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

by Will Patching

  ‘What? I’m confused Doc. Why plant incriminating evidence here? The operating theatre downstairs is enough to confirm what was going on. That doesn’t make sense.’

  ‘Mmm.’ Doc had another theory developing, but just said, ‘I’m guessing there’s a suicide note on there. But why use a USB drive, rather than the internet… Surely they could’ve hacked into this computer like they did with mine?’

  ‘Could be one of several reasons, but most likely an effective firewall, or just a cautious, tech savvy user. Either would prevent someone gaining access like that.’

  If it was a dig at Doc’s inability to protect his Macbook, he didn’t notice.

  ‘Well, Sam. Your colleague Fiona wandered in here, poking her nose around at the wrong time. Abimbola was obviously not expecting her or Harding.’

  ‘You know, just before I left the office Daniel Ngwene, the security guard at Broadmoor, identified the photo of Abimbola as the guy he knew as Akachi, the bloke who was coercing him to pass letters to Harding…’

  ‘Just as we suspected. Looks like Fiona made the same discovery.’ Doc tapped one of the letters on the study wall. ‘Look.’

  ‘Addressed to Akachi… Well I was just talking to the others and we’ve all pretty much agreed the case is sewn up. We’ve found the two men who were responsible for Rawlings and the other murders. Abimbola and Butler. Working as a team. Shouldn’t be long before we find the link between them. Dawson, the Acting Super, is convinced —’

  ‘Well, I’m not so sure, Sam. Think about it. Why would Abimbola feed information to Harding, possibly even arrange for his release, and then instruct Harding to come here to kill him in a way that suggests suicide?’

  ‘Maybe he couldn’t do it himself, was too scared, so —’

  ‘The person who wrote the codes on that card was neither Abimbola nor Butler. It was someone else, Sam. The puppeteer pulling everyone’s strings.’

  Including mine.

  ‘Really? Is that what you think? Abimbola’s corpse didn’t look like any suicide I’ve ever seen. What was he supposed have done? Blown his brains out after sticking a hand grenade in his shirt pocket, just to be sure?’

  Doc sighed, too weary to explain, his mind recycling his uppermost concern now that Jack was in safe hands.

  ‘Come on, Sam. Let’s boot up this computer and see what we can find.’

  ‘What are we looking for, Doc?’

  ‘Anything on the victims. Any links to any of them. Photographs, letters to me, anything relating to the case. Anything at all… More specifically, I need to know if Judy Finch was ever held here.’

  ***

  ‘You should be in hospital, Doctor Powers.’

  Acting Superintendent Sadie Dawson bustled into the room, her voice cutting through Doc’s head like a chainsaw. The dizziness had returned and his aching brain was threatening to burst through his skull.

  Just concentrating for the few minutes Sam had been trying to work some magic on Abimbola’s computer had left him drained, and it was all he could do not to puke on the keyboard. Everything was still a little muffled and distant to him, but he had to know.

  ‘I’d rather stay. I can help —’

  ‘No. I’ll arrange a car to take you. You have no business being here, interfering with my crime scene.’

  ‘Sadie, please listen to me. The investigation isn’t over. Butler and Abimbola… I think we only have a part of the story and —’

  ‘I’m not listening, Doc. You’re not thinking straight and, according to the paramedics, in no fit state to help anyone. I’ll see you in the morning. I’ve been apprised of your initial comments about what took place here, the brief summary you gave the first officers on the scene, but we’ll take a full statement tomorrow. You’re all lucky to be alive — you, DS Fielding and DI Carver. Meanwhile, you need a formal check-up and some bed rest.’

  ‘No, I can’t. There’s a lot of info —’

  ‘Yes, you can! You are not indispensable. However, you are under contract to the Met and have been injured while involved in an active operation with my team. Your well-being is therefore, technically, my responsibility. I won’t have you collapsing on my watch.’

  ‘Please, I have to know —’

  ‘Constable.’ A uniformed copper appeared at Dawson’s elbow. ‘Escort Doctor Powers from these premises. Immediately. Take him to St George’s Hospital. They’re expecting him.’

  There was no arguing. Doc acquiesced.

