Without Conscience

by Michael Kerr

  WITHOUT CONSCIENCE

  By

  MICHAEL KERR

  Kindle Edition, License Notes

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you are reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Amazon and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this Author.

  Disclaimer

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  Also By Michael Kerr

  DI Matt Barnes Series

  A REASON TO KILL

  LETHAL INTENT

  A NEED TO KILL

  CHOSEN TO KILL

  A PASSION TO KILL

  RAISED TO KILL

  DRIVEN TO KILL

  The Joe Logan Series

  AFTERMATH

  ATONEMENT

  ABSOLUTION

  ALLEGIANCE

  ABDUCTION

  ACCUSED

  The Laura Scott Series

  A DEADLY COMPULSION

  THE SIGN OF FEAR

  THE TROPHY ROOM

  Other Crime Thrillers

  DEADLY REPRISAL

  DEADLY REQUITAL

  BLACK ROCK BAY

  A HUNGER WITHIN

  THE SNAKE PIT

  A DEADLY STATE OF MIND

  TAKEN BY FORCE

  DARK NEEDS AND EVIL DEEDS

  DEADLY OBSESSION

  COFFEE CRIME CAFE

  A DARKNESS WITHIN

  PLAIN EVIL

  DEADLY PURPOSE

  Science Fiction / Horror

  WAITING

  CLOSE ENCOUNTERS OF THE STRANGE KIND

  RE-EMERGENCE

  Children’s Fiction

  Adventures in Otherworld

  PART ONE – THE CHALICE OF HOPE

  PART TWO – THE FAIRY CROWN

  ‘Twill vex thy soul to hear what I shall speak;

  for I must talk of murders, rapes, and massacres,

  acts of black night, abominable deeds,

  complots of mischief, treason, villainies,

  ruthful to hear, yet piteously perform’d.

  ~ SHAKESPEARE

  (Titus Andronicus)

  CHAPTER ONE

  Blink.

  The motionless figure had been totally unaware of time passing, but was now fully alert again. The wristwatch LCD glowed green at the touch of a button. Over forty minutes had ticked by since the predator had hunkered down and slipped into a trancelike state, unmoving behind bushes that crowded one side of the narrow, asphalt-topped path.

  The night and attendant mist united, seemingly conspiring to cloak the still form in cloying darkness, for it to appear as a nebulous shape that could have been a gargoyle carved from granite, eroded and soft-edged from the passage of time and effects of weather, ostensibly engaged in stony introspection.

  As the time drew near, the tension mounted, becoming almost unbearable in an exquisite way, as a rush of adrenaline welled up; a bubbling pressure cooker of heightened emotions that caused muscles to twitch randomly on hearing the muffled slap of trainer-clad feet approaching, growing louder by the second.

  The only thoughts were of Caroline, which brought a vision of her beautiful features to mind; a face framed by flame-coloured hair; a face that was so radiant, even with the treacherous, insincere smile on the perfectly-sculpted lips that spoke honey-coated lies.

  This would be the culmination of a great deal of patient planning and preparation, which was the necessary foreplay to yet another successful kill.

  Pushing up, back scraping against the rough bark of the tree, to flex both legs to relieve aching knees and cramped thigh and calf muscles that complained from having been at rest for too long. The sharpened branch shook in a white-knuckled grip as the moment – and the unwary runner – drew ever nearer.

  Moving forward now, slowly, and with the stealth of a cat, to stop again behind a screen of evergreen foliage.

  This was no dummy run. The waiting was over. She would soon be dead. One small sigh of contentment, and the words, “Thank you Lord for that which I am about to receive,” whispered almost soundlessly. It was Showtime.

  She stopped. Why would she do that? There was no way she could have heard anything, or seen any movement. No matter, she was near enough, standing less than ten feet away and looking about her in the gloom like a skittish thoroughbred filly that was on the verge of bolting. But it was now far too late to escape her fate. Unknowingly, she was just scant seconds from being taken.

  It was still dark when the strident clamour of the alarm clock dissolved a dream in which Karen had been swimming in a warm ocean, chaperoned by several sinuous, glossy-skinned bottle-nose dolphins. She awoke to the reality of another early autumnal day, swathed in bedclothes, not the azure waters of the Caribbean. And unbeknown to her this would not be like any other day, but a truly exceptional and extraordinary one: the one on which she would die. She had been selected. It was not personal. Karen was just unfortunate, in that she loosely resembled someone else, was available, and her status, looks and predictability combined to make her a soft target.

  Sitting up, she threw the duvet back and swung her legs out of bed. Reached out to silence the nerve-jangling sound of the alarm. It was five a.m. On automatic, she went for a pee, then donned her sweats and scuffed Nikes and finger-combed her long, auburn hair back to fix in a ponytail with a bobble as she hurried downstairs and went to the fridge and drank a mouthful of OJ straight from the carton.

  Karen Perry believed in the old saying; ‘No pain, no gain’. Running was her passion. She especially loved the peace and quiet of early morning, which was a time of day she moved through with consummate ease.

