Unlikely Killer

by Ricki Thomas

  And so was MacReavie. “That’s it, Krein, you’ve gone a step too far now.”

  Neither men had any idea that a group of officers were crowded around the door, listening to the raging argument. Spencer was impressed at his enemy’s feistiness, he’d not realised how dedicated Krein was, perhaps he needed to review his opinion of the man. The door opened, the officers scattering as MacReavie stomped away, seething.

  After dumping the car Paul had limped along the bank of the Thames for a while, the pain in his ankle worsening gradually the further he travelled. Finally he came upon an irregular row of boat houses. A couple lay at the bottom of the gardens to some spectacular, sumptuous houses, the others just small buildings built on what appeared to be public ground. One after the other, he tried the doors until one, in disrepair, cracked open. He climbed inside and shone the torch around. The clammy room was mostly empty, a few bags of junk lay to the edges, and it was filthy, the air heavy with stale, yet moist, dust and vapour. The water in the narrow bay lapped at the cement floor, and, dropping his bag, Paul moved the junk bags between his belongings and the inlet. It was obvious this room was barely used.

  Suddenly curious about his new home, Paul shone the torch around once more. In a dark corner lay a gas can, he shook it, hearing the fluid, confirming it was petrol by sniffing. He took one of the bags of junk, revealing some tatty, musty clothes. He spread a few items across the floor, and lay down, transforming them to a mattress. He slept through sunrise to sundown, and on through the night, his tiredness from the previous night’s duty extreme. Paul was oblivious to the frantic police activity less than a mile north east, his quiet snoring blending into the sounds of the river.

  Monday 25th August

  A rumbling stomach was the first sensation Paul felt when he awoke, he was starving, and it dawned on him that he hadn’t eaten for a couple of days. He needed to go out to get some food, but he realised that his latest duty would have renewed the interest in him. He would have to disguise himself again, but how, and where would he get the clothes from? Paul rocked gently, confused, but then he remembered his old friend.

  “God, are you there?” God didn’t talk to him very often any more, he didn’t need to, but Paul found that if he asked for him nicely, sometimes He would reply. He was not disappointed this time. He asked what he should do, and God came back, clear and confident, telling him to look through the bags of clothes again, he would find a new identity in them. Paul chuckled his gentle, tinkling laugh. So obvious, why hadn’t he thought of that himself?

  He moved from the makeshift mattress and held up the clothes, assessing each item individually. They were all women’s clothes, and most were quite large. Paul was a slight man, the clothes would hang off him, but really, he had no choice, and he didn’t want to anger God by going against his suggestion. Paul peeled off his filthy, odorous clothes, his nose wrinkling. Naked, he stepped towards the inlet from the river, leaning over and washing in the stagnant water, rubbing away the weeks of grime and sweat. Fresher, and grateful for it, Paul stepped into a long, pale pink, flowery skirt, chosen for its elasticated waist. He shrugged a baggy white blouse over his shoulders, deciding against a cardigan because of the heat. The bag contained no shoes, so Paul washed his socks and replaced them on his feet, having wrung them in his hands to remove the excess water, and put his rancid trainers back on.

  Now Paul was transformed into Paula once more, vanity made her grateful that the skirt was long enough to cover her hairy legs.

  Paula delved into her bag, somewhere inside she was sure she still had the cosmetics she’d purchased the last time she’d changed her identity to a female. After brushing and dabbing for a few minutes in the light from a crack in the door, checking the progress in the compact mirror, Paula was satisfied that her face was suitably made up, and she brushed her shaggy hair into place, fitting the hairpiece skilfully.

  Stepping through the door, Paula felt attractive and confident, but modest enough to not draw attention to herself. Her belongings safely stored in the shelter, Paula walked towards civilisation to buy enough food and drink to sustain herself for a few days. Luckily, money was still no object, Jackson Brooks had been a very flash man.

