Sacrifice

by Jay Nadal

  “I’ll chase up Matt for any forensics results that they’ve gotten so far, but at the moment it’s a waiting game with them. We also need to look at whether there were any reasons the body was dumped in the area. So I need you to all look into this. Does that location have any significance? Was the body taken there because it could be concealed easily? Go back to our records and check for similar crimes.”

  Scott tracked back through his own memories. “I can’t think of any, so we may need to go back a bit further. Look at any local paedophiles on the register. Are there any that have displayed a violent tendency, or fantasised about killing children and dismembering their bodies?”

  Stillness blanketed the room, as passing traffic occasionally punctured the silence.

  Scott paused for a moment and paced back and forth in front of the incident board as he stroked his chin. “I’m also curious why the body was dismembered. The natural conclusion is the killer was attempting to remove the most obvious signs of identification. But is there anything else to it? And what’s most alarming is the removal of the child’s heart.”

  The others nodded in agreement as they made notes.

  “In all my years of service, I’ve never come across a case where any victim, adult or child, has had their heart removed. So that’s another crucial point that we need to examine. If anyone has theories or ideas about any of this, then make sure you share it with all of us as soon as possible. It’s going to be difficult identifying the victim without a facial image, dental records, or prints. So, for the time being, we’re going to rely on a DNA profile when it comes through.”

  There was silence amongst the team. Scott imagined that they were entertaining their own hypotheses as they put the first pieces together in this complex puzzle. With no further evidence or motives, they were trying to place those pieces of the puzzle together blindfolded.

  Abby chipped in. “I’ll check with the NCA. It’s a particular MO. The removal of the heart, the head, and the arms, that must be key. It would be interesting to know if they’ve identified any other cases like that in the past.”

  “Good call, Abby. Can you lead on that?” Scott asked pointing his pen in her direction. Abby nodded her confirmation.

  Mike had already worked on compiling a list of African community centres, churches, and support groups which the team could explore. Scott had suggested that he add primary schools to the list, in case a child had been reported as an unexplained absence.

  The team understood the importance of this case, firstly because of the child victim, secondly, the heinous nature of the crime, and thirdly, because senior management had taken a keen interest in the case. They had to be meticulous in their planning and execution of the investigation because any oversight could have the IPCC all over them like a bad rash.

  Scott left the team to busy themselves and follow all the lines of enquiry, whilst he headed off to the drinks machine to grab himself a not so desirable black Americano.

  Something that Cara had mentioned during their visit to the mortuary had sparked his interest. He pulled up Google Images and typed in African tribal scars. He wasn’t too sure what he was looking for, but with very little evidence and no motive to go on, he was willing to follow up every hunch, idea, and scrap of evidence. He sat open-mouthed as he stared at a bewildering array of facial scarrings. Many of the images took him by surprise. They weren’t grotesque as he’d expected, but rather intricate, and artistically created scarring patterns that raised his curiosity rather than repulsed him.

  Some patterns looked like exaggerated crease lines on the forehead, others looked like marijuana leaves. They weren’t, but that’s the best way in which he could describe them. A few resembled the three lines of scars that had been discovered on the boy’s body. Then there were extreme examples, tiny small scars that resembled dots, covering at least eighty per cent of the person’s face.

  He flicked back a page and explored this in detail. Scarring was a common practice in many African countries including Sudan, Ethiopian, Nigeria, South Africa, and the Congo. He discovered that each particular style of scarring had its own name. Styles like Pele, Owu, Abaja, and Gombo leaped out from the page and were often used as identification of a person’s tribe, family or patrilineal heritage, and for beautification.

  “Beautification…not sure about that,” he murmured. His eyes narrowed as he read a line outlining that scars were inscribed on the body by burning or cutting of the skin during childhood.

  Scott leant back in his chair and reflected on what he’d just seen. This wasn’t a practice he knew much about, but from what he had read so far, scarring had been going on through African nations for generations. It even had a formal name, scarification.

