THE BLEEDING HEART KILLER an absolutely addictive crime thriller with a huge twist

by Bill Kitson

  ‘What about the hooks and the wire used to support the body?’

  ‘The hooks were of the type sold by the million in DIY shops. The wire looks like the stuff farmers use for fencing. Again, easy enough to get hold of around here.’

  ‘What about time of death? The killer would need to deposit the body and arrange it, which would have taken some time.’

  Clara glanced down at the pathologist’s report which she’d printed off, ‘Mexican Pete — er, I beg your pardon, ma’am, Professor Ramirez — estimates it as somewhere between nine o’clock on Thursday evening and three o’clock on Friday morning.’

  O’Donnell smiled slightly and raised her eyebrows at Clara’s reference. ‘I am fully aware of the professor’s nickname, Sergeant Mironova.’ She looked round at the others and asked, ‘Any idea how the killer got into the club without leaving signs of a break-in or setting off the alarm?’

  Jackie Fleming took up the explanation. ‘It had us baffled for quite a while, and to begin with, we were sure the killer had to have been someone from within the club, one of the committee, or a steward. It was only when CSI examined the stage door that they noticed something unusual. Apparently the refurbishment work isn’t actually complete. The rest of the club has been done, but the function room was the latest part to be renovated, and they still have to finish work on the toilets. Although the alarms covering the bar and cellar areas are all working fine, and the infra-red beams have been checked over by the steward under CSI’s supervision, the stage door was rotten and had to be replaced. That was only done in the middle of last week, and the wiring for the alarm for that door is due to be installed tomorrow.’

  ‘Is that how they got in?’

  ‘It looks very much that way. It doubles as an emergency door, and CSI found a couple of narrow grooves in the edge of both doors. The wood is soft, being new, and hasn’t been painted yet. The suggestion is that the killer somehow got access to the club and slipped a couple of thin wedges to stop the door closing properly. The door would look shut, to all but the closest scrutiny, but the emergency handlebar wouldn’t lock into place. By prising the gap from the outside with a narrow-bladed flat screwdriver, it is possible to disengage the locking mechanism and pull the doors open. CSI did a very convincing demonstration. It took their officer less than thirty seconds to gain access.’

  ‘The killer would still have needed to get into the club to put the wedges into the door,’ Nash pointed out.

  ‘That wouldn’t be difficult,’ Clara pointed out. ‘The rest of the club has been open throughout the work. They just utilised areas that were screened off so they kept up the cash flow. The toilets serve both sides of the premises with two entry doors and are linked to the function room. It would be dead simple for someone to have slipped out of the toilets and set up the wedges.’

  ‘Don’t they have a signing-in book?’ Nash asked. ‘That would show if they had any non-members visiting. I thought they were supposed to keep accurate records, but the licensing laws aren’t my speciality.’

  ‘I checked it. There were no non-members signed in for the three days before the murder.’

  ‘So we’re left with the options that the killer was either a club member, or someone forgot to sign them in — either accidentally or on purpose.’

  ‘I had a word with the steward,’ Jackie Fleming interrupted. ‘He admitted they took the signing-in process largely on trust, and that was widely known, so I don’t think we should place too much reliance on what that book says. Apart from that, I think Clara’s covered everything.’

  ‘One question I still have, though,’ the chief said. ‘Is there any indication that this comedian and the greengrocer shared Georgina Drake’s extreme right-wing political views?’

  ‘None whatsoever,’ Clara answered her. ‘We can’t find anything to show they had the slightest interest in politics — of any sort.’

  The Chief Constable looked at the assembled team. ‘This killer is going to be a household name within days. I’ve managed to play down the possibility of the murders being connected so far, but that can’t last — it never does. And when the balloon goes up, the local and national media are going to be down on us like a ton of bricks. If possible, I’d like to forestall them with an arrest, ideally — or if not, at least the fact that we have some clue as to who’s doing this and why. We must try harder to find a possible connection between the victims. I think this killer is too organized and cold-blooded, too much of a careful planner, to be a psychopath. So other than contact with the general public through their respective work, there must be a link we’re missing. Finding that has to be our number-one priority. And let’s hope this is the last victim. Apart from anything else, three is too many; four would make the task of keeping the media at bay impossible. The best way of preventing another murder has to be via that connection, so I’ll leave it to you, Mike, to try and establish where these people’s lives crossed.’

