by Michael Kerr
With little hesitation, other than requesting a signature, Bob Wyman of Sentinel Security Services handed Jack a copy the CCTV disc that would show all comings and goings that evening through the main door. He also fired the remiss guard on the spot, telling him to get his lard-arse off the property, and to hand in his uniform the next day, if he wanted what pay he had coming.
Jack, Mike and Lisa left the crime scene officers to comb the apartment and car park for forensic evidence. They went straight to the Yard, and Jack set up a TV and DVD player in his office, while Mike went to rustle up some coffee. Jack pulled the blinds closed at the window that faced the corridor. He was less than optimistic. The killer would have approached the building and gained entry. And the tape should show him arrive, and then leave with Dawn. But Jack held out little hope of recognising whoever it was. He would have disguised himself, fully aware that a camera was bracketed to the wall above the door.
They didn’t speak. The disc was time coded. Jack hit play and used the remote to fast-forward, pausing and starting as residents came and went. The killer appeared. They knew it was him. He was dressed in dark clothes and wore a long-billed baseball cap. He had come into view from the side where the car park was situated, and kept his head down to mask his face. Jack noted the time shown, then hit fast-forward again. The man reappeared twenty minutes later. He was supporting Dawn, almost dragging her along. She looked dazed and unsteady on her feet. He appeared to be limping. Had she put up a fight and hurt him? He rewound and saw that the perpetrator had also been limping when he arrived.
Damn! He played the relevant sections of the tape again on slow, and freeze-framed it at certain points, but couldn’t see anything apart from long hair poking out of the sides and back of the cap.
“Any thoughts?” Jack said to Lisa as Mike used his hip to push the door back and come through it with three mugs of black coffee.
“Could be any male of average height and build. If he’s someone you know, then you should be able to recognise the way he walks. Everybody walks differently.”
Jack ran it again for Mike to see. The way the man walked didn’t ring any bells. Neither of them could identify the casual gait. No one they worked alongside had a limp.
“You think he’s even altered the way he walks?” Mike said.
Jack shrugged. “Wouldn’t you, if you thought that people who knew you would see this?”
Mike nodded.
“Uniforms are knocking doors. Maybe one of the other residents walked past him and saw his face,” Jack said.
“What do you want me to do now?” Mike said.
“Go home, Mike. Get a few hours’ kip.”
“I’m wide awake, boss. I need to be working this.”
Jack knew how his sergeant felt. Being around violent death did that. You needed to counter the experience by keeping busy. “So we’ll make a list of every officer who has any connections with the Mimic case,” Jack said. “And then start the process of elimination. You can run down any possibilities from shift patterns and overtime sheets. See who was off duty on the pertinent dates. We need a suspect.”
It was going to be a long night. But even longer for Dawn Turner.
CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE
THE dark was so deep that she thought she might suffocate in it. She couldn’t open her mouth. Her head was pounding, throat dry, and her tongue felt as if it was coated in fur. Was she blind? She blinked repeatedly. Nothing. Just cloying blackness. Panic pounced like a living entity, floated around her and attached itself to her flesh and seeped into her mind and body with numbing, icy teeth. She tried to move, to run away from the unknown, but she was fixed in place. She couldn’t see, couldn’t move, and couldn’t release the scream that had formed in her throat.
