by Ricki Thomas
“Then more people are going to die in tragic circumstances. Your man won’t be predictable for you, I’m afraid. I feel that, at this moment, he is probably more interested in recreating the detail, more so than in actually committing the murder. But he will be getting some enjoyment from the act of killing, quite probably sexual, and that will intensify the longer he carries on.”
“Let me understand this fully. If he continues to kill …”
“He will.”
“Okay. As he continues to kill, he will stop paying so much attention to the details of the recreation, and will enjoy the actual act of killing more and more.”
“You got it.” She smiled again, he fixed his eyes on Linda’s photograph.
“Where can I find him?” The question was addressed to his wife for fear of his feelings should he focus on Jaswinder.
“He’s an obsessive person. You’ll probably find him at a library!”
Krein stood up. “Thank you, Miss Kumar, and I’m sorry about before, I’m not normally so rude. Look, would you be willing to write a report based on your conclusions. The Super may be willing to put the idea forward if he has the detailed facts you’ve given me in front of him.”
Pushing open the canteen door, Krein’s stomach growled in complaint. He had been so engrossed in the new developments, he’d forgotten to eat, and now his body was taking charge. Piling sandwiches and snacks onto his tray, he paid, and looked around for somewhere to sit. His shoulders slumped when he saw MacReavie waving him over. Krein trudged to the table and sat.
A lecherous grin spread across MacReavie’s face. “What’s with the Asian tea girl then?”
Krein was disgusted. He was used to his boss’s sexism, but racism too. He glared at him, and unwrapped his first sandwich.
“Well, who was she. Quite a stunner, wasn’t she?”
“She,” Krein emphasized the word, “is a criminal psychologist who is intelligent, articulate, and above all, nice. She doesn’t deserve your derision.”
“Come on, Krein, you’d love to give her one as much as I would.” MacReavie laughed, his thick skin cloaking his arrogance.
“She,” he stressed the word again, “has given me a psychological profile of the killer, and when her report lands on my desk, you and I are going to take it to Walker’s office, and you are going to make sure that he applies for extra funding on this case. If you refuse I am going to make public your repeated, shameful acts of sexism and racism over the past year I have worked alongside you.”
“Piffle!” MacReavie wasn’t smiling any more.
“Try me!” Krein’s shoulders were squared, his determination undisguised.
MacReavie concentrated on his food, playing with the mashed potato with his fork. He mixed the gravy into the mash, stirring in the peas, pushing the meal from one side to the other. Finally he relented. “Why do we need more funding?”
Bingo, thought Krein. “You know the Crime Museum in New Scotland Yard?” MacReavie seemed puzzled. “Used to be called The Black Museum.”
“Ah, yes. Didn’t know the name had changed.”
“You know they have exhibits and documents relating to murders going back to the late eighteen hundreds. I thought we could set up a team of investigating officers there, specifically to analyse old murders, dates, so forth, and set up a database which all the involved forces can refer to try and pre-empt the killer before he strikes again.”
“Come on Krein, get back into the real world. That would cost a fortune.”
“And not doing it is going to continue to cost lives. What’s more important?” Krein was impressive when he was resolute.
Jack Weston had already heard through the grapevine that Delfini had died, so it was no surprise to see the detectives enter the club. They spied Jack and descended the stairs to the empty bar, where he was standing.
Jack knew that Paul was involved, he’d seen the rope in his bag, but even so, it surprised him that Delfini was hanged, not shot. Jack had no intention of splitting on Paul, firstly the man scared him, and secondly his own dodgy dealings meant he had too much to lose by getting involved. He would just act the shocked club owner, distraught that one of his customers had been found dead.
“Good evening, Mr Weston.”
“Boys! How nice to see you.” Jack grinned widely. “Can I get you a drink?”
“No, thank you. We need to ask you some questions about one of your regulars, Eduardo Delfini. Are you familiar with him?”
“My dear Eduardo, he’s one of my greatest friends, he’s been drinking here for years.” Jack knew he was overacting, but he couldn’t stop himself.
