by Ricki Thomas
Then another emotion appeared: fear. What if God never got in touch again? What would he do? And another emotion: loneliness. What if God wasn’t by his side for the rest of his life? He needed God, he needed his instructions. Moreover, he realised he needed to do the duties. They made him feel powerful, strong. He loved the way the bodies fell, their appearance in death, the way they spilled blood.
The pain swamping over in waves tired Paul. He closed the organiser, replaced it in the case, and lay once more. Within seconds sleep was upon him, and he was oblivious to the sirens that howled nearby.
“Detective Krein? My name is Eliza Elliot, I’m the staff nurse in the A and E department of Guys Hospital. I have instructions that we are to contact you if any males matching the description you sent to the hospital are treated.”
Krein straightened his back, praying this was the break he’d been waiting for. “Yes, that’s right.”
“Well, I don’t know if this will help you or not, but a young man has just been admitted. He was brought in by ambulance a couple of hours ago, seems someone found him in the Docklands, lying in a coma. We believe from the state of him that he’s a vagrant.”
“What’s wrong with him?” Krein was already pulling his jacket on, trying to catch Rubenski’s attention.
“I can’t give you that information, patient confidentiality, but I can tell you he has had a brain scan, if that helps.”
“Yes, it does. I’m on my way.”
It was eight in the evening when Krein arrived at Guys, but the sun was still beating down, the drought now official. The underground had been crazy, especially as Krein wasn’t used to ducking and diving like the more experienced commuters. He found Accident and Emergency, and was directed to the intensive care suite. Krein’s eagerness was further thwarted when he found the man was currently in surgery.
After detailing his interest in the man, and showing his warrant card, the ward sister agreed to speak with him. She explained that they had no idea who the man was, there was no identification on him at all. The team on A and E had estimated his age to be early twenties. He had been filthy when the ambulance had picked him up, and it was assumed he was homeless. They had no idea how long he had been unconscious, but he was currently having a craniotomy, to remove a meningioma, a tumour of the meninges.
“What does he look like?”
She gave him a scathing look, checking her watch. “I would imagine like the description you sent to our hospital, otherwise A and E wouldn’t have called you! You can see for himself, he should be out soon, but go easy on him, he won’t be very well for a while. May I get back to my work now?”
Krein drank endless plastic cups of coffee, wasting all his loose change in the vending machine. He paced, he sighed, he was bored, he was excited. And eventually the man was wheeled into intensive care. He wasn’t awake, but he wasn’t in a critical condition, the operation had been a success. Krein entered the quiet, darkened room, having promised not to disturb the patient. He stood over the bed and studied the man. He was handsome, his eyes closed, his breathing peaceful, and he bore a strong resemblance to the photofits. He was unshaven, and the stubble was dark brown, but his head was bandaged so his hair colour remained a mystery. He didn’t look like a murderer, he looked like an innocent boy, fast asleep.
A nurse came in to the room, she plumped the pillows and began her hourly checks on the man. Krein whispered. “His hair, do you know what colour it is?”
She shook her head. “He’ll have had his head shaved before the op.”
“I take it you won’t still have the hairs?”
“No, why?” The man’s blood pressure was normal.
“I need a sample of his DNA. Can I swab the inside of his cheek?”
Her expression changed from caring to horrified, she let go of the man’s wrist, the pulse count forgotten. “He’s just had major surgery! He doesn’t need you poking him about.”
The tone was equally indignant. “We have reason to believe that this man may be the Kopycat Killer that you’ll have read about in your Sunday papers. We need his DNA.”
Her eyes widened, shocked, and she glanced down at the bandaged man. “He looks so innocent!” A moment of indecision. She knew it was hospital policy not to allow any such action, and she knew she’d be in severe trouble if she consented. But she’d been following the case intensely, and it terrified her, especially Katie Joyce’s mutilation. She glanced around. “Take the swab.” Muttered under her breath, she hurried away so she wouldn’t witness the act.
