Jerry was woken by his bedside phone ringing. He was on early worm today and for a moment he thought it was his alarm going off, because he invariably overslept if he didn’t set it.
‘Yes, what is it?’ he grunted. He squinted at his digital clock and couldn’t believe that it was only 4:09.
It was Jamila. She didn’t have to ask if she had woken him up. She sounded very calm, and Jerry had already learned to take this as an indication that something was badly wrong.
‘Two more people have been torn to pieces, Jerry. From what I can gather they were killed like that Streatham Common murder, only much worse.’
‘Oh, shit,’ said Jerry, sitting up. ‘Where?’
‘We found them in one of the side-streets off the main Mitcham Road, Rookstone Road.’
‘I know it, yes. Rookstone Road. There’s a really good curry-house on the corner, the Krishna something.’
‘One of the victims called 999. We couldn’t send a car in time to save them, but hopefully we got there before any members of the public could see them, so I suppose we can be thankful for that.’
‘Who are the victims? Do we know?’
‘DC Malik is in attendance, along with DC Young. He sent me a video from his phone. If you want I’ll forward it to you. But I promise you that you’ll only want dry toast for breakfast, if that.’
‘That bad, is it?’
‘Let me put it this way – if the victims’ wallet and purse hadn’t been left behind, you wouldn’t have been able to tell if they were human beings, let alone male or female, or who they are. But – hold on, Malik gave me their names if I can read my own writing. They’re a white male Ronald Firbank and a Chinese female Liu Nuying. Ronald Firbank is a deputy manager at Budget Car Rentals in Battersea and Ms Liu is a manicurist at Body Beautiful in the High Street.’
‘So, no witnesses yet?’
‘No, and no obvious footprints, either, according to Malik, although the CSEs may be able to find some. Ronald Firbank called 999 at 2:33 a.m. to report that a shop window along the Mitcham Road had been broken. He thought that it might have been caused by a gas explosion, or else somebody had smashed it deliberately. Unfortunately that was all he said. The emergency operator said that immediately afterwards it sounded like he had dropped his phone, and then he was cut off.’
‘OK,’ said Jerry. He had climbed out of bed now and he was opening up his chest of drawers. He picked out a pair of jockey shorts with horseshoes on them. Ever since he had won £200 on the Oaks while he was wearing them, he had always believed they were lucky. He thought he might need them today, more than ever.
‘Malik said that there’s minimal damage inside the shop, except for some coat-rails knocked over,’ Jamila went on. ‘There’s no evidence of a gas explosion, or any other kind of explosion. The whole front display window has been knocked out, but it’s fallen outwards across the pavement, so the obvious conclusion is that it was smashed by somebody inside the shop. But listen to this. It’s a charity shop, mainly selling second-hand clothing.’
‘Oh, don’t tell me.’
‘WellBrain it’s called, supporting research into brain injuries. It’s almost opposite Little Helpers, where Sophie Marshall worked.’
‘This just gets worse, doesn’t it? Is any of the clothing missing?’
‘Malik hasn’t been able to contact the shop manager yet, but almost all of the coat-rails are empty and there are dozens of hangers scattered around on the floor, so he reckons that quite a lot of clothes have been lifted.’
Jerry was sitting on the side of the bed, pulling up one trouser-leg. ‘Lifted?’ he said. ‘Or done a runner?’
‘We can’t know for sure, Jerry, not yet. There’s no sign of any abandoned clothing anywhere in the immediate vicinity – not so far, anyway. It’s possible that the shop didn’t have very much stock to start with, or maybe it was all lifted.’
‘Or maybe the clothes managed to break out of the shop on their own and kill two innocent passers-by who just happened to get in their way.’
‘Yes,’ said Jamila.
‘What’s your opinion, skip? I mean, serious?’
Jamila still sounded utterly calm. ‘I wouldn’t have woken you up if I didn’t think this was relevant to our investigation, would I? I’ll meet you down at Rookstone Road in half an hour.’
*
The thunderstorm had passed over by the time Jerry reached Mitcham Road and parked, and it was beginning to grow light. The police had cordoned off the entire westbound lane, and a queue of early rush-hour traffic stretched back for over a mile.
Seven patrol cars were lined up behind the police tapes, as well as two CSE vans and three unmarked cars. Three TV vans from the BBC, ITV and Sky News were parked in the next street, and a huddle of reporters and cameramen and sound technicians were standing on the corner smoking and stamping their feet.
