Luke Delaney

Redemption of the Dead

Chapter One

October 1993

She pulled her coat tight against the chill of the approaching winter, but still she felt a shiver run the length of her body, some terrible feeling refusing to leave her. She comforted herself with the fact that the sun was high overhead and that she’d seen several other people walking in the same park in Hither Green, south-east London, but still the feeling remained of some nearby malevolent force — watching. Waiting. She leaned inside the buggy and adjusted her young child’s clothing, smiling and softly chatting as she did so, but constantly flicking her eyes from left to right. An increasing sense of panic made her hurry as she grabbed the buggy handles and began to walk towards the exit of the park, the wooded area on her left suddenly dark and threatening.

She stuck to the path, walking so fast she was almost jogging, until the sight of another mother with her two children playing on the grass no more than a hundred metres away began to calm her fears and she slowed her pace. A small smile spread across her face as she reprimanded herself for her foolishness. She took a few deep breaths to chase away the remainder of her panic and headed towards one of the park’s exits.

First all she heard was the rustling sound of branches being pushed out of the way and the breaking of twigs under foot. He moved so fast she didn’t have time to react — not even to scream as he burst from the woods and stood in front of her, his chest rising and falling as fast as her own, his eyes as full of fear and panic as her own. She felt her lungs involuntarily filling with air as she prepared to scream, but he saw her body’s intention and leaped forward, the huge combat knife pressing hard enough to her throat to draw blood.

His voice was full of terror and excitement. ‘If you make a sound I’ll cut your throat — I swear I’ll cut your throat and then I’ll cut your baby’s. Understand?’ She managed to nod as the madman slid around to her back and gripped her by the hair while keeping the knife at her throat, pushing her forwards now, away from her child and into the waiting trees.

* * *

A thin layer of dark red blood sprayed across his face as he drove his fist into the deepening cut above the man’s right brow. As the man staggered backwards he nimbly pursued him across the across the slightly springy floor, waiting for a chance to further punish the cut, but the man was using both fists and forearms to protect his face, making it almost impossible to hit him. He swallowed his rising anger and tried to stay in control, knowing that if he allowed the fury inside of him loose he would struggle to rein it back in. He had to control it — use the tools he’d been given to harness the aggression, but control the fury. He bent slightly at the knees and began to pound the man’s ribs and the kidneys that tried to hide behind them, powering his right fist into the man’s side, then his left, swiveling at the hips as he constantly shifted his body weight to maximize the impact of each punch. Finally the man could bear the pain no more and was forced to drop his arms to his sides for protection, leaving his face and the cut exposed. Instantly he sensed the man’s mistake, his body slightly straightening and rising as he channeled every ounce of power into his left fist that hooked and flashed through the air, tearing into the cut above the man’s brow. Heavy droplets of maroon blood danced into the sky before splashing on a group of drunken, baying men standing nearby, making them curse and cheer together. A savage right fist parted the man’s elbows and hands as it travelled towards his exposed chin, crashing into the jawbone and rocking his head backwards and at last he collapsed to the floor, blood from his ruptured brow seeping to the surface and pooling under the side of his head. A man in black trousers and a bloodstained white shirt, adorned with an oversized bowtie stepped in front of the stricken man, protecting him from his assailant, furiously waving his arms to warn everyone that the fight was over.

The victor was ordered into a neutral corner of the boxing-ring, forcing himself to retreat from the man lying at his feet, fighting his instinct to finish his adversary once and for all, to eliminate him as a possible risk forever, cursing the padded gloves that cramped his hands and lessened the impact of his blows — deprived him of the pleasure of feeling the man’s skin breaking over his knuckles — blood staining his hands in victory. The rules of the ring had given him some control over the ugly demons that beat in his chest, but when he was in a fight and had his quarry run to ground he cursed their restrictions and confinement. ‘Get up,’ he muttered through his gum-shield. ‘Get up.’ He wasn’t finished with the man on the floor — wasn’t finished punishing him for crimes he hadn’t committed — wasn’t finished beating the man in the same way he’d beaten his own father in his dreams — wasn’t finished seeking redemption and revenge for his own tortured childhood. But the man in the shirt and bowtie waving his arms told him the fight was indeed over — at least the one in the ring.

He headed back to his own corner where his trainers and team waited with water bottles and towels, only to be intercepted by a man in a suit carrying a microphone who’d stepped under the ropes, grabbing him by the wrist and pulling his gloved fist aloft. He tried to pull away, but was held firm, the man’s beaming face contrasting starkly with his own grimace, the white gum-shield making his mouth appear swollen and ape-like as he peered through his head-guard into the crowd of hundreds of people who’d packed in to the York Hall, Battersea to watch their own kind fighting each other while they drank heavily; some to forget, some for enjoyment and some to escape from the realities of the job they all shared, even if just for a short time. The booze made them brave, almost every member of the crowd now convinced they too could climb into the ring and fight as mercilessly and efficiently as he had.

‘Ladies and gentlemen,’ the suited man sang into the microphone, ‘the winner of this year’s Metropolitan Police Lafone Cup, for the middle-weight category — representing ‘3’ Area — a round of applause please for PC Sean Corrigan.’ Cheering mixed with boos, and hand clapping with the sound of stomping feet as Sean scanned the crowd — confused by the faces surrounding him — some smiling joyously while others were twisted with hate and anger, until he remembered where he was and that the fight had only been a boxing match — not like the fights he’d had on the streets of East Dulwich before he’d joined the police, where the right to live in peace, to walk to and from school without losing what little he’d had to the other near-feral children had to be earned with his fists and whatever else it was necessary to use to vanquish any would-be assailant. He wrenched his arm free from the man in the suit and paced back to his corner, continually scanning the faces in the crowd, recognizing a few of them, pushing past the men who waited for him with water and towels, their faces confused by the lack of joy in his as he ducked under the ropes and pushed his way through their small crowd.

‘Sean?’ the head trainer asked, only to be ignored. ‘Sean?’ he shouted above the sound of the crowd, at last making him look around, his eyes red and glassy as if he’d just spent days in armed combat. ‘You alright, son?’ Still no answer, just the coldest of stares from Sean’s deep blue eyes. ‘What the fuck’s the matter with you?’

‘Nothing,’ he finally replied. ‘Just get me out of here.’ The trainer nodded as if he understood, even though he didn’t. He draped a wet towel over Sean’s head and began to lead him through the crowd towards the changing room, oblivious to the two men sat at the back of the hall watching them — studying them.

* * *

‘He did well — your boy,’ Detective Chief Superintendent Charlie Bannan told the stocky, muscular man sitting next to him. ‘Is he as good an Old Bill as he is a boxer?’

‘He is that,’ Detective Sergeant Dave Donnelly answered. ‘One of our rising stars, you might say. He’s only been out of uniform a few months, but he’s certainly getting himself noticed. He was dragged up in East Dulwich, so he already knows the streets. He’s going to make a fine detective one day, so long as he can keep his nose clean.’

‘A trouble causer?’

‘Not really, but he has a bit of a temper — from time to time.’

‘Don’t we all,’ Bannan dismissed it, missing the deeper look of concern in Donnelly’s eyes.

‘I’ll tell you one thing,’ Donnelly told him, ‘he’s instinctive. I mean the boy’s really fucking unbelievable — like he just seems to know. I’ve seen him identify suspects for residential burglaries without a shred of evidence just by flicking through intelligence records. He has some talent — I’ll tell you that.’

‘One of those?’

‘Excuse me?’ Donnelly questioned.

‘Nothing,’ Bannan told him.

‘You know what I’m working on at the moment?’

‘Aye. The Parkside rapes.’

‘It’s a big old enquiry and it’s going to get bigger before it’s over. Do you think your boy would benefit from an attachment? I could use an extra body.’

‘Sure,’ Donnelly agreed. ‘I’ll send him over tomorrow. But remember he’s still very green. Don’t over expose him — nothing too heavy.’

‘Of course. I’ll keep him away from the front line — door-to-door and canvassing only. He’ll be bored, but he needs to learn his trade somewhere.’

‘That he does.’

Bannan smoothed his golden-blond bushy moustache and then pushed his longer than normal hair back from his eyes before pulling a packet of tobacco and rolling paper from his jacket pocket. He nimbly constructed a thin cigarette and lit up, inhaling deeply into his chest. Despite only being five-foot-eight-inches tall he always seemed much bigger — his deep London accent, intelligent eyes and standing amongst other detectives made him appear twice his size. ‘What about you,’ he asked as he blew a plume of smoke into the hall that was already heavy with man-made smog, ‘fancy an attachment to the enquiry? I could use a DS I can trust.’

‘No thanks, guv’nor. As soon as I’ve served my time on division I’ll be looking to get back on the Flying Squad.’

‘Fair enough,’ Bannan told him. ‘And how is life as a DS, by the way?’

‘Grand. Certainly beats being a DC and getting all the shit jobs.’

‘Well, you know what they say about shit? It always rolls down hill. DS — best rank in the Met. Think very carefully before taking the next rank and tying yourself to a desk.’

‘Not me, guv’nor,’ Donnelly explained. ‘A DS will do me nicely for the rest of my career. I’m not planning on chasing promotion.’

