A Dark So Deadly - Stuart MacBride 23 стр.

Youre going to profile our serial killer?

OFFENDER BEHAVIOURAL INDICATORS went on the board next.

No, Im going to give you educated guesses, remember?

CRIME SCENE INDICATORS

McAdams leaned back against the partition wall. Go on then, guess away.

PSYCHOLOGICAL GEOGRAPHY / BOUNDARIES

From what we know right now, our suspect is probably a goal-orientated killer. Its possible preserving the victims turns them into some kind of fertility totem, but I dont think he kills them for sexual release. He kills them so he can mummify their bodies. Thats his goal it means something to him. What is the bigger question.

Ill settle for who.

Statistically its going to be a white male, mid-twenties. Hell have access to a facility for smoking meat, and or fish, and experience in using it. You dont jump right into this kind of thing without practice.

McAdams snapped his fingers at Callum. I want a list of every smokehouse in a twenty... make it fifty-mile radius.

Dick.

Callum made a note anyway. What about Glen Carmichael, Brett Millar, and Ben Harrington? Any chance the three of them are killing as a team?

Dr McDonald looked back at the TV, with its flickering ghosts. Theres a chance, but its not very likely. Two of them, maybe one dominant, one submissive but three would be very unusual. Its hard enough getting three men to agree on what pizza toppings to order, never mind how to select, kill, and preserve their victims.

Fair enough.

She leaned in closer to the screen. Our offenders an artisan and an artist. This kind of work takes time, care, and skill. Hes probably unattached, lives alone where no one can interfere with his work. Hell drive a big car, or a van he needs to be able to transport the bodies.

Franklin shook her head. We found one of them in the boot of a wee Kia Picanto small four-door hatchback. You dont need that much space.

Not when theyre mummified, but while theyre still alive? You need more room.

And Franklin explodes: in three, two, one... But she didnt. She just nodded.

His post-murder activities are highly ritualised too. Removing the organs and preserving them separately, then stitching them back into the body cavity. She wrapped the fingers of one hand into her hair, fiddling with the curls as her eyes narrowed and her voice dropped off to a murmur. You dont just mummify people for fun, do you, no you dont, you do it because you want them to live on in the afterlife, you deify them... She let go of her hair and straightened. I wouldnt be surprised if there was some sort of religious upbringing. She pointed at the whiteboard, where PSYCHOLOGICAL GEOGRAPHY / BOUNDARIES was written. I need to know where the victims came from before we can work out where hes likely to live.

Callum nodded. Were working on it.

Also, McAdams took a marker from the shelf beneath the board and uncapped it, we need to decide what were calling our boy. Cant have a serial killer novel with an unnamed antagonist. He printed IMHOTEP right in the middle. Before the tabloid newspapers come up with something more lurid.

Ah... Dr McDonald bit her top lip. Its a nice thought, I mean I know weve got to call him something, but Imhotep doesnt actually work, does it, because Imhotep was Egyptian and Egyptian mummies are always preserved lying flat, and the curled body posture our suspect uses to pose his victims is more reminiscent of ancient Peruvian burial techniques, which results from a completely different cultural and religious background. She shrugged. Paddington would probably be more accurate, you know, strictly speaking, because of the Peru connection, I think we should definitely call him Paddington, it just makes a lot more sense.

And one final thing. McAdams smiled. Arent you going to say it?

Dr McDonald wrote PADDINGTON on the board. Arent I going to say what?

Its a cliché of the genre, but the profiler always says it at the end of the briefing.

A frown. Nope, youve lost me.

He will kill again!

Of course he will. McDonald stuck the lid back on the marker pen. Hes a serial killer, its what he does.

 Imhotep

17

The God-In-Waiting sways gently in the smoke, head down, hands making delicate figure-eight patterns as it swings. No movement of its own, just that final rattling breath, then peace and stillness. Grace and purity.

Its time.

The racks beneath the God-In-Waiting are full of fish, hanging from their poles like the divinity above. He removes the poles, stacking them on the rack next door to cool. Itll be a good batch of smokies. They always are when a new god comes into being. Must be the air.

Or maybe its the cleansed body, hanging above them as they smoke? Maybe its the juices that drip like tears from the body as it takes on its final form? Whatever it is, the result is excellent fish.

Next is the scraper just a plank of wood fixed on the end of a broomstick he uses it to push the smouldering embers away, heaping them up against the far wall. Then stands beneath the God-In-Waiting.

