Knife After Death: A chilling crime thriller

by Irvine, Ian C. P.

  He stared at Peter for a moment, as if to make sure that Peter had got the message. Peter nodded. The landlord smiled, patted him on the back rather firmly, and left saying, "Good lad."

  Peter looked at the envelope, turning it over in his hands to see if there was anything written on the back. It was blank. He sniffed it. It smelled of Carolina.

  Deciding to read it upstairs, he hurried back to the front of the pub, and just managed to order some cottage pie before the 10 p.m. curfew.

  "I'll be back in ten minutes...I just want to shower quickly" he explained to the barman and dashed upstairs.

  He closed the door to this room, and sat down on the edge of the bed, still unmade with tussled sheets from their love making earlier on.

  He opened the envelope. Inside there was a printed, single copy of computer paper.

  .

  "Peter,

  Sorry, I won't be able to see you this evening. Sam is sick. I have had to stay at home.

  It's probably for the better anyway. I think it would be better if we didn't see each other tonight. I need to think.

  Making love to you earlier was amazing.

  I'm confused though. I am very attracted to you, and I do like you, but it's happening too fast for me, too quickly...!

  Please try to understand.

  We'll talk soon. Tomorrow or the next day...

  Carolina."

  .

  Peter read the letter three times.

  What was it with women and letters nowadays? First Susie, now Carolina?

  Jumping into the shower, he let the water wash over him, trying to swallow his disappointment.

  "Shit!"

  As he towelled himself down and got dressed he glanced over at the bed, and a sudden image popped into his mind of being on top of her and kissing her breasts.

  He swore aloud again, cleared his mind, and hurried down the stairs to the pub.

  As soon as he walked into the bar, the landlord disappeared into the kitchen, re-emerging seconds later and handing him his hot food.

  Peter ordered a pint of non-alcoholic beer, sat down in his corner, and wolfed his meal down. He didn't realise that he was so hungry!

  The phone rang.

  It was Susie.

  "Peter, we have to talk. You never called me back...are you okay?"

  "Sort of...I spent the afternoon and evening in the police station again...almost got arrested. I ended up telling them everything."

  "Everything?" Susie sounded shocked.

  "Everything." Peter replied. "I wouldn't be surprised if they called you tomorrow to corroborate everything I said."

  "Wow...did they believe you?"

  "I don't know. But if I was them, I know I wouldn't," Peter replied, philosophically.

  "Hang on, Peter...Wait, wait, wait! I think I've just remembered something...oh wow...yes! I remember reading an article a few days ago about someone in America who helped the police arrest someone....wait...I'm looking at my notes...yep, here it is...Listen to this. I'll just read out exactly what it said on the internet...Here goes...'One of the most stunning examples of cellular memory that has been reported, was found in an eight year old girl who received the heart of a ten year old girl. After surgery, the young girl recipient was plagued with nightmares about an attacker and a girl being murdered, her dreams being so vivid and so real to her, that she was taken to a psychiatrist. In describing her nightmares to the psychiatrist, they seemed to be so real that the psychiatrist began to believe them to be genuine memories. Upon investigation, the psychiatrist discovered that the ten year old whose heart she had just received was in actual fact murdered. By recording the descriptions of the recipient’s violent recurring dreams she was able to describe the events to the police and provide such a good description of the murderer that the police were able to apprehend, arrest and convict the killer!'

  "Unbelievable! I've got to show that to the police tomorrow...can you send me a link to the internet where you found it? Susie, that's brilliant. It shows that I am not the first person to be chasing a murderer like this! And if it was good enough for the police in the US, hopefully it will be good enough for the police here too!"

  "Exactly. I'll send you the link..."

  "Thanks Susie. I don't know what I'd do without your support. I really appreciate it."

  "No problem, Peter. Listen, I want to talk to you about what happened the other day between us, but first there is something else..."

  "Don't worry about the other day. I got the message. Loud and clear."

  "No, you don't understand. I think I might have said the wrong thing...I, well...do you think that you and I could...blast...when are you coming home? I would rather talk to you about this face-to-face?"

  "I don't know. As soon as possible, I hope. This is beginning to drive me mad..."

  "As soon as you come back, please come over to mine. I will cook us dinner. We can put on some music and talk. Spend some time together again, like we used to... Would you like that?"

  "Susie, I would love that. I can't wait!"

  "Great...it's a date!" Susie replied, emphasising the word ‘date’.

  "So, what was the other big thing you wanted to talk to me about?"

  "Yes, YES!" she replied excitedly. "Wow...I've got something amazing to tell you! I've cracked the cellular memory mystery. It's a conspiracy. Just like I thought it was!"

  "What do you mean, a 'conspiracy'?"

  "There is a big cover up going on. I know what's causing the cellular memory phenomena!"

  "What?"

  "The medication. It's caused by the medicine!"

  "How do you know? What do you mean?"

  "After reading all the responses we got to the article in the paper, I realised that if we are going to write an article about it, that we needed much more information. We haven't got any resource to go and interview other patients in Scotland or elsewhere who share common experiences with you, so I put together a questionnaire and sent it them all by email..."