‘Very wise,’ Bannan told him, rising from his wooden seat and offering his hand to Donnelly who gratefully accepted it, hoping other detectives in the hall would notice the seal of approval a handshake from Bannan implied. ‘Send the boy over in the morning. And take my advice — grow a moustache — it’ll make you look more the part — hide that fresh face of yours.’ He released Donnelly’s hand and seemed to instantly disappear into the crowd.

‘Well, Sean my boy,’ Donnelly spoke to himself, ‘get ready to meet a legend, son. Get ready to meet a legend.’

Chapter Two

Tuesday morning, and an apprehensive Police Constable Sean Corrigan approached the smallish open plan office usually used for training lectures, which was where the Area Major Investigation Team would be based until the Parkside Rapist was found and convicted. His normal place of work was inside the same police station in Plumstead, south-east London, on the floor below, with the Crime Squad — primarily made up of officers who had recently been selected from the uniform branch to be trained as future detectives. They may have all been in plain clothes, but they still wore a uniform — jeans, leather jacket, trainers — and Sean was no different. He was learning to fit in. Over the next two years his job would be to constantly harass and harangue the local drug dealers, handlers and low-lifes, with the occasional attachment to major enquiries including murders, hopefully proving he had what it took to become a fully fledged detective.

He’d expected and feared his arrival would cause more of a stir, anticipating the office might fall silent as he entered, all inquiring eyes on him, but he was largely ignored. Donnelly had told him to find and introduce himself to the detective sergeant who was the Office Manager. He scanned the office until he found a man sitting at a desk who seemed to be conducting most of the business around him, handing out pieces of paper with one hand as he collected those handed to him with the other, while giving clear, rapid instructions to whoever approached his cluttered desk before dispatching them with their tasks for the day. Sean waited for a break in the flow of human traffic before jumping in and introducing himself.

‘PC Sean Corrigan,’ he told the detective, who had slim arms and legs, but a swollen beer-gut, ‘from the Crime Squad here. My DS … DS Donnelly said you needed people to help on this enquiry.’

‘He did, did he?’ the detective asked. ‘So why are you here?’

‘I’m supposed to be attached to the investigation.’

‘You are, are you?’ the detective continued to tease him.

‘I was told to find the Office Manager,’ Sean told him, resisting the temptation to bite.

‘Well then you must be some detective, son, because you’ve already found him.’ The detective allowed himself a wry smile. ‘I’m DS Ray Melody. You come to me first thing in the morning and I’ll give you your actions for the day, and then you come to me last thing before you go home — if you ever get to go home — and hand me your completed actions. Simple. Understand?’

Sean swallowed his embarrassment. ‘I’m sorry — what are actions?’

‘Christ,’ Melody cursed. ‘What have they sent me? Actions, son, are exactly that. Listen — an investigation of this size creates thousands of leads, tens of thousands of pieces of information, hundreds of people who need to be found and spoken to — understand?’

‘Yes, Sarge,’ Sean answered, trying to keep up.

‘Bloody hell, you are just out of uniform aren’t you?’ Melody laughed. ‘You’re in the CID now, son — you call me Ray, alright?’ Sean nodded. ‘Together with the DI and the Detective Superintendent, it’s my job to co-ordinate the investigation and make sure everybody knows what they’re doing and that nothing gets duplicated — understand?’ Sean nodded again. ‘I do that by using these,’ he said, waving a green piece of paper in front of Sean. ‘This is an action. I write on here what the action is, meaning what the job is. I give it to you and you tootle off and do whatever job the action tells you to do. When it’s done you give it back to me and I take a look at it. Now, this is the important bit: if in completing an action you discover something else that needs to be investigated — do not run off and try to solve the thing yourself, because you might have discovered something we already know about and are looking into. You’ll only cause duplication. Understand?’

‘What do I do then?’ Sean asked. ‘If I discover something that needs checking out.’

Melody swapped the green sheet of paper for a pink one and again waved it in front of Sean’s face. ‘If that happens,’ he explained, ‘you fill out one of these. This is called an Information Report. You attach it to the original action, cross reference it and hand it to me. If I’m not here you place both in that box over in the corner.’ Melody pointed to a cut-down cardboard box labeled Completed Actions. ‘Then, when I get a chance, I’ll read your Information Report and if necessary create a new action to be completed, that I may or may not assign to you — got it?’ Sean shrugged his shoulders to let Melody know he understood. ‘In fact,’ Melody continued, ‘I have the perfect job to get you started.’ A mischievous smile spread across his face as he searched for the action he needed on his cluttered desk. ‘Here it is,’ he declared, handing Sean the piece of green paper. ‘There you go, son. I think this will be right up your street.’

* * *

An hour later and Sean was alone in Chinbrook Meadows, Hither Green, close to the scene of the latest attack attributed to the as yet unidentified serial offender dubbed the Parkside Rapist by the media. The attack had happened over four days ago now and the park was quiet, the police and forensic circus long since packed up and moved on. Except for Sean — his mission to stop and question everyone walking through the park in the forlorn hope of discovering an untraced witness or even a possible suspect. He knew the chances of either were slim. Most likely Melody had given him the action to keep him out of the way while the real detectives got on with the job in hand. He exhaled deeply, tucking his newly acquired clip-board under his armpit and rubbing his hands together to ward off the approaching winter’s chill as he looked around the deserted park. The usually busy place had been abandoned by the women joggers and the mothers who only days ago walked their children along the paths — their one-time sanctuary within the sprawling city tainted by the spectre of the man who had pulled a young mother into the dense trees, leaving her child sleeping in its pushchair. Even the men had forsaken the park — fearful of being tarnished with the stigma of accusing eyes. The monster’s crimes had stained the ground forever.

Sean absentmindedly began to walk along the path that cut across the park, noticing that it wound closer to the trees in some places — places where it would have been easier to ambush an unsuspecting victim. He found himself slipping the map of the crime scene from his jacket pocket and examining it, trying to get his bearings and identify the area marked as the crime scene. After using the distant tower blocks on the urban horizon as north, he headed further along the path to the south-west corner of the park, just as the victim would have — pushing her toddler and filling her lungs with air the trees had cleansed, thinking of what she would cook her husband for tea, imagining relaxing with her nightly glass of wine — before he dragged her to hell.

As he approached the place where the victim had first been attacked he noticed the path did indeed pass closer to the surrounding trees here, allowing the predator to close in on his chosen victim before bursting from the woods and seizing her. Sean studied the woods either side of the path, the tall trees shedding gold, red and brown leaves, their branches casting tiger-stripe shadows that would have hidden the maniac stalking his prey. Sean imagined him moving quickly through the trees, periodically stopping, hiding behind the thicker tree-trunks, peering out from the shadows at the attractive young woman walking her sleeping child, watching every step she took in an ever increasing state of excitement and anticipation, the adrenalin and blood a torrent through his body, his longing for her unbearable, until finally she reached the place he’d chosen — the narrowing of the path that brought her so close he could smell her — smell the child. And then he’d burst from the tree-line like a leopard and taken her, threatening to do unimaginable things to her and the child if she resisted — things he did to her anyway, despite her co-operation. But at least the child had been spared.

Sean blinked the images away as he began to walk into the trees, his own heart rate increasing just as the attacker’s had, an uncontrollable sense of understanding sweeping over him as he drew closer to the scene of the final assault — his imagination and dark experiences opening a window to the crime through which he could witness it happening all over again. He could feel the attacker — his uncontrollable, surging power as he raged over the woman. He reached the exact spot where instinct told him the main assault had taken place and after first checking he was alone, he crouched as close as he could to the ground and examined the longish grass that still showed the signs of disturbance, lying flattened in places where the attacker had forced her to lie down, the dagger-style combat knife pressed against her throat as he rutted like a wild boar.

Still crouching, Sean swapped the map in his hand for another piece of paper he’d pulled from his jacket pocket and began to read the notes he’d scribbled about the case before heading to the park. All the victims of the Parkside Rapist so far had been attractive young women, some still little older than girls, and his latest victim was no different. Each had been threatened with a dagger-style knife and seriously sexually assaulted, although none had been severely harmed in any other physical way. Sean looked back through the trees to where the sleeping infant would have remained throughout the ordeal, sparking sudden images of the maniac doing the exact same thing, looking from the woman lying under him to the child and back. Hurriedly he read through his notes again and soon found what he was looking for — the latest victim was not the first to have been with her child when she was attacked. Out of the dozens of attacks to date, at least six other women had been with their young children.

