by Tim Ellis
‘They’ll be cold by the time we get there.’
‘They certainly will if you don’t wrap them up again. Lift up your top up and stick them under there.’
‘You’d like that, wouldn’t you?’
‘I don’t care one way or the other. You’re the one moaning about the kebabs going cold.’
‘And you’re not a very nice person.’
‘I’ve never professed to be. What you and I have here is a marriage of convenience, and I use the term “marriage” in its loosest sense. Your eighteen months of research has saved me days – if not weeks – of chasing my own tail and meeting myself coming backwards. In return, I’ve paid off your debts with an interest-free loan, and I’m giving you access to my investigation so that you can write an exclusive, sell it to the highest bidder and get your career back on track. Nobody said anything about being nice. If they had, I would have declined your kind offer of marriage.’
‘You wish.’
During the journey, back to Bootle Street they didn’t speak, and once they were ensconced in the basement with the fourth wheel of his three-wheeled whiteboard replaced by a police manual, they sat down in front of the blank canvas and began devouring their donor kebabs.
‘Well?’ he said.
‘Mmmm!’
‘Let’s build a profile of the killer.’
‘Mmmm!’
‘You write.’
‘I’m eating.’
‘You need to get your priorities right. Not too long ago you were moaning about taking a shower, changing your clothes and crawling into a nice warm bed . . .’
‘On my own?’
‘Definitely.’
‘Now, you’re dragging your feet as if none of that mattered. Also, don’t you have an exclusive . . .’
Dixie stood up and picked up a marker pen. ‘You’re like one of those annoying fucking alarm clocks nobody knows how to switch off. What do you want me to write?’
‘He has access to care homes; he’s a medical professional . . .’
She began writing. ‘. . . You say that, but I think he’s more likely to be a funeral director.’
He took a bite of the kebab and then wiped the grease and chilli sauce off his mouth with a paper napkin. ‘Because?’
‘Are you enjoying that?’ Dixie said, pulling a face.
‘Just what the doctor ordered.’
‘I’m beginning to hate you.’
‘Do you think that’s something I care about?’
She sighed and carried on. ‘Nobody would be particularly interested in a dead body being taken in or out of a funeral directors’ – it’s what happens on a regular basis. Also, where he keeps them has to be somewhere he can work for long periods of time without any unwanted interruptions, because he must have spent a long time working on each body: Replacing the fluids with preservative chemicals; washing the bodies, and then tattooing the butterflies on their breasts.’
‘You’re beginning to talk some sense at last.’
‘In my exclusive, I’m going to tell people that working with you has been the worst experience of my life.’
‘I look forward to reading it. So, what about a pathologist? Or a mortician? Somebody who works in a mortuary?’
‘I’m thinking that if he was employed in one of those jobs then he couldn’t use his place of work, but I suppose it’s possible that he could have a lock-up somewhere. Maybe an abandoned abattoir or something along those lines.’
‘Write down the type of places.’
She wrote down: Abattoir, butcher’s shop, mortuary, operating theatre, lock-up, warehouse . . . ‘My moneys’ on a funeral directors’. And don’t forget, they’d need a body-sized freezer.’
‘Okay, but I don’t see how a person who works in a funeral directors’ . . .’
‘He wouldn’t be a worker – he’d be the owner. Remember, they’d have to work on their own for long periods of time, and be able to deny access to other people – an employee couldn’t do that.’
‘Unless he was using somewhere else to store and work on the bodies.’
‘All right, but at least we’ve narrowed it down to someone connected to a funeral director.’
‘Maybe, but as I was saying: I don’t see how they’d have access to all of those care homes. If the care homes were for old people then a funeral director in a hearse popping in and out on a regular basis wouldn’t raise any eyebrows, but the homes are for children. Tomorrow, you can ring all those care homes and ask them whether they’ve had any contact with a funeral director, or someone along those lines.’
‘Me?’
‘You think you’re just along for the ride? That I do all the work? And you get the exclusive?’
‘I think you’ve made it obvious that I have to sing for my supper.’
‘Too right. Tomorrow, for the purposes of extracting information out of care homes, you’ll be playing the part of my absent partner – Detective Constable Annie Lake.’
‘Impersonating a police officer is a criminal offence.’
‘I’ll give you a reasonable character reference when the case comes to trial.’
‘Very generous, I’m sure.’
‘So, we’re looking for a funeral director who has his own premises; has access to all those care homes; is a lepidopterist; a talented artist and a tattooist.’
‘Maybe now would be a good time to ask the press for their help?’
‘You’d have to abandon your world exclusive?’
‘I know, but I’ve been thinking about whether I should be putting a story before justice for these girls?’
‘It’s not that simple. What if the person we’re looking for is hiding his lights under a bushel?’
‘Meaning?’
