Student of death a flesc.., p.21
Student of Death: A Flesch & Stone novel, page 21
Oliver was sitting in the second row, both elbows on the table, his mouth curled downwards in the beginnings of a snarl. He seemed to glare at Sarah, which she hadn’t noticed at the time. But she had noticed his bracelet, and she saw it again now, plain as day. A bright silver link bracelet on his right wrist.
“Got you,” she said.
Richard struggled to concentrate with James being in the room. The guilt he felt for having struck his mentor threatened to tear him apart, and he was realising something about grief. It faded over time, no matter how awful it felt to start with. For years, he feared himself to be a psychopath for being able to function after committing so many vile acts, but the pain he felt now, for hurting James, demonstrated that he could still feel the emotions he was supposed to. He wasn’t remorseless or apathetic.
But he was dangerous.
He kept glancing at James, trying to catch his eye, perhaps to apologise, but James stared only at the screen in front of them. They were researching Sadie Amberson, trying to learn more about the events leading up to her suicide. Many times during the last few years, Richard had considered looking into her life, but it had always felt perverse. He also didn’t want to know the ongoing misery he had inflicted upon her life. Sadie Amberson had escaped Flexley Yard Farm, but she had never been free.
“The autopsy mentions missing fingernails,” James said, staring at the screen through a pair of specs he sometimes wore. “That can’t be a coincidence.”
“They were found at the scene,” Richard said. “It’s likely they tore off when she struggled with the noose. Even when it’s a suicide, the victim can’t fight their instincts to try to save themselves. That’s why most successful suicides are via irreversible acts such as hanging or jumping off of buildings.”
James nodded, probably knowing all that. “You’re probably right. Nothing else suggests foul play. Unmarried, no kids, no criminal record other than a few incidents of drunk and disorderly. Looks like she had a problem with alcohol. Her risk of depression and suicide would have been higher than the average population because of that. Not to mention the lingering effects of severe trauma.”
Richard straightened up in his chair and sighed. “I’m not seeing anything here. Maybe I’m wrong and this has nothing to do with Sadie.”
“We need to dig deeper. The answers are somewhere. They always are.”
“You’re right. Look, James, about what happened this morning at the prison.”
“I really don’t want to talk about it, Richard. Let’s just focus on—”
“I’m sorry. You have no idea how much I thought I could face my father, but—”
James put his hand up. “We’ll discuss it another time. Let’s just—”
The door to Richard’s office burst open and Sarah leapt inside. She was bright red and panting, waving a sheet of paper in her hand like a madwoman. “Oliver Morton. Oliver frickin’ Morton.”
James ran a hand through his hair and turned in his chair. “What?”
“We’ve got the bastard,” Sarah said, thrusting out the sheet of paper. “Oliver Morton is one of Irving-Ross’s students and he was at the scene of Caroline Boswell’s murder. See the bracelet?”
Richard glanced at the page. Two images were printed side by side. One looked like a still taken from a video of a classroom in session. The other was a zoomed in, slightly blurry image of what looked like the elevated street in Durham that overlooked the car park. Circled in red on both images was a silver bracelet. It was harder to make out in the zoomed-in picture, but there was definitely something light-coloured against the black arm of a man’s clothing.
“Wait,” Richard said, putting a finger to the tip of his nose. “Oliver Morton? I recognise that name.”
Sarah nodded. “Donkey checked it out. He was the designated driver who gave us a statement about Claudette’s Herrington’s movements the night she was abducted. This places him in proximity to both crime scenes.”
“It’s not conclusive,” James said. “Durham is a small place.”
Sarah focused on Richard. “My gut is telling me this is him. I saw the kid in the flesh. He has an anger inside him, barely contained. Smart, of course, but clearly unstable.”
“Then I guess it’s worth bringing him in,” Richard said, wondering if she’d jumped the gun, but also knowing that she had good instincts.
James cleared his throat and thought for a moment. “The police found no evidence to back up his claims about Claudette. No one else saw her smoking or talking with an older man. It’s possible he was trying to throw off our investigation.”
Sarah nodded. “If he’s an arrogant killer, he probably thought he was smart enough to send us on a wild goose chase.”
“Many killers enjoy being part of the police investigations. If I recall, Oliver Morton came forward voluntarily to give a statement. I just don’t understand what his connection could be to me?”
“It’s time to find out,” she said. “Get your jacket. We’re going to the university right now.”
Richard checked his watch. “It’s past eight. Probably better to check the dorms and the student union.”
“Whatever, let’s just go. Sooner we leave, the sooner we can catch this guy.”
“You’re not going anywhere.” James put a hand on Richard’s arm. “After what happened today, you can’t be trusted.”
Richard shuddered, unnerved by the sustained human contact. He didn’t pull away, though.
“Hey,” Sarah said, eyeballing James. “You hired me to babysit him, so give me back my Taser and we’re all good. I want to see Oliver Morton’s reaction when he sees Richard. It’s time we backed him into a corner.”
