A Reason to Kill

by Michael Kerr

  The air-conditioning inside the store chilled her, in a good way. She plucked at the wet material that clung to her skin. Today was the day she intended to start a diet in earnest. She had made a list, and would load the cart with salad, fruit and chicken and fish. She determined to forego full fat cheese and milk and butter, and would opt for skimmed milk and half fat cheese and diet Coke. Getting past the pastries was the problem. The shelves laden with mouth-watering cream cakes seemed to call out to her and broke her resolve. Next week, she thought, quickly depositing a packet of chocolate coated cream-filled éclairs into the cart, deciding to have one last glorious fling and eat whatever the hell she fancied, apart from garlic. If the smell of garlic offended Gary, then she would never eat it again. By Wednesday, her body would have exuded all traces of it from her system. Christ! If this heat wave kept up, she would sweat it out before reaching home.

  She was soaked again as she transferred the calorie-packed carrier bags from the cart into the Honda’s boot. There was a temptation to go back inside the store and stretch out in a freezer cabinet to luxuriate among the frozen vegetables, but she knew that doing so would no doubt be frowned upon.

  At last, she was home. She took her dress and tights off and opened the fridge door. The chill air tightened her skin and hardened her nipples under the damp bra. She undid the enormous garment and tossed it onto the table, then put her meaty arms on top of the fridge and absorbed the coldness, remaining there until her front was numb, before turning to give her back and buttocks the same treat.

  Better, much better. She poured a glassful of Coke, turned on the portable television and sat on a cool pine chair.

  She gasped with her mouth full of Coke, causing her to have a coughing fit as the fizzy cola backed-up and bubbled out of her mouth and nostrils. The image of Gary’s face had appeared on the screen, with the words COP KILLER underneath it.

  Still coughing, retching, her eyes misty with tears, she cranked up the volume.

  “Do you know this man?” the talking head that replaced Gary’s asked. It was Carolyn Kirby, a blond, Madonna type, who could fix an appropriate expression on her face to suit every news item. She was as plausible as the average daytime soap star. Marion believed that as well as words, directions of when to smile, frown and look suitably concerned came up on the smug cow’s auto cue.

  It didn’t make sense or sink in at first. But when it cut to a cop standing outside New Scotland Yard, Marion listened attentively.

  “The man responsible for the cold-blooded shootings of several police officers and members of the public is extremely dangerous, armed, and should not be approached under any circumstances,” the spokesman said. “We have reason to believe that he is mentally ill, and may be undergoing out patient treatment. He is known to cut his wrists, which are scarred from repeated self-mutilation. If you know this man, call our incident room number now,” (it appeared at the bottom of the screen), “or contact any police station.”

  The picture of Gary reappeared. Marion felt traumatised. Too stunned to move a muscle. Unable to react. And yet she was not shocked in the sense that the revelation was beyond belief. It was Gary. Of that there was not a shred of doubt in her mind. The self-mutilation was just an added but unnecessary detail. She had to do something. Other members of the mental health team would also have recognised him, and might already be phoning the police. If she did nothing, then it would appear she was covering for him. The thought of the videotape made her feel sick. No matter, it was of no consequence, not if she told the truth, now, and did the right thing.

  “My name is Marion Peterson. I am a community psychiatric nurse, and the man who was just shown on the television and is wanted for murder, is one of my patients.”

  The officer took her address and phone number. Asked her to hold while he transferred the call to the incident room dealing with the case.

  “Hello, Ms. Peterson. I’m Detective Sergeant Deakin. Thank you for calling. I understand you think you know the man we need to contact.”

  “If I only thought I knew him, I might not have phoned. The picture you showed on the television is of a man called Gary Noon. I can give you his address and phone number.”

  “Please do,” Pete said, and wrote down the details. “We need to talk to you, Ms. Peterson.”

  “You are talking to me.”

  “Er, yes. I mean interview you.”

  “You’ve got my address.”

  “We’ll be with you shortly.”

