Killing the Beasts

by Chris Simms

  Alice followed the curved wall around, reached the toilets and found her way barred by a turnstile. Placing her handbag on the barrier, she rummaged inside for change, but could only find two ten-pence pieces. 'Excuse me?' she asked a lady coming out, 'Do you have a twenty-pence piece I could swap for two tens?'

  Sly saw the fit-looking blonde woman place her bag on the barrier, then turn her back on it as she tried to get change. His reaction was as automatic as that of a spider seeing a fly land on its web. He strode over, one hand darting out and snatching it in an instant. As he went past he moved it round his side, then held it close to his stomach, out of her sight as he sauntered away.

  Jon was watching the giant screen flashing up the day's headlines. The bulletin came to an end and he glanced down to see a weasel-faced man with wiry ginger hair walking towards him. Just before he looked back up at the screen he half noticed a brown leather bag in the other man's hands. It seemed odd that a man should be carrying a handbag, but his attention was on the trailer for some new series starting on Channel Four.

  A minute later Alice appeared at his side, visibly upset.

  'What's up?' He held a hand towards her.

  She stopped short of his reach and banged a fist angrily against her thigh. 'Oh Jon, I'm such a stupid arse. I've just had my bag snatched. I was trying to...'

  Jon remembered the ginger-haired man. He thought that he'd looked dodgy, but now he realized the bag held against his stomach was Alice's. Without saying a word he spun round and ran back towards the sliding doors at the station's entrance, taking in the number of people around, already knowing the chances of spotting him were slim. There was no sign of him. Looking to his right, he saw a passage leading into a car park – no way of telling which way the man had gone.

  'Shit!' He strode angrily back into the station. A policeman was standing next to Alice and Jon walked up to them. 'No sign of the little shit,' he said.

  'This, by the way, is my partner,' Alice told the uniformed officer.

  He gave Jon a cursory nod and turned back to Alice, pen and notepad ready.

  Jon looked round the station and saw the CCTV cameras positioned all around. Getting out his warrant card, he interrupted the officer. 'Where's the control room? I got a glance of this guy – he has to be on film.'

  Seeing Jon's rank, the officer immediately turned his attention away from Alice. 'This way, sir.'

  They followed him over to an anonymous-looking door marked 'Private' and the officer punched in a code. Once inside they walked down a short corridor into a dark room lit by a stack of TV monitors. A man sat before them sipping a cup of coffee.

  Taking his helmet off, the officer said, 'Simon, DI Spicer. His partner just had her bag snatched from outside the toilets and DI Spicer might be able to provide an ID. Madam? You can use this phone to cancel your cards.'

  Jon crossed the room and, staring at the screens, sat down next to the man. Looking at the variety of views, he said, 'Quite some system you get to play with here.'

  The man smiled. 'Where were you when you saw him?'

  'Under the departures board – he went right past me.'

  The man pulled his chair closer to the array of controls on the angled desk before him, punched a few buttons and turned on a screen to his right. 'How long ago?'

  'Four, five minutes, max.'

  The view from a camera directed at the area by the departures board came up with a date and time display in the right-hand corner. The tape rewound, and Jon watched as all three of them walked backwards into the picture. Next Jon reversed out of the shot, followed by the police officer. Alice stood on her own for a bit before Jon jumped backwards up to Alice's side then turned around. They talked for an instant before Alice backed off the screen. Jon now stood on his own looking upwards. A stream of people reversed past, before Jon suddenly said, 'Stop!'

  The image froze without a flicker or shake and Jon jabbed a finger at the monitor. 'That's him.'

  'Here we go, the wonders of digital technology,' said Simon, zooming in on the man. Alice's bag was just visible in his hands.

  Simon leaned closer to the screen. 'Well I never, it's the Ferret. Haven't seen him for many a month.'

  'The Ferret?' asked Jon. 'You've got his details?'

  Simon shook his head. 'Unfortunately not. That's just my name for him. He's a nasty piece of work. Before the new station was built he used to tax the beggars for prime positions – by the entrance to the old Wimpy, next to the ticket office windows, those sorts of spots. The lowest of the low. Plus bag snatching – plenty of people could describe him, though we've never actually caught him in the act. But we didn't have this CCTV system then.'

