Unlikely Killer

by Ricki Thomas

  Unlikely Killer

  Ricki Thomas

  BPR Publishers (2010)

  Rating: ★★★★★

  Tags: Psychological, Fiction

  Psychologicalttt Fictionttt

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  Usually a serial killer will have a modus operandi that can lead to their capture. This one is breaking all the rules.

  It takes a journalist's keen eye to grasp the terrifying truth. This killer is recreating infamous murders from history. Despite researching historical murders in an attempt to catch the killer in the act, the police are repeatedly outwitted. With the Jack the Ripper murders next on the agenda, a bloodbath seems inevitable.

  With the clock ticking and the killer becoming increasingly frenzied, a detective and criminal psychologist join forces to stop this unlikely killer.

  Unlikely Killer

  Ricki Thomas

  A Wild Wolf Publication

  Published by Wild Wolf Publishing in 2010

  Copyright © 2009 Ricki Thomas

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the publishers, except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages in a review to be printed by a newspaper, magazine or journal.

  First print

  All Characters appearing in this work are fictitious. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  ISBN: 978-1-907954-01-6

  www.wildwolfpublishing.com

  As always, to my children, Ems, Alz, Joe, and Tom, for being there, putting up with me, and continuously blessing me with their wonderful presence. My Mum also, for being my rock. And to all the readers in Winterton who refused to give the first edit back … because they wanted to pass it on to their friends … that was special!

  I would also like to thank two members of Humberside Police: DSI Ray Higgins, who let me have an interesting and informative couple of hours 'interviewing' him regarding forensics and points of query I had relating to the story. He and his colleague, Christine Kelk, were then generous enough to read the entire manuscript, with Christine updating me most days with constructive points to assist me on the final re-write. To both, I am truly grateful, for their time, their expertise, and their kindness.

  Monday 12th May

  An intense stab of pain shot through her abdomen, followed by a warm, sticky sensation seeping urgently over her skin. She instinctively looked up, darting, confused, noting the bearded man standing before her, his incredulous stare fixed on her body. Annabel followed his gaze, horrified to see the pastel blues of her clothing colouring a deep, glistening scarlet, the rich redness of her blood.

  Swaying lightly with stunned faintness, Annabel’s body buckled against the open car door, she collapsed painfully into the driver’s seat. She wanted to scream, the reality of the situation horrifying her, but her breath was choked, and no sound emerged from her paling lips.

  Greg Keeley was becoming increasingly agitated, he found himself unable to stand still, pacing the room mindlessly. Where was she? And where were the children? He had returned from work an hour before to an empty house. No dinner had been prepared, the beds were unmade, the dog was whimpering for food. Very unlike Annabel.

  The telephone shrilled in the hall and Greg raced through to answer, hoping that it would be his wife with an explanation. But it wasn’t, it was his mother-in-law. “Oh, Gail, sorry, I thought it might be Annabel.”

  “Is she not there? I’ve been waiting for her to pick the kids up, she was supposed to be back hours ago.” Gail’s voice was irritated, contrasting with Greg’s worried overtones.

  He scratched his head through his thick, fair hair, his fingers wandering nonchalantly through to the ends to meet his full beard. “Hours ago? Where did she go?”

  “She dropped the kids off at eleven, stopped for a quick cup of tea, then she went into Oxford to do some shopping. Said she’d only be a couple of hours. I wouldn’t normally mind, but I have to go to my yoga class soon and …”

  “Eleven this morning? She should have been back way before now.”

  “Greg, are you okay?” Gail Rackham’s timid voice faltered slightly, it hadn’t occurred to her before that something may have happened to Annabel, she’d been too busy running after the children. The uncomfortable silence was palpable for a few beats too long.

  Greg hated to worry Gail, she had never coped with problems too well, her undulating depression assuring she was well medicated at all times, but he couldn’t hide the concern in his voice. “Gail, this isn’t like Annabel, she tells me everything, she’s never unreliable. Look, hang the phone up, I’m going to ring around some friends, see if anyone knows where she is.”

