by Michael Kerr
There was no more. They went over certain areas, but Emily had given them everything she could remember.
“Thanks, Emily,” Julie said. “You’ve been very helpful.”
“How safe am I?” Emily said. “He was going to kill me. How do I know that he won’t try to finish what he started?”
“I’ll arrange to have an armed officer guarding you, Emily,” Ryan said. “But I doubt that you’ll be of any further interest to him. He knows that you can’t identify him, so you’re no threat. Had you seen his face, then it would be a different matter.”
“You say that he has done this before, Inspector?”
“We don’t know for certain. We believe he is responsible for a number of murders. I do know that if Harold Palmer hadn’t had a few drinks and plucked up the courage to pay you a visit, then you wouldn’t be talking to us now.”
They headed back into the city. Eddie drove and followed Julie, as Ryan briefed him on what Emily had told them.
“You think he’s losing his grip, boss?” Eddie said.
“No. He did his homework and was about to kill her and leave. There’s no way he could have foreseen that a neighbour besotted with Emily would pick that moment to come round, see his car, and get nosy. He probably shit himself when Harold banged on the window and shouted Police.”
“No, boss. There was no shit found at the scene.”
“I didn’t mean literally, you prat.”
“Fine. Well, while you were with Emily, I literally got the home number of one of the nurses. I think I’m in lust.”
“What about Geena?”
“History, boss. I gave her a parachute, and she bailed out.”
“Sensible girl.”
“Meaning?”
“That you don’t want a long-term relationship, Eddie. You’re happy with sex on tap, and preferably with someone fresh every few months. This nurse will soon be another on your list of past conquests; another notch on your gun.”
“You’ve got the wrong idea, boss. When the right one comes along, I’ll make an honest woman of her.”
Ryan grinned.
“And what about you?” Eddie said. “When are you and Julie going to get past giving each other knowing looks?”
“That’s out of order, Eddie.”
“Oh, excuse me. I didn’t know it was only my love life up for debate.”
Ryan lit a cigarette and looked out of the window. If Eddie could see sparks flying between Julie and himself, then the squad room was probably rife with rumours. He needed to back away from it and concentrate fully on the case. This wasn’t a good time to be side-tracked. Maybe there would never be a good time.
Chapter THIRTEEN
They put everything together and bounced ideas off each other. This wasn’t the kind of case conference that Julie was used to. It was fast and furious, with officers talking over each other, arguing and speculating wildly. She noticed that Ryan listened but said nothing, unless asked. He was happy to let ideas percolate around him and burst like bubbles. He made notes, and threw an odd idea into the mix at intervals, to be chewed up and spat out by the team.
After thirty minutes, Ryan got up and went over to one of the wall boards. Just for a second, Julie thought he was going to scrape his fingernails down it, the way that the character Quint in Jaws had done on a blackboard, to silence a room without saying a word. He didn’t.
“It all boils down to the fact that we know exactly who we’re after, but have absolutely no idea how to find him,” Ryan said. “Soon as we get a photo of Tyler, I want his face plastered in all the newspapers, and lighting up TV screens. He’s a big, fit guy, with piss-yellow eyes. Someone lives next door to him, or wakes up beside him. We know his background. I want everyone who has ever met Andy Tyler interviewed. The more we know about him, the closer we’ll get.”
The team went to work. Ryan told Eddie to get some Celtic cross designs together from the ‘net and to run them past him. He would recognise anything similar to the one he’d seen in the photograph Tyler’s mother had shown him. He would also call her bluff. “I need a warrant for a recent photograph that Ruby Tyler has of her son,” he said to Julie. “And we need to tap her phone. She said he gives her a bell every couple of weeks.”
Julie frowned. “We’ll have no trouble getting a warrant for the photo. But I’ll need something major to get a tap authorised.”
“We can tie him to eight murders, and a rape and attempted murder. If that isn’t major enough, then we might as well lock up and go home.”
“You know how it works, Ryan. We have no absolute proof yet that Tyler is the killer. It’s all circumstantial. I’ll do what I can.”
Julie felt a chill wind of change. Ryan was detached. His attitude was brusque. Maybe it was just the case getting to him.
It was then that David Wilde arrived with a rough profile that outlined the criminal acts committed by the offender that Ryan was now positive would turn out to be Tyler. David had evaluated the specifics of the crime scenes he had visited, produced a comprehensive analysis of the victims, and evaluated the police and autopsy reports. From that he had developed a profile with critical offender characteristics.
Ryan and Julie had kept him up to speed with the investigation, and now updated him with what Emily Simmons had told them about her attacker.
“Does anything about this latest attempted murder help, David?” Julie said.
“It confirms that he is an extremely cunning and violent predator. From what his mother has told you, he suffered abuse at the hands of his father, who in a sense shaped him in the way you would twist and knead Plasticene into something representational. But there is no single psychoneurological reason why a person becomes a monster.
