Foreign Bodies

by Colin A Millar

  ‘What are your thoughts on the Belgian angle?’ Pearson asked after drinking nearly a quarter of his pint in one go.

  ‘You’ve had my report on that Fran,’ Tanner replied.

  ‘Yeah I know, I picked it up the other day. I have to confess to only really skim-reading it – mind was elsewhere, I’m afraid. Besides, I prefer to hear what you actually have to say rather than what you’ve put in your report.’

  ‘Ha, sure,’ he said, knowing his boss’ preference to hear what was going on rather than read it. ‘Interesting, I would say. There are definite similarities, in MO and circumstance at least, so it’s probable the murders were perpetrated by the same person – or a bloody copycat which would really screw things right fucking up. The Belgian killings would also explain why he went quiet in the UK. Anyway, the really interesting thing, the clincher, was that they spotted a pattern in some of the wounds on all five victims. I wouldn’t have spotted it even if I knew what I was looking for but when Inspector Montreux pointed it out it’s clearly deliberate. It’s called the burning bush and is a symbol used by the Presbyterian church. So, I got our lab boys to see if they could spot anything similar on the UK murders we’ve attributed to the Charmer.’

  Pearson looked pensive and interested in equal measure; he really wanted there to be a link, not just with Belgium but something that linked, conclusively, to the UK murders.

  ‘And did they?’ he asked, voice tightening slightly as he spoke.

  Tanner took another draught before nodding and saying, ‘Yep, on every single one, in the same place, they found the same pattern. He’s got better at it as time goes on – practice, I suppose – but it’s there, going all the way back to 2000 which is the earliest we have on file.’

  Pearson let out a sigh of relief and triumph, he had been right all along. His conjecture – that they were dealing with the same killer, that it was a series – had always been based on the similarities in MO. Now he had concrete evidence that they were dealing with a serial killer. He was so caught up with his own satisfaction that he missed some of what Tanner was saying to him. ‘Sorry, Malcolm, what was that?’

  Tanner simply smiled and said, ‘I was saying that I took the opportunity to share this information with every force. I’ve asked them to check any unsolveds not already attributed to The Charmer file, with particular focus on this burning bush mark. I figure this symbol holds some meaning for him and he is likely to have been carving that into his victims from the beginning. We may find some much earlier murders which could allow us to at least give him a locus for those ones. That’s not necessarily useful to us now but it might narrow our search parameters and, more to the point, enable us to either keep Marcus Travers in the frame or eliminate him. If there was no way he was in the area at the time he’s probably not our man. Either way we won’t be using our resources on a blind alley.’

  Pearson nodded. ‘Good call Malcolm … the earliest one I could attribute to the Charmer was 1999 and that was a bit tenuous, to be honest. So, I would suggest anything before that time. And maybe – if there are any that do match – he might have slipped up, made mistakes on those earlier outings and left some useable forensics, without any of the confusion we’ve faced since. I always suspected that the MO was too clean, too proficient, that there must have been others that were less well executed and messier. Serial killers need to hone their abilities just as much as anyone else.’

  ‘My thinking exactly,’ Tanner said. ‘We might find some linking forensics, which would likely be our man. We still need to catch him first to prove that, of course.’

  ‘Don’t remind me,’ Pearson said with a sigh. ‘I know we’re still swimming against the current but we need to gather as much as possible and hope we get a breakthrough and catch someone. Then we’ll have something tangible to work with. My round.’ Pearson stood to head for the bar.

  While Pearson fetched two fresh pints, Tanner sat playing with his now empty glass, trying to determine what to do with the new resources at his disposal. He was still thinking when Pearson placed the beers on the table. He nodded his thanks – lips pursed and eyes looking into the middle distance.

  Eventually he said, ‘I reckon one direction worth looking into would be to see if we can’t find exactly how far-ranging this guy is. I mean, we’ve got Belgium and the UK so logic would follow that he could travel further than that without raising too much suspicion. I could put Davey Roberts onto requesting information on similar murders in France, Germany, maybe Italy and Spain as well. Might just give us a bigger picture.’

