Without Conscience

by Michael Kerr

  “You wanted a word, Clive?” Barney said, rapping once on the office door that had been left ajar, waiting for him like an open and primed gin trap.

  “Don’t fucking ‘Clive’ me. Just shut the door and sit down,” Clive said, slamming his backside into a swivel chair with all his weight behind the move, almost tipping it over.

  “You should get tropical fish in here, Clive. They’re good for bringing down stress levels. That’s why so many doctors’ surgery waiting rooms have them. You―”

  “DCI Bowen, shut the fuck up,” Clive came back, his face darkening. He broke his pencil in half and gripped the arms of the chair as if he were on a white-knuckle ride at Alton Towers. “The operation you jacked-up to bring in those two dykes was a total disaster. You couldn’t organise a piss-up in a brewery. The brass wants to know, on paper, how two innocent women got to be assaulted by a supposedly crack team of armed police.”

  Barney shrugged. “You sanctioned the action, Clive. I put what we had in front of you and bingo, you said to lift them.”

  “Both women were injured, for Christ’s sake. One of them was hospitalised.”

  “It’s all in my report, Clive. Ellen Garner resisted arrest and went berserk. We have one officer with two or three cracked ribs, and another with a fractured cheekbone.”

  “Unfuckingbelievable. They were geared up and armed to the teeth,” Clive said, shaking his head in disgust. “And the woman was handcuffed. How could she attack them?”

  “It’s all on video, Clive, as per the book. Our arses are covered. When you see this Sherman tank in human form running amok, then you’ll wonder why they didn’t just put a bullet up her jacksey.”

  “Not, funny, Barney,” Clive said, though he visibly relaxed a little, happy to know that two officers had been hurt by the suspect, and that it had been captured on video. “Is there any chance whatsoever that the woman could be the killer?”

  “Slim to none. Both of them were happy to give samples, and they’re in a long-term relationship.”

  “Where does that leave us?”

  “Dr Ross is positive that the perpetrator is male and a BBC employee. We’ll be checking out all Toyota Corolla owners for a fibre match of their vehicles’ upholstery. Then we can start eliminating and see what we’re left with.”

  “I asked Ross to consult on this case,” Clive said, pushing the newspaper across the desk to Barney, as if it was something unwholesome that might infect him. “I’m beginning to regret it. Read this shit.”

  Barney read the interview Mark had given to Larry Holden. He said nothing.

  “Did you authorise this?” Clive said.

  Barney shook his head. “Get real, Clive.”

  “What’s his game?”

  “I reckon he’s trying to buy time, purposely giving the killer something else to think about, to disrupt his plans.”

  “He should know better. When you chum for sharks you use blood, fish heads or horse meat. You don’t throw yourself in the fucking water. The mad bastard could get himself killed.”

  “I’ll talk to him, but it’s done now,” Barney said.

  “OK. Find out just what he’s playing at. And let’s nail this killer before he rips another woman to bits on our patch.”

  Barney nodded, quickly got up and left the office. Back in the squad room, Mike, Eddie McKay and three other team members were drinking coffee and reading through reams of BBC employees’ details. Initially they were going to concentrate on white males between the ages of nineteen and forty. If push came to shove, they would do a second sweep later. For now, they had more than enough to check with DVLA. The corporation had a list of authorised vehicles owned by employees, which was an aid, but was not necessarily complete, and would not show up any second cars owned by workers.

  “I’m calling it a day, Mike,” Barney said. “I’ll be at home if you need me before morning.”

  Standing outside, under the portico, Barney rummaged in his coat pocket for his cigarettes, took one out of the crumpled pack and fired up. He sucked in the calming smoke and let the cigarette dangle from his lips as he turned up his collar. The rain was sheeting down, bouncing off the concrete, and retirement in Spain was becoming more attractive by the minute. In his mind’s-eye he could see a small, stuccoed villa with tiled floors, a balcony with a fine ocean view, and a swimming pool to cool off in. It was cheap out there. His pension would stretch a lot further, and he and Anna would be able to live comfortably. He felt older than his years. The job was weighing heavily, and his motivation was gradually waning. He felt like a crippled submarine; plates buckling under the building pressure as it slid into the crushing depths. Yes, Spain, good weather, and the shedding of all responsibility was an appealing alternative. But that was something to contemplate in a few months. The brochures and property magazines that Anna was littering every corner of the house with were beginning to wear him down. Before long he might even start to believe that it had been his idea in the first place.

