The Career Killer

by Ali Gunn

  Nothing. Nobody was waiting in the shadows to jump him. He turned the torch off. He needed his eyes to adjust to the dark.

  Breathe, Stryker, breathe, he told himself. His nerves were getting the better of him. Again.

  The dim light he’d seen emanating from the stairwell was just the other side of a wood and glass panel door. He passed through it, all too aware of the creak the door made as it swung inwards. Someone had been smoking in the stairwell recently. Hundreds of butts were scattered across the floor. Stryker felt them compact underfoot as he ascended. At the first-floor landing, he paused by a door. It didn’t sound as if anyone were moving within. He pushed the handle slowly and was met with resistance. The door was locked.

  One more flight up and he found the same thing. The door wouldn’t budge.

  Up and up he went, each time finding locked doors until he found himself, slightly winded, on the landing of the sixth floor. It was the same floor that he’d been on with “Drew Rekshun”. He finally found an unlocked door which he nudged slowly open, its hinges creaking as he did. If the killer were here then Stryker had just announced his arrival as surely as if he’d rung a doorbell.

  ‘James!’ he shouted. ‘Or whatever your name is! Come out with your hands up.’

  Silence answered him.

  The stairwell was positioned on the opposite side of the building from where he’d entered last time which meant that he was now in the northeast corner of the building, well away from St Dunstan’s hill. The sound of the rain outside was now too distant to hear. Instead, all he could hear was the sound of his own heart thundering in his chest. Ahead of him was a corridor that ran south with half-glazed doors all along the right-hand side. Treading lightly, Stryker started along the corridor, hunching as he neared the first door. Through the upper glazed partition, the dark outline of what appeared to be a mountain of furniture was visible. Rusting metal and plastic chairs, similar to those foisted upon unlucky schoolchildren, were piled up to the ceiling.

  Stryker turned his attention to the second door. If his internal compass was right, this one led through to the large room that James had been using as a bedroom and living area. He cracked the door just a smidge and peered into what appeared to be near-total darkness.

  He held his breath once again, straining to hear if someone was moving within. After satisfying himself that he wasn’t about to get jumped, he cautiously opened the door.

  The room was much as he had remembered it. Now that there was no duvet covering it up, Stryker could see a filthy mattress, the bedding so stained that Stryker wouldn’t have used it for a dog. It seemed that property guardianship didn’t always include access to a washing machine. Next to it was a pile of clothing, a mix of shirts, underwear and an old pair of jeans. The suits that he’d seen on his first visit were gone. So too were the suitcases.

  James had bolted.

  The squalor was such that, if Stryker hadn’t known that a property guardian was living here, he’d have assumed a vagrant had wandered in and then decided that they’d rather chance a nearby doorway.

  Unless the whole “property guardian” spiel had been a lie too.

  The more Stryker found out about this killer, the more he questioned what he thought he knew. James had seemed every bit the useless bystander. It was as if he’d been eager to help and yet the information which he’d fed Stryker had been utterly worthless. He played me like a fiddle, Stryker thought.

  Several windows were covered with cardboard and duct tape. Stryker felt for the edges and pulled the cardboard free. Light flooded into the room. Now he could see everything. Piles of the killer’s stuff remained. Books, mostly anatomy and true crime, pots and pans, together with a little oil burner, and even a box full of paperwork.

  He’d have to ’fess up, tell DCI Mabey everything. It was his fault. If he’d been more observant, James could have been in custody within hours of the first page. He’d have been a hero. Instead, he was standing in the gloom trying desperately to visualise what was missing from the room since his last visit. The killer had fled in a hurry – that much was obvious from the abandoned clothing and kitchenware – could he have forgotten anything in his haste? And where had he gone?

  This was a dangerous killer. He had no known ties to any particular part of the capital. He could be anywhere in London. He could just as easily have checked into a hotel in Westminster or joined the tent city of homeless people under Finsbury Park Bridge. The only clue was that he flitted around central London.