It took time to face the fear and somehow hold it at bay while she tried to come to terms with the situation she had awakened to. At first there was no memory of what had happened. She couldn’t think. Her thoughts were scrambled; eggs being stirred in a pan, becoming more solid with every second that passed. It was almost impossible to control the escalating terror that demanded action that she could not take. She needed to rationalise, to remember. And she did. The memories flooded back. Her mind’s eye saw Nick and Jay being shot down in front of her: saw the killer over her, his dirty brown eyes devoid of any emotion. It was as if she was making eye contact with a lizard or snake, and being violated by something alien that was only human in appearance. She had waited, suffered being joined to him, and then reacted; crushed his genitals and bit his nose, before leaping from the bed to leave him screaming in pain as she ran for her life. Slipping in Nick’s blood and falling down had foiled her bid for freedom. Lying on the wet carpet, transfixed by the dead man’s open eyes for a couple of seconds, had given her assailant the time he had needed to regroup. She remembered getting up and opening the door, to then be dragged back by the hair and swung against the wall with enough force to take all the fight out of her. He had given her simple instructions, to get dressed and walk out of the apartment with him, and had put his arm around her shoulders. They had left Ogilvy House and walked along the street to where his car was parked. She concentrated, replayed what he had said: ‘You’ve hurt me, Dawn. But I know you did it out of fear. I’m prepared to forgive you, this one time. Try and appreciate that I could have any woman. I chose you above all others. It’s you that I want. We’re going to be together, and I know that you love me. You need to accept that. But understand that if you attack me or try to escape again, then much as it would pain me to do it, I will kill you. The rules are very simple. I love you more than life itself, and will not harm you if you comply with all that I demand. Do you understand?’
She had nodded. He was totally fucking insane. And she knew with a dreadful certainty that maybe not today or tomorrow, but at some point he was going to kill her.
He had unlocked the boot of the car, lifted the lid up and told her to climb in. She had obeyed him and curled up on her side, sobbing, wanting to scream, but holding it in, knowing it would be the last thing she would ever do.
Then nothing, until coming to tied up and gagged. She tried to evaluate her position. Her hands were bound behind her. She could not move her feet. And she was very cold. She moved, rocked back and forth and had the impression that she was sitting on a chair. Her mouth and nose were pricking, burning. Why? Apart from her head hurting, she felt no other pain. Her eyes did not feel damaged. She had not been blinded, but was in a totally dark place. Where? Had he taken her to his home and locked her in a cellar? If he had just wanted to kill her, then she would not be a prisoner. He would return, and until he did all she could do was stay still and wait. Please don’t let there be any rats down here, she thought, and immediately listened for scurrying noises and squeaks, and waited for sharp teeth to sink into her feet and legs. Unseen horrors materialised in her mind, born of the vulnerability that being pinioned and imprisoned in damp-smelling, pitch black environs invoked. She so much wanted to live, but was more afraid of what might be done to her, than of death itself.
He drove the stolen Vauxhall Astra across town to the ill-lit back street entrance of Out of Sight Services. He had, with foresight, rented a garage-sized storage unit, using an alias and showing fake ID. The only items inside the unit were a metal five-drawer filing cabinet and a wooden chair, which a previous renter had left behind. The cabinet contained his photograph albums and diary.
What a night. He had blasted three fellow officers to kingdom come, and abducted Dawn. Not without a certain amount of drama, though. The armed Witness Protection officers had not been a problem. It was the love of his life that had used subterfuge to make a daring bid for freedom. She had responded to his lovemaking, pretended to be enjoying it as much as he was, and had then savagely assaulted him and gone for broke. Jesus wept! His aching balls had swollen up and felt as big as melons between his legs. And the deep lacerations from her scything teeth had gouged jagged ruts in his nose. His darling, clever Dawn wa
s a tigress, had given it her best shot, and almost outwitted him. She was not to be underestimated. He would bear it in mind that she made her living as an actress, and was able to convincingly slip into role and evince whatever emotions were required. He would peel back the layers of deceit and find the real Dawn Turner. It would be a challenge. Only when she was stripped of all pretence would he be able to communicate with her on any meaningful level. She was very lucky. For a second, after he slammed her against the wall in her apartment, he had almost let wounded pride, pain and anger determine his actions. A part of him wanted to disembowel her and let her last sight be of her guts spilling out on to the carpet. But he had invested two years and a great deal of emotional turmoil in her. Her death at that time would not have been a satisfactory culmination to their relationship.
She had been compliant, walked to the car with him, climbed into the boot and only struggled briefly when he poured some diethyl ether from a glass bottle on to a gauze pad and clamped it over her nose and mouth. She had been rendered unconscious within seconds, and he had then bound her wrists and ankles with tape.
