The Rain Killer (3 page)

‘Apart from some of the age differences they could be the same person – slightly built, pale skin, straight black hair. What colour were their eyes?’ he suddenly asked without looking away from their faces.

‘Varied,’ Townsend answered. ‘As far as I can remember some had blue eyes, some green, others brown. Why? Is it important?’

‘No,’ Sean answered, although he wasn’t sure of his own answer – not yet. ‘Just an idea. But look at them,’ he told her, waving his hand past the dead faces. ‘For him, only they would do and we know he’s not particularly driven by a time scale, so …’ he paused to allow his thoughts to form into something tangible. ‘So it’s the availability of this particular type of victim that … women that look exactly like these that dictates when and where he strikes.’

‘We assumed he’d selected the victims because they probably reminded him of someone from his life he has a serious grudge against,’ Townsend explained. ‘His mother. An ex-wife. An ex-girlfriend.’

‘You’re right to assume that much,’ Sean agreed, ‘but which is it and why?’ Townsend just shrugged as Sean continued to stare at the photographs in the boards. ‘Can’t be easy finding street girls that look so similar,’ he told Townsend, ‘not as and when he needs them.’

‘Maybe he pre-selects his victims,’ Townsend suggested. ‘DI Ramsay seems to think he could be.’

‘Possibly,’ Sean partially agreed, ‘but people in their line of work are unreliable. Just because they’re there one week doesn’t mean they’ll be there the next. And don’t forget he needs the right weather. He needs the rain.’

‘So you think he cruises for victims rather than pre-selects?’

‘When the need to take another overwhelms him he waits for the rain,’ Sean explained, never looking away from the photographs, ‘then he goes searching – searching for the perfect victim. If he can’t find exactly what he’s looking for he goes home. If it stops raining he goes home. He has control, but it still means he spends a lot of time cruising, which means he’s driving around the streets a lot – and always in the rain. He’s giving us a chance to find him and stop him, and find him and stop him we have to, because this one won’t give it up unless we make him.’

‘I know he won’t,’ Townsend agreed, ‘they never do, but why? Why can’t he stop?’

‘Because whatever it is he’s trying to satisfy can never be satisfied,’ Sean explained. ‘The more he feeds the beast, the hungrier it becomes.’

***

His entire body burnt with pain as he forced himself to complete yet another set of press-ups – the smoke from the dozens of candles and joss-sticks swirling around his body as he pumped his arms over and over again, raising his body from the floor until finally, drained of oxygen, the fibres of his muscles could lift his weight no more and he collapsed on the ornate rug that covered the centre of the living room in his small rented flat.

Exhausted as he was, he still managed to control his breathing – not gulping for air, but breathing in slowly and deeply, everything under control – just as he’d trained himself to do over years and years of practice.
The mind must always control the body
. After less than a minute he was able to spring into a standing position and walk slowly to a large mirror dominating one entire wall. He glanced at the television that quietly played a sadistic pornographic film, but his interest in it was passing. It was his own reflection that he longed to see. His toned body glimmered with sweat – every sinew defined and visible – but it was the beauty of the colourful creature that wrapped itself around him that transfixed him. The huge head of a mighty serpent, mouth gaping with fangs bared, covered his chest and the thick scaly body trailed over his shoulder and wound down his back before coiling back around his lower torso and then spiraling around his right leg – the tip of the great beast’s tail resting on his foot.

As he flexed his muscles the snake seemed to come alive – moving and writhing, man and beast becoming one. But the serpent needed feeding – needed to be fed the bodies and souls of the whores that plagued the streets of London, just as they had the squalid alleys of where he was raised
as a child in a house made of other people’s rubbish. Where he and his mother shared a cockroach-infested cooking area with too many other families of the ghetto. Where there were no sanitation facilities or sewage disposal other than the filthy water that flowed in the streets outside. Where he watched his mother lie with strangers from the nearby city to make enough money to keep them both alive. His mother who beat him when he cried or complained to make him strong enough to survive. His mother who taught him to steal and fight. And how well she taught him as he rose to become one of the most feared faces in the ghetto – a reputation that soon attracted the attention of the local crime boss, who took him from the ghetto and put his particular talents to his own use. But amongst the professional
beatings and killings he fed his own desires. He fed the beast that became stronger and stronger until he as a man no longer existed – just the Great Serpent
disguised in a man’s body.

