Degrees of Darkness

by Tony J. Forder

  Things had got worse after all.

  ‘Jesus,’ he breathed, shaking his head. ‘I didn’t know anything about this. The news just depresses me these days.’

  ‘A lot of the major details have been deliberately kept from the press, and the link between incidents kept low-key. But the media coverage has begun to get heavy-handed as usual.’

  ‘And you knew this earlier? Knew this was more than a one-off?’

  ‘Not for certain, no.’ Nicky inclined his head. ‘And I didn’t want to worry you more by putting it forward as a theory.’

  Frank nodded. He understood. Would have done the same thing in Nicky’s shoes. ‘How many times has he struck?’

  ‘As far as we know, this is the seventh.’

  ‘Seven?’ Frank blew his cheeks out slowly. His heart raged. ‘Seven families destroyed by one man?’

  ‘It looks that way, yes.’ Nicky ran a cupped hand across the stubble on his chin. ‘In each incident, our man has killed everyone in the house apart from one child – always a girl. From what we’ve been able to establish so far, and bear in mind that the details are sketchy at the moment, all of the girls have been of a similar age: eleven to thirteen, with around eighteen months separating youngest and oldest. He’s killed younger and older girls in the family, but always abducts one. So, a definite pattern has been established.’

  ‘Have any of the abductees been found?’

  Nicky shook his head.

  ‘When was the first?’

  ‘About six months ago. In Hove. And before you ask, the pattern is pretty irregular. He’s not on a lunar cycle, and we can’t match the incidents to any known religious or pagan ceremonies.’

  ‘Apart from taking the girls, what’s his MO?’

  Nicky took a sip from his can, belched behind a clenched hand, let the can rest on his lap. ‘Each attack has come during the early hours of the morning. In every instance, he’s attempted to gain entry through the back door. He takes the lock apart. Clean, too.’

  ‘A locksmith?’

  ‘Could be. Experience of it, at least. Anyhow, if he finds the door bolted he uses the windows. None of the windows have had security locks fitted. He’s either extremely lucky, or he knows what to expect.’

  ‘Or he’s tried others, failed, and gone elsewhere.’

  ‘You haven’t lost your touch, Frank.’ Nicky gave a rueful grin.

  ‘What then? Once he’s inside.’

  Nicky cleared his throat. If he was troubled by Frank’s urgency, he made no mention of it. ‘We have a pet killer. Best guesstimate is that he does the pet before his human victims. Animal blood has been found on stairways, landings and in bedrooms. He did Laura’s cat.’

  Frank closed his eyes for a moment. ‘Were there pets at each of the victims’ homes?’

  ‘No. But if there was one, he killed it.’

  Nodding thoughtfully, Frank used both thumbs to wipe his eyes.

  Nicky edged forward. ‘You want to leave this till the morning, Frank? It’s been a hell of a day for you.’

  ‘No. No, I’m okay if you are. Let’s push on. So, he likes to kill the pet, but he doesn’t need to. It’s not a part of the ritual. He just enjoys it, some kind of a precursor to the main event. No dogs, I’ll bet.’

  ‘Right. Two cats, one rabbit, one guinea-pig.’ Their eyes met. ‘Frank, do you want to know it all? None of it is nice, as you can imagine. Most of it is just plain awful.’

  ‘All of it, Nicky. You know how I work, what I need.’

  ‘But this time I thought—’

  ‘Just give me what you have.’ He added weight to his tone.

  ‘Okay. The way we figure it, he takes out the parents first, then any other children. Three of the women had been vaginally penetrated just before death, but we figure this is probably the work of the husband. Firstly, because there are no traces of our man’s semen inside the vagina, and secondly, we know for sure that he masturbates. All of the women had semen on their faces. We haven’t had results back from the swabs taken from Janet’s face yet, but almost certainly it’s our man’s, and there’s no vaginal match.’

  Frank swallowed hard, imagining the monster ejaculating over his estranged wife, wondering if she were still alive at the time, imagining her terror. Taking a deep breath, he shut it away. For now.

  ‘Even if he didn’t come inside them, there would be some leakage, right?’ he asked. ‘Some secretion to tag.’

