Tooth and Claw (25 page)

Rouse snorted. ‘I keep you around because you get results.
You’re one of the best investigating officers I’ve got. And I’ve already got enough photographs of me and that Polish waitress to keep me happy, thank you.’

Lapslie looked pointedly at Morritt. ‘I think there’s a pretender to the throne.’

Rouse sat heavily in the chair that Dr Garland had recently vacated and steepled his fingers. ‘I’m aware,’ he said carefully, ‘that there is some tension within the team concerning who is in command. It may be that my reasons for placing a Detective Chief Inspector in charge of a single murder inquiry weren’t entirely transparent.’

‘Actually, sir,’ Morritt interrupted, ‘DCI Lapslie has just given me his views on why a senior officer needed to be on the case.’

Rouse glanced at Lapslie. ‘And they were …?’

‘The potential terrorism or gang connections, the possibility that liaisons with other organisations such as SOCA might be required, and the press angle,’ Lapslie summarised.

‘And, based on your inquiries so far,
is
this a potential terrorist incident or something connected with criminal gangs?’

Morritt shook his head. ‘There’s no evidence that it’s anything more than an isolated incident, albeit one carried out in an unusual way.’

‘By “unusual”, you are referring to the murder weapon?’

‘Indeed,’ Morritt continued. ‘We’re looking for someone with access to explosives and a reason to kill Alec Wildish: possibly a friend in the army or someone who just bought some Semtex off eBay. It’s apparently not hard to find, if you know what you’re doing.’

Rouse looked over at Lapslie. ‘Mark – thoughts?’

‘I agree that we’re probably looking at an isolated incident,’ Lapslie said judiciously. ‘I disagree about the domestic aspect. Most incidents involving personal emotions – dumped
boyfriends, love triangles and so on – take place at close range. The killer normally wants the victim to see how much the victim has hurt them, see what the victim has driven the murderer to. They’re sending a very final message, and they want to know that the message has been received. This was dispassionate, long-range. The murderer didn’t want to be near the victim. That suggests to me that the victim probably wasn’t known personally to the murderer.’

‘You’re not suggesting that this was an assassination of some kind?’ Morritt scoffed. ‘The contract killing of shop manager? In Braintree?’

‘All possibilities are being covered,’ Lapslie said. ‘But I don’t think they’ll lead to anything. Whoever the killer is, they’re covering their tracks very carefully. We’re not going to catch them out in a simple mistake. In my opinion – and the opinion of my team, by the way – this is an isolated incident of vandalism taken to an extreme.’

‘So you do agree that this is not part of something larger? We don’t need to bring in the Serious Organised Crime Agency just yet, or warn the local population to stay indoors?’

‘Not yet,’ Lapslie said. ‘Not without more to go on. The question is, is the murderer satisfied with just the one body, or does he want more?’

Rouse glanced at Lapslie, and his eyes narrowed slightly. Lapslie had seen that look before. The two of them had known each other for many years, through various station houses and constabularies, and each had come to understand the other’s body language and those transitory facial expressions that gave away what a person was thinking.

‘Mark, is there something else?’ Rouse asked mildly.

Lapslie grimaced involuntarily. Acutely aware of Emma Bradbury’s advice – in fact, more or less instruction – that he
didn’t tell anyone else about his theory, he was aware that he was teetering on the edge of losing the case. For Christ’s sake, he was sitting there in a gown while Morritt was in a decent pinstripe suit. Rouse was going to take it away from him unless he could pull a cat out of the bag, but the only cat he had was scrawny and undernourished. Even though he’d been reluctant to take the cases on at first, the thought of handing over his work was galling. He’d got caught up in the investigations, and he couldn’t let them drop now. Not before he’d taken them as far as he could.

‘There is one thing, sir, but I’m not sure …’ He let his voice trail off and glanced sideways at Morritt, hoping Rouse would get the message.

‘Is it about the case?’

‘It
involves
the case, sir. In a wider context.’

‘Crack on, then.’ Rouse nodded towards Morritt. ‘If it involves the case then Dain ought to hear about it.’

Lapslie took a deep breath. This was going to be difficult. ‘Sir, I know you’re aware of my … medical history … but for DS Morritt’s benefit I’ll go over it quickly.’

