Unlikely Killer

by Ricki Thomas

  The decision to plant eleven plain clothed female officers to act as decoys was controversial, but Falder-Woodes had stood firm, better they with their knowledge and defence skills than an innocent passer-by. They would be wired and tracked.

  Roger Andrews’s alibi had checked out, the traumatised girl hadn’t reported her rape to the police, but was willing to press charges following his admission. However, he’d retracted his statement, claiming he was coerced into confessing to a crime he hadn’t committed. He was absolved of the Kopycat murders completely by proving he was in Greece on holiday at the time Katie Joyce was killed, but the police now had to prove the rape, and unfortunately the girl had cleaned herself thoroughly before the police had tracked her down.

  Fibres picked from the linoleum in Adelaide’s hallway had been analysed, and these matched some found in the remains of the boathouse.

  Krein scanned every forensic report he received, feeling increasingly frustrated. They had a forensic trail proving where the man had been from the start, but he remained one step ahead at all times. Krein had been convinced they would catch Kopycat the week before, and when the operation was shown to have been a pathetic sham, he’d been floored. Because of the tremendous disappointment, he was loath to raise his hopes about the coming exercise. He also realised that they had to catch the killer, because he, personally, couldn’t take the strain any longer, he could feel himself going under.

  Linda was gazing through the window of the quaint teashop, her eyes scanning, subconsciously, the dresses in the Laura Ashley display opposite. Bored and unwanted, unneeded, she’d come into Oxford centre to wilfully waste some cash, but none of the shops along the Cornmarket had tempted her, and she realised she was just trying to fill a void with her credit card.

  Absent-mindedly, she stirred her cooling drink, her thoughts lost in the state of her marriage. She had already recognized it was over, but she needed to work out what came next. Did she move out? Did he? Did he even still live there? How would Mary take the news? How would David? A deep voice sounded, Linda jumped, suddenly embarrassed when she saw the handsome stranger beside her.

  “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to startle you.” With horror, Linda realised her face was reddening. “Would you mind if I sat with you, all the other tables are full.”

  Suddenly bashful, she nodded without smiling, and turned to the window, extremely aware of his presence, resenting it. He laid his tray down, and sat. “My name is Gordon Watts.” She was aggravated. She wasn’t in the mood to talk, her mind was elsewhere. But she was also polite, and would hate to be rude. She introduced herself, and the niceties turned into a pleasant conversation, which, in turn, developed into an interesting debate. She was amazed when she next checked her watch, two hours and endless cups of tea had elapsed. And she’d enjoyed herself. And he’d relished her company. Someone on the planet found her intriguing. Her thoughts probing into her past, she couldn’t remember the last time she had felt so alive, had talked so animatedly, had captured somebody’s attention so fully.

  When Gordon invited her for a meal that evening, Linda knew that his choice of restaurant, The Bear Hotel in Woodstock, was wonderful, romantic, expensive, and that his company would suit the setting. Hesitating only for a second, she agreed to go.

  The girls had been excitedly shopping for new clothes to wear that evening on their trip to London, and now they were making their way back to the bus stop. They were passing the Laura Ashley store when Nat tugged at Mary’s sleeve. She pointed at the teashop across the road. “Isn’t that your mum in there?”

  Squinting, Mary was horrified to see her mother chatting animatedly to an unknown man, and when she noticed his hand laying over hers, she felt sick. Mary grabbed Nat and Tara’s arms, directing them towards the bus stop. “Nope. That’s not mum, just looks a bit like her.”

  At his desk, his new home, in the incident room on the first floor, inside New Scotland Yard, Krein pored over the report on Annie Chapman’s death, over the plans for the next night’s manoeuvre. Obsessed with a killer. Obsessed with his work. Obsessed with himself. Oblivious that he was about to lose his wife to another man. Would he even notice? And would he even care? Redundant questions. There was only one person on his mind.

