Copyright
Published by HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd
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First published in Great Britain by HarperCollinsPublishers 2018
Copyright © Luke Delaney 2018
Cover design © HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 2018
Cover photograph © Roy Bishop/Arcangel Images
Luke Delaney asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.
A catalogue copy of this book is available from the British Library.
This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.
Source ISBN: 9780007585762
Ebook Edition © May 2018 ISBN: 9780007585786
Version: 2019-03-01
Table of Contents
Cover
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Two Weeks Later
Acknowledgements
About the Author
Also by Luke Delaney
Keep Reading…
About the Publisher
Dedication
I’d like to dedicate this book to my brothers and sisters: Kirsty, Cathy, John and Alex. Thanks for always being so supportive, funny and caring. You’re a pretty cool bunch.
Luke Delaney
1
William Dalton was glad to be alone in the lift that jerked and rocked its way from the platforms in the depths of the Borough Underground station towards the streets of Southwark high above. The shiny metal walls of the large steel box reflected his image from all sides. There was no way to escape his own dishevelled appearance. Only eighteen years old, but the ravages of crack cocaine and living without a home had taken a heavy toll. His white skin had taken on a yellow tinge, his blue eyes were faded and sunken, his fair hair unkempt and tangled. At least with the lift to himself he didn’t have to worry about disapproving or pitiful looks from the more fortunate or worry that it was his odour that made them contort their faces or cover their noses with sweeter smelling hands.
The steel cube jolted to a stop and the doors scraped apart. Quickly he moved through the ticket area, nodding to the guard he recognized from previous days and nights, and used his treasured Oyster card to open the barrier and head into the freezing night streets of this ancient part of London. He moved as fast as he could along Marshalsea Road, only looking up occasionally to check for any possible threats. The money he’d earned from a hard day’s begging in London’s West End was carefully hidden in the crotch of his underpants; the last place anyone would put their hands – or so he hoped, although he knew other beggars desperate for cash would not hesitate to search everywhere. The only other serious risk was gangs of drunks or groups of feral youths who might decide to kick him to death purely for entertainment, but it was late and the night was bitterly cold – like only January can be – so the streets were practically deserted.
As he scuttled towards his current home – an abandoned garage at the back of a low-rise residential block – he was oblivious to the faded detritus of Christmas hanging from some of the lampposts, and the torn, dirty streamers and decorations that adorned the windows and doors of the flats he passed, fairy lights forlornly trying to cling to a happier, less bleak time. He turned into Mint Street and was soon at the garage that served as home. He could have stayed in the West End, but that would have meant sleeping on a bed of cardboard in a shop doorway till he was kicked awake by frustrated employees or owners. He moved some corrugated metal sheets aside and slipped into the garage, pulling them back into place behind him as he took a small torch from his pocket and surveyed the interior, relieved to see his few possessions were still where he’d left them. With a sense of urgency, he turned on both his camping lantern and a battery-powered outdoor heater. Its effectiveness was minimal, but it took the bitterness from the air and provided a comforting, almost homely glow. He rubbed his hands and began to search the garage for food he’d been given by donors who wanted to help but didn’t want to give him cash. On a night like this he was grateful for the food and was soon devouring a packet of biscuits as if it was his last meal.
After he’d retrieved the cash bag from its hiding place he settled down to count his daily earnings on the old broken car seat that served as his sofa, the foam protruding from gaping wounds in the vinyl cover. He pushed another biscuit into his mouth and tipped the money next to him on the seat, pushing the coins around with the tips of his fingers, satisfied at a glance that he had enough to take to his dealer tomorrow to replenish the supply he was about to use. He wiped the mix of saliva and crumbs from his lips, gathered the coins back into the bag and carried it to the wall at the back of the garage. His fingers traced the outline of a loose brick – his secret brick – and began working away at the edges until they gained sufficient purchase to pull it free and lower it to the ground.
Listening hard, he slid his hand into the hole and searched inside the cavity until his fingers touched the plastic bag he’d hidden there. He lifted it out and then replaced the brick before heading back to the sofa and making himself comfortable. As delicately as if he were handling surgical instruments, he removed the contents and placed them in a neat line in front of him: a tiny clip-seal plastic bag containing three small waxy rocks of crack, a glass pipe to smoke them with and a lighter to heat them.
Carefully he set one of the rocks on the end of the homemade pipe, placing the other end between his lips and raising the lighter towards the translucent pebble – not rushing, enjoying the moment before his world changed, for a few hours at least, from rank misery to ecstasy. But as he drew his thumb firmly over the flint of the cheap lighter to produce a spark, his head snapped around. He was sure he’d heard a noise outside. Not the normal wild noises of the night he’d grown used to hearing – the screech of a catfight or the scavenging of a fox – but something different. The clumsy noise that only another human would make.
