Profile k, p.19
Profile K, page 19
Eventually she sat back.
‘Obsessive compulsive disorder, maybe.’ She looked into the mobile’s camera. ‘And please don’t think that’s about turning the lights off three times when you leave the house. It’s so much deeper than that. But then, why this way of killing? What’s he getting out of it? Slow burn. No big impact wounds. She stays alive much longer. Her heart keeps beating. Probably unconscious though. She’s gagged, so he’s not getting the pleasure of watching her beg. What the fuck is it, Midnight? What’s the most important thing about this picture?’
‘You mean apart from all the fucking blood?’ Midnight asked.
Chapter 27
Something smelled bad. Not just a bit off, like milk left out too long, but really nauseatingly bad. The stink was coming from a box outside Jessica’s apartment door, her name scrawled on it in angry capitals.
What made it worse was that Jessica had had a good day. A great day, in fact. The new company she’d begun delivering to had been thrilled by her bread samples and already put in an order for more. If her company kept growing at that rate, she’d need help and a larger kitchen. The box was the universe’s way of keeping her feet on the ground.
She dumped the box in her kitchen sink and stared at it. Not opening it was a possibility, a very attractive one, in fact. Living in denial felt like the easier option. But then she wouldn’t know quite what level of crazy she was dealing with, and imagining what was in the box might well be worse than the reality. She put on washing-up gloves, grabbed a sharp knife and threw open her window before slitting the tape. Inside was another box, and in that was a taped-up bin bag. Gagging, Jessica pushed aside her dread in favour of anger. She’d spent hours in terror, imagining the Cream Bun Creep hiding in her pantry, only to find that the sole invader was her own imagination, but still, Jessica was convinced he’d been there. His message about the flowers in her bin was way too specific for any other explanation. Now she was so furious she couldn’t even see the end of her tether in the distance behind her.
The gifted rat had been dead a while. The vague sense of movement in its fur was nothing to do with the rat itself but came from a swarm of fleas.
‘Piece of shit!’ Jessica screeched, shoving the lids down on the boxes hard and fast before taking a bin liner of her own and thrusting everything deep inside then securing the top with multiple knots. She dropped it outside her flat door, knowing she’d have to take it out to the communal bins later, but her priority was scrubbing her hands, knife and kitchen sink to remove any possible trace of contaminants.
Six months earlier there would have been no question about the sender. Her ex, Billy, had pulled equally nasty stunts. She wondered for a moment if it could, in fact, have been Billy who’d delivered the rat, but that didn’t make sense. Her ex-boyfriend had finally disappeared from her life, plus anonymity had never been Billy’s style. He’d always wanted her to know he’d been there. The rat was from the Cream Bun Creep – there was no doubt about it. What Jessica really couldn’t understand was how she’d attracted yet another vicious loser. She was a bloody magnet.
The deep clean took an hour. By the end, she was sufficiently furious that she’d made a decision. She’d lived in fear of Billy for a long time. There was no way she was going to do that again. This time she had evidence. The police could check the box for fingerprints, or just … something. She could walk to the Lavender Hill police station in fifteen minutes, and hopefully by then she’d have calmed down enough not to either scream or cry.
Outside her flat, she bent down to pick up the rat package. It wasn’t to the right of her door where she’d dropped it. It wasn’t anywhere on her floor, in fact. She checked the floor above and the one below. Certain that a helpful neighbour must have picked it up, she even checked the bins for a recently deposited black bin liner. For once, the rubbish having been collected that day, it was almost empty.
Jessica stared back up at her flat. The fucker had been there, hiding somewhere. He’d seen her take the box in, and he’d seen her throw it out again, and now he’d run away like the little weasel he was, taking the evidence with him.
Back in her flat, she let out a screech that would have had her neighbours banging on the walls had they been in. Enough was enough. Since the afternoon she was supposed to meet the Cream Bun Creep for their meeting, she hadn’t felt safe. She’d seen him everywhere, behind the curtains, in her pantry, even in her wardrobe. Now this.
