Mutilated (DP, DIC02)

by Will Patching

  ‘Don’t call me that. Me name’s Tony. You know I hate…’ A sly twitch at the corner of his mouth would have been a response to humour in a normal person, but Doc knew it was pure cynicism as Harding took the measure of the man he was already jousting with. ‘So, I see you’ve got the big Pooh Bear with ya! Hey Winnie, are you here to make sure I don’t hurt him? Or are you here to stop this bastard trying to throttle the life out of me again?’

  He broke his gaze from Doc’s for a second, his eyes tracking upwards and to the left, unwittingly giving Doc the reassurance that Winston was indeed right behind him. Probably leaning a shoulder against the wall, arms folded, in a typically relaxed pose that belied the power he was ready to unleash if the inmate made a move towards Doc. Winston also kept silent, as requested.

  ‘No one is going to hurt you… Antony.’

  A pause, a little verbal stab at the man’s self-assurance, his ability to manipulate and control, challenged with just the one word, the given name he despised. Another fraction of a smile tugged at Harding’s lips, but again, it was not a sign of humorous appreciation.

  Doc was not here as a healing physician, he was here for answers, and if he could get under the inmate’s skin — and not let Harding get under his — then maybe he would learn more from the man’s riddles than normal. He was calmer now, still controlling his breathing, almost subconsciously, as the fluttering and burning in his stomach subsided.

  This is not so bad.

  ‘Well, Colin —’

  Doc heard the rustling behind him, and sensed Winston stiffen. Then a response rumbled over his head.

  ‘It’s Doctor Powers to you Harding. This may be a hospital and not the high security prison where some of us believe you belong, but you need to show respect for all the medical staff, including outside consultants. Have some manners.’

  Harding dipped his head, and clasped his hands on the table in front of him, the tattooed words LOVE and HATE on his knuckles intertwined, fingers whitening as he squeezed. Probably daydreaming about strangling the security chief.

  Or maybe me?

  Doc let the thought evaporate, as Harding spoke again.

  ‘Well Doctor. I’ve been expecting you.’ His knuckle joints popped in protest as he wrung his frustration out on them. ‘Thought you might be keen to come to see me.’

  The claim sounded like bravado to Doc, not a genuine prediction, so he ignored it, though would circle back to it later.

  ‘I’m hoping you can shed some light on something I’m currently working on.’

  ‘Fuck off! Why would I help you? If it wasn’t for you I wouldn’t even be in here.’

  ‘No. You’re in here because you’re a violent killer with a mental disorder, according to some experts.’

  ‘Yeah. But the pigs only realised…’ Then a pause before the ferret’s nose and mouth lifted, his buck teeth exposed in what passed for a Harding grin. As if a little thought bubble had appeared by his head, like in a cartoon, Doc could have predicted the words that came out next. ‘What’s in it for me then, Doctor Powers?’

  ‘I have some images I’d like you to view. Images I’m sure you’ll appreciate.’

  ‘Ooh, you’ve got some photos, have ya? Crime scenes? Victims? Yeah, is that right?’ He hunched forward, his clasped hands dancing a jig on the table top, tap, tap, tapping the surface, betraying his excitement. Even his dead eye seemed to glow at the prospect for a fraction of a second.

  ‘Indeed. You will get to see them, but only if I get what I want first. Quid pro quo. Fair enough?’

  Another uneasy rustling from Winston suggested that Doc was overstepping the bounds Celene had set. He could always square things with her, as well as Maddox, later, if need be. But right now he wanted answers.

  ‘What makes you think I can help? I’ve been in here twenty years! You think I’ve got underworld links still? You’re off your head, pal.’ Then, the rodent grin reappeared and he added, ‘You still don’t know what happened with your old man, do ya? Is that it? You want chapter and verse. I can do that for yer. Tell you how he looked as I watched the life drain out of him!’ Harding laughed then, a guttural, gurgling noise that shredded Doc’s equanimity like a cheese-grater.

  Doc forced himself to monitor his breathing, mentally checking his emotions, then considered the truth of the statement and began to wonder if that was the real reason he had come.

