Deadly Obsession

by Michael Kerr

  “I...I’ll talk,” he wheezed, finding it hard to breathe with the acute pain in his solar plexus.

  “Good choice,” Nick said. “Name?”

  “Ricky...Richard Lane.”

  “And you broke in here to murder Miss Turner, right?” Nick said.

  “Murder? No way. I’m just a fuckin’ burglar. I’ve never hurt anyone. Check my record.”

  “Why this particular apartment, Ricky?” Jay said. “And don’t forget how important it is for me to believe what you tell us.”

  “A bloke in a pub paid me three hundred quid to turn the place over. Told me it was his ex-wife’s drum, and that he wanted to wind her up. He said she’d be out tonight, and that it’d be a doddle. Told me she kept some nice pieces of jewellery and plenty of cash in a wall safe. He gave me the combination. Said for me to keep whatever I found, and to leave the place in a mess.”

  Nick felt gutted. He usually knew when he was being lied to. This wanker was scared and shaking. He was loath to believe his story, but did.

  “What did this bloke look like?” Nick said.

  “I’m not sure. He was wearin’ a baseball cap and a pair of glasses with real thick lenses. He had a grey moustache. I guess he was about forty. Five-nine or ten, and medium build. Said his name was Jerry Aken, and that his wife was an actress called Dawn.”

  Jay said, “How did he speak? And don’t say by opening his mouth, if you don’t want your nose broken.”

  “A deep voice. A bit raspy, as if he had a sore throat. And he sounded posh, like some well-educated type.”

  Nick phoned Mal. Told him the situation was under control. Then called the SCS. Eddie McBride picked up.

  “Is your boss there, Eddie?”

  “No. But I can reach him. What’s happened?”

  Nick told him.

  “You think the burglar is the Mimic?”

  “No, Eddie. I could be wrong, but I doubt it. Arrange for him to be picked up, will you? And pull his record. Let’s confirm his ID.”

  “I’ll send two officers over, and give the boss a bell. He’ll probably want to talk to this creep.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  THEY had been cuddling on the settee, watching that classic gangster movie: Key Largo, with Bogey and Eddie G. It was one of Jack’s favourites, along with Little Caesar and the original version of The Big Sleep, not the seventies Michael Winner remake set in the UK. Funny how it didn’t seem to stand up to being updated and moved across the pond. It’d had a hell of a cast, though, with Mitchum heading it up as Philip Marlow, but in Jack’s opinion it had been a lemon.

  “We could go there,” Lisa said.

  Jack got up to get them another drink with fresh ice. “Go where?”

  “Key Largo. Fly out to Miami and drive down there.”

  “The movie wasn’t made there,” Jack said.

  “You’re kidding.”

  “I kid you not. They made it in L.A. Filmed maybe three minutes on the keys’. Couldn’t handle the mosquitoes. Even in those days you couldn’t believe what you saw on screen. Same with that TV series, CSI: Miami. They made it on the West Coast. Seeing isn’t believing. We live in a phoney world. Everything is suspect, until proved otherwise.

  “Don’t you take anything at face value, Ryder?”

  “Hell, no. I was always a cynical type, and joining the force did nothing to diminish my outlook. Everybody lies, from politicians to junkies, and most people in-between. Police work brought it home to me that truth is a very elusive animal. Some folk lie by design to cover guilt. Others to get through life without confrontation, or to save hurting people’s feelings. Nine tenths of everything is deceit in one form or another.”

  Lisa frowned. His distrust was a little depressing. “I think that premise is based on your own personal life experience.”

  “I wish it was. The average citizen couldn’t get through a single day without lying through his or her teeth. Simple stuff, like telling someone how good or well they look, when they look like death warmed up. And how many women fake orgasms? It’s part of the society we live in, Lisa. People pretend and deceive. Lying, or gritting your teeth and saying nothing makes interaction easier. No one likes the truth, unless it’s flattery wrapped-up in a big, fancy gold ribbon. Saying it how it is makes for enemies, and can turn you into a social outcast.”

  “What about us, Ryder? Can we interact without prevarication?”

  “Uh?”

  “Being evasive or misleading.”

