by Val McDermid
I slipped out of bed and went back downstairs. I looked at him spread-eagled on the rack. ‘Please,’ he said. ‘Let me go. I’ll do anything you want, but let me go. I’m begging you.’
I smiled and gently shook my head. ‘I will take you back to Bradfield, Adam. But first, it’s time to party.’
6
People begin to see that something more goes to the composition of a fine murder than two blockheads to kill and be killed — a knife — a purse — and a dark lane. Design, gentlemen, grouping, light and shade, poetry, sentiment, are now deemed to be indispensable to attempts of this nature.
Work might not solve anything, but it was a great diversionary tactic. Tony stared into the screen, scrolling down through the tabulated information he’d gleaned from the police reports. Satisfied that he’d incorporated everything useful, he switched on the printer. While it chattered and stuttered its way through the print-out, Tony opened another file and started to sketch out the conclusions he had drawn from the raw data. Anything, anything to keep her at bay.
He was so absorbed in his work he barely registered the doorbell’s first peal. When it rang out a second time, he looked up, startled, at the clock. Five past eleven. If it was Carol, she was earlier than he’d anticipated. They’d already agreed that there was little point in beginning their trip before midnight. Tony got to his feet, uncertain. Since she knew his phone number, it wouldn’t be too hard for Angelica to discover his address too. He arrived at the front door just as the bell rang for the third time. Wishing he’d installed a peephole, Tony cautiously inched the door open.
Carol grinned. ‘You look like you’re expecting Handy Andy,’ she said. When Tony said nothing, she added, ‘Sorry I’m a bit early. I did try ringing, but you were engaged.’
‘Sorry,’ Tony mumbled. ‘I must have accidentally left it off the hook from earlier. Come on in, it’s no problem.’ He found a smile from somewhere and led Carol into his study. As he reached his desk, he slid the phone back on the hook.
Carol registered that the phone’s engaged signal had been no accident. Deduction: he didn’t want to be disturbed, not even by the answering machine. Probably, like her, he couldn’t resist a ringing phone. She glanced at the sheets of paper sitting on the printer table. ‘You’ve obviously been busy,’ she said. ‘And there was me thinking you were taking your time answering the door because you’d gone for a quick zizz.’
‘Did you get some sleep?’ Tony asked, noting that she looked more clear-eyed than she had done earlier.
‘Four hours. Which is about ten too few. I’ve got a couple of bits of information for you, by the way.’ She filled him in succinctly on the results of her visit to Scargill Street, leaving out Cross’s hostility.
Tony listened carefully, making a couple of notes on his pad. ‘Interesting,’ he said. ‘I don’t think there’s a lot of point in pulling in the sex offenders again, though. If Handy Andy’s got form, it’s more likely to be juvenile offences, petty burglary, minor violence, that sort of thing. Still, I’ve been wrong before.’
‘Haven’t we all? By the way, I checked with the HOLMES room, and there’s no one there who knows anything about statistical pattern analysis, so I’ve asked my brother to see what he can do for us. Should I just give him a set of the photographs, or is there some other way of presenting the raw data?’
‘I suppose there’s less chance of a mistake if he works directly from the photographs,’ Tony said. ‘Thanks for sorting that out for me.’
‘No sweat,’ Carol said. ‘Secretly, I think he’s quite chuffed to be asked. He thinks I don’t take him seriously. You know, he writes games software, I do the real thing.’
‘And do you?’ Tony asked.
‘What? Take him seriously? You bet I do. I respect anybody that understands something as far beyond my grasp as computers. Besides, he earns about twice what I do. That has to be serious.’
‘I don’t know about that. Andrew Lloyd Webber probably earns more in a day than I do in a month, but I still don’t take him seriously.’ Toby stood up. ‘Carol, do you mind if I abandon you for ten minutes? I need a quick shower to wake me up.’
‘Fine, feel free. It’s me that’s early.’
‘Thanks. D’you want a brew while you’re waiting?’
Carol shook her head. ‘I’ll pass, thanks. It’s cold out there, and there aren’t many places a woman can have a pee in Temple Fields in the early hours.’