‘Everybody thinks you attacked the women with children in spite of the fact they were with them, but you didn’t, did you?’ he said to himself. ‘You attacked them because of the children, didn’t you, you sick bastard? But why? What do the children give you?’ Sean stood and closed his eyes, waiting for answers to form in the darkness of his mind. ‘Power,’ he suddenly said. ‘Not just the power over them, to do anything you want to them, but the power to take away the most precious thing in their lives — their children. You raped the others without children because you lack control. Once the urges and desires take hold they control you, not you them. You can’t wait for perfection. You can’t wait for one to come along with a child. But when they do …’ He suddenly fell silent again, as if his clear direction of thought had been snared on a barbed hook. ‘But why let them live? You have the knife. You have the anger and the rage. Isn’t killing the absolute show of power — so why don’t you — at least the mother, or maybe the child while you make the mother watch? You’re not making sense,’ he accused the maniac. ‘Why, why, why?’ he whispered to himself as he looked around the trees, breathing deeply through his nose, trying to clear his mind, grateful to be alone so he could think. ‘Because … because … you have — you have killed before. You raped someone and then you killed them — in the past — in, in their home or somewhere else where you could have privacy. And all the women you’ve raped were threatened with a large combat knife, so whoever you killed, you killed with the same knife, didn’t you? You couldn’t have killed them any other way, because the knife’s too personal to you. Nothing else would have satisfied your fantasy. So why haven’t you killed again since? You don’t have the control to suddenly stop. Just raping can’t be enough for you now you’ve killed, so why haven’t you killed any of the women you’ve raped since?’ Sean stood totally still, hoping, praying the answer would reveal itself. ‘Because of the blood,’ he finally answered his own question. ‘Because there would have been too much blood. You had to use the knife, but it would have meant too much blood. You couldn’t be seen running through the park, through the streets covered in blood — the risk of being caught would have been too great, so you let them live, but it killed you to do it. But the time you did kill you were inside — you were inside so you could clean yourself up — wash the blood from your hands and skin, taking your time to clean yourself and maybe even change your clothes. Then you left — you left feeling calm and in control — feeling like you’d never felt before.

So what do you do now, when raping without killing isn’t enough anymore? Will you follow someone to their home where the children sleep — where you can have all the time in the world to live out your dreams and then all the time in the world to get cleaned up — wash the blood off and change your clothes — no fears of having to run through the trees painted red? Yes, yes,’ he hissed. ‘That’s where you’re heading, isn’t it, you sick bastard? That’s exactly where you’re heading, even if you don’t know it yourself yet …’

* * *

Sean walked into the Parkside Rapist Enquiry Office with a lot more confidence than he’d had earlier the same day, now believing he had information everyone would want to know — information that could seriously move the stagnated case forward — if they’d just listen to him. He saw DS Ray Melody was busy on the phone, his thinned lips and red face warning Sean that the detective sergeant was already not a happy man. He waited for Melody to slam the phone down on whoever had angered him before jumping in, but Melody beat him to it. ‘You’re back early. You were supposed to stay in the park until it closed, which isn’t until it’s dark, and it doesn’t look dark to me — not yet.’

‘I found something,’ Sean told him eagerly. ‘When I was in the park I found something.’

‘A witness?’ Melody asked, allowing his mask of indifference to drop for a second.

‘No,’ Sean answered, ‘nothing like that. Something else.’

‘Go on then, Sherlock — amaze me with your powers of deduction,’ Melody ridiculed him, his mask firmly back in place.

Sean swallowed dryly before saying his piece. ‘I think he selects his victims because they’re with children, not in spite of it.’ He stood straight and waited for the congratulations and appreciation.

‘Is that fucking it?’ Melody asked, his mouth breaking into a huge grin. ‘That’s what you rushed back early to tell me — this … this quite brilliant theory of yours. Did you bang your head on a tree branch in that bloody park or something?’ Sean could feel other eyes falling on his embarrassment, but instead of playing it smart and keeping his mouth shut he blurted out more of his theory.

‘And I think he’s already killed, but not in the park or anywhere outside. He couldn’t because he’d be covered in blood. He’d never get away with it.’

‘If he’d killed before he’d have killed again by now, at least once or twice. Once these nutters kill they can’t go back,’ Melody told him, still grinning.

‘I understand that,’ Sean continued to argue, ‘and he wants to kill again, he just hasn’t had the chance yet. But he will.’ Everyone in the room was staring at him now, but he stood his ground.

‘Where are you getting all of this from, son?’ Melody asked. ‘Who’ve you been talking to?’

‘No one,’ he answered. ‘I just …’ Sean let his words trail away as he sensed a presence behind him — a presence that had brought everyone else in the room to a sudden stop. He looked over his shoulder in time to see a small, slim man with a bushy blond moustache taking a seat on the edge of a desk. He had no idea who he was, just that he must be someone important. ‘Shit,’ he whispered to himself and waited for the ridicule he felt was sure to come.

‘Don’t let me interrupt you, son,’ the man with the moustache told him. ‘Carry on with what you were saying, how you think our man has killed before.’

‘Like I was saying,’ Sean stuttered, ‘I think he’s killed before, but it had to be inside because …’

‘Yeah, yeah,’ the man hurried him, ‘because of the amount of blood he would have been covered in. But you said he wanted to kill again, yet we know he hasn’t.’

‘Because he hasn’t worked out how to yet,’ Sean told him. ‘He’s comfortable in wooded areas, but they can’t give him the privacy he needs — not in the daylight — which is when he likes to work.’

‘Work?’ the man questioned.

‘A figure of speech,’ Sean explained.

‘Really?’ the man asked, but let it slide. ‘So what’s he going to do about it, this man of ours?’

‘He’ll wait. He’ll wait until he sees an opportunity to attack someone in their own home. Then he can take his time — all the time he wants — and get cleaned up before leaving the scene.’

The man pursed his lips and shook his head as he stood and crossed the room to Sean, holding out a hand as a goodwill gesture. ‘Detective Chief Superintendent Charlie Bannan, but you can call me guv’nor or boss, take your pick.’

Sean felt his stomach tighten with tension as he accepted the hand, the grip much firmer than he was expecting. ‘PC Sean …’

‘Sean Corrigan,’ Bannan finished for him, seeing the confusion in Sean’s eyes. ‘I saw you fight, last night. Very impressive.’ Bannan looked around the room to make sure everyone was listening. ‘This young man won the Lafone Cup last night, yet look at him — not a mark on his face and back to work the next day. Still, seeing as how no one managed to lay a glove on you there’s no reason why you shouldn’t be — is there?’

‘No, sir … sorry, guv’nor,’ Sean answered.

‘Let’s take a walk,’ Bannan told him before spinning on his heels and heading for the door. Sean hesitated for a second before following, finding he had to almost break into a jog to keep up with the older man. ‘How long you been boxing for?’ Bannan asked as they walked the corridors.

‘Since I was a teenager.’

‘You’re good,’ Bannan said. ‘Very good. Ever thought about going professional?’

‘No,’ Sean told him. ‘Amateur’s enough for me.’

‘Shame,’ Bannan declared, looking him up and down out of the corner of his eye. ‘In here, son. My office.’ Sean followed him inside the tiny, cluttered space. ‘Bit of a broom-cupboard, but it’ll have to do for now. Not as palatial as my office back at HQ, but as a temporary home it serves its purpose. Take a seat.’

‘Thanks,’ Sean told him and sat in one of only three scruffy, worn-out chairs in the room, while he watched Bannan rifling through a metal filing cabinet that took up more than its fair share of available space, until finally he pulled a pink folder marked confidential from within and threw it on the desk in front of Sean. ‘Have a butcher’s at that,’ Bannan told him, but the confidential stamp made Sean stall. ‘It’s alright — you have my authority to look inside.’ Sean shrugged and carefully opened the file, the horrific crime-scene photograph that immediately confronted him — its terrible bright colours — making him look away involuntarily.

‘Fuck me,’ he said slowly and quietly before he was able to look again. ‘Jesus Christ. I didn’t know it had been that bad.’

‘Recognise her?’ Bannan asked.

‘Yeah,’ Sean solemnly admitted. ‘Rebecca Fordham. She didn’t deserve this.’

‘Does anyone?’ Bannan asked.

‘Maybe,’ Sean said without thinking.

‘Sorry?’

‘Nothing,’ Sean answered, ‘just thinking out loud.’

‘Rebecca Fordham was murdered in her flat in Putney a little more than a year ago — raped, throat cut and stabbed forty-nine times. No witnesses to speak of.’

‘This is the same man,’ Sean declared, shaking his head in disbelief at what he was seeing. ‘It has to be — a beautiful young woman in daylight — the level of violence — stab wounds made by a large bladed instrument — sexually assaulted and sexually mutilated. This just feels like our man.’

‘She was wasn’t she?’ Bannan suddenly asked, knocking Sean from his train of thought.

‘She was what?’

‘Beautiful,’ Bannan told him, reducing them both to silence as they sat and thought about the smiling, radiant woman the papers and television had shown pictures of almost constantly after her cruel death. She’d been so full of life, yet they had to see her like this — as the maniac had made her look. ‘You said he wants to kill again, but can’t, not until he works out how to. What did you mean?’

‘Like I said, there are certain things that are very important to him — attractive young women, preferably with their children present and daylight and violence. But he can’t use the knife again unless he’s inside.’

‘But there were no children present at the Fordham scene.’

‘I know,’ Sean agreed through his confusion. ‘But maybe there was something else?’

‘Such as?’

‘I don’t know.’

Bannan allowed a few moments of silence before continuing. ‘So why doesn’t he use something else or strangle them?’

‘Maybe he’s not strong enough, or more likely he has some emotional attachment to the knife — he always used a knife in his fantasies and now nothing else will do.’

‘Interesting,’ Bannan told him. ‘Have you studied psychology or criminology?’

‘No,’ Sean answered, ‘not really.’

‘I’m surprised,’ Bannan said before pushing on. ‘So what does he do now — break into some unsuspecting woman’s house and commit murder?’

‘He already has murdered,’ Sean insisted, pressing his index finger into the crime scene photographs.

‘So you say, but I’m more interested in what he’ll do next, then maybe I can stop him.’

‘Well he won’t break in — I know that much.’

