Acid Lullaby (25 page)

Underwood didn’t feel any satisfaction. ‘How many bodies?’

‘Four,’ said Dexter, ‘two male, two female.’

‘Any ID on them?’

‘Nothing. All four bodies are naked. None had any personal effects with them. All four have been decapitated.’

‘Jensen?’

‘It’s impossible to say at the moment, but one of the female bodies appears to be of the right build and age. Harrison is convinced that it’s her.’

‘We have her prints on record presumably?’ Underwood asked.

‘In her file. I’ll make sure Leach gets a copy.’

‘What about the others?’

‘Middle-aged male and a younger male of between thirty and forty. Jensen – if it is Jensen – and another woman of approximately same age.’

‘Twenties to thirties?’

‘Right.’

Underwood was curious. The victims were not natural selections. Serial killers tended to prey on groups of similar social, sexual and ethnic background. The two male victims intrigued him. Both were potentially difficult targets: potentially physically strong and experienced. He remembered Jack Harvey was also in reasonable physical condition before he was murdered. Why would the killer choose such potentially awkward victims? Unless …

‘He knew them,’ Underwood said abruptly. ‘He knew all of them.’

‘Jensen?’

‘She was with Rowena Harvey. The killer obviously knew the Harveys. Jensen just got in the way. He’s killing people he knows, for a specific reason. Identify the bodies and we’ll catch him.’

‘That is easier said than done. Two are badly decomposed. Without the heads we won’t be able to use dental records. We’ll just have to wait for the post-mortem results. Maybe one had some particular disease or surgery that could help us when we cross reference with missing persons. It’ll take time though and it may not produce anything at all.’

‘Fuck it.’ Underwood felt his stomach knot in frustration. He knew Dexter was right but he kept thinking of Rowena Harvey.

‘There’s one other thing,’ Dexter said. ‘This won’t cheer you up but it might give us some encouragement. In the sack containing the middle-aged man we found five ten-pence coins. In the sack containing the female victim – not Jensen – we found four coins. In the sack containing the younger man we found a single coin. Now if you combine that with the three coins we found on Jack Harvey and the two in Jensen’s car …’

‘Five, four, three, two, one,’ said Underwood quietly.

‘It’s a countdown. You were right. That’s something, isn’t it?’ said Dexter, trying to encourage him. ‘Something we can work on.’

‘No,’ Underwood replied quietly. ‘It means we’ve run out of time.’

Dexter turned as Marty Farrell approached them from the direction of the ditch.

‘The bodies are being moved now, guv,’ he said to Dexter, ‘we’re taking them to Addenbrookes. Their resources are better than New Bolden’s. I’ll call Leach and send him there.’

‘Thanks, Marty,’ Dexter replied. ‘Anything else?’

‘We’ve got tyre tracks, pretty good ones, heading to and from the ditch. Mr Bennett, the guy who found the bodies comes here regularly. He swears blind that the tracks weren’t here last week. It’s a good bet they belong to our man.’

‘Anything we can go on?’ Underwood asked.

‘We’re taking photos and casts now. There’s a good impression of the tread. We’ll certainly be able to match tyre type.’

‘What about the car?’ Underwood continued. ‘Will we be able to ID it based on the tracks?’

‘Maybe. It’s early days but given the dimensions we’ve got – you know, the distances between the left and right tyres, between the front and rear axles, and the depth of the tyre impressions in the mud – I’d say we’re looking for one of those fuck-off great jeep things or a people carrier. Sorry, I wasn’t trying to be funny.’

‘Didn’t Harrison figure that the killer drove a flashy motor?’ Dexter asked.

‘He did,’ Farrell conceded. ‘Is he all right, by the way?’

Dexter shook her head. ‘Would you be?’

‘No. I guess not.’

‘Thanks, Marty. When you get more on the tyres will you let me know straight away.’

‘No problem,’ Farrell nodded at Underwood and walked back towards the ditch.

Dexter could see Harrison sitting in the passenger seat of one of the parked squad cars.

‘I’m going to speak to Mary Colson again,’ said Underwood. ‘She got us this far, maybe I can get something else out of her.’

Dexter agreed. ‘I should stay here.’

‘Absolutely.’ Underwood looked at Dexter for a moment, remembering his conversation with McInally. ‘Dex, is everything else okay?’

Dexter turned in surprise. ‘You my pastoral carer now?’

‘No. I just wondered. You’ve been under pressure. It can get tough.’

Dexter was taken aback, touched by her former boss’s concern. She was uncertain how to respond: opening Pandora’s box and releasing Mark Willis for Underwood’s assessment was unthinkable to her. She was also aware that Underwood had registered her hesitation.

