Unlikely Killer

by Ricki Thomas

  Krein could hear her tending the baby, “God, Jas, I wish you were here now.” Krein couldn’t believe his thoughts had been vocalised. The blushing burned, he wanted the ground to swallow him up. But he also wanted to hear her answer.

  It was indiscriminate. “Krein, man the streets, bobbies on the beat, cars on the road. Posters. Anything. He’s not about to stop now.” So professional.

  The call ended, Krein clamped his hands to his head, he felt like a moron. Why had he said such idiotic things? Jaswinder had a baby, she was probably married. He must be having a mid-life crisis. The phone rang, he answered absentmindedly, it was Linda. “Mary’s left home.” Her voice was urgent, distressed.

  “Calm down, Linda, slow down, tell me clearly what’s going on.”

  Sobbing. “She’s left a note, says she’s going to stay with friends. In London, David. She’s gone to London.” He held back the expletive, Linda was worried enough already. “She says she’ll call soon, let us know how it’s going.”

  “No address?”

  Wrenching tears. Krein had no idea that Linda was scanning the rest of the letter, where Mary stated she knew about the affair, and she couldn’t live at home with a mother who was cheating on her father. “No.”

  “Linda, don’t worry, calm down. Have you tried her mobile?”

  “No answer.”

  Krein checked his watch. “Look, you have a drink, take a sleeping tablet. Anything, just do something to take your mind off this. I’ll be working through the night, I’ll keep trying her number, I’ll find something out by tomorrow, okay.”

  Paul’s figure in the shop doorway was pathetic, a nearby street lamp casting a glow across his rocking frame. Arms clasped about his knees, he swung, backwards, forwards, backwards, forwards, and his mind was in turmoil. He was in pain, having severely grazed his arm and shoulder when he’d leapt from the taxi, and the wounds were now infected from diving into the filthy canal water. The searing, burning agonies that fired through him were unbearable, and he was scared. In contrast to the heat of his agony, he’d not stopped shivering since hitting the freezing water. He was a mess.

  The voice he detested crept into his head, his rocking increased, hands pushing against his ears. “Stop it, go away, I only want to speak to God.” He kept thinking about the old man he’d taken the train to visit. He’d hit him with a brick. Why? He knew the man from somewhere. The irritating voice chimed in recognition. “Fuck off.” Paul answered, unhearing, his rocking intensifying, screwing his eyes tightly, blocking out the sound.

  “Are you okay?” Paul jumped, he wasn’t expecting company. He glanced up, a young man stood in front of him, bending to his level. Paul ignored him, fixating on the path, continuing to rock. “I can help you, you know.” No acknowledgement. “I’m a member of the Salvation Army, I can help you get a bed for the night.” John Abbott reached towards Paul, a friendly gesture, he was genuinely concerned about the amount of homeless people on the streets of London.

  He wouldn’t be concerned any longer. His body flung backwards, landing heavily on the pavement, scooped up and the searing pain ripped through him. Backed into a parked car, searing again, he felt his abdomen fall open, the cold air hitting his intestines. Life pumped away, he could feel it running, his body slumped forward, the tarmac cold and hard.

  Paul wiped the knife on John Abbott’s clothes, tenderly whitened by his mother, now easily darkened by his blood. He limped away.

  Stunned, Mr Murphy had seen the entire events from his bedroom window. Hands trembling, he dialled nine nine nine, requesting an ambulance, police, he’d just seen a stabbing, he couldn’t believe it, he’d seen a man die.

  Krein pressed ‘send’ and the fifth text of the evening bleeped on his daughter’s mobile. He had no idea if she’d read any of them, she certainly hadn’t answered any of the calls he’d made. He was worried. Worried about her, worried about the extent of the psychosis in Kopycat. His eyes were blurring with tiredness. He rubbed them, hard.

  Spencer put his phone down, standing and shrugging his jacket on, he caught Krein’s eye. “Stabbing just off Brick Lane. Eyewitness’s description matches Kopycat. We’re on to him, Krein.”

  “Dead?” Krein was also slipping into his jacket.

  “As a dodo.”

