by Helen Phifer
Her first thought was what a beautiful home this was and how nice it must be to live in a house this spacious. She passed the lounge, glancing through the open doorway to see a large circle of toy cars carefully positioned on the carpet. She felt her heart ache. They would never be played with again.
Who would want to shoot an entire family? Tom said he hadn’t seen a gun on his first look around, though she doubted that he’d been able to process what he was seeing with the shock of it all. She couldn’t imagine anything worse than being the person to find loved ones or friends murdered like this, in cold blood. Horrific images from another flat with another dead family inside flashed before her eyes. That case had been the one to penetrate her defence system and it had sent her into a complete meltdown. Poor Tom was about to find out how it felt and she wouldn’t wish it on anyone.
Downstairs, it looked as if nothing had happened; in the kitchen there was a wire cooling rack with eleven fairy cakes sitting on it. They had distinctive black-and-white pirate paper cases. Lucy wondered who had eaten the twelfth – had it been Michelle or her son Arran? Had the killer helped himself to one after he’d slaughtered them all? She would get Amanda to check the bins for the wrapper, just to make sure there was no DNA evidence on it. They searched the rest of the ground floor but nothing seemed to be out of place; there were no broken windows or damaged doors.
‘Surely she didn’t go to bed and leave the front door unlocked?’
Mattie shrugged. ‘How else did the killer get inside? Tom said the door was open when he arrived.’
‘Yes, but how irresponsible to go to bed and leave the house unsecured. Unless she didn’t and we discover that the husband killed them, then shot himself. It wouldn’t be the first time, would it?’
‘There’s only one way to find out.’
He pointed to the stairs and let her lead the way. Lucy started to climb them, staying close to the wall in case the killer had used the banister going up and down. It was unlikely, but you could never discount any surfaces from which you might get a half-decent fingerprint. She could smell the metallic tang of blood, even through her mask. She steeled herself for what she was about to see.
When she reached the master bedroom she surveyed the scene quickly. She couldn’t spot a gun; Tom was right. She supposed it was possible that it had fallen from the killer’s hands and under the bed. It took a few more moments for her to let the reality of what had happened here sink in, as she stared at the bodies. It was a scene from her worst nightmares. She realised that the man had been shot in the head from behind, at close range, and she gasped. Why would anyone do this? It was brutal. The horror of being murdered in your own home, unable to protect your family, was incomprehensible.
She stepped aside to let Mattie take a look as she turned away and forced herself to walk on towards the open doorway of the boy’s bedroom. The brightly painted blue walls were covered in spaceship stickers and posters. There was a near complete version of the Milky Way stuck onto the ceiling; hundreds of glow-in-the-dark stars and planets covered it. Someone had taken a lot of time to put these up. This just wasn’t right. She looked all over the room, studying every inch of it except the bed. But when there was nowhere else left to fix her gaze, she made herself focus on it. She felt her heart tear in two. She was never very good with murdered children; thankfully it didn’t happen often.
The small body of the boy lay there, his astronaut duvet tucked around him and a teddy bear close to his head. He was forever frozen in time and space; he would never age another minute. Lucy stepped closer; an urge to shake the kid overwhelmed her. She wanted to shout at him to wake up and tell him the game was over; he’d got her good and proper. Reaching out a gloved hand, she gently touched his arm and recoiled at how stiff it was. There was no waking him up and the bullet hole in his forehead was only confirmation of what she already knew.
‘Come on. We can let CSI get cracking, Lucy.’
She nodded, unable to answer Mattie because she didn’t know whether she could speak without her voice breaking. She followed him to the door and let him go first. Then she turned back and whispered, ‘You’re safe now. My name is Lucy and I promise I will find whoever did this to you and make them pay.’
Then she followed Mattie downstairs, out into the cool night air. Lifting her right arm, she used the sleeve to wipe away the solitary tear that had escaped and was rolling down her cheek.