  He had to have a car. There was no way he’d fled this place in an Uber or an Addison Lee. Too much had been removed for James to be on foot.

  Think, Seb, think. What had he seen the first time he’d been here? The week-and-a-bit since Layla Morgan’s death seemed like a lifetime.

  He shut his eyes, trying to conjure up an image of the scene. As he did, he murmured each item he could see.

  ‘Two cases. Suits, neatly folded. Shoes, leather. A watch... a fancy watch. Breitling? The old projector. The folder with the manuscript. Gym clothes. Undies. Towels.’

  He opened his eyes and went back through the checklist he’d just recalled. The projector was still there. The folder was too. Stryker picked it up, wondering what clues James’ manuscript would reveal.

  ‘Bastard!’ He’d been had again. The folder was full of printouts of end-of-year financials for the office which had occupied the space before James. Was everything he’d said a lie?

  His old boss’ voice echoed in his mind. Every good lie starts with a kernel of truth.

  It was true. Few possessed the ability to make things up in a vacuum. His boss had once demonstrated it by asking them to make up a random name and facts about a person. Nearly everyone drew up those they held nearest and dearest.

  So, what did Stryker actually know? What were the indisputable facts?

  The killer had a lazy eye.

  He was tall and strong enough to have carried three dead women with ease. Now that he thought about it, James had been in great physical shape.

  He had access to this place. Until Stryker had rammed the car park shutters, there had been no break-in.

  He was about Stryker’s age, maybe a bit older. James had already begun to go grey.

  He used Review My Ex to pick up women.

  It begged more questions than it answered. Was he really a property guardian? What did he do for work? Where would he flee to?

  Perhaps most important of all was the question that kept burning in Stryker’s mind. Why did three young, attractive, desirable women agree to go out with him? It wasn’t that he was ugly per se, just that James’ lazy eye would be a deal-breaker for many. The dating game was superficial like that. From what Knox had said, Matthews was excited about their date – and eager to go to a nice restaurant – but hadn’t felt the necessary spark. Had he fed the women lies the same way he’d deceived Stryker with such ease? It took real acting chops to appear so unassuming, so timid, and to remain so calm while face to face with a homicide detective.

  There was nothing more to be gained from standing here in the gloom. Where was the nearest station? It probably belonged to the City of London Police. Stryker remembered reading the background information Mabey had sent ahead of him joining the team which explained a bit of the history of the police in London. The City boys only served the historical City, roughly a square mile, and they handled little more than financial fraud. Even though they weren’t part of the Met, their officers would be able to secure the crime scene. He made the call and was given an ETA of ten minutes. He’d have to wait until they got here.

  In the meantime, he dialled Annie Burke’s number.

  ‘Annie? It’s Detective Inspector Stryker. I think I’ve found your primary crime scene.’

  Chapter 49: On the Slab

  The walls of the mortuary corridor were lined by the Met’s staff, many of whom had probably never even met Matthews. That didn’t matter – one of their own had been murdered. They had come dow
n to pay their respects as the body was wheeled into the mortuary.

  The atmosphere was sombre and reverent. The silence which had descended upon the mortuary seemed louder than gunfire as if Matthews’ death had sucked all the life, all the joy, all the laughter, from the world.

  Elsie walked behind the trolley as Spilsbury’s assistant pushed it down the corridor and into autopsy room one. The door shut behind them like an airlock, cutting them off from the world.

  It was not unusual for a detective to die “in the line of duty” but this usually meant an older man succumbing to a weak heart, not a fit young detective being violently murdered. The pressure to solve this case was about to be ratcheted up another notch. The pathologist’s assistant busied himself with transferring the body bag from the trolley to the autopsy slab while Spilsbury waited.

  ‘Doc, I’m afraid I can’t stay for the whole autopsy. The press is already howling and I need to corral all the volunteers before someone turns into a loose cannon.’

  Not only had they lined the walls, the extended Met family had rushed to offer help. For once, New Scotland Yard would be packed to the rafters on a weekend. Imposing discipline on so many strong-willed detectives and support staff would take a firm hand lest a loose cannon turned the whole investigation into a vigilante witch hunt.

