Dark is the Day

by Tana Collins

  ‘I think we need to get the police psychologist in. In the meantime,’ McTavish looked round the room and nodded at Bingham, ‘Actions. What we need to do is gather and analyse physical evidence, look for patterns in the murders, get a profile of the killer. All this takes time but time is not on our side. As the super has pointed out, there have been three attacks in nine days, resulting in two murders. At the moment the killer is one step ahead of us.’

  ‘What we have to ask ourselves is, are these killings spontaneous or are they planned? As I said, we’ll need the help of the general public but we’ve also got to be very careful. We mustn’t cause a panic. We will also have to deal very sensitively with the press. We need to find out Sarah Torr’s exact movements before the attack, interview her friends and family. We’ll also need to speak to Rachel Abbie’s father again. However, the very first thing we need to do is to locate John Campbell and find out if he has an alibi.’

  ‘They have to be planned,’ said Helen Lennox. ‘The killer must know the victims. How else would he know where to send Rachel Abbie’s finger? He has the Abbies’ home address.’

  There were murmurings of agreement.

  ‘I agree. I’m going to leave you lot to start brainstorming.’ McTavish turned to Bingham. ‘If you’re free I’d like to have that word with you now.’

  It was stuffy in the incident room and McTavish had gone from being flushed to looking unnaturally pale. Carruthers wondered if she was feeling queasy. Bingham marched to the front of the room and opened the door, followed closely by McTavish. Carruthers felt in his jacket pocket and pulled out two painkillers. He stood up and slipped them into McTavish’s hand as she neared the door. She looked down at what she’d been given and just about managed a ghost of a smile in gratitude. What Carruthers would give to be a fly on the wall during her next conversation.

  Chapter 20

  Sunday

  Carruthers let himself into his cottage, wondering if his brother would still be awake. He thought not. It was gone 3am. He wondered how McTavish had got on talking to Bingham after the meeting. He couldn’t imagine she’d get much sleep. He’d tapped on her door before he’d left the station but she hadn’t been in her office. Unlikely she’d still be in Bingham’s office, but you never knew. He ditched his jacket and, walking into the living room, ran his hands through his hair when he saw the mess.

  His brother was asleep, fully clothed on the sofa, snoring gently. There were empty bottles of beer all over the place. Carruthers counted at least five. He walked over and picked up one of the empties, staring at it forlornly. He’d bought that beer from a newly-opened microbrewery in Skye. He’d been saving it for a special occasion. He sighed. The last thing he needed at 3am was to start tidying his living room of someone else’s mess.

  He climbed the stairs, walked into the bedroom, started to hunt around for a blanket in the cupboards. He found a tartan rug his mother had given him, shut the cupboard door, went back downstairs and gently tucked it round his brother. With a shake of his head he climbed back up the stairs and went to bed.

  Carruthers was up and out of the house before his brother was even awake. He left him a note on the kitchen table beside a spare set of house keys. During the night his brother had thrown off the rug, which now lay abandoned on the floor. Part of him hoped that by the time he returned to his cottage his brother would be gone.

  He drove the short distance to Castletown, still rubbing the sleep out of his eyes. Dawn was just beginning to break and the sky was a myriad of pink and yellow colours.

  Carruthers parked up in the already busy station car park, got out of the car and rubbed his hands in the cold air. He locked up and entered the station.

  Fletcher put a black coffee down for him as soon as he arrived at his desk. She pulled up a chair and sat down next to him. ‘Jesus, I can’t believe what happened last night, can you?’

  He picked up the coffee and put it to his lips, blowing on it before he took a sip. ‘Which bit? Another murder, Bingham not telling McTavish he’d authorised the release of Campbell or Rachel Abbie’s finger being sent to her father?’

  ‘All of it. McTavish must be fizzing. I know I would be. Talk about undermining her. And I wonder what the extenuating circumstances were that he mentioned. Any ideas?’

  ‘Your guess is as good as mine.’ Once again, he wondered how McTavish’s meeting with Bingham had gone. ‘Is Sandra in work yet?’

  Fletcher shook her head. ‘I haven’t seen her, no.’