  ***

  Harding’s laughter had morphed into a coughing fit that gave Doc enough time to get himself back on track. The noise came to an abrupt halt as Harding wheezed in some air and gasped, ‘I need some water. Haven’t had this much excitement in ages!’

  The nurse, who had been on observation duty, brought him a paper cup and he took it without a word of thanks, then sipped at it. He inspected Doc over the edge of the cup as he drank, his brain ticking over, almost certainly considering how best to wind up his special visitor.

  It was quite conceivable that Harding actually had nothing to do with Carver’s cases, both current and cold, and that whoever sent the letters that morning was just playing a game with Doc, drawing him to Harding like this, knowing their history would guarantee some emotional fireworks.

  It seemed unlikely, but Doc needed to be sure. Either way, he could not let the inmate decide how this meeting would go.

  ‘I’m not here to talk to you about my father, Tony. I’m here to ask about your speciality. Dismemberment.’ Doc let the teaser hang between them, watched as the slippery tongue slid across Harding’s lower lip. ‘But before I show you these images,’ he patted his jacket pocket, ‘I want you to explain about the instances you claimed you were involved in…’ As Harding sat back, and started to protest, Doc continued. ‘I’m not looking for a formal confession of murder — I know you say you did not kill those victims, just disposed of the bodies.’ The almost grin, the cunning printed on Harding’s lips, quivered as Doc went on. ‘I’m not interested in details relating to those crimes, just some background on the process involved. You claimed to be something of an expert, if I remember rightly.’

  ‘Yeah. Used to work for the Adkins firm, south of the river. I was a doorman on their clubs, but also did some cleaning work for ’em. None of this is a secret. All in the court records.’

  Cleaning for the Adkins family.

  Doc translated the euphemism: disposing of competitors or anyone else who crossed the most vicious gang of criminals in the south of England. He was sure there was more to Harding’s past than just the handful of brutal murders he had been found guilty of, despite the man’s claims to the contrary.

  ‘Yes, I remember, at the trial, you seemed to think admitting to four instances of dismemberment of corpses and disposing of the bodies in the New Forest would be considered in mitigation. That surprised your defence team, but your cunning ploy helped convince the judge to assign you here, rather than high security prison, didn’t it?’

  The tongue darted into view again, tasted thin lips, then words oozed out of Harding’s ugly mouth.

  ‘Well, doing all that gave me a sort of traumatic stress disorder. I had to do it or I’d’ve ended up joining ’em. What with the abuse I suffered at my mother’s hands and then as a boy in care homes… Damaged me. I’ve never been right since. Hacking up dead bodies didn’t help my mental state none, I can tell ya that. And it ain’t easy, cutting up corpses, y’know?’

  The whining tone, the plea for sympathy implied by his words, did not convince Doc. The man was a psychopath, incapable of feeling for his victims. No compassion, no empathy. Dismembering human corpses would have affected his mental state no more than a slaughterhouse worker chopping up an old nag for dog food. If these criminal acts had any impact on Harding’s mental state at all, it would have been the sensations derived by his pleasure receptors from the ‘entertainment value’, or the feeling of superiority he would inevitably experience undertaking such deeds.

  ‘But you became an expert, Tony. Correct? If I remember rightly, you would
cut around the joints, rather like a butcher, or even a surgeon amputating a whole limb. No chainsaws for you. Finesse was your MO.’

  Doc tried to sound admiring, but was finding it difficult to dissemble. His current emotions ranged from revulsion to hatred with regard to this particular criminal.

  ‘Correct. Chainsaws make a terrible mess. Throws traces of blood and tissue all over the place too. Not good. Unprofessional… I just used chefs’ knives on ’em, did ’em in the bath. Cut round the joints then just popped ’em apart. Disposing of bodies is the toughest part of getting away with murder… Not that I murdered anyone else. Just that fucking paedo priest and the others I was done for… Including your old man!’ A smug-ugly smile. ‘He was a right cunt, y’know? You still have no idea why he had to die, do ya?’ He laughed again, and pointed at Doc’s face. ‘You look just like him. Nasty fucker. He was a total psycho too… I reckon you take after him. Doing your job, and all!’