  ‘You know I have to follow the Home Office guidelines,’ Spilsbury said.

  ‘I do. I also know you already know if this is the Lady Killer.’ The name still rankled.

  ‘It’s forensically consistent with him,’ Spilsbury said flatly. ‘The stab wound is identical. She’s been stabbed just the once like Boileau and Morgan. We already know that took strength and ample knowledge of anatomy as well as the ability to get close without the victim realising what was going on. None of our three victims show any defensive wounds whatsoever. Matthews’ corpse—’

  Elsie shuddered at the use of the word “corpse” to describe a woman who she’d been talking to just yesterday.

  ‘Her corpse,’ Spilsbury continued unperturbed, ‘has been massaged to break rigor mortis as I noted at the crime scene. He hadn’t finished the job. As you can see, her face is still contorted into the classic “rigor grimace”.’

  ‘Why hadn’t he finished?’

  ‘A lack of time, I assume. He only massaged the limbs as much as was required to dress up his victims. He was about halfway through posing Matthews. His work was slow, methodical, and deliberate.’

  Elsie felt her nostrils flare. ‘You sound like you admire him!’

  ‘His work is diligent. There is no extraneous damage and he worked limb by limb. Presumably, if he stayed true to the pattern which he followed in the first two cases, he was going pose Matthews in a frock. Did you find a dress at the crime scene?’

  Elsie had been wondering about that. Where had he kept the dresses? ‘Nope.’

  ‘It had to be nearby,’ Spilsbury said. ‘He was within half an hour of being ready to move the body. Whoever interrupted him did so just in time.’

  The cleaner had started work in the house at half six. The Lady Killer clearly hadn’t been expecting company else he’d have cleared off long before then. His date with Matthews had been at seven the previous evening. That gave him a huge window of opportunity to commit murder and pose the body before sunrise at eight o’clock. Elsie supposed that he was intending to move the body under the cover of darkness. Surely that meant that he had a car nearby to take Matthews away from Holland Park... unless he hadn’t intended to move her this time?

  As Elsie watched the pathologist’s assistant set up an SLR to take photos of the body, her mind wandered. How had the whole evening gone down? Matthews hadn’t put up a fight at any point. That meant the date couldn’t have gone too badly, could it? Elsie could picture it now. A young, naïve, Matthews enjoying a ridiculously overpriced dinner. She probably felt like she was in James’ debt if he paid. It was an easy trap to fall into. Men often used money to manipulate, coerce, and control the women around them. Presumably, he’d lured her back to the house in Holland Park somehow. Had he outright asked for sex? Or perhaps he’d simply suggested “a nightcap”? Dinner had been booked for seven so it would have been natural for a good date to carry on afterwards. He’d obviously succeeded so why had it all ended in disaster? Had he planned to kill her? The use of someone else’s knife said it was spur of the moment. Over and over again, Elsie kept coming back to the contrast. He’d driven to Holland Park, he’d gained illicit access to the Larkins’ house, and he’d set up the dinner date. That wasn’t spontaneous at all. It just didn’t fit.

  ‘He had to have a car,’ Elsie mused aloud. ‘It’s the obvious place to keep the dresses, isn’t it? And yet he used a knife that wasn’t his. There’s one missing from the knife block. Why prepare only half of the job?’

  Elsie didn’t expect the pathologist to venture an opinion on that. She wasn’t disappointed. Spilsbury just carried on with the autopsy photography.

  ‘It’s weird, isn’t it?’ Elsie said. ‘This whole posing malarkey. Have you seen anything like it?’

  Spilsbury nodded. ‘People disturb me. I much prefer the predictability of bodies. I have seen some strange things over the years. Posing a body barely registers on the scale of strange things.’

  Elsie desperately wanted to ask what Spilsbury had seen. This was neither the time nor the place for such a discussion.

