Saxon (13 page)

His weakness is not a sign of poor health. Far from it. The master ensures that he is fit, that his body is in perfect condition. Every day, the man is awakened by the master’s voice urging him to exercise, to do push-ups and sit-ups, to use the equipment at home for an hour every morning. He must maintain himself in peak condition.

He pauses for a moment by a vending machine, studying the contents. He breathes slowly. The mission is too important for him to fail. It’s all down to him and he knows it. Right now he has to look and act like every other normal person.

Standing there, nobody notices him. He is almost invisible. He knows the true secrets of camouflage and it comes from within the body as well as on the exterior. His clothes are not his own. They would never be found in his home simply because he stores them underground somewhere in a wood in Sussex, sealed in a waterproof container. Each time he decides on the persona he will adopt, he can dress accordingly.

Even if someone should happen on his hidden wardrobe, the clothes are not traceable. The labels have all been removed and a
receipt or two, picked up in the street, has been placed in one or more of the pockets, to throw any meddling police who become involved off the scent.
The emperor’s new clothes make the emperor invisible
, he thinks to himself triumphantly.

Of course, the British Transport Police are just doing their job, much as he is doing his. On the other hand, it could be said that they were not doing their job. He knows that they see what he sees and still they take no action. But he also knows that they would stop him if they could, if they knew what he was doing.

The man shakes his head. It is so wrong. Because if he were to be stopped, then who is going to save them all from what is obviously already happening to the world? Perhaps it isn’t their fault. How can they be expected to understand? Nobody else does either.

It worries him sometimes though. Is he really the only person called upon to deal with this?

He moves on from the vending machine, having purchased a carton of juice and sits to drink it. The trilby hat he’s wearing doesn’t look out of place. It hides his hair and much of his forehead. His glasses are twenty years out of date and tinted to hide the true colour of his eyes. Subtle use of makeup has changed his facial structure and his moustache is of a suitable standard for close-up filming. Yes, he has control of how he is seen by others. He is grey and rather dull. Why would anyone look twice at him? He is boring and slightly hunched. Satisfied that nobody has noticed his moment of hesitation, he looks around.

The people to be cleansed are here, just as they are everywhere. No need to look too hard for them. And he knows better than anyone that the population need to be dealt with.

The master is surely using others too. But why then is it only his achievements that are announced in the press and on TV? Are the others working in secret? No, it seems he is alone. It is up to him to prevent the impending disaster with his own contribution.
Is it enough though? Will it ever be enough? Sometimes he wonders how many innocent lives he has already saved.

He functions with no remorse for his actions, no pity for his victims or their loved ones. They are bringing it on themselves with their selfish lust for pleasure. Pleasure at any cost to themselves, even at the cost of bringing a curse to humanity. To Her.

Then he sees the girl. She is sitting at the side of the platform; her dog slumped forlornly against her side. They both looked pathetic. Several people appeared to have made a donation but the girl was unresponsive, her expression glassy, her pupils dilated. Her soul was dirty and the master would be pleased.

Monday, May 20, Brighton Police Station Canteen, 12.30PM

PC Michael Lucas always wanted to be in plain clothes. He decided that one way to make his mark and be noticed would be to catch a killer single-handed. He figured that if the killer was targeting gays, and he went to the Speckled Cat, maybe the killer would try to pick him up and he, PC Lucas would catch him all by himself and be a hero.

He ran the idea by PC Barry Ryan as they tucked into pasta and chips.

‘You can’t be serious, Mike,’ Ryan said, incredulously. ‘We would be in big trouble if we were found out,’ he argued.

‘I am very serious. Couldn’t be more serious, Baz,’ Lucas answered with a smile. ‘And we definitely wouldn’t be in trouble if we were instrumental in catching a killer that everyone is struggling to get anywhere near.’

‘But we’d stick out like sore thumbs in a gay pub, wouldn’t we?’ Ryan didn’t like the idea at all. ‘We’re not gay and they’ll notice.’

‘But the killer might not be gay, so how’s he going to know?’ replied Ryan. ‘No, I think it’s a great idea. Someone’s probably already planning something like this, it’s just that we’d be ahead
of them if we do it sooner rather than later.’

