Mutilated: A British Crime Thriller (Doc Powers & D.I. Carver Investigate Book 2)

by Will Patching

  ‘Yeah, strange that people can’t empathise with someone who chooses to look like their worst nightmare.’ Lanny shrugged, huffed and took a few steps towards the car, keen to see this desecration disappearing in her rear view mirror.

  ‘Don’t worry about my colleague’s views, sunshine. Just answer a few more questions and we’ll both be on our way.’ Elvis was bending over backwards to help, and Fiona’s cop instinct knew why. ‘I’m guessing we’d find nothing stronger than some weed or hash on the premises if we were to take a look. Right?’

  He nodded his relief as he said, ‘We don’t harm anyone, we just want to be left alone, man. Nothing wrong with that.’

  ‘Not at all. So, take a look at these.’ Fiona beckoned to Lanny who took a couple of reluctant steps back towards Elvis, then held the iPad out for him to scrutinize the images of the hooks and wires removed from Rawlings’ back. As she did so, visibly flustered, she accidentally swiped the screen, unwittingly exposing the crime scene photograph showing the victim dangling in the tree.

  Elvis squealed in recognition.

  ‘Fuck me! Is that the bloke they found on the common, over at Clapham? That’s why you’re here. You think we did this… No fucking way, man!’ He backed away from them both, shaking his head. ‘Don’t go putting that on us. I had no idea he’d been suspended until you showed me that photo. That wasn’t in the papers.’ He was back-pedalling as if the church would give him, Elvis Beelzebub, sanctuary.

  ‘Stop, you muppet. We’re not here to nick anyone.’ Fiona was exasperated, and let it show. ‘Take another look.’ She scowled at Lanny as she added, ‘Now my colleague has divulged the details, I’d like you to inspect the pictures and tell me — was this suspension done by an expert? Someone who knew what they were doing?’

  ‘Oh, man. You had me going then.’ He wiped his bumpy brow and checked his palm for sweat. ‘We get picked on all the time, you know. Neighbourhood Watch, local vigilantes. So-called Christian fanatics who think we’re the devil’s spawn despoiling sacred ground.’ His blackened orbs shifted from Fiona and homed in on Lanny for a moment, then he went on. ‘Muslims, claiming we’d be flogged or worse under Sharia law. They’re all far crazier than we are. Anyway, let me see those.’

  He took the tablet and started inspecting the rigging, the photos taken before and after Rawlings was unhooked. Then he used his fingers to enlarge the image as he took a closer look at the hooks and wires, his head bobbing as he did so. ‘You’ll want a second opinion of course, but this is amateur hour. The rigging’s all wrong. The person who did this got the pulleys the wrong way round, and there’s no ink on this guy.’

  ‘Tattoos?’

  What the bloody hell had that to do with it?

  ‘No, not tats. Felt tip marker. Any pro, any experienced technician always measures the site for the hooks very carefully, and always marks the skin before piercing. It’s a failsafe, to make sure we don’t get it wrong and have the hooks rip out. Look!’ He pointed to the piercings in Rawlings’ back. ‘See this one is lower than the other, closer to the spine, and there’s less flesh been hooked. Shoddy, man. No, this is someone trying to put this on us. To frame us.’

  It occurred to Fiona that he might be lying, but she thought not. And she would get a second opinion soon enough.

  ‘Have you had any thefts of gear lately? Is this the sort of item you keep on the premises?’

  ‘Nope. We’ve had no break-ins, nothing stolen. It’s not like many other people have a use for our gear, though we do keep plenty to hand. We always check all our stuff before and after every session, sterilize it, inspect it for reuse etc. Nah. I’d know if there was anything missing. It’s bog standard stuff though — you can get it online easily enough. Why bother stealing it?’

  ‘Maybe the purchaser didn’t want us to trace him.’

  ‘Good luck with that, Porky. Anyone with PayPal or Bitcoin can get these items sent over from dozens of countries around the world. There’s hundreds of online retailers, some of them on the dark web selling other shit you would not believe. Forget it, love.’

