Trevor Whitley was trying to breathe through his mouth, but that didn’t help much. Slade wrinkled his nose and felt the familiar vileness of death clawing at his throat. He’d been in the force twenty-odd years and it still got him every time. Anyone who told you it didn’t was lying through their fucking asshole. That was just a charade to make rookies feel bad. Truth was, everyone felt sick in the presence of a rotten one, from seasoned detectives to raw constables on the beat. And this was a rotten one.
“How long, Jim?” Slade didn’t look away from the corpse in the bath tub. The body was sprawled in a dried scum of his own gore, a blood ring that had circled the tub and left its crusty tide mark. Bits of brain clogged the drain, clung to the sides of the bath, nestled in the victim’s beard and long hair. Great rents in the young man’s skull showed the sheer savagery with which the axe blows were dealt before the final slam of the weapon had resulted in it being firmly buried in the victim’s crown.
Slade took his eyes off the cow-like bulging eyes milking over with green putrescence, and glanced at the big VHS box clenched in one rigor mortis-stiffened hand. Axe. At last… Total Terror, screamed the tag line. The box art showed a huge axe buried in what could have been a head, could just as easily have been a log. Unfortunately for the young man in the tub, the killer had taken the first interpretation for inspiration.
“Six weeks, maybe more,” Tavell answered, opening an evidence bag to take the video box.
Slade snorted. “It’s like an A-fucking-Z of video nasty slayings. Fuck me, I’m gonna slaughter this cunt when I catch him.” Trevor Whitley’s eyebrow lifted at the irony of his boss’s words, but he said nothing. “If it is a him…” Slade added, eyeing the SOCO officer.
“It’s a him alright, judging by the strength of the blow. It took considerable muscle to bury the axe-head this deep.”
“Who found him?” Slade had regained his composure.
Tavell waved a couple of his team members forward to collect the corpse now the detectives had seen enough. “Neighbours had been complaining of a smell for some time apparently, but it was a homeless vagrant who finally came forward. Wanted an abandoned tenement to kip down in and this fitted the bill admirably.”
“Apart from the putrefying corpse in the bath tub,” Whitley added wryly.
“The whole place derelict?” Slade asked his partner.
Whitley rubbed his chin. “Looks that way guv, but I’ll check the neighbours about any potential owner.”
“Do that. On the way out. And ask if they saw anyone suspicious in here over the last couple of months.” Slade turned back to Tavell. “Was this his first one, I wonder?”
Tavell bagged the video while one of his team began to search the body.
“It certainly predates the other two. And it breaks with the MO as well. No TV or film set here.”
“Maybe the fucker was just trying his hand out. A dry run?”
“Could be. Let me have that…” Tavell spoke to his junior assistant as the young woman retrieved a wallet from the corpse’s back pocket. The pretty SOCO handed it over and continued the search. Tavell flipped the wallet open while Slade watched carefully. A crumpled fiver, a few receipts, VISA and an NHS card.
“Student,” said Slade thoughtfully. “Wonder if that links with anything. Trev, I’ll need you to check what course he was on. If it’s media or film we could be onto something. Find out whether he’s ever been an actor or extra while you’re at it.” While Whitley pulled out his cell to phone through instructions to the murder squad back in the incident room, Slade read the name of the victim aloud without touching the bent card held in Tavell’s gloved fingers: “Harry Cribb. Twenty-five. University of the West of England. Wonder if this poor asshole’s ever worked with Tommy Wallace or Mark Hamm, by any chance…”
Tavell didn’t reply. He gestured for his team to remove the body, and bagged the wallet.
Slade watched the forensic team carry the corpse away on a stretcher. He glanced around at the filthy, mould-infested bathroom. More members of SOCO were dusting the place diligently, but Slade didn’t hold out on them finding anything, judging by the killer’s track record so far. But then again, if this was the first murder, was it unreasonable to hope the perp had made some little slip? That thought cheered him slightly. “Give me everything, Jim. Fibres on his T-shirt, DNA under fingernails, spittle in his beard—if you can detect it amongst all that dried blood and brains. Even sperm. The bath tub could be indicative of a sexual motive, though I somehow doubt it. This fuckwad seems driven by other needs entirely.”
He clapped Whitley on the shoulder, left the SOCO to get on with his job and led his DS down the uncarpeted landing. They checked both rooms on the first floor. Each was as dilapidated as the bathroom, and some of them showed signs of fairly recent occupation. A grimy sack draped on a rusted bedstead; cigarette butts scattered on the bare boards; a scummy sock stuck to the floor; empty coke cans. The rooms stank of piss, and there was human defecation curled in the corner of one of them.
