Unlikely Killer

by Ricki Thomas

  Paul turned Katie back, shrugging her upright again, and continued her final journey. A middle-aged couple were now approaching, Paul chatted quietly to Katie to appear as if they were a normal couple. As the couple neared, Katie’s body sagged, Paul scrabbled to retain his grip on her, desperate not to attract attention. But it was too late.

  “Bit too much to drink, was it?” The man grinned amicably at Paul.

  He had no choice but to answer, he couldn’t raise any suspicion, not now. Not so close to this perfect duty. “It’s her birthday today, she celebrated just a little too much!” He continued to walk, hoping his abruptness was enough to end the exchange.

  “Ahh, I’m sure she had a good time, maybe she’ll remember some of it in the morning.” To Paul’s relief the couple walked on, oblivious to the woman’s comment on the foul stench of the young lovers to her husband.

  Paul steered Katie’s body to the right, into a tiny lane that lead back to the main road. They were heading towards the gardens of Providence House. On reaching the pre-planned area, he glanced around to make sure they were alone, but, to Paul’s irritation, three inebriated teenagers were heading towards them. He swung Katie in front of himself, appearing to the boys that they were kissing. The youths walked past, oblivious to Paul and his corpse. Although the street was lit, there were enough shadows for Paul to hide with Katie. He dragged her into a bush at the end of the garden and, tucked away from undesired eyes, Paul took the knife from his pocket, holding it to Katie’s neck.

  He gazed at her, serene, peaceful, and his heart swelled with pride and anticipation. Her face was so beautiful, her closed eyes adding to her vulnerability, he steeled himself to slash her neck, but her loveliness prevented him. It was no good, he couldn’t do it. Not facing her. If this recreation was going to be authentic, the cut would have to be deep, from ear to ear. Rose Harsent had bled a lot when her killer had savaged her, but this new Rose wouldn’t. There was no heartbeat to pump any out. Still, the grisliness of mutilating this girl that he loved, he couldn’t watch the act, however much he was looking forward to it.

  Paul flipped Katie around, the smell of her hair wafting under his nose. He clenched at her abdomen, holding her body close to him, and returned the knife to her throat, the blade skimming her delicate skin. Resolute, he pulled the blade towards himself, and, piercing her neck, it glided across with ease. A shudder of excitement ran through Paul’s body, he’d been anticipating this moment for so long, and the small drop of blood which fell on his hand stirred emotions he’d long forgotten. Sexual emotions. They sickened him.

  The stream trickled daintily beside the bush he was hiding in, the gentle sound bringing him back to the present, and, as planned, he pushed the body towards it. It settled near, but not in, the water. Paul removed the muddy trench coat to expose the plain gown, took the container of paraffin from the bag and poured the entire contents over the body. He could hear footsteps approaching, so he ducked back into the bush, leaving Katie’s form to blend into the darkness of the mud on the bank of the stream. The footsteps heightened, then diminished, and Paul returned to finish the job.

  He took the candle and matches from the bag, lit the taper, and placed it into the candle lamp. He carefully held it beside Katie’s body, and soon a mesmerizing flame danced along the dress. Satisfied that she would continue to burn, Paul laid the candle lamp beside Katie, the final detail of Rose’s murder recreated. He ran over the wooden footbridge that led to the main road from Providence House, and slowed to a brisk walk, in order to not draw attention.

  It took half an hour for Paul to gather his, and some of Katie’s, belongings from inside the barn, and he was striding along a twisting lane towards Halesworth. He’d only been walking for minutes when the sound of distant sirens pulsed in his ears. He guessed his destiny Rose had been found, and when the speeding police car shot by him, he dodged into the undergrowth to avoid being seen. He’d have to find somewhere to stay, ready to arrange the next duty.

  Sunday 1st June

  The ringing brought Krein from a deep sleep, he reached over the bed covers and dragged the receiver to his ear, yawning.

  “Krein. It’s MacReavie. We’ve got a body.”

  Krein pulled himself upright, suddenly wide awake. “What’s happened?”

