by Michael Kerr
Thirty minutes later, Villiers hurried out of the building and walked briskly away. Lucas phoned McCall and said, “You got it?”
“Yeah, man. Now what?”
“Leave the museum and walk to the South Kensington tube. You want to be on the District line to Blackfriars. Then go over the bridge and down onto the Riverside Walk. Head west towards Waterloo Bridge. I’ll be watching you all the way, so don’t get cute. I’ll give you a bell and let you know where to dump the backpack.”
“When do I get paid?”
“You take a grand out of the bag when I tell you to. Don’t even think of taking anymore. If you do, I’ll kill you. Understand?”
Lucas waited. As McCall appeared at the door of the museum, three guys jumped him and pushed him to the ground. One, of what he knew must be plainclothes cops, held a gun to McCall’s temple as another cuffed him and the third went through his pockets.
He didn’t hang around. The eyes of the cop with the gun were everywhere. He looked lean and mean, and capable of being as ruthless as the men he undoubtedly spent his days hunting.
Back at the car park, where he had left the van, Lucas sat behind the wheel with his eyes closed, trying unsuccessfully to put the incident behind him. It was not the failure to get his hands on the money that ate at him, but the fact that Villiers and the police had conspired to apprehend him. That was unforgivable and could not go unpunished. The cop with the gun had been in charge of the operation, of that he was certain. The plod was therefore responsible. But before he devised a plan to collect his money from the cop, he would see if McCall could convince them that he was not the killer they sought. He had insisted that the junkie wear his ring, which was the only conceivable clue – by way of its impression – that he had left at the scenes. Maybe McCall would be the perfect fall guy and end up doing life for crimes he had no knowledge of. It would be a given that the pathetic dickhead would be unable to furnish alibis for specific dates. He probably didn’t even know what year it was. What could he tell them? That a total stranger found him sleeping rough and asked him to wear the ring and go collect a sack full of money. Yeah, and the Great Wall of China is made of Lego!
Lucas pulled off the hat and the false moustache. His top lip was itching from the spirit gum that had held it firmly in place. He started the van and drove away. It was knowing when to back off and when to press forward that decided most things in life. Timing was the key to killing, as well as the delivery of a good joke. Well, his jokes might not make the recipients of them laugh, but they amused him. The art of well-being was to not let the bastards grind you down. He would not let them ruffle his feathers. Staying calm and collected and dealing with adversity was a challenge he was up to. He made the rules, changed them at will, and was therefore always ahead of the game. Life might be a game of chance, but he was the House, not the feckless punters that feverishly tried to break the bank, without acknowledging that the odds were stacked heavily against them. Villiers, the money, and the cop were just so much spilt milk, which he would mop up in due course. This turn of events decided him to abduct another whore and install her in the loft. Any killing would now be carried out with a totally different MO. For the time being, redheaded prostitutes would not be on his menu.
That evening, with phony plates on the van, he went across the river and headed for the East End. If the opportunity presented itself, he would treat himself to an attractive young female, to take home and amuse himself with.
Matt and Pete kept the coffeemaker continuously employed in producing vast quantities of rich Colombian Java as they viewed the time/date-encoded video tapes from the museum’s CCTV system.
“I think Marsha’s tapes were far more entertaining,” Pete said.
“That’s because you’re a lecherous perv,” Matt said.
“Nobody’s perfect, boss. That’s why porn is so popular. Most men get off by watching it. And Marsha’s stuff was a lot better than Debbie Does Dallas.”
“There!” Matt said, hitting the rewind button on the remote, then playing it again. “That guy fits McCall’s description.”
The grainy film showed a man in dark clothing, walking up to the main entrance doors. He kept his face angled down, but the thick moustache and woolly hat individualised him.
“What if McCall isn’t the airhead we take him for, boss? He could have seen this guy in the museum and just thrown his description out to mislead us.”
“I don’t buy that, Pete. McCall doesn’t have the acumen to organise a piss-up in a brewery. I think he’s the perfect patsy for our boy. He can’t furnish us with any details of his whereabouts when the murders were committed, and the desk sergeant said that the ring was falling off his finger; maybe three sizes too big. The killer isn’t stupid enough to walk up and collect the money himself. We have his mobile, and can verify what calls were made since it was reported stolen. Whoever McCall talked to was choreographing the action from nearby. Trouble is, he will have dumped the phone he used.”
They had sightings of ‘Walrus’ taken from four different cameras. Not once did he raise his head high enough to give them a clear look at his face. He knew that the cameras were there. The last footage of him, after he had actually walked past Villiers, was of him leaving the building and vanishing from sight.
“There must be traffic cameras that will show if he got into a vehicle,” Matt said. “Arrange for us to get them ASAP, Pete. And let’s see if Kenny Ruskin can find something on these tapes that he can digitally enhance.”
“You think that Villiers will be contacted again, or targeted for coming to us and helping set a trap?”
“Who knows? We’ll keep him under protection for a while, just in case.”
Tom opened the door and came in. Headed straight for the coffee and filled a mug before saying a word.