Well, sod it. It was her turn to be aggressive and inappropriate. It was her turn to have the last say.
Willem Foster had given her his address as part of their details swap immediately after the accident. He’d also said he was driving down her road because he was considering moving into the area, but he was already living in Stockwell, just up the road.
‘It was all bullshit,’ she said, stomping out of her flat. ‘Every word. He knew where I lived and he was waiting for me.’
She took a bus to Union Road rather than risk losing her parking space and found his basement flat. The planter on the windowsill was filled with old brown stalks, and there was rubbish outside his door that looked as if it was there for the long haul. Jessica rang the bell.
Willem yanked the door open, his mouth dropping.
‘You,’ he said.
‘Well observed,’ Jessica snapped back. ‘We need to talk.’
‘I hope you’re not expecting me to invite you in, after that email you sent.’
‘Do I want to go into the place where you pack up dead rats in boxes? I do not. What I need to say can be said here. Stay away from me. No more deliveries, and no more creeping around my place.’
‘Creeping around your flat? Have you been imagining me going through your underwear drawer, Jessica? Maybe taking a quick shower in your place while you were out?’ He ran his hands through his hair as if rinsing out shampoo. Jessica tried to speak but couldn’t. ‘Or was I on your kitchen counter – that’s more your thing, right?’
The creep began to laugh, and Jessica knew the only thing between her and a prison cell was that she didn’t have a knife in her hands.
‘Stop!’ she said. ‘You fucking freak! Just admit you were in my building today.’
‘Not me,’ he smirked. ‘But if I find whoever got you this upset, I’ll buy them a fucking beer.’
She got up in his face. ‘It was you, you sick, gaslighting, bastard.’ That was as much as she could be bothered with. There wasn’t going to be any moment of satisfaction, no gotcha. Jessica walked away. She’d said her piece and shown him that she wasn’t scared.
It was a while before she heard Willem’s door slam. He’d obviously been watching as she walked up his street.
The Cream Bun Creep wasn’t the only one.
Chapter 28
Midnight had been cut off from Connie Woolwine when a man had suddenly burst into Connie’s hotel room shouting that there had been a break in their case. Woolwine hadn’t even said goodbye, just ended the call and gone. Midnight assumed the poshly spoken English male had been her partner. How amazing to be able to just up sticks and go to Venezuela for work. When she’d heard Woolwine speak at Necto, she’d talked about working with the FBI, advising on cases in Scotland, and going undercover at some high security prison hospital. Midnight looked around the apartment. It all felt so small. She felt small. Connie Woolwine wouldn’t have been scared of Sara Vickson or of losing her job.
After reading Dawn a story, she ran herself a bath and lit some candles. The day had taken its toll, and Dr Woolwine’s behaviour had been unexpected, to say the least. Midnight wasn’t sure if she felt better or worse for having witnessed it.
It was five hours earlier in Venezuela than the UK so, by the time Woolwine had finished whatever she was doing, it would likely be the middle of the night in London. Midnight decided on giving in to tiredness. She kissed Dawn one last time, did her final check of doors and windows, then settled into bed, drifting off just seconds after her head hit the pillow.
When her mobile started jingling, she was convinced it was the morning alarm. Instead, she was greeted by Connie Woolwine’s voice.
‘You were asleep,’ Woolwine said. ‘Crap, it’s three a.m. for you. International time differences are so frustrating.’
‘Sorry, I didn’t know you were going to call back.’
‘You’ll need a pen and paper,’ Woolwine continued. ‘I have theories. It was better that we had a break anyway because I needed time to process your suggestion.’
