Tick Tick Tick (30 page)

It seems like hours before the information starts trickling in. Fash had been a loner at school, and had no particular friends, although that was being investigated further. His girlfriends were mainly prostitutes, and paid for either with hard cash or drugs, so he wasn’t a man of romance. I think briefly about Connie’s ring, and then nod my conscience back into the here and now. His business partners varied from small time hoods to the big boys of the drugs cartels; I know we’re gonna get nowhere fast with them.

Just as I’m beginning to give up hope, Fletch comes in and lays a copy of Fash’s birth certificate on the table.

I give it a quick glance. ‘So what?’

‘Look closer,’ says Fletch, a smile spreading across his face.

I pick it up, reading the family details – it’s written in the last box way down the right hand side. Tim Fash had been adopted. Well I’ll be damned. Is this the clue we’ve been looking for?

I quickly phoned the General Register Office. If I want to open an adoption file, I’ll need a warrant. Great, more time wasting. I get Fletch to phone Judge Clark and tell him to use every ounce of his charm to get me that warrant – like yesterday.

Then we get a phone call that I just don’t want to hear; another body has been found. Robert Sutton has been brutally murdered in his house; the FME discovered a snapped hyoid. Shit, I’ve failed to save another one.

Tick, tick, tick.

I drive to Memorial Street, number 40. The houses here are more upmarket, and as it’s usual to have security systems in these, how had he got in this time?

I keep thinking of Tim Fash; there has to be a connection between him and the killer – was it drugs? I doubt it somehow. Our boy is in a killing frenzy, but he’s still meticulous in every scene, taking his torture kit there and removing evidence, and claiming his trophy. I’m convinced he’s wearing a bodysuit of some sort; this would protect him from leaving evidence. If he is on drugs he’d have slipped up a long time ago. But if it isn’t drugs, then what the hell it is the connection?

I’m right. The house is well maintained; even in the midst of winter the shrubs and plants are attended to. A BMW sits in the drive; it’s this year’s model and this guy obviously had money. As I approach the front door, I’m given my protective suit, and motioned to the rear of the house.

‘Where’s the body?’ I ask.

‘In the back garden,’ the copper says.

Strolling round to the back, I take in every inch; I see the tarpaulin up and know this is where he’s lying. I pray to God that this is not going to be a repeat of Sara Mason, but deep down I know that this son of a bitch is on such a frenzy that it will probably be worse. The area is being videotaped and sketched, footsteps on the grass are being measured then casts made of the indentations – do we at last have some tangible evidence?

I lift open the flap and stare inside. Holy Christ. Robert Sutton lies naked on his back, spreadeagled, his hands and feet pinned to the grass below by knives. Is this supposed to be a crucifixion? Nails have been hammered through his nipples and fingertips. The body is slashed beyond all recognition. He’s a mass of blood; the stench of it, even in the open air, is overpowering. My eyes travel down the body; oh sweet Jesus – his penis has been hacked off. I actually wince. The soles of his feet are lacerated with knife wounds, almost as though the killer was trying to erase them.

Susan wanders over, stretching her back on the way. Her gloves are covered in blood;
the hands of death
.

‘How about the hyoid?’ I ask.

‘Snapped, same size bruises as before.’

I wanted to punch someone, anyone, in the face to release the rage. ‘What killed him?’

‘I’d say his neck was snapped first. The killer took his time with a scalpel, slicing through almost his entire body; we have over a hundred and thirty slices, all nice and neat, except for the feet.’

‘Our boy seems to have a fetish for shoes and feet.’ It’s a throwaway comment.

‘Perhaps he likes them to be clean.’ I store that one away in the back of my mind for later.

‘What else?’

‘Four hunting knives, again standard issue from any hardware store; nothing unusual apart from the fact that he’s tried to emulate the crucifixion of Christ, with a few of his own deranged ideas added in for good measure.’ Again, she’s composed, articulate and totally focused on her job.

‘Why the nails through the nipples?’ I ask.

She shakes her head. ‘I don’t know, why any of it?’ she replies.

Good point
. ‘Time of death?’

‘About ten hours,’ she says. ‘I haven’t even had time to do the post mortem on Sara Mason yet.’ I can hear the disgust in her voice.

‘Any sexual occurrence?’

‘He sodomised him; and no, before you ask – we haven’t found his penis.’

I can’t help it; I wiggle my legs just to check mine is still there. I can’t help it.

Susan pointedly ignores what I’m doing. ‘Who found him?’ I ask.

‘The gardener. Somehow I think he’s going to be changing his job now.’ She still holds her sense of sarcasm; I admire it, and actually I admire her. No matter what she has seen, she keeps a mask of indifference so she can complete her job; it’s no wonder she’s the chief.

‘No sign of the clothes?’

‘Nope.’

This means as usual he’s taken them with him, I assume to protect the evidence.

I stare at Robert Sutton, and feel the familiar deep sadness for what his family are now about to suffer. ‘Does the victim have any relatives?’

‘As far as we know, just a sister in Chester.’

I can’t think of anything else. I watch as a white sheet is brought in and laid beside him, then Susan removes the knives just enough so that the body could be lifted. Two assistants move the body onto the white sheet then place it into the body bag.

I’m just turning to leave when I hear her yell.

‘Stop!’

She kneels down and lightly brushes the grass with her gloved fingers.

‘What is it?’.

She lifts up one hair, one straight blonde hair – Robert Sutton had a full head of black curly hair. Holy Christ, we have our first piece of forensic evidence. She places the hair in a snap bag. ‘I’ll get a DNA test done right away.’

‘I need it yesterday.’

‘You’ll have it later today.’ I blow her a kiss; she doesn’t even blush, she just holds up the snap bag and smiles. ‘Looks like your boy just made his first error.’

