The Career Killer

by Ali Gunn

  And weren’t they a bit early anyway? If he were going to kill tonight then surely he’d need until morning to dump the body? Unless Mabey thought she could catch him sneaking in or out of one of the StayAway properties? That seemed about as likely as Fairbanks going on a diet.

  Her own assigned properties included two that were far too public for the Lady Killer to risk, one which appeared to have had a CCTV camera added to the exterior since the last time Google’s Street View van had been past, and one which Knox had been watching almost non-stop. The others were reporting the same. Everyone was getting tired, everyone was bored, and nobody could see a damned thing in the darkness.

  She called Stryker.

  ‘Still nothing?’ he said immediately.

  ‘Zip,’ Knox said. ‘Diddly bloody squat. This is a waste of time. Mabey’s got us chasing a ghost here. When do we call it?’

  ‘When she tells us.’

  ‘Since when were you teacher’s pet, Seb?’ Knox teased. ‘Or is it because you’ve got a bit of a thing for DCI Mabey? Don’t think I ain’t seen you looking. Those furtive little glances ain’t subtle. You know she’s taken right?’

  Stryker didn’t say anything for a moment. Then: ‘No, she’s not... is she?’

  ‘Afraid so, Seb. I hear she’s reconciled with that Hamish fella, you know, the handsome journo who gave her the tip-off about Vito?’

  ‘How’d you know that?’

  ‘I know things, Seb, I know things. That and I saw her texting him earlier. Three kisses. Must be serious.’

  ‘You’re lying.’

  Knox grinned. Winding Stryker up made this whole charade of a stakeout worthwhile. ‘Keep dreaming, Seb, keep dreaming.’

  Chapter 62: Benches & Benchmarks

  As half past nine approached, Elsie felt her eyes closing once more. She’d come close to inadvertently taking a power nap several times since starting the stake-out and so she had reluctantly asked her volunteers for help covering her properties for a while. For an hour, Fairbanks’ team had taken over her watch so could have a quick nap and pee in an actual bathroom rather than resort to using the Shewee she had stashed in the glove compartment. That break was now a distant memory.

  Maybe the team were right. Maybe it was time to call it a night.

  Something told her to hang on in a little longer. The killer had taken Matthews out for dinner before he’d killed her. Somehow, during that night, he’d flipped a switch and killed her. There had to be a reason why he was wining and dining Matthews. Was it so he could keep an eye on the investigation? He had certainly kept a close eye on Mabey’s team throughout. Daring to confront Stryker was a reckless move. Taking Matthews out even more so. The killer still seemed like an enigma. Why was he stealing money from StayAway’s renters to fund lavish Michelin-starred dinner dates if his intention was to kill them afterwards?

  Uncle Bertie had said that he was a creature of habit driven by compulsion rather than logic. Elsie could relate to that. She knew that her own mind was far from perfect. Many nights she lay awake, ruminating, running in circles, wondering if, in fact, she really did deserve the top job.

  Perhaps the killer was the same. Perhaps he was a broken man possessed of a diseased mind, simply craving love and attention like everyone else. Perhaps that’s why he always picked women as his victims. They were all objectively attractive though not of a single type. They were all in their twenties.

  Perhaps he’d been rejected. That would fit with his profile. An anxious, compulsive man snapping when he is – or believes he is about to be – rejected. It would explain why he had taken Matthews out for dinner. As Elsie understood it, the fatal date was their second. Why hadn’t he killed her on the first? Had she been pliant, willing, interested? Is that what had bought her a stay of execution. Or was it simply that the second date had led to the killer tripping up, giving Matthews the chance to guess his true identity and thus necessarily, from his point of view, her death?

  Her phone buzzed again. Another volunteer clocking off for the night. At this rate, she would be the last woman standing.

  She turned the engine back on. Time for another circuit. She couldn’t watch them all at once and so had concentrated on a house in Heathcote Street. It was set over five storeys, had a parking bay out front, and was a mere two minutes from St George’s Gardens in Handel Street. Elsie had done a recce on foot and there was a small semi-circle of benches that might be close enough to what the killer needed. Then again, perhaps it wasn’t.

