The killer had been dubbed The Charmer by a national newspaper, after an unguarded comment from Pearson on how the killer appeared to be able to charm his way into the homes of his victims. This was soon pounced on by the rest of the media. His victims were all women aged between 20 and 38 – all relatively comfortable financially, some married, others not. There was no forced entry to any property and all the victims had been stabbed multiple times – brutally, as the newspapers put it, which always seemed odd to Tanner as the police were rarely involved in ‘gentle’ stabbings or ‘friendly’ ones for that matter.
‘90
His nose wrinkled at the stench that suddenly filled the little clearing in the scrub and trees. It was quite dark now so he struggled to see what had happened.
‘God, has she shit herself?’ he murmured quietly to himself, looking down at the very thin young woman lying sprawled on the ground as he sat back on his haunches to gain a better view.
The girl and surrounding ground were covered in blood – as, he noted, was he – but in the failing light it all appeared to be dark, glutinous, globs of ‘stuff’. Now that he looked at the gore on his arms and torso, he could feel it cooling on his skin and worse still hardening in his hair.
He looked again at what was left of the girl. She was almost entirely covered in blood from her ankles to her neck, legs and genitalia slashed and cut, abdomen just a mass of clots and slowly oozing wounds. Then he looked more closely and as he did so he realised his error. At least two of his ‘insertions’ had punctured so deeply as to penetrate her bowels, causing two deep rents in the stinking, gelatinous organ now lying, visibly exposed, on her stomach. Both had spilled vile, dark smears of excrement over her belly and lower body.
Deep revulsion filled him as he realised he must also be covered in the stuff. He rose from where he had been kneeling and moved a few metres away where he retched violently, holding himself semi-upright with one hand pressed against the trunk of a tree. He was relieved they were all dry heaves, as at least there would be less to clean up. He knew that traces of the girl were everywhere but they were irrelevant. The police could know all they liked about who she was but what was important – nay, vital – was that they had next to nothing of his traces. He knew he would never clean the area of all clues and was also comforted that even if they did somehow find a tiny trace of his DNA, or a fibre or any other ‘clue’, they would still have to catch him and match it first. There was certainly no trace of him on any records; he had never been arrested, never even been inside a police station, so no – they couldn’t trace him from this mess and they were highly unlikely to catch him now, were they?
But as immune as he felt he was, he had to clean up this disastrous, pathetic mess. This was, for the third time now, nothing like what he wanted – not at all the beautiful transcendence he had been looking for. Instead, it was just a shit-filled space in some waste ground with a useless, unattractive, and, more to the point, unfulfilling bitch who’d had the temerity to soil his skin.
With a last hack that cleared his throat and mind he got to work.
He began by roughly grabbing the girl by the ankle and dragging her several metres to the near-vertical sides of the old quarry set in the middle of this piece of waste ground. There was water filling the bottom and the banks continued their steep descent long after the water line was reached. She would, with any luck, simply disappear without trace … not that anyone would probably report her missing anyway – cheap, filthy, drug-riddled, whore that she was.
Then, he returned to the clearing. There was no point worrying about the blood and shit on the ground; the rain would come soon and wash all of that away, and very few people would come through here and see it, if it stayed dry. He collected the cheap kitchen knife he had bought from Woolworths not too many hours ago, and then retracing his steps he tossed it after the girl.
Next, he gathered the clothes he had been wearing when they had come into the woods and shredded them, ripping each item into rags and unrecognisable bits of material. Taking these, he returned to his backpack which he had carefully left outside the clearing, well away from any potential contamination. From this he removed a large black bin liner and touching only this he emptied out an entire change of clothes (very different from those worn before – casual clothes became suit, shirt, tie, brogues) and then placed the rags into it. Finally, he could reach for the bottle of alcohol cleaner and the swabs he kept at the bottom of the bag and thoroughly wiped down every last inch of his body.
Freshly dressed and walking back out of the rough, abandoned woodland he had chosen as a temple, he chastised himself. Mistakes had been made, bad ones. Never again would he turn to whores or druggies to fulfil his quest. That was a big mistake, because although they appeared to be life’s victims, they tended to be feistier and strangely cling on and fight with real venom. And, besides, there was no way he was going to find The One among them. The scene was far too hard to control: failing light, lots of opportunity to leave traces and potential weapons lying around for those chosen to be Delivered to use against him. That last thought raised a smile – the pathetic souls he had chosen so far posed no physical threat to him. And maybe that was the rub? He should aim higher, a lot higher … grand and classy from now on.
Yes, he was not stretching himself enough. He had to set his sights on a higher goal, hone his skills a little more. After all, it was barely a challenge to lure these guileless, unsophisticated women to the places he wanted. Yes, it was time to use his natural charm and step up the Quest.
Time to find some real women.
With that, his thoughts turned back to reopening talks with the rest of Europe about BSE-riddled beef and gaining the release of Brian Keenan from Beirut. Apparently it was important that he be freed although he could see no real reason why some little Irish pleb should be of any importance. Still, work was work and it was comfortable, easy work after all.
