Читать книгу A Killing Mind - Luke Delaney - Страница 9

Next morning Sean was in his office at New Scotland Yard, a takeaway black coffee steaming on the cheap wooden desk that had snagged more than one pair of trousers. Engrossed in typing up his findings on the virtually obsolete computer he refused to allow IT to replace, he was unaware that he had a visitor until a sharp knock on his doorframe alerted him. Somehow, without looking up, he knew who it would be. Maybe he’d subconsciously detected her perfume. His entire body froze with tension when he saw her standing in the doorway.

‘Anna,’ was all he could say.

‘Sean,’ she replied, looking at the floor for a split second to avoid his eyes.

‘Been a long time,’ he told her.

‘You’ve not had an investigation that needed my input,’ she reminded him.

‘You mean one that Addis wanted your input on?’ he replied. ‘Your input about me.’

She walked into his office and took a seat without being asked. ‘We’ve talked about this, Sean. My loyalty is to you. I’ll only tell Addis what we agree he should be told. I’ll keep him off your back while you try to find whoever committed these crimes – and maybe I can help you with that too.’

He watched her for a while before answering – taking in every breath, every minute movement and involuntary twitch of her body. ‘Perhaps you can,’ he eventually said. ‘This one’s certainly a bit different.’

‘I read the file,’ she told him. Sean raised an eyebrow. She saw it. ‘Addis,’ she explained.

‘Naturally,’ he replied. ‘And what do you think?’

‘I think he’s a vicious killer who needs to be stopped,’ she answered.

‘That’s your professional opinion?’ he asked with a smile.

‘Part of it.’ She returned the smile.

‘And the rest? I’d be interested in hearing what you think.’

‘You mean you’d be interested in seeing how far behind you I am?’ she accused him.

‘That’s not true.’ Or at least, it was only partly true. He did want to hear her thoughts.

‘Well,’ she began, ‘he’s certainly high on the violence score, but low on the rage score.’

‘Meaning?’ Sean asked, although he believed he knew the answer.

‘Meaning you can almost certainly rule out mental illness,’ she explained. ‘He’s not raging over his victims – there are no multiple stab wounds, for example. He’s very precise. If he’s mad at the world, he has a very calm way of showing it. Murderous, but calm. And he’s not concerned about leaving his DNA at the scene, so it’s unlikely he’s killed before or been convicted of any crimes.’

‘Could he have killed and gotten away with it?’ Sean asked, although he was sure he hadn’t.

‘It’s possible,’ Anna agreed. ‘He may have used a completely different method. But I doubt it. He’s used the same method twice now, which means he likes to stick to what works – what he’s comfortable with.’

‘Interesting,’ Sean told her.

‘Interesting enough,’ she said, ‘but nothing you hadn’t worked out.’

‘You’ve flagged things I hadn’t considered,’ he lied. ‘You’re the psychiatrist – not me.’

Anna didn’t believe a word. ‘I’m glad I could add something,’ she smiled.

‘He raped the first victim,’ Sean quickly moved on. ‘Yet his second victim was male. What’s he thinking?’

‘I don’t believe he’s sexually motivated,’ she explained. ‘There were no obvious signs of sexual activity with the male victim, but he may well be more of a sexual predator than he thinks. Certainly, when the opportunity presented itself, he took it.’

‘She had no defensive marks,’ Sean reminded her, ‘so he raped her when she was dead – or almost.’

‘Or he threatened her into submission, or he’s strong enough to totally overpower her,’ Anna argued.

‘So what is he?’ Sean asked. ‘A rapist or a necrophiliac?’

‘Neither,’ Anna answered. ‘His reason for attacking wasn’t to have sex with them – dead or alive. That was merely a byproduct.’

‘A release?’ Sean shared his own idea.

‘His excitement would have been intense,’ she agreed, knowing what he meant. ‘It would have manifested itself in some physical way.’

‘You mean he got so excited he became sexually aroused?’ Sean cut to the point. ‘He needed to orgasm to calm himself down?’

‘I believe so.’

‘So we should be looking more closely for signs of sexual activity with the second victim?’

‘Yes,’ she told him, ‘but you were already going to – weren’t you?’

‘I was considering suggesting it,’ he admitted. ‘Though Roddis and his team would probably have done it anyway.’

‘I’m not sure I can help you, Sean,’ she told him, shaking her head. ‘You’re always at least two steps ahead of me – ahead of anyone. Anything I can see you’ve already seen.’