  Jon stared at his image. 'Can you send me a print of that?'

  'You can have one right now.' Simon pressed another button and the printer to his side began to whirr. 'And I think I can go one better than that.' He checked the time frame on the image of the Ferret then brought up the view from the camera trained on the entrance to the toilets. 'He wouldn't still be snatching bags if he had any idea of the power of this video system.' He rewound to twenty seconds before the Ferret had passed Jon, pressed play and there was Alice, standing at the turnstiles, searching through her purse. She turned towards a lady, holding out a hand with two coins in it.

  The Ferret entered the picture on her left, moving slightly quicker than the flow of people walking past. A hand shot out and Alice's handbag vanished.

  'Gotcha!'Simon announced. 'That's good enough for a prosecution. Now you just need to find the Ferret himself.'

  Half an hour later, Jon was staring at his boss's door, running through a quick mental check. Satisfied nothing so far in the investigation had been overlooked, he knocked twice. 'Come in,' said the voice. Jon opened the door and stepped inside.

  'Morning DI Spicer; it is still morning isn't it?' McCloughlin said, leaning forward to check the clock standing on the corner of his large desk. 'Ah, yes it is.'

  Knowing this was McCloughlin's way of saying he was late, Jon replied, 'Sorry about the delay, sir. My partner had her handbag snatched in town.'

  McCloughlin held his eyes for an instant, checking that it was a genuine excuse.

  Jon took the chair opposite, file balanced on his lap. 'Certainly feels later than 11.30 to me.'

  'Long day already?' McCloughlin said with some sympathy. 'Come on then; what are the developments so far?'

  Jon opened the file. 'Well, not a major amount to be honest. We're just completing the Major Incident First Actions. The mother, Diane Mather, has filled us in on the basics of her daughter's life. Twenty-two years old, single, worked shifts in the Virgin Megastore on Market Street, vocalist in a band called The Soup – fairly well known locally. Few gigs in Band on the Wall and The Night and Day Cafe.'

  McCloughlin raised his eyebrows to indicate he had no idea what Jon was talking about. 'Don't worry, it's my age. Carry on.'

  Jon gave a half smile. 'Enjoyed clubbing, a regular out and about round town. Socialized mostly with the other band members and a few of the staff at Virgin, people she'd met on the club scene and old mates from college. Her neighbour described her as a bit of a ravehead, intimating that she used drugs. There was evidence of that in her house, too. Could be relevant.'

  McCloughlin nodded his agreement. 'Which college did she go to?'

  'Stockport. HND in Communications and Media.'

  His senior officer rolled his eyes. 'What happened to courses where you actually learned something useful?'

  Jon carried on. 'Her mum insists, as they always do, that she didn't have an enemy in the world.'

  'Have you put together her movements during her last twenty-four hours?'

  'Pretty much; she spent the evening at home with the other band members, and they all left her at about midnight.'

  'Boyfriend or recent ex?'

  'Recent ex. Lead guitarist in the band. The other two band members concur it wasn't a nasty split. Can't have been too bad if they were s
till all doing their music together.'

  'So what are your first ideas?'

  'Well, I think she knew her attacker. She certainly trusted him enough to let him into the flat. There's no sign of a forced entry and no sign of a violent struggle inside. But somehow she ended up dead, suffocated by a load of white gel in her throat. There are also questions about how she was subdued for the stuff to be introduced in the first place. Initial toxicology analysis has shown up quite a cocktail of drugs in her blood.'

  'Enough of anything to knock her out?'

  'The toxicologist couldn't be sure.'

  'How about witnesses? Did no one see anyone enter her house?'

  Jon shook his head. 'Uniforms have questioned all the immediate neighbours and the OET has conducted door-to-door enquiries. Most people were out at work; the remainder didn't notice anyone coming or going.'

  McCloughlin tapped his fingers against the armrest of his chair.

