by Michael Kerr
Craig was terrified. He fully believed that the stranger intended to kill him, and that gave him the rush of adrenalin he needed to act. As the tabletop crushed him, and the front edge of the cooker bit into his back, he screamed out against the pain, put the palms of his hands on the Formica top and pushed it with all his strength as he powered forward, driving his attacker backwards and knocking him to the floor, to then run across the room to the door.
Had the door been open, then Danby would have escaped from him, out into the night. But it was closed. He threw the table aside and scrabbled after him, to reach out with the cane as Danby worked the deadbolt to open the door.
As the door opened, Craig fell. The curved horn had been hooked round his ankle, then jerked backwards to cause him to lose his balance. He kicked out, and was overjoyed to hear a grunt of pain and feel the hold on his ankle relax. Turning onto his back and sitting up, he was faced by the stranger, who had also pushed himself up into a sitting position. Neither of them spoke. They were both breathing heavily, and Craig could taste the warm, coppery blood that was running down from his nose. He was in a great deal of pain, but could ignore it. Fighting for his life took precedent over a sore head, broken nose and aching back.
Things got worse. Footsteps in the hall. Emily Henshaw had just arrived home from a late bingo session at Mecca in the Mercury Mall, and noticed that Craig’s door was part open, which was unusual. And she heard a loud grunt. Maybe she should check and see if he was okay. She paused with her door key in her hand, and then went to investigate.
Craig glanced round to see who was there, and as he did he was clubbed again, this time across the temple with enough force to knock him out.
Emily gasped and turned to run, but at eighty-two she could barely manage a slow trot, and he caught up with her before she reached the front door, grasped her in a vicelike grip by the back of the neck, turned her round in the hall and took her back to Danby’s room.
Up until that moment, Emily had always considered herself to be a very lucky person. She had suffered no major illnesses throughout her life, not wanted for a single thing, due to not being particularly material, and had enjoyed a marriage that had lasted fifty-five years, up until Albert had quietly passed on while watching Match of the Day on the evening of his seventy-ninth birthday, five years ago. He had just closed his eyes, dropped the cup of tea he had been holding, and slumped forward to join it on the lounge carpet. But at this moment in time she felt that luck of the good kind had deserted her. Perhaps she had used it all up by winning over four hundred pounds at Bingo that evening.
He pushed her face down on the bed and gave it all of three seconds consideration before slipping the hunting knife from the sheath clipped to his belt under the parka and straddling the old woman, to wrench her head back by coarse, white hair and draw the blade deeply across her throat. He then pushed her face into the duvet and held it there until she had bled out and ceased to tremble and jerk under him.
The bag was still outside in the hall. He went for it, then locked the bedsit’s door and made ready.
Craig regained consciousness and groaned as the pain from his injuries reminded him of what had taken place. He was sweating, and could not see. Something was over his head. He attempted to lift his arms to remove it, but couldn’t move them.
“I’m going to take the bag off,” a voice said from behind him. “Do not start shouting or I’ll have to gag you. Do you understand?”
Craig nodded. The plastic rustled as it was withdrawn from his head, and he blinked the sweat from his eyes and turned to face the man that had attacked him.
“Why are you doing this?” Craig blubbered. “I don’t know you.”
“Did you know all the little boys that you molested and diddled?”
Craig swallowed hard. Could this man be the father or grandfather of some kid he had abused? He said nothing.
“Cat got your tongue, Danby?”
“Who are you?” Craig asked.
“You can call me Harry. It’s as good a name as any. And I shall call you Craig, because there’s no reason why we can’t be civilised about this.”
Craig was sitting backwards in the chair with his wrists bound separately to the wood spindles. His ankles were similarly tied to the back legs, and duct tape was wrapped around his waist to hold him to the chair. His clothes had been removed while he had been unconscious, and the upturned table was now righted and back in place.
‘Harry’ dragged the chair round so that Craig could see the corpse on the bed.
“Oh, Jesus,” Craig whispered. “You murdered Mrs Henshaw.”
‘“Fraid so,” Harry said. “I regret having had to do it, but she’d seen my face. Sometimes folk are just in the wrong place at the wrong time. You know all about that, because you preyed on young lads that didn’t deserve what you did to them.”
“I’ve never killed anyone,” Craig said, sounding as though he had a heavy cold, due to the blood clotting in his nostrils.
“Depends how you look at it. You didn’t stop their hearts from beating, but you terrified them, and probably killed their spirits by fucking up their minds as well as their bodies. I don’t suppose you cared about the fear, shame, humiliation, self blame and guilt that you were responsible for, or that some of those boys would never get past it and may have committed suicide, or attempted to.”
“I can’t help being who I am,” Craig said. “It’s an illness.”
“That’s probably a fact, so I’m not going to argue the issue. Think of me being here as your salvation, because I’m about to cure you, Craig.”
“I…I don’t know what you mean.”
He took the ball gag from the bag. It was a solid rubber sphere with a leather strap passing through its diameter. After forcing the ball into Craig’s mouth, behind the teeth, he pulled the ends of the straps around the head and tied them tightly in place.
