by Liz Mistry
He turned to Gus, who nodded, his gaze still focussed on the map, and then continued, ‘This is all good for you, as you have a narrower geographic area to work with. The torturing process will not be a silent one, so, if I were you, I’d be looking at places in that target area that are remote from their neighbours or have had recent building work done or are vacant or even in extreme disrepair.’
Sampson frowned. ‘Building work?’
‘Building work can mean extra rooms. Extra rooms can be sound-proofed, or, for that matter, existing rooms can be sound-proofed under the guise of renovations.’ Sebastian scratched his nose. ‘Serial killers are notoriously devious. This type of non-spree killer is the hardest to catch, for they earn their title by being able to kill multiple targets whilst eluding detection over a period of time. They plan, and they pay attention to detail. They make use of any and all resources available to them. Be prepared for more victims.’
‘Can you tell us anything about the killer themselves, other than them being racially motivated and white?’ asked Alice.
Sebastian steepled his fingers together at waist level and closed his eyes. When he reopened them, he began talking. ‘Okay, some of this you’ll have worked out for yourselves by implication, so forgive me for stating the obvious. Depending on other factors like proximity, et cetera, I would say the killer is fairly strong. However, that depends on how quickly they subdue their victim, what ruse they use, what transportation they have available, and so on. This killer is making a statement. The tattoo is that statement, and they may have accelerated because their declaration is not being acknowledged. The posing of the bodies in areas known for ‘gay’ activity shows the unsub has issues not only with non-whites but also with homosexuality, and this is borne out by the choice of tattoo and its positioning in the groin area. I also wonder if this indicates our killer is an acolyte.’
Gus rolled his eyes, as Sampson’s hand shot up. For God’s sake, it’s not like he’s in school. Realising he was being a bit mean, he kept quiet. This was not the time to be moaning on about stupid things. He really needed to lighten up.
Sebastian grinned, waving Sampson’s question away before it was uttered. ‘By that, I mean he may be posing the body and inflicting that particular tattoo in that particular place to demonstrate to someone else his commitment to a shared belief system.’
Now that was interesting, thought Gus. The killer may be doing this to impress someone else. ‘Would the other person be participating in this?’ he asked.
Sebastian shook his head. ‘It’s unlikely. Most serial killers operate alone. However, if proving their worth or superiority by being an acolyte is part of their fantasy, then that person could, inadvertently, encourage them to more extreme acts of violence.’
‘More extreme than that?’ asked Gus, pointing at the photos of the dead men.
‘It’s all relative, isn’t it? I’ve seen far worse than this.’
Gus had too, but now was not the time to dwell on that. He thought for a second or two. ‘I thought psychopaths are arrogant. Why would this one take on a subservient role?’
‘Ah, good question. You’re right, the killer’s arrogance is the main motivator, but although I’m calling him an ‘acolyte,’ I doubt he would view himself that way. He’s probably convinced himself it is his superiority that makes him carry out the killings in the way he does.’
He peered around the room before moving on. ‘Although we’ve not had the autopsy, excuse me,’ he rolled his eyes, ‘I forget I’m back in the UK. The post-mortem on Razaul Ul Haq – it seems clear from the crime scene photos of the groin wound, that this was a more vicious torture so …’ He turned to Gus. ‘Either our killer’s getting a taste for inflicting pain, or this kill was more personal than the others.’ He sighed and yanked his glasses off. Holding onto the taped leg, and seemingly heedless of their fragility, he waved them around. ‘The problem is, we won’t know the answer to that until either you catch the bastard, or he kills again. No pressure, huh?’
The ache that had started, first as a throb at Gus’ temple and then as a persistent thump, had accelerated to a pulsing pounding across his forehead. He knew it was caused by the combination of lack of sleep, too much caffeine and the tension of the investigation. Popping two co-codamol, he washed them down with the dregs of his coffee and then moved to the front to address his team. Sebastian had given them enough to go on for the moment, and he was grateful for that.
