'I get that,' Roger looked agitated as he stared at the screen.
'But you think the copycat killer could be sticking to the dates, don't you?'
Roger nodded slowly. 'It's too much of a coincidence to think that Julie Rawlins was killed on the exact same date that Ethel Brab was murdered. We know he copied the crime scene exactly so perhaps the date is important to him, another detail he has to follow.'
'It might have been the same date, Rog, but the months are different, they both died on the twenty-third, but Ethel Brab was murdered in January and we're now in March. So, Julie was killed on the same date but different months.'
'But look at it realistically, if all these murders are somehow linked, and the killer's working his way through them, then he might stick to the date but if he stuck to the year then that would mean he would have to wait for three years before his next murder, and there is no way he will do that. But he can get close by making sure his victims die on the same date,' he looked at Odette with a hint of desperation in his eyes.
When he saw the spark catch in her gaze, he looked at her in surprise as a thin smile plucked at the corner of her mouth.
'Have I made a mistake?' he asked in puzzlement.
When she dipped her head and briefly kissed his mouth, his eyes sprang wide in surprise and then his cheeks were flooded with colour.
'What was that for?' he asked.
'I know it's a long shot, and the truth is we have no concrete proof that the killer is even following the same list of victims that we've found,' she paused, 'but if he is, if by some chance we've got lucky, then it means we will know where the killer will be tomorrow night.'
Suddenly, Roger was on his feet as he realised that she was right.
'We need to tell the others about this.'
Odette nodded. 'OK, but do we have a timeframe on when Norma Rowbottom was killed?'
'Yeah, yeah, I've read the report, she was found on the roof of the mill at six o'clock by the nightwatchman, and according to the autopsy she'd only been dead for around an hour or so.'
'Right, so we have our time frame,' she said lifting the phone from her pocket. 'I'll ring Bannister, can you nip down to Carole's office and let her know what you've found?'
'Come on, Odette, this is teamwork.'
The phone started to ring as Odette shook her head. 'No, Rog, this is all down to you and with any luck we'll be able to nail the animal thanks to your hard work.'
The heat in Roger's face increased as he hurried for the door.
50
Hannah sat at the kitchen table, Morgan facing her, cups of steaming coffee in front of them.
The day felt never-ending, late in the afternoon the doctor had appeared in the small side room, his face thoughtful as he looked down at James, mother and daughter had sat waiting for him to speak, tension filling the room as he slid his hands into the pockets of his white coat.
When he had started to talk, they had listened with dread as he explained about the scans, the test results were inconclusive which had, for a few seconds, been a relief, but then he had told them that they wanted to do some exploratory surgery. Occasionally, he had smiled faintly and then his face had turned serious again and the fear returned tenfold.
In the end, he had told them that the surgery would be done the following day, so they had reluctantly headed for home. Now, they sat facing one another with the relentless rain hitting the window, Hannah sighed heavily, her hands wrapped around the cup.
'I'm sorry, Morgan,' she suddenly said.
Her daughter looked at her in confusion. 'What are you sorry for?'
'For your loss.'
For a few seconds, the confusion deepened on Morgan's face and then her eyes were sparkling with tears. 'You mean Scott, don't you?'
Reaching across the table, Hannah took hold of her daughter's hand. 'It must be so hard for you.'
Morgan thought about the question, and yet in truth she was amazed by the lack of feelings, she knew that if her father wasn't ill then she would no doubt be in her bed right now crying into her pillow, convinced her world was ruined and her heart broken. Yet the truth was she hadn't had the chance to really think about Scott, and besides, he had taken Clara Bell to the party instead of her, her face suddenly flushed with colour as she felt the guilt lance through her mind. Scott had been murdered, and Clara taken by some madman, and yet she felt next to nothing for either of them.
'Are you OK?' Hannah asked as she saw her daughter's face redden.
'I should be upset, but the truth is I'm too worried about Dad to have thought much about what happened to Scott and Clara.'
'That's understandable, sweetheart, but I want you to know that you can talk to me about anything, please don't bottle things up or keep things secret from me.'
Morgan looked at her mother, and the tears spilled over. 'The truth is I've been stupid.'
Hannah squeezed her daughter's hand. 'Young love is never easy, and you are far from stupid.'
'You make me sound like a ten-year-old,' Morgan replied, though she managed to drag up a smile.
'I'm sorry, that came out wrong,' Hannah paused, 'how long had you been seeing one another?' she asked, and then waited for Morgan to perhaps lose her temper at the question.
'Almost three months,' she replied in a whisper.
Hannah managed to keep the shock from her face, three months and she had never noticed a difference in Morgan's behaviour, having said that she had been the same for the past twelve months, sullen and caustic with her comments to both her and James.
'I wanted to tell you and Dad, but I thought you would go mad.'
Hannah paused before answering, the last thing she wanted to do was upset her daughter more than necessary, the truth was right now Morgan was worried about her father, but eventually the truth about what had happened to Scott would come crashing down and she would be crushed, so she decided to play it safe.