Craig thought that he would be asphyxiated. He attempted to plead for mercy, but it was impossible, the words were completely unintelligible as his facial features distorted and drool slipped from the corners of his mouth.
Due to the nose being partially blocked, there was a real possibility that Craig would be unable to breath, and so he worked quickly, pushing the chair over so that Craig’s bare back was facing him. It only took sixty seconds to carve the word into the flesh, and he was conscious that should his prisoner vomit, he would choke and die.
Craig thrashed and bucked in the chair to no avail. When the cutting stopped he was crying and hoping that the incident was over, not realising that the disfiguration he would never see was only the first step in the process.
The man who chose to call himself Harry used a face cloth from the sink to wipe the spittle and blood from Craig’s chin, and then wound duct tape round his head, over the gag, knowing that the next procedure would certainly cause more noise.
Craig almost tore free from the chair as Harry tipped it over onto its side to allow his left hand access to the man’s penis.
The single knife cut separated the organ from Craig’s groin, and his eyes bulged as his face turned from red to purple.
“Almost done,” Harry said, man-handling the chair upright again, before withdrawing the mask from the bag to hold up and show Craig. “You’ll be looking like a refugee from the carnival in Rio when they find you.”
Craig was in agony, but the physical discomfort was secondary to the absolute terror that overcame him as he stared at his penis, which was lying like a pale, blood-spattered worm on the carpet.
And then the smiling figure approached him with the mask in one hand and the knife in the other.
He carefully placed the mask over Craig’s face with the elastic around his head to hold it in place, before stepping behind him and cutting his throat to sever the windpipe but not the jugular or carotid arteries. He did not want to be covered in blood. Back in front of the chair, he then watched his victim choke to death, which was truly satisfying. The despoiler of children was, in
his judgement, suffering a fitting end. The wet, wheezing sound of the dying pervert was as joyous to listen to as any concerto written by Handel or Bach. And the bubbling froth of blood oozing from the gash to run down his chest and stomach was almost as fine a sight to look at as the striking hand-crafted mask above it.
The sudden silence signified that his work for the evening was done. He removed the dead man’s wallet from the back pocket of his jeans and took the forty pounds he found in it, then checked the purse of the old woman on the bed, pleasantly surprised to find over four hundred pounds folded up and stuffed into it; not to know that she had enjoyed a big win at bingo earlier that evening.
It was time to leave, but first he checked his face in a wall mirror. Not a single spot of blood, although there was a little on the front of his parka, which wouldn’t show out in the darkness. His gloved hands were a different matter. He went to the sink, turned on the hot water tap and rinsed them and the knife, drying off with a tea towel that was hanging from one of those push in rubber holders that was stuck to the side of a wall unit.
With the remainder of the cord and tape he had used to secure Danby to the chair back in the bag, he left the bedsit and closed the door. A few minutes later he was back in the Golf, heading home.
CHAPTER NINE
PHIL Adams and Errol Chambers had spent the day working their way through a list of people that had been on the production team of City Crime, interviewing everyone that both Danielle Cooper and Jeff Goodwin had worked with. There were at least three directions to approach the case from. The squad had decided that if they were lucky it would be someone known to both of the deceased; hopefully a jealous and obviously mentally unbalanced co-worker on the show that had a very large axe to grind. Or perhaps a spurned lover had lost the plot and murdered both of them, which would imply that Danielle and Jeff had been more than just colleagues. Third and least appetising possibility was that an ex-con, or family member of a criminal still serving time, had blamed his incarceration on the presenters of the show for him being apprehended. There would undoubtedly be plenty of hate mail to go through.
“This brings back the murder of Jill Dando in ninety-nine to mind,” Phil said as they took a break from the interviews that they were conducting in a small conference room at the TV studio. “She was a presenter on Crimewatch at the time.”
“And that’s still unsolved,” Errol said. “The cold case review about six years ago concluded that she was killed by a pro. It was a ‘hard contact execution.’ The shooter pushed her down and pressed the muzzle of the pistol up against her head, which would have almost silenced the shot. That doesn’t sound like an amateur.”
Phil shrugged. “This case seems more personal. If it had been mob-related I think that Danielle Cooper would have been hit in the same manner that Dando was.”
“How about a crazy fan?”
“The killings were staged to look like suicides. The type of nutter that murders a celebrity just shoots or stabs them. And they usually want to take credit for doing it. I read up on John Lennon’s killer, Mark David Chapman. He said that he’d shot Lennon because of the star’s ‘more popular than Jesus’ remark. He considered it to be blasphemy. And the song Imagine had pissed him off, due to the incongruity between the lyric ‘Imagine no possessions’ and the fact that Lennon was to his mind filthy rich. Chapman changed the words and used to sing ‘Imagine John Lennon is dead’.”
“I need a piss,” Errol said. “See if you can find us a decent cup of coffee before we call the next one in.”
Several minutes later they were interviewing, Dominic Wilson, a researcher for the show.
“What can you tell us about Danielle and Jeff?” Phil asked the lanky, narrow-faced twenty-five year old, whose receding and mousy hair was worn in a ponytail.
“In what sense?” Dominic asked.
