Unlikely Killer

by Ricki Thomas

  Glancing in the mirror, Paul could see that Paula was gone. He could call himself Paul again now.

  Inquisitive, Paul opened the briefcase, rooting through the paperwork. He stuffed Jackson’s driving license in his pocket, regardless that he could never pass himself off as a black man. Nothing else took his interest, and it occurred to him that the body in the boot might have a wallet in the pocket. He climbed out of the car, shoved the briefcase inconspicuously under a bush, and opened the boot, grimacing at the heady metallic smell. He tried a trouser pocket, then pushed the body over and tried another. This time was more fruitful, he tugged out a bulging wallet. Closing the boot with relief, he flipped the wallet open and spied the two credit cards and a large wad of notes. Smiling, he got back into the car and drove back onto the M1. He would stop at the next service station, he had plenty of money again.

  Tuesday 1st July

  The incident room at Leicester had been disbanded, Krein reluctantly returning to Kidlington. Once more he relentlessly pored over the documents he had, trying to get into the killer’s mind, but one thing kept springing up at him. Bella Wright. The more he thought about things, the more certain he was that the Candice Albrough shooting was purely a ruse to get the police off the killer’s trail. If Krein’s gut feeling was correct, then the ploy had worked. Paul wasn’t stupid, he would have realised that the operation in Stretton would stop, giving him an open page to continue with the planned copycat killing. Krein’s instinct, his understanding of Paul, it made sense.

  Krein knocked on MacReavie’s door, entering when beckoned.

  “Krein, what is it.”

  Krein shifted his feet, knowing he was about to be humiliated. “Guv. It’s the Operation Bella business. I want to go back to Leicester, I want to restart the surveillance.” MacReavie took a bite of his sandwich, his face registering nothing as he chewed slowly. Krein wasn’t sure which way the conversation was swaying, he tried his luck again. “I don’t care if it’s on a smaller scale, even if I have to do this alone. But I’d bet my life that Paul’s going to strike there on Saturday.”

  “So I lose you for another week?”

  “No, some twenty one year old girl gains me to save her life, if my hunch is correct. Look, even if I just keep a watch out, and if anyone at all decides to cycle along the Burton Overy Road that evening, well, at least I can make sure they’re safe.”

  As MacReavie took another bite, Krein could see his suggestion was hitting home, he felt hugely more confident than he had five minutes previously. “I wouldn’t normally say this, Krein, but you’ve got a proven track record, and you’re a good officer, when you’re not mouthing off. I’ll have to clear this with Falder-Woodes, but I’ll make no objection if he doesn’t.”

  Amazed, Krein felt like hugging the man he had grown to abhor: instead he turned to leave with his dignity intact. “Thank you, Guv.”

  The previous Sunday one of the tabloids had featured an in depth series of articles about the movements of the murderer, dubbing him the Kopycat Killer. They’d commissioned their own psychologist to comment on his state of mind, a man far less sympathetic and compassionate than Jaswinder, and, as a result, he had solely blamed schizophrenia, convinced that this was the illness Kopycat was suffering from. He emphasised that the Government should bring a law in to protect the public by keeping all ‘mad’ people safely locked away. The gullible nation had swallowed the information unquestioningly, leading to gossip at best, campaigning against psychiatric hospitals at worst. Britain’s masses were in uproar, and the possibility of vigilante teams was real.

  It was nearly two months now since Annabel had gone missing, and the Keeley household had no choice but to get back to normal, however difficult that was. Greg had finally gone back to work at Gordon and MacIntyre Chartered Accountants on the Monday, grateful for the firm’s patience over the past few weeks. They had raised no objection to the extended, paid leave, and the other employees, whose workload had increased during Greg’s absence, were pleased to have him back. If Greg was honest with himself, he was glad to be back too, working gave his shattered life some direction again. Gail had agreed to mind the children until a suitable childminder could be found.

  It was eleven thirty in the morning, and she’d just collected Petra from her nursery. She was helping the three year old to take off her shoes when the telephone rang.

  Gail held the phone in the crook of her neck, still undoing the buckles on Petra’s tiny sandals. “Hello.”