  “I hope so, because I think life’s too short to shoot shit and play silly games.”

  Jack’s mobile rang. He put the fresh drinks down on the coffee table and answered it.

  “Ryder.”

  “It’s Eddie, boss. We might have caught the Mimic.”

  “Explain, might have.”

  “A break-in at Dawn Turner’s flat. The intruder was lifted when he got inside. He told them that a guy calling himself Jerry Aken said that Dawn was his ex-wife, and paid him to rob and trash the place.”

  “Where is he?”

  “Waiting to be picked up and brought in.”

  “Okay, Eddie. I’m on my way. Don’t let him speak to anyone. No phone calls.”

  “Who?” Lisa said when Jack ended the call.

  “Maybe nobody. A guy just broke into Dawn’s apartment. When he was arrested he said a man purporting to be her ex... Jerry Aken, paid him to do it.”

  “Could be a distraction tactic, or a way to check if you had officers on the inside.”

  “I know. But Dawn is safe. She doesn’t go to the loo without an armed escort.”

  “Like Kelly?”

  Jack’s face froze. The muscles in his cheeks knotted. He nodded. “You’re right. There’s no such thing as cast-iron security or safety. We do what we can without any guarantee of it working out. Why don’t you sit in? See what you make of this guy’s story.”

  Jack left by the rear and walked to his car. Said he’d see Lisa at the Yard.

  Night was the only time that driving didn’t feel like a baptism by fire to Jack. The daytime snarl of traffic was a nightmare, despite the congestion charges initially introduced by Ken Livingstone’s administration.

  Even suspects with severely limited IQ’s were aware of the video camera bracketed to the wall in the corner of most interview rooms. Two-way mirrors had become less common, though were still used by some forces.

  Lisa watched the interview on a monitor in the next room.

  After the formalities were observed, Jack took a chair opposite the suspect. He was not hopeful. Eddie had confirmed that the intruder at Ogilvy House was one Richard Lane, a twenty-nine-year-old loser with a record going back to when he was a teenager. He had done time in Feltham Borstal as a young offender, and progressed to further custodial sentences, always for breaking and entering. If there was an upside, Jack couldn’t see it.

  “You expect us to believe that you were paid to commit a burglary at the address where you were apprehended?” Jack said to Lane.

  “Yeah, it’s the truth. Why would I make it up? Doesn’t matter whether I was paid by someone else or not, I’ll still go down for it.”

  “So tell me about Emily Wallace, Christine Adams and Penny Douglas.”

  Ricky looked blank. “Who the fuck are they?”

  “They’re dead women, Ricky. All butchered by a guy who calls himself Jerry Aken. Don’t you read the papers?”

  “I...I can’t read. And you can’t stitch me up with that shit. I’m not a violent person.”

  “Not good enough. You broke into the apartment of a woman whose life has been threatened by a killer. Why do you think there were armed officers waiting for you?”

  “I dunno. I told the bastard who threatened to throw me out of the window everythin’ I know. The tosser that paid me said that the bird was an actress, and that she was workin’ in the West End. He said the place’d be empty. Gave me the combination of the safe and told me to mess the place up before I left.” />
  Jack said nothing for a long time. Just stared at the dishevelled looking thief without blinking. The guy was a hype; had bad skin, red-rimmed eyes, and his shaking hands were skeletal with fingernails bitten down to the quick. He was a pathetic nonentity who would most likely die shooting-up. He certainly didn’t have the brains to be an organised serial killer.

  Jack left the room, leaving Phil Jennings with Lane.

  Lisa looked up from the monitor as Jack picked up the cup of vending machine coffee Eddie had brought her.

  “That man is not the Mimic,” she said.

  Jack grimaced at the bland taste of the weak brew. “I know. But he’s met him. Maybe you should talk to him with me. Between us we might ask the right questions and get a better picture of who we’re looking for.”

  Lisa was happy to be involved. They both went into the interview room.

  “Ricky, this is Dr Norton,” Jack said. “I want you to answer any questions that she asks you. Okay?”