I shake my head. ‘No, this is his ninth error.’

She looked confused. ‘Then what was his first?’

‘Murdering Kathy Garland on my patch was his first.’

Now time’s ticking for you, arsehole
.

Tick, tick, tick.

CHAPTER 35

Normally I come away from crime scenes like I’ve been kicked in the stomach by one mother of a bull; today however is a different matter, I actually want to scream with excitement. I’m getting closer, oh so close now I can almost feel him, smell the stench of death on him.

I’m climbing back into the Alfa when Fletch phones; we have the warrant and it has already been dropped off at the General Register Office for me. Teamwork – there’s nothing like it.

I’m flying; the expectation of news about the DNA is like a speed rush. I drive past cars not even noticing anything else, just totally focused on catching the son of a bitch who’d brutally killed another completely and utterly innocent being. I know the mutilations are getting worse. How does a killer dream up such a sordid fantasy; do they watch too many horror movies, read too many books, or just have a sick and twisted imagination? Probably a combination of all three. As I near the building I recall what Connie told me –
serial killers aren’t made in adulthood, they are born in childhood.
I want to find out what happened in Tim Fash’s childhood.

The reception is busy; babies are either sleeping soundly in prams, or screaming their heads off as patient mothers and fathers wait in line to proudly register the birth of their child. I wonder how many endless hours they had spent choosing names, the arguing over choices; it’s all irrelevant really, as long as they all grew up happy, safe and loved, that’s all that really matters.

Making my way to the front of the queue, I flash my badge to the efficient-looking receptionist, who takes one look and then I’m rushed into a separate office at the end of the hallway, my feet tip-tapping on the shiny marbled floor; I kind of get the feeling she doesn’t like coppers.

The pillars stand proud and erect, almost like a cathedral, adding an air of sublime elegance to the building; it sure makes a change from the aged flats that I’ve recently being looking at.

Mrs Watts sits behind a small, inexpensive desk and holds my warrant; she has already inspected it in minute detail. Her face is pinched, the hair held together with hairspray, matching the stern and outdated clothes; I have a feeling she disapproves of this.

‘May I ask why you want the files?’ she snipes.

‘You can ask – but don’t expect an answer,’ I reply. I can see my charm is not going to work on her, so why bother? Anyway, something about her snobby demeanour irritates me.

She reaches into her desk drawer and hands me a preserved file; it even had a wax seal on it, which has never been opened. I sit down in the chair opposite and wait for her to leave; she doesn’t.

‘Don’t you leave now?’ Sarcasm is there, but not too obvious; or so I thought.

The pinched face glared back. ‘You can ask – but no, I don’t.’
Smartass
. I ignore her, turn my back and slit the file open.

Inside are numerous documents. Statements from Mr and Mrs Fash, concerning their enthusiasm to adopt a child, details of their financial records, statements from social workers who had checked them out for the prescribed eight months, a letter from the birth mother, who maintained that she did not ever wish to reclaim rights to the child. It’s kind of sad reading it, but my opinion on Tim Fash never wavers for an instant.

Finally I find what I’ve been searching for – Tim Fash had been adopted through the church of St Trinity. I know the name, but I think it’s mainly closed down now. Still, it’s a start.

I turn the file back over to Mrs Watts, who almost snatches it out of my hand.

‘You know only the adopted child should have access to this information,’ she snaps, with undiluted disgust.

I square up to her. ‘That’s hardly likely in this case.’

‘Why?’

I stare at the old, rigid face.

‘Because he’s dead.’ I leave her with her mouth hanging open.

I drive the ten miles to St Trinity, and pull over by the crumbling façade. Rusting iron bars are bent in places and no children are anywhere to be seen; it’s pretty much what I expected, the children’s home is now closed. What happens to all the abandoned kids now? Where do they go?

I push open the heavy wooden doors; they scrape along the worn tiles and the hallway is silent, empty. I can hear voices from the far end and wander in that general direction. Pictures now faded to yellows and watery greys line the doors, a symbol of the past from the children who lived here. A couple of cuddly toys sit on a counter as if awaiting their owners. There’s an overall feeling of sadness in the air, a place where children had once been cared for, cherished and loved; now neglected and abandoned, no doubt a shortage of funds – and not a shortage of the children who still need them.

The voices are congregated in one room to which the door is slightly ajar; I can make out a couple of nuns, their faces old and weathered but friendly. I knock once then push the door open.

Six nuns sit around the room chatting; as I enter they continue. One of them notices my presence and nods to the others for silence.

‘Sisters, we have company.’

I flash my card and am motioned to take a seat amongst them. They are all in their late sixties or early seventies, but still sprightly and full of life. Sister Bridget introduces herself. Her face is full, the sea-green eyes twinkling; the hands, ravaged by arthritis, don’t seem to bother her at all.

‘I’m trying to trace the past history of a child, called Tim Fash.’ They look blankly at each other, trying to remember the name and the face of the child.

‘Tim Fash was his adopted name,’ I explain. ‘His birth name was Tim Armstrong.’

I can see a flicker of recognition in some of the faces.

‘He was in the children’s home from 1964, for five years. I realise that it’s a long time ago ladies, but I would appreciate any information that you have.’

I try my best winning smile. A few of them shake their heads.

‘Sorry,’ is all they say, and I could tell they’re genuine.

‘Do you have any old ledgers, documents or pictures, anything like that?’
Come on, make my day, my week, the whole damn year.

‘We don’t have any of the old records here now; they were shipped to the social workers’ department many years ago,’ says one of the nuns. I notice that Sister Bridget is looking distinctly uncomfortable; she won’t meet my eyes.