The two policemen looked at each other, stunned. “So you haven’t heard that he was found hanging from Blackfriars Bridge this morning?”
Jack’s jaw gaped, he staggered slightly, and fell against the barstool behind him. His eyes looked pained, and his voice quietened dramatically. “Eddie! Dead! No, it cannot be, dear Lord.” His performance was worthy of an Oscar.
“I’m sorry to shock you Mr Weston, but I need to ask you some questions. Could you tell me if Mr Delfini was here last night, please?”
Jack tried to force a tear, but that was impossible. “Yes, dear Eddie, he came in at nine, as he does, did, every night. Oh, to think I will never see him again! He left soon before we closed at one. He doesn’t usually stay that late.”
“Did he leave with anyone?”
The face of a man pondering. “No, no, I remember him leaving, he was alone.”
“Did he mention that he was to meet up with anyone?”
“Why no, he always went home to bed, or so he told me.”
The officer was getting tired of the blatant lies, he sighed, annoyed. “Look, Mr Weston, we know that you employ rent boys. In a case like this facts like that are overlooked in order to obtain the truth. This is a murder enquiry. So let’s try again. Were you aware of Mr Delfini making any attachments with anyone.”
A face of concern. “Oh no, I think Eddie just came here for the company.”
Paul was packing his few belongings into the holdall. He had worked at The Weston Avenue Club for exactly thirteen nights, and although the pay had been meagre, the tips had more than doubled the sum. After the five hundred for the gun, buying some clothes from a charity shop, and his moderate rent, he now had roughly six hundred pounds left. Enough to leave the credit cards behind. That would help to keep everyone off his trail.
Paul had deliberately waited for evening’s disguising darkness to leave the room he had rented for two weeks. He knew Jack Weston wouldn’t mention him to the police, he was a bad boy, definitely not a stool pigeon, which bought him time. He scanned the room, not wanting to leave anything behind, and he made sure everything was clean, tidy. Satisfied, Paul was about to set off when Jack burst in, followed by Dunny Thomas. Jack grabbed Paul by the throat, throwing him roughly against the wall.
“Leaving were you? I don’t think so. You owe me, big time, and I intend to collect.”
Paul made no attempt to struggle, he stared deep into Jack’s eyes, cold, snakelike. Once more Jack had no choice but to look away, those eyes were evil, he released his grip and stepped back, shaking his head slowly. “Just tell me, Paul. Why Delfini? What did he have on you?”
The glare continued, unblinking, Jack shuddered uncontrollably. No one had ever had this effect on him, he was too hard. The silence continued, the stare maintained. Jack’s heart raced, and for the first time he considered whether Paul intended to kill him.
The answer came suddenly, the unwavering stare relentless. “No-one has anything on me. Including you.” Paul brushed past him, his footsteps echoed along the corridor, and the flustered Jack tried to regain his bravado for Dunny’s benefit.
“I never saw no-one get the better of you, boss. Why did you let him get away?”
Drowning out the dissipating footsteps, Jack was enraged. “He didn’t get one over on me, and don’t let me hear you say it again. Get it? Me and Pau
l, we have an understanding, got it?”
Dunny recoiled, chastised, as Jack spied the credit card on the bedside table. He snatched it and waved it before Dunny’s eyes. “See, he left me this, it’s what he owes me.”
Dunny continued placing the items in a carrier bag as the cashier took his payment. Unknown to him she pressed an alarm underneath the counter, alerting the security staff. Dunny glanced at her, nervous: this transaction was taking too long. “What’s taking so long?”
The lady, inwardly wary, smiled. “Oh, sometimes when the phones are busy it can take a while for the authorisation code to come through.”
Dunny nodded, but jumped as a security guard grabbed his arm from behind. “Could you just come with me, please sir.” Dunny shook him off and ran, pushing the queue and their trolleys aside with force. He was a fit man, well built and athletic, but the trained guards were faster, they tackled him to the ground, and the police were called.
“But it wasn’t my card.” Dunny protested.
“We know that,” DI Gordon Spencer growled at the young man, “it belongs to a young mother who we believe may have been murdered.”
