by Tim Ellis
Behavioural data: Three killings were already linked, but were there anymore? His first kill had been Newcastle, but where had he come from? The witness statements suggested that he wasn’t from Newcastle, but they couldn’t place his accent. Why had he chosen Newcastle? Was the Woodhouse family his first kill?
Forensic data: There was no forensic evidence, which was extremely unusual for someone who had lived in each house for long periods of time. He knew enough about forensics and police procedure to use bleach to destroy any evidence. Forensic officers had even found that he’d dismantled the washbasins, bath and shower plugholes and the U-bend assemblies to remove any hairs, fibres or skin – everything was spotless. He was methodical in destroying any forensic evidence that could identify him, which told a story in itself. Were his DNA or fingerprints already recorded on the national databases?
She had a couple of questions:
Were there any similar crimes that pre-dated Newcastle?
Were there any similar crimes in-between the known murders?
Could face recognition software be used to produce a consensus of his face from the E-fit pictures?
Where had he obtained the identity documents from?
How could they obtain his DNA and/or fingerprints?
The first two questions could be answered through ViCLAS, and she would put the last three questions to DI Parish as possible leads to follow.
‘Ready for lunch?’ Sally Prentice asked.
She was so involved in what she was doing it took a while to register what Sally was asking her.
‘Oh, no thanks. I don’t think I’ll bother with lunch today.’
‘You need a break from the computer. Don’t think I’m monitoring you, but I’ve noticed you’re not taking your five-minute breaks.’
‘I get involved in what I’m doing – the time just flies by.’
‘Yeah well, we don’t want to be carrying you out of here on a stretcher because you’ve gone blind, and your neck and back have locked solid.’
Richards laughed. ‘I don’t want that either. I’ll take the breaks – I promise. I’ll finish what I’m doing and take a walk outside. It’ll be good to get some fresh air.’
‘Make sure you do.’
‘Oh, before you go – which analyst is Runnel Took?’
‘Runnel Took?’ Sally’s forehead creased up. ‘ Strange name! There’s no one here called Runnel Took.’
‘Are you sure?’
She took an A4 stapled booklet from her desk drawer and turned over a couple of pages. ‘No – no Runnel Took on the staff list.’
‘Nothing similar?’
‘No.’
‘Maybe in the past?’
‘Certainly not in the five years I’ve been here. I think with a name like that I’d remember.’
‘Oh, okay.’
‘Where did you get the name from?’
‘I don’t know now,’ she lied. ‘I must have read it wrong somehow. Maybe you’re right – all this computer work is addling my brain.’
‘That must be it. Make sure you take a break,’ Sally said as she headed for the door.
‘I will.’
Once Sally had left, she looked at the name on the analyst’s report again – Runnel Took – no doubt about it. Sally must have got it wrong. Surely an analyst wouldn’t sign their report using a bogus name – would they? What would be the point of that? She had no answer to the conundrum, so she pushed it to the back of her mind.
Next, she began to interrogate the ViCLAS database by creating a number of queries that might throw some light on any similar murders. As she keyed in the first query a small bright red flag dropped down from the top right-hand corner of the screen, began flashing and then disappeared.
Oh God!
What did that mean?
Her heart began beating in time with the flashing little red flag.
What the hell was it?
She looked around, but there didn’t seem to be anyone taking an interest in what she was doing. Her screen didn’t go blank and a flashing message didn’t appear advising her to report to the interrogation room with immediate effect. Armed police didn’t burst through the door, put a hood over her head and drag her away in chains. She hadn’t been identified as a traitor to the cause over the public address system.
No one came for her, but she had a bad feeling about that flashing little red flag.
***
Kowalski banged on the metal roller door. He shouted, ‘Police! Open up.’ And then rattled the metal shutter some more like a demented burglar.
Jerry grabbed his arm. ‘Stop it! You’re like a football hooligan.’
‘That’s what police officers do – make a lot of noise, stamp about, rattle cages, shout loudly and scare the shit out of people.’
‘It’s Bronwyn in there, not a bunch of looters.’ She knocked softly and said, ‘Bronwyn, it’s Jerry. I know you took the keys out of my handbag. I’m not mad. I just want to know that you’re safe.’
There was no response.
‘Toady – get your drill out.’
Toadstone placed the grey plastic case on the ground in front of the door, opened up the lid, took out the battery-powered drill and slid a drill bit into the chuck.
‘I thought you had to have a warrant, or something,’ Jerry said.
‘Did the old woman give you permission to go into the lock-up?’
‘Well yes, but . . .’
‘That’s all we need. You found something illegal and called the cops. The fact that it’s locked now is neither here nor there. The only reason you don’t have access is because someone you trusted stole the keys, but otherwise we’d already be in there doing our job. And besides that, the old woman isn’t going to make a complaint to the Police Complaints Commission, is she?’
Toadstone had the door open within seconds.
Jerry took a step forward.
Kowalski stopped her. ‘Sorry, love. This is a crime scene now.’
‘You think I’m going to stand out here like a prostitute, while you two . . . ?’