  The phone rang on Krein’s desk, did he answer, or did he go with Spencer? “You get that, we don’t need two of us at the scene.” Spencer was out the door, Krein knew this was sensible. He answered, and was pleased he’d stayed behind. Examination of the bathroom in Ewan Davies’s house showed numerous broken hairs in the basin: their structure was brittle, damaged, with traces of sodium hypochlorite. This explained the state of Kopycat’s scalp, and the bald patches. He had lightened his hair with common household bleach, the fool.

  A complete set of clothing was also found in the room. Pink, flowery skirt, large. White, stained blouse, large. Rank socks, size six to nine. Boxer shorts, men’s, soiled, medium. Jaswinder had been right, Davies had been killed for his clothes. Krein could see Kopycat had lost the plot completely now, capture wasn’t far ahead, the frustration floated from his shoulders. Then he remembered Mary.

  Illogically, she should know better, Linda had hoped that her husband would put his family before work for once, but could see now that her hopes were futile. She had torn through Mary’s room, looking for clues, reading her randomly used diary, desperate to find an indication of where her daughter could be. At the bottom of the shoebox in the wardrobe, she’d found a tatty scrapbook, it had some phone numbers scribbled inside. Snatching the cordless receiver, she dialled. “Natalie? It’s Linda, Mary’s Mum.”

  Nat was surprised, people over forty didn’t stay up late, did they? “Hi, Mrs K. Wassup?”

  “Mary’s missing, she left a note saying she’s gone to London, do you know anything about it? I’m so worried.”

  “Nope, sorry.”

  “She’s not responding to my texts or calls, and as far as I know she’s giving her Dad the silent treatment too. Nat, can you call her, try and get something out of her?”

  Linda was placing every hope she had on a girl she couldn’t stand. Five minutes later she knew who Mary was staying with, but not where, she had refused to give Nat the address. Linda’s fingers trembled, continually pressing the wrong buttons as she texted her husband. ‘Mary met a lad called Matt Olsen at the Vortex Club, Whitechapel. She’s staying with him. No address. Please locate.’ Send.

  Mary felt uncomfortable in the studio flat, it stank of cigarette tinged body odour, and the filth was vile, housework didn’t appear to be Matt’s bag. Clothes were scattered everywhere, discarded shoes and trainers that reeked, newspapers, take away cartons laced with mould and fungi, spilling rubbish bins. It was a tip, and Mary longed for her light, bright room at home. She thought of her parents, and re-read the multiple texts on her phone. But she was more stubborn than sentimental. She couldn’t reply.

  The thought of her mother cheating on her Dad, every time she thought of it her stomach lurched. She wanted this punishment to bring her mother to her senses. Unwittingly, she was actually hammering the final nail into the coffin that was their marriage.

  Wednesday 10th September

  The relentlous rain had ceased, and the morning sun was steaming up the puddles, the heat welcome after the recent, prolonged, cold spell. Krein could smell himself, he badly needed a shower, but now that Kopycat was into his final, depraved killing spree, he wanted to be out there, wiping the streets of the maniac. Spencer was an ally, he’d also spent the night at his desk, occasionally drifting into a sleep, labouring through paperwork when awake. Mr Murphy had been a useful witness, there was no doubt in either of the detectives’ minds that John Abbott’s murderer was Kopycat, and forensic testing was now proving them right.

  Falder-Woodes had issued a press statement first thing in the morning, a full description of the hunted man, and his dangerously advanced psychotic state. Usually the police departments would try to re
press fear or panic in the public, but the words Falder-Woodes had chosen deliberately encouraged it. He didn’t want people walking the streets, potential bait for an unstable and unprecedented psychopath. But cars still lined the network through London as rush hour heightened, commuters still crowded the tubes, throngs still bustled each other on the pavements. However, the atmosphere was dulled, the sun didn’t enhance the russets of the floating leaves, it didn’t warm hearts or produce beaming smiles. Everybody in the City was aware that Kopycat was one of them, and eyes darted vigilantly, searching for the weird guy with tatty bleached hair. Everybody passed many. London was full of them.