‘Mark, is your medical history really relevant to the bombing in Braintree?’ Rouse interrupted.

‘I believe it is, sir, yes. The way my brain is built, things that I hear can be translated into tastes in my mouth, and occasionally the other way around. It’s called synaesthesia. These things aren’t hallucinations, they’re a mix-up in the way that sensory input is treated within my brain.’ He glanced briefly at Morritt. ‘And as you know, sir, according to various medical experts it has no effect on my abilities as a detective.’

Rouse nodded. ‘I’ve seen your medical file,’ he confirmed, ‘and I have full confidence in your abilities.’

‘Thank you, sir. I would argue, in addition, that the synaesthesia
enhances
my abilities as a detective. I sometimes taste tropical fruit when someone is lying to me. That sounds like New Age witchcraft, but it’s actually my brain picking up on the subtle signs of stress in someone’s voice and bringing it to my attention via another route—’

Morritt breathed out through his nose, dismissively.

‘I’ve recently become aware of another way in which my synaesthesia can help me in my job. You remember that I am dealing with of the Catherine Charnaud murder?’

Rouse nodded briefly. ‘The newsreader,’ he murmured.

‘While at the scene of the crime,’ Lapslie continued, ‘I had what I can only describe as an auditory experience. I heard a noise, a very particular noise, which I now believe was associated with a smell lingering at the scene – a smell associated not with the murder victim, but with the
murderer
.’

Rouse was now watching Lapslie with considerably more interest than he had started with. Morritt was also watching Lapslie, but his expression was unreadable.

‘While investigating the bombing at Braintree Parkway,’ Lapslie went on, ‘I also heard that noise. I believe it to be linked again to the killer – this time because they had urinated on a rooftop overlooking the station while they waited for their preferred victim to arrive.’

Rouse was leaning forward in his seat, eyes fixed on Lapslie’s face. ‘Are you suggesting that the two cases are
linked
?’

‘There’s more, sir.’ Lapslie took a deep breath. This was going to be the really difficult one to swallow. ‘I think the killer was at the press conference. That was why I collapsed. I was just … overwhelmed … by their presence.’

DI Morritt snorted. ‘This is bollocks,’ he said. ‘Absolute bollocks.’

Rouse waved him down. ‘Let’s hear Mark out.’

‘Thank you, sir. I believe there’s a possibility that the killer in the Catherine Charnaud case used the toilet in her house. Even if they had flushed, there would be remnants of their urine on the upper reaches of the porcelain and perhaps splashes on the seat. I now think that’s what I was picking up on.’

There was silence in the room for a few moments, broken only by Rouse drumming his fingers on the table.

‘Two murders, each done in a different way, no connections between the victims that we can ascertain, and you’re telling me that they’re both done by the same person? And that person was at the press conference. It’s hard to credit.’

‘I second that,’ Morritt said. ‘Investigation throws up evidence which leads to theories. Resort to the sniffing out of criminals throws us back to the Dark Ages. Why not use phrenology as well? Why not profile the killer based on their likely star sign?’

Rouse gazed at Lapslie. ‘I take your point, Dain,’ he said slowly. ‘Mark, assuming you’re correct – and it’s a stretch – then what kind of killer are we looking for?’

‘Someone cautious,’ Lapslie said. ‘Someone who
needs
to kill, rather than someone who is doing it for fun or for gain. Someone who is making every effort to ensure that each murder is completely different from the last – different means of killing, different profile of victim, probably different lengths of time between the killings. Which means there will have been more deaths, in the past. Unsolved cases.’ He paused, waiting for his thoughts to catch up, and a parallel occurred to him, one that Rouse would probably appreciate. ‘The way I tend to think of it, sir, is it’s like wine-tasting. If you’re serious about it, there’s two different ways you can do it. There’s a vertical tasting, where you take different years of the same wine and taste them against one another, looking for the differences. That’s the profile of most serial killers – they use the same method, and the only
difference is the timing. Remember Madeline Poel, last year? She always used poison, always made the poison from some garden plant or other, always chose old ladies as her victims, and always mutilated their bodies in the same way. But there’s also the horizontal tasting, where you choose wines all from the same year, but different grape varieties and different soil types, and look for the differences there. And that’s what we have, I would submit – a horizontal set of murders, each one different from the others. The only common thread is the person who commits them.’

