by Ricki Thomas
The crime scene had been cordoned off, the trees at the aptly named Deadman’s Hill having witnessed murder for the second time. The bodies of Theresa Francis and Joseph Allisson were photographed from every angle, and the area, extensively lit by floodlights, combed for evidence. Having established that Joe had been dragged into the position he lay in, extensive checks were done in the armpits, but no fibres or DNA traces were revealed, the killer had probably been wearing gloves. As the sun rose over the horizon, flooding the sky with oranges and yellows, warmth and light, the bodies were removed to the mortuary, their departure heralded by cheerful, warbling birdsong.
The original A6 murder case was well-known, especially having been re-opened so recently for DNA testing to prove Hanratty’s guilt. That, and the controversy over Hanratty’s possible innocence, made it easy for the new murders to be tentatively linked into the Kopycat Killer’s spate.
Krein was informed in the early hours of the morning. He put the phone down, he hadn’t said a word to MacReavie in acknowledgement, he hadn’t needed to. Having stressed time and time again to whoever would listen that Callum Bates was not the Kopycat Killer, and being told he was endlessly that he was obsessive, losing the plot, wasting time, being dramatic. Ruining his marriage. He stared across the bed, Linda was sleeping on the far side, her knees hanging over the edge in her attempt to be as far from his body as was physically possible in a double bed. His sigh was long, deep. She was going to take this news badly.
Slowly, Krein climbed from the sheets, the never-ending warmth of the summer’s heat-wave swamping his body, promising another tediously hot day, even though the sun was only just rising. He pushed the window open further, the rich smell of lavender wafting through, and pulled on a pair of loose slacks and a T-shirt. He’d go to the station, update himself with all the details.
Rosemary Green, now the initial shock had subsided, proved to be a good eye witness to the murders. She had seen the whole event, and gave an excellent, detailed, and confident description of the man with the gun. Detective Superintendent Claudia Horseferry sat on the chintz reclining chair, a cup of tea beside her, the busyness of the room making her slightly claustrophobic. The interview was being recorded by an officer, and Sergeant Paduch was questioning. Claudia had insisted on attending, the case being so huge: not only was she intrigued by the killer, she needed to hear the woman’s emotions, and the camcorder didn’t pick up the atmosphere. Paduch made his start. “So, can you describe the gunman?”
Rosemary sipped her tea. “He was fairly tall, not six foot, but not much less. Slim, he wore a white shirt and dark jumper, but the clothes were tatty, torn. He had shaggy dark hair that needed a good cut, but he was clean shaven. Walked with a heavy limp. He killed the man first, that was what made me turn and look, it was, the shot, was very noisy, loud. She tried to get out of the car to run, she was screaming, screaming, Lord, that sound will stay with me for the rest of my life, God bless her. He got hold of her, but then said he wouldn’t kill her.”
Horseferry, leading the initial investigation whilst the incident room in London was set up once more, stopped her. “He spoke? What was his voice like? And can you remember exactly what he said?” She sneaked a glance at Paduch, aware she’d stepped out of line.
Rosemary considered carefully, her cup poised beside her lips, the steam clouding her glasses. She finally answered. “He was softly spoken, had a gentle voice, even though he was angry at the girl. I think he said, well, he told her to shut up a few times, she was screaming madly, as I said. Then he said he wasn’t going to rape her, and that he wasn’t supposed to kill her. He shouted that he would kill her if she didn’t shut up, then said, well, you know, rude word, um …”
Paduch smiled at the naivety. “What letter did it begin with?”
“F” Rosemary swung her head from side to side, her pinched mouth disapproving.
“I’ll fill in the blanks.” His manner wasn’t as gentle as the smile.
“I’ll never forget the look in her eyes just as he pulled the trigger.” Recalling the event was so painful for Rosemary, she knew the nightmares would haunt her for a long time. “She was so, so scared.”
Krein received the initial statement by email at eight thirty in the morning. He pored over the details, scouring for something new, something to give him a lead, the next place to be. His head thrown into his palms, elbows on the desk, the statement six inches below his face, the words read over and over, etching onto his memory.
