Senseless

by Ed James

  Zoe seemed to shiver but didn’t speak.

  ‘Then both victims were released a day apart.’

  ‘Released?’

  ‘Well, set free. One in Oxfordshire, hence Thames Valley police. The other in Rugby, Warwickshire.’ Palmer held up her notebook and showed all the pages of notes. ‘But I can’t figure out any connections between the victims.’

  ‘How about we start with who they are?’

  ‘Sarah is a project manager at a biotech company in Cambridge. A runner. Married. She was taken while running home from work. Then starved, almost until she died.’

  ‘And victim two?’

  ‘Howard, chef from Axminster in Devon. Single, sounds like a party boy. Taken while he surfed. And he was blasted with—’

  ‘So both were taken during physical activity?’

  ‘Well, we don’t know Howard was.’ Palmer felt her lips do an involuntary twitch again. ‘The Devon cop who investigated said they couldn’t tell if his wetsuit had been used that morning.’ She frowned and scribbled a fresh note. ‘Smell would tell us, wouldn’t it?’ A different flavour of frown now. ‘But that assumes he washed it frequently. He surfed every day, so it’s unlikely.’

  Zoe filled her cup again, but Palmer covered hers. ‘When were they released?’

  ‘Sarah was let go yesterday morning. Howard, first thing this morning.’

  ‘So, he or she had Sarah and Howard for some amount of overlapping time?’

  ‘Well, the duration of Howard’s imprisonment. And they think it’s a he.’

  ‘Okay. Did they see each other?’

  ‘Not quite. They were vaguely aware of each other. Sarah thinks she heard this children’s TV theme tune that Howard was subjected to. He saw her nameplate.’

  ‘Nameplate?’

  A shiver ran up Palmer’s spine, crawling like spiders, then goosebumps prickled on her arms. ‘Their cells were labelled. To remind him there’s a person in there? To catalogue his collection? Either way, Howard saw another nameplate, marked for a Matt. And that’s where we’ve got to.’

  ‘Which could just be the confused memories of a man suffering from this extreme noise terror? Or it could be subterfuge? Could they be trying to rattle the police?’

  ‘But it could be someone else suffering.’

  ‘Right. But they were both released? Hmm.’ Zoe finished her tea and set the cup down on the floor next to her chair. ‘Has anyone tried to get in touch with you or the police?’

  ‘No. And that’s despite a news conference for Sarah’s case on the TV and radio this morning. The newspapers will have it on their websites. I don’t know, but I presume Howard’s information will be released tomorrow.’

  ‘That silence doesn’t strike you as unusual?’

  ‘How so?’

  ‘With a case where people are released, wouldn’t you expect some sort of message? Don’t you think releasing live victims is unusual behaviour for this sort of perpetrator? Now, could it be he can’t bring himself to take a life? Or is it possible he’s building up to murder?’

  ‘I’m here for answers, Zoe. Not more questions.’

  ‘In some ways, what he’s done to Sarah and to Howard, doesn’t it sound like their torture is the end game? Maybe he doesn’t want to kill them? Maybe their suffering is the message?’

  ‘Well, I have thought of that.’

  ‘Indeed.’ Zoe was nodding to herself. ‘In this sort of scenario, your perpetrator thinks of himself as the hero of his story, and he’s righting some wrong. He has his own set of objectives and we are the obstacles. I mean you and the police are. I’d expect some tragedy in his life, where no-one helped him achieve a goal, or where he was disadvantaged by someone achieving their own senseless goal. That’ll lead to a very black-and-white view of the world, his own moral code. It very likely precludes him from taking a life. But sending a message is his objective and the torture is the message.’

  ‘But a message to who? Sarah has a husband but Howard’s single, like I say.’

  ‘Curious. Have they learnt anything from this ordeal?’

  ‘Well, they’re absolutely terrified. You should see what he’s done to Sarah.’ Palmer’s mouth was dry. She reached down for her tea and took a still-scalding drink. ‘As far as I can tell, there’s no message.’

  ‘Can you build a pattern?’

  ‘Well, it just appears random to me. Senseless.’ Palmer shook her head. ‘No personal contact between the abductor and the victims, either.’