Their conversation was interrupted when they were joined by a couple of other PCs. The conversation turned to the weekend’s football.

Barry suggested a beer after work in the nearest sports bar and they agreed to meet up there. ‘See you there, Mike,’ he said pointedly to Lucas.

Lucas smiled. ‘Yeah, okay, see you there.’

Monday, May 20, Worthing, 3.00PM

‘Ah, gentlemen of the constabulary, you are very punctual, welcome. Please come in, and make yourselves at home. Tea? We have tea. Or coffee, if you would rather? Let me see. Or could I offer you a cold drink.’ Ercott radiated boundless energy as well as, at this precise moment in time, genuine hospitality.

He was a thin and gangly six-foot-two of dignified hyperactivity. His hair was still thick but it was completely white. It had been cut but not recently. It had been combed but quite possibly not today. And, although nearly seventy-three, his appearance somehow managed to give him the air of a schoolboy on occasions.

Ercott had gone into psychology in the days when people raised their eyebrows whenever a shrink was mentioned. He had long since forgotten how many times he had heard – and ignored – someone say, “Anyone who sees a psychiatrist needs their heads tested.” He had moved over to criminology simply because, as an overgrown child, he saw it as jolly good fun. A bit of a wheeze.

Offender profiling was now his main passion, and he once amused his grandchildren by boasting that he could tell which milkman was doing which shift, by the position the bottles were placed on his doorstep. And he was right. His grandchildren thought he was way cool.

Ercott led Saxon and Parker down the hallway to his study, which apparently was not confined to one room but spread over
the entire ground floor of the house. The main walls had been knocked out so that a large gentle arch divided each room. At the back of the house were large French windows leading out to a patio and a long garden with a well-trimmed lawn.

‘Please come into my study, gentlemen. And have you decided, tea, coffee or lemonade?’

They settled on coffee and Ercott passed on the order to a small round woman wearing an apron. She had appeared as if by magic, just as he turned to look for her. Saxon guessed she must be roughly the same age as Ercott. She nodded at both of them.

He smiled at them, inclining his head towards her. ‘Oh, I’m sorry. Forgive me. I didn’t introduce you to my housekeeper, Hettie. She has been with me for a long time, and you know I really can’t remember exactly how long. Sign of my age I suppose. Hettie, my dear, these gentlemen are from the police.’

Hettie nodded again and disappeared in the direction of the kitchen. Social graces were not her forte.

Ercott’s old world ways and courteous manners struck Saxon immediately. Ercott wore an off-white colonial-style suit, with cuffs that had definitely seen better days; he resembled Saxon’s idea of a British embassy official in the 1920s, somewhere tropical. As he spoke to Saxon, he repeatedly removed his steel-rimmed glasses and held them up to the light as if he couldn’t believe there was nothing on the lens restricting his vision. Periodically he wiped them and put them back on only to remove them a few minutes later for another polish.

Every inch of wall space was covered with bookshelves starting at floor level, and the top books touched the ceiling in places. Saxon was able to see at a glance that they were mostly books on psychology, criminology, and true-life crime – particu-larly murder.

While Ercott dithered around trying to find somewhere sensible to put the papers and books that had covered the sofa, Saxon and Parker stood in the centre of the room like two boys
in the headmaster’s study, waiting for a good talking-to about something found stuck under a desk.

Eventually Ercott lost patience with himself and swept pretty much everything from the sofa to the floor. He apologised for the apparent chaos, but explained that he knew where everything was and could generally lay his hands on what he needed. So the filing system – or lack of it – suited him very well. He gestured for them to sit down in the newly available space.

‘Now, officers, what is it that I can assist you with?’ Ercott seemed exhausted as he slumped in his desk chair.

Saxon slowly expounded the entire story so far, as Ercott made careful notes, stopping Saxon every now and then so that he could catch up and occasionally clean his glasses. The only real pause was when Hettie reappeared with tea instead of coffee. Nobody said a word, other than to thank her. They didn’t want to cause any embarrassment to the old woman.

‘I’m sorry, gentlemen, but she never quite gets it right,’ Ercott apologised. ‘Can you suffer with your tea instead of coffee?’

