Unlikely Killer

by Ricki Thomas

  “If that’s how you feel, Mr Keeley, we will have no choice but to arrest you, but I’m sure you don’t want that, do you?” Krein’s gut feeling was that Greg was innocent, but he needed to rule him out first.

  PC Flynn had the tedious task of trying to locate the curious car that had caused the accident near Clouds Hill. He was a passenger in the squad car that his colleague PC Collins was driving. His heart skipped when he noticed an unusual break in the low hedge on the left of the small country lane, not far from Wool. The muddied grass showed light tyre tracks on the verge leading to the gap.

  “Whoa, Jack, there’s something just up there.”

  Jack Collins slowed the Astra and pulled up beside the hole in the boundary, the tyre tracks continued through the shooting crops across the field, leading to a copse a couple of hundred meters away.

  Jack reversed the car back slightly and manoeuvred through the hedge to follow the tracks, his heart racing with anticipation. He remained in first gear as the car bounced slowly over the uneven ground. As they neared the copse, the back end of a vehicle came into view, hidden underneath the drooping boughs of a willow tree. Sam Flynn radioed the find back to headquarters, requesting back up. They parked behind the car, and Sam moved the branches aside to get a clear reading of the registration plate. T two four seven S K D. Sam radioed it through, and within seconds excitement broke out at the police station. This was the car registered to a Mr Gregor Keeley, husband of a missing woman from Oxford. Annabel Keeley.

  Detective Inspector Louis Reed had slipped on the regulation paper suit to collect the scattered clothes inside the cordoned crime scene for forensic testing. He was used to the odd brawl, stabbing, he’d even once had a case of poisoning, but the carnage around him was revolting. The driver’s door of the black escort was wide open, the seat was drenched with rich, red blood, now drying black at the edges.

  Beside the car lay a pale blue floral skirt, heavily soaked with blood, but also with excrement, and a pale blue cardigan, still blood stained, but not as copiously. A pair of women’s shoes, low heel, navy, slightly tapered toe, both containing traces of blood, lay haphazardly by the trunk of the willow tree shadowing the car. A small Swiss army knife was found, sharp jagged blade extended, covered in blood. An empty clutch bag lay open beside the car, it’s navy darkened with patches of blood.

  The area had been cordoned off as soon as assistance had arrived, and a specialist search team were on their hands and knees, combing the area with their fingertips, searching for vital clues. So far there was no body. Where was this poor woman?

  A police photographer had taken numerous pictures of the scene, from every conceivable angle, so Reed, gloved, placed the articles carefully in paper bags for investigation. A curdled, sickened growl emerged from a colleague, and Reed guessed he’d found some evidence.

  He hastened through the tangled undergrowth, recoiling as his eyes met the bloodied lump of flesh in the parted leaves of the bush. It was a fully formed foetus, still attached to the undersized placenta by a pale blue cord. The body was limp and lifeless. A tiny, perfect human foetus. The constable released the branches and turned aside, retching. The photographer approached with his camera.

  Greg was tired, so tired. He couldn’t believe what was happening to him. He loved Annabel with all his heart, he’d never do anything to hurt her, but in the space of a day, not only had she gone missing, but he was suspected of doing something awful to her. So far Krein had admitted that a witness had seen Annabel covered in blood, and a man who strongly resembled Greg had been next to her. Why, oh why, hadn’t he worked in the main office yesterday. He sat in the stark room, his head leaning heavily, propped on his forearms, on the filthy wooden table, alone. Krein had been called out of the room a short while ago.

  The door opened, Krein entered, closely followed by Raynor, who was carrying a tray laden with three mugs of strong coffee. “Keeley, we’ve received some news.” Krein passed a mug to Greg. “You might need this. Your car has been found. It’s in a copse between Dorchester and Bournemouth, near a place called Wool.”

  Greg rose from the hard chair with a gasp. “And Annabel. What about Annabel?”