  Flicking the end of the cigarette out into the rain, for it to be hammered down, already extinguished before it hit the concrete, Barney ran across the car park to his Mondeo, stabbing the remote door-opener as he neared it, already soaked before he could take shelter.

  Driving home, Barney acknowledged to himself that he was approaching, if not already past his sell-by-date. He could understand why Mark Ross had walked away from the escalating inhumanity perpetrated on man, by man. Back in an era not so many years ago, rape and murder were the exception to the rule; headline grabbers that shocked the nation. Time had quickly moved on, and the world had become a much more unsafe, savage place. It was all but impossible to believe that his parents’ generation had never felt the need to even lock their doors, back in the late forties and fifties. For some reason, a growing malignancy of far more violent behaviour was escalating out of control. Murder and sex crimes had become daily occurrences. Society was producing more twisted, frustrated and sadistic individuals who were prepared to cast aside all inhibitions and carry out whatever sick, antisocial acts they chose to, apparently without fear of capture or confinement. The culture of crime had changed to become more brutal and perverse. Had there ever really been a time of relative innocence, with less overt evil? Could evil be a spreading disease; an undetectable virus with no cure, which attacked the minds of the susceptible?

  Even though it was still raining, Barney spent a few minutes standing at the edge of his pond before going into the house. The pool’s underwater lighting enabled him to watch the fat Koi glide uncaringly in a separate liquid universe. The sight of the brightly coloured fish cruising through the clear water calmed him and restored his fundamental belief that there was still a lot better than bad in the world at large. Alarmist and shocking news just got more press. Gloom and doom sold copy.

  The glee at having sent Dr Mark a constructed profile, to undermine whatever the Yank’s presumptions were, had turned to gut-wrenching, mind-swelling fury. The ex-FBI man stared out from the page of the newspaper with a supercilious smile on his chiselled all-American-boy-next-door face.

  He read the article beneath it again, highlighting key words in yellow marker: HUMAN MONSTER, CHRONIC PERSONALITY DISORDER, MANIAC, SUBNORMAL INTELLECT, SICK URGES, INSIGNIFICANT, INSECURE, INADEQUACIES, PATHETIC. IMPOTENT LITTLE MAN, DEFORMED, MAD DOG. SKULKING COWARD.

  Blink.

  He opened his eyes and felt the pain in the back of his hand. It was throbbing and covered in a mass of smudged yellow squares from stabbing himself with the pen. Thank fuck it had been a chunky felt tip and not a ballpoint. He was dripping with sweat, shaking, and felt nauseous. No one, absolutely NO ONE had the right to badmouth him so vehemently. The so-called profiler was well out of line, and would pay dearly for making this personal and painting him as some retarded Neanderthal with a limp dick. He would make the no-good bastard eat his words, literally. He would stuff the newspaper, soaked in petrol, into Yankee Doodle’s mouth and light him up like a roman candle, a
fter Dr Mark had apologised satisfactorily for every insult he had uttered.

  The article had been written by some scumbag called Larry Holden, who had no doubt taken thirty pieces of silver for aiding and abetting in the false and malicious denouncement. He had called the killer a human monster. Well, Larry the lamb would be duly dealt with, after he had been interrogated at length and divulged everything he knew about the Yank.

  Carefully cutting out the picture of his nemesis, he pinned it to the fridge door with his favourite magnet, which depicted the World Trade Center towers. Strange to think that they no longer existed. And funny how priorities shifted. A new plan formed. It was intoxicating. He would take another redhead before the light of another day dawned. All of a sudden, he couldn’t wait. Someone had to suffer. There was one bitch who he had stalked for over a month. She would fit the bill admirably. She was physically ideal, though did not do her jogging in parks. But he was capable of adapting. Killing one outside any of the carefully manicured green havens – the lungs of London – that pocked the city, would rattle both the police and Ross. It was time to break the pattern. They may be able to cover the main parks, but not the city at large. His playing field was now without restriction; unbounded. He was expected to strike on the first Friday of the month. So, he would now throw them a curve, as the Yank might say, and confound, confuse and demoralise the enemy.