  ‘Now that is curious.’ Zoe clicked the fingers on both hands, rings clacking, eyes flickering. ‘Okay, so talk to me. Freeform.’

  ‘Well, Sarah and Howard were kidnapped. Sarah from near her home while she ran. Howard from a regular surfing site. As far as we can tell, both attacks were planned, and the adductor knew the optimal opportunities for taking them. Meaning someone had been observing them and knew her life inside out.’

  ‘Husband, wife, partners?’

  ‘Doesn’t fit. Sarah had an affair behind her husband’s back, but can you think of a case where someone would do this as punishment?’

  ‘Only in America.’ Zoe moved her hands, chivvying Palmer along. ‘And Howard?’

  ‘Single, as far as I know.’ She noticed a box on her diagram. ‘Howard kept singing the theme tune to Charlie the Seahorse.’

  ‘Oh, that?’

  ‘You know it?’

  ‘My niece does.’ Zoe laughed. ‘All the time, blasting it out on the iPad. Drives my sister potty.’

  ‘Well, Howard kept singing it when we spoke to him. As far as I can decipher, he’d been subjected to it all day long, and at high volume.’

  ‘Peculiar.’ Zoe’s lips twitched. ‘Okay, let’s go back to the abduction MO. Could be there’s an elaborate fiction that’s drawing these victims in. He talks to them, tells a story, then BANG, he takes them.’

  ‘They were both attacked.’

  ‘Attacked?’

  ‘Sarah was tripped. Howard pinned to his van. Both were likely injected with something.’

  ‘Likely?’

  ‘They’ve been kept in a prison cell, Zoe. You of all people know how fragile human memory is at the best of times. And this is the worst.’

  ‘Quite.’ Zoe stood up and walked over to her window, overlooking the quad. ‘Let’s consider the offender journey. This is a complex operation, requiring much preparation and planning. Executing that plan is a whole different ball game. How did they train to do it? Have there been possible trials?’

  Palmer felt a surge of vertigo, like she was on the top of a skyscraper and even the foundations wobbled beneath her feet. ‘The police are investigating it, but nothing so far.’

  ‘Okay. Well, I recommend geographic profiling.’ Zoe turned back to face Palmer, outlined by the faint lights from the quad. Made her hair look like it was on fire. ‘It’s how I caught Ross Murray.’

  Palmer folded her arms. She’d known coming here might be a mistake. Back to her role in Ross Murray’s downfall, like always.

  ‘In fact . . .’ Zoe rushed forward to a stack of books, clicking her fingers again. She picked up a black notebook and sifted through it. ‘Yes, here we go. Ross Murray had a similar MO to your guy. Serial rapist, who escalated to abduction by victim three, and to murder by victim six. I caught him after sixteen victims.’

  ‘Sixteen?’ Palmer took another drink of tea. Her hand was shaking. ‘Whoever’s doing this isn’t a killer.’

  ‘Yet.’ Zoe looked up from her notebook. ‘It’s usually only a matter of time. And victims one and two could actually be victims seven and eight. It could be that those are the ones he’s deemed to have been sufficiently punished or redeemed. This Matt could be the first murder.’

  ‘You said he’s sending a message to Sarah and Howard? That doesn’t sound like someone on an escalation path.’

  ‘I know, which is why you need to get inside this guy’s head.’ Zoe picked up her chair and put it next to Palmer’s. She produced a shiny
silver laptop from behind a tottering pile of books and woke it up. Her rings clacked as she typed. ‘Here we go.’ She rested the laptop on the wider pile of books and sat back. ‘I’d put some popcorn on, but the microwave isn’t working.’

  A greyscale video filled the screen, the camera up high. Palmer knew the room. Interview suite B, Broadmoor. Zoe sat on one side of the desk, her hair in pigtails, offset by a pinstriped power suit, nothing like the earth mother sitting next to Palmer. The masks people wear.

  The door opened and two hulking orderlies lumbered in, a mixture of power and observation, helping Ross Murray shuffle in, head bowed, shoulders rounded. He carried a notepad, cradling it like a child with a favourite toy, and sat side on to Zoe, only glancing at her in his peripheral vision.

  She asked him a question which the laptop’s speakers didn’t quite reproduce.

