A Killing Mind

He arranged the cards carefully and neatly before retrieving two more small freezer bags from inside the plastic box and placed them side by side on the table. Again he took a deep breath to steady himself before emptying the first bag, which was marked with a number 1 in permanent marker. The nails and teeth slid out in front of him – the teeth rattling on the table like dice, whereas the nails sounded like tinkling raindrops. He picked up a few of the nails and dropped them into the palm of his other hand. They were still coated with cheap red nail varnish that blended perfectly with the traces of her blood. He hoped they would never fade. It may be necessary to repaint them if it did.

As he held the nails he could picture them as they had been when they were attached to the young woman’s slim fingers. They’d possibly been her best feature. That and her crystal blue eyes that were yet to be destroyed by whatever drug she was addicted to. He remembered her eyes staring into his in disbelief as she realized he had come to end her existence. He sighed almost happily at the memory before delicately spilling the nails from his palm back on to the table.

Next he picked up the teeth one by one and dropped them into the palm of his hand. Molars with gold fillings and other lesser teeth that showed little decay or staining. As young teeth should, despite her lifestyle. He pinched one of the molars from his palm and held it up to the light as if he were examining a diamond – slightly twisting and rotating it as he took in every detail of the tooth – every curve and peak – every scratch on the enamel. Finally he held it under his nose, closing his eyes as he inhaled deeply – each trace of its dead owner bringing exquisite memories of pulling them from her jaw flooding back. How he wished she’d been fully alive and conscious when he’d gone to work on her, but it would have been all but impossible to perform the extractions on a struggling victim.

Satisfied with the relics of his first victim’s death, he ritually placed all the items on top of the clip-seal bag and put them to one side. His back straightened as he took hold of the other bag – glancing at the photographs of the living William Dalton before sliding the seal open and allowing the odour of its contents to rush at him. To the uninitiated, the scents were barely detectable, but to him they were as vivid and raw as the smell of a zoo – animalistic and pungent.

He carefully tipped the contents on to the table and shifted them about with the tips of his fingers – ensuring each item had its own space to shine before picking up one of the larger fingernails that he assumed must be a thumbnail. It, like all the others, was in poor condition. The dark dried blood, mixed with the dirt that had built up over months of not being able to clean himself properly, had left the nails looking much older than they were. They looked as if they’d been taken from a body that had been buried for years – brittle, broken and jagged at the tips. But they were no less precious to him. He’d enjoyed killing the prostitute more, but the homeless man was still an experience beyond most people’s stunted and dull imagination. In any case, it was important that his second victim was a man so the police and media would know he wasn’t some perverted sex offender. They needed to understand he was much, much more than that.

He swapped the nail for a clean-looking molar, although the root was stained with the victim’s blood – the sight of it ignited images of the nearly dead homeless man lying on his back and gurgling on his own blood as it slipped down his throat. The memory pleased him and made his muscles tense as he remembered the power he’d felt as he crouched over the dying man. It was as if he was absorbing the victim’s energy, becoming more powerful with each new kill.

Without knowing why, he was suddenly overcome with the urge to taste the tooth, to engulf it in his tongue and roll it around his mouth. Wary of sucking the blood and odour away, he made do instead with delicately placing the tip of the tooth against the point of his tongue and holding it there – his eyes closing with the pleasure of it as his entire body became aroused. Removing the tooth, he cursed his body’s physical reaction and knew that others would use it as evidence that his actions were driven by sexual needs. But he knew they were not. Yes, he’d ejaculated inside the dying prostitute and done things to the dying homeless man, but they were not sexual acts. His body had simply become so electrified by the power he felt that it was overwhelmed with every sensation – as if he was feeling every emotion and physical feeling a person could ever have, only he was feeling it all at the same time. It was too much for any person to control – even one as strong as he was. Ejaculating in and on his victims had merely been an emergency release – to allow him to regain control of his own growing power. Still, he knew he needed to do better in the future and suppress his body’s crude needs when in a heightened state of stimulation. It was either that or risk forever being branded as a sexually motivated killer, which would undermine everything he was trying to achieve.

Using a breathing exercise he’d picked up from a yoga video, he tried to calm his tense body and relax. The killings had left him feeling invincible, but it was gratifying to know he remained in complete control of his own body.