  “I don’t doubt that,” Marion said before hanging up.

  Tom contacted Jack McClane at home and informed him that he was deploying an Armed Response Unit. They had received another call from a consultant psychiatrist, who verified Marion’s identification of the suspect. Pete Deakin and Marci Clark were sent to the address at Hornsey to interview Marion.

  Within thirty minutes, the block of flats in Putney was ringed. Plainclothes officers went door-to-door and extricated the tenants quietly and swiftly, to lead them away from the immediate area.

  “I’ve just phoned you lot,” an elderly woman clutching a writhing cat to her chest said to the DC who was escorting her to safety. “It’s the man in the flat opposite mine who was on the news.”

  Tom phoned Gary Noon’s number. It just kept ringing. He was either out or not answering. A neighbour told them that Noon drove a black Mondeo, and that if he had been at home, it would have been in the residents’ car park. It was not.

  Tom made the decision to hold off and secure the area. If Noon returned he would be arrested as he exited his car. The area was sealed. The other tenants were relocated to a nearby council-run day care centre for the duration. DVLA were contacted, and although outside normal office hours, Tom had all the details of the Mondeo and verification of ownership within ten minutes. The registration, make, model and colour were circulated to all units in the Metropolitan area.

  It was a waiting game. Tom gave Matt a call and arranged to send a car. Matt gave a location a couple of minutes walk from the hotel, to be picked up at. By the time he arrived at the scene, every wheel was in motion. Tom briefed him.

  “He won’t come back,” Matt stated.

  “If he hasn’t seen a newspaper or the TV, he might,” Tom said.

  “Wishful thinking. How long are you going to give it?”

  “Until midnight. If he doesn’t show by then, we’ll go in.”

  “Go in now,” Matt said. “You’ve got him cold if he does turn up. He won’t know we’ve been inside.”

  Tom saw the logic and gave the leader of the ARU the green light.

  Within a minute of the flat door being forced open, the all clear was given.

  Tom, Matt and two DCs entered and searched the place. Nothing incriminating was apparent.

  “The techies will no doubt find hair and fibres to tie him to the crime scenes,” Tom said.

  “That’ll be helpful if it ever gets to court. We know who he is,” Matt said. “What we need to know is where he is. If he had an address book, it’s gone. There are no clues as to family or friends. Nothing. I think he’s cleared out.”

  Matt was standing in the lounge in front of what looked to be a lit and lidded fish tank on top of a credenza. Instead of water and goldfish, it had sand, a bark tunnel, and a few large pebbles on the bottom. He put his face up to the glass. It was warm. Maybe there was a lizard or a small snake inside. He slipped the catch that secured the lid, lifted it up and reached in. He intended to flip the piece of bark over, which was the only place for anything to hide, or be hidden from sight. As he gripped the Nissan hut-shaped length of cork and raised it up off the sand, a brown blur of movement shot from the end of it and fastened onto his wrist like a living bracelet.

  “Shit!” He jerked backwards and sucked in air at the sudden, hot, needle sharp pain. Gripping the hairy mass with his other hand, he pulled it off, tossed it back into the tank and slammed the lid down.

  “What the hell
was that?” Tom asked.

  “A fucking spider the size of a dinner plate,” Matt exaggerated. “The bastard just bit me.”

  The puncture marks on the inside of his wrist were oozing twin streams of blood.

  “It’s a tarantula, or to be more precise, a mygalomorph,” DC ‘Spike’ Connelly said, bending to peer through the glass at the spider, which was poised with two of its front legs raised, ready to bite again should it be threatened.

  “Is it poisonous?” Matt asked, watching as the spider dropped down and leisurely retreated back under the bark.

  “Not really,” Spike said. “But I’d get some antiseptic on it. Who knows what’s in the junk it injects into its food prey? Some sort of paralysing agent.”

  “Marvellous,” Matt said.

  “Could be a lot worse, guv,” Spike added. “The guy might have had a white-back.”

  “What’s that?”

