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

by Will Patching

  Without Jack onside, Doc was not sure he could convince Soundbite Dawson she had been a little premature…

  It wasn’t long before he had her response.

  ***

  ‘Harry Butler had Selena Scott’s hand in his freezer! And kept records on the notebook computer taken from his premises — photographs of her and the other victims, being stalked and then at different stages of mutilation! And there’s his bloody Book of Secrets!’

  ‘I know, but these things could’ve been planted. Someone broke into their premises at the weekend and nothing was stolen. Were Harry’s prints on the notebook?’

  ‘No, but he obviously wiped it down after using it.’

  ‘Well —’

  The question as to why Harry Butler would be forensically aware enough to do that while leaving conspicuous finger marks on the freezer bag was stillborn on Doc’s lips as the tirade continued to wash over him. No longer acting Superintendent Dawson, frustrated by the overlords at the prosecution service who had forced her to release Sharon Tait, continued to aim her anger at Doc.

  ‘In your interview with Butler, less than an hour ago, he told you he was a longstanding pal of this Arthur Akachi Abimbola. The man whose home business turned out to be a cross between a surgical clinic and a prison. They were working together. Butler honing his medical skills, and Abimbola selling supposedly magical body parts under the cover of a legitimate business. Why is that so hard for you to take in, Doctor Powers?’

  ‘My professional assessment is that Butler is telling the truth. He’s genuinely baffled by all that’s happened.’

  ‘For chrissakes! You said yourself the man was damaged goods. His PTSD, drug addiction, his history of childhood abuse, all pointed to a fractured personality. The reason he’s baffled is because he genuinely can’t remember his crimes. Fugue states. Split personality. Your words, explaining how he can do these things while under stress, terrible things that his memory refuses to acknowledge… I can dig out your briefing notes, the ones you gave Jack Carver if you’ve forgotten.’

  This meeting was rapidly deteriorating, and Doc couldn’t wait to be away. Even so, he bristled at her tone, her disparaging dismissal of his current concerns and her overly simplistic regurgitation of his earlier comments.

  ‘As I said… My professional assessment, after meeting Butler again today, all things considered, is that he’s been framed. We need to look into Harding’s involvement too. What was his role, and why was he at Abimbola’s place, apparently faking a suicide?’

  ‘It’s obvious isn’t it?’ Sadie Dawson stood and picked at some errant fluff that had despoiled her immaculate pantsuit trousers, indicating their meeting was over. ‘I think you are too close to Butler, you can’t see the wood for the trees.’

  ‘Now hang on a minute! How dare — ?’ Doc stood too, his fists on the table top, his stance like an angry gorilla guarding its territory from an unwelcome invader, but Dawson’s voice rode over his words.

  ‘In my professional opinion, your joint history is warping your judgement. Harry Butler wanted you drawn into this enquiry for personal reasons, probably related to some residual animosity from his consultations with you over a decade ago, but both he and his accomplice overestimated their control over the psychopath they released from Broadmoor. Harding killed Abimbola because they fell out. Or some other reason. Violent psychopaths, as you well know, don’t need much of an excuse to kill, especially those with a lower than average IQ. What’s Harding’s? Eighty-five? Ninety?’

  ‘About that, but please listen, Sadie.’

  ‘No. I think you should go home, Doctor Powers, but first, visit the nurses’ station downstairs — the stitches in your head wound are bleeding into that bandage round your temple. I had high hopes of you gaining a full confession from our one living detainee, but you are clearly agitated, physically distressed and mentally exhausted from the week’s events. Thank you for your service. Your contract as a consultant on this case is now formally terminated. We’ll send a cheque with an early termination bonus included. Now if you’ll excuse me, I have a lot of work to do.’

  ***

  The Jaguar’s wheels squealed as Doc left Scotland Yard’s basement car park and joined the traffic on Victoria Embankment. Despite several attempts at controlling his breathing, Doc was furious with the response his assessment received from the newly promoted Superintendent. Any slight on his professionalism always cut him to the core, and she had driven the blade home without a thought.