  ‘It’s possible, even likely, but it doesn’t always happen.’

  ‘So, he jerks off over the women. Post-mortem would be my guess. Nothing unusual there for these sick freaks. DNA?’

  Nodding, Nicky took another sip of lager and eased back into the sofa, rolling his neck and shoulders. ‘Tested and typed at all previous incidents. No match with anything on file, but we’re still putting that together. No distinctive blood group either. He’s just another ‘O’.’

  ‘Prints?’

  ‘Nothing. Must wear gloves, but nothing that sheds fibres. Could be latex, but with all the high-tech stuff available to forensics these days we should have been able to get something if that were the case. They think it’s more likely to be some kind of lint-free cotton.’

  Frank raised his eyebrows, then frowned. He sat back, considering. ‘Strange. He takes precautions by wearing gloves, but he doesn’t mind leaving semen which, if we nab him and the DNA proves positive, is as indicting as any print.’

  ‘Maybe in the heat of the moment he forgets himself.’

  Frank shook his head vigorously. ‘No. I don’t think so. This man knows what he’s about. He’s good, not lucky. He has control. But maybe … Maybe he doesn’t fear DNA. It’s only useful to us if we have it in our database.’ Frank shrugged. ‘It doesn’t quite fit.’

  Nicky agreed. ‘Come back to it,’ he said. ‘There’s a lot more to consider.’

  Frank nodded. It was starting to feel like the good old days; working closely together, hunting down the criminal. Only then he and Nicky had faced each other across an incident room desk, Janet and Gary were still alive, and Laura wasn’t missing. The world hadn’t turned to shit and his heart hadn’t been shattered into a thousand pieces.

  6

  The soft glow from the solitary table lamp cast strange shadows across their faces. The day’s heat still radiated within the walls of the house, yet Frank felt a bone-numbing chill his heart recognised long before his mind. Weary beyond mere exhaustion, he sat back while Nicky fed him the rest.

  ‘Forensics have just about cleared the scene, but the real results won’t start coming through until tomorrow. They’re still doing a few little jobs around the house, but nothing essential. You’re right about him being good at what he does, though. Reports from the other scenes of crime say he hasn’t left a thing. No fresh fibres that didn’t match clothes or substances in the house. No hairs, no footprints outside, no tyre tracks. Not a single witness either.’

  ‘This bastard’s a sick freak, not a fucking ghost.’ Frank shook his head and probed his eyelids once more. ‘They all leave something, Nicky. They leave something and take something away with them. That’s just the way it works. In his case, semen may be all we have. But it’ll do for him when the time comes. More likely, though, is that something was missed by forensics. That’s just the way it works, too. Either that or what has been found will only make sense once we have someone in custody. Okay, so we have nothing to go on with the physical side of the investigation at present. How about the psychological aspect?’

  ‘Right. The local investigation is now being officially linked with the others, handled and co-ordinated here by SO1 East. The media will be informed first thing in the morning, so watch the shit hit the fan then. It’s the first of the series in the capital and the Met have the resources to cope. By tomorrow we should have everything the other areas have on this bastard. As soon as we do, our own profile will be put together to merge with theirs.’

  SO1 East is the major enquiry team for the
eastern section of the Metropolitan area. Headed by a senior investigations officer – in this case Superintendent Foster – officers from division would be dragged in for the duration. Frank was aware that Nicky Loizou had volunteered immediately after the bodies had been identified.

  He nodded. ‘Okay. Print me out as much documentation on this as you can, please. I don’t care who else has worked on this, I’ll do my own eliminations.’

  ‘Will do,’ Nicky said. ‘I’ll get Capel on it first thing.’

  ‘Good. But what do we have right now? Serial killers usually don’t stray too far from home, but you say he’s done the same thing in seven different areas. That suggests he doesn’t pick the location at random, but has a purpose for being there. What does that make him? Salesman? Lorry driver? Do we have another Sutcliffe on our hands?’

