by Ricki Thomas
Night was falling, the sun low in the sky, the array of beautiful summertime colours indistinguishable as dusk settled. Paula, as he now had to remember to call himself, laughed to himself as he remembered his latest victim’s face when he’d raised the gun to her head. He’d met Candice on the Sunday before, she’d been to Church and he’d walked alongside her as she made her way home.
Paula had been amazed how easily it had been to befriend her, and even more amazed to find she was the right age, and almost the right stage of pregnancy, for his recreation. He’d expected his search for a victim to take longer, and was prepared to relax on some of the details just to get the duty done, but Candice was perfect.
On the Tuesday, as they strolled through wasteland on the outskirts of Southend on Sea, Paula had told Candice all about Florence Dennis’s murder in Prittleswell a hundred and fourteen years before. She’d been interested, so he offered to take her to the area she’d died in. Expecting resistance due to the recent press reports, he’d been astounded when she’d come freely. Paula had no idea that Candice suffered from mild autism, the resulting lowered intelligence causing her to trust like a naïve child, the inability to read preventing the newspapers’ warnings from reaching her. It had never occurred to Candice that the friendly woman would ever try to hurt her.
The shock in her eyes had been fleeting, Paula pulled the trigger instantly. It can’t have hurt, it was too quick.
Krein leant against the bar, the dregs of his seventh beer warming before him. He was distraught, two more victims, a young woman and her unborn child. He’d suspected pregnancy to be a link, but Eduardo Delfini’s murder didn’t fit that theory. And he’d also suspected the failure to commit anyone for the original murders to be a connection, but that could be ruled out now because James Canham Read had been hanged for Florence’s murder.
Ordering a large whisky, Krein racked his brains. He had to get into the mind of this killer before any more people lost their lives. As he knocked the warming, mellow shot back, he waved at the barman for another, grimacing slightly with the aftershock. His head was spinning and he knew he’d have a hangover the next morning, but he had to relax somehow or he’d never get to sleep. Startled, he grabbed his beeping mobile.
“It’s Macreavie. Where are you?” The sobering effect was instant. Krein lied, saying he was in his hotel room, planning an early night. MacReavie continued. “DAC Falder-Woodes at the Yard has ordered an urgent meeting, tomorrow at two, at the incident room in London. They want us both there, and your psychologist friend, because we’ve been in this since the start. Can you get there?”
“What good’s talking going to do, for fuck’s sake!” The alcohol had made it easier for Krein to snap. He could hear his boss bristling.
“I’m having to miss an important golf match for this, and I’m not complaining. Be there!” The line went dead. Krein knocked back his second whisky and waved for another.
Thursday 26th June
Now that Paul had got used to being Paula, he was surprised at how naturally behaving like a woman came to him. Paula glanced in the small mirror she’d bought alongside the cosmetics five days before. Satisfied that her make up was intact under the unflattering glasses, and her blue toned black hair convincing with the hairpiece, she replaced the mirror in the bag. She stood, dusting down her fitted trousers and loose tunic, slipped on the worn trainers, and left the tatty outhouse that had housed her the night before.
With so many miles to travel, Paula needed to hitch a lift. She could head for the A1(M), but if she managed to get onto the M1, it would take her directly to Leicester. She chose the latter, and headed along the road parallel to the M25, heading west, lifting her thumb hopefully each time a car approached on the quiet road.
The third car that passed, a gleaming, black Mercedes, slowed and stopped a short walk ahead of her, and the driver waved his jewelled hand out the window. She half trotted, half ran to meet him. Jackson Brooks observed the striking woman approaching in his rear view mirror, and as she neared the car he watched her over his shoulder, lowering the electric window on the passenger side. Paula leant through and he gestured to come inside. Opening the door, she threw her bag into the foot-well and climbed in. Not saying a word, she fixed her eyes on the road ahead, aware of his eyes contemplating her.