With the roll-up door of the unit closed, he had switched on the overhead fluorescent light and manhandled Dawn off his shoulder onto the chair, to then use more duct tape to bind her tightly to it. He also wrapped some around her head, to cover her mouth, being careful not to block her nostrils.
When she began to make muffled, incoherent sounds, and her eyelids flickered, he poured a little more ether on the pad and held it under her nose until she was completely unconscious again, then placed the bottle on top of the filing cabinet and switched off the light before pulling the door up partway, to duck out underneath and relock it with a chunky padlock.
He dumped the car on wasteland, emptied a can of petrol over the upholstery, lit a cigarette and took three long drags from it, standing well back before flicking it through the open front window. As he walked quickly away there was a loud whoosh as the flammable liquid ignited.
After cutting through several side streets, he reached a main road, hailed the first cab that passed, and gave an address far enough away from his flat in Muswell Hill to not lead anyone to his door.
Nothing worse than a human bite. The mouth is a breeding ground for all sorts of bacteria. He washed and dried the mashed flesh; sucked in his breath as he dabbed his nose with cotton wool soaked in iodine. It stung. He then removed his trousers and underpants and gently held a bag of frozen peas to his still throbbing balls. God love the bitch. He admired her pluck. But she would have to be punished. No one could expect to inflict so much unprovoked damage and not pay the piper. She’d spoilt the fantasy du jour; ruined his capricious adventure. She needed to be taught a lesson she would never forget. If they were to have a future together, then she had to understand that he could love her to distraction, but would not hesitate to discipline her for any flouting of his rules. And if she tried to escape from him again, or attempted to attack him or get help, then he would end it. It would grieve him, but he would have to be strong. Anything could be got past. Suffering and misery strengthened the spirit. And he knew that given time he would if necessary find another woman like Dawn.
The numbing cold tightened and soothed his scrotum. Even aroused him. His cock was like a Popsicle. Surely extreme cold usually dampened ardour, but as in most areas, he reacted differently to the norm.
He tossed the bag of peas back into the small freezer, made himself a sandwich, and then went to bed. He was on duty in a few hours’, and wanted to see Ryder and the others chasing their tails.
The squad room was heaving. Everybody had been called in, and the buzz of speculative voices and phones ringing cut through air that smelled of coffee, sweat, perfume and cheap aftershave.
Jack, Mike and Lisa were still in Jack’s office, going through a list of officers who had been off duty on the dates and times when the Mimic had struck. Even though they were positive it was a cop that they sought, it was hard to look at the names of colleagues and consider it being a possibility that one of them could be a homicidal sociopath.
“It’s difficult to be objective, boss,” Mike said. “I know all of them, and I can’t believe that any of the guys I work alongside is a fucking serial killer.”
Jack ran his finger down the list again. He knew how Mike felt. He wanted for them to be wrong, but his instinct told him that he was not.
“I’d like you to sit in on the briefing this morning, Lisa, and look for reactions.” Jack said. “See if you can pick up the difference...the vibes that someone guilty might give off.”
“Or doesn’t,” Lisa said. “He’ll be monitoring his body language and reacting in an suitable manner to anything you say. Don’t lose sight of the fact that he has almost certainly spent the greater part of his life masking his true personality. He stays ahead by being able to intermingle.”
Jack held up the printout. “But we have an edge now, with individuals to put under the microscope. We know he might be one of our own. He’s lost the total anonymity he enjoyed.”
“Unless we’re completely wrong,” Lisa said.
“We’re not.”
They went through to the squad room, and while Lisa and Mike took seats among the other detectives, Jack went to stand in front of the white boards.
“Listen up,” he said, and waited for the assembled officers to pay heed as he looked from face to face. “You probably have your own ideas over what went down last night, and wonder how the hell three of DCI Cal Prowse’s officers could be taken out so easily. The perpetrator was let into the building and into the apartment of the woman they were protecting. They knew him, and so the logical explanation is, he’s a police officer.”
