A Deadly Compulsion (8 page)

“We need privacy to run through this stuff,” Jim said, patting his briefcase.

Laura pulled a face.  “The station is out.  You can’t officially be in the picture.”

“I know.  I’ll book into a hotel, and we can meet up and―”

She cut him off.  “Stay at my place,” she said too quickly, her cheeks even more rubicund with embarrassment at her girlish outburst, and at what the invitation implied.

“You got it,” Jim said, beaming with undisguised delight.  “I’m not going to argue or say it’s a bad idea.  I want to be with you.”

She fumbled in her handbag for her mobile and tapped in the stored memory number to connect her with Hugh.

“Hugh?...Laura.  If you need me this afternoon, give me a bell.  I’m checking something out,” she said, grinning at Jim and looking him up and down.

HE
followed her out of the walled city.  York was a place he was unfamiliar with.  It appeared to be steeped in history, and he was aware of its Viking and Roman heritage. He hoped that he would find the time to explore its narrow streets, preferably with Laura as his guide.

Pulling in behind her on the gravel turnaround outside the cottage, Jim switched off the ignition and stepped out of the Cherokee, closing the door with a sweep of the hip, due to carrying a holdall in one hand and briefcase in the other.

“I somehow pictured you in a flat in the city,” he said as she swung her legs out of the car and, standing, smoothed her skirt down before heading for the front door.

“You like it?” she said.

“It’s quaint.  It just seems a bit rural for a born and bred Londoner.”

“It keeps me sane, Jim.  I love it out here.  It’s my sanctuary from all the brouhaha.”

“Brouhaha?”

“This week’s word: commotion, hullabaloo.  I pick a word out of the dictionary every Sunday and flog it to death for seven days.”

“Why?”

“To expand my vocabulary.  Some people do crosswords or play scrabble.  I find a word I like and bore everyone with it.”

“Gorgeous, sexy
and
erudite.  What a combination,” Jim said, staring into her eyes.  “Do you really think that it’s a good idea...my staying here?”

“Yes.  It’s one of the better ideas I’ve had in recent months.  We have a lot of lost time to make up for.  I ran away from everything, and not seeing you is the only regret I’ve had.  You’re the only person I’ve missed.  I just had to start afresh with a clean slate.  And now I realise that you can’t run away from yourself, and that it’s today that really counts.  Getting stuck in the past is just a waste of what little time we have.”

Jim dropped his bag and briefcase in the narrow hallway, and they were in each other’s arms, not speaking, just holding on, both with their eyes closed, time standing still as they kissed tenderly.

“Coffee?” Laura said, pulling away, gently, feeling weak, as though she were convalescing after a long, debilitating illness; in better health now, but still very fragile, and needing to take things slow and easy.

They sat at the table in the kitchen, and Laura told him of the latest developments. Of the grisly contents of the package, and of the note and Polaroid that had accompanied it.  She also admitted that she couldn’t sleep for the guilt she felt for provoking the killer during the TV interview, and by so doing causing his latest victim such suffering.

“He would still have taken her, Laura.  That’s what he does.  But what the hell were you thinking about badmouthing him?”

“I wanted to draw the creep out, Jim.  I thought that I could unsettle him, maybe make him careless.”

“Oh, you’ve in all likelihood drawn him out of the sewer he lives in.  You’ve made this personal, and probably added a new dimension to his game.  Believe me; you don’t want one of these monsters on your case.  He’s probably fixated on you now for calling him what he is.

“He’ll see you as a player.  Don’t lose track of the fact that human life is almost an abstract to these freaks.  He has no empathy or normal emotions that you can relate to. He’s driven, needs to kill, and can’t be dissuaded from whatever turns his wheels.  You’re not ever going to be able to reach him on any worthwhile level.  He kills for the same reason that you smoke, because he’s addicted to it.”

“What’s done is done, Jim.  What else have you got on this guy?”

Jim opened his briefcase and pulled out two document wallets; one containing the sheaf of faxes that Laura had sent him, the other a wedge of his own printed A4 hard copy.  “Here,” he said, pushing both across the table.

“No, I’ll read it all later, Jim.  Tell me what you think.  Give me a thumb-nail picture of him.”

