to work out a parallel story to get the drift. I’m like a dog with a bone. I like to worry it until I’ve got the last of the marrow out.”
Beth grinned. “Isn’t that an analogy?”
Matt’s brow corrugated in a frown. “Yeah, I suppose it is. I’ll have to be more careful and try to avoid using them.”
“The killer that Matt is hunting is a young man who has been so emotionally damaged that he is in a loop, using violence to lessen his suffering,” Beth said to Ron.
“I thought that you wanted to drop the subject?” Matt said.
“It won’t go away. And it’s more interesting than discussing the weather, football, or the state of the nation.”
“I don’t understand what makes one inconsolably unhappy person kill others, and another commit suicide,” Ron said, happy to continue with the topic.
“Everyone’s brains are wired up differently, Ron,” Beth said. “You’ve got an
unfathomable lump of nervous tissue in your head that is capable of producing intellectual power. It’s the source of all sensation, thought and reasoning. And it is influenced by hereditary factors, genes, and the experiences of its formative years. Certain aspects of human nature are inherent. Others can be absorbed. No one has fathomed out what maketh a man. We look at a malfunctioning mind and can see the problem, but in many instances cannot resolve it. Drug and talk therapy are the only tools we have to combat what we as a society deem to be unacceptable and abnormal behaviour.”
“I was brought up in an orphanage, where I was abused by staff and treated as something with no worth,” Ron said, astounding Beth and Matt by the disclosure. “I got past it, used the experiences to strengthen my purpose and raise myself above it. I knew that when things were as bad as they could get, then the only way was up. I think that what I suffered, and then my time in the army, made me a better person than I might have become had there been no hardship built into the equation.”
“Which only goes to prove that we are all more than the sum of what we experience,” Beth said. “Given your unfortunate start to life, another boy might have grown up to be a paedophile, or found it impossible to interact in what we consider to be normal parameters.”
“So there is no blueprint that you can spread out on the table and make proper sense of?”
“ ‘Fraid not, Ron. Most males of the species go through a violent and unpredictable childhood. Many would not, as adults, admit that they had ever shot a bird with a catapult or air rifle, or pulled legs off spiders and wings off flies. There is a side to male youth that can be viewed as repugnant. In most of them it is a phase that they pass through and enter adulthood with barely any memory of the acts they had performed. But some individuals do not change. They may have tied fireworks to cats’ tails, or poured bleach into a fish tank, and can become consumed by inflicting pain and suffering. As adults, they may become abusive husbands and fathers, or use violence freely in any circumstance that they feel merits it to get their own way. They feed on the distress they cause, and are empowered by the results that force can achieve and that fear can evoke.”
“What about women?” Ron said. “Why are most serial killers and perverts men?”
“Different way of thinking,” Beth said. “Little girls might pull the arms and legs off their dolls if they have a tantrum. But by and large they are the less aggressive sex. Not as competitive as men, as a rule, or in the same way. They don’t feel the need to react physically to any supposed threat. That doesn’t mean that they are better balanced. Depressive illness is more prevalent in women, and associated conditions such as eating disorders are on the increase. Most female murderers’ victims are their partners or children. If they find the domestic situation untenable, instead of walking away from it, they stay and try to cope, and in rare circumstances snap and strike out, usually with a knife or poison.”
Ron frowned. “But there are instances of women who kill strangers.”
“A rarity. There are women, especially in North America, who have become serial killers. I studied the case of a girl who was sexually abused by her father. She became a prostitute, but was a lesbian. She hated men with a passion, and saw them as fair game. She would solicit them at the kerb, take them to an isolated location, then shoot and rob them. Her MO was to put a couple of bullets in her victim’s groin, take his cash while he writhed around in agony, and then finish him off with a slug between the eyes. When apprehended after murdering sixteen men in this way, she admitted the crimes with pride. Stated that she regarded each and every man she killed as her father: ‘They are no better than tomcats’, she said at her trial. ‘They will fuck anything with a pulse and a suitable orifice in which to insert their blood-engorged dicks.’”
“It’s enough to turn a man queer or celibate,” Ron said. “What happened to the woman?”
“She was executed. Her petition for clemency to the Supreme Court, which is the last chance saloon, failed.”
“You don’t sound as if you have any sympathy for her.”
“I wish I did. But she wasn’t mad in any legal sense. Just a bitter, twisted person who used her gender and the promise of sex to rob and kill gullible and weak men.”
“You’re supposed to be against the death penalty, Beth,” Matt said. “You’ve always argued that it’s uncivilised and a negative way to deal with murderers and psychos.”
