A Cold Cold Heart

by John Nicholl

  Emily closed her eyes and continued chewing until she could swallow. ‘I was going to tell you about your mother.’

  He sat back on his haunches, suddenly calmer. ‘That’s good, Emily. I hope you’ve come up with something worth hearing.’

  ‘I don't think she left you at all.’

  Turner’s eyes lit up, more from intrigue than anger. ‘What are you trying to say?’

  ‘You were an intelligent child, a handsome child, a credit to any mother. Why would she give you up?’

  ‘That’s the question I’ve been attempting to answer.’

  ‘The social workers lied to you; your foster parents lied to you; everybody lied to you. She didn’t leave. She didn’t abandon you. Either she died, or something happened to her – something terrible. An accident that left her without memory. A blow to her head that wiped her mind clean. Something along those lines. It’s the only credible explanation. Why would any mother leave the perfect child?’

  Turner’s frown slowly became a beaming smile that looked strangely devoid of emotion. ‘You really could be right.'

  ‘I’m sure of it.’

  ‘I’m going to secure your hands in front of you; as a reward you understand. It’ll be more comfortable, less painful, but if you try to escape, I’ll kill you. Make no mistake on that count.’

  ‘What happened to your thumb?’

  ‘Best not to know.’

  ‘I love you, Charles. I won’t try to escape. Why would I try to escape? I want us to be together forever.’

  He took a small key from his trouser pocket, unfastened the cuffs, and secured them again with her hands resting on her bare thighs. ‘Right, that should be a little more comfortable for you. Now would be a good time to thank me.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘Again.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘Louder.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘You’re doing rather well, Emily. I may allow you to live for a day or two longer.’

  Emily resisted the impulse to throw herself at Turner and attack him. ‘I want to know more about you; you’ve opened Pandora's box and allowed me to peer in. You once asked me if I find the extremes of human behaviour as fascinating as you do. And I do, Charles, I do. You’ve broadened my horizons; introduced me to a world I didn't know existed. It’s exciting, intoxicating. I want you to tell me how you became a killer. I want to be a part of it. Perhaps we could hunt and kill together.’

  ‘You really want to know?’

  Emily nodded frantically. ‘Yes, more than anything.’

  ‘I was planning to send the police another parcel later today. What do you think about that?’

  She forced a smile. ‘I’ll do anything, absolutely anything. Just tell me all about yourself. That's all I ask.’

  Turner adjusted his position and made himself as comfortable as possible on the cold, hard floor. ‘You really want the details?’

  ‘Yes, a thousand times, yes.’

  ‘You can’t unhear something once you’ve heard it. You do understand that, don’t you? You may not like what I’ve got to say. You can’t wipe your mind clean.’

  ‘I want to know it all, I need to know it all. Just tell me, Charles. Please tell me. I want to be like you.’

  ‘I knew I was different from a young age. I didn’t empathise the way other people seemed to; I felt my own distress intensely, but nothing for anyone else.’

  ‘I think I know what you’re talking about. Can you give me an example, so I can fully understand?’

  He looked ahead, deep in thought. ‘My first foster parents had another foster child in the house, a five -year old girl, who seemed to have boundless energy and affection. I loathed everything about her.’

  ‘What happened?’

  ‘She had a severe asthma attack – I’d hidden her inhaler. They fought to save her life, but she died gasping for breath. People seemed concerned that watching her had been a traumatic experience for me. They thought I was in shock, hiding my feelings. And in a way, they were right: I’d loved it. The urgency, the desperation, the girl’s mournful whelps as she fought for breath. And then, it all came to a dramatic conclusion. The girl lay in a lifeless heap, my foster mother was wailing like a demented banshee, and I was jumping about, desperate to see it all over again.’

  Emily looked away for a beat, then made herself look at him, masking her revulsion surprisingly well. ‘Your eyes were opened.’

  ‘Just so.’

  ‘What happened after that?’

