The Rule Book

by Kitchin , Rob

  ‘Detective Superintendent McEvoy,’ McEvoy announced. ‘Where am I meant to be looking?’

  One of the guards stepped forward. ‘They’re over there, Sir,’ he said, pointing to the nearest set of double crosses.

  Stuck on the top of the left-hand cross was a business card. McEvoy scanned the other sets. One cross of each of the six pairs sported a card.

  Plunkett leant forwards, careful not to step out onto the heather. ‘The Rule Book,’ he read out. ‘A self-help guide for would-be serial killers. In all good book shops soon. There’s a picture of a bird as well. Looks like a crow or a raven at a guess.’

  ‘The bastard’s trying to taunt us,’ McEvoy stated flatly. ‘We have chapter one. You think there are six more to follow?’ he speculated, pointing at the crosses.

  ‘Possibly’ Hannah replied, shrugging. ‘Are they all the same?’

  Plunkett edged his way along the path, leaning out to each set of crosses. ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Jesus,’ McEvoy muttered. ‘You’d better get a team up here, Hannah, see if they can find anything useful.’

  The man held the filthy blouse aloft then buried his face in its thin cotton, drawing in Laura’s pungent, musky body odour and the debris of Dublin’s city streets. Killing her had been mechanical; clinical. She had put up no resistance – no fight, no screams, no drama. She had simply followed his instructions, undressing passively and lying on the bed.

  He removed the blouse from his face and threw it onto the open fire recalling her final moments. She had held her arms tight to her side and opened her mouth wide, staring through him rather than at him. She had been his mirror, displaying as much emotion as he himself had felt. It was as if she had already departed to another world and he was acting outside of himself, his anger centred and benign; both of them in a different space and time.

  The sword had been slightly too wide and its weight difficult to balance above her. He’d nodded at her once, she’d blinked – the first sign that she’d noticed him and what was happening – and he’d thrust the sword down, pulling hard on the hilt, ramming it through her neck, the mattress, and into the floorboard below. Her spine had severed easily, the sword widening her grimace, her eyes bulging with reflexive shock, her limbs involuntarily jerking.

  He was surprised at how little blood there had been. Except for the soaking of the sheets and the pools snaking across the floorboards, there had been very little; just the occasional spray across her face and upper torso, a little onto the walls. He had cleaned up carefully after himself, gently wiping down and cleansing her body, taking his time, doing a thorough job. There had been no elation or euphoria, no sorrow or regrets; no anything.

  He pulled her dirty white bra from a plastic bag and held it aloft, gazing at the worn and frayed lace frill, recalling her slight breasts and rosebud nipples. He drew the bra to his face and savoured the smell of fear and self-loathing. He smiled to himself and lowered it slowly onto the open fire, watching raptly as the lace twisted and shrank to black wisps as it encountered the flames.

  The dining hall had been re-organised into an incident room. On one side of the room three computers had been set up along a wall, each staffed by a guard. Above them, tacked to the wall were two patchwork quilts, each small panel stating a message of peace and hope. On the opposite wall was a row of old, wooden tables, file boxes stacked on top. On the table nearest the door were two flasks, a stack of polystyrene cups, and a basket of biscuits.

  A scattering of orange plastic chairs occupied the middle of the hall. Hannah Fallon and Fay Butler, the DS in charge of the room, were sitting together chatting quietly; John Joyce, Peter O’Reilly and Kenny Johns were standing nearby, lost in their own thoughts, swirling the coffee in their cups.

  At the far end of the room a map of the area had been taped to the wall, a whiteboard standing nearby. McEvoy was standing in front of the map, mentally tracing the different ways the killer could have got to and from the centre.

  Barney Plunkett entered the room and headed for the refreshments table. He pressed the top of a flask, squirting hot coffee into his cup and grabbed a couple of biscuits.

  Sensing that the team was now complete, McEvoy turned to face the others. ‘Right okay, let’s make a start,’ he announced more harshly than he intended.

  The assembled team finished off their sentences, the four men pulling up chairs and sitting down.

