by Andy Maslen
‘Another fucking slug-fucker,’ was his melodious catchphrase on slamming the phone down on one more of the ‘I did it’ brigade.
So the hand-addressed letter sitting on top of his in-tray this Monday morning did not fill him with hope. He picked it up and slit it open anyway. Never let your prejudices get in the way of a good story was one of his many mottoes and he muttered it now. Because you never knew.
As he read, his mouth dropped open. This was it. The real deal. The twenty-first century’s ‘From Hell’ letter.
Dear Mr Robbins,
You will know of Niamh Connolly, Sarah Sharpe, and Moira Lowney. They died by my hand.
These women deserved to die. For hypocritical adherence to a cult of cruelty. They called themselves Christians. I, call them MALADJUSTED TORTURERS.
The police will say, I am a monster. You may be tempted to follow their lead. But that is a CHIMAERA! Yes, monsters exist in this world of ours, but, I am not one of them. No! The true MONSTERS are those who corrupt the minds and morals of children, who maim them and ROB them of their innocence.
Please understand, I, do not derive SEXUAL pleasure from what I do – I am not a pervert – but only satisfaction, that, finally, the world will wake up to what is being done to children in the name of religion.
Do you think, I, am a crank? Then I will prove you wrong! I cut Niamh Connolly’s BREASTS from her living body. I punctured Sarah Sharpe’s pretensions with arrows. Check with the police. And Moira Lowney, another hypocrite, I enucleated. Her EYES bear witness to the truth of my message.
Print this, and help me bring my message, to those who claim the MORAL HIGH GROUND, but who, actually, wallow in the very depths of DEPRAVITY AND CORRUPTION.
The FIRES OF HELL await you! The Devil LIVES on in me!
I am, your obedient servant,
THE FOURTH HORSEMAN
PS I, am not done with them yet. You, have been warned.
Robbins wiped his top lip free of sweat, which had gathered there as he was reading. His heart was racing. He jumped up from his desk and poked his head out of the doorway of his office.
‘Jodi!’ he shouted across the newsroom, beckoning a leggy blonde reporter who had a mobile clamped between her cheek and her shoulder. ‘Get your arse in here, pronto!’
As he watched her end her call, Robbins was already working on the angles. The Fourth Horseman was Death. Too literary. Nobody will get it. He’s killing high-profile Christian women. We need a better name.
‘Yes, boss, what is it?’ Jodi asked, perching on the edge of a chair.
‘Get onto one of your contacts in the Met and find out whether Niamh Connolly’s murderer cut her tits off. Whether Sarah Sharpe’s shot her with arrows. And finally, what the fuck does “enucleated” mean? Because, according to her killer, that’s what he did to her.’
Jodi grinned at him.
‘It means to have your eyes removed. You’ve got a story, haven’t you?’
‘Depends. If your tame plod confirms it, we’re gonna scoop the rest of the bastards big time.’
65
TUESDAY 28TH AUGUST 8.00 A.M.
Stella was sitting at her desk, phone clamped to her ear, deep in conversation with an intelligence officer from the National Crime Agency when Garry hurried across the incident room with a copy of that day’s Sun folded in his hand.
He opened out the tabloid and pointed at the headline, a screamer in hundred-and-eight-point type that took up over half the available real estate on the front page.
SERIAL KILLER
‘LUCIFER’ TELLS
THE SUN ‘I’LL
KILL AGAIN’!
Most of the rest was devoted to a facsimile of a typed letter, with certain words and phrases blacked out.
‘I’ll call you back. We’ve got a shit-hits-fan situation. Thanks, John.’
She ended the call and grabbed the paper from Garry’s hand.
‘He’s written a letter, boss,’ Garry said.
‘Yeah, yeah, I can see that.’ She swiped a palm across her face. ‘Sorry, Garry. Didn’t mean to be sharp. For God’s sake, what’s his game?’
‘I think you know, boss. He’s taunting us, isn’t he? Reckons he’s invulnerable. Classic psychopathic trait. Egotistical narcissist.’