  They all stood up to leave, but as they headed for the door the chief called them back. ‘One more thing. There must be no mention of how the murder victims were killed, and especially the heart removal. Not to any other officers, and especially to the media. In fact, I must emphasize that if any media people approach you, they must be referred to Superintendent Fleming. If they ask any direct questions, just do what people we interview are fond of doing: Say “no comment”.’

  Chapter Nine

  The old man grumbled about it every morning. He complained to anyone who had the time and patience to listen. It had got so bad that the other village residents avoided him when they saw him walking his dog. The topic was always the same: the pace at which drivers sped along the narrow, winding main street. He wasn’t grousing that morning. All the drivers, even the ones in the big 4x4s, his pet hate, were travelling well under the speed limit.

  This puzzled the old man. All the way up the main street he racked his brain for an explanation, but without success. It was only when he had walked past the derelict filling station that was the last building in the village and turned the corner towards the T junction that the reason for their caution became clear.

  The tall, erect figure would have been an imposing sight, even without the hi-vis jacket. ‘No wonder the buggers slowed down,’ the old man chuckled. The police officer was standing in clear view, stock still, the radar device in his right hand pointing remorselessly at oncoming traffic.

  ‘Morning,’ the old man greeted him. ‘Am I glad to see you! About time something was done about those buggers. Bloody miracle no one’s been killed if you ask me, the way they belt down the road. I’ll tell you what, though. They’re not bloody well speeding this morning.’

  ‘The officer didn’t reply. Didn’t move. Didn’t indicate that he’d heard a word the old man had said. Not even the flicker of an eyelid.

  ‘Hey, you!’ The old man was affronted. ‘You are allowed to speak, aren’t you?’

  The old man was close now. Receiving no response to his question, he reached out and touched the man’s arm. Still, the officer didn’t move. The old man stretched further forward and grasped his hand. It was cold to the touch. Cold and stiff.

  * * *

  Professor Ramirez stripped off his gloves and turned to face Clara. ‘I can’t tell you much, and most of what I do say you’ll have heard before. The post-mortem will confirm what you’ve already guessed, I’d say. The body was brought here and posed in that position before rigor mortis set in and completed the effect. That argues some knowledge of medicine, but we’d already guessed that.’

  The pathologist pointed to the back of the victim’s neck. The officer’s tunic and the bright yellow outer coat had been wrapped around the stem of the 30 mph sign before being buttoned, zipped and had the Velcro fasteners tightened. That, plus the rigor, was what held the body erect.

  ‘It has to be the same killer again, I suppose?’

  Ramirez looked at her with something approaching scorn, before realizing that she had good rea
son not to be thinking clearly. ‘I don’t think we have many killers in the dale posing bodies so conspicuously,’ he suggested.

  ‘Have you looked . . . ?’ Mironova pointed to the corpse.

  The pathologist’s attention was distracted by the Range Rover that pulled up close to the incident tape. ‘Ah! I didn’t think Count Dracula would be far away. I hope he won’t come to any harm, being out during daylight.’

  Mironova turned in time to see Mike Nash climb stiffly out of the car. He looked tired, she thought. But then he often seemed to look tired recently. Was the stress of these murders getting to him, she wondered. He’d never been affected that way before, but maybe this was one case too many.

  ‘Morning, Clara. Morning, Professor. Another one?’

  ‘Looks like it, Mike, but this time, I’m afraid it’s one of ours.’

  Nash looked at the victim’s face. ‘Good God! At least we don’t have to search for next of kin to identify him.’

  DI Frank Hoyland had been in the force for many years. His area covered the district immediately to their west. When government cutbacks forced them to reduce their already meagre complement of frontline serving officers, DI Hoyland had been among the first to opt for voluntary redundancy.

