After many practice runs, he had soon felt confident he could follow someone for quite some way without being detected. He still had no idea how he would catch hold of them and get them to an appropriate spot. This he pondered for another week or more whilst continuing to follow women around the city. He would look for potential spots where he could make his move and then abandon the chase to examine those places more carefully. He would move into their shadows and wait, seeing how many people passed and if there was anyone else using the area for other purposes – drug-taking, sex, sleeping. Slowly he began to recognise the right sort of places where he might have a chance.
This had still left the hardest element – catching them. Resuming his trailing exercises, he had begun to work on plausible ways he could move quickly up to his target and get close enough without frightening them. He tried simply upping his pace to see how close he could get but they immediately became wary and watched his approach carefully, their body language tense, ready for flight or fight. Gradually, however, a couple of techniques had begun to show some promise.
The first technique was to look around a lot whilst following them, painting the picture of a lost tourist or new arrival in the city. For this to work it was best to be on the opposite side of the road and keep pace with them, then move a little faster to get slightly ahead. As they approached a likely ambush point, he would look exasperated and whilst crossing the road call out to them with an innocent-sounding ‘Excuse me, I wonder if you could help me?’ Then he would simply ask for directions. The fact that he stood a little out of arm’s reach and that he was asking them for help appeared to be sufficient to put them at their ease. His opportunity to pounce would come when they, inevitably, turned to point in the correct direction.
The second technique was even simpler and allowed him to jog towards them whilst offering a similarly innocent ‘Excuse me.’ He would make sure he had a fiver in his pocket and would then approach, waving the note, and state that he thought he had seen them drop it. Most people, it seemed, would drop their guard a little when confronted with a good deed and presented with money. He had two opportunities to act with this technique: when they looked down at the proffered note or when they reached to take it – either way they were distracted enough to stop paying attention to him.
During all those weeks of practice he had carried a large kitchen knife with him, one he had bought especially for his forays out into the night. It served to remind him why he was doing this and helped concentrate his mind.
Now, as he followed the woman along King’s Stables Road, he reached down and felt the handle through his jacket, checking it was secure in the pocket he had sewn into the lining specifically for carrying the blade. He had chosen the dropped fiver technique – she looked the sort who would readily accept some money, whether it was hers or not. As they approached a likely-looking area of grass and bushes right at the base of the castle mound, he quickened his pace and pulled the five-pound note from his pocket.
‘Excuse me, dear!’ he called as he jogged towards her.
She turned and eyed him warily, taking small backward steps as he made his approach.
‘Aye, wha’?’ she asked when he was still 8-10 feet away.
‘I think you may have dropped this a moment ago,’ he said with a smile, slowing his pace so that his approach appeared as unthreatening as possible.
She looked down at his waving hand and then at the note it contained. He watched as he saw the look of surprise cross her face, and smiled inwardly. He had been right to pick this technique – she probably needed the cash. He could have acted then but chose to wait, judging the distance and the timing to be slightly out.
‘Aw, aye mebby ah did, thanks,’ she said, visibly relaxing and extending her hand towards him to take the money. He advanced another couple of paces towards her.
His heart began to race and his mouth went dry. At last he was about to cross the threshold, the point of no return. The Urge would be sated for the first time in its existence. He could feel the tremor in his hands. She would succumb easily – he would overpower her and she would be his. The Urge felt like a caged, screaming beast in his mind, raging and spitting at him to take this chance.
He felt himself harden with the prospect of the knife plunging in and out of her body, the power he would wield over her filling his desires. Her face appeared ghosting over the face of the woman in front of him and he knew the Quest had started. This was it, this was where it would all begin.
Now! His mind shouted at him. This is your chance!
With snake-like speed he grabbed her arm with his left hand – the one that had held the note which now fluttered down towards the pavement – and reached inside his jacket with his right, all the while pulling her towards the dark area of grass.
But she was stronger than he had anticipated and resisted – screaming and shouting – slowing his attempts to drag her into the bushes. Eventually, with a great amount of hauling and pulling, he got her onto the grass where she slipped and so he could drag her more easily to where he wanted. All the noise she had been making un-nerved him. He held her down while looking anxiously as far as he could up and down the street. There was no one about. Clenching his jaw to steel himself for what was to come he turned his attention back to the struggling woman.
But that instant of inattention had been enough to allow her to squirm into a better position. Her legs were now free and she pulled both back then directed an almighty kick into his midriff. He was fit and well-muscled but he hadn’t expected the blow and it forced the air from his lungs, making him double over and gasp. She took her opportunity and scrambled to her feet before placing another well-aimed kick towards his temple. It connected with a thud that rang through his head, the high heel of her shoe catching him just in front of his ear.
Dazed and confused he could do nothing to stop her running back down the street towards the Grassmarket.
‘Bitch!’ he screamed, as red-hot rage filled his entire being. Rage at the stupid cunt who reacted in all the wrong ways. Rage at himself for not committing himself, not anticipating events fully and not retaining control of the situation.
