A Killing Mind, page 34
part #5 of DI Sean Corrigan Series
On the way to the kitchen, Sean took in everything from the polished wooden floorboards under his feet to the framed paintings of flowers and landscapes on the hallway walls – none of which seemed to fit the man he was looking for, although the lack of photographs of a family kept him interested. The kitchen had the same show-home feel to it – every surface clean and sparkling, the only scent that of disinfectant. At least now there were some signs of a normal life – snaps of Redmayne on holiday, some alone, some in the company of two attractive children about the same age as Sean’s own, although there were no pictures of anyone who could be their mother. Sean made the immediate judgement that he was divorced, probably against his wishes, and that he’d tried to completely eradicate her from his life. He had his reasons to be bitter, but were they enough to make him kill?
‘Are you going to tell me what this is about?’ Redmayne asked.
‘It’s about your car,’ Donnelly told him. ‘The red Vectra parked outside.’
‘What about it?’ Redmayne’s expression was one of genuine confusion. ‘I’ve had it for years – bought it from a main Vauxhall dealer. You’re not going to tell me after all this time that it’s stolen, are you?’
‘No,’ Donnelly assured him, ‘but I am going to ask where it was yesterday – about eleven in the evening to midnight?’
‘Well, it doesn’t really matter what time you’re interested in because I didn’t use it at all yesterday. In fact, I rarely ever use it during the week. I walk down to Clapham Junction and get the train to work. I was actually thinking of selling it.’
‘But your car was seen late last night in Dulwich,’ Donnelly tried to pressurize him.
‘My car?’ Redmayne stared at him in disbelief.
‘Yes,’ Donnelly confirmed. ‘By a police officer.’
‘And what was my car doing in Dulwich?’ Redmayne asked, amused.
The playful reaction didn’t fit with the man Sean was hunting. The man he was after was ambitious, restless and remorseless. When they’d spoken on the phone he’d been smug and condescending. He’d feigned amusement but seemed incapable of the genuine thing.
‘Whoever was driving the vehicle was interfering in a police investigation,’ Donnelly told him. ‘A murder investigation.’
‘Wait!’ Redmayne held his hands up, his face suddenly deadly serious. ‘This is all beginning to sound very heavy. Should I have my solicitor here?’
‘Only if there’s something you don’t want us to know,’ Donnelly replied. ‘Is there?’
‘You don’t need a solicitor,’ Sean intervened, tiring of the jousting. He could sense no menace or malice in Redmayne. If this was the man he sought, he’d want to show his power – test Sean in some way. The man he hunted would stand his ground and look him hard in the eyes – challenge him to make his move. But Redmayne was playing harmless games – enjoying the attention of the police safe in the knowledge that he’d done nothing wrong and probably never would. ‘There’s just a few things we need to clear up.’
‘Like what?’ Redmayne shrugged.
‘Has your car been in any garages lately?’ Sean asked. ‘Within the last two or three months?’
‘No,’ Redmayne answered, ‘unless petrol stations count?’
‘No,’ Sean told him. ‘I’m only interested in the garages for repairs.’
‘That’s definitely a no then,’ he confirmed.
‘Anyone been paying attention to your car that you noticed?’ Sean continued.
‘No,’ Redmayne laughed. ‘It’s a Vauxhall Vectra.’
‘Ever get the feeling someone was following you?’
‘No,’ he shook his head, ‘and like I said, I hardly ever use it.’
‘Have the number plates ever been tampered with or stolen?’ Sean asked.
‘No,’ Redmayne assured him. ‘Look, nothing has happened to me or the car, so why don’t you tell me what this is all about?’
‘Someone we’d very much like to speak to has been using your registration number on their car,’ Sean explained.
‘Somebody who killed someone, right?’ Redmayne asked.
‘Maybe,’ Sean admitted. ‘We won’t know until we speak to him. In the meantime,’ he told him, pulling a business card from his wallet, ‘if you think of anything, give me a call. And remember, this is an ongoing investigation, so we’d appreciate it if you didn’t tell anyone about what we’ve discussed.’
‘Of course,’ Redmayne agreed, although Sean knew he was lying.