  “The body of girl matching Katie Joyce’s description has been found in a village called Peasenhall, in Suffolk. It’s early days but it seems that her throat was cut and the body was semi-burned. The Halesworth force, who you’ve already been in contact with, are the headquarters for Suffolk Constabulary’s Eastern Area, so they’re dealing with the investigation in conjunction with us. Anyway, the Super’s been talking to them, they want to issue a press release, and the Super agreed it would be a good idea at this point.”

  “This early?” Krein’s first reaction was that they were being hasty.

  MacReavie’s voice quietened, his revulsion apparent. “Krein, this one’s different. Whoever mutilated that body is clearly sick, I haven’t given you the whole picture yet. I will, on our drive over there, the Super wants us to furnish them on the background, the Keeley girl, and what we know of the credit card transactions. Can you pick me up, as soon as possible? I’ve agreed to be there by nine-ish.”

  Krein glanced at his clock, it was four in the morning. Through a gap in the drawn curtains he noted the sky was still dusky, the remnants of nighttime serenaded by birdsong. “Give me twenty minutes, Guv.” He replaced the receiver with a sigh. That poor girl. They were too late.

  Katie’s butchered, charred remains lay, draped in a white sheet, on a metal preparation table. The room was cooled, and the light intense. Her body had been discovered nine hours previously, but the attending police surgeon had not been willing to estimate a time of death, there were vast anomalies with the state of the remains and the injuries afflicted. So, having been identified by her mother and Caroline Merris by video link, she was first in line for a post mortem this bright, summer morning. Now a fatality was linked to Annabel Keeley’s disappearance, the case had taken priority over everything else.

  James Alder, the pathologist who was to perform the post mortem, alongside Ewan Fielding, his junior, entered the room. They were followed shortly by Detective Superintendent Jackie Goodman, of the Halesworth Major Investigation Team, who was, by rank, in charge of the case.

  Krein steered his steel grey Audi slowly through the gateposts and into the car park of the Halesworth Police Station, parking it neatly. The journey had been long, and having met rush hour at the tail end, he was grateful to switch the engine off.

  “Thank God we’re here at last. It’s further away than I realised!” MacReavie huffed as he stretched his legs in the foot-well.

  Krein, who had been behind the wheel for the entire journey whilst his superior snored blissfully, glanced at him, incredulous. “Wasn’t it just, Guv.” His sarcasm didn’t register.

  MacReavie clicked the door open, clambering outside into the warm, fresh air. Krein followed, stretching his stiff body. Together they strode to the main reception desk, rang the bell, and waited for the desk sergeant to allow them into the recently modernised building.

  Paul awoke, he was surrounded by grime, layers of dust, and greying cobwebs. He scrabbled to his feet, his eyes adjusting to the brightness of the summer sunshine streaming through the open doorway. Once he’d regained his bearings, he remembered arriving at the derelict cottage in the early hours of the morning, and a smile flickered across his face.

  It all came back to him now, the long walk from Peasenhall, ducking into the bushes whenever he heard a vehicle approaching, many of which held emergency teams en-route to the murder scene. His murder scene. He’d felt so important.

  He’d headed towards Halesworth by chance, but fate had intervened in the form of a blackened cottage that lay in the corner of a large agricultural field. The windows were firmly boarded up, but the back door gaped open, leading to a small room. It was derelict, it was filthy, bu
t it was private, unused, and it had hidden him securely during the massive police activity of the night before.

  Paul dusted his grubby clothes with hands that still had traces of crusted blood dribbled over them. He knew that the people he’d passed on Katie’s last journey the previous evening would now come forward as witnesses. He’d been astute enough to disguise himself slightly by using a heavy duty glue on his cheeks to attach clippings of his own hair, but still, his description would now be circulated through the police forces, maybe even to the newspapers. From this moment on he needed to be vigilant, and fastidious, about leaving no trail to avoid being caught before his duties were complete. He also needed to find some replacement clothes: he’d been wearing the same jeans and jumper for weeks, and they’d not been washed since he’d stayed at Katie’s flat.

