Unlikely Killer

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Unlikely Killer Page 17

by Ricki Thomas


  He listened intently as MacReavie informed him of the clothes that had been delivered to the charity shop earlier, and how they had possibly belonged to Paul. They were being examined by forensic experts and would hopefully reveal some DNA.

  Krein grinned, this was really hopeful, he looked to the sky, silently thanking the God he didn’t believe in for finally giving them a lead. As he ended the call, a young girl, early teens, rode up to the roadblock on her pink mountain bike. The two constables manning the barrier consulted her, and let her through. Krein watched her cycle away, the lunchtime sun reflecting from the metal of the bicycle, towards Burton-Overy.

  The officers pulled up beside the badly parked, black Mercedes, and an elderly man joined them as they got out from the car. “I’m Jack Phillips, it was me who called the police.” He offered his hand to be shaken. “The car’s been there for four days now, I’ve counted each and every day, and to be honest with you, I can’t bear walking past it no more, it stinks to high heaven.”

  PC Adams had already noted the unsavoury smell, and it alarmed him. He radioed the registration number through to the control room, and strolled around the expensive vehicle, inspecting it carefully. Moments later his radio crackled, the car was registered to a Mr Jackson Frederick Brooks, of flat 6, Warmingford Court, Bedford. Disturbingly, his wife had reported him missing four days previously. PC Adams requested a locksmith immediately.

  Having overheard, Jack Phillips had to show his importance. “See, told you it was four days, see, I’m obversant me!” Witholding a smile at the dyslexic speech, and nodding politely, PC Adams took a closer look at brownish staining on the rear number plate.

  It took half an hour for the locksmith to arrive, but only moments for him to break into the body of the car. A foul stench emanated, a clawing, rotting smell tinged with hot leather. The weak tones of air freshener were drowned pitifully. On the surface, nothing obvious stood out to Adams as being suspicious, but something had to be causing the smell. Jack Phillips, arms crossed and pleased with himself, was watching intently, and had now been joined by a small crowd of children, eager to ease their boredom.

  The locksmith, now working with a rag tied across his face in an attempt to block the stench, soon managed to unlock the boot. The lid popped up, and the smell hit them immediately, making everybody recoil. The sight was horrific, and one of the girls in the crowd fainted. A black man, his eyes already rotted away, his body in an advanced state of decomposition clearly accelerated by the heat wave. His head was half blown away, his clothing covered with blood and gore. Instinct took over, and Adams, his diaphragm uncontrollably retching, slammed the boot shut. He composed himself slightly, and radioed for assistance, the horror in his tone more insistent than the words.

  Katherine Black had been visiting her grandmother in Houghton on the Hill, and she waved goodbye as she cycled towards the setting sun. Helene Black returned the gesture to her silhouetted granddaughter, and, as she closed the door, she noticed another silhouette move closer to Katherine, also on a bike. Deciding it must be a friend, Helene was pleased Katherine wouldn’t be cycling alone, the world was a dangerous place nowadays.

  Katherine became aware she wasn’t alone, she glanced at the man on the green bicycle, smiling nervously. He grinned back, his eyes full of friendliness rather than threat. She relaxed. “Where are you going?” His voice was childish, his words stilted, it was easy to realise he was retarded. Katherine felt no menace from the man, he wasn’t a danger to her.

  “I’m going home, I need to get up early tomorrow, I’m going out.” She replied brightly, eager not to appear condescending.

  “Where home?” He managed after carefully digesting her reply.

  “Burton Overy.”

  A genuine smile. “That make me happy. I go with you.”

  Katherine laughed, why not, he was harmless.

  “Guv?” The day had been uneventful, it wasn’t an overly busy road at the weekend, and Krein was sitting on the kerb watching the fiercely orange sun merge into the horizon.

  MacReavie’s voice was forlorn. “You’re not going to like this, but there was no forensic evidence at all on the clothes.”

  Krein sighed heavily, he stood up and began to pace. “For fuck’s sake! How come?”

