Perfect Intentions: Sometimes justice is above the law (16 page)

“He’s missing his ring finger.”

Henson pulled a small, sealed bag out of his jacket pocket, and held up the evidence bag to Holt.

“A cigarette lighter? To cauterize the wound, I assume.”

“Looks like it. It was found over by the door. Before they knocked out Robert Hollister he mentioned he’d found it, obviously he had picked it up, so we’ll need to get his fingerprints so we can rule him out.”

“I very much doubt we’ll find anything of any real use on it anyway. The killer’s been very methodical up to now, and I wouldn’t be surprised if it’d been left there to taunt us. Let’s face it: he’s miles ahead of us at the moment”

“Can I take that as a direct quote, Detective Inspector?” The voice was loud in the room and the arrogant mocking tone was one that could only belong to a certain type of person—press.

“What the
hell
are the press doing here?” Holt whispered angrily under his breath.

“Get them out now, and get these bodies covered up until they’re gone. That’s all we bloody well need.” Henson went to make a move and felt a hand clutch his arm.

“Confiscate everything they’ve got—cameras, notepads, tape recorders, anything—and warn them that if any of this finds its way into any of their shit rag papers tomorrow, I’ll be round with warrants for their arrests.”

“What for, Inspector?”

“Jeopardising an on-going investigation, trespassing, and whatever else I damn well feel like. Now go.”

It took little under twenty minutes to completely rid the farm of reporters. Once it was clear, Holt allowed the removal of the bodies.

“I want them back at the station and ready for identification as soon as possible, no need to draw that out any longer than necessary.”

Henson nodded.

“Ring me when they’re ready. I’ll go and collect Mrs Hamilton myself.”

Holt turned and headed back to his car. Dennis Grant marched up to Henson, who was watching Holt’s retreating back.

“And where does he think he’s going?”

Henson turned to look at Dennis Grant, whose mouth was still open.

“I didn’t like to ask.”

Holt had spoken to Loretta to let her know he was on his way, and, for the first time in a long time, Holt felt the urge to smile when she answered the door.

“I’m sorry to turn up like this.”

“It isn’t a problem, go through and make yourself comfortable. The kettle’s just boiled. Is instant ok with you?”

“Yes, instant would be just fine.”

Holt walked through into the living room and sat down.

Loretta brought the coffees in, and passing one to Holt she sat down and waited for him to start. Holt thanked her for the coffee and let out a long sigh.

“Honestly, Loretta, what’s wrong with the world?”

Loretta sat patiently, waiting for him to continue.

“This town’s being torn apart and all I seem to be able to do is watch. You know where I’ve just come from?
A double murder scene. Two men—well, one man and one boy trussed up like a Christmas ham. I mean, here we are, trying to get into the mind-set of the killer, and the more I see the more I realise I just don’t want to. Who wants to be able to understand the kind of insanity that’s been happening recently?”

“Well, that’s what criminal profiling is about—understanding the motives so as to anticipate the next move.”

Holt nodded.

“I know, I understand the principle, but I’m going to have to accompany two women to identify their loved ones later on today. What am I going to tell them? We don’t even know why they were chosen as victims, much less have any potential suspects.”

“Do we know the cause of the deaths yet?”

“No, not yet, we’re going to have to wait on the results of the post mortems.”

“Well, once you know the results, you can always come back here and we can discuss them.”

“Thanks, I do appreciate all your help, but to be honest you’ve done enough, and besides, with more bodies turning up…” Holt left the sentence hanging, so Loretta finished it for him.

“You are going to be under the microscope.”

“Not helped by the fact that the press seem to be getting extra information from somewhere.”

“Extra information?”

“Well, I’m not entirely sure what they know or where they’re getting it from, but let’s just say I’m going to be under very close scrutiny and the last thing I need is certain factions questioning my competence.”

“Understood. Well, I wish I could have helped more, but you’re right, it’s probably best if you keep your distance for now, if only for your reputation.”

“Thank you for all your help, and not just with the case; to be honest I’ve been glad of the company.”

“Me, too, I’ve quite enjoyed having someone to share a meal with.”

“Maybe once the case is over we could meet up again in more social circumstances.”

“That sounds great.”

Loretta was following Holt towards the door.

“Take care of yourself and once again, thanks for your help. Until next time.”

Loretta closed the door behind him.

Holt paused for a moment. He had never felt more alone in all his life.

