This Little Piggy_a spellbinding serial killer thriller

by Rob Ashman

  ‘It was two articles.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘The journalist woman wrote two articles about me.’

  Tavener lost his rag, stabbing his finger into the first photo. ‘Are you telling us this is not your handiwork?’

  ‘Nope. It is not my handiwork.’ Palmer sat back and folded his arms across his chest.

  ‘I’m finding that increasingly difficult to believe,’ Tavener snarled.

  ‘Kevin, you can see how this looks?’ said Kray. ‘What are we supposed to think?’

  ‘If I am to believe what I watch on TV, your job is to find evidence, not make things up. Have you spoken to my wife?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Bloody hell, no wonder you’re in a bad mood. She can sour milk from twenty yards. What did she say?’

  ‘I am not prepared to disclose that,’ said Kray.

  ‘If you’ve spoken to her, then you must have come away with the sense that she is a woman out to destroy me. Can’t you see that?’

  The scar on Kray’s cheek came to life. Tingling and itching. She ignored it and ploughed on.

  ‘What do you feel when you look at these pictures?’ Tavener asked.

  ‘I know this could get me into trouble, but the honest answer is – a sense of gratitude towards the bastard whose done this.’

  Tavener shoved himself away from the table and stood up.

  ‘For the purposes of the tape, the big Scots guy has stood up and looks mad as hell,’ Palmer said. ‘You need evidence, Acting DCI Kray, not a list of fanciful motives and a job description from an abattoir. From what I can see, you don’t have jack shit.’

  There was a knock on the door and Detective Parks stuck her head around the door. ‘Sorry to disturb you but I need to speak with you, Roz.’

  ‘Can’t it wait?’

  ‘No, ma’am, it can’t.’

  ‘Interview terminated, nineteen forty.’ Kray gathered up the photographs and left the room with Tavener in hot pursuit.

  Kray confronted Tavener. ‘You need to cool off, go get a coffee.’ She turned to Parks. ‘What is it?’

  ‘I tried to contact Vanessa Wilding, I couldn’t get hold of her. I contacted her work but they said the office was closed for the night, so I went to her home. She wasn’t there either. I called her mobile phone again and could hear it ringing from inside the garage. I forced the lock. The vehicle was gone and I found two phones on the garage floor. One is her personal mobile and the other she uses for work. I got into the house through the interior garage door and searched the property from top to bottom.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘The place is empty.’

  ‘She’s been taken.’

  33

  The station had descended into melt down. A CSI team was despatched to Wilding’s house and the details of her vehicle were circulated to the Traffic Division. A quick check of the Automatic Number Plate Recognition data base held at the National Traffic Operations Centre confirmed that Vanessa Wilding’s SUV had not used any of the motorway networks in the surrounding area. A piece of information which made Kray say ‘fuck’ far more times than was necessary.

  Her phone rang. It was ACC Quade. She closed her eyes and said that word again.

  Kray made her way up the internal staircase to the top floor and strode past the bank of secretaries to Quade’s office. She was squashed behind her desk and did not look happy.

  ‘All I’m hearing is bad news,’ Quade said, not bothering to welcome her visitor.

  ‘It’s tough, ma’am. We have a number of lines of inquiry and we are questioning a suspect.’

  ‘So, I understand. His name is Kevin Palmer.’

  ‘Yes ma’am.’ Kray knew what was coming.

  ‘This is Kevin Palmer, for which we have absolutely no evidence that puts him at any of the crime scenes. The same Kevin Palmer that has corroborated alibis for two of the murders. The same Kevin Palmer that we are still burning valuable police time by interviewing. That one?’

  ‘Yes, ma’am, it’s that Kevin Palmer.’

  ‘And to cap it all, we now have another potential victim who looks like she’s been snatched from her home, while Kevin Palmer is sitting downstairs drinking our coffee.’

  ‘Kevin Palmer has a copper-bottomed motive to want to see every one of these victims harmed. Something will turn up. He’s acting way too cool. It’s him, ma’am, I’m telling you.’