  With a fraction of a second to spare, Doc stamped on the brake in time to miss a motorcycle courier who had swerved across the traffic in front of him. The close encounter forced him to calm down, to drive more carefully. Again, he breathed in, held it, then exhaled through his mouth as he had been taught. Several repetitions later, he was thinking straight again.

  Rather than seeking help from the Met’s nursing staff, Doc had popped in to see DS Sharpe before leaving, but his only hope for more insights into the case were dashed when Sam said Soundbite had phoned him immediately after their meeting. The sergeant and the rest of Jack’s team had been directed not to discuss the case, and instead escort Doc from the premises if he appeared on their floor.

  It was this final indignity that had seen Doc accelerate out of the car park in a cloud of burnt rubber.

  Oh well, I’ll talk to Jack. Maybe he can help.

  Doc wasn’t sure exactly what his injured friend could do while laid up in a hospital bed, but he mentally crossed his fingers and headed for St George’s.

  ***

  ‘I’m afraid DI Carver’s asleep, Doctor Powers. The lady, Miss Fielding is awake though. She was in surgery most of the night but she’s like a human dynamo!’

  ‘It’s Detective Sergeant Fielding.’ Doc laughed at the description as he corrected the nurse, delighted that Fiona was holding up so well, his good humour restored by the one brief comment. ‘If you can point me to her room, I’d like to speak to her.’

  The nurse led Doc to a private room and left him with Fiona who was sitting in her bed, surrounded by flowers and cards. She looked fragile but well enough, with her left arm swathed in bandages, and she was just finishing a call on the hospital telephone as Doc entered.

  ‘You’re a popular patient, Fiona. Friends and family? Boyfriend, perhaps?’

  ‘Doctor Powers! Just colleagues. My job’s my life. And Mum’s been living in Jamaica since my dad passed away eight years ago — I don’t dare tell her what happened. She worries enough as it is. Anyway, I gather I need to thank you and Jack for saving me from the clutches of that madman.’

  That wasn’t strictly true since the madman was dead when Doc and Jack arrived, unless she meant Harding. It didn’t matter, she was recovering and seemed mentally strong and resilient to Doc.

  ‘How’re you feeling, Fiona?’

  ‘Amazingly well, considering. It could be the morphine patch they stuck on my shoulder, though I think it’s my reaction to finding myself alive.’ She giggled, a little nervously. ‘I really thought I was going to die yesterday. Now, my main worry is how much use I’ll have of my hand.’ She hoisted her injured arm in its sling and dropped it back again. ‘It’s going to be months before they’re sure… I just hope I can still work as a detective.’

  ‘From what I’ve heard, you’ll be fine. The operation was a success and with some rehabilitation you should get most, if not full functionality back. And you can be damned sure Jack won’t let them pension you off.’

  ‘Let’s hope so. I love the job. Can’t even stop while I’m lying here! That was Sam on the phone. He’s updated me on everything that’s been happening. They’ve taken my statement already this morning too. Some of it’s still a bit hazy, but I’m pretty sure I covered the important stuff.’

  ‘You really should not have gone to that place alone.’

  ‘Mmm. I know. Abimbola was so charming at first. Then he changed, like a chameleon.’

  ‘Psychopaths are often superfici
ally charming, Fiona. They have an uncanny ability to press our buttons, to delude us into believing they’re wonderful while manipulating our emotions for their personal enjoyment.’

  ‘I s’pose. I find it hard to understand what motivates these people to do what they do.’

  ‘That’s a problem we all have. They operate in an entirely different way, they see normal people as inferior beings, nothing more than playthings to do with as they please.’

  ‘I sort of understand that, but two of them? Working together like this…’

  ‘They also have an innate ability to recognise others like themselves, an affinity in some cases, though psychopaths can’t relate in any meaningful way that you or I would understand. They will as easily kill a partner in crime as any other potential victim.’

  ‘Abimbola said something odd in that cellar.’

  Her outward confidence and bonhomie disappeared for a shimmer of a second, her face betraying the fear still lurking in her subconscious before her professionalism brushed it back under her mental rug. With some counselling, Doc was sure she would be fine.

  ‘Something important?’