  “Mum?” Gail nearly dropped the phone. She grabbed it securely, pushing it into her ear, the red shoes forgotten.

  “Mum? It’s Annabel.”

  “Annabel?” Gail sank to the floor, her legs weakened, the surprise tingling all over her body. “Annabel. Is that really you?”

  “Mum, you can’t tell anyone I’ve called, especially Gregor. I need money. Can you arrange that?”

  The voice was harsh, the accent difficult to place, but the inconsistency didn’t register with Gail, she couldn’t bear for her hopes to be dashed. Her mind also glossed over Annabel calling her husband Gregor. Annabel had always hated the name, only having used it once during the marriage ceremony. All she wanted was her baby back. “How, darling?”

  “Into my bank account, it must be cash, and it must go in today. Have you got a pen, I’ll give you the details.”

  Her foolish hope destroying her common sense, Gail snatched the pen that lay beside the telephone. “Yes I have, tell me then.”

  “Barclays, sort code twenty, one six, four four, account number two two three four, nine six seven six, in the name R G Bates. I need a thousand.”

  Tears were threatening. “Are you coming home soon, baby?” The line went dead. Gail let the tears flow, Petra’s confused face looking on. “That was your Mummy.” Gail started to re-buckle the sandals, they had a trip to make to the bank.

  Maureen Isley, a bespectacled, hunched woman, was fifty-two years of age, but could easily pass as a decade older. The glistening sun highlighted her deep-set wrinkles as she briskly walked her elderly miniature dachshund, Bibby, along Charles Street, heading towards the Haymarket Shopping Centre in Leicester. It wasn’t her usual route, but after losing her beloved husband three weeks before, she’d needed to alter her routines, the painful memories everywhere reminded her of her bereavement.

  Soaking in the warmth, the beauties of summer, Maureen was immersed in her daydreams, until Bibby’s incessant pulling on the lead snapped her into reality once more. She tugged him back, but he was determined, overruling her, leaping into the mound of black bags, foul rubbish and vegetable peelings littering the alleyway to the side of the pavement.

  Curious, Maureen followed his foraging nose, and tentatively opened the bag that had incurred his interest. It contained some clothes, some appeared on early inspection to be stained, but recoverable. They appeared to be well tailored, and Maureen felt it would be a shame to waste them. She resolved to wash the garments before giving them to the charity shop just around the corner of her home, and snatched the bag from the reeking pile of rubbish.

  Turning the key in the door, Maureen entered her small terraced home, the comforting fragrance of lavender hitting her nostrils. She sauntered through to the kitchen, removing the lead from Bibby, who gratefully curled in his basket and snoozed off the walk. Emptying the bag onto the work surface, Maureen recoiled at the stench of stale body odour, which curled almost visibly from the material. In a sweeping movement, the items were off the surface, and inside the washing machine. Against her habits, Maureen switched the machine on without even checking the labels. That odorous experience had been most unwelcome.

  Rachael Bates impatiently fed her card into the cash machine for the third time that day. Relief washed over her when she saw the balance of eight hundred and forty two pounds, fifty-seven pence displayed on the screen. This was the first time in weeks that her account had shown a credit balance. Rachael couldn’t believe the stupid woman had fallen for it, not t
hat she was complaining. She’d give her another two weeks before phoning again. Until that missing woman’s body was found, she now had a source of easy money. What a brilliant scam!

  Rachael withdrew two hundred pounds and headed straight for the shops. This was worth a celebration! And a visit to New Look was a great place to start.

  Allie Brooks let herself through the front door of her state of the art flat, hassled from a particularly stressful day at work. She grabbed the handful of letters that lay at her feet, noting they were mostly bills, and took them to the kitchen, dumping her bags before switching the kettle on. Whilst preparing a welcome mug of coffee, Allie noticed the logo for Butlers Plc, the company her husband worked for, on an envelope. She picked it up, it looked official. Jackson was away on business, he had been since the twenty sixth of June, but he was due back tomorrow. Should she open it? It was addressed to him, but it did look important. Intrigued, she tore it open: he would understand.

