Unlikely Killer

by Ricki Thomas

  Lunchtime neared, and Katie had braved asking Paul if he would like to join her on her break. He hesitated, and stared at the pile of books before him. She chuckled seductively. “Don’t worry about them. I’ll clear it with Caroline that you can leave them there for an hour or so.”

  He remained anxious, his eyes flitting over the titles, and finally grabbed his notes and threw them on the table in frustration. “This is too disorganised, I need a better way of keeping notes. This won’t do.”

  Katie laughed again, this was one very intense young man. “Have you got some money? You can pick up one of those electronic personal organisers really cheap nowadays.” His questioning eyes surveyed her face. “They’re like little computers, you just type what you want on them and save it. Easy.”

  Paul retook the notes from the table, folding them in half. “Excellent idea, I’ll use a credit card, then it doesn’t matter what it costs.”

  So after clearing the arrangements with Caroline, Katie and Paul left, braving the downpour to head straight for the nearest electrical store. Katie helped him to select a suitable model, he paid and they made their way to a nearby cafe for a bite to eat.

  Krein was contacted immediately by the MBNA. Annabel’s credit card had been used again, this time in a CMC Electrical Store in Clapham. On contacting the shop by telephone, they confirmed that a hand held electronic organiser had been purchased, at the cost of one hundred and twenty-four pounds, ninety-nine pence. Nonchalantly, Krein scratched his head as he digested the brief description of the man and woman who had purchased the item.

  Raynor entered the room and threw a pre-packed sandwich at Krein, who brushed it aside as he updated Raynor on the latest news. Raynor listened with interest. “So, it was a bloke and a woman. What did the woman look like? Could it be Annabel?”

  Krein glanced at the notes again to remind himself of the description. “Small, petite, dark haired, no way is that Annabel.”

  Realisation crept across Raynor’s face, he paled visibly, partly with horror, but also a touch of excitement. “But she might be the man’s next victim.” His sentence petered out, and Krein made no acknowledgement.

  Krein had instructed Raynor to contact the nearest police station to the CMC Electrical Store in Clapham, ask if they could get a formal statement on the description of the couple who had used Annabel’s card. The shop had had already given a brief summary to the MBNA, but Krein needed other details, like who had used the card, did she see which way they headed when they left the shop, that sort of thing. PC Bates was the man sent to do the task.

  He sat in a small room at the back of the shop, with Felicity Barnum, the young girl who had served the couple, and drilled her memory to get as much detail as he could. She thought, although wasn’t sure, that the couple may have turned right when they left the shop, she commented that the man was very handsome, so she had watched him admiringly. And it was definitely the man who had signed the slip.

  “Signed?”

  “Oh, chip and pin’s broken down at the moment.”

  “Right. When he signed the transaction slip, did he do it with ease.” Bates followed the list of questions he had been supplied with.

  Felicity pondered for a moment. “He was a little shaky, I suppose, but I checked the signature against the card and it was similar.

  Leaving the shop, PC Bates turned right, he glanced around, trying to guess where the couple may have gone to after buying a personal organiser. He entered a couple of cafes, but it was fruitless. Nobody of the description of either the man, nor the woman, had been noticed by anyone. Bates returned to his station, and soon Krein received a copy of the statement by email. He perused the document, realising it wasn’t much help, and filed it in the growing case folder.

  Katie felt like a complete fool, how could someone as streetwise as her have been duped like this? She was twenty two, well aware of the dangers of meeting strange people, especially in London, yet here she was, trussed up like a turkey in her own flat, and all because she hadn’t heeded the warning signals that, in retrospect, were quite obvious.

  She was on her own now: he had left the flat taking her keys and the money from her handbag with him, promising to be back soon, assuring her not to worry.

  “Don’t worry! Bollocks!” She spat to herself. How could she not worry when she was a pawn in some madman’s game?

