‘Priests and the like?’
‘Could be.’ Doc was reluctant to speculate, and Jack jumped in again.
‘None of that helps us much without IDs. We’ll see if there’s any link between Davies and Rawlings. Maybe we’ll get lucky.’
‘How do you think he disposed of the bodies, Doc?’ Fiona’s voice cut through the hubbub muttering about the difficulties they faced with identifying their victims.
‘For a highly intelligent, resourceful killer, with plenty of funds? It’s not difficult. Burial in a country estate. Added to the feed in a pig farm, perhaps. Incinerated. Dropped from a helicopter or light aircraft over the sea, even. This highly intelligent psychopath’s imagination is boundless. It’s only the lower orders, especially those with little or no money, for whom such victim disposal is a major issue. I’m sure you’re all aware the body is often the most important piece of evidence leading to an arrest. And our perpetrator is equally aware. I doubt we’ll ever find the others. After Davies was discovered, our surgeon became more cautious.’
Several more disgruntled murmurs greeted that comment.
‘And remember, folks, Rawlings was gifted to us.’ Jack again.
‘You think he’s working alone, Doc?’
‘Detective Constable Ahmed?’ A nod from the questioner, one of only two other dark faces in the team besides Fiona.
‘No. I think he has an assistant, a follower. Someone who has been close to him for much of his life. I can’t be certain, but the nature of these crimes suggests the necessity of an accomplice, possibly an acolyte. Could be male or female, possibly husband and wife, though most likely both perpetrators are male. This underling is also highly dangerous, totally loyal and completely under his spell.’
‘What about this Harry Butler bloke, Doc? You’ve met him. Could he be our guy? Doesn’t seem to fit your high functioning social climber, but he could be his assistant.’
Feisty Fifi, straight to the point.
‘Astute observation, Detective. Indeed he could be the number two to our main man. And no, I don’t think Harry Butler is likely to be the leader of this particular enterprise.’
Jack butted in. ‘Are you sure, Doc? You don’t sound it.’
‘Profiling is never about certainty Jack, as you well know. All I can do is read the signs and help you folks focus on the leads with the highest odds of success. But yes, Butler could be behind these deaths. He may be sufficiently disturbed, a psychotic, driven by nightmares, voices, visions et cetera. He’s not a psychopath though, and the degree of planning, the ruthlessness, the deliberate torture, the fastidious wounds suffered by Rawlings, and other factors lead me to my conclusion that we’re looking for a high functioning, highly organised perpetrator. Someone with genuinely psychopathic traits, for whom other humans are simply objects.’
‘Objects?’ Jack would know what Doc was talking about but clearly wanted his team to fully understand too. ‘Care to expand, Doc?’
‘Yes. He’s cold and callous, and sees his fellow beings as nothing more than chess pieces in this game he’s playing.’
The one he’s invited me to join.
‘Some bloody game!’
A trainee detective, one of several now on the case, but whose name Doc could not recall, had piped up, disturbing his monologue, giving space for a vivid scenario to crowd into his mind…
He was on an operating table, with Maddox leaning over him, wielding a scalpel in blood drenched hands.
Doc stumbled over the next few words, disoriented by the realism of the fleeting experience, shocked to feel pain in his shoulder immediately before his right arm went numb. He managed a calming breath, clenched his fingers rhythmically to get the feeling back, then continued wrapping up.
‘He’s, erm, driven by… by ego, a.. a god complex, the exercise of power, of life over death… And revenge. He’s not deranged or demented, he’s in full control of his faculties, but somewhat deluded. His belief in his own superiority will be his downfall. He’s invited us to hunt him, but believes he’s smarter than all of us put together, that we’re too stupid to find him… He’s wrong, of course!’
The team laughed again. Jack’s smile reached his ears as he slapped Doc on the back, and winked his thanks.
‘Welcome back, my friend.’
It was good to be back.
Even if Doc was still a suspect.
***
‘So, have you done any of these notifications before, Lanny?’