  ‘We need to review where we’re at,’ he instructed, ‘swap notes and make a plan of action. I want to catch this bastard, hopefully before he can kill again. That poor girl was sacrificed. I …’ McEvoy hesitated, ‘well, words can’t describe … let’s just say that I haven’t seen anything like it in 20 years and I never want to see it again. So what have people got? Hannah, how about we start with you?’

  Hannah brushed her auburn hair off her face and glanced round at the others. ‘We’re still processing the scene. I won’t have anything concrete until we’ve run the tests in the lab. We’re still waiting for Elaine Jones to arrive, so nothing on the body I’m afraid. It looks like he was very careful. Probably wore gloves, hairnet, whatever. There are no footprints, despite the amount of blood, just smears. It’s as if he was wearing socks over his shoes, though that’s just a guess. We’re also going to get a lot of noise from previous occupants; God knows how many people have slept in the room in the past couple of years. We’ve only just started work on the cemetery.’

  McEvoy looked up from scribbling a note on a pad. ‘Any questions?’

  ‘Was he suited up before or after the killing?’ Fay Butler asked. In her mid-forties, with dyed blonde hair cut in a bob, she was wearing a well-cut, dark blue trouser suit. A large, plain silver cross hung round her neck, resting on top of a round-necked, cream top. ‘If it was before, he would’ve probably had to have made his way to the room already suited up – difficult to change while he’s assaulting her. That or he’d have had to restrain her, then change; but then he’d have risked leaving traces in any struggle before she was subdued.’

  ‘It doesn’t look like she was physically restrained,’ Hannah replied. ‘We’ll have to wait for Elaine Jones for confirmation, but that’s my assessment. It might be that he broke in first; then got changed while he waited for her to return,’ she speculated.

  ‘In which case,’ McEvoy said, ‘that would mean the murder was probably committed some time shortly after Laura returned from the drinking session. What time did people go down to the den? We need to know if anyone was spotted entering the building around that time.’

  ‘I don’t think anyone was mentioned in the interviews,’ Kenny Johns replied. ‘I’ll re-check the statements.’

  ‘How about the room?’ McEvoy asked. ‘Any sign that it had been broken into?’

  ‘No,’ Hannah replied, ‘but by the look of the door and the lock it wouldn’t have been difficult to get in undetected – hardly Fort Knox.’

  ‘Right, okay,’ McEvoy said slowly, ‘any more questions for Hannah?’

  The room stayed silent.

  ‘Kenny, how about the interviews?’

  Johns adjusted his tie and tugged a shirt sleeve, his hand staying in place to play with his cufflink as he started to speak. ‘We have preliminary statements from all of the centre’s staff and the homeless group. We’re still working on cross-checking their stories and eliminating people, but just about everyone seems to have an alibi – mainly that they were sharing rooms. I have a couple of the team checking on previous convictions, but my guess is that it’s all going to be stuff like burglary or drugs, maybe drunk and disorderly, not violent crimes. There’s a few shifty characters okay, and we need to re-check a few things, but I get the sense our man isn’t amongst them.’

  ‘How about the missing five?’ Plunkett asked.

  ‘We’re still waiting for them to be tracked down,’ Johns replied. ‘Once they are, they’re top of our priority list.’

  ‘Anyone obviously hiding anything?’ John Joyce asked.


  ‘Just about all the homeless group – dealing with the guards is well down their things-to-do list. Let’s just say they kept things to a minimum.’

  ‘Did any of them claim to be friends with the victim?’ McEvoy asked.

  ‘Not that I’m aware,’ Johns said. ‘I’ll ask round the team but anyone I spoke to said she was a loner. She kept herself to herself; hardly said a word to anyone. I got the impression they didn’t really know how to react. They were sorry that she was dead, but they’re not really in a position to grieve; they didn’t really know her. Plus they have their own problems and demons to worry about.’

  ‘If she hadn’t been killed here,’ Joyce stated, ‘no one would have known she was dead.’

  ‘And we don’t know who she is yet either,’ Butler added. ‘All we have is the body and a first name. Laura.’

  ‘We know a young life was taken too early and that’s enough,’ McEvoy said firmly. ‘Did no one hear anything? The sound of a struggle? The thud of the sword hitting the floor? Jesus, that must have made one hell of a noise.’

