A Hunger Within

by Michael Kerr

  David was reminded of the American, Richard Kulinski, a Mafia hitman who was believed to have murdered over two hundred individuals. One of his favourite ways to despatch marks who he had been instructed to torture before killing, was to tie them up, gag them, and leave them in a cave or disused mine tunnel for the rats to eat. He even left a camera running to capture the horrific events on film. The vermin, drawn to the struggling and helpless prey, eventually overcame their nervousness and began to feast. This killer appeared to have the same anger at the world that Kulinski had displayed. He was a type of man whose hate was sated by taking life. He would probably look at his chosen career as a paid murderer, as a vocation.

  David studied the file on the third victim. He had already decided that these eight cases were only the tip of an iceberg. He had no doubt that the as yet unknown offender was responsible for many more.

  Maurice Beale was the subject of the third file. He had been a senior customs and excise officer, privy to the time, date and place that shipments of Class A drugs were due to arrive by ferry at Dover. It was easy for him to give clearance to heavy goods vehicles that were bound for warehouses owned by London’s drug barons. Maybe he had gotten too greedy and therefore expendable. There was an endless supply of people in the right places who would turn a blind eye for an envelope full of tax-free money. Being on the take was part and parcel of the job for many workers. It supplemented a poor salary, and made up for what the chancellor legally stole in ever-rising taxes.

  Maurice, or what was left of him, was found in his car boot. The Astra had been left on the second-floor level of a car park in Folkestone. The smell of a decomposing corpse in hot weather soon rings alarm bells.

  Maurice had been suffocated. One hundred twenty pound notes had been stuffed down his throat. Only when he choked to death on the money, had the silenced gun once more been employed. The killer had yet again left his calling card.

  Bob Perry was another tenuous link to an underworld Mr. Big. Perry was an investigative reporter who’d found fame and success with a documentary crime series on TV. He was used to locking horns with and being threatened by criminals, but had apparently bitten off more than he could chew when he started looking too closely at a Russian who was known only as Sergei, and who had his fingers in drugs, pornography, the transportation of illegal aliens, and prostitution.

  There was no proof that Sergei had put a contract out on Perry, but someone had. Perry’s bullet-torn head was delivered to Thames Television studios by Parcelforce, packed in a polythene bag and bubble-wrap, within a hatbox-sized carton.

  David was a little dumbfounded by the distinct differences that separated the first four murders from those of the couple and two other girls. There was no flamboyance in the latter murders. The killer had been impersonal in his execution, and the removal of the panties made no sense. This was the same perpetrator, but using restraint, not allowing himself free expression. Why?

  Having filled two folios of A4 with crowded notes, David wandered back to the incident room. He sat on a swivel chair next to Ryan and waited for him to finish a phone call.

  “How goes it, Doc?” Ryan said, ending the call and turning to face the psychologist.

  David stroked his greying moustache and goatee. “I had a few problems trying to get a handle on his methodology. But it seems obvious that he was working to instructions. Someone wanted Stuart, Cheryl, Paula or Veronica dead. Three of them were only killed to throw you a curve. You’re supposed to think that all four were hit at random by some homicidal panty thief.”

  “Are you telling me that we’re looking for a hired gun?”

  “Yes and no. He obviously takes care of business for people who are aware of his penchant and ability to fulfil their contracts. But he will be freelance. This isn’t a nine-to -five guy, who would be on an employer’s payroll. He is without doubt a loner, and will kill for personal reasons as well as for money.”

  “That’s assuming that all eight vics were murdered by the same man. The gun could have been sold on. We could be looking at the work of more than one killer.”

  David raised his thick eyebrows. “Who just happen to put two bullets in each of their victims, in the head and neck?”

  Ryan nodded. “Just a thought.”

  “Even without the trademark shootings, I would still think that this is one and the same person. He’s much the same as any professional tradesman, in that the handgun is his tool. A carpenter wouldn’t give away or sell his favourite saw or chisel, and this nutter would not part with his weapon.”