‘My suggestion?’ Midnight asked, turning on a lamp. ‘I didn’t know I’d—’
‘All the most helpful suggestions are made when you don’t know anything about it. I’m going to give you a caveat first and it’s the size of a soccer stadium, so take me seriously. At this stage, with only two series-specific deaths, there is absolutely not enough data to profile this killer. I mean that a hundred per cent. It’s not just something on cop shows. One can be an anomaly, two can involve coincidences. We see patterns at three. What I’m doing now is spitballing, and so help me God, I have no idea why I’m doing it, other than that it feels to me like you need someone. Say it back to me.’
Midnight wasn’t sure which bit. ‘You’re just spitballing?’
‘Good. With that at the forefront of our minds, I want to talk through your idea with you.’
‘My idea about …’
‘The blood. All that blood. I’ve been trying to imagine how Chloe’s bedroom must have looked after she’d bled slowly into those sheets, because her heart wouldn’t have stopped for a really long time, and that doesn’t feel incidental,’ Woolwine said.
‘But surely whenever someone’s murdered with a knife, there’s a lot of blood. It’s kind of an unavoidable by-product.’
‘Not like this,’ Woolwine said quietly. ‘Chloe’s death was designed to keep her alive for a long time. That could be for one of two reasons. The first is torture, but Chloe would have been unconscious for the latter part as she grew increasingly weaker and went into shock. The second reason is that killing may not have been his primary motivation. Think about it. Why go to all that trouble, take so many hours to kill, then not use your hands? I’d expect strangulation, something more personal. With Mae, he got interrupted, but he still wanted the blood flow before death. The intent is the same, albeit more desperate.’
‘So what was his motivation, if not to kill?’
‘I’m hypothesising, Miss Jones, that one possible explanation for the mechanics of these two murders is that your killer has Renfield syndrome.’
Midnight frowned and rubbed her temples.
‘I’m sorry, I have no idea what you’re talking about. I apologise for sounding stupid but … Renfield, like Dracula? Is this a joke?’
‘Definitely not. It’s otherwise, although no more helpfully, called clinical vampirism.’
‘Clinical fucking what now?’ Midnight spluttered.
‘Bear with me. It’s going to sound ridiculous but the syndrome is no laughing matter, and historically such cases have been linked to other extremely violent crimes.’
‘But Renfield was a fictional character,’ Midnight said. Her head was aching and she had the strangest feeling that she might be falling down some Carrollian rabbit-hole.
‘Ignore the whole undead, living in a coffin, bullshit. Renfield syndrome doesn’t have to be entirely about consuming blood, it’s also a fascination with it, the desire to touch it, to see it. It’s vastly more common in men than in women,’ Woolwine explained. ‘And I gather there was saliva found on both bodies, in odd places. Given what a mess the bodies were in, there had to be a large enough amount of saliva for it not to just get lost in the chaos.’
‘You think he …?’
‘I think it’s a possibility, yes,’ Woolwine said.
‘I don’t understand how anyone gets to a point where they’re obsessed with blood. How does that even happen?’
‘Like many things in psychology, the seed seems to be planted in childhood or puberty. There will usually be a formative event, maybe an injury to the child or someone important to them, when the sudden appearance of blood is both traumatising but also exciting. Blood-letting in particular gives a sense of power and control. It’s part of the reason teenagers self-harm, if that makes sense. Cutting yourself and drinking your own blood is called auto-vampirism. At the most extreme end of the syndrome, the need to have contact with blood is devastating and overwhelming. John Haigh, the man they called the acid bath murderer, is thought to have suffered from Renfield syndrome. This is not something to trifle with.’
Midnight blew out a long, tired breath. ‘That’s awful.’
‘It’s not exactly news that this guy is dangerous. To be honest, if blood is his primary motivation, it’s good to know, but it doesn’t take us a hell of a lot further. Interesting though, cos it’s super rare, but there are documented cases. I’d love to get in a room with him.’
Midnight wrinkled her nose at the thought of even being in the same building as a man that sick. ‘How are the police going to catch him?’