  “There is no sign of her, but I’m very sorry to say it doesn’t look good.” Krein glanced at his notes. “A pale blue skirt and cardigan were left beside the car, along with some low heeled navy court shoes, size eight, and, well, that’s all the news I have right now.” Krein couldn’t bring himself to tell Keeley about the foetus and the knife.

  Greg sat heavily, hearing the words and attempting to find some hope in them. “Annie’s favourite skirt is pale blue, she wears it all the time because it’s comfortable around her bump, you know, the baby.”

  Krein shuddered at the mention of the child, he sidetracked a little, guilty. “We have a special search team there at the moment looking for clues, or anything they can send for forensic testing, but I have to tell you, Mr Keeley, the clothes were bloodied: we now believe that Annabel may be injured somewhere.”

  “Blood. Annie. No. Not my Annie. You must be wrong, it must be the wrong car, just a coincidence, this sort of thing doesn’t happen in real life, Annie’s probably at home waiting for me, I …”

  “Mr Keeley, we’re doing all we can, but we need to act quickly. Do you know of anybody who resembles yourself who Annabel is in contact with?”

  “Resembles me? Do you mean …?” Greg looked up, his eyes tired and worn.

  The guilt was clear in Krein’s voice. “Yes. You can’t possibly have been in Dorset this morning, so obviously we apologise for the inconvenience you’ve had today. So, do you know of a man resembling yourself?”

  “No, I’m sorry, I don’t.” Greg began to cry, deep and sorrowful, like a forlorn child. Anguish for his wife, relief for himself.

  Wednesday 14th May

  On Krein’s request, Greg had supplied details of Annabel’s credit card and company, the fraud department had been contacted, and asked to call Krein if the card was used at all. However, Krein was still surprised at the phone call he had just taken from the MBNA.

  Annabel Keeley’s credit card had been used in Wareham Railway Station to purchase a ticket to Havant the night before, then in the early morning it had been used again in Havant to buy a ticket to London. According to the constable sent to inspect the transaction slip, the signature was a good copy, if not a little shaky, but could well have been forged. An expert would need to compare the handwriting with Annabel’s signature. The constable had interviewed the ticket officer at Wareham Station, but he couldn’t remember anything untoward. Mrs Keeley’s credit card simply said A. Keeley on it, with no reference to gender, so a male or female could have used it. Keeley was a dead woman, Krein was sure, and her killer was making his or her way to London. He’d no idea where in the city the killer may be heading to, he needed a witness somewhere, a sighting. Would this have to go public?

  Katie Joyce had just nipped across the street to her nearest newsagent in her home suburb of Clapham, to get a daily paper. It was still chilly in the morning at this time of year, but that didn’t deter her from lazily shrugging an overcoat over her pyjamas and slipping on her trainers, instead of dressing properly. She hadn’t even brushed her hair, but very soon she was regretting that. The man who was beside the shop window was gorgeous.

  Katie eyed him flirtatiously, and pushed past to enter the newsagents, but he didn’t seem to notice her. Damn, she thought, why hadn’t she made herself up before leaving. Irritated at her lack of foresight she grabbed a paper, and headed for the back of the long queue, waiting her turn, whilst admiring him through the glass. He was about six foot, no, a bit less, she estimated. His hair, covered by a beanie hat, was blond, in quite a shaggy style, just as she liked. He wore a baggy jumper, jeans, and his face was lovely, he looked so sensitive. Her heart leaped as he momentarily glanced through the window at her: Katie felt her cheeks burning, yet still she couldn’t take her eyes off him.

  However, K
atie had no idea what was going through the man’s mind. He was tired, very tired, he’d had a long journey, slow, tedious and uncomfortable. The train service had been poor, the usual delays, and he’d only managed to snatch a couple of hours sleep overnight.

  As Katie surveyed him, engrossed in the headlines on the billboard outside the shop, she had no inkling that his head was being plagued by nagging voices, and he didn’t like it: he was trying desperately to keep in control. His face was strained, confused, he was full of angst.

  Katie could see he was troubled, she glanced at her own newspaper to see what headlines could be so important to him. “Lawrence of Arabia Style Death 73 Years On.” What did that mean? And why did it bother the handsome man so much?

