Saxon (12 page)

Francesca took in the small paper carrier bag he was holding in his other hand.

‘Is that your dinner?’ she asked with raised eyebrows. ‘You’re very welcome to join us, you know. Neil and Gary are here. You met them before when I had a little party to introduce you both to all the other inhabitants when you moved in.’ She paused. ‘Some company might help.’

She was still smiling. He’d always had the impression that Fran was one of life’s happy people. He thought, not for the first time, how attractive she was. He wondered how she knew that Emma was still away. The thought of Fran keeping an eye out to see who was in residence and who wasn’t momentarily irritated
him. Then he mentally slapped his own wrist. Bringing a takeaway home for dinner on a Saturday night didn’t exactly look like normal married life, did it? And it was nice of her to notice and to care, wasn’t it.

‘But, it’s okay,’ she was saying. ‘I would understand if that was a problem right now.’

‘Thanks, Fran,’ he said, turning the key in the lock and pushing the door open, ‘I appreciate the invitation. Maybe another time.’

‘Of course, it was just a thought.’ She seemed very relaxed. It helped.

‘My regards to the lads. They’re okay?’ he asked.

She nodded. ‘Mmm. We’re planning a brochure for the next exhibition, so we’re going through a creative phase tonight.’ Voices were raised slightly inside Fran’s apartment. ‘I’d better get back in there before it gets too heated,’ she laughed.

‘Enjoy your evening,’ he said, suddenly hungry for a social life that had once been quite busy but seemed to be non-existent these days.

‘Yes, you too,’ she answered, walking back towards her own door from the chute. ‘But come down and join us later if you want a coffee or a nightcap.’ She looked down at her wrist, but there was no watch there. ‘I was going to say, it’s only early, but that would have to be a guess on my part, since I don’t for the life of me know where my watch is!’ She laughed again.

He raised his hand in farewell. ‘Well, okay, I might just do that. Thanks. Not sure that I’ll be able to add much to the creative process, though.’

She lifted her own hand in response. ‘No creativity required, we’re overflowing with it,’ she laughed. ‘Did you know,’ she asked, in a deep and serious voice, ‘that there is a direct correlation between a good Chianti and the creative process?’

They both laughed and he was still smiling as he closed his door. Saxon stood in his hallway and his smile faded. The mess
was clearly out of control, growing a bit more with each passing day. He was beginning to think that if he didn’t clean up soon, a new life-form would evolve from the mess and jump on him one night as he slept, rip him to pieces and add him to the mess. He hoped that there might be a message on the answerphone from Emma but there was nothing.

He looked at the takeaway but couldn’t summon up any appetite for it. When he found his kettle, he made some tea and switched the TV on in time for the local news. The main story of the day was the murders at Anvil Wood House. No doubt, it was headlining on the national news too. The report played heavily on the gruesome nature of the killings, although the police withheld any reference to the fact that the victims had been dismembered, or that body parts had been spread around the house, including in the oven.

The phone number of the police incident room was flashed up on the screen, and that was it.

A couple of other items of local news and then it was the weather forecast. At least the prospects were not so gloomy on that front. A heat wave was on the way.

He flicked off the TV and, with his mug, climbed the stairs to the roof. Saxon was fortunate that his flat was at the top of the building. He and Emma had built a staircase up to a skylight and converted it into a door to the flat roof, where they could sit and look at the stars and think. Saxon leant on the stone balustrade, and looked out over Brighton to the Palace Pier.

Saturday night in Brighton was a busy time for policemen. The London crowd still descended on the town in droves at weekends. Inevitably, a few of them drank too much and needed to be mopped up and rescued, although only a small few were grateful for that kind of help. Some weren’t and managed to get into fights. Saxon was glad at times like that he was no longer a beat cop.

The phone ringing in the apartment below broke his rooftop
meditation, and he dashed down the stairs. He grabbed it as the answerphone kicked in.

