by Michael Kerr
“What’s your name, son?” Barney said to a young PC as he and Mike walked along the landing to the top of the stairs.
“PC King, sir.”
“First name?”
“Steven, sir.”
“No kidding?”
“No kidding, sir, but spelt with a V, not a P.”
“Well, with a name like that, this sort of horror shouldn’t faze you.”
The young cop said nothing, but looked as sick to the gut as Barney and Mike felt.
“Is this floor secure, Steven?”
“Yes, sir. Only two flats. And I’m advised that the other one is unoccupied at the moment.”
“Good. Stay outside the door. Only the forensic team and the pathologist are to be allowed in for the time being.”
“Right, sir,” Steven said, wishing that he was on nights, patrol, or preferably off duty and at home with his wife, watching something banal on TV.
Out on the pavement, Barney and Mike waited for Jane, not going back into the house when the CSI team arrived. Barney made two calls; one to Clive Pearce, to ruin his day, and the other to Mark Ross, to let him know that the Park Killer had indeed murdered Larry Holden.
“Did he suffer?” Mark said, now at home, still unable to contact Amy on either of her numbers, punching them up every couple of minutes, cursing her for purposely staying incommunicado. He had phoned Sentinel Security, but Amy was not at work.
“It was as bad as it gets,” Barney said. “Holden died hard. I want you to go into siege mode. I’ll have armed officers at your place within the hour. The bastard left a note, asking me, by name, to give you and Amy his regards, and to let you know that he intends to look you both up when he has time.”
“Thanks for calling, Barney. I can’t reach Amy by phone. Could you arrange for officers to swing by her place, and get back to me? I’m going crazy here with worry.”
“I’ll have the Richmond police check her out, then give you a bell. Just sit tight, Mark.”
As Barney pocketed his phone, the pathologist arrived, stepped out of her car and walked over to where he and Mike were waiting.
“Tell me about it, Barnaby,” Jane said, nodding to Mike as she stopped in front of them. She was already in her jumpsuit, and carrying her familiar green case.
“We’ve got a middle-aged white male tied to a chair in the kitchen of a first-floor flat. The only obvious injury is that his face has been removed. The offender is without any doubt the Park Killer.”
“No stakes this time?” Jane said.
Barney shook his head. “Looks as if he made do with just a knife.”
“Let’s go up and see what we’ve got,” Jane said, reaching into a pocket and withdrawing two packets; one containing surgical gloves, the other, elasticised overshoes. “Are you any closer to catching this creep?” she said as they entered the house.
“It’s looking touch-wood-good, Jane,” Barney said, tilting his hand back and forth in a so-so gesture. “We’ve got an eye witness who he attacked. She got away unscathed. Caroline Sellars is sure that the description fits a guy who works at the Beeb. It should only be a matter of time now.”
Half an hour later they were back outside on the street.
“He had only been dead for a very short period of time,” Jane said. “Probably just a few minutes before your officers arrived at the scene. There is a deep penetration wound to his right kidney that would have resulted in significant internal haemorrhaging, and of course his face was cut and ripped off. That’s all I can tell you until after I do the autopsy.”
“Thanks, Jane.”
“I’ll phone you with my preliminary findings when I finish up. I know the written reports baffle you.”
“True. There’s always too much medical jargon in them for an old dinosaur like me to digest,” Barney said, taking out a slim, leather-bound notebook, jotting down his mobile number and handing it to the pathologist.
The sky was darkening prematurely, heavy with the promise of more rain as Mike jinked the car through the official vehicles that littered the street.
“Find a pub, Mike, I need a drink,” Barney said, once they had pulled out on to the main road. “I’ve got a taste at the back of my throat that I can’t get rid of.”