The Urge, too, raged and screamed and flailed around in his mind. It had been let out of its cage and now ran wild and free inside his head and body – unsated and hungry, furious at his inability to feed it the violence and death it needed so badly. It battered the inside of his skull with pent-up fury all the while spitting invective and insults at his shortcomings.
The anger quickly turned to fear. He was in real trouble and the fear of capture before he had even begun cut through all the pain and confusion in his mind. Rising a little groggily, he moved as quickly as he could out onto the street. He began to run in the opposite direction, knowing he could cut off this street and get into Princes Street Gardens and hopefully lose any pursuit in there. As he ran, he realised he couldn’t feel the knife banging against his side from inside his pocket. It must have fallen out during the struggle and it was now too late to return for it. Similarly, the fiver had been left forgotten but hopefully that would just get blown away by the ever-present Edinburgh wind.
He made it back to his New Town flat without incident. His heart was racing and his face and stomach both throbbed horribly. The rest of that night was sleepless and restless. He had failed, and failed miserably, leaving evidence behind and on his face – when he looked in the mirror a large bruise was already forming. He cursed his lack of foresight and inability to properly control the situation.
At least he had the rest of the weekend to concoct a viable excuse to give work colleagues on Monday. He would most likely tell them he had been the victim of an attempted mugging and would practise an appropriate-sounding voice and demeanour to go with it.
The rest of the weekend was spent pacing the flat, trying to think.
On Monday morning there was a small piece in The Scotsman about the attack. It was relatively vague with a brief and unspecific description of th
e man the police were looking for. He read it with a mix of relief and shame. He could so easily have been caught on the night and could still be found if anyone named him as looking like the attacker or if a work colleague connected his bruising with the newspaper article’s description of the attacker’s likely injuries.
He spent the week under high anxiety, waiting for a knock on his flat door or to see a police officer head towards him at his work desk. But nothing happened. He began to assume he was in the clear.
As his fear relaxed the Urge began to return but now it was taunting him, gnawing at him every night. He had failed it and failed it at the first attempt. There was no going back to the techniques he had so carefully practised and worked through over the last two months. His plan had been a poor one and poorly executed. He would never fulfil the Urge that way, could not attempt that again.
But the Urge only grew stronger and more persistent. It needed to be satisfied and soon. He could resist it only for short periods of intense concentration, otherwise it would creep and slide to the front of his mind. Demanding. Screaming its desire. Decrying him as a fool and an incompetent. Filling and echoing around his head until he could take it no more.
The answer came to him one evening. He would pay for his lessons. He would pay for them like any other evening class student or learn-from-home language course. He needed to serve his apprenticeship and learn more each time. He needed to practise with professionals.
He would satisfy the Urge with patience and training, and with a clear plan of action. He would prepare himself with a mini-quest, one of learning and honing skills. He would perfect his art, readying himself to begin the Quest proper.
And then he would fully excise her from his thoughts.
That night he went in search of a prostitute. Prostitutes would be his practice and his tutors.
Two days later the news would be filled with the gruesome murder of an 18-year-old sex worker.
Chapter Fifteen
Handley had organised some backup from the local force and had yet another team from SOCO on site by the time he saw Malcolm Tanner’s car pull up outside the cottage. His stomach turned a little as he noted DCS Pearson was in the passenger seat. Tanner made Handley feel nervous but Pearson virtually terrified him. He was relieved when they both lit cigarettes and Tanner waved over to say they would be a minute or two. That little extra time allowed him to run through what he’d done upon seeing the blood on the kitchen floor, mentally ticking off procedures and hoping he hadn’t missed anything.
Handley, who had been resting against the bonnet of his car, pushed himself up as the two senior officers trod on their cigarette ends and headed over. They ducked under the police tape now stretched from the corners of the front garden to the far side of the road where they had been tied to traffic cones for the want of anything else to secure them to.
‘You ok son?’ Tanner asked, looking Handley over. ‘You look a bit pale.’
‘I’m fine sir,’ replied Handley, who was genuinely surprised to find he did feel fine. ‘Just tired, I think. And well, you can see there’s been a lot to organise.’
Tanner simply nodded and grunted his response, turning to look at the cottage.
Fran Pearson continued to look at Handley for a little longer then also turned towards the cottage, saying in his trademark gruff voice, ‘So is it definitely Julia Metcalfe?’
‘Yes sir,’ Handley replied, resisting the urge to stand to attention. Pearson had spoken to Handley on maybe four or five occasions, and on each occasion Handley had restricted his answers to those same two words – never venturing anything further for fear of making some horrendous slip or showing himself as the amateur he felt he was.
This time, however, Pearson wanted more detail and indicated as much by glancing over to Handley again and raising his eyebrows.
Handley took a breath … his mind kept harking back to his earlier mistake and he was now praying he hadn’t made another stupid error here.
