by Michael Kerr
Sipping his tea, he enjoyed the show. The forensic team arrived and filed into the house, looking like snowmen dressed in their white overalls. Barney the Bear and his deputy dawg were now back outside, both looking suitably ashen. Another car pulled up and a blonde climbed out of it, also wearing overalls and carrying a bulky, green case. She talked to the cops for a minute or two and then went into the house with them. At a guess, he pegged her as being a pathologist. He had always enjoyed the early series of Silent Witness on the box. The sight of Amanda Burton almost caressing stiffs and pronouncing them as being ‘well nourished’ corpses, was a turn-on. He just wished that the sexy actress had smiled more often. She came across as a miserable cow. He knew what would put a smile on her face, but had enough on his plate at the moment, without turning another fantasy into reality. Knowing that he could, if he wished, was enough.
Finishing his tea, he reluctantly got up and moved away from the window. The uniforms were spreading out like a dark rash, going door-to-door to interview neighbours, obviously to ask them if they had seen any strangers in the vicinity. That several of the boys in blue had gathered around his car, was significant. It confirmed that they knew it belonged to him, and were therefore aware of his identity.
“Come on, Grandma,” he said to Dorothy, helping her up with a firm grip under her right forearm, to lead the old dear through to the bedroom.
Dorothy said nothing as he taped her arms behind her back. And she stretched out on the bed as directed while he bound her ankles together and finally fixed more tape over her mouth. He then gently arranged her on top of the patchwork quilt with her head on the pillow.
“When the police have left, then so will I,” he said. “Just try to relax. When I’m out of the area I’ll give them a call and you’ll be set free. Okay?”
Dorothy nodded. She sensed that the man had the capacity to be as cruel or kind as he chose to be. And that he might well be unstable. The large police presence was telling. They were not responding to a burglary or minor crime. Intuition told her that someone across the street had died at this man’s hands. She was also positive that if she remained quiet and still, then he would just leave. He had no reason to hurt her. And she would not give him one.
The police came, knocked at the door, waited, knocked again and then moved on. An hour later only three police cars and the forensic team’s van remained in the street. It was time to go. He left by the rear entrance, opened a gate that led out on to a narrow alley, and when satisfied that the coast was clear, limped away. Fifteen minutes later he had broken into an Astra, hot-wired it and was heading towards his own house. He had used the time at Dorothy’s place to plan his next move. He needed to outthink the enemy. They would circulate a flyer of him to all airports, ferry terminals and railway stations. He had to act as if every copper on the planet was looking for him. Now was the time to find a safe refuge. He stopped once, swapped plates with an old Ford – that appeared to be falling apart from a terminal case of rust – and phoned 999 to alert the filth to Dorothy’s situation.
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
DC Louise Callard knocked at the door and stepped back, clipboard in hand, making sure that she was to a side and not obstructing the hidden marksman’s line of sight.
The tech team in the house next door to Cain’s had established that if anyone was in the house, then they were either dead or asleep and breathing very shallowly. The sensitive equipment was picking up nothing but the electric hum of household appliances and the ticking of a clock.
Louise knocked again, rapping her knuckles on the grime-covered glass panel of the door.
“Okay, Lou, walk away, now,” Barney said into the lip mike he was wearing.
Louise put her hand up to the ear piece as her boss’s voice almost deafened her, then with a small sigh of relief, she gladly obeyed the order.
Barney was disappointed. He had hoped that Cain would have returned home and been caught cold. The OIC of the ARU was looking to him for a decision. Barney’s choices were to either go in, or stake the place out. If the suspect returned, then the street would be sealed in seconds. Going in could not jeopardise his capture. And they needed to see inside the house.
“Do it,” Barney said to the officer in charge of the Armed Response Unit.
The house was entered and pronounced clear within less than sixty seconds, and Barney, Mike, Eddie, Louise, and Gary moved in to search the premises for clues.
