by Michael Kerr
Julie smiled.
Ryan took that as permission to force entry. He tried the handle first, Just in case the door was not locked. It was. He drew his Beretta pistol and jacked a bullet into the chamber. One well-aimed kick ripped the door free of the jamb, and he entered fast and low with Eddie close behind.
They checked each and every room. The house was clear. No surprise.
All three of them put cellophane gloves on and began to search what they knew to be the home of a serial killer.
It was clean and basic. No clutter. Just functional. The walls were bare. There was carpet on the stairs, and a few scatter rugs on the parquet flooring in the lounge and one of the two bedrooms. There were a few paid bills in the drawer of an MFI bureau in the lounge, and a bookcase with well-thumbed paperbacks. Two televisions; a thirty-two inch in the lounge, and a portable in the kitchen.
“I live minimalist,” Ryan said. “But this beats me hands down.”
While Julie and Eddie looked through the rooms, Ryan checked out the books. What did Tyler enjoy reading? The bookcase comprised three five-foot long shelves. The top two were all true-life crime. There were biographies of gangsters and murderers, from Al Capone to Reggie Kray; Charles Manson to Peter Sutcliffe – the ‘Yorkshire Ripper’, Dennis Nilsen and the ‘Moors Murderers’, Ian Brady and Myra Hindley. American Serial killers were well represented by the likes of Jeffrey Dahmer, Ted Bundy, the killer prostitute, Aileen Wuornos, and even Ed Gein.
Ryan was not exempt to feeling a sense of morbid fascination. He pulled out the book on Ed Gein and flipped through it, stopping at the pages of black and white photographs. Gein had the features of how the actor Gary Oldman might look in a few years. Gein had been a true monster. But like most, he eventually made a stupid mistake that led to his capture. Ryan refreshed his memory of the serial killer’s ultimate downfall.
It had been on the morning of the sixteenth of November in nineteen-fifty-seven when a woman, one Beatrice Worden, disappeared from her hardware store in Plainfield, Wisconsin. The police found dried blood on the floor, and next to it, a sales slip made out to Ed Gein. They went to the local handyman’s house and discovered skulls and human body parts. Gein was not just a killer. He robbed graves, had intercourse with corpses, and fashioned furniture out of his victims’ skins. A real sicko.
Ryan pushed the book back between more offerings of printed horror. The bottom shelf was devoted to individuals and organisations that hunted down those who preyed on society. It was a killer’s encyclopaedia of how to evade capture. There were detailed memoirs written by forensic psychologists and ex-FBI profilers, explaining how they used criminal personality programmes to study their quarries, and of how they came to predict an unknown subject’s post-offence behaviour. These were A-Z explanations of how they operated, and of how individual killers were eventually caught. To Ryan it was totally unprofessional and unprincipled. They were padding their pensions by potentially putting lives at risk with their disclosures. It went without saying that Tyler would have absorbed all available information, and know many of the pitfalls, and how to avoid them. There were rules to everything, and by being conversant with them was half the battle. They could not expect Tyler to lead them to him.
“There’s a computer in one of the bedrooms,” Eddie said, re-entering the lounge. “Looks like he took a hammer to it. And there are no disks flash drives or hard copy.”
“What else?” Ryan said.
“A home gym with a mirrored wall so that he could watch himself workout. Apart from that, some clothes. Looks as if he just threw anything incriminating in a suitcase with his bathroom bag, and walked.”
Julie appeared behind Eddie. “I don’t get a feel for this guy at all,” she said. “There’s no personality to this house. No residue of who might have lived in it.”
“We’ll go through the motions and get forensics to take it apart,” Ryan said. “But that won’t help us. We already know who we’re after, and have his DNA. He’ll have planned for if ever he had to bolt, and be living a new life now as someone else.”
“David Wilde might make something of this place,” Julie said, looking about her at the blank, off-white walls. “I’ll get him to drop by.”
* * *
Ryan drove to the end of Woodside Crescent at Croydon and parked. He and Julie walked up to where a wagon train of vans with satellite dishes on their roofs were laying siege to number twenty-nine.