“You got outsmarted,” he said to Matt. “The guy somehow cottoned on to the fact that he was leaving his mark, so hired a nonentity to wear the ring and sent him to the front-line. You were convinced you had your man, and moved. We have nothing but a description of a guy who was no doubt heavily disguised.”
“With hindsight, you make it sound like we blew it, Tom,” Matt said. “We went with what we had at the time. You okayed the operation.”
“Yeah, I know, but Adams is calling us amateurs.”
Matt grinned. “So tell him to go to the Area Major Investigation Pool and hand over all the evidence. I’m sure AMIP would get a kick out of seeing the videos of top cops’ hairy arses, and a lot more besides.”
“You don’t want to give up this case, Matt, so don’t be flippant.”
“I’m being pragmatic. What Grizzly or Divisional commander Ransom think counts for less than what the tea lady might have to say on the matter. They both have careers that could be pulled like a bath plug, if someone was to send some 8x10s to the newspapers.”
Tom sighed. “Point being, we need to find a new angle. I want the description we have of the guy, and photos of the ring put out. Somebody knows him, and now that we have the ring, anyone who knew he wore it is potentially at risk. I’ll get Adams to jack up an airing on Crimewatch. You can―”
“Don’t even say it, Tom. Do I look like a coconut in a fucking shy. I’ve just been on two psychos’ ‘wish to kill’ list. I might be the officer in charge of the case, but I draw the line at fronting a Q and A session on camera. If you want to go on the box, be my guest. Or better still get Adams to do it. I’ve decided to keep it impersonal and live a little longer.”
Julie Spencer felt fine until she lurched out through the door of the pub on Old Ford Road in Bethnal Green. She had let some barfly, who thought he was Hugh Grant, ply her with too much gin and tonic. When he started groping her, she had told him to piss off. She was not into one night stands with strangers. She had been there and got the T-shirt. There had been a time when she would get stoned out of her mind and drop her panties for any bloke who had nowhere to park his pecker. Had even, on one occasion only, leaned o
ver the pool table after hours, as drunk as a skunk, and let the entire home and away darts teams queue up and take her. She had passed out, to come round with her face on the blue baize, and the landlord’s Great Dane, Barney, going hell for leather, pounding into her, panting and slobbering on her neck. That had been a turning point in her life. She screwed her loaf and realised that you couldn’t get much lower than having a pub dog fuck you. She had not been anywhere near the Coach and Horses since that night three years ago, but still got barked at if one of the louts who had been there that night recognised her.
Julie walked through Victoria Park along Grove Road, which was well-lit. It was a route she took home from the pub at least four evenings a week. She stopped, lit a cigarette, and wished that her head would stop spinning. She was pissed and knew it. She staggered on with tears running down her cheeks. At twenty-four she was alone, could not settle in a meaningful relationship, and was stuck in a job at a laundry that was killing her a little each and every day. She sweated long hours for low pay in sauna-hot conditions. If she’d been bright enough to stay on at school and get an education, then maybe... Trouble was, she was no good at anything, except bonking. And the men she met were all of her kind, going nowhere fast. She wanted a future to look forward to, and daydreamed of a little house in the sticks, and having kids, and a husband who she could love and respect and want to spend her life with.
Once certain that the woman was alone, he followed in the van and did a drive by to satisfy himself that she was suitable. Yes. She was in her twenties, shapely, and quite good-looking in a cheap and common way. Her skirt was tight and rode her thighs. Her hair was blonde, back combed in a sixties bouffant style that gave her the look of a young Dusty Springfield.
He moved quickly. The road was clear of traffic, and he only needed a few seconds.
Julie kept walking as the van pulled to a stop alongside her. If some kerb crawler thought she was at it, then he was wasting his time. She might be a little promiscuous, but did not sell her favours. She had nothing against working girls, but could not imagine letting some of the freaks who needed to pay for it near her.
The figure jumped out of the van and ran straight at her.
Even as Julie thought to scream or run away, she was too late. He punched her once, hard in the stomach, and as she grunted and doubled up, he caught her around the waist and bundled her to the kerb, to smoothly open one of the van’s rear doors, throw her in, and climb in after her. She was soon gagged and bound with tape, and covered by an old, damp, stained blanket.
He drove back through town, crossed the river and stopped to change plates before completing his journey home and garaging the van. All the complications of the day dissolved. He had a new project. This one would keep him employed for weeks, or months if necessary.
Julie had at no point lost consciousness. She lay on the hard floor of the vehicle and knew that she had been abducted. The fear closed in and held her as transfixed as the duct tape. She believed that had this been a rapist, then she would have been dragged into the bushes, away from the road, to be assaulted and hopefully left alive. This was far more sinister. Where was he taking her, and for what purpose? The thought of two teams of randy pool players, and even Barney the dog, was now a preferable scenario to what was happening. She had rarely thought of her own death. It was still an abstract: not a consideration of most young and healthy people. Her grandma, Nellie, had died less than twelve months ago, but that was expected. The old girl had been nudging ninety, was suffering from senile dementia, and had been hanging by a thread for years. The last time Julie had seen her was in the care home she had been taken into to die. She had not known Julie; just sat in her wheelchair drooling and talking to someone called Benjamin, who Julie found out later, from her mother, had been Nellie’s pet cat, back in the forties. Benjamin had survived the Blitz, only to be ripped to bits by two greyhounds that had been owned by the chimney sweep next door.