“There are a variety of triggers that can set them off. What you have in this case is a man who has been conditioned to violence. He is dysfunctional, in that he does not have a capacity to feel compassion, guilt or remorse. As with everyone, a sociopath’s behaviour reflects his personality. This is an individual who thrives on manipulating, dominating and controlling others. Killing is the logical endgame. He will not think of it as a despicable act. Murder will nurture a sadistic part of his character, in the way that hors d’oeuvres are the appetiser to further courses. Or more succinctly, in the manner that a forest fire will spread and consume all in its path. As long as there is fuel and oxygen, it will rage out of control.”
“And you don’t think he’ll stop, Doctor?” Julie said.
“No. He would have to want to. He is liberated, in that he does not let outside agencies influence his actions. He is a law unto himself.”
“What are these creatures?” Julie pushed, wanting to understand the motivational forces that drove the likes of Tyler.
“They are what they think...Are what they do. We all are,” David said. “Almost everyone has secrets, fears, fantasies, and urges that they can suppress or modify. Serial, ritual and pattern killers do not let man’s laws restrain them. They have a total lack of moral and social sensibility. You have to look at it from your quarry’s viewpoint, if you are to come to know him and track him down. Put yourself in his mind and be him, and you will have some idea of what he might do next.”
“And you can do that?”
David stroked his beard thoughtfully. “Julie, isn’t it?” he said.
Julie nodded.
“Well, Julie, the simple answer is no, not easily in this case. The perp is not following a set pattern. He doesn’t work by numbers, or leave ambiguous clues to taunt the authorities. He is not going interactive. You would have more chance with a game-player who wanted to be adversarial. In cases like this I have a certain insight, because when some of these men are caught, they end up at places like Northfield Park, where people like myself get to study their disorders firsthand, and to a degree become aware of what drives them. You sometimes have to look over the edge of that abyss they talk about so glibly, and let the evil stare back up at you, right in the eye.”
“Are you saying that Tyler is insane?”
“That depends what yardstick you measure sanity by. Legally, he is aware that what he does is outside the law. That is why he covers his tracks. I would have to therefore prejudge him bad, not mad. Having said that, if you are driven by a compulsion that you cannot control, then are you truly in charge of your actions? It blurs at the edges.”
“Have you any idea what he might do next, David?” Ryan said.
“Yes. He will undoubtedly kill someone else. And don’t ask me to be more precise. This man will murder to order for money, and also for personal pleasure. He could be stalking another woman at this moment and have a list of suitable victims like Emily Simmons lined up. Or he could well have another paid hit in the offing.”
“We’re still looking at everyone in Paula Kay’s life,” Ryan said. “She was a lesbian, and wasn’t into monogamy. You reckon some spurned butch-type who she wouldn’t party with turned nasty and had her capped?”
“People have been murdered for far less obvious reasons. Affairs of the heart drive some people to more than distraction. Love and hate can be obverse sides of the same coin. And if we are to believe it, the wrath of a scorned woman has no equal. Whoever wanted Paula or one of the others killed, will have a deep purse. Remember, three other young people were murdered in exactly the same way purely to mislead you.
“Your other lead, which I have no doubt you are investigating, are other single, lonely women, who the killer will be grooming for sex and death on the ‘net. That they will all know him by a different name is a stumbling block. He will have several anonymous and secure sites, and I would think that he will only use each one once for an individual.”
“Is there any possibility that he might consider Emily as unfinished business?” Julie said.
David pursed his lips, then closed his eyes and seemed to go into himself. He was trying to connect; psychologically plug himself in and think like the man he had profiled would. He was mind hunting.
Ryan and Julie looked on, and then at each other. They said nothing, not wanting to break David Wilde’s intense concentration. His eyes jiggled beneath the lids. His head was inclined to one side. He could have been deep in REM sleep.
“Yes,” David eventually said, coming back from the mental foray. “His vanity will make it a priority. He was disturbed and forced to flee the scene. Reading in the papers that it was not the police, but a neighbour who ran him off, will enrage him. He will know that she survived, and feel compelled to finish what he started. He will need closure. I consider the woman to be in extreme danger.”
After David left, Ryan and Julie acted on his supposition. Agreed that there should be two armed officers guarding Emily round-the-clock. If the psychologist was right, then she was a baited hook.
Julie headed for her own office, to try and jack up the warrants Ryan wanted.
Ryan pulled the file on Paula Kay and leafed through it. If she had been the prime target of the four headshot victims, then whoever had hated her enough to hire a hitman was someone known to her; maybe a shrewd, resourceful and vindictive ex-lover.
Paula had been a researcher for the Jayne Lennox Hour; a daytime feature and interview show. Everyone associated with it had been questioned, but Ryan decided to have another run at it and grill all her co-workers, including Jayne Lennox.
Other news confirmed that they were making all the right connections. Fibres found on both Paula Kay and Veronica Kirkwood were a match, and Ryan had no doubt that Forensics would find them identical to fibres retrieved from the upholstery in the Audi abandoned at Emily Simmons’s house. However careful perps thought they were being, there was usually – but not always – some transfer between him/her and the victim. In this case, Tyler had in all probability stood with one leg either side of Laura’s and Veronica’s bodies to administer the second slugs. It fitted. The fibres were found on the women’s clothing in the region of their hips. Tyler would have left the material on the driver’s seat while getting in and out of the car.