After a few minutes of sitting in silence, he picked up the photographs and mementoes, placing them neatly in their bags before packing them tenderly into the plastic box that he returned to the freezer compartment of his fridge. As he closed the door he was already debating what type of person he should choose next.

3

Sean pulled up close to the police cordon in Mint Street, Southwark – the area of London south of the Thames from the City. Some of that wealth had spilled across the river, but the financial institutions clung to the bankside like limpets, leaving the south side of the river dominated by sprawling housing estates. It was an area he knew well.

He was about to climb from the car when his phone rang. Cursing under his breath, he struggled to free the phone from his jacket and looked at the caller ID. It was Dr Anna Ravenni-Ceron. His heart skipped a beat and his stomach tightened. It had been a good few months since he’d spoken to the psychiatrist. He’d hoped distance and time would fade his feelings towards her – remove the temptation she always seemed to represent when they were close. Now another murder investigation appeared to be bringing them back together. He cleared his throat and slid his finger across the screen to answer.

‘Anna,’ was all he said.

‘Sean,’ was all she replied.

They allowed a few seconds of silence between them before Anna spoke first. ‘How have you been?’

‘OK,’ he answered, shrugging as if she could see him. ‘Busy with other people’s problems.’

‘I heard,’ she told him. ‘How’s Kate? How are your kids?’

‘Good,’ he replied. ‘And you?’

‘Fine,’ she said. ‘Though finding life dull, compared to being part of an SIU investigation.’

‘And now you are again,’ he reminded her.

‘Only if I want to be,’ she explained. ‘And only if you want me to be.’ He didn’t answer – her question making his mind swirl too much to be able to speak. Did he want to be close to her again? Every day. ‘Assistant Commissioner Addis wants me on the investigation.’

‘Featherstone told me.’

‘Right,’ she replied.

‘I assume Addis wants the same as always?’ he asked.

‘I haven’t met him yet,’ she explained, ‘but I’m assuming so.’

‘Keep an eye on me while pretending to be helping profile the killer,’ Sean spelt it out, ‘and report back to him on whether I can be … trusted.’

‘I would imagine,’ Anna agreed, ‘but as far as I’m concerned, our arrangement stands.’

Sean thought hard for a while. ‘I don’t know,’ he admitted. ‘If Addis ever found out you were feeding everything back to me, he could make things very difficult for you.’

‘Don’t worry about me,’ she reassured him. ‘I’m not a police officer. There’s a limit to what he can do to me – whereas you …’

‘I’m an asset,’ he reminded her. ‘It buys me some leeway, even with Addis.’

‘What do you want me to do?’ she asked him bluntly.

He chewed his bottom lip for a few seconds. ‘Meet him,’ he found himself saying, although in his mind he was urging her to walk away from him, from Addis and the Special Investigations Unit and never come back. ‘Find out what he wants and if it’s the same as always, agree to do it. At least that way if he decides to come after me I’ll have a heads-up.’

‘OK,’ she agreed solemnly.

He sensed her unhappiness, how confused her feelings were. ‘You don’t have to do this,’ he told her. ‘You don’t have to do this for me.’

‘No,’ she answered. ‘I want to.’

‘OK,’ he agreed, then tried to move things on: ‘I could use you anyway. This new one,’ he explained, ‘feels … complicated. Anything you can tell me about him will help.’

‘No doubt Addis will give me a copy of the file,’ she went along with him. ‘Once I’ve read it, I’ll give you my thoughts.’

‘Good,’ he told her, then struggled with what to say next. ‘It’ll be nice to see you again,’ he managed, immediately wincing at his own words.

‘It’ll be nice to see you too,’ she answered.

He touched the screen to end the call and stared at the phone for a while before sliding it back into his jacket pocket. Climbing from the unmarked car, he made a beeline for the two uniformed officers who were guarding the tape that marked the cordon. He spoke to the tall female constable who was clutching the crime scene log. Sean held up his warrant card so they could both see.

‘DI Corrigan – Special Investigations Unit. This is officially my scene now,’ he told them.

The constables looked at each other, confused. The woman spoke for both of them. ‘Sorry, sir. The DCI from the MIT is inside with forensics. DCI …’ she looked down at the log, ‘DCI Vaughan.’

‘Like I said,’ he reminded her, ‘it’s my scene now.’ He pulled a business card from his warrant card and handed it to her. ‘No one in or out without my permission,’ he insisted. ‘You call me before letting anyone in. I don’t care if it’s the Commissioner – you call me first. Understand?’

