Cut Dead by Mark Sennen Page B

vote, sir. In case you haven’t noticed.’
    ‘Only joking, Charlotte.’ He jerked a thumb back over his shoulder. ‘And does she have a gun?’
    ‘Yes, a shotgun. The farmworker too. He occasionally goes out at night to shoot a few rabbits. He’s seen nothing suspicious though.’
    ‘This guy wouldn’t want to take risks. You know his form. We believed, back then, that the victims had been targeted weeks in advance. He was careful not to be disturbed, not to leave fingerprints or anything else. The kidnappings had been planned to a T.’
    ‘Dr Wilson? I’ve been reading his reports. I’m supposed to meet with him.’
    ‘Fuck Wilson,’ Walsh raised a hand and tapped his forehead. ‘This was common sense, nothing you couldn’t work out with half a thimbleful of intelligence and a couple of true crime books as reference material.’
    Common sense or not, Savage knew Wilson had identified the killer as a highly organised psychopath. Intelligent, educated, he was in control of the situation. Wilson had gone further: the lines on the body of Mandy Glastone were akin to the final brush strokes on a canvas, he’d said. Beforehand the artist had to prepare by deciding on the subject, gathering the materials, preparing the canvas, arranging the materials. Wilson stressed in this case his ideas were not metaphors; the killer actually was an artist of some type, he would view the killing as a project. The head and genitals of the victim he would keep as a trophy, part of the post-crime re-enactment cycle.
    However, the actual evidence for the killer having any connection to the art world had been circumstantial: the cuts on Mandy Glastone could have been caused by a craft knife. Equally the PM report said they could have been made by any blade with a razor edge. The patterns themselves were interesting; whether one had to be an artist to create the swirling forms was a matter of conjecture. Finally there had been the material found in the victim’s oesophagus, stuffed down her throat before the head had been removed. Clay. Could the killer be a potter or regularly work around potters, maybe in some communal studio somewhere?
    ‘What about the arts and crafts theory?’ Savage ventured. ‘Was that common sense?’
    ‘No,’ Walsh said. ‘Total lunacy. Where these guys get their ideas from I haven’t a clue. I was against committing resources to that particular angle, but as you know the Chief Constable disagreed. Personally I think Wilson was leading us a merry dance. Down the garden path to a potter’s shed.’
    ‘You think he was deliberately misdirecting you?’
    ‘Charlotte,’ Walsh grabbed Savage’s arm and stopped walking. ‘When you get to meet Wilson you’ll realise the guy is a charlatan. They all are, psychologists. Circus tricks to impress the common people. They make the stuff up as they go along and then couch it all in terms you and I can’t understand. The longer the report, the more obtuse and difficult to fathom the better.’
    ‘Leading to a bigger bill?’
    ‘And a bigger ego.’ Walsh stared to laugh and then carried on walking. ‘You know I reckon all the pseudo-scientific garbage these people come out with is just something to cover up their inadequacies.’
    They left the metal track and followed a row of scaffold boards which in turn led to some industrial-sized stepping plates which Layton had managed to procure to replace the pallets. Savage pointed out the railway line and told Walsh how she believed the killer had come across the bridge.
    ‘Now that does make sense,’ Walsh said. ‘But we still need to work out why here?’
    ‘“We”, sir?’
    ‘Ha! No, “you” and it’s not sir.’
    Walsh began to ponder the history of the farm. They’d need to find out about disgruntled farmworkers, neighbouring farmers, villagers who for some reason bore a grudge.
    Savage explained about Joanne Black and her uncle. The farm had been an inheritance, before that the uncle had in turn