  ‘It may be… I’m not entirely sure, but he mentioned Harry Butler.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Well not by name. Abimbola was on about his partner being at work, which is strange as I would’ve thought he would know Butler was in custody.’

  ‘That is strange. You’re sure he said that?’

  ‘I think so, though it’s not very clear. I was a bit panicky and freaking out by then.’ Fiona’s cheeks turned a darker shade, a barely perceptible blush, but Doc noticed, her shame visible, her voice riddled with disgust at her failings. ‘I wasn’t much of a detective by that stage. Even with my training.’

  ‘Anyone in those circumstances, police or civilian, would have reacted the same way, Fiona.’

  ‘Mmm, maybe… At first I was sure he wouldn’t hurt me — me being a copper an’all. Sam said something interesting just now though. Abimbola had already sold his import business, along with the stock and premises. The sale was due to complete at the end of next month and he had booked a one way flight to Kenya for immediately after. No wonder he wasn’t worried about my colleagues following up if I disappeared after meeting him. He was mates with the local bobbies too, so he would’ve been able to blag it for a day or two before poking off overseas a bit earlier than planned.’

  ‘You know, if you hadn’t prompted us to make the connection between Akachi the shaman and Abimbola, we might never have done so.’

  ‘I hadn’t thought of it that way. With his partner in custody, claiming amnesia, I suppose we’d have just wrapped up the investigation.’

  ‘Uh-huh.’ The grunted reply was non-committal, with Doc’s mind momentarily elsewhere, thinking about Harding and how the man’s overconfidence had revealed the plan to frame Maddox. It could so easily have worked, especially considering the relationship between Maddox and Harry, their military service together, the millions Rawlings cost the professor. ‘You did well, Sergeant.’

  ‘Thanks, Doc. I suppose I did alright in the end. It was just so…’ Again, the shadow of fear passed across Fiona’s face as her voice petered out.

  ‘Do you want to talk about what happened?’

  Thus encouraged, Fiona became more animated as she described her ordeal in vivid detail, and Doc let her words tumble out, gently nudging her to recall everything, more as therapy for her than any curiosity on his part. As she continued her explanation she mentioned that Sam had divulged another sliver of information, a detail that Doc had missed out on after being unceremoniously dismissed by Dawson, so he stopped Fiona mid-sentence to probe for more details.

  ‘Sam told you Abimbola kept records, of the sales?’

  ‘The SOCOs found some handwritten ledgers at the Art of Africa place this morning. You were right about the muti angle — Abimbola was making a load of money on the side, selling his magic body parts. Thousands of pounds for each of them… Dozens and dozens of items — hands, breasts, even a heart… All taken from the victims and sold to buyers, going back years. It’s incredible.’

  Fiona spent more time unloading her views on muti barbarity, the nature of evil, and how the discovery of Gerald Butler’s collection had shocked and upset her on a fundamental level. Doc could tell she was deeply affected and let her get everything off her chest for another twenty minutes before he left her and went to see if Jack had roused.

  He was finally awake, but unlike Fiona, he did not look perky and healthy, but wan and haggard, though he managed a washed out grin as Doc entered his room.

  ‘Hi, Doc! Did you bring some grapes?’

  ‘No, but your boss certainly had some sour ones for me this morning. Apparently, I’m a useless failure as I couldn’t get Harry Butler to confess to crimes he can’t remember ever committing, but she doesn’t need his confession anyway as she’s convinced he’s guilty as charged.’

  ‘Yeah, I heard you’re off the case.’

  ‘Wow! The Met’s jungle drums must’ve been banging away for you to hear so swiftly, given you were in the land of nod less than an hour ago.’

  ‘I’ve got loyal staff, keeping me in the loop. Handy too, now I’ve been suspended, pending an investigation.’

  ‘For the shooting?’

  ‘Yup. Discharging a weapon. Even a bullet into a scrote like Harding is reason enough these days. He’s not even dead, and he shot you, but the PTBs have sidelined me while Soundbite’s soaking up all the glory. As usual.’

  ‘How’s your belly? Aching?’

  Jack tried to sit further upright and groaned as Doc assisted and plumped the pillows behind his back. It was not clear whether Doc’s pun or Harding’s bullet caused the accompanying grunts of pain.

