The Mermaids Singing

10

The world in general, gentlemen, are very bloody-minded; and all they want in a murder is a copious effusion of blood; gaudy display in this point is enough for them. But the enlightened connoisseur is more refined in his taste.

Penny Burgess topped up her glass of Californian Chardonnay from the bottle in the fridge and walked back through to her living room in time to hear the headlines on the BBC local news. Nothing fresh to worry about, she thought with relief. An armed robbery she could catch up with first thing in the morning. The police were still questioning a man in connection with the gay serial killings, but no charges had been laid yet. Penny sipped her wine and lit a cigarette.

They were going to have to move soon, she thought. By morning, they’d either have had to charge him with something or let him go. So far, no one had got a sniff of the suspect’s identity, which was pretty remarkable. The whole pack had been leaning heavily on their personal police contacts, but for once, the reservoir of information had resolutely refused to leak. Penny decided she’d better take a look at the magistrates’ court lists in the morning. There was an outside chance that the cops had something fairly innocuous to charge their suspect with so they could hang on to him while they dug around for the evidence they needed to make the serial killing charges stick.

As the news cut away to the weather forecast, the phone rang. Penny reached over to the occasional table by the sofa and grabbed the receiver. ‘Hello?’ she said.

‘Penny? It’s Kevin.’

Hallelujah, Penny thought, sitting up and grinding out her cigarette. All she said, however, was, ‘Kevin, my man. How’s it hanging?’ She raked in her handbag for a pencil and her notebook.

‘Something’s come up you might be interested in,’ the police inspector said cautiously.

‘It wouldn’t be the first time,’ Penny said suggestively. Her occasional sexual encounters with the very married Kevin Matthews had provided her with more than an inside track on Bradfield Metropolitan Police. He’d turned out to be one of the best lovers she’d ever had. She just wished he could overcome his Catholic guilt more often.

‘This is serious,’ Kevin protested.

‘So was I, superstud.’

‘Listen, do you want this info or not?’

‘Definitely. Especially if it’s the name of the guy you’ve got in custody for the Queer Killings.’

She heard the sharp intake of breath. ‘You know I can’t tell you that. There are limits.’

Penny sighed. It was the story of their relationship. ‘OK, so what can you tell me?’

‘Popeye’s been suspended.’

‘He’s off the case?’ Penny asked, her mind racing. Tom Cross? Suspended?

‘He’s off the job, Pen. He’s been sent home pending disciplinary action.’

‘Who by?’ Jesus, this was a story and a half. Just what had Popeye Cross been up to this time? She felt a momentary panic. What if he’d been caught out giving the suspect’s name to one of her rivals? She almost missed Kevin’s reply.

‘John Brandon.’

‘What the hell for?’

‘Nobody’s saying,’ Kevin said. ‘But the last thing he did before he saw Brandon was to carry out a search of our suspect’s house.’

‘A legal search?’ Penny probed.

‘Far as I know he had grounds under PACE,’ Kevin said cautiously.

‘So what’s going on, Kevin? Has Popeye been planting evidence, or what?’

‘I don’t know, Pen,’ Kevin said plaintively. ‘Look, I’ve got to go. If I hear anything else, I’ll call you, OK?’

‘OK. Thanks, Kev. You’re a star, you know.’

‘Yeah, well. I’ll speak to you soon.’

The line went dead. Penny dumped the phone back on the base unit and jumped to her feet. She hurried through to her bedroom, pulling off her dressing gown on the way. Five minutes later, she was running down the two flights of stairs from her flat to the underground garage. In the car, she checked the address in her A-Z, then set off, mentally rehearsing what she was going to say on the doorstep.

It was Tony who had pulled away from the clinch first. His body withdrew from hers in a gesture that rendered four inches forty.

Trying to keep it light, to cover the awkwardness that had sprung up between them, Carol said, ‘Sorry, you just looked like you needed a hug.’

‘Nothing wrong with that,’ Tony said stiffly. ‘We use it all the time in group therapy.’

They stood for a moment, eyes not quite meeting. Then Carol moved to Tony’s side, slipped a hand through his unyielding arm and steered him forwards across the university courtyard. ‘So when do I get to look at this profile?’

The conversation was on safe ground again, but Carol was still too close for comfort. Tony could feel the tension inside him, like a cold hand squeezing his chest. He forced himself to speak in a calm, normal voice. ‘I want to do another couple of hours’ work now, and I’ll get stuck into it again first thing in the morning. I should have a draft ready for you by early afternoon. How does three o’clock sound to you?’