  ‘Hospital it is, then.’

  Doc steadied himself with a hand on the constable’s arm as he was led away.

  ***

  ‘Well, if it isn’t Colin Powers!’

  Five hours after Soundbite Sadie had thrown Doc out of the Art of Africa office, he felt much better, more alert and in less pain, though had been resting his eyes as he lay on the hospital bed when his visitor arrived. Even his ears were back to normal, though Bob Koch’s booming greeting might have benefited from some muffling.

  ‘Bob! What are you doing here?’

  ‘I heard you’d been shot so had to come and see for myself.’ A wicked grin split the man’s features, his yellow green eyes magnified through his horn rimmed glasses as he leaned over Doc’s prone form. ‘I thought you were going to end up on my slab in the morgue downstairs, but apparently it was just a flesh wound.’

  ‘You sound disappointed.’

  He did. But like Jack, Doc was aware of the man’s strange manner, though had always assumed the pathologist had Asperger’s Syndrome.

  ‘Nothing personal, Doc.’

  The freakish way Koch was staring at him made Doc distinctly uncomfortable. Like all medical professionals, the pathologist was one of their original suspects, and although Soundbite had convinced herself the investigation was over, Doc was certain it was not, and he was now wondering about the oddball ME, his detachment, his lack of affect. Koch certainly had some of the character traits associated with psychopathy, but Doc had never formally assessed him, or even interviewed him with surreptitious assessment in mind.

  And what is he doing here?

  ‘How’s Jack?’

  ‘Oh, he’s out of surgery and they think he’ll make a full recovery. Lucky man. The bullet missed his liver by a hair’s width. If that had been punctured, well… You know, you’re a doctor. I hear it was your old pal Harding that shot him. And you. What’s that all about then?’

  Again, the looming head, the over-sized eyes, the predatory gaze that Jack said reminded him of an owl. Doc could see it now. It was more than unsettling.

  Threatening.

  ‘I guess he bears a grudge, Bob.’

  ‘Oh, that, I can understand, Colin. But after all these years. You’d think he had something better to do.’

  ‘I’m tired and really need to rest. Is there anything else?’

  ‘Actually, two things. I thought you might like to know Harding’s in the recovery room. He’ll pull through. Shame. I’d love to take a look at what’s inside his head.’ Koch’s mouth curved into an unhealthy smile. ‘I’ve been researching the physical differences between killers’ brains and normal people. I’ve almost finished a paper on my theories regarding early cranial structural damage and its effects on what we call good and evil. I’d really hoped to have Harding on the slab today. Shame.’

  This paper Koch claimed to be writing had been mentioned many times over the years, but Doc had often wondered how serious the medic was about publishing his results. Other thoughts crowded his mind as he considered whether Koch might be the one who arranged for Harding’s escape, maybe even had plans to murder the killer.

  For his brain?

  Surely not.

  ‘Sounds fascinating.’ Doc meant what he said. ‘I’d like to read it when you finish, Bob.’

  ‘Almost had your brain too. That would be quite something to study…’ Koch’s manner was seriously disturbing

  ‘What?’

  Doc’s nausea returned and, despite the drugs he had b
een given, his head began throbbing. Koch’s words were burrowing into his sense of well-being, the stress of this unwelcome visit reprising the effects of the concussion.

  ‘As a psychiatrist you must realise you are a strange beast, Colin. Your abilities are truly unique and highly intriguing. Not only do you understand serial killers on an intellectual level, you feel them viscerally. It’s uncanny — as if you have a violent psychopath dwelling inside your mind, sharing your brain with the supposedly normal you. Loitering within, just waiting to be let off the leash.’ The owl’s head peered through the observation window at the adjacent nurses’ station, as if he was more interested in what they were doing. It was the fourth or fifth time and, at first, Doc thought it was a nervous twitch, but the feeling of menace emanating from Koch made him uneasy. ‘Surely you must wonder about yourself. You could so easily be a serial killer too!’

  Of course Doc wondered, but had no desire to discuss his concerns about his mental state with this man.

  Koch’s attention was once again on the nursing staff, both of whom appeared engrossed in some paperwork. Was the ME waiting for an opportunity to harm him?

