by Michael Kerr
A HUNGER WITHIN
By
Michael Kerr
Published by Head Nook Books
Copyright © 2013 Michael Kerr
Discover other Titles by Michael Kerr at MichaelKerr.org
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His hunger was unrelenting: a constant gnawing. It was as if his soul was hollow, and the raging pangs of desire and craving drove him to continually seek sustenance. And the nourishment he sought to sate his dark needs was the fear and lives of others.
Chapter ONE
What’s happening to me? Is this a stroke? Am I dying? One, all, or most likely none of those evocative questions may have passed through Veronica Kirkwood’s mind as the sudden explosion in her head brought her entire system to a premature stop. Her death was almost instantaneous, surely preventing any last organised thoughts to manifest in her ruptured brain. She had died in between steps, in the space of a heartbeat, as she breathed in or out, inhaling or exhaling the last breath she would ever take.
Sudden, violent death at another person’s hands is a loathsome if expeditious process by which to meet one’s end; a criminal curtailment of an indeterminate future. Veronica had been twenty-years old, and would most likely have married and had children, who in turn would have propagated. How many generations would not now exist? In one sense, her murder was probably the destruction of a great many.
Ryan was sitting at his desk. It was ten p.m., if the clock on the wall was accurate. He looked at his wristwatch for confirmation. There was almost a minute’s discrepancy between the two timepieces. A lot could happen in sixty seconds; good, bad and indifferent. People died every second, by fair means or foul. Just ceased to be. Life had always seemed a particularly strange enigma to Ryan. It was packed with incident, but too brief. A person lived, learned all kinds of things, loved and was loved, if lucky. Had feelings, dreams, aspirations, and gave importance to stuff that would ultimately not matter in the greater scheme. Then they were gone. It was like someone putting their hand in a bucket of water, then removing it. Once the ripples had flattened out, nada. Plug pulled. Game over. He couldn’t really see the point, but didn’t dwell on it, or look for answers that you needed blind faith to glean any succour from.
Ryan was readying himself to go home when the phone rang. He took his feet off the desktop. The back of the chair came off the wall, and the front legs thumped down onto the floor as he leaned forward and plucked the receiver from its cradle.
“Ryan.”
“It’s Eddie, boss,” his DS said. “We got a hot one.”
“Where?”
“On a footpath next to the river, out at Chertsey.”
“Why do we care?”
“The MO. This is the fourth to have been double-tapped in under a month. Three young females, and the boyfriend of the first vic.”
“Coincidence?”
“No, boss. Apart from the male, all the vics were shot from up close and behind. In each case, one slug severed the spinal cord between C1 and C2, and a second shot passed through the brain.”
“Precise.”
“Yeah, he’s a cold, efficient bastard.”
“When did the latest buy it?”
“It was called in at six o’clock.”
“By who?” Ryan said, reflecting on stats that showed in many domestic murders it was the person that found a vic who had done the deed. Though this didn’t fall into that category.
Eddie said, “An elderly couple were out for a stroll. The woman almost tripped over a foot sticking out of long grass at the side of the path.”
“And CID called us, right? They’ve got nothing. No trace, or a direction to go in.”
“That’s about it, boss. Said that this was obviously a repeater, and wanted to off load it on us. Decided it fell under SCU’s – Special Crimes Unit’s – criteria.”
“Who called?”
“DI Hunt. He asked for you. I said I’d get you to call him back, soonest. I thought you’d want to be forewarned and know where he was coming from before you spoke to him.”
“Okay, Eddie. I’ll give him a bell and arrange to get all the paperwork. Meet me in the car park in fifteen minutes. You’re driving.”
Ryan scratched at the stubble on his cheek. The unit had a shitload of ongoing cases, but this one had all the hallmarks of being a real pain in the arse. One vic double-tapped would have led him to believe it was a pro hit. But this had a twist to it. There was more to the murders than contracts being put out on them, of that he was certain.
Pouring himself coffee from the ever-simmering pot, Ryan took a mouthful of the strong, bitter brew before calling CID and asking for Tony Hunt.
“I hear you want to ease your caseload by dropping something nasty on my desk, Tony. Is that about the size of it?”
“Your DS briefed you, Ryan. And without me feeding you with the odd case, you’d be getting a lard arse, sitting behind your desk doing crosswords and twiddling your thumbs.”
“You’re too good to me, Tony. Why would SCU want to run down a lone gunman for you?”
“This is some freak who tops youngsters for the thrill of it, Ryan. He may do it in a way that makes him look like a professional, but he isn’t. These are random slayings, done by a psycho. We checked out the first vics, and they have no background that would suggest an organised hit. Nothing they’ve done would put them on the radar of any scumbag with a motive or the resources to have them taken out.”
“There’s always a motive, Tony, however warped it might be.”
“So you’ll officially take it over?”
“Yeah. But you owe me one. Get someone to bring me all the files. Everything that you’ve got.”
“Your wish is my command, Ryan. The whole caboodle’s on my desk, ready to go.”