  ‘Yeah. Much as I thought. Now, just add the name of the person who did your horns for you… They are surgical implants aren’t they Elvis? Unless you really are a reject from hell.’

  ‘Sure. No probs. I use an outfit on Harley Street.’ He scribbled the name and address below the list of members and handed it back to Fiona.

  ‘Harley Street?’ She knew her expression had given her away, could hear her doubt at his claim woven through the two short words. She could not help but look him up and down, trying hard not to be supercilious, but not succeeding.

  ‘You pigs really are all the same aren’t ya? You think you can assess people by what they wear, how they look. How they conform to your idea of society. How well they disappear among the majority, who try to fit in and be good little citizens while their governments make wars on brown skinned people, like you, but far away. And encourage their elite banksters to play at casino junkies with taxpayers’ money. Turn a blind eye to the criminal funds being laundered through million pound properties a few miles from here, while shitting on the little people, forced to work forty plus hours a week to pay off their student loans, their car loans, their mortgages. To eat and sleep and work, day after day, again and again and again… Soul destroying shit that they call normal. Well they can fuck right off!’

  He was the most animated Fiona had seen him, but she had heard enough of his anti-establishment rant.

  ‘Yeah, tough life, eh? But how can you afford a top clinic in London? Inherited some dosh did we?’

  She mentally bit her tongue, hating herself for the envy in her voice. She’d had a bellyful over the last couple of days though, and the jibe just popped out.

  Another assumption, about to be proved wrong.

  ‘Fucking typical. You just can’t get it through your porcine head can you? Not all of us want to be like you… When I was sixteen, half a lifetime ago, I came up with a computer game. I created it in my bedroom, in a pokey flat on a Swansea council estate. I licensed it to Sony and I still get a royalty cheque in five figures. Every month… Now I own this church, the development company that will turn it into luxury homes, along with a few other central London properties. I don’t work. Unlike you, I don’t need to, Officer.’

  ‘Okay, thanks for your help. Do me a favour, Elvis… Actually two favours.’

  He shrugged. ‘Sure. What now?’

  She handed him her card and said, ‘Call me if anything occurs to you, or you hear about any medical personnel enjoying your hobby.’

  ‘Will do.’ He turned to go back inside, the wall of noise from within blasting at them as he pulled the heavy wooden door ajar.

  ‘And the second thing.’

  He let the door almost close as he asked, ‘Yeah, what else?’

  ‘Tell your friends to remember this, Elvis. Call me or my colleagues by some variant of pig, pork, bacon or other insult again and I will have this place raided. I’ll be having a word with the local bobbies to keep an eye on you lot. Got it, you scrote?’

  His miniature horns did a little salute as his forehead creased in response, then he disappeared inside.

  ‘Come on Lanny. That was far from a waste of time — I need to call Jack while you drive. We need to head to Streatham now, and we’ll hopefully get confirmation from the Hope, Not Fear tattoo place about the amateur hooking skills of the perp.’

  Her phone trilled just as she reached for the car door handle.

  ‘Hi, Sam.’ She listened.

  A sunshine grin surfaced, as she gave Lanny a thumbs up across the roof of the car.

  The African connection.

  Sam had just shared the name of the burglar wearing the Atlas bone pendant. And Fiona had a pretty good idea where she might find that particular reprobate.

  ***

  ‘It’s my DS, Fifi. She’s just found a link between your mate Maddox and the crowd who are into suspension.’

&nb
sp; Doc was busy driving them both to visit the clinic in central London, and Jack was in the middle of taking a call from his sergeant. Even though his mobile phone was not on hands free, Doc could hear the excited, if somewhat muffled female voice on the other end. Jack had his hand over the mic as he made his comment to Doc, then turned his attention back to his subordinate.

  Harley Street has very little parking, even for the select few cars with the appropriate disc displayed in their windscreens, but Doc pulled up outside the clinic, thinking Jack would square away any tickets from over enthusiastic wardens.

  ‘Brilliant, Fi! Well done.’ He finished the call and turned to Doc. ‘This clinic not only does boob jobs and liposuction for the very wealthy, but apparently they’ll put weird implants inside your body if the price is right. Unbelievable what people do to themselves these days. Fifi just met a rich kid who’s not just into suspension, but he’s had little horn buds implanted under the flesh of his forehead. The procedure was done at this clinic. Why would anyone pay serious money to look like a devil?’