  Where else could fit? Russell Square? Bloomsbury Square Garden? Brunswick Square? No, no and no. They were all too public. That was half the battle. The killer wasn’t going to dump a body in an exceptionally busy place. He might chance somewhere semi-public if he had to, but there was a difference between “might be seen under the cover of darkness” and “so close to the theatre district that he would definitely be seen by someone”. Could he be getting reckless now that he had fled?

  It came back to the compulsion. If he needed a garden and benches, there was no choice about it. There were easier ways to dispose of a body, even in central London. He could have thrown the bodies into the Thames, left them in one of the many lay-bys that fly-tippers hit on a nightly basis, or even just left them in the StayAway property. He was taking a risk for a reason.

  Elsie scanned the list on her phone. This time, she didn’t apply her “crime report” filter. The places which had been the subject of a crime report were now back on the list so that she could cast a wider net in the hope of finding a place with benches. Perhaps he would sooner risk returning to the scene of a crime than forgo his needs. Several properties jumped out at her. One was in Northampton Square, the home of London’s City University. Knox was the nearest. Elsie texted her. She called back two minutes later.

  ‘Boss, I’m here in Sebastian Street. I can see the square. There are students everywhere. This one’s a bust too. Can we call it a night? I’m knackered.’

  Knox was knackered? That was ironic. Elsie’s brain had kicked into overdrive – one of her rare alert moments – just as her team was flagging.

  ‘Nope,’ Elsie said. ‘Keep driving.’

  Further down and down the list she went. There was one near her – Percy Circus. It was a funny little road just southeast of King’s Cross, a short hop from her present position. The house had been the subject of a crime report filed by a tourist just over six months ago alleging that her engagement ring had disappeared while she was staying at the property. The homeowner had disagreed, forcing the woman to go to the police. Eventually, the complaint had been dropped. Presumably, the homeowner had paid her off to avoid a bad review. What was it Larkins had said? People know I’ve got money and they always want a part of it. No wonder if had been swept under the carpet. Homeowners would sooner pay up than risk negative reviews shutting down their business.

  The moment she turned onto Vernon Rise, the road leading up to Percy Circus, a chill ran down her spine. The road climbed steeply away from the bustling A road and nobody was in sight. Here, unlike the other sites that she’d visited this evening, it was possible to find momentary solitude.

  Percy Circus came into view as she inched past a row of recycling bins guarding a trio of parking spaces behind a rusty old metal fence. She paused at the top, killed her engine, and plunged herself into near darkness. This was what he needed.

  In the middle of the roundabout was Percy Circus Gardens, a tiny patch of grass with a little walled garden at its epicentre complete with a circle of benches just how the Lady Killer liked it. It reminded Elsie strongly of St Dunstan, eerily beautiful, unnaturally quiet, and not a soul in sight.

  After a few minutes of watching the square, the first car came past. It was red, didn’t stop, and paid no heed to Elsie who had slunk down in her seat.

  Elsie carried on watching, trying to ascertain if this was a plausible spot for the killer to choose as a dump site. Every few minutes or so, a car drove past. It would be risky to dump a body
here but nowhere near impossible. She stayed in her car to call Uncle Bertie.

  ‘Bertie?’ she said. ‘I’m at Percy Circus Gardens. Get it up on Street View, tell me what you think.’

  ‘Just a minute,’ Uncle Bertie replied groggily. ‘What am I looking at?’

  ‘Benches, garden, big grand houses,’ she said. ‘Bit exposed. Does it fit in your mind?’

  ‘It isn’t dissimilar.’

  He didn’t sound very certain. ‘What’s putting you off?’

  ‘There’s no parking.’

  Elsie swore. He was right. The whole circle was double-yellows. Any car that parked would be ticketed and towed by the next passing traffic warden. It was too big a risk.

  Her mind flashed back to the cars parked behind the bins.

  ‘Bertie, stay on the line for me.’

