Foreign Bodies

by Colin A Millar

  She paused and looked pointedly at Tanner. ‘I note that there is no forensic evidence mentioned in the file you sent me, Chief Inspector?’

  Tanner appeared to be deep in thought, his brow furrowed and his hand absently rubbing over the shiny skin on his scalp. Eventually he looked up, nodding.

  ‘Yes, there was an addendum at the end of the file I’ll confess – I deliberately neglected to include it. It basically says that there was forensic evidence found at each of the scenes in The Charmer file, but it was essentially useless. It’s what our science people call ‘irrevocably cross-contaminated’. In other words, there are several different DNA profiles present – some male, some female – and at the time of the tests it was virtually impossible to separate them or make any real coherent sense of which strands were actually present at the scene. It was the one detail I was waiting to hear from you before I made any further decision on whether we might be looking at the same man. And, Inspector, that is starting to look like a probability we should consider.’

  Inspector Montreux smiled. ‘You are a very careful man, Chief Inspector. Might, maybe, and a probability that we are looking at the same man? Surely this information is the last coffin nail?’

  It was Tanner’s turn to smile. ‘Nail in the coffin, Inspector? We say the final nail in the coffin. Anyway, yes, I am a very cautious man. I find it pays to be cautious, more often than charging in does. So, your forensics were the same as ours – a mixture of lots of different profiles? Have you managed to isolate any? Make any identifications from them?’

  Montreux nodded. ‘Yes we did. It was a woman – a prostitute. We matched the DNA as she had been arrested several times before, but more interestingly – she was reported missing several months before the killing where we found her DNA. That was three years ago now and she still hasn’t been found.’

  Tanner nodded slowly. ‘Hmmm, yes. A few years ago, certain DNA profiling techniques had improved and other victims had been added to the file. So there was a review of all the evidence. A sample taken from semen found at one scene in Manchester turned out to be a rent boy from Newcastle – enquiries showed he hadn’t been seen for several years, no one knew where he was. But the main upshot was that at the time of the killing he would have been no more than 21, way too young to fit the rest of the pattern.’

  Opening the thick file on the table in front of him, Tanner pulled out the two reports he had been talking about, handing them over to Inspector Montreux.

  ‘OK,’ he resumed, after allowing her a little time to read. ‘It seems to me, Inspector Montreux, that we are getting somewhere here, do you agree?’

  Montreux simply nodded. She had finished skim-reading the two reports and was now reaching for her own files. As she began to remove them from her briefcase she paused and looked quizzically at Tanner.

  ‘You said there were more victims added to the file?’ she asked. ‘So, you believe this man is still active in the UK?’

  ‘Yes,’ replied Tanner. ‘The additional killings are more recent, but less frequent. Without solid evidence to the contrary, we have to assume it’s the same killer. It could, of course, be a copycat, but we think not. One assumption for the drop in frequency was that he had been arrested for something else and had been serving time, but none of the DNA or other forensic tests matched anyone with a record. Now, the fact that your investigation has led you to our door may well mean that he switched his attention to Belgium during those periods.’

  ‘That is a distinct possibility,’ Montreux said, finally pulling her files from her case.

  ‘So,’ Tanner continued. ‘It seems that our man is extremely forensically aware and, more than that, knows exactly how to flummox our boys in the lab. But more to the point, it’s starting to look like our boy has more than the – what is it now? – 15 or 20 murders to his name between here and Belgium. Right, well that might give us something to work on but it’ll take a lot of resources and computer hours, I suspect. So, is there anything your lot have come up with that maybe we’ve missed?’

  Montreux was looking at him quizzically but still nodded, ‘Yes, we have. But first, Chief Inspector, flummox?’

  Tanner laughed – a full, open-mouthed and very loud guffaw. Collecting himself he explained the word to her, smiling all the while.

  ‘Does that mean I’ll have to repeat my last four or five sentences, Inspector?’ he mock-reproached.