For almost twenty seconds he sat frozen in place, his head cocked so that his ear pointed towards the entrance. He was beginning to doubt he’d heard anything, until suddenly, terrifyingly, the sound came again: unwary feet tripping over something on the ground. Another homeless person? Another drug addict? Someone who’d followed him or who’d been watching the garage, waiting for his return? Someone planning to lay claim to all his prized possessions – maybe even the garage itself? In a panic he scrambled for the six-inch kitchen knife he kept under the sofa, squeezing its thick rubber handle hard – the feel of it in his palm calming him and making him feel stronger and less vulnerable. He reminded himself he’d been surviving on the streets since he was sixteen and had yet to be seriously turned over or battered. If someone was coming for him, he’d give them what they deserved.
He moved silently towards the entrance of the garage, hoping to startle his would-be attacker by suddenly calling out: ‘I don’t know what the fuck you want, but I’ve got a serious fucking blade. You fuck with me, I’ll fucking cut you up, man.’
His bold words made him feel more confident and stronger, but it was a fragile power, fading by the second as his words met with silence. Again he started to question whether he’d imagined the noise, or whether it might have been a stray dog looking for an easy meal. But until he could be sure there was nothing out there, he knew he wouldn’t be able to relax and enjoy the blissful escape he had planned.
Forced on by the need to know, he began to pull back the makeshift front door, continually cursing under his breath until he was able to look out into the night, the darkness illuminated slightly by the glow of the city’s light. It had begun to rain; freezing pellets of sleet lashed his face, stinging his skin and making it hard to see as he peered through squinted eyes. Blinking rapidly, he wiped the water from his face with a sweep of his hand and looked up to the starless sky, opening his mouth to catch a few drops on his tongue – like he used to do when he was a child.
A smile began to spread across his lips until suddenly it was smashed away as something hit him hard across the back of the head – the blow powerful enough to crack his skull and knock him semi-conscious to the ground, but not enough to kill him. His befuddled mind was struggling to work out what could have happened when he became aware that he was moving; someone was dragging him backwards across the ground into the garage. There were no sounds of exertion; whoever it was seemed able to move him with ease. He felt his lower legs being dropped to the floor and moments later he heard the scrape of the board being replaced across the entrance, the noise of the rain outside fading to a quiet hiss.
After a few seconds he’d recovered enough to slightly open his eyes and was immediately aware that someone was circling him, first one way and then the other, like a tiger moving in on his prey. He tried to move but instantly felt a kick to his stomach that made him double up with pain. As he lay clutching his belly and trying not to vomit, his assailant crouched by his side and a gloved hand reached out to seize a handful of hair in a vice-like grip. His head was twisted around until he was looking into his attacker’s face, but the features were hidden in the depths of his hoodie so all Dalton could see were shadows, as if his torturer had no face at all. Even so, there seemed something familiar about the figure crouched next to him, although in his swirling confusion he couldn’t make a connection between this nightmare and anything that had existed in the real world.
After an age of silence, Dalton managed to draw sufficient breath to mumble, ‘Who are you? Want do you want?’
The reply came from deep within the darkness where a face should have been as the attacker, by some sleight of hand, produced a vicious-looking knife – long and thick, with a serrated edge like the lower jaw of a piranha. He held the blade close to Dalton’s face. ‘I want them all to know – I want them all to know who did this.’
‘I don’t understand,’ Dalton whimpered – his eyes fixed on the knife. ‘Did what?’
The attacker’s hand moved fast, the knife slicing deep into Dalton’s neck, opening a gaping wound through which the air in his lungs rushed out, mixing with the pooling blood. But the man who would soon kill him had been careful not to sever the carotid artery. He didn’t want him to die. Not yet. For now, he wanted silence. He wanted Dalton to be alive so he could see the terror and horror in his eyes before he allowed him the blissful release of death.
‘It’s time,’ the voice from the shadow told him. ‘Time to show them all.’
2
Detective Superintendent Featherstone entered the main office of the Special Investigations Unit in New Scotland Yard and made his way to the goldfish bowl of a room that belonged to Detective Inspector Sean Corrigan. He opened the door without knocking and tossed a pink cardboard file marked ‘confidential’ on to Corrigan’s desk to grab his attention. Sean flicked the file open before looking at Featherstone, who’d slumped into the seat opposite clutching another pink folder, and then his eyes returned to the file where he was confronted by crime scene photographs of William Dalton – his throat cut and face disfigured with dried blood congealed around his gaping mouth. He flicked through the first few photographs, making a special note of the victim’s hands, from which the fingernails had been removed, leaving behind bloody stumps. Sean winced and looked away for a second.
‘I hope he was dead before he had his nails pulled out,’ he said.
