Author: Sarah Pinborough
Category: Thriller
Go to read content：https://onlinereadfreenovel.com/sarah-pinborough/page,7,69649-a_matter_of_blood_the_dog-faced_gods_trilogy.html
The photographs showed her decomposing body examined from all angles, her dignity stripped away by the flash of a camera. A close-up highlighted swollen eyelids, lips and tongue, not a result of any injury or beating but simply the efficient progression of nature. As soon as death had occurred, Jade’s silent body, already a busy little ecosystem, had gone into overdrive, the myriad tiny organisms working furiously inside her to recycle the nutrients contained within her carcass.
The silver stud in Jade Palmer’s tongue stuck out in ironic mockery: a final ‘fuck you’ to a world that had finally fucked her. It was the only thing really recognisable on a body that had lost both shape and colour. He looked back at the smiling face captured in the first photo. This would be the image that would haunt him, not the dead thing below.
Next to Jade was twenty-eight-year-old Amanda Carlisle. She was a curvy brunette with an unhealthy sheen to her skin. The photo had been taken in a pub and she had a cigarette in one hand and a drink in the other - some variety of lager or cider. Unlike Jade Palmer, she had a steady boyfriend, a truck driver, and a job as a waitress in an Islington café. She’d been there for the past two years and was known to be polite, friendly and punctual. Maybe it was the regular diet of fried eggs and chips that was responsible for the pale, greasy skin. Amanda and her boyfriend rented a small terraced house a street away from where she was found, naked and scrawled on and left to rot in forgotten dust just like the others. This time the empty building was not abandoned but up for sale, one of many around there. The estate agent had been making his rounds. He went to check everything was okay and found Amanda Carlisle lying on the sitting room floor.
In the period between her death and her discovery, the fly eggs inserted into her eyes had hatched successfully. One close-up focused on several well-developed maggots, in the third stage of their development, according to the fact sheet someone had thoughtfully inserted into the file. Cass grimaced and looked away.
At least Amanda Carlisle had been reported missing, by both her boyfriend and the café owner. She’d worked the late shift, closing up at ten, but had never made it home, a ten-minute walk at best. Cass didn’t have to meet her boss to know that he’d probably had a few sleepless nights over the past month since her decaying body had been found, even if there was nothing he could have done.
The third victim stared up at him. The picture looked to have been taken outside a pub on a summer’s afternoon. Emma Loines wasn’t smiling, but watching the camera thoughtfully, as if whoever had taken the photograph had caught her in the middle of a private dilemma that she hadn’t been able to resolve before the shutter released, capturing her like that for ever. Unlike the other three, Emma Loines wasn’t in her twenties; she’d died just two weeks before her thirty-second birthday. She was an office temp who had moved down to London from Manchester two months previously to take a full-time job. She had been living in a bedsit in King’s Cross. Cass thought it was no wonder she didn’t look happy. King’s Cross was a dodgy area at the best of times, all street prostitution and low-level crime, but as the country - and the rest of the world - took an economic nosedive, the streets of King’s Cross got even busier.
Emma Loines had been found two weeks ago, in a small flat almost as dingy as the one in Newham where Carla Rae had died. It was a rented property a couple of streets back from the station, vacant after the forcible eviction of the last tenants. The landlord found the body when he went to meet a John Smith, who’d called about the flat but never showed. Surprise, surprise. The number on the landlord’s mobile turned out to be a payphone in King’s Cross Station. Cass thought the landlord must have been pretty desperate to let the flat if he’d bothered to turn up for someone who called himself John Smith - or maybe he was used to having anonymous tenants. It was the right area for it.
When she was found, Emma Loines had been dead for approximately three days. She’d failed to turn up for a meeting with her new employer, and after trying her mobile and getting no response, he’d given the job to someone else. That was the way of this brave new world, after all. As soon as the body was ID’d the nationwide computer revealed that her parents had contacted their local station with concerns over their daughter’s silence a day and a half after her arrival in the capital but they’d been politely ignored. No one cared about missing adults, that was the cold hard truth. The only missing people who would get police attention these days were the kind who turned up murdered. Cass was glad he hadn’t had to be the officer to explain to Mr and Mrs Loines that their daughter now fell into that category.