  She grinned back at him. ‘No, Chief Inspector, you do not. I am not quite so easily distracted as to be derailed by one word I do not understand. And please, I have said to call me Jacqueline – I grow a little tired of our respective ranks being bounced back and forward.’

  Another smile from Tanner. ‘No indeed, Jacqueline, and yeah Malcolm will be just fine. So?’

  ‘Yes, we may have found something that you have not spotted. One minute while I find the relevant photographs,’ she said, fishing in the files in front of her and pulling a picture from each. ‘These were spotted by a particularly keen-eyed pathologist.’

  Tanner took the pictures and studied them closely. Each showed a close-up of the inner thigh of a woman – a melee of slashes, cuts and stabs covered what looked like the whole area on view. If someone hadn’t circled an area in red pen, he would never have spotted anything that particularly stood out. Even with the circles he still wasn’t sure what he was looking at, and he indicated as much with a look at Montreux.

  She was quick to respond. ‘They are almost impossible to spot if you don’t know what you are looking for. This particular pathologist has an unusual hobby. He enjoys visiting churches – not because he is fervently religious, but because he says he just likes the décor.’ She shrugged as she said this, a very Gallic gesture as far as Tanner was concerned, then continued. ‘So he is very familiar with all sorts of iconography and religious imagery, useful sometimes no?’

  Tanner nodded absently, he was still staring at the photographs trying to pick out any sort of pattern in the cuts and slashes that were circled. There were certainly no crosses or obvious religious symbols there.

  ‘You have to turn the images slightly, like so, then look here.’ She pointed to a particular set of shallow cuts. ‘And then look at this.’

  She pulled out a further piece of paper, and on it was a printout of what looked like a stylised drawing of a tree that was on fire. The tree was reasonably intricately drawn, with a short trunk and many branches snaking up off it. The roots below were knotted around each other in a way Tanner felt he should recognise but couldn’t quite place. The flames, although more stylised, were clearly just that – flames. He looked at the image and back to the mortuary photos. If he concentrated, he could see – albeit more crudely – something similar in the cuts. Montreux was right, it was almost impossible to spot.

  ‘It is, apparently,’ Montreux continued, ‘a fairly common symbol of Protestant churches and particularly of the Presbyterian Church. It’s called the burning bush. Our pathologist had visited the church of St Andrew in Brussels and remembered the design he had seen on a tabard cloth draped over a lectern.’

  ‘So, he might be Scottish?’ Tanner asked, plundering his very limited knowledge of churches and church organisation. Then the thought occurred to him – Travers is Scottish, isn’t he?

  ‘Not necessarily, I am afraid. When this was noticed, background research was of course completed and it would appear that Presbyterianism is, if not prevalent, then at least common around the world, from New Zealand to Europe and even Africa and India. Having said that, yes, the majority of Presbyterians are to be found in Scotland.’

  ‘Great,’ was all Tanner could think of to say. It was like trying to pick up water from a pond, he thought – thinking you were gaining something, getting just a little closer to at least a profile or something tangible and then it all just slid through your fingers, back into the pond, joining a myriad of possibilities and potentials, none of which were useful or even tightened the search parameters.

  He s
ighed and rubbed the top of his head, looking off to one side of the room. He stayed like that for some time then looked back at Montreux.

  ‘So,’ he said slowly and carefully. ‘We could be looking at a religious motive or someone related to or working in the church. Probably the Presbyterian church.’

  He thought again of the Travers investigation – did Travers have any connection to the Presbyterian Church? He didn’t know but made a mental note to ask Handley when he saw him. And if Handley didn’t know he would kick his arse back out the door to go find out.

  ‘Yes, that would seem a good avenue to follow.’ Montreux nodded her head in a very definite affirmative.

  ‘Right,’ he said, a decisive note to his voice. ‘I’ll get my lot to take another look at the PM photos from The Charmer files – may I keep this printout?’ He indicated the picture of the burning bush and Montreux nodded. ‘It could also be useful if our respective labs take a joint look at all the forensics found both here and in Belgium. There might be DNA or hair or something that matches in all cases that might still not help – it’s likely they’ll be from some poor sap that’s missing, presumed dead – but it might just be that one matching strand could be our man. At the very least, if there are matching sequences then we can say it’s highly likely they were put there by the same person.’

