“I know that,” I tried to explain to her. “But surely if I was the killer, I’d have more sense than to draw so much attention to myself.”
“Not necessarily,” said Michael Palmer. “You might be so sure of yourself that you wanted to be at the centre of things, to enjoy proving how clever you are.”
“Just try and use your brain for a second,” said to him. “Suppose that I’m not the killer, and that the notes I’ve brought to you are genuine. Then the victims are being killed because they’re close to me.”
“Of course,” he said in a tone of great sarcasm. “The mysterious Guignol. It’s always nice to be faced with a killer who’s had a classical education.”
“Did you get anywhere investigating the web site?” I pressed him. “Or did you decide not to bother complicating your investigation with some facts?”
He smiled. “As I’m sure you know already, there is no such site as “Serial Killers of the world unite”.
“But there was,” I insisted. “He must have deleted it after our conversation. Surely there’s some way of tracing whether there had been a site of that name?”
“I’m sure you’d love that,” he answered. “Us to tie up valuable investigation time on a wild goose chase. Even if we did find such a site had existed, what would that prove? You could easily have created it to try and support your story.”
I looked at him helplessly. There seemed to be no way of getting him to believe that it was even possible that I wasn’t the killer. Before anyone could speak, there was a knock on the door, and a policeman’s head peered around the door.
“What is it Constable?” Michael snapped.
“I’ve got the preliminary medical report on the victims, sir,” the young policeman answered nervously. “You asked me to bring it as soon as possible.”
Laura Smith stood up, and went and collected the brown folder. She sat down and opened it up.
“Read it out loud,” Michael Palmer told her.
She lifted her head and looked first at him, and then at me, uncertainty in her eyes. “Are you sure that’s wise?” she asked him.
“I’m sure Mr. Bailey will be fascinated to hear how his “good friends” died,” he replied with some venom.
She hesitated, and then began to read from the report. “Subject one is an adult female, age probably late twenties. She has suffered severe facial trauma, almost certainly inflicted by repeated blows with a blunt weapon. Extensive injury to the face, including a broken jaw and several teeth dislodged. Her body is similarly bruised, and there are burn marks to the breasts; the pattern of the burns suggest that they were inflicted by a cigarette.”
My head sank, as the litany of horror continued. “There are severe ligature marks to the throat and wrists where the victim was secured to the chair, indicating a prolonged and desperate struggle to get free. All the fingers were broken on both hands. Cause of death will only be ascertained by a full autopsy, but at this stage I would suspect a brain haemorrhage caused by the repeated blows to the head.”
She paused, and took a deep breath before carrying on with the doctors report. “Subject two is a young female, probably aged between seven and ten years. Multiple deep knife cuts to her back, buttocks and thighs. I am fairly sure that the cause of death is exsanguination, or severe blood loss.”
A shudder of horror shook my body, at the thought of that poor little girl’s last few minutes of life. But the report wasn’t finished. Laura read on.
“That’s as much as I can say after such a preliminary examination, and I should know more after the full autopsy. I would guess, though, that the adult female was tied to the chair and then forced to watch as the child was butchered. That would explain the severe nature of the ligature marks. The torture and eventual killing of both the victims is likely to have taken some time. The perpetrator is clearly driven by a cruelty and frenzy which makes it extremely likely that he will feel the need to go on killing.”
Michael Palmer sprang out of his chair. With a shout of “You sick bastard!” he flung himself at me. I was saved by the incredible reactions of DI Smith. Somehow, she was out of her seat and in between us before he could reach me.
“Sit down, Michael,” she said firmly. “This isn’t going to get us anywhere.”
For a moment, the room was in silence. Michael’s eyes blazed past her to me, but Laura just stared defiantly at him. Eventually he moved backwards and sat down.
“Sorry,” he muttered to her, “I just lost it for a moment, that’s all.”
“I’m just as appalled by what happened to the two of them as much as you are,” she told him. “But we owe it to them to make sure that the right person is brought properly to justice.”
He nodded slowly, “You’re right of course.”
The tension slowly eased from the room. The reports of what had happened to Jill and Sophie sickened me, but there was something else. As Laura Smith had been reading out loud, a thought had formed at the very back of my mind. It was still there, but I couldn’t quite get hold of it. I was sure that it was important though.
Suddenly, I managed to grasp it in a shock of disbelief. “Oh no,” I said out loud, my head sinking into my hands.
“What is it Mr. Bailey?” Laura Smith asked.
It took a while for me to be able to form the words. “Their injuries,” I began, “the things he did to them. They’re a copy of how they were at the start.”
“I don’t quite follow you,” she said.
I collected my thoughts, and then tried to explain properly. “When Jill first came to see me with Sophie, they’d both been badly injured. Jill had been punched in the face, so that she had bruising, as well as a broken jaw and a missing tooth. The doctor found evidence of two broken fingers and cigarette burns as well. As for Sophie, Adam had thrown her into a glass cabinet, so she had cuts all over her back.”