‘I suggest we put these on,’ Toadstone said, handing out plastic bags from the lid of his grey drill case like freebies at a Star Trek Convention. One bag contained a paper suit, another a pair of plastic overshoes, a third a mask and the final bag a pair of plastic gloves.
‘I have a skirt on,’ Jerry said.
‘Hoist it up,’ Kowalski advised. ‘Nobody’s looking. Turn round, Toady.’
‘I’m seeing a different side to you today, Raymond Kowalski.’
Toadstone went in first and found the light switch.
Once they were standing inside the lock-up with the door held shut by a piece of wood, Jerry pointed out the map of Britain with the twenty-seven coloured map pins and matching string leading to the photographs of children, cards with details on them, and the clear plastic envelopes with locks of hair inside.
‘Jesus,’ Kowalski muttered.
‘That’s what Bronwyn said.’
‘She was right.’
Jerry pointed to the bottom of one card. ‘Did you notice that?’
‘Eight out of ten?’
‘He gave them marks out of ten.’
Toadstone rushed to the door, opened it and hurried out.
They heard him retching.
‘That’s not all,’ Jerry continued with her arm outstretched. ‘Photograph albums with explicit photographs inside, 100+ videos which we didn’t look at, boxes of children’s clothes but no children, the safe which we couldn’t open . . .’ She noticed that the end of the shelving unit had been swung back and hooked into place, and the green metal door was gaping open like the mouth of a fairground ride.
Toadstone came back in and shut the door. ‘Sorry about that, Sir.’
‘No problem, Toady,’ Kowalski said, patting him on the back and pointing to what he’d missed while he’d been outside puking his breakfast up. ‘Photograph albums containing explicit photographs apparently, 100+ vide
os, boxes of children’s clothes, an unopened safe and . . .’ He glanced at Jerry, ‘. . . an open door?’
‘It was locked when Bronwyn and I were last in here. We couldn’t get it open.’
Kowalski picked up a crowbar. ‘Looks like she found the perfect answer to that problem.’ He peered through the door and down the concrete stairs. Naked light bulbs lit the way. ‘I guess she went down there.’
‘We . . .’
Kowalski grunted. ‘We nothing! Here’s what’s going to happen. Toady you’re going to get a team in here, take everything away, analyse it and have a report on my desk by Friday morning.’
‘Yes, Sir.’
‘I’m expecting a PCSO from Saffron Walden called Amelia Turtledove to arrive at the station at around one o’clock. Inform the Duty Sergeant that she’s to be brought here. Once she’s here, you’re to direct her through that door and down those stairs. I’ll be waiting for her.’
‘Yes, Sir.’
‘I have a bad feeling about my role in all of this,’ Jerry said.
‘You, my love, are going home or back to your office.’
‘But I found . . .’
‘And don’t think we’re not grateful, but your work here is done.’
‘I can come with you . . .’
He laughed. ‘I don’t think so. You have a skirt on. You’re wearing high heels. You’re my wife not a police officer. Didn’t I see a cafe over the road?’
‘Yes, but . . .’
‘Can you imagine the trouble I’d be in if I took a civilian into danger? And my own wife at that? And she got injured? Or killed? And not only that, your parents would blame me. Our children would blame me. I’d become the black sheep of the family . . .’
‘So, you’re not going to let me come with you?’
‘Have I not made myself clear in that respect, Mrs Kowalski? Take that unflattering paper suit off and we’ll go and have lunch at that cafe across the road while we wait for a squad car to arrive and take you back to Woodford Green to collect your car. You can return to your office and let them know that Mrs Birmingham won’t be requiring a Last Will & Testament anymore, and move onto something more mundane and less troublesome.’
He ushered her outside and said over his shoulder, ‘You’ll be all right here on your own, won’t you, Toady?’
‘Yes, Sir.’
‘The man I married must still be in there somewhere,’ Jerry said, as she shrugged out of the paper suit and eased down her skirt. ‘What have you done with him?’
A group of men in a souped-up red Ford Fiesta cat-called, whistled and beeped the car’s horn at her semi-nakedness as they drove past.
‘You should wear tights like other women.’
‘The hold-up stockings are a lot more comfortable, especially in this weather.’
‘You know I can’t let you come with me down those stairs, don’t you?’
‘I know, but it doesn’t mean I’m happy about it.’
‘Let’s go and eat. I’m starving.’
‘What about Bronwyn?’
The corner of his mouth creased up. ‘Don’t you worry about her, she can look after herself.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘I’m sure.’
Chapter Thirteen
Villa il Poeta
Viale della Pineta di Fregene,
Fregenae, Italy
Julian Rechtsanwälte climbed out of the pool and walked to the sun lounger next to Zara’s. He reached down, grabbed the beach towel and began drying himself.
She recalled that his penis had been a decent size, as well as aesthetically pleasing. Neither had he been circumcised, and he kept his pubic hairs trimmed to an acceptable length. He was a bit puny though. She liked her men to have a bit of muscle definition, but Julian didn’t have any.