“Every sense,” Errol said. “You worked with them for over two years. Tell me your take on their suicides.”
“A non-starter,” Dominic said. “They weren’t the types to top themselves.”
“You seem very sure about that,” Phil said.
“I am. Danielle was a rising star, always talking about the future plans that she had. She was up, with everything to live for.”
“We were led to believe that she had emotional issues; that she was bipolar.”
“Like manic depressive?” Dominic said. “No way. She had the same kind of moods as all of us. Sure, she could get uptight up over stuff, but I’ve never seen her really down.”
“So who would have had reason to kill her?” Errol asked.
“I have no idea. She dug in dirty places, or anonymous researchers like me did on her behalf, and she did her best to put villains away. She didn’t just front this programme; she was an investigative journalist, so upset a lot of very dangerous people, including your lot.”
“Our lot?” Phil said.
“Yes. She was following leads that linked high-ranking officers to being on the take from some of the top gangsters in London.”
“Do you have details?”
“No. That was something she was doing on her own time. But she told me a couple of days before she died that she was close to having all the proof she needed to drop a bombshell.”
Errol wondered where Danielle Cooper would have kept any such information. Her office and home computers had been taken as possible evidence and delivered to CCS to be checked. So far there had been no word from Kenny Ruskin regarding any files or photos that could prove helpful. And they had found no clues from calls or text messages in her smartphone.
“Anything else?” Phil said to Dominic.
“Only that I know Danielle had split up from her boyfriend about three months ago, and he took it hard. He came into the studio one day and called her a slut, and said that she and Jeff would be sorry. He was drunk, and security threw him out.”
“He threatened Jeff Cooper as well?”
Dominic nodded. “Appears that he thought our stars had become more than co-presenters.”
“Did you happen to know who the guy was?”
“Nigel French.”
“Describe him to us.”
“Tall, mid-thirties, short dark hair, and even featured.”
“Do you know what he does for a living?”
“I recall Danielle saying that he was an accountant in the city. And he drives a yellow Porsche Cayman.”
“And were Danielle and Jeff getting it on?”
“I don’t know. If they were they kept it under wraps.”
They interviewed everyone at New Segue Studios; took the names and addresses of those that were not working that day, to list as call backs to see.
“I’ll dig out the place of work and private address of Danielle’s ex-boyfriend,” Phil said as Errol drove back to the Yard. “There can’t be too many guys by the name of Nigel French that are accountants and drive Porsches. Looks as though he held a grudge against both of the victims.”
Matt was in the squad room with Pete and Marci when Phil and Errol got back. They updated each other, and Phil told Matt that an ex-boyfriend of Danielle Cooper was a likely prime suspect.
“Look him up,” Matt said. “Let’s get some history on him, and then go and have a word with him.”
Nigel French had just returned to his loft flat in Fulham from a meeting at his offices on Great Russell Street in Bloomsbury, a few doors up from where Charles Dickens had once resided, and only a couple of minutes’ walk from the British Museum.
After showering and dressing in fresh, casual clothes, Nigel made coffee and returned several calls that had gone to his voicemail. One was from Madison, the new love interest in his life. She was beautiful, intelligent and a passionate lover. And the small fashion house she owned was making its mark. Her father was the CEO of Sphere Energy, and so they were independently wealthy. He thought that this could develop into a long-term relationship, but wouldn’t hold his breath. He had thought the same with Danielle, but she had
decided that he was shallow, selfish and far too material, and had told him so before dumping him for the guy that worked with her on the sleazy crime show.
After arranging to see Madison the following evening for dinner at the Ivy, he made the reservation and decided to spend the evening alone, rather than visit a club.
The intercom buzzed a few minutes later, and Nigel frowned as he went to the door, pressed the button and said, “Hello”
“Mr French?” Pete said.
“Yes. Who is this?”
“Detective Sergeant Deakin, SCU. I’d like a word with you, sir.”
“SCU?”
“Special Crimes Unit.”
“What possible reason could you have to talk to me?”
“The deaths of Danielle Cooper and Jeff Goodwin.”
He had expected to be interviewed after Danielle had died. It was no big deal. “Come on up,” he said, pressing the button that unlocked the door to the street.
Pete and Marci were shown along a wide hallway and into a large lounge that had a highly-polished boarded floor with expensive oriental rugs of different sizes scattered randomly over its surface. The skylights set into the elevated ceiling allowed maximum light into the loft. It was minimalist, with only a few life-size bronzes of impala or ibex guarding the corners, and a couple of paintings hung up, that were probably originals.
“Take a pew,” Nigel said after having given the warrant cards that Pete and Marci showed him what seemed no more than a perfunctory glance.
They sat side by side on a black leather settee that could have easily seated five adults. Nigel sat in a matching chair opposite them at the other side of a stylish glass-topped coffee table.
“Fire away,” Nigel said.
“You were in a relationship with Danielle Cooper,” Pete stated. “Would you tell us why it broke down?”
“To the point with no opening gambit,” Nigel said with a smile on his face. “That’s refreshing. Most people make small talk, which is usually banal and irritating.”
Pete said nothing. Just stared implacably at the man he had taken an instant dislike to and waited for an answer.