They walked over to the CSI van, where Tom was standing and Amanda was securing the straps around her boot covers.
‘Bad?’
‘Yes, very. It’s all yours.’
‘Thanks, boss.’ She walked away and Lucy turned to face Tom.
‘I’m so sorry, I don’t know what to say.’
‘It’s just the shock of it all. You don’t expect that to happen to anyone you know. Let alone next door to you. I keep thinking, what if it had been my house? It could be me and my family lying there. What made whoever killed them choose them and not us?’
Desperately wanting to ease the hurt and protect the man standing in front of her, she shook her head.
‘We haven’t ruled out a murder-suicide yet. Catherine will be able to tell us more when she takes a look.’
‘No, I suppose not. But he was a good guy. Why would he want to kill his family? I mean, I know Arran was difficult – he was on the autistic spectrum – but they seemed to have it all under control.’
There was a pause.
‘We’re going to need your clothes, sir,’ Lucy said apologetically. ‘You were the first one on the scene; you know how it is. Just in case? Why don’t you go inside your house and get changed, pop them into a bag and have a stiff drink?’
Tom nodded; he knew the score. They’d probably also want to swab his hands, just to make sure that he hadn’t fired a gun and that there was no gunshot residue underneath his fingernails.
‘It’s okay, Lucy. I’ll get Browning to take me back to the station – he can get my clothes from me, then phone the new boy to come and swab my hands.’
‘I’m so sorry, Tom.’
‘You don’t have to be – I wouldn’t expect anything less of you, Lucy. Your attention to detail is the reason I phoned you in the first place. I want the bastard who has done this caught and I know you’ll catch them.’
Chapter Thirty
Lucy watched as Browning drove away with Tom, back in the direction of the station. It was going to be a long night. Dr Catherine Maxwell was on her way, but had been called out of a show she was watching and wouldn’t be here as quickly as normal. Amanda had done the initial videoing and photographing; now she was waiting for Jack to devise a forensic strategy on the best way to process the scene. Multiple murders were difficult. Nothing was going to happen fast tonight; sometimes that was the way. On the plus side, they didn’t have any angry family members demanding to be let in to the scene or making a fuss. At least, not yet – because of the isolated location the news wouldn’t travel so swiftly this time. Unless Alison phoned her friends to tell them. Shit. Lucy realised there was a good chance she might already have done so. She beckoned one of the first officers who had arrived on the scene over to where she was, leaning against the bonnet of a patrol car.
‘Can you go in and sit with the DCI’s wife for a while? Make sure she’s not on the phone or Facebook telling the whole world what’s happened.’
‘Er, I can do… but he’ll be pissed when he comes back and sees me in his house.’
Lucy smiled. ‘Ah yes, you were the one who cuffed him and put him in the van. He might well be pissed with you, but he also knows that you were only doing your job. So once the shock and anger wear off, you’ll be fine.’
‘Do you think so?’
‘I know so. He’s a good boss and he was upset at finding his friends like that. Whatever he might have said to you, he wouldn’t have meant it.’
‘He called me a fucking prick.’
Lucy couldn’t stop the laugh that escaped from her mou
th. ‘Sorry, it’s not in the least bit funny. Don’t take it personally; he doesn’t hold grudges. Well, not for long.’
The look on his face was one of horror and, feeling bad, she winked at him. ‘Take it from me – you did a good job under the circumstances. You didn’t know who he was; it’s far better to be safe than sorry. What if he’d been the killer and pulled a gun on you? He wouldn’t have thought twice about shooting you to get away.’
‘Thanks, but it doesn’t feel like it.’
He turned and walked off in the direction of the detached house further down the street. Lucy watched him go.
‘Look at you eyeing up the newbies.’
She turned around to see Mattie, who looked a lot more drained than before they’d arrived. She knew he was trying to lighten her mood and make her feel a little better.
‘I was not! I’m just thinking.’
