by Ed James
‘No, the eyelids. And stabbing the victims through the heart.’ He made eye contact with her. ‘Your dad was the DI on it.’
7
Vicky pressed the doorbell and waited there like it was just another home connected to just another case. But it was her parents’ house, the place where she’d grown from baby Victoria to school as Vicks and finally leaving for university as Vicky, only to return and work as a cop just down the road.
The living room blinds were shut. From the death metal roaring out, it sounded like Andrew was home, if nothing else. God knows what else he’d be up to in his bedroom.
She looked back along Bruce Drive to the entrance from North Burnside Street, nowhere near the burn. And no sign of Forrester. This house was on a loop—odd numbers on the outside, evens on the inside—and up ahead, past the entrance, was a small cul de sac, the houses set that bit further back. In the distance, a Nissan bumped up and over into a drive, then an old couple got out, dressed like they were at a rave in Greece in the early nineties, but their arguing words carrying along on the late-afternoon breeze.
‘Vicky?’ Her dad stood in the doorway, ruddy-faced and frowning. ‘Come on in.’ And he was gone.
Still no sign of Forrester, so she took a deep breath and followed her dad inside. ‘Thought you’d still be at ours but Robert said you left a while ago?’
‘Just got back now, aye.’ Dad collapsed into his recliner and put his feet up on the leather footstool, then fixed her with a harsh look. ‘Bad form to duck out of a barbecue like that.’
‘It’s the job, Dad. Sure you understand.’ Vicky perched on the left side of Mum’s sofa, but she couldn’t get comfortable. Never could. ‘Can you turn that off?’
‘Last round.’ Dad took a sip of beer from a knobbly pint glass as he stared at the golf. ‘Got fifty quid on McIlroy.’
‘I thought you’d stopped gambling.’
‘Aye, well, it’s a special occasion.’ He wiped beer from his lips. ‘Why are you here?’
‘Well, I’m not here to speak to my father, but to DI George Dodds.’
‘Aye, latterly Police Sergeant George Dodds.’ He looked round at her, his nostrils twitching. ‘What do you want to speak to that clown about?’
A car door slammed out on the street.
Vicky stood up and looked out. ‘There’s Forrester.’
Dad was on his feet now. ‘What’s Dongle doing here?’
‘Dongle?’
‘Long story.’ Dad slipped out into the hallway just as the bell rang. ‘I’m getting it!’
But Mum still came through. She frowned at the door then at her daughter. ‘Victoria, what are you doing here?’
‘Hi, Mum, nice to see you too.’
‘Can I get you a cup of tea?’
‘I’m fine.’
A bellow of laughter from the door and Forrester sauntered inside like they were heading down to the snooker hall. ‘Hiya, Cathy. You’re looking well.’
‘And you’re looking… David, I’ve got some aftersun, if you want.’
‘That’d be smashing.’
‘How about a cup of tea?’
‘Only if it’s no hassle.’
‘Never is. Kettle’s just boiled.’
‘Well, in that case, milk and no sugar, thanks. I’m sweet enough.’
Mum smiled. ‘Hear that line enough from George.’ And she slipped off.
But Dad was clearly smelling a rat. He stood by the stereo, a tower of vintage hi-fi equipment topped off by a turntable, his eyes narrowed. ‘What’s going on?’
‘This.’ Vicky got out her phone and held out the photo of the male victim, his lidless eyes staring out of the screen.
Dad reached for his reading glasses on the coffee table and put them on his nose, screwing up his face to examine the image. Then his mouth hung open. ‘What the hell is this?’
‘Hoping you could tell me.’
Dad took a look at his daughter, then at Forrester, then set off into the hall. ‘Better do this through here.’ He led the way into Vicky’s old bedroom, opposite the living room door, the perfect location to hear his late-night TV and her mid-evening music. It was now a small office, with a laptop computer resting on an IKEA desk and a pair of filing cabinets. The light-blue Anaglypta paint that used to look like water damage had been replaced with patterned wallpaper, though the colours weren’t that different. And everything was beige, just like the entire house. ‘Have a seat.’