  Krein had run Matt Olsen’s name through the computer, he wasn’t registered at any address, probably avoiding council tax payments, maybe even income tax. Olsen was a Danish surname, it was possible the man his daughter was staying with was an immigrant. She’d still not replied to his texts, but he was somehow calm about the situation, unlike Linda. He knew that Mary was a sensible girl, and she would have absorbed Falder-Woodes’s press release. She wouldn’t put herself in danger, of that he was certain. No, he couldn’t take any risks, not with his baby. He texted Mary. ‘Please don’t go out today. Kopycat advanced psychosis. Stay indoors. Love you. Phone me if possible.’

  Krein’s heart skipped, his stomach filled with emotion, a physical shooting pain. Jaswinder was beside him. How did that happen?

  “I heard about John Abbott. I can’t stand this any more, Krein, we need to work together, intensively, get him before he touches anybody else.”

  Dancing on air Krein found a spare desk, filled her with coffee, discussed his files, debated her theories, and all the while he wanted to hold her, make her his.

  “Do you think I should call him?” Mary re-read the text to her new boyfriend. He laughed.

  “Up to you, babe. But I ain’t staying indoors, places to go, people to see, and no weirdo’s gonna stop my life happening.”

  Mary cringed inwardly, Matt wasn’t the person she remembered from the club. Her memory was of a kind, clever lad, one who adored her. The reality was the opposite. She’d had sex with him the night before, but sorely regretted losing her virginity now. She wanted her Mum, she wanted her Dad. She wanted home. Mary watched as Matt covered his nakedness with designer clothes, wondering how he managed to afford them. From what she could establish, he had no job.

  Matt leant towards her, planting a sloppy kiss on her lips, fingering her left nipple. Her stomach lurched, she wiped the slime with the back of her hand, and she was grateful when he left.

  “Mr Murphy said he was sitting in the entrance to a shop, rocking back and forth.”

  “Uh-huh. Probably listening to voices in his head. I doubt he is in touch with reality at all by now.” Jaswinder held the statement in front of her. “Says he killed the man with no warning, and once the body had fallen he walked calmly away, not even a glance back to see if he’d been spotted. No emotion at all. This guy’s scary, Krein. You should be looking for him, not sitting here flirting with me.”

  The blush swept over his face, had he really been so obvious? He felt ashamed, unable to think of anything to respond with. Krein’s eyes darted around, he needed to make some excuse, to leave, he felt like a fool. And then the electricity shot up his arm, floating through his body. She was grasping his hand, and her warmth was amazing. “When you catch Kopycat, I’ll let you take me to dinner.” Every Christmas he’d ever had paled into insignificance. She fancied him back.

  Jaswinder winked, provocative. “In the meantime, I’m serious about you lot being on the streets. You need to be pulling in anyone who even remotely fits his description. He is so dangerous now, he’s indiscriminate, he’s killing for fun. He needs medication, he needs restraining, because the public will be dropping like flies as long as he walks the streets. I’m warning you, Krein, this is not an exaggeration.”

  Paul bit into the hamburger, he was starving, his latest ripping had given him an appetite as well as a new set of clothing, a new identity. He blended into London beautifully, the red and navy Lacoste tracksuit a comfortable fit, the Von Dutch baseball cap covering the painful sores on his velvety scalp. McDonalds was busy, kids fuelling their growth, adults increasing their obesity, bulimics enjoying their binge, and the hustling, the chatter, laughter, the world passed beside Paul without a second glance. He was eating for hunger, and his surroundings were irrelevant. His mind travelled back half an hour, to the look on the man’s face when he’d realised he was about to die. A wide smile flourished, involuntary, as Paul chewed.

  In an alley, not fifty feet away, a woman screamed uncontrollably, the vision before her was disgusting. Matt Olsen’s body lay on the pavement, fallen on empty boxes, surrounded by stinking garbage. Naked, apart from the Calvin Klein pants, the Adidas socks, and the slashed FCUK T shirt, his torso was ripped from the base of the sternum to the top of his pubis. Intestines had been dragged from his body, discarded to the side, glistening in the sunlight. The smell was atrocious.

  Police arrived swiftly, Superintendent Brannigan leading the team. Examining the body the blood loss seemed too sparse, and closer inspection showed bruising to the neck and bulging eyes, the final expression of fear imprinted for ever, the swollen tongue protruding through the paled lips. Matt Olsen had been murdered before he was mutilated, probably by strangulation. This would be confirmed by the autopsy.