'That must have been hard for you – keeping it a secret for so long.'
Morgan nodded. 'I thought you would go mad because of exams and stuff.'
Hannah smiled though it felt strained, chances were Morgan was right, if she had told them that she was seeing someone from school then they wouldn't have been happy. Yet now as she looked at her daughter, she suddenly thought of her own mother and the arguments they'd had when Hannah had been trying to spread her wings.
She felt the heat rise in her own cheeks as she realised that she had been guilty of looking at her relationship with her own parents through rose-tinted glasses. It was true she had never crossed words with her father, but only now was she starting to realise that it was because he always gave her what she wanted. Her mother had been the one who had said, ''no'', and they had locked horns plenty over the years, and now as she looked at Morgan, she realised it was exactly the same.
'The first boyfriend I ever had I kept him a secret too,' she admitted, and watched as Morgan's eyes widened.
'Really?'
Hannah nodded. 'We were both at school too, he was a year older than me and I loved him.'
'Loved him?' Morgan shook her head in disbelief.
'That was until he cheated on me with a girl from another school.'
'Like Scott with Clara.'
Hannah slid her hand from her daughter's before picking up the cup and taking a sip.
Morgan sniffed heavily and then wiped at her eyes with the sleeve of her sweatshirt. 'I just want Dad to be OK.'
'He will be, I know it's so hard at the moment, but…'
When the doorbell rang, Morgan jumped, and then she glanced at the clock on the wall. 'That'll be Elle,' she pushed up from the chair and hurried out of the kitchen.
Hannah Pence swallowed the sense of dread as she pictured James in the hospital awaiting surgery.
'Please, God, let him come through this,' she whispered to herself as she heard the front door open and close.
51
The man paced the room, six steps took him to the w
indow then he turned and retraced his footsteps, back and forth, the tension inside building with every step.
Earlier, he had taken the girl some food, two cheese sandwiches and a bottle of orange juice, placing the food by the side of the mattress he had then removed the tape from her mouth and hands before backing away into the shadows.
'I brought you something to eat like I said I would.'
The girl hadn't answered, instead she had drawn her knees up to her chin and he had seen the blood on her wrists, the sight making him scowl.
'If you aren't going to eat then I shall put the tape back in place,' he'd warned.
Clara had glanced up, but he was standing over near the shadowed door. Reaching out and lifting the bottle she took a sip, suddenly desperate to quench the thirst and had guzzled half the bottle in a matter of seconds before wiping the back of her hand across her chapped lips.
Then she had taken two more quick sips before shivering out a sigh.
'If you let me go, I promise not to tell anyone about you,' she'd whispered.
'That won't be happening, at least not yet, I have…'
'Why did you kill Scott?' she interrupted.
The room had fallen silent, and she had heard the sound of the man shifting his feet on the dusty concrete floor. 'Eat the food.'
Clara had looked at the sandwiches, she felt sick and the sight of the food was only making matters worse, though she knew if she didn't at least try to eat something then he would gag her again, and she would be left unable to move, so she reached out and lifted one from the paper plate.
Lifting it to her mouth, she had nibbled at the bread, it had the same texture as cardboard.
Clara Bell had sat on the mattress for over thirty minutes taking small bites from the bread, fully aware that the man was watching her, and yet she managed to ignore him, her mind awhirl with the determination and anger that seethed inside.
At one point, she had felt the weight of the glass bottle in her hand and part of her wanted to hurl it at the man who stood in the corner, but the voice inside warned her not to, now wasn't the time, it whispered. The moment would come, and she had to be ready and she would know when the opportunity arose.
When he told her to put the bottle down, she did as he asked, and then he had approached and seconds later, she was gagged again.
For a few seconds, she almost lost control of her mind and then the calming voice was there again, soothing her nerves, and she had closed her eyes, steeling herself as she heard the door close again.
The man stopped pacing and looked down towards the squat breeze-block building, tomorrow she would die, and he would set the scene perfectly, a doppelganger killing in honour of the original. He brought his hands together, the fingers twisting and turning in excitement at the prospect.
There was a symmetry to life though people seldom realised that fact, when you loved history you learned that there was nothing new, it had all been done before so why even bother to try and be unique.
That was the mistake that people made, they strove to be different, they liked to think of themselves as intelligent but on the whole that was far from the truth.
He had been in his teens when he had first been bitten by the bug, he could remember reading a book about a serial killer, he had no idea where the book had come from, he definitely hadn't bought it, but he had read it and gradually he had become intoxicated with the words.