  6

  A low hum of conversation echoed through the canteen as Abby grabbed a cup of tea and a packet of crisps. With the constant coming and going of officers, her uniformed colleagues and civilian staff sat in huddles. Several officers preferred their own company and sat further away from the crowds, engrossed in a book or magazine. It was a time when officers could unwind and de-stress. A place to rest, before tackling the next interview, the next call out, or the reams of paperwork that needed to be completed for every case.

  Abby preferred her own company and often sought a solitary table and chairs where she could just chill. She wasn’t interested in hearing about the station banter, or the latest drunken escapade on a night out. Nor could she put up with the station flirting which happened between colleagues who seemed to spend every waking minute together. She looked around those seated and spotted a few officers who were “at it” with colleagues behind their partners’ backs.

  As Abby leant back and stretched her arms up above her head, she heard the bones in her spine crack and felt the wave of relief that flooded through her body. Samantha Huxtable, a uniformed colleague that Abby knew well, strode over to her. A keen runner, Samantha had entered many half-marathons with Abby. With their differing shift patterns, they rarely had opportunities to bump into each other at the station. She set herself down opposite Abby and smiled.

  “Hi, Abby. It’s been ages since I’ve seen you. Sounds like you guys have been busy?”

  Abby rolled her eyes. “Is there a time that we’re never busy? Take last Wednesday, for example. Supposed to finish at ten p.m., but I ended up finishing at three a.m. because we had a prisoner in. I was on the phone to CPS for more than two hours. But at least we charged him and got another scumbag off the streets.”

  Samantha offered a sympathetic smile, as she tightened a hairband around her ponytail, and pulled her blonde hair through it. Samantha had a light complexion and a thin face with high cheekbones. Years of running had given her a thin, muscular frame at the expense of a flat chest. Her male colleagues had ribbed her, suggesting that she should wear her bra back to front, because her shoulder blades stuck out further than her breasts. It was all part of the station banter, and she could give as good as she got.

  On one occasion, she’d brought in a magnifying glass. In front of a group of her colleagues, she had passed it to one of the male officers and suggested that perhaps his next girlfriend might want to use it to find his dick.

  “What are you working on at the moment?” Abby asked.

  “Bit of a weird one, but then is there anything that isn’t weird in our jobs?” Samantha shrugged with a look of exasperation. “Would you believe it, but I’m dealing with a series of pet kidnappings in and around Brighton. As if I haven’t got better things to do?”

  Abby rolled her eyes. “For fuck’s sake. We got people moaning out there that there aren’t enough uniformed officers on the street, and they’ve got you looking for pets?”

  Samantha nodded. “Two cats, one small Yorkie, a chicken, and seventy-four-year-old Doris’s pussy.”

  Abby choked on her tea as they both let out a roar of laughter.

  Scott had been in management meetings for over three hours before he returned to his desk, sank into his cha
ir and let out a mighty sigh. He threw his notepad across the desk, along with the ham and cheese sandwich which was supposed to be his lunch. If there’s one thing he hated about his job, it was the endless meetings that came with the grade. Budgets, staffing levels, crime reduction rates, cases solved, plus all the overinflated egos each pushing their own agenda.

  The fact of the matter was that the thin blue line was becoming thinner as each year passed. Meadows’s comment about the budgetary cuts reminded him of that fact.

  Abby poked her head around the door moments after Scott returned. “Heavy session?”

  Scott waved at her, too tired to even open his mouth. He leant forward and twisted the top off his water bottle before taking a long, slow glug. “My mind is frazzled. My body wants to crawl under this desk, so no one can find me, and I can go to sleep for an hour.”

  Abby laughed. “Hey, listen. I thought that maybe we should all get together for dinner. Jonathon has heard so much about you and Cara. He’s the one that suggested getting together for a bite to eat one night. What do you think?”