  Paul, if that was his real name, his hesitation from before very realistic now, had made her telephone the library and tell them she had twisted her ankle, so wouldn’t be in for a couple of days. Caroline had laughed, not detecting the tremor in Katie’s voice, and suggested that Katie have ‘fun’ that evening. She plainly thought she was skiving.

  Why, oh why, hadn’t she just paid for lunch at Coopers when he mentioned, embarrassed, that he had left his money at the bed and breakfast he was staying in. Why had she been stupid enough to invite him for a sandwich at her flat. The door slamming launched her back to the present, and moments later Paul shuffled into the bedroom. He sank heavily to the bed, dropping a carrier bag onto the duvet.

  Studying her in earnest, he groped in the carrier for the new organiser. He clicked a couple of buttons, stared at the screen for a moment, and returned his gaze to his prisoner. “You’re safe.” Katie’s brow furrowed, not grasping his meaning. “I couldn’t find any more murders, and you’re too young for the next one. I did find one for today, but it was John Wayne Gacy, and he only killed boys, and that was in America anyway. So you’re safe.”

  Relief shone from Katie’s eyes. He didn’t intend to kill her. But then reality hit again, she was still his hostage, she was still in potential danger. “Can you untie me then?” Her voice was hopefully cheerful, the fear she felt hidden from her jailor.

  Paul heard the voice coming through, not the weak voice he always suppressed, but the stronger one, God’s voice. ‘Don’t untie her. You have to shut her up, she’ll tell the police, you don’t want that.’

  “How do I shut her up?” He shouted. Katie’s face darkened, horror rising from the pit of her stomach. “I can’t kill her, it’s not the right date. I can’t do it, don’t make me.”

  Struggling, Katie’s mind whirred: she had to do something to stop him, he was obviously troubled. Her memory darted to a book she’d skimmed through recently, it was about mental illness, and it had never occurred to her that it would be necessary to dip into the knowledge it had furnished her with. Maybe she could talk some sense into him. “Paul, nobody is making you do anything.”

  Paul glared at her, a glint in his eye silenced her. “Shut up.” He drawled slowly, and returned his concentration to the organiser. It now held the information he had gleaned at the library, neatly documented in a hastily prepared spreadsheet.

  Krein was frustrated, this case was so unusual. In his twenty-eight years on the force, he’d never been involved with a situation like this. A couple of domestics that fatally got out of hand, a couple of bodies in the Thames, but not a potential serial killer. This guy was different: there was a chilling air to the notes Krein read, and re-read, in the case folder. What did they have to go on? A rough description of a couple who used the victim’s card in an electrical store. Did they need to discover Annabel’s body, or was she still alive somewhere? How could he know? He strutted impatiently across his office, his hand clutching his forehead, deep in thought. “Goddamn this!”

  Raynor sighed heavily, words evading him. Krein always took things to heart, he hated being unable solve a case: it really goaded him. Raynor was careful not to get personally involved with his work: he adored the job, it was a challenge, but he never took worries home to his wife.

  “The thing that worries me the most,” Krein glanced at Raynor with tired eyes, “is that we don’t know if the dark-haired girl is an accomplice or a potential victim. We just have to wait here, hoping her body isn’t our next grisly find.”

  Paul looked up sharply. “How old are you?”

  “Twenty two.” Katie’s v
oice was subdued.

  “Bingo! You’re not pregnant, but you’ll do. You’ve got until the thirty-first of May.”

  Tuesday 20th May

  Greg was a broken man. Six days before he had been certain Annie was making her way home, he had patrolled Caisten train station for several hours, it gradually dawning on him that the wait was pointless. Detective Inspector Krein hadn’t told him much, but it seemed from what he didn’t say that they were tracking the credit card transactions to find a killer, not Annie. Was Annie’s body lying out there somewhere, alone, cold, waiting to be discovered? Greg shook the thought from his head.

  Gail had temporarily moved in with him. Her husband had tried to discourage her, but Gail knew Greg wouldn’t be able to cope with children alone at this difficult time. It was eight days since they had last seen Annabel, and the local newspapers had ceased printing articles about her: late trains and vandalised parks seeming more important.

