by Michael Kerr
“Why thank you, kind sir,” she said, giving him a twirl.
He smiled, picked up two glasses of sparkling white wine from the countertop and held one out.
It was absurd. They clinked glasses, and she found it almost impossible to believe that the young man standing before her was a ruthless killer, who at some stage would no doubt murder her. For the first time in her life she personally knew what the old saying, ‘living on borrowed time’ meant. Only if she could somehow outwit him would she ever see Dennis and Faye again. The only weapons she possessed were her looks and sexuality, and hopefully the ability to break his resolve, gain his trust and know when to make her move.
“So let’s put some music on and dance,” Paul said. “The turkey is in the oven, and we’ve got all the time in the world.”
CHAPTER TWENTY
THEY made small talk, which helped take their minds off the earlier sights and smells that neither of them would ever be able to forget.
Mine host, Ron Quinn, could not abide empty glasses. He plied Beth and Matt with cognac until they relaxed and managed to laugh at his corny jokes. Two other residents joined them: Toby, an overweight investment consultant from South Yorkshire, and ‘Sonny’, a lean, world-weary looking guy, who sported a ponytail and claimed to have done stunt work in movies starring the likes of Jack Nicholson, Dustin Hoffman and Michael Caine.
“What is Hoffman like?” Beth asked Sonny.
“Small,” Sonny said.
Beth waited, but nothing more was forthcoming. “Is that the best you can do to describe one of my favourite actors?” she said.
“Pretty much. He came across as being too intense. I thought he was emotionally constipated and needed to get a life. I remember that he’d once said how he had learned not to trust anybody. He thought everybody was a bit crazy, including himself.”
Beth went on automatic pilot, letting part of her awareness keep pace with the conversation, while she mused over what Sonny had said about Hoffman learning not to trust anybody. Could emotions be learned, like an actor learning his lines? It was a well known fact that Hoffman steeped himself in the fictional characters he portrayed. When playing the part of the autistic savant, Raymond Babbitt in Rain Man, he even took some of the symptoms of the condition on board, to the point that if someone touched him between takes, he would recoil, as uncomfortable with close physical contact as a real autistic would be.
She laughed, frowned and nodded as the men talked, threw anecdotes out and slowly got drunk. Her mind was surprisingly clear. Her profiling instinct had been triggered and was now loose, prowling, exploring unconsidered possibilities. Had the killer they sought learned to hate, to foster the emotion? He may not be a psychopath in the true sense of its accepted definition. If his bloody quest was to revenge his stepfather, then he was not by nature without the capacity to form attachments and be able to care for others. What else had Sonny quoted Hoffman as having said: that he thought everybody was a bit crazy? So, Paul Sutton was a little bit crazy, with a hatred for a specific number of individuals. He was obviously emotionally unstable, but not necessarily suffering from a chronic mental disorder. Did knowing that help? Yes. They were not searching for the usual repeat offender, who was a stranger-on-stranger killer. And sex was not the driving motivational force. The murder of the barrister had been a release of intense rage. An overwhelming fury had caused him to wreak what appeared to be an irrational amount of pent-up violence. He had wanted to do more than just kill Garrick. His intention was to totally destroy the man and obliterate his physical identity.
“No more,” Matt said, placing his hand over the top of his glass. “I need some sack time, Ron. I have to be up and at it again in a few hours.”
“One for the stairs,” Ron pressed.
“Thanks, but no. I’m pissed.”
After saying goodnight to Sonny and Toby, who were both worse for wear, and Ron, who seemed impervious to the normal inebriating effects of alcohol, Beth guided Matt to the room that Ron gave her the key to.
Matt sprawled out on one of the single beds. “I must be getting old,” he slurred. “I used to be able to hold my own.”
“Your only in your thirties, Barnes,” Beth said as she stripped down to her undies and headed for the bathroom. “You should eat more. Have a lining on your stomach before you get into a session with Ron.”