‘You’re not going to start telling me I can think like them and all that shit?’ he pleaded.

‘Well?’ she asked. ‘Can’t you? Isn’t that what happens?’

‘I don’t think like them,’ he said, his voice betraying his frustration. ‘I can imagine what they might be thinking – there’s a difference.’

‘Is there?’

‘Why don’t you tell me?’

Before Anna could answer, Sally walked into the office and slumped into the one vacant chair, too tired to notice the tense atmosphere. ‘I wish I still smoked,’ she announced. ‘A ciggie and a coffee would go down very nicely round about now.’

‘What you got for me, Sally?’ Sean ignored her plea for vices of the past.

‘Well, the victim’s Oyster card is being examined today, so we should know his movements soon enough. And we’ve seized the CCTV from Borough tube station. The transport police are going to find out what train he used and seize the CCTV from that too, so if he was being closely followed we might get something. It was late and the station was pretty quiet. Could be our best bet.’

‘Then he didn’t follow him,’ Sean killed off any optimism. ‘He waited for him. He’s too smart, too careful to get caught following either victim on CCTV. But check it out anyway. You get anything from your trip to the West End last night?’

‘Nothing that sounds like it’s going to help,’ she admitted. ‘We tracked down plenty of his so-called friends and associates from the street. He was well known and well liked, but nobody has any idea why this happened to him. There were lots of sightings on the day and night he died, but he headed for home alone. No one knows what happened.’

‘Can they say what tube station he used?’ Sean asked.

‘Some reckon Tottenham Court Road,’ Sally told him. ‘We’ll know for sure once the Oyster card is examined.’

‘OK, fine,’ Sean agreed distractedly, suddenly aware of an absence in the room. ‘You seen Dave this morning?’ he asked Sally.

‘No,’ she shrugged. ‘Haven’t seen him since yesterday afternoon.’

Sean thought about his other trusted second in command for a few seconds, remembering how in the past he was virtually always the first one into work every morning. Since the Goldsboro shooting, he was usually the last. ‘If you see or hear from him,’ he told Sally, ‘let him know I need to speak with him, will you?’ Sally nodded as Sean’s mobile began to ring. He checked the caller ID and answered.

‘Andy,’ he began. ‘What you got for me?’

‘Early, peripheral findings only,’ DS Roddis from SIU’s specialist forensic team told him. ‘The Crime Scene Log tells me you’ve been to the scene, twice, so I doubt I’ll be able to tell you anything you haven’t worked out for yourself. Why wasn’t I given this scene when it was fresh? It doesn’t help that I’ve had to contend with another forensic team trampling over most of it and making off with exhibits.’

‘Exhibits that will be handed over to you,’ Sean tried to calm the unlikeable perfectionist that was Roddis, the best at his business Sean had ever known. ‘And the murder wasn’t connected to a series until it was too late. If we’re unlucky enough to get another scene, you’ll get it before anyone else steps foot in it.’

‘Except you,’ Roddis accused him in advance.

‘I’d be interested in your observations,’ Sean encouraged him. ‘And I want you to look for a couple of things the other forensics team may not have considered.’

Anna gave him a knowing look.

‘Such as?’ Roddis asked, intrigued. He’d worked enough investigations with Sean to know to expect surprises.

‘Semen. Probably close to where the body was found, but could be anywhere in the garage or just outside it.’

‘You think he sexually assaulted the victim?’ Roddis asked, confused by Sean’s suggestion.

‘No, but it’s possible he felt the need while at the scene. To reduce his heightened state of excitement.’

‘The need?’ Roddis questioned. ‘A killer masturbating at the scene when no sexual motivation is suspected? I’ve seen defecation, urination, killers that like to eat and drink from the victim’s fridge, but never what you’re suggesting, not when the crime isn’t sexually motivated.’

‘Let’s just say this one’s possibly confused,’ Sean told him. ‘Let’s not assume there was no sexual element to his motivation and let’s look for traces of semen.’

‘If you really think it’s worth it,’ Roddis climbed down in the face of Sean’s irritation. ‘But it won’t be easy – not at a scene of this type and not after it’s been trampled over.’

‘I know, but just do it for me, will you?’

‘Very well,’ Roddis conceded. ‘And the other thing?’

‘There was a lot of blood at the scene,’ Sean reminded him. ‘He was in close proximity to the victim when he cut through his carotid artery, meaning he must have had a significant amount of blood on him.’

