CHAPTER THIRTY
Hollywood films and television crime shows provide most of the information that the general public knows about serial killers. And given the nature of the medium and the audience it targets it should not be surprising that films and TV shows exaggerate and dramatise for entertainment purposes. The result can be a wealth of misinformation that when repeated often enough becomes accepted as fact and this can actually seriously hinder a police investigation.
According to the American Federal Bureau of Investigation’s Behavioral Analysis Unit there are myths about serial kills that remain and which can lead to guilty parties escaping the law. The Metropolitan Police in the United Kingdom would support that contention and have some empathy with the FBI’s aptly titled report Serial Murder – Multi-Disciplinary Perspectives for Investigators which attempts to dispel some of these myths.
Superintendent Ford had initiated a profile examination after Virginia Hughes, the third victim, had been discovered. Even then he feared that a serial killer might be responsible. More than one report was produced but it did not contain any hard information that Ford considered he could rely on. Not entirely anyway.
On the other hand. a psychologist also tasked with drawing up a possible profile was a man called Kyle Blanchard and rather than spelling out who the police should be looking for he listed a number of things that he believed should not confuse the investigations. In other words he explained that while he felt it could be misleading to try to describe the wanted person he believed it might be helpful if the investigators cleared their minds of the myths that abounded. So his report, covering no more than half a dozen pages, listed the myths he thought important along with what he believed based on solid research over many years was the reality.
As he read Professor Blanchard’s report Ford could not help but realise that he himself had fallen prey to at least some of the myth believers’ theories.
The first was that all serial killers were either mad or evil geniuses, fiction that was portrayed and portrayed again and again in movies around the world over the decades. Blanchard pointed out that far from being geniuses most of them had borderline to above average intelligence. Nor did they, he added, suffer from debilitating mental illnesses generally that would lead to their being found legally insane in a court of law.
A second popular belief was that they really wanted to get caught by the authorities whereas in reality evidence showed that as they progressed with their murders without getting caught they gained in confidence. Nevertheless such confidence can lead to errors when they have to dispose of bodies which is never an easy task.
Having said that, the psychologist pointed out that it is not always the case that a serial killer cannot stop killing. There are times when circumstances intervene, such as an increase in family activities for example, which will change a killer’s life and he will in fact bring an end to his rampage. And here he wrote: “The vast majority of serial killers are not dysfunctional loners. They can often be living in plain sight. They can have all the appearances of normal people with jobs, families and nice homes.”
There were two further myths that Professor Blanchard listed and which Ford recognised immediately.
Although some serial killers are motivated by sex that is not true of all. None of the five women found so far showed any signs of sexual interference. Indeed all had been carefully kept clean and medical examiners had very early on in each case determined that none of them had been interfered with.
And finally there was the last piece of misinformation: That all serial killers did not carry out their grizzly operations in a specific area but rather spread their murders over wide distances. This was definitely not the case with the one who Ford believed he faced now. He was of the view that this serious killer was operating in what he believed was a comfort zone and that this definite geographic area could, for now at least, be confined to the capital city. Until something happened to dissuade him of this view he would concentrate his task force’s efforts in London. If he was wrong he would be putting women up and down the country at huge risk. The penalty he would have to pay would cause him endless sleepless nights and a crisis for his soul.
*
Legwork is the bane of all policemen and women anywhere in the world. Thankfully though there is available a service that in certain circumstances can save having to tread the pavements and backstreets and at the same time save time.
For Detective David Maguire anything that saved time and energy that could be usefully deployed in the performance of his job was to be applauded and exploited. He quickly put his theory into practice and discovered that an internet Google search on the term DynamX brought up a description of what it is. It also very quickly identified the company that had invented the fabric.
The trademark was held by a London-based technical sports outfitter. According to their blurb the company was one of the most popular kit suppliers favoured by British sports enthusiasts.
“People,” Maguire called across the room the team was working out of. “I have something that can get us started.”
He recited the details of what he had located and suggested the first step should be for someone to visit the Hammersmith offices of the company and try to get a list of all the people who had bought clothing containing the DynamX blend.
“And we should not omit the names of any famous athletes who either bought something or received it gratis,” he added.