‘Why?’

‘Because if he was going to he would have by now. My guess would be he’s not comfortable with locks — doesn’t have the skills to open locked doors and he doesn’t want to break a window because he’s too scared of being heard and disturbed. Maybe he has bad memories of almost being caught trying to break in somewhere, so …’

‘Go on,’ Bannan encouraged him.

‘So he looks and waits for the right opportunity — for someone getting careless and leaving a door open or a window he can fit through.’

‘Then we can assume he’s already looking for that opportunity, right now, as we speak?’

‘Yes,’ Sean told him, ‘but he keeps failing, which is when he goes to the parks and woods.’

‘Because something is better than nothing,’ Bannan agreed.

Sean nodded slowly before asking another question. ‘What evidence do you have so far?’

‘From the Parkside rapes — we have his DNA from his semen, but the DNA database is so new there’s almost no one on it yet and our man certainly isn’t. A decent description: male, white, average build and height etc, but nothing that sets him apart.’

‘Then what about fingerprints — fingerprint records go back for years.’

‘No fingerprints.’

‘But he’s reckless at the scenes,’ Sean argued, ‘and he doesn’t wear gloves.’

‘That may be so, but he hasn’t touched anything we could lift a print from.’

‘What about from the Rebecca Fordham investigation? Do we know if he left a print there?’

‘I don’t and they’re not telling even if he did.’

‘They can’t do that!’

‘Yes they can, son and they are. Listen, as far as they’re concerned Rebecca Fordham’s killer is dead and they don’t want anyone rocking the boat. If we link our crimes to her killer then Ian McCaig couldn’t possibly be guilty — he’s been dead while our man’s been running amok.’

‘Then they got the wrong man.’

‘Possibly, but they don’t want to hear that, do they? You know the story — it was all over the papers and telly — McCaig was on remand waiting for his trial, but he couldn’t take it — couldn’t take being locked up, couldn’t take being tortured by the media and hated by the public, so he topped himself. The public and media took it as an admission of his guilt and the investigating team took it as case closed. No one wants to open up old wounds and have an investigation into a miscarriage of justice, particularly one that ended up with a suspect killing himself. That would not be good for business, son.’

‘We need to see everything they’ve got,’ Sean insisted, not interested in maintaining the status quo.

‘They won’t give us access,’ Bannan warned him.

‘But they must know there a decent chance they got the wrong man?’

‘From what I know they’ve convinced themselves McCaig was their man.’

‘How?’ Sean asked, still confused how anyone would not want to remove the doubt — to remove any lingering possibilities.

‘They’ve got some criminologist or what does she call herself — a forensic historical criminologist — looks at cases from history to help solve current crimes. She’s quite the expert on Jack the Ripper by all accounts. She gave them a profile of what they should look for in the man who’d killed Rebecca Fordham and apparently McCaig fits the profile to a tee.’

‘Then the profile’s wrong,’ Sean replied angrily, ‘and why the hell is the investigation team listening to a damn historian?’

‘Because they were told to.’

‘Who by?’

‘The powers-that-be, son.’

‘That’s a heap of shit.’

‘No son, that’s politics.’

‘They need to understand they’re wrong,’ Sean insisted.

‘They don’t want to hear that.’

‘Then we need to go and see them — speak to them and explain what’s happening.’

‘Don’t you think I haven’t already tried? Furthest I’ve got is a chat on the phone. They ain’t budging, son. They have McCaig and as far as they’re concerned, that’s that.’

‘Then we try again — tell them we have something new. Lie to them if we have to.’

Bannan smiled and even laughed a little. ‘It’s not going to happen, son.’

‘Then I need to see the scene,’ Sean told him.

‘That scene’s more than a year old now. There’s nothing there for us anymore.’

‘I need to see it,’ Sean insisted, his boyish face made old by his haunting seriousness, ‘with the crime scene photographs. That’ll be enough.’

Bannan had used Sean’s type before, but he’d never met one with such intensity or clarity — such insightfulness. ‘Very well,’ Bannan relented. ‘Keep the file and the photos from the scene, for a while at least. The flat’s still unoccupied, but there’s a caretaker on site who’ll let you in if you flash your badge and sweet talk him.’

‘I’ll go there tomorrow,’ Sean reassured him.

‘Of course you will,’ Bannan told him. ‘Of course you will.’

Sean stood to leave before turning back towards Bannan. ‘By the way, how did you know?’ he asked.

‘How did I know what?’ Bannan replied.

‘If you weren’t on the case yourself, how did you know about the caretaker?’

‘Well, let’s just say I never was very good at keeping my nose out of other people’s business. Trick is — don’t get caught doing it.’

Chapter Three

It was a little before nine a.m. when the caretaker opened the door to the flat where more than a year earlier Rebecca Fordham had been brutally murdered. He stepped aside to let Sean enter the dimness inside, half the windows long since smashed by local youths with nothing better to do, and replaced with hastily nailed-up wooden boards.

‘Here we are then,’ he told Sean in a thick London accent, although his voice was surprisingly high-pitched for such a big, threatening looking man; his shaved hair and do-it-yourself tattoos making him look like an ageing football hooligan. Sean had found him pleasant enough and decided his appearance was probably deliberately crafted to keep the local yobs and criminals at bay. ‘Last bloke that came snooping around here was a detective superintendent or something, but I guess she’s not a priority anymore, eh?’

‘What?’ Sean asked, suddenly realizing he’d not been listening.

‘I said your lot used to send superintendents, now they send constables — since the bastard who killed her done himself in, and may his soul rot in hell by the way.’

‘If it was him,’ Sean said without thinking.

‘Sorry. I don’t follow.’

Sean cleared his head. ‘It doesn’t matter.’

‘Whatever,’ the caretaker said with a shrug of his shoulders. ‘Take as long as you want. Just remember to drop the keys back when you’re done, although I don’t know what you expect to find — police and council cleared everything out months ago — to keep the ghouls and press away they told me. Anyway, I’ll leave you in peace — place gives me the bloody creeps.’

Sean watched him shuffling away, huffing and puffing under his own weight, before he turned back to the flat, the darkness inside almost warning him not to go any further — warning him he would be consumed with the horror that still permeated the very walls of the interior. He’d covered a couple of sudden deaths as a probationary constable and one had even been a murder — a semi-vagrant kicked to death by his drinking friends. But this felt different — completely different, as if a pure evil had left its mark there. He felt the same presence he’d felt back in the park in Hither Green. The same malevolent force. He took a deep breath and stepped forward.

The caretaker had been right — the inside was nothing more than a shell now. Everything that had made it a home was long gone. All that remained were the fixtures and fittings that were too big to remove: the built-in cupboards, kitchen cabinets, bath, sinks and toilet. Everything else was gone — even the carpets. But Sean could see them nonetheless, and he could see the blood — see the blood on the floor, the sofa, the table and surrounding chairs, the crime-scene photographs turning his mind into a projector for the images from the past.

He walked along the narrow hallway, within a few steps reaching the doorways on both his right and left, causing him to pause. He pulled a copy of the confidential case file from an innocuous looking envelope and thumbed through it to the photographs that showed the flat how it was when the murder had first been discovered. He checked his orientation and deduced that the room on his left would have been the son’s room and the one on the right the kitchen. He checked the case file report — the killer had come in through a window Rebecca had left open in the kitchen. Why had she done that? Was she trying to disperse the heat that had built up during the hot summer day, or was she trying to dispel the odours of cooking? It was a normal thing to do — something hundreds of thousands of others would have done on the very same day. ‘Only it cost her life.’ He suddenly found himself speaking out loud. He checked the file and the photographs again. She’d been attacked in the hallway initially, probably as she came across him as he walked from the kitchen. Blood spray patterns indicated he’d stabbed her in the stomach area and then dragged her to the lounge where he’d cut her throat with a large, extremely sharp-bladed instrument. It would have taken her only seconds to bleed to death. Why didn’t you kill her straight away? The shock of being stabbed in the stomach would stop her from crying out, but why not kill her as soon as she found you? What were you waiting for? Again he checked the file. After she’d bled to death he sexually assaulted the body in almost every way imaginable and then extensively mutilated her, paying particular attention to her breasts and sexual organs. You hate women, don’t you? You hate them so much it drove you to do this.

Sean walked deeper into the flat, past the bathroom and the bedroom that the victim used until he reached the lounge — the place where the final scene from hell unfolded. He stood in the middle of the room and used the photographs to put everything back into place in his mind, just as it had been when the victim was discovered — before a single thing had been moved. But the pictures were so vivid and terrible he found it hard to look at them for more than a few seconds at a time. He wondered what it must have been like for the first police at the scene — cops who’d been called by the childminder when the mother wouldn’t open the door, expecting to find her asleep or drunk or at the local shop, but to discover this. Surely they’d be haunted by it for the rest of their lives, even if they never admitted it. And what must have it been like for the forensic team, who would have had to work in the scene for hours before the body was removed? How could they have concentrated totally — not been distracted? Not missed something?

