Luke Delaney - Cold Killing

And then what? She wasn’t killed quickly. The bruises to her face, ankles, wrists, neck: they all told the same tale of a slow, painful death. Was that what the elaborate bindings were for? To torture her before killing her? Spending time with them after the killing wasn’t enough anymore? The killer had progressed to spending time with them before they died. Or was it merely another attempt to muddy the waters and confuse those who hunted him?

Unlike Heather Freeman, this victim was a grown woman. Fully developed. She’d been stripped naked and bound. Was she sexually abused? Raped while she was still alive? He was sure she had been. Forensic tests would no doubt confirm his hypothesis. Another progression, or another act of camouflage by the killer?

The longer he was alone in the room with Linda Kotler, the harder it was to treat the murder scene like an exercise. Her pain and sorrow had begun to penetrate his shield. The more he discovered, the closer, the more real the murder became. It began to run in his head like film footage. Now he had almost a full scene. The killer entering through the bathroom window, stalking through the flat. He finds her in bed and looms over her. She awakens and sees him standing there. A fist smashes into her face. Before she can recover, he lifts her and smashes her head into the wall. She falls unconscious. She awakens. She doesn’t know how long she’s been out. She can’t move. She feels the pain of her bound limbs. Something around her neck stops her breathing properly. She desperately needs air. Something over her mouth stops her from calling out. Stops her from begging for her life. Then she feels him on her. He forces entry into her. It hurts like nothing before. She blanks it out of her mind. Staying alive is all that matters. But when he’s finished, he doesn’t leave. He spends time torturing her. And then, finally, he strangles her to death.

Sean could hear her voice in his head. Pleading with the killer to leave her alone. Pleading with him not to hurt her. Then pleading for her life. All wasted. The gag meant he wouldn’t have heard her. He would have liked to listen to her begging, but he couldn’t risk the noise.

A loud knocking on the bedroom door made him jump. Instinctively he reached for the telescopic metal truncheon clipped to his waist belt. Then he looked to the door and recognized DI Vicky Townsend standing there, grim faced.

“They told me it was a bad one,” she said. “Seems they weren’t exaggerating.”

“Bad enough,” Sean replied.

DI Townsend made to cross the threshold of the bedroom. Sean shot a hand up, palm outstretched toward her. “Not dressed like that you don’t.”

She looked herself up and down. She was wearing one of her favorite suits, dark blue and tailored, with two-inch heels to match. She feigned insult. “This is my best suit.”

“Then you wouldn’t want me to take it off you and stick it in a brown paper bag as evidence.”

“You would too, wouldn’t you?” she asked. “Well, you certainly haven’t changed.”

“You wouldn’t want me to.”

“No, probably not.”

DI Vicky Townsend waited for Sean outside the flat in the street. She watched him pulling off the forensic suit and laughed a little as he carefully placed the suit and shoe covers into evidence bags and sealed them. Ever the professional, she thought. He’d always been the most meticulous detective she’d worked with. Back in his street clothes, he approached her.

“How’ve you been, Vicky?” he asked.

“Good, Sean. Good. Kids drive me mad, but you know.”

“I’ve got two myself now,” he told her. “Two girls.”

“Still with Kate then?” She’d only met Kate a couple of times, briefly. Most police liked to keep work and home very separate.

“Yeah,” Sean answered. “She’s good, you know. A good mother.”

“Good,” Vicky replied. They were both avoiding the obvious question. This was Vicky’s territory. It was up to her to challenge Sean, friend or foe.

“So what are you doing over here, Sean? Why’s a DI from SCG South arriving at my murder scene before I know about it?”

Sean looked a little sheepishly at Vicky. She hadn’t changed much either. She kept her auburn hair short and neat, for the practicalities of being a mother rather than those of being a police officer. Her plain face was improved by lots of laughter lines.

“I think this murder’s linked to others,” he told her.

“Linked in what way? A drug war? Gangland?”

“If only. This is something else. A possible repeat offender.” He hated using the term “serial killer.” It seemed to somehow glamorize tragedy.

“As in Yorkshire Ripper-type repeat offender?” Vicky asked.

“I suppose so.”

“And you’ve been authorized to run a task force on this?”

“My superintendent is happy for me to take on any suspected linked cases. He’ll square it with yours in due course. In the meantime, I could do with all the help I can get.”

“Such as?” Vicky asked.

“I need a few things to happen straightaway.”

“Go on.”

“Check the mouth area for tape residue. I think her mouth was taped and the killer took it away with him. Check the drainpipe at the side of the house, and the bathroom window needs special attention. That’s how he got in and out. And I would like you to use my pathologist. He’s the best in London and he’s worked one of the other victims. I can make the call to him and get him to look at the body while it’s still in the flat. After that he’ll probably want it taken to his own mortuary at Guy’s Hospital.”

“All victims from West London should go to Charing Cross,” said Vicky. “The postmortem should be performed by the pathologists for this area. There’s a lot of red tape around things like that. People get pissed off pretty quick if you start to ignore protocols.”

“I understand, but the man who did this is still out there and he doesn’t give a shit about our red tape. He doesn’t care if he kills in South London, East London, or West London. He just kills, and he’ll do everything he can to not get caught. So why don’t we stop helping the bastard and break a few rules ourselves? Because if we don’t, I reckon we’ve got about one or maybe two weeks before I’ll be standing outside some other flat in some other part of London having the same conversation with some other DI.” He ended with a plea. “Let’s not let that happen. Please.”

Vicky studied him for a couple of seconds. “Okay,” she said finally. “I have a pretty good relationship with the pathologist for this area. I’ll explain that it’s an unusual situation.”

“Thanks. Now we need to get started. Time is not my friend here.”

“It never is,” she reminded him. “And it never will be.”

Sally waited for the door to the Surbiton house to open. When it did she noted the look of surprise on Paul Jarratt’s face.

“DS Jones,” he said.

“Sorry to disturb you again,” she apologized, “but would you believe it, I just happened to be in the area when I suddenly remembered something I needed to check with you.”

“Such as?” Jarratt asked, before remembering his manners. “Please. Come in.”

Sally stepped inside and followed him to the living room. “I spoke with an old colleague of yours, DC Graham Wright-only he’s a DS now.”

“Graham?”

“I was doing some digging into Korsakov’s history and was hoping to compare his conviction fingerprints with marks found at our murder scene.”

“And?”

“They’ve gone missing. Seems they got up and walked out of Scotland Yard all by themselves.”

“I wouldn’t have thought that was possible.”