by G. M. CLARK
I lay my hand on hers to comfort her, it just feels like the right thing to do. ‘Was this Nathan upset? I mean, more so than your average child who was there?’
She nods with some force. ‘He stopped eating, stopped playing with his cards, and he became very reclusive; he only seemed to want to play with the dogs that we had around. He became so introverted, nothing we said or did seemed to bring him back out of his grief.’
Slowly now, I think, still holding her hand. ‘Was Nathan adopted?’
‘No, not that I know of. I understand he was moved to different homes around the country, to try to give him a fresh start if you like; but what actually happened to him in the end, I just don’t know.’ I know she feels she’d failed the boys. I know the feeling of failure well, I just pray that she’ll never pick up the paper and put the pieces together. Somehow I just know she’d been a good woman who’d tried her best, and I don’t want her to suffer anymore. I stroke the bony hands, give them a squeeze and stand up.
I’m almost out of the door when one question pops into my head.
‘What card game did he have?’
‘Oh, some pack with faces on, I really don’t recall. But you know, he was always playing cards with Simon. It was like a compulsive addiction.’
As I drive home slowly, my mobile phone rings again – Jesus, don’t let it be another body.
It’s David from Forensics. ‘Just to let you know that we’ve had the DNA test results back on that blonde hair.’
My stomach is doing somersaults. ‘Anything?’
‘One blonde male human hair; the DNA doesn’t match up to any known criminals in the computer, sorry.’
‘Thanks.’ I throw the phone across the seat.
I’m gutted. I think of one of Mack’s sayings – you know the problem with our job? It has little to do with life, and all to do with death.
I wonder if Nathan has any answers to my questions. It’s time I placed a call to one of my favourite ladies in the press archive files.
I’m not going to give in now; in fact I’m not going to give in at all.
CHAPTER 36
Over peppered steak, roast potatoes, and buttered carrots, I tell Connie everything, leaving not a single detail out. We work well as a team, with her highly-regarded profiling knowledge combined with my murder investigation experience; we bat different questions, ideas and theories about.
I top up her wine glass and refill my own, at the same time thinking perhaps we should be cutting back on the alcohol, or in a few years or I could be looking like Mack. Now there’s a thought to sober you up in an instant.
‘What if Nathan is the killer? Why didn’t he try to get to Fash long before now?’ I ask.
She twisted her wine glass around.
‘Say he was so damaged by the loss of his best friend, that he wanted revenge later on in life?’
I still can’t grasp it. ‘So why not just kill Fash himself?’
‘Because he wanted… justice, not just revenge, but justice,’ she says.
I’m starting to catch her wavelength. ‘What you mean is that because Fash was only a child when the accident occurred, no criminal charges could be brought against him, and there was no proof that he did it with intent; it was found to be merely a tragic accident?’
Connie nods, both of us gathering momentum. ‘Yes, but suppose Nathan had seen the intent in Fash. Perhaps Fash was a twisted little child – if there were only the three of them, and Nathan actually witnessed the killing of his best friend, that could provide you with a motive. As a young child you worship your best friend; more so, I would think, if you’re in a children’s home with no one else.’
I finally catch on. ‘So what we’re saying is that Fash actually meant to harm Simon Burrell, because Nathan and Simon wouldn’t ever let him join in?’
She nods her reply while I gulp more wine.
‘Fash got a little pissed off and pushed Simon with some force; the nun’s didn’t see it, but Nathan did. And his best friend, actually his only friend dies; whether Fash meant to kill Simon is something we’ll never truly know, but what we do know is that Nathan believes he killed him on purpose, and he’s never forgotten and he’s never forgiven.’
Connie smiles. ‘Now you’ve got it.’
Yeah, but will I get Nathan?
I need to know more, I need Nathan’s last name. I don’t have time to track down every children’s home in the city on the off chance that someone recognises the first name from years ago. Unusual as the name may be, I’m pretty sure that there was more than one Nathan in the social work system.