  ‘They had a funeral for the girl, with a white coffin, flowers and tears. A spark had been ignited. I’d discovered my passion in life, never to be extinguished. I’ll always be grateful to her for that. I think her name was Rosie. Yes, that’s it, Rosie. They never did find her inhaler. I made sure of that. I’ve still got it to this day. It’s a treasured possession.’

  ‘How old were you at the time?’

  Turner chuckled quietly to himself as Emily looked on. ‘Seven or eight.’

  ‘Really, as young as that?’

  ‘Oh, yes. I believe I was born to kill.’

  Emily dropped her head and dry gagged as Turner closed his eyes and focused on the past.

  ‘I found the entire process utterly intoxicating. She died because of me. I had the power. I decided if she lived or died, and I chose death. Do you find that shocking?’

  Emily shook her head. ‘No, not at all. You know how to live life to the full. I respect that. Not many people experience life with such a burning intensity. I’ve never met anyone like you before.’

  ‘I took every conceivable opportunity to kill animals after that – dogs, cats, the school rabbit – but I soon learnt it was never going to be enough. By the time I went to university at eighteen, I was desperate to kill another human. I don’t know how I resisted the temptation for as long as I did. The frustrations were horrendous. At times, I felt ready to explode.’

  Emily hid her hands between her thighs as they shook more violently. ‘Why didn’t you do it?’

  ‘If the opportunity had presented itself, I would have. The possibility of incarceration held me back.’

  She nodded. ‘You resisted your impulses for fear of arrest and punishment.’

  ‘Precisely.’

  ‘That must have taken some doing.’

  ‘I fantasised about murder almost constantly. It was always the same: the victim was young, female, and looked like my mother in the photograph I mentioned. The more like my mother she looked, the more turned on I’d be. And then, I met a girl, a fellow law student, who was willing to experiment. Willing to dress up. Willing to play dead. We searched for suitable clothing in local charity shops, and we role -played. Societal norms impose such life- limiting restrictions on the majority. I thought she wasn't one of those unfortunate people; my soulmate. But I was wrong. In the end, she let me down.’

  ‘Let you down how?’

  ‘We were playing a sex game. I was strangling her, cutting off her oxygen until I came. Her neck was bruised, she’d passed out, and the next morning, the bitch went to the police and made a statement. I’d gone too far, apparently.’

  ‘Were you arrested?’

  ‘Oh, yes, the pigs came to my student digs, lights flashing, sirens blaring, and dragged me to the police station in cuffs. It shook me – I’m not afraid to admit it. I wanted to be a solicitor: the status, the power, the money. It could have been the end of my career before it had even started.’

  Emily adopted a puzzled expression. ‘Were you found not guilty when it came to court? You must have got off somehow.’

  Turner laughed. ‘She dropped the case. I was never prosecuted.’

  ‘What happened next? You were a student at the time of your arrest. You’re in your thirties now. A lot of time has passed.’

  ‘There were various women over the years, who were willing to indulge my interests and inclinations to varying degrees, but no one who’s fully embraced my dark side. My longi
ngs were satisfied to an extent. My desire to kill controlled for the most part, but I knew I’d do it again one day. I’d had the room ready for almost three years before I finally used it.’

  ‘Room? What room?’

  ‘Oh, of course, you have’t seen it.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘I converted a bedroom at home into a cell of sorts. Somewhere I could take my time and get to know my guests properly before killing them. You would have experienced it for yourself, had things worked out differently.’

  ‘What changed? When did you finally give in to your urges?’

  Turner’s eyes lit up, and Emily noticed his erection bulging under his tailored slacks. ‘I was in Manchester, visiting a client on remand at the local prison. I stayed the night at a hotel near the city’s red -light district. I was walking along the street at about two in the morning, in search of a prostitute who took my interest, when I saw her: a vision; a fantasy brought to life. She had the hair, the dress, the shoes – just like in the photo. It was uncanny, as if my mother had been reincarnated before my eyes. I knew I had to kill her from the second I saw her.’

  ‘She was your second victim?’

