Unlikely Killer

by Ricki Thomas

  Linda Krein had kissed her excited daughter goodbye at seven that evening. Mary, with a group of friends, was taking the train to London, they were visiting a nightclub in Whitehall for the first time. Linda had never been an overprotective mother, but was naturally concerned about her attractive daughter’s welfare and safety. Linda had the benefit of maturity and experience, and at eighteen, she knew Mary was still a mere baby. Her baby. But Mary was still at the tiresomely ongoing stage of believing she knew everything.

  It had been a lonely evening, only the television for company, and Linda hadn’t heard from her husband since he’d left in the early hours of the morning. She’d seen the news, several times in fact, and was dismayed that David must be back on the Kopycat Killer case. She felt hopeless.

  Their marriage had all but fallen apart before, she had felt like a widowed single mother, and now it was all starting again. Although the cracks in the marriage were still there, they’d managed to paper over them in the past few weeks. The relationship remained celibate, but the conversation had lost the bitterness. Linda clicked the television off, she wasn’t watching it, it was just a noise in the background to comfort her. She took a whisky as she contemplated weeks of boring, solitary, isolated, unloved nights ahead of her, shaking the thought from her head with the sharp, acid taste. She sighed. In all these years she’d never resented his work. What was different? Why now. She glanced at the cards on the mantelpiece. ‘Happy 45th Mum!” There was the answer. She was aging, and she had no life. She took another whisky, downing it swiftly.

  Five hours later, at half past three in the morning, Linda, uncomfortable and cramped, was awoken by the front door creaking open. She realised she’d fallen asleep on the sofa, and from the headache, she assumed she’d had a few too many. A glance at the open whisky bottle confirmed that. Linda stood up, stretching, as Mary, bubbling with excitement, but shattered too, rolled into the room.

  Her expression turned indignant. “Mum! What are you still doing up?” Mary could feel anger rising, she was too old for this.

  Yawning, Linda eyed her daughter’s scant clothing with dismay. Mary hadn’t left the house dressed in so little. “I fell asleep on the sofa. What time is it?”

  “Don’t you think I’m just a bit old for you to be spying on me?” Haughty and defensive, Mary hadn’t wanted her mother to see the clubbing clothes she’d sneaked out of the house in a bag. She flounced out of the room, contemptuous, and stomped up the stairs childishly, hoping her heavy feet would deter her mother from waiting up again.

  Linda was too sleepy for a confrontation. She yawned again, switched out the light and followed her daughter’s footsteps up the stairs, then to her room. Oddly, she was surprised to see David, sprawled across the centre of the bed, snoring routinely in his slumber. She crawled in next to him, turning her back, and fell instantly to sleep.

  Sunday 24th August

  Arnold Freeman, a fifty four year old man, desperately didn’t want to be married any longer. His wife was a miserably boring old harridan, she’d let herself go almost as soon as the ink had dried on the marriage certificate, thirty five years before. He envied the youngsters nowadays, if they were unhappy with their partner, they just nipped to the nearest solicitor and got a divorce. He was of the old school, he knew he couldn’t do that. The only pleasures life gave him now were going to work to push paper around his desk, and going fishing.

  Every summer weekend, rain or shine, Arnold would cherish the slow, tranquil hours from late Saturday night, to early Sunday morning, listening to the lapping of the gentle waves as they tickled the surface of the water and caressed the muddy shores. He would use the blissfully lonely time to appreciate the nature filled silence. He rarely caught a fish, and even if he did, he’d throw it back. Catching the fish wasn’t the point. It was the peacefulness, the serenity, the solitude he craved. No persistent nagging burgeoning his ears, no selfish, materialistic sons waiting for their inheritance, and no grandchildren screaming ‘I want’.

  The warm air breathed a sigh through his olive green anorak, prompting him to check the time.

