The Initial Blow

by Paul Vincent Lee

  I thought briefly of my Dad’s funeral. Joe Turner had come over from Spain to support me.

  Shit.

  My phone rang and dragged me back into the present. It was Susan.

  ‘Hi.’

  ‘Hi. How’s your day been, then?’

  ‘Lousy. Well that’s not entirely true. We’ve arrested a guy called Peter Harris for the Kate Turner murder.’

  ‘I know. Joe called me.’

  ‘Right.’

  ‘Susan, I know we said we wouldn’t discuss cases but one thing, off the record?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Any chance Joe didn’t kill Julie Connor? He swears he never, just like he swore he didn’t kill his wife.’

  ‘Sorry, Ray, but he did it alright. I need to leave it at that now. OK?’

  ‘Sure. How are you, apart from work?’

  ‘That’s why I’m calling. Fancy meeting up for a drink tonight?’

  ‘Susan, I’d love to but I’m out tonight, committed to an office leaving do. The powers that be frown upon it if you don’t go. How about tomorrow night?’

  ‘OK great. Tomorrow night it is. But Ray, no work talk OK?’

  ‘What kind of talk would you like then Ms Dornan?’

  ‘I’ll leave that up to you. Surprise me.’

  ***

  ‘Fancy another? While I’ve got the barman pinned down....so to speak.’ Paul Allan had seen his potential host in the club before. He thought the guy looked interesting and obviously the feeling was mutual.

  ‘JD and cranberry thanks, the name’s Paul.’

  ‘I know. Max.’ said Max Kendrick, offering a handshake, a faint smile creasing his left cheek.

  A few minutes later Allan and his benefactor were sitting in a darkened booth to the left of the tiny dance floor.

  ‘So, how do you know?’ asked Paul.

  ‘I make it my business to know interesting guys,’ replied Max, the smile more pronounced now.

  ‘Right, and why’s that then Max?’

  ‘Don’t want to fall in with the wrong type.’

  ‘Very wise. So what do you do for a living, Max?’

  ‘Estate agent, bloody great at the moment, building societies throwing money at anyone with a pulse. Can’t see how it can go on but make hay, as they say.’

  ‘Great.’

  ‘What about you?’

  This was dilemma time for Paul Allan. Experience had taught him that whatever he said now would dictate if this was to be the shortest romance in history.

  ‘I work in an office.’

  ‘Right, doing what?’

  ‘Oh, you know, shuffling paper mostly,’ which wasn’t entirely untrue.

  ‘Listen I have to shoot off, early start tomorrow, but how about giving me your mobile number and maybe we can meet up for a drink or whatever next week?’

  Paul Allan sat in the back of the taxi taking him back to his flat in the east end of the city, a mixture of pleasure at what might be to come and distaste at what his job had shown him human beings were capable of, swirling around in his befuddled head.

  Max Kendrick was already at home reading up on some house schedules, that he would be showing to young couples who couldn’t afford them, the next day. He thought it was interesting that Paul Allan hadn’t admitted to being a policeman.

  ***

  Azrael was standing in another club from Paul Allan. The woman had smiled at him earlier. Made it obvious she was interested. He noted her wedding rings. He bought her a drink.

  ‘Jean. Nice name. What’s your surname?’

  ‘King,’ Jean replied. ‘my dad liked tennis!’

  ‘Ah, JK. I’ll call you Rowling, it’s a quirk of mine.’

  ‘What’s yours?’

  ‘Azrael.’

  ‘Right. Where’s it come from?’

  ‘It’s of Hebrew derivation.’

  ‘Oh right. You Jewish, then?’

  ‘No.’

  Jean King sensed that he was rather touchy on the subject of his name; ‘probably married’ so decided not to pursue it. She was rather taken by her admirer’s quirky sense of humour, having fun not being one of her husband’s strong points. Jean King’s husband was away often on business. Always away on business. She was lonely.

  ‘Would you like to go for something to eat?’ Azrael asked.