  As though it were a priceless relic or sacred artefact, he removed a single length of sturdy tree branch from the top of the long chest of drawers that stood directly below the gallery of Caroline. He handled the piece of ash with due reverence, then smiled, his eyes sweeping over the photographs, as with a sharp knife he pared, sliced, carved and transformed the innocuous limb into a lethal weapon with a needle-sharp point.

  Blink.

  He was ready. During the fugue he had cleaned up the wood shavings from the bed and carpet, dressed in black sweats and smooth-soled sneakers, and had slipped the sharpened stake into the extra-long pocket he had made and stitched to the inside of his pants. It was exactly like the stick pockets that screws employed to carry their staves in. The bottom of his pocket was thickly padded with cotton wool, though, to stop the point of the stake piercing the material.

  The phone book first; a little research. He thumbed to H, then Ho. Ran his finger through the columns of surnames. Holbrook...Holbrough...Hold...HOLDEN. Holden L, address and number listed. The photojournalist was a dead man walking. He would check out the hack’s home the following day, break in when he was out and then just wait for the dummy to show up. Caroline could sweat it out for a while longer, as initially planned. Revenge should be taken cold and slowly, to maximise the eventual pleasure it gave. The anticipation of anything he looked forward to doing could be almost as rewarding as the act itself. There was always a certain sense of deflation after the event. He may even take her on Christmas Day. She would make a great stocking filler. Ha! This was one Santa who had his own list of gifts required. And the top item on it was a twenty-eight -year-old redhead by the name of Caroline Sellars.

  He became physically aroused. “Impotent, eh, Dr Mark? I think not,” he said, picking up his knife, a cellophane packet containing latex gloves, a reel of duct tape and his car keys.

  The main force of the storm had shifted farther to the east, and the street and pavement glistened afresh in the glow from the street lamps. He climbed into the Toyota and eased away from the kerb, eager to resume the game and once more assert and demonstrate his power to visit death upon whoever he chose. Behold a pale horse, and the dark rider who stole the living from the midst of life. His acts were uncompromising and pure. He rendered sentient consciousness to profound oblivion. The killings, thus far, had been carried out to curdle Caroline’s blood and reduce her to a mental wreck, fearful of even her own shadow. But they had done so much more. The state of terror, and then the stillness that the everlasting obliteration of fellow human beings imbued, caused a previously closed door to open, liberating an inner darkness that had dwelt dormant in the depths of his soul. Killing at close quarters was personal; an exciting activity that like any other stimulant only kept him high for a limited period of time. The stalking and planning maintained the need simmering on a low light. But it was the impaling and the sensation of life being extirpated as his fingers sank into the warm, pulsating flesh of a smooth throat, which gave him what he could only equate to a cerebral orgasm; a numbing gratification that ripped through his neural pathways and caused a million sensual explosions to erupt, taking him to what must be paradise; truly heaven on earth.

  He pushed a disc into the deck, searched for track three and cranked up the volume. The CD was The Very Best of Meatloaf, and the track was, You Took the Words Right Out of My Mouth. It began with a short conversation, which he spoke the words to as it played:

  “On a hot summer night would you offer your throat to the wolf with the red roses?” Bobby said over the singer’s voice.

  “Will he offer me his mouth?” The seductive, lilting female reply.

  “Yes.”

  “Will he offer me his teeth?”

  “Yes.”

  After the dialogue had run its course, he kept pushing the repeat button, to play the opening to his favourite song a dozen times and talk the words.

  Blink.

