Out of curiosity Handley opened the top drawer of one of the chests. It contained a large number of jerseys in neatly folded piles. Handley closed the drawer and, on a whim, bent and opened the bottom one. This contained two low racks of shoes, and between the two racks was a scrap of paper, presumably dropped there by accident. Handley picked it up. It had torn perforations at the top which looked like those from a page torn from a reporter’s style notebook. There were only four words written on it: Jane, Doncaster, 4th April.
Handley put the note back with a shrug and a half-smile – a note to remind Sir Frederick of an assignation most likely, he thought, and turned his attention to the wardrobe.
The wardrobe was large, made of oak and looked very expensive. Handley pulled the double doors open and peered inside. It was crammed with clothes hanging from two rails: suits, shirts, polo shirts, t-shirts and jeans were all hung neatly from clothes hangers. Underneath these were about a dozen shoe boxes stacked on top of each other and a briefcase propped against the side.
To Handley there seemed to be a lot of clothes here for a holiday home. But then he thought that he didn’t really know how many clothes the average wealthy, single man might have. The briefcase seemed a little incongruous in the wardrobe – there was an office downstairs, wouldn’t it be kept there? He reached down and picked it up. It had combination locks so he couldn’t open it but it felt light and was probably empty or contained only a few bits of paperwork. Handley figured that it probably had a few personal papers in it and placed it back where it had been.
Finally, he picked up one of the shoe boxes. It wasn’t heavy enough to contain shoes but there was enough weight to it to indicate it contained something. As he began to lift the lid, Tanner’s head appeared round the door.
‘Fuck sake, Tony,’ he spat, ‘he’s not going to be in the fucking shoe box is he? Now come on!’
‘14
A glass of whisky was in order, he felt. Time to relax and reflect. It had been a good day all round and now – at some time after one in the morning – he could unwind.
Sipping his drink, he thought back over the last 20 years – had it really been that long? All those years searching, working and improving. All those years living with the Urge and the Quest. All those years living a wholly successful double life and becoming an expert at both.
He thought of all those who had given their lives in aid of his Quest. He couldn’t recall how many there had been now. There were the prostitutes, in the early days, that he had slain so casually – and messily, he had to admit. Then there were the untold mistakes he had made that could easily have led to his capture and the end of the Quest. Then came the refining, the perfecting of his methods – the art of seduction being primary among them, allowing him to move on to those women with far more potential.
He thought of the boys and men who had died to fulfil a more prosaic need. They were of little consequence to the Quest per se but a vital part of his ability to carry on. He was proud of his ability to work around all the forensic and scientific advances as they had emerged. He was especially proud of his use of others’ hair, blood and semen – those ‘foreign bodies’ placed so thoughtfully on and around the women he Delivered. Many of these men would never be found or even missed. He could kill them with impunity, he knew, and took pleasure in the fact that he had become so adept and professional in his dealings with these people.
Then there were those the police would say had been framed – the men, and women, who had yielded their traces without him needing to kill them. The casual brushing of a hair from a jacket, the careful swabbing of a glass – out of their sight, naturally – after they had had a drink. There had been so many ways to obtain the material he needed to throw the scent off himself.
He smiled at the thought of the police, still baffled and chasing shadows after all these years, no nearer to a suspect now than at the outset. He knew that there was little chance of capture – they would have had him by now. He had become impossible to catch and so could carry on the Quest at his leisure. Still careful and astute, and always looking for ways to improve and refine his methods, he felt he had become a mythical creature that could strike at will and disappear into the night, unseen and untouchable.
He took most pride in his own development – the setting and achieving of goals in order to develop what he saw as his primary career. The other pathetic, inconsequential one in the ‘real’ world always took second place. It was his ability to set his own targets for improvement, understanding his weaknesses and vulnerabilities and turning them into strengths and points of success. Each move, each progression had brought him to this point of freedom, the zenith of his powers. He could act, now, on the Urge virtually whenever he wanted. He was delighted that the outside world saw him as one of them; the outward appearance of decency and normality so hard won over the years had been a cloak making him invisible to any prying investigation. He was above reproach and therefore consideration.
And, of course, there were the women he had treasured – all those women he had so expertly seduced and finally Delivered. Married, single or otherwise attached, it hadn’t mattered. If he felt they would fit the profile of The One then he would have them in his power. They all fell into his arms willingly and easily. They had all come to realise true bliss and the eternal nature of the love he had given them.
A note of melancholy now impinged on his reverie. It was something of a regret that The One hadn’t yet materialised. His search was still unfulfilled and the perfect model of her still eluded him. He wondered then if he hadn’t already found her but let her slip out of his grasp – she who had been right under his nose for six years or more. But the association prevented him from acting. He couldn’t now Deliver her without all suspicion falling onto him. He was pretty sure that she was as close as he had ever got but she was beyond even his prodigious abilities to ensnare. But he would keep searching; she was out there somewhere, he was sure, and he would find her.