  ‘Who found the body? Or should I say, given the way it was posed, who discovered that it was a body, not an officer catching speeding motorists?’

  ‘An old man walking his dog. Said he couldn’t get the officer to hear, so he touched him. Then he realized he was dead. The radar gun he was holding is a fake. It’s nothing more than a piece of cardboard shaped and painted. One of the PCs has taken him home: he’s a bit shocked.’

  ‘He wouldn’t have heard the old man even if he’d still been alive,’ Ramirez interrupted. ‘The killer poured something into the victim’s ears. Candle wax, I think.’

  ‘Very unpleasant. Why was that, I wonder?’ Nash turned to the pathologist. ‘Any way of telling if it happened before he was killed? And have you had a look under his tunic?’

  Ramirez nodded. ‘I’ll be able to tell about the wax when I do the post-mortem. Yes, I’m afraid it’s the same as the others. No visible marks apart from the scar which has been neatly stitched. No doubt when I get him on the slab I shall find the same. Whether the other injuries match or not I won’t know until the post-mortem. The body has been washed clean, like the others.’

  * * *

  ‘We have four victims. Four people with, on the face of it, absolutely nothing in common — apart from the fact that their hearts were removed. Unless Jackie’s theory is right and this is the work of a psychopath, or someone with very strange dietary habits.’

  ‘Are we looking for a cannibal then?’ Viv joked.

  Nash ignored him and continued, ‘However, I believe the identity of the latest one is possibly our first breakthrough in the case, because he might provide the link, if there is one.’

  Nash looked at Mironova and Pearce. ‘Viv, I want you to check out all the cases where Hoyland was the lead officer. Get Tom Pratt to help you. You’ll need to go through to Netherdale in any case, because all the files from Bishopton were transferred there after the station was closed. That only takes care of Hoyland’s most recent history, which is probably where the answer will lie. Just to be on the safe side, Clara, I’d like you to liaise with West Yorkshire and ask them to check their computers for the names of our victims, in the unlikely event that they were all involved in something he investigated during his time in Leeds.’

  Lisa Andrews butted in. ‘Mike, there is one possible connection from Leeds. I remembered what Ben Kane said about Georgina Drake possibly influencing his prosecution, so I checked the file. It was Frank Hoyland who arrested Kane for that racial attack in Leeds. However, I don’t see where the other victims fit into the picture.’

  ‘They might do, if it turns out that the whole thing is somehow motivated by Georgina Drake’s extremist political activities. Lisa, I’d like you to concentrate on the background of Maitland and Graham. Not just the surface stuff, I want you to dig really deep, see what skeletons you can rattle in their cupboards. Now, I’m off to Netherdale, to report to Jackie.’ Nash looked at Pearce. ‘While I’m there, I’ll have a word with Tom, and get him started on digging those Bishopton files out.’

  After Nash left, the team speculated about him. ‘Mike’s in a very strange mood at the moment,’ Clara told them. ‘I can usually tell if he’s up to something, and often he comes out with it or does something to give the game away. This time he’s playing his cards very close to his chest. Once or twice I’ve tried asking him directly, but I got nowhere, which is highly unusual. On a couple of occasions when I’ve made snide remarks all I’ve got is a blank stare. He’s never been secretive about his personal life before, quite the opposite, in fact.’

  ‘Maybe he’s got involved with someone he shouldn’t, and that’s the reason for the secrecy,’ Viv suggested.

  ‘A married woman? Is that what you’re getting at?’

  Pearce nodded, but Clara dismissed the idea out of hand. ‘No, that definitely isn’t it. Mike may have had the morals of a prowling tom cat, but he would never get involved with another man’s wife. I would never admit it to him, but he does have some principles. People he works with and married women are definitely out of bounds as far as Mike’s concerned. Apart from that, as far as I’m aware he hasn’t been dating anyone for a long time. Not since, well . . .’

  She didn’t finish the sentence. She didn’t need to. Pearce remembered only too well how involved Nash had been, and the sad outcome of that affair. ‘Do you know if he ever heard from her?’