  ‘Page seven.’ Murray’s deep voice was crystal clear. His Essex accent twisting the syllables.

  Zoe paused the video and passed over a stack of photocopied papers, neatly arranged and bound, but creased. At least two coffee rings on the front cover. ‘This is the manuscript of his autobiography. It’s the only way he communicates with the outside world. They photocopied it when he was asleep once.’ She flicked through and passed it to Palmer.

  All capitals, carefully written and with no crossing out or corrections.

  You have to know who you’re helping. Watch them, absorb their lives, until you know everything they’ll do and see everything that’s wrong with their lives. Then you’ll see exactly how you can help. There will always be a gap where they will be open to receiving your assistance. In every hour of every day of every week, there will be a repeating window where they are almost begging for your help. It’s just a case of looking hard enough. And being patient, biding your time. Remember how badly they need your help.

  Palmer felt her gut tighten and clench. ‘Help?’

  ‘At first, I thought he was being sarcastic.’ Zoe reached over to tap the page. ‘But he genuinely thinks he’s helping his victims. He’s an angel of mercy who sees his victims as injured parties at the side of the road and himself as the Good Samaritan.’

  ‘Zoe, this isn’t—’

  ‘Marie, just go with this, okay?’ Zoe tapped the document again. ‘Page eighteen.’

  A well-worn page, with some inscrutable notes in the margins on both sides and the back of the previous page.

  The trick is to have somewhere nobody else knows, where you can come and go as you please. Cages are your friend. Like a dog, you need to show your friends who is boss. And just like with a dog, sometimes you need to put them in a cage to look after their needs. They will respect you more for it. And it comforts them. A human being needs constant care, constant attention. They will always try to escape, no matter how much love you give them. They’re ungrateful for what you’ve done for them. I recommend a small cage, ideally seven foot by four. Enough for most people to lie down in. Whenever you go inside, make sure they’re sedated, or in a state where they can show their love to you, their gratitude.

  Zoe pointed at the highlighted section, a knobbly ring almost sliding off. ‘Don’t you think Sarah’s starvation would make controlling her much easier?’

  ‘Well, yes.’ Palmer rested the document on her lap, starting to see some signal in the noise. ‘Howard, though . . . Why not starve both victims?’

  ‘Good question. You said Howard was missing for twelve days?’

  ‘He’s still the same weight as when he was taken.’

  Zoe didn’t seem to have the answer to that, except for turning the page. She had underlined and highlighted more than half of the text.

  But sometimes you wonder if you’re saving them from themselves. And if it’s enough. It’s the purest form of love I know. And perhaps you’re the same? You will have done this once or twice, but you’ll feel it deep in your soul. The voices, the stress, the pressure. You’ll be thinking about who else you can help. And sometimes there’s just too much love to give.

  Zoe patted Palmer’s knee. ‘Whoever’s doing this, they’ll be experiencing so much stress and pressure. Absolute fear of getting caught. They’re clearly psychopathic and don’t feel anything for their victims, but they know the risk they’re taking. They can feel the police closing in on them, which they get over by searching for their next victim. They focus their energies on the promise of the future, instead of fear over past deeds.’

  ‘Meaning another victim is likely?’

  Zoe just flipped the page.

  As you get better at this, you’ll want to help them for longer periods of time. It’ll start with one short piece of attention, but soon you’ll feel so much love and gratitude from them that you’ll want to help more than one at a time. Always keep them separate. Always. Try to fight the urge to keep them together. I once tried helping two people in adjacent cages under my garage. Keeping two people alive is much harder than one. The emergent difficulties multiply in complexity. What’s worse, when you turn your back, they start to think they can reject your help. They’ll talk to each other and form a bond. They’ll conspire against you. Other people are the poison, not you. I had to move one to the back of a van in my garage. Which is how the traitors found me. Don’t make my mistake. Serially, never in parallel.

  ‘If we’re right, then my guy has mastered keeping two people. Maybe even three.’

  Zoe nodded. ‘Those two escaped. One bit his ear, the other kicked him, and they ran. Stole Murray’s car and drove off. They handed themselves in at the police station in Thetford, but couldn’t remember where he lived. All they knew is it was somewhere in rural Norfolk. We had a suspect in custody and had to release him. Weeks later, both victims were released from protective custody. We caught Murray killing the second.’