‘Let’s get going,’ she said eventually. ‘We’ve got lots to do.’

Conversation over. Underwood turned sadly and headed towards his car. Dexter had never been good at hiding her emotions and he could read heartbreak in her eyes.

Max Fallon had just given Rowena Harvey her evening bed bath and taken his time applying moisturizing cream to her body. She had writhed violently and screamed into her gag, to his immense irritation. The woman appeared to have no sense of the great task for which she had been chosen. Max was finding it increasingly difficult to contain himself. However, the great day was looming and soon his incarnation would be complete. His eyes lingered on Rowena Harvey’s naked body. She was ripe for motherhood. It could all have been very different. He sat on the edge of the bed as a sunny day a month previously reared brilliantly in his memory.

He
had
sat
in
his
convertible
Porsche
911
outside
the
main
entrance
of
the
Fogle
&
Moore
building.
It
was
8.30
on
a
Sunday
morning
in
early
April
and
the
streets
around
Canary
Wharf
were
deserted.
He
knew
where
he
was
but
felt
strangely
disorientated.
The
buildings
seemed
unfamiliar,
uneasy
at
his
presence.

Under
the
milky
ocean
something
is
not
quite
right

They
were
temples
of
the
Gods,
thrown
out
of
the
water
by
the
churning
of
the
ocean.
Their
colours
were
shifting
in
the
brilliant,
white
light
of
his
divinity.
The
deserted
glass
temples
still
echoed
with
the
screams
and
laughter
of
his
incarnation.

Max
lay
back
in
his
seat
and
watched
the
sunlight
bounce
off
the
windows
of
the
Canary
Wharf
Tower,
race
across
Cabot
Square
and
ricochet
off
the
mirrored
glass
of
the
Morgan
Stanley
building.
He
was
faster
than
the
beams.
He
waited
for
them
at
each
point
of
their
triangulation.
He
was,
after
all,
a
God.

He
was
the
Soma.
Created
at
the
churning
of
the
ocean.
Deep
under
the
milky
ocean
he
was
forged
by
forces
beyond
human
comprehension.

‘Who
are
you
talking
to?’
said
a
female
voice
above
him.
A
face
silhouetted
in
the
sunlight
that
he
had
left
trailing
in
his
wake.
The
face
moved
away,
Max
slid
down
the
sunlight
and
tried
to
focus.

Liz
Koplinsky
tried
to
open
the
boot
at
the
front
of
Max’s
Porsche.

‘This
is
locked,
buddy!’
she
called
out.

Max
said
nothing
and
Liz
eventually
climbed
into
the
car
and
slung
her
overnight
bag
into
the
space
around
her
feet.
Max
watched
her
closely
for
a
second,
waiting
for
the
lights
to
recede.
When
Liz’s
face
emerged
she
was
just
as
beautiful
as
he
had
remembered.

He
would
fuck
her.
She
would
incarnate
his
divinity.

‘Are
we
leaving
this
place
any
time
soon?
I’m
on
holiday
as
of
now,’
Liz
said
impatiently.
‘Four
weeks!
Bring
it
on,
buddy.
I
hope
this
sunshine
lasts.
Danny’s
been
running
the
floor
since
you
left.
He’s
relocating
me
to
head
trading
in
Frankfurt
…’

Max
floated
away
as
she
babbled.

‘…
it’s
kinda
scary
I
guess
but
the
Krauts
aren’t
making
jack
shit.
Their
margins
are
way
down.
I’m
going
in
like
the
82nd
Airborne
to
kick
some
ass.
Hey!
Are
you
listening
to
me?’

Max
watched
as
the
lights
grouped
and
accelerated
into
the
air,
high
above
the
car,
spiralling
like
brilliant
fireworks
until
they
arced
down
suddenly
into
the
splashless
water.

‘Fucked
up
or
what?’
he
asked.

‘Excuse
me?’
Liz
laughed
at
the
unusual
comment.

The
Porsche
roared
to
life
as
Max
mumbled
a
reply.
They
sped
out
of
Canary
Wharf
and
rumbled
east
past
the
Millennium
Dome.
Max
realized
as
they
drove
past
that
it
was
a
scrotum
dangling
between
the
hind
legs
of
the
Isle
of
Dogs.

‘How
long
will
it
take
to
get
there?’
Liz
asked
as
she
placed
her
Armani
sunglasses
on
the
top
of
her
head.

Max’s
erection
was
starting
to
hurt
him.
It
wouldn’t
go
away
and
now
it
hurt.
It
was
as
if
someone
had
thrust
a
hammer
into
his
perineum.

‘An
hour.
There’s
a
bottle
of
champagne
under
your
seat.’