Bye Bye Baby

by McIntosh, Fiona

  ‘Just checking the official line on it, Cam.’

  ‘Yes,’ Hawksworth said, over their sarcastic glances, ‘we’re treating the murders as a serial killing.’

  ‘Thank you,’ Kate said, but might as well have added, ‘Touché’.

  ‘Okay, I’m going to hand you over briefly to John Tandy from the Forensic Science Service,’ Jack went on. ‘He’s had only the briefest of chances so far to look over all the crime notes and come up with something we can work with. John?’

  People shifted on the hard wooden chairs in an attempt to find slightly more comfortable positions as a man in his late fifties with thick dark hair shot through with silver took the floor.

  ‘This is a very loose picture, folks,’ he began. ‘We’ll improve it in coming weeks.’

  ‘When we get more bodies, you mean?’ Bill Marsh called out.

  ‘Come on, Bill,’ Jack cajoled. ‘Poor taste, eh?’

  Bill Marsh — known as Swamp, a middle-aged man in a rumpled suit — had ten years on Hawksworth, but had never been material for a DCI, even though he’d dreamed of running his own unit. To Bill’s credit, he’d never held it against the young lion roaring up the ladder, nor had he ever voiced what everyone presumably believed: Martin Sharpe had made that ladder a little easier for Hawksworth to climb.

  Tandy cleared his throat and continued. ‘Alright, so far we have a left-handed killer. This is a cold personality — the actual dispatch of both victims was calm, calculated and handled with minimum fuss. Neither killing was done in a state of uncontrollable anger. If rage was present, I believe the killer had his emotions in check.

  ‘Michael Sheriff was drugged and taken to a quiet place, where, presumably, he was quickly dealt with. The same goes for Clive Farrow in Hackney.’

  ‘Why do you describe the killer as cold, John?’ Kate asked.

  ‘No passion,’ Tandy replied, pointing to the images blown up and pinned on the board behind him. ‘No need for a lot of blood, and he didn’t make the victims suffer as much as he could have. He drugged them first.’

  ‘That could have been to make them compliant, though?’ Brodie’s Scottish brogue cut in.

  ‘That’s probably true. But according to Don Larkin in pathology, the killer waited until the tranquilliser had taken full effect — in both instances, the heart had stopped — before going to work with the knife. He could just as easily have waited for the victims to be drowsy, incapable of a struggle, and then really made them suffer. But apparently he didn’t.’

  ‘What do we surmise from this?’ Jack asked, mainly for the benefit of the younger members on the team, who looked slightly overawed to be working on this case at Scotland Yard.

  ‘At this point, only that our killer doesn’t fit the usual profile of a psychopath.’ Tandy drew inverted commas in the air with his fingers as he said the last word. ‘In serial killings there’s usually a level of enjoyment, certainly involvement —’ He made the inverted commas gesture again and Jack could see that it irritated Kate. He smiled to himself. ‘— but in these cases both men were dispatched quickly, efficiently. So this wasn’t about revelling in the act of killing as such.

  The killer did not choose to prolong their death, and clearly had no interest in them suffering, perhaps beyond the original shock of realising they were captives, blah blah.’

  The ‘blah blah’ clearly annoyed Kate. ‘So, John,’ she interrupted, shaking her head slightly with frustration, ‘why is he killing if there’s no pleasure to be gained?’

  ‘Oh, there’s pleasure alright, Detective . . .’

  ‘DI Carter. Kate.’

  ‘Kate, thank you. Oh yes, the killer is certainly gaining satisfaction, but not from the suffering, the blood, or the act of killing even. He doesn’t even take a trophy. Instead, he neatly leaves what is clearly his prize in the dead men’s hands.’

  ‘So what does it all mean?’ Kate asked impatiently.

  Tandy closed his eyes, kept them shut as he spoke. ‘It’s a means to an end,’ he said with satisfaction.

  ‘He just wants these guys dead?’ Bill finished.

  ‘Correct,’ Tandy said, and blinked slowly. ‘The reward is the end of Sheriff's and Farrow’s life.’

  ‘Revenge?’ Hawksworth offered.

  ‘Quite possibly,’ Tandy said, nodding. ‘It’s certainly the scenario I’m postulating.’

  ‘What else, John?’ Jack encouraged.