Krein removed a plastic container from his pocket, he unscrewed it, and took two swabs from the inside of the man’s cheek, placing them in the container, and bar-coding it, before sealing it into a plastic bag. He left the room and located the nurse. “I need to call the incident room to have someone take this to the lab. Can I use your landline seeing as mobiles are banned in here?”
She wasn’t doing her routine checks so tenderly any more. “Yes, it’s out by reception.”
“I also need to speak to the surgeon who performed the operation.” She nodded.
A constable had visited the intensive care suite to collect the samples, and Rubenski had authorised a twenty four hour guard on the patient. Krein had spoken to the consultant who had performed the operation. The meningioma had been on his frontal lobe and had been successfully removed. He’d agreed that the pressure of the tumour could have caused a personality disorder, even one as advanced as the murderer’s, but he emphasised that most people who have brain tumours don’t tend to kill people. If this man was the murderer, it would be highly unusual.
Krein left instructions with the policing guards to contact him, day or night, as soon as the patient awoke, and made his way back to New Scotland Yard on The Broadway to update the notes. He had been allocated a room in a block of flats, owned by the Metropolitan Police for visits such as this, but he wanted to keep working. If he needed to sleep he could nap at his desk.
Paul’s eyes fluttered, his head was pounding. He pushed himself up slightly, but the movement exaggerated the pain, so he laid down once more. His surroundings were dark, except for the glowing stream of moonlight that shone eerily through the window. His head pulsed, throbbing with intense waves of pain, he wished for painkillers more than food for his famished belly or water for his raging thirst.
He wished God would come to him, but he felt too ill to beg. He knew he’d failed to commit suicide, and that meant he’d disobeyed God. He was still alive, and God wasn’t talking to him. Maybe He never would again. Gratefully, for it was the only time he was comfortable and untroubled, Paul fell back to sleep.
Thursday 17th July
His memory had been badly affected by the tumour, and, on waking, the man had been unable to remember much at all. However, the DNA from the swabs produced a match. The man was Callum Bates, one of the men reported as missing whose description had matched Kopycat’s. He was twenty two, had lived in Dunstable with his parents, and was last seen on May the first. His family had registered him missing the next day.
Dishearteningly, the DNA didn’t match any found at the crime scenes.
He’d made a satisfactory recovery over the past week, and was released to the police under caution voluntarily in the morning. Krein had attempted to interview him in the hospital a couple of times, but Callum’s memory refused to enlighten him, the questions met with an ‘I don’t know’ or an ‘I can’t remember’. And, frustratingly for Krein, the operation had left him weakened, he tired quickly, so the conversations were stopped abruptly. Occasionally a light would go on in his eyes, but it would soon fizzle away, and again he would state he couldn’t remember the past couple of months at all.
The interview room was stuffy, the window painted shut, and the stagnant air was stilled as the heat-wave burned outside. Krein sat opposite Callum, his collar open, top buttons undone. “Can you remember working at the Weston Avenue Club?”
Callum’s eyes were gentle, suiting his soft
face perfectly. The new hair on his head was that of a baby, it’s short silkiness a gentle chestnut. Krein could see he was trying to recall as opposed to conjuring a lie, as his stare was to the right. His voice was as velvety as his hair. “I’m sorry, I don’t even remember working, let alone at a club.”
“Have you ever used a gun?”
And instantly the light came on, his eyes shone alongside the relieved smile that confirmed he still had some recollection. “Dad had an airgun, we used to shoot at birds in the summer.”
“So you have a long term memory?”
“I think I must have, Sir. I can’t remember things, but when you said gun that memory came from nowhere.” His youthful face crinkled into a brief smile, it faded, replaced by concern. “Sir, what am I supposed to have done?”
Krein sighed, Callum wasn’t the killer, this felt wrong. He glanced at the constable standing guard at the door. “Did you go to Leicester, or Suffolk, or Essex? Do any of them ring a bell to you?”
