Primal Cut

by Ed O'Connor

  Braun watched him closely. ‘Who are you?’

  ‘Call me George. Can we go inside?’

  ‘What makes you think I live here?’

  ‘I heard on the news that your family live on Gorton Row. I’ve been waiting for you.’

  ‘What sort of business proposition are you offering?’

  ‘I’ll tell you inside.’

  Henry considered for a moment. ‘Wait a minute. Did you write a note to my brother? He mentioned someone called George had written some cryptic fucking message to him.’

  ‘I did write to him.’

  Braun decided to take a chance. ‘It’s over here: number eleven.’

  The house was tiny. Its narrow entrance hall made Garrod look even more enormous. Braun led him into the sparse little living room and flicked on the light.

  For the first time he could see Garrod’s features clearly. ‘Do I know you?’ he asked between puffs on his cigarette. ‘You look familiar.’

  ‘We haven’t met.’ Garrod sat in what had been Nicholas Braun’s favourite armchair. ‘I watched your brother’s case on the television. I read about it too. I collect newspapers. There was an interesting story in there today about a Mr Woollard. The police are prosecuting him for dog fighting offences. He’s an old acquaintance of mine.’

  ‘Why are you so interested in my brother?’

  ‘I’m not really. I’m more interested in the policewoman who put him away.’

  Henry Braun looked at Garrod carefully. The man was huge, with arms at least twice the thickness of his own. His face was pitted and scarred from years of violence. Braun recognised the hallmarks of a serious player.

  ‘DI Dexter,’ Braun said eventually, ‘fucking bitch. What about her?’

  ‘I have a personal issue to resolve with her,’ Garrod said. ‘I thought you might like to be involved.’

  ‘What makes you think that?’

  ‘She put your brother away. You just called her a “fucking bitch”.’

  ‘She is a fucking bitch. But I don’t want to go to prison for her.’

  ‘I had a brother once too,’ Garrod observed. ‘She killed him. He had mental problems. She scared him. Turned up at our shop with about twenty coppers. Well, poor old Ray wouldn’t have known what was happening. He used to get scared by the television sometimes. He ran out into the street. He was trying to get away you see. A car hit him. I saw it. I heard his bones snap. Alison Dexter took my brother’s life and now she’s done the same to yours.’

  Henry Braun hesitated. He remembered Nicholas, broken and pathetic, dead behind prison glass.

  Sensing success, Garrod continued, ‘My brother was my best friend. Our Dad was mean you see. He was fucked up by the war. Saw terrible things. He was a drinker and used to knock me about. It never bothered me really. I had Ray you see. Once my Dad was gone, Ray sort of became my son. She took him away from me. Now, it’s time for payback.’

  ‘Where do I fit into all this?’ Braun asked, intrigued.

  ‘I need some help. I’ll give you the details if you’re interested.’

  ‘What’s in it for me?’

  ‘Satisfaction.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Once we’ve got her, I’ll let you watch.’

  ‘Watch what?’

  Garrod smiled. ‘She’s got a big surprise coming. I thought you’d enjoy it.’

  ‘You’re going to grab her?’

  ‘And a lot more besides.’

  Braun scratched the back of his neck thoughtfully. ‘I don’t know mate. I hardly know you. This is serious shit.’

  ‘She’s quite pretty, I suppose,’ Garrod said quietly. ‘If you like that sort of thing.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Once we’ve got her, I could give you half an hour alone with her I suppose. Your brother might like to see some photographs.’

  ‘You’re mad.’ Braun found the idea richly tempting but common sense still lingered. ‘Killing a copper is a seriously bad idea. We’ll have every uniform in the country after us.’

  ‘They’ll assume that I did her by myself. Why would they think you’d be involved? They’ve been after me for years and haven’t got close yet.’

  Braun hovered uncertainly, the risks were huge but the reward was too exciting to ignore.

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘Think about your brother.’

  Braun stared back at the giant shape sprawled in his brother’s armchair. The man’s confidence was infectious.

  ‘What’s your plan then?’ he asked eventually.

