The Samsara Project by David Burgess (ebook reader screen .txt) 📖

bring some light into an otherwise dark abyss. This glimmer of humanity keeps fighting its way to the surface and then a part of the brain that is way beyond my understanding takes over. The end result is the killer leaves behind clues. They taunt us with letters, phone calls telling us when or where the next killing will be or, as in this case, they leave behind a signature card.”
“The cross”
“Not just any cross Inspector, a Fleur Delys Cross. Different types of this cross are found all over the world although most people associate them with France. This one is very intricate; the balance between the left and right side is very difficult to get right.”
Hughes looked up at Inspector Bales.
“Look Inspector, can you see the symmetry, perfect, and not machine cut either. This was a labour of love for someone.”
“What do you make of the inscription sir?” asked Bales.
DCS Hughes leaned across and looked closely at the writing on the cross.
“’The son loved his whore, now it’s the fathers turn.’
“Interesting, again very carefully done, very precise, nothing hurried or rushed, hand written, very skilled calligraphy using a nib pen and pot of ink.”
“What did you mean by ‘again’ sir; you said ‘again very carefully done’?”
DCS Hughes put the cross down. “Whoever we are dealing with here is very precise, they think of themselves as an ‘artist’. To you and me the mutilation of the victim is abhorrent. The killer though uses very sharp tools, the incisions neat and precise. The remove of the organs was exact. We are dealing with a very depraved mind but do not underestimate who ever this person is. Everything was planned with almost military precision, right down to the last detail. This was not a random act; our victim was not in the wrong place at the wrong time. For her every place was the wrong place, every time the wrong time. This murder was one of two things. It was either an execution or a sacrifice. The next victim should let us know which.”
“The next victim sir?” said the Inspector. “You expect more?”
“Unfortunately yes, there will be more, you can bank on that. The only way that the killings will stop is when we stop them. What worries me more though is where the previous victims are? This was not our man’s first kill, far too brutal. Our killer Inspector is well practiced at his art with an absolute belief that what he is doing is the right thing. He does not see any wrong in his actions. That is why he will kill again and it is also why he has killed before. Inspector, we have a serial killer on our patch. God help us.