“Right, boss,” Mike said, scanning the road ahead. He still felt nauseous. The sight of the faceless man had etched itself into his psyche, to become yet another hideous, unwanted, but permanent image that he knew would haunt him for the rest of his days. He had seen numerous atrocities during his years on the force; lives extinguished by accident, suicide and murder. But out of the many, only a very few of the most appalling equalled this outrage. He knew that in the dark, alone, he would have to deal with it a thousand times. In that twilight zone between sleeping and waking, he would see those eyes turn to him; watch the exposed, red jaw muscles flex, and the broken and blood-stained teeth come apart. The seated corpse, in the manner of a demonic, grotesque ventriloquist’s dummy, would begin to talk. If there was a God, Mike hoped that his prayers would be answered, and that he would never have to hear the words that the apparition might say.
“There, Mike, that’ll do,” Barney said, pointing to a rundown looking public house.
Mike pulled away from his disturbing thoughts and parked in the side street next to the Ship Inn, which would have been better named the Shit Inn, judging by the interior, which warranted a government health warning.
They settled in a corner booth, the faux leather upholstery of the bench seats ripped and grimy. The tape that covered the tears was lifting, and it escaped neither of them that it was almost identical to the duct tape that had bound the corpse of Larry Holden. As they both reflected on the day’s events, an antiquated jukebox churned out an equally dated and eclectic mix of crackling and less than golden oldies.
The shrill tone of Barney’s phone was a welcome interruption that they were both glad of.
“Bowen,” he said.
“It’s Gary, boss,” DC Gary Shields said, his voice full of urgency.
“If it isn’t good news, hang up,” Barney said.
“We’ve identified the Park Killer. His name is Robert Cain. He works for the BBC, and he drives a Toyota.”
“How sure are you?” Barney said.
“Caroline Sellars confirms that she has run across him at work. And Tina Spencer positively identified him from a photo out of his personnel file. It’s him.”
“Good work, Gary. Do we have an address?”
“Yeah, boss. It’s a terrace property south of the river, in Lambeth. Louise and Geoff are en route now, to stake the place out till you jack up an operation.”
Barney made a note of the address and told Gary to instruct the two DCs to stay well back and observe only.
As Mike drove away from the pub, hoping that the vinegary pint would not give him dysentery, Barney made calls. He arranged for a response unit to roll, then put Pearce in the hot seat, giving him a chance to call the shots.
“You’re a hundred and ten percent sure this time?” the Chief Superintendent said.
“It’s him, Clive. And he’s just topped the reporter who did the interview with Mark Ross. We need to move, now, to stop him killing again.”
“How do you want to play it?” Clive said, with no intention of allowing the buck to stop on his desk. As a kid at parties he had never been the one left standing without a chair to sit on when the music stopped, or been caught holding the parcel. If there was credit to be had, then he would grab it with both hands, but if things went pear-shaped, then he made sure that he always had a fall guy to feed to the wolves.
“There are two DCs on the way to keep a watch on his house. And an armed response unit will soon be there. I want a tech team in the house next door with listening devices. We need to establish whether he’s in or not. He isn’t at work. He phoned in sick over a week ago. I don’t want to force entry and scare him off.”
“Good thinking, Barney. Play it how you see it. You ha
ve my backing.”
Barney managed a wry smile. Yeah, verbally. Backing that would be denied if the shit started to grow wings and take flight. “Only problem I foresee is if he thinks the girl that he attacked in Chiswick eyeballed him,” he said. “He may have already quit the house and ditched his car.”
“Let’s hope not. Keep me posted, Barney,” Clive said before ending the call.
“Worm wriggled off the hook, eh, boss?” Mike said with a smirk on his face.
“Yeah, he’s got more moves than a pole dancer.”
After the sight of the faceless corpse, Mike had thought he may never smile or laugh again. But as an image of the balding Chief Super wearing only a posing pouch and gyrating to Simply the Best in a Soho dive took shape in his mind, he found that his sense of humour was still intact.
“Jesus, boss, what a thought,” he said.
They both cracked up at Pearce’s expense.
“He’d have to keep the day job,” Barney said, wiping tears of laughter from his eyes. “I don’t think he’d make a living at it.”