Almost shyly, Tony picked up the sheaf of a print-out and proffered it to Carol. ‘I’ve started the work on the victims. Maybe you’d like to take a look while I’m gone?’
Eagerly, Carol took the paper. ‘I’d love to. I’m fascinated by this whole process.’
‘This is just very preliminary,’ Tony stressed, backing towards the door. ‘I mean, I’ve not drawn any conclusions yet. I’m working on that.’
‘Relax, Tony, I’m on your side,’ Carol said as he left the room. She stared after him momentarily, wondering what it was that had unsettled him. By the time they parted in the afternoon, they had built up an easy camaraderie, she’d thought. But now, he was edgy, abstracted. Was it that he was tired, or was it that he was uncomfortable to have her sitting in his home? ‘God, does it matter?’ she muttered to herself. ‘Concentrate, Jordan. Pick the man’s brains.’ She focused on the first sheet and studied the data.
* BODY WASHING: No fragranced materials appear to have been used, suggesting that the offender is not using the washing process as a means of denial; rather, in line with the rest of his cautious behaviour, I suggest that this washing is intended to obliterate forensic clues, especially since the killer appears to have taken particular care with the fingernails. Scrapings on all four victims showed nothing except traces of unperfumed soap.
** LIGATURES: None were found on bodies, but postmortems reveal bruising consistent with handcuffs on wrists, slight traces of adhesive, missing hairs and bruising round ankles consonant both with parcel tape and with separate ligatures, and traces of adhesive on face around mouth. No traces of blindfolds.
A: Adam Scott. Dislocation of ankles, knees, hips, shoulders, elbows and several vertebrae. Consistent with being stretched on a rack. Tentative postmortem cuts to penis and testicles.
B: Paul Gibbs. Severe lacerations to rectum, virtual destruction of anal sphincter and partial disembowelment. Suggestive of spiked object repeatedly inserted via anus. Also some burnt tissue internally, suggesting the possibility of heat or electric shock. Face badly beaten before death; bruising, broken facial bones and teeth. Postmortem cuts to genitals, more pronounced than in A.
C: Gareth Finnegan. Irregular pierce wounds to hands and feet, ½″ diameter approx. Lacerations to left cheek and nose, suggestive of glass or bottle being broken across face by right-handed assailant. Shoulders dislocated.? Possible crucifixion? Postmortem wounds to genitals, virtually castrated.
D: Damien Connolly. Dislocations similar to A, but no major spinal trauma, ruling out the idea of a rack. Large number of small, star-shaped burns to torso. Penis severed postmortem and inserted in victim’s mouth.
Query: Were Damien Connolly’s handcuffs still in his home or police locker? Query: Why are the bodies always dumped Monday night/Tuesday morning? What happens on Monday that allows him to be free? Does he work nights and have Monday off? Is he perhaps a married man who has Monday free because his wife does things with friends, e.g., girls’ night out? Or is it that Monday isn’t a traditional ‘going out’ night and he can be more sure of finding his victims at home?
Carol was aware that Tony had returned, but she carried on reading, simply raising one hand and waving her fingers to indicate she knew he was there. When she reached the end of the report, she took a deep breath and said, ‘Well, Dr Hill, you have been busy.’
Tony smiled and shrugged himself away from the door-jamb he’d been leaning against. ‘I can’t believe there’s anything in there that you didn’t already have filed neatly away in your head.’
<
br /> ‘No, but seeing it laid out like that somehow makes it clearer.’
Tony nodded. ‘He has a very specific type.’
‘Do you want to talk about it now?’
Tony looked down at the floor. ‘I’d rather leave most of it for now. I need to let it sink in, and I need to go through all the rest of the witness statements before I can think about a profile.’
Carol couldn’t help feeling disappointed. ‘I understand,’ was all she said.
Tony smiled. ‘Were you expecting more?’
‘Not really.’
His smile broadened. ‘Not even a smidgen?’
The smile was infectious. Carol grinned back. ‘Hoping, maybe. Expecting, no. By the way, there was one thing I didn’t understand. NCP? CP? NRP? I mean, we’re not talking National Car Parks and the Communist Party here, are we?’
