BURN, BABY, BURN

by Jake Barton

  Donna waited in the lobby, chatting to the friendly typist/receptionist, while Gary picked up his post and celebrated the new contract. He could work from home, actually Donna’s home at present, but still had to come into the office from time to time.

  Angie, the girl on the front desk, was a real sweetie, making Donna a coffee, instant but not out of a machine, and giving it loads about seeing Stevie Gerrard last week in a restaurant at the Albert dock. Liverpool may have two cathedrals dominating the skyline, but football remained the only true religion.

  Gary bounced down the stairs, a stack of letters and a courier package in one hand, and grabbed a Kit-Kat off the front desk. Angie slapped his hand, but allowed him to keep his prize. She was trying hard and had plenty to offer –an aquiline nose and full sensual lips. Delicate lashes over startling blue eyes and pale skin, a few freckles dotted along the line of her cheekbones. Donna could tell she fancied Gary something rotten, but she’d staked her own claim and Angie wouldn’t get a look in while Donna was around. She was far too young for him anyway, at least a couple of years younger than Donna.

  "Did you get all your stuff, Gary?"

  "Most of the urgent stuff thanks, Angie. Is this for me as well?" Gary indicated the buff padded envelope in his left hand.

  "Yeah. Came by courier first thing."

  Gary creased his brow, but said nothing, just waved goodbye as the telephone on Angie's desk rang.

  Back home, Peg force-fed Donna with a bacon sandwich while Gary went to open his post. Donna was trying to look as if she couldn’t eat another thing when he came back into the kitchen, a puzzled expression on his face.

  "Can I use your video?" he asked. "Some kind soul’s sent me a videotape, but I don’t know why."

  Donna nodded, mouth too full to speak, and he went out again. A couple of minutes later, a terrible cry from the next room sent Peg and Donna rushing from the kitchen.

  On the television screen, Celine’s face was in sharp focus. The volume had been turned down, but she was screaming, tears running unchecked down her face. The man in the foreground was just a blurred shape, but as he rose from the floor, the camera panned back to focus on the tormented face of Paula Dobson.

  *****

  The lights of Chester were shining brightly over to the left as Donna parked her rusty old rattlebox up against the high stone wall surrounding the fortress that was home to Kate Davies. Donna was supposed to be meeting Dexter here, but as she waited to gain admittance she saw no sign of his car. The cool evening air was a pleasant antidote to the events of the past few hours.

  The video sent to Gary had been a sickening shock. The horrifying sight of Celine’s tear-stained face and the sound of her screaming would remain with Donna for a long time. Celine remained in clear focus throughout, but her mother and the man savagely raping her were only a blur in the foreground. Donna could see well enough to identify Paula, but no details of her assailant were discernible.

  She’d immediately contacted Dexter who said he’d been about to ring her regarding a big meeting at the Dobson house. Donna explained what had happened and he said Andy or he would call to get the tape and she should stay put for now. She’d remained behind to comfort Gary while the others congregated at Meols Drive along with DI Abbott and his squad.

  Dexter updated Donna with a progress report, or more accurately, a lack of progress report. She’d never heard Dexter sounding so angry. Superintendent Hawkes had arrived to take overall charge of the case and virtually ordered Roper and any other representatives of R and D Security out of the house. Client or not, Dobson was in no position to defend the firm’s continued presence and Dexter had ordered a strategic withdrawal. What had made him even angrier was the blinkered attitude of his former colleagues. Hawkes still wouldn’t countenance any suspect other than Alex Melia, citing verifiable facts, such as fingerprints and other similarly solid evidence.

  Dusting the video case had revealed Alex Melia’s prints. Enquiries had yet to be concluded at the offices of the courier firm, but initial assumptions suggested the tape had been left at their office at a time when the desk was unstaffed, and the precise time could not be verified with complete accuracy. The last confirmed sighting of Paula had been at about four o’clock the previous afternoon, but her disappearance had not been noticed until the following morning.

