‘And do you?’ Tony asked.
‘What? Take him seriously? You bet I do. I respect anybody that understands something as far beyond my grasp as computers. Besides, he earns about twice what I do. That has to be serious.’
‘I don’t know about that. Andrew Lloyd Webber probably earns more in a day than I do in a month, but I still don’t take him seriously.’ Toby stood up. ‘Carol, do you mind if I abandon you for ten minutes? I need a quick shower to wake me up.’
‘Fine, feel free. It’s me that’s early.’
‘Thanks. D’you want a brew while you’re waiting?’
Carol shook her head. ‘I’ll pass, thanks. It’s cold out there, and there aren’t many places a woman can have a pee in Temple Fields in the early hours.’
Almost shyly, Tony picked up the sheaf of a print-out and proffered it to Carol. ‘I’ve started the work on the victims. Maybe you’d like to take a look while I’m gone?’
Eagerly, Carol took the paper. ‘I’d love to. I’m fascinated by this whole process.’
‘This is just very preliminary,’ Tony stressed, backing towards the door. ‘I mean, I’ve not drawn any conclusions yet. I’m working on that.’
‘Relax, Tony, I’m on your side,’ Carol said as he left the room. She stared after him momentarily, wondering what it was that had unsettled him. By the time they parted in the afternoon, they had built up an easy camaraderie, she’d thought. But now, he was edgy, abstracted. Was it that he was tired, or was it that he was uncomfortable to have her sitting in his home? ‘God, does it matter?’ she muttered to herself. ‘Concentrate, Jordan. Pick the man’s brains.’ She focused on the first sheet and studied the data. * BODY WASHING: No fragranced materials appear to have been used, suggesting that the offender is not using the washing process as a means of denial; rather, in line with the rest of his cautious behaviour, I suggest that this washing is intended to obliterate forensic clues, especially since the killer appears to have taken particular care with the fingernails. Scrapings on all four victims showed nothing except traces of unperfumed soap. ** LIGATURES: None were found on bodies, but postmortems reveal bruising consistent with handcuffs on wrists, slight traces of adhesive, missing hairs and bruising round ankles consonant both with parcel tape and with separate ligatures, and traces of adhesive on face around mouth. No traces of blindfolds.
A: Adam Scott. Dislocation of ankles, knees, hips, shoulders, elbows and several vertebrae. Consistent with being stretched on a rack. Tentative postmortem cuts to penis and testicles.
B: Paul Gibbs. Severe lacerations to rectum, virtual destruction of anal sphincter and partial disembowelment. Suggestive of spiked object repeatedly inserted via anus. Also some burnt tissue internally, suggesting the possibility of heat or electric shock. Face badly beaten before death; bruising, broken facial bones and teeth. Postmortem cuts to genitals, more pronounced than in A.
C: Gareth Finnegan. Irregular pierce wounds to hands and feet,?? diameter approx. Lacerations to left cheek and nose, suggestive of glass or bottle being broken across face by right-handed assailant. Shoulders dislocated.? Possible crucifixion? Postmortem wounds to genitals, virtually castrated.
D: Damien Connolly. Dislocations similar to A, but no major spinal trauma, ruling out the idea of a rack. Large number of small, star-shaped burns to torso. Penis severed postmortem and inserted in victim’s mouth.
Query: Were Damien Connolly’s handcuffs still in his home or police locker? Query: Why are the bodies always dumped Monday night/Tuesday morning? What happens on Monday that allows him to be free? Does he work nights and have Monday off? Is he perhaps a married man who has Monday free because his wife does things with friends, e.g., girls’ night out? Or is it that Monday isn’t a traditional ‘going out’ night and he can be more sure of finding his victims at home?
Carol was aware that Tony had returned, but she carried on reading, simply raising one hand and waving her fingers to indicate she knew he was there. When she reached the end of the report, she took a deep breath and said, ‘Well, Dr Hill, you have been busy.’
Tony smiled and shrugged himself away from the door-jamb he’d been leaning against. ‘I can’t believe there’s anything in there that you didn’t already have filed neatly away in your head.’
