The Murder Mile

by Lesley McEvoy

  Hoyle looked me up and down as though I was on parade. ‘Yes, we have met.’

  I almost extended my hand, but when he made no move to reciprocate, I decided not to bother. ‘Didn’t know this was your territory, doctor.’ His thin smile didn’t reach his eyes.

  ‘I’m freelance these days,’ I replied, mirroring his same thin smile. ‘I don’t have a territory.’

  He clasped his hands behind his back and rocked slightly on his heels, looking even more like a sergeant major on parade. ‘Thought you were the local celebrity nowadays? Writing books, appearing on television. Wouldn’t have thought you needed to grub around crime scenes anymore.’

  ‘I’m still a working psychologist, on call if I’m needed.’

  His smile got even tighter. ‘Well, “working” implies getting paid and there’s nothing in the budget for external consultants. We have our own profiler in the intelligence unit now.’

  Callum stepped forward before I could open my mouth. ‘I will be taking input from Lizzie too, sir, but there’s no harm in having a second opinion and Jo has worked with the team in the past.’

  Hoyle didn’t look convinced. ‘Lizzie won’t become familiar with the team if she isn’t given the opportunity.’ He stepped out of the way as CSI struggled past with armloads of equipment. ‘No offence, doctor, but having a resident criminologist is a trial initiative that we must fully support.’

  A shout from his sergeant made him turn. The press pack was gathering, with at least a dozen photographers and journalists being held back by a few harassed-looking officers.

  ‘Seems the media want a word, sir.’ Callum tried to suppress a grin. ‘You’re becoming a local celebrity yourself these days.’

  Hoyle turned on his heel and strode away without a word.

  ‘Arsehole,’ Callum muttered under his breath, as he put his arm under mine to lead me to his car.

  3 August

  Ten minutes later, we were sitting in the car park of the nearest McDonald’s sipping coffee from cardboard cups. Callum’s head was nearly touching mine as we both leaned over the photographs and it occurred to me that to passers-by, we probably looked like lovers. I would have preferred to be inside with a table safely between us. But I could only imagine how horrified the public would be if they caught sight of this little lot.

  One photograph had been taken from a police helicopter and showed the area from above. The path followed the route of a disused railway line, not far from where the Fordley canal cut its path along the edges of the town. The M62 motorway joining Leeds and Fordley ran along the top of the picture.

  Linda was found on a footpath three miles from the current scene. I looked first at the glossy eight by ten photographs taken by CSI whilst the body was in situ.

  It showed the blonde eighteen-year-old student, laying on her side almost beneath a hedge at the side of the towpath. Her polo shirt had been ripped open and her bra pushed up, exposing her breasts. Her jogging bottoms and panties were pulled down to her knees. There had been no sign of sexual intercourse.

  Her face and upper body were brutalised by stab wounds from a knife that had never been recovered. One training shoe had been found further along the towpath, but the other one and her rucksack had never been found. There was no evidence that the killer had tried to bind her wrists or ankles, but I could see the similarities.

  ‘Bad as they are,’ Cal said quietly, as though reading my mind, ‘photographs don’t smell.’

  In the post-mortem photographs, Linda’s body looked like a marble statue. Perfect, still and cold. Marred only by the gaping rips across her clean white skin. With the blood cleaned away and the wounds washed, it was easier to see what the killer had done to her. I flicked the page to look at the post-mortem report. In addition to the obvious wounds, there had been less noticeable bruising along her jawline and right cheekbone.

  ‘So,’ he broke the silence, ‘what do you think? Are we dealing with the same killer?’

  I could smell the mintiness of his breath mingled with his cologne. I shifted uncomfortably in my seat and stared at the pathology report, rather than looking at him.

  ‘Yes, I’m certain. If it’s the same weapon, that’ll clinch it.’

  He took a long breath. ‘Right. All I have to do then is convince Hoyle that we’re dealing with a serial killer.’

  I closed the folder and stared out of the passenger window at people doing normal, everyday things. ‘Technically he’s not a serial killer until he’s done three.’