  ‘We agreed on a price, I took her back to my hotel room, drugged and raped her, and took her home in the boot of my car in the early hours.’ He laughed. ‘She’d passed out in a Manchester hotel room and woke up in Wales – with her wrists shackled to the wall. I’d never witnessed such terror. She was like a rabbit caught in the headlights. A trembling creature, desperate to live but devoid of hope. I think she knew it was over for her as soon as she opened her eyes. It was intoxicating, mesmerising, and I loved every single second.’

  ‘And then, you killed her?’

  ‘Two days later. I took her to a local beauty spot, loved by my mother, put my hands around her throat, and squeezed until all signs of life had left her face. It was the greatest moment of my life. Nothing else compared. Nothing even came close. And I had to do it again.’

  ‘And you did.’

  ‘The temptation was just too great to resist, whatever the risk, whatever the price. The longing became utterly irresistible. Killing gives me a sense of accomplishment. It satisfies my soul.’

  Emily reached out and rubbed his erect penis with her painted toes. ‘I’ve been thinking about it; I’m willing to play dead. I’ll do almost anything. You’ve found your soulmate this time. We were destined to be together. Take the handcuffs off, take me upstairs to bed, and I’ll show you how far I’m willing to go.’

  Turner looked at her, weighing up his options, and took the key from his pocket for a second time. ‘Hold your hands out.’

  Emily’s breathing quickened as the hope of freedom leapt and danced in her mind. ‘I love you, Charles. I’ll never let you down.’

  He unfastened the cuffs, dropped them to the floor, and slapped her across the face. ‘Lie on your back and stay completely still. Don’t move an inch. Do it now. I’m losing patience.’

  She took a deep breath as her hopes sank. ‘Let’s go up to bed. We’d be more comfortable upstairs. I could shower. Clean myself up. Apply some makeup. We could take our time and indulge our carnal desires to the maximum.’

  Turner slapped her again, harder this time, and shoved her down on her back, snarling, ‘Which part of playing dead don’t you understand? Corpses don’t talk. Open your legs and shut the fuck up. Maybe then you’ll survive the experience.’

  51

  The Right Honourable Sir George Fleming MP, a respected stalwart of the Tory Party for some years, met Detective Chief Inspector Roy Donovan’s eyes with a dismissive sneer. ‘Just get me the commissioner, man. I’m not used to dealing with the likes of you.’

  The detective sat back in his chair, looking significantly more relaxed than he felt. ‘The commissioner’s fully aware of the circumstances of your arrest, sir. I’m going to be conducting the interview. You’re just going to have to get used to it.’

  ‘I want to talk to him now, do you hear me? Now!’

  Donovan held his gaze right up to the moment it was no longer comfortable. ‘It’s not happening. I’m under strict orders to treat you as I would any other suspect.’

  Sir George sounded incredulous. ‘Did the commissioner tell you that himself? I’m assuming the answer’s a resounding no; he’s a good friend of mine. Has been since our school days.’

  The DCI rested his elbows on the table and nodded. ‘Yes, he did. He was crystal clear on the subject. No one’s coming to your rescue. There’ll be no special favours, no secret handshakes. You’re not beyond the law. It’s time you learnt that. Now would be a good time to start answering my questions. Unlawful sexual intercourse is a serious offence. In the eyes of the law, she’s still a child.’

  For the first time, Sir George’s confidence began to slip away. ‘Alleged offence, it’s an alleged offence. You can’t prove a damned thing.’

  ‘The girl talked to her social worker. She’s made a written statement. There’s security cameras in the bar. You went in alone, and you left with her fifteen minutes later. Can you explain that for me?’

  ‘We could simply have been leaving at the same time, rather than together. Have you not considered that possibility?’

  ‘There’s a camera, in the street, outside the bar. You got in a black cab together. You were holding her arm. There’s more than enough evidence to charge you.’

  Sir George held out his hands. ‘I thought she was sixteen, for Pete’s sake. She looks sixteen. She told me she was sixteen. What more do you need to know? If I’d known she was fourteen, I wouldn’t have gone anywhere near her.’

  ‘That’s no defence in law. She’s under the age of consent, you’re culpable. It’s that simple.’

