Killing the Beasts

by Chris Simms

  'No one,' said the man, retreating towards the road. 'I'll call another time.'

  Reluctantly, the man shut the door, afraid his presence had somehow caused offence or – worse – scared off a potential suitor for his permanently single daughter.

  Jon was sitting in the video room, resignedly finishing off another half-smoked cigarette. In the main room, he heard the office manager announce that everyone was to gather for a briefing in five minutes' time.

  Work was put on hold and the enquiry team gathered in the open area at the top of the room. DCI McCloughlin emerged from his office, clutching a sheet of paper and accompanied by a thin man in wire-framed glasses. Feeling the gaze of so many people upon him, the man nervously pushed the glasses up his nose and ran a hand through his thinning hair.

  'OK people,' announced McCloughlin. 'The forensics lab at Chepstow have got back to us.'

  Jon sat at the back of the listening crowd, feeling a pang of jealousy that, two days ago, the call would have been directed through to him.

  'Toxicology analysis of all three victims' blood shows traces of the same drug. Problem is, it's one they've never come across before. The technician said two of them have spent “quite some time” analysing the ions on the mass spectrometer. God knows what that involves exactly but take it from me: it was expensive. All they can say is that the drug is acid-based and broadly similar in structural terms to gamma hydroxybutyrate. GHB or – as it's known in the clubs – GBH or liquid ecstasy.'

  'A date rape drug,' someone muttered at the front.

  'Yes,' confirmed McCloughlin. Looking back at the report, he continued to read, 'Colourless, odourless, can be easily made in home-based labs using solvents and caustic soda. Sold in either liquid or powder form, it's a powerful anaesthetic that can render someone unconscious in under twenty minutes. Initial effects are feelings of euphoria – hence the popularity amongst clubbers. But larger doses can lead to unconsciousness, convulsions and coma. When mixed with alcohol results can be fatal. Long-term use has been poorly researched, but studies show it leads to massive mood swings, paranoia and irritability. Can also lead to psychotic episodes, especially if the user has a prior history of mental illness.'

  McCloughlin looked up. 'In other words the usual druggy shit: it all ends in tears. So from what I was told on the phone just now, what we appear to have is a very similar substance to GHB but with certain structures altered to produce – and I use the technician's words – massively enhanced biological activity. GHB is hard enough to detect in the bloodstream anyway, but the guy said this stuff showed up as just a shadow of a trace on the gas chromatograph. As you know, drugs affect different people in different ways, but he thinks in each case the amount ingested is minute – we're talking a tiny pinch.

  'On the basis of that information and the post-mortems, what appears to be happening is this: our victims are being knocked out first – probably in minutes by this stuff – and then this white gunk is being injected down their throats. The gunk, as it turns out, is simple silicon gel. Several people have commented that its smell was familiar – that's because it's the stuff you use around windows, sinks and the like to make them watertight. Tubes of it can be bought in any DIY store nationwide.' He waited for the buzz of comments to die down. 'Now, I'd like to introduce Dr Neville Heath. He's a criminal psychologist and hopefully can shed some light on why the killer is choosing this particular modus operandi.' McCloughlin turned to the man and gestured towards the waiting room. 'It's all yours.'

  With a nervous cough the man stepped forwards. 'Unlike the forensics laboratory technician, I'll try and keep my analysis simple.' Several officers laughed and, looking more confident, the doctor continued. 'Three victims, all relatively young females. None showing evidence of sexual assault, yet all subdued with a powerful derivative of a known date rape drug. Killed in a very particular manner and then laid out on the floor with their arms out at their sides. It all suggests considerable planning, the acting out of a long-held fantasy, perhaps. It's a confusing scenario and one that, I believe, results from one of two possible motivations.'