Again he flicked through the photographs until he found the one he was looking for — a picture of a doll that had been sitting on the chair opposite the sofa on which the victim had been mutilated and violated — as if it had been watching the killer — watching the killer perform. Sean looked closer, using the size of the chair for scale, speaking out loud so he could hear his own thoughts — hear if they made any sense. ‘You put the doll there. You put the doll there so it could watch you rage all over her. And you chose the largest doll you could find because it felt more lifelike — as if you were being watched — watched by a child — by her child. You dragged her in here and you cut her throat, but then you left her and went to find the boy, didn’t you? But he wasn’t here, and that made your rage burn all the brighter, until you saw the doll — large and ornate — something an adult might own, but not a young boy, so you knew it was probably the mother’s and not the child’s. And that made it even more real for you. So you brought the doll back in here and placed it where it could see everything. Only, did you forget yourself, for a few moments when you thought you were going to seek out the child, did you forget you’d taken you gloves off? Because you did take them off, once you were inside, didn’t you? You couldn’t bear to have a barrier between you and the victim. You needed to feel her skin and you knew you couldn’t leave your prints on skin, so you took your gloves off. But while your gloves were off, did you touch the doll? Did you touch its plastic face? Did you leave us your prints? Did we miss them — in all the hell you left behind — did we miss them? We did, didn’t we? Fuck,’ he suddenly punctuated his thoughts as he closed the file and slipped it back into the unmarked envelope.

He walked to an unboarded window, hoping the view of the heath might chase away the images that threatened to lock themselves away in his mind forever. But as he looked out over the common land and dense wood he could think of one thing and one thing only. This is our man. It has to be. Rebecca Fordham’s killer is the Parkside Rapist, and he’s going to kill again. As he stared at the heath, all he could see was the dark figure of a faceless man moving quietly and quickly through the trees. Waiting.

* * *

‘This is bollocks,’ Sean swore as he sat on the opposite side of the desk to Charlie Bannan. ‘It’s wrong, just like McCaig was the wrong man and they know it.’

‘It’s politics, son,’ Bannan tried to explain ‘and they don’t know they’ve got the wrong man. They may suspect it, but they don’t know it. As far as they’re concerned the criminologist told them McCaig’s the right man and the top-brass told them to listen to her.’

‘Then they should have told her to go fuck herself,’ Sean suggested.

‘Yes they should,’ Bannan agreed with a chuckle, ‘but they didn’t and they won’t. And there’s something for you to learn and never forget — don’t ever, ever, let outsiders tell you your business. We’re the police — we decide who is and who isn’t guilty — not some historian looking to make a name for herself, not some politician trying to make himself feel important. We put the guilty before the courts and if they fuck it up that’s not down to us and we move on. The Fordham Investigation team fucked up — they let an outsider tell them their business and somewhere down the line it’s going to cost them — it’s going to cost them big-time.’

‘I hope it does,’ Sean told him. ‘But right now it’s not going to help us, so what are we going to do next?’

‘Nothing,’ Bannan admitted.

‘Nothing? But there has to be a way of getting them to hand over their evidence, or at least get a look at the lab report about the blood spray pattern. I’m convinced he put the doll on the sofa after he cut the victim’s throat, but before he did the rest. He wanted a fucking audience and he was in a hurry, so much of a hurry he forgot to put his gloves back on. The doll had a plastic face. He could have left us his prints.’

‘It’s an interesting theory,’ Bannan told him, but there was no excitement in his voice. Sean noticed it.

‘Wait a minute — you’d already thought of it, hadn’t you?’

‘I’d considered it,’ he admitted.

‘And did you tell anyone?’

‘No.’

‘Why?’

‘It wouldn’t have changed anything. No one would have been interested in my theories. They had McCaig and that was enough.’

‘But what about checking the doll for blood spray patterns, to prove he put it there?’ Sean asked.

‘It wouldn’t change anything.’

‘But it could indicate he’d touched it — left his prints.’

‘The doll was dusted,’ Bannan crushed him. ‘There were no prints on it other than the mother’s and the boy’s. If the killer touched it at all he didn’t leave his prints.’

‘Something else then,’ Sean insisted. ‘Something else they missed.’

‘Forget it, son. There ain’t nothing I can do about it.’

‘There has to be,’ Sean insisted. ‘We can’t just let it slide.’

‘Yes, we can and yes, we will,’ Bannan told him. ‘This is a big boys’ game. You have to suck it up and move on. It’s what we do. When we catch the Parkside Rapist, and we will, we’ll know we’ve got the man who also killed Rebecca Fordham. Even if we never prove it in a court, at least we’ll know — you and me.’

‘That’s not enough.’

‘Sure it is. And for what he’s done to the other women he’ll get life anyway, so all things will work out equal.’

‘Not if he kills again,’ Sean reminded him, ‘and he will — I know he will.’

‘Then we’d better catch him fast, hadn’t we, son?’ Bannan told him. ‘Before he has a chance to.’

‘We can’t,’ Sean warned him, ‘not without access to the Fordham evidence. Do you have any friends at the Lab? Someone who owes you a favour?’

‘I know what you’re thinking and the answer’s no — I’m not going to sneak up the Lab and have a crafty look at what they may or may not have. You just don’t do that, son — not for anything.’

‘Why not? If you know they’re wrong.’

‘They’re Old Bill, son — more than that, they’re detectives. We don’t shaft each other — remember that.’

Sean tried to work the tension out of his neck by rolling his head around his shoulders.

‘Relax,’ Bannan told him, ‘we’ll get him and soon. This ain’t no master-criminal we’re after, it’s just another sick-nutter. He’s about due to fuck-up and when he does — we’ll be waiting for him.’

‘If you say so,’ he finally agreed, even though his heart told him differently.

Chapter Four

Two Weeks Later

Four thirty a.m. and Sean lay alone in the bed in his small flat, waiting for the alarm to break the silence in thirty minutes’ time. He’d been awake for a couple of hours, tossing and turning before giving in to the questions and fears that electrified his mind and made sleep impossible. He’d been this way since his visit to the flat where Rebecca Fordham had been killed, and he couldn’t help wondering whether Bannan was feeling the same or if he really could just blank it out and move on. Maybe one day he’d be able to push things to one side and forget about them, no matter how important they might appear to be. Maybe one day he’d be able to sleep like other people slept no matter what he’d had to deal with during the preceding day — but not yet — not now.

The oppressive silence of the dark, still, room was suddenly broken by the electronic shrill of a machine somewhere in the flat demanding his attention. In his tiredness he assumed it was his alarm clock, but soon realised it couldn’t be — He’d set it for five a.m., but it was still only four thirty. As his mind cleared he realized it was the phone ringing in the lounge. ‘Shit,’ he swore to himself. He jumped from his bed and jogged into lounge, composing himself for a second before answering. ‘Hello.’

‘PC Corrigan?’ the voice asked.

‘Who wants to know?’

‘It’s DS Melody. Jump through the shower and get yourself to work — there’s been a murder — a bad one.’

‘How bad?’

‘You’ll find out soon enough,’ Melody told him.

‘Is it linked to the Parkside attacks?’

‘Save the questions for when you’re here.’

‘What about Rebecca Fordham? Does it look like the same man?’

‘It’s too early to draw any conclusions,’ Melody warned him. ‘Just get yourself in to work.’ The line went dead just as Sean’s imagination came to life. He knew, somehow he just knew, the same man had committed both crimes. He dropped the phone and sprinted for the bathroom.

* * *

It was almost midday before Sean returned to the police station after hours of pounding the streets of Woolwich and hammering on council-flat-door after council-flat-door close to the scene where a young mother and her child had been murdered in their own flat. He’d been told almost nothing by DS Melody when he’d reported to the Enquiry Office just after six that morning. Any delusions he’d had of being taken into the heart of the investigation had been dashed as Melody handed him a pile of door-to-door enquiry forms and a list of streets he’d been designated to canvass. He’d spied Bannan deep in conversation with a huddle of real detectives, but he’d not even been able to catch his eye. He was back to being a very small cog in a very large machine. But he needed more — needed to see the scene and the victims who were still inside — needed to breathe it deep into his soul. Run-of-the-mill enquiries and tasks were no longer enough.

He slid into the Enquiry Office and dropped his paperwork off in the returns box before heading for the exit and the canteen. As he was leaving, he nearly walked straight into Bannan who was walking and talking with two other suited men. He looked at Sean almost as if he’d never seen him before, but when they locked eyes Sean sensed his sudden recognition. ‘Guv’nor,’ Sean greeted him.

‘Hello, son. Still with us I see.’

‘Guv’nor, can I have a word?’ He sensed the confusion in the other men’s faces that a mere plain-clothed-constable should be daring to ask for some of Bannan’s time — especially on a day like this.

‘Can it wait?’ Bannan asked without irritation. ‘I’m a little busy right now.’

‘Not really,’ Sean told him, his eyes burning with intensity of his need, something Bannan seemed to acknowledge as he turned to the men who were flanking him.

‘Give me a minute,’ he told them. ‘This won’t take long.’ The men nodded and gave him quizzical looks before moving away. ‘Alright, son. What is it?’

‘I need to see the scene,’ he almost demanded, prompting Bannan to gently take him by the bicep and lead him out of the Enquiry Office and into the empty corridor.

‘Listen, son — That’s out of the question.’ Sean went to protest, but Bannan stopped him with a raised hand. ‘Slow down,’ he told him. ‘The scene’s being forensically examined as we speak, even I’m not allowed in there at the moment.’

‘They might miss something,’ he argued. ‘But if I could see it then maybe I could make sure they don’t.’