“Okay,” Jim said, face now rock, eyes narrowed in concentration.  “Firstly, the obvious.  You definitely have a repeat killer out there.  This is a guy with a serious personality disorder.  I believe that we can attribute his present state of mind and behaviour to childhood imprinting, which has created an emotio-physical identity that has been influenced and is now an uncontrollable mechanism, patterned subconsciously by events that have their roots in his formative years.

“As a child he was almost certainly abused in some way, and became withdrawn and detached; a loner.  His choice of victims and his subsequent treatment of them lead me to believe that his mother was the main instigator, the person responsible – to his way of thinking – for his present actions.  He was...
is
fixated on her.  She is most likely dead now, and his torn emotions of love and hate for her have affected his reasoning and compelled him to find an outlet to physically and emotionally continue to punish her for some action that he can’t get past.  He needs to continually recreate her, make her suffer, and kill her again and again.  He may have actually murdered her.  It would be worth checking up on all cases of matricide in the Yorkshire area over the last decade, to eliminate the sons from the picture.  It’s a long shot, but you may just get lucky.”

“Why his mother?” Laura said.  “Why not a wife or girlfriend who cheated on him?”

Jim shrugged.  “There’s an outside chance it could be, as I’ve intimated in the profile,” he replied, standing, picking up their empty mugs and going to the counter to refill them from the softly gurgling coffeemaker that filled the cottage with the rich aroma released from ground Arabica beans.  “Call it a hunch,” he said, returning and setting the mugs down on wicker coasters.  “But I know that this stems from his childhood, so his mother is a more likely stressor.  Remember, a lot of this is conjecture.  That’s what I used to be able to do, come up with more right than wrong answers.  But it isn’t a perfect science.  There’s a chance that I’m way off base.”

“But you don’t think so?”

“No.”

“What else, Jim?  It’s chilling but fascinating.”

“I estimate him to be in his mid-twenties, thirty max.  He’s white, fit, and has to be physically strong.  He manhandles his victims, strings them up to bleed out, and then moves them to outlying locations to be found.  He transports them in the boot of his car, or in the back of a van, and carries them a distance from the vehicle, to be sure there are no tread marks to be found.  I think he will be of above average intelligence, and that he is probably well liked by the people who he works with.  He will have fostered a pleasant, affable personality, and is leading a double life, blending in without raising suspicion.

“He’s also an arrogant bastard, who feels far superior to everyone else, but that won’t show.  I would be surprised if he hasn’t killed a lot more young women and efficiently disposed of the bodies.  All files of girls with blonde hair and blue eyes who have gone missing over recent years need to be re-examined.  If we know where they were last seen, it could throw up a density in an area that is close to where he lives.”

Jim paused and sat back.  His shoulders slumped.  He was pale, and sweat was beading at his hairline.

“That’s enough for now, Jim,” Laura said, needing to hear more, but hurting at what she could see it was doing to him.  She knew that he’d opened a can of rotten worms, which must have been as hard an act for him to do as it would be for an agoraphobic to go shopping along Oxford Street on a Saturday afternoon.

“It’s okay,” he took a deep breath.  “It just takes me back.  They say if you’re thrown off a horse, get straight back up in the saddle.  I guess I’ve left it a tad too long.  I’m finding it a little spooky remounting.  I’d rather finish up now and be done with it.”

“Okay, if you’re sure.  Why is he now giving up the bodies if he’s killed more than the ones he’s dumped to be recovered? Does that mean he subconsciously wants to be caught?”  Laura said, lighting up and taking a deep drag of her first cigarette for over two hours, which was very nearly a record.

Jim shook his head.  “Christ, no.  He’s just decided to show off his handiwork to an audience for some extra mileage and to get more of a thrill from what he’s doing.  This way he gets feedback and sees everyone panicking and running around like headless chickens.  He’ll be watching the news, reading the papers, and revelling in his notoriety.  He’s anonymous but infamous.  If he isn’t stopped, then all blue-eyed blondes better dye their hair and start wearing green or brown contact lenses.”

“Is that the good news or the bad?” Laura almost whispered.

“There is no good news.  Now, where’s your john?  I need to off-load about half a gallon of coffee.”

“The loo is upstairs, first on the left,” Laura said, smiling at his Americanism.

“I’ll be back,” he said in perfect Schwarzenese as he headed through the lounge towards the spiral staircase and vanished from view.