“The scavengers are out in force,” Ryan said.
Julie shrugged. “Trouble is, we need them to get information out to the public.”
“We need them like we need cancer, Julie. We should have our own TV and radio stations and broadcast what we choose to, without it being hyped-up.”
“You should jot that down and stick it in the suggestion box,” Julie said, turning into the gateway before any of the clowns with cameras and microphones realised that she and Ryan were not just passing by.
“Police,” Ryan said, dropping to his haunches and shouting through the letterbox. “We need to talk to you again, Mrs. Tyler.”
A boom mike caught Ryan’s shoulder as he straightened up. He turned and stared at the young man who held it. Wanted to smack him in the chest with the heel of his hand, to send him sprawling back into the human mud slide that was spilling through the gateway towards them. Instead, he stared into the other man’s eyes and said, “Back off, son, this is police business.”
In the way that a priest might open the door of a church or cathedral, Ruby Tyler let them in and slammed the door shut behind them: sanctuary from the baying crowd.
“If I speak to you, will you get rid of those bastards?” she said to Ryan.
“If you don’t speak to us, then they’ll camp out there for as long as it takes,” he said. “You’re the only person they have to hound, apart from us.”
“But I’ve done nothin’ wrong. It’s Andy you’re after.”
“The press will want to know everything about Andy, Mrs. Tyler,” Julie said. “From the moment you gave birth to him. Like it or not, he is front page news, and whether he was breast fed, a bed-wetter, ate his greens, or pulled wings off flies, is all grist to the mill for them to grind.”
“I got a phone call. I was offered a lot of money for exclusive rights to my story about Andy,” Ruby said. “Can you imagine me telling them anythin’? Andy would put me on his list.”
“What list?” Ryan said.
Ruby headed for the kitchen. They followed her. She put the kettle on. Took three mugs from their hooks and set them down on the granite counter before answering. “When he was a little boy, Andy would always write down the names of other children, teachers, or of anyone who upset him,” she said. “He didn’t want to forget. They all had to pay for whatever they’d done. He couldn’t bear to let anyone get away with anythin’.”
“Did he kill his father, Mrs. Tyler?” Julie said.
Ruby stared hard into Julie’s eyes for five long seconds before answering. “I don’t know. Kenny was not a nice man. He had a lot of enemies.”
“What do you think?”
“I think that Andy snapped. That he saw what Kenny did to me, and put him right at the top of his list; added up all the beatin’s and humiliation that we both suffered, and decided that enough was enough. He has never told me that he stabbed his father to death, and I’ve never asked. Whoever did it should get a fuckin’ OBE, though. Kenny Tyler was a bad bastard, and got what was comin’ to him.”
“You do know that Andy is a serial killer, don’t you?” Julie said.
“He’s my son, love. Inspector Ryan knows my views on it. What Andy does is his business. He treats me well, and I don’t―”
Ryan brought the flat of his hand down on to the counter with a loud smack. “You’re not the only mother in the world,” he said in a raised voice that was tight with anger. “Your callous, murdering shit of a son shot a female teacher and five young girls down in a school yard. How do you suppose the parents
of those innocent children feel?”
Ruby’s face drained of colour. She slumped down into a chair and started to pull at her earlobe. “That’s not true,” she gasped. Andy wouldn’t do such a terrible thing.”
“He did,” Julie said. “It was his way of getting back at someone. He shot the man’s daughter, and killed and wounded the others just to cause confusion while he made off. If we don’t find Andy, then Ray Savino’s men will?”
“Who?”
Ryan answered before Julie could say another word. “Ray Savino is a gangster, Ruby. It was his daughter, Gina, who got her brains blown out. Savino’s nickname is The Torch, due to him using a blowtorch on people. He is in prison, but still runs everything from inside. He has a lot of people looking for Andy as we speak. He wants to see how long he can keep your son alive, and has vowed to torture and mutilate him beyond anything that anyone else has ever suffered. It isn’t talk. Having people killed is all part of this man’s business. If you really do care about your son, then help us bring him in.”
