Luke Delaney - A Killing Mind

He moved silently towards the entrance of the garage, hoping to startle his would-be attacker by suddenly calling out: ‘I don’t know what the fuck you want, but I’ve got a serious fucking blade. You fuck with me, I’ll fucking cut you up, man.’

His bold words made him feel more confident and stronger, but it was a fragile power, fading by the second as his words met with silence. Again he started to question whether he’d imagined the noise, or whether it might have been a stray dog looking for an easy meal. But until he could be sure there was nothing out there, he knew he wouldn’t be able to relax and enjoy the blissful escape he had planned.

Forced on by the need to know, he began to pull back the makeshift front door, continually cursing under his breath until he was able to look out into the night, the darkness illuminated slightly by the glow of the city’s light. It had begun to rain; freezing pellets of sleet lashed his face, stinging his skin and making it hard to see as he peered through squinted eyes. Blinking rapidly, he wiped the water from his face with a sweep of his hand and looked up to the starless sky, opening his mouth to catch a few drops on his tongue – like he used to do when he was a child.

A smile began to spread across his lips until suddenly it was smashed away as something hit him hard across the back of the head – the blow powerful enough to crack his skull and knock him semi-conscious to the ground, but not enough to kill him. His befuddled mind was struggling to work out what could have happened when he became aware that he was moving; someone was dragging him backwards across the ground into the garage. There were no sounds of exertion; whoever it was seemed able to move him with ease. He felt his lower legs being dropped to the floor and moments later he heard the scrape of the board being replaced across the entrance, the noise of the rain outside fading to a quiet hiss.

After a few seconds he’d recovered enough to slightly open his eyes and was immediately aware that someone was circling him, first one way and then the other, like a tiger moving in on his prey. He tried to move but instantly felt a kick to his stomach that made him double up with pain. As he lay clutching his belly and trying not to vomit, his assailant crouched by his side and a gloved hand reached out to seize a handful of hair in a vice-like grip. His head was twisted around until he was looking into his attacker’s face, but the features were hidden in the depths of his hoodie so all Dalton could see were shadows, as if his torturer had no face at all. Even so, there seemed something familiar about the figure crouched next to him, although in his swirling confusion he couldn’t make a connection between this nightmare and anything that had existed in the real world.

After an age of silence, Dalton managed to draw sufficient breath to mumble, ‘Who are you? Want do you want?’

The reply came from deep within the darkness where a face should have been as the attacker, by some sleight of hand, produced a vicious-looking knife – long and thick, with a serrated edge like the lower jaw of a piranha. He held the blade close to Dalton’s face. ‘I want them all to know – I want them all to know who did this.’

‘I don’t understand,’ Dalton whimpered – his eyes fixed on the knife. ‘Did what?’

The attacker’s hand moved fast, the knife slicing deep into Dalton’s neck, opening a gaping wound through which the air in his lungs rushed out, mixing with the pooling blood. But the man who would soon kill him had been careful not to sever the carotid artery. He didn’t want him to die. Not yet. For now, he wanted silence. He wanted Dalton to be alive so he could see the terror and horror in his eyes before he allowed him the blissful release of death.

‘It’s time,’ the voice from the shadow told him. ‘Time to show them all.’

Detective Superintendent Featherstone entered the main office of the Special Investigations Unit in New Scotland Yard and made his way to the goldfish bowl of a room that belonged to Detective Inspector Sean Corrigan. He opened the door without knocking and tossed a pink cardboard file marked ‘confidential’ on to Corrigan’s desk to grab his attention. Sean flicked the file open before looking at Featherstone, who’d slumped into the seat opposite clutching another pink folder, and then his eyes returned to the file where he was confronted by crime scene photographs of William Dalton – his throat cut and face disfigured with dried blood congealed around his gaping mouth. He flicked through the first few photographs, making a special note of the victim’s hands, from which the fingernails had been removed, leaving behind bloody stumps. Sean winced and looked away for a second.

‘I hope he was dead before he had his nails pulled out,’ he said.

‘And before he had his teeth removed,’ Featherstone added, making Sean look up. ‘The blood and swelling in and around his mouth was caused when our killer extracted some of his teeth using a combination of knife and, most probably, pliers – too early to say for sure; nothing was found at the scene.’

Sean nodded to show he understood. ‘Who was he?’

‘William Dalton,’ Featherstone answered. ‘Eighteen years old, homeless and addicted to crack. Home was a disused garage in Mint Street, Southwark – that’s where he was killed. He sustained a significant injury to the back of his head, and then there’s the damage caused by removal of the teeth and fingernails, but that wasn’t what killed him. There were two distinct wounds to his neck and throat: his throat was cut – straight through the trachea – which wouldn’t necessarily have killed him, but the second wound sliced open his carotid artery. He bled to death, or at least that’s what it looks like. Won’t know for sure until the post-mortem.’

Again Sean looked down at the photographs and then to Featherstone. ‘Unusual and significant injuries,’ he admitted, ‘but why give Special Investigations the case? He could have been in debt to a particularly nasty drug dealer. Maybe they tortured him to find out if he had any drugs or cash hidden away. Teeth. Fingernails. All looks like torture.’ He didn’t tell Featherstone about the images the crime scene photos had conjured up in his mind – a madman stabbing and pulling at the victim’s teeth and nails, his face contorted with the effort, yet in control. Unafraid. Calm.

‘Firstly,’ Featherstone explained, ‘Assistant Commissioner Addis is aware of the case and has insisted that you take it on. His apologies, by the way. He’s away at a conference in Bramshill, otherwise he’d have briefed you in person.’

‘And …?’

‘And,’ Featherstone told him, leaning forward and tossing the other file on to his desk, ‘this isn’t his first kill.’

Sean tentatively opened the new file and was again greeted by crime scene photographs: a young woman’s body lying on the wet ground behind a large wheelie bin. Other photographs showed close-ups of wounds similar to those William Dalton had suffered: teeth and fingernails traumatically removed. He also noted that her clothing appeared to have been pulled and torn and assumed the worst had happened, but again he said nothing, knowing that Featherstone would start talking soon enough.

‘Her name is Tanya Richards,’ Featherstone obliged. ‘Twenty-three years old. A known prostitute. Ran away to the big smoke from some shithole in the Midlands a few years ago. Soon discovered the streets aren’t paved with gold and started using heroin. Prostitution paid for the drugs. Not an unfamiliar tale.’

Sean acknowledged this with a nod.

‘Her body was found not far from where she lived,’ Featherstone continued. ‘She had a room in a dump of a flat in Roden Street, Holloway. When she wasn’t there she was working the streets around Smithfield Market during the night – looking for punters. He left plenty of DNA, only it’s not on file, so looks like he has no previous.’