Shazza knew it was risky and not recommended, leaving someone suspended like this, but Harry always insisted. After Shazza and Glen had refused to leave him alone he had just built himself a remote controlled winch which allowed him to dispense with their assistance. He had never had to use it as his lover and his closest friend acceded to his wish to be left hanging in solitude, while they busied themselves upstairs, but always within earshot.
As Glen’s heavy footfall made the stairs creak and groan, Shazza lingered for one last admiring glance at her man’s near perfect physique. Harry was in superb physical shape for a man in his early forties and, suspended in silence, hanging there in the semi-darkness, his naked body seemed radiant despite the gloom.
An ethereal angel, crucified and earthbound, but part way to heaven.
For Shazza, this very special man was more precious to her than Jesus Christ himself.
***
‘So, you found nothing on those CCTV files.’ Carver dipped some naan bread in rich vindaloo sauce and sucked at it before loading a wad on to his tongue. His words were slightly muffled but DS Fielding got the drift as he added, ‘Maybe we need to check other access points, Fi. Mister M weighs next to nothing, could’ve even been loaded into a suitcase or similar, and wheeled along the footpath. A big enough bloke could’ve wrapped him in a blanket and tucked him under his arm. No need to have a car or van parked close to where he left the body.’
These alternative possibilities had already occurred to Fiona, but the perimeter of Clapham Common was several miles in total, most of it overlooked by private properties, with precious few offering CCTV coverage. The video she had already viewed had been a major waste of time, and she was not keen to focus more effort on that. She wondered how she could shift Carver’s focus as she pushed her plate of uneaten biryani to the side. Normally, the exotic spices and fragrant aromas that drifted through her favourite Brick Lane curry house would tease her tongue until she was bloated, but today, after all she had experienced, her appetite had shrivelled. She was ready for bed, even though it was barely nine o’clock.
‘Mmm. I s’pose so, Boss. Or maybe he was there an hour or two earlier. Perhaps the vic was not as frail as we thought and could’ve survived a bit longer. I’ll check tomorrow.’
The words came out without enthusiasm. Fiona was preoccupied with how best to share her suspicions, how to approach a very delicate matter with her boss, given his earlier outburst about professionalism when she had questioned his impartiality over his close relationship with Doc Powers.
What was on her mind was far worse.
They had arrived in separate cars and had not had a chance to discuss progress, so, after ordering their meal, Carver had given her a full update on his meetings regarding Mister M, plus a brief outline of Harding’s conversation with Doc, finishing with his theory that Maddox might be responsible for their victim.
She had listened as he explained that the letter and photos may be a diversion, wondering why Jack was missing the obvious, and whether he would reach the same conclusion she had drawn from her research into Harry Butler. He had not even asked about the grandson, as if he had forgotten the old man’s accusation and what they had found in his house. Of course, Jack was unaware of one vital piece of information, a discovery she had made earlier this evening. A discovery she was still reluctant to share with him, fearing the reaction she might provoke.
‘Yeah. Might be worth a look, Fi. You get anything from the lads?’ He swilled some beer, banged the empty glass down, burped unceremoniously and then said, ‘Handsome! That filled a hole!’ before waving to the waiter for a refill.
Fiona put a hand over her glass in response to his enquiring look.
‘No thanks, Boss. I’m knackered already… I’ve got some leads on that specialist gear I need to follow up, and some info on the grandson, but we really could use some more help. I think we have to find this Harry Butler, and it won’t be easy. He’s gone off radar too.’ The subtle implication, the oblique reference to Doc’s ex-lover and her increasing workload, elicited a more positive response from him this time.
‘I’ll talk to Soundbite in the morning about allocating us a few full time bodies to give you a hand. According to the hospital our Mister M is unlikely to last the week. His insides are in a right state. Atrophied is what they called it. In fact his whole body is weak from lack of use, compounding his health problems. His heart’s barely ticking… Immobility’s gonna kill him.’