“Well, go on then, lady, where are you heading?” She was taller than he preferred his women usually, but she was a stunner. Long, glossy tresses, lightly curling at the ends, her features strong, yet feminine. She wasn’t beautiful, but she was handsome, and he wasn’t about to say no if he got the chance. Which he intended to.
Paula shrugged. “The M1 would be best for me, are you going that way?”
“Then it’s your lucky day, lady, I’m going to Darlington, so I can take you anywhere along the M1.” Checking the mirrors, Jackson pulled back onto the quiet road.
“Where do you live? You sound southern.” Jackson smiled at her, but was met with silence. “I live in Potters Bar. It’s nice and busy. I like that.” They passed a sign indicating Junction 22 of the M25 was approaching. “My name’s Jackson, what’s yours?”
Paula glared at him. “Shut the fuck up and drive, shithead.”
Furious, Jackson span the wheel and the car bumped up the verge. No way was some fucking tart going to talk to him like that. He pushed the automatic lock on his door, trapping Paula in, and lunged at her, intent on raping her before dumping her outside. He’d show her to give him respect. “You fucking bitch!” With one hand groping at the tunic to feel her breasts, the other pawing at her flies to expose her, he felt himself hardening in readiness. He wasn’t expecting the sinister click that stopped him instantly. He looked up to see the shiny barrel of a handgun pointing at his head. He removed his hands and struggled back.
“Come on, lady, I was joking, lady. I was kidding, okay. Come on, put the gun down.” His mouth had barely closed before his shattered brain splashed over the window, the gore seeping down slowly to meet the seat. Paula tucked the gun back inside the side pocket of her bag and, grimacing, leant across the lifeless body to unlock the doors. She knew she’d had no choice, but shooting someone in an enclosed area was far more gruesome than Candice’s duty, and she had difficulty controlling the retching sensation. She opened the door, breathing the air, regardless that it was heavily polluted, with relief.
Having recovered her composure, she opened the boot. Inside lay a travel bag, a briefcase, a toolbox, and some rags. She took the two bags, setting them beside her own in the passenger side foot-well. Aware of her exposure, the M25 overlooking the road, Paula knew she needed to act swiftly. She threw the rags onto the ground, checked both ways to ensure no traffic was approaching, and dragged the body out, hauling it as quickly as she could manage, looking around all the while. With all the strength she could muster, she heaved Jackson’s bulky body into the boot, pushing him bit by bit, until finally his feet flopped in. Panting, she slammed the lid down.
Paula glanced around once more, and checked to make sure no cars on the M25 had pulled over. Satisfied that no one had seen her, Paula took the rags and wiped the mess from the windows, leaving a light, pinkish smear. She threw the reddened rags into the undergrowth, and, noticing a car approaching, jumped into the car, grabbing Jackson’s mobile to appear as if talking. She couldn’t be seen like this, the front of her trousers and tunic were bloodstained.
Starting the engine, and pulling back onto the road after the car had passed, Paula glanced at the travel bag. She hoped Jackson has a spare set of clothes in there, she was going to need to change her appearance yet again, just in case somebody on the M25 had seen her transferring the body to the boot and reported it to the police.
Deputy Assistant Commissioner Falder-Woodes regarded the team of detectives who gazed at him, awaiting his speech. For many of them, this was the first time they had seen the man who headed the investigation they were desperately, and unsuccessfully, working on. “I’m disappointed to say that we s
till have no idea who we are looking for. We have many good eye-witness descriptions, and as a result we know that he dyes his hair to change his look, we know that he changes his hairstyle, and we know that sometimes he is clean shaven, other times he has a beard.”
The audience were captivated by his authoritative stance, his confident manner. “We have managed to lift one print from a credit card docket, but it is not a clear sample. We have DNA from various hair roots that were found in Annabel Keeley’s car, but we have been unable to match any with a suspect. We have had the results on the bullet that killed Candice Albrough, it was point 357 Magnum, 180gr lead, fired from a Colt Python. As yet we don’t know how the killer got the gun.”
Spencer shifted his feet uncomfortably, he’d never got round to revisiting Jack Weston.