  Disappointed that his pleasure was due to end for another week, Arnold began to pack his equipment away, but stopped abruptly when he heard a sickening crunch from nearby. He stood and inspected the river. Further along a Bayliner Trophy boat bobbed gently on the water, it didn’t appear to be moving forward. Arnold, hands on hips, watched with interest, intrigued. The driver was peering into the hold. “She won’t move, something’s holding us back?”

  “There’s creaking from the hull.” An annoyed voice shouted, the owner following his words up the steps to the deck. “I think we’ve hit something.”

  And at that moment Arnold remembered the car and the joy-rider. Uncharitably, he chuckled, folding his arms, ready to watch the scene unfold. This was the funniest thing he’d seen in a long time.

  The first rays of sun were warming the sky, silhouetting the trees and the scenery, and an ancient Orkney Longliner chugged along the Thames. The skipper, an ex-Navy officer, could make out an obstruction ahead of him, he squinted his myopic eyes, assessing the large, grey form.

  “Good Lord!” He objected indignantly. “I don’t believe it. Does nobody give a damn about the river code nowadays!” Hugh Atkins steered his boat to the left to avoid the stationary vessel and, as he passed by, he yelled. “You can’t just land there, you idiots. Don’t you know the laws of the river? Moor the boat. Do it now, before you cause an accident.” Then to himself in a stage whisper. “Bloody fools.”

  Mr Atkins didn’t expect to be answered, he was used to rudeness nowadays. “It’s wedged there, we’ve hit something. Can you get some help?” A sarcastic tone set in. “Before we cause an accident.”

  “My apologies, Sir, I will endeavour to find help immediately.” Hugh Atkins purposefully steered his craft forward, he was now on a mission.

  People across the nation were waking up to their Sunday newspapers, and were disgusted to read that the poor lad, Callum Bates, a victim of injustice, had committed suicide in his cell. It was an outrage, the police should be held accountable. They easily forgot that just a week before, angry vigilantes across the country would have happily strung Callum up themselves. Before they had the proof that he wasn't Kopycat, that was.

  The gruesome details of the latest murders were digested and commented on from county to county. In newsagents, buses, queues, café’s, pubs, the gossip consisted of little else. Where would he strike next? Was the gun his preferred modus operandi now? What precautions should they take against becoming a victim?

  Krein had ignored his usual newspaper, avoiding the headlines. He knew that they would say exactly what he felt himself. Why was Callum wrongly charged, and how was he allowed to kill himself. He knew the phone line in New Scotland Yard would be buzzing madly with complaints instead of witnesses or sightings. MacReavie had already called him, giving him instructions to head back to London now the incident room had been reinstated. He’d also mentioned that Falder-Woodes was arranging another press conference, so he would be following Krein there later to assist, carefully stressing that he would be missing another important game of golf. Krein knew that MacReavie would have insisted he be part of the press release team, using the old cookie of being part of the investigation from the start, and that the golf comment was purely false martyrdom.

  Callum Bates got the easy option, Krein huffed to himself, knowing the thought was wicked, but no longer caring. He’d had enough of this serial killer, and he was more determined to stop him now than ever before.

  The rope was attached to the tow bar of the police Range Rover, and the driver steadily tugged the boat free from whatever had trapped it. Fully released, the damaged vessel was towed across the river to the bank. The two sailors threw the mooring ropes to the waiting policemen, who secured the boat to some posts on the shore, and disembarked, grateful to be back on dry land.

  The ascending morning sun beat down, it’s heat alread
y breaking the workers into a sweat, regardless of the early hour. The officers, sleeves rolled up, and wondering how long the tedious hot spell was going to last, peered into the murky waters, curious of the object that had trapped such a cumbersome boat. The water was dirty, but every now and then, a vague patch of red, dulled by the muddy ripples, was apparent. On the shore four experienced divers were climbing into their wetsuits. One by one they slipped into the depths, following instructions to identify the mysterious object. The waiting officers didn’t speak, they watched the still water, waiting for the divers’ return. It took less than five minutes, a head popped up and he issued an agreeable thumb, gliding neatly to the river bank, and clambering safely out, closely followed by the other three.

