A Cold Cold Heart

by John Nicholl

  He took a deep breath and sucked the cold, early morning air deep into his lungs, as his erection slowly subsided, to be replaced by the nagging fear of arrest that plagued him after each killing.

  He looked to left and right, searching the riverbank with quick, darting eyes for non-existent potential witnesses, and clutched his midriff as his gut spasmed and twisted. Come on, Charles, hold it together, man. Deep breaths. That’s it. Count to ten. Calm yourself. No need to panic.

  He looked down at the lifeless body just a few feet away, smiled as he recalled the terror in her eyes, and felt a little better almost immediately. What the hell was wrong with him? Now wasn't the time to fall apart like some inadequate client in times of adversity. He had the intelligence, the attention to detail, the superior intellect. He just had to make use of those gifts and take full advantage. He had to outwit his potential captors and continue his journey with all that entailed. It really was as simple as that. He was back in control. An alpha male on top of his game.

  Turner took a brown paper bag from his jacket pocket, removed a cigarette butt, and placed it on the semi-frozen ground precisely two inches to the right of the young woman’s head. Wasn’t it odd how she appeared to be staring into the far off distance but seeing nothing at all. Like a life-size doll or mannequin, oblivious to his very existence, as if she’d forgotten him already. The circle of life, survival of the fittest, she’d served a useful purpose, and now, she was gone, lost to him, nothing but a memory. But in a strange way they’d be linked forever: Bonnie and Clyde, Anthony and Cleopatra, Ian and Myra. Maybe one day, they’d be famous too. Celebrated in the annals of history.

  He checked his surroundings, in the light of a half-moon partly shrouded in cloud, and felt a further pang of regret as he strolled in the direction of his car, a twenty minute or so walk away. It was all over so very quickly in the end. Weeks of planning, invention, and anticipation had led to just a few brief minutes of ecstasy that had pleased him like nothing else could. One moment, her eyes were alive with the light of life, and then, they paled and dulled as he’d placed his hands around her slender neck and squeezed until she’d drifted off into inevitable oblivion. He’d held the power of life and death in his hands and, at that moment, had been a god. A creature at the very pinnacle of the evolutionary tree. An all-powerful predator at the peak of his almost limitless powers. If only he could go back in time and stay there forever.

  He pushed up his sleeve, checked the high-end Swiss watch – bought to celebrate his second killing – and increased his pace. Maybe next time he should take his victim close to death and revive her before signing her death warrant. Yes, yes, why not? Why the hell hadn't he considered it before? It seemed so obvious now he thought about it. Why not draw out the experience for as long as possible? Maximise his pleasure to the nth degree. Give the bitch hope, and snatch it away again just when she thinks she may survive to live another day. It was brilliant, inspired. And maybe repeat the process time and time again until he could barely stand the anticipation.

  Turner broke into a smile that dominated his boyish features. He was getting hard again. Stimulated. It would be so good, so fucking good. The best yet. It was just a matter of finding the right girl and putting his newfound plans into action.

  Turner looked up and began trotting along the river path as night threatened to turn to day. It was time to head home to get an hour or two’s shut eye before getting up for work. It was such a regrettable inconvenience, but he had to keep up appearances. He had to work to an acceptable standard and keep up the misleading persona of middle- class respectability that he’d so carefully crafted. It was all done for a purpose, for good reasons, that’s what he had to remember. It helped facilitate his true self; the moments that mattered. And he was good at it – he had to acknowledge that. It was just a matter of keeping control and wearing the metaphorical mask, and the fools didn’t suspect a damned thing.

  He began to run at full pace as the sun slowly rose above the distant horizon, and the sky softened. Shit. How the hell had that happened? Time had passed by so very quickly, relativity in action. It seemed minutes had become hours in the blink of an eye. Be careful, Charles, avoid the mud, step on the grass, don’t leave footprints. Quickly, man. Even the slightest mistake could be costly. Maybe buy different sized shoes? Size ten, or even eleven. Yes, that made sense. Drive to Swansea or Cardiff, buy them for cash, and wear them next time. Another stroke of genius. He could pad them out with extra socks. Two pairs, or maybe three. Warm feet and misdirection. Smoke and mirrors; it was a win-win.

