by Val McDermid
FROM 3½″ DISK LABELLED: BACKUP.007; FILE LOVE.010
Of course, the discovery that one has a natural bent for something does not necessarily mean one should pursue it blindly. While I was disposing of Paul’s body, this time in a dark doorway in an alley in Temple Fields, I had already decided who my next target would be. But even after so magnificent an experience as the one I’d just shared with Paul, I had no intention of repeating it with Gareth.
It was going to be third time lucky. Gareth, I already knew, was a man of rich and fertile sexual imagination. Even as I was digitizing Paul’s pathetic performance into the computer, I was mourning the fact that, thanks to Gareth, I would never have the opportunity to perfect the extraordinary talent I had discovered in myself. With the resources at my command, I’ve been making movies like I’ve never seen. The ultimate snuff stuff. If I could have marketed them, I would have made a fortune. I know there’s a market out there. Plenty of people would pay a lot of money to watch Paul fuck me in his death spasms on the Judas chair. And as for what I’ve done with Adam… Let’s just say that no one’s ever seen sixty-nine like it.
As a treat, I went to the cemetery where Adam had been buried a few weeks before. The funeral had featured on the local television news, which I’d video-taped and studied so I could be fairly sure where the grave was. After dark, I made my way through the graves, and found Adam’s within twenty minutes. I opened the can of red spray paint I’d brought with me and sprayed ‘WANKER’ on one side of the grey granite, and ‘POOFTER’ on the other side. That should give the police something to occupy their minds.
The following evening, while I was waiting for Gareth to emerge from the firm of solicitors where he was a salaried partner, I whiled away the time with the hyperbole of the Bradfield Evening Sentinel Times. This time, I’d made the front page.
GAY KILLER STRIKES AGAIN?
The mutilated body of a naked man was found this morning in Bradfield’s gay village.
The murder victim had been dumped in the fire-exit doorway of the gay club Shadowlands in an alley off Canal Street in the notorious Temple Fields district.
This is the second time in two months that the body of a naked man has been discovered in the gay cruising area.
Now locals fear a perverted serial killer is stalking the city’s large homosexual community.
Today’s gruesome discovery was made by nightclub owner Danny Surtees, 37, as he arrived for a meeting with his accountant.
He said, ’I always go into the club through the fire door at the side. I park my car in the alley. This morning, the door was blocked by something covered by a couple of black bin bags.
‘When I grabbed hold of the bags to try and pull them away from the door, they just came away in my hands and I saw there was a body under them.
‘He was horribly injured. There was no way he was still alive. I’m going to have nightmares about this for the rest of my life.’
Mr Surtees said the doorway had been clear when he locked up his club just after three this morning.
The victim, said to be in his early thirties, has not yet been identified. Police describe him as white, 5ft 11ins, slightly built, with dark-brown collar-length hair and hazel eyes. He has an old scar from an appendicectomy.
A police spokesman said, ’We believe the man was killed elsewhere and the body dumped in the alley between three and eight a.m.
‘We would urge anyone who was in the Temple Fields area last night to come forward for the purpose of elimination. All information will be treated in the strictest confidence.
‘At this stage of our enquiry, there is no evidence to connect this killing with the murder two months ago of Adam Scott.’
Carl Fellowes, the full-time worker at the Bradfield Gay and Lesbian Centre, said today, ’The police say that they don’t think there’s a connection between these two murders.
‘I don’t know what makes me more worried on behalf of the city’s gay community — the thought that there’s one nutter out there killing gay men, or the thought that there are two of them.’
I didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. One thing was clear, though. PC Plod was a long way from covering himself in glory over this case. I’d obviously done a good job covering my tracks.
I folded up my newspaper, finished my cappuccino and signalled for my bill. Any minute now, Gareth would emerge from his office and walk through the rush-hour streets to the tram. I wanted to be ready for him. I had something really special planned for him tonight, and I wanted to make sure he was home alone to enjoy it.