“Being around you, and what we endured, has given me new perspective. When our lives were under threat, I felt a sense of overwhelming relief and even a little gratification when Noon and Sutton were killed. It gave me closure on the preceding events. I did not want them to carry on existing in the same world that we inhabit. I came to terms with the fact that when it got to be acutely personal, a radical reworking of my sentiments took place.”
“And yet you still try to treat the same types of flakes who have committed similar atrocities.”
“I spend most of my time working on Criminal Personality Programmes, to attempt to better understand the causes of the patients’ disorders. I am more concerned with the motivational forces that drive them, than in the actual rehabilitation, which is in ninety-nine out of a hundred cases unachievable in any real sense.”
“You mean there is no cure for people suffering from mental disease?” Ron said.
Beth shook her head. “I didn’t say that. I’m talking specifically about the criminally insane, who in general are lacking certain faculties. They are unable to feel what we regard as normal emotions, are incapable of accepting that what they do is wrong, and as a consequence have no guilt over their actions. The only strong feelings they present are those of a negative and extremely antisocial nature.”
“And this guy you are after is one of those types?” Ron said.
“No, Ron. He covers his tracks, and is therefore well aware that what he does is perceived as being wrong. That makes him more bad than mad. If he knows the difference, then he has the ability to make choices. He chooses to torture and kill, and by so doing is responsible for his actions. He allows the rage and need within him to have free rein. We are looking for a monster; a ruthless anathema who has no humanity in his soul.”
CHAPTER TWENTY
Lucas pulled down the garage door, switched on the overhead fluorescent light and opened the rear doors of the van. There was not a lot of room, but enough. He climbed in, knelt next to the blanket-covered form and drew back a corner to reveal her face.
The beryl-blue eyes were wide open, and were imbued with an expression of terror. He smiled down at her, and then hit her three times on the left temple, to bounce her skull between his fist and the metal floor of the van. The blue irises tilted up to show the whites. He backed-up, exited the van and pulled the slack body towards him by her shapely ankles, before bending down and dragging his catch over his right shoulder, to carry out through the side door of the garage and into the house.
Julie came up from some grey, clinging miasma to find herself in obsidian darkness. There was not a glimmer of light in gloom that could have been a solid black bubble encircling her.
She could not move. Could only breathe through her nose, and somehow stifled the urge to vomit. Her head hurt, and she felt vertiginous, as if swaying on the edge of a dizzying height, about to fall from the parapet of a tower.
The tape over her mouth was ripped free, and she gasped, felt hot breath on her cheek, and was mortified by visions of her invisible captor being only inches away, perhaps about to plunge the blade of a knife into her heart.
“Tell me your name,” a voice drifted from all around her, with the effect of surround sound on a home cinema system.
She swallowed hard and croaked, “Julie.” Her mouth was as dry as sun-baked sand.
“Bitch,” the voice continued. “Your name is now bitch. Tell me your name.”
“B...Bitch,” Julie said.
“I’m going to free your feet, bitch. Do not make any attempt to kick out or struggle,�
�� Lucas said in a low, menacing voice. “You need to realise right from the get-go that the magic word is submission. If you obey my instructions implicitly, then I will not harm you. Resist me and you will be punished. Do you understand?”
“Yes.”
“You will address me as Wolf.”
“Yes, Wolf.”
“Very good. You’re obviously a lot brighter than you look,” Lucas said, feeling for the tape at her ankles, finding it, and cutting through it with the keen blade of a Stanley knife. He then took a pair of handcuffs from a pocket of his cargo pants and ratcheted one cuff to her right ankle and the other to a length of chain that was attached to a metal ring set into a square steel plate bolted to the floorboards.
He needed a break. The hunt and abduction had kept his adrenaline level soaring. But now he felt drained. The excitement and stimulation was lessened, and the hormone withdrew from his circulation and muscles to leave him feeling weak. He would eat, drink black coffee, and return to induct the bitch and explain the rules.
“I won’t gag you. If you scream or shout for help, no one but me will hear it, and I’ll pull one of your fingernails out as reward. Silence is golden. Remember that.”
Back downstairs in the living kitchen at the rear of the room that was fitted out to serve as his tattoo parlour, Lucas brewed instant coffee in a large mug that had a decal of two timber wolves on its side. He felt an affinity with the creatures. They had fascinated him since childhood, when he had watched a natural history programme on their secretive lives. They were endangered in many areas, and completely hunted, trapped and poisoned out in others. Persecuted and despised by man over the centuries, they had withdrawn farther and farther into forests and mountains to escape extinction. He admired their guile and cunning. They were the ultimate predators, able to hunt in packs and coordinate a kill with patience and skill. If there was a choice in the matter, then he would return to earthly existence as an Alpha male of a pack, to run free and wild, to kill with his jaws, and to mate at will under the moon and stars and feel the night breezes playing on his fur-covered body.