‘One would imagine so.’

‘Which means he needed to clean up,’ Sean continued. ‘At least enough to get him past casual looks. There’s no water supply in the garage, so chances are he brought his own, something he may have chosen to dispose of after he’d used it – a plastic bottle, anything. Check inside the cordon – further afield too – for anything he could have used.’

‘Why you so worried about finding it?’ Roddis asked. ‘All it’ll give us is more DNA and fingerprints. We already have plenty.’

‘It’ll help paint a picture,’ Sean explained. ‘It’ll show he planned it. That he’s organized and careful – premeditating. If he tries to plead diminished responsibility, we’ll be able to disprove it.’

‘So be it,’ Roddis sighed. ‘We’ll look for your water bottle. Anything else?’

‘No,’ Sean told him. ‘You find anything interesting or unexpected, phone it straight through to me. Understand?’

‘I understand,’ Roddis answered.

Sean ended the call and threw his phone back on to the desk where it immediately started chirping and vibrating again. ‘Christ,’ he complained, snatching it back up. He didn’t recognize the number but answered anyway. With an investigation like this, he’d be getting a lot of calls from numbers his phone didn’t recognize and he’d have to risk answering them all or miss something potentially vital. ‘Hello,’ he said, withholding his name until he knew who he was speaking to.

‘DI Corrigan?’ a man’s voice asked.

‘Who’s calling?’ he probed.

‘PC John Croft,’ the man answered. ‘The Coroner’s Officer.’

‘You’re speaking with DI Corrigan,’ Sean told him. ‘What have you got for me?’

‘Dr Canning will be doing the post-mortem on your victim, William Dalton, later today. I’ve had a message from him asking if you’ll be there.’

My victim, Sean thought about Croft’s expression. Was that what Dalton was – another of his victims? ‘Yes,’ he said after a slight pause. ‘Tell Dr Canning I’ll be there.’

‘About eleven a.m. then,’ Croft told him, and hung up.

‘The post-mortem?’ Sally asked.

‘Yeah,’ he answered.

‘Want some company?’

‘No. I’ll go alone. You’re better off staying here and keeping everybody on it.’ As he spoke, his eyes scanned the main office through the Perspex wall. ‘Where the hell is Dave?’

David Langley paced the showroom floor of the furniture store. Head office had given him the grand title ‘manager’, but since they refused to supply him with a team of sales assistants to command – just an ‘assistant manager’ who was more trouble than he was worth – most of the time Langley was reduced to the role of a glorified salesman. There was a time when that would have bothered him, but now he knew it was simply something he had to put up with while he laid the foundations for his true purpose in life, his reason for being. He congratulated himself on possessing the strength of character to continue the charade of working in the furniture store until the time came to reveal his legacy to the world. The fantasies that had begun as a young teenager were now becoming a reality. He had everything planned, culminating in a final act that would see him seize complete control over the endgame. Something no one could imagine or predict. Not even Corrigan.

The automatic doors at the entrance to the shop slid open with an electric whoosh, drawing his attention to the attractive, dark-haired woman in her early thirties who casually drifted into the shop. He took in the fitted jacket and tight jeans that showed off her trim figure. No doubt another bored, wealthy housewife – plenty of those had moved into the area over the last two decades. She didn’t look old enough to have children, not for this part of London anyway. He’d had plenty of success with the bored ones in the past and fancied his chances with her, but at the same time he found himself looking on her as something other than a potential conquest, evaluating her instead as a possible victim. It would be risky; dangerous, even. This was no homeless loser or prostitute whom no one cared about; this woman would be missed and mourned, and her family would push the police hard to find her killer – not to mention the press, who would be all over it. For that reason alone, taking her life would be worth it. She would give him ten times the publicity he’d gained from killing the druggie and the whore.

He began to walk towards her as she moved between coffee tables, watching the pulse twitch in her slim, tanned neck – imagining slicing through her perfect skin until he cut through her carotid artery, pinning her to the floor as the warm, red blood emptied from her in intermittent sprays until the flow subsided with her dying heart and finally she lay lifeless. He imagined she’d smell of expensive perfume and cosmetics.

‘Can I help you with anything?’ he asked, flashing his practised seductive smile.