‘Yeah. A couple of times, when I was doing my probation, but that was for RTAs and nothing like this.’ Detective Constable Lorraine ‘Lanny’ Jewell nodded to herself without looking at Fiona, her hands in her lap, fingers twiddling with the key before she jammed it in the ignition.
She’s still nervous.
Fiona took a sidelong glance at the DC and reassessed the birdlike twitching her junior colleague was displaying. Perhaps Lanny’s trepidation was a response to being paired with her.
‘You did well in there. Very sympathetic.’
Fiona knew she had a reputation for being direct, undiplomatic, and on occasion, very demanding, but had originally thought the constable’s nervousness was to do with Carver assigning them both to the task of notifying Patrick Rawlings’ wife of his death — definitely a rather different kettle of fish compared to informing a spouse of a fatality from a road traffic accident. The poor woman had told them how she had been physically and sexually abused by Rawlings for years, long before he disappeared with hundreds of millions of pounds of his clients’ money, leaving his abandoned wife to battle their claims for compensation.
While waiting for the lights to change from red, Fiona got a hint of a smile from her highly attractive blonde colleague, who, even with barely a trace of make-up, could adorn the pages of Cosmopolitan magazine looking exactly as she did right now. Fiona had a momentary twinge of envy, but would not let that get in the way of her professionalism, though she did wonder how Lanny put up with the male attention she attracted whenever she entered their testosterone imbued office.
Not my problem.
‘Thanks, Sarge. Domestic’s the most difficult thing I’ve had to deal with as a copper, at least until I became a detective. Glad I’m out of it now though. And her… Blimey! She was bloody petrified of the man. Amazing what goes on behind closed doors, even in the richest households… I doubt she had anything to do with the bastard’s murder though. What d’you reckon?’
‘Well… She was visibly shocked when I told her about the state he’d been in when we found him. That seemed genuine, for sure. She certainly had motive, but not the means… Mmm, she didn’t strike me as the sort to have him abducted by a third party and tortured for years either, despite how he treated her. I’m going to have a quick squint at this lot,’ she indicated the box file in her lap, ‘so you take it easy driving or I’ll puke all over you!’
They had just left the multi million pound Thames-side apartment complex where the Rawlings widow lived, having spent the last half an hour with her. It had not been a waste of time either as the woman had given Fiona a copy of the documentation identifying all the aggrieved clients Rawlings had ripped off. She flicked open the lid and started shuffling through the papers, a treasure trove of suspects, but only half her mind was on the contents. She was hoping a name would jump out at her, perhaps a doctor or similar from among the hundreds, but an unexpected thought occurred to her as she riffled through the pages.
The African connection.
Again.
She had not asked about the Rawlings widow’s ethnicity, had been diverted by the sophisticated presence, the exquisitely rounded vowels of private school English. But the latte skin was in sharp contrast to crystal blue eyes, and her perfectly symmetrical face reminded Fiona of Imam, the model from Somalia. The woman was stunningly beautiful, clearly of mixed race, so where exactly had she been born?
Once again, she cautioned herself not to make assumptions but instead she made a mental note to ch
eck out the woman’s background when she got back to the office.
Lanny spoke then, clearly thinking along similar lines.
‘What about the African magic angle, Sarge? Do you think it really is a part of this case? Or is Soundbite right not to pay too much attention to it… And that stuff about flogging body parts. Bones from kids and the like. It’s all well weird.’
Fiona did not answer, but Lanny’s words helped her thoughts converge.
Bones.
Doc had said something earlier, something that resonated, but Fiona had been busy and distracted since that meeting. Carver had told her to see the Rawlings widow and then follow up with the leads regarding Harry Butler with a view to locating him, and to continue her research into human suspension to see if that line of enquiry would yield some results. Right now, DC Jewell was driving them to a derelict church in Putney, one of the two relevant locations Fiona had identified last night.
Thankfully, her workload had been reduced. Carver had dumped much of it, including the — unofficial — search for Judy Finch, on to a couple of trainee detectives, earning their spurs. He’d also allocated Fiona an underling, Lanny, partly in response to Doc’s warning about the dangers of investigating suspects alone, partly to give her some help.