  Two hours later, Garrod returned to Craxten Fen Psychiatric Hospital. Despite the rain, he went straight out onto the back lawn to the edge of the pit he had now completed. He carefully lined the walls with yellow plastic refuse bags that he had stolen from the abattoir and covered the hole with a wooden table top that he had found inside the hospital. The pit was roughly square: three feet across and about four feet deep. One of the walls was sloped at about a forty-five degree angle.

  Ghosts of the insane watched him from a hundred black windows.

  He would have to make a trip soon. Most of his equipment was elsewhere. He had agreed to work all day Sunday at the abattoir. He was then due to make a meat delivery to the market in Cambridge on Monday morning.

  However, once he had completed that, he would have time to head east.

  48.

  Sunday, 20th October 2002

  At 5.00 a.m. the following morning, Alison Dexter left room 212 of the Holiday Inn Hotel, Cambridge and drove the relatively short distance up to New Bolden. She had checked in the previous evening as a precautionary measure. The murder of Kelsi Hensy showed that Garrod could get to her. That he could intervene in her life with devastating effect. She had underestimated the man seven years previously and was not going to repeat the mistake. She knew that men like Garrod were pure, animal predators. He would seek out patterns in her life, look for choke points, moments when she was vulnerable. It was time to get smart.

  Garrod would eventually locate her flat in New Bolden. She knew that. He had found her home in London once before. Her flat was now being watched round the clock by a police observation team. Dexter knew that Garrod wasn’t daft. She had tried to locate the other choke points in her daily routine: weaknesses that he might already have observed. She decided that she would vary the time that she arrived and left New Bolden police headquarters. She had swapped her blue Mondeo for a Volkswagen hire car. Dexter had even decided not to use any of the cash points or food shops in New Bolden town centre: animals were most vulnerable when they went to the water to drink.

  From now on, if she left the office on police business, she would always be accompanied. An Armed Response Unit had been drafted in to New Bolden CID from the County Police Headquarters at Huntingdon. When they finally located Garrod, she would not be taking any risks.

  At ten a.m., the incident room at police headquarters had become crowded with CID officers and police sergeants that Dexter had seconded from the uniform division. She got proceedings underway with a briskness that belied the turmoil within.

  ‘OK everybody. Sorry to get you all in on a Sunday. Let’s get started. As you know, a woman called Kelsi Hensy was murdered last week. This meeting is to discuss that and to update everybody on the manhunt for Bartholomew Garrod.’

  She was amazed by her own coldness: ‘a woman called Kelsi Hensy’.

  Forensic pathologist Roger Leach took over. ‘We have DNA matched samples of blood and semen on the victim Kelsi Hensy to Bartholomew Garrod. There is no doubt that he murdered her.’

  ‘How was she killed, sir?’ asked DC Sauerwine.

  ‘Her throat was cut: expertly, as it happens,’ Leach replied. He was conscious of Alison Dexter’s presence to his right. He chose his words carefully. ‘Death would have been fairly quick. Although there are clear signs of a struggle: defence wounds to Hensy’s hands and wrists plus samples of Garrod’s blood and skin beneath her fingernail
s. She fought him. After death, he removed some of her internal organs. I’ll spare you the details.’

  ‘Fucking bastard,’ said DS Harrison, ‘sick, fucking bastard.’

  ‘Inspector Dexter,’ asked DC Sauerwine, ‘did the Garrods sexually molest any of their victims in London? I don’t remember anything in the file.’

  ‘There was no obvious sexual molestation of any of the London victims. As far as we know, there was only one female victim – a librarian. But nothing sexual was ever suggested.’

  ‘Weird then, that he should rape this Hensy woman,’ Sauerwine thought out loud, ‘it’s a break with his modus operandi. Do you think he’s losing control? Sometimes these nutcases start out all organised but then get more demented as they go along.’

  Dexter tried to crawl out from the sinking mud of terrible images. Garrod’s rape of Kelsi Hensy was a message to her. She knew that. ‘I doubt it’s significant. He is an opportunist. The chance was there and he took it. Let’s clarify exactly what we are doing. Harrison, any luck on the list of names that we put together: the potential aliases?’

  Harrison shook his head. ‘Nothing concrete. There are so many possible matches that it’s taking hours to check each one out. We need to narrow the search criteria if that line of enquiry is going to work.’

