by Michael Kerr
“Did you get to know Tyler at all?” Julie pressed.
“No. He would just sit and stare at me. He had eyes that made your spine freeze. They were like a bloody snake’s. Yellow, and unreadable. He answered yes or no to any questions, and wouldn’t talk about himself, or how he felt. I once asked him what he planned to do when he got out, and he said: ‘Anything I fucking want’.”
“You think he could commit murder, Roy?” Ryan said.
“I know he could. He liked violence. He’s the type who would break your jaw if you accidentally bumped into him in a pub. You know the sort.”
“Can you get us a copy of his prison file?” Julie said.
“Yeah. Give me a few minutes. There’s a photocopier in the office downstairs.
They stopped at a Starbucks, ordered fancy coffee at a fancier price, and found a table. Sat thigh-to-thigh with the copy of Tyler’s prison record in front of them. Ryan turned to the page that gave his personal details and had a photograph of him stapled to it, depicting him in two poses, facing front and side, standing behind a narrow board that had his name, the date, and his prison number chalked on it. He looked impassive. His expression gave nothing to the camera. He was square-chinned, not bad looking, with short hair, and eyes that even in monochrome were striking and held a propensity for violence. If you were to create an image of a stone killer who operated like an automaton programmed to carry out unimaginable acts, then this might be the face you would invent.
Ryan checked Tyler’s name, date of birth, and the details of his conviction and sentence. Julie’s leg felt warm against his; a distraction. He tried to concentrate, but began to wonder why she didn’t move an inch, to put space between them.
“Finished?” Julie said, tapping the page.
“Uh, yeah,” he said.
Julie flipped through the sheets and they read the pertinent details about Andrew Tyler. He had been found guilty of swindling elderly people out of thousands of pounds, and in one case, the life savings of a ninety-year-old woman. His only saving grace was, that he had never used violence against them. That in itself was a surprise, if he was indeed the killer they sought.
“His previous was all non custodial,” Julie said. “Cruelty to animals as a teenager, and petty mischief that he got probation and fines for.”
“Not a lot of background. But we have his mother’s address here,” Ryan said.
They checked his letter and visiting sheets. He had never sent out a letter or visiting order while serving his sentence, and had not maintained contact with anyone on the out, including his mother. Only the Probation Service was listed as having any dealings with him. The officer concerned was named as Barbara Coombes. There was also an address that he’d moved to on release, but neither of them believed he would still reside there.
“This doesn’t tell us a lot,” Julie said, when they reached the back page.
“On the contrary, it tells us that he’s a loner, and we know that he has a capacity for violence. He is antisocial, preys on the weak, and seems to have all the personality traits that would be beneficial to a man who has now found contract killing a profitable and satisfying career.”
“Career?”
“Yeah, Julie. Career…Vocation. Put whatever handle you like on it. But it’s what he does as a chosen profession.”
Julie ran her finger around the rim of the coffee cup. It didn’t sing like a crystal wine glass. There was no sound at all.
“You want more coffee?” Ryan said.
“No. We’d better get back and locate this guy. Savino may be pointing us in the wrong direction, but I got the impression he was on the level.”
When they got back, Ryan phoned Barbara Coombes and told her that he needed to talk to her about Andrew Tyler.
“He worked in a meat processing plant, and lived in a flat less than a five minute walk from it,” Barbara said, subsequent to hanging up first and phoning the Yard back, not about to discuss an ex-parolee until she was sure who she was talking to. “The day he was no longer on licence, he upped and vanished. I have no idea where he went.”
“What was he like, Ms. Coombes?” Ryan said.
“It’s Mrs. He did everything that was required of him, Inspector. But he was just biding time. In my opinion, Andy Tyler was...is a sociopath. He was one of the coldest fish I have ever met. I always wanted to take a shower and change my clothes when he left my office. He had an aura of evil about him.”
“Can you explain what you mean by that?”