‘Paul, it’s me.’ Her voice was soft. He was filled with a mixture of relief that she’d phoned and dread at what she was about to say.

‘Hi, Emma, how’s things?’ he said, with slight hesitation.

‘Fine,’ she answered. ‘Well, you know.’

Saxon sensed immediately that the news was not going to be good by the tone in her voice. Emma would not have made a good negotiator; her voice gave too much away.

She went on. ‘I saw the news report about the murders. You’re handling that one?’

‘Yes, that’s me. It’s all mine,’ he answered.

‘It sounds really bad, even by your standards,’ she said, sympathetically.

He was puzzled by the turn the conversation was taking. ‘Well, without revealing any state secrets, I’m not making much progress at the moment,’ he said. ‘We’ve got sod all to go on. He’s a cunning bastard, as well as an evil one.’ His voice trailed off. He wasn’t going to discuss the case with her and they hadn’t spoken in a week, so there were other important things to think about.

Emma wasn’t as anxious as he was to move on to other things.

‘Or her,’ she offered.

Saxon’s response was emphatic. ‘No, I don’t think it’s a woman. Unlikely anyway, it’s usually a man. I don’t get any female vibes from this one. Plus, the amount of physical strength used makes me think it’s got to be a man.’ He realised that he was going into lecture mode and Emma hated that so he changed the subject abruptly.

‘When are you coming home, Emma?’

She made no response for a few seconds, taken aback by the sudden change of subject.

‘I’m not…not yet anyway,’ she said slowly. When he didn’t answer, she went on. ‘Paul, I need time to think things over.’ Still
he said nothing. ‘And it’ll do you good, give you time to reassess.’

Saxon stopped holding his breath.

‘What on earth do you mean, it’ll do me good?!’ he shouted. ‘It’s pissing me off, that’s what it’s doing. It’s telling me you don’t want to be here.’ He instantly regretted losing his temper and apologised. This was followed by a long silence as if neither of them was prepared to be the first to speak.

Emma gave up first. ‘I have to go; I’ll call again in a few days,’ she said. ‘Look after yourself.’ The phone clicked, and she was gone.

The apartment was deadly quiet. He went back up to the top of the stairs to the roof and locked the door. Saxon was depressed by Emma’s apparent lack of compassion. He couldn’t tell for sure but he sensed that she didn’t really care too much how he felt. Although she hadn’t said that it was all over, he wondered if she might’ve done, if the murders at Anvil Wood House hadn’t persuaded her that now was maybe not a good time to hit him with more bad news. Maybe she was being considerate. He pushed the thought to the back of his mind and went into the kitchen, where he dumped the takeaway, still in its carrier, into the bin.

He spent the next two hours on the floor below, drinking better coffee and helping Fran, Neil and Gary with their creativity by giving them constructive feedback about their efforts so far. He didn’t think about Emma once.

Chapter 9

Monday, May 20, Brighton Police Station, 9.00AM

Parker arrived with his usual Monday-morning eagerness. Usually Saxon liked that little quirk about his DS, but this particular morning it was a bit irritating. The weekend had made its mark and the conversation with Emma was still echoing around inside his head. Not to mention the conversations with Fran.

‘Morning, boss,’ said Parker, his tone cheerful and his tie bright. ‘Summer’s here at last.’

Parker was happy. They’d made some progress on the case at the end of last week and he’d had a great weekend with Lynne and the kids. Today was going to be useful, he just knew it. Life, in fact, was pretty good.

He sensed that Saxon wasn’t in quite such a positive mood and retreated discreetly, returning in ten minutes with two steaming skimmed-milk lattes.

Back to business. ‘Boss, you know that the address book you found under Barbara Jenner’s floor contains a few business contacts and an awful lot of names and phone numbers of what could be friends,’ he started.

Saxon nodded. ‘Have you had any success working out the stars? Are there any other codes?’