‘No idea. Even if we’re right about the Renfield’s, there won’t be any record of him suffering with it. This sort of thing only ever comes out after an arrest. But you think he’s seen videos somewhere that reflect both Chloe and Mae’s murders, so that’s a starting point.’
‘I just can’t be sure,’ Midnight murmured. ‘Chloe’s yes, I don’t know about Mae’s.’
‘Can you be any more specific about the link between viewing these videos and the person who killed these women?’
Midnight sighed. She desperately wanted to tell Connie Woolwine everything, but with extra money now needed for Dawn’s care, she had to be even more careful not to breach Necto’s confidentiality terms.
‘There are connections in terms of geography, a coincidence of timing, a tenuous digital trail, and my gut feeling.’
‘Well, regardless of whatever reason you have for maintaining confidentiality, if the police source material in breach of privacy rights and without a warrant, it’s likely to be excluded in court.’
‘It feels like I’ve been wasting your time,’ Midnight said. ‘I think I should just leave the police to do their job.’
‘We’re not done here. We only answered the question, why does he kill the way he kills? Which still leaves why is he killing now? That’s possibly the more helpful of the two, because timing often gives us information about milestones in a killer’s life.’
‘Okay, but let me just go to the kitchen. I need coffee for this.’ She plodded to the kitchen, moving around as quietly as possible.
Even Dr Woolwine started whispering. ‘So according to your theory, he saw these videos then used the seen methodology to sate his love of blood. The killings are so blade-specific that he couldn’t have done anything at this level before, so why was this a trigger now?’
‘Like you said before, he could have got this stuff from anywhere. Why replicate these videos?’ Midnight asked.
‘Has to be because he hasn’t got this stuff from anywhere else. Maybe his lifestyle is very restrictive, so he could be in a religious order, or a politician with a wife and kids – no, that definitely wouldn’t have stopped him – or … maybe he’s been actively trying to avoid it.’
‘Like, fighting his urges?’ Midnight asked, giving in to temptation and pouring a measure of whisky into her coffee.
‘Exactly like that,’ Woolwine said, walking out onto her balcony. Midnight could see stars all around her. ‘I’m at a point where I can’t help more without additional information. You need to consider what you’re going to do with this information.’
Midnight slumped onto her sofa. ‘Maybe it would help the police to hear some of what you’ve hypothesised tonight. Your partner, he’s ex-Met, so perhaps without mentioning me, you could …’
‘Just drop them a line with my thoughts? I could. And yes, Baarda will pass it all along. I’m not going to ask you what your interest is, Midnight – I know a brick wall when I hit one – but isn’t there someone inside Necto who can advise you? When I was consulting, they seemed keen to be the sort of employer you could talk to.’
‘Yeah,’ Midnight said slowly. ‘They do give that impression. Internally, they have other, more pressing considerations. Client confidentiality, for one.’
‘I don’t buy that,’ Woolwine said. ‘Client confidentiality ceases to have any legal effect when there’s an overriding need to release information in a criminal investigation. In fact, withholding relevant information could get them in serious trouble.’
‘I’m starting to wonder if that’s the issue, that they might be concerned about their legal exposure for showing the footage that caused this,’ Midnight said.
‘You’re not saying this footage appeared on one of Necto’s profiling sequences?’ Dr Woolwine’s voice was loud in the quiet of the Venezuelan night.
‘Shit,’ Midnight said. Confidentiality blown, and too late to backtrack.
‘That can’t be right. I worked with them to set ethical boundaries. There was never a program that went this far. That footage has to pass rigorous standards.’
‘I had a Profile K,’ Midnight murmured. She leaned her head back and breathed fully. It felt like the first time she’d done so since walking out of Sara Vickson’s office. It was out now. She’d told someone.
‘You had a what now?’
‘A Profile K. For killer.’
‘I have literally no idea what you’re talking about. That would be completely irresponsible. We didn’t develop that set of results. It’s a joke, surely, representing some anomaly.’