Rouse nodded slowly. ‘You’re presenting me with a difficult choice,’ he said. ‘Do I combine the investigations, based on your unproven and frankly implausible suggestion, or do I let them continue separately and risk missing some crucial evidence?’

‘There’s another option, sir,’ Lapslie said. ‘You could keep the investigations separate but assign me to sit above them all, looking for connections. If there are any.’

Rouse glanced at Dain Morritt. ‘Dain – opinions?’

Dain Morritt pursed his lips. ‘I don’t believe that the investigations are connected, which means that I don’t want the separate teams combined into some bloated superteam. On the other hand, if they are, then DCI Lapslie is effectively a busted flush. He’s lost credibility in front of the press, and placed the police force in disrepute. I respectfully suggest that the investigations are taken away from him and given to … a qualified officer familiar with at least one of the cases.’

Rouse slapped his hand on the table decisively. He almost made it look as if he was making a spur-of-the-moment decision, but Lapslie suspected that he’d been planning this moment for a while. ‘It’s decided, then. Dain, you’ll co-ordinate across the two investigations, looking for connections. Keep me informed. Mark, I realise this is unwelcome news, but you need
to stay back from the investigations. If the press find out about your medical history they’ll have a field day. I presume that you will be thinking of taking early retirement on medical grounds, and I can promise you that I will not query any paperwork you care to submit. Are you okay with this?’

Again, it sounded like a question but Lapslie knew that it was more of an instruction. Bitterly, he nodded. At the end of the hospital bed, DI Morritt nodded as well. He was smiling.

Seething with repressed anger, Carl Whittley watched Emma Bradbury and her lunch companion until they had finished their meals and were sipping at their coffees. The woman kept leaning across and touching the hand of the man on a couple of occasions. Every time she did Carl had to punch his thigh with his clenched fist, asking himself why he had never been in a restaurant with a woman like that, touching his hand with the closeness of two people who cared for each other.

Because of his father, that’s why. Because Carl had to spend most of his time at home, making sure his father was safe and well; cleaning the raw flesh of his stoma, where what was left of his intestine had been stitched to a hole in the abdomen; emptying the shit from his colostomy bag into the toilet, cleaning and disinfecting it, then reattaching it to the raw pink wound. What time did he ever get to be with women? What woman would ever want to spend her time with him?

It was painful watching them, but he forced himself to do it. He needed to know about them – about her. They were obviously close, although the man wasn’t as physically demonstrative as Emma was.

He realised that he needed to go to the toilet, but he was worried that they might leave before he got back so he forced himself to wait. Patience, patience. The pressure on his bladder was making him uncomfortable, and the regular thudding of
his fist on his leg was just making it worse, but he couldn’t afford to make a move.

Finally, while they were having their coffees and before either of them could attract the waitress’s attention to ask for the bill, Carl snagged her and got in first.

The man who was with Emma still bothered Carl. The way he carried himself – confident, watchful and not at all self-conscious – put Carl in mind of the men who had worked alongside the Essex Hunt – the dog handlers and farriers. Hard men. Self-reliant men. If he was present when Carl killed Emma then he might cause trouble. Carl would have to make sure he was out of the way. Or he would have to kill him as well.

Kill
both
of them? The thought took him aback. Until now, each of his murders had been single ones. Years of reading through his mother’s textbooks, lecture notes and case files had taught him that the most common reason why serial killers got caught was that they repeated themselves. Not that he actually thought of himself in those terms, but Carl had fought hard to vary the characteristics of his victims and the manner of their deaths; close-up and personal, far away and impersonal, apparently accidental … But there was one common thread, he realised with a sense of shock. He had always killed one person at a time. Individuals. Even at Braintree Parkway station he could have killed five or six people together just by exploding the bomb five minutes before he actually did, but he had deliberately waited until there was only one person standing within the blast radius. If he was serious about the murders – and he was – then at some stage he needed to kill more than one person at once. A carload, perhaps. A busload. A trainload.