  “Guard the house, Russ,” Karen said, bending to stroke the large ginger Tom that had adopted her six months ago and moved in. He was of indeterminate age, had an ugly scar on his nose, and was missing the tip of his right ear, presumably due to some dispute over territory, or maybe in combat for the favours of a local female of the species. Karen thought of him as a fur-clad warrior, so had named him after Russell Crowe, the hunky Aussie actor who had once starred in the epic Oscar-winning movie, Gladiator.

  Closing the door for what would be the last time, Karen skipped down the steps of the Victorian terrace house. It was cold. Patches of thin fog hung listlessly like grey rags in windless air that the waning moonlight penetrated only sporadically. Blurry yellow circles of sodium-vapour-powered street lamps appeared suspended and without support, in semblance of hazy miniature suns in a far-off quadrant of the heavens.

  After stretching, taking deep breaths and running on the spot for a minute, Karen set off down the street towards the northern entrance of the park, which was just a few hundred yards away. Once inside the immense tract of land – that she thought of as a haven from the oppression of urban London sprawl – she ran fast, finding a rhythm as her heart rate increased and her body became filmed in perspiration.

  Karen aimed at completing three miles each morning; a goal only ever curtailed if she slept in, which was a rare event. Her usually pre-dawn activity was more than just exercise, she found it a cleansing and therapeutic occupation, preparing her for the hustle and bustle of the city, which with full daylight would awaken like a wild and noisy beast.

  The lake was covered by a luminescent blanket; a raft of what could have been undulating cigarette smoke. She breathed evenly an
d followed her well-trodden route. There was no sound, and yet a rash of goose pimples rose on her bare arms. She had the sudden sensation of being watched, and so looked about her without slowing, but saw no one. It was just an instinctive feeling, and yet she could not shake the presentiment that she was no longer alone. Should she turn back and head for home? She had never been accosted or felt in danger before. But for some reason she now felt at risk. Was that a figure up ahead? Probably just a vagrant. No need to be irrational. If he approached, she would just run away. No average man could catch her, so unless he was an Usain Bolt type there was nothing to worry about. She squinted through the murk. The figure was no more than a slender, solitary bush. Her thudding heart lessened its drum roll in her ears, and she felt foolish for allowing her imagination to conjure up a false sense of danger.

  Moving on, drawing level with a deep thicket of rhododendron, a sudden, quick movement caught from the corner of the eye attracted her attention. She stopped, more curious than afraid, to stand stock-still, alarm heightening her senses as she looked and listened. After maybe twenty seconds had passed, she shrugged and made to set off again. She was spooked, but commonsense told her that any movement would most likely have been made by a nocturnal animal foraging for food; maybe a fox or badger.

  The figure exploded out from the foliage, rushed forward and grabbed at her, hissing a staccato of expletives as she twisted out of reach.

  Taking off like a greyhound out of a trap, not looking back, kicking her heels, and arms close to her sides and her legs working like the pistons of a well-oiled machine, Karen determined to put as much distance as possible between her and whoever had attempted to assault her.

  Fate in the form of a loose shoe lace intervened. She stood on it, tripped, lost her footing and fell heavily, crashing on to her knees before rolling sideways off the path and down a bank of wet grass, gasping with shock as she broke through the low layer of ground fog and splashed into the icy water beneath it. She gulped a mouthful of air as she surfaced, before a crushing, pinching pain bit into her neck, and her face was pushed back under the water. She thrashed and fought to break free, but to no avail. Holding her breath, she arched her neck back, only for her head to be driven down even deeper. With her heart pounding like a racing engine in her chest, and her lungs aching for air, she realised that someone was attempting to drown her. She was going to be murdered, and there was absolutely nothing that she could do to prevent it happening. Red motes danced behind her eyelids, and she involuntarily, finally had to gasp for breath, knowing that all she would inhale would be the chill lake water. She choked and gagged as the liquid was drawn down her throat. And as blackness deeper than a starless night encroached, numbing her brain, she was dragged up and backwards, to be dumped coughing and spluttering onto the sloping bank.

  An overwhelming sense of relief filled her, even as hands clawed at her sopping sweat pants and pulled them down to below her knees. This was an opportunist rapist, not a killer. She had no strength, was in shock, unable to scream or to do anything. If some lowlife was going to use her to get his rocks off, then so be it. She would have to just suffer it and be glad to escape with her life.

  A hand clamped over her nose and mouth a split second before a paralysing agony made every muscle in her body contract and stiffen in rebuke. Her mind bellowed at the outrage that was being visited upon her. Gloved fingers dug into her throat. She could not breathe; needed to open her mouth to protest and give vent to the terrible pain and fear, but was too stupefied. No sound could escape her compressed windpipe. White noise fizzed in her ears, and an oily film dimmed her vision to wash over her consciousness and enshroud her in what was to become eternal darkness.

  The shadowy figure worked feverishly at the body, pausing every few seconds to snatch glances in every direction, in the manner of a cautious animal at a watering hole, or a beast with its fresh kill, gorging warily, knowing that other predators would in all likelihood be fast approaching, wanting a share of the spoils.

