Mutilated (DP, DIC02)

by Will Patching

  ‘Perhaps I can get him to talk if I speak to him in person, Jack’

  ‘Be my guest. You want me in there too?’

  ‘No. We’ll switch places. I’ll keep DS Pierce in with me.’

  The sergeant was waiting in the room, as was the station lawyer and Harry Butler — at least their unwilling suspect had confirmed that was his real name. Not a big win as his fingerprints were on file from his machete attack in any case.

  ‘Go for it. I want to let his two mates sweat a bit before I interrogate them, though we haven’t got anything concrete on either of them yet.’

  ‘Do we have any of Butler’s DNA on file?’

  ‘Not yet. Why?’

  ‘Diana Davies, the hooker. She had semen in her body the day she was found. It was degraded and at the time they weren’t sure it would be definitive —’

  ‘Yeah, you’re right. LCN testing was banned when her body was found!’

  Doc was thinking the same thing. Low Copy Number testing for DNA samples had been controversial, and banned by the High Court at the time the prostitute’s body had turned up in a drainage ditch in south London. Reopening the case and using the technique to compare with other serial killers was an idea Doc had promoted in his series on unsolved crimes. However, the DNA from the semen had yielded no results when compared with the database, so they had no likely suspect.

  Until today.

  Jack was having a hurried conversation with a fellow officer as Doc squeezed past and eased himself into the interview room. He fiddled with the earpiece now lodged snugly in his aural canal and took a seat opposite the purported serial killer.

  ‘Hello, Harry. How are you doing?’

  Harry’s head bobbed up, his vacant stare slipped across Doc’s face, then his gaze dropped again, as if the floor was an object of fascination. It took a moment, then Harry’s head came up with a jolt, his eyes alert with recognition.

  ‘I know you. You’re not a copper.’

  It was the longest statement Harry had made since being hauled out of bed by armed policemen at dawn this morning, and Doc was encouraged by the reaction.

  At least he remembers me.

  DS Pierce spoke for the benefit of the tape, informing any future listener of Doc’s entry into the room, ensuring Harry’s words would be admissible as evidence.

  ‘No, I’m a psychiatrist, Harry. We met at Broadmoor after your last run-in with the law.’

  Harry had perked up, his body language more open as he spread his hands on the table top, leaning forward, eager now.

  ‘Yeah! You were the only one who listened to me. You got me released. What are you doing here, Doctor?’

  ‘Call me Doc, everyone else does.’ It was a line he used a lot, but he hoped the more casual approach would help loosen Harry’s tongue. Even so, Doc wanted to be clear about their relationship. ‘You are still under caution Harry, and you’re here on suspicion of murder. You need to realise how serious this is.’

  ‘I’ve done nothing! I’d never seen those hideous photos before that bastard copper started shoving them in my face.’

  ‘I understand why those photographs would make you uncomfortable, Harry. Are you still taking your medication? Did the Duty Sergeant allow you to take anything before they brought you here, for interview?’

  ‘The station medic sorted me out with something when I got here. I asked them to bring my meds when they nicked me, but they wouldn’t let me have them…’

  ‘Do you still get memory lapses, even while taking the drugs?’

  ‘No… They sort me out. Totally.’

  ‘But you used to get lapses even while you were on the meds. Like the day you were caught with the machete.’

  ‘That was after I ran out — I was on my way to the GP to get a repeat prescription.’

  ‘Refresh my memory for me. Tell me about the other occasions, Harry. Lapses that occurred around that time.’

  ‘Often I’d wake up in the morning parked outside the graveyard where my parents are buried.’ Harry peered at him, earnest as he asked, ‘What does that mean, Doc?’

  ‘Maybe nothing.’ Which was the opposite of what Doc was thinking but he sensed Harry was holding back from him. ‘Anywhere else?’

  Harry’s cheeks reddened as he confessed to something Doc had suspected, something half remembered from their brief meetings at Broadmoor eleven years before.

  ‘Sometimes I woke up in bed with a hooker…’

  ‘Your subconscious was just looking for comfort, Harry. No need to be embarrassed.’