‘Fine. Look, do you mind if I stick around now while you’re working? I could do with rereading some of those statements, and I’ll get no peace if I go back to Scargill Street.’

Tony looked doubtful. ‘I suppose.’

‘I promise not to molest you, Dr Hill,’ Carol teased.

‘Damn,’ Tony said, snapping his fingers in mock-disappointment. Look at you, he thought cynically. Passing for human, sure of all the moves. ‘Actually, it’s not that. I’m only hesitating because I’m not used to working with someone else in the room.’

‘You won’t know I’m there.’

‘I doubt that very much,’ Tony said. She might read that as a compliment, but he knew the truth.

Penny pressed the doorbell of the mock-Tudor detached house in one of south Bradfield’s more select streets. Even on a superintendent’s salary, it should have been beyond Tom Cross’s reach. But Popeye’s reputation for being lucky had been enhanced a few years back when he’d won a high five-figure sum on the pools. The subsequent party had passed into police mythology. Now, it looked like he’d dropped his lucky pixie somewhere along the road.

A light snapped on in the hallway and someone lumbered towards the door, turned into an amorphous lump by the stained glass. ‘ Friday the Thirteenth meets Hallowe’en,’ Penny muttered under her breath as she heard the lock turn. The door cracked open a suspicious few inches. Penny angled her head round to smile at the shape behind the door.

‘Superintendent Cross,’ she said, the white cloud of her breath meeting the swirl of smoke issuing from the door. ‘Penny Burgess, Sentinel Times.’

‘I know who you are,’ Cross snarled, the slur of drink evident in those few words. ‘What the hell do you want, coming round here this time of night?’

‘I hear you’ve had a bit of a problem at work,’ Penny tried.

‘You hear wrong then, madam. Now, bugger off.’

‘Look, it’ll be all over the media tomorrow. You’re going to be under siege. The Sentinel Times has always supported you, Mr Cross. We’ve been on your side all through this investigation. I’m not some visiting fireman from London, up here to put the boot in. If you’ve been sidelined, our readers have got a right to hear your side of the story.’ The door was still open. If she’d managed to say that much without him slamming it shut in her face, the chances were that she was going to get something usable out of him.

‘What makes you think I’m off the case?’ Cross asked defiantly.

‘I heard you’ve been suspended. I don’t know why, and that’s the reason I wanted to hear your side of it, before we get fed the official line.’

Cross scowled, his gooseberry eyes seeming to pop even further out. ‘I’ve got nothing to say,’ he told her, grudging every syllable.

‘Not even off the record? You’re willing to stand by and let them trash your reputation after all you’ve done for the force?’

Cross opened the door wider and looked down his drive towards the street. ‘You on your own?’ he asked.

‘Not even my newsdesk know I’m here. I only just heard.’

‘You’d better come in a minute.’

Penny stepped across the threshold into a hall that looked like a Laura Ashley sample book. At the far end of the hall, a door was half open, the television voices distinct even at that distance. Cross steered her in the opposite direction, into a long sitting room. When he switched the lights on, Penny’s eyes were assaulted by more patterns than a knitting shop. The only thing the curtains, carpets, rugs, wallpaper, frieze and scatter cushions had in common was that they were all shades of green and cream. ‘What a lovely room,’ she stammered.

‘You think so? I reckon it’s bloody hideous. The wife says it’s the best money can buy, which is the only argument I’ve heard for staying potless,’ Cross grumbled, heading for a cocktail cabinet. He poured himself a stiff drink from a decanter, then, as an afterthought, said, ‘You’ll not be wanting one, with you having the car.’

‘That’s right,’ Penny said, forcing the warmth into her voice. ‘Can’t take chances with your lads out on the roads.’

‘You want to know why them gutless bastards have suspended me?’ he demanded belligerently, thrusting his head forward like a hungry tortoise.

Penny nodded, not daring to take out her notebook.

‘Because they’d rather listen to some poncey bloody doctor than a proper copper, that’s why.’

If Penny had been a dog, her ears would have been standing to attention. As it was, she settled for a polite raise of the eyebrows. ‘A doctor?’ she said.

‘They’ve brought this wanker of a shrink in to do our job. And he says the arse bandit we’ve got banged up is innocent, so it’s bollocks to the evidence. Now, I’ve been a copper for twenty-odd years, and I trust my instincts. We’ve got the bastard, I can feel it in my water. All I did was try to make sure he stayed behind bars till we nail down all the bloody loose ends.’ Cross downed his drink and banged his empty tumbler on the cabinet. ‘And they’ve got the fucking nerve to suspend me!’