  Ricky nodded. Gave Lisa the once-over and liked what he saw. She was the type of woman he knew he would never have a relationship with. She was as unattainable as a film star like Jennifer Lawrence, a big house in the country, and the type of lifestyle he’d seen on TV. When she sat down and crossed her legs, he imagined the scene from a video he’d seen. The one where Sharon Stone isn’t wearing any panties, and flashes her pussy for Michael Douglas.

  “We think the man who told you his name was Jerry Aken and paid you to break in to the apartment tonight is a serial killer, Ricky,” Lisa said. “Will you describe him, please?”

  “I told the coppers at the flat, and then him, all I know,” Ricky said, inclining his head towards Jack.

  “So humour me,” Lisa said, “I’d like to hear your story.”

  Ricky fixed his gaze on a point midway between Lisa’s throat and breasts. He avoided direct eye contact with everyone. It intimidated him.

  “It isn’t a story, it’s the truth,” he said. “He wore a long-billed baseball cap, and―”

  “What colour was it?” Lisa said.

  “Er, black, or maybe navy.”

  “Did it have a motif on it?”

  “A what?”

  “A patch, letters. Anything?”

  “NYC. You know, for New York City.”

  “Did you notice his hair?”

  “It was dark and long, down over his collar at the back.”

  “And...?”

  “He wore specs.”

  “What kind?”

  “Like the bottoms of Coke bottles, with thick rims. Made his eyes look really big.”

  “What colour were his eyes, Ricky?”

  “I don’t remember.”

  “Do me a favour,” Lisa said in a soft, lilting voice. “Close your eyes and imagine you are sitting opposite him. You’ll be able to see him very clearly if you concentrate.”

  He tried, and she was right. “They were like the Thames,” he said. “Dirty brown.”

  “What else can you see?”

  “His moustache. It was grey, but it looked false. He was sittin’ in shadow, though. I could be wrong.”

  “And he paid you three hundred quid?” Jack said.

  Ricky nodded.

  “Have you got any of it left?”

  “No.”

  “Did he count it out?”

  “Yes.”

  “Remember his hands, Ricky,” Lisa said. “Did he wear a ring?”

  “Er, no. And his hands looked big and strong. The nails could’ve been manicured. Can I have a cigarette, please?”

  Jack gave him one. Flipped the lid of his Zippo up, spun the wheel and held the lighter while Ricky sucked the cigarette into glowing life.

  There was no more worthwhile information forthcoming. Ricky described a well-built looking guy who was undoubtedly in heavy disguise and was fully aware that the ex-con would in all probability be lifted and questioned.

  “How did he contact you?” Jack said.

  “He knew my name. Called me over and started talkin’. Mentioned a few people I know. One thing led to another. I thought he was a copper at first, tryin’ to fit me up for somethin’. But he seemed on the level. And I needed the readies.”

  They left Ricky in the capable hands of a uniformed officer and went to the squad room to discuss what he had told them.

  “You believe him?” Jack said to Lisa.

  “Yes. What worries me is how the killer knew he was a burglar.”

  “Maybe he’s an ex-con and recognised him.”

  “Could be. Although Ricky thought at first he might be a police officer. You need to keep an open mind on that. A copper would have access to records, and be fully aware of crime scene retrieval procedures.”

  “I don’t discount any possible scenario, Lisa, but I find the idea of a maniac cop being the Mimic to be a hell of a long-shot.”

  “Why?”

  “Law of averages. How many serial killers turn out to be coppers?”

  “That’s a poor argument. You have to look at this man as an individual. He knows how you work, and covers all the angles. And repeat murderers do not all fit a convenient blueprint. You’re looking at a highly organised sociopath who has, so far, been able to function without being detected. He didn’t bump into Ricky by chance. He’d changed his appearance and searched him out. The glasses, moustache and long hair were probably all props. The Mimic will almost certainly be clean-shaven, and not have long, dark hair or a moustache, or need to wear glasses.”

  “Have you got any suggestions?”

  “You could check out all the officers who have arrested Ricky in the past.”

  “So you really do think it’s one of us?”

  “I see the likelihood of it being someone that can operate from behind the cover of a respectable facade. Who would be better equipped to keep one step ahead of the investigation?”