“Probably not. Let’s just say that I’ve dealt with thousands of ex-inmates over the years, and have even been assaulted by a few. But to date, Tyler is the only one who made my flesh really crawl when he looked at me. I would never go to his flat alone, or put myself in a position where I could not have screamed for help that was nearby. And yet he never so much as said boo to me. Just followed his release plan to the letter. What has he done, Inspector?”
“Maybe nothing, Mrs. Coombes. We need to interview him and eliminate him from an ongoing investigation.”
“And I have no doubt that it is a murder you are investigating.”
“Correct,” Ryan said, seeing no reason to be coy about it.
“I hope you find him, Inspector. He needs to be locked away. Some people are born bad, and have the potential to do great harm. Tyler is one of them.”
Armed and wary, Eddie and Vinnie Gomez checked out the flat where Tyler had lived. A single mother was now the tenant. Eddie determined to set the wheels in motion to procure a search warrant, so that Crime Scene could collect samples. The place was not kept clean. Eddie was sure that the techies would find hairs in the drain traps of the bath and basin, and fibres in the contents they would vacuum up from every carpet. No one could live anywhere without leaving trace evidence. And if just one hair or fibre matched any found at one or all of the murder scenes, then they would know beyond reasonable doubt that Tyler was the killer they sought.
Chapter EIGHT
Eddie was up to his neck in paperwork, getting the application for a warrant in order. They needed just cause to obtain legal access to the suspect’s previous address. The landlord’s verbal permission was not enough. Down the road, the signed warrant would fend off any claim of illegal search that may be made by some hotshot defence lawyer.
Ryan drove out to Croydon with Del Preedy. They’d traced Ruby Tyler to where she now lived in a council house on an estate on the outskirts of the city. It was seven p.m. when Ryan knocked on the board that had been screwed to the broken window in the top half of the door at 29 Woodside Crescent. The small front garden was almost bare of grass and littered with piles of cat shit. The privet hedge was festooned with litter, including; crushed beer cans, plastic carrier bags, and even a pair of tights.
“You think the car will still be here when we come out?” Del said.
“Pass,” Ryan said. “Why do you think I pulled a pool car and didn’t use my own?”
“Who is it?” a throaty, muffled voice said through the sheet of MDF.
“Police,” Ryan said. “We need to speak to you, Mrs. Tyler.”
“I don’t need to speak to you,” came the reply.
“It’s about Andrew,” Ryan said.
There was the sound of a chain being disengaged, and then of a dead bolt being taken off. The door opened, and a tall, grey-haired woman appeared before them. She wore a fluffy, pink towelling robe. The front of it was spotted grey with ash. A cigarette hung from the corner of her mouth, and as she began to speak an inch of ash fell onto the rise above her breasts. She slapped at it with her hand as though it was a fly, and it smeared another patch of the already grubby robe.
“So show me your warrant card,” she said. Ryan complied. “What’s happened to Andy? He’s dead, ain’t he?” she continued, eyes flicking back and forth between Ryan and Del.
“Not that we know of, Mrs. Tyler. But we need to ask you a few questions,” Ryan said. “May we come in? No need to give your neighbours
something to gossip about.”
“Fuck the neighbours!” Ruby said, crinkling her eyes against the smoke that curled up into them. But she turned and headed off down the hall to the rear of the house.
Ryan followed, and Del closed the door behind them.
The kitchen was large and surprisingly clean. Money had been spent on it. The chestnut-coloured units looked new, the counters had granite tops, and the floor was covered with terracotta tiles. There was even an LCD TV on a corner unit.
“Take the weight off,” Ruby said, nodding to the contemporary design tubular steel table and chairs. “You want coffee?”
“Please,” Ryan said. Del shook his head.
“So why’d you want to talk to Andy? What’s he done now?”
“Maybe nothing,” Ryan said. “But we need to see him. Do you know where he is?”
“I might,” Ruby said. “But he’s my son. I don’t want to get him in any bother with the law.”
Ryan found it hard not to stare at the woman’s face. Not just because of her striking, amber eyes, but because of the curved, white scar that snaked down from above her left ear to the corner of her mouth.