Barney entered the bedroom and surveyed it. His eyes were drawn to the shadowy back wall of an alcove that was plastered with what seemed to be hundreds of photographs, all of Caroline Sellars. He also found a copy of Mark Ross’s book on top of the bedside cabinet. Any lingering doubts as to whether Robert Cain was the Park Killer were dispelled there and then.
Downstairs in the kitchen, Eddie discovered wood shavings in a swing top waste bin. There was also a newspaper picture of the psychologist pinned to the fridge door by a magnet. They had everything but the killer; almost.
Lifting the lid of a chest freezer, Eddie glanced at the sparse contents, noticing handwriting on adhesive labels that were affixed to three freezer bags that held roughly oval-shaped contents.
“Boss! Boss!” Eddie shouted, recoiling as he realised what the unsavoury items he had found were.
Barney and the others converged on the kitchen from other areas of the house.
“What is it?” Barney said to his shocked looking DC.
Eddie pointed to the open freezer, and Barney stepped up to it, looked in, reached down and let the heat of his fingers dissolve the fine coating of frost that almost obscured the writing beneath the layer of white crystals.
The information on each of the labelled bags was as chilling as the frigid air that rose to numb his face: Elaine Stanton 4/9/20, Karen Perry 2/10/20, and Judy Prescott 6/11/20. It didn’t take Sherlock Holmes to work out that the contents were the solid frozen hearts of the killer’s victims.
“Get the forensic boys out here, Mike,” Barney said. “This whole house needs processing. And arrange for someone from the coroner’s office to deal with these,” he added, closing the lid down to preserve the physical evidence.
On the way out, Barney’s mobile rang.
He checked the caller ID. “Yes, Mark,” he said.
“Amy’s here with me, now. She’s safe. But that’s not why I called you. I think Cain will lock-on to you or one of your squad. He’s a stalker by nature, and so it seems highly likely that he’ll find out where Caroline is from someone who knows her location.”
“And just how do you suppose he’ll do that?”
“I believe he phoned me from Larry’s to set the ball rolling; to ensure that Larry was found quickly. He’ll have been near the scene, waiting and watching to eyeball who turned up.”
“We’re at Cain’s place now. You might want to see it, Mark. He has a shrine to Caroline. There’s a wall covered in photographs of her, as well as a copy of your book, and even a picture of you stuck on his fridge door. And we found the hearts of the three female victims in his freezer.”
“I don’t need to see it. We already know who he is and what he’s capable of doing. Just advise your officers that they are in as much danger as Caroline, Amy or me. Be aware that his priority is to find out where Caroline is stashed, and that anyone who knows her whereabouts is a potential victim.”
“For Christ’s sake, Mark. All told there are dozens of detectives working on this case.”
“He could single out any one of them, or you, Barney. Remember, he’s focused on one main objective. His obsession will drive him to take whatever measures he has to, to find her.”
“Thanks for the warning, Mark. I’ll get my team together and run it past them.”
Parked on the busy road within sight of the entrance to his street, Bobby waited until the Mondeo nosed out, to speed away, closely followed by a dark blue Xantia. He tailed them, keeping his distance as they sped through the early evening traffic. He had no real n
eed to keep them in sight. He knew that Barney the Bear and his minions were heading back to base, to plot further against him.
DC Gary Shields listened as his boss brought the roomful of detectives up to speed on the case, before telling them of the Yank psychologist’s warning, that they may be in personal danger from Robert Cain. Gary didn’t buy it. He thought it was a knee-jerk reaction, bordering on scare-mongering. He found it completely outlandish to even consider that a wanted killer would turn his attention to the police who sought him. He felt under no threat whatsoever. In any event, only the boss had been mentioned and pictured in the newspapers. He and the others in the squad were anonymous.
Later, on leaving the station, Gary found himself checking the rear-view mirror as he headed north towards home. Now, away from the pack, he was a little nervous, more accepting of the boss’s warning that a psycho needing information that he among others had, might feasibly be crazy enough to follow and try to intimidate a copper who was on his own, like a lone steer away from the herd.