And then there was Carla Rae. The crime scene pictures were pretty familiar now, all variations on the same theme. Cass looked at the sadness in Carla Rae’s eyes. The photo wasn’t new; he thought it had been taken a year or more ago. Carla, tatty blonde hair hanging lank over her shoulders, was standing next to another woman with similar features: a sister, perhaps. Neither women looked over-happy to be there, and Cass felt a twinge of sorrow for this poor, dead stranger whose family couldn’t even come up with a current picture of her. The night before she was killed, Carla had been in her local pub. She’d had two halves of lager, then gone to the Chinese take-away that was on her route home. An uneaten bag of prawn crackers - Free with Every Takeaway!, according to the menu - and a dirty plate were found in the kitchen, so he reckoned it was safe to assume she’d got home safely. But what happened to her after that; what she did and who she saw - all that was just a black hole. Cass’s men were working hard to fill in the missing pieces of Carla Rae’s last night on this planet. It was her fingers that were digging so painfully into him. She was his case; just like the schoolboys. The others could go and haunt Bowman. He sighed. If only it worked like that.
He looked up to find the profiler watching him. ‘Sorry. I haven’t had much time to check these over myself.’
‘Interesting that you focus so much on the pictures of the victims while they were alive.’
Cass smiled. ‘We’re not here to analyse me, and I couldn’t afford your rates even if I wanted to, so let’s stick to the bodies at hand. What can you tell me?’ He reached over and clicked on the Dictaphone at the end of the table.
Hask lowered himself down into a chair, ignoring the fact that he was spilling uncomfortably over the sides. ‘Well, let’s start with the general stuff, not forgetting that despite my extortionate fees I can’t give you any absolutes. Law of averages suggest that you’re looking for a white male. Female serial killers are extremely rare, and that, combined with the choice of female victims who are left naked, points definitely towards a male.’
‘We think so too,’ Cass agreed. ‘The call from “John Smith” confirmed our suspicions.’
Hask shuffled through some of the photographs. ‘His crime scenes are organised.’ He looked up. ‘But you don’t need me to tell you that these aren’t crimes of passion. He’s treated each victim in exactly the same manner, which would imply that they’re targeted strangers rather than people he actively knows, or who have overtly offended him in any way.’
‘If this is what he does to people who haven’t offended him, then I’d hate to be the one to piss him off,’ Cass commented.
Hask smiled. ‘I take your point.’ He looked back at the pictures. ‘Where are their clothes? Does he take them away with him?’
Cass nodded.
‘These crime scenes are very controlled,’ Hask continued. ‘Normally in a case like this I’d suggest that he’s keeping personal items like clothing as a keepsake - a kind of memento. He relives his various crimes by touching or looking at something he’s taken from the victims.’ He shook his head. ‘But I’m not so sure with this one. Keepsakes are normally one particular item of clothing; perhaps underwear, or shoes. If he’s taking everything it could just be removal of evidence. That would fit in with his need to control the scene.’
He frowned and Cass stayed silent. He could almost hear that very expensive expert brain ticking over as he pieced things together, an
d he didn’t want to do anything that might break that concentration.
‘It’s important to him that they’re naked,’ Hask said finally, almost to himself. ‘That much is obvious. And they were all found in empty buildings, not their own homes. Maybe it’s important to him that they’re stripped of all identity. He’s taken them out of their clothes and their homes.’
‘But he didn’t take Carla Rae’s bag with her purse and ID in it,’ Cass said. ‘Unless that was a mistake.’
‘I don’t think this guy makes mistakes. Not yet, anyway.’
‘Me neither,’ Cass agreed. ‘And he wasn’t rushed at the scene, not the last one, at any rate. He left a boombox with some God-awful heavy metal music playing just to make sure the body was found quickly.’
‘What was playing?’
Cass shook his head. ‘I’m not sure. I’ll find out.’
‘Do that. I doubt this one would have chosen music at random. There may be something we can use in his choice as I’m presuming he didn’t leave anything as useful as fingerprints behind?’