  What’s he got in his pocket?

  The pathologist’s right hand was hidden under the pocket flap of his beige jacket, and Doc felt a surge of panic, his own hand sliding under the covers, reaching for the patient alarm dangling to the side of the bed. The touch of the cable reassured him.

  Stay calm. Breathe.

  Was he being paranoid? Or was it just disordered thinking, a consequence of the concussion? Irrational fears colliding with reality? His thumb depressed the emergency call button just as Koch’s hand started to emerge from his pocket.

  The alarm sounded immediately, and the piercing noise outside the room brought both nurses’ heads up, two pair of eyes now staring through the window at the two pairs staring back.

  The Ward Sister popped her head round the door and asked if Doc was okay.

  Koch’s hand had disappeared into the safety of his pocket again, and his mouth curled into a sickly grin. ‘Everything’s fine, Sister —’

  ‘Sorry, Bob. I’m feeling really nauseous. Nurse, please help me sit up.’

  ‘Perhaps you should leave Professor. Doctor Powers needs his rest.’

  Koch’s neck reddened and his jaw clenched, but he just nodded and strolled to the door as the nurse helped Doc to a sitting position then shoved a bowl onto his lap in case he vomited.

  ‘Oh, the other thing, Colin.’ Koch stood in the doorway, his parting words spoken with a tint of black humour in his voice. ‘I came to invite you to my retirement do. This Friday after work. An informal affair, a select few of us will be heading to the local, but since you’re here rather than avoiding me, I thought I’d pop up and ask you personally.’ Then he was gone.

  Avoiding him?

  Now, who was being paranoid?

  ‘I’m not surprised you’re feeling sick, Doctor Powers. You should be resting. Why did you ask him up?’

  ‘Ask him? I didn’t!’

  ‘Well, that’s what he told us. He’s a strange one. If you ask me, he should stay in his subterranean empire with the dead instead of disturbing the living.’ The nurse shuddered. ‘He’s ghoulish! We’ll be glad when he’s gone, he gives the staff the creeps.’

  Me too.

  Doc wanted to get home, to his own bed, away from this place.

  Away from Koch.

  If he stayed here, he would get no sleep at all, worrying if the pathologist wanted to get his brain on the dissecting table along with Harding’s.

  ‘I need to get up.’

  ‘You really shouldn’t, Doctor.’

  ‘I’ve had a CAT scan, there’s no subdural bleeding, my skull’s intact, if a little bruised. I’m just… Oh, let me have some anti-emetic tablets. And where’s my phone?’

  ***

  Day Four - Thursday

  ‘Morning, Doc. You’re looking better.’

  DS Sam Sharpe was visibly pleased to see Doc up and about, though looked haggard himself, with dark semicircles under his eyes, his shirt and trousers rumpled.

  ‘I feel better, Sergeant. You’re the one who looks like you could do with a break.’

  After arriving home and changing his security code, Doc had collapsed on the sofa and slept a full twelve hours in dreamless oblivion, with no thoughts of Judy disturbing him. It was the sleep of exhaustion and a release from the tension caused by the week’s events. The thump of a mild hangover and the throbbing of the stitches in his lacerated scalp were the only physical reminders of yesterday’s adventures, his brain fully functional. He’d arrived at Scotland Yard determined to unravel the truth about Rawlings, the other victims, Harding, Butler and Abimbola.

  And, of course, Judy…

  ‘It’s been a long night. I couldn’t sleep knowing Fiona was in surgery. Took them eight hours to stitch her hand back in place, reconnect the nerves and all that. I just called the hospital, and the docs are pretty optimistic, though. Reckon she’ll get most of the use back, though only time’ll tell. Glad you came in this morning Doc, we need to take your —’

  ‘I’ve emailed you my statement already, Sam. Here’s a hard copy.’ He thrust the print-out at the startled detective. ‘Now that’s out the way, I want to know what you found on Abimbola’s PC.’