  Strangely, Greg had come to respect Krein over the past week. At first he’d labelled him an insensitive bully, but Krein had proven himself to be attentive, making constant visits to Greg to update him on the investigation. Greg appreciated that these visits were more than duty bound: Krein was simply ensuring that he was coping.

  In contrast, Krein was acutely embarrassed he’d initially suspected Greg, He knew that Greg was within his rights to complain, so he was being especially respectful to him to protect his own credibility.

  The case would remain open until the man, or couple, were arrested, but the credit card hadn’t been used again, and they had little else to go on. The Dorset Police Authority had tirelessly searched the fields near Wool, but no further evidence had turned up. A tabloid had suggested Annabel’s body may have been dumped in the nearby English Channel, but there were no plans for a search yet.

  Some forensic test results had been received back. Greg’s Escort had been found to contain numerous hairs, both animal and human, but even after eliminating the Keeley family’s hairs, they were too abundant for a speedy analysis. Annabel had been overly generous in offering lifts to friends and family. The details of the DNA found on the root of each strand was recorded, but so far none had matched any that of any known criminal.

  A handwriting analyst had compared the signature at Annabel’s bank to the transaction slip retrieved from the electrical store. He admitted they were similar, but very shaky, almost contrived. The document had been taken for further forensic testing, and using a solution of the chemical triketohydrindene hydrate they had managed to develop half a thumbprint, but it wasn’t a clear specimen, which didn’t surprise Krein: paper surfaces are renowned for being difficult to extract prints from.

  Katie was uncomfortable and tired, she watched as Paul, carrying the small, black holdall she used for her trips to the gym, entered her bedroom. He sat on the edge of the bed, as he always did, and opened his electronic organiser. The room was silent, bar the whirring of the machine. Katie shifted her position, her legs were numbed, and she pushed her dry tongue into the gag that was in place for the majority of the day. He only removed it to feed her. She supposed, having counted the nights since her confinement, that this was day six of her imprisonment. She had long since ceased screaming, she had stopped hoping for escape. Paul scared her. His demeanour was kind, considerate, but the way he talked to himself was eerie, and his dark eyes were hard and unfeeling, maybe even dangerous.

  Paul chuckled lightly, he pressed a button and lay the organiser on the bed. “All plans made, Rose, I’m all ready to go.” Katie, unable to speak through the gag, stared at him, her drawn face emotionless. He unzipped the holdall and pulled out a couple of small boxes, which he threw on the bed, followed by four syringes. Katie winced, a bead of sweat prickled her brow as her body involuntarily shuddered.

  PC Smith was fed up. Why did he always get the boring jobs to do? He finished filling in the police report and threw it in the filing tray. Sergeant Cross strolled towards him and Smith mustered a begrudging smile.

  “Was that the report for the break-in at that chemist shop?” Cross glanced at the document in the tray.

  “Yep.”

  “Anything nicked?” Cross was squinting, he’d left his glasses on his desk.

  Smith retrieved the report and scanned through the paragraphs. He laughed, “I had to write them in capital letters or you wouldn’t be able to understand them! There were two vials of methadone hydrochloride, and two vials of amitriptyline hydrochloride. Oh, and she said she thought there were less syringes than she remembered.”

  Cross took the document and looked over it, the blurring words dancing before him. “Isn’t methadone what recovering drug abusers use?”

  “Apparently, yes, it’s a narcotic replacement. Mrs Rashime, the pharmacist, said it was on the Controlled Drugs List.”

  “What’s the other one, that ami-whatever hydro stuff?”

  “Er, she said that one was an antidepressant, or something like that.”

  Cross laughed as he threw the report back in the tray. “So we’re looking for a depressed ex-junkie! We’ll have hundreds of suspects round here then!”