Regaining his composure, he decided he’d head back to the station and see if Henson had any further ideas on who they were looking for. He smiled at the futility of the thought.

“Why were Richard Abbott’s arms tied behind Jon Hamilton’s back, sir? Do you think it was sexual?”

“Firstly, Henson, we need to establish if the body underneath is Richard Abbott’s. The boy’s mother is on her way. I hope for her sake it’s not. Secondly, if it was sexual, why not remove the clothes?”

“I don’t know, sir, maybe the killer was disturbed by someone or something and maybe that’s why they dropped the lighter, rushing to get away.”

“The whole place is a derelict, no one’s so much as stepped in the front door in over twenty years, but while our killer’s busy at work, an unsuspecting dog walker happens upon the farm? I don’t think so. Besides, the cigarette lighter’s given us nothing—the only DNA evidence on it belongs to the late Mr Hamilton and the only fingerprints to Mr Hollister. The killer was in no rush, believe me; if what Dennis suspects to be true is the case, time was not an issue.”

At that moment, a WPC stuck her head around the doorframe.

“Mrs Abbott’s here, shall I show her through?”

“If you wouldn’t mind, and get hot, sweet tea on standby; even if it isn’t her son, she’s going to need it.”

“Yes, sir.” The WPC left the room.

“Dennis Grant says he thinks Jon was first to die, but why weren’t they killed together? It would have been a lot less
trouble.”

Holt slammed his hands down on his desk.

“For Christ’s sake, Henson, have you not listened to a word I’ve said?”

Stopping briefly to draw breath and calm himself, Holt continued,

“The killer doesn’t care about trouble. He enjoys killing people in bizarre and unlikely ways, usually to illustrate some random point, all the time right under our noses, parading the mutilated corpses in front of us. I wouldn’t be surprised if it was the killer who tipped off the press as to our whereabouts today, to humiliate us and show us up as incompetent fools.”

Henson visibly paled at this.

“You really think so, sir?”

“Yes, Henson, I actually do. In fact, get onto the press office, find out who tipped them off about the bodies this morning.”

“They won’t tell us that, sir, you know how the press are with their sources.”

“Well, you tell them that this is an on-going murder investigation, not playtime at school; they tell us who tipped them the wink or they’re excluded from any more press conferences, ok”

As Henson opened the door to leave, the anguished wail of Mrs Abbott identifying her son could be heard.

It had been a fortnight since Joanne had identified her philandering husband’s body. Standing in the front row of the church, Joanne looked at the coffin in front of her, her children by her side, staying as stoic as possible. She felt bad for them; Jon had been a good father and the children had loved him dearly. The fact that he had been such a good father had been the only saving grace in the last five years of their marriage. She had never tried for a divorce, as she knew how much it would have hurt the children, and the last thing she wanted was to be the bad guy. Joanne had changed almost beyond recognition since Jon’s death; her life was now her own again. Jon had never tried to repress her in any way; she had done that herself, always believing in her marriage vows even after he had so callously dismissed them. She had started taking pride in her appearance once more. She had always been well turned out, but she was very conservative in her dress. Her hair, which had been streaked with grey, was now a lustrous gold colour thanks to her regular trips to the hairdresser’s. She suddenly seemed to personify confidence, always meeting peoples eyes, speaking up and making sure she was heard. It was almost like she had been leading someone else’s life up to now, always waiting for the time when she could emerge. She had felt eyes on her as she had walked into the church with her children. She knew she looked stunning all in black; despite the four kids she still had a very tidy figure, something she was determined to flaunt from now on. She had already had some interest shown in her by some of her late husband’s friends. But as much fun as flirting was, she had no interest in taking it any further; she had her own money now and she had no intention of wasting another seventeen years of her life on a man again. For the first time she could plan and the first port of call would be the solicitor to check the will. Once she could be assured that Sarah Lester wasn’t getting a penny, she would book a long holiday for her and the kids. They would need a break after burying their father. Then when they got back, she would set about finding someone to run the chain of sandwich shops she now owned. She intended to be a lady of leisure from now on, and if she could find someone suitable, she could relax and just let the business take care of
itself.