  Turner was back on a high as he unlocked his red Italian sports car and climbed into the driver’s seat. Fifteen minutes and he’d be home. Back at the house, fed, showered, and rested, as if nothing of any significance had happened. As if he were an ordinary man with all the limitations that entailed.

  He took one hand from the black leather steering wheel, delved into the inside pocket of his suit jacket, and took out a gold, sapphire, and diamond pendant, taken from his victim’s slender neck soon after her death. It was good to have a physical reminder to feed his fantasies. A token, something tangible to add to his growing collection. It made the treasured memories more vivid, more visceral. He could almost taste her on his lips, feel her, and smell her lavender perfume. The gift that kept giving, as if she were still with him, ready to die all over again.

  He returned the item of jewellery to his pocket and began to knead his genitals with one hand while steering with the other. That new trainee he’d recently appointed was rather attractive in a somewhat unconventional way. The hair was wrong, the clothes not quite right, the shoes not nearly high or feminine enough, but such things were easily remedied. And there was a beautiful, tight body under the somewhat staid navy business suit she’d worn to her interview. That was blatantly obvious to any man who looked closely enough. “Yes, Mr Turner, I’d love to work for you, Mr Turner. I’d love to join your practice.” Of course, she would; moths to a flame.

  He switched on the radio and nodded along to Classic FM. What was it she’d said? Yes, yes, that was it. “Thank you for the opportunity, Mr Turner. I won’t let you down.” Professional? Driven? Keen to succeed? Who was she trying to kid? She was gagging for it. Dripping wet and waiting. Desperate to feel his hands on her, squeezing tighter, tighter, tighter; a bitch in heat.

  He laughed until warm tears ran down his handsome face, negotiated the final bend of his journey, and approached his large, detached Victorian house located in an affluent tree-lined residential side street on the outskirts of town. She was definitely worth considering. Emily, Emily, Emily? It had an undoubted ring to it. A rhythmic musical quality he hadn't considered before. Like a wanton slut panting in sexual congress. Yes, what the hell, why not? She was the right height, the right build, and within the required age range. And her neck was willowy and sylphlike, eminently squeezable for a man of his inclination and abilities.

  He pulled up in his garage, turned off the engine, unzipped his tailored trousers, and began masturbating frantically as if his life depended on it. Congratulations, Miss Gravel, you’ve just been selected. You’re at the very top of the list. It’s just a matter of when and how you die.

  He pictured her twisting face as he crushed her windpipe and ejaculated with a loud groan of delight. She was perfect, absolutely fucking perfect. What the hell was wrong with him? Emily, lovely Emily, she was ready and waiting. Ready for plucking. Why hadn’t he thought of her before?

  4

  Winter suited Caerystwyth, thought Detective Sergeant Laura Kesey as she hurried along the riverbank in her newly acquired green Wellingtons, head down, collar up, in the direction of a young, uniformed constable who was clapping his hands together in a hopeless attempt to ward off the early January frost.

  ‘Morning, Sarge. You’re a welcome sight. I’d nearly given up on you.’

  Kesey fastened the top button of her wax jacket with trembling fingers and looked down at the cold and twiste
d body of a young woman, with shoulder length, dyed copper-blonde hair, lying on her back in the long grass to the side of the path, with her tights and knickers tangled around one blue-white, mottled ankle. ‘So, who found her?’

  ‘Some bloke walking his dog about half an hour ago.’

  ‘You don’t know his name?’

  PC Harris shook his head. ‘No, I just got told to come down here and check it out.’

  ‘Where’s your sergeant?’

  ‘Back at the station. We’re a bit thin on the ground this morning. There’s just me, him, and one traffic car for the entire area.’

  She pointed at a faint footprint in the dark earth immediately next to the victim’s right shoulder. ‘Is that yours?’

  The constable looked at his feet self-consciously and shook his head. ‘No, definitely not, no way; I walked on the grass to the left of the path and then stood in the one place. I haven't been within six feet of her.’