And again, desperation to give him an answer. But nothing came forward, and he felt frustrated, he was tired, he was fed up. “I don’t think so, I could have done, but if I did it’s not there any more. All I remember is sleeping in doorways. I was kicked a few times by drunks, and I remember feeling hungry all the time.”
Krein got up, he needed to find Spencer. “I’ll be back soon, Callum.”
Spencer couldn’t explain why, he just hated Krein, he had done before even meeting him. He bristled in his presence, and when Krein pulled a chair up to his desk, his unperformed urge was to slap him. He couldn’t restrain the terseness. “What?”
“It’s not Callum.”
No, not slap him, thump him. “Come on, Krein, he meets every bloody criteria. Right age, right looks, right bloody brain tumour. Not to mention the convenient memory loss.”
A deep sigh, Krein wished it was Callum, at least then he could put this whole nightmare behind him. “It’s not him.”
“Fuck off, isn’t it! Get the witnesses, arrange an ID parade. So he’s lucky, we’ve missed his DNA, so get the people who saw the bastard to identify him.” The sentence was dismissive, and Krein realised the conversation had finished. Although they were the same rank, there was an unwritten understanding that Krein took orders from Spencer. Now it was his turn to do some ordering, he took his anger out verbally at three detective constables. Chastised, they hastened to arrange the identity parade.
Krein looked at the evening newspaper that had just been thrown on his desk. The headlines glared out, ‘Callum the Kopycat Killer’. His eyes met Spencer’s whilst his heart sank. “But we haven’t arrested him! Who’s leaked that?”
“Probably one of the bitch nurses who wants her fifteen minutes.” Spencer’s fury was unnerving. “We need to put him in custody now, he’ll be mincemeat if we let him go after this.”
“Under what grounds? There’s no evidence that puts him at any of the crime scenes.”
“I don’t fucking know! Do him for picking his bloody nose, anything, and get him some legal representation quick. I’ll issue a statement to the press, make sure that some of this damage is undone tomorrow morning.”
Krein organised a solicitor, and they both had an informal chat with Callum, explaining the situation. Callum was distraught, he was a genuine person, he’d had no idea he’d been suspected of murder. He didn’t think he was capable, but with no memory, how was even he to know whether he’d killed or not.
Spencer was convinced Callum was guilty. Krein was not. He refused to arrest him, and the ensuing argument was filled with passion, frustration, and accusations. A furious Rubenski, alerted by the shouting, halted the exchange, ordering both officers home. He arrested Callum himself, the lame trespass being the offence due to being found in the warehouse.
Krein sat at the bar of the unfamiliar pub, his overpriced beer warming too quickly. The paper was spread before him, and he read, and re-read, the libellous articles. Callum’s kind face at varying ages was littered through the pages, alongside smiling photos of his supposed victims. Calls to keep mentally ill ‘weirdo’s’ off the streets, community care should be stopped. People with mental disorders should be locked away for good.
His seventh pint sunk, Krein began on the whisky, turning the page with a sickened fear. Kiss and tells. Five girls who had slept with Callum relating their sexual experiences with him. He liked bondage, he was perverse, he liked it kinky. Krein had no idea that the reporters and editors had twisted their words, and that the girls themselves would be as horrified as him at the revelations.
Krein knew that if Callum Bates ever stepped onto the streets again, he would be a hunted animal, emotions around the country were running too high. He hoped for Callum’s sake that his gut feeling was wrong, and that Callum really was Kopycat.
And one thing Krein could be certain of was that the newspaper wouldn’t be ashamed of destroying this man’s life. As far as they would be concerned, they were doing Britain a service by ostracising a guilty man. After all, even if he was innocent, at least the public would ‘think’ that the killer was off the streets, then everyone could get back to their lives as normal and the fearsome checking behind their backs could stop.
Spencer’s hurried press release did nothing to quell the flames. The next day all the newspapers condemned Callum Bates for ever. Innocent or guilty? That was now irrelevant.