  Ryan grinned. “Is nutter a technical term, Doc?”

  “It’s a blanket word I use, until I decide exactly what type of mental disorder I’m dealing with. And laymen prefer no-nonsense tags that they can understand.”

  “Any initial overview, now that you’ve seen the files?”

  “Yes. You have a full-blown serial killer out there. He may have killed dozens or scores of people for both pleasure and profit. He is motivated by anger, and will mete out violence and death to no doubt temporarily relieves the pressure. Anyone who knowingly or even unknowingly slighted him would be at risk. He will not be able to handle criticism or rejection, and will therefore be hyper-insular. The very fact that he is still on the loose leads me to believe that he is cunning, organised, intelligent, and able to blend within the community at large without raising suspicion. He will have a history of violence and mental problems. I would suggest that he is fully aware of his condition, and has learned to present a manufactured personality to cloak his true nature. You’re looking for a chameleon, Ryan. This isn’t some punk kid. He might have been at one time, but he has evolved. You’re looking for a man in his thirties or forties, who has fine-tuned his way of life. He’ll know exactly how you operate, and be aware that without being considered a suspect, he cannot be apprehended, and can continue to kill with impunity. Even the people who hire him will not know his true identity. He’ll be far too paranoid to trust anyone with knowledge that could put him in danger.”

  Ryan let what the psychologist had said sink in. “You believe that only one of the last four vics was a target?”

  “Yes. Most likely Paula Kay.”

  “How the hell can you know that?”

  “Elementary, my dear Ryan. Cheryl Webster and Stuart Rhodes get shot, and the police look closely at family, friends and everyone in their lives, and come up blank. Then when Paula is killed by the same hand, it seems likely that the perp is randomly killing strangers to him. Veronica Kirkwood’s death confirms that there is no apparent motive, and investigators are programmed to believe that a maniac is taking them out for kicks.”

  “So you think that someone close to Paula Kay hired him to kill her, and instructed him to do it in such a way that we would not believe she had been singled out?”

  “Initially, that’s how I see it. Find whoever had a motive to get rid of Paula, and you have a lead to the shooter. Problem then is, whoever wanted rid of her will in all probability have no idea who did the deed for him.”

  “Thanks, Doc. It gives us a trail to follow. Will you be able to compile a profile on this...nutter for us?”

  “Yes. I’ll get back to you with it, soonest. And Ryan, stop calling me Doc. David is fine.”

  After David Wilde left, Ryan ran the psychologist’s initial, speculative overview past the team. “I want everyone who figured in Paula Kay’s life to be put through the wringer, again,” he said. “Let’s run with the idea that someone wanted her dead, and find out why?”

  Chapter SIX

  Sweat pumped out of every pore of his body. He finished up doing an extra twenty press-ups, making a total of two hundred and twenty. His heart was hammering, and he was breathing raggedly with the exertion. The spare bedroom stank of sweat and the lingering and slightly chlorine-laden odour of semen, that over time had been absorbed into the plaster of the bare walls and ceiling, and the chipboard floor. He was comforted by the smell of his own body fluids.


  He had converted the room into a small gym when he moved in. There was a Weider exercise bike, a motorised treadmill, and weights. He worked out every day, keeping his body toned and strong. It was important to him to be as fit as was humanly possible. After all, he was no longer a teenager. At thirty-five, he had to push himself, determined to maintain the highest possible degree of fitness. There was not an inch of fat on his hard body.

  Stretching out on his back, he clasped his hands behind his head and began doing sit-ups. His muscles burned. No pain, no gain!

