By the time the clock hit six, he had seven other similar cases from all over the country: Edinburgh, Manchester, Leeds, Norwich and several places in between. There were slight variations here and there but all bore the hallmarks of the five he already had. The earliest he had was from the Newcastle area and dated back to 1999, the most recent was only two months ago in Brighton. It had occurred to him then that there may have been others, but they had clearly been lost in the mists of time. Still, as the evening wore on he had felt increasingly convinced that he was looking for one man who operated all over the country – and that he was prolific.
And now, frowning at the last cigarette in the packet, he realised that there was no set pattern in terms of time elapsed between each murder. There were several months between some in the sequence and then two in quick succession and so on. This was clearly a man who couldn’t indulge himself on a regular basis or to any set pattern. No full-moon killer here. It could point to someone who had a ‘normal’ life outside of his murderous pastime; he was, perhaps, married with a good steady job, precluding him from venturing away too often. Maybe his job took him away occasionally and those were the opportunities he took to kill.
Shaking himself, Pearson realised he had begun to speculate. He needed to spend his time on the facts and the evidence not on theories about the nature of the man at this point. His eyes refocused on the board in front of him. He was tired in the extreme and realised that this was making his mind wander.
He checked the time. He had been staring at the board, reviewing his day’s work in his mind, for over half an hour, but through the fuzz of tiredness he realised he had come to the conclusion that had evaded him for most of the day. He was looking for one man, and the MOs and similarities in the SOCO pictures and the victims all verified that – even without any forensic confirmation. He could put that in front of his boss and with a little luck get the go-ahead to begin the search for the man that had eluded him three years ago. A man he now knew was responsible for 12 murders across the whole country. A man that must be caught before that toll became higher still.
It was a daunting task but Pearson felt he could achieve his goal. He was convinced he was the right man for this job. He would catch this bastard.
‘Right,’ he announced to the empty room. ‘It’s time for home, Fran old son – big day tomorrow.’
*
It was not so much a big day as a big week that followed. Pearson’s boss had immediately seen the connections and agreed that this was indeed one killer operating all over the country. He took this up the chain of command and before long the beginnings of a task force were formed. Various dedicated teams were set up in the key locations, all working their angles; they would report directly to Pearson who would be overall head of the national investigation. He was allowed to hand-pick five officers and a civilian support team. He was given a remit to bring in other officers as and when required. All forces were given the initial basic MO to look out for with the task force ready to respond immediately if anything crossed their radar.
Forensics had returned their conclusions: there were some matching hairs and DNA from two scenes, two others had matching DNA from semen, and the rest all had different profiles present. Because there were no definitive matches across all cases it was impossible to put one person at any given scene. Their advice was simple – catch him and they would do their best to match the individual to at least one or two of the scenes.
A forensic psychologist was called in to help profile the killer. Pearson suspected and was eventually proved right that this had taken them nowhere.
At the end of the week a press conference was organised. Pearson outlined all 12 cases, showing photos of the victims and appealing for people to come forward if they remembered anything at all from the final days and nights the victims were last known to be alive. He also outlined the killer’s methods and the similarities across the cases. He omitted any reference to forensic evidence.
Near the end of the conference a young journalist from The Sun raised his hand and asked: ‘Chief Inspector, how do you think the killer is gaining entry to the properties of his victims?’
At a loss for a full and reasoned answer – he really didn’t know at this point – Pearson resorted to a glib and non-committal answer: ‘I don’t know, maybe he simply charms his way in.’
The following morning the headline in The Sun ran:
THE CHARMER
12 WOMEN BUTCHERED IN THEIR OWN HOMES
And so it all began.
Chapter 11
The St. Martin’s Lounge was exactly as she remembered it from over 10 years ago. She had been here once before with Marcus; she had worked at a corporate law firm in the City at the time and they had met up after work. It had been a pleasant couple of hours being introduced to a number of his colleagues. The wood panelling was still in place alongside the subdued ambience. A decade between visits probably meant a thousand changes, large and small, had been made to the place but she could detect none of them. So her brain filled the gaps in her memory with the objects and décor that were in place now but likely weren’t previously.
As soon as Charlotte passed through the door at the top of the stairs her feet hit lush, deep carpeting, which immediately deadened the sound of her shoes. As she made her way towards the bar, she wondered whether it had been laid deliberately to remind those entering that this was not the sort of place for loud football banter or across-the-room conversations. Two staff this time stood near the bar, both watching her approach with slightly suspicious eyes. They were not accustomed to or necessarily appreciating newcomers.
Just in time to avert any embarrassing exchanges with the bar staff she remembered that this place was table service only and quickly turned to look for a vacant spot, allowing her to survey the room properly for the first time. She was about to take a table by the window opposite the bar when she caught sight of someone sitting on their own in a far corner. She couldn’t quite make out their face – partly due to the angle of their body, partly because an ill-positioned lamp was casting a shadow over that corner of the room – but the woman’s bearing and demeanour were very familiar. Changing her mind, Charlotte headed for the corner and hoped she had correctly recognised its occupant.