‘Right, we really need to move on this. I’ve alerted DCI Chalmers, who has organised a press briefing for lunchtime. She will warn the public we are dealing with a serial killer targeting Asian men and confirm he is branding them with a tattoo. She will emphasise the importance for all non-Caucasian men in Bradford to be vigilant and will not release specific details about the tattoo. That information remains within these four walls. She will also ask all tattooists and suppliers in the district to be vigilant and to report anything they notice that may be significant.’
Turning to the now-circled map on the board, Gus said, ‘Compo, I want you to focus on finding any likely properties using the criteria specified by Professor Carlton in this area. I will be attending the PM with Alice and follow up by re-interviewing Graeme Weston. Seems likely our killer has some things in common with our wannabe MP, and in light of the possible personal element to the attack on Razaul Ul Haq, that makes Mr Weston a definite person of interest. Also, keep tracking old fashioned and traditional tattoo equipment. We may be lucky and catch a lead through that means.’
Turning to Sampson, he continued, ‘I’m expecting a new detective constable to join the team at some point today. You know what the powers-that-be are like. We’ve got a serial killer on our hands, and they’re still talking budgets, despite us being short-staffed. When he or she arrives, bring them up to speed and get them to crack on reviewing and inputting information from the helpline calls. I want you to go back over all three victims’ histories. Double-check with their families and friends. Was there some sort of secret life they were living that our killer cottoned on to? Is there some mileage in the newspapers’ assertions the first two were gay? We already know that Razaul Ul Haq was a womaniser.
‘Is our serial killer cleansing the world of non-white men who don’t adhere to his moral code, or are they just chance victims? Get Compo to run deep background checks on all of them, and instead of approaching their families, why don’t you take the newbie out this afternoon and re-interview some of the victims’ friends? The fact we now have three victims may prompt them to be more talkative.’
Chapter 25
08:45 City Academy, Manchester Road
‘Come on, come on, pick up!’
Sitting on the closed toilet seat in the girl’s loos at school, Neha glanced at the time on her mobile, hoping that Shamshad, for once, would leave her alone and give her some privacy. Ever since they’d found out about their dad’s murder, Sham had been following her everywhere, as if she expected Neha to flip again, like she had when their mum went loopy. What Sham didn’t realise was her continual worrying made it impossible for Neha to share the things that really mattered to her. Although she knew her sister did it out of love, boy, was it wearing. Especially when she had things she needed to do in secret. Things that her twin wouldn’t understand. With one ear listening for the opening of the outer toilet door, she heard the phone cut to voicemail for the umpteenth time since the previous day.
Something was wrong. She knew it. This was the first time he’d ever not answered her call, and right now, she knew he needed her more than ever before. Hell, they needed each other. The outer door opened, and Neha waited for Shamshad to call her name. When she heard two girls giggling together, she breathed easier. Sham hadn’t followed her into the loos. She dialled the number again and waited. Still, no answer. An almost uncontrollable urge to throw her phone against the wall and scream engulfed her. Instead, she pushed her sleeves up, crossed her arms over and scratched and scratched until they were
bleeding and raw.
Her fingertips ached, and her nails were clogged with blood and flesh. She could smell it and it made her want to gip. Memories of her heart thudding, her breath catching in her chest as she applied pressure to the blade, pressing it against her skin, pulling it downwards, splitting her flesh open like she was scoring an orange, flooded her mind. Next came the release. Her breath slowed, and as the deep thick liquid bubbled to the surface and oozed from the gash, a feeling of serene calm overcame her. Her heart rate fell, and she was at peace.
Neha blinked. She wasn’t that person anymore. No, she wasn’t, and she wouldn’t allow her memories to lure her back to that place. Not now. Not when she’d been better for so long. This scratching was a blip, a temporary aberration. When things were calmer, she’d stop. Bending over, she lifted her handbag from the toilet floor, and resting it on her lap, she unzipped it and extracted a pack of wet wipes. With care, she wiped each arm clean, pressing the damp fabric against the scratches until the bleeding stopped, ignoring the sting that accompanied it.
Her sister thought she wore long sleeves in adherence to her faith, and although she didn’t believe it herself, Sham said she respected Neha’s right to her belief and her modesty. Neha sighed. Goodness knew what her sister would do if she could see the scratches running down her thighs and arms. She’d frog march her right back to the psychiatrist, no doubt. Neha laughed. She’d probably end up in the next room to her mother in Lynfield Mount. Best to keep her secrets from Sham … after all, the self-harm wasn’t the biggest one she kept.