“This man could even be one of you for all we know. Somehow we have got to find a way to get one step ahead of him.”
Krein waved his hand to attract Falder-Woode’s attention. “What about Operation Bella?” Krein stood.
“I’m scrapping it. There’s no point wasting our time in Leicester, if he was ever planning to recreate Bella Wright’s death, then the leaked reports seem to have put him off.”
“But Sir, I think he’s more likely to do the recreation if he knows we’ve backed off. I think we should keep the Operation in place.”
Falder-Woodes glared at Krein, as did many of the detectives. “I said it was scrapped. May I continue?” His sarcasm reddened Krein’s face as he sat down once more. Falder-Woodes took a stapled pile of papers from the podium. “The Black Museum Bunch have kindly compiled a list of possible forthcoming murder sites, and summarised them here. You may all furnish yourselves with a copy as you leave.” He glanced around the room, his shoulders back, his head high. “We need to pre-empt this man, and we need to do it quickly. None of us want any more lives lost. I will hand over now to Miss Jaswinder Kumar, the team’s criminal psychologist, she will hopefully give more insight as to where this man is heading next.”
Jaswinder crossed the stage to take the podium, she settled her notes down and scanned them for a moment. Looking up, her own confidence radiating across the hall, her distinct and detailed account of the killer was no more than she’d told Krein weeks before. Only this time she implored the officers to take Paul’s attention to detail more seriously, once again stating that they should begin policing libraries.
A general sniggering erupted. Jaswinder’s expression was severe, she caught the eyes of several detectives who wilted under her gaze. “If you were to take me a little more seriously, you might find you catch your man before another life is taken.” Her glare caught Falder-Woodes, now seated at the side of the stage. “I also suggest you keep Operation Bella, even if you scale it down. I have worked with Detective Inspector Krein for a while now, and I respect his hunches.”
Jaswinder shifted her feet, regarding her notes once more. “Our man may be suffering from a form of psychosis, but I feel there are possibilities of other mental disturbances. He is an ill man, but this sickness may be physical, such as a brain tumour, which could cause a personality change.
“In most cases of psychosis, the illness and symptoms will appear over a matter of time, and will be detected and dealt with before it reaches this stage. In our man’s case the speed could have been caused by two things. One, a tumour, as already discussed, and two, a hugely stressful event that has ‘taken him over the edge’, if you like.”
A detective raised his hand, Jaswinder nodded. “When you say ‘stressful event’, what type of thing are you talking about?”
“The death of a loved one, sudden unemployment, divorce or marital separation, even post-traumatic-stress-disorder, you know, major life events.”
The detective sat down after thanking her. Jaswinder continued her summary, concluding that she could not help them to decide where he was likely to attack again. The only thing they could be confident of for now was that it would happen at a previous murder site, and with a similar victim.
It was Spencer’s turn to speak, he smiled at Falder-Woodes. “First of all, some potential good news. I have a suspicion I know where the gun was acquired from, and I will be following that lead once this meeting is finished.” He glanced victoriously at Krein. “Now, we have compiled a list of males who have been reported missing in the past year, and two of them loosely match our suspect’s description. We have the DNA of both men, however their DNA does not match any we have so far found at the crime scenes.” He checked his notes. “The first man is Callum Bates, a twenty two year old factory worker from Dunstable, last seen on May first, and the other is Graham Tyler, a thirty year old unemployed actor from Stepney, last seen May the eleventh. Again, the photographs of these men are with your briefing.”
Spencer waved the paperwork that Falder-Woodes had left on the podium. “We have extended the Black Museum Bunch’s search by an extra fifty years after Candice Albrough’s murder. Each of these sites must be heavily policed on the anniversary of the murder. And, most importantly, we have to put an embargo on press coverage of our investigations. Our plans must remain top secret to avoid this man continuing to get the upper hand. The only person who will be talking to the press from now until we catch the killer is Deputy Assistant Commissioner Falder-Woodes. Any failure to comply, and any leaks, will result in instant dismissal with no appeal. Thank you all for coming. ” Spencer left the stage.
