A Need To Kill (DI Matt Barnes)

by Michael Kerr

  “You want me to―”

  “I want for you to get some sleep and stay away from the Yard. I’ll get any paperwork we come up with to you. If nothing else, we know how unpredictable these crazies can be. If it was him who murdered Carrie, then no one is safe. Your job is to keep a very low profile and stay in the background.”

  Beth felt the blood drain from her face. Matt was right. Memories and thoughts of the past circled in her mind. She did not want to ever come face to face with another unglued repeat murderer; not outside the confines and relative safety of the hospital. Evaluating them as incarcerated patients was one thing, but being in their sights in the open was not something she ever wished to experience again. You could not rationalise with a malfunctioning brain. They did not have the same thought processes as ‘normal’ people, or have the ability to stop committing atrocities that satisfied some diabolic and diseased part of their psyche. Serial killers were not the product of any particular socio-economic background. They could be, and were, well-heeled and highly intelligent, or down and outs with no education. It was sometimes impossible to see behind the facade that they manufactured and developed to cloak that side of their nature: the hunger that they fed by ritually and repeatedly taking life.

  Beth’s newest patient was such a man, or beast. Outwardly, Adrian Blyton was as timorous as a church mouse; a balding fifty-nine year old with poor eyesight, a lisp, and a nervous tic in his right eye. There was nothing apparently remarkable about the man, and yet when not running his DVD store in Ealing, he was frequenting toilets and lay-bys, picking up eager and consenting gays to take back to his bungalow off Broadway, to drug, have sex with, then murder and mutilate. Over a period of ten years, Blyton had – to the authorities’ knowledge – done away with at least thirty-two men and boys. He had boiled down the remains and concealed the bleached, odourless bones in the bungalow. Had he not been selling under-the-counter pornographic DVDs, then he might not have been apprehended. With a warrant to search his business premises and home, Vice Squad officers found the pickled genitals of more than a dozen men in the roof space of the bungalow, and a mass of skulls and complete skeletons under the floorboards of the spare bedroom.

  “Why did you do it?” Beth had asked Adrian.

  He had shrugged his narrow shoulders and sighed. “I wanted them, then felt inadequate when they came home with me. It was less stressful to...to take them when they were drugged. Afterwards, I just wanted rid of them without it becoming confrontational. I tied a plastic bag over the first one’s head before he woke up. It was so easy. I suppose it became a habit.”

  “But you kept their genitals...”

  Adrian closed his eyes, dropped his chin on to his chest and shuddered. Not with the disgust that Beth felt, but at the renewed sexual excitement derived from memories of removing the penises and testicles with a well-honed knife. The flaccid, bloodless organs had engendered him with a strong sense of his own continued potency. They were visceral reminders; trophies of the magical episodes he had enjoyed with partners who had been pliant and unaware of the vile acts he had committed on their senseless bodies.

  When he eventually opened his eyes and looked up, Beth could see the unbounded glee in his expression.

  “Didn’t you ever buy a souvenir, or pick up a shell from a beach to remind you of a favourite place, Doctor? Mementoes can help you relive the good times.”

  Beth knew that no therapy yet devised would cure Blyton of the mental disorder that afflicted him. He felt absolutely no sense of guilt at having murdered the men, whose only crime had been to want sex with a willing stranger. They had given themselves up to a monster who offered his body as bait to lure them to their deaths.

  All the data collected and studied by Beth and other criminal psychologists around the world had not thus far given any proper insight as to how a sexual predator with a total absence of moral conscience could be rehabilitated. The various symptoms that allowed them to categorise sociopathic mental disorders did little to present a method that might reverse ingrained behaviour. There was still an ongoing argument in the field, as to whether a subject’s brain was traumatised and patterned by personal childhood experiences or, on the other hand, was programmed that way in the womb. Beth had come to the conclusion that both hypotheses held water. She had – reluctantly – acknowledged that evil was a valid force. The thrust of her work as a member of the Criminal Personality Programme at Northfield was to probe the warped and depraved minds of murderers, to assess and try to find common denominators in an attempt to determine the reasons that prompted them to act out the dark fantasies they harboured. The fundamental problem being, that even the serial killer himself cannot fully understand or readily explain what drives him to commit such barbarous acts.