  Dexter nodded. ‘Any ideas?’ she asked the floor.

  Sauerwine raised his hand. ‘I’m confused about two things ma’am: where he’s living and how he’s financing himself.’

  ‘We have a possible lead on the question of his accommodation. I have sent DI Underwood to pursue a family link with Essex. It may be that Garrod owned or owns some sort of prefabricated accommodation there. On the question of how he’s financing himself, I am open to suggestions.’

  Roger Leach though for a moment. ‘Is it too stupid to suggest that he might be working as a butcher somewhere?’

  Dexter shrugged. ‘It’s not stupid at all. He is a qualified master butcher. It seems pretty obvious that he loves his job.’

  Harrison was unconvinced. ‘He’s not that daft, Guv. This guy has evaded capture for all this time. I can’t believe he’s done that by bagging sausages for old ladies. For all we know, he’s still earning money from prize fighting. Maybe he’s going to matches in neighbouring counties, places we don’t know about. Our intelligence on that kind of stuff is pretty limited even after this Woollard arrest.’

  The name of Woollard stirred DI Mike Bevan from his musings on the mutilation of Kelsi Hensy.

  ‘On that subject,’ he said, ‘most of you now know that we will be prosecuting Woollard for various animal cruelty offences. Trial is set for Peterborough Crown Court. Preliminary hearing will be next week. Court Notices have gone out. There was a piece in yesterday’s Clarion about it.’

  Harrison laughed. ‘I saw it: “Police Charge Local Farmer”. There was a classic picture of Woollard looking hard done by.’

  Dexter nodded. ‘Thanks to everyone who helped on that case. For your information, Woollard did mention a possible link between Garrod and a murder in Essex a couple of years ago. I’ll be checking that today.’

  In his mind, Leach was still exploring the notion that Garrod might still be working in the meat trade. ‘Returning to the point in hand,’ he said, ‘I don’t think that we should discount the idea that Garrod is still employed in some aspect of butchery.’

  Dexter turned to him. ‘Explain,’ she said.

  ‘Well, I have read the case file that you, Inspector Dexter, prepared on the so called “Primal Cut” murders back in London,’ Leach continued. ‘The manner in which Garrod mutilated his victims was directly conditioned by the knowledge of anatomy that he had gleaned as master butcher. Indeed, as you know, that’s why those crimes were called the “Primal Cut” murders. The Garrods were removing cuts of flesh that resembled common prime meat cuts.’

  ‘You are saying he’s a one-dimensional personality,’ Dexter inferred. ‘That he can’t do anything else.’

  ‘I’m saying that his knowledge, his expertise, is very narrowly based,’ Leach continued. ‘Our passions consume us. A historian sees everything in terms of its relationship with the past. A priest sees everything in the universe as a justification for his own belief system. A policeman sees everything in terms of the law. If Garrod is so consumed by his passion for meat that he will butcher people as he would butcher cattle, then it stands to reason that he might still be butchering cattle as he butchers people.’

  Harrison was beginning to see the point. ‘We do what we have to. Then we do what we enjoy.’

  ‘Right.’

  Sauerwine frowned. ‘I’m not sure about this. It seems a big assumption to make. This guy is pretty smart. Working in the meat trade would make him visible.’

  Leach turned to Dexter. ‘He removed Kelsi Hensy’s kidneys and liver with impressive precision. I think he enjoys his work too much to turn his back on it.’

  His argument seemed persuasive to Dexter. She had learned from previous manhunts that sometimes assumptions and leaps of intuition could pay off.

  ‘OK,’ she said, ‘Harrison, you were looking for a way to narrow down the name search. Let’s start by calling meat retailers, butchers, slaughterhouses, knacker men. Run your list of names and the photofit past them. Start with Cambridgeshire, then fan out into Essex and other neighbouring counties if nothing turns up.’

  ‘Will do,’ Harrison nodded.

  ‘This guy is a menace. He is slippery and will keep killing people until we get him. Catching him is our single priority for now,’ Dexter said sharply.

  ‘We do have one advantage Inspector,’ Leach mused.

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘You.’

  ‘I’m sorry?’

  ‘He is here because of you. He will stay close to you. That makes him vulnerable.’