  He fished in his pocket, pulling out some change, and entered the shop. Rudely, he pushed through the crowd and took a tabloid from the display. He checked the price and threw a few coins on the counter in front of the dumbfounded queue, and left.

  Katie despondently watched him as he headed along the road, hoping that he lived nearby so they may cross paths again. She checked her watch, she’d make sure she arrived at the newsagent the same time tomorrow, maybe she would try and make conversation. He was far too stunning to give up easily.

  He reached a bench near the train station and sat, studying the front-page article intently. Seventy-three years ago yesterday, exactly, at eleven twenty two in the morning of the thirteenth of May, Thomas Lawrence had been in an accident, falling from his Brough motorcycle. This happened near his home on the road between Clouds Hill and Bovington. He had died six days later of his injuries. At eleven twenty yesterday the thirteenth of May, in exactly the same place, Alan Benton, a baker from Bovington, had been knocked from his Harley Davidson Sportster 1000cc by a black car. He died from his injuries. Opening the paper to page three, he read the full story. There had been speculation at the time that T E Lawrence had been murdered, a rumoured phantom black car had been at the scene of his accident. This was never proven, but it was such a coincidence that another motorcyclist had been involved in an accident with a black car at the same time seventy-three years on.

  He folded the paper and laid it on the bench beside him. The booming voice was back in his head, loud, overbearing, but somehow friendly. ‘Now do you realise that this is your future, this is your destiny.’ His mind tentatively asked; who was this person speaking to him so clearly? ‘I’m God, of course!’ The voice almost bemused, as if he should never have had to ask the question.

  Then the feeble voice that kept trying to come through in his head was back, irritating and timid, but he ignored it, it was irrelevant now God himself was telling him what he had to do. His new duty was to re-create killings. They must be the same time, the same place, and the same method. He must find a library and be directed by the books, and by God himself, because he needed to select the next person to die in a destiny killing carefully. This was what he was born for.

  Katie Joyce could not believe her luck. She hadn’t seen him come in, but there he was, at the table, quietly reading through a stack of books. She nudged her colleague, who was busily sorting through the returned books, ready to replace them on the shelves. Caroline, lost in a dream world, jumped at the interruption.

  Katie nodded towards the man. “ Hey Caz, check him out. Is that sex on legs or what?”

  Caroline sniggered and rolled her eyes. Katie was always falling in love with some new handsome guy. “Oh give it a rest, Katie, you’re bloody sex mad, you are.”

  “I saw him in the paper shop this morning, I thought I’d missed my chance, but here he is. You never know, maybe he saw me this morning and followed me here, maybe he fancies me.”

  “Don’t be so silly, and anyway, if he did follow you, don’t you think that’s a bit weird?” Caroline took another look at the man. He didn’t seem weird, appearing quite pleasant really, but you had to be so careful nowadays.

  “No, it would be romantic. Now how can I get his attention, show I’m interested?” She pondered to herself, her mind whirring.

  Greg Keeley lay in his bed, it was ten thirty and Gail had already breakfasted the children, taken the older two to school, and three year old Petra to the playgroup. The house was empty, and the bed felt more so without Annabel’s firm, athletic body next to his. Greg saw no reason to get up. Work didn’t matter now: how could it? Without Annabel by his side, life couldn’t mean anything. The phone trilled beside the bed, Greg stared at it, unsure, until it had rung five times, then he leant across and picked up the receiver.

  “Hello.”

  “Is that Mr Gregor Keeley?”

  Greg wriggled himself up until he was sitting, energised and hopeful on hearing Krein’s voice.

  “We have heard from Annabel’s credit card company, the MBNA. The card has been used twice since the car was found, once last night, and the second time this morning.”

  “Really? So Annie’s okay?” Greg sat up straight, a light smile underneath his moustache.

  “We really can’t tell at this stage, although we’ve sent the signature for analysis. I need to check with you that it’s alright to not cancel the card. If we don’t, we can keep track of where it’s used.”