Realising her approach would likely go unheard due to the carpet she announced her presence some way off from the table by clearing her throat. Its occupier didn’t react at first but as Charlotte readied herself for a more forceful cough, the woman turned her head and shoulders towards her. To Charlotte the movement was so graceful she could only describe it as balletic.
With an inner sigh of relief at having recognised her target correctly, Charlotte smiled and extended her hand. ‘Agatha, so nice to see you, how are you? I hope Sir Frederick is treating you well.’
Agatha had looked a little startled at Charlotte’s approach but cleared the expression quickly and returned the smile, although it seemed somewhat strained to Charlotte’s eyes. She had met Agatha on several occasions and knew Marcus liked and trusted her; she never used her position as Sir Frederick’s PA for any personal leverage and treated everyone with the same pleasant, if aloof, manner. She was older than Charlotte by maybe 10 years, but held herself with such poise and elegance that she appeared, to Charlotte’s eyes, virtually ageless. The general air of primness that she carried with her seemed a little diminished here, presumably as she was relaxing after work.
Charlotte began to feel a little sorry for her, sitting drinking on her own. No friends to unwind with or family to go home to? She was being hypocritical, she knew. What had she been doing for the last two hours, after all? And it was equally likely that Agatha had a packed and fulfilling private life but had simply chosen to sit alone for an hour or two. Assumptions were dangerous things, Charlotte thought – something she found she had been reminded of on a daily basis recently.
‘Oh, Charlotte, um, hello.’ Agatha appeared to struggle a little with what to say next, looking ar
ound her as if for inspiration. Eventually her gaze settled back on Charlotte’s face.
‘I’m sorry – you were, I confess, probably the last person I expected to see behind me,’ she continued. ‘How are you, my dear? We are all so dreadfully worried for Marcus, and you and the children of course.’
Agatha had risen from her seat as she spoke and taken hold of Charlotte’s hand with both of hers, squeezing tightly during the last sentence, then abruptly letting go.
With her poise fully recovered for a second time she gestured for Charlotte to take a seat at her table.
‘Please join me, can I order you a drink?’
Agatha was all business for the next few minutes – ushering Charlotte to a seat, ordering a vodka tonic for herself and a Glenfarclas for Charlotte, then waiting quietly until the drinks were delivered to the table. Leaning forward slightly in her seat, she then spoke again, a grave and concerned expression on her face.
‘How are you, Charlotte? It must have been so very difficult for you over the last three months.’
The two previous whiskies and the assertions she had made on her walk to the bar combined with her desire for answers now threatened to burst through the veil of polite just-met conversation. Charlotte found herself having to hold back from simply firing hard question after hard question at Agatha: Where was he, and when? How can you know he was where he said he was? These were the questions that vied and jockeyed for position as her opening gambit. Fortunately, she checked herself in time to remember she was the wife of a missing man, not some unhinged copper from a novel, and the woman opposite her was nothing more than a concerned colleague of that man, not a shady underworld henchman. More to the point, Agatha was clearly as concerned for Charlotte herself as she was for Marcus.
With a deep intake of breath Charlotte began recounting the last few months: the shock and fear, the depression and anxiety, the hurt and anger at Marcus’ apparent betrayal, and finally the determination to get to the truth. Agatha listened patiently and in the most part quietly, with only the occasional sympathetic interjection or clarifying question. Charlotte found herself offloading all of her twisted and turbulent baggage on a woman she barely knew, realising all the while that Agatha was a far better listener and inquisitor than she would ever be.
After what felt like hours, but in reality was probably only half an hour or so, Charlotte ground to a halt. She had nothing more to add and found that all those pertinent questions she had intended to ask had simply faded away. Downing the last of her Glenfarclas and raising the glass at the barman to indicate another round, she looked directly at Agatha.
‘What do you think is going on Agatha?’ The question wasn’t plaintive or pitiful, but direct and demanding, delivered with exactly the right tone to impress Agatha – and Charlotte could see it.
Agatha sat for quite some time, chin lowered, her usually unlined brow furrowed with a central thought line. She remained quiet as the waitress brought their drinks over, simply nodding to the girl and absently lifting the glass to her lips, sipping and apparently savouring the drink then slowly placing the glass back in exactly the same position on the table – all very carefully and deliberately.
Eventually she looked up, her face softening and a sympathetic smile crossing her lips.
