By the time she’d reached this conclusion, Brandon was by her side, gesturing to his companion to join them. ‘Carol,’ he said.
‘Mr Brandon,’ she acknowledged.
‘Tony, I’d like you to meet Detective Inspector Carol Jordan. Carol, this is Dr Tony Hill from the Home Office.’
Tony smiled and held out his hand. Attractive smile, Carol added to her list of particulars as she shook the hand. Good handshake, too. Dry, firm without the macho need to crush the bones that so many senior officers exhibited. ‘Pleased to meet you,’ he said.
A surprisingly deep voice, faintly northern. Carol kept her own smile tight. You never knew with the Home Office. ‘Likewise,’ she said.
‘Carol’s heading up one of the murder teams we’ve got on these killings. Number two, is it, Carol?’ Brandon asked, already knowing the answer.
‘That’s right, sir. Paul Gibbs.’
‘Tony’s in charge of the Home Office National Crime Profiling Task Force feasibility study. I’ve asked him to take a look at these murders, to see if his experience can give us any pointers.’ Brandon’s eyes bored into Carol’s, making sure she realized there were lines to be read between.
‘I’d appreciate any help Dr Hill can give us, sir. From the brief look I’ve had at the scene of the crime, I don’t think we’ve got any more to go on than in the previous similar cases.’ Carol signalled that she understood what Brandon was saying. They were both walking the same tightrope, but from different ends. Brandon could not be seen to undermine Tom Cross’s operational authority, and if Carol wanted a tolerable existence in the Bradfield force, she couldn’t openly contradict her immediate superior, even if the ACC agreed with her. ‘Would Dr Hill like to see the crime scene?’
‘We’ll all have a look,’ Brandon said. ‘You can fill me in as we go. What have we got here?’
Carol led the way. ‘It’s in the back yard of the pub here. The scene of crime is obviously not the scene of death. No blood at all. We have a white male, late twenties, naked. ID unknown. He appears to have been tortured before death. Both shoulders seem to have been dislocated, and possibly his hips and knees. Some tufts of hair are missing from the scalp. He’s lying on his front, so we’ve not had a chance to see the full extent of his injuries. I’d guess the cause of death is a deep wound to the throat. It also looks like the body had been washed before it was dumped.’ Carol ended her flat recitation at the yard gate. She glanced back at Tony. The only difference her words had made was a tightening of his lips. ‘Ready?’ she asked him.
He nodded and took a deep breath. ‘As I’ll ever be,’ he said.
‘Stay outside the tapes please, Tony,’ Brandon said. ‘The SOCOs will still have a lot to do, and they don’t need us dumping forensic traces all over their murder scene.’
Carol opened the gate and waved the two of them through. If Tony had thought her words had prepared him for the sight inside, one look told him otherwise. It was grotesque, made all the more so by the unnatural absence of blood. Logic screamed that a body so broken should be an island in a lake of gore, like an ice cube in a Bloody Mary. He had never seen a corpse so clean outside a funeral parlour. But instead of being laid out calm as a marble statue, this body was twisted into a loose-limbed parody of the human frame, a disjointed puppet left lying where it fell when the strings were cut.
When the two men entered the yard, the police photographer stopped snapping and gave John Brandon a nod of recognition. ‘All right, Harry,’ Brandon said, seemingly undaunted by the sight before him. No one could see the hands clenched into tight fists in the pockets of his waxed jacket.
‘I’ve done all the long-and medium-range stuff, Mr Brandon. I’ve just got the close-ups to go,’ the photographer said. ‘There’s a lot of wounds and bruising; I want to make sure I’ve got it all.’
‘Good lad,’ Brandon said.
From behind them, Carol added, ‘Harry, when you’ve done that, can you snap all the cars parked up in the immediate area?’
The photographer raised his eyebrows. ‘The lot?’
‘The lot,’ Carol confirmed.
‘Good thinking, Carol,’ Brandon chipped in before the scowling photographer could say anything more. ‘There’s always the outside chance that me laddo left the scene on foot or in the victim’s car. He might have left his here to collect later. And photographs are that much harder for the defence brief to argue with than a bobby’s notebook.’
With a sharp snort of breath, the photographer turned back to the corpse. The brief exchange had given Tony time to get a grip on his churning stomach. He took a step closer to the body, trying to glean some primitive understanding of the mind that had reduced a man to this. ‘What’s your game?’ he said inside his head. ‘What does this mean to you? What translations are going on between this broken flesh and your desire? I thought I was the expert in keeping things battened down, but you’re something else, aren’t you? You are truly special. You’re the control freak’s control freak. You are going to be one of the ones they write books about. Welcome to the big time.’
