Rogue Killer Read online

  Pulling on protective shoes, she passed through the cordon at the end of Pope’s Head Alley and entered the narrow passageway behind Ian. It was enclosed on both sides by high brick walls, almost like a tunnel, except that it was open to the sky. As they turned a corner, a couple of uniformed officers stood aside to let them through. There was barely enough room to squeeze past them.

  ‘It’s just up there, towards High Ousegate,’ one of the constables said.

  Geraldine followed Ian across the plastic stepping plates of the common approach path lining the passageway, until they reached the site.

  She noticed the blood first. Camouflaged on red-brick walls enclosing the snickelway, the scarlet runnels were startlingly brilliant against grey paving stones on the ground. As she looked down at the dead man, the high walls seemed to close in on her and the scene took on a dreamlike quality. A dark puddle had pooled beside the dead man’s head. Nothing about the shape or colouring of the body looked even vaguely human. Only the short mousy hair, crusty with dried blood, indicated that the hump of clothes at her feet had once been a person.

  For a few seconds she stood perfectly still, taking in every detail of the scene. The crime team who were on their way would struggle to work in such a confined space, photographing the body and searching every centimetre of the passageway for evidence, but for now the time was hers. High Ousegate was closer than Peter Lane, and from the position of the body she thought the dead man had probably entered the alleyway from the Peter Lane end. The cause of death wasn’t immediately obvious, although the blood indicated he had been stabbed.

  The silence was disturbed by a faint cacophony that grew in volume behind her. Two white-coated scene of crime officers appeared around the bend in the snickelway.

  ‘Let’s get out of here,’ Ian said.

  Geraldine nodded. There was barely room for her and Ian to stand side by side against the wall. Two more white-coated officers appeared in front of them, on the far side of the body. They manoeuvred their way past the officers waiting behind them and returned to Peter Lane.

  ‘Phew,’ Geraldine said as they emerged back on to the street. ‘That was tight.’

  ‘And bloody,’ Ian muttered.

  Peter Lane was busier than it had been when they arrived. People were hurrying past on their way to work, most of them barely glancing at the cordon across the lane. As she entered the bustling street, Geraldine felt as though she was waking from a nightmare.

  They drove back to the police station in silence. Without evidence there was nothing useful to discuss, only speculation. Once they knew the identity of the victim, and the details of his violent death, they would be in a position to consider what had happened. If they had witnessed the victim of a mugging, as seemed probable, they could only hope the killer had left clear traces of DNA behind, enabling them to find a match straightaway.

  ‘That was a vicious attack,’ Ian said as they drew up in the police station car park. He shuddered. ‘Let’s hope we get him quickly.’

  ‘Or her,’ Geraldine replied.

  Ian frowned. ‘That seems unlikely but, either way, we don’t want a violent psychopath loose in the city.’

  Geraldine didn’t say what she suspected they were both thinking. They were responsible for protecting the innocent, and if this was not a one-off crime of passion but a random assault, other innocent lives might be at risk. The many alleyways that criss-crossed the city of York were quaint and historically interesting. She hoped they had not become a hunting ground for a dangerous killer.

  3

  After a hurried lunch in the canteen, Geraldine attended a briefing. Not all of her colleagues were there when she reached the incident room, and the detective chief inspector, Eileen Duncan, had not yet arrived. A young constable, Naomi, was whispering to Ian, so Geraldine walked past them to join Ariadne who was standing by herself at the side of the room. They had barely had time to exchange a greeting when Eileen entered. Striding past them all, she made her way to the front of the room where she stood looking around at the assembled team.

  ‘It seems we’re looking at a street crime that went too far,’ she said. ‘We all know about the spate of attacks that have been happening recently. There have been several accounts of victims being threatened with a knife in the course of a mugging and there’s nothing to suggest this was anything other than an unfortunate victim who tried to resist an approach from this criminal gang. With the increase in violent assaults on the streets, this was a fatality waiting to happen. We need to find this gang of muggers and put a stop to them before things escalate any further.’