‘No current partner. Current partner. No recent partner. Acronymitis. It’s the disease that afflicts all of us in the soft sciences like psychology, sociology. We have to mystify the uninitiated. Sorry about that. I try to keep things as jargon-free as possible.’
‘So you don’t confuse us thick plods, eh?’ Carol teased.
‘It’s more about self-preservation. The last thing I want is to give the sceptics another big stick to hit me with. It’s hard enough getting people to accept that my reports are even worth reading without alienating them with all that unnecessary pseudo-scientific mumbo jumbo.’
‘I believe you,’ Carol said ironically. ‘Shall we go?’
‘Sure. There is one thing I would like to bounce off you now,’ Tony said, suddenly serious again. ‘The victims. Everybody’s assuming this killer is targeting gay men. Now, there are hundreds, probably thousands of openly gay men in Bradfield. We’ve got the biggest gay scene in the country outside London. Yet every one of those victims has no known history of homosexuality. What does that say to you?’
‘He’s in the closet himself and he only goes for men who are closeted too?’ Carol hazarded.
‘Maybe. But if they’re all busily passing as straight, how does he meet them?’
Carol straightened the edges of the papers to give herself a moment. ‘Contact magazines? Small ads? Multi-user phone chatlines? The Internet?’
‘OK, all possibilities. But there was no evidence of any of those interests, according to the reports of the officers who searched their houses. Not in one single case.’
‘So what are you trying to say here?’
‘I don’t think Handy Andy gets turned on by gay men. I think he likes them straight.’
Sergeant Don Merrick decided he’d never felt more fed up. As if it wasn’t bad enough that he had Popeye on his back over the guv’nor’s new assignment, he was now a servant of three masters. He was supposed to make sure that Inspector Jordan’s orders were carried out when she wasn’t around, and he was also supposed to be working for Kevin Matthews on the Damien Connolly case as well as liaising with Bob Stansfield on the work that he and Inspector Jordan had already completed on the Paul Gibbs case. To top it all, he was spending his evening in the Hell Hole.
Never, in his opinion, was a club more aptly named. The Hell Hole advertised itself in the gay press as ‘The club that dominates Bradfield. One visit and you’ll be enslaved. You’re bound to have the time of your life in the Hell Hole!’ All of which was a coy way of saying that the Hell Hole was the place to go to pick up partners if sadomasochism and bondage was how you got your rocks off.
Merrick felt like Snow White at an orgy. He didn’t have a clue how he was supposed to behave. He wasn’t even sure if he looked right. He’d opted for an old, ripped pair of Levis that normally only saw the light of day when he was doing odd jobs around the house, a plain white T-shirt and the battered leather jacket he used to wear on his motorbike in the days before the kids came along. In his back pocket were his official handcuffs, there in the hope they’d lend some verisimilitude to his pose. Looking round the dimly lit bar, Merrick spotted so much distressed denim and leather that he expected to see an SOS flare rising above the dance floor. Superficially, at least, he thought he might just look the part. Which was worrying in itself. As his eyes grew accustomed to the low lighting, he caught sight of a few of his colleagues. Mostly, they looked as uncomfortable as he felt.
The club had been virtually empty when he’d first arrived just after nine. Feeling incredibly conspicuous, Merrick had asked for a pass-out and gone back on to the streets. He’d wandered round Temple Fields for the best part of an hour, stopping in a café-bar for a cappuccino. He’d wondered why some of the gay clientele had been giving him strange looks until he realized that he was the only customer wearing leather and denim. Clearly he’d transgressed some unwritten dress code. Uncomfortable, Merrick had swallowed the scalding coffee as quickly as he could and got back out on to the streets.
He felt seriously vulnerable, alone on the pavements and walkways of Temple Fields. The men who passed him, either singly, in couples or in groups, all eyed him up and down speculatively as he passed, most glances pausing at his crotch. He squirmed inside, wishing he’d picked a pair of jeans that didn’t hug his body quite so tightly. As a couple of black youths walked past, arms entwined, he heard one say loudly to the other, ‘Great ass for a white guy, huh?’ Merrick felt the blood rise to his cheeks, unsure whether it was anger or embarrassment. In a moment of dreadful clarity, he realized what women meant when they complained of being treated as objects by men.