Almost home, Gary pulled into the car park of his local. A few beers and the therapy of being in the company of people talking about sport and telling dirty jokes would be welcome respite from the narrow and depressing world of serious crime that filled his working hours.
After a couple of pints and a double Scotch, he was chilled. He wanted to really hang one on, but was on standby. Being off duty was a misnomer. Murder cops took time out when they could, but were always just a phone call away, and were obligated to be fit to work twenty-four/seven.
Fuck it. One more pint wouldn’t hurt. It was his only pleasure, now that Jill had walked. Funny how it had been her that did all the crying, as she’d packed a couple of suitcases and waited for her brother to pick her up. She had kept apologising; told him that she still loved him, but couldn’t stand coming a poor second to his job. And she was right. He was a cop first. She’d known what he did when they’d got together, so he wasn’t about go on a guilt trip. Most of the lads he worked with were single, divorced, or their relationships were heading for the rocks. It wasn’t like a regular nine-to-five job. It owned you. Working a case was like a hot wire in the blood. And there was always a shitload of cases. Murder was all part of a day – or night – in the city.
Reluctantly, having rushed another pint, Gary said goodnight to Cyril, the landlord, and after calling in the gents, walked out of the rear door into the small and ill-lit gravelled car park. He felt mellow and tired, ready to hit the sack as he thumbed the car key fob and heard the clunk of the locks disengaging. He hoped that the phone wouldn’t ring. He could use a solid six or seven hours kip.
He opened the door and was about to climb in the car when a voice stopped him dead.
“Have you got a light, pal?”
Gary turned to see the shadowy form of a small guy wearing a bulky parka and a baseball cap. He was holding up an unlit cigarette in his hand.
“Sure,” Gary said, relaxing, though his heart had gone into overdrive. He reached for his lighter, and...
...it was pitch black. His head throbbed with pain. He was horizontal, on his side, knees up to his chest, and could not move his arms or legs, or open his mouth. Engine noise and the bouncing – caused by a springy suspension – told him that he was in a moving vehicle. Suddenly stone-cold sober and back in cop mode, he suppressed the rising panic, bit it back and took deep breaths through his nose. His last memory was of putting his empty glass on the counter and saying goodnight to Cyril, before going for a slash and then walking out of the rear door into the cold night air. Then what? He stopped trying to think and gave his befuddled mind time to settle and search for the answer. He knew that his brain would still be scrolling through recent data, and that it would recall events a lot quicker without his consciously trying to force the issue. Have you got a light, pal? It flooded back. A short, stocky guy had appeared from nowhere with a cigarette held up in front of his face. The stranger must have slugged him, tied him up, and bundled him into the boot of a car. There was no other explanation.
Oh, Jesus fucking wept. Nooo, he thought in screaming off the dial surround sound that ricocheted around his skull as he faced the only logical solution to the position that he was in. This was the ghoul who had hacked out hearts, and who had just removed the face of the newshound.
Bobby drove out on the A104 to Epping Forest and found a suitably narrow track that led off from the main road into the depths of the tree-packed tract. He cut the lights and continued driving over the rutted surface at no more than walking pace. When the ground inclined down to the side of a small stream, he stopped the car and switched off the engine. Got out and drew his knife.
Opening the boot, he let his eyes acclimatise to the ambient moonlight that filtered through a veil of high, insubstantial cloud. He hesitated. There was something about the moon that fascinated him. Maybe it was because he knew that every human being who had ever lived, if not blind, had gazed upon that cold, bright lunar face. From the hunter-gatherers of bygone millennia, through to Jesus Christ, Hitler, Frank Sinatra; everyone. It was awesome to acknowledge that looking at a piece of rock floating in space was a common denominator; a universal image that in some way linked everybody that had ever been, or ever would be.
The young copper looked up at him, fear carved in deep shadows across his upturned face, with good reason.