When he was nearly home, he found a neighbour’s bin, conveniently awaiting collection, to dump his rubbish bag into.
This done, and now safe in the knowledge he was home and dry yet again, he straightened his tie and began whistling quietly to himself.
Strange, he thought, that the closer to home he dumped his detritus the safer it was.
Chapter Three
Tanner was brought back from his recollections of The Charmer case when his boss replied, opening and holding the security door for Tanner to enter, ‘It’ll be easier to show you up at my office. Couple of things have come up that might or might not be connected. And your lot are handling one of them.’
Tanner remained silent as they made their way back up the stairs and along to Pearson’s office. He or his team were handling a case involving The Charmer? Surely not. There was nothing ‘on the books’ that he could think of that he could remotely connect to a series of killings from 10 to 20 years ago. There were a number of killings they were dealing with but all were straightforward cases – as far as he could recall – with most culprits either already in custody or being sought. None that he could think of were still open with no prime suspect.
They entered the office and Pearson gestured for Tanner to sit in the chair opposite his desk, taking the more comfortable chair behind it himself. Tanner waited patiently while his superior was apparently collecting his thoughts.
‘Two things have come to my attention over the last couple of days,’ he began at last. ‘Firstly, yesterday I had an interesting email forwarded to me from Belgium.’
Tanner raised an eyebrow. Belgium? Where the hell was this going? But he said nothing, allowing Pearson to continue.
‘It seems a Police Fédérale Investigating Officer – I think that’s what they call themselves anyway – reckons she is working a murder in a town called Leuven, which I hadn’t heard of but turns out to be a fairly large town, maybe a little smaller than say Chelmsford. Anyway, she’s working a murder from about a month or so ago and in the course of her investigation was reminde
d of The Charmer case over here. It was pretty big news everywhere at the time and she has noticed some potential similarities.’
As Pearson paused, Tanner began thinking of questions and objections to this somewhat far-fetched ‘connection’.
‘She’s sent us the details and highlighted what she sees as the similarities – I’ll forward it all to you once we’re done. I have to say she’s been really thorough and the evidence she puts forward is pretty convincing, although all circumstantial at this time. I for one think there might be something in it, although frankly I have no idea if it can really be the same killer.’
Tanner sat for a moment thinking and Pearson knew well enough to leave him to it, holding back the second point he was about to make.
‘So, before I spend time going through this Belgian report and then doing a full comparison with the files from The Charmer investigation,’ Tanner said eventually, ‘why not give me an outline of what she has to say so I can give you an initial assessment? Saves some time.’
‘OK, that’s a fair call Malcolm. Basically, the victim was found in her own home. She was a 32-year-old banking manager and was stabbed 15 times using one of her own kitchen knives. No sign of forced entry – forensics are going through the property with a fine-tooth comb but so far nothing usable has been found. The victim was last seen in a bar. She appeared to be waiting for someone, then received a call on her mobile and left. The caller used a pay as you go number, untraceable.’
‘Right, so that has some similarities,’ said Tanner, ‘but a lack of evidence isn’t a good place to start a comparison is it? I mean the circumstances sound similar but there’s nothing there to say it’s actually anything more than that – similar does not necessarily mean the same as.’
‘Malcolm, there was bugger all to go on in the first place. We never found any forensic that was of any use for The Charmer – you probably weren’t party to the full forensic reports but they were all but useless. There was loads of cross-contamination, DNA from several individuals and hair from yet another set. Aside from the MO and what boiled down to a gut feeling on my part, there was nothing to actually confirm those killings were even really a series carried out by the same man. When I started this investigation CCTV coverage was minimal and of poor quality, so I thought I might get a break as it started to improve. But he’s even got around that somehow, though God knows how.’ Pearson’s voice had become more gravelly as he spoke, obviously reliving the frustrating and fruitless past investigation.
‘However,’ he continued, ‘you have to agree that this case from Belgium bears some similarity, so I still think you should compare it to our files. You’re probably aware that the murders tailed off a few years ago and with nothing new to work on the investigation ground to a halt. Makes me wonder if our man switched to a different country. The only reason this was sent to me was that Belgium were looking at old newspaper reports and so on, and my name came up as Senior Investigating Officer – which technically I still am, although frankly there haven’t been any significant developments for several years. The file is still open, of course, but I haven’t really seen the point in putting another team onto it. I figure they’d wind up the same place I did, which is nowhere. I suggested another team look at it, maybe one out of my remit – you know, a fresh pair of eyes and all that. Top brass weren’t having it, so I’m the expert apparently and it stays with me. Christ, nearly 10 years of trying to catch that bastard and I’m still nowhere near, so I need your help on this Malcolm. I need you to start afresh as though it were 10 years ago, step into my shoes as it were, and then see if this Belgian connection takes us anywhere.’
‘Not being funny Fran but, I really don’t want to be put in the shoes you had to wear 10 years ago. They’d stink for a start and I already have a headache,’ Tanner grumbled. ‘I don’t need that turning into a need for a head transplant.’ He sighed and rubbed his eyes with thumb and forefinger then pulled them down over his cheeks, ‘Ok Fran, I’ll take a look. You said there was something that was already on my desk?’