  ‘How hard is it to learn how to break rigor mortis?’ Elsie asked.

  Spilsbury put the camera down. ‘It’s not something you could learn by accident. However, I dare guess that should one wish to learn how, one need look no further than YouTube.’

  It was a horrendous thought. The beauty of the internet was how easy it was to find things out, to learn. Its greatest weakness was the same.

  ‘Is there anything else I need to know right now?’

  ‘Not from my initial investigation but I shall let you know if I find anything,’ Spilsbury said. ‘I presume you would like me to call with my findings.’

  It was a rare offer. Spilsbury was notorious for making detectives stand and wait for her to finish before offering even the vaguest of comments. ‘Yes please,’ Elsie said.

  ‘Don’t look so surprised, dear. I might not know much about the living, but I am, for now, one of them. This is a courtesy any pathologist would extend to one of our own. Now go catch this bastard.’

  Chapter 50: Access

  Getting in contact with the landlord, Mr Larkins, proved easier than Knox had expected. The old man next door had his emergency telephone number. When he wrote it down, Knox was convinced it was wrong.

  ‘That’s a weird format...’

  The number began with “plus six four” and went on for another nine digits. It had to be an international number of some kind though Knox was damned if she could work out which country it was for.

  ‘Mr Larkins can’t stand the cold,’ Xavier said, ‘so he overwinters in the southern hemisphere.’

  ‘Right... where exactly?’

  ‘Pohara,’ Xavier said. When Knox looked at him blankly, he added, ‘it’s in New Zealand.’

  ‘Oh, right. Don’t suppose I can borrow your landline?’ That call wouldn’t be included in the Met’s mobile phone plan.

  Xavier almost smiled. ‘Not a chance, detective. I believe Mr Larkins uses WhatsApp. I do too – my grandson showed me how to use it so he could send me photos of his travels. You’re welcome to use my broadband. It’s the only network with a signal in here. I’ll give you the room. The password is PASSWORD. That’s all in upper case.’

  How secure. Knox rolled her eyes but typed it into her phone anyway. Once she was connected to Xavier’s Wi-Fi, she quickly added the number to her address book, opened WhatsApp and dialled Mr Larkins. Despite the time difference, he answered quickly.

  ‘Who the hell are you? And how do you have my emergency number?’

  ‘Sergeant Knox, Metropolitan Police. I obtained your number from your neighbour Xavier. I�
��m calling about your property in Holland Park.’

  ‘Good lord,’ Larkins said. ‘Has there been a break-in?’

  ‘No, sir,’ Knox said. That was precisely why she needed to talk to him. If nobody had broken in, that meant that the killer was someone he’d directly or indirectly permitted to access the house. ‘I’m calling about a murder, I’m afraid.’

  Silence met her statement. ‘This has to be a hoax. How dare you call me pretending there’s been a murder! It is a hoax... isn’t it?’

  His tone switched from pleading to angry and back again so quickly it made Knox’s head spin. ‘If you need to verify my identity, you’re welcome to call New Scotland Yard’s switchboard. Give them my service number 116116 and then call me back.’

  The next time he spoke, he seemed almost broken. ‘No, no, just tell me what the heck happened. Who was murdered?’

  She couldn’t bring herself to think of Matthews as a murder victim. ‘A... woman.’ She left a pause long enough to let the gravity of the situation sink in. ‘The killer was in the house this morning when your cleaner visited at half six. He barged past her to flee.’

  ‘My house? A killer was in my house? How?’

  ‘That’s what we’re trying to ascertain, sir. I understand you’ve been renting your house out online.’

  ‘What’s that got to do with anything?’ Larkins demanded. ‘Nobody rented the place last night, I can promise you! And if what you’re saying is true, young lady, nobody ever will again! I’ll be selling it in the morning, just you see. Houses in Holland Park are like gold dust.’

  While homes in Holland Park were in high demand, Knox very much doubted that Larkins could sell the place without heavily discounting it. Few buyers wanted to live in a murder house even if it were beautifully appointed.