A Hunger Within

by Michael Kerr

  He listened to the fifth and tenth stairs of the old terrace house creak as his wife climbed them. Went through to what had once been a small back parlour, and was now his home office, and put a cassette tape into the player on his desk.

  The taped interview was between himself and Gary Mason, the Blackheath Butcher. He listened to it with a certain detachment, as if he was a third party. Made notes in a spiral-topped and lined pad, and concentrated on the cadence and inflections of the sociopath’s voice. The lack of emotion was even more pronounced when played back, without the presence of the man who had drugged, had sex with and murdered thirteen rent boys. This was a human being who used others for self-gratification, then killed them and chopped up the bodies into manageable pieces for ease of disposal. When asked why he had done it, Mason had simply stated: “Because I could, and I needed to.”

  The subsequent assessment David would pen was all but written in his mind. Gary Mason was, in his estimation, incurable. The subtle blend of chronic mental disorders had produced a monster whose natural urges could be contained by drug therapy, but never eradicated, unless a leucotomy was performed on the frontal lobe of the brain, which in some cases could promote a positive change in personality. The bottom line was, that Mason would never be released, and knew it. He spent his time reliving the obscenities he had performed, finding some measure of gratification by vividly reconstructing his crimes and committing them over and over again in his mind. Mason freely admitted that given the chance, he would start up where he had left off. The man did not have the capacity to differentiate right from wrong. His emotional insensibility could not be denied, and that had rendered him unfit to plead, and therefore legally insane.

  David turned the tape off, sat back and linked his hands behind his head. The trick was to clear the mind and disassociate himself from the work that brought madness and evil into his life.

  After a few minutes of recalling highlights of the many good times he had enjoyed, he once again felt mentally separate from his work. He was tired. Reached out to switch off the green-shaded bankers lamp, and was startled as the strident ring of the phone broke the silence. He looked at his wristwatch. Almost midnight.

  “Wilde,” he said into the receiver.

  “It’s Ryan, SCU, Doctor. Didn’t wake you up, did I?”

  “No. Who’s dead?”

  “Could be a social call.”

  “At midnight, and from an unsociable cop who spends every waking minute running down psychos? Do me a favour, Ryan.”

  “Okay. We’ve got a repeater who kills in cold blood, then walks away. All he takes is his victims’ panties. Apart from that, he doesn’t touch them. He doesn’t come under any heading or label that I’ve seen before.”

  “So you’d like me to take a look at the paperwork?”

  “Yeah. I have the feeling he’s on a roll. I don’t expect him to just call it a day and crawl back into the woodwork.”

  “I can cut loose from the hospital about ten in the morning. Okay?”

  “Thanks, Doc. See you then.”

  David felt a jolt of adrenaline percolate through his system. He was suddenly wide awake, his mind racing. This was the other side of his complex nature being stimulated. Being a part of an ongoing investigation complimented his position as a criminal psychologist. His day-to-day contact with patients gave him a unique insight into the various disorders that motivated them. Aiding the police in hunting them down was, to him, a natural way in which to use the wealth of knowledge he had built up over the years. The newspapers had once tagged him a mind hunter, who could think his way into a psychopath’s brain and know how to home in on him. He had backed-off for a while after that. He did not court or enjoy the unwelcome publicity. He now had an understanding with departments at Scotland Yard such as the SCU, and cops like Ryan. They accepted that his assistance was subject to his being afforded anonymity.

  Ryan got up and poured coffee for Angie and Eddie as they walked into the room. He didn’t say a word. Knew that informing parents that their son or daughter had been murdered was the toughest part of the job. It was also beneficial, in that once you had faced and lived through that initial shock, grief, and stomach-churning reaction to your news, and looked into the heartbroken faces of the bereaved, then the determination to find the person responsible for so much pain was increased tenfold.

  “She was the only child, boss,” Angie said, taking the cup from him with trembling fingers. “Worked at Thorpe Park, and was dropped off at Chertsey Bridge by a co-worker every evening. She always used the riverside path. It was a ten minute walk to her home. We got a decent photograph of Veronica from her mum and dad, and a few names and addresses. And as far as her parents know she wasn’t in a relationship.”