As she shuffled through the pages in the box file, her eyes unseeing, Fiona started to mull over the African connection again. She thought back to Doc’s comments, to his mention of one bone in particular. Then it occurred to her.
She grabbed her mobile and called DS Sharpe.
‘Do me a favour, mate.’ She paused as Sam grumbled in her ear. He had been given a pile of work to do already thanks to his official inclusion in Carver’s team this morning, but she overrode his objection. ‘That Atlas bone thing Doc was on about. Just do a search for me. I know you’re busy… Listen! It must’ve been about eight to ten years ago, they had a guy in Brixton nick for B&E.’ She waited for Sam to finish another tirade before adding, ‘I know what Soundbite said this morning and no, of course I’m not interested in scallywags done for breaking and entering. This bloke was originally from somewhere in Africa. And he had a human bone on a chain around his neck… A vertebrae… Please do this for me. I think we need to find him, Sam.’
***
‘It’s not exactly a hot lead, is it Sarge?’
Lanny parked their unmarked Ford outside St Mark’s church, situated between London’s busy South Circular Road and the rail line, both major arteries feeding the centre of the capital. The street was nondescript, a scruffy backwater away from the leafy avenues of Putney proper, in an up and coming part of town. Just a few hundred metres from where they parked, a new apartment block was being built, homes destined for young professionals who could afford a half a million or more for a tiny flat within striking distance of the City.
Fiona didn’t bother to answer, just looked up at the church spire, the ancient building a testament to gothic architecture, with gargoyles peering out, mouths agape, their tongues at gutter height, ready to spew water on to any unsuspecting members of the congregation the moment it rained. She noticed Lanny cross herself as they strolled up the path to the door, passing a large sign on the way. There would be no congregation here ever again, she thought, as she read how this old building was to be renovated, improved and converted into four luxury homes.
In the meantime, the Putney Body Mod club were using the facility, probably at a bargain rental, discounted by the developers to ensure no squatters appeared on the scene before their plans could be put into effect. Strains of rock music assaulted their ears, a harsh metallic roar and booming thud that even at this distance set Fiona’s teeth on edge. She was no fan of organ music but that would be far preferable to this godless din.
The rear wall and buttress were covered in wire mesh and a Danger, Keep Out! sign suggested that part of the building needed some drastic attention, but the doors to the main hall were unlocked so she went in, with Lanny trailing behind. Fiona noted how her colleague made the sign of the cross again as they entered, but she had no such beliefs to distract her.
The sight that greeted them stopped her in her tracks and Lanny grunted, ‘Sorry, Sarge’ as she bumped into the now stationary detective. Then, as she too took in the view, she uttered a most un-Christian oath, her voice piercing the barrage of sound echoing in the nave. ‘Jesus Christ! You’re fucking kidding me!’
The church interior was largely empty, the pews all long gone, many adorning the homes of the wealthy as overpriced antiques with a religious provenance. The only pieces of furniture were the three tables butting up against the transept, with two enormous speakers on stands either side. About a dozen people, engrossed in what they were doing, were oblivious to the two policewomen at the door. They looked like rejects from a motorcycle gang, dressed in tatty leather and denims, black gowns and tee shirts, with all of them sporting tattoos, piercings and weird hairdos.
Otherwise, it was pretty unexceptional, apart from the three semi-naked bodies dangling from the roof. That was impressive enough, but their patterned skins glowed like an aerial kaleidoscope, illuminated by the eerie rainbow of light created by the sun’s rays beaming through the decorative glass in several giant arched windows along each side of the hall.
Two men and a woman. Each with hooks in their flesh. All of them as if in a trance.
The two men were being pushed to and fro by others reaching up to their hips, but the woman was higher, beyond their outstretched fingertips. Fiona could not take her eyes off the spectacle, her mouth open in awe at what she was witnessing.