MacReavie checked his watch, and nudged Krein. “Bloody waste of time, this meeting. We’re no further on, and I’ve missed my game of golf with the Chief Super.”
Krein rolled his eyes and stood to leave.
Jack Weston sat at the empty bar of the Weston Avenue Club, The Sun spread wide in front of him revealing the story of Candice Albrough’s death, and it’s similarity to Florence Dennis’s. Not usually apparent, Jack’s conscience was hounding him. Paul killing an aging Italian queer was one thing, but a young pregnant girl so close to bearing her child, that was too much. That man was one sick puppy, and if he was holding the key to stopping Paul’s murder spree, well, he was going to have to come clean, even at the risk of his own dodgy dealings being investigated. For the first time in his life, Jack was going to have to tell the truth.
Coincidentally, Spencer and Detective Sergeant Pulowski came through the doors, they descended the stairs and walked over.
Jack stood up slowly, his Oscar winning days put firmly into the past. He spoke quietly, resigned. “I was just going to call you guys.”
“Oh yes?” Spencer was intrigued.
Jack pointed at the newspaper, his eyes focused on Candice’s pretty, innocent smile. “This murder, this pregnant lady, well, I can’t keep things I know from you any more. There’s some things I haven’t told you.” Jack gestured with his head that they sit at one of the tables. Spencer and Pulowski followed him to the nearest, and they all sat.
“The gun. The Colt Python .357 Magnum. I sold it to him.” Silence. No questions. No surprise. Just silence. Jack continued. “I sold it to him for half a grand.”
“Ammo?”
“Fifty. How long am I going to get for admitting that?”
Spencer leant close lowering his voice. “If you continue to be frank with us, with this investigation being so high profile, I doubt my superiors will want to take the matter any further, but please Jack, no more messing.”
Jack visibly relaxed. “No more messing. I know where he was living. It was a room in a house in Shoe Lane. I often let it out to my rent, um, my staff if they don’t have nowhere to stay.”
“It’s yours?”
“Yes.”
“Will you let us search the premises, we may find something there that could help with our investigation or with identifying the man.”
“There’s another fella staying there now, but I’m sure he won’t stop you if I speak to him first. And don’t give him no hassle, he’s a good worker.”
“Thank you. Anything else, Jack?”
Jack agonised, he’d never been so co-operative in his life. “The night Eddie was hanged, well that was the night I sold Paul the gun. I was suspicious, I don’t like upstarts operating on my territory, so I sent Dunny and Reno to check out his room. They found nothing, so we looked in the bag he always takes round with him.”
“His bag? You’ve never mentioned a bag.”
“It’s a black sports bag, he took it everywhere. Anyway, inside there was a rope, must be the one he used to hang Eddie, and some bricks. There was the usual stuff small-bits carry around, you know, torch, gloves, a knife, and there was some scissors. That’s about it, except for some smalls.”
Spencer stood up. “Thank you Jack, you’ve been very helpful. I’m not going to take a formal statement, if I did I would have to use the content to prosecute you for what you’ve told me. This way you can remain anonymous. I do, however, need to arrange for a forensic team to search the room in Shoe Street.”
The dial on the dashboard was low, Paula was going to have to stop for petrol, but she needed to get changed first, the blood on her clothes would draw unwanted attention. She left the motorway at Junction 12, turning left towards Toddington, then right towards Milton Bryan. The road was deserted, so she pulled into a lay-by, and stopped the car. Leaning into the foot-well, she hoisted the overnight bag to her lap and checked inside. Relieved to see the jeans and selection of T-shirts, Paula threw them into the back, climbed over the seats and changed her outfit once more. The clothes were excellent quality, and her trainers looked out of place, but there was nothing she could do about that.
Paula clambered back into the driver’s seat, she reached inside the bag once more, and pulled out a handkerchief, which she rubbed harshly on her face to remove the make up. She unclipped the hairpiece, placing it in her bag, and ruffled her short hair into a more masculine style.