  ‘Well, so far so good — let’s say we have a couple of revenge killings. It doesn’t explain the oddity of removing the lips and genitals. That does smack of the psychopath. But again I tread here with caution, because it was done calmly, neatly and having already deliberately minimised suffering to the victims.’

  ‘Age?’ Brodie asked.

  ‘I’d say our killer is late thirties, perhaps early forties.’

  ‘Why?’ Kate asked.

  The profiler raised his chin, stared at the ceiling for a few moments. Jack liked that Tandy was taking Kate’s question seriously and not just giving her a rote answer. It was a good question, and it was always with some wonderment that Jack listened to the answers these experts came up with. Despite his irritating mannerisms at times, John Tandy was one of the best in the business. The Met used him frequently and, although profiling was hardly an accurate science, Tandy had reliable instincts.

  ‘Well, this is someone, I believe, who has thought through their kill very precisely,’ he said. ‘You’re dealing with someone who is highly intelligent, who has the ability to remain clear-thinking and utterly in control of their emotions throughout the event. Age and the journey of life teaches you patience, even if you’re a naturally impatient person. I just don’t think a much younger person would have remained so . . .’ he searched for the right word, ‘. . . committed,’ he finally said. ‘It takes enormous control to do all that was done and not feel compelled to leave some sort of note behind, or clues to his identity and so on. And if this is revenge, I believe a younger murderer would have wanted his victims to suffer. In my opinion, only an older person would be so single-minded as to never lose sight of what he wants — death for these two men. There was no need to draw out the events leading up to it, and to offer them both an escape from the agony of what was occurring is odd. I really believe this is an older person because everything was a means to an end. No showing off, all clinically done and meticulously planned, it seems.’

  Brodie began to speak but Tandy continued, apologising with a nod for cutting across the detective. ‘The care taken to immobilise the victims points to maturity, as does the swift kill — although I think it could have been done faster, neater, considering the murderer had them so helpless.’

  Kate frowned. ‘Can you clarify that notion, please, John?’

  He shrugged. ‘Just a feeling. It’s another reason why I sense this is about payback. The victims were drugged, presumably unconscious. The killer is showing all the signs of not needing them to suffer past the point of their obvious horror at being taken captive and by whom, and, I imagine, realising that they were going to die. At this stage, he could have just put a plastic bag over their heads to ensure death — a much cleaner, easier way to kill. All of this would follow the pattern he’s set of the manner of death not being important. But he stabs them, risks blood spurting everywhere. Why?’

  He let the question hang.

  Bill piped up. ‘That’s when he got angry perhaps?’

  ‘Unlikely,’ Tandy said. ‘At this stage of events, his care suggests he has all of his emotions thoroughly under control. It’s the early stages — the adrenaline rush of stalking and then successfully capturing and immobolising his prey — that are more likely the time when, if he was going to allow his anger to play a part, it would have occurred. He would have stabbed them at the beginning if he was prone to anger over whatever it is that has forced him to do this.’

  ‘Time constraints?’ Brodie offered, pulling a sheepish face to indicate he knew it was a lame guess. His s
hrug begged his colleagues to give him a break.

  Jack was pleased to note that Tandy showed no impatience with the questions and answered each with equally measured care. All notions, worthy or lame, were helpful for the younger members to listen to and learn from.

  ‘No, it can’t be a time issue because the killer only now goes to work on his victims. Genitals to emasculate, lips to remove, the scene to be cleared of any props and evidence. He’s being thorough, remember.’

  ‘It’s something that does give him pleasure then,’ Kate offered. ‘Or at least satisfaction perhaps.’

  Tandy smiled. ‘That’s what I think. Whatever these two men have in common, I think the stabbing put to right something in their killer’s mind.’

  ‘The revenge?’ Jack asked.

  ‘Yes, I believe the stabbing is integral to that revenge. Something these men have done in the past perhaps has involved a stabbing, either being part of it or witnessing it, and the killer has taken it personally. Or perhaps it happened to the killer — that I can’t tell you. But the stabbing is definitely at odds with the rest of our killer’s MO. It’s unnecessary, because the victims are most likely already dead, and as I said before, if he wanted to make sure, a plastic bag is much simpler and cleaner. I might add, both stab wounds were in an almost identical spot on the victims’ bodies — it has significance.’