  After no more than sixty seconds, the hunter hurried away, to be enveloped, as if ingested by the mantle of fog.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Detective Chief Inspector Barney Bowen switched the kettle on, before going across the office to sit behind his desk and wait for it to boil. It was eight a.m., and his view from the second-floor office window was of a gunmetal grey sky, fronted by even darker, greyer buildings. The days were short now; high summer no more than a distant memory. Barney’s wife, Anna, wanted to relocate to Portugal or Spain when he retired, to be done once and for all with the harsh British winters. The premise was tempting, but Barney knew that he would most likely die of boredom. He needed purpose to stimulate him and keep him from mentally seizing up. He determined to meet her part way and spend a month or two each year in a rental villa or condo. The last thing he wanted to do was live permanently in an ex-pat community, having to drink bottled water, avoid spicy spik food – that would play havoc with his ulcer – and wonder when the next Basque Separatist bomb would go off. Plus, he could live without moving to a country where the masses floated their boats by watching bulls being speared, tormented and put to the sword. Although that disgusting practise was now being outlawed in some areas.

  “Good morning, boss,” Detective Sergeant Mike Cook said, breezing into the office, to shuck off his old, scuffed, black leather jacket and drape it over the back of a swivel chair.

  “What’s good about it?” Barney said, wishing he was still at home in bed, snuggled up to Anna. The kettle began to whistle. He got up and went over to the small Formica-topped table in the corner of the room to make tea.

  “Everything,” Mike said, watching Barney brew, and then taking the proffered mug over to his desk. “I choose to think of all the people who are worse off than me, and it makes me feel a lucky bastard to be reasonably fit, have a job, and be able to enjoy the luxury of a roof over my head.”

  “Such philosophical wisdom for a copper. I think I’m going to puke,” Barney said before sipping noisily at the strong tea.

  Mike’s phone trilled and they both glared at it with distaste, as if a dog turd had materialised from thin air on the desktop to offend their questionable sensibilities.

  Mike picked up. “Detective Sergeant Cook,” he said, then, “Yes,” and after a pause. “Where?”

  Barney watched as his DS frowned, reached for a ball-point and began to scribble on a notepad. He knew by the look on the younger man’s face that it was bad news. Mike’s cheek muscles were bunching as he gritted his teeth, which was always a sign of trouble.

  “We’ve got another murder in Regent’s Park, boss,” Mike said as he racked the phone. “Same MO as that jogger last month. And in almost the same spot.”

  “Jesus wept,” Barney said before gulping his tea, scalding his mouth and coughing, his chest cramping on the hot liquid. He slammed the mug down on the desktop, got up and retrieved his coat from a hook on the back of the door. “Tell me about it.”

  Mike grabbed his jacket and followed Barney out of the office, “A guy was walking his dog and saw a body lying next to the boating lake at about seven a.m.,” he said, chasing after Barney, who was power-walking toward the lifts. “He didn’t have his mobile, so left the park and waved down a passing patrol car. They accompanied him back to the scene. The uniforms confirmed that it was the body of a young woman, and arranged for all the park’s exits to be covered. A few ginger beers, local vagrants and a few joggers were stopped and questioned.”

  “And?”

  “And no credible suspect as yet. The doer could have been long gone. There’s a CSI team and a pathologist already there.”

  Mike pulled up behind several vehicles, including a crime scene investigators’ Ford transit van. Crime scene tape was strung like bunting from trees to secure the area, and the static and chatter from radios, flashing blue roof lights, the large white incident tent that was already erected, and the overall-clad figures doing a fingertip search along the lake’
s bank combined to disrupt the normal tranquillity, broadcasting that this was now the location of a serious crime.

  Barney and Mike got out of the unmarked Sierra and walked over to where a uniform raised a hand to stop them.

  “Who’s in charge here?” Barney said, brusquely showing the young constable his warrant card.

  “DS Starkey is the Crime Scene Coordinator, sir. Over there,” the PC said, pointing to a burly officer in baggy white Tyvek overalls, who was standing talking to two other technicians; a cigarette dancing between his lips. The trio looked like animated snowmen.

  “The duty pathologist’s in the tent,” Jack Starkey said, recognising Barney and Mike as he began walking towards them, pausing to flick his cigarette end into the glassy water behind him. “It’s Battle-axe Beatty.”

  Barney grinned. He knew Jane Beatty of old, and had long since come to know that her air of aloof detachment was just a professional persona that she pulled on with her jumpsuit and gloves. When not working – and in the company of people that she knew and liked – Jane had a wicked sense of humour and was good fun to be around.

  The whir and flashing of a camera ceased. The forensic photographer exited the tent. Barney and Mike entered to find Jane knelt next to the body, a probe thermometer in hand. She jotted the reading on a form and then stood up, grunted and proceeded to massage the small of her back. The preliminary examination had been completed.

  “We’re going to have to stop meeting like this,” Barney said, smiling at the petite pathologist, whose slim figure and short, blonde hair were obscured by the oversize hooded garment she wore.

  “Christ, if it isn’t Barnaby of the Yard,” she said with a smile. “Are you still taking money under false pretences? I thought they’d have put you out to grass by now.”

  “I go next March,” Barney said. “You’re invited to my retirement bash. We’ll need a pro to carve the meat.”