“I told you before, I don’t know where he is. I get the odd phone call, and he sometimes sends me money. I can’t help you.”
“Yes you can, Ruby. Give me that recent photograph you have of him. And grant us permission to put a trace on your phone calls. Will you do that?”
Ruby got up and made the coffee. Julie and Ryan said nothing more, just let her think about it. After putting the steaming mugs in front of them, Ruby went through to the lounge, to return with the framed colour photo. There were tears running down her face. Some gathered in the deep scar that furrowed her left cheek, to run along the channel to the corner of her mouth. She absently licked them away with the tip of her tongue.
“He can’t help bein’ how he is,” she said. “He didn’t have a chance of growin’ up to be like other people. Kenny beat out any feelings that he had. Made him almost oblivious to pain. I swear that you could cut his finger off and he wouldn’t blink. Andy got to be empty and lost the ability to care about anyone.”
“He still cares for you,” Julie said.
“I’m the only person in his life that he might love on some remote level. But believe me, if and when you show that picture, he’ll know that I gave it to you, and it will just harden his belief that no one can be trusted. He’ll kill me.”
“We’ll have an armed, female officer in the house with you round the clock until he’s detained.” Ryan said.
“God help her, and me, then,” Ruby said, still clutching the silver-framed photograph, looking at the smiling face of her deranged son. “Because if he is the professional killer you say he is, he’ll find a way to get to me, past anyone that stands in his way.”
Ryan got Eddie on the phone. His sergeant had arranged for the maisonette in Muswell Hill to be swept by a forensic team, and for uniforms to attend and keep the house off limits to anyone who had no official permission to enter. He was now back in the squad room.
“Did his mother see the light and sell him out?” Eddie said.
“We have the photograph of him, and she’s given us permission to tap her phone. I want Angie Duke out here, Eddie, armed. And tell her that there is every likelihood that after I show this photo to the TV news crews outside, Tyler will plan on paying his mum a visit. You need to arrange shifts. I want someone here in-situ at all times.
Ryan and Julie stayed and talked to Ruby and drank coffee until everything was in place. Any phone call in or out would be recorded and traced, and DC Angie Duke had arrived. Ryan had a lot of faith in the seasoned DC. Three months previously, Angie had taken down a perp who had been abducting minors, abusing them and leaving them injured and beaten in deserted locations. They knew it was only a matter of time before a kid was killed. They had cornered the paedophile in a derelict bus depot in Holloway. He had an eleven-year-old girl held at knife point. Angie ordered the man to give it up, to no effect. Fearing that it would end badly, she took her chance and shot him. The bullet entered his mouth and severed his spinal cord. The girl was unharmed, and the perp was dead, which was a good result. Sometimes you had to call it as you saw it. And Angie was capable of doing just that.
When they hit the street, Julie and Ryan were met by a wall of sound and the glare of flood lights. The media wanted spoon fed any new morsel regarding ‘The Hitman’
Ryan held the frame up by its edges to face the cameras. Could hear the whir of lenses zooming in for close-ups of Tyler.
“Has his mother told you where he is?” a freckle-faced young reporter asked, holding a mini-recorder an inch away from Ryan’s mouth.
“Mrs. Tyler has no idea where her son might be. She will not be coming out of the house while you are here, and has no intention of answering any questions. Furthermore, he does not visit her. This photograph is all you’re going to get for the time being. It’s a recent shot of Tyler.”
Julie bit her lip. She wanted to tell them that Tyler was also responsible for the brutal murders of Barbara and Dermot Coombes, and the school yard slaying of Gina Savino and the other children and teacher. But the top floor had decided not to release that development yet. They figured it would only send Tyler running for deeper cover. As if he wasn’t already as elusive to find as Atlantis, or the crew of the Marie Celeste.
“Could you use a drink?” Julie said to Ryan when they had broken away, made it back to the 4x4 and were heading into the city.
Ryan nodded. He stopped at the Winged Horse in Lambeth. It was one of several drinking holes away from the Yard that he sometimes patronised. The landlord was an ex-cop who Ryan had time for.