  ‘Nit-picker.’ Callum sounded exasperated, but I could hear the humour in his voice.

  I carried on. ‘The problem you have is convincing them of the motivation. And that will determine the kind of people you focus your attention on in the search. Get that wrong and you could be looking in completely the wrong direction.’

  ‘Hoyle’s pet profiler has already got us tracing every past boyfriend and male acquaintance of Linda’s at Fordley College. So help me out here, Jo. What am I looking for?’

  I sighed, trying to order my thoughts into some kind of logic. ‘Well, there are differences, but they’re far outweighed by the similarities.’

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘Linda was a “blitz” attack. It wasn’t as well planned, and he took a much greater risk.’

  ‘Because she was killed at the scene?’

  ‘Right. He killed her on the footpath. It’s a popular spot and we know there were people about just before the attack, and not long after. To have struck on a warm summer’s night, in the open air, involved taking one hell of a chance, but he was so aroused he was willing to take the risk. The bruised jaw suggests he punched her in the face to disable her, before beginning the more vicious attack.’

  ‘Meaning what exactly?’

  ‘He didn’t know his victim. At least not in the social sense, otherwise he could have engaged her in conversation to lure her off the path. He’s immature. Not sophisticated enough to do this with more polish. His attack was hurried. No time to bind his victim. Plus, he didn’t come equipped with anything other than the murder weapon, so I don’t think he intended to act it out that night.’

  ‘Go on.’

  I shrugged. ‘She was in the wrong place at the wrong time. When I first looked at this one, I suspected he might be out there on the prowl, fantasising, probably even watching courting couples along the towpath. He’s in a high state of arousal, carrying a knife, and stumbles across Linda taking a shortcut home.’

  ‘So a blitz attack on an opportune victim?’

  ‘Right. And although there’s no sign of sexual drive behind it, it’s definitely sexually motivated. He’s a voyeur up to this point. That’s why I told you to check reports of flashers or peeping toms in the area. I suspected then he was escalating from more minor offences because the fantasies weren’t doing it for him, so he moved up a gear.’

  ‘And similarities?’

  ‘In both cases, clothing from the lower part of the body is missing, along with some personal belongings.’

  ‘You think he’s taking trophies?’

  I nodded. ‘Also, there’s no sign of the murder weapon. I think he’s using the same weapon and taking it away with him.’

  ‘Because of forensics?’

  ‘Possibly. More likely he regards the knife as a treasured possession, so he doesn’t dispose of it or leave it at the scene.’

  I glanced at the photographs as I continued. ‘Sexual predators refine their technique and increase their skill with each new encounter. They learn and improve. He wanted more power over this victim. He needed more time for that. Time to bind her and control her so he could heighten his pleasure and savour the moment. He’s into sadistic control. Remember the bra? He wants to cut it away while she’s alive, while she’s bound and helpless. He wants to see her reaction. With Linda, he killed her too fast – had to because it was a public place. I call the initial encounter “Crime Scene A”, which is rarely ideal and not how he imagined it in his fantasies. S
o this time he moves the second victim to a prepared place – “Crime Scene B”. Somewhere he’s left things ready and he can have time with her. He kills her there then dumps her body by the canal.’

  ‘Both sites run parallel to major roads. Think he gets to the deposition site by car?’

  I shook my head. ‘These are not just dumping sites for him. I think this is his territory. He knows the area and the canal footpaths give him an easy way to move around the edges of town unnoticed. He feels safe enough to leave the bodies in relatively open ground, knowing he can still get away unnoticed. No, he’s confident in these surroundings. When you find him, he’ll have a strong connection to this area, or to the canal.’

  He nodded, looking down at the photographs in my lap. ‘Anything else?’

  ‘He’ll have wanted relationships, but probably lacked the social skills to get a girl. If that’s the case, his sexual fantasies will have had to sustain him. Along the way, he probably developed fetishes. Often these offenders become so pre-occupied with these things that the fantasy is the driving force. The woman becomes less important. Eventually she’s just a dehumanised object for their pleasure.’