Laura made notes.  Jim had already given her leads to follow that they had not even considered.  His way of thinking, or feeling, was from out of left field and not hindered by just hard evidence, or lack of it.  He had an insight that put him on the outside, looking in at an almost blank canvas, but able to conjure up the picture from just seeing the first few brushstrokes.

“That’s better,” Jim said, returning and mulling over the sheets of paper in front of him.

“What do you suggest?” Laura said.  “How would you proceed?”

“Apart from checking out likely past victims and the matricide angle, there’s not a lot you can do.  To sum up, I think you’re looking for a young Caucasian male, who may be fair-haired and blue-eyed.  He’s fit, probably works out, and will be around six feet or even taller.  I’d bet the farm on him being local to the area, living alone in an isolated setting.  He is left-handed, and most likely holds a position of authority in a field of work that he enjoys.  As for the victims, he doesn’t know them.  He picks them out purely because of their physical appearance, and will then stalk them for a while to get to know their habits and assess how easily they can be abducted.  He’ll take no chances.

“He may be out of control and running amok from your point of view, but he’s calling the shots, manipulating the proceedings, and would abort an attack if anything unforeseen came up.  If he stops killing, then you may never know his identity.  Like it or not, you need for him to carry on, and even then he could fill a graveyard before you get him.”

“I’m impressed,” Laura said.  “But run through some points for me.  How can you know so much about him from what I sent you?”

“The autopsy protocols say a lot.  The downward angle of blows to the right side of the heads, correlated with the height of the victims, pins his approximate height.  And that he cut the throats right to left confirms that he’s a lefty.  He has no need to pretend to be left-handed.  Your handwriting experts will confirm that from the note.  And the fact that only twelve to fifteen percent of the male population are left-handed cuts out a high percentage of men who might otherwise fit the bill.  As for his colouring, I’m sticking with my theory that the girls represent an idealised version of how his mother looked.  I choose to believe that he takes after her, which makes him a blonde, or fair with blue eyes.  It’s a stretch, but good odds.  She hurt him, sexually abused him, or just pissed him off big time.  Whatever she did, scrambled him.  The rapes are violent and aggressive, and the stapling of the mouth is to shut his imagined mother up and prevent further lies, scolding, or any verbal communication.”

“And what makes you so sure that this is his patch?  Couldn’t he be killing a long way from where he lives?”

“Not if he stalks them, and I know he does.  This dude lives and works in the York area.  He takes them back to his...lair, which is why I think he’s single.  He also keeps them for varying periods of time, sometimes days, so he has privacy.  He’s out in the country, lives in a semi-remote cottage, or on a farm.  He has to have a place where his comings and goings don’t attract attention.  Based on what information you’ve given me, combined with calculated guesswork and gut feeling, that’s the best I can come up with. At the moment he’s holding all the aces.  He needs to dominate, and thrives on it.  He’s a control freak.  We...
you
need some luck, or for him to slip up and make a mistake.  He isn’t going to stop.  He’s driven; has a thirst he can’t quench.”

“Thanks, Jim.  I know how hard it must be for you to get back into this again.  But will you look at anything else that comes up?”

Jim shrugged.  “I’ve got my feet wet now, so what the hell.  I’ll need to visit the sites where the bodies were found.”

“I’ll take you to them, tomorrow.  I feel better about this case already, but sick to my stomach over the Stroud girl.  I want to save her, but I don’t know how to.”

“I’m sorry, Laura, I think she’s a lost cause, probably already dead.  Let’s call it a day.  I need a shower and a change of clothes.  And if you can face it, we can go out for a meal, my treat.”

“Later, maybe,” she said, reaching across the table and taking hold of his hand.  “First I’d like to make up for all that lost time.  If you want to.”

“That’s the best offer I’ve had all day,” Jim said.  “Come on, I need my back washing.”

Laura gave him a seductive smile, stood up, led him to the staircase, and said, “Just your back?”

They began undressing each other, tentatively at first, then with an urgency soon to be matched by their fierce, abandoned coupling under the jets of hot water that steamed up the small bathroom.  The sexual tension had been there since the first second they had met in the pub, as taut as a bowstring quivering with the strain of wanting to release the arrow.  Time had not dulled their physical desire for each other.