Monday 28th July
The identity parade had been held on the previous Saturday in New Scotland Yard. A weekend was the most convenient time for the eye witnesses, and London the most suitable location to travel to. Callum Bates had been certain he couldn’t have killed, especially in the depraved manner Kopycat’s victims had been, so was content to stand in the line, confident he would soon be vindicated. Although his arrest had expired over a week before, he understood that currently he was safer being under police protection, and his surroundings were more comfortable than the cells. He was under permanent police guard, as much for his safety as for the public’s.
The witnesses were driven to London by officers from their local police forces, and no-one had objected. Seven other men, loosely fitting the killer’s description, had been picked off the streets to stand in line with Callum, each being paid a token sum for his time.
Krein scanned the results of the parade for the hundredth time.
Witness 1: Martin Hallissey of Stretton, Leics suspect number five
Witness 2: Brenda Taylor of Leicester suspect number five
Witness 3: Christine Murray of Oxford none
Witness 4: Lucy Walters of Peasenhall, Suffolk none
Witness 5: George Walters of Peasenhall, Suffolk suspect number five
Witness 6: Mabel Fairs of Halesworth, Suffolk witness deceased
Witness 7: Caroline Merris of Clapham, London suspect number five
Witness 8: Felicity Barnham of Clapham, London suspect number five
Witness 9: Elaine Baylis of Eastbourne, Sussex none
Witness 10: Reno Remini of Stepney, London none
Witness 11: Dunny Thomas of Shoreditch, London suspect number five
Witness 12: Jack Weston of Blackfriars, London none
Suspect number five was Callum Paul Bates. Once more Rubenski arrested him, this time on suspicion of the murders of Katherine Black, Katie Joyce, and Eduardo Delfini. A psychiatric report was arranged, regardless that his recent operation had cured any disorder he may have had. If the investigators could find anything in his past that could be attributed to an inherent thirst for blood, and shooting birds for fun was an acceptable start, then that strengthened the case against him.
Callum’s fingerprints were examined, his writing analysed, his DNA retested, but nothing matched evidence found at the crime scenes. The damning identity parade was the only thing that linked him to the spate of murders. This was enough for the judge, apparently, and he was charged with the murders of Katie Joyce, Katherine Black, and Eduardo Delfini.
Callum stood before
Judge Reynolds, listening tearfully to the summary. Reynolds stated that the positive identifications at the identity parades were significant, and Jaswinder Kumar’s testimony that Callum could easily have committed the acts whilst suffering from a frontal lobe tumour was notable. The fact he now had no apparent recollection of the attacks was not unusual. It was also more than a coincidence, Reynolds summarised, that Callum had gone missing shortly before the disappearance of the first suspected victim, Annabel Keeley. Callum was remanded into custody, while the case was adjourned until Monday the twenty fifth of August.
The press were ecstatic that the public could safely walk the streets once more. They praised Judge Reynolds for keeping Bates in prison, some even suggesting the death penalty should be re-instated.
Krein, deflated and exhausted, returned to Oxford, back to his wife and daughter. Regardless of the evidence and the Judge’s summary, he couldn’t shake off the nagging doubt in his mind. He nursed a whisky in his favourite chair, having refused Linda’s beautifully presented meal, and mulled over the past few months.
Callum had stressed that he had little short term memory, and his facial expressions, his body language, had supported this. Jaswinder had stated that Callum could have done the killings while the tumour pressurised his brain. Several of the eye witnesses testified that Callum was the man they had seen. Krein sank the drink and poured another. The boldest affirmation that his doubt was justified was that several other witnesses didn’t agree Callum was the man they’d seen.
Linda and Mary, the slight to their company having hurt intensely, had finished the meal and the washing up in silence. They brought a chilled bottle of Champagne through, along with three flutes, vainly attempting to welcome the husband and father home once more. They’d kept abreast of the case from the news and the papers, and they knew he’d been intimately involved, but they’d also missed him, and wanted the family back to normal.