Maguire himself was unable to do the checking so it was Walden who volunteered and asked one of the other detectives to join him.
“Gotta go Martin,” Maguire said, gathering his car keys off the desk and switching his terminal to stand by. “I’m already running a little behind time and Joan will be waiting. I should be home by around eight tonight so if anything happens in the meantime give me a call. Thanks for handling this.”
“No sweat,” said Walden. “Enjoy your afternoon in the sun while the rest of us do all the work.”
“Right. And if you can bring this guy in at the same time feel free to do so in my absence.”
“Go on,” Walden. “Get going or Joan will take it out on me if you’re late.”
“I’ll blame you anyway,” Maguire replied and he left the incident room and made his way down to the car park. He had the afternoon off and he was looking forward to enjoying it with his wife. It had been a long time since they had spent free quality time together during the week.
They were not going to drive from their house in Wimbledon to their destination given the likely traffic delays on the roads that seemed to be constantly being dug up and resurfaced and because when they arrived it would not be convenient to park their car. So it was to be a tube ride, not something that either of them embarked on very often it had to be said.
To get from Wimbledon in the south which was the last stop on the District Line to Canary Wharf in the Docklands which was north of the river due to the Thames taking a U course would take them around an hour. They would have to change to the newer Jubilee Line at Westminster and that would deposit them at Canary Wharf without any further changes. It was not a short journey but it was not unpleasant. Getting on the underground at the last stop always guaranteed a seat and with the frequency of the more modern Jubilee Line it was not likely to be that crowded.
When they alighted and emerged into the labyrinth of skyscrapers where tens of thousands of people worked in banks, shops and a multitude of other businesses it was nearing the end of the traditional lunch hour. But in this community it appeared that the lunch hour was happily extended and the restaurants and pubs spilled outside with dark suited workers still drinking and eating. Another noticeable exception was the ratio between men and women with the male workers outnumbering the females at least four to one.
“This is the perfect place to come to see what a male-dominated world banking and finance really is,” remarked Joan.
Maguire agreed. It was quite clear that Canary Wharf with at least one hundred and fifty banks and financial institutions was a credible rival to The City. Another reason was the attractive working environment.
The City of London is the historic heart of the capital and its financial services sector and was the core of London around which the modern conurbation grew. It is only a tiny part of the city and is known as the Square Mile. It ranks ahead of New York as the centre of global finance and remains as the world’s most significant meeting point for businesses around the world. Interestingly it has a resident population of around ten thousand but more than three times that number actually work there. While the financial services sector is prime the legal profession forms a major component of the western side of the City, especially in the Temple and Chancery Lane areas where the Inns of Court are located.
As Joan Maguire had alluded, the other major financial district is the Docklands or more specifically Canary Wharf which is about two and a half miles to the east. Slightly over a third as many people work in Canary Wharf as do in The City but it is home to the world or European headquarters of many of the banks and other firms. The West India Docks where Canary Wharf is located once formed part of the busiest port in the world, but it was after the docks were closed in 1980 that the government adopted various policies to stimulate the redevelopment of the area. The London Docklands Development Corporation was set up the following year and then twelve months later it granted the Isle of Dogs Enterprise Zone status.
Canary Wharf itself takes its name from No. 32 berth of the West Wood Quay of the Import Dock. This was built back in the Thirties for a company called Fruit Lines Ltd, a subsidiary of Fred Olsen Lines for the Mediterranean and Canary "Island of Dogs" fruit trade. At their request, the quay and warehouse were given the name Canary Wharf.
“It might have changed radically since the days when it was a port,” said Maguire, “but there is another constant at work here.”
“What’s that?” she asked.
“The wind,” he answered. “There are some of the country’s tallest buildings around us here and they form a man-made canyon. And being on the water that’s why we have this stiff breeze.”
“You’re right,” said Joan. “What say we get a bite to eat in one of these establishments and get out of the wind for a while.”
They chose not to join other diners and drinkers in the aptly named Rogue Trader or The North Pole. Instead they decided on a traditional pub lunch in the traditionally named English pub The Slug and Lettuce.
Once settled Joan fluffed up her hair, straightened the collar on her blouse and said to Maguire on the other side of the table: “This is nice. Being out of the house but away from work. And of course spending time with my husband who has a mistress that ties him down pretty well every day these days.”