James stared at her for several seconds, saying nothing, but then he let out a protracted sigh. “I’ll catch up with Donkey and try to find out as much as I can about Oliver Morton. I’m not done digging into Sadie Amberson either, so they’ll be plenty for me to do, but I want hourly updates from the both of you.” He glared at Sarah. “And if Richard shows even the slightest sign of losing control…”
“I’ll kick him right in the balls.”
Richard grimaced. “Really?”
“Really,” James said, with no hint of irony. “You’re not even on your last chance, Richard. It’s beyond that. Let’s just catch this killer. We can figure out the rest later.”
Sarah left the room. Richard grabbed his jacket and quickly followed.
CHAPTER
TWENTY
The university was a maze, and it took them twenty minutes of asking around to find the main offices. Upon flashing their badges, a senior administrator called the dean, who was less than happy to be disturbed. Nonetheless, the stuffy old man with a horseshoe haircut was cooperative, and he eventually confirmed Oliver Morton was a history student domiciled in Bailey Court.
That’s where Sarah and Richard were now, heading up the stairs to the first floor – specifically to ‘Room Three’ where Oliver purportedly lived. They passed by students on their way, but no one stopped them or asked them why they were there, too wrapped up in their own plans to care. It wasn’t until they reached Oliver Morton’s room that anyone approached them.
Sarah was just about to knock on the door when a young girl called out. She was Asian and pretty, and spoke with a refined English accent. “Are you looking for Oliver Morton?”
Sarah turned and nodded. “Yes, do you know him?”
Her scars clearly took the girl aback, as she flinched and then stuttered. “I-I’m his girlfriend. I’ve been trying to get hold of him since yesterday. Is he okay?”
“We’re looking for him too.”
The girl folded her arms and turned defensive. “May I ask who you are? You look like a pair of bailiffs.”
Sarah showed her badge. “Inspectors. We need to ask Oliver a few questions.”
“About what, precisely? Claudette Herrington?”
Richard chimed in, raising his chin with interest. “What would make you say that?”
“You interviewed Oliver once already about it, but he doesn’t know anything, so I don’t know why you’re bothering him. He barely even knew Claudette. She wasn’t…” She shrugged her slender shoulders. “She wasn’t particularly nice, I’m afraid to say.”
Sarah thought it a little harsh to denigrate a dead girl, but there may well have been good reasons. Best to find out. “Why do you say Claudette wasn’t nice?”
The girl shrugged and averted her eyes, as if ashamed of what she had just said. “Her mother is a fancy lawyer in London. Claudette used to threaten people all the time if they got on her bad side. She even sued the university last year because she claimed they were giving better marks to foreign students like me. I don’t know if there’s any substance to the accusations, but the uni quickly gave in and upped Claudette’s grade. She always got whatever she wanted, no matter what. And when it came to boys…” The girl shook her head and pulled a face. “She got whatever she wanted then, too.”
“Fine,” Sarah said. “She was an entitled brat at a top university. Not a reason for her to be murdered, though, is it?”
“No, no, you’re right, of course. I didn’t mean that at all. I was simply informing you that Oliver didn’t associate with Claudette Herrington, and that there are plenty of other people you should be bothering about her death.”
“Her murder,” Richard corrected.
“Semantics,” she said, a little standoffishly.
“We just need to ask Oliver a few questions,” Sarah said again, as friendly as she could make herself sound with so much adrenaline in her system. She wanted to get her hands on the young student so badly it was making her dizzy. “It’s important that we speak with him. Do you know where he might be?”
“I told you. I haven’t seen him for over twenty-four hours, and he’s not answering my calls. I’m worried actually.”
Richard stepped forward. “Worried? Do you think something might have happened to Oliver?”
She leaned back, away from him. “Well, I have no way of knowing, do I? But I don’t see a reason for him not to answer my calls, and no one else has seen him since yesterday, either.”
“Are you genuinely worried?”
“Yes, a little bit. He’s my boyfriend.”
Richard looked her right in the eye. “Is it possible Oliver may have hurt himself?”
“What? No. Oliver wasn’t depressed or anything like that.”
“Are you sure? Because, if you’re worried, we can check out his room right now and see if he’s okay. If you’re saying there’s zero possibility that he’s hurt himself, then fine, but if not…”
The girl’s face slowly drained of colour. “Well, he has been having problems with his dad lately, and he’s been very distracted. Oh God, what if I missed it? What if he did something stupid because I was too selfish to see that he needed help?”
“Would you like us to check, ma’am?”
The girl nodded.
Sarah banged on the door. “Oliver Morton, this is Detective Inspector Sarah Stone. We’ve been asked to perform a wellness check. Can you open the door, please?”
No answer.
Sarah went through the routine again.
Still no answer.
“Kick it in,” Richard said.
She looked at him. “Do I have grounds?”
“Oliver Morton might be in need of medical attention. His girlfriend has communicated to us that she has a legitimate concern for his welfare.” He moved closer and whispered to Sarah. “Frances.”
Sarah nodded, stepped back, and unleashed a kick right below the door’s handle. It broke open in one hit, the doorframe cheap and thin. The door banged against the inside wall, but it didn’t bounce back due to the raised fibres of the navy-blue carpet biting hold of it.