Its beautiful...

Once Upon A Time

The man hanging on the wall has got nothing on but a kind of nappy, wrapped around his waist. His skin is a dark, rich wood, polished so much it glows against the cross. Someones made him a hat of barbed wire, which must hurt something horrible.

A wobbly voice fills the air, echoing back off the churchs stone walls. Sanctus, Sanctus, Sanctus, Dominus Deus Sabaoth...

Its a pretty sound even if the words are just made-up floating above the pews, wrapping around the big wooden man. Maybe it makes him happier if people sing to him? He looks very sad.

Fathers over by the altar, talking to the priest man. Both of them dressed in black, like crows though the priest mans got on a kind of dress. Both are wearing those little white things around their necks. Dog collars. Both pretending to be something theyre not.

Pleni sunt caeli et terra gloria tua. Hosanna in excelsis...

The mans been stuck to the cross with big metal nails, and theres holes in his side. Maybe that was mice? Theres mice in Fathers house and they eat holes in everything. Scurrying about in the dark. Leaving their little black presents behind.

Benedictus qui venit in nomine Domini. Hosanna in excelsis

NO! NO! DAMN IT, OLIVER! A mans voice, not pretty and floaty, but hard and grating. How many times? Its pronounced, ex-chel-cease. Were going to stay here and do it again and again until you get it right!

NO! NO! DAMN IT, OLIVER! A mans voice, not pretty and floaty, but hard and grating. How many times? Its pronounced, ex-chel-cease. Were going to stay here and do it again and again until you get it right!

Father looks up at the gallery that runs above the back six rows of pews, where the organ is. Then down at him. Justin, thumb out of the mouth, eh champ? He smiles. Youre a big boy now.

Justins not his real name: its from Fathers favourite album, about a little boy who turns into a rabbit and has to save the world from the king of dead things. And Justins as good a name as any.

He takes his thumb out of his mouth and wipes it dry on his T-shirt. Sorry, Father.

Thats my boy. Then Father shakes hands with the priest man and wanders down the apse. Ruffles Justins hair. Come on, slugger, time to go home. He turns and waves at the priest man as they leave the church.

Sanctus, Sanctus, Sanctus, Dominus Deus Sabaoth...

Down the steps in the warm sunshine, one hand on Justins shoulder. Steering him to the car with its little Scottish flag fluttering on the end of the aerial. In you get.

Justin does what hes told.

Gravel scrunches and crunches under the wheels as they leave the church grounds.

Did you hear the singing, Father? Wasnt that

The slap is as hard as it is quick, snapping his head to the side, the sound like a gunshot going off.

Dont you dare embarrass me like that again. Sucking on your thumb like a baby. That what you are? A baby?

He blinks the tears back. Bites his lip. Lets the burning needles sink into his cheek. Dont cry. Feed off the heat. Dont cry. Itll only make it worse.

You want to wear nappies and sit in your own filth again? IS THAT WHAT YOU WANT? Little flecks of spit settle against the dashboard. ANSWER ME, DAMN YOU!

Justin takes a deep breath.

Dont cry.

Feel it burn. Own it.

He stares down at his hands, curled in his lap. No, Father. Sorry, Father.

Good boy. And just like that the storm passes, the clouds shadows slip away and Father smiles at him again. Come on, why dont we go get some ice cream? We can bring some back for Mummy, shell like that, wont she?

Justin nods, even though its not true. New Mummy doesnt like anything. She just cries all the time.

And, slugger? Father ruffles his hair again, the fingers warm and hard where they dig into his scalp. You stay away from church music, its nothing but lies. See these? He lets go of Justin and unhooks the white band from around his throat. Shakes it like a dead mouse. They call them a dog collar for a reason. They choke you. Theres a chain that clips onto them, so you can go walkies. Because its all lies: the churches, the hymns, the bible, the whole God-bothering holier-than-thou, deviant filth-mongering lot of them. Lies and liars.

Justin doesnt move.

This can go one of two ways, and one of them ends with screaming and bruises and getting locked in the Naughty Cupboard peeing blood for a week.

Father clicks on the car stereo, and the album picks up where it left off. A hissing of drums, then the mans voice comes over the top, quiet as treacle. You have to hide right here, right now, you have to stay so still, / Cos Justin, little rabbit boy, the night-time means you ill, / Theres monsters here, theres monsters there, and theyre prowling through the gloom, / Stay still and oh so quiet, or these woods will be your tomb...