Mutilated: A British Crime Thriller (Doc Powers & D.I. Carver Investigate Book 2)

by Will Patching

  ‘You were still on the phone? To the emergency services?’ She made a note to check the recording when she got back to the Yard.

  ‘Uh-huh. I freaked when I saw it, and suddenly realised what Gerald had been babbling on about… When I put my trackie top under his head, making him comfortable, he was muttering stuff about Kenya, lopped limbs and a dismembered torso, not making any sense… Said it had been put there for him. I think. I hadn’t been taking much notice, so you know, I just wanted to get help. He was delirious. Or that’s what I thought, before I found it.’

  ‘Can you remember anything else he said?’ Fiona was wondering why Gerald had thought the mutilated victim had been placed there for him to find as she underlined her note on the comment.

  ‘Erm… Not really… Only that he kept repeating, It’s alive! Over and over. And, Get help! Now!’

  ‘And what exactly did he say about the torso being placed there? Please try to remember his exact words, if you can.’

  ‘Just, They put it here for me.’ He hesitated, frowning as he tried to remember. ‘No, hang on, he said, He put it here to torment me. Yeah, that’s what he said.’

  ‘Are you sure?’

  This was very strange. Fiona began to wonder if the discovery was mere happenstance as she’d initially been led to believe. The constable who had taken a brief statement from Piers had not mentioned this. Now she needed to check exactly what Gerald had said to the officer before he was whisked away to the hospital. Delirious or not, it might be important. Another note went in her little book.

  ‘Yeah, pretty sure. This is difficult y’know? I’m supposed to be at uni too.’ He checked his phone. ‘Christ! Is that the time already?’

  ‘I think you might give college a miss today, love.’ He nodded reluctantly as she went on, ‘So tell me about the other person.’ He looked confused. ‘The victim. The torso hanging in the tree.’

  Fiona had seen the crime scene photos already, emailed to the tablet tucked in the glove compartment of her car. She couldn’t help but wonder, what effect seeing something like that would have on the young lad’s mind.

  ‘I had no idea what I was looking at. But Gerald kept repeating, It’s alive! At first I didn’t think it was human. That’s why I freaked. It looked like a ghost, floating there.’

  ‘So, you were on the phone? Calling the ambulance for Gerald?’

  ‘Yeah. When I realised it was human, and Gerald was screaming that it was alive, well, I just told them to bring two ambulances and the police too. I wanted to check it really was a person, and not a dummy or something, but couldn’t bring myself to go any closer… And anyway, there didn’t seem anything I could do… Poor old Gerald was crying out still, so I went to comfort him. That’s when he latched on to my hand, like I was his lifeline. He just wouldn’t let go, even when he was semi-conscious. Like a limpet, he was… That’s why they brought me with him, here.’

  Fiona knew better. The paramedic had taken in the scene and assumed Piers would need treatment for shock. He had told that to the first uniformed officers to arrive when they had insisted Piers remain, so that they could properly interview him.

  Overruled.

  ‘Was there anybody else around? Did you see anyone else in the area? Anything or anyone unusual?’

  ‘Nope… Just a couple of other early morning regulars. Familiar faces. Joggers, like me. I try to run a few miles each morning, and if I can, I head out at night too. Run twice, most days. I’ve done the London Marathon and want to enter again next year… Love it. Running clears my head. Not that I’ll ever be able to wipe from my mind the vile images from today. Unbelievable…’

  Fiona was not surprised. The perpetrator was almost certainly well away from the area by the time Piers arrived on the scene. It would take very big balls and a total disregard for common sense to hang around, though plenty of criminals have fallen into the trap of loitering to observe the reaction to their handiwork.

  Someone would have to check all the surrounding CCTV camera recordings for last night through until dawn. After all, at least one person had managed to lug a dismembered victim hundreds of metres from the nearest road and carefully position him, suspended with wire and hooks from the branches of an old oak tree. That must’ve taken time, even if there were two people manhandling the body. Maybe someone local had seen something. They’d have to get an appeal out on the radio and TV as soon as she got back to the office.

  She sighed, a long mournful note as she corrected herself.