  “An Australian spider you don’t want to get bitten by. The venom rots the flesh. There’s no cure. They usually have to amputate the infected limb.”

  “You an expert or something?”

  “No, guv. But I kept one of these little guys and studied spiders in general when I was a kid. The one that just chewed on you is a Mexican Red Kneed. They’re quite docile. It must be hungry.”

  “What do they eat, apart from DIs?” Tom asked, unable to suppress a grin.

  “Mainly insects. This one has been fed on crickets. You can see a few wing parts and legs on the sand.”

  The phone rang as they filed out of the flat. Tom went back in and answered it. The line was being monitored. The call would be traced.

  “What’s your name, cop?”

  “Detective Chief Inspector Bartlett. Who am I talking to?”

  “You know who I am, Bartlett.”

  “We need to speak to you, Gary.”

  “I don’t need to speak to you. Is Barnes there?”

  “Yes, but¯”

  “Put him on, or I end the call.”

  Tom motioned to Matt, mouthed that it was Noon, and handed him the receiver.

  “Barnes.”

  “Hi, cop. How’re you doing?”

  “On the mend. Looking forward to meeting up with you.”

  “Believe me, you don’t want to meet me again. Experiences are best learned from, Matt. You were one lucky son of a gun at the bungalow.”

  “So why the call?”

  “To deal. If you make sure Simon goes to a good home, I might not kill you.”

  “Who the fuck is Simon?”

  “My tarantula. You must have noticed him while you were searching the flat.”

  “Yeah. He’s almost as crazy as you, Noon. He bit me.”

  “You’ll live.”

  “Can’t say the same for Simon. I squished the ugly little brute.”

  The line went silent for a few seconds.

  “You just made a very big mistake, Barnes. I was prepared to cross you off my list. Now you get a gold star next to your name for special treatment.”

  “You’re full of shit, Noon. When you surface, we’ll pick you up. There’s a hutch at Broadmoor reserved and waiting for you.”

  “Dream on, Barnes. You think I didn’t plan for the day when you pigs got lucky? You’re looking for someone who no longer exists.”

  Matt didn’t get chance to reply. The connection was terminated. They didn’t get a trace.

  “What did he want?” Tom asked.

  “A deal. He said he’d let me live if I found Simon the spider a good home.”

  “And you told him you’d topped it.”

  “Yeah. He got a little sulky.”

  “It might have been a bad idea...releasing the picture of him.”

  “It wasn’t. We know who he is. And if he was paranoid before, he’ll be trying to run away from his own shadow now. It’s about containment. We’ve disrupted his life and forced him to take evasive action. While he tries to stay hidden, we can build a cast iron case against him. I like the idea of him already being a prisoner in his own mind.”

  “What do you suppose he’ll do now?”

  “Stay low for a while, change his appearance, make plans to do a bunk out of the area, and then try to kill me to prove a point, before he moves on.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  BETH was invited to attend the address at Hornsey and be present when Marion Peterson was interviewed. Tom was using all the ammunition he’d got.

  It was slow going. Marion confirmed that the wanted murderer was a twenty-six-year-old man, who was in simple terms, schizoid. She was reluctant to talk about him in any detail.

  “It’s the same as doctor/patient confidentiality,” Marion said, directing the comment to Beth. “Surely you realise that I’m not at liberty to discuss his mental health or ongoing treatment.”

  There was more to it than that. Beth thought that the nurse’s manner was too defensive. Marion was looking slightly down to a point somewhere near Beth’s chin, avoiding eye contact. She was almost squirming in her seat. That in itself was a ‘tell’, in that the woman was hiding something, and was prepared to lie.

  “Do you know exactly what Gary Noon has done?” Beth asked.

  A muscle began to twitch in Marion’s right cheek. She was under a great deal of self-imposed stress.

  “I saw the news,” she replied.

  “And did it surprise you?”

  “Of course it did. I thought that Gary was being well managed. He responded to his treatment and had never shown any aggression towards anybody but himself.”