  “You know that this one won’t give himself up, even if you find him, don’t you?” Beth said to Matt.

  “They usually make me earn my pay,” he replied. “And don’t tell me to be careful again. I will be. Why don’t you make coffee while I get dressed?”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  More than anything else, she wanted to see daylight. The naked bulb illuminating nothing but her body, the mattress, blue, plastic chemiloo, and the black plastic walls, ceiling and floor was mind-destroying. The depravation of natural light and other everyday distractions was gnawing at the edges of her sanity. She could imagine the eye-searing light bulb to be the last star burning in the remote corner of some otherwise lifeless vacuum of the cosmos.

  Time had become meaningless. Had the creature who called himself Wolf last visited her a few hours or several days ago? When had she last eaten? Gnawing pains cramped her insides. And her ankle hurt like hell. The steel handcuff that she was shackled to the ring by had chafed the skin. But that was minor, compared to her finger end, which was swollen and throbbing. Every movement made her wince. Good! Pain was something to focus on. As long as she could still feel, then she knew that she was alive. And where there’s life, there’s hope. Bullshit! Tell that to all the terminally ill patients in hospices throughout the land. What hope did they have? Their life was a melange of drug-altered memories, as they slipped ever nearer to the edge of non-existence. How the hell could they have any hope?

  Was she dreaming or awake? She was still in the purpose-built prison, but could hear a pattering on the plastic. It could have been someone drumming their fingers, or drops of rain falling. She held her breath and concentrated. There, again, a furtive scurrying. A mouse? Or a...please God, no! Don’t let it be a rat. She could not abide the vermin. She remembered as a nine or ten year old the horror of being sat on the toilet when one came up from the main drain, through the water-filled U-bend to scrabble up between her legs and leap onto the floor. She had felt its wet, coarse fur brush against the inside of her thighs. Jumping up, she had leapt into the bath, to stand rigid and scream until her father came running up the stairs to see what had happened. He had seen the dripping rodent in a corner, and had used a pair of hairdressing scissors to stab it repeatedly. Julie had never forgotten the piercing screams that the rat had made as it curled up against the onslaught. From that day forth she had never, ever sat on a toilet seat. Instead, she would rest her hands on her knees and brace herself above the pan, thigh muscles quivering as she looked down between her legs at the small rectangle of water, ready to jump away if a head broke the surface.

  Her worst fears were realised. A rat slunk warily from the shadows, to sit up on its haunches and test the air with its twitching snout. And then another appeared, and another. She counted over a dozen of them. They could smell her. She had started her period, and knew that the pungent odour of menstrual blood had lured them out from their lair in the roof space.

  Pulling back as far as the chain would allow, Julie lifted the thin mattress and held it in front of her, bending and drawing her free leg back behind it.

  One of the rats, the largest, crept forward, advancing towards her with its body stretched and low to the floor. Cautious, p
urposeful and cunning.

  Ignoring the pain, Julie shook her foot to rattle the chain, waved her arms and shouted: “Go away! Shoo! Leave me alone.”

  The rats froze in place, but did not retreat. Could they sense that she was defenceless and unable to take flight?

  As if motivated by an unheard command, they attacked. The first to reach her buried its powerful incisors into her foot. Others scrambled over the top of the mattress to latch onto her face and arms. And one slipped behind her flimsy barricade to bury its incisors into her side. Her scream was stifled by a hand clamping over her mouth, and she reared up, eyes rolling as the sensation of tearing teeth and claws evaporated.

  “I think you were having a nightmare,” Lucas said, taking his hand away. “I hope it wasn’t about me.”

  “Rats,” she said. “I was being eaten by rats.”

  “Sounds fun. And it could be arranged, if you scream like that again.”

  She did not reply. Telling him had been a mistake.

  “You hungry?” Lucas asked.

  Julie nodded. Yet again her eyes were drawn to his highly-illustrated body.

  He saw the blood on the inside of her thighs and frowned.