  ‘Agreed,’ Montreux stated assertively. ‘Can I suggest that we set up links between the two teams, here and in Belgium? I am fairly sure I can persuade my finance department that I now need some resources to hunt this man.’

  ‘Yes, good call,’ Tanner replied. ‘I’m also pretty sure my boss’ll be releasing some funds my way too so there should actually be ‘a team’ in place when you’re ready.’ Even if that team consists of just me and Handley, he thought, but didn’t say.

  Tanner paused for a moment, thinking, then said, ‘I’m beginning to think we need someone in to help profile this guy, although I’m pretty sure it was done first time around. But, I’m wondering if this new information and a fresh pair of eyes might not be a bad thing. Have you had anyone look over the files in that way?’

  ‘In a way,’ Montreux said, ‘unlike the Americans, we don’t have an FBI to take on such tasks, but we do have a number of officers trained in criminal psychology. They have come to the conclusion that the man we are looking for is very likely from the UK, and that you have possibly already encountered him, maybe even interviewed him in the course of your enquiries.’

  Tanner raised an eyebrow. ‘Why do they think that?’ he asked.

  ‘Because of the pattern – there were no such crimes in Belgium until much more recently. It is possible he has switched his locale as he felt you were if not close then at least now aware of him.’

  ‘Hmmm, yes, that would make sense,’ Tanner replied. Travers again, he thought but instead said ‘What else did they come up with?’

  ‘Not much else, really. They, like you now, see a religious element. Maybe he believes he is on a mission from God or perhaps holds a grudge against the church and wishes for them to be blamed. Besides this there appears to be no connection between the victims, apart from being reasonably well educated and comparatively affluent.’ Montreux finished her sentence with that Gallic shrug Tanner had noticed earlier.

  Tanner sat for a few moments, slowly nodding his head and pursing his lips.

  ‘We may have someone that fits at least one part of that bill, in that he has been questioned before on the subject of The Charmer, albeit in a very minor way and from a bit of a dead end line of enquiry. However, it is interesting that your psychology guys have made that observation. We are currently looking for him, and whilst we’re not considering him a definite suspect at this stage, we are keen to speak to him.’

  ‘You cannot find this man?’ Montreux asked.

  ‘No, he disappeared a few months ago. That was why his name came up in connection with all of this – we were initially just investigating his disappearance then a connection was made, but again I say it’s a fairly tenuous one at the moment.’

  ‘I see,’ Montreux said. ‘I wonder, Malcolm, do you have this man’s DNA on file? That might help either implicate or exonerate him.’

  ‘No, this man is a civil servant with no previous police contact. He would be considered a pretty upright, well-to-do citizen.’

  ‘You have access to his house?’ Montreux asked, a small frown creasing her brow.

  ‘Yes, of course, we have been liaising with his wife regularly and the officer assigned to the case has been there on several occasions, as well as our Family Liaison officer.’

  ‘Then you could, perhaps, with his wife’s permission, see if you can find something that your laboratory could extract DNA from? Perhaps a hair sample from a comb?’ The small frown stayed in place as Montreux spoke.

  ‘That is a good suggestion, Jacqueline …’ A small, half smile appeared on Tanner’s lips. ‘Sneaky maybe, but good all the same. We could present it as an exercise in elimination, or in order to ensure any bodies found are not Marcus Travers.’

  Montreux returned his smile with a much brighter one of her own. ‘A-ha,’ she laughed. ‘I was wondering if you were going to give me a name. I can have a search done to see if this man has been in Belgium of late.’

  ‘Yes, you could,’ replied Tanner, ‘but, let’s see if anything comes of the forensics first before we go chasing around Europe for a someone who turns out to be simply a mis per.’

  Montreux accepted this with a nod.

