Captives

THIRTY-TWO

'What is this? Guy Fawkes week?'

Detective Sergeant Stuart Finn took a drag on his cigarette and looked down at the body of Mathew Bryce.

The corpse had been burned beyond recognition, the flesh stripped from the bones, his clothes simply vaporised by the ferocity of the fire. Finn noticed that the stud on Bryce's jeans had melted in the heat, the molten metal having dribbled into the dead man's navel. The air reeked of the sickly-sweet smell of burned flesh.

Detective Inspector Frank Gregson knelt beside the body, his eyes fixed on the face. The mouth was open, stretched wide in an incinerated rictus. A couple of white teeth gleamed in the smoking hole that passed for a mouth but, as Gregson himself looked more closely, he saw that some fillings in the man's mouth had also melted. He prodded the remains with the end of his pen, watching as a sizeable chunk of burned flesh fell away. He got to his feet and motioned for the ambulanceman to replace the blanket over the body, hiding it from view once more.

About a yard from the remains of Bryce lay another blanket-shrouded shape.

The remains of Paula Wilson.

Gregson and Finn wandered across to the second body, both men looking around them.

The building site was a hive of activity now, despite the lateness of the hour. Both uniformed and plain-clothes officers were moving about. Men from forensics were picking their way slowly and carefully over the site, their search aided by several powerful arc lights that had been set up around the perimeter. The cold white glow of the lamps illuminated the murder scene.

Elsewhere on the site men moved around taking photos of the place and of the bodies. Outside in the street, would-be onlookers were kept away by uniformed men. A couple of ambulances stood at the entrance to the site, along with a police car. Unmarked cars were parked opposite. The officers who'd arrived in them were taking statements from those who had seen or heard anything, hoping that there would be some lead to the case, some clue as to why Paula Wilson had been murdered. Perhaps some clue as well to who had killed her.

The bodies had been found by the owner of a record shop in Dean Street. He'd been working late in the office above his shop and had caught sight of the flames coming from behind the partition as he'd been walking down the street towards Shaftesbury Avenue. The man had been taken to hospital suffering from shock. He was now under sedation. He'd managed to burble something about a burned body to a uniformed man who'd been on foot patrol nearby. The uniformed man had called through to New Scotland Yard.

Gregson and Finn had been there within fifteen minutes.

By 12.36 A.M. the area had been sealed off and was swarming with policemen.

'Where the hell is Barclay?' said Gregson as the two men approached the second body.

'He's been called, he's on his way,' Finn said, taking another drag on his cigarette.

Gregson dropped to his haunches and pulled back the blanket that covered Paula Wilson.

His face was expressionless as he studied the body, pulling the cover further down until he revealed the full extent of her injuries. He stroked his chin, his gaze focused on the rubbish stuffed into her vagina. Finn noticed it too and raised his eyebrows.

'Keep Britain tidy, eh?' he murmured quietly.

Gregson ignored his remark, his gaze fixed on the girl's torn and mutilated genital area.

He stuffed her full of rubbish.

Gregson looked at her other injuries, at the wounds in her chest and throat. The cuts on her face and hands. He pointed to the bad gash across her palm and the lesser ones on her fingers.

'Defence cuts,' he noted. 'She was trying to fight him off.'

'I'll tell you what puzzles me,' said Finn, looking down at the body. 'Why didn't he burn her as well as himself?'

Gregson could only shrug.

'Why did he burn himself,' the DI mused.

'Was there any ID on him?' Finn wanted to know.

'If there was, it went up in smoke with him. What about the girl?'

'Paula Wilson, twenty-three years old. Single. She lived with her parents.'

'Have they been told yet?'

Finn nodded.

'They've got to come in and identify the body, poor sods,' he said.

'What was she carrying when he attacked her?' Gregson wanted to know.

'Just a handbag.'

'Anything taken?'

'She had credit cards and fifty-seven quid on her. As far as I can tell he didn't even look in the bag.'

'Because he didn't intend stealing anything,' Gregson said flatly, pulling the cover back over the body and getting to his feet. His knees cracked loudly as he straightened up. 'He got what he wanted.'

'And then torched himself? It doesn't make much sense, does it?' said Finn.

'Just like the other one didn't,' the DI reminded his partner. Both men looked at each other. 'Hell of a coincidence, isn't it? One man robs a bank, doesn't take any money, kills six people then burns himself up. A few days later another man mugs a young woman, but he doesn't want her money; all he wants to do is kill her then, when he's finished, he sets fire to himself. Like you said, perhaps Guy Fawkes night has come a bit early this year.'

'You think they're linked?'

'What the fuck do you think?' snapped Gregson irritably. 'Two murderers commit motiveless crimes then burn themselves to death within one mile of each other in the space of a week. You're telling me there's no connection?' He shook his head. 'What we've got to find out is who they were and what the hell that connection is, because I've got a bad feeling about this.'

'Like what?'

'Like, they might not be the only two.'