  Now in the knowledge that the obstruction was an empty car, an officer summoned for a recovery vehicle with a crane over her radio. It took half an hour, the sun burning hotter all the while, to arrive. The crane hoisted the car out effortlessly, it’s operator taking care not to damage it further, and swung the dripping vehicle to the grassy bank. The officer radioed the registration number to the control room.

  Within seconds an excited voice crackled back. “It belongs to Joseph Allisson. He’s the latest victim of the Kopycat Killer. Bring the vehicle in immediately for forensic testing. Do your utmost not to disturb any evidence.”

  Krein arrived at the Yard and was immediately told of the discovery. Excitedly he called Slough Police Station, asking if they could help by appealing for witnesses locally. They agreed to contact Star FM, the local radio station, who were honoured to co-operate.

  Although regular bulletins were broadcast, as appeared to be the norm with the Kopycat killings, very few sightings were reported, and none of them definite, just possibilities. Krein was astonished that Kopycat had managed to drive from Clophill to Datchet in a stolen vehicle, without any witnesses to note. And he was more incredulous that Kopycat had managed to push the car into the water, probably on his own, and still not be noticed. Was this man invisible?

  Due to the colossal interest in the renewed case, a conference room had been hastily arranged at the Thistle Victoria Hotel to hold the press release. The full capacity of the room was two hundred, and it was estimated that this would easily be filled by reporters, and television station camera crews, for the world’s media. If anything, the organisers had under-estimated, the room was packed solid.

  As Falder-Woodes, closely followed by MacReavie, harbouring a grave expression, walked towards the stage at the head of the room, cameras flashed, newsreel rolled, and the racket was deafening as journalists and reporters shouted questions above each other.

  It was four in the afternoon, and the atmosphere in the conference room was muggy, worsened by the intense heat outside, which hindered even the most efficient air-conditioning system. This was the hottest day of the year so far, and the lingering pockets of body odour nauseated Krein as he hugged his back to the wall, near to the stage. He’d wanted to speak to his boss about the ridiculous Crimewatch idea, but he just hadn’t had a chance, everything was happening at once. He bristled noiselessly, repelled by MacReavie’s performance for the cameras.

  The assembled speakers sat beside the table, the stage raising them above the crowd, but Falder-Woodes remained standing, hushing the audience with his authoritative air. It took a while, but when Falder-Woodes finally spoke, the room was soundless.

  “Ladies and gentlemen. Thank you for coming at such short notice. You are all no doubt aware that the investigation and search for the so called Kopycat Killer has now been re-opened, after the bodies of a young couple were found near Bedford in the early hours of yesterday morning.”

  The room erupted again, questions, shouting, angry exchanges. Falder-Woodes raised his voice and leant close to the microphone, his voice was confident, commanding. “We have found the car that was driven from the scene of the crime this morning, and we are currently running forensic tests for any clues that the killer may have left.”

  Krein stood straight, he turned from the stage and walked slowly from the room, a gesture noticed by MacReavie, which irked him in the manner only Krein could. He would have it out with him later, before going back to the hotel he’d booked as a little expenses paid treat.

  Having favoured eating in front of the television to a formal meal in the dining room, Linda and Mary Krein ate the roasted chicken in silence. The food was overcooked, Linda had held off serving it, hopefully expecting her husband home. Eventually she’d had to accept that he was not coming. Again.

  The six o’clock news came on the television, neither women were interested until Linda noticed MacReavie’s face on the stage. “That’s Henry MacReavie. He’s your father’s boss.” She set her meal aside, and scrutinised the screen, listening to Falder-Woodes speaking, his concern at the latest murders, concern about Callum Bates committing suicide, concern about the nation’s worries. Mary continued with her food, disinterested.