  ‘Mmm. It’s the times we live in, Jack. People want to demonstrate their individuality, to stand out from the crowd, to be different —’

  ‘I can understand that. But mutilating yourself? That’s fucking braindead, if you ask me!’

  Doc hesitated, wondering whether to bother explaining how various cultures have traditions of modifying their appearance going back centuries, from Maori facial tattoos to the stretched necks of Thailand’s Karen ‘giraffe women’, the nose plugs of India’s Apatari to the stretched lips and ears found among the tribes of Africa and South America. He decided Jack was just venting rather than genuinely interested in understanding the history of body modification, so he put it in terms his friend and colleague would appreciate.

  ‘Well. Think of it like people who modify their cars or motor bikes. They’re in part, striving to be different from society at large, while at the same time they want to belong to a group of others who are similar to themselves. Custom car clubs, Harley Davison chopper gangs and so on. An expression of individuality while simultaneously belonging to a greater whole — a tribe.’

  ‘Right. So they want to be different, but also be the same as others who want to be different… They sound very confused to me. And making yourself look ugly like that? I can understand if someone wants bigger boobs or a facelift, but that’s just plain stupid.’

  ‘Standards of beauty vary from culture to culture, as well as shift over time. What we think of as attractive is considered by some to be un-attractive. You only have to contrast the tanning products in the west with the skin lightening creams and potions that dominate the shelves of pharmacies in Asia and Africa.’

  ‘Yeah. I s’pose you’re right.’ Carver had reached his fairly low threshold of philosophical thought, and was all business again. ‘Now, this bloke, Maddox. He’s expecting us, but he won’t know we have a link, tenuous though it is, to the hooks and wire brigade. Incidentally, Rawlings’ widow gave Fifi a list of people who lost money investing in his hedge fund before it went tits up — some of ’em are millions of quid out of pocket… I was hoping our Harley Street doc might be on the list.’

  ‘He’s not?’

  ‘Nah. She’s only had a quick look, and said we need to do some research on the company names on the list, but at first glance, Maddox is not one of the personal clients so I don’t have a motive. Yet. Shame. I could do with a really quick arrest on this one. Come on, Doc. Let’s see the man himself.’

  As Carver went to open the car door Doc stopped him with a hand on his bicep.

  ‘Am I still a suspect, Jack? Do you honestly think I could do these things? And then somehow blank them out. It’s ridiculous.’

  ‘You were never really a suspect as far as I was concerned, and that now goes for Fifi too. She and I had a little chat after the briefing, and she was pretty impressed with your contribution. She reckons you aren’t trying to throw us off the scent, Doc, or if you are, you’re doing a crap job!’ He patted Doc’s hand, still gripping his upper arm. Doc let go as Carver explained. ‘Soundbite only wants to keep you in the frame to cover her arse mate.’ Doc’s relief at his friend’s declaration of trust immediately deflated as the detective added, ‘Anyway, I did some digging of my own this morning. I managed to get Bob Koch to give me a quick verbal summary of this morning’s autopsy over the phone. It’s good news for you. According to him, the operation that removed Rawlings’ arms took place between two and three years ago, going by his estimate of the age of the scar tissue and similar pathologist’s magic. All that time, you were laid up in hospital, recovering from your leap off that that third floor balcony.’

  ‘Of course, if it was me, I could have had an accomplice continue while I was incapacitated…’ Doc had taken to heart Jack and his sergeant’s suspicions, prompting questions of his own, and his visions had not helped. He knew it was highly improbable that he could do such things and keep them hidden deep in his subconscious, unaware that he had even been involved, but it was entirely possible. Dissociative amnesia. ‘An accomplice who could be manipulated. A damaged veteran with medical training and a history of mental illness… Treated by yours truly eleven years ago.’

  ‘Harry Butler?’ Jack’s face closed down for a moment, as if a cloud had thrown a shadow across it, then brightened as it passed. ‘We need to find him fast. Anyway, let’s not hang about out here. Let’s talk to Maddox and then we’ll shoot off down to Broadmoor.’