  “My period,” Julie said, feeling her face redden.

  “No matter. Sit on me, and then we’ll eat.”

  “But―”

  He reached out and pinched the underside of her left breast hard between his thumb and fingers. “No buts, Julie. I’ve just had a very trying evening, and the last thing I need is to come home to a bitch with an attitude. Understand?”

  “Yes, Wolf,” she said through gritted teeth. Someone had hurt him, and that pleased her. His nose was red, swollen, packed with cotton wool. And there was bruising beneath both of his watering, bloodshot eyes.

  “You’re wondering about my face,” he said. “I killed a woman two hours ago. She managed to kick me in the nose, and tried to put my eyes out. She was a game little cow, but still ended up with her throat cut from ear to ear.”

  She believed him without reservation. He had nothing to gain by lying to her. Forcing herself to act on automatic pilot, Julie put her hands on his chest. She could feel his strong, quick heartbeat. “Lay down,” she said, pushing him back. She had to somehow instil a desire in him to want to keep her alive, and this was probably the only way she could influence the outcome of her ordeal. She climbed onto him, caressed his cheeks with trembling fingers and lowered her face to his. Kissed his mouth with dry lips. He responded.

  Much later, panting and drenched in sweat, they lay in each other’s arms.

  “Good?” Lucas said, holding her head to his chest.

  “More than good,” she gasped, and was not wholly lying. How could it be possible for her to derive the slightest pleasure from a man who was holding her as a prisoner, and who she knew had every intention of killing her? The power of sex was abstruse. Her libido had taken over. Animal instinct to mate was a relief from stress. She had read that at times of crisis and disaster it was a natural reaction; a force so powerful that nothing could dampen it. She had not believed that, until now. She would not have previously entertained the thought of being able to give herself so fully and with such enthusiasm to a psycho who meant her nothing but harm. She felt dirty and ashamed.

  Lucas went over to where he had undressed, took a bunch of keys from his trousers pocket and selected the small cuff key.

  “C’mon,” he said, releasing her. “Let’s go take a shower, then I’ll make you a hot meal.” He felt good. Julie had not faked it with him. She might be trying to keep him sweet; couldn’t blame her for that. But she had responded to his lovemaking with total commitment. For a few minutes she had forgotten the situation she was in and abandoned herself to lust and the gratification that he provided. Women were such fickle creatures. Given time, she would not only want him, but love him. That would be an interesting situation. Not a first, though. It was a known fact that prisoners could become emotionally involved with their captors. Hadn’t that rich Yank heiress bitch, Pattie Hearst, become infatuated with the gang that abducted her? Even joined them and took part in a bank robbery. There was a side to almost everyone that with the excuse or opportunity would allow the darkness in their souls to manifest. Ordinary people could commit the most terrible crimes. Theatres of war were not the only places where seemingly decent men and women shed the veneer of respectability and allowed their base instincts to surface and be unleashed. Even Julie could be taught to enjoy not only being a victim, but also to mistreat and murder strangers. It was all a matter of subtle indoctrination. She would come to want to do anything to please him.

  They sat at the kitchen table in dressing gowns. Drank coffee to wash down the meal of bacon, eggs and toast he had made.

  “You look good,” Lucas said, and meant it. Even with just stubble beginning to shadow her shaven head, she was attractive. Was it totally beyond the realm of possibility for them to be a couple?

  Julie stared into the mug that she held cupped in her laced fingers.

  “What are you thinking?” he said. “Be honest with me. I won’t punish you for answering me truthfully, I promise.”

  She looked intently into his verdant eyes. Allowed a long silence to pass before answering. “That under different circumstances, I would be glad to know you.”

  He grinned. “You are glad that you know me. This is the biggest adventure you have ever been a part of.”

  “Knowing that you are going to be murdered isn’t what I would call an adventure. Put yourself in my position for a few seconds, if you can. How would you enjoy being chained up in a fucking black cell, waiting to be mutilated and strangled?”

  “What are you saying? That if you felt safe, then you would be happy to be with me?”