‘Sean, you’re a PC attached to what is now a murder investigation — do you really think I’m going to parade you around the scene and have you tell a lot of very experienced people where they’re going wrong?’

‘If it helps catch the killer — yes.’

‘No,’ Bannan snapped before softening, ‘but listen — maybe I can get copy of the crime scene photographs in a couple of days, when they’ve worked them up.’

‘But they would have taken polaroids already,’ Sean reminded him. ‘I could see them now.’

Bannan shook his head and smiled. ‘You don’t give up do you? Alright, I’ll get you the polaroids and you can tell me what you think.’

‘Okay,’ Sean reluctantly agreed, his eyes cast down.

Bannan rested a sympathetic hand on his shoulder. ‘Don’t be too pissed-off, son — remember what I told you — it’s politics, can’t be helped.’ He gave Sean a pat and started to walk away, but Sean stopped him with a question.

‘How did he get in? Was it like I said it would be? Did he wait for someone to get sloppy and leave a door or a window open?’

Bannan slowed to a stop and turned to face him, his skin suddenly a little paler.

‘I was right.’ Sean felt nauseas at the revelation that his prediction had come true.

Bannan looked him up and down for a few seconds before speaking. ‘Alright. Alright, son. Meet me here tonight. Eleven p.m. My office and keep it quiet. This is between the two of us. Understand?’

‘Yes, guv’nor,’ Sean answered with a smile.

‘You won’t be smiling later,’ Bannan told him. ‘That much I am sure of.’

* * *

Weak yellow street light seeped through the windows of the basement flat as Sean and Bannan let themselves in through the front door, leaving the single uniformed constable outside to keep journalists and macabre sight-seers away. Sean sensed Bannan reaching for the light switch and stopped him. ‘Don’t turn them on,’ he told him. ‘Just give me a second.’

‘The lights were on when she was found,’ Bannan explained. ‘Don’t you want to see it how he saw it?’

‘Yes,’ he answered. ‘In a minute, but not yet.’

Bannan didn’t argue, staying by the front door as Sean stepped a little deeper into hell. ‘Careful, son,’ he warned. ‘Forensics haven’t completed their examination yet. They’ll be back in the morning.’ Sean nodded to himself in the dark and stepped to the side of the hallway, hugging the wall, breathing in deeply, smelling and tasting the scene, the telltale metallic scent of blood — something he was already too familiar with — as he squinted in the gloom, trying to focus on the hallway ahead, seeing small dark patches on the carpet just ahead, the copper taste in his mouth growing stronger as he crouched closer to the largest of the circular patches. ‘Blood,’ Bannan confirmed, reminding Sean that he wasn’t alone. ‘Looks like she was first attacked in the hallway, but probably not fatally. After the initial attack he appears to have dragged her into the living room, where he cut her throat and … well, you’ve seen the polaroids.’ Sean agreed with everything Bannan said, while shaking his head slowly at the horror of what he described.

‘How did he get in?’ Sean asked.

‘Through the victim’s bedroom window — she’d left it open, for whatever reason. We think he’d been hiding out there a while — in the trees, watching her.’

‘He did,’ Sean told him.

‘Did what?’

‘Hide out there — watching them, waiting — building himself up — praying she wouldn’t close and lock the window.’ There was a silence before Sean spoke again, bracing himself before he did so. ‘You can turn the light on now.’ Bannan shook his head to clear his thoughts, reaching behind for the light switch, pausing as his fingers found it before flooding the hallway with the cruelest of light. Bannan had seen the crime scene earlier that day, when both bodies had been found.

The shadows on the floor Sean was crouched next to suddenly became imperfect vivid maroon circles, some as much as two inches in diameter, some just tiny drops that had sprayed from her body when she was first stabbed or dropped off the blade of the knife as he retracted the weapon from her abdomen. Most of the blood had dried into the carpet now, but the larger drops, where the blood was thickest, still shimmered with wetness. Sean looked away and closed his eyes, quickly opening them again when images of the maniac stabbing furiously at the woman’s lower body flooded into his mind. He stood and started moving towards the lounge. ‘I need to see where she was found.’

‘Just be careful,’ Bannan reminded him, following Sean along the corridor.

‘Has the light switch already been checked for prints?’ Sean asked.

‘Yeah,’ Bannan told him, ‘all the fingerprint work’s been done.’

‘Good,’ Sean told him and flicked it on, revealing a scene that physically knocked the breath from his chest — despite the fact the bodies had been removed. The sofa was soaked with dark red blood — the floor, walls and every piece of furniture were either heavily stained or sprayed with more blood. Even the picture frames, vases and other bric-a-brac bore witness to the slaughter. ‘Jesus Christ,’ Sean exclaimed, trying to catch his breath. ‘The man we’re after’s in an unstoppable rage. Unless we catch him soon there’ll be others — others like this one — others like Rebecca Fordham. Because this is absolutely the work of the same man and this is what he’s been waiting for all these months — the chance to be alone inside with his victim — to be able to take his time.’

‘Victims,’ Bannan reminded him.

‘Yes,’ Sean acknowledged, ‘victims.’ There was another silence for a few seconds. ‘Did he disembowel her?’

‘Yes,’ Bannan confirmed, ‘and more — worse.’

‘Then he took some of her, something from her body as a trophy.’

‘He’d removed a number of her internal organs and displayed them. The post-mortem should be able to confirm if anything is missing.’

‘And did he cover her?’ Sean asked. ‘Not her body, but her face?’

‘He did. Why?’

‘Because he couldn’t stand her looking at him, her eyes accusing him, hating him for what he was doing, so he covered her — that way he could remember her as she’d been when he’d seen her alive — wanting him.’

‘You know what?’ Bannan said, ‘all this, everything you say makes sense — his motivation, the taking of trophies, but what I can’t understand is why the daughter as well? Why the little girl?’

‘Power,’ Sean almost snapped at him. ‘That’s why. If he could have he would have killed the other children — the ones whose mothers he raped — the ultimate show of his power.’

‘We’re pretty sure he raped the daughter before he stabbed her,’ Bannan told him in a hushed voice, as if just talking about the four-year old girl was disrespectful or lurid.

‘You sure?’ Sean asked, puzzled. ‘I didn’t expect that. Killing her yes, but not that.’

‘Maybe you just didn’t want to see it,’ Bannan suggested. ‘Maybe you’ve already seen too much.’

Sean ignored him. ‘Then he covered her face too — for the same reasons — didn’t he?’

‘Her face was covered,’ Bannan admitted, ‘as for the reasons why — who knows. Maybe God does or the devil or … you.’

‘I don’t know anything,’ Sean argued. ‘I just put the pieces together and make a calculated guess.’

‘We both know that’s not true. You have a gift, Sean. The crime scene comes alive for you. You can see the killer here. You can feel him. You can think like him. It’s a gift, but it’ll be a curse too.’

‘Speaking from experience, sir?’

‘Maybe. And knock off the “sir” bollocks.’

‘Sorry,’ Sean apologized before moving closer to one of the chairs opposite and crouching next to it, leaning in close, staring at the empty seat, his eyes narrowing with concentration.

‘Problem?’ Bannan asked.

‘The blood spray pattern on this chair doesn’t seem right.’

‘So you’re an expert on blood spray patterns as well now are you?’

‘You don’t have to be — you just have to look.’ He pointed at the blood sprays on the chair. ‘Here, on this middle area of the seat, the patterns don’t match the blood sprays on the rest of the chair or the other furniture.’ He gestured his hand over the table and chair next to where he crouched. ‘It’s as if the heavier sprays of blood have somehow been broken — here and here and here.’ He pointed to the inconsistent patterns as he explained. ‘It’s as if something, or someone was sitting here, but these other finer sprays are unbroken, so …’ Sean stalled, his inexperience beginning to tell.

‘The finer spray marks would have been caused when her throat was cut — when her pulse was still creating enough pressure to send even the tiniest of drops from the sofa to the chair,’ Bannan helped him. ‘The larger drops would have been literally thrown there by the killer as he went to work on her after she was dead — the drops flicking and flying off the knife and his hand. But what does that tell you, son? What picture’s that painting?’

‘The doll,’ Sean said, remembering the doll from the crime scene photographs of the Rebecca Fordham murder. ‘He placed the doll so it could watch him, but here he had the child.’

‘And?’

‘And the distribution of the blood means the child wasn’t sitting here when he cut the mother’s throat — when he killed her — but she was when he did the rest.’

‘Good,’ Bannan told him.

‘So he killed her, then he went to get the child from her bedroom and brought her back in here. He made her sit, and he made her watch. Once he was finished with the mother he took the child back to her bedroom and killed her, but not before he … Jesus Christ — the child’s last few moments on this earth — her last minutes must have been … Did anyone hear any screaming — a child screaming?’

‘No,’ Bannan admitted.

‘Then she didn’t. The report says her mouth wasn’t covered or taped, so she didn’t scream or call out.’

‘Traumatized into paralysis,’ Bannan explained. ‘It’s not unusual in children when they witness anything even close to what this one had to see. Poor little cow. I’ll have the lab work up the blood spray patterns and check the daughter’s clothes for traces of her mother’s blood — see if your theory is right.’

‘Not just my theory,’ Sean challenged him. ‘You’d already worked it all out, hadn’t you? Everything I’ve said — you already knew it?

‘Maybe.’

