Grind Their Bones (3 page)

He stopped talking and rubbed at the bump on the bridge of his nose with thumb and forefinger, looking suddenly much older than his sixty years. I found myself wondering how far away retirement was for him, not that I was so grasping that I had designs on his job, but all the same I wouldn’t say no when they came and asked.

‘Understood, sir.’ I groped around for something else to say that might make him feel better. ‘I think he feels some kind of connection with me, sir. I don’t know what the nature of that is, or why he feels that way, but by writing that letter he was giving me something else to go on. That was his first big mistake, and it was a deliberate one. If he’s starting to take chances, then we’re heading towards the home straight.’

I mentally kicked myself as soon as I’d finished the sentence, why do I always have to try too hard to please? The truth was that we’d not even figured out which route we were on yet, the home straight was nowhere in sight.

‘I hope so, Wade, I sincerely do.’ He straightened the knot of his tie and turned to walk away before stopping in his tracks. ‘Catch this sicko for me and the fact that you’re screwing young Mead, or anybody else that takes your fancy for that matter, won’t have any bearing on your career progression at all. Not that it bothers me anyway, he seems like a nice enough kid. I’ll catch you later, Detective.’

He didn’t look at me as he spoke, so I was spared the indignity of him watching my face take on the same hue as his own.

Chapter 8

Dr Alan Hardwick, star forensic psychologist and regular consultant over the years for several different police forces in respect of serial offenders, kicked off his new shoes and rested both feet on his grand mahogany desk. He had a generous measure of a particularly fine cognac in the balloon glass that he swirled in his chubby left hand, and the scent of the rising vapours tickled pleasantly at his nostrils. It smelled of success. With the police going public tonight with the psychological details of the suspect they were pursuing, he could start to relax a little more. His plan was coming together beautifully.

He checked his expensive watch, a Breitling Navitimer, impatiently, willing the press release forwards. It was his sincere hope and belief that the broadcast of a profile so utterly removed from the reality of the man they were seeking would give the killer a green flag to up his kill rate significantly. After all, if the police and their best profiler couldn’t come up with an accurate new direction for the enquiry, and in the utter absence of any other real evidence of note, why wouldn’t the so called Grey Man grow in confidence? Come on, let loose and feed the beast like you know that you want to.

Hardwick knew this one was beginning to escalate already anyway, two in as many months, taking his tally up to seven that they officially knew about so far. The doctor could be certain he’d found more hiding in among the frightening number of unsolved cases, but he wasn’t going to be sharing that little nugget of knowledge with his occasional employers just yet. Not with so much money at stake.

He sighed and signed into his personal computer with one hand, taking a mouth full of the brandy and holding it in his mouth to let the complex flavours develop. He was certainly no connoisseur, but he thought he could detect the vanilla and honey undertones the tasting notes had mentioned lingering on his tongue when he eventually swallowed. There’d be time and money to develop a connoisseurs palate once this was all over, let there be no doubt about that.

The screen whirred to life and he deftly navigated over to a file entitled ‘accounts’, double clicking the icon and scanning down the numerous sub folders that opened up below. It took him a couple of seconds to relocate the one that he wanted, but that was perhaps unsurprising in view of the number of glasses of the cognac that he’d treated himself too since he’d arrived home. Hell, he deserved them after months spent studying, obsessing and worrying, it was almost time to start the celebrations, just a simple matter of waiting.

He didn’t really need to read the contents any more, he’d spent hundreds of hours of his own time reading, researching, speculating and refining the short coded document already. He’d obsessed over all of the finer details, and even revisited case notes from his time interviewing half a dozen high profile serial killers in prisons and secure institutions up and down the country. However, he took comfort in the reassurance that revisiting the Grey Man’s profile gave him, and he took further comfort in the sheer amount of planning and craft that went into the string of horrific crimes. Of course, the profile was very, very different from the one that the Warwickshire detectives were currently scratching their heads over.

He strongly felt that this one could be the best of the worst, killing for years to come without making the mistake that would catch him, until he completely eclipsed the score that other UK serial murderers had managed before they found themselves dead or behind bars. There was a good chance that he’d already managed that feat, but this would make that certain, and then the headlines would resonate around the world. They needed to in fact, he was counting on it.

Hardwick himself would control what that tally would be and how long that spree would last, the recent letter had seen to that. You see Doctor Alan Hardwick had done the unthinkable for a profiler; through expertise and careful analysis, with just a tiny bit of pure dumb luck thrown in too, he’d worked out exactly who the killer was for himself.

Chapter 9

‘We believe that we’re closer than ever before to apprehending the serial murderer known as the Grey Man, and we’ve taken the operational decision to release certain aspects of his likely physical and psychological profile, prepared by no less than the country’s foremost forensic psychologist, to allow members of the public at large to assist us in bringing this hunt to a swift end.’

Fred Russell looked vaguely ill under the strong studio lighting, and the gathered throng of photographers and reporters seized on that small sign of possible weakness like a pack of wolves, competing to take the best shot of the glistening beads of moisture on the senior officer’s brow for tomorrow’s front pages.

‘The man we are seeking is older than your standard fit for these types of crimes, in his fifties or even sixties, but still retaining sufficient physical strength to restrain and keep captive healthy adult women. It is the doctor’s strong assertion that this man has come to the attention of friends, family and colleagues as behaving in an odd or abnormal fashion, and that his rage towards women in general has manifested itself in the past, resulting in incarceration and likely contact with the mental health authorities. Contrary to some of the speculation in the media, we believe that he is of no more than average intelligence.’