  Dexter considered this point for a moment. Leach had a way of stating the obvious that she found irritatingly useful. ‘I agree. This bastard has it in for me and my people. That probably means he’s closer than we realise. I have taken precautions. So should each of you. Don’t follow up leads alone. Check you’re not being followed. Avoid patterns and repetition in your daily routine. If we make it hard for him, he’s more likely to make a mistake.’

  Her comments created a ripple of anxiety through the department. Bartholomew Garrod had become everybody’s problem.

  49.

  Burma 1945

  The patrol had pushed deep into the gully. Moisture silently slid from the leaves. The ground was mushy underfoot: it squelched unavoidably as they advanced. Corporal Pete Gendall tried not to think about this or the wet heat in his boots. He had an unnerving sense that something was terribly wrong. The jungle had become very quiet. His four-man patrol had separated from the main body of his infantry company to undertake one final sweep for a downed Hurricane pilot. The soldiers with him were nervous. He could see their fingers tensed on the triggers of their rifles.

  They were making slow progress. The bush was dense, almost impenetrable, and every step towards Japanese lines increased the likelihood of a surprise attack. Now the jungle was terribly quiet. He suddenly gestured his men to stop with a clenched fist. He could smell something, something unnatural. It reminded him of his father’s garage at home: a kind of oily, greasy, mechanical smell.

  There was a small clearing unfolding ahead of them. They could hear voices. Gendall’s men immediately fanned out to his right and left as he signalled enemy contact. The patrol crawled on their bellies through the mud and insects to obtain a viewpoint.

  Through the steaming jungle and the vibration of his pounding heart, Gendall could make out the twisted wreckage of a British fighter plane at the base of a tree: its red, white and blue roundels were unmistakeable. More worryingly, he counted six Japanese soldiers standing and sitting amongst the wreckage. Three of them were sitting on a fallen branch eating stew from a cooking pot.

  Gendall gestured Private Hillen to join him. Hillen was t
he only man on the patrol with a machine gun. He came from Sunderland and hated to be called ‘Geordie’.

  ‘Geordie,’ whispered Gendall once the private had joined him, ‘how many do you see?’

  ‘Six, Corp,’ Hillen replied. ‘They’re a bit fucking casual.’

  Gendall nodded. ‘We must have penetrated further than we thought. No sign of the pilot.’

  ‘What do you want to do? Head back and get the platoon?’

  Gendall shook his head. ‘Too difficult. They’ll hear us. We can handle this. When I give the signal I want you to pop the two guys standing by the plane. I’ll get their mate over there.’

  Gendall turned to his right and pointed towards the three Japanese soldiers sitting eating. Privates Garrod and Baines nodded and took aim with their rifles.

  In the centre of the clearing, Ryoushin Osuka, infantry private first class, stirred meat in his steaming cooking pot.

  ‘Hayaku onegai shimasu!’ his friend Kanji urged him to cook faster. The hunger was tearing them apart.

  ‘Chotto matte!’ Osuka replied irritably. Wait a moment.

  Osuka ladled the boiled meat into the cupped hands of Kanji and Kariudo. It burned them slightly but they were past caring. They ate hungrily, pushing the meat into their mouths.

  Osuka felt a sense of satisfaction. To serve his friends was an honour despite their ignominious surroundings.

  ‘Karai?’ he asked quietly. Too salty?

  ‘Oishii!’ Kanji replied. Delicious.

  Osuka nodded, pleased that he had helped his friends. ‘Kanji’ meant ‘soul mate’. In the heat and horror of the Burmese jungle, that was precisely what he had become.

  At that moment, Osuka heard two loud cracks ahead of him. Before his eyes, Kanji’s jaw exploded in a haze of blood and splintered bone. Kariudo fell backwards, a black hole in the centre of his forehead. He could hear shouting from his officer, suddenly silenced by the staccato cracks of a British Bren-gun. Osuka grabbed his rifle and fell to the floor, his eyes hunting for targets in the undergrowth. Machine gun fire spat bullets into the mud ahead of him. He returned shots into the jungle but could see nothing: the British soldiers had become harder to fight. They had learned from the mistakes of 1941 and 1942.