  ‘I’m not! She was a friend, really… A fuck buddy.’

  ‘Good. I have a photograph I’d like you to look at for me.’ Doc could see Harry’s more open demeanour start to retreat again, so hastily added, ‘Don’t worry, this is nothing untoward. Just a woman who I think you may be able to help us identify.’ Doc riffled through some pages in one of the files Jack had left with the sergeant, then pulled out a photograph of Diana Davies before she had been tortured and left as a mutilated torso. The photo was taken before her career as a sex worker too, and she was quite attractive, not yet ravaged by STDs. Doc ignored the other images of her as a street walker, when her experiences had jaded her, taken its toll on her body and soul. ‘She used to work near King’s Cross.’

  Doc slid the picture across to Harry who took it in his hand, fondled it for a few seconds, his features softening as he nodded.

  ‘That’s her. She was an old school buddy of mine. We had a bit of a thing until I found out she’d contracted HIV and hadn’t told me. Haven’t seen her since. Diana Davies. Why?’

  Jack’s voice echoed uncomfortably in Doc’s ear as the detective swore aloud, clearly forgetting his full throated curse was amplified until it was too late. Doc’s fingers plucked out the offending ear bud and he pocketed it without missing a beat while Harry’s eyes were still scrutinising the photograph.

  ‘I’m afraid she was a victim of whoever has been butchering the people you saw in those photographs the detective showed you. She disappeared over ten years ago, not long after you turned up in Brixton swinging a machete. We think someone abducted her and held her for some time, torturing her and mutilating her before dumping her body in a ditch… What can you tell me about any of that, Harry?’

  ‘N-n-nothing. I lost touch with her. I didn’t even know she was missing. I swear, Doc! You know I was a mess myself after leaving the forces. I could never do something like that, though.’

  Doc felt sure Harry was telling the truth. At least the Harry that was sitting here, in this interview room, right now.

  In all his years in psychiatry Doc had only ever witnessed a handful of genuine cases of Dissociative Identity Disorder, but Harry’s behaviour might be explained by a second personality existing inside him, unknown to the conscious individual arrested today. A psychopathic alter ego capable of butchering Diana Davies while his law abiding self was unaware it had happened.

  The parallels with Doc’s own experience of similar fugue states, where he had periods he could not account for, were not lost on him, and no doubt Carver too.

  Maybe Harry was the killer, the demonic murderer they were hunting. His traumatic experiences in Afghanistan could have triggered the creation of a second identity feeding off the terrors residing inside the memory of the original personality. Although Doc had seen no evidence of multiple personalities when he first met the tormented veteran, another character may have lurked, hidden within. They had only spent a dozen hours together at most, for the court mandated assessment, so it was unlikely that any competent psychiatrist would have diagnosed the disorder from that brief interaction. Doc probed him further.

  ‘Tell me more about the headaches and the memory lapses. You still suffer from them, don’t you? You don’t always take your medications as prescribed, do you?’ Harry’s medical files from his time at Broadmoor were also on the table, and Doc thumbed through them as he asked. ‘How long do the lapses last? How much time goes missing when they o
ccur, Harry?’

  Doc felt discomfited by the questions, ones he had often asked himself, but kept his focus on Harry, watching as the man’s attitude shifted again — angry now, his voice raised, fist banging the table as he yelled.

  ‘There’s no way I could do any of this! You think I could carve up my friend and not even know about it? You’re mad if you think that’s even possible.’

  ‘Did she infect you Harry? Are you HIV positive?’

  ‘No! What? Is that supposed to be my motive for chopping up a girl I used to love? Jesus! I’ve had enough of this. Now fuck off and leave me alone. I’m not saying another word.’

  Harry’s neck and face were flushed, his fists both bunched, quivering, the joints pale and prominent as his hands vibrated against the tabletop.