‘And before he had his teeth removed,’ Featherstone added, making Sean look up. ‘The blood and swelling in and around his mouth was caused when our killer extracted some of his teeth using a combination of knife and, most probably, pliers – too early to say for sure; nothing was found at the scene.’
Sean nodded to show he understood. ‘Who was he?’
‘William Dalton,’ Featherstone answered. ‘Eighteen years old, homeless and addicted to crack. Home was a disused garage in Mint Street, Southwark – that’s where he was killed. He sustained a significant injury to the back of his head, and then there’s the damage caused by removal of the teeth and fingernails, but that wasn’t what killed him. There were two distinct wounds to his neck and throat: his throat was cut – straight through the trachea – which wouldn’t necessarily have killed him, but the second wound sliced open his carotid artery. He bled to death, or at least that’s what it looks like. Won’t know for sure until the post-mortem.’
Again Sean looked down at the photographs and then to Featherstone. ‘Unusual and significant injuries,’ he admitted, ‘but why give Special Investigations the case? He could have been in debt to a particularly nasty drug dealer. Maybe they tortured him to find out if he had any drugs or cash hidden away. Teeth. Fingernails. All looks like torture.’ He didn’t tell Featherstone about the images the crime scene photos had conjured up in his mind – a madman stabbing and pulling at the victim’s teeth and nails, his face contorted with the effort, yet in control. Unafraid. Calm.
‘Firstly,’ Featherstone explained, ‘Assistant Commissioner Addis is aware of the case and has insisted that you take it on. His apologies, by the way. He’s away at a conference in Bramshill, otherwise he’d have briefed you in person.’
‘And …?’
‘And,’ Featherstone told him, leaning forward and tossing the other file on to his desk, ‘this isn’t his first kill.’
Sean tentatively opened the new file and was again greeted by crime scene photographs: a young woman’s body lying on the wet ground behind a large wheelie bin. Other photographs showed close-ups of wounds similar to those William Dalton had suffered: teeth and fingernails traumatically removed. He also noted that her clothing appeared to have been pulled and torn and assumed the worst had happened, but again he said nothing, knowing that Featherstone would start talking soon enough.
‘Her name is Tanya Richards,’ Featherstone obliged. ‘Twenty-three years old. A known prostitute. Ran away to the big smoke from some shithole in the Midlands a few years ago. Soon discovered the streets aren’t paved with gold and started using heroin. Prostitution paid for the drugs. Not an unfamiliar tale.’
Sean acknowledged this with a nod.
‘Her body was found not far from where she lived,’ Featherstone continued. ‘She had a room in a dump of a flat in Roden Street, Holloway. When she wasn’t there she was working the streets around Smithfield Market during the night – looking for punters. He left plenty of DNA, only it’s not on file, so looks like he has no previous.’
‘Could the DNA be from a punter?’ Sean asked.
‘Unlikely,’ Featherstone answered. ‘Looks like she was on her way to work when she was attacked. Judging by the contents of her handbag, she was careful.’
‘Condoms?’ Sean guessed. ‘Yeah,’ Featherstone confirmed, ‘and plenty of them. Also we found semen smeared on her abdomen that matches that found inside her, so everything points to it being the killer’s.’ Featherstone shook his head. ‘Strange thing to do – wipe himself off on her belly.’
‘He was marking her,’ Sean said before he could stop himself – drawing a concerned look from Featherstone. ‘Raping and killing her wasn’t enough,’ he tried to explain. ‘He wanted to mark her.’
‘Why?’ Featherstone asked.
‘That,’ Sean answered, ‘I don’t know yet.’ He turned his gaze back to the photographs, wishing he could be alone without being disturbed by Featherstone’s clumsy observations. His understanding of this killer was coming together faster than in any of his previous cases, as if the year-long gap since his last significant investigation had sharpened his instincts and senses. He needed this killer more than any of his team could possibly understand.
While his mind was engaged with the faceless killer who’d turned his fantasies into reality, using the helpless Tanya Richards as a conduit for his warped desire, Sean threw out a question to keep Featherstone occupied: ‘Was the same knife used on both victims?’
‘Hard to say,’ Featherstone admitted, inhaling deeply before continuing. ‘Neither victim was stabbed – slashed, but not stabbed. Makes it difficult to be certain. Maybe the post-mortem will help.’
Sean started flicking through the file with an increased sense of urgency. Something told him every second could be vital. ‘When was she killed?’
‘More bad news, I’m afraid,’ Featherstone answered. ‘Only ten days ago. This one’s not a once-a-year killer, Sean. He’s running hot.’
‘I didn’t hear anything,’ Sean told him. ‘Didn’t see anything on the news.’
‘A prostitute and heroin addict murdered in London,’ Featherstone explained with a shrug. ‘Not exactly front-page material. The first murder got a mention on the local news – nothing more. They’ll be all over it now though, that’s for bloody sure.’