The fax whirrs into life; please don’t let it be another riddle. I scramble to get it; Connie simply concentrates on her wine, I swear we’re both on the road to becoming alcoholics.
Relief floods through me; it’s from Sammy in the archives. She’s just struck gold and I’m starting to owe favours all over the place now; hell I’ve lost count.
I tear the photocopied newspaper cutting from the machine, and bring it back to the table.
‘It’s from Sammy?’ Connie knows the name.
She inclines her head, straining to get a peek while I devour the page. ‘What does it say?’
‘On the 14th of January 1968 Simon Burrell was accidentally killed in St Trinity playground, with a severe injury to the head following a fall. The tragic death of this child was a shock to both the children’s home and the community. The coroner reports that this was an accidental death, and as such, the case file shall be closed and sealed, with no further action taken. Several of the children at the children’s home reported that Simon was a likeable boy with many good and kind qualities, and he will be sadly missed. One small boy at the burial was so traumatised by the event that he had to be taken from the graveside; he was named as Simon’s best friend Nathan Farrell.’
I kiss the sheet of paper. ‘Thank you, Sammy.’ I’m practically dancing round the room; finally we have the full name, now all we have to do is find the son of a bitch.
‘I’m wondering about the cards,’ says Connie.
All I want to do is run Farrell’s name through the database. I punch in the numbers for headquarters and request a criminal check – the answer comes back negative.
Fuck it, how can you go from a positive to a negative in the space of three minutes?
‘He’s not in the records.’ I’m livid, while Connie just shrugs her shoulders.
‘That doesn’t mean he’s not your killer.’ She flicks her tongue over her lips without thinking.
I still want to rant at anyone, at everyone, but only Connie is handy. ‘I know, I know, but it also means that he could be bloody anywhere. Jesus, just when you think you’re getting somewhere.’
‘The cards…’ she says again.
I thump my fist on the table. ‘What about them?’ She ignores my petulant outburst.
‘What if he got justice through you for Simon?’
‘What do you mean exactly?’
I can see her slipping into her professional role, as her brain kicks up a notch. ‘Well if the courts wouldn’t press charges, what if for all these years Nathan has held that grudge in? Then say one day he stumbled into Tim Fash and recognised him; if Nathan was already beginning to slide off the rails, and I suspect he was, this would probably have pushed him over the edge.’
Son of a bitch, it’s all falling into place. ‘You mean he really did want justice – but this time from the police? A perfect way to commit a crime; get someone else to do it for you, and get the justice that you’ve always wanted for Simon, through the hands of a copper.’
‘Exactly.’
‘But why kill all the others? And why keep going now Fash is dead?’ I ask.
‘Because he’s started on a mission. Often when a killer gets the taste for death, they can’t resist the consuming urge to keep on going. But I think your killer has a specific purpose in mind.’
‘Like what?’ I already have an inclination, which Connie confi
rms out loud.
‘I don’t know, you’re the detective; but I’d start by finding out what pack of cards he had.’
I spend hours on the internet looking at packs of cards; I reckon he probably had the face cards, because he wasn’t old enough to read. What brands were available at that time? I hunt through hundreds of packs; only fourteen of them were available at that time. I pull up the images on screen, and settled back down to work again.
There are cards with families on them and I remember them vaguely from my own misspent youth; I’m sure we used to play Snap. Snap? For a snapped hyoid bone? No, I’m going crazy.
My back is aching, and my eyes are blurry from the hours at the screen. I watch Connie come out wrapped in a towel, fresh from a long soak in the bath, and I suddenly think of nicer ways to make my body ache.
She makes some strong coffee, and brings me over a mug.
‘Any joy?’ She drops a kiss on my head, her hand caressing the nape of my neck.
‘Not yet.’ To be honest I’m not one hundred per cent sure that we’re really on the right track, but Connie is always good with her hunches; although she calls it analytical deduction, it’s still a hunch to me.