  ‘I could rustle you something up at my place if you like. I’m a good cook, actually.’

  ‘That would be great.’

  Azrael was impressed by Jean King’s home. Her husband was obviously a good provider. He also saw that Jean King was keen for him to know her husband was away on business for a few days, but he already had his sign.

  Rowling, another whore, peddler of heresy.

  He lay on the bed in her room turning over the various possibilities in his mind.

  The following morning Azrael made his own breakfast, his favourite, scrambled egg on toast with a pot of sweet tea, shortly after writing the single word “Rowling” in Jean King’s blood on the living room wall. He thought over the previous evening’s events. The evening meal prepared by Jean King had seemed a lot more elaborate than a quickly prepared snack. An effort to impress? Seduce? He had made no assumption though:

  ‘There was always time to repent.’

  But as they sat in the large lounge, Jean King had lent over and caressed his neck.

  He never got any enjoyment from his sexual encounters and it troubled him that he actually felt some sort of compulsion to even perform the deed.

  Maybe it was the final confirmation of the harlot’s downfall, justification for her punishment.

  He collected his bag, placed a card amongst some magazines on the lounge coffee table, and left. Jean King lay on the floor of the shower cubicle, her blood swirling gently towards the drain.

  Chapter 10

  Susan Dornan looked out from her office at the unusually sparse squad room. She was a happy woman. The first two murder enquiries under her watch had been concluded successfully. And she had finally met a man who she truly felt connected to. She glanced at Matt Healy. He seemed fine, and focused on some notes that were scattered across his desk. The Incident Board still had pictures of Kate Turner and Julie Connor on them; along with photos of Joe Turner, Peter Harris and Colin Boom Boom Banks. The various Post-it notes placed throughout and the coloured lines meandering over the whole surface area had been removed though. The squad had worked long and hard to get the two results and Dornan was pleased with their effort and commitment. She looked around the room. Despite her best efforts, she couldn’t quite take to Jack T’Baht. She couldn’t quite put her finger on what it was, but whenever he was around her, she felt uneasy. In her school days, “creep” was the word that would have sprung to mind. She wondered briefly if Matt Healy was still committed to doing his best, but dismissed the idea almost immediately as she felt Healy was loyal to her even if disappointed in the lack of a romance. Jill French too looked focused and even Rab Brown looked awake. Paul Allan was keen, if a little green, but Dornan saw potential there.

  The phone rang on Dornan’s desk.

  ‘Where?’ She scribbled on a note pad.

  ‘OK. We’re on our way.’ She went through to the squad room.

  ‘Another murder people; Matt, Jill, Jack, let’s go. The rest of you stand by for me calling in.’

  The driveway to the semi-detached red sandstone bungalow in Bearsden, an affluent suburb of Glasgow, was already cordoned off with blue and white tape. A constable stood at the entrance to the drive and another at the door to the house.

  ‘Who discovered the body, constable?’ asked Dornan.

  ‘Cleaner, ma’am. Comes in every morning at eleven. Called it in straight away. She’s in the kitchen.’

  ‘Right.’

  French, Healy and Dornan scanned the house. No sign of a break in or disturbance. They looked at the writing on the living room wall.

  ‘Jesus Christ’ said Healy. French took the scene in…..and wondered.
/>   Dornan went through and spoke to Mrs Jones, the cleaner, in the kitchen.

  ‘What is the victim’s name, Mrs Jones?’

  ‘Mrs King. Jean King.’

  ‘Where’s her husband?’ asked Healy.

  ‘Away on business. England, I think. He’s away a lot.’

  ‘Who does he work for?’

  ‘He’s got something to do with satellite television. Sky I think; but I’m not sure what he does.’

  Dornan nodded to French to get on to tracing the husband. Healy went upstairs to the bathroom. A pool of blood encased the body, a shallow moat between Ikea and eternity. A blood stained knife sat neatly on top of the toilet lid. ‘Do you think there could be a connection to our other two cases, Matt?’