  ‘Nothing other than a few of the lads having a drunken party in one of the rooms,’ Johns replied. ‘If your man was waiting for her to return then, as you say, there was probably no one around to hear the killing.’

  ‘We can’t take it that he broke in first for granted,’ McEvoy responded. ‘But if no one heard the sword then it’s more probable that she was killed after she left the den but before the others did.’

  ‘Unless they mistook it for a slamming door,’ Plunkett offered.

  ‘Which is another possibility,’ McEvoy conceded. ‘We need to try and get an approximate time of death from the body. Anything else from the interviews?’

  ‘I don’t think so,’ Kenny replied.

  ‘Okay, tell the centre staff and DHC they’re free to go, but to leave contact details. Explain to the DHC that we’re releasing the homeless kids into their care. Ask them to try and set up hostel accommodation or something. We don’t want them scattering to the four winds. Peter, John, how are the questionnaires coming on?’

  ‘I’ve got 40 officers out,’ Peter O’Reilly responded. ‘Thirty doing the door-to-door, ten scouting round the site looking for anything he might have dumped – a couple of them picked up the business cards. I’m looking after the door-to-door, Detective Sergeant Joyce the search work. We’re surveying every property within a five-mile radius. We’ve not got too much so far. Sightings of strangers, but then the place is full of strangers given the number of tourists and people coming into the mountains to walk.

  ‘News is filtering out though, and we’re starting to get asked questions. And the rumour mill’s already at work. One woman had heard that a girl had been killed as part of a satanic ritual; that those staying here had drunk her blood while calling forth the devil. I think we’re gonna need to nip that in the bud, it’s only going to be counter-productive down the line.’

  ‘Fair comment,’ McEvoy responded, ‘though it’s not far off the mark. A sword through the head and a killer on the loose is hardly going to reassure the public. Anyone got anything else?’ He paused before continuing. ‘Okay, then, now we’re up-to-date, let’s work on what we’ve got.’

  He moved to the whiteboard, picked up a marker and turned back to face the small group. ‘First, this was carefully planned. The killer knew what he was doing and he knew his way around. Either he was familiar with the place or he made himself familiar. He turned to the whiteboard and spoke as he wrote, ‘“1. Past guests. Former employees. Strangers.”’ He swung back round again. ‘We need a full list of everyone who stayed or worked here in the last five years and descriptions of any strangers.

  ‘Second, our killer was accomplished. He had composure. He didn’t lose his temper or panic. He killed Laura in cold blood then arranged her body and cleaned the room. That doesn’t sound like a first-time killer to me.’ He turned back to the board. ‘“2. Convicted or suspected killers. Violent offenders. Sexual assault.” We’re going to need a list of all freed murderers and suspected killers in the last 20 or 30 years. See if any names tally with the guest lists. Given the number of ex-prisoners and paramilitaries that have passed through this place there’s bound to be a few. They all need to be checked out and eliminated.’

  ‘Jesus,’ Plunkett muttered, acknowledging the size of the task.

  ‘Third, he had to get to and from here,’ McEvoy continued, ignoring the interruption. ‘The centre’s miles from anywhere so the chances are he didn’t walk. That, or he’s still here, and I doubt that. “3. Vehicle.” We need to identify all vehicles that have been parked near to or in the centre’s car park over the past two weeks.

  ‘Fourth, we have some obvious pieces of evidence. “4. Material evidence – sword.” That sword had to come from somewhere. It’s either been purchased, stolen or it’s a family heirloom. “– note.” We need to trace the quote. Also, see if he’s copying the rules from some other source. “– business cards.” Did he make them himself, or did he get them printed? If they were printed, then where?

  ‘Finally, the victim. Why did he choose her? Was it just a random selection or was there more to it than that? Was he after a young woman? Did he know her? We need to piece her life together – who she was, who her friends were, who she knew. “5. Victim.”’

  He placed down the marker and took a couple of steps back. ‘Anyone got anything to add to that?’

  ‘The stuff he cleared out of the room,’ Butler suggested. ‘Her belongings and his clothes, he must have disposed of them somewhere.’

  ‘“6. Crime scene artefacts.” Good point. Anyone else?’

