by Michael Kerr
“I got all the help you need right here, Terry. Open your mouth.”
“Oh, God, no. Please, I―”
Andy rammed the black, steel tube between Terry’s lips. Heard teeth break as he angled the weapon up and pressed it firmly against the soft upper palate. When he pulled the trigger, the top of Terry’s skull erupted, and the car’s roof lining was splattered with its steaming contents.
What had been Terry Walsh shot up off the seat, then slumped back, immune to any further suffering in this life.
Andy pushed the corpse down on to the floor, beneath the glove box, and started the car. He drove it down the lane, between the stone pillars that flanked the open gates of the Rectory’s drive, and parked at the door.
Back at his own car, he thought it through. Terry had been too scared and in too much pain to lie. He was safe. But that Savino had known his every move for so long was deeply disconcerting. He should have spotted Terry before now. Should have sensed that he was being watched. All’s well that ends well, though. The tables were now turned. Savino would get his. The dago shit had not only invaded his privacy, but talked out of turn to the plods, and then ordered Terry to blow him away. Savino might be safe while he was banged-up and out of circulation, but his family were not.
Back at the flat, Andy worked out how to kill Gina Savino, and by so doing deliver a graphic warning to her father. It would not be straightforward. The gangster’s minions would be ever-present, ensuring that Mrs. S and her three daughters came to no harm.
Dawn was breaking when he drove out to a little part of Italy in the Essex countryside that housed a luxurious ten-roomed villa in ten acres of private woodland. He had no intention of trying to storm the place. That would be pushing the envelope too far, even for him. No, he had a better idea.
It was eight-fifteen a.m. when the electronically-operated gates swung open. A gleaming black Mercedes emerged, and he followed it all the way to the private girls’ school in Chigwell. Smiled as the young, olive-skinned girl was escorted inside by a guy built like a gorilla, whose frame was almost bursting the seams of his dark-blue mohair suit. The Savino family were about to have their day ruined. But first he decided to use the late Barbara Coombes mobile phone to make a call.
Chapter SEVENTEEN
The call was put through to the incident room. Being an outside call, it was automatically recorded. Del Preedy picked up.
“Detective Constable Preedy. How may I help you?”
“I have some vital information in regard to the murders you are investigating. Put whoever is in charge of the case on the line.”
“I need to take your name and―”
“Don’t jerk me around, cop. If you do I’ll hang up. Get your boss, now.”
“Okay, hold,” Del said, and shouted, “boss,” to Ryan who was standing in front of the wall boards next to Eddie. “You better take this.”
Ryan caught the note of urgency in Del’s voice. Went over and took the receiver from him.
“This is Detective Inspector Ryan,” he said. “Who am I talking to?”
“What’s in a name?” Andy said. “All you need to know is that I’m the happy camper that topped Veronica Kirkwood and the others.”
“That makes you the third Looney Tune to claim responsibility. Unless you can convince me that you’re the real McCoy.”
“I took the girls’ panties, but did not sexually assault them, Inspector. Those are details that you haven’t released to the press yet.”
“You’re Andrew Tyler,” Ryan said, then mouthed ‘trace it’ to Del.
“I was. Obviously I’ve had to assume another identity. But let’s not use up the few more seconds I intend to stay on the line with idle chitchat. I think you should hotfoot it over to the Rectory on Kirton Lane at Golders Green. You’ll need a crime scene team and a pathologist. And today’s practical tip is, if you’ve got a weak stomach, don’t eat before you go.”
“What―?”
“That’s all folks,” Andy said before pressing END and switching off the phone.
When they reached the Golders Green address, David Wilde’s Honda was already parked outside. Ryan wanted the psychologist to attend the crime scene, so had phoned him before they left the Yard. David had been at home in Hornsey, and was at the scene long before Ryan and Eddie.
