‘Oh, we go way back,’ Derringham said, stringing out the “way” longer than was entirely necessary and waving a hand to further emphasise his point. ‘We met at the Scottish Office, same department. I had been there around a year when Marcus arrived. Turned out we had both been to Edinburgh, again only a year or so apart, and that we had similar backgrounds. Similar in that we were both from the north east of Scotland and both from quite staunchly Presbyterian families. We would often share a chuckle over a pint of eighty whilst poking fun at our rather strict and stony-faced fathers.’
Derringham sat back a little in his chair with a wistful smile on his face and faraway eyes. Handley stayed silent, allowing Derringham his moment of reminiscence. Then his mouth formed into a small moue and his eyes became a little unfocused, staring above Handley’s head and clearly weighing his next words.
‘My thoughts on Marcus as a person?’ he said eventually. ‘I have to say I thought very highly of him, both professionally and personally. He was excellent at his work, dedicated and professional, superb with his staff and others in the office, and had all the potential to rise to the very top of the civil service. On a personal level, I have already said we got on very well – I consider him to be one of my closer friends. If I were to offer any negatives at all I would say he was a little given to introspection which could lead to his being overly quiet at times. Oh and –’ Derringham added with a short chuckle – ‘he was also a bit of a scruffy bugger. I was forever brushing stray hair of his jacket shoulder or reminding him his top button was undone.’
Looking at Derringham’s immaculate attire, Handley could see how Marcus’ scruffy appearance would rankle him. He resisted the urge to ensure his own tie was straight.
Derringham sat for a moment, that half-smile back on his face, an expression that Handley realised made him look almost boyish. After a second or two his face returned to a more serious expression as his brow creased.
‘Your Detective Chief Superintendent intimated on the telephone that there had been a development, is that how you chaps put it? That it was now rather more important that I see you, in person, as soon as possible. Is there something? Is there something more, er, pertinent you wanted to ask, DC Handley?’
Handley felt a little chagrined that his boss had apparently spilled the beans over the phone – giving the impression, he felt, that he was nothing more than a note-taker. He drew a calming breath before continuing.
‘Well, yes there have been some developments and it has become more important that we locate and can hopefully talk to Mr Travers. There is an outstanding case that recently threw up some information that we would like to check. It’s an investigation from some time ago that remains unsolved and until recently had had no further lines of enquiry. Marcus Travers may have some information that could shed light on certain matters. Also, we would be interested to gain information on certain aspects of his work that might help move the investigation along. The information goes back a number of years but we’d hoped the Foreign Office would keep diligent records on the sort of things we want to know.’
Derringham lifted his clasped hands up towards his face, his index fingers pressed together and extended upwards so that they just touched his slightly pouting lips.
‘So somehow you have connected Marcus to an old case? Is that correct?’ Derringham’s tone was schoolmasterly, like a senior figure requesting clarification from a junior. Handley suspected that tone was heard a lot in this office.
‘Can you tell me any more, DC Handley? It may help me track down the information you’re looking for, or at least make my efforts more, er, relevant?’
‘I can’t say any more on the case in question, sir, only that it’s a very serious matter and Mr Travers may hold information vital to that investigation.’
‘I see. I take it from what you say that this case has now been re-activated?’
Handley simply nodded in response to Derringham’s probing, refusing to be drawn by it. Instead he simply proceeded to outline the information he wanted – which conferences Marcus had attended and where they were, especially those covering specific dates. Derringham produced a slim leather-bound notebook and a very expensive-looking pen, jotted down some details and asked some questions on specifics like dates, double-checking the year every time Handley gave him one.
After Derringham had stopped writing Handley felt it was time to ask the more pertinent question: ‘Is there any way that your records could track whether Mr Travers was in attendance for the entire duration of these events?’
Derringham sat back and smiled whilst running a perfectly manicured hand through perfectly styled hair and eventually said with a small laugh, ‘I may well have been on a couple of those jaunts myself, Detective Constable.’ He gave a slight, barely perceptible wink as he said this. ‘And even I have been known to disappear from the odd interminable conference. I wouldn’t be at all surprised if Marcus had done the same. In answer to your question, however, no we don’t have any means to track that sort of thing.’
As Handley tried to think of another question, Derringham spoke again: ‘Now you have my confession that I have done a runner from several of these conferences, will you be investigating me too?’
Handley smiled in response. ‘No sir, your name did not come up when this was first looked at, so it’s just Mr Travers I would like to know about.’
Derringham simply returned the nod with a tight smile. ‘Good to know, couldn’t have my excellent name besmirched now, could we?’ The smile became a slightly lopsided grin.
‘Well, they are all quite some time ago,’ he continued, ‘but I wouldn’t bet against Agatha having kept something somewhere, probably relating to expenses. We have credit cards for this sort of thing – that should suffice don’t you think?’
Handley, who assumed Agatha was Ms Prim and Proper in the outer office, nodded in agreement again.
‘Well, if that’s all DC Handley, I really must be getting on. I’ll have Agatha email you the details as soon as we have them.’
