Primal Cut

by Ed O'Connor

  Underwood considered the alternatives as he turned south-east of Clacton towards the first site on his list: Sea Breezes Holiday Centre was just outside Jaywick. He didn’t hold out much hope for this site. It had originally been constructed in early 1960. Eric Shildon had died in 1940. However, it was possible that Garrod might have changed site at some point. It was also the most southerly point on his route: somewhere to start. He pulled up in the car park at the front of the site. Out of season, it was a desolate place. Wind tumbled in brutally from the North Sea. Underwood turned off the engine.

  He tried to decipher motive in the madness. Garrod murdered people. Garrod ate people. Dexter identified the Garrods. Ray Garrod was killed. Garrod wanted revenge.

  Underwood’s eyes ached in their sockets. He really needed glasses for driving now. Wasting away from the inside out, Underwood felt his age. The cancer that he suspected inside him was gaining. He stared out at the bleak campsite: its white and blue caravans huddled together on Essex’s most sterile of promontories. It seemed that he was already in purgatory.

  Killing her is not enough. Garrod wants to humiliate her. Do to her what she did to him. Destroy the person closest to her. Marginalise and isolate her. Consume her.

  The Garrods cannibalised their victims. Underwood wondered what drove such perversity. How had something so unnatural become a commonplace to them? Did being surrounded by mutilation, blood and flesh desensitise the Garrods? Perhaps carving animal meat became a mundane chore to them and they had sought stimulation elsewhere. Perhaps they wanted to consume and reduce their victims to base matter. Or was it something else? Underwood liked to flip ideas over: heads on one side inevitably revealed tails on the other. Was Bartholomew Garrod honouring his victims? Stripping them of attributes that he desired in himself. Filling the void in his heart with other people. Underwood understood that position well. Had he not also stripped elements from Alison Dexter’s life – her movements, her picture, her father – to fill the darkness in his mind? He had cannibalised her personality out of love not hatred. Did Garrod want to do the same to her body?

  How would he want to eat her?

  Underwood forced the ideas out of his head. He knew he had an ability to slide down into the whirlpool of human monstrosity. His terrible imagination had nearly consumed him before as surely as the cancer that was eating him alive.

  He sensed a migraine building behind his eyes. Suddenly Underwood was aware of his surroundings again, the dismal little campsite, the thundering North Sea gale at his window. Someone was looking at him through the windows of the site office. He unbuckled his seat belt.

  52.

  Alison Dexter was reading the case file on the death of Jack Whiteside. Essex Police had couriered the documents to her that morning. She flicked through the written text to the photographs of Whiteside’s body. It was badly decomposed after what the post-mortem report described as ‘prolonged immersion in water’. However, the cut across the throat was still visible. The victim had not been mutilated in any other way. Dexter could not be certain that this was the work of Garrod. Certainly the killing blow was similar but every one of the ‘Primal Cut’ murders and Garrod’s recent attacks had involved removal of internal organs or flesh from the victim.

  Kelsi Hensy’s taste in my mouth; in his mouth.

  Dexter tried to push away the guilt welling up inside her. She had to be tough now. Otherwise the case and her sanity would undoubtedly fall apart. There was a knock at the door of her office. Joe Harrison stood at her door.

  ‘Guv, do you have a moment?’ he asked.

  Dexter nodded, grateful to be lifted out of herself. ‘Come in. Have a seat.’

  ‘I’ve been putting together a list of names: slaughterhouses, abattoirs, knacker men. There are a whole load of butchers too but I guessed they’d be less of a priority.’

  ‘I agree,’ Dexter smiled faintly. ‘He’s not stupid enough to be selling pies. How many names?’

  ‘There’s about a dozen in Cambridgeshire if you exclude the butchers’ shops. How do you want me to play it?’

  ‘Split the list with Sauerwine. Take a plod each and go and check out each location. If you find him, call in straight away. You won’t be able to take him out otherwise. We’ve got two ARU coppers downstairs scratching their arses. Bringing him down is their job. All we have to do is find the bastard.’

  ‘I understand.’ Harrison stood and headed for the door.