  Geraldine wasn’t sure how much further the situation could escalate, considering the latest stabbing had been fatal, but she understood what the detective chief inspector meant. The past few months had seen a series of muggings in York. Witness reports suggested that a gang of youths armed with knives was responsible, but so far no one had been apprehended. The police hadn’t even identified any suspects. But then, none of the victims had been murdered until now. This death catapulted the situation from an investigation into street muggings into a completely different league. The Major Crimes Unit was involved, with access to vastly enhanced resources.

  ‘We’re not going to let the grass grow under our feet,’ Eileen said, as though the team previously investigating the muggings had been idle. ‘It looks as though the mugger was disturbed, because the victim wasn’t robbed this time. He still had his phone and his wallet on him, and they were easy to find in the pockets of his jeans. So at least we know who he is.’

  The victim was a thirty-two-year-old history teacher who had lived in York with his wife. Nothing in his life so far had linked him to any criminal activity. Everything about him indicated that he had been an innocent victim. But of course they all knew that appearances could mask a very different reality.

  ‘So are you saying you don’t think the attacker intended to kill his victim, and ran off in a panic when he realised what he had done?’ Ariadne suggested.

  There was a general murmur of agreement.

  ‘Or perhaps this wasn’t a mugging at all,’ Geraldine added softly.

  ‘There’s nothing so far to suggest this was anything other than a mugging gone wrong,’ Eileen replied, a little too firmly.

  Geraldine hesitated to challenge her superior officer, but the absence of footprints leading away from the scene bothered her.

  ‘The ground around the body was so bloody,’ she said. ‘I just don’t see how someone running off in a panic could have quit the scene without leaving a single footprint.’ She frowned. ‘He must have – oh, I don’t know – changed his shoes before he left the scene? And that doesn’t sound like someone in a panic to get away.’

  ‘It’s hardly likely he would have stopped to change his shoes,’ Eileen agreed.

  ‘Not if it was a mugger,’ Geraldine said. ‘But what if that wasn’t what happened? What if this victim was deliberately targeted in a carefully planned attack?’

  ‘You’re suggesting this was murder?’ Eileen asked, her tone tinged with hostility.

  Geraldine shrugged. ‘I’m raising the possibility because it just doesn’t look like an opportunistic mugging.’

  Eileen didn’t disagree but merely concluded that they needed more information. In the meantime, knowing the victim’s identity gave them plenty to do.

  ‘And there’s the knife to follow up. We know a great deal about it already.’

  The assembled officers nodded at one another. A couple of constables muttered under their breath. All of them had read the report. Microscopic fragments of metal had been detected in the victim’s throat, indicating that the blade had been recently sharpened.

  ‘And we have a DNA sample on the victim’s sleeve where it might have brushed against the killer. So let’s get going. We have a lot to do,’ Eileen said. ‘We need to put an end to all this.’<
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  Eileen was clinging to the theory that they were investigating a mugging that had got out of hand, but Geraldine couldn’t help thinking the killer’s departure from the scene had been too slick for an accidental killing. There was nothing to be gained by challenging the detective chief inspector’s opinion again without further grounds so, for the time being, Geraldine decided to wait and see how the evidence panned out.

  The duty sergeant allocated tasks and Geraldine set off to speak to the pathologist who was conducting the post mortem. Had her long-standing friend and colleague, Ian, not been squeamish at post mortems, he might have accompanied her. As it was, she didn’t mind going to view the body alone. She sometimes wondered at her own indifference to corpses, but it was the living who disturbed her, not the dead who were past suffering and pain. Besides, there was a practical reason for attending post mortems since murder victims could provide crucial evidence about their killers.

  ‘One stab wound,’ the pathologist, Jonah Hetherington, said without pausing to greet her as she entered the room.

  His calm fascination with cadavers made her feel less uncomfortable with her own dispassionate response to the dead.

  ‘It’s a neat job,’ he went on, almost as though he admired the killer’s handiwork. ‘The killer appears to be skilled at using a knife. Someone who doesn’t know what they’re doing is more likely to end up with a gory mess.’