He returned to the Hell Hole, relieved that the place had filled up now. Loud disco music throbbed, the beat so strong Merrick seemed to feel it inside his chest. On the dance floor, men in leather adorned with chains, zips and peaked caps moved energetically, showing off their Nautilus-hardened muscles, thrusting their groins into empty air in bizarre parodies of sex. Stifling a sigh, Merrick pushed his way through the crowd to the bar. He ordered a bottle of American beer that tasted unbelievably insipid to a palate trained to expect the nutty sweetness of Newcastle Brown.
Turning round to face the dance floor again, Merrick leaned against the bar and surveyed the room, desperately trying to avoid eye contact with anyone in particular. He’d been standing like that for about ten minutes when he became aware that the man standing next to him wasn’t actually trying to be served. Merrick glanced round to discover the man’s eyes fixed on him. He was almost as tall as the detective, but with a broader, more muscular build. He wore tight black leather trousers and a white vest. His blond hair was cut short at the sides, longer on top, and his body was as tanned and smooth as a Chippendale. He raised his eyebrows and said, ‘Hi. I’m Ian.’
Merrick grinned weakly. ‘Don,’ he replied, raising his voice to combat the music.
‘I’ve not seen you in here before, Don,’ Ian said, moving closer so that his naked arm pressed against the worn leather of Merrick’s sleeve.
‘It’s my first time,’ Merrick said.
‘You new in town, then? You don’t sound local.’
‘I’m from the North East,’ Merrick said carefully.
‘That explains it. A bonny laddie from Geordieland,’ Ian said, with a bad imitation of Merrick’s accent.
Merrick felt his smile grow sick and die. ‘You a regular here, then?’ he asked.
‘Never miss it. Best bar in town for the kind of guy I like.’ Ian winked. ‘Can I buy you a drink, Don?’
The sweat trickling down Merrick’s back had nothing to do with the warmth of the bar. ‘I’ll have another one of these,’ he said.
Ian nodded and turned round to the bar, using the crowd around him as an excuse to thrust himself against Merrick. Merrick stared across the room, his jaw set. He noticed one of the other murder squad detectives watching him. His colleague gave a grotesque wink and mimed one finger pumping into the closed fist of his other hand. Merrick turned away, coming face to face with Ian, who had been served. ‘There you go, bonny laddie,’ Ian said. ‘So, you looking for a bit of fun tonight, Geordie?’
&n
bsp; ‘Just checking out the scene,’ Merrick said.
‘What’s the scene like up in Newcastle, then?’ Ian asked. ‘Bit lively? Cater for all tastes, does it?’
Merrick shrugged. ‘I don’t know. I’m not from Newcastle. I come from a little village up on the coast. It’s not the kind of place where you can be yourself.’
‘I get you,’ Ian said, laying a hand on Merrick’s arm. ‘Well, Don, if you want to be yourself, you’ve come to the right place. And you’ve found the right guy.’
Merrick prayed he didn’t look as terrified as he felt. ‘It’s certainly busy enough,’ he tried.
‘We could go somewhere quieter, if you like. There’s another room through the back there, where the music isn’t so loud.’
‘No, I’m fine here,’ Merrick said quickly. ‘I like the music, if I’m honest.’
Ian moved forward so his torso leaned against Merrick’s. ‘What is it you’re into, Don? Top or bottom?’
Merrick choked on his beer. ‘I’m sorry?’ he gasped.
Ian laughed and rumpled Merrick’s hair. His light-blue eyes glinted wickedly, holding Merrick’s stare. ‘You really are an innocent abroad, aren’t you? What I’m saying is, what do you like best? Handing it out or taking it?’ His hand strayed down to Merrick’s trousers. Just when the detective thought he was going to be groped in a way that no one apart from his wife had ever done, Ian’s hand slid to one side and moved round to stroke Merrick’s buttock.