‘Hi,’ she smiled back, her eyes making momentary contact before returning to the coffee tables, but it was enough for him to tell she was interested. His nostrils flared at her scent. It was as he’d imagined, but warm too. ‘I need a coffee table,’ she explained in an accent that suited her appearance perfectly. ‘Ideally something I can take away today and won’t have to build. You wouldn’t believe how difficult it’s been to find anything. Everywhere’s saying eight weeks until delivery.’

‘You should buy online,’ he told her with a smile. ‘Probably shouldn’t have told you that, but how could I lie to you?’

‘Not my thing,’ she replied. ‘I like to see things in the flesh, so to speak, before I commit myself.’

Hearing her say ‘flesh’ fired a bolt of excitement through his body. ‘Well, you’re in luck,’ he continued. ‘We have plenty of good-quality tables and most are in stock, so if your car is big enough you can take one away today.’ He gave a shrug. ‘Trouble is, most retailers don’t keep stock any more. Takes up too much space. Costs too much money. They don’t like to build anything unless they know they’ve got a buyer lined up. But not here. We know not everybody wants to wait for weeks and weeks.’ He allowed a few seconds’ silence between them, until her gaze returned to him. ‘Please. Take a look. Ask anything you like. If you buy today, I can probably do you a special deal – if you promise you won’t tell anyone.’

‘I don’t know,’ she told him. ‘I’m not really seeing anything that grabs me.’

‘Let me guess,’ he tried to keep her interested. ‘You’ve recently moved to the area and upsized. The table from your old house or flat isn’t big enough and you’ve got friends coming around to help you celebrate moving into your new home, so you need a coffee table to fill that annoying space today? Am I right?’

She cocked her head to one side and smiled. ‘That’s … very clever,’ she replied.

‘So what if it’s not for life?’ he spoke in the code of illicit suggestion, hoping she would respond in kind. ‘So long as it works in the short term, who’s going to know? Once it’s served its purpose, you can get rid of it, replace it with something more permanent, but in the short term it’ll give you exactly what you’re looking for. Something to bridge the gap – without costing a fortune.’ He stood with his hands on his hips to augment his powerful physique – his chest inflated and triangular while his waist tapered away. He felt her eyes flick across his body. ‘Personally, I’d recommend this one,’ he said, resting his hand on the most expensive table in the shop. ‘It’s the best we have – a little more expensive than the others, but I’m sure you would appreciate the quality.’

‘Maybe,’ she replied shyly, a slight croakiness in her voice, a degree of dilation in her pupils. The flushing of her skin let him know she was interested even if she didn’t know it yet.

‘But,’ he blurted out cheerfully, ‘what’s the best way to test a new coffee table?’ The woman looked confused. ‘By using it,’ he explained. ‘There’s a great coffee shop along the street. You may know it – Bob’s Blends? Bit of a locals’ favourite.’

‘Like I said,’ she answered nervously, although he could sense her excitement too at his obvious interest, ‘I’m kind of new to the area.’

‘Then you have to try the coffee,’ he smiled. ‘I promise you’ll be a convert. Why don’t you take a look around’ – he was speaking fast now, denying her the chance to say no – ‘while I go grab us a couple of coffees. Don’t tell me what you usually have – let me surprise you.’

‘I don’t want to put you to any trouble,’ she tried to back away.

‘You’re not,’ he assured her in his most cheerful tone – his smile friendly, but his eyes serious and flirtatious. ‘It’ll be my pleasure.’ He felt her slipping away. ‘You know what?’ he said, trying to sound genuinely excited. ‘I just remembered: we have some really nice tables in the storeroom. They’re old stock, due to be taken away, but they’re great tables. If you wanted one of them, I could do you a really great price and deliver today. I could even drop it round myself.’ He gave her a few seconds to understand what he was really saying. ‘Got to be worth a look – don’t you think?’

He watched her lips – her pupils – the tone of her skin – the pulse quickening in her neck – everything. If she went for it within the next few minutes he’d have both her trust and her address. Maybe he would indulge in a brief affair with her until the time came to slit her throat. He watched her mouth begin to open as the answer formed, but it wasn’t her voice that he heard – it was the all too familiar voice of his area manager.

‘David,’ she ambushed him, making him curse himself for having not kept an eye on the shop entrance. ‘A word please.’ Her voice was sharp, as if she was scolding an unruly dog.

He took a step back, before recovering from the surprise and answering, ‘Of course.’ Turning to the customer, he apologized: ‘Sorry to keep you – I won’t be a minute.’