Jamila was waiting for Jerry outside the empty window of the WellBrain shop, talking to DC Malik. Two crime scene technicians were walking around inside the shop in their Tyvek suits, taking flash photographs.
‘Hi, Jerry,’ said DC Malik. He was a serious young Bangladeshi with a neat black moustache and fashionably brushed-up black hair. ‘I know I haven’t been on the job for as long as you have, mate, but I’ve never seen nothing as gross as this.’
‘I thought you were looking a bit pale,’ said Jerry. ‘Where are they? Round the corner?’
‘What’s left of them. And the trouble is, it rained like fuck just after they must have been killed, so a lot of blood and other evidence got washed away.’
‘Any witnesses yet?’
‘No. We’ve knocked on almost every door down Rookstone Road, but so far nobody saw nothing and nobody heard nothing. I don’t know how you can rip two people to bits without making enough noise to wake people up, but whoever did it did.’
‘Do we know why the victims were out on the street at half past two in the morning?’
‘We do, as it happens. We had a call from a friend of theirs in Church Lane. The two of them had been to dinner there to celebrate their first anniversary together. Ms Liu had left her umbrella behind and her friend had called her to tell her. She tried three or four times and when she couldn’t get an answer she started to get worried.’
‘Shit way to end their first year together.’
DC Malik shook his head. ‘You think to yourself – why? I mean, what was the fucking point? Whoever it was who killed them, they didn’t even steal nothing. So, why?’
Neither Jerry nor Jamila attempted to answer him, but Jerry guessed that they were both thinking alike. Who could possibly understand why clothes would want to dismember human beings? Or more to the point, how? And there was also the worrying question: where were they now, these murderous clothes? Had they simply become lifeless again, like the clothes at Mindy’s parents’ house, or were they hiding somewhere, waiting for their chance to come out and tear even more innocent people to shreds?
Jamila said, ‘Let’s have a look at the victims, then, before they’re taken away.’
‘You’re not going to enjoy this, I promise you,’ said DC Malik. ‘In fact, I guarantee you’re going to have nightmares. Or even daymares.’
They walked along to the Jijaya Krishna restaurant and turned down Rookstone Road. For over fifty metres, the pavement on the right-hand side of the road had been completely covered with blue PVC tenting. Forensic experts were coming in and out of the tent flaps like wasps coming in and out of a nest. Behind the blue PVC, flashlights flickered, and every now and then it bulged up as a CSE stood up and moved around inside it.
Jerry looked across the street. The two victims had been killed directly opposite the entrance to the United Reformed Church. A placard on the brown-brick church façade announced I WILL POUR OUT MY SPIRIT ON ALL FLESH.
He nudged Jamila and nodded towards the placard. ‘That’s a bit too bloody appropriate for words, wouldn’t you say?’
‘You mustn’t start thinking like that,’ said Jamila. ‘Before you know it, you’ll start suspecting that it might have been the church minister who killed them, just to prove his point. As my grandmother used to say, living people are always looking for logical explanations, but ghosts and demons never feel the need for anything to make sense.’
‘Pity we haven’t got your granny here today, and I mean that. We could do with a bit of the old supernatural guidance.’
A freckly young female CSE was standing beside the tent, and she handed them face-masks and elasticated booties to cover their shoes. Jerry held up the flap so that Jamila could go in first and then he followed her.
Once inside, they stood next to each other, saying nothing. DC Malik had said that he had never seen bodies torn apart like this, but neither had Jerry or Jamila. About ten metres away, Ron and Nuying’s heads were lying on the pavement close to each other, face to face, with their eyes bulging out of their sockets like cartoon characters. They were so bloody and raw and so knocked out of shape that it was only Nuying’s long black hair that made it possible to tell them apart, and half of that had been torn off the side of her skull.
The remaining parts of their bodies were littered all the way along to the end of the tent. Their two spinal columns, their four deflated lungs, their stomachs, their dark brown kidneys – all with their glistening intestines winding in and out between them. The rain had washed away much of the blood, but dark red runnels were still soaking across the concrete and into the gutter.
Beside a pale severed arm lay a plastic carrier-bag. It had split open and six table-mats with Van Gogh sunflowers on them had spilled out.
Jerry and Jamila stayed for two or three minutes and then pushed their way back outside.
