The Slaughter Man by Tony Parsons Read Free Book Online

all the farmers, including my father, slaughtered their herds for beef. And before my father killed his cattle, he stunned them by firing a metal bolt into their brains. That’s when I saw these wounds.’ She indicated the Wood family. ‘This is exactly what it looks like when livestock are prepared for slaughter.’

5
    ‘Who kills with a cattle gun?’ Edie Wren said quietly back at West End Central. ‘Spree killers – all spree killers – every single one of them – come to the party armed like Rambo.’
    We had moved our investigation down the corridor to MIR-1, the larger Major Incident Room, but the four members of our MIT were huddled in one corner and keeping our voices down because Scout was sitting in the middle of the room, Stan dozing at her feet, doing her drawing at one of the workstations until Mrs Murphy picked her up.
    ‘This wasn’t a spree killing,’ Whitestone said, equally quietly. ‘For a start, it wasn’t multiple locations. A spree killer would have wandered through that rich little road taking out the neighbours until we cornered him and he worked up the nerve to blow his brains out. And spree killers love soft targets. Spree killers love shopping malls and cinemas.’ She glanced across at Scout and made her voice even lower. ‘Spree killers love schools. A spree killer doesn’t select a gated community with a security guard for his target. And you’re right, Edie – he doesn’t choose a cattle gun for his weapon. He comes armed with more firepower than he can ever possibly use. This was a hit.’
    ‘But a contract hit doesn’t fit,’ I said. ‘Despite what he did to the father’s eyes.’ I had left the Iain West Suite more convinced than ever that he – or they – had come for Brad Wood. ‘The cattle gun rules out a pro,’ I said. ‘Or even an aspiring amateur. And a pro would have killed Bradley or left him alone, but they wouldn’t take the kid with them.’
    ‘Hitman, gang member, psycho,’ Gane said. ‘Nobody kills with a cattle gun. Why would they?’
    ‘It happens,’ Whitestone said. ‘Once every ten years or so some local yokel runs amok on a farm and reaches for the nearest thing that looks like it can cause serious harm. Picks up a cattle gun. But they don’t steal a child …’ She shook her head, as if the memory she was searching for was just out of reach. ‘Tends to be an impulse kill rather than premeditated. It’s not unknown. Except in the middle of London. It’s unknown here. Where’s Dr Joe?’
    We were still waiting for our favourite forensic psychologist to come in and explain to us what particular flavour of psychopath could make the kind of mess we had found in Highgate.
    ‘Dr Joe is in the States for the holidays,’ Wren said. ‘He’s flying back early for us.’
    ‘Edie?’ a little voice said.
    We all turned to look at Scout.
    ‘Yes, sweetheart?’ Wren said.
    ‘Check this out, Edie,’ my daughter said. ‘My picture.’
    Wren crossed the room to Scout.
    ‘Wow, so that’s you and your dad and your dog – Stan, right? – and these are the Queen’s horses?’
    ‘Right,’ Scout said. ‘And they’re all black, see?’
    Whitestone turned to us.
    ‘I want Edie on the missing boy for now,’ she said. ‘Bradley. We’re getting sightings all the time.’
    ‘How many?’ I said.
    ‘The last time I looked it was over two hundred. We’re going to need some extra hands to sort the fruitcakes from the genuine leads.’ She nodded at me. ‘Your friend in 101 might be able to get us up to speed on precedents.’
    ‘Right.’
    She meant Sergeant John Caine in Room 101 of New Scotland Yard – the Black Museum, a unique archive of the most notorious crimes of the last hundred years. It wasn’t officially called the Black Museum any more – it was the Crime Museum, in case calling it the Black Museum hurt any ethnic minority’s feelings. And it wasn’t actually a museum at all – the days when Arthur Conan Doyle had the