‘He could be hiding his interest in butterflies and his artistic talents from those close to him. Maybe they’re hobbies he does in private. If I provide the media with a profile of who we’re looking for he could go to ground and then we’ll never find him. Also, I’d have to tell them we were looking for a serial killer, and as soon as I do that a taskforce would be appointed and we’d be wandering the wilderness like lost souls. So, as much as I admire your idea of sacrificing a world exclusive . . .’
‘Okay.’
‘Write this profile down . . .’
She made a list as he spoke:
‘We’re definitely looking for a serial killer because each killing is separated by either a two, three or four-month cooling-off period. Of course, the long gaps may have something to do with his family life, job, or his access to the care homes, but let’s say it’s a cooling-off period until we’re proven wrong;
A funeral director would certainly fit the psychological make-up of a serial killer – someone who prefers to spend time with the dead rather than the living;
The preservative chemical used on the bodies suggest that the killings may very well be job or life-experience oriented;
We don’t know what his childhood was like, but along his life’s journey a biological predisposition for serial killing was moulded into his psychological make-up;
He may have been subjected to physical, psychological or sexual abuse; he may have grown up lonely and isolated, which has manifested itself in his preference for working with the dead;
His job choice also fits with the idea that the killings are non-reactive, lacking in arousal and unemotional;
The motive for the murders isn’t sexual – there’s another reason, which may or may not be wrapped up in the philosophical notions of a soul, rebirth and/or reincarnation;
It could also have something to do with saving an endangered species;
A key question is why did he suddenly start killing eighteen months ago? Some critical event must have acted as a trigger to him killing Judy Culbert;
The victims all share common traits and characteristics – they’re all fourteen years old, all pretty, all came from care homes, and he must have known that nobody would look for them;
He
keeps within his geographical comfort zone i.e. Greater Manchester, because he knows the area well it’s where his work is;
We can surmise that his funeral directors’ premises is separate from his family home, which enables him to live a normal life, to hide behind a mask of sanity;
He could be a trophy-taker, which might include photographs or video recordings.
He screwed up the paper his donor kebab had come in and threw it towards the waste bin – it missed. ‘Anything to add?’
‘No, I don’t think so. You’ve obviously done this type of work before.’
‘Once or twice.’ He glanced at the clock on the wall – it was eleven twenty-five. ‘Ready to go?’
‘I was ready ten hours ago.’
***
Tuesday, January 7
He picked up the phone.
‘Dark?’
‘It’s Hendrik, Mr Dark.’
He’d already had his shower, got dressed, and was in the kitchen eating toast with a thick layer of marmalade and drinking coffee when the phone jangled.
‘What is it, Hendrik?’
‘You said you were going to come back to me when you wanted the CCTV cameras removing.’
‘I did, didn’t I?’
Hendrik cleared his throat.
‘Go on?’
‘I’m calling at this time of the morning because the alarm activated, which normally happens when you’re in the house and I ignore it. Today though, I happened to notice that you have a female in there with you.’
‘A guest for a couple of days.’
‘You might want to tell her that there are CCTV cameras in all the rooms – especially the bedrooms and shower.’
‘I’ll give it some thought.’
‘I tried not to look Mr Dark, but I’m a red-blooded man after all.’
‘I understand.’
‘Don’t tell her, but I think she’s as hot as mustard.’
‘Each to his own.’
‘I mean, if you chose not to tell her about the cameras at all . . . Well, I wouldn’t be complaining to Trading Standards anytime soon.’
‘As I said, I’ll give it some thought. Thanks for calling, Hendrik. I’ll let you know about whether I want the cameras removing or not soon.’
‘Okay, Mr Dark.’
He put the phone down.
‘Who was that?’ Dixie said. She had a large bath towel wrapped around her naked body and a hand towel around her wet hair.
‘Hendrik.’
‘Who’s he?’
‘The guy who installed the CCTV cameras in all the rooms.’
‘What?’
‘I was bugged over Christmas by a reporter. She had Hendrik install cameras throughout the house so that she could find out what was going on with my Father Christmas investigation.’
‘Where in the house?’
‘Living room, kitchen, bedrooms, shower . . .’
‘You’re joking?’
‘We’ve talked about that before – I’m never joking. Hendrik, however, thought that you were as hot as mustard . . .’
‘And you thought that was funny?’ She looked up at the ceiling and shouted, ‘YOU PERVERT!’
He screwed up his eyes. ‘Do you mind?’
‘Yes, I do mind. I bet you’ve . . .’
‘Don’t drag me into it. I haven’t seen anything. The signals from the cameras are sent off-site to wherever Hendrik lives, but he did mention something about posting the recording on the internet.’
‘If he does, I’ll sue him within an inch of his fucking life. AND HE’D BETTER DELETE ANY RECORDINGS OF ME NAKED.’ She stamped up the stairs.
‘I’m leaving in fifteen minutes.’
‘Fuck off.’
‘Lovely.’
***
‘So, I’m calling all the care homes pretending to be DC Annie Lake to find out how the girls came into contact with a lepidopterist, wildlife artist or funeral director?’
‘Correct.’
‘What will you be doing?’
‘Something else.’
