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Authors: Tony Parsons
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Central,’ I said. ‘I’m so sorry about—’
But Nils Gatling was not interested in any more sympathy from strangers, and he had looked away before we had finished shaking hands, his face set and his eyes cold.
‘Just start doing your job,’ he told me.
‘HOLMES gives us six men who have been convicted of murder with what the law calls a captive bolt pistol over the last thirty years,’ Wren said. ‘It’s a very small club. Three are dead, two are doing time and then there’s the Slaughter Man.’
She hit a button on her laptop.
A good-looking man in his middle years appeared on the big plasma screen on the wall of Major Incident Room One. He wore shabby, threadbare clothes and looked as though he cut his own hair. In his large hands were two plastic supermarket bags. But he was still recognisable as the young man who had been locked up in Belmarsh in 1980. There was more than just a shadow of that seventeen-year-old. Because Peter Nawkins still looked as though he was thinking of absolutely nothing.
‘
That’s
Peter Nawkins?’ I said. ‘That’s the Slaughter Man?’
‘Handsome devil,’ Wren said.
The door to MIR-1 opened and a tall man of about sixty came in wheeling a suitcase. He smiled shyly at our applause, running a hand through his snowy white hair.
‘Dr Joe!’ DCI Whitestone said, happily adjusting her glasses. ‘Fresh off the Heathrow Express! Thanks for coming in.’
Dr Joe Stephen, Forensic Psychologist at King’s College, slumped at a workstation, foggy with jet lag. Gane stuck a mug of black coffee in his hand and he nodded gratefully.
‘Four dead and a missing child,’ he said, the California accent smoothed by thirty years in London. ‘I wanted to get started.’
He took a file out of his case and spread it before him. Crime scene shots. Autopsy pictures. The usual blank-faced catalogue of gore.
‘What do you make of it, Dr Joe?’ Whitestone said. ‘The abductors of children don’t spree kill. Mass murderers kill everything that moves but don’t steal kids. We’ve been struggling to make any kind of sense of it.’
Dr Joe seemed very tired. And it wasn’t just because of the night flight from JFK.
‘It feels like the deliberate destruction of happiness,’ he said.
Wren shot me a look. That had been her theory from the start. The Woods had been killed because they were a happy family.
‘What about the missing boy, Dr Joe?’ I said. ‘Do you think there’s a chance he’s still alive?’
Dr Joe ran a hand across his face. ‘Four days into your seven-day window? There’s still a chance, isn’t there? But time’s running out fast now. Have you come up with any leads?’
DCI Whitestone turned to the uniformed officer who was at one of the workstations. Carrot-haired and gawky, he looked like an overgrown kid dressed up as a copper. You would never guess that he had a QPM, the police medal for conspicuous valour.
‘How you doing, Billy?’ she said.
PC Billy Greene held up his hands and I saw the blackened burns on his palms that would probably keep him on desk duties for the rest of his career.
‘Bradley Wood was seen in a department store on Oxford Street in the company of a man and woman,’ Billy said. ‘The child was crying. The man was angry. Bradley was also seen at a service station on the M1 in the company of a man who was buying him a sandwich in a coffee shop. Bradley was also seen on the swings in a park just outside Leeds. He was apparently happy. A young woman was with him. And he was seen in the café at Lego Land.’
‘These sightings, are they all since last night?’ DI Curtis Gane said.
‘No – this is just the last hour,’ Billy said. ‘And it’s going to get a lot worse when this
Crimewatch
thing goes out tonight.’
‘Can’t the MLO rein in Nils Gatling?’ Gane said. ‘Can’t the Chief Super have a word?’
‘Apparently not,’ Whitestone said. ‘Mr Gatling treats the MLO like a very junior and extremely stupid
But Nils Gatling was not interested in any more sympathy from strangers, and he had looked away before we had finished shaking hands, his face set and his eyes cold.
‘Just start doing your job,’ he told me.
‘HOLMES gives us six men who have been convicted of murder with what the law calls a captive bolt pistol over the last thirty years,’ Wren said. ‘It’s a very small club. Three are dead, two are doing time and then there’s the Slaughter Man.’
She hit a button on her laptop.
A good-looking man in his middle years appeared on the big plasma screen on the wall of Major Incident Room One. He wore shabby, threadbare clothes and looked as though he cut his own hair. In his large hands were two plastic supermarket bags. But he was still recognisable as the young man who had been locked up in Belmarsh in 1980. There was more than just a shadow of that seventeen-year-old. Because Peter Nawkins still looked as though he was thinking of absolutely nothing.
‘
That’s
Peter Nawkins?’ I said. ‘That’s the Slaughter Man?’
‘Handsome devil,’ Wren said.
The door to MIR-1 opened and a tall man of about sixty came in wheeling a suitcase. He smiled shyly at our applause, running a hand through his snowy white hair.
‘Dr Joe!’ DCI Whitestone said, happily adjusting her glasses. ‘Fresh off the Heathrow Express! Thanks for coming in.’
Dr Joe Stephen, Forensic Psychologist at King’s College, slumped at a workstation, foggy with jet lag. Gane stuck a mug of black coffee in his hand and he nodded gratefully.
‘Four dead and a missing child,’ he said, the California accent smoothed by thirty years in London. ‘I wanted to get started.’
He took a file out of his case and spread it before him. Crime scene shots. Autopsy pictures. The usual blank-faced catalogue of gore.
‘What do you make of it, Dr Joe?’ Whitestone said. ‘The abductors of children don’t spree kill. Mass murderers kill everything that moves but don’t steal kids. We’ve been struggling to make any kind of sense of it.’
Dr Joe seemed very tired. And it wasn’t just because of the night flight from JFK.
‘It feels like the deliberate destruction of happiness,’ he said.
Wren shot me a look. That had been her theory from the start. The Woods had been killed because they were a happy family.
‘What about the missing boy, Dr Joe?’ I said. ‘Do you think there’s a chance he’s still alive?’
Dr Joe ran a hand across his face. ‘Four days into your seven-day window? There’s still a chance, isn’t there? But time’s running out fast now. Have you come up with any leads?’
DCI Whitestone turned to the uniformed officer who was at one of the workstations. Carrot-haired and gawky, he looked like an overgrown kid dressed up as a copper. You would never guess that he had a QPM, the police medal for conspicuous valour.
‘How you doing, Billy?’ she said.
PC Billy Greene held up his hands and I saw the blackened burns on his palms that would probably keep him on desk duties for the rest of his career.
‘Bradley Wood was seen in a department store on Oxford Street in the company of a man and woman,’ Billy said. ‘The child was crying. The man was angry. Bradley was also seen at a service station on the M1 in the company of a man who was buying him a sandwich in a coffee shop. Bradley was also seen on the swings in a park just outside Leeds. He was apparently happy. A young woman was with him. And he was seen in the café at Lego Land.’
‘These sightings, are they all since last night?’ DI Curtis Gane said.
‘No – this is just the last hour,’ Billy said. ‘And it’s going to get a lot worse when this
Crimewatch
thing goes out tonight.’
‘Can’t the MLO rein in Nils Gatling?’ Gane said. ‘Can’t the Chief Super have a word?’
‘Apparently not,’ Whitestone said. ‘Mr Gatling treats the MLO like a very junior and extremely stupid
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