  Not someone reviewing the CCTV footage. Jack would want her to check the videos personally. She knew it without even asking him, having worked with him before. It had been a while, but she was back as part of his team on this new investigation, assigned at seven thirty this morning, the moment she arrived at the office, and she had literally spoken to him for no more than a minute before heading to the hospital. He was going to check the site and then the victim, he’d said, while she followed up with the witnesses. An almost murder, he’d told her, with possible links to an actual murder. He’d explain later…

  Fiona flipped shut her notebook and pocketed it, scraped back her chair and said, ‘Come on, sunshine. I’ll give you a lift home.’ The initial report had confirmed Piers address, an apartment in a converted house in a suburban street just off Brixton Road about a mile from Clapham Common. ‘I’m heading over your way so it’s no trouble.’

  Like any good detective, Fiona was always suspicious of people who were among the first at a crime scene, but she was pretty sure Piers would check out. A word with his neighbours was in order too, just to be sure, but she was convinced he was a regular on the common and had just stumbled across the old man and the victim. She was much less certain about Gerald though.

  ‘That’ll be cool. I was wondering how I’d get home. I haven’t got any cash on me for a bus or a cab. Thanks, that’s really kind of you.’

  It wasn’t such a generous gesture on her part. It just meant she could probe him for any other recollections or inconsistencies in his statement as she drove, and check his address when they arrived, given that he had no formal ID on him.

  Fiona smiled inwardly as they headed to her car, thinking:

  I’m a conscientious copper, not a bloody taxi service.

  She’d also call the boss and tell him about the possible connection with Butler. It seemed unlikely, but the possibility that the old man was somehow the target of this atrocity added a new dimension that had to be explored. Her instincts told her it was an important piece of the puzzle, and she’d act accordingly.

  ***

  The Hope, Not Fear — Tattoo & Piercing Parlour, situated on a side street just off Streatham High Road in a narrow Victorian building, was officially closed for the bank holiday, but in the cavernous cellar, with hardcore punk blaring from the wall-mounted speakers, a select team of willing assistants were helping the first volunteer for this morning’s session.

  Harry Hope, wearing tattered jeans, a black tee shirt with a death metal band’s logo, and blue surgical gloves, was using a marker pen to meticulously trace a line on the bare back of his client, just above the shoulder blades. He had already measured the points he needed to pierce, and was careful not to confuse the locations with other markings in the vibrant pattern on the youthful skin — a beautifully crafted three dimensional tattoo of an android’s internal mechanism that seemed to burst forth from the upper torso, as if the flesh and skin had opened up to reveal the truth inside the human form.

  He sat back for a moment, admiring the handiwork.

  His handiwork.

  An artistic creation that had taken several extended sessions to complete, and the main reason his client, a young man of roughly half his age who he only knew as Slim — an apt name, he thought, given his skinny frame — was here today. Each time Harry had taken his needles to the young man’s skin, he had noted Slim’s reaction. Initially tense, a natural reflex caused by the discomfort of the rapid piercing and inking, Slim soon relaxe
d into a state of euphoria, something Harry recognised. So, during their lengthy sessions together, Harry had introduced Slim to his other, less well known and unadvertised service, something he reserved for the select crowd he felt might benefit.

  The five members of this exclusive club who were here this morning all sported tattoos and piercings along with other less common body decorations. Shazza, one of the girls, had circular plugs in her ear piercings, having stretched the holes to the size of curtain rings, almost matching the size of those in Harry’s own lobes. To achieve this effect, a body modification based on an ancient African tribal tradition, the size of the plugs had to be increased gradually over time. Each newly inserted plug stretched the fleshy flaps a little more, and, of course, pain accompanied the procedure, just as much as with tattooing and standard piercings.

  For Harry and his small crowd of enthusiasts, pain was not to be avoided, but welcomed. Not so much for the pain itself, but for the pleasure that inevitably followed. Pain was the key to a door they willingly stepped through, to a spiritual plane most people would never experience.

  ‘How’re you feeling Slim?’ Harry was tugging Slim’s shoulder flesh between each thumb and forefinger, as if loosening it, while checking that the procedure would not damage the muscle and nerve tissue beneath.