‘About his physique?’
‘No, definitely not. About this – it’s all wrong. Who would do this? What did Craig do for a living, did you find out? If it turns out that this isn’t a murder-suicide, which I’m ninety per cent sure it isn’t, he must have made a serious enemy.’
‘What if it’s neither? What if someone decided to kill them for no particular reason? It happens: why are Melanie Benson and Stacey Green lying in a mortuary fridge? Someone killed them for the thrill of it.’
Lucy shuddered. ‘I hope not, because it’s far easier to accept that Craig might have had some shady dealings that brought this upon them. I can’t even begin to get my head around the possibility that someone did this for fun. I mean, this is an entire family unit wiped out in minutes. Who would want to do that?’
‘Who would want to do any of the stuff we have to clean up after?’
‘Lewis Waite is still on the run – do you think maybe he had anything to do with this? What if they were in some strange drug or sex ring and he’s taking them all out?’
Mattie shook his head. ‘On paper, yes, he has motive and he had an argument with Stacey in the club. But he’s a low-level smack rat; he’s not even very good at dealing because he always gets picked up. I just can’t see him having the brains or the reason for any of this. In here it doesn’t feel right.’ He pointed to his stomach.
Both coppers’ instincts were working overtime and it was strange how they were both coming to the same conclusion. She just hoped they were right because the thought that it could have been Waite and they’d let him slip through their fingers to kill the Martins would finish her off. It would see her looking for a job where there was no such kind of responsibility.
Lucy’s phone began to ring.
‘Hi, Lucy, how are you? I wondered if you fancied getting a bite to eat when you’ve finished work.’
She ducked away from Mattie and began to walk in the opposite direction, wishing she’d checked the number before answering.
‘Hi, Steve. I’m sorry – I’m busy at the moment and I don’t think I’ll be finished any time soon. Thanks for the offer, though.’
‘You need to cut back on your hours, Lucy. It’s not good for you, working so much. Doctor’s orders.’
She laughed. ‘What about you? How many hours have you worked so far this week?’
‘Well, let me add them up. I think it’s about forty-nine hours straight.’
She tutted. ‘And you have the cheek to lecture me?’
She saw Catherine’s car turn into the street and park up. ‘I’m sorry, I have to go – the doctor is here now.’
‘I wish I was that doctor.’
‘Trust me, you don’t want to be this doctor.’
She ended the call, pushing the phone back into her pocket and crossing the road to Catherine Maxwell’s car. She wasn’t sure whether she was flattered by his persistence or annoyed that he hadn’t taken any notice of her telling him she wasn’t interested.
Chapter Thirty-One
He sat in his large, leather reclining chair and gazed at the images on his huge corkboard. There were pictures of some of his favourite killers. Ted Bundy, Gary Ridgway and Dennis Rader stared back at him; their black, almost dead eyes filled his soul with pleasure. He was on intimate terms with every one of them. Next to each killer was a photograph of one of their victims; he’d fortuitously stumbled across an internet site a while ago displaying crime scene photos of notorious murderers’ victims. He’d studied them for years, obsessed, as a child, with people who liked to kill. He had been lucky enough to know the infamous killer John Carter, who had held a three-week reign of terror until he’d been caught.
He liked the aura of glamour that seemed to surround the murderers from across the pond, compared to the public’s horror and disgust at the English killers. He looked over at his bookshelves, with their tattered copies of some of his adoptive mother’s books. She’d written a popular book on the elusive Theodore Robert Bundy, a serial killer who enjoyed necrophilia as well as kidnapping, burgling and raping his many victims. That had been her biggest success; she’d joke to anyone who listened, ‘Who said crime doesn’t pay?’
