Chris Simms - Killing the Beasts

The officer checked on his computer. 'Sergeant N Darcourt — over there.' He pointed to a bald man with the frame of an overweight bulldog, hunched over a PC.

Jon walked over. 'Nobby, how's it going? You still playing scrum half for Wilmslow?'

The man looked up, one cauliflower ear sprouting from the side of his skull. 'Prop nowadays, mate. Don't know why,' he joked, sitting back and patting his paunch. 'And yourself?'

'Still open side flanker for Cheadle Ironsides. When I get the chance.'

The man gave an understanding grimace. 'What can I do you for?'

Jon sat down on the edge of his desk. 'Just a quick question about Heather Rayne if you have a second.'

'Fire away.'

'Has the inventory been completed for all the vehicles on her street? I'm wondering about a Jag parked outside the front of her house. It shows up on the video footage.'

Sergeant Darcourt flicked through the form he had been filling out. 'No Jag registered to her — the Kellogg's training sessions she held usually took place in a hotel in the city centre. She'd go in on the train. Her registered vehicle is a Golf.' He then leafed through some other notes, 'Here you go. Jaguar XJ7. Registered to D Armstrong, number twenty-five Ivy Green Road. That's her neighbour.'

But Jon was already hurrying back to the video room. 'Cheers mate!' he called out over his shoulder.

Once back in his seat, he let the video roll again. The cameraman stepped into the flat, everything dark while the camera automatically readjusted to the drop in light. Next he turned right into the main room. It looked like an interior designer had been let loose on the place: huge terracotta pots with curly willow jutting out, recessed lighting and white curtains. The room was lit by several arc lamps that bathed the body in a harsh glare. Once again she was lying on her back, arms out to her sides, clothes slightly crumpled, the fringe of her raven hair messed up. But Jon had seen enough. All the victims so far lived in the immediate vicinity of someone who owned a high performance car.

He tried to think objectively, asking himself if his theory could have been unduly influenced by the fact that the case to occupy most of his time over the last few months was the theft of similar cars in the south Manchester area. His mind went back to the car chase in May. How he was almost close enough to smell the panic coming from the dark figure before he had jumped off the bridge and plunged into the black water below. There was no doubt that the bastard escaping him was a serious source of irritation. Biting his lip, he wondered whether to go out on a limb and air his theory to McCloughlin.

The man walked confidently up the short driveway. Glancing over the Mercedes SLK, he rang the doorbell and waited, the fingers of both hands curled round the handle of his briefcase.

The door opened and an elderly man holding a bottle of Guinness looked out. 'Yes?' he asked, taking in the suit and tie.

The caller looked confused. 'I'm sorry, I was looking for…'

'Liz?' the man interrupted. 'I didn't know she was expecting anyone else. Come in. Are you a friend?'

The person on the doorstep hesitated, clearly wrong-footed by the presence of the elderly man. 'No, it's all right.'

'Please,' he insisted. 'She's only popped out for two minutes. She'll be most annoyed if I tell her she had a caller who didn't stay on account of me.'

'You live here as well?'

'No no no,' the old man smiled. 'I'm her dad. She picks me up every other Saturday. She's seen the stuff they serve in the retirement home, so she treats me to a roast lunch every fortnight. She's just getting some parsnips now.'

The visitor had made up his mind and was backing off down the drive. 'Who should I say called?' asked the old man.

'No one,' said the man, retreating towards the road. 'I'll call another time.'

Reluctantly, the man shut the door, afraid his presence had somehow caused offence or — worse — scared off a potential suitor for his permanently single daughter.

Jon was sitting in the video room, resignedly finishing off another half-smoked cigarette. In the main room, he heard the office manager announce that everyone was to gather for a briefing in five minutes' time.

Work was put on hold and the enquiry team gathered in the open area at the top of the room. DCI McCloughlin emerged from his office, clutching a sheet of paper and accompanied by a thin man in wire-framed glasses. Feeling the gaze of so many people upon him, the man nervously pushed the glasses up his nose and ran a hand through his thinning hair.

'OK people,' announced McCloughlin. 'The forensics lab at Chepstow have got back to us.'

Jon sat at the back of the listening crowd, feeling a pang of jealousy that, two days ago, the call would have been directed through to him.

'Toxicology analysis of all three victims' blood shows traces of the same drug. Problem is, it's one they've never come across before. The technician said two of them have spent “quite some time” analysing the ions on the mass spectrometer. God knows what that involves exactly but take it from me: it was expensive. All they can say is that the drug is acid-based and broadly similar in structural terms to gamma hydroxybutyrate. GHB or — as it's known in the clubs — GBH or liquid ecstasy.'

'A date rape drug,' someone muttered at the front.

'Yes,' confirmed McCloughlin. Looking back at the report, he continued to read, 'Colourless, odourless, can be easily made in home-based labs using solvents and caustic soda. Sold in either liquid or powder form, it's a powerful anaesthetic that can render someone unconscious in under twenty minutes. Initial effects are feelings of euphoria — hence the popularity amongst clubbers. But larger doses can lead to unconsciousness, convulsions and coma. When mixed with alcohol results can be fatal. Long-term use has been poorly researched, but studies show it leads to massive mood swings, paranoia and irritability. Can also lead to psychotic episodes, especially if the user has a prior history of mental illness.'

McCloughlin looked up. 'In other words the usual druggy shit: it all ends in tears. So from what I was told on the phone just now, what we appear to have is a very similar substance to GHB but with certain structures altered to produce — and I use the technician's words — massively enhanced biological activity. GHB is hard enough to detect in the bloodstream anyway, but the guy said this stuff showed up as just a shadow of a trace on the gas chromatograph. As you know, drugs affect different people in different ways, but he thinks in each case the amount ingested is minute — we're talking a tiny pinch.

'On the basis of that information and the post-mortems, what appears to be happening is this: our victims are being knocked out first — probably in minutes by this stuff — and then this white gunk is being injected down their throats. The gunk, as it turns out, is simple silicon gel. Several people have commented that its smell was familiar — that's because it's the stuff you use around windows, sinks and the like to make them watertight. Tubes of it can be bought in any DIY store nationwide.' He waited for the buzz of comments to die down. 'Now, I'd like to introduce Dr Neville Heath. He's a criminal psychologist and hopefully can shed some light on why the killer is choosing this particular modus operandi.' McCloughlin turned to the man and gestured towards the waiting room. 'It's all yours.'

With a nervous cough the man stepped forwards. 'Unlike the forensics laboratory technician, I'll try and keep my analysis simple.' Several officers laughed and, looking more confident, the doctor continued. 'Three victims, all relatively young females. None showing evidence of sexual assault, yet all subdued with a powerful derivative of a known date rape drug. Killed in a very particular manner and then laid out on the floor with their arms out at their sides. It all suggests considerable planning, the acting out of a long-held fantasy, perhaps. It's a confusing scenario and one that, I believe, results from one of two possible motivations.'