  'Other points of interest,' Jon continued. 'She was saving up for a round the world trip. The money is still in her bank account. Thirteen hundred and forty quid. The drawers in her room had been disturbed and a few photo albums were on her bed when I checked upstairs. One contained various shots of her posing nude in her room. It seems she was charging for private glamour photo shoots. We're checking all numbers on her phone records.'

  'Well, that's got to be significant. Wasn't she found in her dressing gown?'

  'Yes.'

  'Good. Looks like there are some promising avenues to follow up there.'

  Jon shifted in his seat.

  'Something else on your mind?' McCloughlin asked.

  Jon coughed. 'You mentioned on the phone about taking me off Operation Fisherman so I could concentrate on this.'

  McCloughlin nodded. 'And you're wondering if, seeing as this case has such solid-looking leads, you can keep an oar in Operation Fisherman?'

  'Just pop my head in every now and again. Keep track of developments.'

  McCloughlin didn't look pleased. 'This is your first murder case as SIO. Believe me, it will soak up attention levels you didn't know you had, however simple we think it appears. I don't want anything to distract you. 'He sat back in his seat and interlinked his fingers. 'I pointed this out on your last assessment, Jon. You have a propensity to fixate on certain cases. You're not a Mountie, always getting your man. You're in the Greater Manchester Police and the modern system means you can be switched off cases as and when events demand. Get used to it.'

  Jon stared at the floor.

  McCloughlin regarded him for a second longer. 'Listen, once this case is cleared up, you can return to your place on Operation Fisherman. But remember, this one is... 'The phone on his desk began to emit a pleasantly subdued beeping. Raising one finger, McCloughlin picked the receiver up. 'Yes?' His eyes, previously on the pad of paper in front of him, suddenly lifted to Jon's face. 'I understand. Give me the details again.'

  He scrawled them down on a memo pad and hung up. 'Another body has been found. Mary Walters, twenty-three years old. Flat one, forty-six Lea Road, Whalley Range. The attending officer says her throat is blocked up by white stuff.'

  As they drove up Withington Road, Jon observed the cafe bars and stylish restaurants creeping outwards from Chorlton. 'Jesus, this place has changed,' he remarked.

  McCloughlin didn't answer and Jon continued to stare out the window at a stretch of enormous houses flanking the road. Built for wealthy cotton merchants in the last century, all had long ago been divided into flats or converted into drab-looking guest houses with vacancy signs in the front windows. Now it seemed every other one was clad in property developer's scaffolding. Signs strapped to the metal poles announced who had laid claim to which building. A modern-day gold rush.

  'I read somewhere this area's had the biggest jump in house prices for the whole of Manchester. Six years ago people couldn't sell their property around here for peanuts,' Jon commented.

  'Shit – another missed chance,' McCloughlin said, whipping the car round into Lea Road. Five police cars and an ambulance were already parked haphazardly on the pavement in front of number forty-six, yellow crime scene tape shivering in the chill autumnal breeze. The house was similar to the massive ones on the main road, solid, chunky brickwork, large stone windowsills and a metal fire escape clinging to its side.

  The two men cut through the crowd of curious onlookers and approached a uniformed officer holding a flip notebook. Flashing his warrant card, McCloughlin asked, 'Who's in there?'

  The officer glanced down at his pad. 'Just the SOCO and the photographer at the moment, sir. The officers who first attended the scene are talking to CID over there.' He pointed to a group of people gathered in the outer cordon.

  'Is that who found her?' asked Jon, nodding discreetly at a heavily built girl sitting in the back of an ambulance, a paramedic comforting her.

  'That's right,' answered the officer. 'Emma Newton.'

  'And it's the ground-floor flat?'

  'Yes. It's got its own front door, round the back of the building.'

  McCloughlin pointed to the officer's pen. 'OK, DI Spicer and DCI McCloughlin, MISU. We're going in.' After introducing themselves to the other officers, they put on white scene-of-crime suits and overshoes, then passed into the inner cordon and walked down the driveway running along the side of the building. 'That helps,' remarked McCloughlin. 'Private entry, no communal hallway.'

  They rounded the corner and found themselves in a large rear yard closed in by high walls. A rotting sofa lay next to a rusting car in the corner, front tyres missing. Large trees in the neighbouring gardens enclosed the area. A sign tacked to an overhanging tree read, 'Smile! You're on CCTV.'