‘Thank you, sir,’ said Handley, shaking Derringham’s hand as he rose. ‘Actually, Sir Frederick, there was one more question I wanted to ask.’
Sir Frederick made a ‘fire away, but make it quick’ gesture, one that should have been a complex set of hand signals but which he turned into a simple flourish of one hand.
‘We discovered some notes amongst Mr Travers’ possessions from a Julia. We’re not sure if they were work-related or personal, so I wondered – is there a Julia here? Or have you ever come across the name in connection with Mr Travers?’
Derringham thought for a moment then shook his head. ‘No, Detective, I can’t say I have – we all get rather a lot of visitors and I’m afraid I am often far too busy to keep track of all or indeed any of them. Sorry.’
As he spoke Derringham was gently but firmly guiding Handley towards the office door. The interview was now officially over.
The two men shared an amicable nod and Handley headed through the now open door into the outer office.
When Handley had passed Agatha and reached the outer door, Derringham spoke again.
‘Detective? How on earth is this information going to help you find Marcus?’
‘Well sir, frankly I have no idea at this time.’
With that he exited the outer office and started on the long trek back to reception, hoping fervently that he wouldn’t get lost on the way.
*
Derringham stood looking at the now closed outer office door for some time, obviously deep in thought, his normally smooth and handsome brow rutted by a deep frown.
Agatha watched her beloved boss silently, waiting for him to either speak to her or ignore her presence and simply return to his own office – either of these actions were equally probable.
Eventually, Derringham’s brow cleared and he turned to her. ‘Agatha, the young police officer requires the following information – I assured him you would certainly have something tucked
away that will assuage his rather strange curiosity.’
He handed her the notes he had taken in the meeting, then appeared to have a second thought.
‘And when you’ve completed that, dig out whatever you have on file for Julia Metcalfe.’
‘96
He watched the boy’s back arch and smiled at the muffled scream as the needle pierced the scrotum. Every muscle in the boy’s body tensed as he pushed the needle further in – searching out the epididymis – and there was a higher, although still muffled, scream when he found his target. Deciding to enjoy the torment a little longer he left the syringe where it was and casually checked the bonds tying the boy’s wrists behind his back and the rope that led from there to his ankles. They were, of course, very tight. The boy was sobbing now, in fear and confusion. He could feel the wracking sobs shaking the body beneath him.
Before he began the work he needed to do, he took a look at the young, very lean and track-marked body lying tethered on the damp, mucky concrete of this disused builder’s yard. The boy was young, maybe 20, and would probably be called handsome – although his judgement on such matters was poor. It had been easy to get him there; he was a rent boy after all and like most rent boys and prostitutes he was already desperate for his next hit so any ‘trick’ would do. It also meant there was no faff in getting the boy undressed – he had done that for himself as soon as they were out of the car. He was, after all, expecting sex.
He hated that part most of all – the pick-up and drive to wherever he knew would be secluded and safe, the feigned interest in the young man’s body and the talk of what he would ‘like’. Homosexuality disgusted him, had done since childhood. He had heard his father’s sermons enough times, in and out of church, for it to be quite literally beaten into him.
But this was essential, vital to the Quest – a necessary evil, he thought. But then there was no reason he shouldn’t take at least a little enjoyment from the unsavoury task.
Leaving the syringe firmly lodged in the tissue below and behind the boy’s testes, he reached for his briefcase. It looked like many, many others seen in towns and cities all over the world; a business man’s briefcase, full of work to be done at home and tomorrow’s important documents. But this case had no paper in it, had nothing that he would use at the office.
Using his small pocket torch, he double-checked the surgical gloves he was wearing for holes or tears. Satisfied there would be no cross contamination he returned to the task ahead.
With exaggerated caution he removed three small, glass vials from the small pockets lining the inside of the lid and placed them on the hard, cold concrete next to the boy, removing each lid as he did so.
The boy had not stopped trying to scream, sob and beg through the thick gag in his mouth and he decided he had had enough of the noise and pathetic whimpering. Lifting the cosh that he had used earlier to subdue the young man, he viciously swiped it across his ear and jaw. It shouldn’t kill him but would hopefully shut him up for a bit. He didn’t want him dead yet. He needed his heart to be still pumping blood, keeping the tissues and cells healthy for a little while yet.
Returning to his case he picked out another syringe and needle, both still in their sterile wrappings, and a small pair tweezers. These were placed neatly next to the vials.
Ensuring his gloves were securely on, he moved to the syringe with its needle still sticking into the boy’s scrotum. He chastised himself for playing games now, as the needle had moved during the boy’s sobs and struggles. He quickly re-located his target and pushed the needle into a fresh area of the epididymis. He pulled back on the plunger, extracting the semen that this thick mass of tubes stored ready for ejaculation. Pulling the needle clear with a great deal less care than he had inserted it, he emptied the contents into one of the glass vials and closed the lid. Only a weak whimper made it out of the gag.