They had enough evidence to sink a battleship. And with the semen recovered from Emily and her bed, Tyler, once apprehended, would have no credible defence against the overwhelming proof of his guilt.
But why would he leave semen? Ryan pondered the question. Was Tyler becoming too brash? Maybe. From his viewpoint, he may feel that an assumed identity was all the cover he needed. That, or perhaps his intention might have been to torch the bungalow before leaving. The neighbour, Harold Palmer, had not only saved Emily’s life. His quick thinking may have also preserved a scene that would otherwise have gone up in smoke. True heroes are sometimes the most unlikely men and women.
On a whim, Ryan picked up the phone and tapped in his mother’s number. It rang ten times. He was about to hang up when she answered.
“Hello.”
“Hi, Mum. It’s me.”
“It’s nice to hear your voice, Francis. I was beginning to think you’d emigrated.”
“Ouch! I know, I should call more often, Mum.”
“I don’t want you ringing because you feel you should. Only when you want to.”
“How are you?”
“Good. Touch wood. I’m going on a painting holiday to Cyprus in a few weeks.”
“By yourself?”
“Yes. Well, not really, it’s an organised group thing. Hopefully, I’ll meet some lovely, like-minded people, drink far too much wine, and generally have a relaxing time. What are you doing?”
“Same old thing.”
“You should get a life, Francis. Being a policeman is admirable, but you don’t have any balance. You need to have balance; other interests.”
“I’ll work on it, Mum.”
“No you won’t, son. When you hang up, you’ll be back in cop-mode again. Did you phone for any special reason?”
“Not really. Just thought I’d check-in.”
“That’s nice. Is there any danger of you dropping by before I go on holiday?”
“Yeah. I’ll bring a bottle, or maybe we can go for a meal.”
“Why not both?”
“Sounds good. I’ll call you in a few days.”
“Do that. Love you, Francis.”
“Love you, Mum. Bye.”
He racked the phone and felt totally dispirited. He did love his mother, but she was a powerful, physical reminder of his father. He associated her more with one event than with anything else between them. His dad’s suicide had robbed him of the ability to look on life as being in any way blithe. It had tainted his view of the world. And visiting his mother was painful. Just the sight of the garage froze his heart. He imagined his dad still in it, swinging from the end of a rope tied-off to a crossbeam. Some things could not be got past, or reconciled. A part of him was in a time warp, trapped on that abysmal day.
Standing up, he took his jerkin from the back of the chair and put it on, then went through to the squad room. “Come on, Eddie,” he said. “Let’s go to the Beeb, rattle a few cages and ruffle some feathers.”
Chapter FOURTEEN
People were milling about, phones were ringing, and the nurse he handed the bouquet of roses to was looking harassed.
“Will you make sure that Emily Simmons gets these, please?” he said.
The nurse snatched the flowers from him without even looking at his face. He watched. She looked down at a clipboard. Wrote a room number on the pink and white striped paper that formed a cone around the blooms.
He walked away smiling. Found a stairwell leading up to the third floor, and looked through the small square window in the door that led out onto the landing of ward nine.
DC Phil Newton was sitting on a plastic contour chair outside the door of the private room. Ryan had pulled him off another case to baby-sit the wounded woman. He didn’t know the whole story, but enough: The stupid cow had got tight with some freakzoid online, had given him her address, and invited him round for a meal. Some people deserved all they got. And now he was supposedly g
uarding her. That was a laugh, and a waste of time and money. The rapist had stabbed her and done a runner. She couldn’t identify him, so it would make no sense for him to make another play for her. But his was not to reason why. The nurses kept bringing him coffee, and the Daily Mirror crossword was keeping the boredom at bay.
Phil needed a leak. Got up and put the newspaper on the chair. When you’ve gotta go, you’ve gotta go. The toilet was on the other side of the corridor, only twenty feet away. He would be in and out in sixty seconds. And there were staff coming and going continually. The woman would come to no harm.
He grinned. There was a chair outside the door with a newspaper on it, and an empty cup under it on the floor. With no hesitation, he approached the door, turned the handle and walked in.
Emily was dozing, thinking about her parents. She would have to call them, before they picked up a Brit’ paper in Alicante and read all about the attack on her. It was bloody wrong that as a victim she had no right to anonymity. The world at large should not be told of her misfortune. There was no privacy.
“Hi, Emily.”
She knew the voice that cut through her thoughts. Her eyes snapped open in time to see the policeman barge through the door and put one arm round Harold’s neck and hold a gun against his head.
“Stop!” she shouted, ignoring the pain in her neck. “That’s Harold Palmer, the man who saved my life. Let go of him.”
Phil recognised the man, so relaxed his grip and lowered the gun.
“Out,” he said to Harold. “No visitors.”
“I’ll decide who does or doesn’t visit me,” Emily said. “Just get your hands off him and leave us alone. Now.”