The area manager had set off towards the far corner of the shop, indicating she wanted privacy. Where she was concerned, this was never a good thing. Reluctantly, he followed.

Jane Huntingdon was younger than him, but had been an area manager for more than a year and was clearly destined for higher things. He’d wanted the job she now had, but the company passed him over in favour of her. A clear signal he would never progress and would do well to hold on to what he had. In so many ways she looked and sounded like the customer he’d been trying to seduce, only she was formally dressed and had short blond hair.

‘What the hell are you doing, David?’ she demanded, her eyes looking over his shoulder at the customer. ‘Haven’t you learnt anything?’

‘I was trying to sell her a coffee table,’ he lied. ‘That is my job.’

‘Bollocks,’ she cut him down. ‘I heard you offering to personally deliver to her home. I know what you were trying to do.’

‘I was trying to make a sale,’ he insisted.

‘You’re a salesman, not a delivery driver.’

‘Store manager,’ he told her. ‘I’m a store manager – not a salesman.’

‘I don’t care what you call yourself,’ she replied. ‘What I care about is your conduct while you’re at work. Jesus, if it’s not female staff members, it’s female customers.’

‘I’m a single man,’ he tried to argue. ‘I can do what I like.’

‘Maybe if you’d changed your behaviour, you wouldn’t be single,’ she told him.

He knew what she was getting at. ‘You have no business bringing my wife and children into this,’ he warned her. ‘That has nothing to do with you.’

‘Look,’ she relented somewhat, holding her hands up. ‘That wasn’t my intention. You’re right: you’re a single man and you can do as you like – but not here. Not in the store. This is not your private pulling place. It’s work. You understand?’ He said nothing, merely stared blankly into her blue eyes. ‘After your last transgression, you can’t afford any more mistakes.’ Still he didn’t answer. ‘Listen, David, I’ve fought for you more than once at central office. There are others who’d gladly see the back of you, but you do a decent job here and I believe everyone deserves a second chance. Don’t blow it – that’s all. Do you hear me, David?’

Again he didn’t answer. He didn’t trust himself to speak, not while his mind was flooded with images of the blood flowing from her neck, images of cutting and pulling the teeth from her pretty mouth. It took an act of will to remind himself that killing her would have too much of an element of vengeance. His work was about so much more than petty human emotions – no matter how extraordinary her warm, viscous blood would feel as it covered his hands.

‘Do you hear me, David?’ she repeated, her voice raised.

‘I hear you,’ he managed to answer, pulling himself back into the world. ‘I hear you.’

‘Good,’ she said. ‘I’ll check back with you later in the week. In the meantime, make sure you keep your social life and work life separate. OK?’

‘Fine,’ he replied, managing to fake a slight smile. ‘It won’t happen again.’

She dismissed him with a shake of her head. ‘I’ll see you later,’ she said, and headed for the exit – watched all the way by Langley as he studied every inch of her body.

When she was gone he spun around, hoping to find the customer and pick up where he’d left off, salvage something from the day. The store was empty; she was gone. ‘Fuck,’ he swore under his breath as the anger swelled, making his head hurt. He needed something. He needed something soon. Something to allow the thoughts in his head to become reality instead of beautiful images of what could be. He needed to feel skin and flesh in his hands as a sculptor needs to feel wet clay. Needed to feel blood run between his fingers as an artist needs to feel paint. He needed another victim.

Donnelly stirred late – his eyes flickering open, then closing again as they registered the grey winter light seeping in through the windows. Through the fog of the previous night’s drinking he began to realize he was not alone in his bedroom and that it was his wife who’d opened the curtains and was now talking to him. Though he couldn’t yet make out what she was saying, he could tell from her tone that she was lecturing him. Slowly her words came into focus.

‘Dave,’ she pleaded. ‘You’ve got to get up. You’re late for work.’

‘Jesus, Karen,’ he complained. ‘What time is it anyway?’

‘Getting on for nine o’clock. I’ve got to get Josh to school. The others have taken themselves off. Christ,’ she moaned as she got closer to him. ‘You stink of booze. Where were you last night?’

‘Eh?’ he bought himself some thinking time. ‘Just had a few beers with the boys,’ he lied. In fact he’d remained drinking in the Lord Clyde until it came time to head off for London Bridge Station – stopping at the Barrow Boy and Banker en route for a couple of scotches – then catching a train home, only to stop at his favourite pub in Swanley, Kent, for more shots. By the time he got home it was all he could do to walk. ‘We picked up a new case,’ he elaborated on his lie. ‘Looks like a bad one. Thought we’d grab a few while we had the chance.’