He pulled a cigarette from its packet and lit it with the flame from a Zippo lighter, drawing the first taste of the smoke in hard and deep, enjoying the calming effects within his body, before finally blowing a long, thin stream of smoke from his lips into his own reflected face. It had been a while since the Great Serpent had been fed and he was growing impatient, but the rain had failed to fall. He remembered the rain in the ghetto, soaking him when he was a small child peering through the hole in the wall that acted as a window into the near-empty room he shared with his mother as she lay with another man. Always it had seemed to be raining.

He wondered, dared to dream, that the mighty serpent’s next victim could finally be the
perfect one
. He licked his lips at the thought of finding one from the old country and how sweet it would be to taste that familiar flesh instead of the prey London had so far offered. He exhaled another stream of smoke into the mirror and left his reflection as he crossed the room to the cluttered coffee table where his knife waited, still inside the specially-adapted shoulder holster. He lifted the holster by the straps and slid the knife free, dropping the holster back on the table as he examined the blade. It still showed traces of dried blood – blood of the victims that he could still smell when he held it close to his face, his nostrils flaring as he inhaled deeply. The memories of those who’d been sacrificed to the Great Serpent
came flooding back, intensifying his need to find another – to feed the beast.

He stubbed out his cigarette and immediately lit another one before strolling back to the mirror to admire the body of the Great Snake and to dream of the coming of rain and the sacrifice it would bring.

***

Sean and Townsend walked through the alleyways created by the mish-mash of adjoining buildings that spread across the complex that was Guy’s Hospital, close to London Bridge. They walked past buildings rarely seen and never visited by the public as they headed towards the mortuary.

‘You sure this is entirely necessary?’ Townsend asked. ‘We’ve copies of all the postmortem reports back in the office.’

‘I’d rather speak to the pathologist,’ Sean answered. ‘Face to face.’

‘If you insist,’ Townsend frowned as they walked, ‘but I should warn you that Dr Canning has a reputation for being a bit of a character.’

‘I’m aware of that,’ Sean told her.

‘You know him then?’

‘We’ve met,’ Sean replied as they entered the mortuary and walked along the corridor, passing through the soft plastic, double-swing doors that flapped silently as they pushed them aside.

‘I hate this place,’ was all Townsend answered. ‘Gives me the bloody creeps.’

‘Probably a good idea to try and get used to it,’ he advised, ‘given your chosen profession.’ They pushed through the final set of swing doors and entered a spacious and brightly-lit tiled room with shining vinyl floor and a raised viewing area at one end where visitors
could observe Canning doing his work from a safe distance. Sean looked down at the eight stretchers on wheels that lay equally spaced in the auditorium
,
three of which were occupied – human shapes lying under neat, green sheets. Another cadaver lay on the cold, stainless-steel operating table, only this wasn’t the flat, padded table you would find in a normal operating room, it was more like a giant shallow bath and indeed had running water and a sink hole for the body’s fluids to neatly flow away. The body’s chest and abdomen had already been fully opened as Dr Canning removed each organ for weighing and bagging before returning them to the owner who no longer had any need for them. He looked up from his work as the detectives entered, peering over the top of his spectacles.

‘Detective Sergeant Corrigan,’ Canning declared before scanning the bodies around the room as if confused. ‘I wasn’t aware I had anything of interest for you in today.’

‘You don’t,’ Sean agreed. ‘I was interested in some people who’ve already passed through your hands. D’you mind if I pick your brains?’

‘No,’ Canning answered cautiously. ‘So long as you don’t mind if I keep working.’

‘Of course not. Anything interesting?’

‘I shouldn’t think so,’ Canning answered. ‘Elderly lady living on her own – died on her own. Looks like a heart attack, but as she wasn’t receiving any ongoing treatment it has to be treated as suspicious until I say different, which I will. Nothing as interesting as our last case.’

‘The Sue Evans murder,’ Townsend guessed.

Sean ignored her. ‘I couldn’t have caught her killer without your help,’ he told Canning.

‘Somehow I think you would have,’ Canning replied. Sean just shrugged. ‘So what is it you think I can help you with today, if it isn’t one of my guests?’

‘The murdered prostitutes,’ Sean told him.