  Sir George was panicking now, considering the potential damage to his reputation and career. ‘Haven’t you ever made a mistake, Detective? There but for the grace of God. It could happen to anybody.’

  ‘You’re in your forties. She’s ten days past her fourteenth birthday. You can’t see the problem?’

  ‘I’m a high -profile figure: an ex -cabinet minister. If you charge me, it could cause irrevocable damage to our great country’s reputation. These are difficult times. It’s not in the public’s interest. Surely you can see that?’

  ‘I’m a police officer, not a diplomat. You should have thought about that before offending. I’ve got a job to do.’

  Sir George reared up and snarled, ‘She’s just a little tart off the fucking streets. What the hell does she matter? She’s of no consequence.’

  ‘Sit down, Sir George. I don’t think her parents are going to see it that way, do you?’

  The MP slumped back in his seat, breathing hard and sweating. ‘Parents? She’s in the care of the local authority, you fucking halfwit. She lives in a children’s home. She’s street trash, worthless. The parents won't want to know.’

  Donovan drummed on the table. ‘I thought you said you knew nothing about her – that she’s a stranger to you. It seems you know a lot more than you first let on. Perhaps now would be a good time for some honesty.’

  Sir George loosened his silk tie and pushed a white, gold embossed business card across the table. ‘I want to consult my lawyer before I say another word. I’m saying nothing more until she’s here.’

  Sir George was represented by his very capable and experienced solicitor when DCI Donovan restarted the interview about ninety minutes later. She knew more than enough to appreciate the magnitude of the situation.

  The detective switched on the recording equipment and settled in his seat. ‘I need to remind you that you’re still subject to caution, Sir George. Anything you say could be used in evidence.’

  The solicitor shuffled some papers as her client looked on in silence. ‘I have a pre- prepared statement to make on behalf of my client.’

  DCI Donovan moved to the edge of his seat. ‘I’m listening.’

  ‘Are you aware of the serial killer case in Wales? There are five dead
women and a sixth who’s in very grave danger.’

  Donovan looked at her and shrugged. ‘Yeah, I’ve seen it on the news. But what the hell’s that got to do with this?’

  ‘The Welsh police are looking for a Mr Charles Turner.’

  ‘What’s your point?’

  ‘Sir George and Mr Turner originate from the same part of Wales. They know each other personally. They were friends until Turner rather lost his way.’

  ‘What’s that got to do with me? I still can’t see the relevance.’

  ‘My client has been in recent contact with Mr Turner – he sent a package, and Sir George knows where it was posted. The police are looking in the wrong places. A young woman’s life is at risk. In the right circumstances, we may be able to help.’

  ‘Right circumstances? What are you saying exactly?’

  The solicitor paused. ‘We’re looking for a deal. Drop the case against Sir George, and he’ll tell you everything you need to know. No deal, no information. Make your choice.’

  Donovan switched off the tape. ‘I’ll have to consult my superintendent. It’s not a decision I can make.’

  The solicitor smiled. ‘We require immunity from prosecution and a guarantee of confidentially. And we want both, in writing, with the commissioner’s signature at the bottom of the page. It needs to be a cast -iron guarantee; no ambiguities. Nothing less is acceptable.’

  Donovan looked back as he reached the door. ‘I’ll see what I can do.’

  52

  DI Kesey entered the incident room with a swagger intended to exuded a confidence she didn’t feel. She looked around the room, pleased that all assigned officers were ready and waiting. There was an air of excitement, of anticipation. Something significant was about to happen, and these were the days that made police work worthwhile.

  The loud chatter stopped abruptly when she stood at the front of the room and raised a hand above her head. ‘Good morning, everybody. Thanks for being on time. I know it’s early. It’s going to be a busy day.’

  Kesey waited for a response that didn’t materialise. ‘As you all know, the search for Charles Turner, and his abductee, Emily Gravel, has been focused outside the force area. That situation’s about to change. The Met has provided us with intelligence that strongly suggests they are both somewhere on the Ceredigion coast. Contrary to evidence given by Turner’s secretary, it looks as if they never left Wales. Turner may or may not be driving a white van. Keep it in mind.’