by Michael Kerr
Maureen lowered herself seductively into a chair, aware of her physical charms and all too happy to be clad so skimpily in front of them. The younger of the two cops was almost drooling, and the older, good-looking DI was finding it hard to keep his eyes off her half-exposed breasts.
“If this is about Eddie, there’s nothin’ else I can tell you,” Maureen said.
Matt shrugged. “Maybe not. “But we still need to find him. Tell me where he would go to be alone. You know, favourite places, haunts. And where you both spent holidays.”
“We never had what I’d call a proper holiday. ‘E wouldn’t go abroad. Said ‘e could live without foreign food, too much sun, an’ mosquitoes eatin’ ‘im alive. We ‘ad the odd week in one of those static ‘oliday ‘omes on a site at Frinton-on-Sea in Essex. I remember ‘e would walk along the beach for miles every evenin’. The dumb bastard liked to look up at the stars an’ listen to the sound of the sea. ‘E might’ve been different if ‘e ‘adn’t been a copper. Workin’ the streets soured ‘im; seemed to suck all the good out and make ‘im bitter an’ twisted.”
“Do you believe he could torture, rape and kill a defenceless teenage girl, Maureen?” Matt said.
She pursed her lips. “Shit, no. ‘E’s a vicious sod, but not like that. I read the papers. Eddie was never that bad. ‘E wouldn’t ‘ave taken the cop’s daughter. ‘E would’ve gone straight at Preston if ‘e wanted revenge. I ‘ate to admit it, but ‘e ‘ad certain values.”
“If he’s innocent, why would he run?” Pete said.
“E isn’t runnin’, son,” Maureen said with a hard smile. “That isn’t in ‘is repertoire. Eddie always believed that ‘e was right about everythin’. An’ I never saw ‘im run away from anythin’ in ‘is life.”
“How sure are you that losing his pension and doing time wouldn’t push him over the edge?” Matt said.
“Positive. If ‘e ‘eld a grudge, ‘e would ‘ave looked Preston up, kicked the shit out of ‘im, and maybe even gone too far an’ topped ‘im, if ‘e was pissed. But that would ‘ave been it. Black and white. Over with.”
With the address of the caravan park at Frinton, Matt and Pete left Maureen’s flat, took the stairs down and headed back to base.
“You buy any of that?” Pete said, hitting the horn as an old guy drove a battered Ford Cortina out of a side street, braking at the last second and nearly sideswiping them.
“What do you think?” Matt said.
“That he wouldn’t have ducked out if he was innocent. He had the motive to do it. I think he planned this over a long time, and wanted to cause the chief as much grief as possible.”
“Head for Frinton, Pete. Let’s go turn over a few rocks. See if we can find the one he’s hiding under.”
CHAPTER ELEVEN
IT was time. He had a schedule. He had meticulously planned every step of the unfolding events, and would not get sloppy. Without careful planning, chaos reigned, and he needed order. Self-discipline was paramount.
He reminded himself of the reason why he was committing these atrocities: because wrongdoing had to be paid for in full, like an overdue bill. Those who had caused him such misery must be taught that what goes around comes around. It was a circle, like life.
Picking up a carrier bag, he went through to the lounge and pushed the worn, leather settee out of the way on its squeaking castors. Rolled the carpet back to disclose the trapdoor beneath it. The elation made him shake. He felt a sense of immense power and basic animal lust. He was like a god, holding dominion over who would live and who would die. There was only one law; his. He knew exactly what he was doing; was sane and utterly responsible for the mission he had embarked on. There was no guilt attached to the beautiful acts of revenge he was meting out.
Lifting the wooden trap back by the steel ring that was set into it, he lowered it onto the floorboards, reached under the lip to switch the lighting on, and walked down the flight of wooden stairs to the purpose-built holding area beneath the house. He had adapted what had been a single large cellar into two separate rooms, by building a breeze block wall with a sheet metal-faced door set into it. Outside of the room that he thought of as his ‘killing den’ was the preparation area, where an array of tools and equipment were laid out on the top of a wooden workbench.
Easing back the cover of the peephole he had fitted into the door, he studied his prey. She was under the blanket, face turned away from him.
“Kirstie,” he called. “Are you asleep?”