  ‘You’re sure? Now’s the time to say if you’re not. No one’s going to hold it against you.’

  ‘No, she’s dead, that’s blatantly obvious to anyone. I just called it in and waited for someone from CID to arrive. There was nothing I could do for her, however much I wanted to.’

  She smiled for a beat without parting her lips. ‘Good lad, one way in and one way out. Now, let’s make sure everyone else does likewise.’

  ‘Do you think it’s the same killer?’

  Kesey picked up a cigarette butt with a gloved hand and dropped it into a clear plastic evidence bag, before sealing it, returning the bag to her pocket, and marking the spot with one of several white plastic golf tees she always kept handy. ‘Yeah, I’d say so. She’s about the same age as the first three, same hair style and colour, very similar clothes and shoes, and it’s the same general area. The bodies have all been found within a ten-mile radius of town. It’s what the FBI like to refer to as a zone of comfort. Most serial killers tend to kill and dispose of their victims within a defined geographical area that they know well. Or at least that’s what the DI tells me. It’s the same killer, all right. I’d bet my pension on it.’

  He focused on the victim’s dead body for a second, before suddenly looking away. ‘What a way to end up. She can’t be more than, what, twenty-two or three at the most?’

  Laura Kesey sighed. ‘Yeah, I’m sure she’s had better days… Right, let’s crack on. That river’s getting far too close to the banks for my liking.’

  The constable pushed up the sleeve of his navy-blue greatcoat and checked the time. ‘We’ve only got an hour before full tide. This area was under about two feet of water this time yesterday.’

  She stared at the swirling, fast-flowing water. ‘You’re certain?’

  ‘Oh, yeah, one hundred per cent. I drove over the bridge on the way to Pembrey.’ He raised a hand and pointed to his right. ‘Some of those horses on the higher ground were trapped by the water.’

  Kesey took her two-way radio from her jacket pocket, turned her back to the wind, and pressed down the transmission button. ‘DS Kesey to control, come in please.’

  ‘control to DS Kesey, what can I do for you, Sarge?’

  ‘Who’s that?’

  ‘PC Lee.’

  ‘Oh, hello, Mike, I didn’t recognise your voice. Is DI Gravel about?’

  ‘No, he’s not in this morning. He’s getting on with a bit of paperwork at home from what I’m told. His back’s playing up again. Will anyone else do?’

  ‘No, you’re all right thanks, mate. I’ll give him a bell at home. This can’t wait.’

  She dialled and waited until Grav’s voice filled her ear. ’Hello, Laura, What’s this about, love?’

  ‘Give me a second, boss. We’ve got a visitor.’

  She turned to the young PC, who was repeatedly moving from one foot to the other in a further attempt to ward off the cold. ‘Tell whoever that is to piss off back in the direction they came from. The last thing I need is some idiot trampling all over my crime scene.’

  He glanced towards the approaching man and frowned. ‘I recognise him. He’s with the local paper.’

  ‘Oh, that is frigging marvellous. Just get rid of him, Kieran. And threaten him with obstruction if he doesn't sod off immediately. We haven’t got time to piss about.’

  ‘Will do, Sarge. It might be an idea to tape off the two sides of the path before anyone else comes along. What do you reckon?’

  She delved into her trouser pocket and threw him her car keys. ‘There’s a roll of tape and a few poles in the boot of my car. Get it done as quickly as you can. Let’s say about thirty feet to either side of the body, yeah? That should suffice.’

  She returned her attention to her call as the young constable followed orders. ‘Sorry about that, boss. The press are sniffing around. Someone must have tipped the bastards off.’

  ‘What’s the urgency, love?’

  ‘We’ve got another body.’

  He exhaled loudly before speaking. ‘Oh, for fuck’s sake, where?’

  ‘I’m on the Caerystwyth bank of the Towy, about halfway between the quay and Johnstown Railway Bridge.’

  ‘Another young woman?’

  ‘Yeah, about the same age and general description as the others. Slim, reddish-blonde hair, average height. It’s the same killer, that’s bloody obvious.’