  Krein was busy at his temporary desk in the incident room at the Yard. He’d not heard anything more after the argument with MacReavie, and deep inside he knew he’d gone too far, although he wouldn’t admit it unless pressed. It was early, he’d barely slept, having had too many beers followed by whiskies just to sleep in the first place. At the first crack of dawn he’d come back to the station, he was more use there than tossing and turning in bed.

  So when the door opened and MacReavie stepped in, a three-piece, beautifully tailored navy suit replacing his usual grey, Krein did a double take. MacReavie shot him a hateful glare, and Krein knew that if he wanted to stay on the case he would have to back down. Wincing at the overdone aftershave, Krein waved. “Guv, I need to speak to you. I’m sorry about yesterday.”

  The room was barely populated this early, but every eye in the room was fixed on Krein now. Including MacReavies’, he was shocked. “I, um, don’t worry, Krein. I know this case is getting to you. Just don’t do it again.” Mentally MacReavie kicked himself, he could have drawn it out, had some enjoyment. Too late, he sighed.

  Krein nodded at the outfit. “Why the posh suit?”

  MacReavie was stunned. “Krein! What planet have you been on! We’re going to the television studio today, for the Crimewatch appeal.” The incredulous look was replaced with a dazzling smile, which wasn’t returned.

  In fact, Krein could feel anger bubbling again, he tried desperately to control himself. He spoke through gritted teeth, checking every word. “I don’t understand why you’re wasting precious time in a television studio when everyone should be concentrating on finding Kopycat.”

  Aware that their conversation was currently public material, MacReavie pulled a chair up to Krein’s desk. He didn’t want another argument, because if Krein carried on undermining him he would have no choice but to discipline him, and that wouldn’t be beneficial to the investigation: Krein was devoted to the case. “Look, I know you think I have an ulterior motive here, but I don’t. Crimewatch will really publicise the whole damned thing, get the nation chatting about the case, we’ll turn out hundreds of new witnesses.”

  Krein sighed deeply, he realised his boss was placating him. “Every person in Britain is chatting about Kopycat already, the case is permanently on the TV and in the papers. Appearing on Crimewatch will just be glorifying it and wasting valuable time.”

  “The public needs my reassurance that we’re doing our best.”

  Krein snapped. “Fifteen minutes, Guv, fifteen minutes! That’s what this is all about, and you know that. Do you not realise that each and every one of those people who calls in as a result of the programme is going to need police time to go and take their statements, verify them, rule them out, and those policemen should be on the streets, at previous murder sites, or getting into Kopycat’s mind, making damned sure that he can’t get another victim.”

  MacReavie stood up and banged his fist on the desk, his face reddening. Although irate, his voice was quiet, calm. “Just you make sure that you,” and now he shouted, “never, never talk to me like this again.” And quiet again. “This is your last warning Krein. Once more I’ll forget this because of the strain you’re under, but only once. Now smarten yourself up, you look a mess, and I need your knowledge to get the facts across to the Crimewatch team.”

  Broadcasting House was a short tube journey away, Macreavie led the way through the grand glass and chrome doors. They were meeting Falder-Woodes there. They reported to the receptionist, and presently a young, casually dressed woman led them to her superior’s empty office. She returned soon carrying a tray laden with a pot of tea, a pot of coffee, and some biscuits. MacReavie tucked in hungrily, Krein watched London living through the window, seething still for his time being wasted. Moments later F
alder-Woodes was brought in, he and MacReavie exchanged pleasantries.

  Shortly, in a dramatic entrance of waves and flourishes, a self-important woman strolled in, confidently thrusting her red tipped hand forward for the men to shake. Her voice was as assured as her manner, deep and colourful. “Hi, I’m Maria Ivanov, I’m the Crimewatch contents editor. You’ll spend most of the day with me. Sit.”

  The three officers of the law obeyed like dogs. MacReavie was in awe of the stunning woman, his eyes were on stalks as he searched for something interesting to say. “I have to admit, Miss Ivanhoe …”

  “Please call me Maria.” She bristled on hearing her name mispronounced, the anger flashing black in her overly green eyes.