‘No problem, I’m sure it will be fine, Professor.’ Saxon felt sorry for the old dear.

‘Do call me Roger. After all, that’s what I was christened, not Professor,’ Ercott said, beaming at them.

Saxon could tell even from that first short meeting that he and Ercott were going to have no communication problems at all. He liked Ercott; indeed, it was difficult not to like him.

‘Right then, Commander. Or can I call you Comm for short?’

‘You can call me Paul, I wasn’t christened Commander either.’

Ercott took his glasses off again, and polished them. He squinted at Saxon. ‘Right, Paul, what I need from you at this stage are the names of everyone you have come into contact with regarding this case.’ He looked through the bottom of the glasses and then put them back on. ‘And details, as many details as possible about those people. For instance, have any of them changed their names either through marriage or by deed poll? I
need to know where they live and where they lived for the last five years at least. Is there the slightest chance that their paths have crossed before? Is this quite clear, Paul? It’s very important that you follow my instructions to the letter otherwise we will all be wasting our time.’ He pressed his fingers together, almost as if he were praying.

‘I will need to see photos of the crime scene…And, by the way, how were the locations left after the murders?’

‘Extremely tidy, except for the last one, I found that very strange,’ Saxon said with Parker nodding in agreement.

‘Yes, but what did the “tidy” tell you, Paul? Did it say clinically tidy or just average tidy?’ Ercott sat leaning on his knuckles looking intense.

Saxon paused. ‘I would say clinically clean and tidy.’ He looked across at his colleague. ‘Would you agree with that, Parker?’

‘Yes, sir, I’d say it was spooky how clean and tidy. Too bloody tidy. Up to the last murders at Anvil Wood House, that is.’ Parker was relieved to be included in the conversation at last.

Ercott stood up and wandered around the room with his head back so that he could focus through the bottom of his glasses. He scanned the shelves of books as he went.

‘Oh I can’t find the damn thing, I’m sure Hettie comes in here and moves things about when I’m not here,’ he mumbled in an irritated tone. ‘Ah, wait, got it.’ With a swipe, he grabbed a heavily read book and flicked through the pages.

‘If it is the same person committing these crimes then his MO is obviously changing, which is unusual to say the least. Most serial killers have a set pattern that they stick to religiously and if one of these killers becomes active, you realise this phenomenon is quite rare don’t you, gentlemen? Of course you do, silly me, you are policemen after all. Maybe in this country, we will only come across two or three serials every couple of years. But due to the predictability of their actions and your
detection talents, they can usually be caught.’

He held up the book with his thumb marking the spot with the elusive information.

‘A colleague, or rather should I say, ex-colleague, he’s dead now, wrote this book in the fifties. Very ahead of his time, had some radical ideas and wasn’t afraid to speak up. In those days, very brave, very brave indeed. Anyway, as I was saying, he worked with the police on several occasions. Some of the more forward-thinking high-ranking officers realised that if, as they called them then, “a homicidal maniac”, was on the loose, then maybe someone who understood the workings of their minds may be able to help catch them. The author’s name was Alan Gittings. Poor chap had ginger hair, and we called him Ginger Git. Never mind though, he’s probably forgiven us by now.’

Saxon was hoping that Ercott would hurry up a bit and come to a conclusion, but Parker was completely entranced like a small boy in awe of a favourite teacher. Ercott was striding around the room in full lecture mode, although totally unaware of it.

‘The point I’m making, gentlemen, is that Gittings came across one particular killer during his long and varied career. It was, I think in 1958; yes it was indeed ‘58.’

He spoke slowly as he checked it out.

‘This murderer, a charming fellow by all accounts, by the name of Clive Williams, a bit grand, thought highly of himself, a journalist apparently. After first killing three ladies of the night, by strangulation, Williams changed his MO and suddenly started to stab his victims. For a serial killer this does not come easy. They have set routines where they feel safe because in their minds they have practised over and over the events that will happen during their attack. They meticulously plan for all eventualities, including, for example, their escape route. Back to Williams, after two knife killings he decided to try smashing the skulls of his victims with a hammer. Only one – thank goodness. He was caught because he dropped his hammer after running
away from his last attempted murder.