Chapter 26
09:30 The Fort
Gus had brought Nancy up-to-date on Sebastian Carlton’s input. They’d agreed to downplay the ‘Tattoo Killer’ moniker Jez Hopkins had come up with, and instead were focussing on warning the Asian and Black communities to be vigilant. Having promised to brief her prior to the lunchtime press conference, should anything critical come from the post-mortem, he was winding up the meeting when Alice ran into Nancy’s office without knocking. Waving copies of the Yorkshire Post and the Bradford Chronicle in her hands, she strode over the carpet, stopping next to Gus. One look at her face told him she was angry. Her eyes flashed, and her mouth was in a tight line.
‘Bloody bastard’s homed in on the fact all the victims were found in villages beginning with an ‘H,’ hasn’t he?’
Gus grabbed the Chronicle whilst Nancy snatched the Yorkshire Post. ‘Since when did that little scrote, Jez Hopkins, write for both papers?’ asked Nancy, hefting her unshod feet onto her desk and leaning back to read the front-page article.
Alice breathed heavily, her face flushed. ‘Since he’s come up with a sensationalist headline and a mainly unsubstantiated, equally sensationalist story. You’re going to have your work cut out at the press conference later, ma’am.’
Scanning the article, Gus’ heart sank. Hopkins’ tone was the height of irresponsible reporting. He’d given scant notice of the latest victim, choosing instead to hazard guesses as to where the fourth victim would be found. Worse, he’d misled the public by stating the victims were killed where they were dumped.
Gus read the Bradford Chronicle headline aloud. ‘‘The Tattoo Killer hunts for his prey in homely Bradford villages!’ Shit. ‘The serial killer who has Bradford police running around like headless chickens struck a third time in the small village of Heaton on the fringes of inner city Bradford. Have the police still not spotted the very obvious link between the kills? If not, let’s ‘spell’ it out. Each of the bodies was discovered in a village beginning with the letter ‘H’ within the Bradford district. First Haworth, then Harden, and now Heaton.’’
Gus threw the paper on Nancy’s desk. ‘Idiot. He’s drawn a link between the dump sites, and he’s insinuated the victims were selected and murdered there.’ As he reached over to take the Yorkshire Post that led with a very similar story penned by the same journalist, his phone buzzed. Glancing at it, he moved away from the desk and answered. ‘Hey, Seb, what can I do for you?’
Gus listened for a minute then hung up. ‘According to Sebastian, this jackass leading with this story could result in one of two things. Either the killer will go along with this, assuming that wasn’t already his plan, and dump the next body in a different village beginning with an ‘H.’ Clearly, that will extend our investigative area, spreading our resources even more thinly. Or he will continue on his pre-determined plan, whatever that is. He also cautioned that by tagging the killer, Hopkins has elevated him above the victims. He says this could temporarily satiate his need to kill by appealing to his narcissism. However, on the other hand, it could pique his desires and set him on a spiralling killing spree. Either way, if we don’t catch him, there will be a fourth victim sooner or later.’
Nancy crossed her right leg over her left knee. Leaning forward, she pulled at her stockings which had got stuck between her toes. ‘Phew, load of bloody codswallop. How does any of that help us? Basically, all Carlton’s told us is he might delay his kill or he might bring it forward … Duh? Like we didn’t know that! Or …’ Having finished prodding at her toes through her tights, she waved her hand in the air. ‘He might dump his next victim in a village beginning with and ‘H’ or, wait for it … then again, he might not. Load of bloody twaddle.’
She swung her legs off her desk and jumped to her feet. The absence of her usual heels made her of equal height to Alice, nevertheless, the glower she levelled at Gus was ferocious. ‘Go out and catch this bloody racist killer. I don’t care where he plans to dump the next body. Our job is to prevent that, okay?’
Feeling very much like a dog with his tail between its legs, Gus could only nod.