“I don’t know,” Mike said. “He thinks he’s a mover and a shaker. He might go down well at rest homes for the elderly, and blue rinse hen nights.”
Barney sniggered. “Don’t underestimate the more mature women, Mike. Although they would prefer a young guy like you, with a bit of muscle and a firm arse.”
“Don’t, boss,” Mike howled. “I’ll have to stop the car if you keep this up.”
When composed, Barney made one more quick call, to update Mark with what he knew about Robert Cain, and the method he had employed to kill Holden. Just the telling of what had gone down drained all the humour from him.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
After finishing up with Larry, Bobby took a quick, tepid shower, then dressed. He rewound the film, removed it from the camera and placed it back in the plastic canister, to stand it on the table in front of the corpse, on top of a quickly scribbled note, then left the flat. Apart from a lone teenager on a skateboard, the street outside was empty, and with his knee screaming out for relief, he limped across it to a large double-fronted house directly opposite. It had also been converted into flats. Taking his time to ascend the stairs, he knocked on the first door he came to. No answer.
“They’re not in,” a reedy voice erupted from the partly open door of the next street-facing flat, making his heart skip a beat as he whipped his head sideways to face the speaker.
Dorothy Dwyer missed nothing. She monitored all comings and goings, spending much of each day in a recliner chair next to the bay window, feet up and fervently knitting, yet vigilant. She had watched the stocky man in the baseball cap climb out of his car and, favouring one leg, limp along the pavement to enter the house opposite. And when he reappeared some time later, she was intrigued to know what his business might have been. He didn’t go back to his car, instead he made a beeline for the property that she was watching him from, to vanish from sight and presumably enter the house.
Dorothy was far too feisty and inquisitive for her own good. She had scorned the air-raid shelters as a youngster during the Blitz, to sleep in her own bed, as undaunted as her parents were by the sound of exploding bombs or antiaircraft fire. And still, now in her nineties and just a few months younger than the Queen, whom she had always referred to as Liz, she was afraid of nothing, having determined that the good Lord would take her into His fold when He was good and ready, and not a moment before.
“That’s nice to know,” Bobby said, moving as quickly as his crocked leg would allow, pushing the old woman back into her flat, shutting the door behind him and locking it.
“There’s no need to hurt me, young man,” Dorothy said. “You’re welcome to wait here till Brian and Marjory get home. Would you like a nice cup of tea? You look pale.”
Bobby paused, his hand on the knife in his pocket. The old girl reminded him of photographs of his maternal grandmother, who had died when he was three, and who he had no actual memory of. Only stories about her, told to him by his mum, had given her a semblance of reality in his mind.
“Tea would be nice,” he said. “I’ll need to stay here for an hour or two. Then I’ll leave.”
“Are you in trouble?” Dorothy said.
“No. Others are. But you’ll be safe. I’m not going to rob or harm you.”
“That’s a relief, son. My name is Dorothy, what’s yours?” she said, thinking that his dark eyes were sincere, and that his voice held conviction.
“Bobby,” he said.
“Well, Bobby, I’ll put the kettle on. Would you like something to eat?”
“No, er, Dorothy. A cup of tea will be just fine.”
See, I’m not some out of control killer, Dr Mark; he thought as he relaxed in Dorothy’s chair by the window and looked out, unseen, well back from the thick net curtains. You would expect me to kill this old woman. Wrong. I have no reason to. I choose to let her live as testament to my humanity. I have the capacity to be merciful. Death is mine to mete out as I see fit, to those who further my undertaking, and to those, such as yourself, who would malign me and bear me malice.
Within two minutes, police cars streamed into the street from both ends, the flashing blue of their roof lights reflecting off other vehicles and house windows as they gathered below him like so many ants.
Dorothy put the tea on a small occasional table next to him, then pulled up another chair, to sit by his side and watch the frantic activity. “Are they looking for you, Bobby?” she said.