“Pretty, eh?” Ruby said, reaching up and running a nicotine-stained fingertip down the crescent trench that bisected her cheek. “My husband was a mean bastard when he hit the bottle. No wonder Andy quit school and left home so young. He got his fair share of beatin’s off his father. And had to watch when I got this. Poor little bugger went through a lot, courtesy of Kenny. I should have left him, but...”
“Where’s your husband now, Mrs. Tyler?” Ryan said.
“Rottin’ in hell, I hope,” Ruby said, and the accompanying lopsided grin was not a pretty sight. “He got knifed in the car park of the Anchor Inn. Someone stabbed him over a dozen times. He managed to crawl out onto the main road, and got hit by a car. Now that’s what I call justice. You reap what you sow.”
Ruby poured two mugs of coffee and handed one of them to Ryan. She hadn’t asked him if he took sugar or milk. It came just how he liked it.
“When did you last see Andy?” Ryan said.
“Before he got put inside. He told me not to write or visit. And when he got out, he phoned and said it was best if he kept away. I think he’s right. He’s my son, but I was always nervous around him. He had a lot of his father in him. Got very moody for no good reason. I think he blames me for all that happened, although he still gives me a bell every couple of months, and sends me a few quid when he can.”
More than a few quid, Ryan thought. If the rest of the house was as well fitted-out as the kitchen, then sonny boy had put a lot of money her way.
“You got his number,” Ryan said.
“No. He rings me. He won’t give me his address, and doesn’t call round.”
“Have you got a photo of him?”
“You mean recent?”
“Yeah.”
Ruby got up and went out into the hall, opened a door and vanished from sight. Ryan got up and followed her. She was in a through lounge. More money. Thick pile quality wall-to-wall carpeting, a black leather upholstered suite, and a TV the size of a barn door. The walls were adorned with Franklin Mint plates featuring Marilyn Monroe in various provocative poses. Funny how some people stay alive in the public consciousness, Ryan thought. Monroe had died in nineteen sixty-two, twelve years before he had been born, and yet she was still revered, for reasons he could not properly comprehend. She had been a looker, no argument there. But having watched a few of her old movies, he couldn’t recognise any discernible acting or singing ability. She had just oozed sensuality by the bucketful.
“He sent me this from Barbados,” Ruby said, holding up a framed colour photograph of her son. The man in the picture was standing on a white sand beach, wearing a Hawaiian-style shirt and baggy knee-length shorts. He had a tall glass adorned with a cocktail umbrella and slices of fruit in one hand, and had his free arm around the shoulder of a bronzed beach babe, who was wearing little more than a smile. Ryan noted the tattoo on Tyler’s shoulder.
“I need to borrow this photograph,” he said.
Ruby chuckled. “You don’t look stupid, even for a cop. Do you really believe I’m gonna do anythin’ that might help you find Andy? You think he’s done something bad, or you wouldn’t have looked me up.”
Ryan tried shock tactics. “He may have murdered at least eight people that we know of, Mrs. Tyler. We have reason to suspect that he is a paid killer.”
Whatever reaction he had expected, it was not the shrug of shoulders, or the ‘not give a damn’ expression that the woman gave him.
“Don’t you care?” he said.
“About as much as I care about the millions of Africans starvin’, or dyin’ of AIDS. Or all the people who got up this mornin’ and never made it through the day. Tell me, do you give a shit about strangers who croak? Or are you selective? Is it just the cases that land on your desk that you get off on?”
Ryan gritted his teeth. The woman was taunting him with what was in part the truth. “We’ll get a warrant for the photograph,” he said, turning to leave.
“I’ll have lost it by the time you do. Or maybe I’ll burn it when you leave.”