  Jack didn’t answer. Didn’t like what he was hearing. And didn’t want to believe it could be true.

  It was 11 a.m. on the morning of Christmas Eve. The full team was assembled in the squad room.

  He was enjoying listening to Ryder, as his DI went over the events that had taken place at Dawn’s apartment, and then showed the video footage of the interview with Ricky Lane.

  He sipped coffee and made plans. Being a detective was the perfect cover. He could monitor all incoming information, and adjust his actions accordingly. He was at the centre of things and privy to all aspects of the case, which as a killer put him in a unique position. Surely no other serial stalker and murderer had also been one of an elite team trying to hunt himself down. He was committing the perfect crimes. Ryder was acting cool and determined, as per usual, but had absolutely nothing. He felt a sense of elation that combined with the excitement, anticipation and sense of control to generate a tremendous buzz. The investigation allowed him to relive the crimes, talk about them, and discuss the atrocities that he had inflicted on the victims. What had started off as being little more than a way of releasing the pent-up frustration that Dawn’s reticence had initiated, was now a hunger. He knew that he would continue to kill: had drunk greedily from a well that he would have to return to more and more frequently. Most people would never know the sense of freedom that was realised by turning their darkest, sickest fantasies into reality. It was the ultimate package. He stalked his prey, and then at a time of his choosing, let animal lust take over. They were his to use as he saw fit. Dawn had been the catalyst, but had proved herself unworthy of him. She would now be his next victim. Her apartment was not a safe and well protected refuge. It was a place where she would suffer pain, all manner of spoliation, and ultimately death at his hands. The bitch was a prick teaser whom he had been overly patient with. He had been deluding himself into believing he might find lasting happiness and a sense of fulfilment with her.

  “He might even be an ex-con who knew Lane in prison,” Jack was saying. “Computer Section can build up a likeness from a detailed description that Lane will g
ive to our artist, in conjunction with a little help from a regression hypnotherapist.”

  “How might that help?” Mike asked. “You said that in all probability he was heavily disguised.”

  “The therapist says we see a lot more than we remember. Lane will have subconsciously noted everything about the killer’s face. He has all the detail in his mind, like an exposed film in an old 35mm camera. All we have to do is develop it. CS can then take away the glasses, moustache, long hair and baseball cap, play around with it and see if we can match the result to anyone.”

  “Sounds good in theory,” Eddie said.

  “It isn’t theory, Eddie,” Jack said. “This therapist has done it before. A rape victim up in Leeds survived being stabbed. She’d been attacked at night, only got a glimpse of the guy, and couldn’t give any description. Under regression she described him perfectly, right down to a small scar on his cheek. He had previous, was recognised from her assisted recollection, and lifted. A DNA match confirmed his ID.”

  “How’d you find this Svengali, boss?” Phil said.

  “It was Li...Doctor Norton’s idea. She knows the hypnotherapist by reputation and suggested I contact him. Only trouble being, he’s across the pond in Boston for Christmas. We’re on hold until he comes back in three days.”

  His entire body was suddenly bathed in cold sweat. How could he have foreseen a twist like this? It was that fucking profiler, Norton. And Ryder had almost used her Christian name, then bit his tongue. Why? Because he was screwing the bitch, that’s why. She obviously had the hots for coppers. Hadn’t she been married to some prick in CID? Yes. Al Carter, a DCI who couldn’t keep it in his pants. Thought he was God’s gift to every split arse on the planet.

  He needed to make sure that Lane wasn’t hypnotised. But he couldn’t very well walk into his cell and top him. However slight the risk, he had to negate it. How, though? He needed to think it through. There was always a way, if you had the will. Every problem has a solution. The art is in being able to find it. He ran his manicured fingernails through his damp, dark-blond hair. Priorities were shifting. Having anything short of total control of the situation was not something he was used to. Ryder and the slut who was consulting on the case were becoming a real pain in the arse. He felt a need. When his shift finished, he knew he would have to relieve the deep itch that could only be soothed by terrorising and killing. This was all Dawn’s fault. She had contacted them, and would now meet Jerry Aken up close and very, very personally.