Parker shook his head. ‘No, we’ve tried various ways of looking at them, but I think we’re going to have to assume that the stars are just a personal rating that Babs used.’ He couldn’t help smirking slightly. ‘Since we know from Dr Marks that she was pretty highly sexed, I suppose it’s safe to assume that she was giving them marks out of ten.’

Saxon didn’t laugh. ‘One, it’s never safe to assume, Parker, you know that. And two, just because you got laid at the weekend, doesn’t mean everyone else is only interested in sex.’

‘Yes, sir.’ The smirk had disappeared from Parker’s face. ‘Er, we know that most of the names are female; about sixty percent, I would say.’ He put the photocopied sheets onto Saxon’s desk and pointed at two separate entries.

‘Two of those female names have been crossed out, both with “BITCH” written across them. We’ve been trying to get through to that one in Camberley since Friday, but up to now, no reply. Could be on holiday, I suppose.’

‘Or away for the weekend,’ Saxon offered.

‘A WPC is checking the address this morning. Physically going round there to have a look. We should hear later today.’

‘Did you have any luck with the other one?’ Saxon looked at the entry. ‘The one that’s in Cookbridge?’

‘Yes, boss. She’s a married woman, a Mrs Gertraud Bishop. She’s a German lady, apparently, married to a Mr Angus Bishop. They’re long-term residents of Cookbridge. She was very upset when we spoke to her, very cagey and didn’t want to talk on the phone. Apparently, her husband wouldn’t understand. And I can’t say I’m surprised.’ Parker smirked again, but wiped the smile off his face as Saxon looked up at him, eyebrows raised. ‘She’s coming here to talk to us this afternoon at about four. She was anxious to come to us rather than have us go to their place.’ Parker was still amused, however hard he tried to hide it.

‘And what about the other names?’ asked Saxon.

‘The Yard team are working their way through the other names, all the data is in the computer and we’ll see what it spits out later.’

‘Oh, we’ve found the brother,’ Parker continued, looking even more pleased with himself. ‘One Keith Jenner. He doesn’t sound the most pleasant of people. When I phoned him on Friday afternoon, he didn’t seem too bothered that his sister had been murdered.’ Parker shook his head in disgust. ‘More interested in coming to view the property, which I suppose, he will inherit. He’ll be dropping in here tomorrow. Lives and works as a scrap
dealer in South London. He does very nicely, thank you. Big house at the nice end of Upper Norwood and, as a special bonus he’s got a bit of form. Small-time gangster, by the look of things – likes to rough people up a bit sometimes.

‘He’s done time for GBH – got three years for beating up some poor bastard who owed him money. The original charge was attempted murder due to the extent of the injuries, but the victim changed his testimony during the trial and said that he attacked Jenner first. Prosecution thinks the family of the victim were threatened to keep him from testifying; CPS decided it was unsafe, so the attempted murder charge was dropped. Two years ago he was arrested for insurance fraud but the charge was dropped, not enough evidence.’

‘Well, at least we have someone who is not totally straight to talk to,’ Saxon said, showing his pleasure at the progress the team was making. ‘Not likely to have much of a motive for killing her though. It sounds as if he’s worth more than she is.’

‘Yes, boss, but I’m not making any assumptions about that,’ he said, keeping a straight face. Parker collected the papers and put them back on his desk. He was good at records, kept things in order. He never lost a piece of paper. It was one of his strengths. ‘As I said, Mr Jenner will be here for a chat tomorrow afternoon at 2PM.’

‘Great stuff, Parker, keep digging up as much as you can on him between now and tomorrow, I want to see what you have a good couple of hours before we talk to him, okay?’

Parker took the lid of his coffee and inhaled the smell.

Saxon was thinking aloud. ‘You never know, it could be a hit for gain, and maybe I’ve got it all wrong. It’s possible that we have two killers. One weirdo who’s bumping off the gays – and the Anvil Wood House killer, who’s just killing for profit. It would be neat and tidy if it was Jenner.’