  ‘How the hell does he snatch another victim while he’s enjoying our hospitality?’

  ‘He must have somebody helping him.’

  ‘Or maybe it’s not him. Maybe the fact that we have no evidence is telling us something. We can’t be blinded by motive alone. Is there any evidence to suggest he worked with an accomplice with the murders?’

  ‘No, ma’am.’

  ‘I think you are fixating on this suspect and that is preventing you looking wide enough. Bloody hell, Roz, it looks like we might have another victim to find.’

  ‘But, ma’am, it’s him. I know it is.’

  ‘That’s not enough, Roz. The chief is breathing down my neck on this one. He’s worried and so am I. The CPS will never let us charge Palmer on what we have. We have a press blackout now in force but we can’t hold that position for much longer. The more time we waste on Palmer, the less likely it is that we catch the sick bastard who’s doing this.’

  ‘I can hold him for twenty-four hours without charge, thirty-six, if you authorise an extension. That will give us time–’

  ‘To do what, Roz? To find another naked body hanging upside down. I want you to spend that time trying to prevent it, not trying to pin this on Palmer.’

  ‘But, ma’am…’

  ‘We don’t have a case against him and we need to target our resources into finding the real killer. Let it drop, Roz, and find Wilding.’

  ‘Do what?’ Tavener said a little too loudly. People in the incident room turned to listen.

  Kray took him by the elbow and led him out into the corridor. ‘Let him go.’

  ‘But he’s got every reason to want these people dead. It’s just a matter of time before we dig up some evidence.’

  ‘That’s not how the ACC sees it. We have circumstantial at best. We have to cut him loose.’

  ‘Shit! That makes no sense.’

  ‘Come on, we’re wasting time.’

  Kray and Tavener headed off to the interview room where Palmer was being held. He was once more sitting with his head resting on the desk. He looked up when they entered the room.

  ‘I’m getting hungry,’ he said.

  ‘We have no more questions, Kevin. You are free to leave.’

  Palmer looked disappointed. ‘Look, if I can get a sandwich, I’m more than happy to stay here helping you out.’

  ‘No, that won’t be necessary.’

  ‘Are you sure?’ Palmer stared at Kray and Tavener in turn. ‘I mean, really sure?’

  ‘DC Tavener will escort you from the station.’ Kray stepped to one side, allowing Palmer access to the doorway.

  ‘Well, if you say so.’ Palmer got up and made his way out, stopping directly in front of Kray. ‘Are you absolutely sure there is nothing else you want to ask me?’

  ‘You can leave now.’

  ‘Okay, be seeing you,’ he called over his shoulder.

  Kray was alone in the room. Her head was a shed. She knew the ACC was right, but she could not switch off the voice inside her mind telling her it’s him. She sat at the desk and rewound the tape, pressing play. Something was bugging her about his testimony. She played and re-played the tape, spinning the ring round and round on her finger. Something wasn’t right.

  She pressed stop and hit the eject button. If there was any clue in his testimony, she couldn’t find it.

  34

  I slide into the driver’s seat of the white van with the decorative lettering down the side and rummage around in the glove compartment. I pull out the cheap pay-as-you-go phone. It has one number programmed into the mem
ory. I hit the keys and it rings at the other end.

  ‘I’m on my way.’ I disconnect the call not waiting for a response. The van eases out of the garage and I close the door behind it. Within no time I am heading away from town, sticking to the side-roads where I can.

  An hour earlier, I had arrived home and left my car around the corner from the takeaway. I couldn’t take the risk that the police might have put a tracking device on it, or maybe I’ve been watching too may TV cops shows. It seemed the entire Woo family was there to greet me.

  ‘The police were here, they were asking questions about you and wanted to see the flat,’ Anabel had blurted out as soon as I entered the front of the shop.

  Joseph came from behind the counter. ‘Are you alright? They said you were helping them with their inquiries. Scared mum half to death.’

  ‘It’s fine,’ I assured him. ‘Nothing to worry about. They thought I knew someone, but it turned out, I didn’t. It’s all a big misunderstanding.’

  ‘But the flat, they wanted to see inside the flat. They had a warrant.’