10
The world in general, gentlemen, are very bloody-minded; and all they want in a murder is a copious effusion of blood; gaudy display in this point is enough for them. But the enlightened connoisseur is more refined in his taste.
Penny Burgess topped up her glass of Californian Chardonnay from the bottle in the fridge and walked back through to her living room in time to hear the headlines on the BBC local news. Nothing fresh to worry about, she thought with relief. An armed robbery she could catch up with first thing in the morning. The police were still questioning a man in connection with the gay serial killings, but no charges had been laid yet. Penny sipped her wine and lit a cigarette.
They were going to have to move soon, she thought. By morning, they’d either have had to charge him with something or let him go. So far, no one had got a sniff of the suspect’s identity, which was pretty remarkable. The whole pack had been leaning heavily on their personal police contacts, but for once, the reservoir of information had resolutely refused to leak. Penny decided she’d better take a look at the magistrates’ court lists in the morning. There was an outside chance that the cops had something fairly innocuous to charge their suspect with so they could hang on to him while they dug around for the evidence they needed to make the serial killing charges stick.
As the news cut away to the weather forecast, the phone rang. Penny reached over to the occasional table by the sofa and grabbed the receiver. ‘Hello?’ she said.
‘Penny? It’s Kevin.’
Hallelujah, Penny thought, sitting up and grinding out her cigarette. All she said, however, was, ‘Kevin, my man. How’s it hanging?’ She raked in her handbag for a pencil and her notebook.
‘Something’s come up you might be interested in,’ the police inspector said cautiously.
‘It wouldn’t be the first time,’ Penny said suggestively. Her occasional sexual encounters with the very married Kevin Matthews had provided her with more than an inside track on Bradfield Metropolitan Police. He’d turned out to be one of the best lovers she’d ever had. She just wished he could overcome his Catholic guilt more often.
‘This is serious,’ Kevin protested.
‘So was I, superstud.’
‘Listen, do you want this info or not?’
‘Definitely. Especially if it’s the name of the guy you’ve got in custody for the Queer Killings.’
She heard the sharp intake of breath. ‘You know I can’t tell you that. There are limits.’
Penny sighed. It was the story of their relationship. ‘OK, so what can you tell me?’
‘Popeye’s been suspended.’
‘He’s off the case?’ Penny asked, her mind racing. Tom Cross? Suspended?
‘He’s off the job, Pen. He’s been sent home pending disciplinary action.’
‘Who by?’ Jesus, this was a story and a half. Just what had Popeye Cross been up to this time? She felt a momentary panic. What if he’d been caught out giving the suspect’s name to one of her rivals? She almost missed Kevin’s reply.
‘John Brandon.’
‘What the hell for?’
‘Nobody’s saying,’ Kevin said. ‘But the last thing he did before he saw Brandon was to carry out a search of our suspect’s house.’
‘A legal search?’ Penny probed.
‘Far as I know he had grounds under PACE,’ Kevin said cautiously.
‘So what’s going on, Kevin? H
as Popeye been planting evidence, or what?’
‘I don’t know, Pen,’ Kevin said plaintively. ‘Look, I’ve got to go. If I hear anything else, I’ll call you, OK?’
‘OK. Thanks, Kev. You’re a star, you know.’
‘Yeah, well. I’ll speak to you soon.’
The line went dead. Penny dumped the phone back on the base unit and jumped to her feet. She hurried through to her bedroom, pulling off her dressing gown on the way. Five minutes later, she was running down the two flights of stairs from her flat to the underground garage. In the car, she checked the address in her A-Z, then set off, mentally rehearsing what she was going to say on the doorstep.
It was Tony who had pulled away from the clinch first. His body withdrew from hers in a gesture that rendered four inches forty.
Trying to keep it light, to cover the awkwardness that had sprung up between them, Carol said, ‘Sorry, you just looked like you needed a hug.’