  Doc was about to try another tack, but the door opened and Jack entered . He announced himself for the recording, pulled a chair up beside Doc and said, ‘I’ll take over now, Doctor Powers.’ Jack’s eyes bored into Harry, who was glaring back defiantly. ‘You see, we’ve made an important discovery in your shop, Mister Butler. Something that will see you banged up for life if I have anything to do with it. I’m sure you know exactly what I’m talking about.’

  Harry’s anger flared again, his head snaking forward, the muscles of his face in spasm, wrenching his lips away from his teeth, creating a disturbing rictus grin as he tried to outstare the detective. This time, his voice was quiet, controlled as he said, ‘I have no comment. End of!’

  ‘Oh, I think you might want a word with your brief.’ Jack ignored Harry’s glare and addressed the lawyer. ‘We found a human hand in a bag in his freezer. My team are dusting it for fingermarks as we speak, though I’m pretty sure we’re going to find your client’s hands have been all over it. You might like to advise Mister Butler to confess everything before we have all the evidence we need to charge him with murder.’

  ‘YOU FUCKING LIAR!’

  Harry leapt to his feet, as if about to stomp from the room but was trapped behind the table between the wall and his solicitor who looked him up and down, shaking his head as he addressed Jack.

  ‘I’d appreciate some time alone with my client, Detective, if I may.’

  ***

  ‘We’re just about done here, Sarge. I’ve secured the door and added some crime scene tape. You need a lift?’

  A couple of hours earlier, a squad car had picked up the frozen hand, carefully packed into a special cool box designed for organ transplant deliveries, and blue lighted it back to base, along with the notebook computer Fiona had discovered. Both items had been dusted for finger marks by the SOCOs on site and the results relayed, but Jack wanted the hand with the lab technicians as soon as possible, and would also have DS Sam Sharpe working on the computer without delay.

  No additional evidence had been discovered, but things were definitely shaping up, Fiona thought. All in all, a good morning’s work.

  ‘Thanks guys. I’ll hang on here for a bit.’

  ‘You’re not coming back with us, then?’

  ‘No. I’m going to grab some lunch and head to HQ later. My car’s just round the corner.’

  Although Fiona was planning to eat, her stomach having been grumbling at her for the last hour while she waited for the forensic team to finish their work at Harry Butler’s place, she had other plans for this afternoon. The DI was convinced he had their killer and was tied up with interviews. Apparently, Carver had no need of her assistance, convinced he could sweat out the names of any accomplices from Butler.

  The Rawlings investigation was coming to a conclusion, and normally Fiona would have felt a thrill at having played such a major role in the team’s success, especially given the speed with which they had arrested their man. Instead, a dark cloud infested her mind, along with an uneasy suspicion that the evil undertones of the case were still unresolved. The feelings she had experienced from her discovery at Gerald Butler’s house were still fresh and raw, an open wound that would fester until she closed the case to her own satisfaction.

  Willie’s Atlas bone may be old, quite possibly legally imported, but she wanted to meet this Hand of God character, just in case the bastard had been pilfering bones from Streatham Crematorium, hacking the body parts from the deceased before burning the evidence.

  During Fiona’s conversation with her boss to inform him of the SOCOs discovery, Carver had told her to stay with the team until they had finished. This did not help her mood, so she had spoken with DS Sam Sharpe to press him for the list of names of the crematorium staff working at the time Willie had received the Atlas bone. Although Sam had baulked at first, claiming he was far too busy with work for the DI, Fiona had convinced him it would take him just minutes and she would buy him a slap up meal if he could just do this one thing for her.

  About ten minutes before the SOCOs finished, her phone had beeped and a file arrived with a couple of dozen names and addresses. There was no accompanying message other than a handful of emojis of food and beer and a smiley face.

  Sam, you gem!

  It took her a moment to identify the most likely contenders from the list, based on some rudimentary racial profiling. Just two names jumped out as having potential, so she sent a note straight back asking for confirmation of current address for home and workplace for each of them, along with a website link to the photo gallery for the curry house in Brixton where she and Carver had eaten just two nights before.