  Katie watched, resigned, as Paul half filled the syringe from one of the vials. He topped it up with the fluid from another vial. She had no idea what the drugs about to be administered to her, she supposed, were. Paul stood, tapping the vial to raise the air bubble, and glowered at her. “You’re coming with me.” Katie stared as he bent down, removing the gag from her mouth. She licked her dry, cracked lips with her parched tongue, then nodded towards a glass of water that lay by her feet. Paul held it to her chin and she drank, hungrily, the cold hitting her stomach painfully.

  He continued. “We’re going on a train, but we’re going to have to use your credit card. I don’t want any messing, so,” Paul held the syringe in beside her face, “we are going to pretend to be in love, I will keep my arm around you at all times, and my hand, complete with this syringe, will be in your coat pocket. If you make one slight move that makes me suspicious, I will inject it into your leg. It will kill you within minutes.”

  Katie’s eyes dropped to the floor, she wanted to cry, but a numbing veil hung over her. “Where are we going?” Her words were quiet, the question irrelevant.

  “You have to go back to your cottage, Rose. Behave yourself, and you’ll be back home in no time.”

  Caroline Merris sorted through the returned books mindlessly, and her thoughts wandered to her colleague, Katie. She hadn’t come to work for nearly a week now, and no further telephone calls had explained her absence. Caroline had tried calling her numerous times, on both her landline and mobile, and she had even been to her flat, but she’d met no response.

  Caroline automatically stamped the open book in front of her, smiling at the customer, and returned to the sorting. What line did she take now? Did she send a formal warning to Katie to force a reply? No, that was too harsh. She could ask human resources if they had any contact details for her relatives, maybe they would know what was going on. Caroline considered this carefully, she was concerned about getting her colleague into trouble. Katie may be a bit flippant, but she was a fast worker, and, Caroline reflected, a good friend. Decided, Caroline found the number for the human resources department of Lambeth Council, picked up the phone, and briefly explained the circumstances, casting Katie Joyce in a competent light.

  Grimacing at her business partner across the beauty salon they co-owned, Joanna Joyce laid the receiver down. “Bloody daughter of mine’s gone AWOL again. That was the Council, they say she ain’t been in for nearly a week. I tell you, Maur, I always thought it’d get easier once they’d left home, but it bloody doesn’t.”

  “You gotta go out then, love?” Maureen continued to manicure her client’s long nails.

  “Nah, I’ll wait until me lunch-break, she’s probably just holed up with some new fella, or something like that.”

  Katie shrugged on the olive trench coat that Paul held open for her. She had bought i
t several years before, but hadn’t worn it for almost as long. She’d disliked it, but today it felt comforting and homely. Paul had skilfully pulled her filthy hair into a neat ponytail before, and had also daubed some make-up on her face with an accomplished hand to cover the dark circles under her eyes and the gauntness of her cheeks.

  He pulled the door to her cosy flat open, slipped his arm around her waist, and tucked his hand, clasping the syringe, into her pocket. Her body shuddered with repulsion as she felt his touch. Paul grabbed the gorged holdall from the floor, and swung it over his shoulder. As they stepped into the communal corridor, Katie glanced at the clock on the wall, the time was ten forty five, and from the abundant birdsong, she supposed it was morning.

  Joanna Joyce gratefully finished her morning shift at the salon at twelve noon, and resentfully walked towards her daughter’s rented flat. She rang the doorbell, but the familiar chime didn’t ring out. Suspecting the batteries to be old, she rapped on the door. There was no answer, and no sign of life from the rooms inside. Joanna sighed deeply and rooted in her handbag for her set of spare keys. Opening the door, she spotted some batteries lying beside doorbell chime box. She was immediately suspicious, although she had no idea what of.

  Tentatively, Joanna edged into the kitchen and through to the lounge. This worried her more, the flat was scrubbed and cleaned beautifully, it was impeccably neat. Her Katie was not a tidy person by nature, and a more comforting sight would have been scattered clothes and food-encrusted dishes. Joanna called out Katie’s name softly, her harsh accent cutting the silence.