  It was the fifth day that the Audi had been Paula’s hideout. She took frequent walks to stretch her legs, but the rest of the time was spent either sleeping, or preoccupied with remembering the fine details of the Ripper murders. The time was nearing, there was one night to go, and it was essential she got all the details correct, otherwise God might leave her. Her eyes tired with concentration, Paula glanced through the window. The car was parked in a secluded copse amongst the tree filled Burnham Beeches, which lay to the west of Slough. The roads that twisted through the woodland were narrow, and only busy during the morning and evening commuting. Paula had driven away from the roads, along a pinched track, it had been a perfect place to hide from the world. Occasionally people passed nearby, lovers, dog walkers, adventurous children, but Paula had not been disturbed as yet.

  The trees surrounding acted like guards, tall and strong, sturdy and mature, their branches dancing in the light breeze as birds flitted over them, hunting for dinner, or just playing. Scenes of nature no longer gave Paula pleasure. Only one thing did. Killing. It was all she wanted to discuss with God, and He felt the same, refusing to change the subject. Sometimes Paula felt a rage, that silly little voice kept piping up, unexpectedly, and she wished it had a form, because then she would be able to kill it, extinguish the pathetic drivelling.

  Paula was unaware that her hideout had actually been discovered. Two hours before Mrs Cross had reported the car to the police. She walked her Labrador through the beautiful woodland every day, and had become increasingly concerned about the vehicle, with a single inhabitant, that had been concealed amongst the trees for several days. Uninterested, the police had agreed to send a squad car to the site, laughing behind her back, labelling her a nosy busybody. Regardless, the two young constables were nearing the spot she had directed them to.

  Paula, still gazing through the window, jumped when the bright light flashed nearby. She sat straight, peering in the direction, and realised it had been the sun reflecting from the mirror of a police car. It was heading towards her, she was about to be found. Wasting no time, Paula slipped on her battered trainers, leaving the laces undone, there was no time to waste. She grabbed the red bag and scrabbled out of the car, running, speeding, racing away, not giving in to the shooting pains that emanated from her injured ankle. The undergrowth tried to trip her, she stumbled time and again, but she couldn’t let the police catch her, tomorrow’s duty was too important.

  The squad car pulled up behind the Audi, the two policemen stepping out to investigate the abandoned vehicle. One radioed the registration number through to the control room, and soon they discovered that the car belonged to a Michael Ayrs, of Islington, London.

  Less than a minute later the radio crackled again, the flustered, excitable desk sergeant stated that Michael Ayrs had been fatally stabbed last week in London, it was suspected that the perpetrator was the infamous Kopycat Killer. He was sending Scene of Crime Officers immediately, and the two constables weren’t to touch anything until assistance arrived. The team in London were notified immediately.

  Mrs Cross was surprised to see the officers when she opened the door. She’d expected them to check out the car, but without further involvement from herself. She scanned the neighbours quickly to ensure her visitors had been noticed, and let the gentlemen in. Seating the men comfortably she, despite their refusals, produced a tray full of tea and biscuits. She fed a couple to the dog before sitting herself neatly beside her television-addicted husband.

  Asked to describe the occupant of the car, Mrs Cross couldn’t really help, she’d not been close enough to see the woman properly. She’d had her hair in a ponytail, she was wearing a filthy white blouse. She’d never left the car any of the times she’d been walkin
g nearby, so Mrs Cross couldn’t describe any other clothing.

  When shown the photofit of Kopycat, Mrs Cross suddenly understood the importance of her find. It hadn’t occurred to her that the driver may be a man. Her blood chilled when she realised how close she’d been to the violent filth. But her self-importance and forthcoming gossip more than made up for that. She couldn’t wipe the smile from her face.

  The car was removed in its entirety from the scene and delivered to the forensics laboratory. Pools of dried blood were proven to have come from Michael Ayrs: they now suspected that he had been killed for his car.