An unnerving hush pervaded the room. Jack had put into words what none of the team – bar one – could properly digest. The police were like any other profession, in that they were not immune to rotten apples. Knowing that one of their own had gone bad was a personal affront to every honest, hardworking cop. His crimes would stick to them, as if in some way their hands were stained with his guilt.
Jack let the truth of it sink in. Didn’t say another word until a low murmur replaced shocked silence.
“How do we dig the bastard out of the woodwork, boss?” Eddie said.
“We have CCTV from the apartment block. It shows him entering, and then leaving with Dawn Turner.” Jack said, nodding to Mike, who had the disc with him. “I want you all to look at it. And if you have the slightest suspicion that it might be someone you know, then come to me with it. Don’t bandy names about between yourselves.”
Back in the office, Jack and Lisa sipped fresh coffee.
“You didn’t pick up on anyone, did you?” Jack said.
Lisa shook her head. “If it is one of the officers in that room, then he’s bloody good.”
“Might be worth having everyone on the list wired-up to a polygraph.”
“A lie-detector could work. Or throw you off his scent. It wouldn’t surprise me if he is capable of controlling his pulse-rate and respiration. He may be able to keep both sides of his personality apart to such a degree that there is no appreciable tension to measure and detect physiological changes caused by lying. And polygraphs aren’t that reliable.”
“Don’t give him too much credit, Lisa. He’s only human.”
“No, Ryder. Not just human. He has the capacity to do things that a normal, well-balanced person wouldn’t and couldn’t be capable of. He’s different.”
The team moved up the room, bunching in front of the TV to watch the copy of the CCTV footage that Mike was playing.
Mike ran the relevant few seconds’ of the disc six times.
Amazing. Looking at the screen over Mike’s shoulder, he couldn’t even recognise himself. Not only had he dropped his shoulders and adopted a short-stepped walk that incorporated a limp, but lowering his head had made him look stooped. And the wig and baseball cap that he had removed before reaching the first floor of the building, and donned again
before leaving, had totally obscured his features.
“What happened?” Mike said after most of the team had dispersed. “You get touchy-feely with some bird who didn’t fall for your pickup routine?”
“You’re about as funny as a heart attack, Hewson,” he said, putting a hand up to his bandaged nose. “If you must know, I slipped on the steps down to my flat and took a header. I think my nose is bust.”
“Pissed?”
“No, sarge. Just ice on the steps.”
Mike grinned. Eddie had probably hit on some piece of skirt in a bar, only to find that her boyfriend had been in the gents, and had probably come back and caught him cold.
Mike remembered an incident in a pub a year back. He and Eddie had been having a quick pint and a game of pool when four skinheads with prison tats and bad attitudes started mouthing off, putting their lager bottles on the baize, making it clear that they wanted to play, and were not prepared to wait their turn. Eddie had told them to get the fuck out of his sight, and one of them took a swing. Mike had been impressed by the way in which Eddie employed his pool cue to break teeth and inflict multiple injuries on three of them. The fourth yob had backed off, not wanting to end up in the sorry state his mates had been reduced to. Eddie in Jackie Chan mode had been amazing to watch. The whirling, darting cue had been lethal in his hands. Eddie had also insisted that they finish the game. The landlord knew they were coppers, and so did the skinheads, after Eddie had stuck his warrant card in the face of the one who was kneeling on the begrimed carpet with blood dripping from his ruined mouth.
A dark thought flashed through Mike’s mind. It was gone as quickly as it came, though. Eddie had been on duty when at least two of the murders had been carried out. And in any case, he knew Eddie. The DC was a twenty-seven-year-old bachelor who lived in a basement flat in Muswell Hill, and was reputedly never short of female company, though he wasn’t into commitment and enjoyed his single status. Yes, he had a short fuse, but only lost his temper with those that invaded his personal space and stepped over the hard line he had mentally drawn. He was essentially a good copper, who had no time for the scum that they tried to take off the street. Mike recalled Eddie saying on numerous occasions that ‘people have the right to get on with their lives without feeling threatened or being victimised. Our job is to make the city a safer place; to protect people’.
