Chameleon

Chapter 17

Elephants and Bannerman.

Neither of them ever forget. There are, of course, other similarities. Both are big, grey and wrinkled, but it was their common capacity to remember that sent Bannerman scurrying to the vaults to delve back through the files.

It was a long hot summer when Chess had first cast his shadow across the city. Bannerman had just joined the force, a brand new PC straight out of the box with his very first pointy hat, when Chess made his mark.

Chess was not your usual serial killer. Most victims of that sort of crime fall into the same category. Prostitutes, gays, vagrants, whatever type the perpetrator feels has offended him, but there's always a common link.

Not with Chess. His victims had no discernible connection. They were different sexes, came from different backgrounds, had no known associates in common.

The only thing that linked them was the way they died. Always with a knife. Always in the victims own home, with no sign of forced entry. Always savage mutilation.

Just like the Jarvis killing.

No. Not quite the same. Something was missing. Chess always marked his kills by leaving a white pawn from a chess set on the victim. That's how the press came to call him the Chess Killer.

No such pawn had been found on Jarvis, but the message, scrawled in blood on the wall, had been enough to send chills down Bannerman's spine.

Chess had been a cocky bastard. Not content with slaughtering three people, he had taunted the police with little notes after each kill. The notes were always the same.

DO YOU PLAY CHESS?

Always in the victim's blood. This particularly nasty habit had been kept back from public consumption. Nobody knew about it except the killer and the police.

And now, there it was, twenty-five years later, scrawled across Rick Jarvis's wall.

In that long ago summer, the killings just stopped as suddenly as they had begun. Public interest moved on to other atrocities and resources were gradually redirected, but the case was never closed. Bannerman never forgot. Bannerman and elephants. Not that he'd been closely involved in the case all those years ago, but he had been there when one of the bodies was discovered. He'd thrown up all over his nice new shiny boots. For that, if nothing else, Chess owed him.

That's why Bannerman found himself sitting in an uncomfortable chair, leafing through old files, making notes as he read.

Is it you? He asked himself. How can it be? He argued. This was over twenty-five years ago; you'd be older than Methusela by now! Or would you? I'm still here, older, heavier, craftier, so why not you? But what have you been doing in the meantime?

Bannerman's musings were cut short by the sharp clatter of the main door being flung open, followed by the urgent sound of running footsteps.

Rafferty appeared at his side, breathless and red-faced.

'Sir,' he panted, 'we've got him!'

'Got who?'

'Jarvis's killer.'

'What?' Bannerman shot to his feet, galvanised, knocking over his chair in his haste.

'Well, we haven't pulled him in yet,' Rafferty explained, 'but we know who he is.'

'So, are you going to tell me, or do I have to play twenty bloody questions?' Bannerman exploded.

'Sorry, Sir. His name's Stevey Johnston, a known associate of Jarvis.'

'And what makes you think he's the culprit?'

'You remember that camera, Sir? The one in the room where Jarvis was killed?'

Bannerman nodded. 'Yes, yes,' he said. 'Get on with it.'

'When they took it to the lab, they found something on it. The killer, Johnston, had filmed the whole thing!'