Vicky took the futon, rock hard and cold despite the house’s sweltering temperature. Felt like she was getting piles from it already. ‘So, I take it that photo rings a few bells?’
Dad slumped in front of his computer and rubbed at his forehead.
‘Dad, I need to know about it.’
He took a sip of beer and set it aside. ‘I hoped I’d never have to talk about it again, but here we go.’
Vicky looked at Forrester, standing by the door, concern etched on his face. ‘Why?’
‘Because it was the case that broke me.’ Dad reached into the bottom drawer and pulled out a bottle of single malt. He held it up and it was the one Vicky had given him for Christmas. Looked like barely a spit left. ‘David?’
‘Driving, George.’
‘Suit yourself.’ He poured out a measure into a glass. ‘Vicky?’
‘I hate the stuff. Now, this case?’
Dad took a sip of whisky and grimaced. ‘Ah, that’s the good stuff. Slainte.’ He held up the glass. ‘They called the killer Atreus.’
‘Latin?’
‘Greek. Some ancient king or something.’ Dad sank his beer in one long glug and clattered the glass down on the desk. ‘Atreus was a serial killer who killed all across Britain. Five pairs of bodies over five years from 1989 to 1992, all with their eyelids cut off. Just like in that.’ He waved at Vicky’s phone, his nervous eyes looking at it like the killer could jump out and attack her. ‘The eyelids… Christ.’
‘Why would someone do that?’
Dad exchanged a look with Forrester, and let out a laugh. ‘Someone genuinely thought that the killer might be killing vampires, stake through the heart and all that shite.’
‘Fair cop.’ Forrester shook his head with a hefty sigh. ‘Cutting the eyelids meant they couldn’t even shut their eyes so the sun could get them or something. I was reading a lot of Anne Rice and Stephen King at the time. And I didn’t think it was actually a vampire, just that someone thought they were killing them. This was around the time Silence of the Lambs came out, another obsession of mine. I kept thinking whoever was doing this was one of those loony types who saw visions, and he genuinely thought he was killing vampires.’ He drifted off with a final shrug.
‘So you worked this case too?’
‘Aye, but I was a daft wee laddie in uniform, just walking the beat in Dundee city centre until I got sucked into this case. Tayside Police threw as many bodies as they could at it, didn’t want the West Midlands shower taking it away.’
‘Why them?’
‘First victim was in Birmingham, hence those buggers taking precedence. In the end, we all got co-opted on to their case. The others were in Newcastle, Inverness and Carlisle. We found a body in the Ferry in late ’92.’
‘A serial killer in Broughty Ferry?’
Dad looked round at her, his forehead creased. ‘You don’t remember this, Vicky?’
‘I mean vaguely. Mum banned me and Andrew from going up to Dundee for a bit. Had us on a curfew too. And I remember something about a case in the Ferry, but I just didn’t connect the two.’
‘Well, there you go.’ Dad reached over and took her phone. He stared deep into it. ‘We had this fancy criminal psychologist from down south. Wild red hair and full of herself. Reckoned the eyelids were removed so the victims would have to watch Atreus as he stabbed them in the heart.’
‘Why?’
‘Wish I knew. She had a few theories, but they all seemed crap.’
Vicky took her phone back and flicked through t
he photos until she found the wide shot of the female victim.
Dad’s eyes bulged. ‘Christ.’ He sighed at Forrester. ‘David, you should’ve told me you had two victims.’
Forrester wouldn’t make eye contact with Vicky. ‘I’m still not convinced by this.’
‘And yet you’re here?’ Dad settled back in his chair and sipped the foam from the bottom of his beer. ‘Victoria, Atreus murdered pairs of men and women, where at least one had been married. Our profiler thought it was because they were adulterous.’
Forrester snatched the phone out of Dad’s hand and glowered at the screen as he flicked through. ‘The press called him Atreus in honour of the figure in Greek mythology who killed his brother and wife after catching them at it.’ He passed her phone back. ‘Wouldn’t be that intellectual these days, would it? Be some pun based on Love Island or something.’
