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

by Will Patching

  The door opened and the man himself appeared, his face quizzical, his plummy tones rich with rolled vowels as he asked, ‘Not convinced of what, Colin?’ Despite his query he went straight to Doc and pumped his hand, his teeth sparkling as he grinned in apparent pleasure at seeing his fellow professional, his question forgotten in an instant. ‘Great to see you at last. If I didn’t know better I’d think you’ve been avoiding me all these years.’ He turned to Jack and shook his hand, explaining, ‘I did torment this young man rather badly when he was my junior at Oxford, though I do hope he’s forgiven me now.’ He winked at Doc and invited them both to sit with him on some lounge furniture to one side of the office. ‘Coffees, gentlemen?’

  ‘No, we’re fine thanks. It’s very good of you to see us at such short notice, Professor Maddox.’

  Jack took stock of the man. He exuded the sleek good health and supreme confidence of the wealthy, the elite who were used to people mentally doffing their caps, servile while acknowledging his innate superiority. Despite this, and the bubbling resentment Jack usually felt when confronted with members of the species, he was drawn in by the man’s warmth, the atmosphere of well-being he carried with him. His blue eyes reminded him of Doc’s brown ones, lively and engaged as he looked from one guest to the other, intelligence and inquisitiveness transmitted wordlessly with a glance or two.

  ‘Delighted to help. Is this about Harding? I can share whatever you need to know, given that his incarceration in a secure hospital negates normal doctor patient confidentiality requirements.’

  The man’s eyes lingered on Doc’s, inviting a response, and Jack took a moment to consider how much these two doctors’ professional lives and attitudes overlapped. They were similar physically too, though Doc’s unruly curls contrasted to the immaculate dyed and trimmed head of hair Maddox sported.

  ‘Actually there are a few things you may be able to help the police with, Dickie. They may or may not be related to Harding. Jack?’

  Carver laid his tablet on the tabletop and opened up the images of Rawlings.

  ‘Professor Koch recommended we talk to you about a current case.’

  ‘Bob? I haven’t seen or heard from him in years. We met when we were younger, had a lot in common then. Funny how life changes. We drifted apart after Northern Ireland.’

  ‘Really?’ Jack was not that interested, wanted to get on with the reason for their visit, but Doc, frowning now, asked an unexpected question.

  ‘Northern Ireland? Is that where you met Koch? Rumour has it, he was a spook back then.’

  ‘No and yes, Colin. We met as boys in Kenya. Both our parents were expats and in that small community, the Nairobi Brits stuck together. We weren’t exactly close friends as there was a six year age difference. He got sent to the UK for his senior schooling. I followed when I was eleven. I realise now how much damage it does to little boys when sent away by their parents to institutions like Eton. It’s a form of child abuse. Warps your mind… I think that’s why I was so foul to you at Oxford, Colin.’

  A genuine look of regret accompanied the words, but Jack was impatient to get on as the professor’s confession dribbled to a halt. Before he could ask a question to get back on topic, Doc spoke up again.

  ‘And Northern Ireland?’

  ‘We only bumped into each other years later while serving in Belfast. He did some work for the military intelligence boys, all hush hush. Disappearing bodies and all that. Rumours of torture and so on. Funny old world.’ Maddox sent a blazing smile at Jack. ‘We lost touch after I left the military and struck out to make some money in the US. Plastic surgery was my forte, as no doubt Bob already explained, Detective… So how can I help?’

  Jack and Doc exchanged glances, both noting the significance of this latest information. It had been volunteered in such an offhand manner, Jack thought it was either an innocent throwaway, or possibly designed to muddy the waters. His team would have discovered more about Maddox’s history soon enough, though Jack would now put the Met’s senior ME under the microscope too. But that was for later.

  Jack began by explaining their theory that this final victim was one of a series of similar, though originally much cruder mutilations as he pulled up the images of Rawlings on his tablet. Doc interjected with his postulation that an amateur budding surgeon was honing his skills on live subjects leading to this final ‘creation’. All the while both men scrutinized the reaction, alert to any indications that Maddox was familiar with the photographs he was viewing.