He replenished his glass and turned his thoughts to the Quest once more. He had Delivered another one tonight and she, like all the others, had fallen short in some way. He knew he could only continue for maybe another 10 years, 15 at the most. He knew he would begin to lose his strength and with it his ability to control any given situation. The chances of someone close to him discovering his secret life, by accident or design, had also been increasing over the years which would of course curtail his longevity. He would have to consider carefully when and how to stop – an exit strategy, as it were. He would need to be more selective and cultivate future proxies, targeting them more thoroughly and therefore raising his chances of success.
The thought of stopping filled him with a strange mix of emotions. He would be elated at completing the Quest, at finding The One. But it would feel very strange indeed to leave behind the life he had made for himself. Could he stop? Would he stop? He didn’t know the answer to those questions.
Did he want to stop?
That was a different question all together and the answer was straightforward – no. If he thought hard enough on it, he knew he would never want to stop; he felt deep down that he would never find the perfect One and so would carry on, year after year, until he either died or got so old and sloppy that they caught him.
The thought of carrying on ad infinitum comforted him – there was a pattern to his life and he was happy and safe within it. He would simply become smarter as he got older, as that detestable slogan went – ‘work smarter, not harder’. He was safe, untouchable and could do as he pleased with no interference. The Quest would continue and while it did, so would he.
With that pleasing thought he drained his glass, poured a refill and turned on the radio. Sitting back in his armchair he began to whistle quietly along to the tune.
Chapter Nineteen
They trooped out of the cottage, all four of them feeling a little disappointed at having found nothing. Pearson seemed the most down of all of them, reverting back to the
brooding state Handley had seen during the drive up.
‘Never mind, sir,’ Handley ventured, ‘there’s still the next address to check.’
‘Yes, I know Tony, just feels like we’re chasing shadows – again!’
With that they all got back in the car and started the short trip to the Travers’ old house. On the way, Handley explained what little they knew about the property.
‘We think, well – Sonia actually thinks that they bought the place to retire to. It was purchased in 1996 so they would have been well into their sixties by then. All we know beyond that is that it was willed to the church on their death. Charlotte Travers told me some time ago that Marcus rarely if ever spoke about his parents so she knew next to nothing about them and very little about his family background. But Marcus certainly knew about the house and given its remoteness it would seem a logical hiding place.’
‘If it was willed to the church,’ Tanner put in, ‘surely they would have occupied it – or would be using it for something? He would stand out a bit just showing up, don’t you think?’
‘Yes, true sir,’ Handley replied, ‘but it’s the only other lead we have and has to be worth following up.’
‘The kirk doesn’t always put its property to good use,’ Monaghan said from the back seat, ‘so there is a chance it’s sitting empty.’
They drove the rest of the way in silence.
The Travers’ old place was a far cry from the cottage they had just left. It was old and worn-looking with a small but completely overgrown front garden. There was a low dry stone wall along the front with a rusty-looking gate standing higher than the wall. On the gate hung a sign: ‘Property of the Free Church of Scotland’.
‘Ah, the Wee Frees,’ Monaghan said knowingly.
‘What are they when they’re at home?’ Tanner asked.
‘They are a branch of the Church o’ Scotland. Formed a couple of hundred years ago – I must confess I know very little else other than the nickname and that in some eyes they’re seen as a bit more –’ Monaghan paused, looking up at the sky – ‘um, radical?’
‘Radical?’ Handley asked. ‘As in fundamentalist?’
‘They could be called that, but probably not in the way you’re thinking,’ said Monaghan. ‘The Church of Scotland is based on Calvinist ideas – Calvin was a radical Protestant – and as I understand it the Wee Frees adhere to those ideas as fundamental to their whole belief. So yes, fundamentalists but definitely not terrorists.’
‘Yeah, well all very enlightening I’m sure,’ Pearson put in, ‘but we’re here to look for Marcus Travers not talk bloody religious doctrine. So, shall we?’ He extended a hand towards the gate.
Handley went through first, carrying the jemmy he’d brought from the car, followed by Tanner and then the other two. There was a short path leading to the front door; the concrete was broken and uneven with weeds encroaching through every crack.
‘Think you’re right Sergeant,’ Handley said over his shoulder, ‘this place doesn’t look like it’s been used for quite some time.’
‘Aye,’ was all Monaghan said in reply.
The front door had obviously once been a shade of dark blue but was now faded, the paint cracked and peeling. There was an old and creaky-looking knocker attached about two thirds up the door. As Handley moved to raise the handle of the knocker, Tanner forestalled him – gesturing that they should have a look around the outside first.
As they had at Derringham’s cottage, Handley went one way and Tanner the other, circling the house.
‘Well?’ asked Pearson on their return.
‘Place is pretty run down,’ Tanner answered. ‘You can’t see through the windows except one at the back that’s broken. There was no furniture in the room I could see into. No signs of life.’
‘OK,’ Pearson replied, ‘let’s get in then. Let’s not knock this time, eh?’
Handley nodded and lifted the jemmy, forcing it between the door and the jamb. As he hauled on the end there was a crack and a chunk of rotten wood fell away. Tanner sighed and shook his head. Handley tried again, feeling that he should be able to perform this operation with a little more ease and professionalism.