  Abbott explained that the way Hawkes was thinking involved some collusion on her part. He reckoned she’d left the house, unseen by her husband the previous afternoon for a pre-arranged meeting with the kidnapper. He reminded Dexter she’d already done the very same thing while delivering the ransom. The theory was that she’d been taken to the same hiding-place as her daughter and then raped, presumably as a lever to increase future ransom demands.

  All efforts were now to be concentrated on finding Alex Melia and the place where he’d hidden the victims. Find Alex Melia and we’ll find his victims, Hawkes had announced. Marcus Green, or any other possible suspect, never got a look in.

  "You and me," Dexter said to Donna, "are the only friends those two poor buggers on the video have got."

  *****

  Donna sipped from a cup of half-decent coffee and made herself comfortable while Kate’s fingers flew over the keyboard, watching with fascination her close attention to detail.

  Kate explained how her on-line system had been set up to evade detection by even the most skilful operator, all enquiries routed and rerouted through an intricate system of cellular modems. Kate’s searching tentacles, however, were free to roam at will through the majority of computer-based records with a minimal chance of their presence being noted and absolutely zero risk of detection.

  Kate always checked assiduously for virus attack, using a programme of her own design, which searched all levels of her hard drive and reported a clean bill of health before and after any ‘roaming’ she might do. Obviously, Kate had devoted vast amounts of time and resources into this aspect of her life, needing to be certain, beyond all doubt, that her enquiries could be carried out without trace and that nobody was watching her.

  Recognising her paranoia, Donna noted with approval how she used it to ensure her security. Those who were deeply paranoid never allowed their defence to drop – there really could be someone out there.

  "I hope this isn’t taking you away from your own work," Donna said.

  Kate grimaced. "It’s a bloody awful job, what I do, trying to get inside the minds of rapists, murderers and child molesters. I have to know them to understand them, almost form an intimate relationship with them. So people like Dexter can catch them. To do that I have to know them so well I almost become them. You’re here because of one man, and when you’re done with him you’ll forget him. Or try to. Me? After this one there’ll be another. And another after that. Just as sick, just as twisted as all the others. I can’t forget them, they’re part of me. I’m closer to them than their wife, their mother, their best friend could ever be. I read recently about a doctor who deliberately injected himself with the AIDS virus in an attempt to better understand his patients. That’s how I am, living inside the minds of monsters. I seek them out, trying to become them. If I can get close enough, someone like Dexter can find them and lock them away."

  "I’m sorry."

  "What have you got to be sorry about?"

  "Adding to your burden, I suppose."

  "Oh, don’t even think about it. At the very least, this is a break from what I’ve been doing lately – evaluating the extent of recidivism among convicted sex offenders. Pretty grim stuff. When I’m not doing that, I’m spending my time in chat rooms set up by paedophile groups all over Europe. This kidnapping of yours is like a breath of fresh air. On the face of it, a kidnap is a business transaction, nothing more. Taking something of value and trading it for something else. Usually money. If only it were always that simple. A kidnapper will often seek to get the money and then kill the victim. It’s the safest way. Maybe not the way to ensure repeat business, but kidnapping i
s a one-off crime anyway." She sighed. "Since you were last here, among other things, I’ve been looking at the family. Marcus Green’s family. The father died in an accident in 1986. Marcus would have been six then. Difficult to evaluate how that would have affected him. I understand from Dexter that you lost a parent early on in life?"

  "My mother. I don’t remember her. She died when I was still a toddler. Cancer."

  "That sort of thing can turn out to be very significant in later life. Whether that applies particularly to those with a predisposition for violence I’m not sure. For every Adolph Hitler there must be hundreds who develop along more acceptable lines. What I found most interesting were the father’s studies on child intelligence. He was a mathematician at the University, and a very able man from all accounts. I found a study he carried out a year before his death. It was a significant study, important enough to be preserved and upgraded when the University computerised their earlier stuff. The study includes Child M, aged five. The most likely source of a five-year-old child would have to be his own son, Marcus. The results are awesome, must have given the late Professor quite a turn." Kate reached into the printer tray and pulled out a single sheet of paper. "See this line here?" She pointed to a mark drawn in red ink on the paper. Donna nodded.