The girl had six hooks in two sets of three, embedded either side of her abdomen in vertical rows between hip and chest, the highest positioned just below the sports bra covering tiny breasts. The wires had hoisted her almost to the rafters and she looked incredible from below. Her hands and legs dangled, her head back, as if her eyes were on heaven and she was ascending there by sheer force of willpower alone. Her hair cascaded down her back, a rainbow tangle of tresses that reached her buttocks. Almost all her bare flesh was covered in tattoos, far too intricate to decipher from this distance.
‘The Resurrection pose…’ The music had been turned down by one of the other males as a strange looking guy sidled up to her and explained in a lilting Welsh accent. ‘That’s how people will look when they’re wafted to the Almighty’s side during the End Times… If you believe that crap. I’m Elvis, by the way. You two don’t look like you want to hang, though… How can we help? Officers.’
Fiona finally wrenched her eyes from the incredible sight, having barely taken in the poses of the two men, also dangling, but cross legged, with hooks in their backs and thighs, facing each other as their friends helped them swing back and forth. Like two flying yogis, drifting together, then apart. Repeated over and over. It was mesmerising, but she had work to do. She inspected the freaky fellow now facing her.
He had assessed their profession correctly, but seemed harmless enough, despite the budding horns that appeared to be about to burst through his forehead.
His scarlet forehead.
Why any rational human would pay to have implants under their skin and crimson inked across their faces was beyond Fiona, completely unfathomable. As was the idea of someone sticking giant fish hooks through her flesh and yanking her skyward on wires. As if some disturbed and vengeful god was playing with human puppets. She had never seen an eyeball tattoo either, although her research the night before had prepared her. Elvis had black where his whites should be and yellow irises.
Extreme body modifications.
She wondered what he did for a living, was about to ask, but decided to get back to the matter in hand first.
She introduced herself and Lanny with a wave of her warrant card, then asked, ‘Do you have any members from the medical profession? Or similar? You know — vets and the like?’
Elvis laughed, showing off a tongue that bifurcated at the tip, with gold studs embedded on each half.
W
hat a bloody mess, mate!
She just thought it, waited for an articulate response as his giggling subsided. She wondered what drugs he was using, considered mentioning it, in the hope the implied threat would loosen his split tongue, but he answered, seemingly honest as he did so.
‘Sweet-cheeks! You can check our member list. There’s fewer than thirty of us and believe me, no one would be coming to any of us for medical care.’ He spread his arms wide, and called out to his friends as he turned to them, ‘These two lovely lady-pigs want to know who here is qualified in brain surgery! Hahaha!’ He turned back to Fiona and said, ‘I can give you our membership list. No problem. No warrant necessary. We may look like outlaws but we ain’t. Just outsiders, and happy that way. Keep ourselves to ourselves, as most straights think we’re a threat because we’re different.’
Straights.
Normal people.
‘Well, I think that’s understandable if you go round looking like Beelzebub.’
‘Yeah… Sad innit? Anyway, some of our members are NFA so I don’t fancy your chances of tracking them down. Give me a minute.’
No fixed abode.
Oh well, she would take what he offered, and maybe a bit of digging would locate someone with an appropriate history, or some information they could use. Elvis went to the back of the room and the death metal music was cranked back up. Fiona shook her head at Lanny and went outside to wait.
She felt deflated, thinking this was a dead end, but would ask about the equipment they used, or more accurately, the equipment found attached to Rawlings’ torso.
‘This is like devil worship, Sarge. In a church — it’s blasphemy! Elvis the demon —’
‘I’m harmless, darlin. I’m a vegan. I don’t even eat bacon so you two are safe. Hahaha! Here you go.’ He handed Fiona a scrappy piece of paper with a couple of dozen names scrawled on it. ‘Sorry, no printer here, but I’m sure you can make out the members from that list… Is there anything else? Happy to help, even if I do look a bit demonic to your mate, here…’ He aimed a wicked grin at Lanny. ‘I could explain, but you’d never understand. Very few people do.’
Mutilated: A British Crime Thriller (Doc Powers & D.I. Carver Investigate Book 2) Page 18