Later that afternoon, Morse and Lewis were in the familiar confines of the pathology lab. Morse tried to look at anything but the body on the table, as Russell spoke.
"There's not much to add, I'm afraid," she was saying, "I found no hairs or fluids on her that weren't her own. It's Jackson's trademark – strangled, then raped posthumously. He used a condom, from the looks of it. Then he follows it up with the usual mutilations. There were some grey fibres on the body, probably from a carpet. It's not much to go on. Oh, and the piece of jewellery in the bag with her, probably from the last victim."
"Her name is Sandra Nelson," Lewis said, reading from his notepad, "she was reported missing a couple of days ago by her aunt. She was orphaned as a child and raised by her aunt. She worked in a bar in the city centre. We've got the aunt coming in to identify her later."
"Poor thing," Russell sighed, "I wish there was something else I could give you, Morse, but this guy's thorough. I think he must wash the bodies down in a shower or something before he wraps them in the plastic bags."
"That would explain the lack of trace evidence," Morse said, "so, even if we picked him up off the street today, no jury would convict him because there's nothing to tie him to the murder, and he was previously found not guilty."
"It's definitely him," Russell nodded, "the hallmarks are too similar."
"He was released from Farnleigh three months ago," Lewis said, not needing to look at his notes this time, "he went out on parole and then disappeared. There's a warrant out for his arrest already."
"I want to get him on more than just skipping parole," growled Morse.
"There is one other thing I can tell you," Russell said, raising her finger with a coy smile, "Sandra here was killed about twenty hours before she was found – between the time that she was killed and when she was found, she was curled up on her side. There's a mark on her skin, about yea big…"
Russell held up her hands in a small, circular shape.
"… It looks like a plug-hole," she continued, "she was probably lying in a bath, or a shower basin, which would confirm my theory about him washing the body down. That means he must have a house, or a flat, with a bath in it."
"Thank you, doctor," Morse nodded, "anything else?"
"High alcohol content in the blood stream," Russell shrugged, "she was drunk when she died. As I recall, previous victims probably were as well. I'd say he picks them up in bars."
"This one worked in a bar," Morse pointed out.
"So did a couple of the other victims," Lewis added, "but not the same bar."
"Nobody drinks at the bar they work in," Russell said, "if your guy is anything like a typical serial killer, he's a creature of habit, with some flexibility. He probably hangs around at one or two favourite clubs or pubs to pick up the girls."
"We'll look into it," Morse nodded, glancing away from the body squeamishly.
His eyes fell on the shelves around the room – there, perched on high, the skull of a long-dead dog stared down at them. Russell and Lewis caught his gaze and followed it.
"I couldn't bring myself to get rid of Ex," Russell said, by way of explanation.
Morse muttered something about gallows humour, and left without a further word. Lewis managed to raise a ghost of his usual smile, and followed Morse out of the room. They had a lot of work to do.
~*~
A few hours later, they found themselves at the Inferno club on the outskirts of the city centre – a call to Sandra Nelson's boss at the pub she worked in had confirmed that this was where she had been planning to go on the night that she was killed. Their badges earned them entry to the closed club, wherein they found two barmen and a couple of cleaners getting the bar ready for opening that night. Morse produced his badge when one of the barmen glanced up inquisitively.
"Chief Inspector Morse," he announced, "this is Sergeant Lewis, Thames Valley."
"Oh," the young man said, with mild puzzlement, "what do you want?"
Morse tried not to curl his lip in distaste; the barman had several facial piercings, and was heavily tattooed. His hair was dyed green and gelled up into spikes, and he wore torn jeans and a black tee-shirt with the name of the club printed across the front in white letters, with flames patterning the background.
"Do you recognise either of these people?" Lewis asked, pushing two photographs over the bar.
The man peered at them and shook his head vaguely. Morse was already getting impatient.
"We think they were here on Saturday night," he said, "were you working that night?"
"Yeah," the barman peered closer at the picture of Sandra, taken by Dr Hobson in the morgue, "hey – is she dead?"
"Yes," Morse replied, bluntly, "and we think this man killed her. Have you seen either of them before?"
"Don't think so," the man shrugged, "it was pretty rammed in here on Saturday."
"What about the CCTV?" Lewis asked, gesturing to the cameras around the room.
"They're, uh, not working," came the reply, "we've got a maintenance bloke coming in a couple of weeks…"
Morse growled something under his breath.
"Who else was working on Saturday?" he demanded.
The barman shrugged, and, leaning on the bar, called over to his colleague; "Chris! Get over here, will ya?"