There was nothing. Nothing to show him where to go next. Krein thumped the desk, he needed a strong dose of caffeine.
Saturday 23rd August
Krein had phoned Spencer, whose irritation at speaking to his enemy once more was evident, to request that he visit Rosemary Green. “No problem.” Was the terse answer, it would keep Krein away from London for a short while longer.
Krein needed MacReavie to authorise his absence again, and he was waiting for his superior impatiently. He wasn’t tired, although he’d been awake for hours, but he was agitated at his boss’s late arrival. Finally, shortly after ten, MacReavie strolled in. Krein followed the older man into his office.
MacReavie threw his packed lunch onto the desk and sat heavily. “Back to square one then, Krein.”
Krein nodded, his mood low. “If you had listened to me they wouldn’t be dead.” MacReavie avoided the challenging glare, he said nothing. “I’m going over to Bedford in a minute, I’m going to see the latest eye witness personally. The statement that the Bedford force took, it’s comprehensive, seems she saw it all, but I want to make sure nothing’s been missed.” MacReavie’s eyes were focusing on the desk, his mind distant. “Guv?”
MacReavie snapped back to attention. “Er, yes Krein, whatever you need to do, yes, carry on. Er, can you fill me in with the latest details.”
He’d thought it many times before, and now he did again. He hated his boss. Two more victims, and Krein could guarantee MacReavie was re-living his golf moves. He threw a pile of papers onto the desk. “Here. A copy of the statement from Rosemary Green that was taken soon after the shootings, and the initial enquiries and forensics by Bedfordshire Police are in your in-tray. Oh, and the rough details of the original Hanratty case. I’d already been given them by the Black Museum Bunch before Callum Bates was arrested.”
A little flustered, MacReavie fingered the paperwork in his tray. “Ah, um, yes, so they are. Right-ho, Krein. I’ll look them through when I have some spare time. Anything else?”
Anger flashed in Krein’s eyes. This case should be a priority, in fact MacReavie should be accompanying him to Bedford, not sitting on his arse plotting golf. “Yes, when you have some spare time to concentrate on your job instead of your hobby, could you find out what’s happening with Callum Bates now?” Krein knew he should rise above his temper, but he found it so hard.
MacReavie glared at Krein, his nostrils flaring with each breath. “I should throw the book at you!” Krein turned, he knew he’d won, and stormed out.
Neither men knew that whilst they were arguing, Callum Bates’s body was being removed from his cell in the remand centre. Unable to live with being a violent murderer, unable to cope with the repercussions, the guilt, unable to comprehend how such a dark side existed within his mind, he’d gathered the courage to hang himself with his bed-sheets. Indirectly, Krein, and the Kopycat Killer, had another victim.
Rosemary Green was far more composed than she had been when Horseferry had met her, if that were possible. She was an orderly woman at all times, she didn’t waste money, food, or words. She led Krein into the bright, fussy room, the open patio door inviting the gentle, welcome breeze.
A silver tray lay on the table, underneath a matching teapot with a gentle flow of steam from the spout disbanding in the air. Rosemary poured tea into two waiting porcelain cups, which sat atop porcelain saucers, and added milk and sugar without asking. The spoon tinkled merrily as she stirred the sweetness through.
Krein
received his drink gratefully, it had been a long journey and the air-conditioning in his car was broken. “Thank you for agreeing to see me, Mrs Green, I’ll try not to keep you long. I have read the statement you gave to Detective Superintendent Horseferry this morning, and it seems fairly comprehensive. One thing, just for my own mind, but could I just ask what were you doing walking your dog at two in the morning?”
A flicker of pain in her eyes, brief, and quickly concealed by her strength of character. She swallowed, adjusting the glasses on her powdered nose. “My son died two months ago, he had a heart attack. He was only forty two. It was very sudden, and I’ve not really been able to sleep since. My doctor has offered me sleeping tablets, but I’m reluctant, I don’t want to become addicted and sleeping tablets are well-known for that. So, when I wake early, or can’t sleep at all, I take Lady for a walk. I find the silence, the stillness, therapeutic. The occasional owl hooting, the rustling leaves from night creatures. It’s a chance to think, to reflect, with no disturbances.”