  Once the news clip had finished, she turned to her mother, a sardonic smile in place. “Shame Dad wasn’t up there. I’ve almost forgotten what he looks like!”

  The comment horrified Linda, she tried to laugh it off as a joke, but she knew it wasn’t. Although her husband had only been gone for less than two nights, she knew that the short absence was the beginning of a long one. Her mind drifted to the lonely weeks before Callum Bates had been arrested. David had worked away from home, eaten away from home, slept away from home, and, for all she knew, had a sex life away from home.

  The despairing thought that her marriage wasn’t going to survive this investigation returned. She took her food-laden plate through to the kitchen, her appetite gone.

  Arnold Freeman was also watching the six o’clock news, slumped in his easy chair, beer in his hand, with his feet up on the footstool. Some footage about the Kopycat Killer came on, a case he enjoyed following alongside everyone else. A clip came up showing the latest victim’s car being lifted from the river, and his stomach clenched as he recalled the joy-rider the previous night. He sat up straight, leaning closer to the television set, turning up the volume with the remote control.

  “Turn that bloody racket down, Arnold.” His wife’s tedious voice screeched from the kitchen.

  “Shut up, woman, and shut those bloody brats up, too.” Arnold strained to listen to the news. As soon as the report had finished, he snatched a pen and scribbled the incident room phone number on the back of his hand. He reached for the phone and dialled.

  Arnold chose to visit Slough Police Station to give his statement, at least he’d be able to speak without his wife and grandchildren hollering and screaming around him. He parked, and introduced himself to the desk sergeant, who, expecting him, immediately showed him to a room.

  Enjoying the unplanned peace and quiet, Arnold gave his full statement, laboriously taking his time. Although it had been dark when the events took place, he was able to give the stature of the man, and a rough description. It appeared to concur with previous descriptions of the killer, and the limp that he mentioned certainly coincided with Rosemary Green’s account.

  The forensics team, overjoyed at first with both the importance of the case and the overtime, had been less pleased to report that no clear evidence of the suspect could be lifted from the car. Traces of Joe Allisson’s blood and tissue, the bits that hadn’t been sucked away by underwater creatures, were found inside the car. Tiny traces of blood on the outside of the car were proven to have come from Theresa Francis. But the lack of fingerprints on the steering wheel and boot of the car indicated the suspect had probably been wearing gloves, and no DNA taken matched any from the previous crime scenes.

  Arnold confirmed that the man had been wearing gloves, he’d queried that on the night as it had been so warm, the man must have been sweltering. Signing the lengthy statement, furnished with irrelevant detail, Arnold was pleased to have helped. He was more pleased to have escaped his nagging wife for a couple of hours.

  “You had no r
eason to be there, Guv, and you know it.” Krein’s voice was gaining volume, the conversation was taking a turn for the worse.

  “I had every reason to be there, I’ve been part of this investigation …”

  “Since day one, yes, so you keep saying. So give me the names and ages of the victims so far!”

  MacReavie’s mouth opened and shut glibly, he turned to the window and focused on nothing. “How dare you talk to me like that, Krein, I should …”

  “Have me suspended, so you keep saying. Fuck off, can you! I know more about this case, and more about the killer, than anyone else in this country. You know that, Spencer knows that, Falder-Woodes …”

  MacReavie was facing Krein again. He laughed. “Jealousy. That’s what this is. I was getting the glory that you want for yourself.”

  “You pathetic twerp! You belong on Big Brother!” Krein sneered. “Falder-Woodes stood on that stage, he said everything, and he said nothing. He made excuses for the cock-ups, and he didn’t shoulder any blame. There was no reason for that façade, it wasn’t beneficial to the investigations …”

  “What about the bloke who came forward after seeing the news?”

  “He would have come forward anyway after seeing the headlines tomorrow. This was all just a waste of money and time, both better spent on finding the killer instead of making sure your gentle, caring, and well-rehearsed smile was caught on camera!” Krein was spitting the words now, he was furious.