‘But the fingernails and the teeth,’ Sean frowned, ‘that must have got the interest of the media?’
‘Ah.’ Featherstone cocked his head to one side. ‘Would have, only the MIT who picked up the Richards case had the good sense not to mention the fact she’d had her nails removed. They let on some of her teeth had been pulled out, but kept quiet about the nails.’
‘To eliminate nuisance callers claiming responsibility,’ Sean said.
‘Exactly,’ Featherstone confirmed. ‘Had we let it be known her nails were removed too, the better crime journalists out there might have started getting suspicious. The MIT reckoned they could explain the teeth away as a pissed-off pimp pulling out her gold teeth for their cash value.’
‘Sensible,’ Sean appreciated their thinking, ‘but why mention either?’
‘Trying to drum up some sympathy,’ Featherstone explained. ‘Not easy getting the media interested in a dead prostitute, or the general public for that matter. It was hoped that by making it clear she suffered, we could tug on a few more heartstrings – loosen a few lips.’
‘Doesn’t seem to have worked,’ Sean replied.
‘No,’ Featherstone admitted, sounding sad and worn out by yet another violent death few would care about.
Both men were silent for a while before Sean spoke again. ‘Unusual,’ he said. ‘Looks like it has to be the same killer, yet we have a male and a female victim. So, unless he’s bisexual, the motivation can’t be entirely sexual, despite the fact the female victim was raped.’
‘Dalton doesn’t seem to have been sexually assaulted in any way,’ Featherstone added, ‘but again, it’s too early to say for sure.’
‘So what’s his motivation?’ Sean directed the question at himself rather than Featherstone. ‘If killing is his motivation, then he’s a very dangerous and rare animal. A killer who kills because he likes it rather than to cover his tracks or out of panic – that’s about as bad as it gets.’
‘Rare like Sebastian Gibran?’ Featherstone asked, dragging a ghost from the past into the small, warm office. ‘Remember him?’
‘I’m not likely to forget him, am I?’ Sean sighed, memories of the most dangerous killer he’d ever dealt with swarming into his mind.
‘He was something else though, wasn’t he?’ Featherstone reminded them both. ‘Pure bloody evil, that one.’
‘Evil?’ Sean answered. ‘Not sure that exists. He was just wired differently.’
‘You mean wired wrongly?’ Featherstone checked.
Sean ignored the question. ‘He had everything anyone could ever want, but it wasn’t enough. Killing made him feel like he was some sort of god – that taking life was his entitlement.’
‘Do you think we could have another Sebastian Gibran here?’ Featherstone sounded concerned. ‘The last thing we need is another Gibran on the loose.’
‘I doubt it,’ Sean reassured him. ‘Gibran was … exceptional. A one-off. This one’s profile should be more straightforward. Gibran constantly changed his method so we wouldn’t make a link. This one has varied the sex of his victims, but he’s already showing a strong dedication to a particular method. And taking the teeth and fingernails – almost certainly souvenirs. Gibran only took memories.’ He glanced down at the files on his desk, the brutal crime scene photographs staring back at him. ‘All the same, we have a very dangerous individual on our hands.’ He drew a breath. ‘Ten days between the murders?’
‘That’s right,’ Featherstone confirmed.
‘Not good,’ Sean replied, shaking his head. He chewed his bottom lip, deep in thought for a few seconds before continuing. ‘Maybe we’ll get lucky. Maybe he’ll slow down for a while – use his souvenirs to relive the killings – keep his urges at bay.’ The image of a faceless man touching, smelling, tasting the extracted teeth and fingernails flashed in his mind.
‘You don’t really believe that, do you?’
Sean shrugged.
‘Anyway,’ Featherstone tried to look on the bright side, ‘it’ll be good to have a proper Special Investigations case again. Can’t have been much fun, being loaned out to other MITs these last few months.’
‘Don’t forget Anti-Terrorist, Special Branch and anyone else who was short of manpower,’ Sean reminded him.
‘Indeed,’ Featherstone agreed. ‘Nothing Addis could do to stop that happening. Can’t justify detectives sitting on their backsides doing nothing, not in this day and age.’
‘No,’ Sean admitted. ‘I suppose not.’
‘Still,’ Featherstone perked up again. ‘Your unit’s back now – with a proper investigation.’
‘So it would appear,’ Sean said, but without any cheer, although inside he felt himself coming to life – adrenalin and ideas, memories and anticipation beginning to flow through his body, sparking the darkest areas of his being that had lain dormant for months. Dark areas that he knew were dangerous to him and everything he’d achieved in his life, just as he knew that the answers tended to lie hidden in that darkness. Answers that could help him catch a killer before he claimed more lives.