  “Greg, she’s probably just lost track of time, pregnant women can be a bit vague sometimes.” She chuckled insincerely as the words tumbled out, aware that her loving daughter would never be away from her children too long without a good explanation. “Okay, Greg, I’m going to hang up. Let me know what happens, won’t you?”

  Greg replaced the receiver and unconsciously reached again to stroke at his beard, deep in thought. His left hand flicked through the address book, locating his wife’s best friend, Trudy’s details, and he lifted the receiver to dial her. He found his fingers dialling nine, nine, nine instead.

  The voice crackled on the other end of the line. “Emergency. What service do you require?”

  “Police. Please hurry.”

  “What is your name, caller?”

  “Gregor Keeley. Phone number eight five two, four, four, one. Caisten. Can we get on with this?”

  “Just putting you through, Sir.”

  A short pause was followed by another woman’s voice, still crackly, but clearer. “Hello, Police department, can I …”

  “Please. My wife has gone missing, I’m really worried, I …”

  “You’d like to report a missing person?”

  The car was racing along the A354, much too fast for the pounding downpour that rattled against the bonnet and roof of the muddied Ford Escort. Occasionally Annabel slowed to a more sensible pace, yet the intimidating voice growled at her, demanding she speed up, faster, faster. She was frantic. Her warm blood still seeped over her skin, through her clothing, meeting the spent pool that soaked the drivers seat, but the gushing had stopped, her body already repairing the damage. She felt frail, but the bursts of adrenaline caused by fear kept her heartbeat quickened, although the blood loss had subsided.

  A traffic police car, concealed in a lay-by, came into view as the car swung around a bend, and Annabel automatically lifted her foot from the accelerator. “Turn off here, just before Milborne St Andrew. Left.” The urgency in the voice startled her, her foot slammed onto the brake pedal as she steered strongly into the corner. Overshooting marginally, Annabel steered into the skid, fighting to regain control of the car, and soon she was accelerating again, hurtling along the wizened country lane. A flash of blue in the mirror brought the police car to Annabel’s attention, and she relaxed slightly, maybe if they stopped her she could escape this hellish nightmare. She relaxed from the accelerator once more.

  Panic filled screaming. “Don’t slow down. No Police. Get away. Fast.” She knew she had no choice but to comply, her foot thrust forward, the trees raced by. “No Police. You’ve got to get away.”

  “I thought I’d bring the kids back, then I can go straight to yoga class.” Gail Rackham herded the three tired children through the dimly lit doorway, she stepped past her son-in-law into the comfortably decorated hall. Greg’s face was contorted with worry, his mind abandoned as he closed the door. “Greg, I was just dropping the kids off, I’m not stopping.” Ga
il pawed at the latch, reopening the door. She trotted along the path towards her car.

  “I called the police.” Greg called out, he couldn’t bear to be alone with this anxiety any longer.

  Gail stopped abruptly. “The police! About Annabel? Isn’t it a bit soon?”

  Greg let out a long, burdensome sigh, his shoulders sagging hopelessly. “That’s what they said, but I begged them to do something straight away. This isn’t like Annabel, you know that, and I’m worried sick.”

  Grasping that her yoga class was going to have to wait a week, Gail reluctantly retraced her steps and entered the house. She patted Greg’s arm in a shallow gesture of camaraderie.

  The Escort ploughed along the narrow lane, which ran through the Dorset village of Briantspuddle. Normally Annabel’s adoration of England’s beauty would have spurred her to park the car and take a stroll around, she would have loved the ambience of the quaint, flower-adorned cottages. But the menacing voice in her ears shouted at her to speed up every time she relaxed. The car thundered across the crossroads, jolting the shock absorbers to scream an angry objection. A T-junction sprang from nowhere, Annabel instinctively slammed the brakes on, but it was too late to stop, the car skidded across the road as Annabel hauled the steering wheel to the right. Relieved to have regained control, the intermittent flashing lights in the mirror indicated the police car was still on her tail. “No Police. Faster.”