‘It’s incredible, isn’t it?’ said Jerry, pulling off his face-mask.
‘What’s incredible? I think I’m going to throw up.’
‘No, but you look at all of that bloody mess – all of those bones and organs and guts and stuff – and you think to yourself – how did all those bits and pieces ever add up to a person – somebody who could talk and think and laugh and have sex and everything? Seeing that lot, that almost makes me believe in God. Or somebody bloody clever, anyway.’
Jamila didn’t answer but took out her phone. After it had rung seven or eight times, she said, ‘Yes, sir, it’s me, sir. Yes, I’m at the scene now and DC Pardoe’s with me. We’re still scheduled to meet you at the station at eleven, but I believe that you should come and see the victims for yourself. No. I realise that, sir. I do understand. But no photographs or videos can adequately show you what has happened here.’
She listened, nodding, and then she said, ‘We’ll wait for you, of course. The media are here in force, TV and everything. I don’t know if somebody has tipped them off that these murders are somehow out of the ordinary, but it wouldn’t surprise me. No, I won’t tell them anything until you get here. Yes, sir. No.’
When she had put her phone away, Jerry said, ‘How did he react?’
‘Well, he’s not a happy bunny, naturally. But I get the feeling that he’s going to act quickly and decisively, if only to protect his own reputation. He said he’ll be here in half an hour, tops, so make sure that the bodies don’t get moved until he arrives.’
‘Scraped up, you mean,’ said Jerry. He looked at his watch and said, ‘Look – if he’s going to take half an hour, let’s go over to Mud and treat ourselves to a treble espresso. I think we deserve it.’
*
DI Saunders pushed aside the blue PVC tent flap and came out looking both shocked and sobered.
‘Let me just have a word with the press,’ he said, and walked over to the corner where the reporters were gathered. When he spoke, it was very slowly and deliberately, with long pauses in between his sentences: ‘All I can tell you at the present time is that a man and a woman had been found dead, presumably murdered. I can’t give you any further details until the two of them have been formally identified and their next-of-kin informed.’
‘Can you tell us how they were killed?’ asked the Sky News reporter.
‘We’ll have to wait for the post-mortems before I can definitively tell you that.’
‘Does that mean it’s not obvious how they died?’
‘As I say, we’ll have to wait for the post-mortems.’
‘Do you have any suspects?’ asked the BBC reporter.
‘Not so far,’ said DI Saunders, impatiently. ‘But obviously our inquiries are ongoing.’
‘There’s a suggestion that they were very severely injured,’ the BBC reporter persisted. ‘In fact, catastrophically.’
‘Who suggested that?’ snapped DI Saunders.
‘Well, I can’t reveal my source, I’m afraid,’ said the BBC reporter. ‘But can you describe the nature of the injuries they suffered? Are we talking about head wounds? Gunshot wounds? Stab wounds? Crush injuries from being run over? That seems to be the favourite M.O. these days, running people over.’
‘Their injuries were fatal,’ said DI Saunders. ‘That’s all I can tell you for the time being. If you come to the station at twelve I’ll be issuing a more comprehensive statement then, in conjunction with the borough press officer.’
‘What about the damage to the WellBrain shop, sir?’ asked a woman reporter from the Wandsworth Guardian. ‘Does that have any connection to these two fatalities?’
‘No further comment for the time being,’ said DI Saunders. ‘I do have to say one thing, though. We would caution everybody in the Tooting locality to be extremely vigilant until further notice, and I mean everybody. We would recommend that you avoid isolated locations – especially at night, and especially if you happen to be on your own or if there’s only a small number of you.’
‘So what exactly are you warning people to look out for?’ asked the BBC reporter.
‘Anybody unusual,’ said DI Saunders. ‘Anybody who doesn’t look quite right.’
‘That doesn’t tell us much.’
‘No, and the reason for that is we don’t know much ourselves. Not yet. But we’re simply making sure that the public at large is aware of the remote but real possibility of random attacks.’
‘What are we talking about? Terrorists?’
‘Anybody unusual. Anybody who doesn’t look quite right. That’s all I can tell you for now.’
‘Detective Inspector Saunders!’ called out the Sky reporter. ‘Do you mean ISIS?’
DI Saunders ignored him. He turned his back on the cameras, crossed over to his Vauxhall Insignia and climbed in. The Sky reporter shouted the same question again, but DI Saunders didn’t even look at him. He drove away from the kerb, and a PC lifted the tape for him and waved him through, so that he could speed off eastwards along the empty carriageway.