  ‘Yep, seems a sensible way to go,’ Pearson replied. ‘Might not tell us much but the more information the better I’d say.’

  Tanner took a quick sip of his beer and cocked an eyebrow at his boss.

  ‘Another thing. There won’t be much of it – fewer cameras back then, plus poor image quality and tapes being re-used – but I think it might also be useful to go through all the old CCTV we’ve got for previous incidents.’ Tanner said.

  Before Pearson could reply Tanner waved him down. ‘I know you went through every minute you had last time around, Fran, but you wanted fresh eyes on this and it’d be remiss of us not to revisit every angle. Besides, technology’s improved a lot – if we can find a number of images where we think we’re looking at the same guy we might be able to enhance the images and get a better look at him.’

  ‘Yeah, again you’re right, as always Malcolm. That should be high on the list,’ Pearson said, smiling at Tanner’s look of pride at the ‘as always’ part of his last statement.

  ‘I’ve also been thinking that if there are any similar murders in other countries, we might be able to put a really accurate timeline together, essentially following him around,’ Tanner continued. ‘There might then be a chance we can spot him on ferries, flights, Eurostar or whatever. Also, we might get an idea of how long he stays in any given country. If there was a connected murder in France, for example, and then only a few days later another one in Germany, it’s likely he only stops in one country for a short period of time. Again, we can test that against the FO’s data, ruling Travers in or out.’

  ‘That’s a reasonable line of enquiry,’ Pearson agreed, swallowing another quarter pint. Tanner wondered how his boss could drink so much beer and never put weight on – he was as slim today as 20 years ago.

  ‘I have a concern,’ Pearson muttered, staring into his beer. ‘Is this whole Travers thing a total dead end? Don’t get me wrong, there’s clearly something going on there but is it anything to do with the Charmer? I mean, what do we have that really suggests it’s him, or that he knows anything about the case at all? Do you think he’s our man, Malcolm? Honest opinion please.’

  Tanner considered this for a moment before replying. ‘Well, Fran, without sounding defeatist he’s about the only lead we’ve got and as such at least we’re doing something. Having said that, my honest view is … I don’t know, which I realise is a total cop-out. As I see it, we’ve got some reasonable circumstantial to suggest he’s a ‘probable’ – right now I wouldn’t even put him in the ‘likely’ category. We’ll have a much better idea about it when forensics come back to us. If there’s a match anywhere then he jumps to prime suspect. My gut tells me he’s involved somehow but I can’t tell you how.’

  Pearson hmmed and nodded, still looking into his beer.

  Tanner seemed to have another thought. ‘I know we’ve checked the records for the periods of inactivity, in case our man was inside for something else – which, of course, got us nowhere. But we haven’t checked those periods with Travers’ movements and circumstances. I wonder, would it be worth going over those longer periods of inactivity with Mrs Travers? You know, in case there was something going on, family stuff maybe, that would explain the cessation? If there was a plausible reason for the killer to have stopped during that time it all adds up to more circumstantial evidence – again, it pins him or drops him.’

  Again Pearson nodded his agreement.
‘Yep, anything at all you can think of Malcolm. Like I say, the more we’ve got the better. I just wish it was substantial, real evidence – good, solid, physical stuff.’ He prodded his finger on the table during these last four words, showing his annoyance and frustration at the whole affair.

  ‘It’s just like fucking last time,’ he said, voicing a similar thought to the one Tanner had been having.

  Tanner’s phone began to ring. He fumbled in his inside jacket pocket trying to free it, mumbling curses as he went, eventually wresting it free.

  ‘Tanner,’ he said sharply on answering. ‘Yes Tony, go ahead.’

  He listened to Handley’s report, nodding every once in a while. He finished the call with a quick ‘Thank you, Tony, good work.’