I was on my thirteenth pack, when the screen lit up with names that I recognised.
‘Connie!’ I’m shouting, I can’t help it. Jesus, it really is the cards. I print them off; impatient that it’s taking so long. We place the card names on the table – Garland, Brick, Bush, Kitchell, Good, Bun, Law, Bull, Wilson and Sutton. Ten of them.
‘The names aren’t all correct,’ says Connie. ‘And we’re missing one.’
I pull out my notepad, and put a cross through Kitchell, Good and Wilson.
‘What are you doing?’ asks Connie, looking bemused.
‘Mandy Arthur’s maiden name is Kitchell, Lucy Watts’ maiden name is Good, and Sara Mason’s was Wilson.’
‘Oh Jesus Christ,’ shouts Connie, ‘you’ve cracked it; you’ve damn well cracked it.’
I pull her into my arms and hold her face. ‘We cracked it,’ I say.
‘Yes we did.’ She pulls me in for a long lingering kiss. The day is really starting to look up.
Now I have to figure out how Nathan is picking his victims. In each group of names there are four cards to each, so is he just picking a victim with the same name – is that all it is? Or is there another method?
God, it’s nearly three in the morning. I hadn’t realised I’d been at the computer so long, and my brain won’t, can’t, think any more. I fax everything I have to headquarters and ask that all departments, including driving licence records, be contacted to search for the name Nathan Farrell.
As I slide into bed my last thought, well nearly my last thought is – please don’t let me be too late to save the remaining one. Then Connie’s hand reaches out for me and pulls me over, her fingers raking along my back. As I kiss her, feeling the heat between us rise, I let myself go, savouring every delicious moment of pent up desire, frustration and finally pure release.
I wake early and wander back in; I take a slug of orange juice and sit staring at the cards. Are people being killed just because of their name? There has to be more to it than that.
I notice that some of the cards have varying names of four; for example Mrs Garland, Miss Garland, Mr Garland, and Grandpa Garland. I flick through each set in the pack and find the missing link. By the time Connie has come back through, I’m frantically scribbling notes down.
‘What have you got?’ She runs a hand though her tousled hair.
I smile. ‘One of the missing links.’
She’s instantly on the alert; I like that.
‘Go on.’ She peers over my shoulder.
‘Well, not all of the families consist of just the mother, father and two children; some are aunts, uncles and grandparents as well.’
She gets up and pulls out a chart. ‘I think I know another missing piece of the jigsaw.’ Bloody hell, I haven’t finished working out my own yet, but I know she’s on a roll so I let her go on.
She draws the outline of a body, and then circles all the missing parts that he has taken: the tongue, penis, neck, feet, hands, breasts, legs, arms and belly button.
‘Do you notice anything?’ she asks.
‘Yes, it’s like he’s assembling a body.’
She smiles. ‘He’s putting together his own special friend, to replace Simon.’
‘Holy Christ… the sick, murdering son of a bitch.’ My mouth gapes.
‘What names are missing, is it just the one?’ she asks. It feels like someone has flicked the temperature gauge up full blast; we’re both racing on overdrive.
‘Like I was saying, he’s taken parts from specific names on the cards.’
She’s was on instant alert. ‘So not random?’
‘Nope.’ I shake my head. I show her my scribbled list.
Kathy Garland – Daughter
Raymond Brick – Son
Lucy Watts – Mother
Preston Law – Father
Mandy Arthur – Grandmother
Frankie Bush – Grandfather
Stacey Bun – Granddaughter
Sara Mason – Aunt
Robert Sutton – Uncle
‘What name is missing then?’ She’s getting as frantic as Connie ever gets.
I quickly scan the cards. ‘Bull, the missing name is Bull, and looking at the list, he’s got to get a grandson!’
Pain etches her face. ‘Oh God, I hope to hell he hasn’t already got him.’
I grabbed my car keys, threw on my jacket and kissed her.
‘Fax everything to headquarters now; by the time I get there they should have a head start.’
