If he has any criminal record at all, it is likely to be a juvenile one. Possible offences include: vandalism, minor arson, stealing, cruelty to younger children or animals, assault on teachers. However, somewhere along the line, our killer has learned enormous self-control, and he’s unlikely to have an adult record.
He will keep abreast of the investigation as much as possible, and will thrive on publicity as long as it appears to accord him the glamour and respect he craves. It is interesting that Adam Scott’s grave was desecrated shortly after the second murder. This may have been an attempt to raise the profile of his crimes. He is possibly someone who has contacts with police officers, and if he does, he will endeavour to use this to gain information about the progress of the investigation. Any officer who feels they are being pumped in this way should be encouraged to report it to senior officers in the murder squad.
Tony saved his file and read the whole thing through again. Some of the psychologists he’d worked with incorporated great slabs of background about the likely childhood background of the killer, as well as a checklist of behaviours that the killer would possibly have exhibited when he was growing up. Not Tony. There was time enough for that sort of information once there was a suspect ripe for interrogation. Tony never forgot that he was dealing with coppers who were out there at the sharp end. Men like Tom Cross, who didn’t give a toss what kind of hideous childhood their suspect had endured.
Thinking of Tom Cross sharpened Tony’s critical eye. Convincing him of the value of the profile was going to be a nightmare.
The first edition of the Bradfield Evening Sentinel Times hit the street just before noon. The eager searchers after flats, jobs and bargains snatched the first copies from the street vendors without even looking at the front page. They turned straight to the section of small ads that they hoped would meet their needs, holding the front and back pages up to the advantage of passers-by. Anyone curious enough to glance at the banner headlines on the front page would have discovered ‘MURDER HUNT BOSS DUMPED. Exclusive, by our Crime Correspondent, Penny Burgess.’ Further down the page, the bottom right-hand quarter was taken up with a photograph of Tony, saying, ‘MURDER COPS FOLLOW BEST LEAD. Exclusive by Penny Burgess.’ If they’d been intrigued enough to buy their own copy, they could have read a sub-headline saying, ‘Top shrink we chose joins Queer Killer hunt, see story p. 3.’
In an office high above the bustling streets of Bradfield, a murderer stared at the paper, excitement churning inside. Things were working out beautifully. It was as if the police were acting out the killer’s own fantasies, proving that wishes do come true.
FROM 3½″ DISK LABELLED: BACKUP.007; FILE LOVE.012
The world was out in the city streets, buying Christmas presents they’d still be paying for at Easter, the fools. I was in my dungeon, making sure I would have a Christmas I’d never forget. Even though it was to be Gareth’s last on this earth, I was sure every detail of it would be as clearly etched on his memory as it was going to be on my video tape.
I’d arranged our meeting with all the care and precision I could. The advent of the bitch meant I couldn’t take the chance of capturing him at home as I’d done with Adam and Paul. I’d had to make alternative plans.
I sent him an invitation. I reasoned that Christmas Eve would be spoken for, either by family or by the bitch, so I chose December 23rd. I couched it in terms I knew he wouldn’t be able to resist and that he’d never dare show the bitch. The final sentence read, ‘Admission by invitation only.’ A clever touch, that. It meant he’d have to bring with him the only evidence of contact between us.
The directions on the back led, if he cared to check it out in advance, to an isolated holiday cottage high up on the moors between Bradfield and the Yorkshire Dales; the opposite side of the city to Start Hill Farm and my dungeon. I anticipated that the cottage would be let over Christmas. But I had no intention of allowing Gareth to get that far.
It was a Christmas-cliché sort of night; bone-white crescent moon, stars twinkling like diamond chips on a cocktail watch, grass and hedgerows heavy with rime. I pulled over on to the verge of the single-track moorland road that led up to the holiday cottage and a couple of farms. In the distance, I could see the dual carriageway leading into Bradfield like a ribbon of fairy lights strung across the Pennines.
I turned on my hazard lights, got out of the jeep and opened the bonnet. I placed what I needed near at hand, then I leaned against the front wing and waited. It was freezing, but I didn’t care. I’d calculated well. I’d only been waiting for about five minutes when I heard the sound of an engine straining up the steep incline. The lights swung round the bend below me and I stepped out, waving furiously, looking frozen and worried.
Gareth’s elderly Escort stopped abruptly in front of the jeep. I took a couple of hesitant steps towards him as he opened the door and got out. ‘Some kind of a problem?’ he asked. ‘I’m afraid I know next to nothing about cars, but if I can maybe give you a lift …?’
I smiled. ‘Thanks for stopping,’ I said. There was no flicker of recognition in his face as he drew nearer. I hated him for that.
I stepped back towards the jeep, gesturing under the bonnet. ‘It’s not a big problem,’ I said. ‘Only, I need three hands. If you can just hold this part in place so I can get a spanner on this nut …’ I pointed into the engine. Gareth leaned over the bonnet. I picked up the spanner and let him have it.
Within five minutes, he was trussed tighter than a turkey in the boot of his own car. I had his car keys, his wallet and the invitation I’d sent him. I drove back down through the city to the farm, where I dumped the unconscious body unceremoniously down the cellar steps. I didn’t have time to do any more then, not if I was going to get back to the jeep.
I drove Gareth’s car into the centre of Bradfield, leaving it in Temple Fields in a back alley off Crompton Gardens. Nobody noticed me; they were all too busy partying. It was a mere ten minutes’ walk across town to the railway station.
A twenty-minute train ride and a brisk fifteen-minute walk brought me back to the jeep. Cautiously, I approached. There was no sign of life, no suggestion that anyone had been poking around. I drove back to Start Hill Farm whistling ‘Hark The Herald Angels Sing’.
When I switched the cellar light on, Gareth’s dark-grey eyes flashed angry fire at me. I liked that. After the pathetic terror of Adam and Paul, it was refreshing to see a man who had some guts. The muffled sound that came from behind the tape on his mouth was more like an angry grunt than a plea.
I stooped over him and stroked his hair back from his forehead. At first, he jerked away from me, then he became calm and still, calculation in his eyes. ‘That’s more like it,’ I said. ‘No need to fight, no need to resist.’
He nodded, then grunted, signalling down towards his gag with his eyes. I kneeled beside him and picked at one corner of the surgical tape. Once I had a good grip, I ripped it free in one swift movement. It’s kinder than doing it gradually.
Gareth worked his jaw, licking his dry lips. He glared at me. ‘Some fucking party,’ he snarled, his voice a little shaky.
‘It’s exactly what you deserve,’ I said.
‘How the fuck do you work that out?’ he demanded.
‘You were meant for me. But you took up with that slag. And you tried to keep it a secret.’
Light dawned in his eyes. ‘You’re …’ he started.