The other man, Chris, a similarly tattooed skinhead, crossed over and looked at Morse and Lewis, and then at the photos on the bar.
"Good grief," he said, picking up the picture of the girl, "I know her – she's a regular."
At last, they seemed to be getting somewhere. Morse leaned forward.
"Tell me about her," he said.
"There's not much to tell," replied Chris, "I've seen her in here a few times. She likes to party, if you know what I mean…?"
"Let's pretend I don't," Morse growled, "tell me."
"She's, um, quite friendly, if you get my drift," Chris responded, "very friendly. One for the boys… especially if they were buying her drinks."
"And did this man buy her a drink that night?" Lewis asked, tapping the picture of Jackson.
The photograph was the most recent on file, taken shortly before Jackson's release on parole. It showed their blue-eyed, blonde haired killer staring vacantly at the camera, a slightly glassy expression on his face. Chris shook his head.
"I'm not sure," he admitted, "you know what it's like – hundreds of faces…"
"Keep the photo," Morse told him, "show it to your other staff. Call me immediately if anyone recognises him, or if he comes back here. And get your CCTV fixed!"
Morse swept out of the bar, Lewis in tow, as they headed back to the car. Morse leaned on the roof of the Jaguar for a moment, considering his next move. Lewis stood and waited patiently, locked out of the car. He scanned the surrounding area – the Inferno club was hidden in a back street, a basement club a little off the beaten track. They were near to a car park – it would not have been difficult to get a young, slight, drunken woman from here into a car and then… where? The mystery was where he had taken her – Lewis doubted that he was still using canal boats, though his preference for leaving the body in his old hunting ground was obvious.
Lewis glanced around the car park, seeing nothing but a few cars, a van, and a battered-looking self-drive caravan. He was just considering roughly where Jackson's car might have been parked when he saw someone at the corner of the building, apparently watching them.
Lewis stopped, and stared at the figure, who was less than fifty yards away. Tall. Slim. Blonde hair… Lewis was running before he'd really registered that it was Jackson. He heard Morse's startled shout behind him, but he did not stop. The figure had taken off ahead of him; behind him, he heard the Jaguar's engine cough into life.
Lewis picked up the pace, and, turning the corner, found himself on a main street, surrounded by dozens of people. Some stared at him quizzically as they passed by, as he stood there looking up and down the street. There was no sign of Jackson. Lewis swore, under his breath, and went back down the alleyway to where Morse was waiting in the car.
"It was Jackson, I'm sure of it," Lewis said, as he got into the car, slamming the door, "sorry, sir – he disappeared into the crowd."
"You're sure it was him?"
"Aye, positive," Lewis frowned, "sir – he knows where I live… Val, and the kids…"
"You'd better give them a call," Morse said, pointing to the in-car phone, "we can either put them up in a safe house, or arrange for a watch on your house."
"Aye, sir – thank you," Lewis said, gratefully.
He called the request through to the station, and was promised that an unmarked patrol car would be stationed outside the house on a twenty-four hour watch. Apparently, CS Strange had already ordered a guard be placed on the houses of Morse, Lewis and Dr Russell – he clearly recalled the threats Jackson had made against all three of them during his trial.
"What do we do now, sir?" Lewis asked, as Morse drove.
"Now, Lewis? We find a pub. I need to think."
~*~
Morse thought his way through three pints, all of which Lewis paid for, and still could not come up with anything worth following up on.
"Lewis," he said, at length, "we are in the unusual position of knowing our victim and knowing our killer, and being completely unable to link the two of them."
"Aye, sir," Lewis agreed, sipping at an orange juice.
"We know that he finds his victims at clubs," Morse continued, staring into the depths of his beer, "he probably buys them a few drinks, they're feeling… 'friendly', as the barman put it… and then he takes them away, and we find them a while later, trussed up in bin bags."
"Where could he be taking them?" Lewis wondered, "If it was a house or a flat, you'd think the neighbours would hear something…"
"Not if she was as drunk as Dr Russell says," Morse shook his head, "it's entirely possible she was completely helpless, and once he'd got his hands around her throat, she wouldn't have been able to scream… Lewis, get a recent picture of Sandra from her aunt, and get it out to the local papers. Someone must have seen something on Saturday night, and we need to link her to Jackson. We're going to get the bastard this time…"
Lewis nodded in obedience, as Morse drained his pint.
"Come on," the Chief Inspector told him, "let's get back to the station. We're not going to accomplish anything sitting around here."
Lewis hid his amused smile as he stood up, abandoned his half-finished drink, and followed Morse out of the pub.
~*~