The killer's name had been Peter Kurten and he had killed nine victims along with other numerous attempts to murder, by the time he had finished the book he recalled the strange sense of satisfaction, even knowing that Kurten had died via the guillotine in ninety thirty-one did little to change his view on the killer. He had been dubbed the vampire of Dusseldorf and his crimes had been horrific, and yet someone had decided that he deserved to have a book written about him. For a while he had been confused by that and then the truth had slowly dawned. Kurten's life had been deemed worthy of publication simply because of the ferocity of the crimes he had committed. That was the reason, the only reason, it had nothing to do with any kind of 'literal' or 'scientific' interest although he suspected the author would say different. It was all about the macabre and the horror of what people like Kurten were capable of. This was a fact that was proven when he went to the local library and found a shelf dedicated to people like Kurten, serial killers, each tome unveiling the extent of how depraved the human spirit could become. Even now you could visit a book shop and they would all be there, the Kurtens, Bundys, individuals apart from society who ploughed their own furrow through life, one that the majority of society were sickened by, and yet the books were there, people took them out from the library or bought them from the bookshop.
Over time he had read them all, absorbing their myriad of crimes until he became almost immune to their acts of torture and murder, and then one day truth had clicked. He could remember sitting on his single bed, closing the book on Albert Fish, an American serial killer who had been caught, and whose life had been ended by the electric chair.
The frown had slowly formed on his face, his eyes widening in shock as he realised that the books all had one disappointing thing in common, the serial killers had been caught, some had been put to death whilst others had rotted away behind bars, in the end they had all been failures, not a hero amongst them. Some had been convinced that they had been geniuses, believing their own hype, when the truth was that most had been allowed to continue to kill because of shoddy policework or, in some cases, because society turned a blind eye.
He had gone back to the beginning and re-read all the books but now with fresh eyes, and the more he had read the more disappointed he became with the ''killers''. The truth was they had all been pathetic, most had suffered abuse when they were young, and it had led them to do the same, only they had taken that abuse one step further. It had been a revelation to look at them with this new knowledge, as a teenager he had been fascinated by the violence and, in a way, he had put people like Kurten on a pedestal, believing that they were somehow special, yet a number of them had been put to death screaming and crying in terror.
Once that fact had seeped into his head, he had started to reconsider what he had always thought to be true, and so his research had taken a new turn, and that was when he had found the true artists, the ones who had never been caught, the ones who planned their killings, there was nothing random or rushed, nothing was left to chance, and suddenly his whole mind set changed. Now, he looked at the rain-lashed window and shook his head, once the truth had been revealed he had disregarded all other serial killers, where he had once worshipped them, he now found them weak and pathetic. Plus, in the past, he had thought himself as an historian, a researcher who would focus on a killer and then learn all he could about them, yet in reality all he had done was read all the sensationalist books that had been printed about the serial killers for the mass market.
Now, he stood at the window and looked back on those wasted years in disgust, he had been no different to the others who had read the same books, he had been as pathetic as they were, but not now, not anymore, now he was a true researcher and the information he gathered was not obtained from any book.
With a deep sigh, he turned and made his way back to the bed, five minutes later he was asleep, his eyes moving rapidly beneath closed lids as his mind went over the details of the next killing, one step at a time, he had the blueprint after all and more than that he had help. In his sleep he shivered in dark joy.
52
Lasser took a sip from the cup of hot chocolate as Roger filled them in on the details.
'Jesus if you're right, it could lead to us catching the bastard,' Bannister said, his voice hinting at admiration.
Odette nodded as Spenner handed her a drink from the tray, Carole sat behind her desk, the usual look of concern on her face, though Lasser could see the subtle hint of hope shining in her eyes.
'There are no guarantees, the truth is we have no idea if the killer is
even working to the same list as us,' Roger admitted, sounding almost apologetic.
Bannister nodded. 'We realise that, but let's face it until you made the links, we had nothing to go on, but now there's a glimmer of light, and we have to make sure we take this chance.'
Lost in thought, Lasser finished his drink and dropped the empty cup into the wastepaper basket.
Standing up, Carole looked at the five of them before glancing towards the darkened window, it had been one of those days when the daylight had been fleeting, and now it was dark again, the rain coming down harder than ever.
'You said Norma Rowbottom was found by the night watchman of the mill?' she turned to Roger.
'That's right, apparently he was doing the rounds of the building when he found her on the roof.'
'I've checked the reports from the autopsy, and according to the doctor in charge, she had only been dead for a maximum of two hours when she was found,' Spenner said.
'What was the mill making back then?' Lasser asked.
'Even then it had been closed for years but it still had a security guard on site just to make sure the place wasn't vandalised.'
'So, the killer had plenty of time to get the girl up there without too much risk of being seen,' Bannister said as he raised a hand to hide a yawn.
'Question is what time do we head over there tomorrow?' Lasser pondered.
'I want you two to get over there around lunchtime,' Carole said as she looked at Bannister and Lasser. 'Lay low and pray to God that he turns up.'
Lasser glanced at the DCI, and sure enough he could see the spark of anger flash in his eyes.
'But surely we need to make sure the place is surrounded?' Odette asked with a slight frown on her brow.
Carole slowly shook her head. 'The truth is we're not one hundred percent certain about any of this, so we can't afford to focus everyone on this one clue. Clara Bell could have been taken by someone who had nothing to do with any of this, and if that is the case then we need to keep digging, we need other options.'
Third Eye - DS Lasser Series 25 (2021) Page 18