  Finished, he lay back and closed his eyes. Felt the sheen of sweat begin to cool. Emptied his mind of all trivia, and let the scene of blue sea and a sugar-white beach fill it. A honey-blonde rose up from the mirrored surface of the water and walked towards him. She was topless, and wore a thong that left little to the imagination. Standing over his naked, bronzed body, she ran the tip of her tongue over lips beaded with droplets of salt water. He reached up and rolled the thong down her dripping thighs, for her to step free of the flimsy garment. She knelt down, one leg either side of his hips, and with no preamble, impaled herself on his tumescent member. He did not move. Just watched her breasts jiggle as she laboured to find release. And when she finally stretched her neck back and cried out, he lashed out with a knife, cutting off her cry of delight, to be showered in warm blood from her gaping throat. She fell back, but he held her hips firmly in his strong hands, sexually charged as life ebbed out of the quivering body.

  The scene disintegrated into a kaleidoscope of colourful patterns. He sat up and smiled. His imagination was ultra vivid, and he could rely on it to create almost tangible, titillating situations that stimulated him to ejaculate.

  He showered. Dressed in a T-shirt and jeans, and went downstairs. Gimp bustled in through the cat flap, limped over to him and dropped a fat song thrush at his feet. He squatted to pick up the flapping bird. It was warm, and its little heart beat rapidly against his palm. The beak opened and closed soundlessly, and the coal-black eye that looked up at him was as inscrutable as that of a Chinese coolie’s. But he sensed its fear. Slowly...Ever so slowly, he closed his hand, tightening his fingers around the fragile body, exerting a steady, even pressure, until he felt small bones crunch. Blood leaked out from the now wide-open beak, to run down over feathers that were already wet with gimp’s saliva. He held the now lifeless thrush by a wing, and teased the cat with it for a minute, holding it out, then snatching it away from the claws that tried to hook it. He then chuckled and tossed the bird on to the vinyl floor-covering, for Gimp to seize and run off with.

  It was almost a week since he had shot the girl at Chertsey. The newspapers were speculating on the unknown gunman, who was believed to have shot four young people to death for no apparent reason. Everyone wanted reasons! They found it impossible to accept that sometimes there were none. Maybe he would do another, that evening. Might even give it a twist and rape her first. It seemed such a waste to just whack them. The pleasure was in looking into the eyes of someone who knew they were about to die. Once the light went out, they were just meat, beyond awareness and feeling. Dead bodies were no fun to be around, unless you were into necrophilia, and he wasn’t.

  After preparing and eating a chicken salad, he went to the garage, wheeled out the petrol mower and cut the small front lawn. He then went next door and cut Mrs. Sykes’s grass. She came out when he had finished. He wanted to flinch away from her, or shoot her between her watery, pale-blue eyes, that were becoming milky with cataracts.

  “You’re too good to me, Mark,” Hilda Sykes said to him. “I don’t know how I’d manage without you as a neighbour and friend.”

  “I’m pleased to be able to help out, Hilda,” he lied with conviction. “How’s Arthur?”

  “Not, Good. Everyone but him knows he won’t be coming out of that hospital upright. He keeps saying that we’ll be celebrating our golden anniversary in December, but the doctors have told me to get used to the idea that he won’t be here for it.”

  “I’m truly sorry to hear that, Hilda. Anything I can do, don’t hesitate to ask.”

  “You’re a gem, Mark.”

  He actually pecked her on the cheek. Could smell old age permeating through the cheap, lavender-scented perfume she wore. And her ill-fitting dentures were stained and had particles of food plastered between them like organic mortar. Jesus! They should put her in the same box that Arthur would soon be laid out in. Too many people were simply a complete and utter waste of fucking space.

  “Must go,” he said. “Time and tide, eh?”

  Back in the house, before booting up the Apple, he washed his mouth out with Listerine. He could taste the old cow on his lips. There were no messages for him. The provider was a chainer service in Holland that guaranteed total anonymity. And the handful of people that used his service – and sometimes referred people to him, that he vetted – did not know who or where he was. All transactions were carried out via computer, and his payment was always wired to an overseas account number, for him to transfer out immediately. It paid to be extra careful. ‘Trust no one’ was a saying he took very seriously. He knew that one mistake could result in his downfall, so didn’t make any.