  I finally looked up. He was studying me carefully, but I had no idea what he was thinking.

  ‘That’s why he obliterates their faces,’ I added. ‘He doesn’t hate them, he just doesn’t want to look at them. They’re not human to him. He doesn’t want to interact with them as people, just wants to use them to act out the fantasy.’

  ‘And you think he was working his way up to this latest one? Linda was a practice run?’

  ‘Not even as well prepared as a practice run. He stumbled on his first victim. Although it wasn’t perfect and not how he imagined it, it did give him a taste for domination and killing, and the confidence to go through with it. After all, he got away with that one and he hadn’t even planned it properly.’

  ‘So he plans the next one more carefully? Chooses his victim, kidnaps her, acts out his fantasy, kills her, then dumps the body in the area he knows best?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘So, he’ll continue to escalate. If we don’t catch him… he’ll kill again?’

  I nodded. Grim though the concept was, he was right. ‘Look for someone in his late teens or early twenties. A loner. Sexually immature with few, if any, previous girlfriends. Probably lives with a parent or alone. His inability to express himself would make it difficult to hold down an office job, so my guess is he’s a manual worker or labourer. From the way he subdues his victims and moves the bodies, I’d say he’s in good shape, maybe into sport or the gym, or his job keeps him fit. He’s local. Knows the area and operates a lot of the time on foot. He may have come to your attention in the past for lesser sex crimes. If you get a suspect who fits all that and get to where he lives, I think you’ll find lots of deviant pornography and maybe the murder weapon. But chances are, he’ll carry that with him, so warn officers to approach with caution.’

  ‘Well that’s not much to go on, is it?’

  I shot him an amazed look, but he was laughing at me.

  ‘Joke!’ He held his hands up in mock surrender. ‘Don’t suppose you’ve got his name and address?’ He grinned. ‘Beats Taylor-Caine’s textbook bollocks.’

  My profile wasn’t vastly at odds with her appraisal, but we did differ in key areas. Linda had died as a result of eighteen stab wounds to the face and upper body. In Taylor-Caine’s opinion, such savagery indicated a rage, which made this a personal killing. I disagreed at the time and said so, which went down like a lead balloon with her and Hoyle. This killing only made me more certain I was right.

  ‘I’ll need your profile writing up,’ Callum said.

  ‘Okay. But how can you use it if I’m not supposed to be contributing?’

  He scooped the files off my knee and I almost jumped as his hand touched mine.

  ‘You’re not contributing officially. But Hoyle saw you this morning. Even he can’t think I won’t use what you give me.’

  He rested his arm across the back of my seat, leaning even closer. ‘And when the post-mortem proves the connection between the two killings, he’s going to have to look at your profile.’

  I nodded. ‘Any chance of a lift back to my car?’

  He grinned. ‘You think I’m going to make you walk?’

  3 August

  8am

  Two police officers stood guard at the scene in Shipley, keeping the press away from the police divers and the small rubber dingy bobbing alongside the canal bank.

  Callum pulled his car alongside mine. ‘Any chance of a drink later?’

  ‘Suppose so.’ I was distracted as I tried to get into the car before the press spotted me. I loved my Roadster, but it was definitely not a practical car.

  ‘Don’t sound so bloody enthusiastic!’

  ‘Sorry. It’s just that I’m in for a heavy day. Jen’s held the fort for ages so there’ll be loads waiting when I get in. Not sure I can be bothered going out. I’ll just want to flake out in front of the fire with a glass of something chilled.’

  ‘Sounds good to me.’ His eyes didn’t leave mine. ‘How about I come round to the farm, say eight? Takeaway and wine?’

  As I got behind the wheel, I could see a photographer’s telescopic lens aimed in our direction.

  ‘I’m not sure that’s a good idea, Cal…’

  His expression lost its softness and his tone wasn’t playful anymore. ‘Oh for God’s sake, Jo, what’s wrong? Can’t a mate see you for a drink to celebrate your birthday?’

  I was watching the photographer as he began making his way towards us.