  She emerged from her car, doubled back down away from the house, and quickly came upon the little parking area. Four cars, all fenced off. The lock on the vehicle gate was broken.

  There it was – the Audi A8 that belonged to Faulkner & Robertson.

  ‘Bertie! I’ve found it. The Audi! Call Stryker, call Knox, send everyone to my location. Now!’

  She hung up. She couldn’t risk the killer seeing her mobile phone lighting up in the darkness. Percy Circus Gardens came back into view as she passed her own Audi.

  There, on the other side of the roundabout, was the StayAway property. It was a gorgeous house, towering four storeys above ground level on top of a basement. Despite being almost identical to half a dozen of its neighbours, all with black doors and gold-trimmed handles, it was alone in still being a single residential dwelling. Most of the neighbouring homes had been carved up into flats as evidenced by the number of doorbells by the front door.

  A light was on inside.

  Elsie could only imagine what was going on. Had the killer already killed tonight’s victim? Or was she inside right now, terrified and unable to escape?

  There was nothing for it. She’d have to go in.

  Chapter 63: The Big Red Key

  While back up was on its way, Elsie found herself in the same dilemma that Stryker had faced only yesterday. If she waited, she risked the life of the woman that the Lady Killer had taken home this evening. If she didn’t, she risked her own.

  No choice at all.

  She fetched her Big Red Key from the car and then shut the boot as quietly as she could.

  The light was still on when she returned less than three minutes later. She was on shaky legal ground. If anyone asked, she’d have to argue that she was in close pursuit or pretend that she’d heard someone cry out for help. It didn’t matter. This was her chance to catch a killer, save a life, and keep her career on the straight and narrow. She had to take it.

  The hallway light was on. There was no way to creep in unseen.

  She paused on the doorstep, ram in hand, and held her breath. She couldn’t hear anything going on inside. Three. Two. One.

  With every fibre of her being, she swung the door ram back and then forward. It landed hard on the door, a loud crack emanating around Percy Circus Gardens. Straight away, she swung back again, letting the momentum of the first swing carry her higher than before. The metal collided with the door, splintering it inwards.

  ‘James Robertson!’ she shouted. ‘Police!’

  She heard a scuffle within as if someone had started moving very suddenly. Her adrenaline levels spiked, her senses becoming heightened. The sound of her heart thundering against her ribcage pounded in her ears and her hands began to shake with unbridled fear. She felt as if a lump had caught in her throat. Though she had only just crossed the threshold, time dilated so much that the walls inched by her in slow motion as she ran forward towards the door.

  It was now or never.

  She made her way down the corridor, keeping her body low to the ground and moving quickly.

  The door was slightly ajar, a seam of light escaping through the crack to illuminate the hall. It wasn’t enough for Elsie to see shadows that might give away the killer’s location.

  Where was that back up? She had yet to hear the scream of sirens as the Armed Response Unit arrived on the scene. She prayed they were smart enough to arrive without announcing themselves in that manner.

  Her heartbeat reached its peak and her mind raced with it. Was she too late? Had the Lady Killer already struck again?

  She kicked the door wide open to reveal two figures stood against the far wall. One was James Robertson, a near-perfect likeness for the e-fit that Flick had drawn. He was wearing jeans and a skinny T-shirt as if he were simply relaxing at home of an evening.

  It wasn’t his height that scared Elsie, it was his expression. He wore a sneer of derision, the face of a man who knew that this was the end of the road. There was no fear in his eyes. He had made no attempt to flee.

  Instead, he had simply pressed a knife to the throat of his victim and wrapped an arm around her chest, binding her tightly to him. Elsie wanted to speak to her, to tell the woman – and herself – that it was all going to be alright.

  ‘Don’t take another step,’ James demanded.

  Elsie held her hands up. She was unarmed and outmatched. While Elsie was tall and strong, James had a bodybuilder’s physique with veins popping out of his bare forearms.

  Though Elsie did have her stab proof vest on underneath, she knew that fighting would be a disaster. The only way the woman he was holding hostage might live was if she could somehow talk him down and manipulate him into releasing his hostage.