She stirred, was confused for a second, then reared up into a sitting position, a moan escaping her lips as the reality of her predicament cleared the sleep from her brain.
“I want you to throw the blanket aside,” he said. “Then lay on your stomach with your hands clasped behind your head. Do it!”
No, she thought. Fuck you, but lost her resolve and obeyed the disembodied voice. Listened as the bolt was withdrawn and waited, breath held, for some reason concentrating on the shooting, throbbing pain in her leg, using the dog bite as a focal point to channel her thoughts and to stay concentrated.
He cuffed her wrists with lightning speed. She had decided to gather all her strength and take him off guard; to use her ability and agility and twist and kick out hard, to then follow up and gouge his eyes, before rushing from the room and locking him in it while he was stunned, half blinded and disabled. But she had momentarily frozen, and with the steel manacles on she had lost the chance.
“That’s better. You can turn over now.”
She brought her hands down over her head, rose up into a kneeling position and turned over to sit and face him, to see that he was naked, his body glistening, covered in some kind of oil. It was baby oil, she recognised the smell. She had used it enough on Faye, years before. And Dennis and her had on occasion smothered each other in the viscid lotion as foreplay to enhance their lovemaking.
Memories flooded back as she studied her captor. His muscles were well-defined: hard pecs, his abs a six-pack, and chunky legs. He had a tattoo depicting a single strand of barbed wire that appeared to encircle his left biceps, and he was holding a plastic carrier bag in his hand. She tried not to look at his tumescent penis, which angled up from a thatch of dark hair, but she could not properly ignore the bobbing member.
Reaching into the bag, he withdrew sandwiches wrapped in cling film, a small flask of coffee and a newspaper. “Are you hungry?” he said.
Just the mention of food gave her some hope. Would he be bringing her sandwiches if he planned to kill her in the immediate future?
“Is the question too difficult?”
“No...I mean, yes, I am hungry,” she said. It seemed inconceivable that she could be, with all that had happened to her. But she had to eat and keep her strength up if she were to be able to make a valid bid for freedom at some stage. Who knew what his intentions were? She might be a prisoner for weeks. God forbid.
“Good. But before you eat, I want you to hold this newspaper up in front of you,” he said, handing it to her.
She took it and held it by the top, her cuffed hands just below her chin.
“Lower,” he said, taking a Polaroid camera from the bag, like a magician pulling various items from a top hat. “I want a nice glamour shot, so don’t be a prude, let’s see those pretty titties.”
The flash made her close her eyes. It took maybe thirty seconds before she could see clearly again.
“Perfect,” he said, holding the developed photo out for her to see.
She looked dreadful. There was a rash around her mouth that must have been made by whatever anaesthetic he’d used to knock her out with. And her eyes looked sunken, red-rimmed and fear-filled, with dark, puffy crescents beneath them. Surely he was not planning on holding her for ransom? And yet it made sense. She was a full partner in a successful business. Maybe he would send the photo to Dennis with a demand for money. And he interacted with her; addressed her as Kirstie. She had read somewhere that many rapists and killers did not talk to t
heir victims. They kept it impersonal. Dehumanised them in their minds. All the signs gave her reason to be warily optimistic.
“I’ll be mother,” he said, unscrewing the lid of the flask. “You tuck in. They’re cheese and chutney.”
Kirstie tore the film off the sandwiches, took a bite, and forced herself to chew, hoping that she would not be sick when she swallowed.
“There you go,” he said, handing her the hot coffee.
“Why me?” she said, after washing down a masticated mouthful of food.
“Because it has to be somebody, gorgeous. When things go belly-up for anyone, they always ask, why me? Try not to worry about it. Just concentrate on keeping me sweet. You really wouldn’t want to upset me.”
“Are you doing this for money?” she pushed, needing to understand.
“Why I’m doing it is not your business, so shut the fuck up and eat, or I’ll just leave you here, turn the light off and not come back.”
She ate one of the two sandwiches and finished the coffee.
He took the flask lid, uneaten food, newspaper and the cling film from her and stuffed everything back into the carrier.
“Time to pay for your supper,” he said, moving to the bottom of the mattress and bending down to grasp her ankles.
She was in no doubt as to what was about to happen. His obvious state of readiness and the hunger in his eyes meant only one thing. She would have to suffer his attention. It was something she could get past and put behind her. Once this ordeal was over, she would treat it as a bad dream, not something that had actually happened.