  A brown sign loomed to the left signalling a local tourist attraction. ‘Clouds Hill’ the bold white lettering stated, and Annabel felt a vague recognition of the name. Maybe she’d seen it in the brochures they’d collected for their annual holiday, after all, Dorset had been a potential destination. “Faster. Faster. No Police.”

  Annabel checked the mirror, the police car was gaining on them. She pressed her foot harder, the aging engine objecting as the car hurtled along the straight, delicately undulating road. “Faster. Make this car fly.”

  Beads of sweat glistened on her forehead as they, travelling at ninety, shot into the thirty mile per hour zone. As Bovington Tank Museum raced towards them on the left, an ancient Rover nosed out from a side road, the equally ancient driver not noticing the Escort. Swerving to the right desperately, Annabel overtook and continued along the road, away from Bovington.

  “There’s another junction.” Annabel’s voice was breathless, a mixture of fear and unexpected excitement.

  “Right. Go right.” Annabel obeyed without hesitation, and they immediately met another junction. “Go right again. Find somewhere to hide, get the pigs off our trail.”

  Annabel glanced in the mirror, the lights still flashed intermittently, but the police car was trapped behind an articulated lorry. She slowed to a stop, the traffic at the junction was heavy, an endless stream of vehicles in both directions, but an angry scream unnerved her. “Don’t stop the car.”

  Recklessly, Annabel swung the Escort into the flow, squeezing her eyes shut in abandoned hope. Angry horns objected disdainfully, but a new, enthusiastic tone in her instructor’s voice dispelled them. “Quick, there’s a lay-by, left, in there, get in there.”

  Swinging the car into the tight pathway, Annabel manoeuvred down the steep track, towards a mildewed and craggy wooden fence, bordering an expanse of farmland. Slowing to a crawl, she bumped the car over the rugged soil, and stopped, discreetly hidden under the sweeping branches of a mature oak tree. Annabel breathed a sigh of exhausted relief, but balked when she heard the wailing police car speed into the distance behind her. They could have saved her from this hell. Now she was alone, who was going to help her now? “Get some sleep. You’ve lost a lot of blood.” Annabel nodded her head lamely, her eyes drooping, she had no difficulty complying with the latest order, the blood loss had drained her.

  Morrell Close in Caisten, Oxfordshire, was a desirable area, yet also a nosy one. Curtains jerked back and doors opened a shade as the police car slowed to a stop beside number thirty-nine. It was just past ten in the evening when the two constables knocked on the front door. Greg, tired from nervously pacing the lounge carpet for the past few hours, hurriedly opened the door, lightly guiding his eager mother-in-law aside.

  “Mr Keeley?”

  “Yes, yes, come in. Where have you been? We’ve been waiting ages.” Greg impatiently stepped back for the constables to pass into the dim hallway. Glancing up, PC Jane Allan noticed two young children sitting in the darkness at the top of the staircase, chins on hands, tearful confusion glistening in their huge dark eyes. She smiled reassuringly, they reminded her of her own two boys, and she couldn’t imagine the bewilderment they must be feeling.

  Once in the brightness of the homely, practical lounge, Gail took the lead and gestured to the settee. The constables sat attentively, although Greg remained standing, unable to keep himself from fidgeting. He flitted mindlessly from one place to the next, touching photo frames, moving ornaments, his desperation palpable. “It’s not like her, you know.” He spoke to himself.

  Uncomfortable with the edgy atmosphere, PC Jerome Taylor stood again. “Mr Keeley. I am PC Taylor, this is PC Allan. I understand your wife hasn’t returned home from a shopping trip, and the circumstances are highly unusual for her. Have you rung round her friends?”