This time the door gave in – in a shower of splinters and a wave of musty, damp-smelling air. All four officers waited a few seconds, listening for signs of movement from within. There was nothing.
As they entered the hallway, the smell of ruin became much stronger: a mixture of dust, damp and rotting wood ... there was also a tang of something else in the air, something more metallic, with an organic undertone.
With more than a little trepidation Handley entered first followed again by Tanner. Tanner gestured for Handley to head towards the back of the house while he checked the door immediately to his right.
‘Fuck!’ Tanner exclaimed loudly.
Handley, who had only gone a few paces, turned swiftly back towards his boss. Tanner was already entering the room, his mouth twisted into a grimace of distaste. Pearson and Monaghan were only a pace or two behind him.
Monaghan looked through the doorway, let out a hiss and immediately turned away. Pearson hesitated and then strode into the room, his expression unreadable.
Nervously, Handley followed the DCS through the door.
Pearson had stopped a few paces into the room so Handley had to look over his shoulder to see in. Tanner was stood in the centre of the room with the same grimace on his face, shaking his head. Handley followed his gaze and promptly wished he hadn’t.
The only furniture in the room was a single ancient-looking armchair. It was occupied by a male corpse, arms hanging slackly over the chair arms, legs splayed out. More than half his face was missing, so all that could be seen was a gaping chasm full of gore and broken teeth. There was no nose left and the remaining eye hung loose from its socket. The wall behind the chair was splattered with blood and what Handley could only assume was brains.
He gagged.
Pearson moved slowly further into the room to stand next to Tanner.
‘Marcus Travers, I presume,’ he muttered quietly, turning to Handley for confirmation.
Handley forced himself to look more closely at the mess of the man’s face, trying to pick out any details whilst mentally trying to add in the parts that were missing. He gagged again.
Taking a deep breath, he nodded towards his boss. ‘Could be,’ he managed to say. ‘Hard to tell really, but yes – what’s left of his face looks like Travers.’
Pearson nodded in return and looked at Tanner. ‘Suicide?’ he asked.
Tanner surveyed the room. ‘I reckon so,’ he said eventually. ‘Shotgun’s there, look.’ He was pointing at a double-barrelled shotgun lying on the floor several feet away from the body.
‘But the gun’s nowhere near him,’ Handley said. ‘Surely if he’d killed himself the gun would be right next to him or still in his hand?’
‘You’ve never seen a shotgun suicide, have you son?’ Tanner asked. Handley shook his head.
‘See the thing is people expect the gun to be next to the body but these things have an almighty kick – if you blow your head off then all the muscles relax instantly and the recoil throws the gun across the floor. Which makes me think this is a genuine suicide as not many murderers would think of that little detail.’
Pearson turned away from the ruined corpse. ‘Right,’ he said with authority, ‘we need SOCO in here pronto. Let’s get moving boys. Monaghan!’ He called through the door as he began exiting the room. Tanner followed, giving a very green-looking Handley a pat on the shoulder.
Handley took a last look around the room. There was no carpeting, and the bare floorboards looked every bit as aged as the rest of the house. The only piece of decoration was an ancient single-barrelled shotgun attached to the far wall; Handley gave it a cursory glance before turning back to the man sprawled in the chair.
If he ignored the mess of a head he looked every inch like a man who – exhausted from a long day’s toil �
� had slumped into his favourite chair and dozed off. He forced himself to look at the face again. He had never had to attend a shotgun suicide and the red gaping mess it left in the face and head continued to unnerve him. Steeling himself, he moved round to look at the back of the head. Most of it was gone – he could almost see back through to the other side. Shattered fragments of skull clung to the inside of the wound and protruded outward, flower-like in its pattern.
The blood and blue-grey blobs of organic tissue that were glued within it all looked relatively fresh, certainly no more than a day or two old.
He closed his eyes and shook his head. So Marcus Travers, he thought, this is how I find you? After all this time he had still believed he would find Marcus alive. He hadn’t known under what circumstances he would find him in but he would be alive. He had always envisaged being able to tell Charlotte Travers that her husband was alive and well and that she would be able to see him again. If only you’d hung on another couple of days, he thought. It saddened him that he had to find Marcus destroyed so horribly and, perhaps, with his name forever linked to the brutal killing of so many women.
He turned his gaze away and down at the floor, still shaking his head. As he did so his eye caught a scrap of paper lying under the chair clearly dropped by the limp, lifeless hand that dangled just above it. He bent and collected it.
It only had a few words scrawled across it at an incongruous angle. It read:
It’s all my fault. I couldn’t stop it.
There was no signature to show this had been written by Marcus Travers but Handley suspected it would turn out to be his handwriting and indeed the last communication Marcus Travers made to the world.
He turned and left the room.
He exited the house, seeing the other three all on their phones and radios. Monaghan was requesting immediate assistance from his colleagues at his station. Tanner was some way off on his mobile – Handley couldn’t make out what he was saying. Pearson stood nearby, also on his phone.
Foreign Bodies Page 24