  They both turned round and started scanning the back of the building for cameras. 'Perhaps it's sitting on one of the windowsills inside,' said Jon, unable to spot it.

  'Could be. 'They approached the short flight of steps leading up to the door of flat one. A little wind chime hung to the side of the door, the draft round the back of the building only strong enough to make the wooden tab at the end of the string twist slowly round and round.

  Both men were now scanning the concrete steps, then the door itself.

  'No forced entry,' remarked Jon as McCloughlin pushed the door open with the end of a pen. 'Hello? DCI McCloughlin and DI Spicer, MISU. Can we come in?'

  A voice answered them from deeper inside the flat. 'Keep to the footplates please, gentlemen.' A tall man wearing a face mask stepped from one of the rooms.

  As they approached him, Jon noticed a carefully arranged assortment of coupons cut from magazines on the little hallway table. Nearing the front room Jon said, 'Same odour. Slightly fruity, chemical. Can you smell it?'

  'Yeah, I thought someone had been painting,' replied McCloughlin.

  'So did I, in the first victim's flat. I think you'll find it gets a lot stronger the closer you get to her mouth.'

  Now in the dim front room itself, Jon looked down at the obese body of a young woman. Her arms were stretched out at right angles to her body, long strands of brown hair spread out to the side of her head, purple hairband keeping it off her face. Every so often the scene was lit by flashes from the photographer's camera as he snapped shots from every angle. She wore a knitted jumper with sheep on it, a thick corduroy skirt and beige tights. Sensible slip-on shoes.

  'Very Mumsy,' said McCloughlin.

  Crouching down, they peered into her slightly open mouth.

  The SOCO said, 'The trees cut out a lot of the daylight. I haven't dusted the light switch yet. But here, use my torch.'

  Jon turned it on and held it centimetres from her lips. Just visible at the back of her mouth was a thick white substance. He played the beam over her hands, then the rest of her. 'She's been dragged here. Jumper's tight over her shoulders, hair is pulled under her head and is lying off to one side.' He directed the light at the corner of the rug nearest the door – it was slightly curled over.

  'I'll go with that,
' answered McCloughlin.

  'I think you'll find she may have collapsed in the bathroom,' the SOCO stated. They stepped back into the hallway. There were only three other doors to choose from: kitchen, bedroom, bathroom. Looking in the bathroom, they saw a sink that was partially full of water, a bottle of liquid soap lying half submerged inside. On the floor next to a neat arrangement of toilet rolls was a large clamshell holding several brightly coloured smaller shells in its concave surface. Several had spilled across the lino floor.

  'So she went down in here. Struck or collapsed?'

  They moved through into the kitchen and Jon immediately pointed to the draining board. 'Two cups.' Using the line of foot-plates, he approached the sink. 'Recently washed up.' He reached a hand round the back of the plastic kettle and held a knuckle against it. 'Kettle's still faintly warm.'

  McCloughlin was looking at him quizzically.

  'There were also two cups on the draining board at Polly Mather's flat, 'Jon continued. 'If both victims made brews for someone just before they were killed, it could have been the same visitor.'

  'Go on.'

  'Well, this is just a starter for ten. The killer comes round, our victims let him in, make him a brew. They sit and chat. Then, somehow, each victim ends up collapsing and getting her throat filled with playdough or whatever it is. He rinses the cups out and leaves.'

  McCloughlin gazed up at the ceiling. 'There are some pretty large gaps in that chain of events. But it would make sense that, if someone called round that she knew, she'd offer him a drink. But what happens after that?' He asked himself as much as Jon.

  Next they walked down the short corridor and looked in the bedroom. A collection of teddy bears and other furry animals were carefully arranged at the top of a single bed. On the wall above it was a crucifix and on the bedside table a Bible.

  'She must arrange them every morning,' Jon murmured, looking at the soft toys. 'That's very meticulous.'

  'Twenty-three years old, going on fifty,' said McCloughlin behind him. 'Childish, yet very methodical. The flat's spotless. Bible basher too. Ten quid says that bed's never seen any action.'