A Killing Mind

‘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.’

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