Whilst picking up and assembling the second syringe and needle he searched for a clear spot on the boy’s legs and back. He needed an area where blood vessels were close to the surface but not destroyed by drug use. There were not many spots, the boy was clearly a heavy user. Luckily the boy was skinny and he found he could raise the vein which ran over the ankle enough to insert the needle. He extracted as much blood as he could and put this into the second vial.
Finally, he took up the tweezers and carefully pulled out a number of hairs, both pubic and head. On a whim he also pulled some hair from an armpit. Each of these were carefully placed into the third vial. All three vials were then quickly but carefully placed back into their respective pockets. The syringes were dropped into a plastic bio-hazard tub he had purloined from a local hospital – ready to be thrown into the incineration bin back at the same hospital. Pulling an anti-bacterial wipe from the pack sitting next to his box of gloves, he wiped down the tweezers and secured them in their appropriate place in the case. He snapped the case shut and secured the locks with all the verve of a CEO concluding a very lucrative deal.
Leaving the boy for a moment, he returned to his car. Once the case was safely stowed in the boot, he lifted the carpet near the spare wheel and pulled out a large kitchen knife, recently purchased from Woolworths. He also picked up a large brown paper bag and a pair of comfortable-looking brogues.
Closing the boot, he returned to the prone, quietly groaning body of the young man.
He killed him cleanly and quickly. There was no ritual required here, no message or markings were needed.
Turning the body over he grabbed it roughly under the shoulders and hauled it across the short piece of waste ground that separated the builder’s yard from the River Tyne. The river was pretty deep here but still held a reasonable current. Finding weights for the body had been easy, there were plenty of bricks and other heavy objects left lying around. He pushed the boy’s body out as far as he could using a long, rusted pole he’d found in the scrub, and watched as the young man – whose name he had never known but who he would offer a little word of thanks to at some point in the future – sank below the dark waters. With any luck he’d never be found. If he was, there would be scant evidence left on the body. Either way, he knew he would be the last person on the list of the Northumbria Police Force. The knife was thrown as far out as he could manage.
Finally returning to his car, he removed the overalls and cheap trainers he’d been wearing, revealing the very smart suit below, and placed them into the paper bag with the needles, to go into the hospital incineration bin.
Having slipped on his brogues and then dropped the bag in the passenger footwell, he made his way around the front of the car, straightening his tie and whistling quietly to himself.
Chapter Seven
Malcolm Tanner adjusted his shirt cuffs as he strode down the stairs to the main entrance of the station. His ‘guest’ had arrived and he was keen to get this meeting over with. It wasn’t that he had dismissed what the Belgian detective had had to say during their phone call earlier that day, but frankly – why they had to meet, on her insistence, he had no idea. He could have said all he needed to say over the phone, although he realised that he also hated his phone, but still! Pearson had said it would be for the good that they meet – cross-continental co-operation and all that.
Opening the security-coded door, he caught his first sight of Jacqueline Montreux, Inspector Principle of the Belgian Federal Police. She was tall and slim with an athletic look about her. Her shoulder-length, brown hair was neat but not showy or overly styled, and her trouser suit matched it with its tidy, business-like look. Her eyes were made larger by the thick glasses she wore.
‘Inspector Montreux? Malcolm Tanner, it’s a pleasure to meet you.’ Tanner said.
‘Detective Chief Inspector Tanner, the pleasure is mine.’ Her voice was soft with the lilting French accent he had been struck by previously over the phone. It was a pleasant voice and yet it had a professional steel to its undertone.
‘I have to say, Inspector Montreux, I am still surprised you wanted to
come all this way to discuss what, to us at least, is a very old, albeit unsolved case. There has been some recent activity but very little, although I appreciate you feel there are similarities with a much more current one of your own.’
‘Please, Chief Inspector, call me Jacqueline. But no, it is not so far. There are many flights from Brussels that take only a few hours. I stayed in a pleasant hotel last night and will fly back tonight – it is just as easy for us to meet face to face. And, I feel that we may be more…’ She pursed her lips and frowned, searching for the right word. ‘… aha, productive if we can sit together and look at the evidence, yes?’
Tanner smiled. She made sense – despite his grumblings he had to admit that he found face-to-face meetings were often far more productive than telephone calls or worse still bloody emails.
‘Indeed Inspector, I can’t help but agree with you. Please follow me, I have one of our meeting rooms set aside so we can spread out a little and discuss the files in as much detail as necessary.’
Turning, he led her back through the security door and towards the meeting room he had booked.
After settling into the office and receiving the coffees Tanner had gruffly ordered from a passing PC, he gestured for Inspector Montreux to begin the meeting.
‘Well, Chief Inspector, as I have already outlined in my email, when I began to look for cases of similarity to the killing in Leuven, I discovered five cases spreading across the last eight years. All are women between the ages of 28 and 35, four were married, one was single. They were all found in their own home, with no sign of forced entry or disturbance to the rest of the house outside of the bedroom. All were stabbed multiple times over their entire bodies. All very similar to your Charmer case. Forensics found at the scene were next to useless. It is fascinating that a connecting feature to all five cases is that the samples of hair, blood and semen that we managed to isolate as not being the victim’s were all from several different people.’
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