  He paused and glanced around the room before continuing. 'Let's start with the sexual one. The first victim had been posing for glamour photographs and advertising her services in adult contact magazines. It is my opinion that this will turn out to be what links all three victims. The second victim had fetish clothing in her wardrobe. On the face of it, the third victim seems very unlikely to share this... hobby. Churchgoer, very religious, straight-laced. But don't let that fool you. Often these types have very surprising sides to them, just very well hidden. Take, for instance, this fact. To which part of Britain does the Post Office deliver the most mail order sex toys? The God-fearing, outer-lying Scottish islands. This may well be the result of there being no sex shops closer than Aberdeen. But it also reveals a side to the island's population you don't read about in any tourist literature.

  'Now our perpetrator – and let's assume it's a man for probability's sake – obtains sexual gratification in a very unusual way. It not only excludes any willing, or even conscious, participation from the female – it also seems not to include any physical contact on his part. He's a watcher, an observer. And he probably doesn't like to be seen by anyone other than himself when seeking his own sexual gratification – hence he subdues his victims first.'

  'Like that American guy, the heir to some cosmetics fortune. Wasn't he sent down for raping women he had drugged?' asked a female officer.

  'You pre-empt me,' answered the doctor with a quick smile. 'Although that person did seek physical contact: he's currently serving out a one hundred and twenty year sentence having filmed himself having sex with his victims and even saying to camera, “That's exactly what I like in my room – a passed-out beautiful girl.” In contrast, our perpetrator doesn't actually touch his victims. But I do believe he's making films or photographs of them for later use.'

  He paused again and took a sip from a glass of water on the table beside him. 'Therefore we're looking for someone with an interest in cameras or camcorders. When it comes to a property search, the first thing you should look for is some sort of darkroom facility if he's shooting on film, or a computer with the appropriate software if he's shooting on digital. I'd guess the images he's already taken have been made into some sort of display – perhaps on the walls or in albums. Somewhere readily accessible for when he needs to look at them. Another factor to bear in mind is how he's getting to his victim's houses. He's carrying photographic equipment. So at the least he has a briefcase or bag. Is he driving to the houses? Is he getting the train? All three victims lived within walking distance of train stations. Next thing to consider is why he's adopted this pattern of behaviour. My guess is that he's impotent.'

  'So we start staking out all the clinics round town?' someone asked teasingly.

  'Or people ordering Viagra?' asked another.

  McCloughlin cut in, 'Our job is working out how to find this man. Dr Heath's here to give us pointers as to what to look for. Carry on, Doctor.'

  The doctor continued a little more slowly. 'I'll produce a profile soon. But with most serial killers, a white middle-class male aged between twenty-five and fifty-five years are the usual parameters. I think he's likely to still have a close relationship with a significant female relative – probably his mother, but could be an aunt or grandmother. He may well live with her, and the relationship is likely to have become strained ever since he reached sexual maturity. This man craves his privacy after all.'

  Jon noticed several officers discreetly roll their eyes at one another. He heard someone whisper, 'Well that narrows things down a bit.'

  'Normally I'd be happy to just develop this profile,' the doctor continued. 'But there's one aspect to the killings that doesn't seem to fit with it. Why is he killing his victims by closing up their airways with silicon gel? Perhaps our man is trying to still his victims' tongues, or more accurately their voice boxes. It's a symbolic way of ensuri
ng their silence. Again, this could be for a number of reasons – perhaps they have discovered something about him, or have already revealed to other people something about him. It appears all the victims felt comfortable enough with the attacker to let him into their house, so it's reasonable to expect some degree of familiarity. I know this hypothesis appears more tenuous. 'The authority was now ebbing slightly from his voice. 'I need more time to look at the information we have on the victims so far. But please bear it in mind during your investigations.'

  Jon didn't know if it was the rush from the cigarette that made him do it, but he cleared his throat and stood up. 'I might have something that fits with your second theory.'