Recognizing that he was dangerously close to admiration for a mind so disturbingly complex, Tony forced himself to focus on the realities of what lay before him. The deep slash to the throat had virtually decapitated the man, leaving the head tilted as if hinged at the back of the neck. Tony took a deep breath and said, ‘The
Sentinel Times
said they all died from having their throats cut. Is that right?’
‘Yes,’ Carol said. ‘They were all tortured while they were still alive, but it’s the throat wounds that have been fatal in each case.’
‘And have they all been as deep as this?’
Carol shook her head dubiously. ‘I’m only completely familiar with the second case, and that was nowhere near as violent a gash as this. But I have seen the photographs of the other two, and the last one was nearly this bad.’
Thank God for something recognizably textbook, Tony thought. He took a couple of steps back and scanned the area. The body aside, there was nothing to distinguish it from the back yard of any other pub. Crates of empties were stacked against the walls, the lids on the big industrial wheelie bins were firmly closed. Nothing obvious taken away, nothing obvious left behind except for the corpse itself.
Brandon cleared his throat. ‘Well, everything seems to be under control here, Carol. I’d better go and have a word with the press. I saw Penny Burgess trying to rip the sleeve out of your coat when I got here. No doubt the rest of the pack are baying at her heels by now. I’ll see you back at HQ later. Drop by my office. I want to have a chat with you about Dr Hill’s involvement. Tony, I’ll leave you in Carol’s capable hands. When you’re finished here, maybe you can arrange a session with Carol so she can go through the case files.’
Tony nodded. ‘Sounds good. Thanks, John.’
‘I’ll be in touch. And thanks again.’ With that, Brandon was gone, closing the gate behind him.
‘You do profiling, then,’ Carol said.
‘I try,’ he said cautiously.
‘Thank God the powers that be have finally seen sense,’ she said drily. ‘I was beginning to think they’d never get round to admitting we’ve got a serial killer on our hands.’
‘You and me both,’ Tony said. ‘I was worried after the first one, but I’ve been convinced since the second one.’
‘And I suppose it’s not your place to tell them that,’ Carol said wearily. ‘Bloody bureaucracy.’
‘It’s a sensitive point. Even when we have a national task force set up, I suspect we’re still going to have to wait for the individual police forces to come to us.’
Carol’s reply was cut off by the banging of the yard gate as it was thrown open. They both swung round. Framed in the doorway was one of the biggest men Tony had ever seen. He had the solid brawn of a prop forward run to seed, his beer gut preceding his massive shoulders by a good half-dozen inches. His eyes protruded like boiled gooseberries from a fleshy face, the source of Detective Superintendent Tom Cross’s nickname. His mouth, like that of his cartoon namesake, was an incongruously small cupid’s bow. Mousey hair fringed a bald spot like a monk’s tonsure. ‘Sir,’ Carol greeted the apparition.
Pale eyebrows furled in a discontented scowl. Judging by the deep lines between his brows, it was a familiar expression. ‘Who the bloody hell are you?’ he demanded, waving a stubby finger at Tony. Automatically, Tony noted the bitten nail. Before he could respond, Carol spoke smartly. ‘Sir, this is Dr Tony Hill from the Home Office. He’s responsible for the National Crime Profiling Task Force feasibility study. Dr Hill, this is Detective Superintendent Tom Cross. He’s in overall charge of our murder enquiries.’
The second half of Carol’s introduction was drowned out by Cross’s booming response. ‘What the hell are you up to, woman? This is a murder scene. You don’t let any old Tom, Dick or Home Office penpusher walk all over it.’
Carol closed her eyes fractionally longer than a blink. Then she said in a voice whose cheerful tone astonished Tony, ‘Sir, Mr Brandon brought Dr Hill with him. The ACC thinks Dr Hill can help us profile our killer.’
‘What d’you mean, killer? How many times do I have to tell you? We’ve not got a serial killer loose in Bradfield. We’ve just got a nasty bunch of copycat queers. You know what the trouble is with you fast-track graduates?’ Cross demanded, aggressively leaning towards Carol.
‘I’m sure you’ll tell me, sir,’ Carol said sweetly.
