TORN (18 page)

‘Mr Optimistic,’ Kennedy said. ‘Maybe our blue-eyed boy from the UK will help us out,’ he added, glowering. ‘Word is, someone flew in this morning. Chances are that’s why O’Brien called us in today. Wants us all lined up like good boys and girls to greet the new class pupil.’

Just then Jenkins arrived with their coffees, doing his best to avoid staring at Reilly.

‘Good man, set ’em down here,’ Kennedy commanded, pointing towards the edge of the desk.

The younger officer did as he was bid, but handed the third cup to Reilly directly. ‘Here you are, Miss Steel. Black, no sugar, the way you like it.’

She took the coffee, and gave him the benefit of her best Californian smile. ‘That’s right. Thank you very much.’

He flushed brightly before hurrying away.

‘Why so suspicious?’ Reilly asked Kennedy. ‘He could be great. Or she, even.’

Chris couldn’t help but grin. ‘Jesus, do you want to give him a heart attack altogether? It took him long enough to get used to having you around.’

‘You’re telling me.’ She rolled her eyes. ‘I don’t know,’ she added mischievously, ‘I quite like the idea of another girl to even things up around here.’

‘I give up,’ Kennedy said, standing up and bringing his paper coffee cup with him. ‘Come on – O’Brien’s waiting. Let’s get this over with.’

They were barely through the door of the conference room before Inspector O’Brien started the introductions. ‘Meet Reuben Knight from the Scotland Yard Behavioural Unit,’ he said, before introducing each of the task force members in turn.

Reilly’s first impression was that the profiler was undeniably attractive, in that well-bred, English gentry kind of way, being clean-cut, tall and slim. Reuben Knight’s build was similar to Chris’s, but with a more refined fitness to it, and she guessed he was slightly older too, perhaps mid-forties.

He was dressed in a dark green corduroy suit, an extravagantly patterned silk scarf around his neck. It was something that might look ridiculous on another man, yet Knight carried it off perfectly. His hair was set with a Superman-style quiff at the front, his nails clearly saw the regular service of a manicurist, and as he moved across the room to greet them, he trailed the scent of high-end aftershave behind him.

‘Ah, the dynamic trio … So pleased to meet you,’ he said, unleashing a thousand-kilowatt smile that put Reilly’s best Californian grin in the shade.  He turned and looked directly at her. ‘And the famous Ms Steel, or should I say infamous?’ he added crypically, while Reilly tried to figure out what he was referring to, hoping it was merely her professional reputation. The guy was blissfully unaware of the reaction his impending arrival had been getting, and while she returned his effusive handshake, she noticed
how Chris and Kennedy both took their time sizing him up before acknowledging him.

‘How’s it going?’ Chris said eventually, while Kennedy just nodded stiffly and continued to look suspicious. 

Greetings dispensed with, Reuben flung himself down into an empty chair in the large conference room – at the head of the table, Reilly noted – and looked around.  

‘Let’s get this over with,’ O’Brien commanded. ‘Now we all know why Mr Knight is here, don’t we? To help us get on with catching the madman who’s giving us sleepless nights.’

‘Indeed.’ Reuben inched his chair closer to Reilly’s. ‘I know it’s ungentlemanly to say so,’ he muttered softly, ‘but I couldn’t help but notice the dark circles beneath those iridescent blue eyes.’

She shifted in her seat. ‘Erm, thanks, I think.’

‘Steel, can you give Mr Knight an overview of the investigation so far?’ O’Brien directed.

‘Of course.’ She withdrew her laptop from its case and set about connecting it to the overhead projector.

‘Wait just a moment.’ Reuben quickly patted down his jacket.  Then reaching beneath his chair, he picked up a leather Mulberry manbag and began rummaging through it. Reilly saw Chris and Kennedy exchange glances.

‘Need a pen?’ she asked, handing him a plastic Bic.

Reuben looked at it as if she’d just offered him a stick of dynamite. ‘No, thank you, I’m sure my Mont Blanc is in here somewhere …’ He continued to search for a little while longer until finally locating the elusive fountain pen, a look of deep satisfaction on his face as he produced it. ‘Aha, here we are.’ He nodded at Reilly. ‘Please proceed.’

