Like This, for Ever

21




Saturday 16 February

FOR ONCE, WHEN the phone rang, Dana didn’t wake up instantly. She’d been up late the night before, combing the internet for cases of female serial killers, or killers who’d fixated on pre-adolescent boys. By the time she realized someone was calling her, she knew it had been ringing for a while. Her landline. Mark. She picked up and saw the clock at the same time. Nearly ten. Christ, she was supposed to be at Heathrow in an hour.

‘Hi, you watching TV?’

‘No, why?’

‘Turn it on.’

Mark waited while she ran downstairs, found the TV remote and took it off standby. ‘ITV1,’ Mark told her. Somewhere in his flat, she could hear Huck singing.

The channel flicked on to the usual mid-morning news and current affairs programme. The two presenters, one male, one female, were sitting on the blue sofa along with a well-dressed man in his late forties with swept-back red hair and an unusually pale face.

‘For those who have just joined us,’ the male presenter was saying, ‘our guest in the studio this morning is clinical psychologist Dr Bartholomew Hunt. We’re talking about the serial killer who has taken four young lives in just six weeks and who, in spite of huge resources pumped into their operations, the Metropolitan Police seem to be no closer to finding.’

The red-haired man was nodding in the way people only ever did when they knew they were being observed.

‘Now, if I’ve got this right, Dr Hunt,’ the presenter went on, ‘these young victims all died from extensive blood loss.’

‘Massive blood loss following the severing of the carotid artery,’ replied Hunt. ‘The bodies were, quite literally, drained of blood.’

‘Jesus,’ whispered Dana. ‘The parents could be watching this.’

‘More importantly than that,’ the red-haired man went on, ‘wound patterns on at least one of the victims – it wouldn’t be proper to say which one – indicate that the carotid artery was cut several times before death, each time allowing some blood to be lost before clotting began.’

‘Oh my God.’ Dana dropped to the sofa, landing on its edge.

‘You’ve got a mole, sweetheart,’ said Mark.

On the screen, Hunt and the presenter were still talking. ‘And this is the point at which some viewers may struggle to deal with the implications of what you’re telling us,’ said the presenter, ‘but you believe this blood loss is particularly significant.’

‘The Metropolitan Police are working under the erroneous assumption that the severing of the carotid artery is simply the means of death,’ said Hunt. ‘It isn’t. It’s the motive for abducting the boys in the first place.’

The presenter blinked. ‘He takes them because he wants their blood?’

‘Absolutely. What we’re dealing with here is a case of Renfield’s Syndrome, an unnatural obsession with blood, particularly with the drinking of blood. People with this condition crave the taste of blood in their mouths. It’s also known as Clinical Vampirism.’

Dana’s mobile was ringing. She leaned over to see who was calling and realized she wasn’t going to make it to the airport. Helen, her long-term partner who worked in Scotland, would have to make her own way across the city. ‘Weaver’s on the other line,’ she told Mark.

‘You know where I am.’ The line went dead.

‘I’m just watching it now, Sir,’ Dana told her boss, a second later. She was on her feet again, pacing across the rug, her eyes never leaving the TV.

‘Vampires? What the hell’s going on, Dana?’

‘Give me a minute, Sir.’

‘This condition is a lot more common than people realize,’ Hunt was saying. ‘Try Googling “obsession with blood” and you’ll be awash with evidence of people who crave the smell and taste of blood.’

‘We did do that, actually, when we knew you were coming in,’ said the presenter. ‘And it’s certainly true. But these people are invariably talking about self-harming. They cut themselves, and the sight of the blood, often the taste of it, too, seems to bring them some sort of odd relief.’

‘Oh, these are very sick people, make no mistake about it,’ replied Hunt, as Dana could hear Weaver’s breathing down the phone line. ‘But cutting and tasting their own blood is just the start. Quite often they move on.’

‘To cutting others?’ asked the female presenter, who had the raised eyebrows and pursed lips of someone exhibiting physical revulsion. ‘Just to be clear, are you saying the police should be looking for a vampire?’

Hunt shook his head, gave a rueful little smile. ‘I’m not talking about someone who sleeps in a coffin and turns into a bat at will,’ he said. ‘What we’re dealing with here is an unusual but all too real clinical condition. There are many documented cases of serial killers who have committed acts of vampirism on their victims. Richard Trenton Chase, an American serial killer in the 1970s, was one of the more notorious cases.’

‘Jesus, Dana, where the hell has this come from?’ demanded Weaver, unable to keep quiet any longer.

‘Chase was a very dangerous man,’ Hunt was saying. ‘As a teenager, he killed rabbits and ate them raw, sometimes putting their entrails into the blender to make a drink. He caught birds to kill and eat them, other small animals too. Then, as these people often do, he moved on to drinking human blood. He killed and cannibalized six people before he was caught.’

‘Have you shared your theories with the police?’ asked the female presenter.

‘Bloody good question,’ muttered Weaver down the line.

‘From the studio I’m travelling to Lewisham police station to offer my services to the Major Investigation Team,’ said Hunt, checking the buttons on his jacket as though ready to get up there and then. ‘Let’s hope that together we can catch this maniac before another boy is taken and murdered.’

‘I’m sure they’ll be pleased to have you on board,’ said the presenter. ‘They certainly seem to have been at a loss so far.’