‘I didn’t know you were on that investigation.’

‘I am now,’ Sean replied.

‘Well,’ Canning asked, ‘what d’you want to know?’

‘You did all the postmortems?’ Sean checked.

‘I did,’ Canning confirmed. ‘The first victim as she was found in my jurisdiction and after that DI Ramsay ensured all the other victims came here – for continuity.’ Clearly Ramsay was no fool, Sean thought to himself.

‘Definitely the same killer?’ Sean asked.

‘Definitely,’ Canning insisted.

‘Why so sure?’

‘The level of violence. The victim type.’

‘That can be copied,’ Sean played devil’s advocate. ‘Mimicked.’

‘But not the exact cause of death.’

‘Go on,’ Sean encouraged him.

‘Cause of death was strangulation,’ Canning explained, ‘but there’s more to it than that, although this is all in my reports, if you care to read them.’

‘I prefer to talk things through,’ Sean told him.

‘Fine,’ Canning said with a slight nod of his head. ‘The point is the strangulation was highly efficient. Whoever did it knew exactly what they were doing. They must have been trained and well-practiced. And they’re strong, extremely strong. I’d be thinking military, or perhaps someone who is an expert in martial arts. The levels of hormones, adrenalin, endorphins, etcetera, show that death was swift.’

‘So he kills them with complete efficiency, then takes the time to mutilate their bodies,’ Sean spoke out loud. ‘It’s as if his emotional cycle is the wrong way around.’

‘I don’t follow,’ Canning admitted.

‘Killers of this type go from a state of rage to a state of calmness,’ Sean explained, ‘but this one seems to go from a state of calmness to a state of rage. Do you think they were raped?’

‘As I’ve already stated, it’s difficult to tell,’ Canning answered. ‘All the victims were known prostitutes, so all had signs of recent sexual intercourse, but none had any significant vaginal injuries that would make rape a certainty.’

‘So he could have had consensual sex with the victims before he killed them?’ Sean suggested.

‘He could have,’ Canning agreed.

‘Or he could have been having consensual intercourse with them
while
he was killing them.’

‘I suppose so,’ Canning conceded. ‘All of the victims had traces of skin and blood under their fingernails, so we know they tried to fight him off, but whether that was before or after intercourse I couldn’t say.’

‘Does any of this matter?’ Townsend broke in. ‘I mean we’ll never be able to prove he raped them, unless he admits to it, so shouldn’t we just concentrate on finding him and pinning him down for the murders?’

‘If we want to find him quickly then we need to understand him,’ Sean argued. ‘I need to understand why he does this, not just how he does it.’

‘And what d’you understand?’ Townsend asked. ‘What’s any of this helped you understand?’

‘His cycle of emotions,’ Sean told her. ‘His desires and his fears.’

‘He’s a probable rapist and a murderer of women,’ Townsend snapped at him. ‘Who cares about his desires and fears?’

‘It’ll help me find him,’ Sean insisted. ‘Maybe even show me a way to trap him.’

‘So what is it you see?’ Canning asked, his eyes narrowing with interest in Sean’s unorthodox approach.

‘He desires them,’ Sean began. ‘That’s what drives him onto the streets to search for them in the rain. They remind him of someone close to him, from his past – his mother, a sister, an old girlfriend – I don’t know yet. But he’s calm too – not in a rage or panic. If the circumstances aren’t right or he can’t find someone who looks enough like that which he desires he’ll wait for another time.’

‘And when he finds them?’ Townsend pushed.

‘He rapes them,’ Sean concluded. ‘Consensual intercourse wouldn’t be enough. Whoever the person is the women remind him of, she used to have power over him, so now he wants the power over them. But once the rape is over he’s repulsed by them and by what’s he’s done. He wants to be rid of them quickly and efficiently, so he strangles them.’

‘So why not just dump their bodies and take off?’ Townsend questioned. ‘Why the violence after they’re already dead?’

‘Because now he hates them,’ Sean tried to explain. ‘Hates them for what they’ve made him do. His guilt and anger overcome him. He goes from a state of calm desire to a state of guilt and rage that lasts long enough for him to still be raging even after spending time looking for a secluded place where he can display his anger and hatred by mutilation. No doubt the longer he’s with the body, the greater his rage becomes, although he never travels far from where he killed them to where he mutilates them.’