  Scott narrowed his eyes, a small smile breaking across his face. “This all sounds grown-up for you. Is this so we can discuss your wedding plans?” he teased.

  Abby blushed as she pursed her lips and narrowed her eyes in mock anger. She crossed her arms, and then pointed in Scott’s direction. “I’m warning you. Just one call to Cara and I’ll get all the meaty gossip on your holiday.”

  Scott rocked back in his chair saying, “You will always hold that one over me, won’t you?”

  Abby shot him a mischievous grin that suggested, don’t push me.

  “Yes, it sounds good. I’ll speak to Cara this evening. You can come over to mine. If we came to yours, we wouldn’t get much more than a cheese sandwich. It should be interesting, two coppers, a pathologist, and an optician. I’m sure there’s a joke in there somewhere, but can’t think of one. I’ll get back to you with some dates.”

  The heavy smell of vinegar wafted from their plates as Scott and Cara finished the remnants of a fish and chip supper in front of the TV. Both were too tired to cook. The last two days had taken it out of them, and their holiday seemed nothing more than a distant memory.

  They had enjoyed the holiday so much that they were already talking about another break there in the spring of next year. Cara had moaned that it seemed an awfully long way away. She suggested that perhaps a short break in January to the Canary Islands for some warm winter sun might be just the tonic for them.

  Scott liked the idea and smiled to himself knowing that Cara was already planning next year with him.

  Cara was excited at the prospect of hosting a dinner party. She commented that it would be fun to have a night off with good company and good food. Scott hesitated a bit more, since he knew what happened when Cara and Abby got together. The thought of them colluding and ganging up on him filled him with dread, once they both had a few glasses of vino. He could just imagine the cackling and screaming.

  And yet this seemed normal. Discussing plans for a dinner party with friends. It felt natural, and something that thousands of couples did up and down the country on a Friday or Saturday night. Simple pleasures like this had been missing from his life for the last few years. He was beginning to understand why his life had felt so empty. It was moments like this that he craved.

  They had already reached a friendly impasse over the evening’s menu. Cara was in favour of pâté for starters. Scott disagreed and wanted something more substantial like fishcakes. Cara thought chicken would be good for a main, whereas Scott thought something heartier like a boeuf bourguignon would be better. The discussion would no doubt rumble on.

  Cara had moved her plate away and stretched out on the sofa, resting her head on Scott’s lap. With a bottle of Peroni in one hand, and his other hand caressing Cara’s arm, he continued to put forward his case for his chosen dishes. He paused when he realised that he had been speaking without interruption, a rarity whilst talking to Cara.

  He glanced down for confirmation. Cara was asleep. He smiled as he stroked her hair. He studied her facial features, her firm full lips, her long eyelashes, and high cheekbones. Dark trestles of hair wrapped around her face and lay in the crook of her neck. She was beautiful in every way. Scott couldn’t believe his own luck as he looked her up and down. Her feminine curves and large, voluptuous breasts made her even more attractive. She made him smile, she made him laugh, and she made him feel wanted.

  As he watched her in repose, he felt a little bit more of the gaping hole in his heart fill with love.

  7

  The morning hadn’t started well for Scott. The PolSA team had drawn a blank, finding no evidence of the missing limbs, a murder weapon, or anything to push the case forward. Based on the proximity to the estate, various other items of interest were discovered such as a claw hammer, a small kitchen knife, and a small paring knife. These items were bagged up and sent away for analysis.

  Scott had put a call through to Meadows requesting that the PolSA team continued their search for another day. Meadows had argued that the cost far outweighed the benefit as the officers needed to be redeployed back to their teams. After some coercing from Scott, Meadows had relented and had agreed that the search could continue until six p.m. that evening.