‘Ah yeah, might be nothing but since the whole Charmer thing has reared its ugly head at me again, I had an initial search done, checking for names mentioned in the case files against any travel to Belgium or recent activity. Didn’t expect to get anything back and yet weirdly I did. One of the people interviewed in The Charmer case, a Marcus Travers, has – I believe – gone missing and your lot are dealing with it?’
This raised an eyebrow from Tanner. Yeah DC Handley had that one. Odd, as there has been no trace of him at all – no body, no financial activity we can find and no sightings. And totally out of character … by all accounts he was a pretty straight-up-and-down guy. Why was he interviewed?’
‘We’d got pretty desperate by then, admittedly, but one thing that came up was that there were Government conferences, meetings, training sessions – you know the type of thing, generally Foreign Office and Home Office civil servants on a shindig. Anyway these were going on at the same time and in the same or nearby towns as some of the killings. Like I say, all a bit tenuous and desperate, but we traced and interviewed all those attending and Marcus Travers was one of them. In fact, he had been to at least four of them. His alibis were confirmed, however, and the interviewing officer reckoned, and I quote, “He was a really decent sort who answered honestly and truthfully”. It could all be nothing but I thought it worth bringing to your attention since you’re going to be looking at The Charmer files anyway, and he’s Foreign Office so he would be very likely to travel to the continent, especially Belgium.’
Again, Tanner appeared to be thinking deeply about what he had just heard, this time running a hand gently over the smooth and shiny dome of his head. ‘Hmm, that is…. interesting. OK Fran, let me have everything, as well as full access to the Charmer files. Does that mean the case is officially on our books? Just thinking budgets, you know?’ Tanner gave a half smile knowing damn well what the answer would be.
Pearson chuckled, a sound rather like a small elephant crunching through gravel: ‘No Malcolm, no chance. The Charmer review is a result of a request from an external force and as such is not yet officially handed over to me. It’s just a review being conducted at my request. It won’t require any extra manpower, other than yourself, so there’s no need for additional budget. There could be a need, however, if you find that there is a connection. Then we may well be looking at official handover and, yes, budgets.’
Tanner laughed with his friend and superior. ‘A well-rehearsed line, Fran. Fair enough, I’ll have a dig and see what I can find. I’ll let you know about the Belgian case as soon as, OK?’
Sitting back down at his own desk, a few moments later, Tanner blew out his cheeks and let out a long and noisy breath. Well, no point hanging about and fretting over it. Let’s crack on, he thought, moving the mouse to open the email from DCS Pearson.
‘06
The Urge had been too strong.
It had been many months since he had last worshipped a woman, shown her what true love was, that everlasting, eternal bliss and release. He had ached for that feeling of control mixed with abandon and then the sheer exhilaration of pushing the blade into her again and again. But he had to be careful, had to have self-control – his Quest could last many years yet. He had to keep going until he found The One, the one woman who was just perfect, who fulfilled him in every way. Then, and only then, would it stop.
The police, however, were upping their investigations. They had realised there were connections between a number of the Events and had declared that they suspected one man was responsible. That meant he must be very careful. He had hoped the disparate nature of the locations and variety of women chosen – all of a particular type of course, if you looked at them carefully enough, but with enough differences to keep even a keen investigating officer from spotting a pattern – would not have created links on the Police National Computer system, and that each case (especially those from a number of years ago now) would be
handled locally and seen as a series.
He had also hoped that the chaos caused by the Buncefield oil terminal exploding last year would have given him some breathing space. The Home Office, in its wisdom, had placed the only back-up server to the PNC right next door to the huge oil depot, and it went up in smoke amid the largest fire in Europe since the war. He had laughed long and hard when he heard the news; the colleague who told him obviously assumed he found the HO’s error funny and had no idea of its real significance.
Still, those clever IT boffins at the PITO had kept things running and then an upcoming DCI happened to notice a couple of similar Events, one in Brighton and the other in Manchester. This naturally led to several connections being made and eventually the DCI decided there were 10 ‘murders’, as he called them. There were more of course – so many more women he had loved and cherished and Delivered, stretching back over a decade or so now.
He felt aggrieved that the DCI had described his deeds as something so crass as murder; had he not seen the nuances, the clear demonstrations of love and care he had shown these women? Still, the fact remained that they were now looking for one man, and that made his Quest all the more precarious.
Naturally they had no idea who they were looking for, but still, homing in on one suspect meant a concerted effort in investigatory activity and forensics. That could lead to a lucky break which might put him in a very dangerous position. A modicum of comfort to him was the chaos he caused with the forensic evidence: with so many different strands of DNA, hair, semen and occasionally saliva, it was almost impossible for the police to pinpoint any one individual. But if they did ever think to test him then they would find matches. He couldn’t avoid leaving some traces and also knew that the police worked on the premise that you could not be anywhere without leaving something behind.
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