‘Nothing wrong with that,’ Tony said stiffly. ‘We use it all the time in group therapy.’
They stood for a moment, eyes not quite meeting. Then Carol moved to Tony’s side, slipped a hand through his unyielding arm and steered him forwards across the university courtyard. ‘So when do I get to look at this profile?’
The conversation was on safe ground again, but Carol was still too close for comfort. Tony could feel the tension inside him, like a cold hand squeezing his chest. He forced himself to speak in a calm, normal voice. ‘I want to do another couple of hours’ work now, and I’ll get stuck into it again first thing in the morning. I should have a draft ready for you by early afternoon. How does three o’clock sound to you?’
‘Fine. Look, do you mind if I stick around now while you’re working? I could do with rereading some of those statements, and I’ll get no peace if I go back to Scargill Street.’
Tony looked doubtful. ‘I suppose.’
‘I promise not to molest you, Dr Hill,’ Carol teased.
‘Damn,’ Tony said, snapping his fingers in mock-disappointment. Look at you, he thought cynically. Passing for human, sure of all the moves. ‘Actually, it’s not that. I’m only hesitating because I’m not used to working with someone else in the room.’
‘You won’t know I’m there.’
‘I doubt that very much,’ Tony said. She might read that as a compliment, but he knew the truth.
Penny pressed the doorbell of the mock-Tudor detached house in one of south Bradfield’s more select streets. Even on a superintendent’s salary, it should have been beyond Tom Cross’s reach. But Popeye’s reputation for being lucky had been enhanced a few years back when he’d won a high five-figure sum on the pools. The subsequent party had passed into police mythology. Now, it looked like he’d dropped his lucky pixie somewhere along the road.
A light snapped on in the hallway and someone lumbered towards the door, turned into an amorphous lump by the stained glass. ‘Friday the Thirteenth meets Hallowe’en,’ Penny muttered under her breath as she heard the lock turn. The door cracked open a suspicious few inches. Penny angled her head round to smile at the shape behind the door.
‘Superintendent Cross,’ she said, the white cloud of her breath meeting the swirl of smoke issuing from the door. ‘Penny Burgess, Sentinel Times.’
‘I know who you are,’ Cross snarled, the slur of drink evident in those few words. ‘What the hell do you want, coming round here this time of night?’
‘I hear you’ve had a bit of a problem at work,’ Penny tried.
‘You hear wrong then, madam. Now, bugger off.’
‘Look, it’ll be all over the media tomorrow. You’re going to be under siege. The Sentinel Times has always supported you, Mr Cross. We’ve been on your side all through this investigation. I’m not some visiting fireman from London, up here to put the boot in. If you’ve been sidelined, our readers have got a right to hear your side of the story.’ The door was still open. If she’d managed to say that much without him slamming it shut in her face, the chances were that she was going to get something usable out of him.
‘What makes you think I’m off the case?’ Cross asked defiantly.
‘I heard you’ve been suspended. I don’t know why, and that’s the reason I wanted to hear your side of it, before we get fed the official line.’
Cross scowled, his gooseberry eyes seeming to pop even further out. ‘I’ve got nothing to say,’ he told her, grudging every syllable.
‘Not even off the record? You’re willing to stand by and let them trash your reputation after all you’ve done for the force?’
Cross opened the door wider and looked down his drive towards the street. ‘You on your own?’ he asked.
‘Not even my newsdesk know I’m here. I only just heard.’
‘You’d better come in a minute.’
Penny stepped across the threshold into a hall that looked like a Laura Ashley sample book. At the far end of the hall, a door was half open, the television voices distinct even at that distance. Cross steered her in the opposite direction, into a long sitting room. When he switched the lights on, Penny’s eyes were assaulted by more patterns than a knitting shop. The only thing the curtains, carpets, rugs, wallpaper, frieze and scatter cushions had in common was that they were all shades of green and cream. ‘What a lovely room,’ she stammered.