  ‘Oh my god.’

  ‘Want to know the worst part?’ Zoe raised her eyebrows. ‘Ross Murray had been seen in the vicinity of two abductions and was in our TIE logs. Trace, Interview, Eliminate. The useless police let him go.’

  ‘Great. So I just have to wait until he does this again? Zoe, I can’t. This is too much.’

  ‘Marie, you’ll likely need more than two victims to form a pattern. I was on the case from the second murder, his seventh overall victim, and even then we didn’t get anything useful until victim nine. And we still had the wrong man in custody. But the important thing is we caught him. Ross Murray isn’t doing this any more. If he was out there, he would still be murdering.’

  Palmer got to her feet and stepped between tottering piles of books. ‘I still have no idea how to catch him.’

  ‘The police have brought you in because you’re Dr Marie Palmer. You’re an expert and you can do what they can’t. You get inside the head of whoever is doing this. Can you do that?’

  Palmer stopped her pacing. ‘Zoe, I only do that once the police have done their job and the guy is under lock and key.’ She was sounding like Corcoran now.

  ‘Do your job, Marie. Build up a profile. Start wide, keep it unconstrained. There will be things you know for definite, so let the police know them. You never know, you might strike lucky. But you know the kind of man you’re looking for, don’t you?’

  ‘A violent psychopath with sadistic tendencies, someone who enjoys seeing torment.’

  ‘Weave those connections. Just because it might take six or ten victims to give you a concrete pattern doesn’t mean you won’t be able to infer anything from just two. He might be careless.’

  ‘I’ve seen what he can do to people, Zoe. It’s . . . it’s horrible. And if he’s doing it to someone else just now, if . . .’ Palmer couldn’t speak. She felt numb.

  ‘You’ve got this, Marie. You know what you’re doing. So do it.’

  Day three

  Twenty-five

  [07:15]

  Palmer stopped on the staircase to steady herself. Her head was thumping and she couldn’t decide if there was one police officer walking down the stairs towards her, or two. S
he stepped aside and let him – or them – past with a blast of metallic aftershave. Probably just one. She started climbing again, the banister resonating with each step, and opened the door to the Incident Room. A lone voice speaking, none of the usual hubbub. She stepped inside, letting the door shut behind her.

  Corcoran stood at the front of the room, clean-shaven and wearing a navy suit with a red tie. He looked surprisingly presentable. Plainclothes and uniformed cops filled the room, more men than women but surprisingly balanced. He stopped and gave her a grin. ‘Nice of you to join us, Doctor.’

  But Palmer was scanning the room. ‘Sorry, I needed a word but I see you’re busy.’

  ‘Won’t be long.’

  ‘I’ve got something that might prove crucial.’

  ‘A profile, yeah?’ A tall male officer near her snorted with laughter. ‘Know your sort. Rather have a profile than solve the case.’

  ‘DC Butcher.’ Corcoran pointed at him. ‘Have you solved the case?’

  Butcher stood there, holding his gaze, sipping from a metal coffee mug. ‘No, Sarge. Sorry.’

  Corcoran folded his arms, teeth bared. ‘Dr Palmer has spoken to many people with similar MOs, so I ask all of you to extend any and all assistance in helping her get inside our guy’s head. Okay?’ He raised his eyebrows and looked around the room again for any dissenting opinions. Then he rounded on Butcher again. ‘Have you nailed down Christopher Langton’s movements on the night of Sarah’s disappearance?’

  ‘Still a few avenues to chase down.’

  Corcoran shook his head, a bitter smile on his face. ‘That’s your priority today, Constable. Not bullying Dr Palmer. Okay?’

  ‘Sarge.’ Butcher was still smirking.

  Corcoran rested his notebook on the table and looked around at his officers. ‘DI Thompson is meeting with Devon and Cornwall police about the ownership of Howard Ritchie’s case which, as you all know, overlaps with a strategic drugs investigation. We obviously don’t want to jeopardise that, but you’ve all seen what we’ve got on our hands.’ He paused and looked around the room. ‘Okay, we’ve still got a ton of witnesses to trace and eliminate. Get on with it.’