  Ryan nodded. Didn’t need to say anything. All known acquaintances of the murdered women and the man would be interviewed. There was a procedure that was set in stone. Trouble was, he was almost positive that this was not someone that any of the vics had ever met in their lives. But you had to cover all the bases.

  “We’ve got David Wilde on board,” Ryan said. “Del is putting copies of everything together for when he arrives tomorrow.”

  “The mind hunter,” Eddie said with an edge of awe in his voice.

  “Don’t refer to him as that,” Ryan said, “He doesn’t like tags, especially that one. You know how he works. We need to keep him out of the press, or he’ll walk.”

  “He’s a bit oversensitive, boss,” Angie said.

  “He doesn’t court attention, Angie. He’s a shrink, not some D List celeb trying to reinvent himself. You want to know what makes a nut tick, he’s the best there is. We need to keep him sweet, and on the team.”

  There was nothing else they could do. The investigation was up and running, and all the stones they could find were being lifted up and looked under. Ryan left the Yard at one a.m. and drove home to his first-floor flat in Finchley. Parked the rusting Suzuki Vitari at the kerb, let himself in the Victorian house and checked his mailbox before taking the stairs up to the first landing.

  Inside Flat 4, he tossed the mail on to the top of an unopened pile on a small table. Took his cigarettes and lighter out of his pocket and shrugged off his jerkin and draped it over the back of the armchair in the lounge. Didn’t turn on any lights. The yellow glow from a sodium street lamp bathed the front-facing lounge and kitchen in subdued light. He lit a cigarette and switched on the coffee maker. The stale, black liquid started to gurgle as it heated up, and the strong aroma pervaded the flat.

  Ryan felt like a robot in standby mode. This was not a home he lived in, just a place to retreat to when he needed to recharge his batteries, or had nowhere else to go...or would rather be. He looked out into the night. Drops of rain tapped against the window, bursting on contact to run down it, cutting meandering lines through the city grime that coated the glass. Across the road, a woman was flitting about her well-lit bedroom. He could see that she was dressed only in bra and pants. Ryan drew the curtains against the sight, to stop himself from being little more than a peeping Tom. A part of him imagined the woman approaching her window, unfastening her bra to release heavy breasts, and hooking her thumbs in the sides of her panties, to peel them down over her hips, displaying her... Don’t go there. He felt a stirring, ignored it, and poured himself a mug of the not quite hot enough and tarry coffee. Went through to the lounge, drew those curtains as well, and sat on the grubby two-seater settee.

  Ryan was a loner away from his work, and lonely, although he did not fully admit it to himself. Apart from the job, he had no focus, and that made him the driven cop he had become. There was only one person outside the squad who he had any time for; his mother. He looked across at the one photo he kept on display, on top of the TV. It was a 5x7 in a cheap wood frame. A faded colour shot of a frozen moment in time. The three people pictured could have been total strangers. It had been taken at Southend in 1982. He only knew that because it was written on the back in his mother’s
small, copperplate handwriting. She, Jessica Ryan, née Wilton, had been a raven-haired beauty, who had given Ryan his grey eyes, straight nose, and quirky smile. He knew that she was thirty-one in the photo. Now, she was a good-looking woman of sixty-two, who he loved to bits, but saw infrequently. After his father, John, had taken the easy way out of a failed business and escalating ill-health by hanging himself in the garage of their Wealdstone home, the world had turned to shit. Ryan had only been eleven when that happened, five years after the photograph of the three of them had been taken.

  He remembered coming home from school to a nightmare. His mother had found the body of his father, still swinging from the bright-blue nylon rope he had used to escape all further consternation. Ryan hated the memory of the man. Suicide had been a display of weakness, and an inability to face up to responsibility. The act had been utterly selfish, committed by a loser who could not have cared enough about his family, to knowingly cause them such pain.