She shivered and goose bumps erupted on her arms. The small bathroom was like a fridge. After peeing and then running the hot water tap for a minute to rinse and warm her hands, she went back through to the bedroom. Matt was where he had collapsed, laid on his back, snoring. After pulling his shoes off, she lifted the bedspread at both sides and folded it over him.
“Merry Christmas,” she said, kissing his forehead and quickly climbing into the other bed.
It was seven a.m. when Matt’s pounding bladder forced him to get up. Beth was not in the room. He moaned, tried to work up enough spit to moisten his tinder-dry mouth and lips, and went to take a leak. His skull felt as though it was constructed of rigid rock plates in the earth’s outer crust that were riding up against each other under pressure, grating as one ground up over the other, resulting in a mother of a headquake. He cupped cold water and doused his face, then combed his hair back with wet fingers. Once he had patted his face dry with a towel, he felt a little more able to face life. The aftershocks of the hangover were painful but manageable. It was self-inflicted, so he would just have to grin and bear it.
“Sorry, love,” he said to Beth as he walked slowly into Ron’s private quarters at the rear of the hotel’s ground floor. “I think Quinn spiked my drink.”
“Which drink would that be?” Ron boomed, causing Matt to wince as each word detonated and reverberated, surely causing blast craters in his brain. “We did three bottles between us.”
Matt almost shook his head in disbelief, but stopped himself just in time, knowing that head movement would be his worst enemy for a while.
“How about a fry up?” Ron said. “There’s nothing like a plate of bacon, eggs, sausages and tomatoes stuck to your ribs to cure a queasy stomach.”
“I think black coffee and a couple of paracetamol will hit the spot,” Matt said, feeling his gorge rise like oil on top of water in a ship’s bilge at the thought of Ron’s greasy offering.
Beth settled for two slices of toast, and Ron, undaunted, filled a spitting oil-coated pan with almost gammon-thick slices of bacon.
“I think you should take the day off, Matt,” Beth said. “There’s nothing you can do.”
Matt popped the pills and washed them down with coffee. “I can’t do that,” he said. “I have to keep looking for ways to find him. Timeout isn’t an option. You go home, Beth. I’ll call in at the mortuary later and see if Rita found anything.”
“I’ll come with you. I don’t fancy being home alone on Christmas Day? Pulling crackers by myself and watching the Queen’s speech doesn’t cut it.”
“What about your parents? We’d planned on going to their place before this latest development.”
“I’ll call them in a minute, they’ll understand. Maybe we can be with them for New Year.”
They reached across the table and held hands. “This isn’t how I’d envisaged Christmas morning,” Matt said. “I’d cleaned the house and even put a tree up.”
“A tree?” Beth said. It seemed out of character for Matt to do such a thing.
“Yeah. I needed somewhere to put your present. Under a Christmas tree seemed the most fitting place.”
“What did you get me?”
“My lips are sealed. You’ll see, when we get time to take a few hours’ off and celebrate properly.”
“I intended to celebrate last night, but you were spark out when I came out of the bathroom.”
“You should have woken me up.”
“You weren’t asleep. You were comatose; drunk as a skunk. And it was freezing cold. I just covered you up and then got into the other bed.”
R
on came over to the table with a loaded plate. He’d been listening to the conversation. “Sorry. I forgot to turn the radiators on in the room.”
“I bet you say that to all non-paying guests who drop in unexpectedly,” Matt said.
“Fair cop, Guv. I was sure you two lovebirds would keep each other warm.”
While Ron noisily demolished a heart attack-inviting amount of fat and cholesterol laden fried food, Beth told Matt her thoughts of the previous evening.
“Sutton may not be the psychopath I’d pegged him as being,” she said.
“You mean after what he did to Garrick, you can consider him sane?”
“Sanity is a very subjective state of mind.”
“Actions speak louder than words, Beth.”
“Precisely. He is a highly organised killer with a meticulously thought out plan. And he isn’t without emotion. What he did last night was proof of that. And the fact that Kirstie Marshall hasn’t turned up is pertinent.”