He stopped to tug at his tie distractedly, and took a long gulp from the glass of water sitting alongside the row of microphones in front of him before he carried on.

‘He isn’t going to be wearing a sign advertising the fact that he likes to kill and eat people in his spare time. But there are those of you out there who know this man and who suspect there is something deeply wrong about his demeanour, particularly around the times that he’s committed these appalling offences. I would urge you to raise your concerns through our dedicated switchboard, so we can narrow the number of names on our suspects list down to the one individual who is responsible for holding us all to ransom. Don’t be concerned about reporting somebody who you have doubts about, but who you may not feel is capable of such atrocities. We’ll very quickly be able to clear those who are not of interest to our enquiries. Thank you.’

He stepped back away from the plinth and obvious relief flooded back into his features. He was careful to keep his face turned away from the camera flashes so they wouldn’t catch the displeasure creeping back in.

Detective Russell, what would you say to those who feel this is little more than hollow posturing – an empty gesture designed to try to flush out a killer who is always two steps ahead of the police?

Is it true you once called psychological profiling ‘mumbo-jumbo crap made up by head-shrinkers to justify their hourly rate’?

Fred, if he’s not especially smart then why have there been no breakthroughs despite at least seven women having lost their lives?

If he’s in his fifties or sixties, what earlier cases are you considering as being the work of the same man? Don’t they typically start out in their twenties and thirties?

He pushed his way through them like the bulldozer of a man he was, palming aside the expensive cameras that were thrust towards his face and trying to keep as cool as he possibly could. Fucking vultures. 

When he kills the next one, and you’re still no closer to catching him, what are you going to say to that girls parents?

The last question hit a raw nerve and he spun angrily back around, scattering those closest to him with an outstretched arm.

‘Which one of you parasites asked that last question?’

He looked around not expecting a response, reporters weren’t renowned for their physical courage.

‘I did.’

The man who stepped forward was barely out of nappies, a skinny runt with bad skin and teeth, wearing an off the peg tweed jacket that belonged on a much older person. He looked inordinately pleased with himself, and several of the other reporters took pictures of him as he moved out into plain view, sensing a storm brewing.

‘If we don’t catch him before that happens then I’ll tell them exactly what I’m telling you now. That while scum like you are rubbing their hands over the amount of money you can make out of their daughters suffering, I’ll be busting my balls until my dying day if it takes that long to make sure that this monster pays for what he’s done.’

Chapter 10

It was just after eight in the evening and I was feeling pretty relaxed for the first time in a long while, enjoying an ice-cold cobra beer with Lee in an intimate little Indian restaurant called Kismet on Leamington high street. The smells of cinnamon, coriander and chilli permeated the air around us, and the gentle buzz of casual conversation punctuated by occasional laughter was pleasantly soothing and hypnotic.

‘You’re grinning like a Cheshire cat, Wade.’

Lee stroked my leg with intent, his bold actions hidden by the chequered red and white plastic tablecloth.

‘I’m happy to be here with you, Mead, especially since you’re springing for the bill.’

I chuckled and took another refreshing sip of my lager, watching his eyes twinkle and dimples forming in his cheeks when he returned my grin.

The waiter arrived in a cloud of exotic scented steam before Lee could think up a smart reply, depositing the house special Akhbari Lamb on the table between us with a flourish as more staff arrived with half a dozen brightly coloured side dishes and arranged them all around us. I inhaled deeply, trying to separate out cardamom, ginger and fenugreek, and feeling my mouth start to water copiously.

‘I take it we’re switching our phones off for a change tonight, since we’re enjoying each other’s company so much?’

We had been disturbed on almost every other dinner date that we’d been on, and it had become a kind of running joke between us. Murderers and psychopaths don’t take nights off just so detectives can live some semblance of a life outside of work. We both knew that we’d be leaving our mobiles on discreet just in case there was either an unexpected breakthrough or another murder in the Grey Man case. We both wanted to catch him before another young life was cut horrifically short, and being disturbed over dinner or in bed was a small price to pay for the knowledge that another maniac was off the streets.

‘May I?’

Lee gestured towards the lamb, and I nodded enthusiastically and watched him start to serve up for me. It never ceases to surprise and delight me that behind the smart-arse façade lurks one of the last true gentlemen.

‘I love this place, Lee, it’s like this guy I know from work, straight-forward and non-showy on first glance, but with hidden surprises underneath.’

I forked a mouthful of succulent spiced lamb and pilau rice into my mouth and started to chew with a cheeky wink.

‘You left out the hot and tasty parts too, and, like the food, I’m guaranteed to make you sweat.’

He offered me a wink of his own in return and spooned chilli pickle onto a crisp poppadum for himself.

‘So what did you think of Russell’s performance?’

He asked, referring to the farcical press release.

‘I think he looked like we all felt. Uncomfortable and unhappy with the details we’ve just been asked to release, but all in all he held it together pretty well. I’m still trying to get my head around how Hardwick’s got this so apparently wrong though. His credentials are impeccable, and his previous psych evaluations have been spookily accurate. Did you know that the gutter press ran an article on him half a dozen years back after he helped out in a big case and he sued them over it?’

He shook his head and I carried on.

‘They compared him to the people he was helping to catch. Implied that it takes one to know one and dug up all kinds of dirt from his past.’

I paused and sampled the Bombay potatoes, moist, fragrant and with a subtle kick on the aftertaste, easily the best I’ve tasted outside of Birmingham’s famed Balti triangle.