  ‘Those two are the most obvious occupations. But checks have been made nationwide, and all likely suspects who are or were in either of those jobs have been questioned. No one matches with this MO exactly. Fact is, no one comes even close to it. This appears to be a new sick puppy on the block, Frank.’

  Frank snorted. ‘The Yorkshire Ripper was missed several times, even after questioning, and despite being thought suspicious by several officers. An FBI agent from the Quantico Behavioural Science Unit, who was on a visit here at the time, made several suggestions that were very close, yet still the man was missed. Blind luck nailed him in the end, not detective work.’

  ‘I know, I know. But we have to rely on the information at hand. We can’t second guess every single statement.’

  ‘We’ll do a local search, of course?’

  ‘Sure. The collator worked on it all afternoon. Nothing so far. It’s all being put through HOLMES, which we’ve been hooked up to, but again no match as at eleven-thirty when I left.’

  Frank hoped that whoever had been delving into the Home Office’s vast crime database knew their stuff. There was definitely a knack to shaping the queries, and some people seemed to find what they wanted with supreme efficiency.

  Frank massaged his temples. Blood pounded in them, and he felt his own pulse throbbing in his neck. ‘You said the girls he took were all of a similar age and type. Yet another aspect that suggests they weren’t random selections. He didn’t just pick them off the street. He was specific in his choices.’

  ‘Information will be sketchy until tomorrow, Frank. But what you say sounds about right.’

  Frank got to his feet and walked across to the French windows. His legs felt heavy, body weary, mind pounded by surges of grief and outrage. He stared out at the night and sighed, misting the glass pane. When it cleared, his reflection stared back. A sorry sight. Ravaged, sagging face. Dark empty sockets.

  ‘When that information comes in from the other six crime scenes, Nicky, I’d like a copy of each one.’

  ‘Of course. It’ll be interesting to study the similarities.’

  ‘Not just the similarities. I want to itemise every single aspect. The similarities may give us the answer as to why he’s doing this, but it’s the anomalies that’ll bring us closer to him.’

  ‘I’ll get it all to you as soon as I can.’

  ‘Cheers. Now, go home, Nicky,’ Frank said. He turned and regarded his friend fondly. ‘I can’t thank you enough for your help, but you go and get some rest, mate. You deserve it.’

  Nicky stood immediately, clearly not about to argue. ‘I’ll see you tomorrow,’ he said wearily. ‘Maybe it’ll have moved on a pace or two by then.’

  Frank sniffed. The shadows gathered around him. He felt diminished by the pain he was feeling. ‘I wouldn’t bet on it. This fucker knows exactly what he’s doing.’

  ‘They all make mistakes eventually, Frank.’

  ‘Not all.’ Frank was shaking his head. ‘Most, I agree. But not all.’

  ‘We’ll get him. I promise you.’

  ‘I can’t do anything for Janet or Gary now. They’re both gone, and eventually I must come to terms with that. But I have to believe that Laura is still alive, that I’ll get my daughter back. I have to cling to that belief as I try to know him. What I don’t understand right now is why he takes them. What does he want with them?’

  Nicky said nothing. Frank understood; there was little his friend could say that would be at all comforting. The two men headed out into the hallway. At the front door, Nicky paused, hand on the latch. ‘Frank, I…I have to ask. We need a formal identification. I could do it, but–’

  He raised a hand to forestall the question. ‘It’s okay. I’ll go over to the hospital mortuary tomorrow morning.’

  ‘Mr Clarke’s parents have already made their ID.’

  ‘Dickhead,’ Frank said, softly.

  Nicky frowned. ‘What?’ He shook his head.

  ‘That’s what Gary called him. Debs told me on Saturday that Gary didn’t like Clarke, so out of earshot he would call him Dickhead. I told him off about it on Sunday, then we both had a good laugh.’

  The two men chuckled, then were quiet for a moment.

  ‘Would I have been able to save them, Nicky?’ Frank searched his friend’s eyes once more. The place where any truth would be found. ‘I mean, if I hadn’t fucked up our marriage, would Janet and Gary still be alive? Would Laura be here with me now?’