Maria arrived. And with a retinue of helpers laid out the small buffet on the table for her and Julian. There meal was made up of antipasto all’Italiana with Parma ham; bresaola with fresh rocket and parmesan shavings; linguini with lemon scented lobster; ravioli with artichoke filling, brown butter and sage; pennette with asparagus and smoked salmon; king prawn risotto with brandy roasted red pepper and courgette timbale.
She nodded a thank you to Maria and said to Julian, ‘Help yourself.’
He sat down at the table beneath the parasol, filled a small plate, and poured himself a drink of orange and lime. ‘So, how can we help you further, Miss Roche?’
‘Zara.’
A brief smile crossed his face.
‘I want you to employ a private investigator to find out about the Epsilon Experiments conducted by a Dr Orvil Lorenz for the British Government on five monozygotic twins in the early 1980s in a secret wing of St Winifred’s Maternity Home in Heybridge, Essex. Specific questions I’d like answers to are . . .’
He stopped her mid-flow while he opened his briefcase and took out a notebook and a black and gold Mont Blanc Meisterstück Le Grand ballpoint pen. ‘Please carry on,’ he said.
‘Who was Dr Orvil Lorenz? The British Government is a lumbering dinosaur. Which department was responsible for overseeing these experiments? And who was in charge of that department? The twins in the Epsilon 5 experiment were called Zara and Zachary. Are they still alive? If so, who and where are they now? Who were the other four sets of twins used in the experiments? And what happened to them? Who were the parents of the five sets of twins? What did they do to each twin?’
He read through the list before speaking. ‘And is this private investigator to know of your involvement, Zara?’
‘No. He will report directly to you. You will then report to me in person on the last day of each month.’
‘Have you any preferences regarding a private investigator?’
‘No, but I needn’t tell you that your continued representation of my interests rests on who you choose.’
‘I understand.’
They had nothing in common – he was merely a worker bee. They lapsed into silence, and her mind drifted back to the early hours of the morning. She’d ventured out wearing one of her many disguises, and it didn’t take her long to attract just the sort of man she desired. Men were such fools. His name was Napoleon, and he kept his brain in his scrotal sac. He’d come back to the villa with her, where she’d guided him through the waterside entrance that was unknown to anyone but her. All he wanted was to get into her panties. He didn’t see her produce the syringe and needle from a ledge as they entered the underground suite, but he felt her push the needle into his neck. Before he collapsed onto the floor like a sack of flour, she guided him into her workroom.
After removing her disguise, she used the block and tackle hanging from the ceiling to lift him up and drop him onto the stainless steel table. She then secured his neck, wrists and ankles to the table with steel bands, and shifted the table on its axis, so that Napoleon was in a vertical position.
She showered and prepared herself for him. Not that she had much to prepare. She liked to work naked. It was satisfying watching as they struggled to resist her. In the end, very few succeeded in preventing the physical changes that were programmed into the male genetic code.
Napoleon had opened his eyes. ‘What . . . ?’
‘Hello, my little Emperor Napoleon.’
He licked his lips when he saw her hard tanned body, her firm breasts, her flat stomach leading down to her shaved crotch. ‘You like to play rough, huh?’
‘Very rough.’
His pupils dilated, and his penis gorged itself on his life’s blood. ‘I’m ready,’ he said.
She held up a long shiny scalpel and said, ‘Me too.’
‘Please . . .’
Her eyes narrowed. ‘Don’t fret so, Napoleon. Josephine is here.’ She gripped his throbbing shaft in her left hand and dragged the scalpel through its base. He was certainly well-endowed, she thought.
‘Dear, God!’ he screamed, as his heart pumped his precious blood through the gaping hole where is penis had once been onto her na
ked stomach, which ran down her legs and into the steel catch-tray on the floor.
As she held his withered penis above her head, arched her neck and let the blood drip into her mouth she felt a convulsive orgasm deep inside her.
‘Mmmm! Thank you, Napoleon,’ she said. ‘I knew you wouldn’t disappoint me.’
After another shower, she’d left him dripping into the tray overnight. This morning she’d bottled the eight pints of blood, dismembered the corpse, and disposed of the parts through the industrial meat mincer. Something she had done many times before, and she was always surprised at how a fully-grown man could be reduced to a couple of pounds of mincemeat that was easily flushed down the toilet into the sewers.
Now, she was bored. Julian was about as interesting as a slug munching on a lettuce leaf.
‘You should go now.’
He stood up. ‘Of course. I need to catch my flight. I will return on the last day of the month.’ He picked up his briefcase and began walking towards the house to reclaim his clothes.
‘I’ll look forward to it,’ she mumbled, but she wasn’t looking forward to his next visit at all. And she especially wasn’t looking forward to finding out that she was a genetically modified organism (GMO) – it made her feel like a lab rat.
***
Inside the pink Ralph Lauren cardboard box were a collection of keepsakes and an extraordinarily detailed journal that began on November 28, 2008:
Last night I met a man called Martin Rollins at the Black Light Nightclub. He brought me home in his blue Ford Focus YD51 JBM, but he wouldn’t come in – even though I said he could. He’s so handsome, and I think he’s the one for me. Oh, I know I said the same thing about Ricky, but Martin is so kind and thoughtful. I can’t imagine that he would cheat on me like Ricky did.