Had grandma Nellie felt as trapped in that perfidious old body as Julie now felt, bound and gagged in the back of a stranger’s van?
CHAPTER NINETEEN
It was now April. They had no new leads and had failed to glean any further information from Terry McCall. He had opted out by tearing a pillowcase into strips, braiding them, and garrotting himself by twisting the handmade noose until it cut off the blood supply to his brain. When he had passed out and his hands had relinquished their grip, the slipknot he had fashioned did not loosen.
Beth was at Matt’s maisonette. She had studied all the paperwork, plus the autopsy protocols of the Pamela Clough murder, and had evaluated the crimes and the scenes where they had been committed. With the information and her creative, analytic ability, Beth developed a profile with critical offender characteristics.
“It reads well. But there’s nothing to give us a direction to go in,” Matt said after he had read the unofficial report twice.
“Sorry. I’m not good enough to come up with his name and address.”
“You know what I mean,” Matt said, fingering the unlit cigarette that hung from his lips. “I get the drift. We have another sociopath who is not capable of feeling compassion, guilt or remorse for his acts. He is white, in his twenties or early thirties, and was abused as a child. He is a ritual killer, in that he has used cigarette ends to burn his victims, then strangled them all with tights or stockings. You suggest that because all the victims were redheads and on the game, that someone significant in his life is the inspiration for his actions.”
“Are you going to light that cigarette?” Beth said, handing him a glass of JD on the rocks and curling up next to him on the settee.
“I don’t know. I keep thinking that as long as I keep an open mind and don’t tell myself or anyone else that I’ve given smoking the elbow, then I’m under no pressure. The second I say I don’t smoke anymore, then I’ll want one all the more.”
“That makes sense. How long before you think you can wean yourself off sucking on them?”
“How long is a piece of string?”
“What decided you to stop?”
“I didn’t. I ran out and couldn’t be bothered leaving the house to buy any. It struck me that they were a part of what I do that I don’t like. So I’m seeing how long I can go without, but not telling myself that I can’t smoke. If I decide to fire one up, then so be it.”
“It is a kind of weird thing to do?”
“What, trying to quit the weed?”
“No. Smoking it. Taking dried, shredded plant leaves rolled up in paper and setting them alight so that you can suck the resulting toxins into your lungs.”
“Most things can be viewed in the same way. Having your ears, nose or anywhere else pierced to stick baubles in is a bit native. Or having someone disfigure you with tattoos could be interpreted as being weird. There was a thing on TV about people who want to look like animals. One guy had long whiskers screwed into his face, got his teeth filed to points, and had implants to alter the shape of his face. Another even had his tongue split down the middle to make it forked. Why would anyone want to be another species, and go to such lengths to superficially resemble them?”
“For the same reason that someone has to paint pictures, or collect teapots, or do anything that could be viewed as excessive behaviour. A love for something can become compulsive. A lot of what people do is irrational if you put it under a microscope. And I think the tattooed corpse that had been burned is the way to go with this case. It was evidence that the killer wanted to eradicate.”
“The others weren’t tattooed.”
“No matter. Some of the work on the Jane Doe was fresh. It had been done shortly before she was murdered. And it was of a professional standard. The killer could well be a tattoo artist.”
“Would he spend so much time decorating her skin with high-quality designs, then stub cigarettes out on her , and then set fire to her? Isn’t that a contradiction?”
“The two acts are unrelated. I suspect he was disfig
ured with lit cigarettes as a child, probably by his mother.”
“Because?”
“Because the pain and fear and misery of how he was treated have patterned him. A part of his psyche needs to make retribution for what he had to endure. His mother would have been a prostitute, and it goes without saying that she was a redhead.”
“Past tense. You think that she is dead?”
“It’s an assumption based on his actions. His emotional state is as disfigured as I imagine his body to be. He grew up without any measure of love or affection, and was abused. He cannot get passed it and move on, so continually needs to punish a mother he hated. His victims are surrogates for her.”
“Neat conjecture. But why would he only tattoo one of the vics?”
“The autopsy report found that she had been malnourished to a degree just short of starvation. And the artwork he did on her would have taken weeks to complete.”
“Are you saying that he kept her somewhere for a long period of time?”
“It looks that way. He used and abused her, and when he could physically and mentally gain no further pleasure, he tried to burn the evidence, to prevent anyone seeing the tattooing. I have the feeling that he might have replaced her. He still needs to kill, but also likes to have one alive, always nearby and available to vent his ever present anger.”
“If you’re right, then that narrows it down to him being a professional tattooist.”
Beth nodded. “A young, single man, probably with red or ginger hair. If you can find artwork that matches what survived the amateur cremation, it’s case solved.”
Matt grinned. “Good job I already have officers calling at every tattoo parlour in the city.”
“Put more on it, Matt. You’ll turn him up.”
“And he won’t be expecting us. We put it out that the body was totally beyond being identifiable. He will believe that his work was destroyed.”