Krein was taken aback at her clarity, her honesty. “I’m sorry to hear that, Mrs Green. But I understand.” He didn’t: no-one could contemplate the pain of losing a child, however old, and a sweeping thought of his beloved Mary crossed his mind. He changed the subject with pleasure. “I have the description of the gunman that you gave to DSI Horseferry, I take it you are aware of the so-called Kopycat Killer?”
“Yes, isn’t everybody?”
“If I could show you the last photofit that we have of him, could you please say if it bears a resemblance to the man you saw last night.” Krein was already taking the picture from his briefcase without waiting for an answer. He knew that showing her the picture could weaken the case if and when it reached the courts, but he needed clarification that he was after the same man. Rosemary looked at it and shivered.
“There is definitely a good resemblance, yes. Except the man last night had longer hair, it was quite shaggy.”
“This was prepared a while ago.” Krein nodded in agreement.
“I would say that it is probably the same man, they are very similar.”
Krein’s mobile rang, he apologised and took the call, standing. It was MacReavie. “Three things, Krein. First, the bullets that killed the couple last night were both from a Colt Python, and the markings on the bullets show it was the same gun that was used on Katherine Brown, Jackson Brooks, and Candice Albrough.”
Krein began to pace, silently, and slowly, nodding to acknowledge the expected news.
“Right, then, the next thing is they have a clear footprint, set in mud, in the surrounding undergrowth. Probably near to where the victim’s car had been parked. Forensics have taken a cast of it, and they should be able to tell what sort of shoes the man was wearing, size, walking oddities even. See if it matches the one at Peasenhall.”
“Excellent. Except it still doesn’t tell us who he is, or where he is. What’s the third thing?” Krein hoped this would be better news, and the sarcasm showed in his voice, albeit missed by the insensitive MacReavie.
“Well, the other thing, Krein, is not very good.” Unusually, his voice faltered. “I’m afraid Callum Bates was found hanging in his cell this morning.”
Krein grasped for the seat, he fell into it, astounded, hurt, angry. “Hanging!”
“With his sheet. He left a short note saying he couldn’t live with the guilt, that sort of thing.”
“Oh, Jesus shit!” Remembering Rosemary, he mouthed an apology at her indignant face. “Oh, Guv. Just one day more and he would have been out.” Guilt swept heavily over Krein’s body, his hands and feet tingling with shock and shame. His words disappeared, he ended the call. Glancing at Rosemary, his weak voice was pained. “Mrs Green, could I just take five minutes, I’ve had a bit of a, um …”
“Of course.” She gestured to the open patio door that led from the room to the blooming array of beautiful colours, tenderly, carefully raised by talented green fingers.
Krein meekly strolled onto the paved patio, breathing in the summer, the hanging baskets and patio pots revealing hundreds of flowers, drooping, displaying, smiling. The lawn was cut short, it’s perfect expanse uninhabited by weeds or moss, and not a ridge or slope to be seen. Krein stepped onto its soft sponginess. He surveyed the beauty whilst his mind purveyed the facts. Another victim, another death related to the bastard he was desperate to catch. The strong midday sun bored into his back, the aromatic honeysuckle nearby oozed its sweetness, and he breathed deeply, the fragrance flowing through his throat and into his lungs. He exhaled, and raised his eyes to the sky, as if in a secret prayer. There was no God, of that he was certain. But evil did exist. It existed in Paul. Jaswinder could fuck her theories, Paul wasn’t ill, he was evil. An evil psychopath.
Although the interview hadn’t raised much more information than he’d already seen in Horseferry’s account, he was pleased to have visited Rosemary. Seeing the emotion, the horror in her eyes, it filled in some gaps without words. He could now ‘feel’ the carnage that had taken place, rather than just read about it. It had become personal.
He found his way to the Bedford Police Station in Woburn Road, and was shown to Claudia Horseferry’s office. He was amazed at how striking she was: not pretty, her features were too harsh, but the air of countenance about her coupled with the feeling of authority was intense. She would stand out in a crowd. Her limbs were long and bony, he shook her firm hand. A constable followed Krein in with two coffees, he laid them on the desk and threw some sachets beside them before creeping back out, closing the door.
