MANCHESTER MURDERS
Pat Whitaker
Copyright © 2009 by Pat Whitaker
Cover design Pat & Robert Whitaker
All rights reserved.
Other Titles by Pat Whitaker
Smashwords Edition 1.0, September 2011
BAD BLOOD
“Good and evil, like love and hate, are constructs of our own consciousness.”Manchester, England.
Wednesday, 15th October 1997.
2.25pm:
A small, modest blue hatchback turned off the main thoroughfare into a quiet, urban street. It was early in the afternoon, and the trees lining the street were shaking off their few remaining autumn leaves. A watery sun was doing its best to cheer things up, but without much success.
Half way along the street the police had cordoned off a nondescript terrace house. The car pulled up near the cordon and a woman got out. In her late forties, she could probably be best described as petite and, although far from beautiful, she was not unattractive. She had a confident, self-contained air about her. Taking a small briefcase from her car, she walked purposefully toward the police barrier.
An unruly mob of media people surrounded her, scrabbling for any information. She ignored them and approached the police officer on duty, offering him an identity card. After a quick glance at the card, he called over a second officer, who spoke briefly to the woman and then led her away and into the house.
Inside, laid out on the dining table as if prepared for a funeral with her arms folded across her chest, was the naked body of a young woman. Attractive, thirty odd and deathly white. She looked peaceful. The room was neat and tidy.
The officer introduced the woman to the Detective Inspector examining the scene,
“Sir, this is Doctor Katherine Platte, a consultant psychologist. Doctor, Inspector Stringer, Paul Stringer.”
He, a troubled looking man in his early fifties, looked surprised. Empathetic, she asked.
“Were you not warned that I was coming?”
“No, sorry.”
“I see, rather awkward, Well, I have been tasked with profiling the murderer for you. I understand this is the third case, were the other two identical?”
“That’s right. Both the other victims, like this one, were young women and about the same age, both were laid out in the same manner. Both, according to the autopsies, had been drugged and then killed by having the blood drained from their bodies, via puncture wounds into the carotid artery in their necks.”
“Wounds, plural?”
“Yes, two side by side. No trace of a struggle was evident, no signs of general violence. Also, forensic found no trace of the victim’s blood at the scene, other than that in the puncture wound itself.”
“Including this poor sod, all of the victims were living alone for at least for some time preceding their deaths. We haven’t been able to find anything that in any way connects the other two women. This one we don’t know much about yet, but expect it will be the same.”
“I see.”
Inspector Stringer swore under his breath.
“Pardon?”
“Sorry, I hate this sort of thing. I hate people getting killed of course, but I particularly hate serial killings, because there is never any connection between murderer and victim. Makes it bloody difficult to get a handle on them. That, plus the fact that every day that passes could mean another person dead.”
Katherine, having examined the victim, looked about the room and attempted to reassure the Inspector,
“With luck, I’ll be able to construct some sort of picture of the killer and the way he or she thinks.”
The Inspector expressed the hope, rather ungraciously, that it wouldn’t take too many dead women for her to reach some conclusion. She gave him a filthy look and left, asking over her shoulder that a complete—“and I mean complete”—set of files be sent to her house.
11.25pm:
Sitting alone in her modest and rather untidy living room, feet up on the sofa in front of the gas fire, Katherine was surrounded by a sea of papers and photographs. It was late at night and she was very tired. She got up and walked into kitchen, put on the kettle and started making a cup of coffee, her fourth that night. Waiting for the kettle to boil, she casually scanned the front page of the newspaper on the sideboard.
“Vampire Strikes Again!” was the headline. She slowly shook her head, as if to clear it of an unwanted thought, then got her coffee and went back to her files.
After reading through several more reports she paused, leant back with a distracted look, and stared off into space, as if something she has read was troubling her deeply.
Thursday, 16th October 1997.
7.17am:
Katherine was wandering distractedly down the aisle in a large and brightly-lit supermarket, pushing an almost empty trolley in front of her. Seemingly without thinking, she reached out for a packet of cat food and put it in her trolley.
A male voice close behind her said, “But I don’t have a cat.”
She spun around, hackles up, and found herself face to face with a well-built, gentle looking man in his early thirties. He politely explained that she had commandeered his trolley. He swapped it with the one he was pushing and transferred the cat-food.
Embarrassed, she muttered something about having a lot on her mind. He gave her a quizzical look. Uncharacteristically flustered, she added, “Life and death, actually.”
He replied, somewhat cryptically, “Indivisible”, and with a polite smile, walked off down the aisle.
9.20am:
In the briefing room of the Manchester City Police Station in Bootle Street, the team working on the “vampire” murders were at the end of the morning briefing, and before they left, Inspector Stringer introduced Katherine to the room.
He asked that they co-operate fully with her and make themselves available at any stage if she wished to talk with them.
“I appreciate that many of you are sceptical about the value of profiling, but please bear in mind that anything that can help stop this killer, we cannot afford to ignore.”
Katherine asked the Inspector if she may address them. He nodded briefly.
“First, let me say that the scepticism most of you feel toward profiling is warranted, at least to some degree, as although its advocates would claim it can solve almost anything, profiling is in essence little more than informed guesswork. It only indicates possibilities and provides no admissible evidence.”
“However, it can provide you with ideas on where to look and what to look for. This said, I should warn you that profiling must always be kept in context. For example, although I have yet to really get started on this case, the choice of victim—attractive young women—and the attention which has been paid to their bodies after death indicates that the killer is probably a man. He is almost certainly sexually mature, in the biological sense—although possibly impotent, and fit and strong enough to be able to manhandle the bodies with ease, as forensics show there were no marks indicating they had been dragged or bumped.
“However, you cannot exclude the possibility that this is partially or even completely wrong. There may well be alternative explanations.