  ‘Shocking, but strangely fascinating. There’s a high degree of skill evident here though I agree with Colin’s assessment that, given sufficient practice, any medic with basic training could achieve a similar result, though would need some very specialist equipment. Of course, we have these facilities at this clinic so I’ll have my assistant show you round, and provide the relevant information to help with your detective work, tracking similar purchases et cetera.’

  ‘We think he’s been working his way towards this final victim for at least ten years based on his earlier guinea pigs.’ Yet again Carver watched for any reaction, a flicker of guilt, a momentary hesitation, an indication that Maddox was uncomfortable being presented with the images, but saw nothing. ‘Is it possible he could do this alone? Doc thinks he’d need an assistant, but probably no more than one…’

  ‘Frankly? If I wanted to do this,’ he tapped the image of Rawlings, ‘I’m sure I could. And, though it would be difficult, I would not need assistance. I’d also have no need to practise on these other poor souls… So that’s why you’re here, Detective. I’m a suspect! Oh dear!’

  He really did find it amusing and Jack found himself doubting Maddox was in the frame at all.

  ‘Well, we are looking at all medical professionals…’

  ‘I don’t doubt it. Even Colin has some experience of dismembering a human, just like all other students of medicine. We learn basic anatomy on cadavers donated to medical science while at university, and dissecting them is a major building block of our training. Live bodies are rather different as they bleed, of course. I can see why you came up with your theory of a wannabe surgeon though.’

  Maddox then spent a few minutes looking in detail at the wounds on the earlier victims and comparing them with the masterpiece.

  Rawlings.

  Jack took the opportunity to exchange a silent shrug with Doc who offered a barely perceptible nod in response. They waited in silence until Maddox had made his assessment.

  ‘Difficult to say for sure that the sheer butchery of the earlier attempts was by the same person who did this latest operation.’ He swiped back from the image of Rawlings to two others. ‘But I’m pretty sure this one and this one were the handiwork of the same man. The stitching is non-standard, and it’s exactly the same in both.’

  Doc and Jack crowded forward as Maddox enlarged the relevant sections on screen for them to compare. Rough stitches were still in place in the wounds, the thread and knots obviously similar.

  ‘Damn. We missed that, Doc. Thank you, Professor. Anything else?’ There was not, so Jack went on, ‘We’re not sure, but we think Harding may have some peripheral involvement in this.’ He explained about the letters, the source of the photographs, without divulging any of the written content, when Doc interrupted.

  ‘I think whoever did this has deliberately involved me by using Harding as bait. Is there anything you can tell us as to why else he might be relevant? Of course, we know he has a history of dismembering victims.’

  ‘Bait? Wow!’ Maddox sat back and his quizzical look returned. ‘But why would anyone in their right mind invite you into an investigation? That’s asking for trouble.’ He glanced at Jack and added, ‘He’s quite brilliant you know.’ Then he looked over at Doc, his expression one of genuine admiration as far as Jack could tell. ‘I’ve been watching your progress from afar and I have to say, you are an impressive fellow, Colin. I also think your assessment of Harding is correct.’ He laughed, a full throated
guffaw, at the look on Doc’s face. Jack could see a mixture of surprised delight there as Maddox continued. ‘I’ve studied all your papers, your books, your impressive history and learnt a great deal from you. You’re my inspiration for getting into psychiatry, though I’m a healer… You are something altogether different, Colin.’

  Mild embarrassment with a dismissive shrug were Doc’s response, along with a few words.

  ‘That’s an unexpected compliment, Dickie.’

  ‘Double edged I’m afraid. Your ability to empathise and understand serial killers is frankly beyond me. We all have the ability to kill. The military teaches us that, by othering the enemy, dehumanizing them. But your insights are truly remarkable, how you can almost transform yourself into a criminal psychopath. I’ve tried to emulate you but I cannot. I’d love to chat more with you about this unique facility you have, maybe over drinks sometime, but I can see Detective Carver is itching to get on.’

  ‘Speaking of criminal psychopaths, have you any thoughts about Harding that might help shed some light on this current case?’