  ‘Joe,’ Dexter called after him.

  ‘Guv?’

  ‘Be careful. No more corpses on this one.’

  Harrison smiled, ‘First sight we get, I’m calling the cavalry.’

  ‘Do that.’

  ‘What about you?’

  ‘I’m going to check out this Whiteside business. Then I want to talk to Bevan about the Woollard hearing. Whether he wants me there or not.’

  ‘Fair enough.’

  Dexter turned back to the case file on Jack Whiteside. She read quietly to herself, hoping that the text would keep Kelsi Hensy from the spaces of her mind.

  The victim was identified to be Jack Edward Whiteside, 50, of 28 Woodham Crescent, Maldon, Essex. Occupation lorry driver. Whiteside was reported missing by his wife on 17th January 1999. Whiteside is known to have frequented the Albion public house in West Mersea. Two witnesses confirmed that he was at the pub on the evening of 16th January. He left at closing time. This is the last recorded sighting of Whiteside alive.

  Dexter did not know Essex particularly well. The names were unfamiliar but she did not have the energy to check them on a map. The more she read about this case, the more she began to think that it had nothing to do with Garrod. She turned to the introductory pages to the post-mortem report.

  The body of the victim was discovered on 6th February 2000, in shallow water at Bramble Creek, Bull’s Ooze, Essex. The remains were found by Mr Cyril Delvis (local resident – details appended) while walking his dog in the area. Post-mortem examination took place at Colchester Infirmary on 7th February. Chief Medical Examiner Dr Ramsey Holland identified cause of death as blood loss following knife slash to the throat. Foul play.

  Dexter picked up her police telephone directory and located Dr Holland’s number. He answered the call immediately.

  ‘Holland.’

  ‘Dr Holland, my name is Alison Dexter. I am head of New Bolden CID in Cambridgeshire.’

  ‘I’ve heard of you. You work with Roger Leach.’

  ‘On occasion.’

  ‘We meet at conferences occasionally. To what do I owe the honour of a call from the famous Inspector Dexter?’

  ‘Doctor, in 2000 you did a post-mortem on a Mr Jack Whiteside: a murder victim. Do you remember it?’

  ‘I do actually. It was a particularly messy job. The body had been rotting in the sea for best part of a month. Accurate forensic analysis was impossible. Knife wound to the throat. Case was never closed as far as I know.’

  ‘It wasn’t. Can you tell me? Was there anything unusual about the body? Any dismemberment or mutilation?’

  ‘Nothing as I recall. If there was it would be in the report.’

  ‘Could you hazard a guess about the kind of knife that was used?’

  ‘Not really,’ Holland replied, ‘the wound was degraded by water immersion. A knife certainly and most likely a fairly hefty one. I don’t think it was serrated but I’d have to check my notes.’

  ‘Butcher’s knife?’

  ‘Possibly. I couldn’t really be sure.’

  They exchanged some more niceties about Roger Leach before Dexter hung up. She had drawn a blank. She wondered if Underwood had made better progress on the Essex connection than her.

  53.

  Henry Braun had started the day badly. He awoke with a terrible headache. This he treated with a can of Special Brew from the store he kept under the stairs. He had not yet adjusted to sleeping in his brother’s bed. It bulged and nagged into his back. Janice Braun had left for work earlier. He had watched his brot
her’s wife dress for work through half closed eyes. She was skinny. Nick had told him that sex with his wife was like shagging a skeleton. Having now tried it himself, Henry understood that description.

  He flicked through some of Nick’s porn mags while he ate his cornflakes and relieved himself rapidly afterwards. He remembered that a bloke called Dunthorne he had known at school used to roll up porn mags and shag them for a laugh. That memory made him grin as he eventually dispensed himself over the photo of Lucy, twenty-two, from Newcastle. Henry Braun saw sexuality as an infection: an irresistible compulsion. His brother had not been able to control it. It wasn’t Nick’s fault, Henry reminded himself; sometimes the plague consumes you and corrupts your every conscious thought. Henry could keep the disease under control, if he kept it in the palm of his hand: at least until he met up again with DI Alison Dexter.

