Like This, for Ever

22




DANA LOOKED ROUND the room. What she was about to say shouldn’t be easy. Trouble was, she was so bloody angry, it wasn’t going to be any effort at all.

‘When I find out who released the information about the repeated cut marks on Jason Barlow’s throat, I will wipe the floor with him,’ she said. ‘If I find out it’s a serving officer, I will have him on traffic till he claims his long-service medal. If he works for an associated organization, which we are supposed to be able to trust, I will make it my personal mission to end his career. And, ladies, the fact that I’m using the male gender for convenience does not let any of you off the hook. Now, does anyone in this room have a problem with what I’ve just said?’

There were twelve people present, including herself, Detective Superintendent Weaver and the criminal profiler, Susan Richmond. One of them was the middle-aged civilian woman employed to input data on to HOLMES. The rest were detectives, people she’d trusted.

‘No, Ma’am,’ said Anderson quickly. A couple of the others were shaking their heads. Richmond looked nervous but she met Dana’s eye continually.

‘I understand where you’re coming from, Dana, but it’s not necessarily someone on the force,’ said Weaver. ‘Could be someone at the mortuary, one of the SOCOs at the scene.’

‘I’ll be talking to Kaytes,’ said Dana. ‘But I think we can rule out SOCOs. The repeated cuts just weren’t visible at the scene. They wouldn’t have known.’

Weaver nodded, looking troubled. He knew as well as she did that a mole would seriously undermine the work of the investigation. ‘Right,’ he said. ‘What about this vampire business?’

All eyes turned to the profiler.

‘Renfield’s Syndrome is a recognized psychiatric condition,’ said Richmond. ‘But it’s very rare. On the TV this morning, Dr Hunt gave quite the opposite impression, but I’d be willing to bet a lot of practising psychiatrists have never heard of it. I’ve spent the last hour trawling the internet, printing off every published article I can find and there isn’t much.’

She opened the blue file on the desk in front of her and took out several sheets of paper, website pages that she’d printed off. Several members of the assembled MIT glanced over; no one moved to pick one up.

‘What is it again?’ asked Anderson, who was picking at a loose piece of skin just below his right ear. ‘What that Hunt geezer called it?’

‘Renfield’s Syndrome.’

‘And it means an obsession with drinking blood?’

Richmond nodded. Around the room, people were shooting uncomfortable glances at each other. Dana could feel Weaver stiffening at her side. ‘Human blood?’ he asked.

‘Ultimately, yes, but not exclusively,’ said Richmond. ‘People who have this condition experience a craving for blood that gets out of control. It’s believed that it stems from the idea that blood has life-giving powers. It makes you stronger, more potent, live longer, that’s the general idea.’

‘I knew I shouldn’t have had black pudding for breakfast,’ said Anderson.

‘The term was coined by a psychiatrist called Richard Noll,’ said Richmond. ‘He named it after a character in this book.’ From her bag, she took a paperback with a black cover and handed it to the nearest person, Stenning.

‘Bram Stoker’s Dracula?’ he said.

‘Stoker’s Renfield is a character in an asylum,’ said Richmond. ‘He’s insane and he’s obsessed with consuming other creatures. He eats every insect he can get his hands on and spends his days trying to capture birds. He begs his doctor to get him a kitten so he can eat that, too.’

Weaver’s nostrils twitched. Without turning his head, he reached out towards Stenning for the paperback.

‘According to Noll,’ said Richmond, ‘the condition begins with a key event in childhood in which an injury involving blood, or the swallowing of blood, is seen as exciting. The child will then experience a growing interest in blood. He’ll be fascinated by roadkill, he might enjoy licking his own wounds and scratches.’

‘We all do that,’ said Weaver, looking up from reading the cover blurb.

‘Yes, but for most people it’s an instinctive reaction, we’re trying to soothe the wound and keep it clean. These people are enjoying the taste, and the sensation of blood in their mouths. As they get older, they’re likely to start inflicting wounds on themselves, so that they can swallow blood. This stage is known as auto-vampirism. They start with self-induced cuts and scrapes and eventually learn how to open major blood vessels.’

She paused, giving the team time to take it all in.