Dunny’s face paled, this was serious. Where was his boss, why wasn’t he here to speak for him. What was he supposed to say? He hadn’t murdered anyone.
Dunny had no idea that Jack already knew of his arrest, news travels fast on the underground grapevine. But there was no way he was getting involved with this one. Whatever, whoever, Paul Joyce was, scared him, and his interest stopped here. He intended to keep quiet, and deny everything if Dunny blabbed. Dunny was unimportant, he could find a hundred new idiots to replace him.
Thursday 19th June
Detective Inspector Spencer of New Scotland Yard had managed to crack Donald Thomas very easily the night before. He’d been reduced to tears, begging for his mother, it had taken barely any interrogation to get the full story. Jack Weston’s involvement was no surprise, he’d been under surveillance for a few months due to his extra-curricular activities. But what Dunny didn’t realise, and Jack too, was that they were important witnesses to the movements of a suspected murderer.
When Dunny had tried to pay for his shopping with Annabel’s credit card, it automatically alerted the cashier to call the police. So now he was tied into the investigation, and a murmuring had circulated that Paul, as they now knew him, was becoming careless at covering his tracks. Arresting Dunny had caused many detective’s hearts to sink across the country, because it meant that Paul had managed to remain a step ahead of them. The credit card company informed Krein, as were their instructions, just before MacReavie heard the news from the Metropolitan Police force.
It was the early hours of the morning, and Krein sat at his desk, his coffee stone cold, and digested every line of Donald Thomas’s statement. He hadn’t known Paul very well, and hadn’t wanted to, he didn’t like him. Paul had started working for Jack roughly two weeks before. He had been great at his job, chatting easily to the punters, encouraging them to buy plenty of expensive drinks. Dunny wasn’t aware if Paul had sex with the customers, for money or not. He didn’t think so, but then how would he know? Paul had definitely flirted with Delfini, but Dunny had never seen them leave together.
When asked if he knew that Delfini was dead, the shock on Dunny’s face was genuine, and when told that they suspected Paul of his murder, Dunny paled. Hence, he freely divulged the contents of Paul’s bag, tears flowing abundantly, the rope, the bricks. The statement was immediately fed into the Holmes System, alerting all the detective teams involved. The gap between the police and the killer had narrowed.
Jack Weston was brought in, totally against his will, for questioning. It was now three in the morning and Spencer’s eyelids were drooping with tiredness, only the excitement and the extra strong coffee kept him alert. But even so, he was increasingly irritated by the cocky man’s evasiveness. His patience tried one time too many, he snapped. “I’m not sure if you’re aware of the seriousness of the situation you’re in, Jack. The man you employed for the past two weeks is suspected of killing at least four people so far, in fact five if you count the baby ripped from the womb.”
“What? The foetus found in the bush? That case?” Jack’s barriers slipped momentarily, he struggled to mentally replace them.
“Jack, we need to track Paul down before he kills again. Believe me, he doesn’t intend to stop this spree with Delfini. Your help could be imperative to catching up with him.”
Jack debated how much he could tell them, he didn’t like men who hurt women, but every time his conscience decided to play ball, he remembered the gun. Divulging that would send him to Shit Street. “I hardly knew the guy. I paid him a wage, he came in, did work, went away again. That’s all. He was a nobody to me.”
Spencer let out a deep sigh, he knew he’d nearly cracked Jack, but he’d managed to lose him again. He drank the coffee, grimacing at the bitter thickness. “Can you describe him to me?”
“Reckon so. Five nine-ish, er, shortish dark hair, good looking, but he was older than most of my boys though, maybe mid twenties. Is that enough?”
“Facial hair?” Spencer scribbled on his notebook.
“No, he was always clean shaven. When he first turned up he had a touch of acne, but that didn’t last.”
“Eyes?”
“Two!”
Spencer realised he hated this man. “Come on, Jack, this is serious. What colour were his eyes?”
“Hell, I’ve got no idea, light I think. I’m not into guys. I don’t check them out, I employ them.”
Spencer stood up, he rubbed his eyes with his fists, stifling a yawn, and began to pace the room. “Jack, do you read the papers?”