  “Okay, Maria. I have to admit that I’ve never done a Crimewatch before. I think you’ll have to lead the way.”

  Dismissive. “Yes, I always do. First we need to decide what reconstructions you want. Have you thought about that?”

  MacReavie was enjoying the attention, he’d instantly taken the stage from the other two men. “We don’t have a lot to go on, there have been very few good witnesses since the start of Kopycat’s killing career. The best one, I think, would be the latest. We can’t be sure of the route they took to reach Deathly Mill …”

  “Deadman’s Hill.” Krein got a word in.

  MacReavie admonished him with his stare. “But we do have an eye witness to the murder.”

  Maria clapped gleefully. “So we will recreate the murder scene, sensational, the public will love that. We’ll make a point of filming the bodies, that’ll attract Joe Public’s attention.”

  “No!” Krein’s objection was sudden and unplanned. “No. That won’t do. We already know that there was only one witness to that murder, a reconstruction of that would hardly jog anybody’s memory. Just remember, we’re not doing this for the public’s pleasure, we’re doing it to find the killer and to stop anyone else becoming a victim.”

  Maria regarded Krein blankly, nobody questioned her judgement. “So, Mr, er,” she made a point of reading his visitor’s badge, “Kreeeeen. In your obviously vast experience of my world. what would you suggest, then?” Her sarcasm was weary.

  Krein was unfazed, she didn’t intimidate, just mildly sickened him. “Katie Joyce. There must be many people who haven’t realised they saw Kopycat on his journey north with Katie, or maybe they’re even too scared to say anything.” Again, an unexpected burst, but more unexpected was the sudden realisation that this Crimewatch idea might actually be a good one.

  “No, Krein, I disagree. Kopycat’s appearance has changed greatly since then.” MacReavie shook his head, Maria smiled at her ally.

  “So reconstruct him dumping Joe Allisson’s Golf GTi then, as well as Katie’s abduction.”

  “Reconstructions cost money, Krein.” The comment was redundant, the BBC would be funding any reconstructions, but Krein missed that jewel.

  He was seething, he’d never been so continuously angry in his entire life. His words were marked, forced from the back of his throat for emphasis. “This man is costing lives, Guv, and that is far more important than bloody money.”

  Maria and Falder-Woodes looked on, incredulous, until Maria stepped in diplomatically. “Boys, boys, let’s compromise, shall we. Two reco’s, yeah, both of the murders, right, and lots of photos of victims, and photofits of Kopycat. As much cam action on the sites as poss, y’know, it’s the visual effects that nudge the viewers’ memories. If they know from pre-program adverts that they’re going to get a good show, they all tune in and watch. That’s what the vultures like.”

  All three men managed to decipher the compromise, and they had to concede that Maria knew what she was doing, so, frayed tempers calmed, they got back to the discussion, which progressed well. The preliminary date of Saturday the fourteenth of September was chosen to air the show. MacReavie was hoping it would be sooner, but that was the first available slot.

  Paula had returned to the boathouse, her hunger satiated. She’d not walked far before she came across a petrol station, and she’d filled a basket with a variety of sandwiches, crisps, chocolate, milk, not that it would last long in the heat, bread, and a couple of large bottles of Pepsi Max. Her ankle ached even though the journey was short, but it didn’t overly worry her, it was healing well for an untreated, relatively serious injury.

  Opening her bag, Paula emptied all the clothes out, she replaced them with two new outfits, assembled from the bags of discarded women’s clothing. Satisfied that her hunger wasn’t returning, she felt for the coolest spot in the room, and put the carrier bags of food there, hoping to keep it fresh for a few days until her departure for the next journey.

  Paula unzipped the side compartment of her bag and took the personal organiser out. The batteries had gone flat a few days before, and this was the first time she’d had the opportunity to replace them. She slid the battery hatch open and put the fresh ones in. The gadget sprang to life, and Paula smiled widely. Finally she could research her plans for the next duties.