The reporters all turned expectantly towards Jerry and Jamila. The BBC reporter started to approach them, holding up a microphone with a large grey spoffle on it, and closely followed by a cameraman.
Jerry said, ‘Come on, skip. Let’s hit the bricks. Otherwise they’ll have us talking a load of old evasive bollocks, too.’
‘I don’t think I’d know how to,’ said Jamila. ‘That was one course at Hendon I must have missed.’
*
At the media conference later that morning, DI Saunders gave out the names of Ronald Firbank and Liu Nuying but little else.
He admitted that their injuries had been ‘severe’ but went into no more detail than that. He was still holding back the information that Philip Wakefield had been dismembered – saying only that he had been the victim of ‘aggravated assault’.
He repeated his warning that the public should keep their eyes open, because ‘several highly dangerous individuals are thought to be at large around the area’. The borough press officer sat beside him in her purple tweed suit looking distinctly unhappy about this. DI Saunders had briefed her about the second-hand clothes that seemed to have motivated Samira Wazir to kill herself and their four suspects to commit murder. He had also told her about the duffle coats that had attacked Jerry and Alice. Although he had made it clear that he was deadly serious, she had found it all too far-fetched, and she had said so. ‘For goodness’ sake, detective inspector, what on earth do you take me for? A simpleton? Coats can’t run around on their own!’
Eventually, though, he had managed to persuade her that there was a very real danger to the public, regardless of whether it came from clothes or from humans. Because of that, she had reluctantly agreed to endorse Jerry’s line about a new recreational drug that turned its users into schizophrenic killers.
‘At least I’ll be able to say that I was mistaken, rather than insane,’ she had told DI Saunders. ‘But – honestly – it sounds to me as if you’ve all been taking some recreational drug yourselves.’
DI Saunders had pursed his lips but said nothing. On his blotter he had drawn a picture of a cow.
At the media conference, a stringer from The Sun raised his hand and called out, ‘This drug, detective inspector – does it have a name?’
‘Fireball XL5,’ said DI Saunders. ‘That’s all we know. We haven’t confiscated any samples of it yet, so we haven’t been able to analyse it. But as far as we can tell it makes its users believe that they’re another personality altogether, and that other personality can take revenge on anybody who might have upset them. And very violently, too.’
‘What about Ronald Firbank and Liu Nuying? Had they upset anybody?’
‘Not as far as we know. We’ve talked to their friends and it seems that they were both very mild-mannered and well-liked. Of course we’ll be investigating further but on the surface this appears to have been a totally arbitrary attack, without any discernible motive. That’s why we’re warning the public to be so careful.’
‘Where does this Fireball XL5 come from? Who’s selling it? Any ideas?’
‘We’re still making inquiries.’
The BBC reporter said, ‘That protective tenting that was erected at the crime scene – that was over fifty metres long. Can you explain why?’
‘That was a matter for the CSEs. I’ve no comment to make about that.’
‘Is it true that the bodies were dismembered?’
‘I’ve no comment to make about that, either. We’re still waiting for the post-mortem results, and it could be quite some time before we get those.’
‘What about the window that was smashed at the WellBrain shop? I’ve talked to the manager and he said that almost three-quarters of his clothing stock was stolen. Do you have any suspects, and was that robbery connected in any way to these two murders?’
‘We’re still looking into that. It’s early days yet.’
The media conference broke up with none of the reporters looking at all satisfied. Two of them knew Jerry and they came over to ask him if he could tell them in more detail how Ron and Nuying had been killed. All he could do was shrug and say, ‘You’ll have to wait and see. Sorry.’
‘Oh come on Jerry,’ said the reporter from the Evening Standard. ‘This is worse than trying to get a straight answer out of President Trump. This is me you’re talking to, not Up-His-Own-Arse from the Beeb.’
‘Listen, you’ll know soon enough,’ Jerry told him. ‘And when you do, you’ll wish that you didn’t, because you won’t be able to find the words to explain it.’
‘What the hell does that mean?’
‘If I told you, you’d know, but you still wouldn’t be able explain it.’
The two reporters looked at each other in bewilderment. Jerry was about to say more, because he enjoyed teasing them, but then Jamila saw him talking to them and said, ‘Jerry,’ and beckoned him away. She trusted him, but not them.