  "....What? To all 657 people?"

  "Yes. And the third question I asked was, 'What medication are you taking? I got 586 replies in two days. Guess what the answer was?"

  "Immunosuppressants?"

  "Sort of. Peter, what medication are you taking? And who makes it?"

  "I'm taking some tablets as part of a treatment that started just before I had the transplant. I got a few injections and tablets before I was operated on. I can hardly remember any of it. Afterwards, I have to take one big tablet every night and one in the morning."

  "Who makes it? What's it called?"

  "Hang on, it's on my bedside table. I'll tell you exactly..."

  Susie could hear him reach across and pick the tablets up. "I've got it. It's called SP-X4. And the drug company is the 'StemPharma Corporation'.

  "Bingo! You are taking the same treatment as everyone else. They’re all taking SP-X4!"

  "What? You mean that everyone who has had a transplant and is then prescribed SP-X4 makes a full recovery but then reports similar symptoms to mine?"

  "Exactly!" Susie exclaimed. "It's the drug. SP-X4 is the cause of the current wave of cellular memory phenomena! There must be thousands of transplants taking place every week, with lots of people taking other types of medication. Yet, the only people to contact us and who seem to be reporting symptoms of the cellular memory phenomena, are those who are patients of SP-X4. Peter, I was thinking, ...if you stop taking the drug, maybe you will stop seeing things that were done by KK!"

  Peter was silent. The implications of what Susie was saying were staggering.

  "We have to go and see Dr Jamieson as soon as possible. He has to stop prescribing the treatment! And he has to give me some other type of medicine."

  "Peter, he must know about this already. There has to be some big cover up going on. He must have lots of patients like you getting back to him and complaining about similar things that you are going through!"

  "He's never said anything thou
gh!"

  "Exactly. I'm telling you, there's some sort of global cover up going on..."

  "Susie, maybe, but unlikely...let's not get carried away. The likelihood is that he might not know anything about it? We'll just have to tell him. Bring him up to speed!"

  "Unless he’s part of the cover-up?"

  "Susie, I doubt it. I think the guy is a devout Christian. He's got a cross in his office, and there is a little poster on the wall with some saying of Jesus on it. I think he won't know anything about it."

  They were both silent. Thinking. What should they do next?

  "Okay, so as soon as you can, you need to come home, and we need to go and see this guy again together."

  "Hopefully I will be speaking to him tomorrow with the police officers down here."

  "Good...but don't say anything to him about SP-X4 yet. Not while the police are there. We, sorry, -' you' need to get this story first."

  "What happens next?"

  "I get the police to believe me, they free me, and then I come home!"

  "What about the other bodies?"

  "First things first."

  They were silent again.

  "Peter...I think this nightmare is going to come to an end very soon. Hang on in there, okay?"

  "I will, don't worry about me."

  "Peter, I do... Listen, I've got to go Peter..I just wanted to say one more thing though..."

  "What?"

  "I think I love you."

  And she hung up.

  .

  --------------------

  .

  Mat Stevenson listened to the end of the phone conversation that had had been recorded from his target's phone, sat back in his chair and begun to worry. Things were just about to escalate. Time was running out. He would have to fly to Scotland tomorrow.

  He dialled the number of Philip Grant.

  "Hi, it's me." Philip said, as soon as he picked up. They never exchanged names or personal details on the phone, just in case someone was listening to them. "So when are you leaving?"

  "Tomorrow."

  "I thought we'd agreed you'd go at the weekend."

  "There's been a development."

  "Such as?"

  "The customer in Scotland just made the connection. She got 586 replies to her questionnaire, all naming your product. She's made the link."

  "Fuck...!"

  "It's worse."

  "How?"

  "She's told her other colleague at the News. They're both planning to go and meet with the consultant you told me about. They're going to connect."

  "And once they do, " Philip interrupted, "...he'll be forced to go public. He'll have no choice. He'll have to do it before they write a newspaper article exposing it all. Fuck..."

  Mat was quiet. This was not his problem. He didn't cause the mess. He was just getting paid to clean it up.

  "We've got no choice. You will have to take care of all of them."

  "Three targets is three times the price."

  "I know. Just do it. And make sure it's done within the next five days. I'll contact the consultant and buy us some more time. Five days. Do you understand?"

  "I understand."

  Mat hung up.

  Chapter Eighty

  .

  .

  The Fox and Hounds

  Knuttsford

  May 5th

  10.30 p.m.

  .

  .

  Peter was reading the selection of free newspapers in the bar, catching up to date with what was going on in the world, when he saw Constable Alex Gibbs walk in.

  Pretending not to have noticed him, Peter kept the paper up in front of his face, and watched from the corner of his eye as Alex walked up to the bar, got himself a pint, and then scanned the room, looking for somewhere to sit. The bar was quite full now, and most places were taken. Hopefully the constable had not seen him. Peter was tired, and just wanted a break.

  "Aha...Peter...didn't see you at first. May I join you?"

  Peter dropped the paper, smiling sarcastically at the police officer.