“You sure it was Tyler that phoned you?” David said to Ryan as the three of them walked up the gravel drive towards a parked car that stood in a wide turning area, in front of a Gothic-style house that could have featured in old Hammer horror movies. The world looked black and grey. It was a little misty, and cold, fine rain needled down to enhance the effect.
“Yeah, he came across as the genuine article,” Ryan said.
“Look, boss,” Eddie said, pointing to the side of the car. The holes in the driver’s door were obviously made by bullets.
Eddie walked over and looked in the open side window to where the body of a man was crumpled on the floor in the passenger-side foot well. There was no need for Eddie to check for a pulse. He took cellophane gloves from his pocket, slipped them on and opened the rear offside door. Reached over and put two fingers to the corpse’s neck anyway, as a formality. Nothing. The air in the car smelled foul. And the top of the vic’s head reminded Eddie of a soft-boiled egg, after its top had been roughly sliced off with a spoon. He opened the driver’s door from the inside, got out and went round to pull the door wide open by the frame, not the handle. He could see the edge of a wallet protruding from a rear pocket of the bloody jeans, so eased it free and backed-up out and away from the vehicle.
Ryan had also put gloves on. Took the wallet from Eddie, opened it and checked the contents. There was a driving licence and some banknotes and plastic. If the wallet had belonged to the stiff, then he was one Terry Walsh. It was not a name Ryan was familiar with.
“Looks like he was shot through the door with a handgun, and there’s a sawn-off 12 gauge on the floor. The head shot had to be to finish him off.”
“Let’s check the house,” Ryan said.
The front door was shut but not locked. Ryan and Eddie entered first with their guns drawn. They did not suspect that the perp was inside, but were not taking any chances.
David stayed outside as instructed and waited for the all clear. He admired cops. They ventured into situations that were potentially hazardous; put themselves in the line of fire, and risked their lives on behalf of a society that in the main seemed slightly hostile towards them. What cops like Frank Ryan and Eddie Taylor did was not just put long hours in for a pay cheque. They were motivated by far more diverse and complicated emotions. There was a certain mindset that unsung heroes such as police, members of all the emergency services, lifeboat men, mountain and air rescue, and many other factions had. They got off on doing the right thing under pressure, and could somehow, if the need arose, put strangers’ lives above their own. Selfless was a word that sprang to David’s mind.
The house was clear. Ryan called for David to come inside.
David entered the kitchen and saw the dark bundle on the floor. If it had not been for the legs, he would have thought it was a discarded fur coat. The headless body of the dog was laid in a large pool of congealing blood.
“He used a glass cutter on the window, then entered and killed the dog,” Ryan said. “And this is nothing compared to what he did next.”
In a seemingly detached manner that to David was reminiscent of a tour guide at a stately home, Ryan led him up the wide staircase, pointing out the splotches of blood on the Windsor-grey carpet.
David was full of trepidation as he approached the open bathroom door. His heart rate doubled, and he had palpitations. Cold sweat filmed him. He had visited many crime scenes, but usually days or even weeks after the victims had been removed. By the time he was called in to consult, there was only dark, dried traces of blood to denote the barely visible residue of the crime that had taken place. His work was done mainly with the knowledge of what had occurre
d, and by studying the reports and photographs. This was very different. To be among the first people to see the aftermath of a full-blown sociopath’s actions was at once nauseating, professionally interesting, and in some way thrilling, in that this was the grass roots; the type of atrocity that many of his patients were committed for carrying out.
To see the results of such barbarity in the flesh caused a ball as heavy as lead to form in his stomach. He wanted to turn and run from the house, but let the professional in him come to the fore and view this as evidence.
There were two bodies in the bath. The woman was sitting facing the door, her back against the taps. Her eyes seemed to be staring straight at him; blue, sightless, and yet somehow still imbued with terror. Her lips had been cut off, and the pink gums and white teeth were streaked red. Lowering his gaze, David saw more grievous mutilation. He closed his eyes for a few seconds and swallowed hard as bile rose in his throat. But when he dared to look again the scene was no less horrific.