“Mistress?” asked Maguire. “How could I afford one?”
“The one you have is free.”
“Oh?”
“Your job.”
“You’ve got it wrong there. The job is not my mistress, it’s my slave driver. I’m definitely feeling a bit like a slave these days.”
“I understand,” said Joan. “It’s not only the hours but the stress. I know the case you are working on is stressful.”
Maguire could not disagree. It was beginning to get him down. There were a number of reasons why it was tougher for him than other serious crimes he had dealt with over the years. First and foremost it was the women. They had suffered terribly not only because of the wounds but because Maguire knew that they had had to endure unbearable pain over long periods. Whenever he thought of the women individually he could not help but imagine in his own mind what they might have had to put up with. It was hard to grasp. The other reason was that despite the many hours of investigation, not just by him but by the entire team, they appeared to be getting nowhere. Until now. At least now they had a shred of a lead.
“What is the latest?” asked Joan. “You mentioned that maybe you had something to go on?”
“It’s very little,” he replied. “It might lead nowhere.”
“But it could be helpful?”
“It could. But it’s really early days. Martin is, as we speak, interviewing staff at the company that invented this stuff, has the trademark, so maybe they can give him some information that could lead somewhere else useful. I just don’t know.”
“I know you don’t want to tell me everything about it but is this monster as horrible as I think he is? And do you think he might be very clever? I mean he doesn’t leave any traces does he?”
“No. He is clever, there’s no doubt about that. And he is certainly a monster. He’s the worst I have ever come across. Whenever I think of the victims I try to imagine what he must be feeling. He does these things. He sees what the women feel. But then he does it again and again.”
Maguire shook his head and added: “He’s a different being altogether. He must be some kind of creature without feelings. Also, we have no idea why he is doing this. It almost looks like he’s experimenting on his victims. A modern day Mengele.”
Joan reached across the table and touched his hand. “Well, this time he has left something behind. This material you mentioned to me. Maybe it can be traced to him. Maybe this is just the sort of lead you need.”
“I hope so,” Maguire replied. “I really do hope so because if not I’m sure there will be more killings. This creep is not going to stop.”
*
The company’s offices were not that striking from outside. Just another doorway at pavement level on a fairly nondescript street. Inside there were racks of sports kits hanging from hangers and scattered around the floor were various pieces of sports equipment, rowing machines, exercise machines and cartons of samples. At the side the large windows opened onto a park where joggers loped past during all hours of the day.
Walden gazed out on to park as he listened to the young man he had been interviewing.
“You have to realise that most of our customers are not walk ins,” he was saying. “We are a specialist outfitter so our clients very largely order online. Then if the item is in stock we aim to dispatch within one business day. On the other hand customised items take longer.”
Walden looked away from the park. “So you actually make up certain items on demand?”
“Yes,” said the young man. “As I say they’re customised. These can be outerwear or technical kit or just casual kit. They can take anything from four to six weeks to deliver in the UK.”
“Can you let me have a list of your customers for both stock items as well as customised gear?”
“Sure. At least I suppose so. I’ll have to check. How far back do you want to go?”
“We’re talking about this DynamX material,” said Walden. “That’s all I’m interested in.”
The man stood. “In that case we need only go back s couple of years. It’s a new fabric as you know.”
As the man walked out through a side door to where Walden guessed the main office was he again looked out through the large windows into the park. As well as joggers there were couples and singles sitting around on benches and on the grass eating and chatting. There was a bit of a chill in the air but the people did not seem to notice or at least it didn’t appear to bother them.
Walden tried to recall when the last time was that he sat in a park and just relaxed. He simply could not remember but he figured it must have been many years ago, when he was just starting out as a raw police constable. Since then he estimated he had probably seen more darkness than daylight and no doubt far more artificial light than sunlight. Maybe one day soon, after they had caught this maniac, he would take a day off and just sit in a park somewhere and watch other people for no other reason than idle curiosity and interest rather with a suspicious eye. That would be a real treat.
His musing was interrupted by the employee who handed him a print out. There were six pages with what Walden estimated were around three hundred names.
“I know you said this is very important,” said the man, “but it would be very awkward for us if our customers knew we happily handed out their details. I’m talking confidential here.”