  ‘Not great. Apprehensive, bro… It’s stupid, but I keep thinking the hooks will tear out.’ Slim was face down on the stainless steel table at the side of the room, with Harry leaning over as he pulled at the flesh.

  ‘Don’t worry, Slim, with your weight that’s almost impossible. And anyway, that only happens if the procedure’s not done properly. Never had a problem, have we guys?’ Harry aimed the question at his little team, who were busy preparing the rig, pulleys and wires attached to the metal eye-bolts in the ceiling in the centre of the room.

  Comments from the others, rapid fire, shot back at Slim.

  ‘You’ll be great!’ Tamsin, a punky girl sporting a scarlet Mohican with three dimensional butterfly tatts on the shaved area above each ear, grinned through lips sporting numerous rings and studs, completing the matching set for her ears, nose and eyebrows.

  ‘It’s no worse than piercings, honest, bro!’ Glen, a hulk of a guy, his face a spider’s web of fluorescent inking, his bare arms covered in sleeve tattoos, like a coat of many colours, was inspecting the pulleys and wires. He was considered to be an expert rigger now, by the select bunch of people who were aware of his hobby, having worked alongside Harry for nearly four years, and had personally undertaken dozens of suspensions despite his bulk. ‘If I can do it, while humping this around,’ he patted and rubbed his beer gut with relish, ‘you’ll have no probs, you scrawny little git!’

  ‘You’ll love it. You won’t wanna come down.’ Shazza had edged closer to the table, all the while watching Harry who was now swabbing Slim’s shoulders with alcohol. She stroked Slim’s head and purred, ‘We’ll help you sweetie. I’ve done this hundreds of times. You’re only a virgin once!’ She leaned down and lightly kissed his temple, grinning all the while. ‘You won’t believe how good it feels.’ She straightened and asked Harry, ‘Ready?’

  Harry nodded, so she rinsed her hands with alcohol, then pulled on her surgical gloves before whispering into Slim’s ear. ‘Take a few deep breaths and try to relax. I know it isn’t easy, but do your best. You’ll feel an intense stinging sensation but that doesn’t last long. Okay?’

  She and Harry each pinched Slim’s back exactly where marked, made eye contact for a moment in acknowledgement as Shazza said to Slim, ‘Okay babe, deep breath in… and now, out!’

  As Slim exhaled, Harry and Shazza simultaneously plunged the stainless steel hooks, not unlike those used by tuna fishermen, through the flesh of Slim’s upper back.

  ***

  Doc stood alone in his kitchen as Carver paced the few metres of path outside the patio doors, sheltering from the wind and rain under the overhang as he tried and failed to light his cigarette. His mobile phone was jammed between his chin and his shoulder as he spoke to one of his subordinates.

  The call had interrupted their breakfast meeting just as Jack had started to explain about the poor soul who had been discovered hanging from a tree on Clapham Common a few hours before. He had apologised to Doc as he headed outside, explaining, ‘It’s my sergeant… Won’t be a minute.’

  Doc took the opportunity to check online as Carver had mentioned that the news was already on the internet. True to form, the tabloid rag, The Crusader, had their homepage plastered with sensational photos of the man they had named Mister Mutilated lying unclothed in his hospital bed, with his groin pixelated so as not to offend reader sensibilities. It was a disgraceful breach of the man’s rights to privacy, but the idiot journalist speculated that the victim had probably died since the photograph was taken, a result of exposure rather than his grievous injuries.

  The journalist, or what passed for one these days, Doc thought, went on to liken the lower part of the victim’s face to Lord Voldemort, a fictional figure from the Harry Potter series, which was bad enough. But then the article went on to describe the most salacious element of the story — the lack of genitalia — and then suggested the police should be looking into the man’s history as it was possible he was a paedophile.

  Doc snorted and slammed shut his Macbook in disgust, wondering when the world had gone mad. It was as if the news these days was nothing more than a guessing game, one in this case designed to titillate the public’s most prurient tastes.