  Jack was torn between watching Doc, whose discomfiture at the professor’s words was apparent, and studying Maddox. Was he deliberately unnerving Doc? Was he suggesting Doc was a killer? Or was it genuine curiosity, a need to understand how a fellow forensic psychiatrist’s mind worked?

  ‘Harding’s not psychotic, never has been. I’m recommending he’s reassigned to a high security prison after this last escapade of his. But back to your question about his involvement or otherwise in an active case. I agree, he’s being used to throw you off balance, though I doubt you will succumb, Colin… Seems to me that you need to find the link between him and someone on the outside.’

  Jack pondered on that, thinking he’d know more after visiting Broadmoor this afternoon. He’d already spoken to Winston Diamond, the security chief, earlier today by phone and planned to determine the extent — or otherwise — of Harding’s involvement then. Doc, now visibly warmer towards Maddox than when they arrived, began comparing notes on the villain before Maddox’s phone buzzed three times then went quiet when he ignored it.

  ‘My assistant. Our prearranged signal to allow me the excuse to oust unwanted visitors. Harding’s definitely got a hard on for you, Colin. I hypnotized him — he agreed because he thought he could outfox me, convince me he was under while faking it. But he’s not very bright, rather overestimates himself. If I had known we were going to have this conversation I could’ve asked him, but sadly, I had no idea he may be involved in a current investigation. I can share some insights with Colin about his father’s death though. Sorry. I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable.’

  Jack could see Doc’s face, grey as if cast in cement. He changed the subject.

  ‘You mentioned the equipment list…’

  ‘Actually, if we’re about done, I’ll have my assistant show you round.’ Maddox rubbed his thighs and stood, taking his guests’ acquiescence as a given. They were being politely dismissed.

  Jack had one other piece of the puzzle he needed to ask about, thanks to the call from Fiona.

  ‘One thing, Professor. Is it just cosmetic surgery, boob jobs and the like, that you perform here?’

  ‘We do rather more than that, Detective. Why do you ask?’

  ‘Well, one of my colleagues had an interesting conversation with a chap who had some unusual surgery he claims was done here —’

  The guffaw again as he opened the door, leading them back to reception.

  ‘Let me guess! One of our sexual reassignments? Or was it one of our body modification patients?’

  ‘Transsexuals?’ Doc had found his voice again, the tone betraying his surprise.

  ‘Exactly. Our clinic has more experience than any other in the UK. We’re not just a nip and tuck outfit, pandering to the vain wealthy. Hence the soubriquet Dick-Doc — I assumed you knew, Colin! Although I no longer perform operations myself since a rather nasty skiing accident ruptured the ulnar collateral ligament in my right hand, among other things.’ Maddox held up his fingers and thumb for them to see, though Carver could discern no obvious injury. ‘Unfortunately, I no longer have the fine motor control required for such surgery… It’s why I chose to focus my energies on psychiatry. Anyway, my employees and the consultants who assist here are more than capable.’

  ‘So you also undertake wacky implants? My sergeant tells me a gentleman with horns claimed to have been a patient here.’

  ‘Yes, sounds like Elvis.’ Jack wasn’t sure about any musical connections, was unaware of the name of Fiona’s lead, but let Maddox continue. ‘We provide a range of rather strange surgical stainless steel and silicon dermal implants for our more individualistic clients. Don’t look so shocked, Detective. I’m very relaxed about these things. We regularly undertake operations to split tongues, and rather more rarely, penises, if that’s what one desires.’

  ‘Do what? You split penises? Why on earth..?’

  ‘According to those who have braved this extremely painful procedure, having a split end, as it were, doubles sexual pleasure. Adjacent orifices and so on… Ah, here we are.’ They arrived at the reception. ‘I’ll leave you with the lovely Tracy and she’ll sort you out with a tour and anything else you need… It’s magnificent isn’t it?’

  Jack was admiring the sculpture again, had reached out and caressed a wooden wing without thinking.

  ‘It really is an impressive work of art.’

  Even Doc seemed curious.

  ‘You chose the US symbol, the Cadaceus, not the Rod of Asclepius, the single winged emblem of the UK medical profession. Why, Dickie?’