Manufacturing evidence, then. Although she was desperate to know more about the mysterious doctor, Penny sensed that she’d better let Cross air his grievances first. ‘What did they say you’d done?’ she asked.

‘I’ve done nothing wrong,’ he said, pouring another massive slug from the decanter. ‘Trouble with bloody Brandon is he’s been flying a desk for so long, he’s forgotten what the job’s about. Instinct, that’s what it’s about. Instinct and hard bloody work. Not some fucking trick cyclist with a head full of daft bloody notions like a fucking social worker.’

‘Who is this guy, then?’ Penny asked.

‘Dr Tony bloody Hill. From the fucking Home Office. Sits in his ivory tower and tells us how to catch villains. He’s got no more idea of coppering than I have of nuclear bloody physics. But the good doctor says, let the poofter go, so Brandon says yes, sir, no, sir, three bags full, sir. And just because I don’t agree, I’m out on my arse.’ Cross swallowed more whisky, his face flushed with anger and drink. ‘Anybody’d think we were dealing with bloody Mastermind here, not some fucking dumbshit arse bandit who’s had a bit of luck so far. You don’t need smartarses with bloody “doctor” in front of their name to catch scum like this. All you do is give the homicidal little fairy ideas above his station.’

‘It’s fair to say, then, that you don’t agree with the line the investigation’s taking?’ Penny asked.

Cross snorted. ‘That’s one way of putting it. You mark my words, if they let this little fucker back on the streets, we’ll be looking at another body.’

To Tony’s surprise, Carol proved to be true to her word. She sat at his desk, working her way through the pile of statements while he carried on working at his computer. Far from distracting him, he found her presence curiously soothing. He had no trouble picking up the profile where he’d left off earlier.

Like a roller coaster, each high needs to be bigger to compensate for the inevitable low that has preceded it. In this instance, there are three principal signs of escalation. The wounds to the throat have become increasingly deep and assured. The sexual mutilation has developed from a few tentative cuts in the genital region to full-scale amputation. And the bites he inflicts then cuts away have increased in number and in depth. Yet he has managed to stay sufficiently in control to cover his tracks.

It is difficult to assess whether or not the level of torture he is administering is escalating, since he seems to be using different torture methods in each case. The fact that he needs the stimulus of these different methods is, however, in itself a form of escalation.

Judging by the pathologist’s report, the sequence of events would seem to be:

1. Capture, using handcuffs and ligatures round the ankles.

2. Torture, including sexually motivated acts such as biting and sucking.

3. The fatal blow to the throat.

4. Postmortem genital mutilation.

What does this tell us about the killer?

1. He has sophisticated and highly developed fantasies, which he is exploring through his torture methods.

2. He has a killing place. The amounts of blood and other bodily fluids generated by his activities could not be readily cleaned away from a normal domestic environment; it would be taking far more of a chance than his other cautious behaviour indicates. It will almost certainly have facilities for him to clean himself up after his killings, and power so he can run lights and a camcorder. We should be looking for something like a lock-up garage, a building that is secure but probably has running water and electricity. It may also be in an isolated location, thus avoiding the possibility of his victims’ screams being overheard. (He will almost certainly remove any gags while he is torturing them; he will want to hear them scream and plead for mercy.)

3. He is obsessed with torture, and obviously has enough manual skills to construct his own engines of torture. He does not appear to have either medical or butchery skills, judging by the clumsy and tentative nature of the early throat-cutting and genital mutilation.

Tony turned away from the screen and glanced across at Carol. She was totally absorbed in her reading, the familiar frown line between her eyes. Was he being crazy to back off from what she appeared to be offering? More than anyone he’d ever been involved with she would understand the pressures of his job, the highs and lows that accompanied getting inside the head of a sociopath. She was intelligent and sensitive, and if she committed herself as thoroughly to a relationship as she did to her career, she might just be strong enough to work through his problems with him rather than use them as a stick to beat him with.

Suddenly aware of his eyes on her, Carol looked up and flashed him a tired smile. In that instant, Tony made his mind up. No way. He had enough problems dealing with the crap in his head without allowing anyone else to make it a hostage to fortune. Carol was just too sharp to let her any nearer. ‘Going OK?’ she asked.

‘I’m starting to get a feel for him,’ Tony admitted.

‘That can’t be a very pleasant place to be,’ Carol said.

‘No, but it’s what I’m paid for.’

Carol nodded. ‘And I guess it’s satisfying. And exciting?’