As the priest started to waft the incense around the coffin, Joanne stole a moment to look toward the back of the church. Dressed in a short black dress, Sarah Lester sat sobbing. Joanne noticed how, despite her tears, her makeup wasn’t even smudged, and every now and then she would cast her eyes around the mourners. Joanne rolled her eyes; even at her lover’s funeral Sarah was looking round for her next Jon. Joanne had called and invited Sarah on the proviso that she stay at the back and well away from her and her children. Sarah had sounded apprehensive at first, but once Joanne had pointed out that she wasn’t about to create a scene in front of her children at their father’s funeral, she had accepted. The main reason for her attendance, however, was rather more cynical than wanting to say a final goodbye.

As Sarah sat at the back of the church her mind was focused solely on what came after the church service; she wanted to know if she had been included in his will—she had reasoned that that might be why Joanne had invited her. She now well over three months pregnant, and decisions had to be made; if he hadn’t left her anything, she had decided to have an abortion.

As the funeral was closing, Jon’s coffin was taken from the church and placed into the hearse, followed by Joanne and her children. Joanne took her children to the first car and got them all inside. Closing the car door, she turned and walked over to where Sarah was standing. Sarah hardly recognised this petite woman
standing serenely in front of her; she had dropped ten years since their last meeting. Joanne reached into her purse and retrieved a five-pound note, which she handed to Sarah.

‘This is your pay off. Spend it wisely, because you will not get another penny from my late husband’s estate. Stay away from me, stay away from my kids, and enjoy your life.’ Her voice was calm but firm, a tone that brooked no arguments. Sarah nodded.

Sarah Lester, for once in her life, knew she was beaten. She’d ring the hospital first thing tomorrow.

Satisfied her point had been
made; Joanne went to join her children.

Adam Woodacre was confused. He had gone to log onto his website tonight and found it had been shut down. The first thing he’d done was ring Tom, the co-host of his website, Tom was as confused as he was. In a way, Adam was slightly relieved
; running a website for the last month had been the closest thing Adam had ever had to a real job in years, and he didn’t enjoy the constant upkeep. When he and Tom had first set the site up, Adam had believed Tom would do the day to day running of it, but after the first week Tom had handed the administration side over to Adam, claiming his nine to five job was demanding more and more of his time. Work was an alien concept to Adam; his parents had supported him his entire life, and he had been given everything he needed. He had gone to university and tried several different courses before finally settling on a history of arts degree. It kept his parents off his back and had no real merit in the real working world. It also meant his parents would keep him on the payroll of their business, which, in time, would become his business. Adam wandered through into his bathroom, switching on the shaving light and checking his nose. It had been a week since the altercation at Andre’s and the bruising had almost completely gone. 

Today was quite a special day for Adam; he’d had his eye on this particular lady for some time now—well, some time for Adam, anyway. She wasn’t his usual type. She was quiet and unassuming, and he’d had to take the sensitive approach with her. They’d had a nice chat and ended up swapping numbers. Adam had changed his routine after the altercation at Andre’s and had decided to give it a few weeks before he graced the bar again. It had turned out to be a blessing in disguise; he had started frequenting a wine bar round the corner from him. And that’s where he had met Sophie. He had had the dawning realisation that he had slept with most of the women in his particular circle, and picking up women was fast becoming boring. He didn’t have to work at it and Adam felt he needed a challenge. It had seemed a shame that all their webcams and all the work it had taken to get Sophie round would go to waste. Sophie was after all, to be the latest leading lady on his website. All of his cameras were set up in his bedroom, now all he needed was Sophie to arrive and the show could commence. Sophie had certainly been a challenge, and secretly he got quite a kick out of seducing the more conservative women. Most of the women he’d posted on the web had been easy; they’d slept with most of the town already, so being on the Internet was a natural progression for them. He knew he’d have to be careful until she’d drunk his special party cocktail, as he’d made up so much crap about himself that he couldn’t risk her getting wind of how full of shit he was.

He’d taken a line of coke when he’d gotten in and he was starting to buzz. Like this, he was invincible. Adam walked through into his pristine kitchen and started to make himself a coffee. Walking over to the kitchen table, he pulled his laptop over and opened it. It took Adam just a few moments to find the page he was after: the website that had originally alerted him to the fact there was a market for voyeurism in all its extremes. The website was dedicated to cruel and depraved individuals who took the human instinct of morbid curiosity a little too far. He had decided he could post tonight’s exploits on it, and it wouldn’t hurt to see what he was up against. A new video had been posted that featured someone having their throat slit—that was getting big hits. Adam wondered briefly if his videos would be gritty enough.

Adam was just scrolling through some images on the screen, trying to decide which video to download first when the doorbell rang.

She’s early—obviously can’t control herself any longer
.