  ‘There was a lot of blood at the scene.’

  ‘Even so, the wound is quite neat.’

  ‘Are you saying you think the killer was a professional?’

  ‘You mean, a hired killer?’

  ‘Well, no. I meant, do you think he was killed by someone used to wielding a knife? A butcher, or a surgeon perhaps?’

  Jonah chuckled. ‘Or a pathologist?’

  She returned his smile.

  ‘No,’ he shook his head, serious once more. ‘All I can say is that this was a deft incision, but I don’t think we can draw any useful conclusions from the nature of the wound. It could have been luck that the first strike proved fatal.’

  ‘Not very lucky for him,’ Geraldine muttered, nodding at the body.

  ‘Well, no. Not lucky for him, except that he probably wouldn’t have known much about it. Bleeding profusely and unable to breathe, he would have lost consciousness fairly quickly. The neck was sliced through, severing the carotid artery and the windpipe with one slash of a sharp blade.’

  ‘Like I said, there was a lot of blood.’

  Jonah grunted. ‘Yes, I saw the pictures.’

  ‘Which surely makes it unlikely an opportunistic assailant would have left the scene without a trace.’

  Jonah raised his eyebrows. ‘Do you mean to say there wasn’t a trail of bloody footprints leading to the villain’s hideout?’

  Geraldine laughed. ‘What else can you tell us about the killer?’

  ‘You want a description?’

  ‘That would be good for starters. And how about his name and address while we’re at it?’ She laughed again. ‘But seriously, is there anything you can tell us? Anything definite? Anything likely? Anything even vaguely possible…’ She stared gloomily at the body. ‘There don’t seem to be any defence wounds.’

  ‘No, you’re right. Just the one wound that killed him pretty quickly.’

  ‘Isn’t that unusual in a mugging? Wouldn’t you expect him to have tried to fight back?’

  ‘If the victim had been sober the absence of defence wounds would suggest he was taken by surprise, but our man here had been drinking so heavily it’s hard to say whether he knew what was happening or not. The killer could have taken his time over it, his victim was so pissed. He was killed around midnight, and my guess is he’d been drinking all evening, on an otherwise fairly empty stomach. The killer attacked suddenly, with one lunge, and I’d say the poor bloke was dead before he even realised what had hit him.’

  Geraldine frowned, picturing the white lump of flesh on the table clothed and making his way along the snickelway, so drunk he was barely able to put one foot in front of the other. Staggering and swaying, maybe whistling as he made his way unsteadily along the lane, he encountered a shadowy figure. As the two of them attempted to manoeuvre their way past one another in the narrow space, the stranger whipped out a knife, took aim and slashed. It would have been over in seconds.

  ‘Do you think it was a man? A woman?’

  Again Jonah shook his head. ‘Nothing about the attack to suggest the gender of the assailant.’

  ‘Forensics have come up with DNA that might be helpful,’ she said.

  Jonah looked up and smiled. ‘Now she tells me.’ But of course he already knew about the DNA. ‘So what else have you been hiding from me?’

  ‘Other than that we’re looking for a Caucasian male, we’re still working in the dark. The killer seems to have vanished without leaving a trace.’

  ‘Isn’t that unusual?’

  She drew in a deep breath. ‘It might suggest that this wasn’t just a stray strike in a mugging, but the result of a more carefully planned attack.’

  ‘That sounds like bad news.’

  ‘It’s just my opinion. A hunch, if you like. Don’t quote me on it. The boss is convinced this was a mugging that went badly wrong. Don’t let on that I have a different theory.’

  Jonah nodded. ‘Silent as the grave.’

  ‘Is there anything else you’ve noticed that might be at all helpful?’

  He sighed. ‘I’m not a wizard, Geraldine. You know all about the fragments of metal we found embedded in his throat?’

  ‘Yes. Meaning the knife had recently been sharpened.’