  Clara shook her head. ‘He’s never said anything, and I think we’d have known — especially if it had been good news. It wasn’t only Mike who was affected, though. Daniel had taken a real shine to Alondra as well.’

  They continued the discussion for some time, but as Clara reflected ruefully, without any more success than they were having in trying to find the serial killer.

  * * *

  It was the next to last day of the autumn half-term break. Nash was working in the garage of Smelt Mill Cottage but he wasn’t in control of operations. His mentor, whose role was purely supervisory, was Daniel, who was instructing his father on the best way to keep a bicycle clean and in good condition.

  Eventually, Nash leaned back on the footstool he was using as a perch and scowled at his son. ‘Why don’t you help if you’re such an expert, instead of standing there giving orders?’

  Daniel grinned cheerfully at his father. ‘Because I want to make sure you do it right when I’m not here to watch you, Papa. You did promise you were going to keep up the cycling, even when I’ve gone back to school. Didn’t you?’

  Nash sighed. ‘Yes, Daniel, but it’s getting towards winter and the weather will be bad, and the only time I could go out on the bike is when it’s dark, which could be dangerous, the way some people drive around here.’

  Daniel looked upset. ‘You said you were going to do it, Papa. You said you were going to get fitter. You know it’s good for you.’

  ‘Has someone put you up to this? Aunt Clara, for instance?’

  DS Mironova was Daniel’s adopted aunt, and the boy loved her. ‘No, she hasn’t, Papa. If you want to know, it was something that happened last term. A boy from my year got taken home suddenly and we found out his father had died of a heart attack. It scared me, Papa.’

  Nash pulled his son towards him and hugged him tight. He stroked Daniel’s cheek, a gesture he had used since the boy had come to live with him as a six-year-old. The comforting sensation had seemed to calm Daniel, when he was having bad dreams, usually about his mother’s death. ‘I am keeping my promise to get fit,’ Nash told him, ‘even if I can’t go out on the bike. I’ve joined a keep-fit group and I go for training every week. How does that sound?’

  ‘Thanks, Papa, that’s great. Tell me all about it.’

  Nash explained about the sessions. ‘Unfortunately, I can�
��t be sure of getting to the afternoon ones, so the lady in charge has kindly agreed to run a special one for me alone in the evening.’

  Daniel looked at his father, suspiciously. ‘What’s she like? The lady who is training you? Is she nice? Is she pretty?’

  ‘Toni? She’s very nice, and yes, I suppose she is quite pretty. I do know she’s very fit, much fitter than me.’

  ‘Tony? That’s a boy’s name. We’ve a boy called Tony in my year.’

  ‘I think in this case it’s a nickname, spelt differently. I think her proper name is Antonia. Now, come on, your Aunt Clara will be here soon to take you on a day out. I suggest you go wash your hands and face before then, while I get ready for work.’

  ‘I’ve already had a shower, Papa. I don’t need another wash.’

  Nash grinned wickedly. ‘Oh yes you do,’ he said in his best pantomime voice, ‘because I’ve just smeared oil and grease all over your face.’

  When Mironova pulled up outside Smelt Mill Cottage, Daniel and his father were waiting on the doorstep. Seeing them together emphasized the likeness. Fair-haired Daniel, she thought, was a miniature carbon copy of Mike. It was odd that Mike was the only one who couldn’t see this. She got out of the car and strolled over to greet them.

  ‘David not back yet?’ Nash asked.

  ‘No, he’s going to be away for a few weeks more, so Daniel will have to put up with just me.’

  Daniel didn’t look too disappointed by the arrangement.

  ‘Where are you taking him?’ Nash asked. ‘Anything planned?’

  ‘I thought we’d go to Lightwater Valley.’

  ‘Wicked!’ Daniel exclaimed, delighted at the idea of a day at the theme park.

  ‘That’s going to cost a bit.’ Nash reached into his pocket and pulled out his wallet. He knew better than to offer Clara the money. Instead he took some notes from within the wallet and handed them to Daniel. ‘You keep them safe, and when you’re both feeling hungry, you can buy Aunt Clara something nice to eat for lunch. It’s not considered gentlemanly to have a lady pay for your meal.’