‘Thanks for your time,’ Sean told him and headed for the front door.
‘Aye,’ Donnelly said, sounding less than happy. ‘Thanks for your time.’
As soon as they were back in the safety of their own car, he demanded an explanation from Sean. ‘Jesus. Why so soft on him? You got something in mind?’
‘No,’ Sean waved it away. ‘It’s not him.’
‘You sure?’ Donnelly asked, unconvinced. ‘He felt like a wrong ’un to me.’
‘He’s a bit of a prick,’ Sean dismissed him. ‘Probably why his wife left him. But he’s not our man.’
‘How d’you know his wife left him?’ Donnelly asked, bemused.
‘Did you see any pictures of her?’
‘No. I was too busy questioning him.’
‘Take it from me then: there weren’t any. See the state of the house? Bet he’s never even cooked in there. No wonder she left.’
‘You make him sound like a decent suspect,’ Donnelly argued. ‘Not someone we should dismiss.’
‘Forget him,’ Sean insisted, bored of justifying himself. ‘He’s not our man, but at least we know what he drives now. It’s something.’
‘Unless he stole a car,’ Donnelly argued, ‘and false-plated it. Or maybe he wanted you to see him – have us all chasing after red Vectra owners when he actually drives something completely different?’
Sean shook his head. ‘There’s no evidence he has any skills as a thief. Stealing a car’s not easy any more. He’d have to know what he was doing, which means a professional criminal – and as we both know, a criminal like that would have convictions, but our man doesn’t. He’s not going to risk driving around in a stolen car. This is too important to him for that. He likes his comfort zones, things that are familiar to him – like his own car. Best guess is, he kept his eyes open until he saw a red Vectra of a similar age to his own and simply made a note of the registration and made plates using Redmayne’s number. He’s probably changed the plates back by now.’
‘So what next?’ Donnelly asked. ‘Find every red Vectra owner in London?’
‘Yes,’ Sean told him, starting the car. ‘That’s exactly what we do – until I can think of something better.’
Geoff Jackson was standing at the water dispenser in his office talking intensely to a couple of colleagues when another reporter shouted across to get his attention.
‘Oi, Geoff. I got someone on my line says he needs to speak with you,’ the reporter yelled. ‘He says you’ll really want to take this call.’
‘That’s what they all say,’ Jackson muttered under his breath. ‘Fine. Put him through to my extension,’ he yelled. The reporter nodded and transferred the call. ‘I’ll catch you later,’ Jackson told his colleagues and headed quickly back to his ringing phone. He snatched the handset up and stood straight, half expecting to be hanging the phone up as soon as the caller spoke. ‘Geoff Jackson speaking.’
‘Mr Jackson,’ the human, but slightly robotic voice replied, setting Jackson’s instincts on fire. ‘Chief crime editor for The World, no less.’
‘Who is this?’ he asked, lowering himself into his chair.
‘You know who this is,’ the voice told him. ‘I dare say you’ve been expecting this call.’
‘How do I know it’s you?’ Jackson asked in little more than a whisper.
‘I take their fingernails as well as their teeth,’ the voice told him. ‘Did you know that, Mr Jackson?’
Jackson took a few seconds to compose himself. ‘Yes,’ he answered. ‘Yes, I did.’
‘Then you are one of the few,’ the voice replied, ‘and you now know for sure who you’re talking to.’
‘What do you want?’
‘Simple,’ the voice answered. ‘I want to know why you printed those lies about me. I want to know why you think it is acceptable to write such garbage.’
‘Please,’ Jackson faltered slightly. ‘I’m a journalist. It’s my job to report what he says, whether I believe it or not. It wouldn’t be ethical for me to change his words.’
‘Ethical,’ the voice spat the word. ‘What do you know about ethical? You print every word that fool Gibran says, yet you all but totally ignore my extraordinary work. In what way is that ethical? You’re supposed to be a crime journalist, yet you fail to understand what I’m trying to achieve.’
‘Then tell me,’ Jackson pleaded.
‘More than anyone else has ever done, Mr Jackson,’ the voice told him. ‘More than Gibran could ever dream of. And unlike him, I won’t be afraid to revel in my achievements. I won’t hide like a coward behind a mask of insanity, afraid to admit what I’ve done and what I am.’
