DI Sean Corrigan Crime Series: 5-Book Collection: Cold Killing, Redemption of the Dead, The Keeper, The Network and The Toy Taker

The hair on the back and side of the head was matted with blood − it looked sticky. Sean could clearly see the gashes in the side of the head and the small stab marks all over the naked body.

‘Seventy-seven,’ Canning told him.

Sean realized he was being spoken to. He glanced up at the doctor. ‘Sorry?’

‘Separate stab wounds. Seventy-seven in total. None in the back of the body. All in the front. Made by some form of stiletto knife, or an ice pick, but it’s the first blow to the head that killed him. Eventually.’

Dr Canning pointed to the head wound. Sean forced himself to lean closer to the body. ‘One can see the ear is missing. Not cut off, but more a case of the victim being hit so hard that whatever he was hit with crushed the skull and still had enough energy to tear the ear away as the swing of the object carried through.’

‘Nice,’ was all Sean said.

‘And the victim was on his knees when the first blow was struck,’ the doctor continued. ‘We can see the cut to the scalp is angled downwards, not upwards. The killer swung low, not high.’

‘Or he was hit from behind?’ Sean offered.

‘No,’ Canning told him. ‘He fell backwards, not forwards. Look at the stains from the flow of blood. They run to the back of the head, not towards the face.’

He looked at the detectives, making sure they were concentrating on what he was saying and not what they were seeing. He had their attention.

‘But that’s all straightforward. The interesting thing is the angle of the stab wounds. Bearing in mind of course that our friend here has wounds from his ankles to his throat, I can be almost positive the victim was already prostrate on the floor when he was stabbed. That in itself isn’t unusual.’ The doctor paused to catch his breath before continuing his lecture. ‘The interesting bit is this − most of the stab wounds are at the wrong angle of entry. You see?’

‘I’m not quite with you, Doctor.’

‘It’s like this.’ Canning looked around for a prop. He found a pair of scissors. ‘Firstly, I know the killer is probably right-handed. The angle of the stab wounds tells me that, as does the fact the victim was hit on the left side of his head. Now, imagine I’m the killer. The victim can play himself. In order to stab somebody from head to toe, the killer would have to be at the side of the body. Not on top, as you would first imagine. If he sat astride the body then it would have been difficult to reach around and stab the thighs, shins.’ The doctor twisted his body back towards the victim’s feet so as to give a practical demonstration. His point was well made.

‘Also, the entire body has puncture wounds. There isn’t a large enough unmolested area to suggest the killer was sitting astride the victim.’

‘So the killer was kneeling on the side of the victim when he stabbed him. That doesn’t help me,’ Sean told him.

Canning continued. ‘What I’m saying is that the killer didn’t crouch down next to the victim and stab away as we would expect in most frenzied crimes of passion. This killer moved around the body stabbing at different areas. There’s no doubt about it. It’s as if the killer didn’t want to be uncomfortable. He didn’t want to over-stretch, almost as if he was placing ritual stab wounds, or something of that nature. It’s a strange one.

‘If you ask me, I’d say this was probably not a frenzied attack. These stab wounds are deliberately placed. Controlled. The killer took his time.’

Sean felt a coldness grip his body and mind as he flashed back to the image he’d had of the killer’s careful, machine-like actions as he stabbed the victim to death. He ran a hand slowly through his short brown hair. He could deny many things, but he couldn’t deny his instincts. His gut told him things were going to become difficult. Complicated. The domestic theory was beginning to leak and in all likelihood they weren’t looking for a scared lover any more. There would be no tearful suspect surrendering to custody because he couldn’t deal with the guilt. They were now after something else. Sean was sure of it. He exhaled deeply, his mind swirling with questions.

‘We need to get back to the office. Are you finished here, Doctor?’

‘Almost. One last thing.’ He pointed to the victim’s wrists. ‘It’s very faint, but it’s there. On both wrists.’

Sean looked closely. He could see some discolouration of the victim’s skin. Thin bands of slightly darker tissue. Canning continued his analysis.

‘They’re old bruises. Probably caused by ligatures. He was tied with something. I’ll have a look under ultraviolet; that’ll show up any other old injuries. I’ll check the entire body. All my findings will be in the final report.’

‘Fine,’ Sean said, the sense of urgency clear in his voice.

‘Please, Inspector. Don’t let me hold you up. I’ll keep you informed.’

Donnelly spoke. ‘D’you want me to sack looking for a boyfriend, boss?’

