Inspector Lou Randall skimmed the file once more then threw it down onto his desk.
“Jesus Christ,” he growled. “Doesn’t anybody ever see this bastard? What is he a man or a fucking ghost?” He leant back in his chair and rubbed his face with both hands, feeling the stubble on his cheeks and chin as he did so. He’d been called out at six that morning and had driven to the police station without shaving or eating. His stomach rumbled disapprovingly and his mouth felt like the bottom of a birdcage.
“Who found this one?” he asked, wearily.
“A milkman,” Norman Willis told him. “He said the body was lying in the road. No attempt to hide it.” The sergeant studied his superior’s worried face. “He wasn’t making much sense when Charlton took the statement from him.” He paused. “He’s still badly shaken up.”
Randall grunted.
“I’m not surprised,” he said. “Finding a headless body at half past five in the morning lying in the middle of the street is enough to give anyone the bloody shakes.” He glanced at the report again. “Same murder weapon?” It came out more as a confirmation than a question.
Willis nodded.
“Everything about it is the same as Ian Logan’s murder. Rust in the wounds, a single-bladed weapon and the head was taken.”
Randall fumbled in his pocket for his cigarettes, finding them with some difficulty. There was only one in the packet and he tossed the empty receptacle away, not really bothering whether it reached the waste-bin or not. He lit the fag and drew hard on it.
“What about this other incident?” he said, picking up Jack Maynard’s statement regarding Harvey’s attack and break-in. Willis told his superior about it while Randall quickly read the statement himself.
“The break-in happened at half past one,” said Randall. He flipped open the file in front of him. “The pathologist’s report puts the time of death at around two.” He tapped on the desk top with his index finger as if seeking some kind of magical inspiration, a clue to what the hell he was going to do next. “He didn’t kill anyone at the shop where he broke in, maybe he lost his rag and decided he owed himself one anyway. This poor sod just happened to be the first one he came across.” He took another drag on his cigarette. “Where was the body found? Which side of town?”
“Going out towards the main road into Mayford. There’s lots of fields out that way,” Willis explained.
“Is it being checked?” Randall wanted to know.
“Not yet, we’re spread a bit thin at the moment trying to find him but as soon as a car calls in I’ll send them out that way.”
The Inspector nodded.
“I just don’t get it,” he said, wearily. “How the hell can Harvey just keep disappearing like he does? He must be hiding somewhere around Exham and yet we’ve already checked it over once.” The Inspector smiled sardonically. “Perhaps he’s not as mad as everyone seems to think he is.”
“They always say that it’s the brains who are locked up and the lunatics who are free,” added Willis, shrugging.
“I’m beginning to agree,” said Randall. He ground out his cigarette, watching the plume of grey smoke rise mournfully into the air.
“We’ll get him, guv,” said Willis.
Randall raised an eyebrow, questioningly.
“Can I have that in writing?” he said, humourlessly. The phone rang and, as he picked it up, Willis turned to leave. Randall picked up the receiver, quickly cupping his hand over the mouthpiece. “Hey, Norman, a cup of tea would go down a treat.” ‘
Willis smiled and left.
Randall pressed the phone to his ear.
“Inspector Randall speaking.”
“I’m not going to beat about the bush, Randall,” said the voice at the other end, one which the Inspector immediately recognized as belonging to Chief Inspector Frank Allen. There was a harsh, cold quality to the CI’s voice which made it unmistakable. The younger man stiffened in his chair.
“Yes, sir,” he said, wondering what his superior wanted. He glanced across at the wall clock opposite him and saw that it was almost 9.05 a.m. Whatever the miserable old sod wanted must be important, Randall mused.
“I understand you’re having some problems down there,” said Allen. “This escaped maniac, Harvey isn’t it? How long has he been free now?”
Randall swallowed hard.
“Just over nine weeks, sir. Everything possible is being done to apprehend him. My men. . .”
“And how many has he killed. One or two?”
Randall paled.
“Two, sir.” It came out almost as a confession.
Allen exhaled deeply, his voice taking on an even harder edge.
“I see,” he said. “Well, look Randall, you don’t need me to tell you how serious this whole business is. Your inability to find the man in the beginning was bad enough but now this. For Christ’s sake put the lid on it and find Harvey quickly.” There was a pause, during which time the CI’s mood seemed to lighten a little. “Do you need any help?”
“A couple of bloodhounds I think, sir,” he japed.
“Don’t be facetious, Randall,” Allen snapped. “This series of events is not going to look very good on your record. Now, I asked if you needed any help.”
The Inspector clenched his fists until the knuckles were bloodless, trying hard to control his anger.
“Some extra men wouldn’t go amiss, sir,” he said, brusquely.
“Very well. But catch this bastard. Quick.”
“Yes, sir.”
Allen hung up.
Randall held the receiver in his hand for a second, listening to the persistent drone then, angrily, he slammed it down onto the cradle. He had the uncomfortable suspicion that someone was keeping tabs on him. Christ, he wanted a cigarette but, as he peered at the empty packet nearby he could only mutter irritably to himself. “Catch Harvey”. He shook his head. Any ideas where we should start, big head? He thought, glaring at the phone, the anger still boiling inside him. He got to his feet and looked at the map of the town on his office wall. It bore two red crosses, each marking the scene of the murders. Both were in different parts of Exham. At least two miles separated the scene of each crime. Randall stood gazing helplessly at the map.
“Come out, come out wherever you are, you bastard,” murmured the Inspector.