“The killer could, for example, be a homosexual—probably in denial—trying somehow to ritually possess the body that nature has denied him. Or it could be a woman. Perhaps she had a sister who died in childhood and she became obsessively convinced that she was somehow responsible—and she was angry with women whom she saw as having taken her sisters opportunity for life. I know this sounds bizarre, but if I may use a bit of politically incorrect terminology, don’t ever forget that we are dealing with a lunatic.”
A female detective asked, “Is it possible that more than one person is involved?”
“Possible, yes, but very unlikely. That would usually indicate some form of ritual practice and in those cases there is inevitably some indication of ceremony at the crime scene.
“The point is,” Katherine emphasised, “that profiling can provide a road to follow in the enquiry, but, to flog the metaphor, as you move along it, it is imperative that you look up every side-street and alley you pass.”
The room was quiet. As Katherine turned and left, Paul looked at her with new respect.
10.17am:
In the central business district, an attractive young professional woman in her late twenties got into her car in the basement car park of her office building. She headed out into the morning traffic and made for the motorway.
10.20am:
Katherine was sitting drinking coffee in a small café not far from the police station, when Paul walked in and asked if he could join her. She nodded and he got himself a coffee and sat down opposite her. He asked, “Do you really feel so negatively about the work you do?”
“No, not at all, there is no question that it can be very useful. But it is important that your team does not focus too closely on my information and miss something else.”
While she was talking to him, she noticed a man crossing the street outside. It was the man from the supermarket but, although she thought he looked familiar, she couldn’t place him.
“Don’t worry,” Paul replied with a smile, “I won’t give them the opportunity.”
Katherine asked Paul about the cause of death, was it definitely the blood loss, or was the drug dose enough to kill. Paul said the pathologist is definite that it was blood loss.
“He also pointed out that this was a time-consuming—at least an hour to drain sufficient blood to ensure death—and rather difficult method of killing anyone. The murderer has gone to a lot of trouble to make sure the detail was correct.”
“However, although the two puncture wounds were precisely the same distance apart in each case, the pathologist is fairly sure that they were not made at the same time. Indeed, it was his opinion that the second wound has been made after death, probably with the same needle. Apparently there was little evidence of any bleeding from the second wound and, despite the accuracy with which it was positioned, in two of the three cases it had entered the neck at a measurably different angle.”
Paul then asked, “Have you had any initial thoughts on what we are dealing with?”
“It is a very unusual case, even for a serial killing. That the killer is a quiet, methodical and highly intelligent person is indicated by the fact that a time consuming and complex murder has taken place, not once but three times, without a single piece of forensic evidence being found at the scene. No anger, no rage, no signs of violence.”
“Apart from the murders.” Paul wryly observed.
“Fair comment, however, it is just possible that the whole “vampire” scenario is, in fact, a smoke screen and there is some darker purpose behind it all.”
When asked what she meant, she explained that normally, a psychopath who models their behaviour after some establish historic or mythical pattern is living in a fantasy world that they have constructed around themselves. Although internalised, it is entirely real to them. However, when they start to interact with people outside this world, they are, in essence, seeking to demonstrate their command of this fantasy realm to a wider audience. Basically seeking approval. In the case of a serial killer, they subconsciously want the crimes investigated so they can demonstrate their cleverness.
“Typically, if the investigation appears to be going nowhere, they will start deliberately leaving clues for the investigators, or in some cases, even making anonymous contact.
“This is quite different from the more common, sexually motivated serial killer, whose gratification is in the act itself, or alternatively an attempt to repudiate their sexual inadequacies.
“The result is that in this case one would expect the killer to make a display of their mastery of the world of vampires, typically with graffiti, objects or such, at the crime scene. Here there is nothing, nothing at all.”
Paul finished his coffee and got up, saying he must get back to work, and after promising to contact her directly if anything new came to light, left.
10.46am:
The young professional woman last seen leaving her office car park, June Tyler, pulled up outside her downstairs apartment in Salford and parked her car. It was by now raining lightly. She took her keys out of her bag and went to unlock the door. A car passed slowly down the street and she hesitated. It moved on and she started to put her key into the lock, but dropped them. She picked them up, looked around uneasily, then opened the door and went inside.
Friday, 17th October 1997.
10.44am:
The man who had spoken to Katherine at the supermarket, Hugh Montecrief, pulled into a car park in St. Peters Square. The day was overcast and raining steadily, as it has been all morning. He got out, locked his car, and went into the Central Library. He nodded to the girl on the desk and proceeded to the history department where, after some searching, he took down a book, found a chair and started to read.
Some considerable time later he put down his book and looked at his watch, then took out his cell phone and rang a number. After a short while the phone was answered, it was a woman’s voice. He hesitated for a moment then, without saying anything, hung up.
Back outside, Katherine Platte turned into the same car park and, although unaware of it, swung into a space alongside Hugh Montecrief’s car. She got out and ducked through the rain into the library entrance, where she made her way through into the history department and settled down in front of a computer.
There was no sign of Hugh.
11.35am:
Later that morning the rain had stopped and the sky had started to clear. A tall, middle-aged woman arrived at the door of June Tyler’s apartment. Following a brief fossick through her handbag she produced a key and opened the door. After picking up the mail on the threshold, she went inside and closed the door behind her.
12.14pm:
Katherine was sitting at her kitchen table, chin in her hands, staring at a pile of books in front of her, when the phone rang. It was Paul. There had been another killing. He gave her the address and she grabbed her keys off the sideboard and went out.
Ten minutes later she arrived at June Tyler’s apartment, now cordoned off and, after showing her credentials, went in. In the kitchen, the pathologist was examining a body, laid out as before on the kitchen table. She looked around the room. Detectives were busy minutely examining the scene.
Paul approached her and commented that although the inspection was far from complete, it initially appeared that every detail was exactly the same as the previous three murders. Katherine asked about the time of death and Paul replied that, subject to a post mortem, the pathologist thought around eight—eight thirty the previous evening.