Chapter 27
10:30 Bradford Royal Infirmary Mortuary
Gus’ dad looked up from his examination of Razaul Ul Haq. On noticing Alice had accompanied Gus into the room, he squealed, in Gus’ opinion, rather like a schoolgirl. ‘Alice, my dear. When did you get back to work?’
Although both his father and his friend were wearing surgical masks, it was clear to Gus they were smiling at each other. He scowled. He hated this habit they had of mixing business with pleasure. It wasn’t as if he hadn’t spoken to his dad about it often enough; still, the old goat insisted on rabbiting on, instead of maintaining a degree of professionalism.
Turning to Gus, Fergus said, his words clipped and accusing, ‘And why didn’t you tell your mum and me Alice was back at work?’
‘What?’ Gus banged his forehead with his blue gloved hand. ‘Of course, I should have dropped everything to tell you. It’s not as if I’ve got three dead bodies and a serial killer to think about. God! How remiss of me.’
Alice nudged him with her elbow, and his dad glowered at him for a long second, a frown pulling his hairy eyebrows into a furry bush on his forehead. He shook his head. ‘Sarcasm does not become you, Angus. Your mother would be very disappointed. She brought you up better than that.’
Mentioning his mum was a low blow, and Gus nearly said so. Instead, he inhaled. His chest filled with the formaldehyde fumes of the mortuary, and immediately, he wished he hadn’t. Despite the fact his dad hadn’t opened up the body yet, his stomach gurgled, and to make matters worse, he’d forgotten his Vicks VapoRub. He knew it didn’t really work, but it was his prop. No way would he ask Alice if she had any, either. He’d never live it down if he did. He glared at his dad who’d turned back to the body, still shaking his head. He was still annoyed the old man had brought his mum into the equation. Talk about guilt-tripping him. Trying to breathe small breaths through his mouth, Gus took a reluctant step closer and surveyed the remains of Razaul Ul Haq. He was in his late thirties and appeared young for his age. He seemed, apart from being dead of course, to be in good nick, externally anyway. No doubt his dad would soon tell him if that was true of his innards.
‘Here’s the injection site, Angus.’ His dad raised Razaul’s head to show Gus and Alice the miniscule spot on his nape. ‘Exactly the same place as the previous two vi
ctims.’ He shuffled down the length of the metal table, and lifting first one arm and then the other, he pointed to his wrist. ‘Same sort of bruising as before and on his ankles too. Probably cable ties, which won’t narrow it down for you, I’m afraid.’
He drew back the cover to reveal the groin area, which Gus had already seen at the crime scene. ‘It was clear when we first viewed him the killer tattooed him much deeper than the other two victims, but after I cleaned it up, the extent of the injuries is even more evident. This must have been excruciating for him, poor sod! Most tattoos go down barely a millimetre. This was applied so heavily, it penetrated almost three to four millimetres in parts.’
An uncomfortable sensation near his own groin area had Gus cringing. He could almost feel Ul Haq’s agony, as his father dropped the light sheet back onto the body.
Fergus nodded. ‘Exactly, makes you wince, doesn’t it?’
‘Sure does. It also makes me think this must be personal. The level of pain inflicted here is much more than on either of the other two victims.’
Alice looked at him. ‘You thinking Graeme Weston?’
Gus shrugged. ‘Maybe. He’s definitely worth looking at. After all, he’s got a very personal motive for killing Ul Haq. Just worries me he’d do it when he’s making such a public bid for stardom.’
‘Ah,’ said Fergus, lifting the Stryker saw. ‘Weston is that Albion First candidate for the by-election, isn’t he? Perhaps it’s not him doing it. Maybe it’s one of his acolytes.’
Gus frowned. ‘Funny you should say that; that’s the very word Professor Carlton used.’
Chapter 28
10:15 Caroline Drive, Dudley Hill, Bradford
Villages beginning with an ‘H.’ Shouldn’t even dignify that with a response. What does that stupid reporter know? He thinks he knows it all, whereas he knows nowt. Not a damn thing. He hasn’t one iota of awareness in his entire body. Look around, Mr Jez Hopkins, see what’s happening to our city? It’s not about ‘H’ villages; it’s about Bradford. Bradford and the stinking Pakis and Blacks and Eastern Europeans, and homos and paedos and the like. That’s what the problem is.