  ‘Well, I always preferred the look of it and planned to work in the States too. I commissioned this from a talented young man, a Combat Medical Technician not long before I left the RAMC.’ Maddox saw Jack’s confusion and added, ‘Army medical corps… He was a field medic.’

  ‘Talented bloke.’ It struck Jack that the man was wasting those talents in the Army.

  ‘Yes, but it’s a sad story. He wanted to train as an Operating Department Practitioner — to assist with surgeries, had high hopes of progressing beyond that, but apparently he really wasn’t up to it. His skills with a scalpel didn’t match his artistic abilities, unfortunately. Suffered minor hand tremors when confronted with a live body in an operating theatre. Working with wood is rather different.’

  Jack felt a tingle of anticipation as he asked, ‘A medic? A frustrated surgeon? What was his name?’

  ‘Oh, I doubt this chap would be of interest to you, Detective. I heard he was released from active service after stealing morphine for his personal use. Claimed he was suffering severe PTSD by all accounts, but he was still cashiered out of the service. Made this for me long before any of that sadness occurred. His name? Staff Sergeant Harry Butler.’

  ***

  Shazza was worried. She tried to concentrate on the customer she was inking, a simple dolphin design favoured by many of the local council house denizens, almost as popular as the butterflies and feathers that most young girls opted for these days. The two aquatic mammals appeared to leap to the small of the girl’s lardy back from the pink crease between her wobbling pale buttocks, as if desperate to escape the confines of her ample flesh.

  The task was no challenge for Shazza, and these bread and butter tats paid the rent, allowing her, Harry and Glen to live, work and play on the premises. Glen, deep in concentration, was busy with another punter, a rather more complex full sleeve design he had been working on for over an hour, but Shazza was almost finished in half the time.

  She sighed as she bent back to work, her mind drifting again to her man, her fingers on autopilot as she wielded the electronic needle to decorate the girl’s lumbar region. Harry had arrived back a couple of hours earlier, in a right state. The sort of state she had not seen him in for several years. He had been doing so well, too.

  ‘There you go, my love. You can check it out over there.’ She explained how to look a
fter the new skin embellishment as her customer popped her bubblegum then sniffed approval at the sight that greeted her in the full length mirror.

  ‘Cool!’

  The girl paid and strolled out, phone already at her ear as she enthused to her boyfriend about the sight that would greet him tonight when they had ‘anal’.

  Shazza mumbled a few words to Glen, excusing herself as she made her way up the stairs to the private rooms above the shop.

  Harry was in bed, having dosed himself with double his usual medication. She thought he was asleep, but he groaned as she opened the door, and called her name, so she crept into bed beside him, fully clothed against his naked warmth. It was little comfort, she knew, but it was all she could offer her tormented soulmate.

  ‘Are you feeling better, babe? Want to tell me what happened?’

  Harry murmured some words into her ear, his breath hot and moist on her skin. She shuddered as he told her his grandfather had died yesterday, shocked by the jagged words tearing at her when he explained why they both deserved to burn in hell for the things they had done.

  He seemed to unlock his inner self, exposing things to her she had not heard in all the years they’d been together, at first as friends, then business partners, then lovers. Yet more torture he had endured at the hands of his own flesh and blood, even before the military screwed up his life and almost destroyed him. She hugged him to her, letting his tears flow on to her chest, soaking her shirt, the anguish draining out of him until, finally, his hoarse whispers ceased and his breathing became deep and regular.

  When she was sure he was sleeping, she gently disentangled herself from him and went back to the shop, hopeful that he would feel better after a decent rest. Her mind was in turmoil, trying to process the things he had told her, a world of cruelty and abuse that was alien to her. Shazza had the appearance of an outsider, a deliberate reaction to her upper middle class childhood and the restrictions that stain on her early life had created. Yet, when she compared her own past to that of many of her friends, similarly styled as outsiders, she knew she had been lucky in life’s genetic lottery. Her safe, secure upbringing in a stable if unhappy home environment was in distinct contrast to the dark experiences of the others, and now she knew the depth of Harry’s own suffering.