  Unknown to Krein, MacReavie was shaking his head. “The old granny who brought the clothes in washed them too well. Not a hair, not a skin cell, no blood, no nothing. She could win a bloody award for being the best bloody washerwoman in history!”

  “Fuck!” Was all that Krein could manage before ending the call. He strolled listlessly to the police car, sitting in the passenger side, his feet resting on the gravel. Absent-mindedly, he watched another cyclist ride towards the roadblock, a young woman, and sprang to his senses when he saw a green bicycle roughly a hundred feet behind her, a dark haired man straddling it. It was stationary, the man was watching the girl, and adrenaline flowed through Krein’s body as he rushed towards her. “There’s a man back there on a green bike. Are you with him?”

  Katherine Brown glanced needlessly over her shoulder. “No, but he’s been following me for about the last half mile. I don’t know him, but he seems okay. I think he just wanted to come along for the company.”

  Krein and the constables exchanged a brief nod, before he yelled. “After him, now.”

  One of the officers jumped into the car, the engine firing instantly, and he screeched towards the man. Krein and the other officer were running, determined to catch Paul before he could escape. Fear spread over the man’s face, he spun the bike and pedalled frantically, but the Astra overtook and swung in his path, brakes screaming. The man jumped off, the bike crashing to the ground, and ran furiously, but the officer was too fast, he tackled him to the ground with ease.

  A gunshot boomed, it’s echo resounding through the eerie silence. The moment lasted a lifetime, the quiescence eternal. Until the whimpering. The slight gurgle. The struggled breath.

  Almost too terrified to turn his head for fear of the scene that lay behind, Krein’s heart nearly burst when he saw Katherine lying, tangled in her bicycle, on the tarmac. Her eyes were wide, the horror apparent, and her straining chest rose and fell awkwardly as her blood spilled ferociously away from her. He sprinted, faster than ever before, retracing his steps to her broken body. Oblivious to the gunman, he threw himself onto the ground and stemmed the hole in her neck with his hand, but the spillage refused to stop. Horrified, he noticed the gaping exit wound on the other side, and just wanted to cry.

  Krein felt time stop, he felt his heart cease to beat. Movement happened around him but he was removed from his body, events happening in parallel to his own life. The ambulance pulled up but he couldn’t hear the sirens, police cars arrived but he couldn’t help the swarming officers to hunt for the gunman. Krein was wretched, that girl couldn’t survive injuries as severe, and it was his fault, he’d been in charge of the operation.

  Somehow his body moved to the kerb, he sat without feeling and looked without seeing. His private hell burned intensely, searing him, scorching him, singeing him, charring him. As dusk turned to darkness Krein remained seated, oblivious to his mobile chanting angry rings from his boss, unaware of the cordons, the forensic teams, the intrusive spotlights, the baying reporters. And the tears of frustration, of guilt, of inadequacy tumbled noiselessly from his eyes, down his cheeks, into his laughter lines, over his chin, puddling onto the gravel.

  Eventually he became aware once more, enough to question how he had got this so wrong. And with no satisfaction it dawned on him. Ronald Light, the man on the green bicycle who had ridden with Bella Wright, he had been found months later, taken for trial, and subsequently acquitted. He had not been Bella’s murderer. Her murderer was never found. Just like the others.

  Allie Brooks sat, tears cascading freely, as the sensitive policemen gently questioned her. Did her husband have any enemies? “Yes, he was hated by many people. How do you think he paid for an exclusive flat l
ike this” She waved her hand dismissively at her plush surroundings. “He was brilliant at his job, but he was also a gambler, and he made enemies of the people he broke on his way up. We bought this flat, and we’ve lived a good life, parties, holidays. But he always had to watch his back.”

  At first it was assumed that Jackson’s shooting was a revenge killing, but, when tests run on the bullet proved that it was fired from the same Colt Python that had killed Candice Albrough, it was quickly linked to Paul. Fibres found in the car matched the tunic and trousers handed in to the charity shop. So Paul had killed again, but this time it wasn’t a recreation. The horrific realisation was that his psychosis was worsening.

