‘Do you want the classic profile of the serial killer?’
She turned sharply from her spider plant, spilling a little water on the floor. ‘Is that what this is?’
‘I think so. This has been planned for a long time. All that was missing for the killer were the right victims.’
‘And if it is a God squadder we’re looking for a middle-aged male,’ nodded McMaster, ‘which rules out the Wallis boy.’
‘Why middle aged?’ asked Noble before he could stop himself.
‘Jason’s too young to be appalled by the moral cesspool of society,’ said Brook. ‘That’s more a function of my age group.’
‘Are you saying that whoever did this has picked the Wallis family out at random?’ Noble asked.
‘No. Our killer has sound reasons for wanting this family dead.’
‘Well,’ said Noble, deciding to risk humiliation in the hunt for brownie points, ‘if they weren’t selected at random, surely the killer must know the family, or some members of it.’
‘I don’t think so, John. He just thinks he does.’
‘This is idle speculation,’ rejoined McMaster, deciding she’d learned all she was going to learn. ‘I’m cancelling my course in Birmingham. I’ll be briefing the press this afternoon so I’ll need your CID/57’s as soon as possible. I think DS Noble has a point. I don’t like the idea of serial killings, Damen. This isn’t London.’
‘That’s what the Yorkshire Ripper team said. One of the reasons he was free to kill for years.’
‘Point taken,’ said McMaster, adopting her non-threatening, conciliatory body posture, ‘but I want all other avenues explored first. Use whatever resources you need. Bobby Wallis was a nasty piece of work–with previous. I want to know about enemies, neighbourhood feuds and so on. And check out this Mr Singh who found the bodies. Maybe he took his complaint about the noise too far. Maybe there was an argument about something. Who knows what people will do under stress? Have you run the MO through CATCHEM?’
CATCHEM, Central Analytical Team Collating Homicide Expertise and Management, a computer database introduced in 1992 which could build an identikit profile of any serial offender from the distinctive characteristics of the offence, one of the fruits of the review carried out after the Yorkshire Ripper debacle and an overdue response to the American violent crime profiling system, VICAP.
‘We will but it won’t yield anything new,’ said Brook.
‘Why so sure?’ she flashed back at him.
‘Because this isn’t a murder, it’s an execution. This family’s been punished.’ There was silence. Neither McMaster nor Noble understood his meaning and they waited for Brook to elaborate. He failed to take up their invitation. ‘Anything else, ma’am?’ he offered finally.
‘Yes. Be certain Jason Wallis is in the clear before you let him back into the community, assuming he has any living relatives. Better get someone onto Social Services come to think of it. Find out where he and the baby might go.’ Brook and Noble rose to leave. ‘And Inspector. You report directly to me on this. And only me.’
Brook nodded and ushered Noble out of the office. She knew. He could sense it in her demeanour. This was no domestic argument or spur of the moment killing. It was part of a series–the first as far as she was concerned. It made her uneasy, that was clear. And not just for the community at large. This could be a Godsend for the pack of hounds that dogged her every move.
Back in his office Brook drained his coffee and massaged his eyes. He reached for the envelope left by Noble and flicked it open.
The top picture showed the pathetic, spindly corpse of Kylie Wallis, marble white, sightless eyes. It caught Brook momentarily unprepared and he recoiled as though from a red hot poker. Careless. Being tired he’d forgotten to erect the shield around his emotions, as much a part of his daily routine as pulling on his trousers.
Once his feelings were correctly attired, he looked again and began to sift through the evidence, these peep shows of insanity, with the detachment of the automaton.
He paused over a photograph of the wine bottle before putting it on one side. Then he extracted and retained a couple of others. Noble entered with two cups of vending machine coffee.
‘We can land a spacecraft on Mars, John, but we still can’t create a machine to deliver a decent cup of coffee,’ Brook grimaced, as he sipped the frothy liquid. ‘Have you got a cigarette?’
‘I thought you’d quit.’
‘Cut down, John. There’s a difference.’
‘Just quit buying,’ Noble said with a playful grin. Brook decided to deliver the chuckle Noble required as payment and accepted the proffered cigarette, inhaling deeply even before Noble had extinguished his lighter.
‘Sir.’ Noble was suddenly uneasy. ‘I wanted to thank you…’–Brook glanced at Noble with a look of mild bemusement though he knew what was coming–‘…for not mentioning my cock-up last night.’ Brook smiled.
‘Forget it, John. It wasn’t your fault. You had good reason not to enter the crime scene, especially as another officer had told you there were no signs of life. I’m not sure I can be quite so forgiving with Aktar though. Tampering with the evidence is a very serious matter.’
‘What do you mean?’
Brook searched for the relevant photograph. ‘Remember the pizza, the Four Seasons? Look at it. What do you notice?’
‘Notice?’
‘Be boring and factual.’
Noble hesitated briefly, unsure of what was required of him. After a pause to verify Brook’s serious intent, Noble took a stab at it. ‘It’s a half-eaten…’
Brook raised an admonishing eyebrow to Noble who knew the signal well and corrected himself.
‘…partially-eaten pizza.’
‘Better.’
‘It’s had two pieces taken from it.’
‘Go on.’
Noble looked at a loss.
‘Describe the pieces, John.’
‘Well, one’s a triangle cut out of the ham and mushroom bit…’
‘Triangle,’ said Brook with heavy emphasis. Noble looked back at him, perplexed, trying not to laugh.
‘The other piece,’ Noble smiled suddenly, ‘is torn from the salami segment. This pizza could have been eaten by two different people. Presumably Jason Wallis tore a piece off…and someone else took the trouble to cut a slice. The killer?’ he said hopefully, before shaking his head the instant Brook shook his own. ‘Aktar. The…idiot,’ barked Noble with real venom, remembering to omit the adjective.
Brook decided not to string it out any longer. ‘And what happened to both of them?’
Noble nodded now. ‘They both collapsed. The pizzas were doctored in some way. That’s how the killer was able to cut the family’s throats without a struggle.’
‘Right.’
‘That’s why you asked me about Aktar’s weight. Jason’s just a skinny kid. He fell where he was eating, where there’s tomato sauce on the floor, but the drug would take longer to be