  The doctor looked at Jon, who looked at McCloughlin, who gave him the nod. 'I've just noticed all the victims so far lived in the immediate vicinity of owners of high-performance cars. Victim one, Polly Mather, shared her driveway with her neighbour who owns a Subaru Impreza. Victim two, Heather Rayne, lived on a road with no off-road parking. Her neighbour had left his Jag directly in front of her house. Third victim, Mary Walters, shared the back yard of her building with a couple that own a Lexus. I hope I'm not letting the car gang case I've been working on cloud my judgement here, but take this scenario. The thief is casing out expensive cars and making the mistaken assumption that our victims are the owners – basically because the cars are parked directly outside the victims' properties. He's opening up their letterboxes and snagging what he thinks are the car keys. Problem is, they're not. So when he can't get the car open, he's using the keys to let himself into the house: and we end up with a dead body.'

  The room was silent for a few seconds before someone asked, 'Why the bizarre way of killing them?'

  'I don't know,' shrugged Jon. 'But it fits with this ensuring their silence business. They've seen him and he can't afford to leave any witnesses?'

  'So the fact that he's only killed females so far,' said the female officer who had spoken earlier, 'that's just coincidence? If a flashy car is parked outside a bloke's house, he could be next?'

  The room began murmuring as Jon replied, 'I suppose so. That drug will knock you out if you're male or female.'

  'This spate of car thefts you've been investigating,' said McCloughlin. 'The method they're using relies on the cover of darkness I presume?'

  Jon nodded.

  McCloughlin frowned. 'Heather Rayne had lain undiscovered for a day in a centrally heated flat – time of death somewhere between five and ten in the morning the day before. The other two victims were discovered first thing in the morning. Could they have been killed at night? What are their estimated times of death?'

  A couple of officers darted off to their desks. 'Polly Mather – early morning. Probably between six and nine.'

  'She was found in her dressing gown,' added Jon.

  The other officer spoke up. 'Mary Walters – same. Probably between six and nine. But she was fully clothed.' 'So,' Jon started, aware he was trying to make the facts fit as he went along, beginning to regret that he'd spoken out without fully considering his theory from all angles. 'Maybe he's going into the house during the last few minutes of darkness. It could explain the absence of any witnesses so far. Perhaps he's dressed Mary Walters and Heather Rayne afterwards – their clothes showed some signs of disturbance.'

  From the high and low tones in everyone's voices, Jon could tell his hypothesis had provoked a mixture of excitement and doubt.

  McCloughlin looked at him for a moment before addressing the room in general. 'I want that theory checked against all three victims so far. For a start let's see whether any keys are missing from their flats. See if you can disprove Jon's line of reasoning. Now, while we're at it, anyone else got any thoughts they'd like to air?'

  The female officer who, earlier in the investigation, had wondered if Polly was planning to travel with anyone, said, 'Polly Mather was about to embark on a round-the-world trip – as far as we know, on her own. I've checked her property inventory and there's no sign of a passport, which seems strange. Is it worth checking to see if the other victims' passports are missing too?'

  'With which line of enquiry in mind?' McCloughlin demanded.

  'I don't know,' she shrugged. 'It was just a thought.'

  He nodded at her. 'Go for it. Let me know what you find. What we have to establish is the link between our three victims – and there has to be one. So we'll be widening the circle of enquiry; in addition to friends and family, we'll be getting statements from all colleagues and other associates. I also want their exact movements over the last seven days mapped out – where they've been, how they got there, who they went with. I want everywhere they visited covered: shops, pubs, cinemas, even toilets. I can't emphasize how important more haste, less speed is on this one. Work quickly everyone, but with total concentration. We've got to find the thread that links them together before another body shows up. Oh and one other thing.' Self-consciously he began adjusting his tie. 'I'm doing a TV interview tonight, some details to stop the press piranhas going into a total frenzy. I'll use it to appeal for information from anyone who has had someone suspicious or unusual knock on their door, trying to gain entry to their house. It might throw up something interesting.' As the outside enquiry team queued up at the allocator's desk to receive their next action, Jon lingered at the white boards, staring at the photographs once again.