  Feeling an irritation on his face, Paul scratched at his cheeks, pain emanating from the welts caused by the harsh glue. He pulled his hand away and noticed the fresh blood on his fingers. He needed to find somewhere to wash, clean his face, wash his foul smelling body. Paul scooped up the holdall and braved the brightness outside. Now he could see his surroundings with clarity, he noticed the dishevelled house lay on a main road, and he wanted to avoid being seen if possible.

  A dirt track led away from the road, so, after checking he wasn’t being watched, he started along the path.

  He hadn’t walked for long when a cluster of buildings came into view. It appeared to be a farm. The track was open, and Paul realised he was conspicuous, but there were no bushes or trees to give him cover. If anyone spotted him, he would have to improvise.

  Nearing the largest of the buildings, Paul noticed the windows were open, and probable signs that it was currently inhabited. However, a rambling, albeit small, cottage lay to one side, and it looked to be empty. The windows were all closed, the curtains drawn, and the washing line was clear. Paul veered from the track, trotting eagerly towards the building. He grasped a short length of wood from the undergrowth, slamming it powerfully against a ground floor window. The glass shattered easily. Paul ducked behind a bush for a minute in case the noise had been heard, but nobody appeared. He plucked the remaining jagged edges of glass from the frame with his gloved fingers, and clambered through into the warm, stuffy room.

  The cottage was dark inside, the curtains holding most of the sunlight out. His eyes adjusted quickly, and he could easily find his way round. His stomach growling with hunger, he opened the fridge and tore at some cooked ham, stuffing it voraciously into his mouth. He washed it down with orange juice from the carton. Startled by his barbaric behaviour, he removed his gloves, and pulled a plate and a glass from the wall cupboard. He filled the glass with milk, sliced cheese onto the plate, and finished his meal with more finesse.

  Satiated, Paul slid a pair of rubber gloves onto his hands, he rinsed the dishes, dried them and replaced them in the cupboard. He exchanged the gloves for his own, and sauntered up the creaking, uneven stairs. Pushing the first door ajar, the blue room was littered with discarded toys, so he tried another. Spotting a double bed, Paul entered, he tugged the wardrobes open, and wrenched through the hangers. He removed a pair of combat trousers, a T-shirt, and a hefty navy fleece. The owner was obviously very large, the clothes would smother Paul, but at least they were clean, and would disguise him further. As an afterthought, he grabbed some clean socks and boxer shorts, dropping several pairs of each into his holdall.

  Paul pulled the curtain aside slightly to check that nobody was approaching the house, listening carefully to the distant farm machinery. Satisfied he had more time, he found the tiny bathroom and gratefully scrubbed at his sore skin, rubbing at the traces of glue, and the itchy scabs. Blood oozed from the rashes, and he dabbed at them with toilet paper until they calmed. A mirrored wall cupboard housed a tube of Savlon, which he rubbed gently into his skin, before tucking it into his bag for further use. Paul peeled his putrid clothes off, dropping them onto the floor, and filled the basin with steaming water to cleanse himself fully.

  Appreciating the freshness, he tugged on the stolen outfit, and sponged the scum from the basin until it sparkled in the dim light. He gathered the discarded, soiled clothes, and stuffed them into the holdall. Trotting down the stairs, his cleanliness giving him a spring in his step, he grabbed a baseball cap from coat hook and settled it firmly on his lightly scented hair.

  Now the hard part was about to start. His next duty was to be done in London. He had to travel there, un-challenged, and find lodgings where he could prepare his next duty. He had just over two weeks before the next was due, on the eighteenth of June. Hopefully this was enough time for any fuss to die down.

  Detective Superintendent Jackie Goodman entered her office, pale from witnessing the autopsy. She was hardened to them, having attended many as she worked her way up the career ladder, but this one was particularly distressing. Usually she could distance herself from the victim easily, but a death of such violence was rare, and that, coupled with Katie Joyce’s youth and beauty, made that task harder. Jackie laid her jacket across the back of her seat and sat down heavily. Taking a few moments to compose herself, she buzzed on the intercom to ask the two detectives from the Thames Valley force through.