  ‘Raped and strangled?’

  She nodded in reflexive response. ‘It’s looking that way. There’s bruising to her throat and her knickers are around her ankles.’

  ‘Is she smelling of that same lavender scent as the other three?’

  ‘Yeah, I’m sure I got a hint of it on the wind. We’ll know for sure when we get her inside.’

  ‘And the clothes?’

  ‘Much the same. It all looks like stuff that was fashionable years back, maybe in the fifties or sixties. You don’t see it much these days.’

  He sighed as he pictured the scene. ‘Where was she dumped exactly?’

  ‘Just a few feet off the path.’

  ‘On flat ground?’

  ‘Yeah, no more than twenty feet from the water.’

  ‘So we haven't got a lot of time.’

  ‘No, the tide’s rising as we speak.’

  ‘Just our fucking luck. Right, let’s crack on. I’ll get hold of the police surgeon and a couple of scenes of crime officers, and get them down there ASAP. I’ll drag them down there myself, if I have to.’

  She laughed, realising he meant every word.

  ‘Think of our victim as our most likely source of evidence, Laura. The quicker the body’s in the morgue and away from the river, the happier I’ll be.’

  She smiled thinly, thinking he had a talent for stating the obvious. ‘Do you want me to ring the pathologist from here?’

  ‘No, you’re all right, love. I’ll give Sheila Carter a ring myself and see what time she can do it. We’re going to need her experience on this one, that new bloke’s next to fucking useless. He falls apart as soon as the defence put a bit of pressure on.’

  ‘You’re not coming down here yourself?’

  He glanced out of his lounge window as the grey sky darkened and cast its shadows. ‘Nah, I’ll get myself down to the morgue and catch up with you later in the day. There’s no point in inviting allegations of cross contamination. We’ve got enough problems without making more for ourselves.’

  ‘Okay, boss, makes sense. Is there anything else?’

  ‘Make sure the scenes of crime boys take plenty of photos for me. And get some plastic bags over her hands and feet as soon as. The heavens look ready to open. If there’s evidence to find, let’s ensure it’s not washed away by a sudden downpour.’

  ‘Will do, boss.’

  ‘Anything else you want to ask me before I leave you in peace?’

  Kesey glanced up at the leaden sky and winced. ‘No, it’s just started spotting. I’d better get on with things.’

  ‘Sod’s law, love. But we’ll catch the bastard, and hopefully sooner rather
than later. Men like him don’t stop killing until someone stops them. It’s just a matter of time until there’s another victim.’

  5

  Charles Turner followed Emily up two flights of office stairs, intensely focused on her shapely buttocks as they moved rhythmically under her knee length skirt as if dancing to the beat of an African drum.

  He increased his pace, skipping up two steps at a time, to catch up with her and get a closer view. Yes, she’d do very nicely. A few tweaks here, a few adjustments there, and she’d be almost perfect.

  Emily turned and faced him on reaching the landing. ‘Oh, hello, Mr Turner. I thought it was probably you. Did you have a good weekend?’

  He manoeuvred past her and held the door open, relishing the opportunity for one further look. ‘Wonderful, thank you. It really couldn’t have gone any better. And, please, call me Charles. There’s no need for formality. We’re colleagues now. Members of the same team.’

  She entered the reception area and stood waiting, seconds seemingly becoming minutes as he stood facing her. ‘Are you ready for day one?’

  ‘I’m looking forward to it.’

  He looked her up and down and lingered; estimating her height and likely dress size: a ten or maybe a twelve, yes, a twelve at most – depending on the make. ‘Glad to hear it. You look every inch the young professional. Very smart, very, um…business-like. Yes, that's the word I was looking for. I’m sure you’ll fit in perfectly.’

  Emily felt her face flush and realised she was blushing. ‘I’ll certainly do my best.’

  So desperate to please, so sycophantic. This was going to be easy. ‘I’m sure you will. Now, first things first. Have you met Helen? She’s the glue that holds our little practice together. An essential cog in the legal machine. I don’t know what we’d do without her.’