  Krein had no memory of returning to his hotel room, the only thought he had, which hit him over and over again, was seeing Katherine’s body, sprawled painfully across the road, her life spilling away from her. He couldn’t erase it, stop it replaying. Every time he closed his eyes it was there. Every time he opened them, it was there.

  The bottle of whisky was nearing the end, he took another slug, no longer wincing at the bite in his throat, and ignored his mobile as it rang for the billionth time. He knew it was MacReavie, and he knew there was going to be hell to pay. For the first time ever Krein was considering retiring from the force.

  Sunday 6th July

  Krein had gone back to his wife and daughter in Oxford. He wasn’t coping any more, he’d been working around the clock for nearly two months, and Katherine Black’s shooting was the final straw. Rumours were abound in Kidlington Police Station that the well-respected detective was about to crack. In his absence, Detective Inspector Graham Parker of the Leicestershire Constabulary was handling the investigation, reporting directly to Spencer in London.

  Once more, Parker entered the interview room, seating himself opposite Martin Hallissey. He knew that the man was guilty of nothing, it wasn’t him who’d shot Katherine. But the fact he’d been riding behind the girl on a green bicycle whilst Paul aimed his gun was more than a coincidence. He’d been placed at the scene for a reason.

  Martin’s parents had confirmed that he suffered from dyspraxia, but he coped extremely well with his disability, even holding a job at the local garage. However, he had witnessed a dreadful scene, and was having trouble understanding it. At first he just rocked, back and forth, back and forth, and when he’d been ready to talk, the words he used were incomprehensible, almost as if it were his own secret language. They had taken him home the night before, any further questioning was a waste of time, but brought him back in the morning, the hindsight of sleep hopefully spurring him into talking sense. Parker was surprised when Martin began to cry.

  “He scared me. He scared me. I had to do it. Wasn’t my fault. He scared me.”

  Parker leant forward, his expression considerate. “Who scared you, Martin, who are you talking about?”

  Tears flooded over his cheeks, Martin rocked himself, arms tucked tightly across his abdomen, comfortingly, once more. “He gave me five pounds and said I could keep the bike. I thought he was kind. Then he was horrible, and I wanted to go home. But he told me to follow that girl.”

  “Who, Martin, who was he?” Parker discreetly checked the recorder was switched on.

  In a flash of anger, Martin swept his hands across the desk, knocking the two coffees, and a plastic cup of water flying. The constable at the door jumped forward to stop him, but Parker halted him, force would do more harm than good with this witness. “He’s frustrated, leave him.” The constable stepped back, the liquids intermingling in a steaming puddle over the floor.

  Parker deliberated for a short while, he needed to take the inquiry from a different angle. “Can you remember what he looked like?”

  An unexpected smile settled on Martin’s lips, amidst the tears. “Yes. I can mister. Black hair and a horrid face.”

  Little information was gained over the next hour, Martin tried his best, but the description they ended up with was vague. All they knew was that Paul paid the lad to cycle beside Katherine Black. That was it.

  A monotone sounded on the monitor, Katherine’s heart had stopped. When she had been rushed in the previous day, she’d immediately been fitted with an artificial ventilator, through a tracheostomy in her shattered neck. Doctors had worked quickly to stabilize her, administering painkilling injections, and a drip to keep her hydrated. Once she was settled and comfortable, an X-ray was arranged, and it showed that three of her cervical vertebrae were shattered. She was given less than a ten per cent chance of surviving, and even if she did pull through, she would be totally paralysed.

  Responding to the emergency, the crash team half-heartedly attempted to resuscitate Katherine, but it was futile, her injuries were too severe. They had to let her go.

  Mr and Mrs Black held her hands as the respirator was turned off, crying for their beautiful lost daughter, praying that she would be happy wherever she was going to.