“I read The Sun, News of the World at the weekend.”
“The case we’re investigating? Have you read up on that, or do you just buy the paper for the tits?”
Jack bristled, he had a keen interest in current affairs, and that comment was harsh. “I read about it, but it didn’t interest me, I don’t like reading about sicko’s who mutilate women. Anyway, there’s always some nutter going around killing somebody, we read it every day.”
Spencer had to try to break Jack’s defences down again, he changed his tack. “How old are you, Jack?”
Confused at the irrelevance, Jack frowned. “Sixty two. Why?”
Spencer leaned across the desk, close to Jack, resting on his elbows. “Delfini was also sixty two. Do you realise that every victim Paul selects is to recreate a past murder. In this instance he needed a sixty two year old man. Now think to yourself, Jack, what if Paul had selected you instead of Delfini? Does it occur to you that it could have been your body we found hanging from Blackfriars Bridge?”
Jack laughed uncomfortably. “No way, he’d never have been able to get me.”
Spencer’s tone was grave. “I think you’ll find that he would. Paul is a clever, very clever young man.” Jack swallowed hard, remembering Paul’s cold, unwavering stare, and he knew that Spencer was right.
Jack Weston had done what he never thought he would, he had assisted the police with their enquiries. He hadn’t told them about the gun, it was irrelevant. However, a new photofit was produced based on his, and Dunny’s, descriptions. It was a good likeness, but the one thing the computer couldn’t recreate was Paul’s eyes. The emotionless, icy stare, the fearsome chill that haunted Jack every time he slept, and would do for a long time ahead.
The media didn’t take much persuading to publish the photofit of the serial killer, the whole nation was engrossed in the investigation. Office staff speculated, factory workers theorized, mothers and fathers worried. Secure that the killer would never affect their own families directly, everyone waited apprehensively for the next murder in order to have a good gossip. Unsurprisingly, newspaper sales were high when the latest details were published.
Krein scrutinised the newest photofit, comparing it to the previous two. He couldn’t help but marvel at the way Paul managed to cha
nge his identity, effortlessly blending into the background again. When Annabel had disappeared, the suspected abductor, based on an eyewitness, had a full beard and dark blond, bushy hair, and he’d progressed through these three photofits to a clean-shaven dark haired lad. Krein had no doubt he would look different now, he would have changed his identity and become invisible again. The worst part was knowing that Paul would kill again, and the only way they could save the next victim’s life would be to pre-empt him.
Due to the urgency of the situation the Police Resources Unit at the Home Office had hastily arranged a substantial grant to take the monetary pressure off the search for the killer, and a room on the first floor of New Scotland Yard, next to the Black Museum, had been allocated as a central incident room, with Deputy Assistant Commissioner Falder-Woodes officially in charge of the investigation. A further room was designated for a team of twelve experienced officers were in the process of being transferred to research past murders within the past hundred years, and the team was to be led by Detective Chief Inspector Barry Harner, an officer for two decades, whose attention to detail was legendary. Almost immediately the new specialist team were dubbed the Black Museum Bunch.
Within hours of his arrival, Harner had dredged up details of murder anniversaries that were due in the next couple of weeks. There were few, but, although the sex of the victim was irrelevant to Paul, for some reason Bella Wright’s murder on the fifth of July stood out to Krein. He read through the scanty details, she had been shot, the killer was possibly a man on a green bicycle who had been seen with her, but nobody had ever been convicted for her death.
Krein gasped, he scrabbled through the files, searching for the details of the murders that had been copied so far. And remarkably, in every case the killer had never been convicted. Was that a coincidence? Was it the unique fact that attracted Paul to that case? If he was going to recreate Bella Wright’s demise, he would need a gun, and that cocky character, Jack Weston, was the type of small time idiot who would supply him with one. Krein hastily emailed his thoughts to Spencer, requesting he interrogate Weston further on this point. Maybe he was being paranoid, maybe he was seeing a link that wasn’t there, but if his over-dramatisation would save a life then it was worth the potential shame.