‘So it’s going to be a murder case.’ Well, that would help, she thought, as homicides always grabbed the bulk of resources. Death would be something of a blessing too, as the vic seemed to have very little to live for. As that thought surfaced she began to wonder about his family, whether anyone was missing him still, years after he had been taken for some sicko to experiment on. To practise on. ‘Let’s hope we get a hit on his ID from the DNA database.’
‘Yeah. Speaking of ID, tell me about this Harry bloke. You still think he’s in the frame?’ His brow rippled, a fleeting frown that disappeared into a wide grin as another pint was placed before him.
‘Well, he has a history of violence, severe post-traumatic stress disorder — he has to take powerful medication. He also underwent basic paramedic training in the army, suffers nightmares about a dismembered colleague, and is probably riddled with survivor’s guilt after seven of his comrades were blown to bits. He’s got to be in the frame, Boss.’
As Jack nodded, she continued fleshing out the details for him, skirting the one very significant fact that was troubling her.
Then he asked, ‘Broadmoor? You say he was there before he disappeared. Strange. I wonder if he met Harding while he was there.’ Another burp and a few gulps of beer were followed by his cheekiest smile, as if he was proud of his stomach’s efforts to join their conversation. ‘Tomorrow’s another day. I’m gonna have to sleep on this Sarge… Anything else?’
He may have had a few beers, giving the impression he had wound down completely, brain fully relaxed as his belly digested his food, but his eyes scrutinized her face in such a way she was sure he suspected she was withholding something significant from him. She could see the detective in him was fully roused. Fiona had often heard him use the term bullshit antennae, and he told all his subordinates they must develop their own, preferably one like his, always working even when his conscious mind was off duty.
She had to tell him, but needed to check something first.
‘Have you mentioned Gerald Butler to Doc Powers, Boss?’
‘Not by name. Why?’
‘What about Harry Butler? Did you mention his name?’
Carver shook his head, clearly frustrated, convinced she was holding back, his face devoid of mirth now.
‘Talk to me, Fi. What aren’t you telling me? You should know better than to keep anything from me when we’re on a case.’
There were dozens of questions on her tongue, all related to Doc Powers. His role as a profiler, his apparently mystical reputation for visiting inside the minds of criminals, the rumours that he’d suffered several near breakdowns, had given up profiling as a consequence. Then he’d killed a man… But Jack was his friend and although she knew her boss was a professional copper, after her rollicking earlier today, she was not sure how far she should push.
Oh, what the hell!
She could be off the case by morning but she decided to just blurt it out.
‘About eleven years ago, Harry Butler was assessed, then treated for PTSD after a violent psychotic event that took place shortly after his discharge from the military. By a psychiatrist at Broadmoor. The same psychiatrist who has a personal history involving Harding —’
‘Maddox!’
‘No, Boss! Not him… The consultant who is supposed to be helping us with this investigation. The same guy who received a letter this morning, timed to coincide with the discovery of Mister M…’
She could see the scepticism already as Jack realised what she was suggesting
, his lips compressing, nostrils flaring, both hands flat on the table as if he was about to rocket himself out of his seat.
‘Now hold on a minute! Broadmoor got that letter —’
But Fiona could not still her tongue, she had to dump it all out there, get it off her chest and on to his shoulders.
‘A letter he could have sent to himself.’ She could see he was about to speak again, to slap her down, his anger visible, now pulsing blood to his ears, like a traffic light flashing Stop! but she would not. ‘A letter containing images that effectively guaranteed he’d be invited into this inquiry, taking a role that allows him to monitor our progress. An expert capable of influencing the direction we take. A lover, desperate to find the woman he lost. A widower whose bereavement had him on the verge of insanity. A man who has proven himself capable of killing. A genius when it comes to understanding the thoughts and deeds of the worst serial killers in the UK, by imagining himself in their shoes, as if he was capable of committing their crimes… Your friend, Doctor Colin Powers.’