  Linda Krein took the call from MacReavie, writing the message that Katherine Brown had died on a notepad. Her husband wasn’t in the bath as she’d lied, he was in the bedroom, but she knew better than to disturb him when he was in a mood like this.

  Krein sat on the floor, knees raised, arms wrapped around them, and rocked uncontrollably as the frustrated, angry tears flowed. Two months, victims dropping like flies, and still no closer to catching Paul. If he’d done his research, if he’d paid as much attention to detail as the killer. Bastard. Why had he not done his job properly? As far as he knew Katherine was still alive, and he hoped with all his heart that she would survive the claws of this madman.

  Krein jumped up, he grabbed a pillow and pounded it into the wall, anger, exasperation, despairing, futility, the cushion shredding and spilling as he vented his emotions.

  But it worked, he’d cried all his tears, his throat was sore and his chest ached. And now he knew he had to pull himself together, the killer was still out there, and he would continue to kill whether Krein fell apart or not.

  Krein knew Paul better than anyone else on the case, he understood his mind instinctively, and if anyone was going to undermine that man, it was him. He resolved to be back at work tomorrow.

  Linda and Mary sat at the kitchen table, directly underneath the bedroom. Neither could speak, having been witness to the wrenching sobs above. Mugs of soothing tea going cold in their hands, they could physically feel the pain the husband and father was in. Krein didn’t talk about his work, but from the newspapers, both knew that he was trying to outwit one of the most terrifying and elusive serial killers ever. They could do nothing for him, this was something he had to work through himself.

  By the time Linda relayed the message that Katherine Brown had died that morning, Krein had no tears left to cry, his eyes just acknowledged the sombre news, and that was it. Back to work the next morning, as usual, and no mention of this breakdown would ever be made.

  A full examination of the fields and undergrowth surrounding the murder site was made, a special team combing the area on hands and knees, hungry to find evidence. The spent bullet was found, and proven to be fired from the same Colt Python that had killed Candice Albrough and Jackson Brooks, as expected.

  No further evidence was found, the killer appeared to be invincible. He would storm into his task, complete it, and disappear, leaving the police standing. After all this time, they still hunted the killer needle in the haystack of England.

  Monday 7th July

  Krein had recovered from his hiccup the day before, and, now the feelings of frustration and guilt had been relieved, his ability to continue assisting with the investigation was restored. To MacReavie’s surprise, Krein breezed into his office first thing in the morning for an update of events.

  “I know you’re going to have a go at me about taking yesterday off without …”

  “I’m not going to have a go at you.” Confusion registered across Krein’s lightly tanned face. “Parker in Leicester told me what you were like after Katherine Black was shot
. I think you needed a break, you’ve been working too hard, and you’ve made the mistake of making this hunt personal.” Krein was shocked, he’d never once realised his boss was human, he’d been offered no reason to realise it. MacReavie threw some stapled papers across his desk. “Martin Hallissey, the guy on the bike, this is his statement. Doesn’t tell you much. Go and read it. Jaswinder Kumar’s meeting me at ten, I’d like you there if you wouldn’t mind.”

  Now Krein was completely bewildered, compassion and manners at the same time. Maybe aliens had replaced MacReavie’s personality overnight, or maybe Krein had entered a parallel universe. He took the statement, glanced questioningly at his superior once more, and left the room.

  MacReavie had been right, the statement was mostly pointless, apart from, again, showing the killer to be calculating and precise. Krein filed it with his notes, and checked the time. It was nearing ten, he’d get a coffee and bring it into the meeting.

  Jaswinder, her work now revolving primarily around the investigation, her excellent track record and reputation catapulting the importance of her theories and advice. She had digested the latest details and was sharing her thoughts. “There is something in particular that interests me.” She took a sip of tea, Krein was in awe of her constantly calm manner. “Bella Wright was shot in the head, whilst Katherine Brown was wounded in the neck. Also the two shootings were a few hundred feet from each other.” Krein and MacReavie both nodded, but neither spoke. “It seems that Paul may be paying less attention to detail, which …”

 

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