‘Looks like you had a few too many,’ she pointed out. ‘What’s happened to you lately?’ she asked. ‘You always used to be up with the birds. Now you struggle to get up at all. You sure you’re OK, love?’

‘Aye,’ he tried to laugh it off. ‘I told you. Just not as young as I used to be, eh?’

‘Maybe you should lay off the booze for a bit,’ she suggested.

‘Aye,’ he played along. ‘Maybe.’

‘Right,’ she announced. ‘I’m officially out of time. I’ve got to go. Fix yourself something to eat and get cleaned up,’ she ordered. ‘And then take yourself off to work or Corrigan will have your head.’

‘Don’t worry about Corrigan,’ he tried to reassure her. ‘He needs me more than I need him.’

‘Not like this, he doesn’t,’ she warned him. ‘We’ve been married a long time and if there’s one thing you’ve taught me about the police it’s that no one is indispensable – not even you. Plenty more detective sergeants in the sea, I should imagine. I’ll see you later.’

Donnelly grunted a reply as he watched her stride from the bedroom. For a second he considered going back to sleep, but knew if he did he’d be out for hours. Instead he forced himself to sit up and swing his legs over the side of the bed, grimacing and groaning with every movement. He rubbed his face with both hands, feeling the stubble ‘Jesus,’ he complained and stood on unsteady feet, the nausea of the morning after the night before taking its revenge.

He headed downstairs in his old T-shirt and boxer shorts, flicked the kettle on and thought about eating something to counteract the lingering effects of the alcohol, but couldn’t stomach the idea of food. A wave of nausea hit him and made him close his eyes, but the darkness allowed images to invade his mind – images of bullets ripping through Jeremy Goldsboro, pinning him to the side of the van until he slid to the floor spitting blood. Donnelly snapped his eyes open. ‘Fuck,’ he cursed his own memories. ‘Leave me alone,’ he found himself pleading. ‘Leave me alone.’

He checked his watch and winced at the time. His mobile would soon be ringing with people wondering where the hell he was. He needed to get straight and he needed to do it quickly, but he couldn’t eat and coffee alone only intensified the tremors in his hands. His eyes wandered to the kitchen cupboard where the spirits were kept – a cupboard that until recently had rarely been disturbed other than at Christmas. He told himself it was self-medication, safer than antidepressants, but in his heart he knew what he was becoming. He opened the cupboard looking for the vodka – much harder to smell on the breath than scotch. A shot or two of the clear, oily liquid and he’d be good for a few hours. Even with a few drinks on board, he could do his job better than most. Mouthwash and mints would disguise the truth well enough until he could find a reason to be out on enquiries and head off to a pub close to his home. But this wasn’t going to be another routine day helping other teams and units with their enquiries; this was a new murder investigation, so the pressure would be on and people would expect him to be visible and vocal – the old Dave Donnelly.

‘Shit,’ he cursed and reached for the vodka, his fingers connecting with the glass of the bottle then recoiling – the magnitude of what it meant cutting through his clouded mind. The last time he’d taken a drink first thing in the morning had been a stag do over twenty years ago. This was different. This would mean losing himself – possibly forever. ‘No,’ he told the room, and shut the cupboard door. ‘No.’

Sean walked along the sterile corridor that led to the morgue at Guy’s Hospital. It wasn’t an easy place to find, hidden away from the main hospital complex, out of sight from the public and staff alike – neither of whom wanted to be reminded of the grimmest possible outcome for a loved one or a patient. But he knew the route well, having walked it many times in the past. He paused for a few seconds outside the large rubber doors at the entrance, took a deep breath, then entered.

Inside the morgue, six sparkling metal trollies were lined up in two banks of three. Two had bodies on them, hidden under clean, pressed, green hospital sheets, whereas the others were empty. Only two sudden deaths today for Dr Canning to explain. People who died of obvious natural causes, the old or terminally ill, were not deemed suitable for his special attention. Sean saw Canning hunched over the naked body of a young white male, his face close to the dead man’s skin. Satisfied, he straightened up and began to scribble notes on the pad held in his hand.

Sean recognized the corpse, though as ever it looked different from the crime scene photographs – less garish and vivid, and somehow less real. Like a yellowish, rubber imitation of a real, living person.