‘You think so? I reckon it’s bloody hideous. The wife says it’s the best money can buy, which is the only argument I’ve heard for staying potless,’ Cross grumbled, heading for a cocktail cabinet. He poured himself a stiff drink from a decanter, then, as an afterthought, said, ‘You’ll not be wanting one, with you having the car.’
‘That’s right,’ Penny said, forcing the warmth into her voice. ‘Can’t take chances with your lads out on the roads.’
‘You want to know why them gutless bastards have suspended me?’ he demanded belligerently, thrusting his head forward like a hungry tortoise.
Penny nodded, not daring to take out her notebook.
‘Because they’d rather listen to some poncey bloody doctor than a proper copper, that’s why.’
If Penny had been a dog, her ears would have been standing to attention. As it was, she settled for a polite raise of the eyebrows. ‘A doctor?’ she said.
‘They’ve brought this wanker of a shrink in to do our job. And he says the arse bandit we’ve got banged up is innocent, so it’s bollocks to the evidence. Now, I’ve been a copper for twenty-odd years, and I trust my instincts. We’ve got the bastard, I can feel it in my water. All I did was try to make sure he stayed behind bars till we nail down all the bloody loose ends.’ Cross downed his drink and banged his empty tumbler on the cabinet. ‘And they’ve got the fucking nerve to suspend me!’
Manufacturing evidence, then. Although she was desperate to know more about the mysterious doctor, Penny sensed that she’d better let Cross air his grievances first. ‘What did they say you’d done?’ she asked.
‘I’ve done nothing wrong,’ he said, pouring another massive slug from the decanter. ‘Trouble with bloody Brandon is he’s been flying a desk for so long, he’s forgotten what the job’s about. Instinct, that’s what it’s about. Instinct and hard bloody work. Not some fucking trick cyclist with a head full of daft bloody notions like a fucking social worker.’
‘Who is this guy, then?’ Penny asked.
‘Dr Tony bloody Hill. From the fucking Home Office. Sits in his ivory tower and tells us how to catch villains. He’s got no more idea of coppering than I have of nuclear bloody physics. But the good doctor says, let the poofter go, so Brandon says yes, sir, no, sir, three bags full, sir. And just because I don’t agree, I’m out on my arse.’ Cross swallowed more whisky, his face flushed with anger and drink. ‘Anybody’d think we were dealing with bloody Mastermind here, not some fucking dumbshit arse bandit who’s had a bit of luck so far. You don’t need smartarses with bloody “doctor” in front of their name to catch scum like this. All you do is give the homicidal little fairy ideas above h
is station.’
‘It’s fair to say, then, that you don’t agree with the line the investigation’s taking?’ Penny asked.
Cross snorted. ‘That’s one way of putting it. You mark my words, if they let this little fucker back on the streets, we’ll be looking at another body.’
To Tony’s surprise, Carol proved to be true to her word. She sat at his desk, working her way through the pile of statements while he carried on working at his computer. Far from distracting him, he found her presence curiously soothing. He had no trouble picking up the profile where he’d left off earlier.
Like a roller coaster, each high needs to be bigger to compensate for the inevitable low that has preceded it. In this instance, there are three principal signs of escalation. The wounds to the throat have become increasingly deep and assured. The sexual mutilation has developed from a few tentative cuts in the genital region to full-scale amputation. And the bites he inflicts then cuts away have increased in number and in depth. Yet he has managed to stay sufficiently in control to cover his tracks.
It is difficult to assess whether or not the level of torture he is administering is escalating, since he seems to be using different torture methods in each case. The fact that he needs the stimulus of these different methods is, however, in itself a form of escalation.
Judging by the pathologist’s report, the sequence of events would seem to be:
1. Capture, using handcuffs and ligatures round the ankles.
2. Torture, including sexually motivated acts such as biting and sucking.