‘Then why bring me here? Why let me repeat everything you already knew?’

‘Because I wanted to see. I wanted to be sure.’

‘Of what?’

‘Of you. I wanted to be sure you’re what I think you are.’

‘And what’s that?’

‘A rare type of animal, Sean. A very rare animal indeed.’

‘What does that mean — exactly?’

‘You’ll see,’ Bannan told him without offering further explanation. ‘In time you’ll see. Anyway, you finished?’

‘I suppose so.’

‘Good. Now we can get out of here. You can fill me in on the rest of your insights on the way back to the nick — if you have any.’

‘Fine,’ Sean agreed. Just being in the flat was becoming unbearable. ‘Although there’s one more thing — you said the fingerprint work had already been done?’

‘It has. Forensics like to get it out the way first. Tomorrow they’ll be going for hairs and fibres.’

‘Did they find any? Fingerprints?’

‘Yeah — plenty, but they look as if they’ll be from the victims. We can’t be sure until they’re worked up properly, but it appears we’ve blown out on finding a print from the killer.’

‘No,’ Sean said, shaking his head. ‘Once the killing started he wasn’t thinking about not leaving his prints. He was in a frenzy by then. Even if he was wearing gloves at first he would have taken them off. He couldn’t have stood having a barrier between their skin and his, just like he couldn’t with Rebecca Fordham.’

‘We can’t get a fingerprint off skin, son,’ Bannan reminded him.

‘No,’ Sean agreed, ‘but when he went from here to the girl’s room he wouldn’t have put them back on and he must have touched something. He must have. Was her bedroom door open or shut?’

‘It was closed.’

‘Do you have children?’ Sean asked.

‘Yes,’ Bannan answered cautiously. ‘All grown up and gone now.’

‘But when they were young, would you close their bedroom doors when they slept — would your wife?’

‘No. We’d leave them slightly open.’

‘Is that what most people do?’ Sean asked, forgetting he could be betraying his own past.

‘Don’t you know?’ Bannan asked. ‘Didn’t your mother leave yours open?’

Sean glared at him momentarily, the anger of his childhood almost erupting to the surface. ‘Of course,’ he lied, ‘and so did Lindsey Harter, so she could feel close to her child while she slept. He closed the door, after he’d … he closed the door. Have forensics check the door handle again — especially the underside and the panels of the door, on the hallway side. He may have pushed it shut with the palm of his hand.’

‘Forensics won’t like to be told to go over old work.’

‘They dusted for prints while the bodies were still in-situ — that must have been very distracting. Mistakes could have been made.’

‘You’re telling me,’ Bannan said. ‘A woman from the forensic team has already gone off sick with stress. I don’t think we’ll be seeing her again anytime soon. I’ll get them to check again. They won’t like it, but what the fuck.’

‘Good,’ Sean agreed. ‘So what’s next?’

‘Remember the Historical Criminologist from the Fordham Team?’

‘The one who’s wrong?’

‘Whatever. I’m meeting her tomorrow, in the morning. I’d like you to be there, but you have to mind your temper. Agreed?’

‘I wouldn’t miss it for the world.’

Chapter Five

Bannan sat behind the large, cheap desk in his usual office at Shooter’s Hill Police Station, dozens of files, mostly marked confidential, others marked for General Registry, adorning the worktop, but all meticulously stacked in order — a tower of in- and out-trays acting like book ends holding the line of cardboard folders upright. Other than that the only things Bannan had in front of him were two pink cardboard folders, both lying open. Professional-looking crime scene photographs topped one file, whereas the other still had to make do with polaroids. One file related to the murder of Rebecca Fordham and the other to the murders of Lindsey and Izzy Harter. The two sets of photographs echoed each other closely.

Sean watched Bannan studying the files, noting the neatness of his desk and the slow, steady way he examined the two cases — an ordered mind behind an ordered desk. He wondered if he would ever become as Bannan was — organized, tidy, precise. He doubted it. He looked at his watch — it was already nine thirty a.m.

‘What time’s she supposed to be here?’ he asked.

Bannan answered without looking up from the files or at his watch. ‘Nine o’clock. She’s already half an hour late.’

‘What you going to ask her when she gets here?’

‘I’m going to show her the polaroids from the Harter scene and ask her if she thinks it could be the same killer as Rebecca Fordham’s. If she says no then I’ll know she doesn’t know what she’s talking about. If she says yes then we’ll find out if she’s brave enough to admit she’s wrong about Ian McCaig.’

‘And undermine her own career and standing,’ Sean told him, ‘I don’t think so.’

‘We’ll see,’ Bannan replied, still not looking up. A sudden, loud knock at the door made Sean jump and set his heart racing. ‘Come in,’ Bannan called out.

The door yawned open revealing a tall, strong-looking uniformed sergeant in his fifties — greying beard matching his grey hair. ‘A Doctor Patricia Hooper here to see you, sir.’ The sergeant stepped aside and allowed a slim woman in her late forties wearing a tailored suit to walk past him and into the office. As soon as she had, the sergeant closed the door on her just like he’d closed the cell door on hundreds of prisoners before, leaving her alone in the room with Sean and Bannan. After she’d cleared her throat she crossed the room to Bannan’s desk and stretched out a hand. Bannan leaned forward and accepted it, but didn’t get up, gripping Hooper’s hand firmly, but more gently than he would have a man’s hand. Eventually he released her and pointed to a chair.

‘Please, take a seat.’ Hooper sat looking awkward and placed her old brown satchel by the side of the chair while glancing at Sean from the corner of her eye. Bannan noticed it. ‘This is PC Sean Corrigan. He’s assisting me with … certain elements of this case.’ Sean neither moved nor spoke — he just stared at the woman with barely-concealed mistrust.

‘I take it you know why you’re here?’ Bannan asked.

‘Yes. Yes I do,’ Hooper answered, beginning to feel more comfortable — feeling maybe she was about to be invited on to another high-profile investigation. ‘The Assistant Commissioner filled me in on the background of the case, although obviously I’ll need full access to the case file, the scene, photographs etc.’

‘Of course. Of course,’ Bannan told him, nodding his head sagely. ‘I understand you helped the team investigating the Rebecca Fordham murder.’

‘I did,’ Hooper answered slightly nervously.

‘Gave them the profile that lead to the arrest of Ian McCaig.’

‘That’s right,’ Hooper answered. ‘Just my thoughts, based on historical cases — nothing more. It was your colleagues who caught McCaig.’

‘That’s very modest of you, Doctor Hooper,’ Bannan smiled.

‘It’s the truth, that’s all.’

‘Indeed,’ Bannan said through the gritted teeth of his false smile. ‘Have a look at these,’ he told Hooper, throwing the polaroids from the Harter scene across his desk to her, making sure Hooper would have to lean forward to collect them. Hooper gathered them up and winced as she looked at the first of the starkly colourful pictures — a scene of abject cruelty and horror. Bannan let her study them for a few minutes in silence before speaking again, occasionally looking across at Sean who sat like a statue that threatened to burst into life and wreak havoc. ‘Seen anything like this before?’

It took a second or two before Hooper realized she was being spoken to. ‘Uhmm. Sorry, you said something?’

‘I said, have you seen anything like this before?’

‘Possibly,’ Hooper admitted, ‘but not the same — not exactly the same. I can tell you whoever did this is clearly in a state of rage. It’s early days, but I would say you are looking for a white male, between thirty and forty years old, probably local and …’

‘Slow down there a second,’ Bannan interrupted her. ‘I didn’t ask you to profile him, and just for the record you’re not telling me anything one of my DCs couldn’t. Now, I want you to think again — does this scene remind you of anything you’ve seen before?’

‘And I told you — similar, but not the same,’ Hooper insisted.

‘Similar to what — the Fordham murder scene?’

‘Yes, but not the same.’

‘In what way not the same?’ Bannan pushed.

‘This latest murder involved a child — the Fordham case did not.’

‘But apart from that?’

Hooper took a deep breath and answered with half-closed eyes. ‘Apart from that they are clearly very similar,’ she admitted.

‘Similar enough to have been committed by the same man?’ Bannan continued.

‘In my opinion, yes.’

‘Have you told anyone else about your opinion?’

‘No, Superintendent. This is the first chance I’ve had to compare the two cases properly.’

‘Then would you agree with me that Ian McCaig could have been an innocent man?’

‘I don’t know about that.’

‘But if these crimes were committed by the same man then he must be innocent,’ Bannan explained.

‘I wouldn’t know about that,’ Hooper replied.

‘But you told the Fordham Team McCaig was their man and now you need to admit that could have been a mistake.’

‘You don’t understand,’ Hooper pleaded.

‘Then explain it to me,’ Bannan demanded.

‘Look,’ Hooper began after a long pause, ‘I had an interest in history and an interest in criminology. I thought it would be fascinating to combine the two and compare famous cases from history to modern crimes. Before I knew it my work was being acclaimed as groundbreaking and I was even offered a publishing deal. Then I was approached by the police to assist in the Fordham case — offer what help I could.’

‘And so you agreed to?’

‘With strong reservations, yes.’

‘Reservations?’

‘My work — my theories — had never been subjected to a real investigation before. I was cautious.’

‘But you gave them McCaig’s profile? You told them he was the killer?’

‘No,’ Hooper insisted. ‘No I didn’t. I just gave them a profile of the type of person I thought they should be looking for. I never gave them a name.’

