‘So the incident at Longsight was actually nothing to do with the Desecrator murders?’ the first reporter asked.
‘That’s correct,’ Claire replied.
‘But it’s true that a Merseyside detective assisting with this enquiry was hurt?’
‘As you’ll have seen in the official press statement, Detective Constable Andrew Gregson, who is normally attached to St Helens CID, last night underwent neurosurgery at Longsight Royal Infirmary. However, the operation was a success and he’s already showing good signs of recovery.’
‘How did it happen?’
‘All that information is in the press statement.’
Claire was doing her best not to sound irate, but she’d slept poorly the night before. The last thing she really wanted now – at seven in the morning – was yet another confrontation on the station steps. On first rising, she’d taken one look at the slate-grey sky and drizzling rain, and had assumed it would put some of them off, but apparently not. Here they all were again, clustered together under brollies and anorak hoods, like a bunch of scraggy, scavenging vultures.
‘I understand the two suspects are being held in connection with a series of violent burglaries that the Greater Manchester Police were investigating,’ asked the peroxide-blonde. ‘Are those burglaries definitely unconnected to the Desecrator crimes?’
‘As far as we can tell,’ Claire said.
‘So why …?’
‘Different police units do sometimes assist each other. It’s not unusual.’
‘With regard to the murders your people are supposed to be investigating,’ said the seasoned Scouse hack in the toupee, ‘can you be certain that only seven have been committed so far?’
Claire nodded. ‘We’re working on that basis.’
‘But it wasn’t so long ago when you were certain there were only three? At least … that’s what you told us.’
‘Does the name Tara Greenwood mean anything to you?’ Miss Peroxide asked.
‘I’m sorry?’ Claire said.
‘How about Lorna Arkwright? Those are the victims of unsolved murders dating from 2009 and 2010 respectively. April Fool’s Day and Remembrance Sunday.’
Claire hadn’t the faintest clue what the woman was talking about. She could do no more than ineffectually shrug. ‘I’m sure … if you go back through the annals of unsolved crime, you’ll find an unfortunate number of cases that coincide with special dates.’
‘Yeah, but are you going back through these dates?’ someone else asked. ‘The public are very frightened, not least because the police team charged with catching these lunatics is the same team who ignored vital evidence and allowed the M1 Maniacs to claim five more victims.’
‘The same police who arrested the wrong suspects in Manchester last night,’ added the hack with the wig.
‘The public have a right to know how much danger they’re in,’ Miss Peroxide said.
That was when Heck butted in. He’d been on his way to the MIR at the rear, but the sight of that pushing, shoving gaggle demanding to be ‘allowed to do their job’, was more than he could take.
‘On the subject of the public and how much they have a right to know,’ Heck said, appearing on the steps alongside Claire, ‘Tara Greenwood was bludgeoned to death on April Fool’s Day, 2009, in Lincolnshire …’
‘Erm, who are you?’ Miss Peroxide asked, bewildered by the sudden appearance of this rugged, intense-looking man with his cut, bruised features.
‘DS Heckenburg,’ he replied. ‘You may recollect that the main suspect for the murder of Tara Greenwood was her live-in boyfriend Johnny Repton. He was charged but later acquitted after a number of witnesses drawn from his wide circle of friends came forward offering statements, which, though highly questionable in many cases, gave him an adequate alibi. Lorna Arkwright was raped and strangled in Humberside on Remembrance Sunday, 2010, after being grabbed walking home from a nightclub. The chief suspect in that case was Wayne Hubbard, an escaped convict who had been serving time for three other rapes. Hubbard remains the chief suspect to this day because he was never apprehended – he was smuggled abroad by friends after having first been given refuge in various different houses on his home estate. It was while he was hiding there that he is believed to have committed the attack on Lorna Arkwright, who, for the record, was only thirteen years old. So, on the subject of the public and how much they need to know, perhaps the question you should be asking is how much do they already know?’
He treated the silenced crowd to a frank stare. ‘Sometimes it’s more than you may think. That’s all for this morning.’
He turned and steered Claire back inside. There was a renewed clamour of questions behind them, but he closed the station door.
‘I … I have some more updates to give them …’ she stammered.
‘Never mind.’ He led her through the personnel door, then through the police station to the rear, where they crossed the car park.
‘Christ,’ she said, as the full import of what he’d just done dawned on her. ‘I can see the headline now – “Public to blame for Desecrator killings!”’
‘Ultimately they are, aren’t they? Who creates these monsters if not society?’