  While Fiona waited for Sam to respond, the chief SOCO rounded up his men and ushered them all outside, then sealed the premises before offering her a lift. Fiona stood alone on the pavement as they drove off, thinking she would pop into the nearest corner shop and pick up a pie or a sandwich just as Sam replied with another sparse message.

  Excellent!

  Thanks to her colleague she now had the details she needed. Only one of her two suspects was still alive, and his home address and his business address were the same, roughly fifteen minutes drive from Butler’s shop. Maybe half an hour if she stopped for a decent coffee and a sarnie on the way.

  ‘Arthur Abimbola.’

  Fiona spoke the name aloud, rolling the vowels and consonants on her tongue, wondering, Are you Willie’s Atlas bone supplier? Dealer in stolen body parts?

  Are you the Hand of God?

  ***

  Antony Harding was having a terrific morning, the best he’d had in twenty years. After the euphoric sensations caused by hormones racing through his nervous system during the breakout, then the crazy cross-country bike ride through Berkshire farmland, across golf courses, along the Kennet and Avon Canal and then the Thames towpath, he felt elated and ready for anything.

  Well, almost anything.

  ‘This van stinks of horse shit, mate!’

  The rider ignored the comment as he dismounted the bike then pulled up the ramp at the back of the motorized horsebox before drawing down the shutter from within. Harding watched as the light inside the vehicle dimmed but could still see both the bike and the rider clearly. The other man’s fist banged a signal on the back of the driver’s cab and they started moving down the country lane several miles to the west of Windsor.

  ‘Stop whingeing. We’ll be in here for a while, pal. We have to stick to minor roads until things die down, then you’re on your own. Here, the boss sent this for you.’

  The rider handed a holdall to Harding then checked the bike was secured with elasticated packaging straps before settling on a ledge at the front of the horsebox.

  Harding joined him and perused the contents, glad to be back in the game.

  ‘Who are we working for?’ His naturally suspicious mind kicked in as his colleague started to rattle off his instructions. The feeling he was being set up only began to dissipate as he riffled through the cash pile he’d found in an envelope at the bottom of the bag. ‘Ten grand, eh? And another ninety if I do what he wants.’

  ‘Yup.’

  ‘Why me?’

  ‘Don’t ask me, pal. But if
it was up to me, I’d be the one on the receiving end of that wedge of cash. For some reason, the boss thinks you’re the right candidate for the job.’

  ‘And who is the boss?’ Harding asked again, but the man’s reply was not enlightening.

  ‘No idea. I’m a contractor. I get my instructions, I fulfil them, I get paid. You should be fucking chuffed I broke you out of that lunatic asylum, especially now you’re standing here with that pile of dosh in your hand. The bike’s yours too, if you can ride it. It’s clean — not nicked. If not, there’s a London taxi you can use. Black cabs are great for getting round London — no one notices cabbies. You’ll want to ditch that tonight, when you’ve done the job. The driver’s missing…’ He smirked. ‘But his disappearance won’t be reported until he doesn’t turn up for his dinner tonight. I assume you can drive.’

  ‘Course I fuckin can. And I have to do both targets in the next nine or ten hours, max, or I don’t get paid?’

  ‘S’right.’

  ‘And what if I don’t want to do the job?’

  ‘You can piss off now if you like. Keep that money and run. I’m happy to do it if you’re too chickenshit.’

  ‘I’ll take the cab then.’

  Harding rarely felt gratitude for anything from anyone, and today was no exception. The man would regret his insult too, but for now, Harding listened to more instructions about the tasks he had been assigned, inspected the other items in the holdall, and wondered why this anonymous boss wanted these two individuals assassinated today.

  ***

  Doc Powers watched through the observation window as Jack introduced himself at the start of his interview with Sharon Tait.

  Shazza had waived her right to legal representation, although Doc suspected that would change once Jack divulged their latest discovery. Even so, Doc’s assessment of her body language and general attitude did not point to her as an accomplice to the crimes Harry Butler was now presumed to have committed. The girl had no previous form, no medical training, and according to Glen, the third person arrested in the tattoo parlour, a love of animals and all things living. Including humans.