She turned to her laptop, and tapped the mouse to bring the screen to life. A photograph appeared on the screen at the far end of the room – Crowe, frozen solid in a bath full of ice. His face was flecked with white, arms resting on the sides of the bath as though he was relaxing at the end of a hard day.

Reuben grimaced. ‘Oh my goodness, that’s awful, unforgivable …  Why on earth would anyone think of wearing a turtleneck with that jacket?’

.‘You might want to show a little respect there,’ Kennedy scowled. ‘Crowe was an ex-cop, an old friend.’

The profiler raised an eyebrow. ‘Well, I suppose that explains the awful dress sense then,’ he added, and Reilly glanced towards O’Brien, wondering what the older cop was making of Knight. However, the chief seemed unaffected by the profiler’s comments, and was obviously much more interested in making headway in the investigation.

Knight was certainly like no profiler she’d ever met before. Most of them, like Daniel, were more solemn, brooding types, whereas Reuben seemed as flamboyant as a Mardi Gras parade.

She smiled to herself. This guy and Kennedy … it was bound to be fun.

They all turned back to look at the screen. A succession of shots of the abandoned meat-packing plant scrolled across it: the skeletal machinery, the dusty floors. Reuben scribbled some notes on a pad as he watched the photos. ‘Any idea how the killer got him in the bathtub?’

Reilly shook her head. ‘Not for sure, but I have a theory.’

‘Do tell,’ Reuben smiled winningly at her, and winked. ‘I hear you have great ideas.’

‘The second victim—’

‘Wait!’  He held up an imperious hand. ‘I only want to hear about one victim at a time. Just tell me what you think happened to this …’ he peered down at his notes, ‘… this Crowe.’

Reilly nodded. ‘OK. As you can see, he was a big guy – at least seventeen stone – so it would have been quite a struggle to get him in there.’

Reuben nodded, and gestured for her to continue.

‘We found some wheel tracks in the dust at the plant, leading from the back door to the freezer room. I believe Crowe was bound with duct tape, then wheeled in on a trolley – like the loading trolleys delivery men and house movers use.’

‘Good find, Steel,’ O’Brien put in.

‘Yes. Genius,’ Reuben agreed, but Reilly couldn’t be sure if he meant it or was merely poking fun at her observations. He scribbled some more notes, then looked up again. ‘Then the killer dumped him in the bath, filled it with water, and left him to freeze to death?’

‘That’s what it looks like.’

He nodded, wrote something else. ‘Tell me about the plant. How long had it been closed?’

‘Ten years,’ Chris said.

Reuben turned his gaze towards him. ‘Ah, Detective Delaney. A “just the facts” detective, I take it?’  He thought for a moment. ‘Tell me, Detective, was the power to the building switched off?’

Chris nodded. ‘Apparently so.’

‘So the killer had to reconnect the power in order to get the freezer working?’

‘Yes.’

‘Quite a lot of work …’  He gazed at his notes for a moment. ‘And I suppose that when the body was found, every light in the building had been turned on?’

Kennedy scowled at him, suspicious. ‘How did you know that?’

Reuben gave an unctuous smile. ‘I deduced it by thinking, Detective Kennedy.  You should try it.’ Reilly’s mouth dropped open, and just when she expected Kennedy to launch himself at Reuben, he turned back to her. ‘OK, bored with number one. What about the second one?’

‘Ah …’ She hesitated distractedly, waiting for Kennedy or even Chris to kick off – she guessed they were both silently fuming at Knight – but the presence of O’Brien seemed to be keeping them in check. She guessed that the profiler didn’t actually intend to be disrespectful; it was merely another facet of his rather strange character. Ironic that those who were experts on the technical aspects of human psychology often had little grasp of the most basic social niceties.

‘The second victim was an investigative journalist, Tony Coffey,’ she told him.

‘Show me.’

The picture on the screen changed – images of the abandoned building replaced by Coffey’s bloated, purple face, floating on a bed of brown effluent.

‘Ugh, even more disgusting than the first one,’ Knight shrieked, aghast. ‘Where was this?’