  Carruthers put his coffee down, recalling McTavish’s curt conversation with her husband on the mobile the night before. He wondered if she’d had any sleep. She really didn’t need to be having a difficult time on the domestic front with everything that was going on at work. He stared at the mess on his desk and, shamefaced, searched about, shifting files and empty polystyrene cups. He picked up a pink Post-it note that he hadn’t seen before and read it.

  Fletcher watched him. ‘God, you really need to clear that desk, Jim, before McTavish sees it. She’s already made a few remarks. And I can’t imagine she’ll be in a good mood today after last night.’

  ‘Don’t think any of us will be, will we? Aside from another murder we’ve all had about three hours sleep.’ He let out a sigh.

  ‘They haven’t found the murder weapon, by the way. Or the shoes. And no DNA at the scene either.’

  ‘And no sign of the finger, I suppose?’

  ‘Nope. Jesus, what’s the betting another finger will be sent in the post – this time to Mr Torr?’

  ‘Oh God, let’s hope not. Whoever he is, he’s some sadistic bastard. And like we’ve already said, he’s always one step ahead of us. We’ll just have to hope the PM throws up something we can use.’

  Fletcher leant into Carruthers’ desk. ‘Mackie’s able to fast-track it, by the way, and the parents have been located. Should be here within the hour. Thankfully, they only live in Edinburgh. Do you want me to accompany them to the mortuary, Jim?’

  He ran his hands through his hair. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d washed it. ‘That would work for me. If you go with them to the mortuary and stay with them while they ID their daughter, I’ll see if I can attend the PM.’

  Fletcher stood up, grabbed her jacket from behind her chair and set out across town. She was sadly becoming all too familiar with breaking bad news to the families about the death of a loved one, but she’d never had to see a family in quite such terrible circumstances.

  ‘It can’t be Sarah. I mean, we only spoke to her on the phone a couple of days ago and she was fine.’ Mrs Torr was gabbling. Fletcher recognised nerves when she saw it. Mr Torr was silent, in shock for the most part to be called at such an early hour. All this must be like a bad dream, she thought. Not just a bad dream. A nightmare.

  Fletcher had picked up Mr and Mrs Torr from the train station in her own car and was driving them to the mortuary. She’d decided to use the Beetle over a station car. Most of the station cars were dirty and full of other people’s rubbish. Somehow it seemed disrespectful. Her car, on the other hand, had had a good clean-out recently.

  She parked up in the car park of the mortuary and led them inside, holding the door open for them. She noticed Mr Torr was gripping his wife’s hand tightly. Mrs Torr was still chatting away, almost as if she’d just popped round to the neighbour’s for a cup of sugar. However, once they’d walked into the mortuary, she fell silent.

  Jodie Pettigrew, Carruthers’ old flame, came to meet them. Fletcher never really knew how she felt about the pathologist’s assistant, except that here was another woman who had broken her boss’s heart.

  Fletcher knew that they wouldn’t have had much time to work their magic covering up the terrible wounds the attacker had inflicted. She hoped they wouldn’t be too distressing for the parents.

  They were led to the viewing area and Fletcher asked them if they were ready. They nodded, clinging to each other like shipwreck survivors. Fletcher noticed Mrs Torr could ba
rely look. She was partially hiding her face against her husband’s jacket, almost as if they were watching a horror movie on TV. Fletcher took a deep breath as the viewing curtain went back to reveal the dead girl. The side of the face, which was untouched by the assailant, was closest to the window and Fletcher nodded. They’d done a good job.

  Almost immediately, Mrs Torr’s screams filled the air. She’d torn her face away from her husband’s jacket for a moment, then buried it deep in the jacket again. Mr Torr was freely crying. Finding the outpouring of grief almost too much to bear, Fletcher turned away for a moment to compose herself. She felt tears prick her eyes. This could have been her daughter in seventeen years’ time, had her child lived. Often parents of dead children asked her if she had kids herself. But not the Torrs, and for that she was grateful. They were too locked in their own shock and grief to notice what was happening as Fletcher gently steered them from the viewing area to somewhere more comfortable before calling Carruthers.