‘I can feel for you Charlotte, I really can. I lost my husband – he died I mean, he didn’t disappear – nearly eight years ago now and yet I still look for him on every street and in every familiar place we shared. It is almost impossible to describe that sense of loss to anyone who hasn’t experienced it. It is devastating and numbing and removes all sense of purpose and future one may have held – at least it does for quite some time. But, and this is the rub, my husband died – was killed actually. It took a long time but eventually I could accept that he was not coming back. I knew he wouldn’t walk through the door one day as if it had all been a horrendous dream. There would be no happy ending for us. But you, you my dear, have to live with the hope that Marcus could come back, that maybe he is alive and well – albeit possibly in a dark place or suffering a life crisis or believing he is better off elsewhere with someone else. All the same, he could come back and for me that is more destructive than any absolute loss anyone can feel. Your hope is what is destroying you. You have, I think, a choice. Either you can spend the rest of your days wondering, searching and questioning, forever believing that he is just around the corner and one happy day he will walk back into your life or….’
Agatha paused, lifting her drink and sipping delicately. Charlotte, who had found herself hanging on every word – desperate to hear the alternative answer to the most moving and profound summation of her predicament she had heard – simply stared, wide-eyed and expectant.
‘Or…’ Agatha continued, ‘you can say fuck it, leave the little shit to dip his tiny, cheating wick wherever he wishes and hope he catches syphilis or whatever the latest fashion in venereal disease is, and leave the twat to wallow in his own filth while you and your children get on with your own lives, only hoping you can catch up with the slimy ingrate to extract every last penny out of his miserable hide.’
Agatha sat back, still calm, still elegant, her last line delivered in the same even tones she had begun. Charlotte simply stared, unashamedly open-mouthed and speechless.
‘83
Disgust, self-loathing, depression, fear, anger, shame, hate, terror, remorse and then steely resolve washed over him, wave after wave of each powerful emotion crashing against the inside of his skull. With each wave, a rush of sensations and residual, backwashed reactions seemed to double the intensity of the original feelings. He had been trying to sleep but his brain was throwing up images and vivid memories, both true and imagined, driving the whole cycle faster and further with each pass until he felt his brain would simply explode. As the whole episode reached its seeming climax, he began to wish that this would actually happen, so it would stop and he could rest.
He had been home from university for a week now, having completed his first term away in Edinburgh, and every night had been the same. All the reminders – constantly bombarding him – were almost unbearable in the daytime but at night, lying here in his old room in the manse, the rollercoaster terror ride would begin, spawned by the memories and emotions stirred up throughout the day. The village was so small he couldn’t go anywhere without a building or a face or a road name sparking the same burning flashbacks, leaving him shaking and red with embarrassment and shame.
From the moment he arrived back he had been hit with the first of these intolerable reminders. The only bus stop in the village stopped outside the school. His final two years at that school had been filled with humiliation, sneering bullying, outraged disgust and abject, lonely misery. Even the teachers appeared to hold little sympathy or concern, leaving him thoroughly isolated and open to any abuses his peers could think up. Stepping down from the bus on his return he had looked up, straight into the face of the imposing, granite building – his own personal house of pain and torture. Things simply got worse from that moment on.
The following day he had been expected to attend the kirk – he had no choice in the matter, even though he was now 18 and should have the final say on whether he went or not. His only solace was that he could sit in the usual family spot at the front, meaning he was facing away from the rest of the congregation and their sometimes hard, sometimes sympathetic stares – all reminders of his humiliation. By the end of the service he knew he couldn’t remain in the village and face another service in a week’s time. As he stood to leave his legs were shaking so badly he felt they would give way below him, and his lungs were so tight he could hardly breathe, leaving him feeling faint and even more unbalanced.
Over the course of the next week the village had closed in around him, seemingly pointing and laughing and accusing. The people, who had all known him his whole life, avoided him where possible and when they had no choice their conversation was short, mumbled, monosyllabic and devoid of all
eye contact.
Near the end of the week he had found himself several miles from home on top of one of the many hills that surrounded the village. The night sky was clear and the galaxy spread around him in bright, brilliant points of light. He had missed the stars during his time in Edinburgh and hadn’t realised until he got there that the light pollution would obliterate so much of the night sky. Here, he could clearly see the axis of the Milky Way threading across the sky, surrounded by thousands of its other constituent stars. He wore only jeans and a thick jumper, no coat, and the sweat created from the climb had started to cool and turn to ice in the sub-zero temperatures. He had virtually run up the hill – seemingly trying to escape the village and its people, in reality trying to escape himself.
Turning his tear-streaked face to this awe-inspiring sight he screamed, cursed and raged at the stars until he fell to his knees coughing, hacking and retching onto the frozen shards of grass.
It was unfair, no, it was amoral. It was worse than either of those things combined. The humiliation had been bad enough but the thought of returning and facing it every holiday, over and over again, was completely unbearable. The demand that he attend the kirk was an insult to his already injured pride. His father’s overbearing, humourless cruelty was starting to make his skin itch with the desire to punch him hard enough to put his fist through the old cunt’s face.
All of it was becoming totally unbearable and he would have to face several years of this yet. Impossible, unacceptable, intolerable. It would kill him if he had to face this again. Either that or he would kill someone else.
Foreign Bodies Page 13