It was irrational, but he wanted to strike her in the face with his fist. Maybe if she’d been a man, then he would have. Whatever Andy Tyler was, he realised that psychologists like David Wilde were near the mark in blaming it in part on a childhood that patterned them to violence. As a kid, it was now clear that Tyler had been abused, and had even been forced to watch his mother suffer beatings and mutilation. He had probably become partially anaesthetised to it, adapting to be able to cope with the trauma. Ryan did not think it an excuse, but could see it being a reason that explained how a person can be made callous and uncaring. Some get past it and are strengthened by it, becoming better than their dysfunctional parents. Others, like Tyler, take another path, are mentally twisted by the experiences they have suffered, and strike out in retaliation. Maybe it was Tyler who snapped and stabbed his father. They might never know.
Back in the car, Ryan lit a cigarette and stared out through the windscreen.
Del drove and said nothing. Knew that his boss was consumed by an anger that was best left to drift over like a dark cloud will, given time and a fair wind. He had once witnessed Ryan go a little over the top, and it was not a pretty sight.
Del headed north to the city and recalled the night that they had caught up with Adam Merkel. Part of his mind was back in another time and place.
Merkel had been a paedophile and killer. Had snatched seven young boys over a period of two years. Three were never found. The remains of the other four had been recovered; left at isolated locations, sodomised and strangled. The case had enraged Ryan more than any other. As each child’s body was found, he seemed to die inside a little, feeling inept at not being able to hunt down the sex fiend who used children in the way that you would satisfy your hunger with a bar of chocolate, then throw away the crumpled, superfluous wrapper.
It was DNA that gave them the breakthrough. Merkel did not use condoms, and had left his genetic fingerprint in the torn tissue of the boys’ rectums.
In desperation, after eliminating known paedophiles who were on the Sex Offenders’ Register, Ryan had instigated a more detailed, in-depth line of inquiry. It took time. He wanted DNA samples taken from all ex-offenders, going back as far as it took, without limitation, knowing that even a percentage of octogenarians could still get it up.
Adam Merkel was illiterate, and had, fortunately, not kept abreast of modern forensic retrieval capabilities. He spent his time masturbating over child pornography when not doing the same while watching videos that catered to his perversion.
Merkel could have slipped through the net, had Ryan not been so thorough. Though retired from his job as a council gardener, and aged sixty-eight, Merkel had been fined and put on probation for indecently exposing himself to juvenile males, back in nineteen-sixty-nine, when he had been
a young man. It was a long shot, but he was checked out as a matter of course. It had been Ryan and Del who’d called at the seedy basement flat in Upper Clapham. Just luck of the draw.
They’d walked down the steps, and as Del made to knock on the door, they heard a scream. The scream of a child. Ryan went to the window, found a pencil-thin gap in the thick curtains, and saw the naked body of a man struggling with an equally unclothed boy of indeterminate age.
Del was pushed back roughly, away from the door. He watched Ryan draw his gun from its shoulder holster, take a step back and kick out full force, driving his foot into the wood next to the lock. The door burst inwards, and Ryan ran into the dimly lit living room with his gun raised. Del did the same.
Merkel rolled over, held the child in front of him as a shield, produced a wicked looking knife and pressed the blade against the sobbing boy’s throat.
“I’ll kill him. I swear I’ll cut his throat from ear to ear,” Merkel hissed.
“Then what?” Ryan said through gritted teeth.
“Uh?”
“I said, then what, you depraved, sick little fuck? Drop the knife, now, and you get to take another breath. Do anything else, and I’ll blow your fucking head off.”
Maybe it was the agonised expression on the little boy’s face; the terror in his wide tear-filled eyes, or the thin stream of blood that seeped from between his legs. Del would never know. He thought that Merkel was opening his hand to drop the knife when Ryan shot him.
The flabby, white-skinned old man fell back, away from the child. Ryan streaked forward, snatched the boy up and told him that he was safe. That it was over.
Del watched as Merkel jigged-juddered-jerked on the stained and matted hearth rug. The old degenerate clutched at his throat and tried to drag air into a windpipe that had been damaged beyond repair by the bullet. The wheezing gargle was bloodcurdling, and Del would never be able to dislodge the sight of the man in his death throes. With a final liquid cough, Merkel arched his back, became rigid, and flopped down into a pool of velvet blood, losing all further interest in buggering minors or jacking off over gay stroke mags.