  "It depends upon whether or not you are going to arrest me?"

  Alex sat down beside him.

  "I've just left the police station. I've spent the past hour talking with the local DI. We're not going to press charges."

  "Why not? Surely I'm as guilty as sin. I thought you would have been getting ready to burn me at the stake as a witch by now."

  "You mean, as a wizard. You're male."

  "Unless that's just a disguise."

  "Fair point. I've also spent the past half-an-hour on the internet. Checking out what you said about personality changes following organ donation."

  "And...?"

  "It's interesting."

  "It is, if you are not the one with the kidneys inside him that belong to a bloody killer."

  "No need to swear."

  "Oh yes, there is."

  "Can we talk, off the record?"

  "You want to talk to me, off the record? Is that allowed?"

  "It's your choice."

  "So you believe me then?"

  "Let's just say I am more open minded tonight than I was yesterday. "

  "About time. By the way, what's your email address? Tomorrow I will send you a link to another case on the internet...it's the story of a girl in the US who got eyes donated to her from a murder victim. The police listened to her. She described the visions she had of the murderer, as seen through the eyes of the murder victim just before she was killed. The police then built up a picture of the murderer from her description. From the Photofit, the police in the States identified him, tracked him down and arrested him."

  Alex took out a pen, scribbled his email address on the edge of a beer mat, and slid it across to Peter.

  "Peter, this evening when you were telling us everything in great detail, you described the murder of a woman in a room in a house, who was killed after having sex. She was wearing lingerie. The man in your visions...what do you call him 'KK?'-Yes?-Well, you said that KK stuck a knife in her chest? You thought they were watching porn videos at the time?"

  "Yes."

  "Her name was Claire Jones. A young woman from Cardiff. She was killed two years ago. The body was discovered lying in the front room of her detached house two months after she was killed. The smell drove the neighbours mad."

  "How do you know?"

  "Constable Davis checked the police databases after you left. Found her straight away. The case is unsolved. But...they found DNA in the house and on the body, so we'll try to match it up with the DNA from the blood in Ironbridge. See if there is a match."

  "DNA?"

  "Yes, what people don't seem to realise is that people leave traces of DNA almost everywhere they go or on anything they touch...the slightest brush of your hand against something...bingo, DNA. It's almost impossible to clean it all away. If it's there we'll find it. It just depends how much effort we want to spend in looking for it."

  "I'm guessing that they took photographs of the murder scene? Can you get hold of some copies so that I can look at them. I have a pretty good description of the room in my mind...I could identify it from the picture."

  "Constable Davis has already made a comparison to the scene you described on the interview tape and the photos he printed off from the file on the system. They match. I think it is the same place, and the same woman."

  "I don't understand..."Peter seemed genuinely confused. "Why would KK just leave the body on the floor for others to find her? I mean, he went to extreme lengths to bury the body in Ironbridge and here in Knuttsford, so why not there too?"

  "Maybe he was disturbed. Or maybe he wanted the body to be found. Either to show off, or as some sort of sick cry for help?"

  "What do you mean?"

  "We see it all the time. Murderers who commit a perfect crime, then feel compelled to tell others about it. Sometimes it's because they want to boast about it, but other times it's because somewhere, deep inside their messe
d up little brains, they feel guilty. They want to show the world their dirty deeds, so that they can get caught and punished. It might sound daft, but it actually worries some murderers how much they can get away with. They seem to be able to kill anybody they want. After a while they might even get somewhat angry with society: "How come no one has arrested me yet?" It scares them that they can seemingly kill with impunity, and they actually worry about their compulsion to kill and kill and kill until they are caught. In some killers, their desire to kill frightens them, but they feel powerless to resist. So they do it again. And then again."

  "Can I tell you something?" Peter asked Alex.

  "Yes."

  "Sometimes I wonder what is happening to me. I mean, I am trying my best to find the bodies of the people who have been killed, to help identify the victims and to try and identify who KK really is...I do think it is me who is seeing these visions, and I think it is me who is driving around looking for clues, doing the detective work etc. But what if I am wrong? What if it's actually KK who is showing me everything, showing me what he has done, telling me where to go, guiding me to the bodies? Who is in charge here? Me or him?"

  Constable Gibbs looked at Peter, not saying anything.

  "Alex, I mean, imagine that in some way the murderer has managed to live on through the kidneys being transplanted into me. Imagine that he somehow has some level of consciousness and that he can think in some way, maybe using part of my brain that I don’t realise? Maybe, just like you said, now he is dead, he feels guilty about what he has done. Maybe he even felt guilty when he was alive, but no one stopped him, so now, before his spirit can move onto the next world, he is trying to make final amends by helping to clear up some of the shit he left behind during his life? ...Am I making any sense here? Do you understand what I am trying to say."

  "Yes."

  "Or...as you just suggested...there is also that other possibility that maybe he knows he’s dead, and now there’s no chance of him getting caught and punished, maybe he just wants to show the world how clever or evil or sick he actually was! Perhaps he feels no guilt whatsoever. He's just arrogant and boasting: "Hey, look at me! See what I’ve done!"