‘What are you?’ Jackson asked, wide-eyed.
There was a few seconds’ silence. ‘Soon, Mr Jackson,’ the voice answered, having regained its composure. ‘Soon, you and the whole world will know the answer to that question. In the meantime, I’m planning a surprise. Maybe we can meet, before too long. Goodbye, Mr Jackson.’
‘Wait,’ Jackson pleaded, but the caller had hung up. ‘Shit.’ What now? he thought to himself. Dig himself in deeper with another dangerous and unpredictable killer or tell the police everything and keep his distance this time? He thought of his pretty girlfriend, his nice flat in Soho and the books he had yet to write. A second later he found himself reaching for the phone.
Sean and Donnelly approached the morgue at Guy’s Hospital, neither of them under any illusion as to the unpleasantness of the task ahead. Sean suddenly became concerned for Donnelly, remembering it would be the first time he’d seen a dead body since he’d shot and killed Jeremy Goldsboro.
‘You all right with this?’ he asked.
‘Aye,’ Donnelly answered without conviction. ‘I’ll be fine.’
‘You sure?’ Sean checked. ‘I can do it on my own if you prefer.’
‘I’m good,’ Donnelly tried to assure him. ‘Step by step, right? If I walk out, you’ll know why.’
‘Of course,’ Sean told him. ‘Everything else OK?’
‘It’ll take time,’ Donnelly shrugged. ‘Been off the drink for a couple of days at least.’
‘Good,’ Sean replied. ‘Good.’
They reached the entrance to the morgue and entered to find Dr Canning standing next to the pathologist’s stainless steel examination table, upon which Witney Dennis’ tiny body lay. A pristine green sheet covered her from the waist down, but her upper body remained exposed – her skin, pale in life, had long since taken on the strange hue of the dead. Her wounds were clearly visible, even from a distance and somehow more repelling and grotesque now they had been cleaned, her blood no longer able to flow or leak from the crude openings in her skin and muscle. Instead it had pooled in the lower regions of her body, turning the skin wine-red.
Canning heard the approaching footsteps and looked up from his table of instruments. ‘Gentlemen,’ he acknowledged them as they drew closer. ‘Sergeant Donnelly – long time no see.’
‘Aye,’ Donnelly shrugged. ‘I’ve been otherwise engaged.’
‘I’m sure you have,’ Canning replied. He looked down at the body of Witney Dennis. ‘How unfortunate that these should be the circumstances of our reunion.’
‘Always likely, I’m afraid,’ Donnelly told him. ‘Given our chosen professions.’
‘Indeed,’ Canning smiled for a second then looked deadly serious again. ‘You saw the body in situ?’ he asked Sean, who nodded. ‘Any thoughts?’
‘Plenty,’ he admitted, ‘but no answers. I can tell you he’s getting increasingly confident and sadistic, and he’s got a real taste for it now. It’s only going to get worse.’
‘Well he certainly appears confident,’ Canning agreed. ‘We know his pattern is to incapacitate them with a blow to the head before carrying out the other acts.’ He pointed to the wound on the front of her head. ‘Judging by the shape and position of this wound, it appears it was a frontal attack. It’s possible that he came from behind her, that she sensed him and spun around, but when people turn to face a threat they almost always raise their hands in self-defence, whereas she appears to have been caught completely by surprise.’
‘She was expecting him,’ Sean explained. ‘She went to meet him. She had no reason to believe she was going to be attacked.’
‘Makes sense,’ Canning nodded. ‘There are no obvious defence marks on her hands or arms, and unfortunately her fingernails have been removed, so if she did scratch the suspect and trap some of his skin under them, it’s been lost. There is of course blood, but whether it’s the suspect’s as well as hers, we won’t know until the swabs I’ve taken are examined by the lab. The blow to the head,’ he continued relentlessly, ‘was almost certainly not sufficient to kill her, maybe not even enough to knock her unconscious, although I won’t know for sure until I examine the brain. There are no signs of haemorrhaging in her eyes, ears or nose.’