  ***

  Carver took one last admiring glance at Doc’s Jaguar before heading into the clinic. The Victorian building was magnificent, beautifully preserved and maintained. He pressed the buzzer and the door swung open allowing them both inside.

  Jack had been expecting a hospital odour to greet them, but instead he could smell perfume moments before he saw the orchids and other exotic plants decorating the waiting area. It was like a florist’s shop, and nothing like any doctor’s waiting room he’d ever been in.

  To the rear of the reception desk, stretching from floor to ceiling, was a magnificent wooden carving that Jack recognised, thanks to Doc having explained the significance of the emblem printed on the business card Maddox had given him. The symbol, now used the world over to signify the medical profession, had been embellished for the clinic’s logo, featuring two wings and two serpents intertwined round a staff. The Cadaceus Clinic had taken its name from the motif and now proudly presented this three metre high and three metre wide tribute to their craft.

  Below it sat the receptionist, all fake tan and white teeth, her chestnut hair immaculately trimmed to frame an oval face, one that shone a smile that could have been radiating from the pages of Playboy magazine. Carver felt his eyes drawn to her rather splendid breasts, and he immediately wondered how much of her appearance was down to nature and how much down to her employer’s skills with a scalpel.

  ‘Detective Carver?’ She looked from Jack to Doc and back, the perfect smile still in place. Jack nodded and held out his warrant card for her, but she did not even glance at it. ‘Professor Maddox is expecting you. I’ll buzz you through. Is this your assistant?’ She raised a tattooed eyebrow at Doc and asked, ‘May I have your name too, Detective?’

  ‘Actually, I am an old friend of Richard’s from our Oxford days. Colin Powers. I’m also helping Detective Carver with some related enquiries.’

  Jack could hear tension in Doc’s voice as he spoke, and he wondered why. His friend was here to observe, to assess Maddox and his potential as a suspect, while Jack did most of the talking. It was most unusual for Doc to display any nerves before an interview like this. In fact, Doc’s behaviour had been off since they’d met yesterday morning, shortly after Rawlings had been discovered, and their conversation in the car had not helped. Jack had been wondering about Doc’s mental state, and before the boss’s briefing he had made a call to the force psychiatrist to discuss memory lapses, the phenomenon of split personality and what symptoms one could expect.r />
  The replies had not been reassuring.

  ‘You okay, Doc?’

  ‘Yeah. Let’s go through.’

  An oak panelled door opened and another silicon-augmented nurse ushered them through.

  Jack asked, ‘Have you worked here long? For Doctor Maddox?’

  ‘Professor Maddox is not often here these days,’ she smiled over her shoulder as she led them down a narrow corridor with two doors either side and a staircase at the end. ‘I’ve been here almost twelve years now, not long after the clinic opened. It’s a great place to work. We’re just a small team of fifteen permanent staff and everyone’s so professional. Here we are. Please make yourselves comfortable. He’ll be with you shortly.’

  She opened a door labelled Professor Maddox followed by a string of letters after the name that stretched almost to the door handle, and waved them in.

  The room was a shrine to the man’s ego. The walls were almost entirely covered with plaques and photographs, with framed certificates and awards bearing testament to an overachieving multi-talented professional.

  ‘Jesus, Doc. Looks like he has some very powerful mates.’ Jack leaned in for a closer look at the photograph of Maddox shaking hands with the Prime Minister outside 10 Downing Street, prominently positioned in a front page article from The Times newspaper, suitably presented here in a gold frame. ‘Started a charity outfit helping African kids with cleft palates according to this.’

  ‘Yes, he’s done some amazing things Jack, crammed a lot into his life, though he did have some natural advantages. The chumocracy being just one.’ Doc’s tone sounded a little cynical to Jack.

  ‘Chumocracy? What? The old boy’s network? Eton and all that? Is that how he knows the PM?’

  ‘They were at school together… You might want to tread a little carefully with your questions, my friend. I still think you’re jumping to a hasty conclusion with Maddox. I’m not convinced —’