  Placing the phone back in his pocket, he sat back, face grim.

  ‘Well?’ said Pearson, eyebrows raised.

  ‘Handley’s found Julia,’ Tanner replied.

  ’87

  His thoughts wouldn’t leave him alone. Every night and much of the day they were there – creeping, waiting to surface, then bursting into his consciousness, an explosion of images and feelings and desires. He found it almost impossible to push them back to the darker recesses of his mind. They were so strong, so powerful, that the urge to act almost overwhelmed him.

  He would see her blood-soaked and pleading, and then she would morph into another woman, one he didn’t know yet but felt he did. She – this other one – was his proxy, a mirror containing her reflection. She would be similar in so many ways: personality, looks and shape, with an unidentified something about her – something that at this time he couldn’t quite pinpoint. And he knew she was out there, this perfect copy.

  The images would swirl then – kaleidoscopic – into a rush of other faces, other bodies and over them all the burning bush would rise and flame and burn. This image, he knew, was for them. They who had made him stand and take the shame as she laughed. And he also knew this image would be carved into the flesh of every one of those other women. It would be there for all to see, but especially for them to see and then they would know.

  He lay in the dark with eyes wide open, flicking his gaze around different points on the ceiling as though searching for something on the Artexed plaster above. And perhaps that was exactly what he was doing: the lumps, swirls, dips and peaks in the plaster seemed to move, forming shapes and pictures as they wove together and then separated, only to coalesce into something new – sometimes interesting, other times banal or plain ridiculous. But he wasn’t looking for these shapes. They were just a consequence of his eye movements, and his eyes were moving as he searched for answers. Answers to questions he didn’t want to ask with answers he didn’t want to hear.

  His fists and jaw clenched as these answers came to the forefront of his mind anyway, despite his best efforts. He didn’t want to go down this path, he knew the consequences and the horror he would wreak on those he chose. He squeezed his eyes closed in an attempt to shut out the babble in his mind, but still the internal dialogue continued.

  He could hear his parents in the bedroom next door, had heard them for the last hour or so. It had started with the occasional unintelligible mutter and had gradually grown into the unmistakable sound of sex, or whatever activity they considered to be sex. He hated hearing them, not because of the obvious embarrassment at being aware of your parents having sex, but because he envied them – envied the pleasure they clearly derived from their activities, a pleasure he knew he would never feel. He already knew that simple, straightforward sex would ultimately end in failure and rejection. The sex he wanted, needed in fact, was much, much darker – so dark most people would describe it as evil.

  Turning his back to the wall that adjoined his parents’ room, he tried to block out the noises. Closing his eyes again he gave in to the internal monologue, allowing the deep, dark thoughts to form and raise their questions and provide the images that sometimes haunted his dreams and other times aroused him so much he would ejaculate in his sleep. This would wake him and he would then lie there feeling sick at the act.

  He felt the frustration of realising he couldn’t even assuage these feelings by masturbating. Masturbation conjured feelings of self-loathing and disgust, of humiliation and hatred, another resentment to sit alongside the others in his psyche. It was a certainty – he would never masturbate again.

  He knew he had been changed irrevocably on that day. When she had laughed. Until then his thoughts and fantasies about sex had, as far as he knew, been pretty normal. They had involved all the usual trappings of the desires of a young teenage boy: breasts, legs, the imagined feel of being inside a girl, the warmth and the excitement. They were all lost now. There would be no more fantasies so pure, so normal, so natural.

  With his mind focused on sex and its consequences the images began anew – this time stronger, with more clarity and power. Penetration would now only ever occur with a knife. The act of plunging the sharp steel over and over into the soft flesh of her proxy would replace the mechanics of sex. This would be his sexual union with these women. This would be how he expunged the shame.