  ‘Not great.’ He chuckled then. ‘The doctor who operated joked that my compacted faeces stopped the bullet getting any further. Seems to think my cast iron gut is the result of a diet that’s a bit less healthy than it ought to be!’

  ‘Joking aside, are you up for discussing the case?’

  ‘What, your theory that Butler’s been framed? Go on then, tell me what’s going on in that devious mind of yours. It’s not as if I’ve got anything better to do right now.’

  For the next fifty minutes Jack and Doc discussed every aspect of the case, including the scenarios that Doc felt justified further investigation. Initially sceptical, Jack finally caved in.

  ‘Okay, okay. I’ll call Sam and tell him to take a look at those thumb drives you found in Harding’s bag and also see if we can find any other links to Abimbola that might support your theory. I’m not saying I agree entirely, but it is worth following up, regardless of what Soundbite says.’

  ‘And Judy —’

  ‘Of course, mate. I’ll make sure Sam keeps you up to speed on everything, all on the quiet of course. Chuck me that phone.’ Doc passed it over and listened as Jack fired off instructions at the detective sergeant. When done, he dropped the handset into the cradle and said to Doc, ‘Now let me get some shuteye. I was in so much pain last night I barely slept a wink. I’m absolutely bolloxed! Sally’s coming down tonight, so I need to look me best.’

  Jack’s daughter. A second year student at Durham University, who he had hardly seen since a messy divorce some twelve years earlier.

  ‘Well that’s a silver lining, Jack.’

  ‘Yeah. Maybe I should get meself shot more often, might get to see a bit more of her!’ Although Jack used dark humour in an effort to mask his true feelings, Doc knew better. As he reached the door, Jack, eyes already closed, his voice back to normal, added, ‘And get that bloody bandage sorted. You look like your brains are leaking out, mate!’

  ***

  Day Five - Friday

  ‘Sorry to disturb you so late, Doc. I hope I didn’t wake you.’

  ‘Sam?’ Doc fumbled with the phone as he answered, then squinted at the LED display of the bedside clock. Almost one in the morning… ‘What on earth are
you doing calling me at this time?’ Doc came awake with a start as fear clutched its frigid fingers round his heart. ‘It’s Judy, isn’t it? What’s happened to her? What have you found?’

  ‘I’ve got great news, Doc! That’s why I’m calling you. I knew you’d want to hear immediately.’

  ‘Absolutely. Go on!’

  ‘Well, the records came through for Dover-Calais. Judith Amelia Finch left for France by foot on the last crossing on the night of the second of January.’

  ‘Thank God! And thank you for letting me know, Sam.’

  ‘There’s something else. She was arrested last week.’

  ‘What? Where?’

  ‘Paris. She was at a refugee and illegals’ camp. Apparently, she was there working with other volunteers when the police tried to clear the place and a riot broke out. Got caught up in it.’

  ‘But she was released?’

  ‘I’ve spoken to the Froggy gendarmes and they reckon they just kept her in overnight. There’s no record of her coming back to the UK since, so that should put your mind at rest.’ Sam hesitated, as if reluctant to ask, then said, ‘Er, Jack told me to keep you up to speed with everything… May I come in?’

  ‘What?’ Doc hopped out of bed and pulled the curtain aside. Sam was standing under a lamppost leaning against his car, mobile phone to one ear and a laptop bag tucked under his elbow. ‘Of course. Is that my Macbook?’

  ‘Yup. All cleaned. And I’ve got the thumb drives Harding had on him. Can you open the door? It’s starting to rain.’

  ‘I’m on my way down.’

  ***

  ‘Thanks, Doc.’ A freshly brewed Americano arrived on the kitchen worktop next to Doc’s Macbook. Sam, sitting where Jack had been a couple of days earlier, plugged an ADSL cable directly into the laptop — the other end was already in the wall socket — and logged on to Doc’s ISP. ‘Someone has been inside your system since last Christmas. I’m just checking whether your Wi-Fi set up has been compromised too. I’ll change the passwords just in case and sort it out so that you can use it again.’