Dad sucked in a deep breath. ‘My boss at the time, DCI Syd Ramsay, he wanted to investigate it as a separate case, but I insisted it was connected to the other Atreus murders.’
Forrester smiled at Dad, like he was trying to connect with him. ‘Vicky, your old man proved that it was connected. He forced the pathologist to work it that little bit harder, and Bob’s your uncle, he found a little nick in the cut. Went back through the previous victims and found the blade matched. Exact same knife used on all of them.’
Dad stood up and hefted his beer glass. ‘I’ll check on the tea.’
Vicky made to go after him.
But Forrester grabbed her arm, his wild eyes telling her to let him go.
So she sat back down on the futon and folded her arms.
‘Your old man found a knife at a crime scene. We were going to run prints. Somehow it went missing between his car and the lab.’
‘Seriously?’
‘Aye. Your dad got suspended for it.’
‘Oh, Jesus. I remember him being off work. Mum told me it was because he was ill.’
‘Not exactly untrue. Your father wasn’t a well man at the time. Signed off on stress, officially, but it was a suspension.’ Forrester sighed. ‘He was Acting DI, which as you know means he was just a DS getting taken for a ride. Easy for them to shove him sideways. Spent the last couple of years as a beat sergeant in Forfar.’
‘I remember. And I’ve heard stories, but I thought it was voluntary.’
‘Hardly. He was no spring chicken, but Forfar. He played it smart, though. Got his pension and got the fuck out of Dodge. And you know the rest. Private security gigs to pay off this place.’
‘I just remember him being stressed as hell at the time. I didn’t know that was why.’
‘Stressful time for the lot of us.’ Forrester ran his hand through his hair. ‘All the people who screwed your dad over are now dead, or as good as.’
Vicky sat back, trying to process it. But she got nothing, other than a horrible feeling deep in her gut. All that suffering he’d gone through and she hadn’t known.
Dad stepped into the room, carrying a teacup and plate. He passed the tea to Forrester and gave the plate to Vicky.
A slice of cake. And she was starving. Mum’s All-Bran loaf scraped with margarine, exactly what she needed. ‘What happened with the knife, Dad?’
He looked over at her, frowning, then away with a sigh. ‘I wish I knew. Swear I took it into the lab and handed it over.’
‘In Bell Street?’
‘Same place you work now.’ Dad stood there, hands in pockets, shaking his head. ‘Can I see the photo again?’
Vicky passed it over.
He focused on the image and passed it back, but his gaze was on Forrester. ‘David, I can’t see much on that phone screen. What’s your take?’
‘It looks exactly the same to me. Same cut marks.’
‘What if he’s back?’
‘George…’ Forrester stood up and rested his tea on the desk. ‘George, I know you think you can redeem yourself here, but the original killer can’t be back. Because he died a long time ago.’
8
Vicky’s dad shut his eyes and took a deep breath. ‘I’ll just get my tea.’ He left the room again, but Vicky recognised the bathroom door opening. She knew every creak in this house off by heart.
And she knew her old man. He was in there, sitting on the toilet in a fit of rage. And the last thing he’d want was for her to crowd him. But she needed his help and insight.
And all this time, that case had been eating at him. She could remember him as a detective, when she was maybe ten? He was always home late, always away early. Then after that, he was much more present in their lives. And all because he’d been sidelined for a fuck-up.
But the killer couldn’t be back if he was dead. Meaning they’d either caught the wrong guy, or someone was copying him.
She sat next to Forrester on the futon. ‘Who was he?’
Forrester finished his tea and set the mug down on the floor at his feet. ‘Guy called Jim Sanderson from Broughty Ferry. Died before the trial.’
‘Anything suspicious about it?’
‘Nope, suicide.’
‘Did he live near those victims?’
‘Aye, but at the other end of the town, though. The bodies were in those posh houses in West Ferry, but he lived in Barnhill. Practically Monifieth.’
‘If he was from the Ferry, did he know the victims?’