“Not yet, Grandma,” he said, unaware of how he had addressed her. “But they soon will be.”
Driving her Nissan through the failing afternoon light, Amy switched on the headlights, as the transition from day to early evening took place.
She had switched her mobile phone off, and was listening to a Neil Diamond CD: The Movie Album - As time goes by. The singer’s roast almond voice helped her to put aside the sense of guilt that she felt. Mark would be angry, and worried at not being able to contact her. She was compromising an already perilous situation, but would not stay on the outside looking in. There was no way that she could bring herself to employ common sense; to sit back and hope that Mark would not be the killer’s next victim. There was strength in numbers. Together they could watch each other’s backs. And anyhow, the psycho had other fish to fry. It was too ludicrous to even contemplate his actually turning on his pursuers.
As she pulled into the car park and stopped next to JC, Mark ran out to meet her. She turned the CD off and cut the lights and engine as he opened the car’s door.
“Amy―”
“My case is on the back seat, Mark,” she said. “If you’re going to lecture me, wait till we get inside.”
He leaned forward and kissed her on the lips, to then stand back and smile before opening the rear door to pick up her soft, leather suitcase.
“So, let’s get in out of the cold,” he said as she frowned at the unexpected warm reception.
“No reading me the riot act for being a stroppy bitch, then?” she said as they climbed the stairs to the flat.
“Would it do any good, or change anything?”
“No.”
“No point in kicking a dead horse, then. You know that you’ve raised the stakes. I don’t have to lay it out for you.”
“That’s right. I feel much better now that I’m here with you. Let’s have a brandy and get warm.”
“You’ll need a brandy for more than warmth,” he said, entering the flat, depositing the case behind the sofa and following her through to the kitchen.
“Why?”
As he poured two large measures of Remy Martin, Mark told her of the day’s events, which had culminated with the death of Larry Holden.
“He killed Larry just because of the article?” Amy said.
“Yeah. I think he cut his face off while he was still alive. He left a note for Barney, asking him to give us his regards and tell us that he planned to visit with us.”
&
nbsp; Amy drained her glass in three gulps, but the warmth of the alcohol failed to stop a chill run up and down the length of her spine.
“There are two armed cops outside in the car park,” Mark said, going for the bottle and refilling their glasses. “They’ll stop him if he decides to make a house call. And they have a description of him. He’s no longer anonymous.”
“Who is he?”
“A nobody, Amy. A sound engineer who must have fixated on Caroline Sellars at the BBC. His name is Robert Cain. The guy is just a nonentity who has flipped his lid and will more than likely burn out like a fire starved of oxygen.”
“It’s as good as over, then?”
“No. He won’t go back to his place. He’s on the loose, making decisions on the hoof. He could be lying low anywhere, or be on his way here, now. Whatever Larry knew, he’ll know.”
“He may believe that the girl he attacked didn’t get a good look at him. He could be at home and feeling safe; maybe watching the telly, or microwaving himself a limp lasagne.”
“I wish. He’s too smart to take the risk.”
“What do you think he’ll do?” Amy said as she reached out for and gripped Mark’s hand.
“Try for you or Caroline. It won’t take him long to look up your address. We know that he has your name. Larry won’t have been able to hold anything back.”
“You think he’ll also know where Caroline is?”
“Maybe. If he doesn’t already, then he’ll find out.”
“How? Her boyfriend, Simon Payne?”
“No. He would credit the police with more sense than to let Payne know where she is. He now knows that Barney is in charge of the investigation, so the weak link is Barney, or one of his team.”
“Does Barney realise that?”
“I don’t know. He may have thought of it, but I’ll give him a call and check.”
Bobby chuckled as the Mondeo arrived and the middle-aged cop and his sidekick stepped out. He recognised the DCI from the newspapers; Barney Bowen, Barney the Bear, an old and tired looking grizzly, out of his league with this case. He watched the two plainclothes pigs enter the house and felt a twinge of disappointment at not being able to see their reaction to his handiwork.