  He had parked on a side street in Chiswick, only a two-minute walk from the riverside path that his prey would jog along in – he looked at the dashboard clock, its glow the same luminous green as a small plastic skeleton which he had kept from his childhood, and that still came to phosphorescent life in the dark – approximately fifteen minutes. At six-thirty a.m. she would be running, alone with her thoughts, perhaps planning her day as she moved sinuously and gracefully, her breathing controlled, her limbs functioning with the fluidity of a mare on the gallop at Ascot. And by six-forty she would be a still and lifeless form.

  What was death? A reality? A concept? It was beyond his understanding. It was an altered state; a catharsis resulting in a transition. Did thoughts, memories and emotions cease? Or were they independent of the physical shell that they inhabited, and somehow survive intact? That notion was as easy to believe as the possibility of intelligent life on a planet in a galaxy millions of light years from earth, existing in the same bowl of cosmic soup as everything else. It made him realise just how inconsequential his and everyone else’s actions and aspirations were. One freak solar flare from the Sun, and spaceship Earth would be flambeau. Nothing lasts forever. And yet the masses were programmed. The human condition allowed them to ignore their insignificance, to be distracted by all things mundane. The main topics of conversation around him at work were fired by greed and vanity. People were so small-minded, and he found it both depressing and pathetic.

  Just enough time to hear Meatloaf finish off track nine; Heaven can Wait. Maybe heaven can, but tide and time wait for no man, and he had a red-hot date to keep. He began to shake at the prospect of what he was about to do.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  “Don’t forget to pick up milk and a paper on your way back, darlin’,” Charlie Spencer said as Tina left the bedroom, dressed in sweats.

  “Have the tea brewed. I’ll be back in about forty-five minutes,” she said, before walking down the landing to look in on Samantha. It still amazed her how peaceful and serene Sam could look, when asleep. Within an hour the three-year-old would be up, and the house would be filled with her laughter and noisy exuberance for life, that neither herself nor Charlie could now imagine being without. Bending, she kissed her ‘little miracle’s’ forehead. Sam had been born after Tina had miscarried twice. And not a second passed that she and Charlie didn’t appreciate the gift of their daughter.

  This was Tina’s window of opportunity, to fine-tune herself for another hectic day at the local Jobcentre, where she was in the front line, engaged in verbal battle with irate claimants who were not impressed with any explanation that did not result in being awarded some form of allowance or benefit.
Running next to the river at dawn was her way of fortifying herself to meet whatever problems and challenges she would no doubt encounter. She had tried yoga and even painting, but both were too passive. She needed to move, to feel unfettered and free.

  Descending the narrow flight of stone steps at the side of the road bridge, the light from houseboats with early risers on board painted the Thames in abstract, wavering brushstrokes of white and yellow that danced on the oily black surface. The air was sweet, cool, crisp and invigorating. It was as though the storm had gathered up the polluted air and carried it away, to no doubt dump out over the English Channel.

  Flicking her auburn hair back out of her eyes, Tina sped up, increasing her heart rate and pushing herself, not content to jog sedately. There would be plenty of time to be pedestrian in two or three decades. At her age she could afford to extend herself and go for the burn.

  Fuck a duck! She was moving like an express train. If she got past him, he would never catch up with her. She was racing like a gazelle with a lion on its tail. No sweat. He would wait and take her on the way back. She would be slower, maybe not spent, but with tiring muscles; easier to overcome.

  He moved back behind the broad trunk of the tree he had been leaning against, only ten feet from the path.

  A sudden chill flash-froze Tina’s spine, to encircle her neck with cold fingers of fear. She looked back, but the path was clear. To her right was the river, to the left, a fifty-yard stretch of mature trees that stood like sentinels in the watery predawn moonlight. She was not given to premonitions, but shivered and was almost overcome by a sense of impending danger. If a figure had appeared from the gloom, she would not have been surprised. But no one rushed out to assail her. All that moved were the bare limbs of the trees, as a breath of wind soughed and whistled through leaf-denuded branches. Unsettled, she ran on, regaining some control and pushing back the irrational panic that had pervaded her. Maybe the subconscious thoughts of the recent murders in Regent’s and Hyde Park were playing on her mind. She knew that her qualms were unfounded, but the presentiment had spoilt her run and made her wary and anxious.