Sean shook his head. ‘No. Let’s check it out as a matter of course. The boyfriend could still be the killer. Young Daniel here may have hooked up with some freak and not even known it. No forced entry to the flat, remember?’ Sean said it, but he didn’t believe it. Besides, if there was a boyfriend around, he had a right to know about Daniel. They needed to find him anyway.

‘We’d better get back and break the good news.’

‘You gonna tell the superintendent about this, boss?’ asked Donnelly.

‘I don’t have much choice.’ He glanced at his watch. ‘It’s getting late. I wouldn’t want to spoil his night. Better to tell him tomorrow – after that it looks like the circus will be coming to town. Just don’t be one of the clowns.’

‘And the rest of the team?’

‘They’ve got more than enough to be getting on with for tonight. Sort out a briefing for tomorrow morning. I’ll put them in the picture then.’

Sean and Donnelly made for the exit. Sean needed the fresh air. They walked through the swing doors and were gone.

4

If only you were capable of understanding the beauty and clarity of what I am doing. You see, my very being is testament to Nature. To her mercilessness. Her complete lack of compassion. Her violence. You have cast aside Nature’s rules and chosen to live by other laws. Morality. Restraint. Tolerance. I have not.

So here we stand, packed into this mechanical coffin, trundling under the streets of London. They humorously call this one the misery line. Look at you. None of you has the faintest idea of what I am. You look at me and see a reflection of yourselves. That is my necessary disguise.

Come closer and I’ll show you who I really am.

Damn, these trains can be unbearable in summer. All of us forced to breathe in each other’s filth. Six thirty in the evening − everybody trying to get home to anaesthetise their brains with alcohol, cocaine, television, whatever. Anything to black out the awfulness of their miserable, pointless lives. But before they can indulge those little pleasures they have to suffer this final torture.

I usually distract myself by picking a passenger at random and imagining what it would be like to cut their eyes out and then slit their throat. The stench of all these potential subjects is very stimulating to my imagination. Maybe I could introduce myself to someone before going home to my dutiful wife and well-behaved children? One day, when I work out how to get away with it, I’ll slit their throats too.

What about that passenger there? A nice-looking young lady. Well dressed, attractive haircut, good figure. No engagement or wedding ring. Interesting. Telltale signs like that give me all the information I need. The lack of rings could mean she lives alone or with some girlfriends. I could follow her back to her flat. Yes, I’m almost certain she lives in a flat. I’d pretend to be a neighbour who has just moved in. We would walk through the communal entrance together. I would be sure to jangle some keys so she wouldn’t suspect foul play. Then she might invite me in for a coffee: it’s happened before. A quick check to see if anyone else was in or expected soon and, if not, well then I could have some fun with the pretty girl with the nice haircut.

Not tonight though. I must get home on time and be the good husband. Disguises as successful as mine need a lot of maintaining. But I can’t wait much longer. Before the little queer it had been a couple of weeks since I visited anyone and that was nothing but a quickie. A mere sketch. Some lawyer-type with a briefcase. I made that one look like a robbery. Stabbed him twice through the heart and remembered to take the cash from his wallet.

He looked surprised. I asked him the time and as his lips parted to speak I stabbed him. I pulled the knife out of his chest, then stabbed him again. This time I left the blade in and held on to it as he slumped to the ground. He had the same look in his eyes as the others. More quizzical than afraid. He was trying to speak. As if he wanted to ask me, ‘Why?’ Always people want to know why. For money? For hate? For love? For sexual pleasure? No, not for any of these petty motivations.

So I whispered the true reason why in his ear. It was the last thing he would have heard. ‘Because I have to.’

5

Friday morning

It was hot in the way only a giant metropolis can get. The heat mixed with the fumes of four million cars, taxis and buses. It made the road warp.

It was Friday morning and Sean was late. He had a briefing to give at ten and had wanted to be at work at least an hour and a half before that to prepare his thoughts. Thanks to the traffic along the Old Kent Road and his three-year-old daughter Mandy, who’d decided to throw a tantrum because of Sean’s broken promise to take her to Legoland, he would barely have time to read through his incoming emails. He’d tried to read them on his iPhone as the traffic staggered forward, but after almost driving into the back of the car in front of him for the third time he’d thought better of it.

His team had been assigned initial tasks the previous day − now he hoped those tasks had progressed the investigation. The briefing he would soon be chairing was an opportunity for the team to tell him what they had discovered so far. DS Roddis and his forensic crew had finished at the scene and he would be present to detail their findings. Findings that could be critical to the investigation.

He rang Sally to let her know he was running late.

‘I’ll be there within half an hour if this traffic starts moving. Briefing is still at ten unless I call again.’

‘Do you want everyone in the briefing room?’ Sally asked.