Krein found Claudia an affable woman, her smile was easy, and he respected her instantly. They discussed the murders in detail, their mutual hunger for detail paving the way to a friendship. Claudia filled Krein with the latest evolvements, occurrences happening after he’d left Kidlington. The registration number that Rosemary Green had somehow managed to memorize within her panic had revealed that the car belonged to Joseph Allisson, the male victim. No sightings had been registered yet, but then why would there be any? Unless the car was being driven erratically, the public didn’t yet know the full details of the latest Kopycat developments, only some basic newsflashes. A search for the Golf GTi was logged as high priority to all police forces, and all Krein and Claudia could do was to hope it was spotted soon to help them finally put that first step ahead of the killer.
Satisfied that Claudia would be handling her part of the investigation professionally and thoroughly, Krein returned to Kidlington Police Station, arriving at nine in the evening. Tiredness had overtaken the adrenalin that had kept him going all day, and he needed a strong coffee to perk him up. He had no intention of going home. He settled at his desk, laying his briefcase before him, to unpack the latest notes, when a memo in his in-tray caught his eye. He read it in disbelief.
It was from MacReavie. DAC Falder-Woodes wanted to arrange for the Kopycat Killer case to appear on the next episode of the BBC’s Crimewatch. Because of MacReavie’s involvement in the case from day one, he was to be the appearing officer, and would therefore need Krein to prepare a statement from his notes. MacReavie would be travelling to London on Monday to meet the Crimewatch team, so he would need the details by Sunday evening at the latest.
Krein threw the memo on the desk, not sure whether he was more incredulous or furious. They were after a dangerous, psychotic serial killer, and all MacReavie was interested in was his fifteen minutes of fame. This was ridiculous. He scribbled ‘Fuck Off’ across the memo and dropped it off on MacReavie’s desk, before going to the pub. Fuck the case, he needed a drink.
Paul had patiently waited for the late summer darkness to fall. Having travelled south after his last duty, he needed to be near London for his next duties, he’d arrived back in Slough before sunrise. He had driven off the road and hidden the car at the edge of a field on the outskirts of Datchet, camouflaging it efficiently with well-stocked branches. It was a busy area, and the endless traffic thundered through all day, and we
ll into the night, but any red that was left uncovered had not been noticed. Not venturing from the car all day, he didn’t want to leave it empty before disposing of it, Paul had eaten nothing, but food didn’t seem important anymore: he just ate as and when he could.
Finally the skies turned from grey, to charcoal, to a blackened navy blue. The odd cloud floated across, and the stars twinkled like diamonds on a sumptuous velvet cloth. The traffic dwindled until only one or two cars passed every now and then, and Paul decided the time was right. He dragged the foliage from the car, and fired the engine into life. The petrol tank indicator was in the red, he hoped it wouldn’t run out before the car was finished with. Paul drove slowly across the bumpy field, mounting the edge carefully. It was fairly steep so he had to accelerate hard, but finally he was back on the road, and the journey to the Thames was short. He found a quiet spot, there was no-one around, so he took his chance.
He drove off the road, and across the grass to the bank of the rippling, lapping river. Once more, he glanced around, and stopped the engine, checking the gear-stick was in neutral. Paul opened the door, threw his bag on the grass, and climbed out after. Moving to the back of the car, he pushed, his hands sweaty in the thick gloves, pushing as hard as possible, all his strength focused on one task. The car inched forward, every step shooting pain through his ankle, and slowly the momentum increased, the car rolling into the calm water. A last heave, and the back wheels had jumped over the bank, air bubbles rising and bursting, popping as the car sank lower, until soon peace was restored, the silence gratifying. Paul smiled, walking away with his bag. He needed to find another hiding place.
Arnold Freeman, who had watched the events with interest, shook his head in dismay. “Bloody joy-riders! He bemoaned to himself as he lightly clasped his fishing rod, not expecting to catch anything. Surprisingly, he felt a tug on the line, a fish had taken the bait, and in the heavily polluted River Thames. A rarity! The car was forgotten, the man was forgotten, and Arnold grinned, enjoying his night fishing more than he had for a long time.