Cross stopped momentarily, with the slightly baffled air of a dog who can hear the fly but can’t see it. Then he said, ‘You’re all desperate for glory. You want glamour and headlines. You don’t want the bother of proper coppering. You can’t be arsed grafting on three murder enquiries so you try to knock ’em all into one to minimize the effort and maximize the press coverage. And you,’ he added, wheeling round towards Tony. ‘You can remove yourself from my crime scene right now. The last thing we need is bleeding-heart liberals telling us we’re looking for some poor sod who wasn’t allowed to have a teddy bear when he were a lad. It’s not mumbo jumbo that catches villains, it’s police work.’
Tony smiled. ‘I couldn’t agree more, Superintendent. But your Assistant Chief Constable seems to think that I can help you target your police work more effectively.’
Cross was too old a hand to fall for civility. ‘I run the most effective team in this force,’ he retorted. ‘And I don’t need some bloody doctor telling me how to catch a bunch of homicidal poofters.’ He turned back to Carol. ‘Escort
Doctor
Hill off the premises, Inspector.’ He managed to make her rank sound like an insult. ‘And when you’ve done that, you can come back here and fill me in on what you’ve managed to find out about our last killer.’
‘Very good, sir. Oh, by the way, you might like to join the ACC. He’s giving an impromptu press conference round the front.’ This time, the sweetness was tinged with acerbity.
Cross gave a perfunctory glance at the body lying exposed in the yard. ‘Well,
he
’s not going any place, is he?’ he remarked. ‘Right, Inspector, I’ll expect a report just as soon as I’ve finished with the ACC and the press.’ He turned on his heel and stormed out as noisily as he’d arrived.
Carol put a hand on Tony’s elbow and steered him out of the gate. ‘This is going to be worth seeing,’ she muttered in his ear as she ushered him down the alley in Cross’s wake.
Half a dozen reporters had joined Penny Burgess behind the yellow plastic tapes. John Brandon faced them. As they grew closer, they could hear the cacophony of questions the press were hurling at the ACC. Carol and Tony hung back as Cross pushed past a constable standing at Brandon’s shoulder and shouted, ‘One at a time, ladies and gentlemen. You’ll all get heard.’
Brandon half turned towards Cross, his face expressionless. ‘Thank you, Superintendent Cross.’
‘Have we got a serial killer loose in Bradfield?’ Penny Burgess demanded, her voice cutting through the momentary quiet like the cry of some bird of ill omen.
‘There’s no reason to suppose…’ Cross started.
Brandon cut across him icily. ‘Leave this to me, Tom,’ he said. ‘As I said a moment ago, this afternoon we have found the body of a white male in his late twenties or early thirties. It’s too soon to be one hundred per cent certain, but there are indications that this killing may be connected to three previous homicides that have taken place in Bradfield over the last nine months.’
‘Does that mean you’re treating these murders as the work of one serial killer?’ asked a young man with a tape recorder thrust forward like a cattle prod.
‘We are examining the possibility that one perpetrator is responsible for all four crimes, yes.’
Cross looked as if he wanted to hit someone. His hands were bunched into fists at his sides, his brows so low they must have cut his vision to a slit. ‘Though it’s only a possibility at this stage,’ he said mutinously.
Penny chipped in ahead of the opposition again. ‘How will this affect your approach to the investigation, Mr Brandon?’
‘As of today, we will be amalgamating the three previous murder enquiries with this latest one into a single major incident task force. We will be making full use of the Home Office Large Major Enquiry System computer to analyse the available data, and we are confident that this will enable us to develop new leads,’ Brandon said, his lugubrious face belying the optimism in his voice.
‘Yo, go for it,’ Carol muttered under her breath.
‘Haven’t you left it a bit late? Hasn’t the murderer had a head start because you wouldn’t acknowledge he was a serial killer?’ a voice from the rear of the pack shouted angrily.
Brandon squared his shoulders and looked stern. ‘We’re policemen, not clairvoyants. We don’t theorize ahead of the evidence. Rest assured, we will be doing everything within our power to bring this killer to justice as swiftly as is humanly possible.’
‘Will you be using a psychological profiler?’ It was Penny Burgess again. Tom Cross shot Tony a look of pure hatred.
Brandon smiled. ‘That’s all for now, ladies and gentlemen. There will be a statement later from the force press office. Now, if you’ll excuse us, we’ve got a lot of work to do.’ He nodded benevolently towards the press, then he turned away, taking Cross firmly by the elbow. They walked back towards the alley, Cross’s back rigid with fury. Carol and Tony followed a few paces behind. As they went, Penny Burgess’s voice rang out behind them. ‘Inspector Jordan? Who’s the new boy?’