  I nodded down towards the canal. ‘I think we’d better move. Bandits at twelve o’clock.’

  Callum looked in the direction of the press and nodded, sighing as he pulled his car door closed.

  By the time the press reached the path, I was already pulling onto the ring road into rush hour traffic. The clock on the dashboard said 8am as I called Jen’s mobile.

  ‘Hi, Jen. You on your way in?’

  ‘Yep,’ came her ever cheerful reply. ‘Just fighting traffic. Should be at the office in ten minutes. I’ll get the kettle on. I take it you haven’t had breakfast?’

  ‘No. I left the house at sparrow’s fart this morning. Callum called me out. They’ve found another body.’

  ‘Oh, God.’

  ‘He wanted me at the scene before the circus came to town.’

  ‘Before Lizzie Taylor-Caine found out.’ She huffed down the phone. ‘Why does she have to be such a bitch?’

  ‘Perhaps,’ I said, distractedly manoeuvring through traffic, ‘she feels threatened. She is new to the job.’

  ‘Crap at what she does, you mean.’

  ‘Yes, well. She lacks hands-on experience, that’s all.’ I could hear myself trying to sound generous. ‘It’s academic anyway. It’s not official. Callum just wanted me to take a look and tell him what I thought.’

  ‘Well, rather you than me.’

  I smiled. How could I ever manage without her? Jen had been admin manager of the clinical psychology department at Fordley Hospital when I was a junior psychologist. Ten years my senior, she decided I needed looking after and somehow adopted me.

  ‘Anything I need to know?’ I asked.

  ‘Did you call your mother? She rang twice yesterday.’ She paused and when I didn’t reply as expected, she added, ‘Callum called yesterday too.’

  In her silence I knew I was supposed to come up with a reason why I hadn’t returned their calls.

  I groaned inwardly. ‘I don’t know what all the fuss is about, Jen. Why can’t people just let it pass?’

  ‘You can’t expect people who care about you to ignore the fact that it’s your birthday tomorrow.’

  ‘Why not?’ I said irritably. ‘I never have a problem ignoring it.’

  I heard her sigh and I could picture her pursing her lips in that way she did when she was getting annoyed with me.

  ‘I take it
you haven’t heard from Alex?’

  My stomach felt hollow as I thought about my son. Twenty-two-years-old and just out of university. He was backpacking around India for a year while he decided what to do with the rest of his life. When he left, I’d given strict instructions for him to call once a week, as by then I would have images of his murdered and mutilated body invading my dreams. It had been almost two weeks since his last call.

  ‘What’s that got to do with it?’

  ‘Just thought you might be getting grumpy as it’s tomorrow and he hasn’t called.’

  ‘For the last time, Jen, birthdays do not and never have been important to me, even when Alex was here. I’m never sure exactly what I’m supposed to be celebrating. Getting one year older? Whoopie doo! Anyway, I have spoken to Callum this morning.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘He’s coming up to the farm tonight.’

  ‘Is he now?’ I could hear the undisguised pleasure in her voice.

  ‘Only because he wants the profile writing up.’ I was trying to play it down, but the tactic was lost on this woman who knew me better than my mother.

  ‘He doesn’t need to visit the farm for that,’ she observed smugly. ‘Even a technophobe like you can use email.’

  ‘Okay, he’s bringing wine – so?’

  ‘So, I think it will do you the world of good.’ I could hear the grin in her voice.

  ‘You’ve been on your own long enough.’

  ‘Stop matchmaking, Jen,’ I warned. ‘He’s coming over for a takeaway, not to plan a wedding.’ It was time for a quick change of topic. ‘Look, it’s going to take me too long to get in to the office. I’m going to work from home.’

  ‘Some calls came in overnight.’ I could almost see her pushing her reading glasses up her nose as she peered at the call list. ‘Senior Clinical Psychologist at Westwood Park, Doctor Lister. Apparently they’ve tried hypnosis to regress a patient back to a point of trauma, but her abreaction is so severe they can’t get past it. Thought you might be able to help?’