  It had been one of the policemen at the scene who had given Ryan the idea to become a cop. He had walked him out to a police car, while his mother was still screaming, before the doctor arrived and sedated her.

  “How old are you, kid?” PC Brian Rich had asked him.

  “Eleven,” the little boy he had once been, said.

  “Do you know what has happened?”

  “My mum says that my dad is dead. I...I don’t understand.”

  “You ever had someone else in the family die?”

  “No...Yes, Biggles...Our dog, he got run over.”

  “And when that happened did you feel like you do now?”

  He nodded.

  “But you got used to Biggles not being around. Right?”

  “I suppose so, but I still miss him a lot.”

  “Of course you do. But life goes on. You have to remember the good times. Your mum will need you to be really strong for her now. She’ll need you to help her get over what has happened. Can you do that?”

  “I…I don’t know. Who will help me?”

  “I will, son,” Brian said. “Whenever you need to, you call me on the phone and we can talk it through.”

  Ryan had phoned the benevolent copper at least fifty times over the ensuing months. Brian Rich became a second – and better – father to him, and a friend to his mother. He was a rock that they could lean on. The relationship had lasted down through the years, until during a high-speed chase, Brian had swerved to avoid a youngster who ran out between two parked cars. The Fire Service had managed to cut him free of the wreckage, only for him to subsequently lose the fight for life in the operating theatre.

  Brian Rich had been a person whom Ryan looked up to, respected, and saw as being a man who made a difference. For what it was worth, he was the main inspiration behind what had driven Ryan to be the man he now was.

  After just sitting and thinking for awhile, letting random thoughts form in his mind, Ryan eventually got up and went back through to the kitchen. Opened a fresh bottle of cheap scotch, poured himself a Spanish measure and got an ice tray from the freezer. Twisted the plastic tray at both ends until the cubes cracked loose, and picked three out to drop in the booze. He listened to them foam and splinter, then swirled them in the glass and took a long swallow. It hit the spot. Burned a path down to his stomach and filled him with a spreading warmth. He drained the glass quickly, refilled it, and took it back into the lounge. Kicked his moccasin-style loafers off and sprawled out with his head on a throw cushion, and his legs dangling over the arm of the small settee. Decided to buy a big, long, soft couch, that would accommodate his rangy frame. He rarely used the bedroom. Had got out of the habit of regular hours, and had no need to go to an empty bed to sleep. Sad bastard! He was thirty-seven, and had nothing to show for it. A part of him was happy to be alone. But he felt that there should be more to life. If you’ve got nothing to lose, well...you’ve got nothing, full stop. Maybe the woman across the street was in the same position, and her amateur striptease was a cry for companionship, even if only for a fleeting union that would push back the emptiness for a few hours.

  What the hell! He went over to the curtain, pulled it back and grinned. The bedroom was in darkness. Her absence saved him from feeling like a pervert. He switched on the TV. Picked up the remote and channel-surfed for a few minutes; settled for some US golf from Georgia, and got comfortable again. Finished his drink and waited for sleep to steal him away from the boredom.

  Chapter FIVE

  There was only Darren – Dag, to the squad – Hubbard in the incident room when Ryan walked in at a little before six a.m. The stocky DC was making a fresh pot of coffee.

  “You ready for one, boss?” he said.

  “I can’t ever remember not being ready for one, Dag,” Ryan said. “Quiet night?”

  “Like the grave.”

  “Good. You been looking at the new case?”

  The desk Dag was using was piled high with folders that held police, autopsy, forensic and ballistic reports. A second stack was statements from those who had found the bodies, and from everyone who knew the first three vics. There was a lot of copy paper. It detailed the last weeks, days, hours and even minutes of the victims’ lives. And the boards now had selected crime-scene photos tacked alongside corresponding shots of how the young man and the women had looked in life.

  “Yeah, boss. We already got a lead. The bullets used in the first three killings are a match. The striations show that he used a silencer. That confirms beyond any doubt that it was the same perp. I expect ballistics to find that the bullet recovered from the latest shooting is also a match. And the same gun was used in four other murders.” He inclined his head towards the wall boards.

