Blind Fury by Lynda La Plante Read Free Book Online

Bundy.”
    “What?”
    “That American serial killer, killed Christ knows how many women.”
    “Yes, yes, I know who he is.”
    “Well, he represented himself at his trial. The judge apparently said what a waste it was that such a brilliant mind should be so deviant, as he could have been a successful man.”
    “Maybe Welsh could have been, but he just gave me the shivers,” said Anna, remembering.
    “Why?”
    “Because of his manner—everything about it. He was so well spoken and so arrogant, treating us as if we were beneath him. He never showed any emotion whatsoever, even when it was obvious we had enough evidence to arrest him, not even when he was charged. During his trial, he used to doodle on a notepad all the time and was constantly interrupting the prosecution. Judge Oldfield laid into him after one session, and he was quite unapologetic, simply drawling that as he was the man on trial for his life, he had every right to question the prosecution’s long-winded summing-up.”
    “How long did he get?”
    “Oldfield gave him two life sentences without bail, so thankfully, he will die in prison. The judge said he was one of the most despicable men he had ever encountered, that his crimes were sadistic and violent, and that he had never at any time shown a fragment of compassion for his victims.”
    “How did he kill them?” Barolli seemed grimly intrigued.
    “Held them captive, tortured and raped them over a period of four or five months. The first girl was only seventeen, and the second girl was snatched eight months after he disposed of victim one’s body. He buried her in the garden of his basement flat. It was a hideous place. Part of it was still like a cellar, with chains and bare brick walls, but the section he lived in was luxurious, and he owned the large walled garden. The area of the basement he occupied had every piece of high-tech equipment conceivable, with plasma TV, stereo, and an amazing kitchen extension with culinary devices a professional chef would die for. He actually owned the whole house but leased off the other flats.”
    “What work did he do?”
    “He ran a very successful IT company with offices in Canary Wharf, and he employed four people, or he used to. By the time we got on to him, he’d closed it down. I think he was ready to move abroad.”
    Barolli tapped her arm and pointed as they headed toward the roundabout that led to the start of the M1. He asked if she ever used the big Brent Cross shopping center, as he had been there a few times. She shook her head, and he began telling her how much he had saved on the sale price of some fitted wardrobes for his mother. As they approached the motorway, there were numerous young guys holding up cardboard notices with various locations on them, from Manchester to Liverpool.
    “London Gateway service station is the first up, isn’t it?” Barolli asked.
    “Yes,” Anna replied.
    “Used to be called Scratchwood Services,” he said as he slurped more coffee. After a long pause, he returned to their previous conversation. “Doesn’t make sense, does it?”
    “What doesn’t?”
    “That he was so successful and yet still committed murder. I mean, was he a freaky-looking bloke?” Barolli wanted to know, finishing the dregs of his coffee.
    “No. On the contrary, he was very handsome—tall, well dressed.”
    “Fuck. I dunno. Hannibal Lecter—right? I mean, don’t tell me in his fab kitchen he cooked his victims?”
    “No, but he entertained lots of women. He honestly didn’t fit any profile we had ever come across, and it took months of surveillance and more months compiling the evidence against him. Langton headed up the inquiry, and he was like a dog with a bone: he wouldn’t back off him.”
    “He’s something else.”
    Anna hesitated and asked if he meant Langton. Barolli nodded.
    “Yeah. I wish I’d started my career under his wing, like you. I could have learned a lot from him. Now he basically just swings