‘Family home, septic tank,’ Kennedy informed him flatly. ‘Drowned in his own shite, how about that?’  He clearly took relish in Knight’s expression of disgust as he looked at the picture of Coffey’s bloated corpse.

Reilly tapped her laptop again. Coffey’s face was replaced by several shots of the house, the garden, and the turned-over ground around the septic tank.

Reuben resumed writing, then looked briefly at Reilly. ‘Secluded rural location?’

She nodded.

‘And he was missing for a couple of days before the body was dumped?’

‘Two days,’ Reilly informed him. ‘But no one knew because he was supposed to be away on a business trip.’

Reuben made another scribble. ‘And the day the body was … deposited in the septic tank – where was everyone, the family, whoever?’

‘Wife was at her regular Wednesday afternoon bridge club, the PA has Wednesdays off,’ answered Chris.

Reuben thought for a moment. ‘So everything was very predictable, everyone kept to their schedule, and the house was empty?’

‘That’s about the sum of it.’

‘Again, the killer made sure he was found quickly,’ Reilly said, explaining about the pipe blockage in the tank, although she decided not to mention iSPI’s assistance in helping her uncover this. Something told her Reuben wouldn’t be impressed.

Reuben nodded thoughtfully. ‘What about the bobby?’ he asked. ‘How long from his disappearance until the body was discovered?’

‘We’re not sure about Crowe,’ Chris admitted. ‘The wife said he came and went at odd hours; she often didn’t know when he’d be back.’

‘But she hadn't seen him for a day or two when he turned up dead?’

Chris nodded. ‘Right.’

‘Show me the third one.’

Reilly obliged, shuddering afresh at the grim tableau that was Dr George Jennings hung from a hawthorn tree with his innards hanging out. Reuben Knight seemed suitably affected too.

‘We think the perpetrator used a hoist to get him up there, then slashed open his torso and let the crows and magpies do the rest.’

‘Magpies?’ Reuben looked pensive, and Reilly looked at him.

‘Yes, is that significant?’

He nodded slowly. ‘Perhaps, perhaps, but let’s not run away with ourselves just yet. First, just let me observe – digest, if you will – these first broad-stroke impressions.’

The room fell silent as Reuben sat there, and Reilly resisted the urge to smile. This guy really was something.

Finally Kennedy spoke up. ‘We’re still working on the idea that all the killings may be connected but—’

Reuben gave him a look that was beyond condescending; it was almost one of pity. ‘My dear Detective, they are as inextricably connected as Tristan and Isolde, as Anna Karenina and Count Vronsky, as—’

Kennedy stared back, baffled.  ‘Who?’

The profiler gave a deep sigh, as again Reilly tried to stifle a grin. ‘Never mind … Yes, Detective, the killer is definitely one and the same person.’

Kennedy furrowed his brows. He wasn’t going to give up without a fight.  ‘How can you be so sure?’

‘How can I be sure?’ Reuben looked almost insulted. He raised an eyebrow and turned again to Reilly. ‘Ms Steel, tell me your brain is as sharp as your looks are exquisite.’

Ignoring his flattery, she nodded slowly. ‘Meticulously planned murders, no effort too great, lots of research on the victims needed, the method of dispatch excessive, grotesque even? And in all three instances he ensured the body was found quickly after the murder.’

Reuben gave a little round of mock applause. ‘Bravo for the lady in the very sexy McQueen skirt.’ He gave her a little wink that made her skin break out with goose bumps, and then turned back to look at the others. ‘Gentlemen, we do indeed have a serial killer in our midst.’

He leaned forwards, his eyes fixed on a point in the ceiling, gently stroking one hand across the other, as though conducting an imaginary orchestra in his head. 

Despite herself, Reilly couldn’t take her eyes off of him.

He rolled the cap back onto his fountain pen, and slipped it into the inside pocket of his jacket. ‘He has struck three times, but there will be more, I’ll wager.’ He paused for a moment, making sure his audience were coming along with him. ‘These are intricately planned murders, all calling out for attention. He wants us to know he’s killing these people.’

‘But does he want to be caught?’ O’Brien grunted.