Larry – the Lamb – Lawson was the same height as Ryan, but weighed-in at four stones heavier. He was built like the proverbial brick shithouse, and ran an old-fashioned style of public house. There were no quiz nights, pool tables or karaoke. Dominoes and darts were the only in-house entertainment, apart from the old, unmodified Wurlitzer jukebox that still played 45s and was stacked with Bobby Darin, Sinatra, and mainly sixties groups and balladeers, which suited Ryan just fine. This was a pub in a time warp, that attracted a certain type of serious drinker. Larry didn’t do meals. There were pickled eggs, pork pies, crisps, peanuts and pork scratchings for those who felt peckish between shorts or pints.
Ryan introduced Julie to Larry. Ordered a large scotch and a white wine and soda. They sat at a round, cast-iron table with a marble top and listened to a crackly rendition of Did You Ever See A Dream Walking, by Michael Holliday, who Julie thought was Bing Crosby, until Ryan pointed out that Holliday was a British crooner who’d topped himself over forty years ago.
“You sure you’re only thirty-seven, Ryan?” Julie said.
He frowned and said, “How would you know my age?”
“I’m your reporting officer. I have access to your file.”
“What else do you know about me?”
“Just career stuff. That you’ve got two commendations for bravery, and that you’ve never been a team player. You sail close to the wind and bend the rules, sometimes until they almost break.”
Ryan smiled. He had accessed her file, without authority: “You’ve only got one commendation,” he said. “Your birthday falls on Christmas Day, and you don’t let anyone railroad you. You can be a ball-breaker, if the need arises.”
“How―?”
“I make it my business to know who I’m taking orders from. And I’m a detective, remember. Getting my hands on computer passwords is a lot easier to crack than most of the cases we work.”
“What else do you know about me?”
“That you’re divorced, and like me, you put too much into this crazy job we do. We’re like two pit ponies, working long hours, usually in the dark. When they pension us off, we’ll be so conditioned that we won’t know what to do with all the free time.”
“If that’s how you see it, why don’t you get out before it’s too late to make a fresh start?”
“Because I accept what I am. What else would I do, be a PI and pretend I’m some k
ind of Mike Hammer? Or go into security? No. I’m a cop, Julie.”
“What would you do if you won the lottery?”
“Be very surprised, seeing as how I’ve never bought a ticket.”
“C’mon...If you did?”
“Take you on a coast-to-coast trip of the States. I’ve got an Easy Rider complex. I want to hit the blacktop on a Harley. Maybe follow route 66 and stop at Best Western motels every night.”
“Sounds like a plan. Would I have to wear leathers?”
“It’s de rigueur. No biker worth his or her salt would be caught dead without them.”
“What about a helmet?”
“You could live dangerously and wear a bandanna instead.”
“When do we leave?”
“I’ll buy a ticket tomorrow. If the numbers come up, then we fly out next week.”
Julie liked Ryan’s dream. It was one that she would be happy to act out in reality. She realised that they had just laid a lot of cards face up on the table. Said things that were loaded with implication. Their legs were touching again. Hers were trembling. She could feel herself begin to flush. “My round,” she said and reached for his glass. He put his hand over hers.
“Make it a single, Julie. We still have work to do.”
She went to the bar and waited for Larry to finish serving a group of regulars. Ryan was messing with her heart and mind. She did not feel like a thirty-nine-year-old in charge of the Special Crimes Unit. She felt more like an awkward teenager, who was becoming besotted with a tall, moody, good-looking man. She wanted him to make a move on her, because she did not have the bottle to start the ball rolling. She was insecure, and knew it. Divorce and a few other fleeting, bad relationships had left her brain and heart scarred. She didn’t think Mr. Right was out there. Or hadn’t until recently. Ryan had brought hope flooding back, and it was hammering at the door, demanding that she answered. Maybe the fear of rejection was holding her back. She had never truly let go and given herself fully to anyone. Was that because she was incapable of being truly in love? Or that she just hadn’t met Ryan? Could he be the one? There was only one way to find out.