She’d only started writing about killers after his real mum had been murdered. He’d consumed her books with both horror and fascination when he wasn’t old enough to be reading about such violent crimes. Of course, she’d be appalled if she knew this; that her books had corrupted her adoptive son, turning him into an even more twisted killer than the men she wrote about. Then had come the revelation that the man she’d dragged him to visit in prison when he was a kid, John Carter, had been the one and only Carnival Queen Killer.
He’d wondered for years what it would feel like to take another person’s life. His first kill had been something really rather special. Jenny Burns would stay etched in his mind forever. After all the fuss had died down he’d kept to himself and managed to suppress the urge to do it again, which he was glad about because if he’d got caught through his own naivety he wouldn’t be here now. He’d tried almost every extreme sport he could think of but none of them was as exhilarating as that first kill.
For him, the joy came from planning and choosing a victim – he didn’t like a quick kill for the sake of it. Every single one of his murders had been orchestrated down to the very last detail. He was good at choosing his victims and up to now there hadn’t been any mistakes. This was why he was still sitting in the comfort of his own home, not locked up, and would be for the foreseeable future.
On the other side of the board were photographs of his own victims, but he had a long way to go to reach the celebrity status of his favourite killers. Although he would like to be as infamous as them, he liked his freedom far more. It had occurred to him that he might fuck up at some point; that there was a very real possibility of a kill not going to plan. That he might be unfortunate and pick a victim who, unbeknown to him, was a black belt in karate, say, and who might just stop him in his tracks. This was a risk he had no choice but to take. That was why, if he could, he liked to watch his targets for a couple of days. The police would call it stalking. He hated that word – stalking was for animals. He was a professional killer, who liked to observe his victims intimately without their knowledge.
He looked at his watch, bored now. This was the worst part; he hated waiting around to see if the bodies had been discovered. He should really be making sure he had everything ready for his next one instead. It had been hard work getting hold of enough supplies to carry out the job perfectly. If police hadn’t realised what pattern his kills followed before he took his next victim, then surely this one would ring alarm bells.
He’d very much enjoyed emulating Peter Sutcliffe. Even the stupidest of coppers should have recognised the similarity, yet as far as he was aware none of them had made the connection. The Yorkshire Ripper had hit his first victim, Wilma McCann, over the head twice with a hammer. He’d then gone on to stab her fifteen times in the neck, chest and abdomen. Traces of semen had been found on the back of her underwear. Which had definitely been a turn-off for him; it was too messy. Alt
hough no doubt he would have been able to get his hands on someone else’s semen to throw them off his scent. You could buy anything on the internet. McCann had been found lying on her back, trousers down by her knees, her bra lifted to expose her breasts. It would have definitely been far too gory on all accounts, so he’d improvised a little – he didn’t mind blood, but he didn’t want to be covered in it when he left a crime scene. It was far too easy to trace and therefore dangerous; it clung to your clothes, fingers and shoes. Even the tiniest speck could be enough to link you to a crime scene and send you to prison for the rest of your life.
It was no wonder that Peter Sutcliffe and Ted Bundy were able to murder so many victims back in the seventies. His second killing had emulated Bible John, a serial killer from the sixties who had never been caught. The advancements in forensics were now enough to make even the simplest of killings a technical challenge. No doubt whoever Bible John was would have been caught if they’d had DNA testing back then.
The family had been his biggest challenge so far. The Beast of Birkenshaw had been a difficult one to pull off, but he’d done it with ease and was very proud of this. Until the time was right to make Lewis Waite his next victim, his photographs and memories would have to keep him satisfied.
Chapter Thirty-Two
Catherine got out of her car and strode towards where Lucy was standing.
‘Seriously, I’m not joking when I say that the whole town goes into full-on psychopath mode whenever you’re around.’
‘Tell me about it. I’m actually a bit tired of it all. It would be nice to float along with some run-of-the-mill stuff that didn’t involve dead bodies.’
‘I can’t really say the same – I’d be out of business. So thank you, Lucy, I can always guarantee I’ll get a decent holiday off all the overtime I do when you’re on shift.’