  Carruthers walked into the incident room. Fletcher gave him a quizzical look. After all, he was supposed to be at Sarah Torr’s PM. She’d ended up leaving a message on his mobile about the Torrs having given a positive ID. He leant over and whispered in her ear, ‘They’ve had to delay the PM. Mackie’s been taken unwell. I left him having a violent stomach upset in the bathroom. Think it’s something he’s eaten.’

  Fletcher looked concerned. ‘Is there nobody else?’

  ‘He’s still insisting he’ll be well enough in an hour or two. And there’s nobody senior enough there, no. They could get a replacement in, but it will take a while. I get the feeling he’s on a mission and needs to do this one himself.’

  A hush fell as Dr Greg Ross entered the room. DS Andrea Fletcher looked at their police profiler, the lanky psychologist. They had commandeered one of the interview rooms and Fletcher, Carruthers, DS Dougie Harris and DS Gayle Watson were all present, alongside several DCs, including Willie Brown, Helen Lennox, DCI Sandra McTavish and Superintendent Bingham.

  ‘Motivations for becoming a serial killer usually revolve around certain fears. Fears of rejection, power and perfection,’ said Greg Ross. ‘Serial killers tend to be insecure and irrationally scared of rejection. Often, they are terrified of being abandoned, humiliated or exposed. Many killers often have sex – the ultimate form of intimacy – with their victims, and sometimes even with the corpse.’

  ‘Thankfully that’s not going on in this case,’ said McTavish quickly. ‘None of the three women were raped.’

  ‘Well, that’s good to hear. Not so good, though, is the fact serial killers also enjoy prolonging the suffering of their victims as it gives them a sense of power. They get to decide whether, and how, the victim will live or die.’

  Superintendent Bingham cleared his throat. ‘I understand that our attacks have been quick and, mercifully, those who have sadly been killed, have been killed swiftly.’

  ‘That’s right,’ said DCI Sandra McTavish. ‘I know at this stage we’re still not one hundred per cent sure we have one attacker or more than one. Let’s go on the assumption for now though that we have one attacker and are dealing with a serial killer. The question is will he or she kill again?’

  ‘Undoubtedly they will kill again if we are talking about a serial killer,’ said Ross. ‘I’m afraid they must continuously kill because they get addicted to the feelings they get when they do. They also rationalise every aspect and detail of their behaviour so there is no reason in their head as to why they should stop.’

  ‘They know what they’re doing, the consequences of their actions, and how to avoid getting caught,’ said Fletcher.

  ‘Exactly,’ said Ross. ‘Most serial killers, and psychopaths in general, are “consummate chameleons” who are able to hide their rage and true intentions behind a charismatic, civilized façade called “the mask of sanity”. Psychopaths are amoral, and though they know the difference between right and wrong, they do not care. They lack feelings of remorse or guilt. They tend to treat other people as if they were objects. They don’t know how to have sympathy for others because of their psychopathic nature, but they do know how to simulate it by observing others.’

  ‘The killer hasn’t followed the same MO though,’ said Watson. ‘He doesn’t fit the usual profile of a serial killer. For a start the women aren’t raped before being killed. Secondly, he seems to be taking trophies but not necessarily keeping them. I’ve never heard of a case where the trophy was sent to the victim’s family.’

  ‘I must admit I haven’t come across that before. And it makes this very personal, doesn’t it? You probably don’t need me to tell you that the likelihood is that the killer knows the victim. These are targeted attacks. One thing to remember, though, and I think we’ve said it before, is that a killer learns from experience. If you don’t catch him right away, he’ll begin to develop his modus operandi and probably get better at the crime. Maybe he’ll find a more efficient way to kill someone or a quicker way to abduct a woman from a car. He’ll start showing more control over the crime.’

  ‘What about the fact the sicko takes one of their fingers? That’s clearly part of his MO.’ All heads turned to DC Helen Lennox.