The pathologist looked up from his work and said that in all these murders the time of death was somewhat suspect. When questioned by the Inspector, he explained that the techniques used to determine time of death are moderated by many different factors. Unfortunately, there was no reliable information on how draining the blood from a body prior to death would affect the onset of rigour mortis, as in his experience it was pretty much unique, so they would be unwise to narrow the window of opportunity too much.
Katherine turned to Paul and asked, “Where are her clothes?”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, her bed is undisturbed, and it is not likely that she had undressed and put her clothes away, although possible. I think it’s much more likely that they have been removed by the killer, probably after she was drugged. Did he carefully put them away or did he take them with him—or her of course. In either case, why?”
Paul frowned, but said nothing.
Sunday, 19th October 1997.
1.25pm
In the history department of the Central Library, Katherine was sitting reading a book on vampirism. A voice beside her quietly said, “An unusual interest”.
It was Hugh Montecrief. Katherine smiled and replied, “Work, rather than an interest. Don’t I know you from somewhere?”
“Not really, you tried to sell me some cat food”.
“Of course, yes, sorry about that”.
“Is it something you believe in?”
“What?”
“Cat food.” he smiled, “No, vampires”.
“Not at all”.
“No? I think that even the most fanciful of stories usually hide a kernel of truth somewhere. What that truth might be, that is the interesting proposition.”
“How do you mean, exactly?”
Hugh thought for a moment,
“Well, let me give you an example. Take Christ’s miraculous feeding of the multitude. Three loaves and five fish, or is it the other way round—I can never remember, anyway—clearly impossible. Proof, indeed of his divinity. But is that what actually happened?
“Imagine Jesus, a man disposed to preaching neighbourly love and charity, is facing an increasingly restless and hungry crowd. He only has a pitiful amount of food, which he proceeds to pass around, saying to those present that they are welcome to take whatever they need.
“After what he has been saying, would you take anything from the plate? The lesson is hammered home, the crowd is settled and not a miracle in sight.
“Dead and idolised, a procession of ‘salesmen” then turn a poignant lesson into a miracle”.
“I see your point, and you think that if we dig deep enough we could find some unexpected but rather ordinary truth behind the common myths that have built up around vampires?”
“Who knows, what are you actually looking for?”
“I’m sorry. I know this sounds rather dramatic and childish, but I am really not free to discuss it. I hope you don’t mind.”
“No, of course not. None of my business.”
“Please, it’s not that… Do you think there is any truth behind it?”
“What, cat food?” he laughed, “I doubt it—certainly not in any nutritional sense.” and the awkward moment was past.
“The example you gave, are you a religious man?”
Hugh’s faced hardened, “Religion, all religion, is the product of human arrogance and the refuge of the weak-minded…….” He paused, “I hope that doesn’t offend.”
Katherine looked at him quizzically and shook her head, caught by the forcefulness of his response.
“You must excuse me,” said Hugh, “but I have an appointment. Perhaps our paths will cross again soon.”
“I’d like that.” Katherine replied, much to her own surprise.
She watched him as he walked off out of the room, then turned back to her book.
Monday, 20th October 1997.
9.25am:
Amid the clutter that was a permanent feature of Paul Stringers office, Katherine and Paul were sitting discussing the latest killing. He asked if she has had any preliminary thoughts that may help, as the investigation seemed to be going nowhere.
She shook her head. “Probably male, probably outwardly calm and unemotional. The trouble in trying to establish a profile is that the crime scenes are so carefully set up, so sparse of any detail, that other than what that in itself may suggest, there is really nothing to work with.
“Young, mature single women, and the method of killing; distinctive—bizarre even—but also with a somewhat contrived feel, so possibly misleading. How about you?”
Paul sighed,
“Nothing, though your comment about the clothes has got me thinking. Also I can’t quite get my head around the blood, or rather, the lack of it.”
“How do you mean? I think the lack of mess is a deliberate part of the act.”
“No, I don’t mean that. The blood was obviously collected as it drained from the body, but it was then removed from the scene entirely. I had assumed the murderer would have washed it down the drain or something, but the forensic people assure me that in no case was this done. They have stripped the plumbing systems completely and there was no trace at all.
“This means the murderer took a container, by the coroner’s estimate holding at least eight pints, and probably more, of blood away with them.”
“Perhaps they were worried the blood would provide forensic evidence that you could use.”
“How? It was the victim’s blood, and we still had the victim. It could, of course, have been done just to complete the “vampire” image, but somehow I am uncomfortable with that. I think there might have been a more important, practical reason though I’m damned if I can think what it might be.”
“Camouflage it may be, but I am going to have to look deeper into vampirism. The method of killing and the difficulties it must cause the murderer imply that this was not a casual choice. If I learn more about the subject then maybe I will find a clue as to why they chose it.”
“It’s not going to be quick, is it?”
“No, I am very much afraid it won’t be. Still he, or she—although that just doesn’t feel right, maybe I’m prejudiced —may just make a mistake. We may get lucky.”
9.35pm:
A car pulled into the car park at the rear of a fast food restaurant and parked discreetly near the back of the lot. The driver switched off the motor and lights, and waited. A woman in her early twenties came out and walked to her car, unlocked the door and got in. A few minutes past, then she drove off.
The driver did not move. Through the glass front of the restaurant, people could be seen coming and going. A female supervisor came into view behind the counter and talked to another employee. She disappeared into the kitchen area, out of sight.
After a while she reappeared, talked to the same employee again and then ducked under the counter-flap and came outside into the car park.
She walked towards the parked car and passed close by. The watching driver slowly turned his head to follow her as she left the car park and walked off down the street.
He waited a little longer, then started the car and drove off.
Tuesday, 21st October 1997.