  Jack let this sink in before adding, ‘Even though the trophies seem such a vicious act?’

  ‘That depends on whether these are trophies,’ Tandy said. ‘I don’t think so, to be honest.’ He realised his listeners were staring at him in bafflement. ‘What I mean is, our killer didn’t take anything away from the scene. A genuine trophy from a kill would be kept, treasured. Instead, he left them behind, in the victim’s hands, which may also have some significance.

  ‘I’d also pose the idea that the lips and genitals, together with the stabbing and even the quirkiness of the blue paint, are the glue that binds these people. They are meaningful only to the killer and his victims. I don’t believe that any of the knifework or the paint is a message to the police or the public at large. I’d suggest it’s more likely a private message to the people he’s taking revenge on, and I feel all three ways in which the blade was used are connected. That is, they were all meaningful to the act of payback.’ He looked around. ‘That’s all I have.’

  There was a moment’s silence before Jack spoke. ‘Thanks, John, lots there for us to consider.’

  The psychologist nodded, smiled sympathetically at his audience and departed, a young PC accompanying him to see him out.

  ‘Right, has anyone got anything to add to the profile?’ Jack asked. No one did. ‘Okay, then. I want one of you getting final confirmation from pathology that we are indeed looking for a left-handed killer. That will help narrow down the field a little.’ He nodded with understanding at the groans that greeted this understatement.

  ‘Bill, as soon as you can, get across to the Lincoln scene and get a full briefing from the boys at Louth. And go lightly. Remember, we need to act as the umbrella guys on this and I don’t want complaints that the Yard team are stampeding over local investigations.’

  ‘On my way, Hawk.’

  Jack knew Bill would have the right touch. It was Brodie he was more concerned about. ‘Cam,’ he said, ‘you do the same over at Hackney. And remember, don’t leave any footprints.’

  ‘You know it’s going to be just another day, another body, to them, sir,’ Brodie said. ‘Lower Clapton Road’s not called the Murder Mile for nothing.’

  ‘I realise that. But Clive Farrow is someone’s fiance, someone’s son, and so we’ll treat his death as though it’s the first murder we’ve ever investigated.’

  Jack turned to the room at large. ‘For all of you newbies out of Hendon, Hackney is considered a poor, relatively deprived borough. It’s home to a large Hasidic Jewish community, as well as large Asian and Caribbean populations, and tends to be overrun with Yardie gangs. It’s not unusual to find bodies around there, which is why Cam said what he did.’ He gave Brodie a brief hard gaze to warn him about the youngsters on the team who needed education and encouragement, not the assumption that their efforts were pointless before they even began.

  ‘Kate,’ he said.

  ‘Sir?’ Her expression of resignation told him she was anticipating the tiresome task of wading through files, finding out about blue paint suppliers or something equally tedious now that the two plum jobs had gone to the blokes.

  ‘We’re going to visit the families of the victims. We’ll start in Lincoln.’ He didn’t wait for her response and flicked his gaze away from her grateful look of surprise. ‘The rest of you, I want to know what brand of paint is on the victims’ hands, where it can be bought, and ideas on why it might be significant. I want to know what knife was used by the killer, and as soon as you do know, I want the brand, where it can be purchased and someone compiling a list of those stores to visit or contact. Someone else, go back over the scenes of the two crimes — constantly ask yourself, have we missed anything? What questions haven’t been asked yet?’

  ‘What about cold cases, sir?’ DS Jones asked.

  Sarah Jones was a bright young woman, definitely a rising star, and Jack had witnessed her efforts on a previous case. She didn’t have Kate’s instincts but she possessed an enviable trait of attention to detail and a need to tie off every loose thread — both of which had led to her receiving specific training on the national police indexing system.

  ‘Tell us more,’ he said, hoping to encourage her by letting her show the rest of the team her strengths.

  She looked nervous, shifted her glasses. ‘Well, sir, it occurs to me that if we follow the line of reasoning that these could be revenge killings, then we need to go back over some old crimes. Perhaps something might bob up in London or Lincolnshire, or there may be some similarities with the paint, type of injuries, use of the drugs, stabbings . . .’