A lewd smile on his lips, he walked into the hallway and toward the front door on his way he stopped briefly to check himself out in the full-length mirror.

What woman could resist?

Smile plastered on his face, he flung the front door open, but faltered.

“Who the hell are you?"

Using the confusion on Adam’s face as an opportunity, the masked intruder lurched at him and planted a damp handkerchief over his mouth. After a couple of seconds of struggling, the fight left him and his body became limp.

Manoeuvring Adam’s body into the wheelchair, the killer removed the mask. Covering Adams legs with a blanket, the assailant pushed the wheelchair back into the lift.

Adam came to in a small room he didn’t recognise. He wasn’t in his apartment anymore, though, that much he was sure of. The coke had worn off now and he was red-eyed and tired. Looking around him, he noticed a figure in the corner of the room, and it started drifting towards him.

“Is this a set up? Whose idea was this?” Adam was smiling in the direction of the figure. He was amused; as far as he was concerned this was all an elaborate practical joke.

“Hello, Adam, I’m your conscience. You seem to spend most of your time ignoring me, so I’m afraid I’ve had to step into real life to have myself heard.”

“Ok, where’s the camera?” Regarding the figure before him briefly, he added,

“Or the padded cell?” The figure stood stock-still in front of him, the angelic white mask almost luminous in the flickering candlelight.

“Adam, you’ve spent a lot of time as of late watching—for what I can only assume is your perverted entertainment—differing degrees of degradation and humiliation. To compound this you have not just participated in rape, but even had the audacity to post your crimes on your website.”

The mask paused to allow Adam the time needed to process the information.

“I must say I find it most unfortunate, in a world that is already full of horrors, that people such as you would not only actively seek misery out, but also take such great joy in participating in such a graphic way.” The mask paused once more, waiting for realisation of the situation to dawn on Adam. Confusion crossed his face and then left, taking with it
all the colour.

“Have you…
have you told the police?”

“Oh, I don’t think we need to bother the police; they have enough to do trying to catch me. So, seeing as I seem to be taking up so much of their valuable time, I thought it might be nice if I lightened their workload by dealing with you myself.”

Adam looked unsure for a moment and then the knowledge of what he was being confronted with hit him; this was the killer, the man who’d been terrorising Manning Town.

“And I don’t think we need to burden our already overstretched prisons with you. You must be aware of what I do, my work is gaining notoriety,
however, you may not be aware as to why I do it. Something that the police have yet to work out also, although I think by now they must have some idea. I am choosing people who have broken laws in some way, not necessarily the laws of the land, but the standard laws of morals and ethics that are needed for a society to live harmoniously. I am judge, jury, and executioner, and you, Adam Woodacre, are guilty.”

“Guilty?
Guilty of what? Rape? I didn’t rape anyone, those women came back to my place of their own free will.”

“I’m not interested whether or not you raped, that’s a law of the state—the police deal with that.”

“So what, then? What have I done to deserve this?” Adam’s voice had turned into a pathetic, nasal whine.

His persecutor watched Adam from behind the mask with disgust. Adams whining was only giving further justification of why this kind of social pruning was necessary. If Adam had thought that his vulnerability was gaining him sympathy, then he was sorely mistaken. The fact he expected a level of sympathy or empathy when he had clearly never felt either was salt in the wound.

“Voyeurism, and you’ve done well in asking me, as the punishment is intrinsically linked with the crime.” Adam watched the masked man turn and walk to the edge of the room. Picking something up from the corner he came back and started setting it up. Adam shifted uneasily in his seat, watching as a tripod was set up in front of him. On top of the tripod was a small phone, which Adam recognised at once—it was his.

Seeing Adams recognition a smile replaced the sneer beneath the mask.

“Yes, it’s your phone. Fitting, don’t you think?”

“What are you going to do?”

“Well, Adam, I want to send a very clear message to all of those similar to yourself, and you’re going to help me.” Mentally wiping his brow, Adam let out a sigh.

“Sure, yeah, no problem. What do you want me to say?”

“No, Adam, I don’t think you understand—you are the message.”

Adam paled, and suddenly his body came alive underneath him, his arms writhing about in their bonds, his legs struggling to find purchase. All of his efforts, however, came to nothing; he wasn’t going anywhere. His mind refused to believe that all was lost, trying desperately to concoct an idea of escape, each one more ludicrous than the last. His captor watched as all the sanity left Adam’s eyes, as he struggled against his binds and when satisfied he was spent, reached down to the floor and picked up a gag.