  "That’s the so-called genius level."

  Donna looked again at the sheet of paper. "But it’s-"

  "Way past that." Kate finished. "Exactly. These scores go off the scale."

  "Have you seen a score like this before?"

  Kate shook her head. "Never. I’ve been over and over them. The results are correct."

  "Fucking Hell!"

  "Exactly. If it's the same person, this is a sample of what you’re up against."

  Donna started at the sound of an urgent buzz from a wall-mounted speaker. Even though she just managed to avoid spilling the coffee, she became instantly alarmed at the fearful expression on Kate’s face. She looked haunted, lips compressed into a thin bloodless line, eyes staring at the television monitor mounted above the loudspeaker. Her relief when Dexter’s face filled the screen was palpable as she released the breath she had been holding with an audible gasp.

  "Come on in, you soft old bugger," she said. "You nearly gave me a heart attack." Dexter’s face vanished from the screen as she reached across her desk and pressed a small grey button. Kate turned towards Donna, smiling now. The smile looked as false as her recent terror had been genuine, and Donna realised for the first time the vast depths of Kate’s vulnerability.

  Dexter’s arrival brought a fresh energy into the room. Kate brought Dexter up to date on the information she’d found on the University computers. He sat still, without interruption, giving her his complete attention. This was definitely a new side to Dexter.

  Kate gave them both the third degree, requesting every nuance of various conversations with Dobson in particular and all aspects of their respective days. She agreed that all indications pointed to some advance knowledge of the Dobson security system.

  "Intelligent, makes plans well in advance. The worst kind. Give me someone who acts on impulse any day." She saw Donna’s questioning glance. "The planners, they’re the clever sods who don’t give anything away. Not the really good ones anyway. Acting on impulse means sloppy, means evidence left behind, means easy to catch. Not with the planners. All bases covered, giving us nothing. I hate that, makes my job more difficult. It’s more evil somehow."

  "More evil?"

  "Thinking and planning." It was Dexter who replied, making his contribution as if afraid of being upstaged.

  "Minimising the chances of being caught. It’s so cold. So lacking in humanity. If this were a straight robbery, where no one got hurt, I could even bring myself to admire the professionalism, at least find it less threatening. Worthy adversary and all that crap. But when it’s planning to injure another human being, maybe even kill them, that’s cold blooded. Pure evil in my book." Kate nodded her acquiescence.

  Dexter looked at her, his expression severe. "If this kidnap does turn out to be connected with Marcus Green, we’re talking about a psycho, surely. No sane person would do the things he did. Killing those kids like that."

  "A psycho?" Kate’s expression mocked him. "A psychopath, sociopath, whatever you want to call it, is just a label. It doesn’t really cover the ground, doesn't deal with anything tangible. When we don't understand how someone could kill without any remorse, we call them psychopaths. It doesn't mean anything. It's certainly not a definition of insanity, that's for sure."

  "Did you read that report? I went out on a limb to bring it here. If Hawkes ever found out I’d been given a copy, he’d have a bloody fit." Dexter slipped back into a more typical mode, all bristling aggression. Donna looked at him sharply.

  "Oh sure," Kate replied. "That precious report commissioned from a leading criminal psychologist. A complete and utter waste of fucking money. Perhaps the police would be better off spending money on a few more uniforms on the street than dabbling in this rubbish."

  Her mocking tone expressed in advance her opinion of the report. "He claimed criminals who devoted considerable time to advance planning, attempting to minimise obvious mistakes, were actually showing their weakness. Those seeking to protect themselves from capture by painstaking attention to detail also had a desire to be caught and punished, may even be horrified at their own actions."