‘Yes, boss.’ Parker switched on his PC and binned his empty cup. His boys had been on at him to stop using the paper cups
and take a reusable cup in each time instead. Knowing he was addicted to Starbucks, they’d even bought him one for his last birthday, one with a lid, specially marketed by the coffee company for exactly that purpose and to placate the green lobby at the same time. But the reusable cup was somewhere at the Yard, waiting for a good wash.

Parker played devil’s advocate. ‘But would he kill Barbara Jenner’s friend as well, just to inherit a house?’ Parker leant back in his chair and gazed at the ceiling for a moment. ‘A bit savage, even if you leave out all the chopping up of limbs and planting of fingers in potted plants. And dare I mention the cooking bit?’ He looked across to where Saxon was sitting. ‘He’d have to have a reason for doing that, it can’t just be to get the house.’ He paused. ‘No, boss, my money’s not on Jenner as the killer.’

Saxon stood up and turned round. He walked across to the window and opened it. The temperature was rising fast. The weather forecast was spot on. He held on to the sides of the open window with his hands above his head and cooled himself in the draught, thinking to himself for a few seconds.

‘I don’t know, Parker. People will do unbelievable things to each other for money, usually to their own family. Maybe our second killer, if indeed there is a second killer, is devious enough to try to blame the Anvil Wood House murders on the current weirdo doing the rounds.’

Parker nodded. ‘Could’ve been a spontaneous thing, taking advantage of the timing of the other murders,’ he agreed.

‘If only we had at least one clue about the killer.’ Saxon sounded exasperated. ‘But there is absolutely sod all.’ He rubbed his face with both hands in frustration and slowly wandered back to his chair. He sat down and leaned forward on his elbows.

‘We know a bit about the victims, mostly about Babs though. Strange isn’t it, Parker, how some people lead interesting, and fascinating lives. They get up to all kinds of escapades, some good and some not so good. The more the person interacts with
other people, the more you’ll learn about that individual. Then you come across Miss Penelope Field, and there’s bugger all to say about her – not even a speeding ticket. If it weren’t for a few photographs in an album, you’d never have known she’d even been on the planet. We don’t even have a clue who she was involved with before she met Babs. But I suppose if we look on the bright side, we’ll know even more about Babs Jenner after these next two interviews. But I doubt it will tell us anything about the killer,’ he said despondently. ‘Come on, Parker,’ he went on. ‘Suggestions, please. Why is it that we have no forensic evidence? Does our killer not have fingerprints? Or come to that, does he have any hair? Is he bald all over? As for the footprints, I just don’t know what’s going on there. When he does have them they are non-human and what does he do for the rest of the time…hover?’

Parker shrugged and suggested another drink and left the office, he returned a few minutes later with two cups of water. And, after placing one on each desk, he took off his jacket, complaining mildly about the heat. Saxon interrupted his meteorological comments.

‘You know, Parker, the more I think about it the more I’m convinced that this guy, whoever he is, is definitely a serial killer. I’m sure we are after one killer, not two. He is very clever, and he’s deliberately not keeping to the rules. You know as well as I do that with serial killers, they tend to follow the same routine when they kill. Almost like a ritual.

‘They always take trophies, such as clothing or other personal items. Some of them even try to interact with the police. They can’t help it, the compulsion overwhelms them.’

Parker was knowledgeable about the field too. ‘The Rillington Place bloke, Christie, kept pubic hair, teeth and sometimes underwear from his victims,’ he said. ‘You don’t get much more personal than that.’

Saxon nodded. ‘The psych guys will tell you that the reason
they do this is so that they can relive the experience at a later date. Either they toss themselves off or they just enjoy remembering the power they possessed over their victims before they killed them.’

In their database, the Unit had extensive records of every serial killer ever traced as well as information on the as-yet-unsolved crimes.