‘No, but seeing it laid out like that somehow makes it clearer.’
Tony nodded. ‘He has a very specific type.’
‘Do you want to talk about it now?’
Tony looked down at the floor. ‘I’d rather leave most of it for now. I need to let it sink in, and I need to go through all the rest of the witness statements before I can think about a profile.’
Carol couldn’t help feeling disappointed. ‘I understand,’ was all she said.
Tony smiled. ‘Were you expecting more?’
‘Not really.’
His smile broadened. ‘Not even a smidgen?’
The smile was infectious. Carol grinned back. ‘Hoping, maybe. Expecting, no. By the way, there was one thing I didn’t understand. NCP? CP? NRP? I mean, we’re not talking National Car Parks and the Communist Party here, are we?’
‘No current partner. Current partner. No recent partner. Acronymitis. It’s the disease that afflicts all of us in the soft sciences like psychology, sociology. We have to mystify the uninitiated. Sorry about that. I try to keep things as jargon-free as possible.’
‘So you don’t confuse us thick plods, eh?’ Carol teased.
‘It’s more about self-preservation. The last thing I want is to give the sceptics another big stick to hit me with. It’s hard enough getting people to accept that my reports are even worth reading without alienating them with all that unnecessary pseudo-scientific mumbo jumbo.’
‘I believe you,’ Carol said ironically. ‘Shall we go?’
‘Sure. There is one thing I would like to bounce off you now,’ Tony said, suddenly serious again. ‘The victims. Everybody’s assuming this killer is targeting gay men. Now, there are hundreds, probably thousands of openly gay men in Bradfield. We’ve got the biggest gay scene in the country outside London. Yet every one of those victims has no known history of homosexuality. What does that say to you?’
‘He’s in the closet himself and he only goes for men who are closeted too?’ Carol hazarded.
‘Maybe. But if they’re all busily passing as straight, how does he meet them?’
Carol straightened the edges of the papers to give herself a moment. ‘Contact magazines? Small ads? Multi- user phone chatlines? The Internet?’
‘OK, all possibilities. But there was no evidence of any of those interests, according to the reports of the officers who searched their houses. Not in one single case.’
‘So what are you trying to say here?’
‘I don’t think Handy Andy gets turned on by gay men. I think he likes them straight.’
Sergeant Don Merrick decided he’d never felt more fed up. As if it wasn’t bad enough that he had Popeye on his back over the guv’nor’s new assignment, he was now a servant of three masters. He was supposed to make sure that Inspector Jordan’s orders were carried out when she wasn’t around, and he was also supposed to be working for Kevin Matthews on the Damien Connolly case as well as liaising with Bob Stansfield on the work that he and Inspector Jordan had already completed on the Paul Gibbs case. To top it all, he was spending his evening in the Hell Hole.
Never, in his opinion, was a club more aptly named. The Hell Hole advertised itself in the gay press as ‘The club that dominates Bradfield. One visit and you’ll be enslaved. You’re bound to have the time of your life in the Hell Hole!’ All of which was a coy way of saying that the Hell Hole was the place to go to pick up partners if sadomasochism and bondage was how you got your rocks off.
Merrick felt like Snow White at an orgy. He didn’t have a clue how he was supposed to behave. He wasn’t even sure if he looked right. He’d opted for an old, ripped pair of Levis that normally only saw the light of day when he was doing odd jobs around the house, a plain white T-shirt and the battered leather jacket he used to wear on his motorbike in the days before the kids came along. In his back pocket were his official handcuffs, there in the hope they’d lend some verisimilitude to his pose. Looking round the dimly lit bar, Merrick spotted so much distressed denim and leather that he expected to see an SOS flare rising above the dance floor. Superficially, at least, he thought he might just look the part. Which was worrying in itself. As his eyes grew accustomed to the low lighting, he caught sight of a few of his colleagues. Mostly, they looked as uncomfortable as he felt.
The club had been virtually empty when he’d first arrived just after nine. Feeling incredibly conspicuous,