  ‘No chance. Not unless some connection comes up between Jean King and Joe Turner.’

  Over the course of the next few hours Dornan’s team and forensics officers went about their searches of the crime scene. At one o’clock Dornan decided to go back to the station to keep McFarlane up to speed; but just as she was about to leave Jack T’Baht called her over and pointed down to something on the carpet.It had fallen out of a magazine he had flicked through. It was a white business card: Azrael.

  Dornan sat in Chief Superintendent McFarlane’s office and laid out the new scenario facing the squad, and the possible impact it had on their previous two cases; the link to Kate Turner’s murder obvious, the link to Julie Connor’s killing more tenuous but had to be considered.

  ‘So what are you saying, Susan? We’re dealing with a serial killer?’

  ‘Possibly.’

  ‘Could Turner or Harris have done the three of them?’

  ‘Possibly. Sorry, sir, but I just don’t know. We’ll check their whereabouts for last night.’

  ‘What about bringing in a profiler?’

  ‘If you think so, sir, then yes.’

  ‘Right, leave it with me. I know someone. Good bloke.’

  Dornan returned to the squad room. Healy told her that the husband had been traced and was definitely in Manchester for the last couple of days. He was on his way back.

  ‘He said that he had no idea what “Rowling” meant.’

  ‘McFarlane asked if it could have been Harris or Turner?’

  ‘It’s a thought.’

  ‘He’s bringing in a profiler.’

  ‘Jesus wept.’

  ‘You not keen then?’

  ‘Not really, but I suppose any help is welcome. What a fuck up. Harris will get off now, you know; fucking certainty.’

  ‘Let’s just wait and see, Matt.’

  Five minutes later McFarlane phoned Dornan to say the profiler would be in the next morning at 10.00am.

  ***

  Joe Turner hadn’t called me and, in truth, I was glad of that. I knew I couldn’t look him in the eye and there was nothing practical I could do for him, anyway. I sat in my office and thought about Susan Dornan. I liked her, really liked her, but was concerned about getting too close to her in case it all ended, like most of my previous romances, in disappointment. The recent events had highlighted to me how brief life could be and how you could never be sure about just who other people truly were. That evening I sat with her in my flat. She was pleased I had called but seemed slightly detached as we sat watching nothing in particular on the box.

  ‘Is everything OK, Susan?’

  ‘Yeah, fine. Sorry. Another woman was killed today. I can’t say much, Ray, but there may be a link to the Turner killing.’

  ‘Really? I thought Harris was the man.’

  ‘Yeah, so did we. He may still be but it’s more complicated now.’

  ‘What about Joe?’

  ‘Ray.’

  ‘OK, but think about it. He’s asked me to be his lawyer. You have to disclose everything to me eventually, anyway.’

  ‘Do something for me, will you?’

  ‘Sure. What?’

  ‘Find out where he was last night.’

  ‘I can’t say anything to you that could harm my client, Susan. Why can’t you just ask him yourself?’

  ‘We can. It’s just.....well, will you just ask him?’

  The rest of the evening passed in a rather subdued manner with Susan eventually saying that she’d better go home and get some sleep as she had to be on the ball in the morning. We hadn’t slept together yet. I didn’t want to waste things by pushing the physical side and maybe giving Susan the wrong impression of me.

  ***

  Azrael lay on his bed listening to one of his favourite singers, Mary McGregor:

  “Torn between two lovers.”

  ‘But repentant.’

  Other people merely heard the lyrics of her songs but she was singing them only for him.

  ‘Mary, beautiful name, mother of Jesus, Madonna……… but not that American slut calling herself Madonna and selling herself to Ma’ammon.

  His body hovered between the past, and the person he really was, and what he had become in order to function and be able to do His work. He didn’t pretend that he always understood his calling and the tasks he was set, he only knew that he was privileged by being called.

  He hovered in his world. He thought of a barmaid, Janet, that he had met that afternoon. He would take her to lunch one day….hoped she would pass the test, that she could honour her calling.