  ‘There is a difference between the MO and what we call a signature, although often there’s a fine line between the two. The signature is a ritual, something the subject does intentionally for emotional satisfaction – something that isn’t necessary to perpetrate the crime. So, evidence of torture would be a signature. Taking a memento, like the finger, would be evidence of the signature of the perpetrator. In my experience I’ve found that signature is a more reliable guide to the behaviour of serial killers than an MO. That’s because, as we’ve already said, the MO evolves, while the emotional reasoning that triggers the signature, doesn’t.’

  ‘Can you give us an example?’ asked Fletcher.

  ‘The method a killer uses to get women into his van may change, but the fact that he always tortures them once they’re inside stays the same.’

  ‘You’ve talked a lot about serial killers in general,’ said Bingham. ‘What we want to know is, what can you tell us about this one in particular?’

  ‘Given that the attacks have all been local to Castletown it’s highly likely the perpetrator lives here among the women he’s attacking. All the women attacked have been students, so I think you’ll find that the attacker has close connections to the university, not just the town. He may be a student himself; a former student or even a lecturer. What you’ve told me makes me think you are looking for just one person doing the killing, although he may be aided and abetted by a second – but it’s much more likely he’s working on his own. And I think, given the nature of the crimes, you’re looking for a man.’

  There was a low murmuring around the room and Carruthers spoke for all of them when he turned to Ross and said, ‘With every attack the perpetrator’s becoming more violent. He has to be stopped.’

  Chapter 21

  Greg Ross caught up with Fletcher as she was walking up the corridor towards the canteen.

  ‘Mind if I join you?’

  She looked up at him shyly but carried on walking. She’d forgotten how tall he was. ‘Not at all. I’m just wondering if there’s any sausage rolls left.’ Her stomach growled and they both laughed.

  ‘Tough case you’ve got at the moment,’ he said, shortening his stride to match hers.

  They got to the canteen and stood in the short queue. They were in luck. There were two jumbo sausage rolls left. They ordered them and Greg insisted on paying for both which Fletcher found touching. He carried the tray to a table.

  ‘Yes, I’ve never worked on a case with a serial killer before,’ she admitted. ‘I found it interesting what you said about the fact the perpetrator could be a former student. Castletown is in a beautiful part of the world and I’ve noticed a few former students actually end up staying here after they graduate. It hadn’t occurred to me that the murderer might be a former student.’
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br />   Ross handed Fletcher her plate and they both took a seat facing each other.

  Fletcher bit into her sausage roll. She gasped as it burnt her tongue. ‘Ouch. You’d think I’d learn. Always burn myself.’ She turned to Ross. ‘You gave us a useful profile of the killer.’ Fletcher chewed her sausage roll thoughtfully. She sighed. ‘It’s a pity Serena Davis can’t remember more. We don’t seem to have much to go on. We have such a vague physical description of the attacker it could be almost anyone.’

  ‘Serena Davis, your first victim?’

  ‘That’s right.’ Fletcher tried to think it through. ‘We’ve got Serena Davis in hospital. The second victim, Rachel Abbie, was slashed, strangled, and her finger taken. When the third victim was also mutilated that’s when I started seriously thinking we had a serial killer.’

  ‘From a professional point of view, it’s interesting how people end up as serial killers. In my experience a lot of serial killers start off as peeping toms.’

  As soon as Ross mentioned the words ‘peeping toms,’ Fletcher thought once more of John Campbell. What Ross had said put Campbell right back in the frame, but then again, he’d never been out of it for her. Fletcher blew on her sausage roll. She wasn’t going to burn her tongue a second time. It was still sore.

  Ross took another bite. ‘Why did you join the police?’

  Fletcher chewed her mouthful, thinking this over. ‘I wanted to make a difference, I suppose.’

  ‘And have you? Made a difference?’

  She thought back to her previous cases. Had she made a difference? She liked to think she had, that she was a real asset to the team and she’d been told as much, by Carruthers. They had a good team. Stronger now Gayle Watson had joined. When she thought of Gayle, she was embarrassed at how she’d first treated her. It had been a clear case of jealousy. She hadn’t made her mind up about their new DCI though. The woman was probably okay. It’s just that she was so loyal to Jim.