  ‘Hold your horses, Doc!’ Sam quickly read the document, nodded, then said, ‘I’ll get this into the system. Soundbite wanted to see you personally, but she’s buggered off for a press briefing and apparently she’s having a brunch meeting with the brass afterwards. The CPS have decided to charge Butler with Selena Scott, the planning officer’s murder for starters. It was her hand in his freezer… And I unlocked a hidden file on his tablet this morning.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘More victim photos.’

  ‘In addition to the ones he sent me?’

  Supposedly sent me.

  ‘Yeah. Looks like Butler spent a fair bit of time stalking each target before abducting them, then the evil git took more pictures for his diabolical scrapbook as he mutilated them. Kept a record of his work in progress.’ Disgust riddled Sam’s voice as he spoke, his face like a spaniel chewing a wasp. ‘The team’s still reading through all the stuff we found, reams of it including some sort of diary. Anyway, he said he won’t talk to anyone, except you…’

  ‘Really?’ It was not said with enthusiasm. Doc had other concerns on his mind. ‘Did you find any photos of Judy Finch?’

  ‘No, Doc… I’ve spent hours on that tablet and there’s nothing else on there. Our technicians have also analysed all the other images from the device and she’s not one of the mutilated victims.’

  ‘Really, Sam. Are you sure?’

  ‘One hundred percent. All of them have been identified as the people Butler was stalking beforehand. There’s absolutely nothing to suggest she was ever grabbed by Butler and Abimbola.’

  That was a relief. But still not enough.

  ‘So where is she? Any news from Border Control? Did she leave the country?’

  ‘We know she didn’t fly overseas or use the Eurotunnel. We’re still waiting on some of the ferry crossing records from around New Year. It was super busy and there was a problem getting all the info. I’ll let you know as soon as we hear anything.’

  ‘Thanks Sam. What about Abimbola’s computer? Anything on there?’

  ‘I was here all night going through it and also cross checking Harry Butler’s tablet, looking for duplicates between the two, any links at all. Didn’t find anything, except Abimbola had a whole file on Gerald Butler.’

  ‘Harry’s grandfather.’

  This latest revelation sent Doc’s mind spinning in a different direction as Sam continued.

  ‘Apparently, the old boy did a stint as a guard at a British run camp in Kenya around the time Abimbola was born. This was back in the late fifties. Thousands of innocent families were interned during the Mau Mau uprising and Abimbola’s father died while being d
etained. Looks like Abimbola blamed Butler senior for the death, for some reason. There’s no specific detail in the files linking the father’s death to the old man, though it does have some related military records plus some atrocity photos, including a couple like the ones Fiona found at Butler’s house.’

  ‘Along with the severed ears… Trophies, taken from Kenyan dissidents — terrorists, if you believe the UK government propaganda of the day.’

  ‘Seems Abimbola and Harry Butler set things up for the old boy to discover Rawlings hanging from that tree. They would’ve known he had a dickey heart, though surely didn’t expect him to point the finger at his own grandson before he pegged it.’

  ‘Jack’s revenge theory…’

  Again, Doc was unsure. It was like a jigsaw where the pieces appeared to be correct, but needed too much effort to squeeze into position.

  ‘Rawlings’ widow’s records threw a bit of light on things too. It seems Abimbola lost a shedload of money when her hubby buggered off with clients’ funds.’

  ‘Motive. For torturing and killing the hedge fund manager.’ The thread of doubt regarding Harry’s involvement still felt unbound, though Abimbola’s was beyond question.

  ‘Yeah, and incidentally, your mate Professor Maddox lost millions too. Or, rather, his company did. Cadaceus Holdings.’

  ‘You said you’d identified the other victims?’

  ‘Yep. We’ve been going through all the details from the surveillance files we found on Butler’s tablet, matching them with Misper records.’

  ‘But you found nothing on Abimbola’s computer, just Harry Butler’s? Strange…’

  ‘Yeah. Though Soundbite has sent a forensics team to his place. They’re tearing it apart as we speak. They found a hidden room, tucked away at the back of the cellar —’

  ‘A recovery room. For the victims, after each operation…’

  ‘Looks like it. Two beds, inside separate cages. There were loads of CCTV feeds around the place too, but we haven’t found the recordings yet, though there was a camera situated right above the operating table.’

  ‘The victims were forced to watch their own torture.’