“My name is Cain,” Bobby said, holding the knife out for his prisoner to see. “Like the biblical character that killed his brother. I’m going to uncover your mouth and ask you some questions. If you tell me one lie, then I will know, and you will suffer the same fate as befell Abel; more than Larry Holden did. Nod if you understand the seriousness of your predicament.”
Gary nodded theatrically, his eyes fixed on the shape of the knife’s blade, which was silhouetted; black against the backdrop of moon glow.
“Good man,” Bobby said, reaching into the boot to grasp an edge of the duct tape and rip it away from Gary’s mouth. “What’s your name and rank?”
“Gary. DC Gary Shields,” Gary mumbled, the fear within him now a solid, living entity that was sliding and writhing in his guts like a muscular, headless eel in its death throes.
“And you’re one of Barney the Bear’s squad, assigned to track down the Park Killer. Am I right?”
“Y... Yes.”
“Well, you’ve found me, Gary. Does that make you happy?”
“No.”
“I thought not. And the truth of it is, I found you. Maybe I should have been a copper. What did you imagine? Maybe capturing me mob-handed, like a murder of crows hiding behind a few heroes with automatic rifles? Was that a more appealing scenario?”
“Yes.”
“Tell me, are Dr Mark and his slut being guarded?”
“You mean, Ross?”
“Who else?”
“Yes. They’re under protection.”
“Now for the 64,000-dollar question, Gary. Where is Caroline Sellars stashed? I need to know everything. Give me a detailed report, including how many of your lot are with her? Don’t leave anything out, no matter how trivial you may think it might be.”
Gary gave him the address in west London, and told him that four armed cops were protecting Caroline around-the-clock; two inside the bungalow, one in a van out front, and the other in a shed in the back garden.
“Anything else I should know?” Bobby said.
Gary shook his head.
Leaning over the cop, Bobby wound fresh tape around his head, covering his mouth and nose in several layers. Standing back, he lit a cigarette and looked off into the trees, from where he could hear the haunting hoots of a tawny owl. He loved owls. Like so many other predators they were stone killers, devoid of any emotion.
After a surprisingly long time, the cop’s feet stopped drumming against metal, and the grunting ceased. He had put up a laudable though futile fight for life. Bobby lifted the body from the boot, draped it over his shoulder and carried it into the trees, wher
e he shrugged it off into a natural hollow in the ground. He covered it with dead branches and a thick layer of the matted pine needles that carpeted the forest floor, after first removing money from the cop’s wallet, and a mobile phone from an inside pocket, that he would destroy and dump away from the scene. The corpse would rot down, and the skeleton would no doubt remain unfound until the following spring, or even later. Winter was upon them, and the body was secreted away from the beaten track, to decompose as the temperature eventually rose. Nature would devour it in a thousand efficient age-old ways, as insects, carrion crows and small mammals were drawn to the scene by the smell of slowly putrefying flesh.
Driving back along the A104, Bobby saw a sign for the Forest Glade Caravan Park and turned into the lane that led to it. He parked the car under cover of thick evergreen hedging that bordered the site, found a gap in the fencing that fronted it, and pushed through the natural barrier. Making his way to the nearest static holiday home, he forced open the door and smiled at his good fortune. Being out of season, the park and its units were deserted. This was not an all-year-round operation. Within minutes Bobby was in bed, snuggled under blankets that he had found stacked in a closet. He drifted off to sleep, tired and contented after such a long, eventful and satisfying day.
Caroline’s face filled his mind’s eye. She would soon be were she belonged, with him. It was destiny. Nothing or no one could or would keep them apart.
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
Mark lay beside Amy in the darkness and listened to her steady, even breathing. They’d both had too much brandy and then gone to bed and made love. Amy had fallen asleep with her head on his chest, and her left arm draped across his waist. That had been two hours ago he confirmed, glancing sideways to see the clock’s glowing display, which read 2:20 AM.