  ‘It was certainly sharp. The blade sliced very neatly through his windpipe. But I’m not telling you anything new.’

  ‘Well, if you come across anything else, just call me.’

  Returning to her desk she wrote up her report as factually as possible, saying nothing about her disappointment with Jonah’s inconclusive findings, then went to find Ian to express her frustration aloud.

  ‘I don’t see why you’re so bugged. The post mortem has confirmed what we already knew,’ Ian said. ‘The victim was drunk as a lord, and killed with one slash of his throat. Tolerate street muggings, and sooner or later something like this is bound to happen. That’s why we have to redouble our efforts to put a stop to it.’

  Like Eileen, he believed this death had been the result of a mugging that had gone too far.

  ‘There are things about this incident that just don’t add up,’ Geraldine insisted. ‘This wasn’t a mugging gone wrong. There’s something else going on here.’

  ‘Why? Because the victim wasn’t robbed?’

  ‘Yes, that’s part of it. But there’s more to it than that. Why did the mugger disappear without leaving a trace? How come there wasn’t a single bloody footprint leaving the scene?’

  ‘He could have taken his shoes off when he realised he’d stepped in blood and was going to leave a trail of footprints leading back to his house. All that tells us is that he wasn’t a complete idiot, more’s the pity. It makes life more difficult for us, but there’s nothing more to it than that.’

  ‘It could mean this attack was deliberate.’

  ‘I think you’re reading more into it than the evidence warrants.’

  There was no point in continuing the discussion. Only hard proof could establish what had really occurred that night, but so far all the evidence was inconclusive. They would have to wait for the results of the forensic examination of the scene and hope it could provide them with some helpful information.

  4

  ‘The point is, the fucking point is –’ Daryl broke off to take a swig of tepid beer.

  He tipped his head right back and light from the naked bulb shone on his pale forehead as he straightened up. He was clutching the bottle so tightly t
he dints in his knuckle bones were visible.

  ‘The point is?’ Carver repeated, fingers tapping impatiently on his thigh while his face grew taut with unspoken menace.

  At nineteen, and the oldest of the three boys, he was sprawled in the only comfortable seat in the garage, an armchair upholstered in faded red velvet, threadbare yet retaining a vestige of past opulence. As though to remind the others of the reason for his nickname, he took out the knife that was said to have killed a man. Daryl made a show of studying the label on his beer bottle, but Carver knew the younger boy was watching the blade as it flicked in and out, in and out, with a barely audible clicking.

  Daryl’s hand shook as he leaned forward to set his bottle down on the floor. A solitary bead of sweat trickled down his forehead. His eyes darted around the sparsely furnished garage, seeking inspiration. His gaze lingered for a second or two on the dirty boards nailed over the window, before it alighted on the third boy in the room. Squatting on the floor, Nelson turned away and spat, refusing to answer Daryl’s mute plea.

  ‘The point?’ Carver prompted him again, holding up his knife and touching the tip of the sharpened blade with one finger. ‘What is your point, Daryl?’ He leaned forward. ‘What is the point of you, Daryl?’ Proud of his pun, he repeated it, his teeth bared in a grin.

  ‘The point is, they’re gonna think it was us shivved that dude.’

  Carver laid his knife down on his leg, the blade pointing towards Daryl. The handle gleamed darkly.

  ‘What you talking about? You off your face? Who’s gonna think it was us?’

  ‘The pigs, man.’ Daryl glared, giving up the attempt to conceal his agitation. ‘They been looking for us. I seen it on the news, man. A gang of muggers they called us. I heard it with my own ears, man. They’re out there looking for us.’

  ‘They haven’t found us yet,’ Nelson pointed out complacently, without turning round.

  Carver paid no attention to the interruption. This was between him and Daryl.

  ‘And now some dude’s been shivved,’ Daryl went on, his terror of Carver momentarily overtaken by fear of the police. ‘They’re gonna think it was us done it. A street mugging gone wrong is what they said. I’m telling you, if we get nicked, they’re gonna do us for killing that stiff.’