‘You’d be presuming right.’
Hask turned his attention back to the pictures of the naked dead women and sighed. ‘Okay, it’s not about making them anonymous. It is about making them vulnerable and exposed. We’re at our weakest when we’re naked, not only physically, but emotionally too. Years of conditioning have hard-wired us to feel shame at our own nudity.’ He grimaced. ‘You could call it the Adam and Eve complex - although that’s not a technical term.’
‘He feels power over them by leaving them naked?’
‘The power trip is clear, yes. I’ll come back to that.’ Hask tapped two fingers on his bottom lip for a few seconds.
‘Right. It’s not about taking their identity. These places he leaves them are all disused homes of some sort, aren’t they?’
‘Yes. The last was a squat. One was an empty rental, one was a boarded-up house and another was a repossessed house up for sale.’
‘All abandoned homes. So it’s important for him to displace these women: to leave them in their most honest state, in a place they don’t belong.’
‘Why would he want to do that?’
The profiler shrugged. ‘Your guess is as good as mine at the moment.’
‘And the clothes?’
‘Possessions would create a sense of belonging. We fill our homes with our things. He wants them out of place, so he takes the clothes with him. I doubt he keeps them. Maybe they’ll turn up dumped somewhere, or perhaps he’ll burn them. Either way, it doesn’t really matter. Despite the nudity, these crimes aren’t sexual. He won’t have ripped their clothes off, and I sincerely doubt he’s left anything in the way of DNA or trace evidence behind.’
Cass was studying the photographs again. ‘I think he makes them strip themselves,’ he said, ‘and then makes them put their clothes in a bag. That’s how I see it playing out in my head.’
The profiler looked at him thoughtfully. ‘Exactly how I see it too.’ He smiled. ‘You don’t get a refund, though.’
‘It’s not my money,’ Cass smiled back, ‘so enjoy it.’
‘I shall, believe me - and perhaps we should go to the Ivy? We must eat, after all.’
Cass definitely approved of the profiler; he recognised that same disregard for authority that he himself had struggled with all his life. ‘Make it the pub and you’re on,’ he said, then added, ‘But if it’s not sexual, what’s his motive?’
‘I should imagine he has more than one, some conscious; others less so. He’s making a point of some kind - or sending a message. Each victim has “Nothing is Sacred” painted on them in blood, but the meaning isn’t obvious to me. Could be a religious thing, perhaps someone who has lost their faith. But sacred can also mean “respected”, or valued in a non-sectarian way. Given that he writes this on a dead body in blood - a key element of life - I believe it’s more likely to be the concept of life he thinks lacking in value rather than the women themselves. He might have picked women rather than men purely because they’re physically weaker.’
‘Although if he is making a religious point, then perhaps he’s picked women because it was Eve who fell to temptation, and was therefore the first sinner,’ Cass added.
‘Could well be.’ Hask looked at him. ‘You don’t strike me as a religious man.’
‘I’m not. But my father was.’ Cass paused. ‘For what it was worth.’
‘Something you want to share?’
‘Not really.’ Cass was grinding his teeth again. It was a bad habit; one he couldn’t shake. In his mind’s eye he could see the flames, even though he’d been miles away when the accident happened. Sometimes he was sure he could feel them burning him in his sleep. ‘I’ll just say his faith was sorely tested at the end.’
‘Sorry to hear that.’
Cass was surprised to find that he believed Hask to be sincere. ‘Well, shit happens, doesn’t it?’ He looked down at the pictures. ‘There’s no escaping it.’
‘Yes.’ Hask spoke more softly. ‘We have enough of Heaven and Hell in this life without worrying about what might happen in the next.’ After a moment, he rubbed his hands together and focused once again on the task at hand. ‘The method of death is interesting too. Precise injection of pentabarbitone in every case.’
Cass was glad to be back on sure, gritty, ground. This was his world, and he was safe here. ‘Why didn’t he use cocaine, or heroin, or some other street drug? There’s enough of the stuff out there, and people die of overdoses every day. There’d be no risk of it being traced either.’