  It was getting late, the evening chill was setting in. Again, they knew where Kopycat had been, but they had to find where he was going. As soon as the link to the murderer had been established, all hands at the local police stations had been addressed, and the search for the man, whose locality was now known to be close, became intense. The woodlands of Burnham Beeches were combed on foot, and patrol cars chugged through the streets, searching, probing. It appeared, as darkness began to deepen, that once more, Kopycat was invisible.

  When Krein had returned to his desk with a plastic cup of coffee, and found a spray can of deodorant on his desk, he immediately, shamefully, realised he hadn’t had a shower for thee days, and sheepishly left the office to freshen up.

  The shower had been remarkable, it had perked him up and made him feel nearly human once more. He collected his things together and stepped back out into the light rain. The room was just under half a mile from the Yard, and the journey was pleasant, invigorating.

  He was completely unaware that his daughter, flanked by her new best friends, and also freshly showered, was at Oxford Railway Station, waiting for the train to London. Their trips to the Vortex Club were becoming a weekly occurrence, and Mary, Nat and Tara were excitedly chattering about the forthcoming evening to come.

  Opening the double doors to the Yard, Krein bumped into Spencer, who updated him on the new developments. At first they appeared to be major leads, but, after digesting facts further, Krein was dismayed to realise that they were still just as far from catching the man as they had been before they’d updated his trail. The DNA would only pin him down in a court of law. The operation the next night was paramount, and the enormity of that worried Krein.

  Linda smoothed her dress, checking her reflection in the mirror by the front door. She’d not had the chance to dress up for ages, and was surprised at how well she turned out with a bit of effort. She took her handbag and keys, and strolled nervously to the car.

  Starting the engine, Linda pulled away, her mind whirring. She knew she should feel some guilt, but the anger at the way she was treated surfaced in its place. Mary’s behaviour had transposed from a genuinely nice young lady, to a vicious mouthed, unruly, nasty brat. Linda realised this was probably a backlash of feeling abandoned by her father, but what about her? She’d been abandoned too, but there was no one for her to direct her resentment at.

  She thought of the man she was about to meet up with. He treated her like a precious jewel, he made her feel youthful, attractive, he made her laugh, and he wanted to make her feel special. In comparison, David hadn’t phoned since he’d been back in London. The only contact she’d had was the one time she’d called him, and even then he’d easily belittled her.

  There had been cracks in the marriage for years, both parties ignoring them, patching them up, scraping on Polyfilla. In retrospect Linda realised that it had died for her on their twenty fifth anniversary. He’d forgotten. He’d worked. She wasn’t special enough for him to break with routine. Maybe he was having an affair himself, she didn’t even see him often enough to spot the signs. No, Linda didn’t feel remorseful in the slightest. She was looking forward to seeing Gordon. If no one else wanted her, why shouldn’t she?

  Mary stepped into the Vortex Club, the doorman acknowledging her with recognition, followed by her friends. Surprise registered as a policeman stepped towards her, asking her name. Two officers were asking every girl who entered the club. When she replied, he tagged the other officer. “Wilky, I’ve got her. Can you give us five minutes of your time, please, Mary?” She glanced at her worried friends, nervous, and nodded.

  She followed them to an office no bigger than an under-stairs cupboard, and Wilkinson broke the ice. “Well, Mary. I’m glad you got here early. It would have been a real bore to have to talk to pretty young women all night, waiting for you!” The other policeman chuckled.

  Mary had no idea what was happening, and her thoughts turned to her embarrassing mother. “Oh God, it’s Mum, isn’t it? She’s panicking about that bloody killer again, isn’t she? How embarrassing can she be!”

  Wilkinson shook his head. “I need to ask a few questions about a man who states he was with you for some time last week. Can I clarify you were here on Saturday the thirtieth?”

  “We were here, yes.” Mary wanted her Dad. She missed him, and she was scared.

  “Did you spend some time with a man named Roger Andrews?”