  ‘James, I’m Elsie. Can we talk?’

  His jaw jutted out as he sneered. ‘Fuck you,’ he spat. Elsie felt her contempt for him well up. This man, this bastard, had killed three women in cold blood including a colleague and she would not give him the satisfaction of showing him just how scared and angry she was.

  Elsie ignored him, turned her attention to the woman, and said gently. ‘What’s your name?’

  ‘T-T-Tara,’ she stammered.

  ‘Hi, Tara,’ Elsie said. She searched her mind, desperately trying to recall the very brief hostage negotiation training day that she’d undertaken years ago. How exactly was she supposed to talk down a psychopath? James had nothing to lose here. He was facing three charges of murder and one attempt no matter what. Adding a fourth murder charge wouldn’t make a difference. Should she appease him? Flatter him? Let him think that he’d won? There had to be a way for Tara to make it out of here alive.

  ‘Are you hurt?’ Elsie asked.

  Almost imperceptibly, Tara shook her head. The knife quivered in James’ hand, the blade mere millimetres from her throat.

  ‘Okay,’ Elsie said. She spoke much more calmly than she felt. Inside, her heart continued to beat ten to the dozen. ‘How about someone tells me what happened this evening? James?’

  He looked at her as if he might snarl. ‘Fuck you,’ he said again.

  ‘That’s not very productive, is it, James? Why don’t you start by putting down that knife? I know you don’t want to hurt Tara here, do you?’

  For a second, the sneer broke. ‘Why do you think that?’ he demanded.

  ‘Simple,’ Elsie said. ‘If you wanted to kill her, you’d have done it. There are more than ten feet between us. I couldn’t stop you if I wanted to.’

  Behind her back, she crossed her fingers that James wouldn’t simply call her bluff.

  He didn’t. Yet.

  Why hadn’t he slit her throat? Something was stopping him.

  Perhaps Uncle Bertie was right. His voice echoed in her mind: If you can’t find her before he does, you’ll have a fourth victim on your hands.

  Was Tara the intended victim all along? Had James forsaken his proxies and sought out the woman who had inspired all this rage?

  Elsie took a leap and made an educated guess. The Lady Killer had been acting out his violent fantasies against proxies from the beginning but this was the end game. He was homeless, he knew the police were closing in. This vict
im had to be the intended victim, the one who had inspired his killing spree. Tara had to be the woman he hated to love. This was the Lady Killer’s last stand. He wouldn’t waste it.

  Tara looked so normal, so boring, and so innocent. Elsie couldn’t believe this petite redhead could be the cause of such all-encompassing rage and yet she had to be.

  ‘You love Tara, don’t you James?’

  He hesitated, his lip quivering. ‘I did.’

  ‘You still do,’ Elsie said. ‘Isn’t that why you’re together tonight? So you two can reconcile?’

  She shot a look at Tara, hoping the redhead would understand to play along, that it was her best chance of getting out of here alive. Elsie thought she saw a flash of recognition as Tara slowly blinked at her. Her eyes said it all. James really was a lunatic.

  ‘What happened before? When you broke up?’ Elsie asked. ‘When did you two struggle?’

  ‘We didn’t!’ he said. ‘We were fine until... until...’

  ‘Until he proposed to me,’ Tara finished for him, her voice a mix of fear and anger. ‘Outside St Paul’s.... just two weeks after we started dating.’

  St Paul’s Cathedral was on the list of public gardens with circles of benches and Knox had swung by at least twice this evening only to find it was far too busy for anyone to dump a body. No wonder. It was where this all started, where James Robertson’s hatred of women began. He had asked for Tara’s hand in marriage and, when he was rejected, he had resorted to violence.

  ‘When you know, you know,’ Elsie said. ‘Isn’t that right, James?’

  ‘Yes!’ he said. ‘I knew. I knew the moment I saw you at the theatre. I knew you were the one for me, Tara. Why’d you have to go and ruin everything?’