A Killing Mind. Luke Delaney

on to Corrigan’s desk to grab his attention. Sean flicked the file open before looking at Featherstone, who’d slumped into the seat opposite clutching another pink folder, and then his eyes returned to the file where he was confronted by crime scene photographs of William Dalton – his throat cut and face disfigured with dried blood congealed around his gaping mouth. He flicked through the first few photographs, making a special note of the victim’s hands, from which the fingernails had been removed, leaving behind bloody stumps. Sean winced and looked away for a second.

      ‘I hope he was dead before he had his nails pulled out,’ he said.

      ‘And before he had his teeth removed,’ Featherstone added, making Sean look up. ‘The blood and swelling in and around his mouth was caused when our killer extracted some of his teeth using a combination of knife and, most probably, pliers – too early to say for sure; nothing was found at the scene.’

      Sean nodded to show he understood. ‘Who was he?’

      ‘William Dalton,’ Featherstone answered. ‘Eighteen years old, homeless and addicted to crack. Home was a disused garage in Mint Street, Southwark – that’s where he was killed. He sustained a significant injury to the back of his head, and then there’s the damage caused by removal of the teeth and fingernails, but that wasn’t what killed him. There were two distinct wounds to his neck and throat: his throat was cut – straight through the trachea – which wouldn’t necessarily have killed him, but the second wound sliced open his carotid artery. He bled to death, or at least that’s what it looks like. Won’t know for sure until the post-mortem.’

      Again Sean looked down at the photographs and then to Featherstone. ‘Unusual and significant injuries,’ he admitted, ‘but why give Special Investigations the case? He could have been in debt to a particularly nasty drug dealer. Maybe they tortured him to find out if he had any drugs or cash hidden away. Teeth. Fingernails. All looks like torture.’ He didn’t tell Featherstone about the images the crime scene photos had conjured up in his mind – a madman stabbing and pulling at the victim’s teeth and nails, his face contorted with the effort, yet in control. Unafraid. Calm.

      ‘Firstly,’ Featherstone explained, ‘Assistant Commissioner Addis is aware of the case and has insisted that you take it on. His apologies, by the way. He’s away at a conference in Bramshill, otherwise he’d have briefed you in person.’

      ‘And …?’

      ‘And,’ Featherstone told him, leaning forward and tossing the other file on to his desk, ‘this isn’t his first kill.’

      Sean tentatively opened the new file and was again greeted by crime scene photographs: a young woman’s body lying on the wet ground behind a large wheelie bin. Other photographs showed close-ups of wounds similar to those William Dalton had suffered: teeth and fingernails traumatically removed. He also noted that her clothing appeared to have been pulled and torn and assumed the worst had happened, but again he said nothing, knowing that Featherstone would start talking soon enough.

      ‘Her name is Tanya Richards,’ Featherstone obliged. ‘Twenty-three years old. A known prostitute. Ran away to the big smoke from some shithole in the Midlands a few years ago. Soon discovered the streets aren’t paved with gold and started using heroin. Prostitution paid for the drugs. Not an unfamiliar tale.’

      Sean acknowledged this with a nod.

      ‘Her body was found not far from where she lived,’ Featherstone continued. ‘She had a room in a dump of a flat in Roden Street, Holloway. When she wasn’t there she was working the streets around Smithfield Market during the night – looking for punters. He left plenty of DNA, only it’s not on file, so looks like he has no previous.’

      ‘Could the DNA be from a punter?’ Sean asked.

      ‘Unlikely,’ Featherstone answered. ‘Looks like she was on her way to work when she was attacked. Judging by the contents of her handbag, she was careful.’

      ‘Condoms?’ Sean guessed. ‘Yeah,’ Featherstone confirmed, ‘and plenty of them. Also we found semen smeared on her abdomen that matches that found inside her, so everything points to it being the killer’s.’ Featherstone shook his head. ‘Strange thing to do – wipe himself off on her belly.’

      ‘He was marking her,’ Sean said before he could stop himself – drawing a concerned look from Featherstone. ‘Raping and killing her wasn’t enough,’ he tried to explain. ‘He wanted to mark her.’

      ‘Why?’ Featherstone asked.

      ‘That,’ Sean answered, ‘I don’t know yet.’ He turned his gaze back to the photographs, wishing he could be alone without being disturbed by Featherstone’s clumsy observations. His understanding of this killer was coming together faster than in any of his previous cases, as if the year-long gap since his last significant investigation had sharpened his instincts and senses. He needed this killer more than any of his team could possibly understand.

      While his mind was engaged with the faceless killer who’d turned his fantasies into reality, using the helpless Tanya Richards as a conduit for his warped desire, Sean threw out a question to keep Featherstone occupied: ‘Was the same knife used on both victims?’

      ‘Hard to say,’ Featherstone admitted, inhaling deeply before continuing. ‘Neither victim was stabbed – slashed, but not stabbed. Makes it difficult to be certain. Maybe the post-mortem will help.’

      Sean started flicking through the file with an increased sense of urgency. Something told him every second could be vital. ‘When was she killed?’

      ‘More bad news, I’m afraid,’ Featherstone answered. ‘Only ten days ago. This one’s not a once-a-year killer, Sean. He’s running hot.’

      ‘I didn’t hear anything,’ Sean told him. ‘Didn’t see anything on the news.’

      ‘A prostitute and heroin addict murdered in London,’ Featherstone explained with a shrug. ‘Not exactly front-page material. The first murder got a mention on the local news – nothing more. They’ll be all over it now though, that’s for bloody sure.’

      ‘But the fingernails and the teeth,’ Sean frowned, ‘that must have got the interest of the media?’

      ‘Ah.’ Featherstone cocked his head to one side. ‘Would have, only the MIT who picked up the Richards case had the good sense not to mention the fact she’d had her nails removed. They let on some of her teeth had been pulled out, but kept quiet about the nails.’

      ‘To eliminate nuisance callers claiming responsibility,’ Sean said.

      ‘Exactly,’ Featherstone confirmed. ‘Had we let it be known her nails were removed too, the better crime journalists out there might have started getting suspicious. The MIT reckoned they could explain the teeth away as a pissed-off pimp pulling out her gold teeth for their cash value.’

      ‘Sensible,’ Sean appreciated their thinking, ‘but why mention either?’

      ‘Trying to drum up some sympathy,’ Featherstone explained. ‘Not easy getting the media interested in a dead prostitute, or the general public for that matter. It was hoped that by making it clear she suffered, we could tug on a few more heartstrings – loosen a few lips.’

      ‘Doesn’t seem to have worked,’ Sean replied.

      ‘No,’ Featherstone admitted, sounding sad and worn out by yet another violent death few would care about.

      Both men were silent for a while before Sean spoke again. ‘Unusual,’ he said. ‘Looks like it has to be the same killer, yet we have a male and a female victim. So, unless he’s bisexual, the motivation can’t be entirely sexual, despite the fact the female victim was raped.’

      ‘Dalton doesn’t seem to have been sexually assaulted in any way,’ Featherstone added, ‘but again, it’s too early to say for sure.’

      ‘So what’s his motivation?’ Sean directed the question at himself rather