‘I hope it’s something worthwhile?’
He pointed to Lake’s desk. ‘Sit over at that desk and start calling.’
‘A coffee would be good.’
‘You haven’t got time for coffee, and if you do find the time then you know how I like it.’
‘Are you like this with everybody, or is it just me?’
‘Everybody. Well, what are you waiting for?’
She sat down, organised paper and pencil, and began calling the care home numbers.
He carried out some research into the numbers of funeral directors in the Greater Manchester area, but found that there were hundreds of them. He stared at Dixie’s research and his profile of the killer, and realised that although Greater Manchester was the killer’s geographical comfort zone, he had buried four of the bodies in a field in Handforth.
What he needed was a map, and he noticed Dixie watching him from beneath hooded eyelids as he found a map in the storeroom and stuck it on the pin board. He then marked Poulson’s field as the centre point of his search with a map pin and began identifying and locating funeral directors in a concentric circle around the field.
There was actually only one funeral directors’ in Handforth called JL Smith & Son (Funeral Directors) Ltd. He marked it on the map, but he wasn’t optimistic. A father and son team working together was extremely unlikely. Not impossible, but unlikely.
He continued locating funeral directors and plotting them on the map. Towards midday it occurred to him that maybe the killer wasn’t a funeral director at all and he was probably wasting his time doing what he was doing. He had to go back to Dixie’s research and the killer’s profile to push back the doubts that had begun to worm their way into his brain.
‘What about lunch?’ Dixie said at ten past one.
He gave the dilemma some thought. He was certainly hungry. ‘I suppose we could spare fifteen minutes.’
‘Are you sure? I mean, if you’re not one hundred percent sure maybe we shouldn’t go.’
‘Sarcasm is wasted on me.’
‘Everything is wasted on you.’
‘We’ll go up to the canteen.’
‘They have a canteen here?’
‘Of course. Even police officers have to eat.’
‘At the taxpayer’s expense?’
‘Hardly. But even if that were true it wouldn’t include you, because you don’t have a job.’
‘You’re such a wonderful person.’
‘I surprise myself how wonderful I am sometimes.’
‘I’m sure.’
They walked up to the canteen on the second floor. There were still a few officers and support staff in there eating lunch. As they headed for the counter, people turned to stare and whispered to each other from behind cupped hands.
Dark guessed they were talking about him, or they might have been wondering who his new partner was, and what had happened to DC Annie Lake. He hardly knew anyone at Bootle Street by name. Nobody stopped him in corridors or stairwells and swapped small-talk with him. His face wasn’t a “stop me and buy one” type of face. It was more like a “fuck off and don’t bother me” scowl, which he’d perfected over time. As a consequence, they averted his eyes when he approached from the opposite direction, which suited him just fine.
It wasn’t his police station – he was an anomaly who filled up some space in the basement. He had a desk, a chair, a telephone, a computer and a three-wheeled whiteboard – that was all he needed to get by.
Dixie helped herself to a pasta salad with two buttered rolls. He had half a French stick stuffed with cheese salad. They both ordered coffee. Dark paid and they sat down away from the other diners.
‘Well?’ he said.
‘I think I’m onto something.’
‘And are you going to share this something with the person who keeps buying your food?’
‘What have you been doing?’
‘You’ve bee
n watching me like a beady-eyed hag all morning, so you know exactly what I’ve been doing.’
‘I hardly noticed you were there . . . something to do with funeral directors?’
‘Yes.’
‘It looks like there’s a lot of them?’
‘Yes. Well, what’s this something you think you’re onto?’
‘I’ve phoned five care homes . . .’
‘Five!’
‘Don’t start . . . I had to find the right person to speak to, someone who was able to tell me what I wanted to know. Then, I had to gain their trust, to focus my questions and direct the conversation accordingly – it wasn’t easy.’
‘And?’
‘They have people who go into the care homes to give educational presentations to the children in care.’
‘Such as?’
‘The type of work a funeral director undertakes . . . and the job opportunities available. I don’t know if you were like me, but I never knew what I wanted to be until one day – when I was at university – I thought I might like to be an investigative journalist. Mind you, it was a good job I was doing my degree in English because . . .’
‘Is this going to take long?’
‘Not at all. The National Institute of Funeral Directors – NIFD for short – run an outreach educational programme for schools, care homes and so on.’
‘Is that it?’
She smiled like an indulgent parent. ‘No.’
He noticed that she was gradually adapting to his friendly demeanour and warm personality at last. ‘Get on with it then.’
‘Three of the care homes . . .’
‘What about the other two you called?’
‘The original calls to the first two care homes drew a blank. It was only the call to the fourth care home that I was told about the NIFD. The fifth care home also had records of the NIFD. I called the first two back and asked them specifically about the NIFD. At the first care home, the person who I should have been talking to was off sick, and the person I was speaking to had no idea where the records were kept, but she had a vague recollection of some people coming in to talk about dead bodies, although she wasn’t sure whether they might have been forensic scientists.’