  Doc swallowed back his hatred, his brain struggling to count as he breathed in, but his ears were roaring and the urge almost overpowered his self-control. He wanted so desperately to let go, and launch himself at the killer, to wring his neck, to choke the life out of him.

  Just like the bastard had done to his dad.

  ***

  ‘What the bloody hell do you mean, you’ve been re-assigned already? The job I gave you lads should’ve been done and dusted by now.’

  Fiona could hear Carver’s footsteps tramp up the stairs, his voice echoing in the corridor, then he paused for a few seconds, presumably listening to the excuses emanating from one of the four coppers back at the Yard. While she waited for him, she pulled her protective gloves from her pocket, wondering if she had discovered evidence relating to a current crime, or just a historical one.

  ‘Oh! Good. So you did get somewhere then. Leave it on my desk.’ The DI appeared in the doorway, grunted an unidentifiable syllable at her, pocketed his phone and then said, ‘We’ve got a name, Sarge! Harry Butler. Just the one grandson. And I think I found a photo of him in the army.’ He waggled the framed picture in triumph as he entered. ‘No other info on him yet, though.’

  ‘Harry?’ Not Barry, then… ‘That’s what Butler said. At the hospital…’ Her mood had shifted, and she knew she sounded unenthusiastic. Morose, even.

  ‘So what was all the excitement about, Fi?’ She watched as his eyes, accustomed to the gloom already, took in the prised open floorboard, the array of tins she had since placed on the bed, and her hands, pulling on her gloves. ‘Well, I take it that ain’t a secret stash of roll-up baccy then!’

  Fiona lifted one of the tins, the lid already off, and proffered it to him as he strode towards her.

  ‘Not tobacco, boss.’ Her voice was dull, in direct contrast to her initial shrill excitement. ‘Two ears, dried up and shrivelled, but undoubtedly human…’ She held one of them by the lobe between finger and thumb, then pulled it from the tin, the other dangling below it, attached by a short link of leather thong. ‘Both pierced through the middle before being strung together. A collector’s item.’ Her belly was queasy, her ham and brie baguette not far from resurfacing.

  ‘Bloody hell! Trophies. Must be the old boy’s…’

  ‘Yeah, but not taken recently. Here, look.’ She gently laid the ears on the lid lying on the bed cover, then tipped three tattered photographs from the bottom of the tin beside them. As she played her light over the faded grey images, she said, ‘This is the victim, before his ears were lopped off. A simple mugshot. This one was taken some time after.’ In the second photo the man was naked, standing alone, hands and feet bound to a vertical post, his body badly beaten, blood from his severed ears streaking his neck, shoulders and chest. ‘And going by how he appears in this third picture, very dead.’

  ‘Firing squad. Shot him from the looks of it… That’s Butler, I think. Holding the poor bugger’s head up for the camera in that last shot. Why cut his ears off before shooting him?’ He did not wait for her to answer, just asked, ‘Anything on the back? Date, place?’

  She flipped to the rear of each of the pictures but only one had any ink visible on the blank side, and that was difficult to read as the scrawled handwriting was almost illegible from age. Only the date was readable: 1958.

  ‘So what’s in the other tins? More of the same?’

  ‘I don’t know sir, I haven’t opened them. Is this a crime scene now? And do you think this has anything to do with our victim?’ Anger was hot on her tongue, her voice climbing as she let rip at Jack. ‘D’you think his ears might be in one of these tins? Or was it just people of colour that bastard Butler mutilated?’

  ‘Hold your horses, Sarge!’ He seemed to realise then, that she had been affected by her discovery, and not in a positive way. ‘Are you alright, Fi?’

  ‘Yeah. I’ll be fine…’

  She wasn’t convinced by her own words. And neither was he, from the look of it. He waited, eyeballing her, gave her a few seconds before speaking, his voice softer now.