She did not struggle, or beg him not to do it, or respond in any way whatsoever. Just brought the faces of Dennis and Faye to the forefront of her mind and in some small way cut herself off from the physicality of what was taking place.
It was over quickly. He said nothing. Just moved off her, picked up the bag and left. As the door was once more bolted, she began to cry. It was so wrong. She was a wife, mother and businesswoman; a Christian, who up until this point in her life had always looked for the goodness in other people. This trial was outside her personal life experience, and she had no idea how or if her faith would stand up to the question being asked of it. All that mattered was to survive and get her life back.
Back upstairs, he donned the second skin of latex gloves, made sure that there were no fingerprints on the Polaroid – that he had held by the edges – and sat at the kitchen table. In one hand he held the nylon tipped pen that wrote in liquid gold, and in the other, the flask lid that Kirstie’s full lips had sipped coffee from, now refilled with the remainder of the cooling brew.
Turning the photograph over, he paused, to wait for inspiration. He found it difficult to concentrate. The heady pleasure of being with, on and in the woman still suffused his senses. She had not opposed his advances, and had willingly participated, and although not energetically responding, he was convinced that she had enjoyed it. Suffice that for an all too brief time, they had been joined, bonded by one of the most basic but all-powerful acts that two people could engage in. There had been a moment when all other considerations had faded from his mind. It had been an exceptional event; a manifestation of pure liberation. It unsettled him. Why would coupling with this woman cause him to feel so discomposed? Could it have been the culmination of her being totally at his mercy and under his control, and unable to deny him? Fucking the cop’s daughter had been a mentally rewarding experience, but lacking, in that the terrified teenager had been preoccupied by the act of dying, and as such was most likely unaware of him inside her. With Kirstie he had felt more wholly fulfilled. Whether she admitted it or not, he decided that she had needed and wanted him. He was fitter, stronger and more attractive than her flabby, balding husband. He had introduced an element of danger into her life that she had never known. Without doubt she was scared of him, but perhaps fear and sex had fused to ignite a deep desire within her. Perhaps she had harboured fantasies of being confined in bondage and taken wantonly by a cruel yet devoted stranger.
He wrote: Kirstie is with me in every sense of the word. You are unworthy of her, you dull, simple, pathetic excuse for a man.
Dressing in warm clothing, he went out, passed the kennel and fussed Hannibal for a few seconds before climbing into his green Rover, to start the engine and turn the heating up to full, before flipping on the wipers to clear the fresh layer of snow from the windscreen. He could have waited till morning, but wanted the photo to catch the first collection. Being so near Christmas, he had used a red envelope, and marked it for the attention of Miss. Faye Marshall. She would think it was a card from a friend, or maybe from an aunt, uncle or grandparent. He would have to imagine the shock-horror expression that the naked picture of her mother would elicit from the brat.
He was back in the house an hour later, having driven well away from his own patch, to further confuse the brain dead plods. Their only hope was that he would make a mistake. They would come to learn that he didn’t make any.
Changing into sweats, he stretched out on the settee in front of the fire and watched the flickering shadows cast by the flames bring life to the walls with erratic, undulating shapes. The ambience brought back vivid memories of sitting for hours in the back room of his childhood home, staring into the coal fire to see small puffs of smoke and gas escape from fissures in the black lumps, and figures and faces form in the glowing conflagration. Within the magic of fire a universe existed, that sparked his imagination. He allowed himself to be that young boy again, and watched flame horses race along a canyon’s ridge. A mutant figure appeared to writhe in agony; the accompanying hiss and crackle, its unseen bones boiling and snapping. Watching a corpse being cremated was on his mental list of things to do.
Only when the fire was reduced to grey embers, did he manage to break the fugue-like state that had held him entranced. He tried to stand, but nearly fell, his left leg asleep and numb. He squinted at the clock on the mantel; ten past four. He had been transfixed for hours.