  Jack had hoped someone would suggest this crucial and tedious legwork, yet none of the senior people had and it should have been one of their first thoughts. He imagined it was because none of them wanted to do that kind of work, which troubled him. He noticed Kate’s not very well concealed scowl at the young detective. He made her expression darken further when he said, ‘Excellent, DS Jones. Why don’t you take that on, run some comparisons through the database?’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ Sarah said crisply.

  When he had first drawn up his list of people to be involved in Operation Danube Jack had wondered whether these two women would hit it off. Although they were both ambitious, they were opposing poles. Kate had the looks and personality to command attention, while Sarah had neither but made up for it with a shrewd mind. He realised his instincts had been right but couldn’t fret on it now.

  ‘So, you all know what you’re doing,’ he said. ‘I’ll see you at our new home on the twelfth floor for a debriefing tomorrow morning. Happy hunting, all.’

  5

  It was one of those freezing, drizzly, depressing days. Kate grabbed her scarf, gloves and leather jacket and hurried down to the car park.

  Don’t run, she told herself, as she hit the bowels of the building. Be cool. She could see Hawksworth now, beside a Vauxhall Zafira, talking to another man. Jack spotted her and gave a wave before turning back to finish his animated conversation.

  Oh, this is very dangerous, she thought. Kate had worked with Jack Hawksworth twice before, the most recent occasion being three years ago, and had found her mind clouded with irrational, often ridiculous, daydreams that at times threatened her ability to function lucidly. It was a state of mind she hated and she’d sworn never to allow it to occur again, not at work anyway, and certainly not with a colleague.

  Kate didn’t believe in love at first sight — she didn’t even believe in lust at first sight — and yet she was ashamed to admit that during that March of 2000, whenever Hawksworth stood near her, her hands went clammy. Eye contact with him had been
hard because she was convinced he was able to read her mind with that penetrating gaze of his that made whomever he was speaking with feel as though they were the only person that mattered. Everything about him, from his charming manner to his maddening aloofness, even his questionable taste in music, was a turn-on.

  But that was three years ago and, when he’d called to ask if she’d join this special team, Kate had convinced herself that she had grown up. She was thirty-two now, after all, and engaged. She’d figured her previous infatuation was simply that. So why was she feeling so jittery now?

  ‘DI Kate Carter,’ Jack said with a smile, ‘this is DCI Geoff Benson. We’ve worked a couple of cases together.’

  Kate looked at the enormous bear of a man who stood opposite her. She knew of him but they’d never met.

  ‘How are you, Kate?’ Geoff said, extending a colossal hand.

  She shook it. ‘Fine, thank you. So, you guys go back a long way?’ They looked like Beauty and the Beast.

  The men shared a conspiratorial grin. ‘Er, yes, I’m afraid so. Geoff ‘s been responsible for many an untidy weekend in our youth,’ Jack admitted.

  ‘We were probationers together,’ his friend explained.

  ‘Ah, Hendon,’ she said, her tone matching an all-knowing expression. She wasn’t really sure what was coming out of her mouth, distracted by the way Jack was looking at her with that soft smile. She couldn’t read him at all. His giant friend said something she didn’t catch that made Jack laugh and in that moment she was sure she could see the carefree boy he’d probably once been. Bet that hair flopped right over your eyes too and gave you a wickedly cute look, she thought.

  ‘We’ve got to go, Geoff. See you for a pint soon, eh?’ Jack said.

  Geoff used his hand to mimic a phone. ‘It’s your turn to call,’ he said. ‘Nice meeting you, Kate. You’re welcome to come for a beer, too.’

  Jack opened the front passenger door for Kate, and laughed at Geoff ‘s parting shot. Again, Kate didn’t catch it; she was too busy wondering whether any other men still did that opening the door thing. Dan reckoned opening doors these days for women was fraught with danger. The last time I did that for a female colleague, she snapped some waspish comment at me, he had moaned. The lines were clearly drawn between him and Kate: equal terms, equal partners in life. With Jack, however, his opening the door for her didn’t feel in any way smarmy and it certainly didn’t seem to her as though he was using it to reinforce his rank or his maleness. It’s simply good manners, she thought, and felt instantly feminine for being treated so courteously. An inner voice cut in and urged her to please pull her ragged thoughts together. It’s just the first day, she replied silently. I’ll be fine by tomorrow.