  “Of course, of course, whatever it takes. Where was it used?”

  Krein referred to his scribbled notes. “Er, once in Wareham, then in Havant for a train ticket to London.”

  Greg pulled his feet from under the heavy covers and swung them off the bed. “London - she must be making her way home, she’ll probably be making her way to Paddington to come home.”

  Krein sighed inwardly. There was no hope of that. Annabel would never come home, but he felt it unfair to dash Mr Keeley’s hopes with what must be the bare truth. Keeley would come to realise as time went on, and sooner or later they would have the body to confirm his theory. “I will keep you informed. Mr Keeley.”

  Greg replaced the receiver, his smile wide, he had no idea about the severity of the bloodbath that was found in and beside his car, he had no knowledge that the police had recovered a foetus. His child. All he could believe was that his wonderful Annie would be home soon. Should he go and wait for her at Caisten Station?

  He slammed the book shut in disgust, and several people turned to stare as he growled. “That’s just not good enough!”

  Caroline caught Katie’s eye and mouthed. ‘Stressy!’ But Katie mouthed back. ‘No! This is my chance’. She came out from behind the checking desk, and sauntered to where the man sat, now engrossed in a different book.

  “Hello, sir.” She breezed confidently, although she was anything but. He glared at her, surprised, eyeing her quizzically, and his gaze moved towards the door, becoming vacant once more.

  “Sir?” Katie leant closer, levelling her neat cleavage with his eyes.

  He returned his gaze towards her and looked, she felt, into her soul. “You called me sir.” His voice was gentle, kind.

  Katie giggled. “That’s because I don’t know your name! Look, I work here, and you looked like you were having difficulty a minute ago. Is there anything I can do to help?” She wanted to offer him more than help.

  A slow smile spread across his face. The nagging little voice in his head tried to get through, but he ignored it, and pulled one of the books forward. “You know, you might be able to help me, I hope so.” Katie was enjoying the delicate, fragile tone in his voice. “The only one I can find doesn’t happen until the twenty seventh of May, but I need one earlier than that.”

  “I’m sorry, sir, I’m not quite with you.” Katie glanced down at the book and noticed the title was ‘Unsolved Cases’. She wasn’t familiar with it.

  A stronger voice came into his head, loud and clear, this one he didn’t want to avoid, because this was God. It was God, and God was telling him that he must act normally. The girl started to speak, so he held his hands up against his ears, he wanted to hear God, not her. The message was clear, he had to make friends with her. Fate had made her talk to him, m
aybe she was to be his next victim. The voice drained away and he realised that the girl’s hand was on his shoulder.

  “Are you okay?” Katie was concerned about his anxious eyes: he looked haunted.

  But suddenly he was back with her, the faraway look dissipated. “Oh, I’m so sorry, I must be confusing you.” He examined her face, smiling. “I just get these huge headaches sometimes, you know, when I concentrate really hard. I’m so sorry if I alarmed you, but it’s okay now.”

  Katie grinned and pulled out a seat next to him, shrugging into it neatly. “So, what can I help you with? And my name’s Katie, by the way.”

  “Hi Katie, I’m,” he blinked away from her, and turned back, “Paul. I’m conducting a research into the dates that crimes are committed on, and, er days. I want to see if there’s any correlation.” Katie wasn’t really hearing his words, she was too busy looking into his pale, enigmatic eyes. “I need to find a murder between the fourteenth of May and the twenty seventh of May, and I can’t.”

  Katie regarded him blankly.

  “No,” his smile subsided, “of course you can’t help, silly me. Is it okay if I stay here and keep looking?”

  Katie grinned again. “Of course, Paul. I’ll tell you what, I’ll go and look for some more crime books, maybe there’ll be something else in another one.”

  Katie had collected as many crime and murder books as she could find, and throughout the morning had assisted Paul in any way he had wanted, although crimes and killings didn’t interest her in the slightest. Being in close proximity to Paul made the work worthwhile. He didn’t say much, a few grunts of thanks, but he was engrossed in his studies, scribbling notes here and there, collating details, names, dates.