9.36am:
Mary Paxton, a thirty-two year old Restaurant Supervisor, was sitting sprawled on the sofa, dressed in a housecoat, watching television. Her cat was asleep on her knee.
The doorbell rang and she switched off the television, removed the cat and got up. Gathering her housecoat around her, she headed for the door.
1.25pm:
Katherine entered Paul’s office at the police station. Without getting up, he gestured her to a seat opposite and asked if she was making any progress. She replied that it was still too early to form any conclusions, but if possible she would like to have a computer to access the police archives.
“Looking for anything specific?”
“I want to look at all historical murders where there was a connection with vampirism, particularly any serial killings”.
“You think that will really offer any insight into this guy’s mind?”
“No, not directly, although you never know what you might find. What I am really looking for is what associations the killers made between their acts and vampirism. Did they believe this would keep them alive? Did they think they were creating some sort of permanent bond with the victim that would transcend death? Or was it basically sexual?
“In other words, what is it about vampirism that has acted as a trigger for previous serial killers. Alternatively, there is always the possibility that the current killer is not actually interested in vampirism in itself, but mimicking a previous murderer that they have read about—you know, the classic copy-cat thing.”
“Fair enough. I'll get someone to set up a workstation for you and show you where to find what you need. I’m sorry, but I can’t let you have access from your computer at home, or at least, it would require wading through a quagmire of red tape to get the necessary permission. Just not worth it I’m afraid.”
“No matter, I’m probably better doing it here, as long as I’m not in the way, because I can get help if I get lost in the system. Presumably I can download any directly relevant files to my own machine for more detailed study if needed?”
“Can’t see a problem with that.” Paul got up and headed to the door, “Come with me and I’ll hand you over to George. He’ll set you up with what you need and get you started.”
“Thanks.”
2.57pm:
An elderly university professor, mid-sixties and just a little shop-soiled, was sitting on his desk at the front of his lecture theatre talking to a small group of students. The topic was psychology and the ethical dilemmas involved in deliberately manipulating a volunteer’s emotional state to test a theory.
A person appeared at the door can beckoned the Professor, who excused himself from the students and walked over. He was informed that there was a phone call for him and he went out.
In his office, the Professor sat down behind his desk and picked up the phone.
“Professor Kemp speaking.”
It was Katherine. She identified herself and asked.
“Are you the same Professor Kemp who was consulted by police over a series of serial killings in Swansea in 1968?”
“Yes, that’s correct. Why do you ask?”
“I am being consulted on a somewhat similar case, and was hoping I may be able to meet with you to benefit from your experience.”
“It would be dangerous to assume that the details of my case would provide any direction for yours, the motivation may be completely different.”
“I appreciate that. To be honest, I am more interested in seeing the approach you took in looking for answers, than the answers you found. As I am sure you will appreciate, knowing that another person could be killed at any moment drives me to seek out anyone or anything that may get me there faster.”
“I take your point, and I assure you I didn’t intent to come across as reluctant. Of course I will assist you in any way I can. When and where would you like to meet?”
“I’ll come up to the university in the morning, if you are available. It is not a long drive and I could be there by nine.”
“That will be fine, I don’t have anything tomorrow until a three o’clock tutorial, and I can always get out of that, if needs be. I’ll expect you then.”
Wednesday, 22nd October 1997.
8.22am:
Katherine was driving over the Castleshaw Moor on the A62, not the most direct route to Leeds, but one she preferred. It was early morning and the sun was shining. She pulled into a small roadside café and ordered a breakfast of toast and coffee. She sat down at a table near the window and waited for her order to come.
Halfway through eating her breakfast the door opened and Hugh walked in. He seemed very preoccupied and went straight up to the counter without looking around.
Katherine recognised him and was about to call to him to join her when something about his manner caused her to hesitate. He got a coffee and sat down at the back of the café, facing away from Katherine’s table.
Katherine looked thoughtfully at his back for a few moments, then finished her coffee, got up and quietly went out.
Hugh seemed completely unaware that she was ever there. Then, as the sound of her departing car receded into the distance he did something rather odd. Slowly lifting his head, he turned in his seat and looked directly towards the table Katherine had been sitting at, and then, after a quick glance around the café he took a small notebook from his top pocket and made a brief inscription.
Putting it away, he got up and left.
9.19am:
Professor Kemp and Katherine were sitting in comfortable old armchairs either side of a small coffee table in the professor’s study. It was a mellow, rather stuffy room with an unpleasant smell of old cigarette smoke. Katherine had an open notepad on her knee and was tapping her chin with a silver ballpoint.
“You are comfortable in your own mind that this is not a real vampire then?” the Professor asked.
“You’re not serious?”
“Oh, yes I am, completely. But don’t misunderstand. I am not suggesting that the vampire may be real, but that you must know in your own mind why it is not. It is not enough to just dismiss it out of hand. You must start with a completely open mind and gradually eliminate everything that can be rationally explained. You did say it was the process, not the case, which you wanted to discuss.”
“Point taken. Actually, there is clear forensic evidence that the victim’s blood was drained using a needle. In fact, there is also evidence that although there are two puncture wounds side by side in the neck—in classic vampire fashion—they were made separately.”
“Fair enough. This also indicates that the perpetrator has a traditional view of vampirism. Were there any other signs at the scene consistent with these beliefs?”
“Only the bodies being laid out as for a funeral, although they were all naked. I haven’t found any significance for that in my reading to date. Does it ring any bells with you?”
“No, not at all. I take it the bodies had not been interfered with in any way, sexually or otherwise.”
“Other than their being murdered, as my detective friend would be quick to point out, no.” Katherine added with a slight smile.
“And we are definitely talking one killer for all the murders?”
“As definite as we can be. The detail is exactly the same in each case and, except for the fact of the killings themselves and the draining of the blood, the police have made nothing of significance public. That tends to rule out a second person copying one of the earlier killings, although it’s not completely impossible, I guess.”