  As the sun dipped out of sight, and dusk replaced daylight, he drove north, joined the M25 and headed anticlockwise. He had a date to keep. The wonderful world of the computer allowed him to search and sift for potential online victims. He had a number of accounts, and used aliases to make e-mail contact with and court forlorn women who were lonely, frustrated, and were looking for sex or a long term commitment. Over time, with patience, he would get to know them, break down any caution, and satisfy himself that they were single, lived alone, and met his criterion.

  Emily Simmons was on his list of people to kill. And tonight was the night he would meet her for the first and last time.

  Emily worked as a receptionist at Page, Gallagher & Swallow solicitors in Watford. She was thirty-six. Her parents were retired and lived in Spain, she had no siblings, and had never been married. Her online photograph, a head and shoulders shot, showed a plump face with black hair scraped back in a ponytail. Dark eyes looked spaniel-sad, and her smile seemed forced, as though she had wind pains.

  Emily had spent over six weeks flirting online with Alistair Griffin, a forty-six year old chartered accountant, whose wife had passed away two years ago. He found it difficult to socialise, but wanted to get back on track and form a relationship with someone who shared his interests. Emily thought him charming. He enjoyed travel, dining out, and most things pertaining to nature and wildlife. He planned to visit Kruger National Park, but did not want to go alone.

  Emily thought that he looked sophisticated and handsome. She was not to know that the on-screen photograph was of a mature male model, taken from an old brochure advertising Saga holidays. She became infatuated with a man who did not exist. Her first mistake was to give him her phone number, and her second was to invite him to her home for dinner.

  Emily did not know what to wear. She felt like a teenager agonising over every aspect of her appearance. She was used to wearing dark trouser suits for work, and sitting around the house in a robe. When she went shopping, she threw on sweats and trainers.

  After waxing her legs, shaving her armpits and showering, Emily blow-dried her hair and left it loose to tumble on to her shoulders. Maybe nothing would happen tonight, but if it did, then she was not going to hold back and play hard to get. They were both well over the age of consent: two adults needing companionship, and yes, sex. She actually found herself wanting a man that she had only seen a picture of, fantasised over, and even pleasured herself while online with him. She imagined him holding, kissing, touching and...and yes, fucking her. The anticipation of his visit excited her; caused a tingling need to build. She clenched muscles that had only been exercised by constricting around a buzzing latex vibrator once or twice a week. Could it really be eight years since she had split with Howard? They had lived together for two yea
rs, and after the first slap, he had promised not to hit her again. But physical violence somehow became a part of her life. She could not now come up with any reason why she had put up with it. She had been scared of Howard. One minute he could be loving and kind, and the next, wild-eyed, thumping her in the breasts and kneeing her in the stomach. She had finally found the courage to change the locks on the doors and dump his belongings on the drive. It had been a nightmare, and had made her untrusting of men in general. The anonymity of online relationships had given her the courage to dip her feet back in the water, so to speak. And now she was, hopefully, about to. She slipped on some brand new lingerie; a black, lacy plunge bra and matching G-string. She felt sexy as hell. The G-string was a little tight between her buttocks, but made her feel good. Maybe she should tidy up her pubic hair. There were a few dark curls escaping from both sides of the skimpy garment. Better than looking like a freshly plucked chicken, though.

  She kept it simple. Wore a semitransparent black halter top, a beige pencil skirt, and a pair of low-heeled mules. He was due soon, and the casserole she had made was almost ready. She opened a bottle of red wine to breathe, and dared to hope that he would stay the night.

  When the phone bleated, Emily almost spilled the glass of vodka and tonic that she had poured herself to steady frayed nerves.

  “Hello.”

  “Hi, Emily. It’s Alistair.”

  A sinking feeling. She just knew that something had come up and that he was going to give her a rain check.

  “I’ll be there in five minutes. Are you sure you still want to meet me. I’m feeling very nervous about this.”