‘Perhaps he’s losing his touch?’ Donnelly suggested. ‘He certainly took his first two victims down with one blow.’
‘He didn’t want her unconscious,’ Sean insisted.
‘How can you be sure?’ Canning asked.
‘Because if he did,’ he explained, as if it should have been obvious to them, ‘he would have hit her again, but we only have one head wound. He wanted her disorientated, but conscious.’
Canning and Donnelly glanced at each other before the pathologist continued: ‘The first wound to her throat is a deep right-to-left laceration that cut through her trachea. The injury that killed her was this one’ – he pointed to the gaping cut to the side of her neck – ‘a knife wound that severed the carotid artery, causing her to bleed to death. The injuries are consistent with those inflicted on the previous two victims. What interests me are the wounds we haven’t seen on the other two – starting with this,’ he told them, allowing his hand to drift over the wound in her shoulder. ‘This is not like anything we’ve seen him do before.’
‘He did it to stop her struggling,’ Sean explained, revealing thoughts that had been developing in his mind since he’d first seen the victim’s body. ‘He was trying to rape her, but she fought back. First he tried to subdue her by punching her in the face,’ he told them, nodding towards her injured nose, ‘but she kept struggling, so he stabbed her in the shoulder. He stabbed her in the shoulder because he didn’t want to kill her and …’
‘And what?’ Canning encouraged.
‘And it was a convenient place to keep his knife while he raped her,’ Sean answered.
‘A convenient place?’ Canning asked, shaking his head in disbelief.
‘The cuts on her thighs,’ Sean replied, his eyes falling on the green sheet over her lower body. ‘They happened because he was still holding the knife as he was pulling her clothing down. The blade kept catching her skin and it was awkward. It was hard, pulling at her clothes with the knife in his hand, so he buried it in her shoulder, freeing his hands but keeping the knife close. The shock alone would have taken the fight out of her.’
‘There are definitely signs of recent sexual activity,’ Canning explained. ‘I found what I believe to be semen in her upper and lower vagina, so if she was sexually assaulted, you believe she was alive when it occurred?’
‘Yes,’ Sean admitted. ‘It’s the picture her injuries paint.’
Canning carefully folded the sheet down to reveal her lower body and the cuts to her thighs. ‘Yes,’ he agreed after a few seconds. ‘I think you’re probably right.’ There was a silence between them for a few seconds as each, in their own way, tried to comprehend the horror of what she’d been through in her last moments. ‘And as if all that wasn’t enough,’ he concluded, ‘she’s had five teeth crudely removed with a bladed instrument – most likely the knife – and a tool such as a pair of pliers. As previously mentioned, all her fingernails have been traumatically removed, again most likely with a pair of pliers.’
‘Poor wee cow,’ Donnelly sympathized.
‘Quite,’ Canning agreed.
Sean said nothing.
‘What’s this bastard all about?’ Donnelly asked. ‘What the hell makes a man do this to a wee thing like her?’
‘Power,’ Sean answered. ‘Power and recognition. Killing makes him feel powerful, but it’s the after effects he’s most interested in. He wants fame. He wants the world to know what he’s done. He killed her in the middle of a car park. He could have dragged her a few feet into the privacy of a doorway, but he felt so untouchable he killed her right where she stood, out in the open, and left her there for us to find. He wants us to know he’s not afraid of being caught.’
‘Maybe he’s just out of control?’ Donnelly argued. ‘Killed her in the open because he couldn’t hold himself back any longer?’
‘No,’ Sean disagreed. ‘He’s never out of control, except maybe for the sexual element to his attacks. Maybe that’s something we can use against him.’ His phone ringing in his pocket pulled his wandering mind back to the present as he checked the caller ID before answering it. ‘Sally.’
‘Sean,’ she replied, sounding troubled. ‘Have you seen today’s copy of The World? It’s like Gibran’s daring our man to kill again. Goading him. Telling him he needs to do better. And Jackson’s printed it all. We need to stop him.’
‘It’s in hand,’ he assured her.
‘What do you mean, “in hand”?’
‘I mean I’ve spoken with him,’ he admitted. ‘He called me when I was on my way to Guy’s – wants to meet. Says he’s got something I need to hear.’