  The group remained silent, staring at the whiteboard, thinking through the work that needed to be done.

  Professor Elaine Jones pushed open the door onto the corridor and headed for the victim’s room. Her shoulder-length grey hair was pulled tight into a short ponytail, her eyes framed by crow’s feet, her bright red lips by laughter lines. The bag she carried seemed half her size.

  A young, tall, thin, bald-headed man with sunken cheeks pushed open the corridor door and lurched after her.

  Hannah Fallon stepped from the room, a grim look on her face.

  ‘What a day!’ Elaine breezed, starting to pull protective clothing from her bag. ‘First two dead children, now this. They’d been sprayed with lighter fuel before the house was set on fire. Can you believe that?’ She looked up, grimacing. ‘They didn’t stand a chance.’

  ‘I believe anything at this stage,’ Fallon replied. ‘And this’ll be another one to add to your collection. The poor girl was made to swallow a sword.’

  ‘What, like down the throat?’

  ‘No, no, straight out the back of her skull.’ Fallon did a thrusting motion past her head to illustrate. ‘She’s laid out like a sacrifice.’

  ‘Jesus. Three sacrifices in one day.’ The pathologist shook her head and tugged on a glove. ‘The devil’s been busy.’

  ‘Well, if the note’s anything to go by, it’s the first in a sequence.’

  ‘And I was hoping for a holiday,’ Professor Jones said, keeping her voice buoyant and rolling her eyes. She wanted the mood serious but light. Death was a sombre, depressing affair and she found quips and playful teasing the best way to combat the sober funk that could envelop an investigating team. ‘How’re you getting on, Igor?’

  Her assistant, Billy Keane, started to pull on his protective suit. ‘Not a bother,’ he replied. ‘I’ll be ready when you are.’

  ‘How’s the room?’ the pathologist asked Fallon.

  ‘We’ve cleaned a pathway over to her for you. The killer has washed the room down and bathed the body. Once you’re done and the body’s removed we’ll finish up.’ She looked at her watch. ‘Probably tomorrow at this stage. The local doctor pronounced her dead this morning before we arrived; we have his notes for you.’

  ‘Thanks. You ready then, Igor?’ Elaine Jones pulled a mask down over her nose and mouth.

 
; Billy hung a camera round his neck. ‘Yes, ma’am.’

  ‘How many times do I have to tell you? I’m not your mother. Look at the size of you.’ She stood next to him, her five foot one frame dwarfed by his six foot five. ‘You’d have split me in half if I’d tried to give birth to you! If you get the chance, can one of your team get us some coffee,’ she said to Fallon. ‘It’s all that’s keeping us going at this stage.’

  ‘Bishop!’ the chief superintendent snapped.

  ‘The rumour mill’s starting to work,’ McEvoy said without introduction. ‘I think we need to release a fuller statement to the media. We need to straighten them out on a few things and fill in a few blanks. We also need to appeal for witnesses who might have seen strangers in and around the area in the last few days. The usual stuff.’

  ‘I’ve already had someone working on it. You want to check it through before I talk to the media?’

  ‘You’re talking to the media?’ McEvoy asked, confusion in his voice. ‘I thought it was to be Peter O’Reilly’s five minutes of fame?’

  ‘There’s been a change of plan,’ Bishop said firmly. ‘This thing’s going to be international news. A young girl made to swallow a sword. The UK dailies have already been on, plus a couple of the US stations – Fox, CNN. We’ll be running this out of the national press office.’

  And it’ll be your five minutes of fame, McEvoy thought, unsurprised by Bishop’s change of plan.

  ‘Look, Colm, I know you’re not a great fan of media work, but I’d be grateful if you’d be available tomorrow morning for half an hour. They’ll want to talk to the senior investigating officer.’

  ‘Would Peter O’Reilly not be better?’ McEvoy hazarded. ‘This is his patch.’

  ‘No, I want you to do it. It’ll be you they’ll want to talk to, not some local yokel.’

  ‘Okay,’ McEvoy said reluctantly. Whatever Peter O’Reilly was, he wasn’t a yokel. Anyone who made superintendent had to have some guile and wits.