  Frustration infiltrated every cell in Scott’s body, tensing his muscles into rigid fibres of annoyance. He had hoped to deploy the PolSA team sooner for fear any evidence could have degraded, or even removed. But there wasn’t much point in thinking about such missed opportunities now. The fact that the PolSA team had drawn a blank disappointed him. Scott’s irritation with politics and procedures heightened as Meadows confirmed that CC Lennon and DCC Grayling were still discussing the merits of a TV appeal at this early stage in the investigation. They had expressed concern that they didn’t want to cause an unnecessary panic amongst the community.

  Scott understood their argument, but in reality, he knew their reluctance to go public was based on ghosts from the past. Back in 1986, two nine-year-old children went missing whilst playing. Their bodies were found the following day in Wild Park, Moulsecoomb. The case became known as The Babes in the Woods Murders which attracted nationwide interest. With a conviction not forthcoming for the abduction and murders, the tragedy had left a deep scar in the minds of Brightonians.

  It had also placed Brighton on the map for all the wrong reasons. The police had come under fire at the time, and many questioned why the killer, central to one of Brighton’s most haunting unsolved crimes, had escaped justice.

  Despite their objection, Scott knew the significant value of a press appeal. Messages could be crafted, the aim to update the public, but also to help the investigation gain new evidence and develop lines of inquiry.

  In Scott’s opinion, there were three key ways by which media appeals could help his investigation or any significant case. The first was a straightforward appeal for witnesses. The second was if he needed to rule in, or out, of his investigation someone close to the victim. Finally, it helped monitor the reaction of a suspect to the release of information by police. In this case, he hinged his argument on the first option whilst pressurising Meadows.

  In his mind, Scott knew that once details of the murder became public knowledge, there would be a greater need for reassurance amongst parents. They would want reassurance that someone was in control, and that there was hands-on leadership on the ground. For this reason, he continued to push for an appeal.

  The prospect of seeing the organ torn apart and dissected excited him. Such desires had been a part of his life for as long as he could remember. A perverse fascination consumed him. He craved to understand how different components of a body worked together to create a living being.

  He licked his lips in anticipation. His pupils dilated, and his pulse throbbed in his neck. A slight sweat glistened on his forehead as it caught the light from the lamp in the corner. He took a thin-bladed knife and grasped the cold steel han
dle. A slight tremor shook his hand, an indicator of the elation that stirred within him. He ran the tip of the blade down the centre of the heart. The last few remnants of blood held within the organ oozed out and stained the blade a velvety red.

  His smile widened; his teeth glistened. The sensations he felt far exceeded his expectations. He separated the two halves and examined the intricate internal structure, mentally noting everything he’d seen in a book. No matter how many times he’d carried out this exact procedure, it always felt so new, so exciting, and so sacred.

  This would be the first of many opportunities to practise his craft, to hone his skills, and offer a sacrifice. He glanced over towards his right and nodded. The small stack of clear Tupperware containers held his rich trophies. Each organ cradled in its own bath of red goodness, the elixir of life.

  He turned to the left and stared at the small child asleep on a blanket. A young boy who’d spent far too long here already. He slept well. The herbs that had been mixed in with his food ensured he slept well. In the beginning, he had cried. Cried too much, in fact, to the point where the man could no longer tolerate the child’s constant moaning one more second. He preferred to work in silence. It would soon be over for the little boy. His time was near.

  8

  As with most cases that Scott managed, he reverted to his trusted notepad and pen. He had written BOY in capitals in the centre of his blank page. From there, he had drawn out a line to another balloon box which said no head or arms. By the side of that box he placed a question mark. As yet in his mind, he was uncertain as to the motive for the dismemberment. He drew another short line away from the central theme, and at the end of it he had written Ritual killing? Paedophile? Maybe just a monster without a soul.

  A motive for the killing was still largely unknown, along with any significance relating to the location of where the body had been found. In the early stages of any murder investigation, the team would always face more questions than answers. Hopefully, the different lines of enquiries that the team were chasing down would give them some clarity. Another thing also played on Scott’s mind. If the child hadn’t been reported missing, had some harm had come to his parents?