  Ryan took a sip of the coffee Dag handed him.

  “What else?”

  “Forensics went through sacks of material from each scene and got DNA samples from a ton of cigarette ends, chewing gum and condoms, so we can do some elimination. They also lifted some footprints from each scene, but none match. Same with clothing fibres.”

  “How do you figure it?”

  “A lone gunman who seems too organised to be a thrill killer. The four previous shootings had to be hits. We need to put it all together, and not treat the young women as the main event.”

  “Who were the others?”

  “A no-account crack dealer, a Crown witness who helped put Ray Savino away two years back, a customs and excise official who might or might not have been turning a blind eye, and that TV guy, Bob Perry, who did investigative documentaries and upset a lot of lowlife.”

  “Did CID brace Savino?”

  “Yeah, boss. Waste of time. They Interviewed him in Belmarsh. He said they’d made his day with the news that the wit had been capped. Gave them the impression that it didn’t come as a surprise, but they couldn’t get him to say jack shit.”

  “So you think that the young guy and three women were hits?”

  “I think that one of them was. The others could have been taken out to cover it. Whoever hired this guy didn’t want a connection made between him and the intended mark.”

  “So we need to take a lot closer look at the last four vics, and find out which was the real target?”

  Dag’s ebony face split in a wide grin, and the small diamond set in the centre of his left front upper incisor sparkled under the humming fluorescent lighting. “You think I’m on the money, boss?”

  “Yeah, Dag. Three out of four of these young people have died just to distract us. We’re not just looking for a professional killer. He pulls the trigger, but whoever hired him is a murderer by proxy.”

  “We got reams of paper here, boss. CID went this route and came up with nothing.”

  “So let’s solve it and rub it in their faces. I’d like to stick it to Tony Hunt, he gets up my nose.”

  Dr. David Wilde showed up at eleven a.m. Ryan, accompanied by Julie, – who had surprised him by wearing a more casual outfit of belted twill trousers and a slash neck sweater – went through w
hat they had and gave the psychologist a swollen document wallet with everything pertaining to the now seven murders that ballistics tied together, plus the work-up on Veronica Kirkwood, who they knew was number eight.

  “Have you got a room I can use to go through this lot for an hour or two?” David said.

  “Use my office,” Ryan said. “It has a terminal, phones; all the technology, and more importantly, an up and running coffeemaker.”

  “Thanks, Ryan, you’re a prince,” David said.

  “You rate him?,” Julie said when the doctor was halfway down the corridor.

  “He’s the best,” Ryan said. “Don’t let the fact that he looks a cross between a sixties hippie and an absent-minded professor fool you. The corduroy jacket, long hair, goatee beard and ear stud, mask the fact that he’s probably one of the word’s top criminal psychologists. David Wilde has abilities of perception that make the average FBI profiler look like an amateur. He gets inside these creeps’ heads. It’s a gift I’m happy not to share.”

  David went through the photographs first. There was a marked difference between the first four killings and the latter ones. He studied the crimes in chronological order. The first was a twenty-two year old black guy who’d sold crack cocaine. He had been found in a sewer outlet. His genitals had been cut off and taped inside his mouth, before he had been shot in the head and neck. It was a gangland execution, of that David was sure. As was the second. An accountant who had laundered millions of pounds for crime lord Ray Savino had paid the ultimate price for selling him out. He had done a deal with the police, served a short sentence, and within a week of his release was punished for his disloyalty. The nude body of Joel Cattrall was found amid leaf litter in an isolated patch of woodland adjoining Epping Forest. He was in a sitting position, with his back up against the trunk of a tree. His stretched, disjointed arms were wired together at the wrists behind it. The autopsy revealed that the damage done by insects and rats had been inflicted while he was still alive. The eyes and other soft tissue had been devoured, and the festering, bitten, maggot-riddled corpse was a grotesque warning to others, not to cross Savino. The trademark bullets in the head and neck were a signature, and had been fired into the victim post-mortem.