  ‘First, let’s take a gander at what’s inside the rest of the tins. What have you got, eight more? Then we’ll be better placed to understand what’s going on. But if I was a betting man, I’d say we’ll only see more photos of dark-skinned fellahs who suffered amputations before joining Butler’s gruesome trophy collection… Having said that, at the moment, I can only take a wild guess about how this links with our Mister M. And we’re detectives, so let’s leave the wild guesses to the muppets, eh?’ He pulled his own gloves from his jacket pocket and said, ‘I can do this myself, Sarge… Why don’t you check out his kitchen diner. Maybe make yourself a cuppa while you’re at it. You look all in.’

  She was not sure whether to thank him or slap him. Was he being condescending? Treating her like some over-sensitive girly who couldn’t cope? Couldn’t do her job?

  The thought whistled through her mind and exited as quickly as it had arrived.

  No, not Jack.

  Fiona could see the concern on his face, the genuine expression behind an equally genuine offer for her to take a brief time out. He could be gruff and full of bluster at times, but he had good people radar and had obviously sensed the underlying reason for her distress.

  She was torn between staying and confronting the savage nature of the man who’s hand she had held to offer comfort in death, or getting out of here, avoiding the truth, even if only for a few minutes longer.

  The gruesome discovery had delivered an unexpected and unwanted cultural clash inside her mind, hammered into her psyche like a stake through the heart. She heard her own voice inside her head, repeating the line she had delivered with humour earlier that morning, now carrying a vicious undertone:

  Is it ’cos I is black?

  Maybe. Maybe not.

  ‘Okay, boss. I won’t be long.’

  She left him to catalogue the contents of Gerald Butler’s vile memento collection and found herself in the kitchen-cum-dining room, barely aware that she had traversed the stairs and corridor.

  Snap out of it, Fi!

  She checked the fridge for milk, but found nothing in there other than three bottles of cheap vodka, some dill pickles, a half opened tin of dog food, and some left over pizza.

  No tea for me then.

  She took a moment to root through the drawers and cupboards, listless, barely noting the contents, convinced there was nothing else to find here. They had the grandson’s name, a photo of him, and the old man’s disgusting trophies. If Butler had taken the trouble to hide his stash of human remains, then, she reasoned, it was unlikely she would find much else down here.

  Fiona was about to call Carver to see if he was ready to leave, when she remembered the under stairs cupboard. She grabbed the handle of the triangular door and pulled, but it was much heavier than she imagined. At first, she thought she might need to find the key, but she managed to wrench it open using both hands, fully expecting to be confronted by a vacuum cleaner, brooms and mops, the usual assortment of househo
ld items. Instead, she discovered an empty space, dark inside and with no light switch she could find. As she bent to take a closer look she noticed scratch marks on the inside of the door.

  At first, she thought they might be from the dog, pawing at it, trying to get out of a makeshift kennel, but as she inspected the ancient paint and ragged exposed wood, she thought she could see a tiny fragment of yellowed fingernail embedded in one of the scratches. Very small hands had made the marks, she decided, many years ago.

  So, what had Gerald been up to?

  She got down on her knees again, ducked her head inside the doorway and used her phone light to check the cupboard really was full of nothing, the beam sweeping the floor and then the back wall.

  Her head came up with a thud, her scalp scraping a sliver of skin on to the door frame, as she reacted with shock at what she saw.

  Ow! I’m jumpy as hell today. Calm down, Fi. Think!

  Her mind started to connect the dots.

  The spartan single bedroom. The twisted grandfather who tortured people and collected body parts as trophies. The grandson who might well have been corrupted by the old man. And now this.

  The miniature prison cell under the stairs.

  ***

  Doc replied to Harding’s outburst with a fixed stare and the words, ‘I told you, that’s not why I’m here.’

  Not this time… And I will not let you get to me!

  ‘So where’s these photos you want me to look at, then?’ Harding’s voice slithered into Doc’s brain, slicing at his self-control. Suspicion loitered on the inmate’s face as his spiked eyebrows lifted. ‘Or are you absolutely sure you wouldn’t prefer to chat about your daddy some more? I could talk about him all day.’ A slow smile formed, completely bereft of humour, followed by a farting noise squeezed through wet lips. ‘How he squealed like a little girl. Begged me not to kill him. Pissed his pants, he did… I reckon you’d rather hear all about it, from the horse’s mouth. None of it’s in the police reports. You don’t know the half of it!’