I’m almost out the door.
‘Downey?’
I turn. ‘Yes?’
‘Please be careful, this is one sick guy; don’t take any chances.’
‘You don’t have to worry about that one.’
And so the end is nigh, I think, as my car screeched away.
Tick, tick, tick.
CHAPTER 37
The squad room is buzzing, the news has travelled faster than the speed of light, and everyone is gearing up for another battle royal. Everything that Connie faxed through is up on the wall; Grimes and the other coppers are poring over every minute detail.
‘Right… you’ve heard it. His name is Nathan Farrell; has anyone got an address, or a National Insurance number, passport number?’ barks Grimes.
Everyone shakes their heads. The phone rings and Fletch snatches it up. ‘It’s forensics,’ he mouths.
I grab the phone from his hand before Grimes has a chance to move, and switch it to speaker.
‘Downey here.’
‘We’ve got a match from the foot imprint casts that we found at Robert Sutton’s house.’
Bloody hell, it’s just getting better by the minute. ‘Go on.’ The room is in complete and utter silence.
‘The imprints match to a size ten CAB’s, do you know what this means?’
‘Yes, I do.’ Jackpot! ‘Okay, listen up; Nathan Farrell was wearing military boots at Robert Sutton’s house. Fletch, I want you to phone army headquarters and find out if they’ve got DNA samples of all military personnel going back fifteen years.’
‘Okay.’
I’m working on autopilot. ‘If they have, let me know while you’re still on the line.’
Grimes is listening to every word without actually speaking; Jeez, it makes a change.
I’m nervous, deadly nervous; I watch Fletch talking into the phone, and Jesus, the whole goddamn room is watching him. Now I know the fetish with the shoes and the feet – all good military men like uniform order and highly-polished shiny shoes.
‘Hang on,’ he says down the phone.
I can feel the beads of sweat forming on my brow. ‘Have they got them?’
‘Yep.’
I yank the phone out of his hands. ‘Detective Inspector Downey here; listen, do you have records on one Nathan
Farrell?’ I can actually hear my own heartbeat, as the rest of the room listens to my every word.
‘You have.’ I could punch the ceiling. ‘I need you to fax everything to me now, right now, yeah thanks.’ I slam down the phone after giving them my number. Grimes looked at me expectantly, but for once I’m on a roll.
I snatch the phone back up again and punch in the numbers. ‘Forensics, Downey here. Listen, I need you to fax copies of my DNA result found at the house of Robert Sutton to the Registry and Specimen repository for military personnel and I need it done now.’
The army replies quickly – would you expect any less? The fax machine whirrs into life, nearly giving me a heart attack with it; I’m so damn wound up. I snatch it and rip it out.
‘Nathan Farrell, date of birth 10th of December 1963. He joined the Royal Marines Commandos in 1984, outstanding achievements in many covert operations; until a classified incident in May 2007, which resulted in his dishonourable discharge. Whereabouts at present unknown, but records show that he is logged as unstable, with deep psychological issues: we recommend you do not approach.’ My mouth sags, I can’t believe we’ve found the bastard. Teamwork, it’s all about teamwork; and that includes Connie.
The fax machine buzzes into action again, and slowly the face of Nathan Farrell appears before our very eyes. He looks like a killer; it’s the eyes, and it’s like staring into the depths of hell.
‘Get this picture copied and circulated.’ I hand it to the nearest copper, who actually runs to get it done; damn, we’re on a roll.
My mind is in turmoil. I need to find this son of a bitch before he kills again, finishing his list. I can only pray to God that I can get to him in time and that he hasn’t already murdered another innocent human being.
All this from the probably accidental death of a best friend. Connie was right; serial killers are made in childhood. I bet he joined the commandos to become one of the hardest bastards known to man, to become skilled in the craft of killing, bombing and God knows what else.
Focus, Downey, focus.
I bark orders to the entire room; hell, it even includes Grimes.