‘I see you’ve met William Dalton?’ he asked loudly enough to distract Canning from his examination.

‘Indeed,’ Canning answered, glancing up from his notes. ‘I heard this one was yours.’

‘Yes, it was passed to SIU because of the probable link to another murder.’

‘Tanya Richards,’ Canning confirmed. ‘I’ve read the file, but haven’t seen the body. She hasn’t been buried yet, so I should be able to take a look before she heads off to a better place. In the meantime, you certainly have an interesting one here. A rather unfortunate end for a rather unfortunate young man.’

‘Yes,’ Sean agreed. ‘Yes, it was.’

They both remained silent for a few seconds, paying their last respects to the victim. Then all emotions were set aside in order to find the evidence that would catch and convict his killer.

‘What have we got so far?’ Sean asked.

‘What we have so far is unusual and rare. Most of the dead I’ve seen with their throats cut were victims of organized crime. South American drug gangs are particularly fond of cutting throats, but it’s rare in this country. I can’t remember ever seeing it in a domestic murder scenario or anything of that nature.’

‘It’s too cold for that,’ Sean told him. ‘Domestic murders are hate-driven or anger-driven, which means uncontrolled stabbing, or strangulation, but slitting a throat is cold and precise. Not an act of anger. Not rage, or at least not as we know it. But it’s not gang stuff either. Something else.’

‘Interesting,’ Canning said. ‘And the removal of the teeth – also something I’ve only ever seen in gang-related deaths. West African, usually. Bit of a habit from the old country they brought over here with them: if someone’s double-crossed you or stolen from you, punish them by taking their teeth – and use the gold ones to settle the debt.’

‘Nice,’ Sean winced.

‘But I fear that’s not what we have here,’ Canning said.

‘No. I doubt William Dalton had any gold teeth.’

‘I’m sure you’ll check with his dentist anyway?’ Canning grinned.

‘Naturally,’ Sean admitted, allowing himself the briefest of smiles. ‘And the removal of fingernails,’ he brought things back to the grim reality in front of them. ‘First time I’ve seen that.’

‘Same here,’ Canning told him, tilting his head to study the dead man’s hands. ‘Judging by the fraying of the soft tissue that attaches the nail to the finger, it’s clear the nails were pulled off as opposed to being cut away. Most likely used a pair of pliers – no doubt the same pair he used to extract some of the teeth, although there are also clear signs of a bladed instrument being used to cut away sections of the gums to make extraction easier.’ Canning moved to the victim’s head and opened the mouth to better show Sean the internal wounds. ‘Do you see?’

Sean moved in closer, unclipping the small torch from his belt and shining the beam of light into the unholy sight that was now William Dalton’s mouth. Deep cuts to swollen gums and gaping holes marked the places where he’d once had teeth. ‘I see,’ he said, and clicked off the torch.

‘Clearly, your killer isn’t the squeamish type.’

‘Psychopaths rarely are,’ Sean reminded him.

‘I suppose not. You think he might have some link to dentistry? Even for a psychopath, the removal of healthy teeth isn’t easy to accomplish – either physically or mentally.’

‘I don’t think so,’ Sean answered. ‘Perhaps if he’d only taken the teeth I’d consider it more likely, but with him taking the fingernails as well …’

‘But you’ll check anyway,’ Canning said, with another grin.

Sean nodded and gave him a faint, sad smile.

‘Your initial thoughts then, Inspector?’ Canning asked. ‘If he has no special affinity for teeth, or nails for that matter, why did your killer go to such lengths to take them?’

‘Souvenirs,’ Sean told him.

‘But surely there must have been easier souvenirs to take? The victim’s personal belongings, for example.’

‘Not intimate enough for this one,’ Sean explained. ‘He needs the ultimate reminder of his victims – parts of their body. At the same time, he wants something he can keep forever. So he took their teeth and nails.’

‘I see,’ Canning nodded, keen for Sean to continue with his insights.

‘At the same time, he’s showing us his strength,’ Sean added. ‘Showing us what he’s prepared to do to achieve what he wants. Where he’s prepared to go. A challenge, if you like.’

‘A challenge to you?’

‘I don’t know. Maybe. Or maybe to someone else.’

‘Someone else?’ Canning pressed, intrigued.

‘The lack of defensive marks interests me,’ Sean said, keen to move on. ‘Neither victim had a single mark.’