  Greg shot a look at Taylor. “You don’t know Annabel.” He was snapping, he was an impatient man, especially under duress. “Something is wrong. I know it is. I believe she’s in danger.” He was aware that he was the centre of attention, an air of surprise filled the room.

  Allan and Taylor exchanged a glance before Taylor continued. “Okay, Sir, okay. Have you any idea where Annabel could be?”

  Greg eyed the man before him with disdain. “If I had any idea, don’t you think I would have tried that already?”

  Allan raised herself from the sofa in her colleague’s defence. “Mr Keeley, I can understand your concern. Please calm down so we can assess the situation fully. Please, will you take a seat?”

  “I’m sorry, it’s just not like her. She’s been gone for over eleven hours now, Annabel would never be away that long without letting anyone know where she was.”

  Allan sat, her legs complaining from the long shift. “Does she have a mobile phone?”

  Greg looked at his feet and sighed, forlorn. “It’s on her dressing table, upstairs, she’s always forgetting to take it out.”

  Taylor produced his notepad from the breast pocket of his tunic. “Mr Keeley, could I take your full name please?”

  “For God’s sake, it’s Annabel we need to find, not my life history.”

  Gail reached out and tugged on Greg’s rolled shirt sleeve. “Greg, stop it. These questions need to be asked, the man is only doing his job. Just answer as best you can and then they can start looking for her.”

  Greg tugged his arm away, he sagged heavily into the free armchair. “Gregor Hilton Keeley.”

  PC Taylor, seating himself once more, smiled at Gail. “And you are?”

  “Gail Rackham, Gail Annabel Rackham, I’m Annabel’s mother.”

  “Thank you. What is Annabel’s full name?”

  “Annabel Elizabeth Keeley.”

  “How old is she?”

  “Thirty three, just gone last week. She’s pregnant, you know. Did he tell you that?” A fleeting martyr’s smile passed Gail’s reddened lips.

  “How far gone, how pregnant?” Taylor was scribbling briskly in his notebook.

  “Four months, it’s due in October.”

  “Right. What is the registration number of her car she was driving?”

  Gail glanced at Greg, he answered readily. “It’s a Ford Escort one point four L, black, number T two four seven S K D.”

  Allan rose and moved to the doorway, she leant through and radioed the details to the control room, additionally requesting a check on recent incidents involving vehicles.

  Annabel hugged her knees in the driver’s seat of her car, her bare legs were cold now that the chill of the late spring night had fallen with the dark sk
y. The glistening scarlet on her clothing, although drying, was tacky, and some of the gore had drenched her powder blue cardigan, cooling her to a shiver. The seat was sodden from hours of spillage, Annabel felt uncomfortable, restless, scared, but any motion towards the welcomingly dry passenger seat had been met with the controlling voice of her unseen master demanding her stillness. Once she had tried to look behind her, but the shattering voice screamed terrifyingly in her ears, leaving her head ringing, chastised. A tear trickled silently down her pallid cheek, and dripped from her chin to mingle with the spent crimson on her skirt.

  The car was resourcefully concealed amongst the drooping branches of the oak tree, and the blackness of its paintwork blended into the fading twilight. The only sounds were the scuttling animals, the swooping birds, out in the silky darkness to hunt their prey.

  “Mrs Rackham, as far as you know, you were the last person to see Mrs Keeley.”

  Gail swallowed hard, this sounded far too much like a murder investigation for her nerves to cope with. She wanted a drink to calm her, but knew Greg would object. Her voice cracked as she spoke, timid and retiring. “Yes. She arrived at my house at about eleven this morning. I’d just made a pot of tea, so she had a quick cup with me, then said she’d better rush off. She was going into Oxford to do some shopping.”

  Taylor scribbled the words in his own version of shorthand. “What sort of shopping, do you know?”

  “She had to go and get a present from Argos for Katie, it’s her birthday on Sunday and Annabel’s arranging a party for her.”

  “Katie is your daughter?” This was directed at Greg, but it was Gail who answered.