  Somehow she held his gaze and nodded. “I’ve had a lot of time to think about life...and death. I haven’t done much worthwhile or interesting. I work...worked in a poxy laundry, and didn’t have any real friends or much of a future to look forward to. You’ve turned my life upside down, hurt me, and scared the shit out of me. And yet I wish that we’d met under different circumstances and got to know each other. You’re not like anyone else I’ve ever met.”

  Lucas shook his head. “You expect me to believe one word of that crap?”

  “Not really. You asked me what I was thinking, and I’ve told you. You’ve taken me away from a mundane way of life that I was sick of. I needed to escape from it. I just didn’t figure on doing it in such a dramatic fashion. I’d rather have won the Lotto and gone to live somewhere warm, and swum in the ocean every day...and met you at a beach bar or a nightclub.”

  He needed to think about what she had said. His acts were a rebellion against his past, carried out to satisfy a need that he did not fully comprehend. He saw himself as a scarred and unloved outcast. That Julie was adrift and searching for meaning and fulfilment was important. They were alike in that way. Both needing. And they were compatible.

  He did not speak again until they were back in the loft. He knelt next to her, wound crepe bandage around her other ankle and fastened it with a safety pin before putting the cuff on. He was gentle, and was treating her as a person, not an object. A change had come over him, but Julie could not dare to hope that it would last.

  “I’ll get some tampons for you tomorrow,” he said. “And I’ll give some thought to your future. The problem is that I’ve never trusted or believed anyone in my life.”

  “It’s never too late to start, Wolf,” Julie said.

  “My freedom is at stake,” Lucas mused. “You do realise that if I was to be caught, then I would have to take my own life, or spend the rest of it in a prison or mental institution. And I have no intention of being caged, or doped-up and turned into a fucking cabbage.”

  “Life is a risk, Wolf,” Julie said. “But we could have something special together.”

  He studied her. Leant forward and kissed her softly on the mouth. She parted her lips and responded.


  He shuffled back away from her and climbed to his feet.

  “I’ll see you in the morning,” he said. “And call me Lucas from now on. I’m a man, not a fucking wolf.”

  Later, in his bed, the phantom voice of his mother came through as loud and clear as an FM station in full Dolby surround sound. ‘Are you totally out of your mind?’

  He lay in the darkness and tried to shut her up. Pushed hard with all the willpower he possessed to stifle any further communication.

  ‘I’m not going anywhere’.

  “You aren’t real. Get out of my head,” he ordered.

  ‘So why are you talking to yourself, you sad, dysfunctional little bastard’?

  He clenched his teeth. Would not be drawn into an argument with what was only a part of his fractured psyche.

  ‘I’m still here, Lucas. You blew it tonight. Barnes will put it together’.

  He couldn’t stop himself from talking. “Put what together? There’s nothing to put together.”

  ‘The cop called here. They will check everywhere that she went. And if they take a close look at you, then that’ll be it. One look at that wolf’s head on your chest and you’ll be finished’.

  It made sense. They might well cover all the bases, on the off chance that her killer had seen through her act and followed her. He doubted that they thought there would be a connection, but could he take the chance that they wouldn’t?

  “So what do you suggest I do?” Lucas asked himself.

  ‘Clean up your mess, boy. Get rid of the bitch in the attic and put it back how it was. If the filth latches onto you, they will tear the place apart looking for a spot of blood or a single hair. You need to make sure that there is nothing that could incriminate you’.

  There was no way he would be able to sleep. He knew that the voice was a part of his mind that somehow policed his actions and brought reason to his behaviour. But it was not a conscience like some bloody cartoon cricket. He was not a marionette without strings. And he had no conscience. He offered up no excuse for what he did, even to himself. You are what you are, and he was at peace with the acts he committed. Or had been. His feelings for Julie had begun to modify his perspective and perplex him. Affection or whatever the emotion was that he was beginning to feel was alien to him. He had thought that his only love of women was for their bodies; to use, tattoo, disfigure and finally render lifeless. He had punished each and every one for the cruelty – mental and physical – that his mother had visited on him. And also for Sandra, the wife who had cheated on him and cemented his belief that all women were worthless and incapable of loyalty.