The female constable gave a shrug of resignation before answering. ‘Whatever you say … sir.’

Sean awkwardly covered his shoes with a pair of forensic foot protectors he’d pulled from his pocket and ducked under the tape before heading to the garage some forty metres away where he could see figures in blue forensic suits working under the spotlights that lit the scene. As he drew nearer he noticed a figure standing in the dark observing the activities. The man wasn’t wearing a forensic suit, but stood in a long dark coat, his back to Sean, although his feet too were covered with protectors. Once Sean was within a few feet of the man, he turned to face him. His face appeared tanned, despite the depths of winter; he was in his early fifties, but handsome, his physique stocky and powerful. Sean noticed some of the grey strands of his hair reflecting the streetlights.

‘DCI Vaughan?’ Sean asked, holding up his warrant card.

‘Yes,’ Vaughan answered in a London accent – his demeanour immediately telling Sean he was dealing with another career detective and not someone racing through the ranks on accelerated promotion. ‘And who might you be?’

‘DI Sean Corrigan,’ he told him. ‘Special Investigations Unit.’

‘DI Corrigan,’ Vaughan smiled knowingly. ‘I’ve heard so much about you I feel I already know you. So what’s SIU doing here?’

Sean felt uneasy, knowing that he’d been talked about by people he didn’t know. He preferred to be anonymous. ‘This murder’s linked to another,’ he explained. ‘That makes it SIU’s.’

‘No one’s told me it’s linked,’ Vaughan argued. ‘And no one’s told me to hand over my investigation to you or anyone else. SIU’s not needed here. Me and my team will have this wrapped up in a few days, tops. We know how to hunt down bastards like this. Why don’t you save yourself for something a bit more exotic and leave this to us old-fashioned by-the-numbers detectives.’

‘I can’t do that,’ Sean told him. ‘Orders of Assistant Commissioner Addis. SIU are to take over this investigation.’

‘Addis hasn’t told me about SIU taking over anything,’ Vaughan growled. ‘Until he does – the investigation stays with me.’

‘He left it to me to tell you,’ Sean explained. ‘Addis wants SIU to take over and Addis gets what he wants. And you don’t want to get on Addis’s wrong side. Believe me – I know.’

‘I don’t take kindly to DIs marching into my crime scenes and telling me what’s gonna happen,’ Vaughan continued to dig his heels in.

Sean didn’t have time to argue, but neither did he want to alienate Vaughan and his MIT. He needed them onside and cooperative. He couldn’t afford to have anyone withholding some important fact they’d discovered – deliberately or otherwise. ‘I understand it’s a difficult situation,’ he said in a conciliatory tone, ‘but my unit was set up to deal with exactly this sort of investigation. I know you and your team could find whoever did this, but the fact is I have access to things you don’t, which means I’ve a better than decent chance of finding him sooner – before he kills again. That’s what we all want, isn’t it?’ Vaughan looked him up and down – weighing up Sean’s words. ‘All I need is full cooperation. I need everything you’ve found to date and in return I promise you’ll get full credit for what you’ve achieved.’ Still he sensed Vaughan wasn’t satisfied. ‘If we need any help I’ll come straight to you. Fair enough?’

Vaughan sighed in resignation. ‘Very well. Fair enough, but no airbrushing us out of what’s been done.’

‘Of course,’ Sean readily agreed, ‘but I need the forensic team to stop whatever they’re doing and prepare their exhibits for transfer.’

‘You want them to stop?’ Vaughan questioned his wisdom.

‘Like I said,’ Sean reminded him, ‘I have access to things you don’t – including a specialist forensics team who know exactly what I expect from them.’

‘If you insist,’ Vaughan agreed, unconvinced.

‘And I’ll need all the paperwork you have so far. Door-to-doors, witnesses spoken to. Anything you’ve generated – in order and filed properly, so I can find what I’m looking for.’

‘It will be,’ Vaughan assured him.

Sean moved on. ‘I understand the body’s been removed to the morgue at Guy’s?’

‘It has.’

‘Good,’ he said, knowing that it would fall under the care of his most trusted pathologist – Dr Simon Canning.

‘Your forensic team on their way?’ Vaughan asked.