‘And once they started homing in on McCaig?’

‘They showed me his profile and I told them that in my opinion he was a viable suspect — that’s all.’

‘The Fordham Team say different. They say you told them McCaig was their man.’

‘Not true. I would never have done that. I never wanted that level of responsibility. I was just trying to help.’

Bannan studied her for a long time before speaking again. ‘Not a very pleasant experience, is it, Doctor Hooper, being caught out of your depth?’ She didn’t answer. ‘In the future I’d stick to clinical papers and books. You don’t belong in this world — in my world. Here, mistakes can lead to death. I don’t think you’d like to be responsible for that — would you, Doctor Hooper?’

Hooper stood and lifted her briefcase, heading towards the door. She turned back before leaving. ‘I was only trying to help,’ she told them, but neither man answered as they watched her disappear through the doorway.

Bannan exhaled deeply and sank back into his chair. ‘She wasn’t quite what I’d expected,’ he told Sean.

‘Why? What were you expecting?’ Sean asked.

‘A lot more arrogance and a lot less fear.’

‘She should still be answerable for her mistakes.’

‘Weren’t you listening, son? She never gave them McCaig as a suspect, she just didn’t say he wasn’t.’

‘So she says.’

‘Either way it doesn’t matter now. What’s done is done. McCaig is dead and no one wants to open that particular Pandora’s Box. Without some indisputable evidence to the contrary that case will stay closed.’

‘But we can find that evidence,’ Sean insisted. ‘There’s still time.’

‘Now’s not the time, son. Now’s not the time.’

‘I don’t understand.’

‘It’s politics, son. Right now we need to tuck you away somewhere out of sight. No one can touch me, but it’s best you’re not tainted by association. People in this job have long memories and a few egos are soon to be bruised, even if the Fordham case remains closed.’

‘But I can help with the investigation. I can help you find the man you’re looking for.’

‘You already have, son. You already have.’

Chapter Six

Two Days Later

Sean had just finished booking in his latest prisoner, a local dealer he’d caught with twenty neatly folded paper-packets of heroin concealed in the lining of his leather jacket — each containing five grams of the class ‘A’ drug. Sean planned to have him back out on the street within a few hours, working as an informant, but now he needed some lunch and headed for the canteen. As he strolled along the dreary corridors of Plumstead Police Station he heard a gruff voice he immediately recognized and stopped in his tracks.

‘Alright, son?’ He spun around to see Bannan leaning on a door-frame. ‘I’ve been looking for you,’ Bannan told him. ‘Got a minute?’

Sean walked back to Bannan before replying. ‘What’s the problem?’

‘Nothing,’ Bannan answered. ‘Please, step inside my new temporary office. I got thrown out of my last one — they needed it for the Crime Prevention Officer.’ Sean stepped past him into an office that was so small it was more like a cupboard. ‘Take a seat for a second.’ Sean did as he was told. ‘You need to know something. You were right — about the killer leaving a fingerprint at the Harter scene. I had Forensics go over the scene again — looking for prints they might have missed — gave them a subtle steer to the door-handle of the daughter’s bedroom and there it was, on the underside — a full print. If he’s got previous, and we both know he has, we should be able to identify him within a couple of weeks. The Yard’s gonna give us priority and put every spare hand on searching the archives. It’s as good as over, Sean, and you played your part.’

‘You said it could take a couple of weeks to identify the killer from the print?’

‘At least,’ Bannan explained. ‘It’s not a computerized system yet, son. It’s not like searching for a car registration on the PNC. They have to manually search through the microfiche — like looking for a needle in a haystack. But they’ll identify him.’

‘He could have killed again by then,’ Sean warned. ‘It’s too slow. We need to go back to the Fordham team again — make them hand over their evidence. The answer will be in there, I’m sure. We could have him in days, not weeks.’

‘Forget it, son. We tried. They didn’t want to play and there’s nothing we can do about it. Hooper was our last chance. If she’d been as critical to the investigation as we’d thought we could have made some headway, but she wasn’t and we won’t. It’ll all come out in the wash eventually. It always does.’

‘But what if he kills again — before we find him?’

‘Then we’ll feel shit, son, but nowhere near as shit as the Fordham investigation team will.’

‘And Hooper?’ Sean asked.

‘Hooper? Let’s just say I don’t think she’ll be entering our world again anytime soon.’

‘But there must be something we can do,’ Sean argued.

‘I’m afraid not,’ Bannan told him. ‘It’s politics, son. Always fucking politics.’

Three Weeks Later

Late Thursday afternoon and Sean sat in the noisy, busy Crime Squad Office at Plumstead, trying to block out the sounds of laughter and ringing telephones — the shouts across the room from cop to cop and the occasional profanity as someone opened up their emails containing the latest unrealistic, irrelevant CPS memos. Against the backdrop of havoc Sean was preparing his questions for the residential burglar he’d caught after two weeks of tracking until he’d been ready to make a calculated guess where the thief would strike next. As the burglar had made his way along a rat-run carrying the hi-fi system he’d just stolen, Sean had been ready for him — stepping out from behind an oversized industrial wheelie bin to bring the thief’s reign of domestic pillage to a premature end. ‘How the fuck did you know?’ was all the unfortunate thief had said so far. He suddenly heard his voice being shouted across the office and looked up from his interview notes. ‘Sean. Phone for you.’

‘Transfer it to four-four-nine-two-four,’ Sean shouted back and waited for the brown plastic phone on his shared desk to trill. When it did he answered it without delay. ‘Sean Corrigan speaking.’

‘Hello, son,’ the unmistakable voice of Charlie Bannan greeted him. ‘How’s life back on the Crime Squad?’

‘Alright,’ he answered without enthusiasm, keeping his voice low as he looked around the chaotic office, ‘but I’d rather be back on the Harter Enquiry.’

‘There’s no need,’ Bannan told him. ‘We have our man.’ Sean found himself involuntarily rising, as if his legs were controlled by Bannan’s words. ‘Fingerprints finally identified him from the print we found in the flat — some lunatic called Christopher Richards.’ Sean said nothing. ‘We arrested him this morning — he’s definitely our man — mad as a March hare. We’ll have him charged with the murders by tomorrow night.’

‘And the Rebecca Fordham murder?’

‘We don’t have any evidence to charge him with that and the Enquiry Team over at Wandsworth still don’t want to play — even now we have the man.’

‘But they must want to check him out — they must?’

‘Too many reputations pinned to Ian McCaig being guilty. Sorry, son.’

‘Then there’s nothing we can do?’

‘My advice — go and get drunk and try not to think about it. Besides, whether he’s ever convicted of killing Rebecca or not, he’ll spend the rest of his life behind bars.’

‘And McCaig?’ Sean asked. ‘What do we do about McCaig?’

‘Let’s just say you might want to watch this space on that one. There’s more than one way to skin a cat.’

‘I don’t follow.’

‘It means leave it with me.’

‘Understood.’

‘Good. You have an interesting gift, son. If you use it right it’ll help you — with your career. But it can be a curse too — if it controls you instead of you it. Know what I mean?’

‘Yeah,’ Sean assured him. ‘I know what you mean.’

‘Good,’ Bannan told him. ‘Now go and have that drink. And Sean.’

‘Yes?’

‘Thanks.’

Epilogue

November 2004

Detective Sergeant Sean Corrigan sat in the centre of the large office in Peckham Police Station scribbling out endless actions he’d soon be doling out to the detectives working alongside him on the latest case: a female TV presenter who appeared to have been murdered by an obsessed stranger — although Sean was already beginning to have his doubts. His mobile phone chirping and vibrating on his desk broke his concentration and made him curse. ‘For fuck’s sake.’ He checked the caller id — withheld — meaning it was probably police. ‘DS Corrigan.’

‘Sean Corrigan?’ the voice asked seriously, warning him this wouldn’t be a run-of-the-mill call.

‘That’s me,’ he answered. ‘Problem?’

‘Not exactly,’ the voice told him. ‘I’m Assistant Commissioner John Yates from The Murder Review Group, in charge of overhauling the Rebecca Fordham Murder Enquiry in the light of Ian McCaig’s conviction being quashed a couple of years ago.’

‘Yes,’ Sean encouraged him.

‘A Detective Chief Superintendent Bannan — retired — said you should be one of the first to know.’

‘To know what?’ Sean asked with increasing impatience.

‘That Christopher Richards has confessed to the murder of Rebecca Fordham.’ Sean felt suddenly dizzy — elation and excitement mixing with regrets and sadness. ‘We found a tiny trace of DNA on a swab taken from Rebecca — too small to match at the time, but not now. The DNA belonged to Richards. Also, Mr Bannan wanted me to be sure to tell you Richards had touched the doll. We found flakes of rust from an old toolbox from his home that matched flakes we found on the doll’s clothes when we re-examined them. Mr Bannan told me to tell you that you had been right — he did touch the doll.’

Sean swallowed hard before he could speak. ‘And Richards?’

‘Well as you know he’s currently being detained indefinitely in Broadmoor — I guess this will only add to the indefinitely. He’ll plead not guilty on grounds of diminished responsibility and we won’t be contesting it.’

‘No,’ Sean agreed. ‘I don’t suppose we will.’

Content

Luke Delaney
Redemption of the Dead

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Epilogue