  His new associate George had given him a clear set of instructions the previous evening. Henry had written them out on a piece of notepaper. His natural suspicion of strangers had initially made him reject the notion. However, as George had spoken in more detail about his plans, Henry had found himself listening in stunned awe. He was terrified, absorbed and very excited at what lay in store.

  At 10.30 a.m., he fried himself an egg, which he ate with toast and ketchup. In an hour or so, he would call Peterborough Crown Court to get the listings for the coming week.

  54.

  Garrod returned to Sandway’s abattoir nursing a changed mind. The long drive back from Cambridge had given him an opportunity to reconsider the prospect of promotion. It was simply unworkable. He had been marginalised from normal society. It was therefore impossible for him to be re-integrated. Besides, he knew that if he accepted Robert Sandway’s offer, he would inevitably bring aggravation down upon his employer’s head. That was not a prospect that appealed to him. Sandway had treated him with respect. He would give his boss the same courtesy.

  Garrod found Robert Sandway on the cutting floor scribbling notes onto his clipboard.

  ‘Ah! George!’ Sandway exclaimed, ‘just the man. I’ve been thinking. The set up of the floor is all wrong.’

  ‘Excuse me?’

  ‘The cutters are standing too close together. We are probably in violation of COHSE rules. There’s a risk that the guys could cut each other. Look how close they are standing.’

  Garrod looked out across the cutting floor. The dangling pig carcasses bled with a beautiful, dark predictability. He felt a twinge of sadness.

  ‘Mr Sandway, I’m going to have to say no to your offer.’

  ‘Why, George? You seemed so keen earlier.’

  ‘It wouldn’t be right, sir. I’ve been thinking about moving on.’

  ‘Don’t be hasty, George.’ Sandway seemed genuinely upset. ‘I would hate to lose you. Is it because of your tax problems?’

  ‘Partly.’ Garrod found it hard to look the man in the eye.

  ‘Forget the promotion then. Stay as you were.’

  ‘Mr Sandway, you’ve been very good to me. I appreciate everything you’ve done. But I’ve been having a few personal problems recently and I’m finding it hard to do my job properly. It wouldn’t be fair on you if I stayed.’

  ‘That’s rubbish, George. I want you to stay. You’ve saved me a fortune already.’

  ‘I’ve made up my mind, sir.’

  Exasperated, Sandway stared up at Garrod. He could see in Garrod’s black eyes that there was no room for compromise.

  ‘How long will you stay?’ Sandway asked eventually.

  ‘I thought I’d leave at the end of today,’ Garrod responded.

  Sandway nodded. ‘Come and say goodbye before you go.’

  Garrod watched him leave. The noise of the cutting room suddenly became an annoyance to him. He walked across the floor and into the locker room where he kept his own knives safely locked away. He removed them from locker number sixteen, checking first that none had been taken. His knives were the source of much comment on the cutting floor. They looked old-fashioned but he kept them in pristine condition. They were razor sharp, with tempered steel blades that seemed to slide effortlessly through meat as if it were butter. Garrod disliked many of the lighter modern knives as they tended to slip in his heavy hands. He wanted his rendering of Alison Dexter to be perfect.

  However, he still lacked a couple of vital items. The honey pit was dug out and waterproofed in the lawn at Craxten Fen Hospital. His vast supply of molasses was stacked in a hospital storage shed. All that he required were his cooking pans and spices from the static caravan. He also remembered that he had a pair of handcuffs secreted there too, courtesy of a prostitute he had used once in Southend. It would take him about two hours to drive there cross-country. He decided to leave at three. That would give him time to finish up properly and say goodbye to Mr Sandway.

  55.

  Henry Braun waited anxiously for the phone to connect. He knew he was doing nothing illegal but his heart pounded with guilty intent.

  ‘Court Centre,’ said a female voice at the other end of the phone.

  ‘I have an enquiry about court listing for this week,’ Braun said crisply in his most polite voice.

  ‘One moment please.’ The line went silent as his call was redirected. Henry Braun tried to remain calm.

  ‘Court office. Can I help you?’ said a different female voice.