“Dirty bastards,” Slade hissed. “Get that fuckin’ tramp checked out as well, Trev. I wanna know about all his mates who ever dossed down here.”
The ground floor was just as shabby, and just as rancid-smelling.
Back out on the street, Slade breathed deeply, then glanced back up at the abandoned two storey terraced house. A couple of windows were broken. The door had been kicked in a few times. And while it stood out a little from the rest of the street due to its sheer dilapidation, the houses to either side were only a few steps up in terms of respectability. “Good luck with the neighbours,” Slade quipped, and strode back to the Bentley, leaving the DS to get on with the door to doors. He hated areas like this. He knew exactly what reaction Whitley would receive and had earned his turn to sit back.
DC Nandu was looking pleased with herself. She had a load of printouts fanned out before her on the desk next to a battered paperback book with a lurid cover. The title of the book was Video Nasties: When our living rooms became lawless. It was the first thing Slade saw when he entered the incident room. Probably because of the drill boring into a man’s head on the cover. Well, if she wanted to get his attention she’d done a good job of it.
He strode up to her desk. “Looks like you’ve been busy DC Nandu. Ok, refresh me: what exactly makes a video nasty?”
She tried not to beam. “This list makes them, sir.” She held up a photocopied piece of A4 with a long list of titles. “Back in 1983 a list was drawn up by the Department of Public Prosecutions to potentially prosecute any video shop proprietor stocking any of these particular titles. These were films deemed to be an affront to public decency. They encapsulated every moral outrage and act of violent barbarism capable of being depicted on film. A peculiarly British phenomenon, the video nasty furore was instigated by English tabloids, particularly the Daily Mail, and used as a platform for certain conservative MPs to gain an attentive audience in terms of protecting children from unsuitable material, and to coerce the British Board of Film Classification and the British Government into a clampdown on uncertificated videos, which eventually came to pass in 1985.” She paused, pleased with the attention her little speech was receiving from several other detectives in the room.
“Go on, DC Nandu. Just don’t take all year.”
“Well, sir, that’s it in a nutshell. There were 39 titles classed as most likely to deprave and corrupt and successfully prosecuted under the Obscene Publications Act. Any video shop proprietor caught with any of these titles on their shelves was looking at a fine, and in some cases imprisonment.” She tapped the list in front of her. “I’ve been checking out the whole video nasty phenomenon to see if it holds any clues as to the current series of crimes, sir. I’ve copied out a plot précis of every film known to be on the list that was forwarded for public prosecution.”
“Have you, now?” Slade sniffed and looked dubiously at the sheaf of printouts. “So what have you got that I can actually use…”
Undaunted, she held up the book. “Well, sir, the perpetrator’s MO seems definitely to be derived from the films discussed in this book which constitute the DPP 39 list. I thought that by going through each film I might pick something up.”
“Do you have copies of the actual films at home to watch, DC Nandu? Is that how you spend your downtime? Driller Killer and a hot cross bun?”
Nandu ignored his facetiousness. “No, sir. But we are holding three tapes as evidence. I’ve watched the first one, and with your permission I’d like to view the other two.”
“By all means. Knock yourself out. But it strikes me we’re watching these films retrospectively for clues to crimes that have already been committed. We need to be looking at future films on the list to stop the fucker from perpetrating any more.”
“I can source some of the films on DVD or download, sir,” she replied instantly.
“Do it, DC Nandu.”
“Yes sir.” She allowed a little glint of white teeth to betray her satisfaction. Slade perched on the edge of her desk. “Just don’t get too turned on. As you said, these films are accused of being liable to corrupt and deprave…”
“Well that was the historic indictment of them, yes sir,” she said, ignoring his barbed levity. “But I’m of the opinion that a lot of them won’t be anything like as bad as their reputation. Some will be rather dated compared to some of the material that’s freely available on the internet and in retail outlets—even on TV—these days.”
He frowned at her, mulling over her words. “Short-list the most controversial ones, the most violent and depraved. We need to guess which direction this sick fuck is heading in.” He picked up the book, began flipping through the pages. “Would you say the ones he’s used as his MO so far are among the strongest ones on the list?”