***
Day Two - Tuesday
By now, good doctor, I am sure you have been to Broadmoor to speak with your nemesis, but I can guarantee he has more to tell. Perhaps, sometime soon, he will visit you.
Or has he already?
Do you still suffer vivid, blood-drenched dreams about your father’s dying moments, his screams of agony as his hands were hacked off before his last breath was crushed from his trachea? Has Antony shared his secrets from that night with you? The vicious brutality of his actions?
Your father’s last words?
I thought not…
And, most pertinent, of course, the reason why Daddy had to die?
Perhaps I can help. Would you like that?
Or do you want to live to your dying breath in ignorance, to continue in the belief that your father was a good man?
I wonder.
Are you a good man?
And where are you now, in your hunt for the killer of Dirty Diana, the HIV riddled railway station whore? Still nowhere, even with the stunning bonus images I sent you to peruse?
How about my special gift to you, the one tied to the old oak tree?
Oh yes, a modern sculpture, my tribute to the art of the possible.
An unidentifiable live body
There is one more victim I will give you. Someone very close to you…
Unfortunately for your friend — Carver the Incompetent, a passed over detective, well past his prime — you won’t find any other physical remains unless I choose to share them. The rest are gone, forever, dust to dust, and like Daddy, ashes to ashes.
Meanwhile, enjoy some additional mementoes of my handiwork, as I know you will.
Try to step inside my mind again, good doctor.
Then you may just connect with your true nature.
The secret buried deep inside your psyche.
‘Bloody hell, Doc! What is he on about?’ DI Jack Carver, seated on the same kitchen stool less than twenty-four hours after he had last been here. ‘I’ll give him Carver the Incompetent… The twat!’ Despite his bluster, Jack felt a prickle as the follicles on the nape of his neck reacted to the three new images on Doc’s Macbook.
Three more mutilated victims.
Some forty minutes earlier, Broadmoor had received another letter in the snail mail, subsequently scanned and sent to Doc by email with a covering note from Celene. The staff had been informed yesterday to take care with any further correspondence addressed to Doc, so these photographs were in sequence, exactly as they were when taken from the envelope. This time, Jack did not need Doc to point out the obvious.
‘You were right. It’s a progression. These are much more sophisticated dismemberments than the earlier victims. The faces too… He really has been practising, on human guinea pigs. Jeez!’
A cup of scorching latte appeared at his elbow as Doc peered over his shoulder at the latest collection and muttered, ‘I have no idea who these victims are, Jack. You?’
‘Nope. Don’t recognise any of ’em. Not even from my time working cold cases. Believe me, if we had found this many bodies, all chopped up like Diana Davies, we’d have had a major task force on it long ago.’ Carver was due to meet Soundbite this morning, maybe this would swing it with her, convince her to give him the resources he needed.
‘Did your team identify any of the others?’
‘Not yet. I managed to get our IT chap to do some digging, but he had nothing on them by the time he buggered off home last night. We’ll see what we can find out today… Shame we can’t communicate with our Mister M, get him to tell us who he is. Maybe finger the perp too.’
‘I was thinking about that, Jack. He seems to have no muscle control —’
‘Yeah. Had his voice box nerves severed the doc reckoned, and something like permanent botox injected in his facial muscles too. Shame we can’t rig him up like that genius astronomer bloke. You know, the one in the wheelchair, the guy that sounds like a Dalek.’
‘Stephen Hawking?’ Doc chuckled at Jack’s description, then continued. ‘He communicates by moving a single cheek muscle that’s picked up by a facial recognition camera, plus his eye movements are monitored through an infrared device in his specially adapted glasses. These are linked to a computer synthesiser designed by Intel and developed over many years. Not much chance of them being able to help our chap before he passes away, even if they were so inclined.’
‘Well that rules that out then. No eyes, no muscles moving. No way of communicating.’
‘I am not so sure. It’s a bit of an outside chance, but while I was lying in bed, meditating —’
‘I didn’t know you were into that.’