Managing to gain a modicum of control he said, ‘I got a picture of her from The Guardian, it’s definitely her sir.’
He then briefly outlined his day’s endeavours to find Julia Metcalfe, ending with his arrival at the cottage and subsequent events.
*
When he had looked through the window a second time, the picture presented to Handley was very different to his first cursory glance. When he had shifted his weight over to move towards the second window a shaft of light from the lowering sun had caught the doors of the cupboards running below the worktop on the opposite wall. They were wooden or wooden-style veneer and so under his shadow they appeared unremarkably brown. But with the additional light now hitting them Handley could see smears and spatters over a number of the doors of something with a similar dark red-brown colour. The colour, the patterns and his instincts told Handley he was looking at dried blood.
The spatters criss-crossed over the width and height of the doors. Some were long and thin, running across more than one door, others were shorter and fatter, ending in splatter marks. There were drips running down through the crosses and tiny spots could also be seen here and there. Finally, his eyes fell on a large smear running down one door – made, unmistakably, by a hand. He followed the smear down to the floor.
He could only see a very small area of flooring. The height and size of the window and edge of the worktop on his side of the kitchen obscured most of it from view. The part he could see had more splatters and blobs surrounding the trail of blood that continued out of view. Right on the edge of the frame of his view he was certain he could see the very tip of a finger, long-nailed and slender, almost out of sight and – presumably – attached to the rest of a body.
It was at this point that Handley had run for his car.
Breathlessly, Handley called dispatch and requested immediate backup from the local Essex force. He had been tempted to force one of the doors open and head straight into the property but had stopped himself. The blood was dry and old and what he could see of the hand was grey-blue and withered. He wasn’t going to find whoever it was alive and anyone else in the cottage could easily leave through the other door, unseen by him.
The property, and therefore the evidence, was secure. The best course of action was to wait for backup, secure the area and only enter once SOCO had arrived.
A marked car with blue lights flashing had arrived soon after, bearing two uniforms, and between them they set up the cordon. The two officers from Essex wanted their local SOCO to handle the scene, citing the time savings to be had by getting a team there sooner. But Handley had insisted they wait for people from the team assigned to his office, pointing out that they had a linked scene in London and as such all evidence should go through one lab.
The argument had persisted until one of the Met’s Scene of Crime vans pulled up behind the marked patrol car. Well done guys, Handley thought, pleased he had got his way – even if it was by default.
The front door had given way fairly easily under the ministrations of the male officer and his ‘enforcer’ battering ram. His female colleague had moved to the rear of the property soon after arriving, just in case someone was inside and ran for it. Handley – having donned a white coverall, over-shoes and mask, along with his forensic officers – entered first, shouting, ‘Police!’ before lifting the mask over his mouth and stepping inside.
The cloying, sickly-sweet smell of decay had penetrated his mask when he was less than two strides inside the door. It seemed to cling to the walls and carpet and Handley knew it would already have made its way onto his shirt and that it would need at least one soak in detergent and two washes to have any hope of getting it out.
The hall was small, with one door directly opposite the front door and a flight of steep stairs leading upward immediately to Handley’s right. Beyond the stairs the hall terminated in another closed door. A couple of women’s summer coats occupied two of the four coat hooks fixed to the wall between the two doors. There was nothing
else to be seen.
Handley had assumed the door at the end led to the living room which he had already seen through the front windows. He hadn’t looked into the second rear window earlier, but the PC now stationed at the rear of the cottage had checked and informed them it was a dining room. It followed that the door he was looking at would then open into that room.
With no sound of movement within, Handley had stood to one side and let go ahead of him. They moved past, awkwardly manoeuvring their large bags and pieces of equipment, the man taking the dining room door, the woman the living room. Handley followed the second SOCO into the living room.
Handley had been greeted with a different angle of the same picture he’d seen through the windows. The room was in chaos, furniture had been turned over and paper was strewn everywhere. Trying to take in the room, Handley realised he had no idea where to start so looked to the forensic scientist making her way carefully through the mess.
‘This’ll take some going through,’ she said over her shoulder. ‘Body and its immediate surroundings first though.’
Handley had nodded his assent and turned his attention to the open door leading to the kitchen. The tiled floor near the door looked clean and untouched but Handley knew from experience that might not be the case; there was every likelihood that under forensic examination tiny amounts of blood would show up, micro-droplets that would have sprayed the area like an aerosol out from the point where the assault took place. Again, he let SOCO take the lead.
She stepped carefully through the door and looked to her left.
‘Christ,’ was all she said as she put her bag down and stepped further into the kitchen.
Handley had stepped in a few paces behind her. Following the direction of her gaze his eyes immediately fell on the body – lying face down, head turned towards him in what would have been a large pool of blood, now dried and congealed. Even with the obvious signs of decay and the horrid rictus features of the long-dead, he knew it was Julia Metcalfe.
Foreign Bodies Page 18