Chapter 3

After the brief press statement given earlier most of the press contingent has packed up their equipment for the night and left the scene. There crime scene was now very quiet with only a couple of CSI’s on site and two constables keeping watch on the perimeter. Even the members of the public, who had earlier been out in force, had decided Coronation Street or the local pub would be far better way to spend the rest of their evening. Many a story would be swapped in the local pubs tonight, mostly greatly exaggerated by the end of the evening. After a few pints of Guinness followed by whisky chasers more than one brave sole would be telling, to anyone who would listen, how he had chased after the killer and ‘would have almost caught him if it hadn’t been for my dodgy knee. Always gives in at the wrong time. Have a pint with you, don’t mind if I do. What paper was it again you said you worked for?’
John Reynolds was someone who not only ‘though outside the box’ but knew how big the box was and more importantly what was in it. After the press statement John had watched the two detectives go into ‘Mo’. He had not seen them come out. There had to be some reason why they had gone into the mobile lab. They could have returned to the tented area or simply left altogether and left the lower ranks to carry on with the work. They had instead gone into the lab. This intrigued John and he decided to wait around a bit longer.
John took his mobile phone out from his jacket pocket, flipped it open and punched in the number that would go directly to his desk. The call connected, before the phone had finished the first ring it was picked up.
“Its Andrew, we’ve been waiting for your call. What’s happening there?”
“Any reports yet on the TV Andrew?”
“All the stations seem to be giving it top coverage but they’re spending a lot of the time repeating the same news or filling in time with talking heads and vox pops.”
“That makes sense” John said; “The police have not released a lot of detail yet, just one statement with the promise of a full press conference in the morning. By the way I want you there with me in the morning, nine thirty, New Scotland Yard Media Centre.”
What John did not see was Andrew’s reaction to being asked to attend the press conference. If he had been told he had just won the Lotto jackpot he would not have been more excited. This was to be Andrew’s first major press conference, a milestone in anyone’s career.
John continued; “I’ve got a gut feeling that this case is not a run of the mill murder. There’s a tension in the air around here that I’ve not felt at other murder scenes I’ve been to. There’s a lack of information and that usually means the police want to keep a lid on things for now. Andrew, have you got a pen and paper?”
“Just a second” Andrew lent over the desk and picked up a spiral note book. Sticking out from the springs was a yellow fine nib pen. He quickly took out the pen, opened the notepad and picked up the phone; “OK John … ready.”
“Do a search for any information you can on previous murders in or around this area. Who were the victims? What did they do? Where did they live? Find details of the murder, was there anything unusual about the killings. Was anyone charged or convicted? If so, who? Get as much background on them as you can, trial transcripts, police reports. Even if you think something is not relevant get it anyway. Times like this it’s better to have too much information than not enough.”
“OK John. I’ll dig up as much as I can. How long have we got for this?”
“We need to be up to speed before the press conference in the morning. I’m going to stay here for another hour or two or until there’s nothing to stay for. I’ll come back to the office and we’ll see where we’re up to then. Andrew”
“Yes John.”
“This will be a long night, make sure there’s plenty of coffee. We’ll need it.”
John hung up. The temperature was now starting to quickly drop. John looked around, there was nowhere to shelter that would offer any protection from the quickly cooling night air and also allow him to keep a watch on the scene. He cupped his hands together, held them up to him mouth and blew. His warm breath brought some mild relief to his hands and fingers. He rubbed them together then putting them into his trouser pockets he started to walk up and down the perimeter area.
John’s patients finally paid off forty eight minutes later when DCS Hughes left the mobile crime lab and started to walk towards the perimeter fence, just by where John was standing. It was no accident that John was waiting at this particular spot, he had simply made a mental note of the car DCS Hughes arrived in and where it had been parked. It was logical that Hughes would use the same car after his visit to the crime scene.
Detective Chief Superintendent Hughes was just about to press the ‘unlock’ button on his car’s remote fob when a voice spoke behind him, “Simon Hughes, you thought you were going to solve a murder, but you’re wrong because tonight, ‘This is Your Life’.”
DCS Simon Hughes turned around towards the direction the voice had come from; “John, you made me jump for a moment then. I should have known that you’d be here. It’s been a while now. How are you?”
While John and the DCS could never be called close friends they both had a professional respect for each other that could only be developed after many years of working alongside each other. The two had first met when John was a cub reporter on the ‘London Weekly’, a free paper available in supermarkets, garages and train stations in the inner London area.
“I’m fine. Thanks for asking. No need to ask how you are. I see you’re still looking after yourself.”
“You know how it is John, old habits die hard although I’m not as in shape as I used to be. Old age catches up to all of us at some point.”
DCS Simon Hughes joined the Metropolitan Police aged twenty nine. For the previous ten years he had been an officer in the Royal Marines. Rumour had it, although never confirmed or denied, was that for the last four years of his military service he had been a member of the Navy’s elite SBS. He was five feet eight and a half inched tall weighed eleven stone three pounds and was solid muscle. Not a surplus amount of fat on his body. The half inch in his height was very important to Simon. In his day, the police required all recruits to be over five feet eight inches tall, Simon Hughes, SBS officer or not, only made it in by half an inch.
Simon was born and brought up in Barnsley, a rough and tough Yorkshire town. Simon was the forth son of a Yorkshire miner, fiercely loyal to the NUM and Arthur Scargill. The National miners’ strike had caused a rift between son and father that no one could resolve and in true Yorkshire style it had carried on until three days before his father’s death, five years ago, from miners ‘lung rot’. Not wanting to meet his maker with any bad blood left behind, it was only then his father decided then was time to make peace with his son. There were no tears, no big reunion, no party to welcome back the prodigal son, just a brief “Hello son, make sure your mothers OK after I’m gone.” Followed by Simon’s reply; “I will dad.” These two men did not want, need or ask for anything else. The bad blood was no more.
Simon was fiercely proud of his Yorkshire heritage. He was someone you had to get to know, his personality was not one that people could take too easily. He had a gruff Yorkshire accent, was straight to the point and did not suffer fools at all. Hughes did not believe in calling a spade a spade, to him a spade was a ‘bloody shovel’. For all that he was very loyal to his friends and would back his colleague’s actions to the hilt. There was many a senior officer in the Met who had felt the wrath of Simon Hughes when was of his junior officers been, unfairly in Simon Hughes’s eyes, reprimanded. The same man would also ball out any officer who ‘crossed the line’ regardless of the reason why.
“You know it’s always good to see you John, we should really meet up more often, especially when work