Stepping forward so that he could see the body of the man, David blew hard and clenched his ice-cold hands into fists, digging his fingernails into his palms. The eyes were out, hanging on grey cheeks. The throat had been laid open, and severed genitals were partially protruding from the corpse’s mouth. Wedged between the legs was the head of the dog, tongue lolling out from the gaping mouth. On the side wall, drawn in blood on the shiny tiles was a large smiley face; a circle with two dots for eyes, and an upturned crescent line for a mouth. There was a scrawled message beneath it: ‘You ain’t seen nothing yet.’
“First impressions, David?” Ryan said.
“That Tyler has not lost any of the skills he learned while working in a slaughterhouse. And that he is without doubt escalating. This confirms that he has absolutely no moral or social sensibilities. He has crossed a line, and is now a ghoul, obsessed with causing suffering and taking the lives of anyone who he bears a grudge against.
“Another bad sign is that he has made contact with you. He couldn’t wait for these victims to be found. He is proud of...of this, and is showing off what he is capable of doing to fellow human beings.”
“That is to our benefit,” Ryan said. “Overconfidence breeds mistakes.”
“Don’t bet on it. There is no way that you can foresee where he will strike next. And he will go to extreme lengths to remain incognito. He is an organised killer who plans everything extremely carefully.”
“You said he was escalating,” Eddie said.
“Yes, in that his appetite is growing. I expect him to kill more frequently. He has gone through a transition. I believe that he is consumed by hate, and can only relieve the pressure by requital. He is an avenger, repaying with evil acts all those who he deems to have done him wrong. It is not in his nature to let anyone go unpunished for a real or imagined slight against him.”
“And we thought at first that we were looking for a plain and simple hitman,” Eddie said.
“There is no such thing, Sergeant. Anyone who chooses to kill, even for monetary reward, is a sociopath with the ability to be emotionally disconnected from his actions. But Tyler has also found pleasure in being emotionally involved. He has begun to enjoy himself.”
After making the call and speaking to the cop who was in charge of the case, Andy had driven away from the school and tossed the stolen mobile phone into bushes at the side of the A113. He was now back in Chigwell, parked on the tree-lined road, watching, and waiting for the kids to be released into the yard for playtime, or whatever they called the morning break between lessons these days.
Within the school a bell rang, and he smiled as girls rushed noisily out into the dull daylight. The ominous, bruised sky suited the events that where about to take place.
He saw her. She was standing with a bunch of other young girls. They all wore bottle-green pullovers and matching skirts. One adult strutted around the large tarmac-topped area in a supervisory capacity. He pulled on a knitted cap and exited the car. Walked across the road and along the pavement, next to the chain link fence.
The first bullet struck the teacher high in the centre of her chest. She staggered backwards on her heels and dropped to the ground. The kids had no idea what had happened. First one, then others ran towards her. He sighted in on Gina Savino and smoothly pulled the trigger. Her head flew sideways, and he saw a lash of blood whip through the air as she fell. To cause further confusion and maximum panic, he loosed off another four shots in quick succession. Watched as girls went down like skittles in a bowling alley, then strolled back across the road to his car and drove away. The whole episode had taken less than forty-five seconds.
Within fifteen minutes of the shooting, he had driven well clear of Chigwell, changed the plates on the car, and then used a public phone to call the Savino household.
“I’d like to speak to Mrs. Savino,” he said to the guy who answered in broken English.
“She not here. You wanna tell me who’s callin’, an’ leave a message?”
“Sure,” Andy said. “My name is Andy Tyler. Tony knows me. I just called to say that the wanker he sent to whack me is dead. And get this, greaseball. So is Gina. I just went by the school and blew her brains out.”
He hung up and hugged himself. “Yeesss!” This was such a delirious feeling. Happiness was death-shaped.
He was on a roll, but needed to steady the ship. Maybe stay in the flat for a couple of days, watch the news break on his exploits. It was time to regroup and plan his next move. He acknowledged that the appetite to kill was now a compelling and unrelenting force that demanded to be fed. He was an addict, always needing the next fix.