“I see.”
“I gather that the serial killer you helped catch had a very different MO.”
“Yes. Very messy. Symbols and slogans all over the walls, painted in the victims blood. The bodies ritualistically mutilated, dead animals’ bodies, the whole nine yards. He was a very sick puppy, but in context, much more “normal” than the individual you are facing, if I can put it like that. Of course, it also meant that the forensic team had a little—make that a lot—more material to work with.”
“And did you manage to get a useful profile from the information you had? The records were not very clear on that point, only that you had been engaged to assist.”
“It sounds silly really, especially in the face of what you are having to deal with, but I don’t really know. The conclusions I came to were, in hindsight, highly speculative and rather obvious. Young male, loner, loser, very introverted and so on, all textbook stuff. It just happens that the killer turned out to be exactly that, every count. I’ve often wondered since whether that was insight or just blind luck. No way of knowing at the end of the day, but it was always so glib and so bloody obvious that I was never really comfortable with it.”
“You’re just saying this to encourage me, aren’t you?”
“Sorry, no. Not really very helpful, was it. Nevertheless, your case is not going to succumb to that sort of banal explanation. How much do you know about vampires, legendary or otherwise?”
“I have started doing some general reading on the mythology. I figure I will have to get a reasonable grounding in the subject if I am to find out what is motivating the killer. It did occur to me, however, that the whole vampire thing might be a distraction and not directly relevant. Trouble is, it is the only hook I have got into the guy’s mind at this stage. That, and his—or her—apparently fastidious nature. A bit odd that, in a murderer.”
“Unless he considers all women to be impure, unclean. You know, some disturbing childhood experience. Seeing his father having intercourse with the housekeeper in his much loved mother’s bed, type of thing.”
“Possible, of course.”
“I took much the same line in my inquiry. I actually tried tabulating all the information I could find on vampires and assigning values to different aspects. I was never sure if it would help in any way, but it was something I could actually get my teeth into so I didn’t feel I was just staring out the window. Besides, I must confess my best insights tend to come to me when my focus is elsewhere, if you know what I mean.”
“Did you get anything out of it?”
“No, before it was completed it became obvious that my killer’s knowledge of vampirism came exclusively from Hollywood “B” movies, so further work became irrelevant. Quite interesting though.”
“How exactly did you approach it?”
“Well, I took every bit of information I could find and assigned it points based on various factors such as commonality, geographical distribution, chronological distribution and so on, and these values were the averaged. The idea was that I would end up with an indication of the relative importance—veracity if you like—of each attribute.”
“Do you still have the results? I would very much like to see them, it could give me a kick-start.”
“Yes, I do and you are welcome to them, but as I said they are not complete. Also, they are hand-written, I am afraid, 1968 was a long time ago technologically speaking. Talking about it now is firing my curiosity. I did wonder at the time if there were any underlying facts behind the myths. Not in the obvious way, you understand, but some factors I remember were very consistent.”
“Somebody else made a similar observation the other day.”
“Who as that?”
Katherine laughed “Just someone I bumped into in the supermarket, to be honest, I didn’t even get his name.” She then recounted Hugh’s example of the loaves and fishes.
“He has got a point, of course. If there were not lives at stake one could get a lot of fun putting together an explanation of that sort. One thing that does stick in my mind was the universal belief in how people become vampires. If you exclude the very specific that apply only to an individual incident and the very general such as punishment for a sinful life, physical contact—and almost invariably biting—are involved, which suggests a fairly natural explanation.”
“Infection, viral or bacteriological. Now there’s food for thought.”
“I'll dig out those notes for you. If you don’t mind I will photocopy them for you in the morning and have them couriered down to you first thing. I might even dip into them again myself. Intriguing.”
4.38pm:
Katherine was sitting at her desk at home, working on her computer. The doorbell rang and she got up and went through into the hall. She opened the door to a cycle courier, who handed her a package and proffered a clipboard for her signature. She signed, he left and she returned to her work.
Thursday, 23rd October 1997.
8.22am:
At the fast food restaurant the manager was looking very frustrated. He turned on one of the counter staff.
“Are you sure there has been no word from Mary? This is the third day in a row she hasn’t turned up for her shift. Damn it, what the hell is she playing at?”
“No idea, boss, but to be fair, she’s never done anything like this before.”
“You don’t think she’s had some sort of accident… or sick maybe? Does anyone know where she lives?”
“Should be in the contact book.”
“Has anybody tried ringing her? No, of course not—that would be too bloody obvious.”
He stormed off into the small office at the back of the kitchen.
1.15pm:
A taxi pulled up at the kerb in front of a row of rather scruffy townhouses and the manager from the restaurant got out. He asked the driver to wait, as he would only be a few minutes.
He went up to the door of one, and after checking the nameplate on the door, rang the bell. There was no response. He rang again, impatiently holding the button in, but to no avail. Frustrated, he tried the door handle and found that the door was unlocked.
Surprised, he pushed it open a little way then hesitated. He called Mary’s name, then cautiously entered.
The taxi driver watched with detached interest.
After a few moments the manager reappeared at the door—looking quite ill. He turned and threw up on the footpath.
The taxi driver jumped out of the car and took him by the shoulders. “Are you okay?”
The manager looked at him and silently shook his head, then, in a voice the driver could barely hear, said “You must call the police!”
The driver looked at the door of the apartment then went back to his taxi and picked up the radio.
2.36pm:
At a busy intersection in the city centre, Katherine was standing on the pavement waiting for the lights to change. A steady stream of vehicles were passing when suddenly a cycle courier zipped past close in front of her, causing her to step back in surprise. She bumped into the person standing behind her, and muttered an apology without turning around.
“Found one yet?”
She spun round, it was Hugh. She looked flustered.