‘Those kinds of headlines aren’t what Operation Festival needs at this moment …’
‘They’re headlines, Claire. They have the lifespan of a day. We can live with them.’
They’d reached the annexe, but Claire stopped. She didn’t want to go inside in her current state. Angry tears sprang to her eyes. ‘For God’s sake, Heck! It’s alright for you … but they’re going to come back at me about those unsolved murders, and maybe other ones. I don’t know anything about them!’
‘Speak to Eric Fisher,’ he said, handing her a tissue. ‘He does.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Claire, we weren’t born yesterday. We’ve already pulled off every unsolved murder that coincides with one of these special dates, going back five years. None of them are a match. In nearly all cases there were viable suspects who avoided getting jailed by the skin of their teeth. Talk to Eric. He’ll bring you up to speed.’
‘Someone should have told me that before,’ she said, her voice sharpening even more.
‘You’re right. They should.’
‘I felt a complete fool out there …’
He wanted to respond that she was part of this enquiry too, so the onus was on her to do some research of her own. He knew she rarely had a minute to spare from her other duties, though it wouldn’t have hurt if she’d at least raised the question. But Claire was currently undergoing a baptism of fire, and Heck was already beginning to suspect that she wouldn’t emerge from it unscathed. Or that any of them would, for that matter. He himself wasn’t going to enjoy meeting Gemma today; not after the way they’d parted last night.
Typically, Gemma was the first person he saw on entering the MIR. She was walking straight towards him, in company with Mike Garrickson. Both had coats on.
‘There’s been another one,’ she said before he could ask.
Heck halted in mid-stride. In all the excitement, he’d completely forgotten that today was St George’s Day. He glanced at Shawna McCluskey, who was seated at a desk to one side. She looked physically sick.
‘Be a piece of cake finding anything in here, won’t it?’ Charlie Finnegan complained from the back seat of Heck’s Volkswagen when they pulled up on the car park at the front of Horwich Zoo. ‘How many punters must pass through this place every day? A thousand, two …’
‘Give it a rest, Charlie,’ Shawna said. ‘We all know this is going to be a bag of shit.’
They climbed out and stood on the rain-wet car park.
‘Plenty of CCTV anyway,’ Gary Quinnell remarked, glancing along the zoo’s perimeter wall, which was about fifteen feet tall and sported security cameras every fifty yards or so.
‘I’ve stopped putting my trust in technology,’ Shawna replied. ‘It hasn’t helped us once yet.’
Heck said nothing. It was now almost noon, but there was a chill in the air and the skies had darkened; the drizzle persisted, smudges of blue light flickering across the soaked tarmac. GMP officers stood in quiet huddles, rain glinting from their fluorescent slickers. A few yards away, Gemma climbed from her BMW, shrugging into her raincoat. Garrickson climbed out after her. Claire was also in Gemma’s car, but she made no move to get out; presumably she was under instructions to wait behind. She regarded Heck through the window with no visible emotion. He tried to smile, but she didn’t smile back. If he was honest, his own effort didn’t amount to much.
‘Make sure we stick to the public areas please,’ Gemma said, leading them through the zoo’s main entrance. ‘Obviously avoid any zones that have been taped off for examination.’
‘Yet more cameras,’ Quinnell observed as they passed into an assembly area with toilets on one side and souvenir shops on the other, all closed. ‘What about security guards?’
‘There were two security guards,’ Garrickson said. ‘Two old boys. Clock-watchers waiting to retire. They were the ones who raised the alarm this morning.’
‘They didn’t see anything at the time?’
‘Not likely. They were out cold on flunitrazepam.’
Quinnell glanced around. ‘That’s the same drug that was used on the crucifixion victims.’
‘Correct.’
‘How’d they get dosed?’ Shawna asked.
‘Seems one of them was in the habit of going out for a smoke … so he used to leave the emergency door open at the back of their office. That door also connected with the kitchenette where they kept their tea-making stuff.’
Quinnell looked impressed. ‘Perps did their homework.’
‘I think there’s more to it than that,’ Heck said. ‘But we’ll know for sure when we check the security footage. If they know their way around this place too well …’
‘What do you mean?’ Shawna asked. ‘Inside job?’
He shrugged. ‘The public only get to see a quarter of what happens in places like this. If the perps know this zoo like the backs of their hands, it’s something to consider.’
Gemma had now consulted the large map-board in the centre of the assembly area, and strode on without speaking. The others followed.