  Beth said nothing for ten long seconds. The silence was like static in air that needed to be broken and released by a storm. Tom had given Beth the go ahead to push Marion. Pete Deakin and Marci Clark had got nothing from the woman, apart from the fact that Noon was one of her out patients.

  Beth continued. “I think you should know that Gary is a professional killer; a hitman. He provides a cold-blooded service, and has murdered at least ten people, that we know of, including an elderly female patient and nurse at a clinic, and a young couple who had a baby. God knows how long he’s been doing it. He may well have killed dozens or even scores of people. I need to know everything about him that you do, or others may die.”

  “He’s a patient for Christ’s sake!” Marion shouted. “I didn’t believe he was capable of what you say he’s done. This will come as a shock to all of the support team. If we had thought for a second that he presented a real danger to himself or anybody else, he would have been sectioned under the Mental Health Act.”

  “You were his main contact, Marion. I believe your judgement was clouded. Were you fucking him?”

  Marion sat bolt upright and looked Beth straight in the eye. It was a gaze comprising anger and guilt and fear in equal parts. The shock tactics revitalised her.

  “You have absolutely no right to even suggest that,” she said. “I want you to leave, now. I have nothing more to say to you. I phoned the police with what I knew, and you are insinuating that I am in some way involved. Get out of my house.”

  Beth stayed put. “Would you rather everything came out inchmeal and ended up making it look as though there was some level of complicity between yourself and a homicidal psychopath? Because we will get to the truth, Marion.”

  Marion thrust out her bottom lip and closed her eyes. Her expression remained fixed for long seconds and then visibly collapsed. Her whole demeanour altered. The dam had given way. She lowered her head and began to sob.

  Beth looked across to the two cops. They read her unspoken request.

  “We’ll be outside,” Pete Deakin said.

  Beth nodded.

  Nothing more was said for awhile. Marion regained a little composure, wiped at her eyes with pudgy fingers. Took a wad of tissues from a box on the table and noisily blew her nose. Lit a cigarette before asking, “What’s your first name?”

  “Beth.”

  “Well,
Beth. I’ve only knowingly made one truly lousy mistake in my career, and it had to be with Gary Noon. I’m in deep shit.”

  “Maybe not,” Beth said. “The objective is to apprehend Noon, not to cause you any unnecessary grief. All I’m here for is to find out what makes Noon tick.”

  Marion looked about the room. “I’ve lived here forever,” she said, digressing. “This was my late mother’s house. I’ve never had a life, because I’ve always been a fat, unattractive cow.”

  “I wouldn’t say¯”

  “Don’t, Beth. You need to have walked a few miles in my shoes to be qualified to say anything about what I am or aren’t. I just want you to have a little background; to know that I’ve never felt loved or wanted or happy. Not for one single second, until I got the hots for Gary. He seemed vulnerable, like me in a way. It just happened. It wasn’t planned, and it didn’t seem wrong…at first.”

  She paused.

  “Go on, Marion. Finish it.”

  “He set me up, I think. He secretly took video of what we did. When we had an argument a week later, he hit me, and then showed me the tape.”

  “So there was a shift of control?”

  “Yes. But even then, he fooled me. Maybe I wanted to be duped. He said he had only filmed us to protect himself. I made the decision to accept that his illness would account for that. He made me believe that he really cared for me. I thought I might at last have something I’ve never had; companionship and a love life. Somebody who could accept and want me for who I am.”

  “Is that it, Marion?”

  “Yes. I had no idea he was doing anything criminal. He portrayed a lonely, troubled individual. It seems inconceivable that he was capable of leading such a complex and separate life. I should have recognised him for what he is.”

  “Do you think he might contact you?”

  “I doubt that very much. I’m obviously of no further use to him.”

  “You do realise that I’ll have to tell the officer in charge of the case everything you’ve told me, Marion. But I see no reason why what you did should be made public knowledge. Though I obviously can’t guarantee confidentiality.”