  His path had already been clearly shown to him and the words of the repentant sisters, passed to him in the music, would always guide him. Initials were always the key.

  He thought of Kate Turner, he thought of Jean King, he thought of his mother, he thought of the other sinners; he thought of many others and he moaned quietly as his seed stained the blue quilt beneath him.

  ***

  The following morning, McFarlane brought the Profiler; Alec Caldow in, and introduced him to Dornan. He now sat alone in front of the board, rather surprisingly, to Dornan at least, apparently studying the people in the room as opposed to the pictures on the board. Robson Green he most certainly wasn’t. Bald with some wisps’ of greyish hair at the sides, John Lennon type glasses and a totally dishevelled look about him, he reminded Dornan of the eccentric professor in “Back to the Future.” Dornan straightened her jacket, stroked the lines out of her skirt and walked out into the Incident Room. She introduced Caldow to the group and suggested that he start proceedings with a brief word on just what defines a serial killer before they looked at the specific cases. Caldow nodded, remained seated and surveyed the room as he spoke.

  ‘A serial killer is the most mysterious and devious of criminals because he has no apparent motive in committing his crimes. There are some who say that all serial killers, deep down, want to be caught; they are engaged in an intellectual battle with their pursuers, but I don’t agree. If a serial killer gets caught, it is because he has made mistakes and it is my belief that if a serial killer is indeed responsible for these atrocities, then he too will have made mistakes; he too can be caught. I’ve looked over these cases and in my opinion the presence of a serial killer is not definite but nor can it be discounted. Perhaps the best way forward now is to hear a rundown on the cases and take it from there.’

  Dornan had felt that this would be the way things would go and nodded to Matt Healy that he should take over.

  ‘Mr Caldow is right. Serial killers kill strangers. That is why these murders are not the work of one. A good murder detective does not wait for a pattern to emerge that proves that separate murders are the work of the same killer, but looks for signs that any murder is the work of someone who will do it again. As most of you know, I still think that Joe Turner killed his wife, Kate. He did it with such ferocity that it is obvious that he would be capable of doing it again and we know that he began his tendencies to violence, including a stabbing, as long as 30 years ago. He then, for whatever reason, definitely confronted and killed Julie Connor. Once again, someone he knew. I repeat neither of them strangers. I know Harris has been charged with the Kate Turner killing, and he may well ha
ve done it, but even if he did, my theory still stands. He knew his victim and Turner knew his. We are also looking into the circumstances surrounding the death of Harris’ first wife, Ann. Again the possibility of a propensity to kill a person they know present. I’ve read over the Jean King killing and can see absolutely no connection to either of the other two killings, other than she was stabbed. I know that the presence of the same, rather strange, business card at two of the scenes might be viewed as something more than coincidence, but I think they’re just some kind of marketing gimmick and there are probably loads of them floating around Glasgow. It’s Glasgow for Christ’s sake. Stab Central. If she was the victim of a serial killer, then fine, but there is no connection to our other two cases in my opinion.’ Healy sat down. The rest of the officers looked from Healy to Dornan to Caldow not quite sure of what Healy’s speech had done to the idea of a serial killer. Caldow stood.

  ‘Thanks for that, Matt , but can I just say that it’s a rule of thumb that serial killers don’t just stop so it would be remise of us, would it not, if we didn’t at least examine all the possibilities if, in your opinion at least, they are not probabilities?’

  Susan Dornan could see that Matt Healy was getting agitated. She didn’t want him exploding into one of his expletive strewn outbursts and putting her and the squad, not to mention himself, into a box marked “closed minds.”

  ‘I’m sure we all agree with that, Alec. Have you anything else to add?’

  ‘Yes. In my opinion the person who committed these murders is someone who didn’t finish school, probably doesn’t have a regular job, and is probably not married or in a stable relationship; possibly with a mother fixation. This, as I understand it, does not fit with either of the two suspects in the initial killings.’