‘No,’ Sean told him. ‘They’re briefed and preparing, but no point starting now. Better to start afresh in the morning, when your people have packed up and gone. Just make sure everything’s secure till then.’

‘Very well,’ Vaughan answered, but Sean had already started to drift away – looking out across the streets and the park close to the garage where William Dalton came to his violent end.

Vaughan noticed it. ‘You want to take a closer look at the scene?’

Sean looked at the houses and flats around the scene – full of light and life – children awake, meals being prepared, people walking home across the park, the smell of heavy traffic thick in the freezing air, its sound a constant hum in the background. It wasn’t right. ‘No,’ he told Vaughan. ‘This isn’t how it was.’

‘Excuse me,’ Vaughan asked, confused.

‘Nothing,’ Sean realized he’d been speaking out loud. ‘I’ll send a couple of my people over to your office tomorrow to pick up whatever you have.’

‘It’ll be ready,’ Vaughan assured him.

‘Good,’ Sean told him and turned to leave. ‘I need to be somewhere.’

‘One thing,’ Vaughan stopped him.

‘Which is?’

‘If you ever decide you’ve had enough of the SIU, give me a call, will you,’ Vaughan told him. ‘I wouldn’t mind that job myself some day.’

‘I’ll keep it in mind,’ Sean replied before heading off back to his car, fully aware that Vaughan wouldn’t be the only one who’d like his job and that Addis wouldn’t hesitate to replace him if he ever looked like he’d lost his special edge.

Anna Ravenni-Ceron entered the private members’ club in St James’s Park, close to New Scotland Yard, and was led to a large dark dining room where Assistant Commissioner Robert Addis sat in full uniform looking as trim and tidy as ever – his peaked cap and brown leather gloves perched on the edge of the table next to him. He sipped water from a crystal glass as he read from an open file he held expertly in one hand.

‘Excuse me, sir,’ the hostess murmured discreetly, making him look up. ‘Your guest has arrived.’

‘Anna,’ he smiled, but remained seated and made no effort to shake her hand. ‘Please, have a seat.’

‘Thank you,’ Anna told the hostess as she seated herself on the straight-backed chair that had been pulled out for her. Slim and elegant with a head of unruly wavy black hair caught and tamed into a mass of swirls and ringlets, her dark brown eyes stared from a pretty oval face, studying Addis as he waited until the hostess had left before speaking again.

‘I’m glad you could make it on such short notice,’ he told her. ‘You’ll understand this isn’t the sort of thing I’d want to discuss over the phone.’

‘So you said.’

‘Being the head of the Specialist Crime Operations can make one somewhat … cautious.’

‘No doubt,’ she agreed, before realizing she was being more assertive and questioning than she’d been with Addis in the past. If she didn’t play the game better he would pick up on the subtle change and become suspicious. He might even deny her access to the investigation and with it her chance to help or protect Sean. ‘Face-to-face is preferable,’ she lied.

‘Good,’ Addis relaxed somewhat. ‘Good.’

‘Is this the new case?’ she asked, her eyes indicating the file in his hand.

‘Yes,’ Addis told her, closing the file as if she’d somehow spied on its contents. ‘Have you heard anything?’

‘Only what you’ve told me,’ she lied again. ‘Two young adult victims. No apparent links between them. DI Corrigan and the SIU will be investigating … Which makes me wonder what you want from me.’

Addis handed her the file, which she accepted. ‘Same as always, Anna.’

‘I see,’ she said, trying to hide her disappointment. ‘You want me to look like I’m helping profile the killer, but really you want me to keep an eye on DI Corrigan and report back to you?’

‘No,’ Addis smiled condescendingly. ‘I want you to assist in profiling the type of person we’re looking for – not merely look as if you are.’

‘I understand,’ she replied, a hint of frustration in her voice, ‘but you also want me to observe DI Corrigan? Correct?’

‘You make it sound as if I’m asking you to spy on him,’ Addis said without a hint of irony.

‘Aren’t you?’ Anna asked.

Addis leaned back in his chair and watched her for a long few seconds before answering. ‘We’ve discussed this before, Anna. DI Corrigan is an asset not just to the Special Investigations Unit, but the Specialist Crimes Operations. Indeed, he’s an asset to the Metropolitan Police Service. He has a rare and special talent, which is why I have personally seen to it that he became day-to-day leader of the SIU. But these cases are by their very nature high profile, constantly under the glare of the media spotlight. I can’t allow serious mistakes to be made during such investigations. I need to see any such mistakes coming before they actually happen.’