  Mary’s face paled, had he done something wrong and implicated her because she’d spurned him? “Yes I did. A lot of the evening, actually.”

  “Do you know the time you parted company?”

  “No, I’ve no idea. Look, am I supposed to have done something wrong? Has he? What’s this all about?” Mary was beginning to feel miffed, she was missing out on important partying time.

  “A young girl is pressing charges, she’s accused him of drug rape.”

  Mary swallowed hard. She clearly remembered Roger pushing drinks on her, requesting glasses, not bottles. He’d offered her a bottle of what she’d assumed was just Coke when she’d snubbed him. At that moment Mary knew she’d tell these men every detail she could possibly recall. And she remembered every word of warning her mother had issued. And she realised that she loved her Mum, she missed her, and she wished she were here right now.

  Gordon gently took Linda’s hand in his own, they’d had a tremendous meal, the food delicious, the conversation better, and now he was escorting her to her car. He was a colossal man, inches taller than her estranged husband, and his hand felt protective and loving. The sparks were there, and when they were in each other’s company the electric crackled, the room may as well be empty for all the regard they took of their surroundings. Obviously it was early days, but Linda could sense that Gordon would be a special part of her life.

  They reached the car, basking in the warmth of their affections, he stooped, and the kiss they shared was sensual, delicious, tempting. He tasted perfect, and she greedily wanted more, but he was a gentleman, he pulled away, leaving her hungry. Starving.

  Arrangements were made for a date the next Wednesday, and she climbed into her car, regretfully. Linda wanted to stay, to enjoy the intensity for longer. On the drive home she thought about the conversation they’d shared. She’d been totally honest about the situation with David, in fact he’d been impressed about the case her husband was working on. He’d even attempted to defend David’s obsession, Gordon had been following the hunt for Kopycat in the newspapers and could understand the pressure David must be experiencing.

  That moment had produced the only tinge of guilt Linda had felt all evening. She’d changed the subject swiftly, moving on to Mary, and how her behaviour had double flipped. Gordon had held her hands, radiating sympathy, and she had absorbed it as sexual stirrings. The smile on her reddened lips was rare for Linda, nowadays, as she drove home, mildly ecstatic. She felt no need for a drink, the whisky, brandy, wine, pain reducing therapies, replaced with being wanted, needed, cherished and loved. Linda slept easily.

  When Mary arrived home at four in the morning, she found no waiting light to welcome her, no sleepless mother to admonish, and no father’s knee to sit on whilst he cuddled her better. She wanted to cry out her fears to her mother, but for the first time ever, she wasn’t there for her.

  Paula had run, galloping through the trees, along the streets, past the gardens, be
side the pond. The pain hadn’t halted her, she knew the police would be on her trail. The night descending had been a blessing, giving her the veil of darkness to cover her tracks. She knew she needed to become Paul again, they knew they were after a woman, but finding the new disguise without drawing attention to herself was a problem.

  Paula’s resentment seethed, her nostrils still flared with rage, even though hours had passed since she’d had to leave the car. Someone had ratted on her, and if she ever discovered who it was, she’d rip them to pieces with her bare hands. Paula became aware that she was breaking her skin with her fingernails, she loosened her grip, letting the blood flush out, lightly.

  She’d been walking for miles, and for the past three hours had been trying doors, unsuccessfully. People were too safety conscious nowadays. Birds had begun their early hunt for the worm, singing merrily as they toiled, and Paula, drained, trudged up yet another back path. The handle creaked, and the door welcomed her in. Surprise was followed by relief, flowing alongside the throbbing in her lower leg.

  Paula felt an adoring cat rubbing around her ankles, she kicked it harshly away, and crept towards the stairs. In the cupboard underneath she found a hammer, arming herself with it in one hand, and her knife in the other. The stairs creaked as she tiptoed up, but the sound of sleep remained constant. Into the room that heralded the snoring, she gazed at the form in the bed, knowing that she was about to please her God.