  Suddenly, Tanner brought his hand down sharply on top of the files, making Montreux jump a little.

  ‘Now Jacqueline, I think it’s time I bought you lunch,’ he said with a broad smile.

  Montreux smiled and stood. ‘That, Malcolm, is the best idea of the morning.’

  With an extended arm and an exaggerated bow, he led her out of the station and down the street towards his favourite pub.

  ‘86

  He realised she was inviting him to bed and the usual panic swept over him. She was lovely, slim but with curves in all the right places. How could he turn her down without it seeming a monumental snub? More panic now as he realised he would have to say something to either put things off completely or to buy himself some time to gather his shredded nerves.

  It wasn’t that he was unwilling or, heaven forfend, unable. He was simply terrified that at the crucial moment everything would flood back to him and his only option would be to run, either that or face crushing – never to be recovered from – humiliation. And there was no way he would face that again.

  His mind drifted back to his 16-year-old self and the fear, the embarrassment but above all the humiliation he had felt when she had laughed at him. The memory burned, crystal clear in his mind, and even now – six years later – left him seething with shame.

  He could not, would not, put himself through that again. He wasn’t sure what he would do if he faced such a scenario, if a woman laughed at him again the way she had. Would he simply burn again and walk away head down? Or would his rage take over, making him do something stupid? Or would the depression he would feel afterwards lead to him becoming yet another young man to take his own life?

  No, he wasn’t willing to take the risk.

  She was talking to him again, flirting maybe. He hadn’t heard anything she’d said, hadn’t been listening at all. She touched his arm sending a shiver down his spine, was that pleasure or fear? Or something else entirely? He wasn’t sure. What he was sure about was that he had to leave, had to get out and be away from her, these people, this party.

  Then an escape came to him. He would feign illness, a sudden feeling of nausea, stomach cramps or perhaps just a general feeling of being unwell.

  He turned to her and tried to arrange his face in such a way that conveyed illness but at the same time utter disappointment at having to miss out on what would have been really fun.

  ‘I’m so sorry Nancy. I would dearly love to come back to your place, but I’m feeling rather
unwell all of a sudden. I think I should just go home, maybe get some fresh air on the way. I hope you can forgive me?’ He smiled at her as he said this and raised his hand to cup her cheek.

  ‘Oh,’ she replied, confused by this sudden turn of events. ‘Oh, you poor thing.’ She pressed the back of her hand to his forehead, frowning a little. ‘Well look, why don’t I walk with you, I’d be as happy at yours as mine. I could put on a nurse’s outfit and take care of you?’ she said with a wicked grin.

  He laughed, remembering to make it sound a little weakened. ‘Well, that is very tempting. But no, look I’m a terrible patient and, frankly, I just want to curl up in bed right now. I’ll be fine tomorrow I’m sure – I’ll call you or something then. And it’s such a good party, I’d hate for you to miss it in order to suffer my grumblings.’

  In order to curtail any more argument, he kissed her gently on the mouth, enjoying the sweet taste of her lips and the scent rising from her neck. His anxiety and fear rose to another level. He had to leave. Many of his long-held thoughts and fantasies were surfacing. She was too much – and this was now dangerous territory.

  He caressed her cheek, smiled and made for the door without another word. He didn’t turn to look back until he was outside the tenement block, then allowed himself a last baleful look up at the second-floor window – still emanating the lights and sounds of the party that carried on without him – and the thoughts and feelings that were now screaming in his mind.

  He reached his own flat, a comfortable but small one-bedder in Edinburgh’s New Town, having kept his mind as blank as he could throughout his walk. Thoughts would occasionally intrude but with a furious self-restraint – that meant he all but ignored road crossings and passers-by whom he barged into at regular intervals – he managed to suppress them. He was acutely aware that this made him appear, by the various comments he heard, either a ‘fucking arrogant cunt’, ‘a fucking student wanker’ or ‘a posh tosser’.

  As he was sitting, reclined on the leather sofa in his living room, he considered these insults and the evening’s events.