  Brannigan’s team bagged the evidence, which lay beside the body. Black male trousers, thirty-six waist, thirty-eight inside leg. Emerald green V neck sweater, forty four inch chest, male. Charcoal long cardigan, male, same size. Blood soaked the wrist areas of both of the woollens.

  Krein was informed, alongside the rest of the investigation team, and the air chilled. He glanced at Jaswinder, and felt guilt. “Panton. Have you got the report from the search at the Dennison’s house yesterday?”

  Panton scrabbled through his paperwork. “Yep.”

  “What size clothes does Mr Dennison wear?”

  Checking. “Trousers, thirty six waist, thirty eight leg. Tops, forty four chest, sixteen neck.”

  “Bingo. So we know he got clothes from Dennison’s house. I still feel there’s a link to the old couple somewhere, can you find out the latest on that?”

  Spencer strolled up. “We’ve checked the DNA of the latest victim, it’s been matched to a Matthew Hendrick Olsen, aged nineteen …”

  Krein raised his hand, halting. “What did you say his name was?”

  “Matthew Hendrick Olsen. Why?”

  “Do you have an address for him?”

  Spencer checked his notes. “We have his mother’s address. A car’s just been sent to notify her of the …”

  Urgency thrust through him, he slapped his forehead in frustration. “He’s dating my kid, Spence, she’s staying with him. I need her out of here. Out of his place, out of Whitechapel, out of London.” Pacing, he dialled Mary’s number again, the unanswered rings distressing him more than ever.

  The untidiness didn’t worry Krein, his mind was elsewhere. The distraught woman in front of him seemed so pathetic, he felt murderous, but he checked himself, after all, her son had just been brutally murdered. But his visit was futile, Matt, as he was known, had moved out a month before following an argument, and Mrs Olsen had no idea where his digs were. She’d only seen him once since he’d left, and that visit had ended with a another row.

  Krein’s baby was somewhere in Whitechapel, and so was the killer. He had to find both. He knew that Mrs Dennison was hiding something, she was the key that would unlock this puzzle, and he was going to have to force an admission out of her, before any more bodies were torn. He paid his respects to the overwrought Mrs Olsen, and directed his driver to Inglewood Road.

  The autumn sky was darkening, the red-tinged navy replacing the yellow edged indigo, and Mary watched the changing sky through the window. She was desperately lonely, yet still desperately stubborn, and undecided whether to phone her parents or not. Her mother
had texted earlier, said there had been no affair, but agreed she had been tempted, and her honesty confused Mary, she’d not been expecting that.

  Matt had not been back all day, and he’d left his mobile behind, so she couldn’t contact him. She wasn’t sure if she minded or not. She didn’t want to have sex with him again, knowing he wouldn’t appreciate her spurning him after putting her up, so, for that reason alone she relished his absence. But she was used to company, and she felt desperately isolated.

  For the hundredth time she opened the fridge, and for the hundredth time she slammed the door on the rotting food. She was bored. She was hungry. She was lonely.

  Krein stepped up the path, it was the first time he’d been to the Dennison house but it was roughly how he’d imagined it to be. Terraced, bay windowed, short front garden with a low wall. The only part he hadn’t supposed was the third floor. It was a large house, and probably worth a fortune. He knocked on the door, and tried the handle, surprised to find it was on the latch. Pushing the door open, he called out. “Mrs Dennison? It’s Detective Inspector Krein.” Tentative, he found the lounge.

  Elizabeth sat in the chair, nursing a cup and saucer of tea, she seemed more lively than the previous day. “Mr Kipling.” She stated, and her green eyes assured him that she was misnaming him deliberately, affecting a power over him.

  He refused to be bullied. “How’s your husband?”

  A sip of tea. “Much better. He’s out of intensive care, awake, and on a ward. He should be home in a few days.”

  Krein tried not to, but the words were out. “So you have no incentive to grass on the guy who assaulted him.”

  Cool as a cucumber, eyes challenging as ever. “I don’t know the guy who assaulted him. You seem to have a hearing impediment, Mr Kooper. My daughter will see you out.”