‘Yes, it really helps me relax and overcome the residual pain from my operations. I use a specific technique. Controlled breathing. It didn’t work last night, as it set my brain alight, wondering about the possibility that our victim could do the same. You see, the nerves controlling his chest muscles couldn’t be paralyzed, otherwise he would’ve suffocated, being unable to breathe.’
‘Okay. But how can that help us? It’s not as if he can make any sounds through his nose holes, or hear us asking him questions, is it?’
‘Do you know Morse code? The old dot dash system for communicating? Used to be taught by the military.’
‘Yeah, learnt it in the Scouts as a boy. I doubt I can remember any of it. Why?’
Doc took Jack’s hand and placed it on his own chest, and said, ‘I don’t remember much either, but let’s see. Feel my breaths, and try to understand what I’m saying.’
Jack’s hand sensed three sharp intakes of breath, then three longer inhalations followed by three short ones again. Doc exhaled, rested for a moment, then repeated the pattern.
Dot-dot-dot dash-dash-dash dot-dot-dot…
‘You bloody genius, Doc! SOS. The old distress signal. If Mister M can do what you were doing, we can talk to him!’
‘Only if he knows Morse code too, Jack. Long shot or not, can you get someone proficient enough to work with him? A colleague of yours perhaps, or a military signals specialist. It’s really old technology so not many people use it these days… I’d suggest they start with that distress message tapped on his chest to see if he responds.’
Jack was up already, pacing the room, his mobile to his ear.
‘Too right I will. I’ll get someone with him right now. Before he pegs it!’
***
‘Blimey Fifi, didn’t you go home last night?’ DS Sam Sharpe dumped a cup of vending machine coffee next to her computer monitor and slurped at his own before asking, ‘What’s so important that you’re here this early after working late? Did you get anywhere with that info I sent you yesterday?’ He perched his left buttock on the edge of her desk and swung his leg back and forth, his other supporting the rest of his weight. ‘You look like shit, darlin!’
‘I feel like shit. Couldn’t sleep, mate. But thanks for the files. Did we get anything back
from Missing Persons on the DNA from our Mister M?’
Fiona liked Sam, he was a good colleague, one ever willing to help, and they often sat like this at the start of the day, catching up on things. When she’d first arrived at the Yard he had attached himself to her, as he was a newbie too. She’d been delighted to discover he was a decent bloke, not sexist, not arrogant, just bloody efficient at his job. He was a wizard with all things computing and could dig out information she had no idea was to be found online or buried in the various database collections available to the UK police force, let alone the wealth of files held by HOLMES — the Home Office Large Major Enquiries System, named in homage to the fictional Sherlock — housed in the basement of this very building. Sam was happily married too, and had never hit on her, which made him even more special to Fiona.
‘Nothing on him yet. He’s nowhere near the front of the queue as they’re dealing with a backlog of rape kits Soundbite wants clearing. She gave them top priority after that Asian girl got gang-banged by a bunch of Britain First morons at the weekend. Was on the telly again last night, promising to put rape cases at the top of her agenda now she’s caught the Brentwood Beast.’
‘Yeah? She doesn’t miss a trick, does she?’
‘Nah… Why couldn’t you sleep?’
His genuine enquiry, not one intended to put her down or question her ability to do the job, elicited a quiet moan, accompanied by a welling of tears. She hastily turned from his concerned eyes, and punched some keys that brought up an article on the screen for him to view. He pushed himself upright, then crouched beside her to see better.
‘The Mau Mau uprising? What’s that all about?’ He watched as she scrolled down the page to an image, his face disbelieving. ‘Is that a native being spit-roasted over an open fire? Those are British soldiers looking on, aren’t they? What is this, Fi? Looks like photoshopped bollocks to me.’
‘Gerald Butler served in Kenya when things like this really were happening. Took part in it all — took some souvenirs too. I did some research after I discovered a collection of ears in his house. I just can’t get the horror of it all out of my head.’
Mutilated: A British Crime Thriller (Doc Powers & D.I. Carver Investigate Book 2) Page 14