  The next one was further ahead than she had remembered, six days away on the thirty first of August, but this didn’t faze her, the extra time would give her ankle a little longer to heal. She thought back to the last duty, and her grin returned. She had enjoyed it so much, that wonderful moment when she was completely in control of another person’s life, it was her choice to extinguish or save. She found the gore tedious, but the act of killing was tremendous. The power. And the knowledge that she was making God happy.

  Six days was a long time, but she wanted to get this one perfect, and that would need plenty of preparation, the site where the next duty was planned was busy, and risking capture was not an option. Swigging absent-mindedly from the bottle of Pepsi, Paula drank the details of her next duty, soaking them up until they were printed on her brain. She would stay in her temporary home until the day of the duty, the re-enactment of Polly Nichols’s mutilation, she couldn’t risk being spotted now, because the duties she had coming up were by far the best yet. Paula couldn’t wait.

  The four ten year old boys sat in a circle, beside the weeping willow that fed from the Thames, munching on crisps and chocolate, barely speaking. An idea came, Billy piped up. “Maybe she’s a witch.”

  The others laughed, and, still chuckling, Craig croaked. “Don’t be silly. Witches wear black dresses, idiot. I reckon she’s one of those mad people that Dad’s always talking about.”

  They continued to suppose differing theories, each one getting more extreme, of who, or what, the odd lady that had disappeared into the boat shed was. It wasn’t long until they all got bored and headed for home, and their waiting dinners. But they mutually decided that they would keep guard of the boathouse every day, and next time they saw her go out, they would investigate what she was up to.

  Each boy had exciting dreams that night.

  Thursday 28th August

  Krein put the phone down, he’d not realised until he’d heard her gentle, intelligent voice again how much he missed Jaswinder. The guilt intensified when he realised he hadn’t even unpacked Linda’s photo from his briefcase. Jaswinder had phoned to discuss the report the Black Museum Bunch had sent her, convinced that Kopycat would concentrate on recreating the Jack the Ripper murders next. Krein needed to discuss this with Spencer, and was surprised to note the man smiling when he approached with his notes.

  Spencer had developed a new respect for Krein having overheard his argument with MacReavie, who Spencer regarded as a pompous idiot. Krein dragged a seat over, placing his notes squarely on the desk. “Jack the Ripper?”

  “Yes.”

  Neither man spoke, each individually contemplating how they could possibly cover the enormity of Whitehall without alarming the public. Krein crossed his legs, leaning back in the seat, and Spencer mirrored the action. Spencer raised his fingers to his lips and gently stroked as he considered privately, Krein mirrored the action subconsciously. With no exchange of words, both men realised the d
istaste for each other was gone, and that they now had the potential of working together very efficiently. They locked eyes, nodded, and Krein headed back to his desk. He knew that Spencer was a tremendous officer, and that with them both on the same side, Kopycat couldn’t win. He felt reassured.

  Two days they had spent there. Waiting, pondering, hoping, discussing, and the woman had not left the boathouse once. The boys were bored, this business was wasting their summer holiday. Billy was the first to break. “Maybe she’s not in there anymore, she might have gone in the night.”

  Craig sucked at his fingers, thinking the suggestion through. “We could always look closer.” The lads were horrified, each replying with an incredulous stare. Craig persevered, not wanting to lose face. “Just look through the holes in the wood, you know, we won’t go in.”

  “What if she catches us?” Billy was aware he needed the toilet, he didn’t need any sudden scares.

  “We run.” The answer justified the madness. They shrugged at each other, and, one by one, they crept, each carefully placed footstep stroking the muddy grass without making a sound. Closer and closer, and soon Craig was next to the side wall, his hand resting on the peeling bluebell paint, his heart thundering in his chest. Eyes skimming over the wooden cladding, he located a thin gap, the rotting wood having worn away. Checking that his friends were close by, Craig tentatively glanced through. Disappointed, he shook his head, mouthing. “Can’t see her, it’s dark.”

  Billy shoved him out of the way, he peered through himself. Leaning to the right, he could just about make out some movement by the door, and adrenalin surged through him. “Shit! She’s coming.”