‘In each case a blow was administered to the back of the head,’ Canning explained. ‘Not with sufficient force to kill them, but enough to render them unconscious or to incapacitate them while the killer inflicted the fatal wounds.’ Sean shook his head and frowned. ‘Something bothering you, Inspector?’

‘I don’t know,’ he replied. ‘That just doesn’t feel right.’

‘What exactly?’ Canning asked.

‘This one wouldn’t want them unconscious,’ he explained. ‘He’d have wanted them to know what was happening, to know that he was going to kill them. He would have wanted to look into their eyes and see the terror. Ideally, he would have wanted them to be alive when he took their teeth and nails. He wanted them to feel his power.’

Canning cleared his throat. ‘Have you considered that he might have inflicted the fatal wounds just as they were coming to?’

‘It’s a possibility,’ he answered, sounding unconvinced. ‘But why the first wound to the throat? It wasn’t necessarily fatal. Why take the trouble to cut through the front of the throat and then follow up by cutting through the side of the neck and the carotid artery? Why not administer the fatal wound straight away?’

‘Maybe it was the other way around,’ Canning suggested. ‘Maybe he killed them quickly with the severing of the carotid artery and then slit the throat.’

‘But in that case, why slit the throat at all?’ Sean asked himself more than Canning.

‘He derived pleasure from mutilation?’ Canning offered.

‘No,’ Sean dismissed it. ‘The mutilation to the fingers and mouth was coincidental, a side effect of removing his trophies. Mutilation after death’s not what this one is about.’

‘Certainly it would have been difficult for either victim to have screamed or cried for help once the trachea had been dissected. Maybe he wanted their silence.’

Canning’s words set Sean’s mind on fire as he cursed himself for not having seen it himself – the victims trying to scream, to call for help, but only able to make sickening gurgling sounds as the air from their lungs mixed with the blood from their wounds.

‘That’s why no defence wounds,’ he announced. ‘He cut their throats so he could watch them struggling in fear for as long as he dared until it was necessary to kill them. They had no chance to recover from the shock and horror of what was happening to them and fight back.’

‘Fight-or-flight instinct,’ Canning nodded. ‘Even the gravely wounded can inflict significant damage once the body’s flooded with survival endorphins. But surely that contradicts rather than explains the lack of defence wounds?’

‘Their hands’ – Sean turned to him, seeing it clearly in his mind now. ‘Their hands would have been clawing at their own throats. They were too busy trying to stop the flow of blood to fight back. He wanted to watch them. Watch them in silence.’

‘And before the fight instinct took over,’ Canning went on, ‘he cut the carotid artery, giving them only seconds to live.’

‘He watched the life drain out of them,’ Sean continued, ‘and then he went to work on their teeth and nails.’

‘Interesting,’ Canning admitted. ‘But you realize it’s all guesswork – I’ll never be able to say for sure which wound was inflicted first.’

‘No,’ Sean accepted. ‘The crime scene should help though: blood-spray patterns, footprints in the blood, anything else we can find.’

‘Build up a picture, eh?’

‘Try to, at least,’ Sean told him. ‘If you just give a jury a long list of evidence, you’ll lose them.’

‘Not sure that would be the case here,’ Canning argued. ‘The viciousness of these attacks would keep most juries interested, not to mention his distinctive modus operandi.’

‘I suppose,’ Sean reluctantly agreed.

There was a moment’s silence, then Canning spoke again. ‘Does it worry you?’

‘Does what worry me?’

‘That he wants to leave you in no doubt that the crimes are his.’

‘It does,’ Sean admitted. ‘It tells me he wants the world to take notice of him and that’ll he’ll never stop until it does.’

‘Why does he want the world to take notice of him?’

‘Don’t we all?’ Sean answered with a question. ‘But that’s too general – not specific enough to him. I don’t think killing is the thing that drives him. I think it’s a means to an end. The way he can achieve whatever it is he’s trying to achieve.’

‘Are you sure?’ Canning asked doubtfully.

‘No,’ Sean shook his head. ‘Not really.’

‘Well, one thing we can be sure about,’ Canning told him, ‘is the type of victim he seems drawn to. Young and vulnerable.’

‘Victims of society become the victims of killers,’ Sean explained.

‘Indeed,’ Canning agreed sadly.

‘And there’ll be more of them,’ Sean warned. ‘Unless I can find him and find him quickly.’

‘Then you’d better get on.’ Canning turned to his tray of torturous instruments and removed a lethally sharpened scalpel. ‘And so had I.’