“In what way?”
“I believe he’s keeping her alive. He shows off his work; wants it to be found. That is why he phoned you after he had finished up at Charles Street. If Kirstie was dead, then he would have led us to the body.”
“So why hasn’t he murdered her?”
“I can only hazard a guess. I think he’s enjoying having an attractive woman as a prisoner. Keeping her is enough to perpetuate the mental anguish that her husband and daughter are suffering. And don’t forget, it’s Dennis Marshall who he is punishing. Kirstie is no more than a means to an end.”
“Will she be able to somehow rise above the role of victim and develop a relationship; a rapport with him?”
“I don’t know. She may be able to buy time. Get me her business partner’s number. Let’s see what he thinks she’s made of.”
Matt called the squad room. DC Mike Henton picked up.
“Any new developments, Mike?”
“No, boss. We’re waiting on forensics. It’ll be a few days, with it being Christmas. Nobody in the neighbourhood saw anything out of the usual. And we traced the cabby who dropped Garrick at home. He didn’t see anyone hanging about.”
“Okay. Give me the home number of the estate agent, John Boulton. It’s on file.”
Matt scribbled the number down in his notebook and hung up after telling Mike that he would be in later. He then tapped Boulton’s number into his mobile.
“John Boulton.”
“This is Detective Inspector Barnes, Mr. Boulton. I need for you to talk to the psychologist who is consulting on the case.”
“When?”
“Now. I’ll put her on.” He passed the phone to Beth.
“Hello, Mr. Boulton. This is Dr. Beth Holder. I’d appreciate you giving me your personal evaluation of Kirstie’s strengths and weaknesses.”
“Kirstie has excellent ‘people’ skills. She has a sharp mind and can be very persuasive. She knows how to turn negatives into positives. I can think of no weakness in her character. And she is well equipped physically to take care of herself. I believe that she is something of a karate expert.”
“So you would consider her both physically and mentally strong?”
“Yes. She can handle pressure. If whoever has abducted her makes one mistake, then she will turn the situation around and take whatever action is necessary to affect an escape.”
“Thank you, Mr. Boulton.”
“You’re welcome.”
Beth disconnected before the man could start asking questions.
“Did that help?” Matt said.
“Yes. It would appear that Kirstie has the strength of character to cope with most situations. And Boulton is under the impression that she’s a martial arts expert; karate. If she can play the guy along and gain his trust, then she might just get the chance to disable him and escape.”
Ron mopped his plate clean with a doorstep-thick slice of bread, then took the plate over to the sink. He didn’t ask any questions. He knew that Matt was a Serious Crimes officer, who spent his working life steeped in cruelty and murder. The cop’s eyes were windows to a soul that was tinged by a certain coldness. Ron was positive that Matt’s propensity for violence matched that of the most vicious criminals he hunted down. To Ron, Matt was reminiscent of a bygone western Marshall, who tamed lawless mining towns with the deadly assistance of an iron will and a pair of Colts. Matt had a quiet yet challenging disposition, and the looks of a man who was not afraid to stand face-to-face against the most extreme adversity. Ron had met a lot of hard men in the Army. Being placed in harm’s way and not knowing if you would survive, either made or broke men. And he did not think that Matt Barnes fell into the latter category.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
AT 11.45 a.m. Beth and Matt were led through a maze of corridors by a sullen young mortuary attendant who was none too pleased to have live company on Christmas Day.
Being around cadavers most of the time suited David Spender just fine. He was not a social animal and found it hard to relate to the majority of people. The dead were, to say the least, undemanding. His idea of heaven was being on nights, alone in the building with a good book to read, or a DVD to watch. While doing his rounds, he would sometimes open a drawer and talk at length to a corpse, unburdening himself of all his problems and anxieties, with no fear of being ridiculed or judged. He occasionally became attached to them, and would miss them when they were carted off to a funeral parlour, on their one-way journey to the raging heat of a crematorium, or the cold, worm-riddled earth of the grave.