  ‘Dated thirtieth of June. Dear Mr Brooks, We are concerned that you have been absent for four days without contacting us with a reason for your absence. We have tried both your mobile and home phone numbers, but to no avail. Would you please contact the undersigned immediately. Yours sincerely, J K Brown, Human Resources Department.’

  Puzzled, Allie looked at the clock, it was just past six in the evening, they’d probably have all gone home by now, but she decided to try anyway. Dialling, she was surprised when J K Brown collected the call. Giving her name, she continued. “I opened the letter because as far as I knew he’s away on business. For you.”

  “He should have been, Mrs Brooks. He was supposed to attend a meeting at our branch in Darlington on the twenty seventh, but he never turned up. He was booked into the King’s Head Hotel in Darlington, but he never turned up there either.”

  “I haven’t heard from him, he never calls when he’s away. He set off last Thursday, he was definitely on his way, I saw him off myself before I went to work.” Allie was furious, she just knew that Jackson was having another affair, and couldn’t understand why he needed to, she gave him everything he wanted in bed.

  “I see. Right. This is strange. Do you think that you should alert the police?”

  “Police!” Allie almost laughed the word out, they wouldn’t be interested in a guy who couldn’t keep his dick to himself.

  “It might be an idea.”

  “You’re serious, aren’t you?” Allie could feel a sinking feeling drifting down her body, a stark realisation that things may never be the same again if she made that call. The silence prompted her to decide. “I’ll phone them now.”

  Greg had worked late into the evening and was pleased to be home. Although his colleagues had done their utmost to keep on top of his work, there was still a sizeable backlog. It would take a few weeks to catch up. He sat at the table with his father in law, Ted, tempted by the delicious smells wafting from the kitchen.

  Gail entered the homely dining room, setting a plate of steaming pasta in front of her husband, and another for Greg. She smiled happily, and returned for her own meal.

  “You’ve got a spring in your step, darling. Are you having an affair or something?” Ted chuckled, pleased to see her eyes sparkling for the first time in weeks.

  Gail brought her small portion through, laying it down and hungrily taking a mouthful. Greg and Ted glanced at each other, confused. Gail had been off her food since Annabel had disappeared, finally resorting to Complan in compromise to their worry. She smiled enigmatically, avoiding their eyes. “I’ve, er, I just had some good news today, that’s all.”

  Greg shook his head slowly, he dropped his fork onto the plate, his own appetite now vanished. The raw sorrow, the intense pain, his voice cracked. “How can any news be good when Annie’s still missing?”

  That was it. Gail could contain it no longer, she had never been one for secrets or lies, and she couldn’t let the poor man suffer any more. She jumped up, her excitement energising her as she danced about the room. “I’ve got to tell you, I can’t keep it a secret any more. I heard from Annabel today.” Ted choked on his food, Greg’s jaw dropped, they both gaped at Gail, stunned. “She called me this morning, eleven thirty two exactly. But she told me not to tell anyone, so keep it quiet, boys. But she’s okay, she sounded fine.”

  It took a while, but Greg finally pieced some words together. “Where was she?”

  “She didn’t say.” Still excitable, Gail sat down.

  “This doesn’t make any sense.” It was Greg’s turn to circle the room, agitated. “What did she say?”

  “She needed some money, so I paid a thousand into her bank account this afternoon. I’d pay her anything as long as she comes home soon.”

  “For God’s sake. Annabel would never ask for money, she’s too proud. Have you got the details of the bank account you paid the money into?” Ted was as rattled as Greg.

  “Yes, somewhere, just a mo.” Gail sprung through the door, returning moments later with her handbag. “Here we are.” She passed a slip of paper to her husband.

  “R G Bates. That’s not Annabel!” Her idiocy amazed him.

  Gail chuckled nervously, the sparkle leaving her eyes, the grey pallor returning. “Of course not, she’s obviously using another name for some reason.” Her face fell as she uttered the words, the foolishness of her actions, of her desperate hope, registering clearly for the first time.