“So you’re saying that the injuries are the same?” she said incredulously.
“I’m saying that they’re an exact copy, only even more extreme,” I said more firmly. “I’m also saying that it is all my fault.”
“What do you mean?” she asked. “How is it your fault?”
“On the web site that you don’t believe exists, the person who called himself Guignol told me that there was no achievement in my life that he couldn’t undo easily.” I said, hardly able to bear the pain of the words. “In particular, he mocked the pointlessness of the work I do. The way he killed Jill and Sophie is a message to me – a proof of his words.”
“Assuming that what you say is true,” Laura said more gently. “Who would know the exact nature of their wounds?”
I thought about this for a time. “Me,” I said finally, “Jill’s husband Adam who inflicted the wounds, the doctor who treated them. And, I suppose, anyone who had read Jill’s file at the Crisis Centre.”
“So it’s possible that whoever broke into the Centre this month got the information from the files,” she pressed, ignoring the sigh of exasperation that my answer had produced from Michael Palmer.
“It’s possible, but I don’t think it’s as simple as that,” I told her.
“What do you mean?”
“It’s a bit like you were getting at earlier,” I tried to explain. “Jill and Sophie weren’t just any old client chosen at random. If you’d asked me of all the people I’ve worked with and helped, which was the most special to me, I’d have said Jill and Sophie Sutton every time without hesitation. If the killer really is doing this to hurt me, he couldn’t have picked a better target to do it. Either he knew that, or it’s someone who had their own reasons for hurting them. Either way, I don’t believe that somebody broke into the Centre and, out of the thousands of files, just happened to pick this exact one.”
“Which brings us back to you, or to Adam Sutton,” she concluded.
“I think so,” I told her, and the room returned to silence. Eventually, she spoke again, but not to me. “Can I speak to you outside, Michael?” s
he asked, and the two of them left me on my own.
For a time, I could hear the murmur of voices from the other side of the door, too soft for me to distinguish what was being said. Then they died away. It was nearly another half hour before the door opened, and Laura Smith walked in on her own.
I’ve got a slightly strange proposition to put to you,” she said as she sat down.
“Go on,” I answered.
It obviously took a few moments for her to sort out what she was going to say to me. “You may have gathered that there’s a difference of opinion about you. The idea that the killer is picking his victims to damage you is a fairly bizarre one, but my instinct is that you’re probably telling the truth as far as you know it. Some of my colleagues aren’t convinced, however, and believe that you’re trying to play some sort of twisted game with us. I’d like us to try and get a neutral third opinion.”
“What would that involve?” I asked cautiously.
“I’d like you to speak to a psychiatrist,” was her stunning answer. “We have someone who we use regularly to assess the mental state of people we’ve charged. He’d be willing to talk to you now.”
“And what do you think it would achieve?”
“Just what I said, an independent third opinion. He’s very good at judging when someone is playing around and when they’re for real.”
“That sounds the sort of thing a lawyer would advise me to steer well clear of,” I thought out loud.
“Oh, it is,” she agreed. “I want you to be very clear about this, I’m asking you to do this because I think it will help me in arguing that we need to widen the murder investigation. But don’t be under any illusions. If you’ve got something to hide, it would be very foolish of you to agree. There aren’t any deals here. If you do it, and something comes out which makes it more likely that you are the killer, I’ll use it against you without hesitation. The session will be recorded, and could be used in evidence against you.”
“And if I refuse?” I asked.
“Then you’re perfectly free to go. We’ve asked all the questions we need to at this stage. There’s no pressure on you at all to do it, and if you were to decide to then you would have every right to have a solicitor present with you, advising you which questions to answer, and which ones not to.”
I thought about the idea for a while, before making my mind up. “Alright, I’ll do it,” I said.
“And would you like to call a solicitor to be present?” she offered again.
No, I’ll do it on my own,” I decided. “I would like to make a phone call beforehand if I could, though. I need to let someone know that I’m not going to be able to meet them this evening.”
“That’s no problem,” she said with a smile. “I’ll have a phone brought in for you.”
A few minutes later, the constable who had brought in the doctor’s report on Jill and Sophie came in holding a phone, which he plugged into a socket in the wall. He then handed the phone to me without a word, and left the room.
I hesitated for a moment over which number to dial. Obviously I needed to let Katie know that our plans for the evening weren’t going to be possible, but I wasn’t sure that I was going to be able to stop myself crying if I told her the news. Finally, I rang George.
“Hello,” came his reassuring voice.
“George, it’s Jack,” I announced. “If you’re not sitting down, you might want to before I tell you why I’m ringing.”
His voice immediately became concerned, “What is it Jack? Has something happened to you?”
“Not to me, no,” I answered, and began to tell him what had happened. His reaction as I outlined the terrible events of the day was somewhere between disbelief and horror. When I’d finished, I explained to him where I was, and the interview I was about to have.
“Are you sure that’s wise?” he asked.