Oliver’s room was like an army barrack – bedsheets pulled tightly around a single mattress and not a single thing out of place. His desk chair was pushed all the way in and his bookshelf was neatly stacked. This was an orderly place.
Of an organised killer?
“Oh thank God,” said the girl. “He’s not here.”
“He might still be in trouble though,” Richard told her. “Is there anything here out of place?”
She looked around and shook her head. “All Oliver cares about are his history books. He studies harder than anyone I know. I think he’s a genius.”
Sarah nodded at Richard. “I have one of those. Insufferable, aren’t they?”
The girl smiled. “At times. Tell me honestly, why do you want to speak to Oliver? Is it just to help with your investigations, or is it something else?”
“We believe he might know something that can help us,” Sarah said soothingly. She didn’t have enough evidence to risk impugning Oliver’s reputation with his girlfriend. “You say he likes to study a lot, but what are his interests?”
She rolled her eyes. “His studies are his interest. If I had a pound for every time I caught him with his head in a book, I’d have no space left in my flat. Especially that one right there. He’s always reading it.” She shuffled over to the bookshelf and grabbed a thick tome with a muted brown spine. Sarah tilted her head to read the title as the girl lifted it: Feudalism and the Middle Ages by J. Millis.
As Oliver’s girlfriend turned the book around to show the cover, the pages fluttered unnaturally, as if the insides of the book were falling apart. Something fell to the ground. “Huh?” She seemed confused, and she slowly turned the book around to show Richard and Sarah the interior. “There’s a hole in it.”
Sarah stepped forward and gasped. A square compartment had been hollowed out of the book’s pages. A poor man’s safe.
Richard knelt down to pick up the object that had fallen out of the hidden recess. It appeared to be a plastic bag with something inside. He shook it slightly and held it up to the light. Then he glanced over at the young girl. “What’s your name?”
“Prue Li-Kashing.”
“Well, Prue, I need you to exit this room, please. It’s now a crime scene.” He straightened up and held the bag out in front of Sarah’s face. It took her a moment to realise that it was full of women’s fingernails.
Oliver Morton was the Durham Butcher.
AKA the Student of Death.
The police were on scene twenty minutes later, and during that time, Sarah had found a bundle of letters in Oliver Morton’s desk. Felix Flesch had written them, and it appeared the two of them had been in contact for a while, although it was unclear how they had first got in touch. The content of the letters was sickening, and Felix had clearly been getting off by discussing his many vile acts, going into so much detail that it was more like fetishistic porn than a factual account. He referred to Oliver throughout as his ‘student’, but the letters also mentioned Richard several times, always referring to him as ‘Worm’. That was how Oliver knew so much about Richard.
Sarah had read the letters aloud at first, but when Richard became upset, she switched to reading silently, reciting only the most pertinent information.
“What do you think this means?” she asked, standing out in the hallway while the police searched inside Oliver’s room. Richard was standing beside her, deep in thought. He looked at her now as she spoke. “Your dad says, here and here, that he want’s Oliver to ‘restore my place to its former glory’. He says it twice. What do you think it means?”
He shrugged, sullen and distracted. “Continuing his crimes I suppose.”
“Really? Oliver’s crimes are different from your father’s. He’s not a cannibal or a rapist. There’s no continuation of legacy. Do you think…”
“What?”
“Restore my place to its former glory?” She chewed at her bottom lip for a moment. “Do you think he actually means a place? We’ve been trying to figure out where Oliver is taking his victims after he abducts them. Maybe your dad provided the location.”
Richard frowned as if he didn’t buy what she was saying, but then something seemed to dawn on him. “Wait! Do you have the video of Frances on your phone?”
She grimaced. “I’ve watched it a dozen times, trying to figure out where it could be.”
“Show it to me.”
Nodding, Sarah pulled out her phone and unlocked it. She located the video attached to her email and hit play. Richard leant in while she held the screen up to him. His eyes were like two swirling brown pools of poison.
Sarah knew the video frame by frame by now. A dusty room with a featureless concrete slab for a floor. A bare lightbulb hanging from a long brown wire. Oily stains on the floor.
Richard shook his head, over and over. “Why didn’t I see it before? It’s so obvious.”
“What?” Sarah felt her heart skip a beat. “It’s another location from your past? You know where this is?”
“Yes.” He looked at her. “It’s where I grew up.”
CHAPTER
TWENTY-ONE
Richard called and updated James while Sarah gunned the Range Rover down the A167, overtaking dangerously but unable to think about anything besides Frances. They knew where she was, but were they too late?
The satnav said six minutes remaining.
The muted lights and historical ambience of Durham faded away behind them as they headed away from civilisation and into the countryside bordering Chester-le-Street. It seemed you never had to travel far in County Durham to lose yourself amongst fields, farmland, and towering wind turbines.
And somewhere amongst those fields and wind turbines was a house of horror.
Richard finished his call with James. He was sweating, and visibly agitated by the thought of going home after all these years. Would he lose it again? Despite her earlier conversation with James, Sarah had not taken a Taser along with her, so she was unarmed. The bruised fingermarks on her neck began to throb.
“James is sending the police,” Richard informed her, “but we’re probably going to arrive first.”