Eddie reversed the unmarked Mondeo into a space in the corner of the cinder-topped car park next to several official cars, including the Crime Scene Investigators’ white Ford Transit van. Ryan climbed out, lit a cigarette, then zipped up his scuffed and ripped leather jerkin and followed Eddie to the opening of the short lane that led down a gentle gradient to the river’s edge.
After showing their IDs to a uniform, Ryan and Eddie ducked under the fluttering blue and white strand of crime scene tape and headed towards the white tent, that was lit up like a Chinese lantern and full of moving shadows.
Ryan entered the tent and looked down to where the foliage had now been cleared back to reveal the body.
“The team and the pathologist have finished up, guv,” the young police sergeant who was nominated Crime Scene Coordinator said, recognising Ryan from contact on several other cases.
“She wasn’t found like this,” Ryan said, looking down into the bloody face of the vic. The shots had been through and through, and the exit wounds were extensive. The top of the nose and part of her right cheek had been blown out, as had the front of her throat. There were small twigs and dead leaves pasted to the wound sites. She might have been pretty once, but not any more; not with a portion of her brains extruding from shattered bone, looking like a clump of pink prawns hanging from her face.
“No, guv.”
“So put her back how she was.”
Sergeant Len Fulton’s Tyvek overalls rustled as he hunkered down to turn the corpse over and carefully arrange the head, arms and legs. He
took a Polaroid photograph from a pocket and checked it, then made another couple of fine adjustments. Nodded at Ryan.
“Anything missing?” Ryan said, dropping down on his haunches to examine the small, neat entry holes in the back of the head and neck. The GSWs – gun shot wounds – had powder burns around them. They were contact shots. The perp had seemingly walked up behind her, pressed the muzzle of a gun to her head and pulled the trigger. Cold-blooded murder in the true sense of the word. It had been an execution.
“Her panties have been taken,” Len said.
Ryan frowned. “You know for a fact she was wearing any?”
Len nodded. “Impressions of elastic around her midriff and the tops of her thighs.”
“You looked?”
“Yes, when the pathologist pointed it out.”
“Where is he?”
“She is over at the side of the bridge, guv, ready to arrange for her boys to tag and bag the vic when we’re through. It’s Mack the Knife.”
Ryan grinned. Patricia Macmillan was an area pathologist on the official Home Office register. She had performed thousands of coroner’s post-mortems during her career, including over two hundred and fifty in which there was a serious suspicion of murder having been committed. Her initial observations and subsequent findings would determine the thrust and direction that subsequent police inquiries took. Her task was to ascertain the cause of death. In simple terms, forensic pathologists like Patricia endeavoured to discover which of the four possible causes of death was relevant: Natural causes, accident, suicide or murder. It had been Ryan who’d given her the sobriquet of Mack the Knife.
“You contemplating your navel, Mack, or waiting for a water taxi?” Ryan said, walking up to where the pathologist was staring out over the Thames, that looked what it was, cold, black and inhospitable.
“This isn’t Venice, Ryan, mores the pity,” Pat said without turning. “Is this your case now?”
“Yeah. Tony Hunt doesn’t know where to start with it, so played pass the parcel to SCU.”
“You looked at my reports on the others yet?”
“No. And if Hunt wants rid so quick, then I take it they won’t make good reading.”
“You got it. No DNA, fibres, latents or anything else, other than the slugs we retrieved from each scene.”
“There’s always some transfer between a perp and victim, Mack.”
“Not true, Ryan. There usually is. The only transfer in these murders was of the nine millimetre lead type. He shot them dead, took the time to pick up the shell cases, cut off their panties and walked away. There was no sign of sexual activity. And they didn’t get a chance to struggle, so their fingernails didn’t give us any tissue to play with.”
“You said, he, Mack. Why?”
“That’s a presumption, forgive me. A gun is a man’s choice of weapon. Most women use knives or poison. And when you see the paperwork, you’ll find from the angle of entry that the gun was held by someone who stands, speculatively, over six feet two. Maybe your height. The ballistics report will be more precise.”
“I take it Hunt couldn’t find a suspect that tall, or he’d have held on to this like a limpet?”
“Tony is many things, but stupid isn’t one of them.”
“Can I call you after you’ve done the cut?”
Pat had been talking with her back to him. She turned and gave him a wistful smile. “I suppose so, for old times sake, eh, if you stop calling me Mack. Now get out of my face, Ryan. And release the scene, so that I can oversee the body being bagged and transported.”
“You in a hurry?”
“I’m hungry and tired. I had to leave a TV dinner to go cold when I got the call.”
“It’ll microwave.”
“It can go in the bin. I’ll pick up a takeaway on the way home. Call me at about three tomorrow and I might have something for you.”
“I’ll do that, Pat,” Ryan said as she walked passed him towards the tent.
She still looked good to him. Petite, with strong, even features and short blonde hair. Seemed like only yesterday that they’d had more than a professional relationship. They might have ended up being a serious item if their shifts and long hours hadn’t got in the way. It had just petered out. They’d seen each other less and less. Had to schedule the odd overnighter at one or the other’s places. It hadn’t officially ended. But they had stepped back from it, called each other infrequently, and let it drift. They made good friends, but hadn’t felt the connection; that stomach-dropping sensation that grabs you by the balls and won’t let go. They’d been head-over-heels in lust for awhile, but not in love.