“I guess not, no smell of garlic”
“What are you talking about?”
“Vampires. I know I am not allowed to discuss it, but you were looking for vampires last time we met.”
“I’m sorry” she laughed “you caught me unawares…. again. And if you are going to keep accosting me like this I think it is only fair that you tell me your name.”
“I’m sorry, I promised my mother I would never disclose my name to any woman that I hadn’t bought coffee for.”
“I see, well we can’t upset your mother. There is a quite respectable café around the corner.”
Seated in the café, names exchanged and coffee ordered, Hugh asked,
“So are you getting anywhere with your research?”
“I have made progress, although I am not sure where I expect it to lead. Thanks, by the way, for not asking why. It’s just a matter of professional ethics—I am a psychologist.”
“With no deathly pale complexion or oversized crucifix, I rather suspected something of the sort. If you don’t mind a personal remark, you seemed much too pragmatic to be a believer in such things.”
“You don’t believe in the unexplained?”
“I believe there are many things that we can’t explain, it would be unimaginably arrogant to do otherwise, probably many we will never be able to explain, but I also believe that does not mean they don’t have perfectly rational explanations.”
“And vampires?”
“If I had to guess, I’d say yes, the various myths are too common and too widely spread to have no basis at all. But what a vampire actually is, that is another question altogether.”
“No bats and the walking dead, then?”
Hugh considered for a moment,
“Bats, now they are interesting. Bats and vampires do seem to go hand in hand. We can discount vampire bats, the actual blood-sucking—well, blood drinking anyway—creatures, as they were named after the mythical beings. But the association with ordinary bats, which is the chicken and which is the egg? Is this an ancient or modern idea?”
“Ancient, I think. Many people think the “bat” thing is actually related to the fact they carry and spread rabies, the general nastiness of which makes it a prime candidate for mixing in with any myths about sin, retribution and various unholy practices.”
“Look, I’m sorry, here I am making light conversation about something that is obviously troubling you deeply. It was very inconsiderate of me.”
“No, no… not at all. Yes the matter is serious and is preoccupying me totally at the moment but, to be honest, to move it back onto a lighter plane for a while is a great help, allows me to catch my mental breath, so to speak.”
“Would I be way out of line if I suggested a meal and a movie? I know I should first ask if you are married or seeing someone and such like, but that always seems so contrived and awkward. I would rather gamble on making myself look stupid.”
“No need to look stupid and, as long as you promise it won’t be a 1950’s Hammer Horror rerun, yes, I would love that. You do mean tonight don’t you?”
6.14pm:
Inspector Stringer entered the lobby of a block of up-market, converted warehouse flats, backing onto the canal. After a quick look at the name board, he headed for the stairs and the first floor. He had a uniformed policeman with him who, after a wistful glance at the lift, followed. Once on the first floor, Paul checked the nameplate of the first flat to the right and rang the bell.
A voice inside asked who it was.
“Detective Inspector Stringer, Manchester CID, is that Mr. Archer, Jeremy Archer?”
“Yes.”
“Could we speak to you please?”
“Yes, of course. Sorry.”
The door was opened by a rather short, athletic man in his late forties. He looked terrible.
“Please, come in.”
“Thanks. We won’t take much of your time, this is just a routine background enquiry. I believe you were acquainted with Mary Paxton?”
The man looked distressed. “You are investigating her murder? Of course, stupid question. I… I’m not sure that acquainted is the right word, we were lovers.”
“My God. I’m terribly sorry, We had no idea. Are you okay?”
“Yes, yes I’m fine, thanks”
“This must be a very distressing time for you, I’ll try and keep this as brief as possible. Unfortunately there are things we have to ask.”
“Of course, I understand that.”
Jeremy stood silently for a moment, and Paul let him be. Finally Jeremy said,
“Please, you’d better sit down. I know nothing you find out can change what has happened to Mary, but to think that more women may yet die, die the same way she did, it’s horrific.” He paused,
“I don’t mean to sound flippant, but aren’t I a suspect? I thought a husband or lover was always the head of the list.”
“No, no not as such. Of course, until we find the killer, you could say that anybody and everybody is suspect, but what you say seldom applies in serial killings. As far as we know you have no connection to any of the other victims and anyway, this was not a crime of passion, quite the opposite, in fact.
“What we do need to know is firstly, purely as a matter of routine, your whereabouts at the dates and times of each of the five killings, as near as you can recollect.”
“I don’t know when they were, except Mary obviously. I heard about them on the news of course, but I can’t pretend I took much notice.”
“That’s okay, the Constable here will take you through it. I wonder, while you’re doing that could I possibly use your toilet?”
“The old “case the house” trick, eh!” Jeremy said awkwardly.
Paul smiled, “No, the old “bladder isn’t what it used to be” trick—not quite so dramatic I know…”
The Constable and Jeremy Archer worked their way through the list of times and places and although Jeremy’s recollections were a bit vague in places, the Constable found that reassuring. If someone could remember exactly what they were doing every hour of every day for the last two and a half weeks he would have been very suspicious.
Paul returned and asked Jeremy about his relationship with Mary Paxton. How long had he known her, how did they meet, when did they become lovers, how was their relationship, why did they not live together? Jeremy answered quite openly while the Constable made notes.
Finally Paul stood up, apologised to Jeremy for the distress such an interview caused and asked if he wanted any help in dealing with his loss.
Jeremy, rather taken aback by Paul’s show of concern said that no, he had family and friends to lean on and he would be fine.
The two policemen left Jeremy sitting there and let themselves out.
7.02pm:
Paul and the Constable were sitting in the police car preparing to drive off.
“Well, what did you think?” Paul asked.
“Seemed completely genuine to me. Answered everything quite openly and nothing seemed in any way rehearsed. I also think he loved her deeply, but with affection and friendship rather than fire and passion—not platonic—I don’t mean that, just not the sort of passion that gives birth to murder, if you know what I mean.”