‘Wow! Did you go to bed with the dictionary under your pillow last night or something?’
Garry grinned.
‘I bin readin’ under dem covers, baas, lernin’ me ABC when me shoulda bin sleepin’,’ he said in a burlesque West Indian accent.
Stella’s eyes widened and her smile, though shocked, was genuine.
‘Could you just shut up, please, DS Haynes, before one or both of us gets hauled up for about eighty-five infringements of the Met’s Diversity and Inclusion Policy?’
‘Sorry,’ he said, his voice returned to normal. ‘What do you think, though?’
‘Get onto the Sun and get that letter. I want the original, too. They’ll probably be lawyered up to their eyeballs so find someone from the CPS who owes us a favour. Oh, and Garry?’ she shouted at his retreating back.
‘Yes?’
‘If it’s a fake, it means someone leaked the details of the mutilations. No point looking, this place makes the Titanic look watertight. But be on your guard, OK?’
Garry nodded, then left at a trot, weaving around huddles of detectives on his way to his desk.
Stella was deep into one of the SCAS reports piled up on her desk, when Garry reappeared in the doorway.
‘Boss?’
‘Blimey, that was quick!’
‘No. It’s the Sun. The news editor, I mean. He’s here.’
He stood aside and Stella took in the sight of a burly man in his mid-fifties, pale complexion flushed with alcohol and a suit so rumpled even the old-school detectives in the room would have advised him to get it dry-cleaned.
Stella stood, trying to mask the anger she could feel like a cold weight in her chest. She spoke.
‘DCI Cole. I’m the senior—’
‘The SIO on the three murders, yeah, I know. We’re covering them, remember? Andy Robbins.’
He held out his hand and, for a second or two, Stella considered scoring a cheap point by not taking it. But manners, and her sense that she might need an ally in the media, won out.
When they were both seated, with Garry leaning against the wall behind Robbins, Stella spoke.
‘So, Mr Robbins. What can we do for you?’
‘You saw the story we ran, right?’
Stella picked up that day’s Sun and flipped it across the desk at him.
‘It was hard to miss.’
‘He wrote to us. A letter.’
‘I know,’ Stella said, feeling the exasperation growing uncontrollably. ‘And you gave us a massive headache by publishing it. As you did by publishing leaked comments by someone involved in the investigation. In fact, DS Haynes here was on his way to see the CPS to get reinforcements before asking for it.’
Robbins smirked. Clearly enjoying himself.
‘No need,’ he said.
He reached into his inside pocket and pulled out a transparent plastic sleeve inside which she could see a cream envelope, with a handwritten address and a postage stamp. He held it out to her and she snatched it from his pudgy hand.
‘That is today’s biggest surprise, so far,’ she managed to say.
He shrugged his beefy shoulders, straining the material of his suit.
‘The Sun always likes to help the boys,’ he paused, ‘and girls, in blue. We kept a copy for our archives. That’s the original. I’m guessing there’ll be all kinds of clever stuff your techy people can do with it.’
‘I’m sure there is. Tell me, who’s handled this letter at your office?’
‘The guys in the mailroom and me.’
‘Good. Would you mind giving us a set of fingerprints so we can eliminate you when we test it? We’ll have to send someone over to your offices later to get the rest.’
&n
bsp; He shrugged.
‘Not if it will help. But I want a promise they won’t go onto any database.’ He paused, and grinned. ‘In writing. Please.’
Stella returned the smile.
‘Of course. I’ll type it up now. You can take it with you when you leave.’ She turned in her chair. ‘Garry, can you take Mr Robbins down to Forensics for elimination prints after this, please?’
‘Sure, boss.’
She smiled at Robbins. A genuine expression this time. This was the best and biggest lead they’d pulled since the case had exploded into life with the murder of Niamh Connolly.
‘Thank you,’ she said.
He batted away the words as if they were flies bothering him.