After placing a substantial log in the grate, he went through to the kitchen and switched on the kettle. He would make a pot of tea and reassess his plans. Kirstie had become a quandary to him. Once her husband and daughter were in receipt of the photograph, he had intended to follow up by sending them one of her ears, with a tape of her protestations and subsequent outcries of pain. And forty-eight hours’ after that, he would have cut her throat, prepared the corpse, and taken it to a suitable site for collection. Could he modify that plan? Maybe keep her alive for awhile, at least until after Christmas. Would that be wise? He had decided to be impersonal in his attitude towards victims. But why waste her? She was his to do with as he liked, for as long as he wanted. It would be fun to gain her love, trust and dependence on him. The ability to control was lost on the dead. Killing was so easy, but no longer enough of a challenge. He would adapt to glean maximum pleasure from his captives. Kirstie would be an experiment, to help him grow and become more skilful in his manipulation of people’s hearts, minds and souls. And having a woman in the house was in some way comforting. Ultimately, she was prey, but he allowed that she was so much more. Not that she would ever be important to him on any meaningful emotional level. The only other being he cared for was not even human. Hannibal was a soul mate in some mysterious way he could not define or properly understand. The dog was capable of being savage, but not with him. It knew how to behave towards a merciful master. Could Kirstie become the perfect pet? Yes, he believed that she could. He would begin her training shortly, after he had drunk his tea and grabbed a couple of hours’ sleep.
CHAPTER TWELVE
IT was ten p.m. Beth was not unduly worried, but as always a little concerned. Matt would be following a lead, and in all probability would forget to phone. She had decided, back when they had ‘got together’ that, for better or worse, she wanted to be with him for the rest of her life. That didn’t mean that she was happy with what he did, though. He wasn’t just a cop. He was in the front line, f
orever hunting down the worst of humanity. Maybe if her work was not allied to the business of what malevolence the mind was capable of, then it would be easier to cope with. As a criminal psychologist she performed two separate functions. She was a member of a CPP (Criminal Personality Programme) team at the Northfield Hospital for the Criminally Insane, and on an ever more regular basis she consulted with the police on serial killers, trying to give an insight as to the personality of the offender. She analysed violent repeat crime, and attempted to predict many facets of an unknown subject’s character. She had proven herself capable of producing uncannily accurate profiles of unsubs on many occasions.
Beth was at odds with many of her peers, and especially with the majority of criminal psychiatrists who didn’t cotton to words like crazy, evil, and many of the terms that Beth thought admirably suited murderers who killed for the pleasure of the act. She did not concern herself with the law, and only infrequently appeared as an expert witness, where the mental health of a defendant was in question. Not one so-called expert was infallible. The brain was still an unknown quantity, and an ethereal component of each one was uniquely programmed and conditioned on genetic and life-experience levels. The law wanted definite answer to questions that could not be safely or properly replied to in many instances. In simple terms, if it was apparent that a person could not distinguish between right and wrong, then could he or she be guilty of committing a crime? Beth could not embrace absolutes. There were far too many indeterminate factors. Even if someone knew that an action was wrong, but still did it, there was the question of free will. A date rapist who had committed fifteen offences before being caught, had told her that he tried to stop himself, hated himself for giving in to the impulse, but could not overcome a driving force that would not be denied. Beth sometimes thought that if the power of so-called evil was as strong as the sexual urge, the will to survive, or the undeniable love one could feel for another person, then was there any chance of suppressing it? Matt kept it sweet and simple. He believed that good and bad existed, and that like a wormed apple, you cut out the rotten part, or threw the whole damn piece of infested fruit into the waste bin. Why the worm had picked that particular apple was of no importance to him. He was a cop, he would say, and didn’t have any truck with dickheads who looked to excuse shit for smelling bad. The thought behind the reasons for actions that harmed law abiding citizens was irrelevant in his eyes. She knew what he meant, though her opinions were not as carved in stone. Matt put up a good argument, that the more tolerant society was, the greater advantage would be taken by a minority who saw liberalism as weakness; an invitation to use freedom from prejudice to degrade the values of the masses. Hell, she could even see where he was coming from. She had always been of a mind that imprisonment was punishment, and that inmates should not be treated badly while serving their sentence. Matt disagreed, and was vehement in his disgust at rapists and murderers being given free education, TV in their cells, and a better standard of living than many pensioners enjoyed. Prisons were drug-ridden breeding grounds for crime, he insisted, where pampered cons were now even demanding conjugal rights, which would no doubt be granted in the not too distant future.