  ‘Hello,’ Braun coughed nervously, ‘I have an enquiry about the court timetable for next week.’

  ‘Have you looked at the website?’

  ‘I don’t have access to the Internet,’ he replied. That was true at least.

  ‘OK. The court lists for the forthcoming week are printed every Friday and displayed on the notice boards next to the main entrance to the Court Centre.’

  ‘Ah,’ Braun looked at the scrawled notes that George had left for him, ‘I can’t get into Peterborough to check I’m afraid. It’s a specific case. A relative of mine is on trial soon. I wanted to come along and give him moral support.’

  ‘What’s his name?’

  Braun checked his notes. ‘Woollard. First name Bob.’

  ‘One moment please.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  About a minute passed.

  ‘OK. We have Crown versus Robert Woollard scheduled for 9 a.m. on Wednesday.’

  Braun tried not to let excitement surge in his reply. ‘That’s him. Thank you very much.’

  ‘If you need directions on how to find us, look…’

  Braun had hung up.

  56.

  DS Joe Harrison spent that afternoon trawling around some of the more dismal locations in Cambridgeshire. As Dexter had instructed, he had split the list of meat processing plants, abattoirs and knacker men with DC Sauerwine. The seven sites on his own target list were scattered across the north and east of the county. Sauerwine was covering the south and the west. By mid-afternoon, he was beginning to consider it a fruitless mission. Moreover, the sight of cows being quietly herded into slaughter pens at Smith’s Meat Processing near Ely had been an unsettling experience.

  Both he and Sauerwine were working off the list of names that DI Dexter had previously prepared:

  Claude Albert Francis George

  George George George George NO

  Morley Morley Morley Morley Morley

  Claude NO Claude Claude Claude

  Murchison Murchison Murchison Murchison Murchison

  Albert Albert NO Albert Albert

  Tyndall Tyndall Tyndall Tyndall Tyndall

  Francis Francis Francis NO Francis

  Cavendish Cavendish Cavendish Cavendish Cavendish

  Norlington Norlington Norlington Norlington Norlington

  The list had been based on streets in the Leyton area of London where the Garrods had lived. In addition, Harrison and Sauerwine both carried two A4 pictures of Garrod: a picture from the ‘Primal Cut’ case file and a more recent photofit impression based upon Keith Gwynne’s evidence. Harrison had been assigned PC Brooke as his assi
stant for the day. Brooke was an expert on Tottenham Hotspur Football Club and little else.

  ‘Of course, in those days, we had a proper team. The famous five across midfield: Hoddle, Waddle, Allen, Hodge and Ardiles. That was a right team. We played the Tottenham way. King Clive scored forty-nine goals that season.’

  ‘Is that a fact?’ Harrison asked wearily as he turned left past a road sign that said ‘Sawtry 10’.

  ‘On the ground. Pass and move. Pass and move. We were the most attractive team in Europe then,’ Brooke burbled on.

  ‘So what happened?’ Harrison replied stifling a yawn.

  ‘No strategy. We bought Lineker and sold Waddle. What’s the point of that?’

  ‘Seems a bit daft.’

  ‘It was catastrophic, Sarge. Then El Tel comes in. All right he bought us Gascoigne, fair dos, but he also got Paul Stewart. What was that about? Since when did a club like Tottenham need to buy players from Man City? Meanwhile of course, those red bastards at Highbury are winning league titles and FA Cups left, right and centre. I threw a snowball at Tony Adams once while he was putting petrol in his motor. Hit him on the back of the head. Fucking hilarious. He was well pissed off.’

  Harrison’s car phone rang. DC Sauerwine’s voice spoke through the speaker.

  ‘Are you as fed up as I am?’ he asked.

  Harrison grinned. ‘I’ve had more productive afternoons.’

  ‘Well, I’m done on my list now,’ Sauerwine continued.

  ‘Anything?’

  ‘Not a sausage. Well, actually, I’ve seen hundreds of fucking sausages. But there is no sign of our man.’

  ‘Likewise. I’ve got Brookey with me. We have two more stops to make.’