“In there,” David lisped, avoiding eye contact and pointing to the swing doors that were stencilled with the legend: AUTOPSY SUITE 1.
“Strange character,” Matt said as the young man with a pockmarked face and a surgical scar resulting from harelip surgery, hurried away.
“He’s not a people person,” Beth said, following Matt into the white-tiled room. “I imagine working here suits him just fine.”
Rita Mendoza and an assistant were working at one of the four dissecting stations.
“Come on over,” Rita called. “You’re late. I’ve just finished up.”
They approached the stainless steel table, and Beth pulled her nose up at the smell of disinfectant and the underlying odour of human viscera that permeated the chill air. This was only the second time she had attended an autopsy.
Rita, whose green scrubs and gloves were spattered with blood and other fluids, gestured for them to view the body, as if they were eager to appreciate her handiwork.
Matt took in the whole spectacle. The slack, white corpse that had been plundered of its major organs, and the juices that had run off to pool in the pan below the gleaming, silvery ductile surface of the table. The assistant began to close up, quickly suturing the incisions with thick, dark twine.
Beth saw organs that had been deposited in polished stainless-steel bowls, and looked away from them towards the late barrister’s bony feet. The tops of the bluish toes were hairy; the nails no strangers to professional pedicure.
Rita peeled off her gloves and deposited them in a bright yellow biohazard bin, before crossing to a sink and lathering her arms and hands with antibacterial soap. She then dried off and led Beth and Matt through an anteroom into her small and cluttered office.
“Coffee?” Rita said, going over to the bubbling coffeemaker that was on a small table next to a wall crowded with ship-grey file cabinets.
“Please. Black, no sugar,” Matt said. Beth shook her head. She felt a little nauseous.
“I did the cut on the woman earlier,” Rita said as she poured the strong brew into London Dungeon mugs. “Nothing you don’t know. Throat cut from left to right, resulting in a severed trachea. She had not been sexually abused. There was no evidence of recent activity.”
“How did Garrick die?”
“Hard,” Rita said. “He was alive when his fingers and ears were removed, and also during the amateur evisceration. The only good news is that he suffered a massive cardiac inf
arction before the his penis was removed.”
“Removed his penis?” Beth said.
“Yes. It had been severed, and his testicles had been punctured repeatedly. In total there were over a hundred deep lacerations and stab wounds to his body.”
“And you’re sure he was dead before the killer finished?” Matt said.
“Positive. The serotonin and free histamine levels qualify that finding. Two thirds of the wounds were inflicted post-mortem.”
“Anything else?”
“A few animal hairs. I’ll have them identified, but I think I can safely say they’re from a dog. If the victim didn’t own one, then they might have been transferred from the killer.”
“Could they have been picked up in a cab, or just by brushing past a dog in the street?” Beth said.
“Doubtful. They weren’t localised in one place. I found a couple inside the stomach cavity, and one among the deceased’s pubic hair.”
Matt finished his coffee and made to leave. “Thanks Rita. I look forward to receiving the report with all the big words that I have to look up in a medical dictionary.”
“You’re welcome. Now let’s all salvage what’s left of the day and get the hell out of here.”
Outside, Beth rested her hands against the side of the car and sucked in cold air, but couldn’t dislodge the smell of death. She found it a little difficult to understand why some people made a career out of cutting up dead bodies. For the first time in years she was reminded of Louisa Barlow, a childhood friend whose father was a funeral director.
Louisa had foregone uni to join the family business, and admitted to having a strange and tireless fascination with the dead. Assisting in all facets of the dismal trade, she considered it an art to prepare a corpse for viewing: replacing the blood with embalming fluid, washing the hair, cleaning and filing the fingernails, and applying makeup to conjure the illusion of life. Her most satisfying work was reconstructing the faces of road traffic accident victims that had suffered facial disfigurement. She was reputedly matchless with mortician’s wax.