  Kate snorted in exasperation. She closed her eyes, quoting from memory. "‘Acceleration can be expected where the offender will take greater risks, become more daring, even more brutal’." Kate rolled her eyes. "A classic cry for help, apparently. According to your scientists, such a person is a psychopath, suffering from some form of mental instability." Kate paused for a moment, sighing heavily. "What a load of fucking crap."

  Dexter remained silent, deep in thought. Once or twice he almost spoke, but restrained himself. Kate turned back to her computer screen and Donna could almost feel her attention switching back to her work. Dexter seemed deep in thought for a moment longer then shook his head as if freeing his mind from what had gone before.

  "You’d better explain it to me. You know, the science part. You’re not impressed, I can see that. The thing is, I don’t know, don’t understand, just why you’re not impressed."

  Kate frowned, and then turned her gaze on him, holding her head very still and fixing her eyes on his.

  "Well," she said, speaking slowly and succinctly. "My first problem is with the word ‘psychopath’. I don’t like it. Probably because it’s so difficult to pin down." She looked away for a moment, visibly collecting her thoughts. Donna and Dexter waited, hardly daring to breathe in case it distracted her.

  "Perhaps the word itself is the problem," Kate said, fluttering her left hand in an absent-minded fashion. "In particular, its modern connotations. It doesn’t come close to describing the sort of man I look for, not if you take account of the ways the behavioural scientists use the word – the ones who don’t fit into any of their pigeon-holes."

  Dexter and Donna both looked blankly back at her. Kate turned her attention to her chair for a moment, making a small adjustment to the angle of the backrest and leaned back with her feet held off the ground for a moment. "Bear with me," she sighed. "I’ll get there. Think for a minute about the type of individuals to whom the word ‘psychopath’ is commonly applied. There’s your classic loner type – the weirdo who keeps himself to himself, has no friends, probably lives with his sweet white-haired old mother. No sexual or social contacts, you’ve got Norman Bates from the Bates Motel. Does that sound appropriate to this case?" Dexter shook his head.

  "No," Kate continued, no longer looking at him, her eyes fixed on the junction of wall and ceiling. "Then there’s your basic nasty – a sadist inflicting pain as a means in itself. Nothing much else to them, as a rule. Fixated on pain and suffering. Not my ideal choice for a blind date, but too simplistic for our purposes. Still with me?" Dexter nodded. "Then there’s the poor boys frightened of t
heir own shadows. They’ll withdraw into a world of their own, avoiding any contact with strangers. Repression like that can have some pretty bad side effects. Nasty little bastards when cornered, but, again, not likely to be the man we’re looking for in this case."

  "Is that it?"

  "No." Kate frowned. "There’s the look-at-me brigade, the exhibitionists, the show-offs. Nobody else is important to them and they’ll only ever serve one master, themselves. And there you have it, your so-called ‘psychopaths’, according to the great and the good. The problem is our man probably isn’t there. He’s much more complicated. Impossible to put him into any known category. Like I said before, all this theorising is just a bunch of fucking crap."

  *****

  Alex lost all feeling in his limbs due to the wires that cut into his wrists and ankles. Looking at the area where his fingers had been removed, the bloody stumps swollen and encrusted with dried blood, he found himself grateful the agony had been taken away.

  The warehouse dominated his field of vision, blotting out any faint warmth from the sun. Although blindfolded by his captor until dumped where he lay, he knew the sea was nearby. He could smell the salt in the air and hear a loose sheet of canvas banging and slapping in the distance. The sound had no discernible pattern, but he found himself listening for it with an eagerness he could not explain.

  Further away, he visualised a fleet of sailing boats, the sound of half-heard rigging lines twanging in the wind. The wind was a problem, whipping into his face with stinging ferocity, sand particles flaying the tender skin of his closed eyelids. If he had the strength to laugh he would have done so, at his own terminology.