Saxon continued his musing. ‘There is also plenty of evidence to show that some serial killers like to revisit the crime scene,’ he said.

‘Yes, boss,’ Parker agreed. ‘They could do a walk past as we arrive and we’d never know.’

‘The more I think about this case, the more I’m sure that what we have is a very bright and unusual serial killer who can change his tactics and twist the so-called rules,’ affirmed Saxon.

‘But does that mean he’s doing this for fun?’ asked Parker. ‘How else does he overcome the irresistible urge to follow a pattern, like the usual serial killer?’

Saxon was confident. ‘I reckon it’s because our guy knows that if he does that, then we’ll get him. It means that not only is he clever but he’s also educated and, specifically, he knows about serial killers. He’s probably studied them.’

Parker saw it too. ‘So you’re saying that he knows what to do so that he doesn’t get predictable?’

‘Afraid so…I think we should get Professor Roger Ercott to do a profile based on what we know so far. He’s done well in the past.’ Saxon looked through his address book for Ercott’s number. After a minute of searching, he threw the book on his desk. ‘I can’t find it – see if you’ve got it somewhere. He’s getting on a bit though, and he doesn’t take on all work that comes his way. Good enough to pick and choose I guess.’

Parker was rummaging through his notes desperately trying to find Ercott’s address. ‘Ah, found it. That’s handy,’ he said. ‘He lives in Worthing, boss.”

‘Right. Call him and arrange a meeting as soon as possible, I don’t want to waste time on this. Ask him if we can talk with him this afternoon, and after that we’ll be back here to talk to Mrs Bishop at about four o’clock.’ Saxon switched on the fan on his desk and then opened his office door to let the air flow through.

‘What’s next? How about our friend Dr Marks, anything on him?’ Saxon so wanted there to be something juicy on Marks.

‘He’s being checked out as we speak and breathe, sir. We’ve had Surveillance and Technical Intelligence put a minor tail on him over the weekend but as he’s not a major suspect, we haven’t been searching his rubbish bins yet. But he does frequent some interesting pubs. Let’s say the kind of places where you and I would stand with our backs to the wall while we drank our beer.’

‘And what pubs would these be, Parker?’ Saxon paused for a second. ‘Is he married by any chance?’ he continued.

‘Oh yes, sir, he’s married all right but, I suppose he’s a train that uses both tunnels if you’ll pardon the expression. His main drinking, and apparently poking, hole is the Speckled Cat, over in Kemp Town. It’s outside his catchment area for patients so he’s unlikely to be thrust up against anyone he knows. By the way, sir, his name appears in Barbara Jenner’s book with the number seven next to it – whatever that means.’

‘Okay, Parker, ensure STI stays on him wherever he goes for the next week, and I want hour-by-hour updates. If he goes back to the pub, they are to follow him home afterwards. If he picks anyone up, I want his name and address as well. We need to be sure that he’s tucked up in bed every night.’

Monday, May 20, Victoria Tube Station, 11.00AM

The London Underground is a good place to be lost. That is, of course, if you want to be lost. The man knows that he can blend into the sea of humanity that surges through the turnstiles every day, and never be noticed. His goal is to be seen only when he wants to be seen. He is confident that he can achieve this at will.

He is jostled slightly in the crowd and resists the temptation to push back at the tourist who pushed his way through the crowd, with no care for who he knocked aside on the way. The man follows the backpacker briefly along the platform of the Circle Line, but turns aside when he sees him join a group of three other similarly clad and equally well-laden young people.

There are as usual so many people that if he looks everyone in the face as they pass by, even just for a moment, then he will get dizzy. Endless faces, moving across his line of vision. After a few seconds, his perception shifts. They are no longer individual people, but just souls that are clean or dirty.

He feels faint. He mustn’t pass out. Because to do that will draw attention to himself. He can’t afford that. The cameras are everywhere. Being spotted by the Transport Police – because he is acting suspiciously – would be a disaster.