Chapter EIGHTEEN
It didn’t take long to establish exactly who Terry Walsh was. He had done time on the same wing as both Tyler and Savino. It was confirmed by a residential governor at the prison that Walsh had been tight with Savino.
Barbara Coombes had worked for the Probation Service for twenty years. Among her duties was the after care and monitoring of parolees. She had been right about Tyler. Had known that he was unstable and capable of murder, but must have been surprised – to say the least – to end up as one of his victims.
Ryan and Eddie called in at the office when it opened the following morning. Spoke to Justin French, the senior parole unit officer.
“I’m afraid I’ve got some bad news,” Ryan said to the tall, well-groomed man, who had a dishcloth-limp handshake and a nervous tic in his left shoulder. “ Barbara Coombes and her husband were murdered last night.”
Justin looked suitably shocked. Swallowed hard. “Dear God!” he said. “Why? How? Do you know who did it?”
Ryan nodded. “We checked an ex-inmate’s record and found that Mrs. Coombes was his parole officer. His name is Andrew Tyler.”
“Barbara was always uncomfortable with that man,” Justin said. “He despised any form of authority. I remember her telling me that he followed his release plan to the letter, but showed open contempt for her... for everyone.”
“Do you have any idea why he would wait so long, then seek her out and kill her?”
“No, Inspector. Most ex-inmates bear grudges against the police or prison authorities, or society as a whole. We come way down on their list.”
“Tyler isn’t like most ex-cons, Mr. French. We believe that he is responsible for murdering a lot of people. Do you have reports and assessments on him? We need everything you’ve got.”
“I don’t know if I can divulge―”
Ryan leaned forward and glared at the man. Told him details of what had been done to Barbara. “We believe that she was alive when Tyler committed those atrocities, Mr. French,” he said. “Her body was in the bath with that of her husband, whose throat had been cut. His genitals were in his mouth. And for good measure, the pet dog had been decapitated. Its body was in the kitchen, and its head was in Dermot Coombes’s lap. Now what were you about to say about the file on this animal?”
The colour drained from Justin’s face. His shoulder
was twitching as if he was frantically trying to shake something from it. “I...I’ll get it for you,” he said, and fled from the room.
“My money is on his first stop being in the khazi, boss,” Eddie said. “He looked a bit green around the gills.”
When they got back to the squad room, Ryan told Eddie to set up another interview with Savino. He had a theory. Walsh had kept tabs on Tyler, and after Savino had given them the nod that Tyler had murdered the accountant, Cattrall, then Tyler became a liability to be got rid of. Walsh must have followed Tyler to Golders Green, armed with the shotgun found in the car. But Tyler had been too smart, and Walsh became another vic. If that was true, then Savino knew where Tyler lived, and what name he was now using.
Julie came into the incident room and gave Ryan news that tied it all together. “I’ve just had a report of a shooting at a girls’ school in Chigwell,” she said. “A teacher and five of the pupils were gunned down. Ray Savino’s youngest daughter, Gina, was one of them. She didn’t make it. Neither did the teacher and two of the other girls.”
“Tyler!” Ryan said, his voice loaded with the disgust he felt for the pitiless killer.
“You think―?”
“I don’t think, Julie, I know. Savino sicked Walsh on Tyler. This is his way of punishing Savino for that.”
“I’ve got a bloody press conference to front in thirty minutes,” Julie said. “What don’t you think we should tell them?”
“Keep this new development under wraps. Whether you tell them that we believe Tyler murdered his former parole officer is your call. But don’t put the school killings in the mix yet. Savino might be able to give us Tyler on a plate. His daughter’s death should be a hell of an incentive.”
“His own people will handle it, Ryan. He won’t give you the right time of day.”
“I still want to talk to him before we put it all together for the vultures. They can pick the bones off the whole carcass when we’re good and ready.”