“Now, I think we’ve had quite enough histrionics for one evening.’

Adam became quiet once more and he stopped fighting.

So this is it, this is my last day

Almost obligingly, he let his captor place the gag round his mouth.

Reaching back down to the floor, the masked man retrieved a dessertspoon.

Tom Webber was knackered; he’d been out all last night, coked up to the eyeballs, and had gone into work red-eyed and remorseful.

Why did he always listen to Adam? The guy was obviously a maniac. He didn’t have to go to work the next day, though. The day had been made slightly better by the fact that he could tell everyone at work about his ‘mad’ evening, embellishing wherever necessary. Going into his kitchen, he switched the kettle on and grabbed the jar of instant coffee from the shelf, spooning out two generous measures into a mug. He thought back to the first time he’d made Adam a coffee
; the pompous git had spat it out. Apparently Adam was far too good for instant coffee.

If Tom was honest with himself, he didn’t actually like Adam; in fact, none of his mates liked Adam. They probably didn’t like him, either; he was constantly with Adam, agreeing with everything he said and did.

Adam was a Grade A wanker; however, the guy had money, and he wasn’t afraid of splashing it around, meaning that nights out with Adam cost little more than a round. Adam’s latest fetish was a website dedicated to degradation and humiliation—either animals or humans, it didn’t matter. All his mates, Tom included, would go to the website regularly to watch the latest spectacle. The idea that the acts portrayed on them were real had not entered their heads or they just didn’t care. Whenever they came across people opposed to such things—usually women—their attitudes would rapidly change, along with their beliefs and anything else necessary to avoid getting slapped and facilitate getting laid. Since they had set up their website, Adam had become even more unbearable. He was starting to believe he was invincible, and although Tom got a kick out of it, he didn’t discuss the site in front of people in a public place. The last time they were in Andre’s, he’d all but advertised the site—he seemed to have lost the volume control for his voice. A couple of women had gotten up and left, something Adam hadn’t noticed, but Tom certainly had. He’d had to take Adam aside, calm him down and explain that not only was talking about the site a huge risk as far as the police were concerned, but also how were they going to get any more girls on their site with him broadcasting the site’s existence?

As Tom logged onto his computer, he heard the
message alert go off on his phone. Putting his coffee down on the kitchen work surface, he went through into the living room to retrieve his mobile. He pressed ok and waited a few minutes for the video to stream. He was sure it was another twisted video from Adam. He wandered back through to the kitchen to his coffee, glancing down every now and again to see if the phone had finished downloading. When the image came up on the screen, it caused Tom to do a double take.

Sometimes Adam would do or say something that shocked Tom; Adam had the most warped sense of humour he’d ever encountered. But this was something else. Even for Adam. This must have taken some setting up. It was, as usual, a grainy image, but it was definitely Adam staring back at him through the screen. Then a cloaked figure wearing a theatrical mask came up on the right of the screen. The video had no sound, but Tom doubted it would have made much difference, as Adam was gagged. Tom grinned as he watched the masked figure move toward Adam with what looked to be a spoon.

This must have taken him weeks to organise!

The look on Adam’s face was priceless. Adam’s head had been taped to the back of the chair, making it impossible for him to move his head. As the masked figure moved in view of the camera, Tom’s view of Adam was blocked. As the figure moved back out of the line of sight revealing Adam, Tom took a sharp intake of breath; Adam’s eyeball was hanging by its nerves outside of its socket. After a moment Tom laughed out loud; the make-up was fantastic—it looked so
real
. Tom continued to watch in fascination as once more his view was blocked. Tom was stunned by the sheer inventiveness of his mate’s twisted mind. This time when the cloaked figure moved away, the other eye was gone. Adam’s face a grotesque mask of horror in the half-light. The masked tormentor started moving toward the camera, picking it up from its stand and bringing the focus in on the holes in Adam’s face that had once housed his eyes. Slowly, the camera panned down the agonised face, coming to a stop on Adam’s neck. A small blade suddenly appeared and viciously stabbed at his throat, sending a long stream of blood at the camera lens. Once the blood had ceased to flow, the video went black. After a few seconds, it seemed the reason for this temporary loss of vision had been to clean the screen. The camera had been put back in its original position, once more showing Adam, this time as a corpse. The focus started to shift; it was zooming in on a placard hanging around Adam’s mutilated neck.