‘The next documented stage is called zoophagia,’ she went on. ‘That means eating living creatures and drinking their blood. When the child reaches puberty, he or she starts to associate the swallowing of blood with sexual arousal. After that, the next stage is clinical vampirism in its true form, acquiring and drinking the blood of living human beings. Sometimes the blood is stolen, from hospitals and laboratories, quite often it’s consensual. It’s often linked with consensual sex. But in the more extreme manifestations, the sexual activity and the vampirism may not be consensual.’

‘Why didn’t you say anything about this before?’ Weaver, as Dana had expected, was running low on patience. She’d learned some time ago that his calm exterior wasn’t necessarily a reflection of what was going on inside. He was surprisingly short-tempered for such a still man.

‘Please bear with me,’ said Richmond. ‘On the one hand, I can see where Hunt is coming from with this. When children are taken by strangers and found dead, the natural assumption is that they’ve been the victim of a paedophile.’

‘But there’s no evidence of sexual abuse on any of the boys,’ said Dana.

‘Exactly,’ agreed Richmond. ‘So we look at what else he might want from them, and there is no doubt that he is taking their blood.’

Across the room the phone rang. Anderson answered it.

‘God, the bloody media will have a field day when we admit we’re looking for a vampire,’ said Weaver.

‘Boss,’ Anderson called to Dana. ‘Dr Hunt is downstairs, with a posse of reporters, demanding to speak to the officer in charge of the investigation.’

Weaver met Dana’s eyes. ‘What do you want to do?’ he asked her quietly.

‘Have someone put him in an interview room,’ said Dana. ‘Alone. The reporters stay outside until we call a press conference.’

Anderson looked troubled. ‘OK. Then what?’

‘Then nothing. When we’re done here, Pete can go down and talk to him.’

Anderson put the phone back to his mouth, then thought better of it. ‘Boss, perhaps I should go …’ he began.

‘I will not dignify that pillock by sending a senior member of my team to talk to him,’ snapped Dana, before turning to Stenning. ‘When you go down, Pete – and please don’t hurry – I want to know where he’s been getting his information from and I want to know where he was the evenings all four boys a) disappeared and b) were found. That’s six occasions I want accounted for, and don’t just take his word for it. I want alibis.’

‘Dana …’ Now Weaver was looking troubled.

‘Sir, if this so-called professional had had to face three sets of parents and tell them their ten-year-olds weren’t going to grow up, ever, he might have had some qualms about adding to their pain on national bloody television.’

If an attention-seeking pin were in the room, this would have been a good time for it to drop.

‘Right,’ said Weaver. ‘Anything else you can tell us, Susan?’

‘Well, as I was saying, although I can see where Hunt’s coming from, on the other hand, too many things just don’t add up for me,’ said Richmond.

‘Like what?’

‘People with Renfield’s Syndrome are overwhelmingly male,’ said Richmond. ‘But there are no documented cases at all of men with the condition attacking children. They attack other adults, women most commonly, but other men too.’

Overwhelmingly male? Dana could sense Anderson and Stenning looking her way, wondering if she was going to air her killer-is-a-woman theory.

‘What about this Richard Chase bloke?’ asked Stenning, who’d been reading one of the case notes. ‘He killed a kid.’

‘Richard Chase was a very disturbed young man,’ said Richmond, ‘but his problems were almost certainly due to drug abuse and failed medication. He was quite possibly schizophrenic. He killed six people, but with only one of them did he commit cannibalism and drink blood. I’m not saying the condition doesn’t exist, just that because of its sensational nature, it’s assumed an importance way beyond what it deserves.’

A woman with the condition would need to select victims she could overpower more easily, thought Dana. Could she ask if there was any history of women having Renfield’s Syndrome?

‘Anything else?’ asked Weaver.

‘Yes, the sheer amount of blood we’re talking about. People with this condition crave the taste of blood in their mouths. They don’t drink it like milk because they can’t. The body would reject it. You’d most likely vomit it up. If you managed to keep it down, you’d be looking at serious organ damage. Each of these boys lost around three litres of blood. No one could drink that amount of blood and live.’

‘No one human,’ quipped one of the younger detectives as Weaver stood up to leave the room. ‘Word outside, Dana, please,’ he said.

In the corridor he turned to face her. ‘Everything OK?’ he asked.

‘Apart from four dead children, a hysterical media reaction and a mole on the team? Yes, Sir, everything’s fine.’

He raised his eyebrows. ‘I’ve not seen you this uptight before,’ he said. ‘If you want to stay on this case, you’re going to have to calm down.’