‘Those drugs wouldn’t suit his purpose. Pentabarbitone is used to put animals down - cats, dogs, our beloved family pets.’ He smiled sadly. ‘That’s what he’s doing to these women. He’s putting them down as if they were animals. He sees himself as more powerful - maybe he pities them, perhaps he’s even fond of them, in an abstract, distanced way. If he’d used another drug, it wouldn’t send the same message, and it certainly wouldn’t have the same effect. A heroin or cocaine overdose would kill the victim by inducing a sudden, violent high, followed shortly thereafter by a massive heart attack. This drug is far more clinical. He’s injected them with exact amounts to slow their breathing until it stops. There’s no euphoria involved. He basically sends them to sleep and switches them off.’
‘You make them sound like machines.’
‘On the physical level, that’s exactly what we all are. Maybe that’s part of his point.’
‘What about the fly eggs?’
Hask’s whole face wobbled as he let out a small laugh. ‘Ah, the best saved until last. I have to say I was surprised by those. This killer is a bit of a contradiction in some ways. He kills so clinically, and then adds the gruesome flourishes with the written message and the flies. Fascinating.’
‘Less so for the officers on the scene, I should imagine.’
‘Fair point - but fascinating all the same. Again, the eggs - and the eventual flies - could symbolise the cycle of life. By placing the flies on the body he’s emphasising that decay feeds new life. Flies have a relatively short life cycle, so he could be using that to make a point about the lives of humans. Here and gone in an instant.’
‘Which backs up the idea of him seeing his victims as a less-important life form.’
‘And what do we do to flies, Inspector? All of us, regardless of our personal ethics?’
Cass paused and thought of Kate in the summer, rolled newspaper in hand and a disgusted expression marring the beauty of her face. ‘We swat them,’ he said, finally. ‘We kill them without even thinking about it.’
Hask smiled. ‘He’s thinking of us like flies: unimportant and easy to kill. Something has happened to this man to make him see life, people, maybe even society as valueless. Perhaps he picked these women because their lives were dull, wasted. None of them had achieved a great deal in terms of education or career. None of them have children, which might be important: these women have all failed to use what
you might call the female body’s main function: to carry the next generation.’
‘And if there is any sort of religious undercurrent, then surely the act of marriage and procreation would be considered sacred,’ Cass said.
‘True. None of them are virgins.’ Hask finally reached for his coffee. ‘Although I don’t think he’s judging them on their morals. They’re alive, but they’re not living, not in his eyes anyway.’
‘Their lives are humdrum? But whose isn’t?’ Cass asked. ‘The whole world’s broke and depressed. There must be a link other than that. Why these four women out of a million other Londoners?’ Cass stared at the frozen faces spread out on the table. ‘He must watch them. To know a little bit about their lives he must watch them for a while.’
‘I agree. And finding the link is your department. I can’t see anything obvious, but there will be something, so it’s up to your team to find it, hopefully before too many more women - or men - die.’
‘There’s no doubt that this man will kill again?’ Cass knew the answer in his gut. He’d said as much to the ME .
‘Of course not. He’s getting better. And more confident. He wanted this last body found quickly. He’s proud of his handiwork. He wants you’ - he spread his hands - ‘us, society, to be impressed by him.’
‘Oh, I’m impressed,’ Cass growled. ‘Maybe if I go on the news and tell him so, then he’ll just turn himself in.’
‘God, this coffee is truly bad.’ Hask snorted into his cup. ‘This killer may well turn himself in one day, but not until you understand his message.’ He sighed. ‘And we’re a long way from that.’
‘Any ideas on who we might be looking for?’
‘A quiet man. Controlled. Someone who works nine to five but who has maybe changed jobs a few times - not too often; perhaps every couple of years or so. From the evidence we have so far, I’d say our killer is torn between belief in the physical and the spiritual, and he can’t reconcile them. That divide probably runs right through him, and his job choices will vary to reflect it. Perhaps he’s done manual labour and then switched to an office job. I’d say that he’s also neat and careful. The way he lays them out and takes their clothes shows us that.’