“Let’s call it a wrap,” Ryan said, going back to where Eddie had just finished up talking to a SOCO. “Just make sure we’ve got enough uniforms doing a fingertip search of the area. I want everything bagged that isn’t rooted to the ground.”
Eddie nodded and made to go and have a word with the Scene of Crime Officer.
“Did they find the slugs?” Ryan said.
“One, so far. Looks like she took the head shot on her feet. The second after she went down. The bullet was pancaked on the ground. The first could be in a tree trunk, or worst case, in the river.”
While Eddie dotted a few i’s, Ryan walked back along the path in the direction that the vic was thought to have been coming from. They needed to know where she had been, and where she was headed. That would almost certainly prove to be the easy part. Had the killer known her? Or was it just a thrill kill? Maybe the perp was simply an opportunist who got off on shooting strangers. He had in all probability driven to the area, left his vehicle in the same car park that was now heaving with official transport, and waited for someone to happen by. Could have hidden in the bushes. Just watched the girl approach and pass him by, then stepped out and capped her. Too simple. Ryan’s instinct told him that someone as organised, and who carried out the shootings with such a high degree of professional competence, would not be so amateurish to crouch in the waist-high bracken and hope a suitable target would show up. It didn’t compute. There was a purpose to the killings that he could not as yet hazard a guess at. Once he and the team had all the facts, then they might see an interrelation. Whatever stones Tony Hunt had turned over, they would pick up again. CID were better with armed robbers and gangster-related stuff. Anything that didn’t fit neatly into a category was tossed to another department, in the way you would throw a knuckle of pork to a hungry dog.
Turning back, Ryan saw the dark shape of a figure walking towards him. It was Eddie. His DS moved with his head a little forward and down between hunched shoulders, and had his hands stuffed in the pockets of his stone washed grey jeans. He took small steps, reminiscent of John Wayne. Ryan always noticed how people walked. It was an act that no two individuals did the same; almost as definitive as fingerprints or a DNA profile.
Ryan stopped to fire up a cigarette. He liked smoking, but knew it would probably kill him. Maybe he would stop. It was no big deal. Whatever he did or didn’t do, he would not be around for another pass of Haley’s comet. And he liked the mechanics of smoking: sliding a smooth, cylindrical cigarette from the pack, placing it between his lips, and flicking back the lid of his NYPD Zippo lighter, that he had been given by Lieutenant Nick Martinez, who headed up a similar sort of unit as the SCU in Lower Manhattan. His exchange trip to the Big Apple had been an eye-opener. They played hardball across the pond, and pushed the envelope a little more than their British counterparts. The secondment had been a worthwhile learning curve.
Eddie reached him. “What now, boss?”
“Back to the ranch. We’ll grab a pint and a sandwich on the way, then set up some fresh boards for this case and get with it.”
They were working other cases, but this was going to be a ‘pressure cooker case’, in that there was no reason to believe that the killings would stop, and at some point the press would be all over it like flies on a freshly laid dog turd.
Chapter TWO
He unscrewed the silencer and put it and the semiautomatic pistol in separate pockets of his black moleskin reefer jacket, as he looked up and down the path to be sure that he was not being watched. Apart from distant engine noise of vehicles crossing over Chertsey Bridge, he could hear nothing. He bent down and flipped the skirt up. Quickly sliced through the silky red material at both sides of the panties with the honed blade of an old penknife, that he had kept since schooldays. Gripping the garment at the now wet crotch, he pulled it free from the body. The taking of a trophy held no significance to him whatsoever, and was done purely to misdirect the police.
He had never seen the girl before, and in fact still had not laid eyes on her features. He had stepped out directly behind her, pushed the fat, black silencer up against her skull and pulled the trigger. The only criteria was that she had been young, and alone. The velocity of the bullet punching in and through her head had driven her forward, to stagger on tiptoe for a few steps, before she had slammed face down on the pitted, crumbling tarmac surface. He’d stood with one foot either side of her waist and held the gun two-handed as he put a second slug in the nape of her neck. The body jerked and then became still.
After picking up the spent shell casings, he walked back to the car park, where he took off his gloves, got in the car and drove away. He had not left anything that could lead them to him, and apart from the panties, which he would destroy, had taken nothing else. He didn’t underestimate the police, and was well aware how advanced their retrieval techniques had become. They needed evidence; the transfer of something between the killer and his victim, or some direction to go in. Without a fixed pool of suspects, they were up shit creek without a paddle.
Two years serving time at her Majesty’s pleasure had been an education. It was truly an academy of crime, where he had become a willing and eager student. Breaking the law was simple; a moron could do it. Getting away with committing a serious offence was the key to success. And he was not a petty thief or incompetent burglar. His forte had been in parting elderly people from their life’s savings. He had used whatever means necessary to procure enough money to save him from having to find regular employment. After walking out of the nick, he had still been a prisoner, in that, for good behaviour and because of overcrowding, he had been released on his EDR, earliest date of release, and not the LDR, latest date of release. That had meant being on parole for a few months, and having to play the role of model citizen with Barbara Coombes, who worked for the Probation Service.