Horwich Zoo, one of the oldest in England, having been opened in the 1930s, had a viewing area covering a hundred acres, but a total land-holding of about three hundred. It was a hugely popular attraction, and, according to Forbes, consistently figured among the best zoological gardens in the world. It was constructed in that typical family-friendly way, tarmac paths snaking between manicured profusions of jungle-like vegetation, branching repeatedly, ascending onto walk-overs, descending into foot-tunnels, in all cases giving maximum vantage on the numerous animal enclosures, most of which – this being the start of the summer season – were occupied: the big cats prowled their cages; giraffes tore at the overhanging leafage; chimpanzees sat in rain-damp huddles on their moated islands, watching quietly, as if aware that something out-of-the-ordinary was happening. There were also picnic areas filled with tables and chairs made from bamboo, and playpens containing climbing frames and swings. All were empty, save for the occasional GMP bobby, clad neck to toe in fluorescent green and glistening with rain.
They approached the Reptile House along a looping side-path stencilled with images of serpents and lizards. The exterior of the building had a look of faux Victoriana, with a spired roof, green terracotta tiles on the walls, and tall, narrow stained-glass windows depicting tropical flora. They halted only briefly, to gaze up at a security camera on the building’s southeast corner, the lens of which had been punctured by an aluminium arrow.
‘How close would you have to be to make a shot like that?’ Shawna wondered.
‘A normal human wouldn’t even be guaranteed to make it from here,’ Quinnell said.
‘This is a normal human,’ Garrickson countered. ‘Let’s not get carried away.’
No one argued with him. But no one agreed with him either.
The killers had apparently entered the Reptile House through a service door at the rear, which they’d smashed down with sledge-hammers after first deactivating the alarms by clipping the outside cables with wire-cutters; further proof in Heck’s mind that they were intimately familiar with this place. Inside, a grim-faced uniform introduced himself as Inspector Perkins from Bolton Central, and said he’d take them up to one of the viewing galleries where the intruders had not been. Rain drummed on the roof tiles as they ascended, streaking down the outside of the stained-glass windows, filling the dim stairwell with trickling shadows.
They at last came to a steel railing, where various cameras and powerful halogen lights were already in position, and gazed down through a slanted Perspex roof into a pit some ten feet deep and about thirty feet by twenty in circumference. At least two thirds of it was filled with greenish water, though now a red scum floated on the surface. Lush, equatorial vegetation grew around its fringes.
Its usual occupant, a twenty-foot-long male crocodile, had been removed to a containment area in a different part of the building, while two medical examiners, wearing waders as well as the usual Tyvek coveralls, made investigations around what remained of its last meal.
‘St George’s Day,’ Eric Fisher said, somewhat unnecessarily. ‘We should have seen this one coming.’
‘No one could have seen this coming,’ Garrickson replied. Even he had been jarred by what he was now viewing.
That the victim had once been human was evident, but only because it still had a torso, and four partial limbs, all of which were gruesomely mutilated, the skin entirely torn away, the flesh and musculature pulled from the bones. Its internal organs had been rent out in a mass of glistening, slimy ravels, and though a head was still attached to the neck, it had been crushed into something non-identifiable, shards of white bone glinting through the flaps of ravaged flesh and tufts of thick, blood-sticky hair. The face no longer existed. The single length of chain with which the victim had been bound was still in evidence, still padlocked in place in fact, while rags of gore-soaked clothing were scattered in the vegetation. One pink high-heeled sandal, containing a severed foot complete with green toenail polish, lay on a mud-bank at the edge of the pool, revealing that the victim had been female.
‘Apparently Congo just worried at her,’ Inspector Perkins said in a dull voice. ‘Or else there’d be nothing left at all.’
Garrickson glanced sidelong at him. ‘Congo?’
‘The croc that did it.’
‘What do you mean “worried at her”?’ Gemma asked.
Perkins shrugged. ‘The animals here are well fed. So he wasn’t hungry.’
It was Heck who eventually gave voice to the numbing horror they all felt. ‘You mean he just … played with her.’
Perkins nodded and swallowed. He couldn’t take his eyes off the butchered horror lying below; his face was white as a bowl of curdled milk. ‘All night, they reckon. He was still at it at six this morning, when the security lads arrived.’
‘Jesus, Mary and Joseph,’ Shawna breathed.
She hadn’t intended it as a prayer, but Gary Quinnell continued it in that vein: ‘Have mercy on us all … and this poor soul, who died here alone and in such pain.’
None of the others held religious beliefs, but none of them objected.