Tony smiled wryly. ‘You could say that. I sometimes wonder if that makes me as twisted as them.’

Carol laughed. ‘You and me both. They say the best thief-takers are the ones who get inside the heads of the villains. So if I’m going to be the best at what I do, I have to think like a villain. That doesn’t mean I want to do what they do, though.’

Strangely comforted by her words, Tony turned back to his screen.

The time the killer spends with his victims can also provide pointers. In three of the four cases, the killer appears to have made contact in the early evening and to have dumped the bodies in the early hours of the following morning. Interestingly, in the third case, he spent far longer with his victim, apparently keeping him alive for the greater part of two days. This was the killing that took place over Christmas.

It may be that he is normally unable to spend long with his victims because of the other demands of his life, demands which altered over the Christmas period. These are more likely to be work-related demands than domestic ones, though it is possible that he is in a relationship with someone who returned alone to their family at Christmas, thus giving him time to spend with his victim. Another possibility is that the extended time he spent with Gareth Finnegan was a bizarre Christmas present to himself, a reward for the good performance of his previous ‘work’.

The short space of time that elapses between the killings and the dumping of the bodies suggests that he does not use drink or drugs to any significant degree during the torture and murders. He would not risk being stopped by the police for erratic driving while he has a body in the boot, whether alive or dead. Also, although he appears to have used his victims’ cars on occasion, it is clear that he also has a vehicle of his own. The chances are that this is a reasonably new vehicle in good condition, since he can’t afford to take the chance of being stopped in a routine police check.

Tony hit ‘save’ on his computer and sat back with a satisfied smile. This was as good a place to stop as any. Tomorrow morning, he’d complete the detailed checklist of characteristics he’d expect to find in Handy Andy, and outline proposals for potential courses of action by the police officers on the case.

‘You done?’ Carol asked.

He turned to see her leaning back in the chair, her pile of folders closed. ‘I didn’t realize you’d finished,’ he said.

‘Ten minutes ago. I didn’t want to disturb the flying fingers.’

Tony hated others studying him the way he studied them. The idea of being a patient on the receiving end of his own probing was one of those nightmares that he woke from in a sweat. ‘I’ve had it for tonight,’ he said, making a copy of his file on a floppy disk which he then pocketed.

‘I’ll give you a lift home,’ Carol said.

‘Thanks,’ Tony said, getting to his feet. ‘I can never be bothered bringing the car into town. To tell you the truth, I don’t much like driving.’

‘Can’t say I blame you. The city traffic’s hell on wheels.’

When Carol pulled up outside Tony’s house, she said, ‘Any chance of a cup of tea? Not to mention a pee?’

While Tony put the kettle on, Carol slipped upstairs to the bathroom. She came downstairs to the sound of her own voice issuing from his answering machine. She paused at the foot of the stairs, spying on him as he leaned against his desk, pen and paper in hand, listening to his messages. She enjoyed her growing sense of familiarity with his face and the lines of his body. Her voice ended and the machine beeped. ‘Hi Tony, it’s Pete,’ the next voice announced. ‘I’ve got to be in Bradfield next Thursday. Any chance of a bed and a beer Wednesday night? Congratulations on getting on board the Queer Killer investigation, by the way. Hope you catch the bastard.’ Beep. ‘Anthony, my darling. Wherever can you be? I’m lying here, longing for you. We’ve got some unfinished business, lover boy.’

At the sound of the voice, Tony straightened up and he turned to stare at the machine. The voice was husky, sexy, intimate. ‘Don’t think you can – ’ Tony’s hand shot out and cut the voice off abruptly.

So much for not being involved with anyone, Carol thought bitterly. She stepped forward through the doorway. ‘Let’s just forget the tea. I’ll see you tomorrow,’ she said, her voice cold and brittle as ice on a winter puddle.

Tony whirled round, panic in his eyes. ‘It’s not what it seems,’ he blurted out without thought. ‘I’ve never even met the woman!’

Carol turned out of the doorway and walked down the hall. As she fumbled with the lock, Tony spoke coldly. ‘I’m telling you the truth, Carol. Even though it’s actually none of your business.’

She half turned, found a smile from somewhere and said, ‘You’re quite right. It is none of my business. Till tomorrow, Tony.’

The closing of the door reverberated through Tony’s head like a jackhammer. ‘Thank God you’re a psychologist,’ he said bitterly as he slumped against the wall. ‘A layman might have really buggered that one up. You really believe in making the job a piece of piss, don’t you, Hill?’