  Nicky squeezed Frank’s upper arm and shook his head forcefully. ‘Don’t do this, mate. Don’t beat yourself up. You’ve had enough of a battering for one day, and putting yourself through the wringer won’t do any good. Look at it a different way: if you’d been there, you may well be dead now, and then who would be helping us find Laura? No, the only one to blame here is the sick fucker who did it.’

  Unconvinced, Frank nodded but said nothing.

  ‘I’ll see you tomorrow, mate. I’ll get you into the house as soon as I can, let you have some time there alone. Take care.’ Then Nicky was gone.

  Within seconds of his friend’s departure, the emptiness of the house spoke to him from every darkened recess. It reached out with familiar voices. He heard Gary calling down the stairs; Janet answering from the kitchen; Laura telling them both to be quiet because she was on the phone to one of her many friends. He heard their laughter echoing from every room, their tears, their joy, their sorrow. They were here with him now. All around him.

  With an ache that threatened to cut him in two, Frank realised that he could smell Laura’s sweet cheap scent. He sniffed the air, drew it in, not wanting to let go. He couldn’t name the perfume, but he was able to place its origin: it was the first bottle that Laura had ever bought for herself, with her own money. It was kept here, not at Dickhead’s house. Here. With him. Where it mattered.

  Frank thought ahead to the formal identification. The act of purging oneself of any lingering doubts. People always wanted to do that right away, to see their loved ones as soon as possible, confirming the horror already held within their heart.

  Not him.

  He knew he ought to have done it by now, so that the post-mortem could be performed. But today they would have been horrific. Today the bodies of the people he had loved would have left a bitter, sour taste in the mouth that would have lasted an eternity. Tomorrow morning, Janet and Gary would be unrecognisable as corpses. Their wounds would be under wraps, faces twisted by pain and death relaxed once rigor had left them. He would see them as he always had in life, not how they were in their moment of passing. He had no desire to remember them that way. It was no memory to have.

  Staggering slightly under the crushing weight of his loss, Frank locked the doors and windows, turned off the lights and dragged himself upstairs. Locking up was a ritual that seemed somehow perverse at this moment. What or whom was there to keep safe now? The thing he feared most could not be kept at bay by locks and bolts. The thing he feared most could rise up at any time from inside his own head. The thing he feared most was that single moment when merely believing he would never see his wife or son again became a certain knowledge. Nothing anyone could physically do to him
could possibly hurt him more.

  Before turning in for the night he ran a steaming hot bath, poured in the remaining few crystals, realised at the last moment that they were Laura’s and wondered if the empty glass jar was a portent. He stripped off and lay back in the bath, eyes closed against the piercing light and an unrepentant, monstrous world. His hands drifted in the water and moved unconsciously against something solid. It was Gary’s toy Minions frog. Frank held it up in front of his face, gave it a gentle squeeze. It offered a faint, apologetic croak.

  Frank ran his hand gently over the frog’s back, before placing it by the side of the taps. Then he slumped back into the water and wept until he was dry, finally realising that the thing he actually feared most had already happened.

  7

  At six-twenty the next morning, Frank Rogers struggled his way to consciousness through a pain so intense he thought his head might implode.

  He hadn’t thought to draw the curtains before rolling into bed, and now the glare from a rapidly ascending sun was stabbing him through the bedroom window. For just a fraction of a second he thought the headache was the worst thing he had to deal with that morning. Then he recalled how he had come by it, why he’d drunk so much in the first place. Truth rushed in to claim his soul once more. His wife and son were dead. Laura was in the hands of a madman. He didn’t know whether he’d ever see her again, but he was certainly going to see Gary and Janet one last time.

  Frank eased himself up and swivelled sideways, fingering small, dry nuggets from his eyes. He stood uneasily, body aching as it had never done before. He winced and whipped his head to one side as shafts of sunlight seared his bleary vision like molten razors. He padded barefoot into the en-suite bathroom, ran cold water into the sink and splashed it over his face. Standing upright once more, he let out a groan. Someone other than himself waited for him in the mirror: an old man with the pallor of a cadaver, eyes that have seen what awaits them in hell, and hair that looked greyer and thinner than it had just twenty-four hours earlier.