  He would hunt for that one woman. The one that would be a perfect copy. The one that would make the desire, the urge to kill, stop. She would make the images disappear. And when he found her and delivered her to his rage, maybe then he could be normal and live the life he had imagined all those years ago. It would become his quest to find her.

  Many others would die along the way, but they would simply be steps on the road to freedom, and each would bear the mark of the bush, burning on their flesh. Each would add to the guilt he would transfer to them and her. They would know then, they would see publicly what they had done and feel his shame and his rage and his guilt.

  As he explored these thoughts and found comfort in them, the urge to carry out his plans, to act on them and bring them to fruition grew in his mind. It became so strong that he knew he would no longer feel scared of capture or failure. The urge to achieve his goal would drive him on and sustain him for as long as it took.

  He found sleep then with dreams of The One and The Quest to find her, with dreams of Delivering her and the others and behind it all The Urge raging, pushing him on.

  As he slept soundly for the first time in months a small smile played across his lips.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Handley had spent most of the morning searching every public record he could think of for Julia Metcalfe. The problem he was having was that there were quite a lot of them in Greater London alone, never mind the rest of the country. With no image of her as yet and little other information he had very few ways to whittle down the list. Eventually, he gave up on his efforts and headed out to talk to one of the sub-editors at The Guardian, figuring he would get more luck there than on a computer.

  Their offices were in Kings Place, a short walk from King’s Cross St. Pancras station. Handley stepped out onto the St. Pancras concourse, relieved to be off the tube. He felt distinctly uncomfortable in the cramped spaces of the trains, especially during busy periods, where his already large frame seemed to grow larger as more people got on and he simply couldn’t get out of the way.

  He walked the 100 yards or so to Kings Place, trying to un-tense his shoulders and breathe a little more easily.

  Whilst he was admiring the light and airy atrium of the building’s foyer, the features editor he had arranged to meet approached and introduced himself. He was a trim, bustling man named Gary Cannon. They shook hands as Handley politely turned down the offer of a tour but gratefully accepted the offer of a coffee. Cannon led them to a café just across from where they stood.

  Once the coffees where placed on the table between them, Handley outlined the information he wanted on Julia Metcalfe: address, phone number and NI number plus any other information HR or other offices might hold.

  He finished his list by asking, ‘Can you tell me anything about what Ms Metcalfe might have been working on in the last three mo
nths, Mr Cannon?’

  ‘Not as such no,’ Cannon began. ‘She wasn’t, as far as I know, thinking of submitting anything here during that time. But I did speak to her a few months back and she said she was working on a fairly major story – although I also remember her saying that it was all a bit vague and needed a lot more work.’

  Handley noted this down and asked, ‘Didn’t she give any further detail as to what it was about?’

  ‘No,’ Cannon replied. ‘As I said, she felt it wasn’t very concrete at that point. She was obviously not ready to share whatever it was in any detail.’

  ‘Can you recall exactly when you had this conversation with Ms Metcalfe?’ Handley asked.

  ‘Not exactly, but I would imagine it was about three or four months ago now,’ Cannon answered.

  ‘And have you spoken to her since then?’ Handley asked whilst jotting down a note.

  ‘No, can’t say I have Detective Handley.’ Cannon’s brow had begun to crease.

  Handley could see that Mr Cannon was starting to get curious about his line of questioning. About time your journalistic instincts kicked in, he thought, or have you spent so long looking at other people’s stuff that you’ve lost your touch?

  ‘And is that usual, would you say? Or would you normally have more regular contact?’ Handley tried to keep the smile from his face as Cannon’s features settled into an expression of clichéd curiosity.

  ‘It is fairly unusual, yes,’ Cannon replied, sitting forward and looking more intently at Handley. ‘We would catch up relatively frequently, dependent on what work I had for her or what stories she had for me. So, I suppose we would speak about once a month, certainly once every six weeks or so.’

  It was Handley’s brow that now furrowed. ‘Didn’t you find it strange then that she hadn’t been in touch at all during that period of time?’ he asked.