‘Alec Mitchell and Susan Adamson.’ Forrester sniffed. ‘They worked together and were having an affair. We’ve got copious evidence of it. This was before texts and stuff, but there were a lot of clandestine phone calls between their homes. And Susan Adamson was the sentimental type who kept all her love letters. She was a lot younger than him, just turned seventeen, whereas Mitchell was mid-fifties. Real sugar daddy type.’
‘How did Sanderson know?’
‘Knew them from church. They attended the same one, but we didn’t find any proof that they knew each other.’
‘But all the other victims were from other locations. Birmingham and Newcastle and so on?’
‘Right, but Sanderson worked for Kjaer Oil. Their head office was in Aberdeen, but he roved around the country training people in various places. Refineries and distribution centres.’
‘Some serial killers escalate up to something close to home, don’t they?’
‘So that course in London wasn’t a complete waste of money?’
‘I did get something out of it, but the guy taking it was a gloomy sod.’ She frowned, some memory flickering in her head. ‘He’d worked in Florida with the FBI and they took down a serial killer who had a similar MO to Ed Kemper. The Co-ed Killer.’
‘California, right?’
‘Correct. This guy taking the course actually interviewed Kemper, like in that show on Netflix.’
‘Kemper’s still alive? Christ.’
‘But he was really interested in the escalation path. Kemper killed five college students and one high school student before killing his mother and her friend. And that was it, all done. He just gave himself up, mainly to talk. He never stopped, just kept blabbing.’
‘Sanderson didn’t speak to us, though. Denied it all.’
‘Did you get the impression that these were practice kills as he escalated to killing on his home turf?’
Forrester exhaled slowly. ‘Maybe.’
‘What was his mission, though? Mother? Father?’
‘We don’t know. The profiler lassie had theories, but it all came down to adultery.’
‘Adultery?’
‘We hadn’t caught him because of…’ Forrester waved a hand at the door. ‘That nonsense. And he was all over the country on business where he trained the managers on how to use this new piece of software. They had offices everywhere, but the kicker was in Invergordon, just north of Inverness. They had a few rigs in the Cromarty Firth. Went out for a beer with the lads a few times. One of them talked about shagging around with a lassie there. Next thing we know, they’re both dead in a hotel, eyelids cut off, stabbed throu
gh the heart.’
‘That’s brutal.’ And just like the victim inside the lighthouse. ‘How did he… I mean, cutting their eyelids off?’
‘Two knives. One for slotting into the heart. The other was like a scalpel, fine precise work around the eyelids.’
‘I meant why?’
‘Oh, right. Well, we don’t know. A few ideas, but he never confessed. He was in serious denial.’
Vicky had seen that a ton of times. The most brutal killers, caught red-handed, and they didn’t even show recognition that they’d done it, let alone remorse. ‘But Dad blames himself because he could’ve caught him earlier?’
‘You know your old boy too well, Doddsy. But it wasn’t just him, the powers-that-be blamed him for it, screwed him over and sent him to Forfar.’
‘Is it possible you caught the wrong guy?’
Forrester stared hard at her. ‘I know what you’re doing here.’ He sighed. ‘I mean, it’s physically possible, but we nailed him down.’
‘When did he die?’
Forrester winced. ‘On remand.’
‘So you didn’t get a conviction?’
‘Nope. We were thinking ten life sentences, no parole.’
‘But he died.’
‘Right.’
Vicky held up her phone. ‘So, this is a copycat.’
‘That’s the logical conclusion. Some sick bastard using the same MO as the Atreus killings.’
‘Any books publish—’
‘Tons. At least ten I’ve read. Another twenty I haven’t.’
‘Was there a complete match with the MO?’
‘Not that I’ve seen. Even in that bloody profiler’s book. Why do you ask?’
‘Because it’s a good way to find out if it’s someone connected to this Atreus guy. If he passed information on, that kind of thing.’
‘Okay, I’ll speak to Arbuthnott.’
‘Want me to speak to the guy who took the course?’
‘What, consult with the Met’s brightest? God no. Last thing we need is the Met sniffing around here. DCS Soutar, our boss, she used to work down there and she’s got previous in bringing them up here to “consult”. Usually means them taking over and making us look like the useless fannies they think we are.’