She paused. “I need to watch more to come to a firm opinion on that, sir. But the book seems to indicate that while Driller Killer is up there with the most notorious—although it’s now legally available on the high street, uncut—the other two are definitely second-tier nasties. There are far more repulsive entries…” She began reading from the list she’d compiled herself earlier after skimming through the book. “I Spit on Your Grave—protracted rape scenes, totalling around 25 minutes. Castrations, hangings, death by outboard motor. Anthropophagous the Beast—cannibalistic killer rips out an unborn foetus from a pregnant mother and eats it. Nightmares in a Damaged Brain—highly gruesome axe murders and decapitations. Zombie Flesh Eaters—woman has her eye pierced by a long shard of wood, another girl has her neck ripped open by a Conquistador zombie. House by the Cemetery—an estate agent has her throat stabbed repeatedly by a poker, a babysitter has her head sawn off by a kitchen knife. Cannibal Ferox—guy has his eye gouged out by cannibals, then has his penis chopped off and eaten—” There was a brief burst of sardonic laughter and applause from a couple of the more grizzled veterans who were listening from the nearest desks. Slade glared at them and they quickly turned back to their PCs.
Slade nodded slowly at Nandu. “I get the picture. They ain’t gonna show on Children’s TV any time soon. Save the rest of the list for your report, or we’re gonna be here all fucking day. But one thought does strike me. If the perp is a copycat killer, I’d say he’s gonna have a job getting a load of cannibals to eat someone’s dick around here. Even in Knowle West.” A few chuckles greeted this observation.
Slade turned to address the whole incident room, raising his voice. “So it occurs to me our killer’s fitting the films to his own purposes. Opportunity and situation keyed to violent content. The videos have to be relevant, not just nasty.” He surveyed the group of attentive detectives occupying the desks in front of him. “I want to know why those particular films. There’s a link to woods with the killing of Andy Hill at Forest Ffawr, but what about the other two? The bathtub have any significance? The science fiction setting? And why are the killings taking place on TV and film sets in the first place? Apart from the first Axe killing, which we believe may have been a prototype. I need to know.”
“I think it could be part of the Snuff ethos, sir.” DC Nandu waited for him to cue her.
Slade glanced across at Whitley who was on the phone to forensics. “Fuck me. You after Trev’s job? You certainly fill that suit better than he does his, the podgy bastard.” A couple of titters broke out.
Some of the glow left Nandu’s cheeks. She frowned. “Do you want to hear this or not, sir?”
Slade belched. Dropped the book on the desk with an air of disdain. “Snuff films… that’s an old eighties crock of bullshit. No evidence of any such films were ever found. What makes you think our killer’s playing snuff?”
She rubbed her small, pretty nose, glanced at the Video Nasties book. “A hunch, sir. The murders are linked to video films and actual sets where filming is taking place. A fascination with the media, with film-making, maybe? Real killings and simulated killings. Just a theory, sir.”
Slade digested this. She was far smarter than he’d given her credit for. If she was right, of course. And there was still a chance she was way off target. “Film fanatic, maybe? A frustrated film-maker who never made it in the business? Worth pursuing, DC Nandu. Check out all students who’ve attended a film course around here in the last five or so years. Particularly ones who failed. Then cross-check with our list of extras present on both sets.”
“Shall I tell you what I’ve discovered so far about the three video films from the scene of crime?”
“Save it for the report. And have that on my desk by tomorrow.” He slid off her desk, and ambled over to Whitley who was still speaking into the receiver. Slade reached across and cut the connection. “They can ring back. I need your ears right now.”
“Guv!” Whitley sighed in exasperation, and flung his pen down petulantly. “They were giving me the rundown on the prints!”
“And let me guess? They got sweet Fanny-fuckin’-Addams. Tell me something new. Like has anyone been through the security tapes from the Professor What studio?”
Whitley sighed again. “DC Stammers went through the lot. Checked the visitors in the footage against names signed in. They all match.”
“Then our killer’s one of them.”
“Not necessarily. There are other entrances to the building. Back studio lot doors, side gates. Which should be on the CCTV vids, but not all of them are working out back.”
“Brilliant. Well check out everyone in the log book anyway. Just in case. I want to know where they get their hair cut, never mind what they were doing at the TV studio. Everything about them. Favourite jokes and sexual hang ups, breast size and criminal records. And I want a list of everyone who had a pass key, and everyone who didn’t. I want a potted history of every twat who either works in that place or was there to deliver the tea bags. Got it?”
“Got it, boss.”
“And then we’re gonna visit a friend of ours…”
He strode to the front of the incident room, staring at the faces projected on the whiteboard. He sucked in his lips and frowned at one of them, nodding slowly.