  An ardent feminist, Jackie held back a sneer when the two men entered. She stood and shook their hands, introducing herself, and gestured to the visitor’s seats in her office. Together, they all sat.

  “As you know I have just attended the autopsy. I’m afraid it’s not a simple death, and James Alder, the pathologist, recommended that the body is retained for now.”

  Krein and MacReavie were listening intently, they issued a swift glance at each other, knowing this was highly unusual.

  “The victim has been identified as Katherine Joyce, as we expected, and that in itself means that Suffolk, Thames Valley, Dorset, and the City of London police forces need to work as a team. Thank God for the Holmes System!” Jackie allowed herself a light smile, but it wasn’t returned. She cleared her throat, referring to the notes on her desk. “James believes that Katherine …”

  “Katie.”

  Jackie glared at Krein, she wasn’t used to being corrected, especially by a Detective Inspector. “Katherine didn’t die from the neck wound, nor from the burns injuries. He believes she died of asphyxiation, caused by being immersed in water.”

  “She drowned?” Krein was shocked.

  “There was a small amount of water in the stomach, and a tiny amount of water in the lungs. Samples of both have been sent for analysis, but so far there are no other indications to believe any other verdict than drowning.” Jackie picked up the notes. “Although bruises to the wrists suggest she had been shackled prior to death, there were no signs of a struggle, and due to the small volume of water in the lungs and stomach, she must have died in shallow water. She appears to have had a strong laryngeal reflex, which diverted the water away from the lungs and into the stomach, but as there was no apparent struggle, we cannot say that she was held under water by force. We may have to assume that the cause of death was accidental.”

  Krein stood up, angry. “For God’s sake, her neck was sliced open and her body burned. That’s not a bloody accident.”

  “No, but they were inflicted on a body that had been dead for about four days. It’s possible someone was trying to cover up an accident.”

  “No. No.” Krein shook his head. “Burn a body to hide it maybe, but not the throat, that does not make sense. No.”

  George Walters sat on his comfortable fireside chair facing Jackie Goodman and Detective Sergeant Washington. He, and a couple of other witnesses to the dead girl and her companion, had called the police station that morning on hearing the news, and they were all being interviewed in turn by detectives working for the Major Investigation Team. However, Jackie wanted to see George and his wife personally because they had actually spoken with the man. It was possible they may give the best description yet. She was starting with George, and would see Lu
cy Walters afterwards. It was important they were interviewed separately.

  “Mr Walters, could you give me a description of the couple that you saw last night please, in as much detail as possible.”

  “Certainly.” George Walters was an affable man, he liked to help when possible. “The man was about my height, maybe a bit shorter,”

  “Your height is?”

  “He was five foot nine or ten. He had a fine, downy beard and short hair, I’m not sure what colour it was, it was dark.”

  “His hair was dark?” Jackie was scribbling in her notebook.

  “No, the sky was. He was quite scruffy, you know, big jumper, tatty jeans, trainers. And he spoke quite well, he had a gentle voice. Not from round here. We come from Sussex ourselves, and I could recognise the southern tones in his voice.”

  “Thank you, and the girl?”

  George laughed, stopping as he remembered she’d been murdered. “She was drunk as a skunk, totally blitzed. She was swaying all over the place, he was having trouble keeping her up. She had her eyes shut the whole time. I did notice that she was wearing weird clothes. She had a long black dress on, and one of those big coats that either women or men wear.”

  Jackie scribbled the words in capital letters, there wasn’t a coat on the body when it was found. “Can you describe the coat better? Colour, style, length?”

  “It was longish, and quite pale, had a big belt with a buckle on it, but it was tied a bit, not buckled. I thought she looked a bit of a mess, tell you the truth, but saying that, she was very pretty. Her hair was neat, tied back nicely.”