  Instead, he picked up Jack’s tablet, but the screen was locked so he would just have to wait for his friend to return and share the crime scene images he had been about to show Doc before his phone interrupted their discussion.

  ‘Jesus, this weather! One minute you think it’s finished pissing down, then the bloody heavens open again.’ Jack used the same towel to mop down his freshly saturated trousers. ‘The wind was blowing the rain under the awning, coming at me sideways, but it’s just the bottoms that are wet… Anyway, that was Fifi, our very own West Indian Miss Marple.’ He chuckled, then said, ‘She’s actually one of the most conscientious detective sergeants I’ve worked with, and whip smart with it, so that’s one silver lining in this cloud of confusion confronting us. Let me fill you in on my case, then we can see how it links with your crank’s email.’

  Doc, having already pretty much convinced himself there was a link, sat on the stool beside Jack as the detective tapped his password into the tablet before scrolling through the pictures from this morning’s discovery. As Doc inspected the images, Jack described the way the victim had been positioned, hanging in the tree, secured with wires and hooks.

  ‘Hooks?’

  ‘Yeah. Like big fish hooks, but with longer, finer points. And with no barb.’ Carver swiped the page to bring up a picture of the victim’s back, taken before the paramedics had removed them. ‘I think they’re a specialist item. Not sure what you’d normally expect to catch with these though. Being checked out as we speak.’

  ‘Not fish hooks Jack… These are designed for precisely this purpose.’

  ‘You what? For hooking flesh?’ He thought about it for a moment, then added, ‘You mean like butcher’s hooks? They’re different… Double ended like an S shape. One hook to stick in the meat and the other to hang on a rack or bar. You see ’em in old-fashioned butcher shops still, but these are different. They have eyes on the end… For fishing line.’

  ‘I don’t think so. I’m pretty sure these were designed for human suspension.’

  Jack’s blank look turned to disbelief as Doc explained about the subculture, about suspension’s popularity among those who practised piercing and body modification, and why a small section of society would choose to inflict such wicked looking items upon themselves.

  ‘What — they do it for FUN?’ Jack’s voice escalated in disbelief. ‘Seriously, Doc? Is it some sort of sadomasochistic fetish? Self-harm? What on earth prompts people to do this sort of thing? Vo
luntarily!’

  ‘It’s not self-harm Jack. That’s a psychological problem that results from a specific set of character traits, usually the result of early childhood trauma, accompanied by feelings of low self-esteem. And suspension is not sadomasochism either. Practitioners aim to achieve an elevated spiritual experience —’

  ‘You what? No way! It’s just madness… Another crazy idea thought up by some demented youth group, just to show how different they are. Outsiders… Cranks.’

  ‘It’s not a modern phenomenon, Jack. Indigenous American tribes were doing something similar for hundreds of years, using sharpened bone and twine rather than wire and hooks, but with the same desired result. It’s a spiritual experience. Trust me.’

  ‘Mmm.’ Jack swivelled on his stool, then tugged at his upper lip, considering Doc’s explanation. After a moment or two cogitating, his voice strident, he came to his conclusion. ‘Regardless of why they do it, there can’t be that many nutters into something this weird. That should help us narrow down the list of suspects. And there’s another thing.’ He explained the theory mooted by the medic who had been so distraught after admitting this morning’s victim, then summarized, his voice dripping with irony. ‘So, we’re looking for a skilled plastic surgeon with experience of amputating limbs, with a kinky sideline in hanging himself up on hooks. A doctor who thinks he’s a side of beef… Well that narrows things down a bit!’

  Doc’s brain started working overtime, making some tentative connections. Reluctantly, he decided Jack was correct about at least one thing… This whole affair was sucking him in, and there was no way he could deny he was somehow involved.

  As they sat in silence, both men mulling over the morning’s events and their implications, Doc had to admit, he felt alive, stimulated and challenged in a way that he had not for some years. He had turned down the offer of the chairmanship of the Parole Board when he came out of hospital, instead succumbing to the lure of his own TV programme. Since then, well, he had agreed to a second series with a companion book to coincide with the broadcast, but by now, he had begun to hate himself for his weakness.