  'Not bad, not bad at all.'

  The voice took him by surprise and he was smiling before he'd turned his head. 'Hi, Nikki.' He looked down at her. 'You don't think I just made a total twat of myself?'

  She didn't patronize him with a blank denial. 'OK, there were a few holes in your theory. But at least you're thinking around the problem. Who else had the balls to air any sort of a theory?'

  'You mean who else was thick enough to spout off with a half-baked hunch? Still, what brings you to the incident room?'

  She looked around. 'Central heating. Do you realize how crap my fan heater is at warming up that draughty bloody caravan they've given me?'

  Jon grinned, feeling the familiar urge to give her a hug. 'So, apart from thawing out, what else are you up to?'

  Nikki continued in a more businesslike tone. 'Actually, I'm just dropping off the plan-drawer's pictures. Then I'm back over to my office to look at getting the crime scene painted with ninhydrin.'

  Jon knew that, although ninhydrin showed up fingerprints, it also destroyed more fragile forms of evidence. As a result, it was usually the very final stage in the forensic examination. 'Are we calling it a day, then?'

  'Well, unless you've got any other particular tests in mind. But there's not much for us to go on. No blood splatters, no broken locks, windows or wrecked furniture that could have caught on clothing or scratched skin. In fact, the only promising thing we've removed are a few fibres from the upholstery. I'm talking to the other CSMs in the hope they might find more of the same in the property of the other victims.'

  'What are they like? These fibres.'

  'I'd say they were pure wool. A sort of pale green. Perhaps from a suit; it's hard to say.'

  'Fair enough. Well, I'd better go over and see what my next task is. I'll see you around.'

  'All right,' answered Nikki brightly. 'But remember, if you want a cup of lukewarm instant coffee, don't hang around. I'll not be in my caravan for much longer.'

  *

  DCI McCloughlin's interview was the lead story for Granada News and not far behind in the national bulletins. He gave the usual limited information about the three victims, then aired his concern that the killer, or killers, appeared to be gaining access to his victims' homes without any sign of a struggle.

  'Therefore, I would like to hear from anyone who has had someone call at their house, probably first thing in the morning, with an unusual or unconvincing reason for doing so. Perhaps you've turned such a person away because they were unable to show you a proper ID card, or they were offering a product or service that seemed bogus. If you've had such a call we urge
you to phone us immediately.'

  In his daughter Liz's flat the old man sat directly in front of the TV screen, several empty bottles of Guinness now on the table beside the armchair. She was upstairs, completing some designs for a presentation on Monday morning. As DCI McCloughlin finished his appeal, holding the camera with an earnest gaze, Liz's father let out a slow, rasping snore.

  Chapter 20

  August 2002

  Tom came to with a start, unsure if it was the sound of his own snores or the rain battering down on his head that had awoken him.

  He didn't know if it was something to do with air being blown in off the Irish Sea, then rising and cooling on reaching the Peak District, but downpours in Manchester were a way of life.

  Normally the rain was consistent in its intensity – a never-ending sheet of fine drops that managed to soak their way through outer layers of clothing in no time. But occasionally the skies really opened up, releasing a barrage of droplets that bordered on tropical in their heaviness.

  This was such a downpour.

  Slumped in a chair on the patio, Tom focused on the TV through the French windows, drips catching in his eyebrows, falling in a steady stream from his nose, running down his legs and into his shoes. The dancers in the closing ceremony at the Commonwealth Games stadium tried to keep their movements synchronized as they splashed and slipped through the puddles of water.

  Despite the rain, the temperature was pleasantly warm. With a movement so deliberate he could only be exceptionally drunk, Tom held the whisky bottle up. He considered whether to replace the top: he didn't want any rain watering it down.

  He'd given up trying to ring Charlotte's mobile. For the first few days after their argument it went onto answerphone every time he called. Then the number went dead and he realized she must have moved to another one.