‘But Sean— DI Corrigan is an outstanding detective and investigator,’ she reminded him. ‘Yet I can’t help but feel you’re expecting him to make a mistake, sooner rather than later.’

‘I’m not talking about him missing or overlooking some vital piece of evidence,’ he explained. ‘He’s as thorough as he is instinctive and imaginative – as I’m sure you’re aware. It’s almost as if he can think like the very people he’s trying to find and stop.’ He let his words hang in front of her, the silence pressurizing her to say something.

‘He’s simply able to combine years of experience with an excellent and active imagination,’ she tried to argue. ‘Nothing more than that. It’s a trait I’ve seen in other detectives.’

‘Yes,’ Addis agreed, but his eyes had narrowed to slits and his voice lowered to a hush. ‘But with Corrigan it’s much more than an active imagination. I leave you psychiatrists to decide its precise nature, but what I do know is that in order to make whatever it is work, he needs to tread a very thin line. He needs to be very close to the edge.’ He paused to take a sip of water. ‘Perhaps it’s only a matter of time before he falls from one of those edges.’

‘Then move him from the SIU,’ she told him, though she knew Sean would be furious if he found out she’d suggested as much to Addis. Much as she valued their friendship, if she had to sacrifice it to protect him, she would. ‘Before he puts himself in harm’s way again. It’s within your power.’

‘I can’t do that,’ he replied. ‘As I’ve said, Corrigan is an asset. A valuable asset. Police officers are paid to make sacrifices – to take risks. They just need to be controlled – which is why we are having this conversation.’

‘You don’t care if he puts himself in danger, do you?’ she accused him. ‘So long as he solves the high-profile cases quickly. Right?’

Addis ignored her question. ‘Do you accept my offer?’ he asked briskly.

Anna sighed, but knew she had no choice. ‘If it helps catch the killer, how could I say no?’

‘Good,’ Addis smiled, satisfied. ‘Then I look forward to your reports. Can I get you something to eat? To drink?’

‘No,’ she told him, getting to her feet clutching the file he’d given her – feeling like she needed to shower and change her clothes. ‘I have to be somewhere.’

‘Of course,’ he nodded. ‘Please. Don’t let me keep you.’

‘Goodbye, Robert,’ she replied, and headed for the entrance and the fresh, cold air she desperately needed beyond.

Addis watched her all the way. He hadn’t missed the difference in her attitude. She’d been more questioning than during their previous meetings. He would have to do what he always did the second he had the slightest doubt about anyone’s loyalty. He would assume she could no longer be trusted. Perhaps she’d been too close to Corrigan and his team for too long. She was supposed to be helping the gamekeeper, but maybe the poacher now had her allegiance. He decided the best way to be sure was to play along with her – for the time being.

Geoff Jackson was working at his desk in the huge open-plan office of The World newspaper when his editor appeared over his shoulder.

‘Sue,’ he acknowledged her and swivelled in his chair to face her.

‘Well,’ Dempsey asked him, sitting on the edge of his desk. She was tall for a woman – her slimness making her appear taller, with short blond hair that augmented her attractive face. At fifty-one she’d lost little of her appeal to men and knew it. ‘Did you get the interview?’

‘Yeah, I met him.’

‘And?’ she pressed.

‘And,’ he mimicked her, ‘it was very interesting.’

‘I bet it was,’ she said. ‘But what did Gibran tell you? Did you get him to talk about the murders the police think he committed?’

‘No,’ Jackson deflated her. ‘Nothing that specific. He’s too smart to talk about something he could be charged and tried for. We kept it more general – what goes through the mind of a killer, that sort of stuff. It’s good, though – even if I say so myself. Good enough to be our lead story. I’ll have it polished and ready to go for tomorrow’s edition. I’ll email it to you when it’s done.’

‘Fine,’ she told him, springing off his desk, ‘but it won’t be front page. Not without him confessing to something.’

‘I agree,’ Jackson replied, surprising her somewhat. He rarely agreed to anything without a fight. ‘I was thinking more centre-page spread – with a leader to it on the front. Lots of old photos of Gibran, his victims, DI Corrigan – that sort of thing, in amongst the interview. As I do more interviews we can run more centre-page spreads – build up a serialization.’