“Yes, and I agree, but nevertheless something is bugging me.”
“What’s that?”
“I’m not completely sure…. Yes I am. I think that, if I had met Mr. Archer and seen his flat without knowing anything about him, I would have said he was homosexual.”
“You’re kidding!”
“No, I don’t mean the flashy, in your face, raving ponce type. I mean the ordinary everyday bloke whose life and loves are much like ours—only with other men.”
“Yes, I think I see what you mean, now that you mention it. Has it any relevance?”
“Not that I can see. I would like to know, assuming I’m right, whether Mary Paxton was his first female love, but I suspect that’s just me being nosy.”
8.14pm:
In a booth at the rear of an unpretentious little restaurant, Katherine and Hugh had just finished a meal. They were enjoying a cup of coffee and indulging in the usual light conversation, the weather, the news and so on, in the relaxed manner of two people who have known each other a long time.
Hugh asked, “How’s the hunt for the Unholy Grail?”
Katherine laughed,
“To be truthful there are two hunts that I am involved in, the one to which you refer is both the more enjoyable and the less important one.”
“I rather suspected as much, and I think I know what the other hunt is all about. I don’t envy you one little bit. It is obvious that you can do no more than your best, but knowing lives are at stake must make it hard to sleep at night.”
“It does, but lets talk about the first hunt, although it does have a serious purpose.”
“Yes, I realise, you hope it will provide some insight, correct?”
“Correct, but in this case I am not very optimistic.”
“Why is that.”
“Because I rather suspect the vampirism is a ruse, although to what end escapes me. But this is a topic we are not discussing, remember?”
“Sorry. Why do you think that vampires of legend are regarded with horror and loathing?”
“Pardon! Don’t they go around biting people and turning them into yet more vampires?”
“Yes, but what does that actually mean—what do they do that causes such distress –think about it.”
Katherine frowned, deep in thought,
“Yes, I think I see what you are getting at. If you clear away all the hype, they go around making people immortal, humankind’s greatest ambition. I’d never thought of it like that. Most of our fears relate to our demise but if the legends are to be believed, vampires don’t actually kill, or for that matter even hurt, anyone. Fascinating, I’ll have to think on that some more.”
“Not for the moment you won’t, we’re off to see a film about a pig who talks. I figured that anything in the least cerebral or thought provoking was the last thing you needed right now.”
Friday, 24th October 1997.
11.30am:
Katherine and Paul were sitting in his office at the Bootle Street station discussing the most recent murder, that of Mary Paxton.
Paul asked, “Does anything in any of these murders suggest homosexuality to you?”
“No, nothing really, although the neatness of our killer could be construed as stereotypical homosexual behaviour. Why do you ask?”
“Well, you mentioned homosexuality as a possibility at your first briefing here.”
“Just as a “for instance” to make sure your people didn’t take my input too definitively. Not that I have been able to offer much in the way of insight to date.”
“Don’t beat yourself up over it. Trying to see into the mind of a nutter must be hard enough when you’ve got them there in front of you. When you don’t even know who they are—that’s got to be a long shot.”
“The homosexual thing?”
“Oh, yes. It’s just a little odd. We chatted to Mary’s lover, and I could swear he was, or certainly had been, gay. Is that common? I know many men lead ordinary heterosexual lives, even have children, before discovering they are gay, but does it happen the other way round?”
“Very rare, I’d imagine, though I don’t have any particular knowledge of the subject. The ordinary man discovering he is gay is more a question of realising something about himself that has always existed. Up to that point, he has just been living out the social norm and usually rather unhappily. The practising homosexual, on the other hand has inevitably gone through a lot of soul searching and self examination—if you’ll pardon the expression—to arrive at where they are.
“The exception would be youngster going through an adolescent, experimental stage but who is not really gay at all.”
“No, not this guy. I get the feeling Mary was his first female love and he claims he has only known her eight months. I’ve no reason to doubt him.”
“Do you think it is worth my looking into?”
“No, I have to say that it bothers me only because it is something that doesn’t quite fit right. I really can’t believe that, whatever the truth, it has any relevance to the case at all.”
Katherine added, “Of course, he may not be gay at all, just effeminate. You do get people like that, and frankly, their lives can be hell, with everybody on both sides of the gender fence making assumptions about them. It is dangerous to make assumptions.”
“In my business I have to. The trick is you must keep them in a separate drawer in your mind, not letting them influence your thinking and only bringing them out to check against new information.”
“Clever, if you can do it.”
“I’ve had a lot of practice.”
2.18pm:
Professor Kemp was standing near the door of the lecture theatre talking with one of his students, an undergraduate called Jocelyn Barr.
The previous morning he had contacted Katherine Platte to tell her that he had dug out his notes, but found that they were in a real mess, indeed, pretty much indecipherable. He hoped that she didn’t mind, but he had taken it upon himself to get one of his students to try and sort it all out and put it into a usable form, with his assistance as and when required.
Unfortunately, this was going to take a little while, and although he was conscious of the urgency, he was certain it would save her time in the end.
“So, Jocelyn, did you find anything of interest in that information on vampire myths? Any patterns emerge?”
“I haven’t finished tabulating it all yet. There are definitely some remarkably consistent beliefs. In fact, all the predominant ones seem to be pretty much universal with only things that are held to be specific—by the mythology itself—to an individual vampire or site, deviating from the norm.”
“Very interesting. What sort of methodology could we apply to determine which are derived from a common root and which from a universal truth, if any truth should exist?”
“A bit too early to say, really, but I did find one thing that is grounded in fact and may be relevant. I mapped the geographic spread of vampire mythology and emailed it to a friend of mine who’s an intern at the Institute of Tropical Diseases, I’m not sure why exactly—just a hunch I guess. He came back this morning with an almost perfect match, over ninety five percent, with the geographic distribution of rabies.”