‘You’re welcome. I just hope that if, sorry, when, you catch him, you’ll look kindly on the paper that helped you. Maybe an exclusive with the killer, or a profile of you? And a few extra little titbits the rest of the pack don’t get their hands on wouldn’t go amiss, either.’
So that was it. A lead for a lead. Well, it wasn’t such a bad bargain. And Stella knew she’d be able to keep the really important stuff back when she needed to.
She favoured Robbins with another smile.
‘I’m sure we can find a path we’re both happy to walk down.’
Stella watched as Garry led Robbins away. Then she saw something that brought her up short. Letting Garry get a few yards ahead of him, Robbins slowed briefly at Roisin’s desk and turned to look at her. Stella could have sworn she saw him wink and mouth something.
Once Robbins had left with Garry, discussing football, Stella called Roisin over.
‘What did Robbins say to you?’ she asked, trying to keep her voice light, unconcerned.
‘Huh! Prick asked if I’d ever considered modelling.’
‘Arse!’ Stella said.
Back at her desk, Stella pulled on a fresh pair of gloves from the box in her murder bag, which sat beneath her desk. She’d paid a struck-off plastic surgeon to remove her fingerprints with a process of his own invention a few years back, as a precaution when hunting down her family’s killers. Ironically, this meant wearing gloves to handle evidence was more important than ever. Rather than muddying the waters with extraneous prints, she’d muddy them another way: if she were to be seen handling a knife, say, or, as in this case, a document, and didn’t leave her prints, questions would be asked. Questions she would rather not answer. So. Gloves.
She cleared a space on her desk and removed the envelope from the plastic sleeve.
Lucifer had handwritten the address. No scratchy capitals in dried blood, instead, flowing, elegant script in what appeared to be blue fountain pen ink.
Andrew Robbins, Esq.,
News Editor,
The Sun,
1, London Bridge Street,
London,
E1 9GF.
Stella thought her mum, an English teacher, dead some years now from bowel cancer, would have found the use of so many commas fussy and old-fashioned.
The frank cancelling the stamp had a generic LONDON mark so would be useless. And since stamps became self-adhesive in 1993, DNA from the saliva of villains stupid enough to use their tongues instead of a swipe with a damp cloth had also disappeared. It didn’t mean forensic examination of the envelope was a waste, though. It never was, Stella reflected, especially when the chief scientist examining the product was Lucian Young.
By a stroke of good fortune, Robbins had slit the envelope to open it, rather than unpeeling the flap, so that created a further potential area for investigation.
Stella turned the envelope over. The back was blank. Oh well, I suppose a sender address would have been too much to hope for, eh, Stel? She pulled the letter clear and unfolded it, laying it flat on top of the plastic folder.
She read slowly, paying attention to every single word, to the use of all capitals, to the punctuation, which was even more fussy than that on the envelope. And to the PS, which sent a sliver of cold fear through her. Because she knew what it felt like to be on a mission to kill. If Lucifer announced he hadn’t finished, she knew that unless they closed it fast, there would be more horrors to come.
With the letter refolded and placed back inside the envelope and then the plastic sleeve, she called Roisin over.
‘Yes, boss?’
‘Rosh, can you take this down to Forensics, please? Usual tests, but also can you see if you can scare up a writing expert?’
‘A graphologist, you mean?’
Stella shook her head.
‘No. I don’t buy all that bullshit about personality traits being revealed in people’s handwriting. I mean someone who could look at the text and give us some idea about the person who wrote it based on the language. You know, is it likely they went to university? Are they using East End dialect?’ She rapped her knuckles down on her desk in frustration. ‘I don’t know if that’s even possible. But can you try?’
Roisin smiled and took the plastic folder.
‘Of course. Leave it with me.’
Roisin took the stairs down to the forensics office, pausing on the way to extract the letter and read it.
You’re a solid-gold fruitloop, aren’t you? And I’m the DI who’s going to put you behind bars. But not just yet. Let’s give the boss some room to screw things up first, eh? Maybe they’ll appoint a new CIO if a few more women get sliced and diced, then I should be in the frame.