“Why, do you think I’ve got something to hide?” I quizzed, only half joking.
“No, of course not,” he answered. “It’s just that I’m not convinced it’s a good idea to be so open with them. This psychiatrist is going to want to know everything about you – your past and so on. Who’s to say that they won’t just twist whatever he finds out to use against you? You need to be very careful exactly how much you open up to him.”
“I know,” I told him. “I had thought of that, but I don’t really see that I’ve got much choice. If I refuse to do it, they’re going to decide that it means I really have got something to hide, and be even more convinced that I’m a deranged killer. You never know, the doctor might manage to convince them that I haven’t got anything to do with it.”
“Maybe,” he said, sounding unpersuaded. “Do you want me to come down and sit in with you? It wouldn’t be any trouble.”
“Thanks, but no,” I said. “I do need you to get in touch with Katie for me though. She’s supposed to be coming round to the flat tonight. Could you give her a ring and explain what’s happened? Tell her that I’ll give her a call as soon as I get back, and let her know what’s happening then.”
“Of course I will. Take care of yourself, Jack” George said as he rang off.
I’ll do my best, I thought as I disconnected the phone and went outside to tell DI Smith that I was ready.
Chapter Thirty
Laura Smith drove me to the psychiatrist’s office. She offered to come back and give me a lift home, but I figured that the office was only about ten minutes walk from my flat, so I said no.
Dr. Peter Mitchell lived and worked in an impressive house just outside the city centre. He was a small, slightly weasely-looking man, but his smile was broad, and his handshake firm as he greeted me.
“Mr. Bailey,” he began, as he showed me into his consulting room. “It’s very good of you to agree to talk to me.”
The room itself was sparsely furnished with a long couch, and a couple of chairs divided by a desk. The walls were decorated with a number of detailed posters depicting the human brain, and some paintings of landscapes. The couch faced a large photograph that I’d seen on a poster before, of a group of dolphins springing together out of the sea.
“What happens now?” I asked him. “Am I supposed to lie down on the couch and tell you my life story?”
“You can if you want,” he replied in a jocular tone, his blue eyes sparkling. “But I thought we’d probably be better off in the chairs. There are a couple of things I need to get first.”
He walked over to a large unit at the side of the room. There were several thick and imposing books on top of it, but he ignored them and began to root in the drawers.
“They’re in here somewhere,” he muttered as he searched. “Ah, here they are!”
He returned to the desk, clutching objects in both hands. He placed a cassette recorder in the middle of the desk, but it was the contents of the other hand that intrigued me.
“I’m afraid the police insist on me recording all the sessions I do for them,” he said apologetically. “This other gadget is my own idea.”
He placed it on the desk. A couple of small pads were attached by electric wires to what looked like a very small laptop computer.
“What is it?” I asked him.
“It’s a monitor,” he explained. “We attach the pads to your fingertips, and they keep a check on things like your body temperature, blood pressure, heartbeat and so on. It’s a very new development for me.”
“Is it a sort of lie detector?” I said, not sure how I felt about being hooked up to it.
He frowned slightly. “Not exactly,” he said. “It is a similar sort of technology, but it’s more keeping a check on your emotional and stress level. I suppose it might give a clue if you were lying, but it’s more to show me when we get onto a subject that you feel strongly about. I use it to help me focus in on areas which are important. Of course, it’s entirely up to you whether we use it or not.”
Again, I paused for thought. “If I let you use it,” I said, “I’d want you to be as open
with me as I’m planning to be with you. I want you to tell me what conclusions you come to first, before you tell the police.”
“Fair enough,” he said easily. “I’d like to see what you make of my conclusions in any case. Shall we begin?”
I let him fasten the pads to me. They tingled slightly. He turned the tape on and began the session.
“I’m going to ask you later about the murders which have happened recently,” he started. “But first of all, I want to get to know you a little bit. How old are you?”
For the next few minutes, we went through some basic personal details; how long I’d lived in York, my job, and so on. The questions became a little more pointed once we discussed my marital status.
“How did you feel at the break up of your marriage?”
“Obviously, I was very sad,” I answered, “I loved her a lot, but it was clear that I was making her unhappy so it was better to let her go. It’s all worked out really well for her.”
“And for you?”
I admitted that I’d settled for a fairly solitary existence since, but then talked about Katie and our developing relationship.
“Do you think marriage is a prospect?”
“It’s early days yet,” I told him. “I do care about her a great deal, but I’m not sure that I’m exactly good husband material.”
We moved on to talk about friendships, and about how much I enjoyed my job. So far, it was all fairly unthreatening.
“Let’s move on to more recent events,” he suggested. “The first murder victim was a local counsellor, a Jennifer Carter. I understand that you were a client of hers?”
“Yes,” I confirmed.
“Would you be willing to tell me why you were seeing her?”
“I suppose so,” I answered, and began to explain about my childhood. He listened intently, occasionally glancing down at the computer screen.
Shaping the Ripples Page 23