  ‘Yes, it turns out this guy that they thought I knew had stolen something and they wanted to be sure I wasn’t hiding it. They found nothing. They have apologised and that’s the end of the matter.’ I had been impressed with how convincing I was at lying to my friend.

  They had sat me at the back of the shop while they prepared dinner for me. Whatever I wanted, on the house. I thanked them, ordered crispy duck and pancakes and took the food up to my flat, exhausted. It was delicious. But I couldn’t hang around. There was work to do.

  I pass the sign for Inglewhite and turn sharp left. In the headlamps, the road hugs the van, almost appearing too narrow to let it pass. I pick the phone off the passenger seat and hit the same number as before.

  ‘Two minutes out,’ I say and hang up.

  The farm looms out of the blackness, as does the big black man silhouetted against the brickwork. He swings open the left-hand door and I draw the van into the barn next to the SUV. He closes the door behind me.

  I kill the engine and step out into the semi-darkness, a single camp light in the corner struggling to make a difference. I hold out my hand and it is grasped in a vice-like grip.

  ‘Hi, Irvine,’ I say.

  ‘H-hi, Kev, g-good to see you.’

  ‘Hey you been practicing?’

  ‘E-every day, man.’

  ‘How is she?’

  ‘F-fast asleep.’

  We walk to the back of the barn. Irvine picks up the camping light and illuminates the steps running down to the wooden door. I take the lamp from his hand and descend to the bottom, removing the metal tent peg holding the clasp in place and push it open. Sure enough, lying on her side, under a blanket, is Vanessa Wilding.

  ‘Good work. Did you give her all the tablets?’

  ‘Y-yes, all of them.’

  ‘Let’s get her into the house.’

  Irvine steps forward and gathers the woman up into his arms like he’s carrying a child. The blanket falls away and she stirs, groaning behind the gag. He moves past me and up the stairs. I follow him out. He carries her across the farmyard and into the house. It’s in a bad state of repair with holes in the roof where we can see the sky and walls that look as though they could give way at any minute.

  Through the side entrance and at the back of the property is what used to be the kitchen. It’s relatively intact, with heavy wooden worktops and thick wooden beams set into the high ceiling. Irvine lays her on the floor.

  ‘I’ll be back in a minute,’ I say to him as he stands over the moaning woman. I pace to the van and open up the back. It’s full of the kit I need to do the job.

  After ten minutes of walking back and forth, I assemble my gear in the kitchen. Wilding begins to come out of her drug-induced slumber, her body moving and stretching.

  I look at Irvine. ‘You can go now.’

  ‘Y-you sure?’

  ‘Wait for me in the van.’

  He nods and walks away, leaving me in the company of the lovely Ms Wilding. I pull on a white paper boiler suit, gloves and over shoes and set to work. I loop the carabiner through the eye bolt in the hoist and stand on the petrol generator to reach the hook in the beam. The thick rope loops around her ankles and runs through the pulleys. I yank on the free end, and her feet lift from the ground. I tug more on the rope. She rises higher with every pull.

  The pillowcase slips off her head as she comes clear off the floor. Her eyes are flickering. The hem of her dress falls down, exposing her upper thighs. I yank the pull-chord and the generator kicks into life, it was supposed to be silent running, but only if you’re a deaf person. The last time I’d used it was in the shipping container. It might be a little on the noisy side, but it does the job.

  I plug a couple of arc lamps into the sockets and the place floods with bright white light. The room looks worse under the harsh glare, but it’s made Vanessa Wilding look a whole lot better. Her eyes flick open and she blinks.

  She notices me, or, I suppose, an inverted image of me, and jerks around at the end of the rope. I pull the hunting knife from the bag and set to work on her clothing. First, the waist band of her skirt gives way as the blade slices through. I kneel down in front of her and grasp her shoulder to prevent her spinning, cutting every button from her blouse, exposing her bra. Her eyes almost burst from their sockets. Irvine’s gag is doing a much better job than the ones I had tried. Her muffled screams don’t make it outside the confines of the kitchen.