She approached Lucian, who had his eye pressed against a microscope.
‘Hi, Lucian,’ she said.
He turned and smiled.
‘Hi, Rosh. Haven’t seen you down here for a while.’ His eyes flicked down to the folder. ‘What have you got for me?’
She held the folder out in front of her like a school prefect offering a present to the headteacher.
‘Mr Top Science Bod, and officially the best-dressed man in Paddington Green, I give you the Lucifer letter. It’s the original. The one the Sun published.’
Lucian took it from her.
‘Wow! Who’d you threaten to get that?’
‘Oh, you!’ she said with a grin, pushing her flirtation engine to maximum power. She knew he was gay, but even gay men liked a bit of attention from an attractive women was her take on it. ‘I didn’t threaten anyone. As a matter of fact, the news editor just handed it in. So, what I’m wondering, and I know how busy you are, is whether you could let me know if there’s any DNA on it, any prints, anything physical that might give us a lead. And also, I don’t suppose you have some cool database of technical experts, do you?’
‘I do, as a matter of fact, right there,’ he pointed at his PC. ‘Who do you need?’
‘A textual analysis expert. I think it would be good to analyse the language of the letter, see what we can deduce about Lucifer. Whether he’s a graduate or failed all his GCSEs, that kind of thing.’
Lucian smiled.
‘OK, leave it with me. I know a couple of academics who’d be perfect. I can’t promise when I can get it done, they all have their own schedules, obviously, and I—’
‘That’s fine, that’s fine!’ she interrupted, smiling so wide she thought her cheeks might crack. ‘Whenever. And send the results straight to me, please. The boss looks like her poor brain is about to explode from data coming in from all over. The least I can do is work on this independently for a while. It’ll probably come back clean after all. Isn’t that what usually happens?’
Lucian sighed.
‘Yup. I’m afraid so. Despite what the telly geeks seem able to do, we’re really at the mercy of budgets as much as anything else. You know that. But yes, if I do get anything, I’ll email it to you.’
‘You’re a sweetheart,’ Roisin said, then turned and left the Lucifer letter behind her.
‘Did she turn you then, Luce?’ a red-haired blood-spatter analyst asked, grinning to reveal teeth adorned with jewelled braces.
‘Nope.’
‘Not for want of trying, though,’ she said.
&
nbsp; They both laughed. They’d seen all the many and varied ways detectives tried to get their pet projects pushed up the forensics department’s to-do list, from cajolery to flirting, bluster to bribes of cream cakes. Roisin’s efforts didn’t even have the virtue of originality.
Donning gloves, Lucian put the transparent wallet to one side. It would need dusting for prints, which he felt sure would come back as belonging to Robbins.
He took the envelope to a spotless stainless-steel work table. Four high-intensity halogen spotlights glared down at carefully calculated angles so they rendered the large rectangle entirely shadow-free.
He removed the letter and spread it out beside the envelope. Next he placed a thin sheet of transparent, matte acetate over both, and smoothed it down with his palms, the nitrile gloves dragging over the surface of the protective cover.
Retrieving a high-end digital SLR camera from a workbench, he took a series of pictures, some with flash, some without, angling the camera so it cast no shadows over the two documents. Once he was satisfied, he laid the camera aside and removed the sheet of acetate.
‘OK, then, Lucifer, let’s see what you can tell us,’ he said.
He pulled a swivel chair over and adjusted the height. Taking a magnifying glass from the pocket of his lab coat, he examined the front of the envelope.
And he smiled.
‘Hey, Izzie, come and have a look at this,’ he called to the blood-spatter analyst.
She got up from her desk and wandered over, standing beside him and leaning down. He offered her the magnifying glass.
‘Huh,’ she said, handing it back. ‘No fool like a psychopathic fool.’
Stuck to the extreme righthand edge of the stamp, along the perforations, was a hair. Not a very long hair, perhaps an eighth of an inch; it was very fine and pale brown. Lucian peered closer and saw the waxy white root.
‘What do you think? Eyelash?’