“I understand entirely,” Walden replied. “Don’t worry, we won’t do anything that compromises your position. This information will be handled with the utmost sensitivity.” He flicked the pages over. “You’ve got some very well known and respected people on your books.”
“We have,” said the man. “We’re already well known in the sports kit field but we’re hoping to improve our position even more in the coming year.”
“Ok then. We’ll stay in touch and if I need anything more I’ll give you a call.”
“Alright. But please do treat this informative sensitively. Our reputation rests to a large degree on our relationship with our clients.”
Walden nodded and tucked the folded pages into pocket as he left the office. Before he got into his vehicle he again stood and watched the people in the park for a full two minutes.
*
It was nearing nine o’clock in the evening when Walden sat back in his chair and studied the results of five hours of analysis. On his screen were rows of text in paragraphs with the first words of each paragraph being a name, underlined and in bold type. At the table next to his a young ginger haired Detective Constable sat peering at his own screen.
Walden got out of his chair and paced across the room to the corner where there was a water cooler. He filled a mug with cool water and downed it. He then refilled the mug and walked back towards his desk. As he passed by the young detective’s desk he stooped and looked carefully at the monitor.
“Almost finished?” he asked.
“Just about,” said the detective whose name was printed on business cards scattered on one corner of his desk. He had ginger hair but his name was Sanjay Kumar that was down to his father who was from India. For the colour of his hair he could thank his Scottish mother.
Sanjay Kumar was one of a growing number of ethnic minority police officers in the Met. It was now common to see Asian policemen and women walking the street in virtually any English city. This was especially so in London and cities such as Birmingham and Leeds and Bradford. Most were still men but female Asian officers had become more prominent in recent years. Britain’s first female Asian police officer was a woman called Karpal Kaur Sandhu who was born in Zanzibar in East Africa who joined the force in 1971. She was a Sikh but her dream came to an unfortunate and early end when just two years later she was murdered by her husband who objected to her career. Now there are around three hundred Asian women police officers in London alone. There are many more Asian men in the Force though there are concerns from within and without that the number of Asian and Black police officers is still below what it should be.
A few minutes after Walden had resumed his seat at his desk Kumar tapped the send button on his keyboard and said: “It’s on its way now.” He then rolled his chair across the gap between the desks and peered expectantly at Walden’s monitor.
“There,” he pointed.
“Yes I can see that,” Walden said and glanced sideways at the young detective. “What we’ll do now is open yours up and then compare it with mine. We’ll do yours first.”
“Open them both in split screen,” said Kumar.
“What? How do I do that?”
“Here,” said the young man. “Let me.”
In a minute both documents sat side by side on Walden’s monitor. He leaned back in his chair and nodded his head up and down slightly a few times. “Alright,” he murmured. “Clever. When we’re finished here you can show me again how you did that. But go a bit slower.”
“No problem,” Kumar said. He was the junior officer and accepted his position. It was out of the question that he might offer the view that Walden and some of the other officers of his generation still had only a limited understanding of modern technology. Of course they had a thorough appreciation of its value. It was its intricate working that baffled them. “Sure. It’s easy. Saves an awful lot of time.”
Walden had fifty-seven names in his document. Kumar had fifty-eight. After a five minute examination Walden spotted the single name that was not repeated on both lists.
“This guy here was a medallist at the Commonwealth Games,” he said. I think we can rule him out.
“I don’t know the name,” said Kumar. “Are you sure we can delete him?”
“It was back in the Sixties. In Perth in Australia I think.”
“So that would put him in his sixties at least then.”
“Right. And I don’t think our man is a pensioner.”
Kumar nodded. “Of course. I just didn’t recognise the name. It was before my time.”
Walden smiled at the younger detective. “You see,” he said, “Us dinosaurs can still remember some things that are useful.”
Of the remaining names there were five that were also eliminated for one reason or another. That left fifty-two that were unknowns.
Walden rolled his shoulders to lessen the tension. Kumar pushed his chair a few feet away. It was after eleven.
“Tomorrow, you and I and maybe one of the others will start checking these fifty-two,” said Walden. “It would save a lot of time to do it over the telephone but I don’t wa