  I push a finger through her tights and tear them from her legs. She spins on the end of the rope like a bobbin. I cut away her underwear, the edge of the knife scoring her skin.

  ‘Sorry,’ I say, as blood oozed to the surface.

  I sit on the floor in front of her. She stares at me through wet eyes, tears rolling down her forehead.

  ‘Do you remember me?’ I ask. ‘I suppose it is a little presumptuous of me to think you would, given the number of relationships and homes you must have wrecked in your time. Maybe a little flicker of recognition?’

  She looked up into my face. Not a thing.

  ‘You kept me from seeing my kids. I bought tickets to the zoo and you showed up without them. My wife had filled your head with all sorts of poisonous nonsense and you were only too pleased to dole out the misery. Time and time again you kept me from them. Do you remember the coffee?’ I can see the cogs whirring, then the penny drops.

  She nods her head and gargles a few words from behind the gag.

  ‘If that was you apologising, then I’m afraid it’s too late for that.’ I stand up and take a good look at her white naked body. She has a good figure, all womanly curves and soft to the touch.

  I unplug one of the arc lamps and replace it with the plug on the end of my box of tricks. The red LED comes on. She sees the electrodes dangling down from the box and goes crazy, thrashing around, jerking and spinning. I steady her with one hand and stick the pads in place with the other. I flick the toggle switch and the green lamp lights up.

  She goes rigid when the rotary switch moves off the backstop. Her wide eyes stare at me. Pleading.

  My adrenaline stops pumping. I remember all the pain and suffering this woman has brought to my door. Ice runs through my veins.

  I move the pointer up to one.

  Let’s see if we can make those pretty eyes burst.

  35

  I finish loading the last of the gear into the van. Irvine is crammed into the front seat patiently waiting. I strip off the paper boiler suit, gloves and over shoes and ball them together, dropping them into the rusting brazier set against the far wall. I take out the zip-lock bag and walk down the steps to the disused wood store, then I return and empty the remaining contents onto the pile of clothes. A splash of lighter fluid and the whole lot goes up in flames.

  I lift the red container out of the van and open up the SUV. Petrol vapours rasp at the back of my throat as I dowse the interior. I save the last few fluid ou
nces for the glossy paintwork. I open the door to the barn and jump in beside Irvine.

  ‘Y-you ready?’ he asks.

  ‘Yup, all done.’ I take a flip-top lighter from the coin holder in the dashboard and strike the thumb wheel. After three attempts the spark ignites the wick with a blue and orange flame. I hold it between my fingers, watching the flame grow, hungrily devouring the lighter fluid. Getting stronger, growing by the second. I look at Irvine and smile, he smiles back.

  I toss the lighter through my open window into the SUV. There is a second of silence, then a massive whoosh, as a ball of fire engulfs the vehicle. I shift into reverse, back out of the barn and drive away, watching in my rear-view mirror as the place takes on the look of an early bonfire night celebration.

  We cruise along the country lanes in silence. Endorphins course through in my brain, making me want to dance and sing at the top of my voice. I resist the temptation and concentrate on driving safely. After twenty minutes, we reach a pub, a real old-style place set way out in the countryside with its mock-Tudor front and lead-lined windows. Shame it has a sign on it saying ‘For Sale’. I pull into the car park and drive around the back, killing the engine.

  ‘This is it,’ I say.

  ‘I’ll g-get off.’ Irvine offers me his hand. I put my child-like hand into his and he squeezes it. He reaches into his pocket and hands me a mobile phone.

  ‘I-I destroyed the other one,’ he said. ‘T-the one marked with the r-red tape. J-just like you said.’

  I take the phone and lob it into the glove compartment.

  ‘Good.’ I slap my hand against his massive shoulder. ‘Maybe see you in a Manchester pub one day.’

  ‘M-maybe, or m-maybe, I won’t let you in.’

  ‘Thank you for today. I owe you big time.’

  ‘N-no, I owe you.’ Irvine tugs the handle and slides out, then bobs his head back into the van. ‘W-why did you t-torch her car?’ he asked.