  “You stupid bloody woman. I’m going to call the police.” Ted clenched the scrap in his hand as he marched into the hall to use the telephone.

  Greg, totally understanding Gail’s desire for the caller to be genuine, leant over and held her tightly as she sobbed uncontrollably. “I just wanted it to be true.”

  Rachael Bates paced the cold, stark police cell, the church bells heralding midnight on the civil side of the bars. Why had the stupid, rich cow talked! She could have had some real fun for once in her life. All these wealthy people, swanning around like they own the place, her with her three kids trying desperately to make ends meet. Why should they have all the money and leave her in poverty on the benefits queue. Bloody bitch. When she got out she was going to make the rich bitch pay.

  Luckily for Gail Rackham, the courts were going to decide to keep Rachael behind bars for a while, irrespective that her children would be under the care of social services. After all, this was a crime of seriously bad taste.

  Saturday 5th July

  The morning newspapers heralded the worrying headlines: ‘Vigilante Teams Blitz Schiz’

  Thelma Pilkington’s blood chilled as she read the horrifying headlines. She had been, like most people, following the movements of the Kopycat Killer, as he was now known across the country, but this acceleration of hatred towards mental disorders was unwarranted. Obviously she agreed that if a person was deemed dangerous, they should be confined in a secure hospital, but this blood hunting was vulgar, and served no purpose.

  The shop was empty, so she took advantage of the quiet to read the report. The previous night a group of vigilantes, incited by the tabloid reports nearly a week before, had viciously beaten a twenty eight year old man. David Perryman was a schizophrenic who had been released from the Tower Mental Institution into community care two weeks previously. His disorder was controlled by risperidone, an anti-psychotic drug, and he was being introduced back into society having responded well to the treatment.

  Unfortunately for him, a group of men in Manchester had taken it into their own hands to ‘rid the streets of these ‘weirdos’, as they labelled schizophrenics, without any clear understanding of the condition. The police vouched to stop such uneducated behaviour, but the ‘our view’ column of the newspaper appeared to be supporting the vigilantes. Thelma felt it was all so hypocritical, David had done nothing wrong, he was no harm to anybody, having been sectioned after trying to commit suicide. His illness made him punish himself, not others.

  Thelma was disheartened by the lack of understanding, her nephew suffered from paran
oid schizophrenia, so she had a vast knowledge of the disease. As she read the tail end of the article, the bell on the door chimed as an aging lady entered the shop, clutching a carrier bag. She walked over and passed the bag to Thelma.

  Maureen Isley clearly didn’t want to just leave the clothes and go, she was intent on a conversation. Thelma listened patiently as she explained how she’d found the clothes, how they were filthy and stained, but after painstakingly working on them, they’d come up as good as new. She elaborated on their superior quality, and how she would have liked to have kept some of them herself, but she was just a small woman, and the clothes were large. Thelma thanked her profusely at every stage of the brief conversation, and smiled with relief when Maureen eventually tired of her self promotion and left.

  Thelma opened the bag, the pleasant aroma of washing powder breezed out, and lifting the green tunic, she couldn’t disagree that the clothes had been laundered beautifully. But as she removed the carefully folded items one by one, a gnawing started in the pit of her stomach. There was a pair of men’s jeans, a pair of men’s combats. A pair of lady’s emerald green trousers, size fourteen. An Arran jumper, a navy fleece, both men’s, a couple of T-shirts, and a muddied woman’s trench coat, size ten, olive coloured. Hadn’t she read in the papers that the Kopycat Killer had worn clothes like these? And wasn’t one of his victims supposed to have been seen wearing a trench coat before she was murdered, that young girl in Suffolk. Without a second thought Thelma called the police.

  Krein couldn’t decide if he was excited or nervous. He had just arrived at the roadblock that had been organised at the entrance of the Burton-Overy road, near Stretton, that morning. Any person who wanted to use the road was to be stopped and questioned before being allowed through. If Paul was planning to recreate Bella Wright’s murder, this would undoubtedly alter his plans, but at least it would save a life. Krein’s mobile rang, he answered. “Morning, Guv. Yes, just got here.”