“Interesting! That is very interesting. You know there is quite a strong association between vampires and both bats and wolves, both of which are carriers of rabies. I must pass that on to Doctor Platte. Keep on with it if you will, see what else we can find.”
3.00pm:
Robyn Grant, an attractive woman of about twenty-five, was sitting on a low chair in front of a class of eight year olds. They were talking about farming when the school bell sounded.
The teacher stood up and told the children to put everything away and get their bags. After a bit of apparent bedlam, the children were organised and Robyn told them they could go.
They filed out. Robyn cleaned the blackboard, picked up some books, and left.
3.11pm:
In a well-lit and meticulously tidy kitchen someone was neatly arranging equipment on the white cloth covered table. On the table was a two-gallon plastic flagon, rubber gloves, gauze pads, a syringe, a cannula, two small bottles of chemicals or drugs—unmarked, a length of plastic tubing and a small carry bag.
Carefully and methodically, the person packed all the items into the bag, and put it on a chair, folded up the tablecloth and put it in a drawer, collected the bag and went out.
4.56pm:
Robyn Grant was sitting at the kitchen table in her rather disorganised flat when the doorbell rang She got up and went to answer it. It was a cycle courier with a package for her.
“Hi, Robyn, yet another prized acquisition, eh? What is it this time.”
“I’m hoping it is a book on Mayan architecture. I ordered it from Amazon last week. I know you’re working but have you got time for a quick coffee?”
“No, I really should be getting on, I’ve still got a couple of calls to make.”
“You sure, Joe?”
“Ah. To hell with it, why not, it’s not like I’m delivering transplant organs, ten minutes can’t hurt.”
“I’ll put the kettle on. Black and sugarless, right?”
“Right. So how were all your little darlings today?”
“Some were definitely less “darling” than others, but we got through the day without blood being spilt.”
“That’s good, particularly when it is your blood that’s not being spilt.”
“Indeed, but unlike the older kids, not many eight year olds bring weapons to school—yet!”
“You are pulling my tit, right?”
“Yes, but for how long that will remain funny, that’s another question.”
Robyn poured the coffee and they both sat down at the kitchen table. She asked,
“Have the painters finished at your flat yet?”
“Almost, they only have the bedroom and hall to do.”
“You’ll be glad to get back to normal. Still happy with your choice of colours?”
“Very.”
“I’ve been thinking of redoing my bedroom. Grab your coffee and come and give me your opinion on colours—I’m hopeless. The charts are in there.”
They got up and went through to the other room.
6.22pm:
In the examination room of the mortuary, Paul was talking to the pathologist. Mary Paxton’s body was on the table, covered by a white sheet.
“Got anything that could help at all?”
“Not as such, or at least, I don’t think so. Thirty-one or two year old Caucasian female, 61 kilograms, etc. etc. but I gather you have already identified her already, right? She was drugged with Beta Hydroxytirate, the same as all the others, administered in a drink, again coffee if that is relevant.”
“It is a pattern.” Paul interrupted.
“I suppose. As before, her death was from blood loss via a cannula inserted in her neck. Roughly twelve pints drained from her body—this would take about an hour. She would be dead well before then, mind. A second needle puncture alongside the first as in the previous cases, definitely made after death.”
“Nothing else?”
“Yes, she had a bronchial infection and, sadly, was eight weeks pregnant.”
“Really, now I wonder who the father was?”
“I thought you had already identified her lover.”
“We have, or think we have, but I’ve long since learned that acknowledged lover and father of the child are not necessarily the same thing.”
“You cynical old bugger! Re the coffee, no sign of a mug, I take it?”
“No, it appears that he or she cleans up everything when they are done, including washing the dishes and putting them away, a very strange cookie, this one.”
“Actually, about the only thing we’ve got to work with, other than the usual door knocking and hoping to find someone who might have seen anything, is tracking all the different sources for Beta Hydroxytirate, but unfortunately it seems remarkably easy to come by, even through legitimate channels.”
Saturday, 25th October 1997.
10.07am:
Sitting at a table in the reading room of the Central Library, Hugh was engrossed in a book on astrophysics. Katherine came in, saw him and went over to join him.
“Hello again, you seem to be rather fond of this place, or is it work?”
“No, purely recreational. How are you keeping? The strain not getting to you?”
“No, I’m fine, and sleeping better now. I’ve accepted that if I can help, great, if I can’t, I can’t. But never mind that, what are you reading?”
He showed her the cover of the book.
“Wow, not everyone’s idea of recreational reading. I take it this is a particular interest of yours.”
“Not in itself, my interest is more in the exploration of space and the technology involved. The engineering side really, this just helps with the background.”
“If you don’t mind my being nosy, you’ve never told me what you do for a living”
“No, I haven’t. I don’t do anything for a living actually. I have what is, for some unfathomable reason, called “private means”.”
“Inherited?”
“No, earned actually, although some time ago.”
“Don’t you miss working?”
“No, I now have time to learn all about the things that interest me, as you can see.”
“I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have pried, it’s none of my business.”
“Absolute nonsense, I don’t mind in the least, after all, I know what you do for a living—even the bits I’m not supposed to know.”
Katherine laughed, “Fair enough.”
“Any news on the “enjoyable” hunt?”
“Yes, one thing that has come to light. An acquaintance of an acquaintance of mine—if you know what I mean—has established a very strong geographic correlation between vampire myths and rabies, far too close to just be coincidence. There must be some sort of connection.”
“I don’t wish to be a wet blanket, but that could be the connection.”
“How do you mean.”
“Well, the assuming that the prevalence and spread of rabies is governed by environmental factors—as is reasonable—then the connection may simply be that vampires require the same environmental conditions as the rabies virus.”