The Scribe

by A A Chaudhuri

  He turned his attention to the killer’s letter to Maddy.

  ‘Ms Kramer is adamant Stirling never resented her for turning him down.’

  ‘But, sir,’ Drake said, ‘how do we know that’s true? He might harbour a secret grudge.’

  ‘He might, Drake, and we need to bear that in mind.’ He scanned the room again. ‘The thing about serial killers is that they’re often the most unlikely suspects: normal, popular, respectable folk who pay their bills and never put a foot wrong as far as the outside world is concerned.

  ‘From the way in which these murders have been carried out so far, none appear to be random. Careful planning has gone into each murder, and it is likely that this, along with the resulting notoriety, has given the killer almost as much gratification as the act of killing itself.’ He turned over the sheet of paper to reveal a fresh, unmarked one.

  At the top, he scribbled “Stirling”, then wrote several points underneath his prime suspect’s name:

  Well-liked, respected member of the community

  Law professor, hence versed in the legal subjects the killer inscribes on his victims’ chests

  Highly intelligent, but is he technically proficient? E.g. hacking into Channing & Barton’s security system and disabling the CCTV

  Unhappy marriage – seeks gratification elsewhere?

  Has affairs with students, including the victims

  Enjoys classical music (heard at the scene of Emma Marsden’s murder plus Lisa Ryland’s radio tuned to Classic FM when body found)

  Rejected by Maddy Kramer once, therefore possibly bears a grudge against MK and sent a letter warning her to back off?

  Once again, Carver’s gaze zoned in on his disciples. Willing his words to ignite some spark of ingenuity.

  ‘Sir.’ A young officer named Sandra Keel raised her hand.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Do we know anything about Stirling’s childhood?’

  ‘Good thinking, Keel. I was just coming to that.’

  Keel beamed inside at Carver’s compliment. She looked down at her notepad and pretended to write something. ‘We need to look into Stirling’s background. Find out if his parents are still alive, and if so, question them. Find out where he lived, went to school. Question old neighbours, teachers, friends. If he’s our man, there’s got to be something that’s driven him to this. Serial killers often kill as a means of striking out against things that have happened to them in the past. Against people who have hurt them. It’s a means of gaining control, recognition and revenge. This killer is focussing on young, attractive law graduates. A small fraction of society. Why? Who or what has angered the killer in the past to lead him to this?’ Carver bent over to whisper into Drake’s ear. ‘We should question the wife again. Their marriage may not be a bed of roses, but no one knows a man better than his wife.’ He paused, then added: ‘Aside from his mother, of course.’

  ***

  It had been a longer journey than anticipated, unexpected signal failure halting the Tube train abruptly between stations, and finding the killer stuck underground amongst a carriage load of tetchy commuters; with their filthy, bedraggled Metros, vile germs and hostile faces. The killer surveyed the mixed bunch: bookworms buried in novels they only ever found time to read to and from the office; sickly lovers engrossed in each other; moronic students; desperate singletons; raucous groups out on Christmas jollies; earphone junkies locked in their own reclusive worlds, deaf to their surroundings.

  The killer had hoped to be at the hideout by now. Sipping a hard drink to the soothing lilt of Beethoven. Laptop whirring, the creative juices flowing, brain contemplating another letter to DCI Carver.

  But it seemed that would have to wait.

  The killer sat back, head resting between clasped hands, legs outstretched, eyes closed, mind imagining: imagining the look on Carver’s face when he received another riddle he’d be incapable of solving in time, even with Kramer’s help; imagining the next victim who, right now, believed the world was her oyster, revelling in her beauty and youth, her ability to cast men off with callous regard, yet blissfully ignorant that on Thursday she would die a horrible death; imagining the sense of deep satisfaction when her perfect body had been butchered like the others, and this ugly, twisted world was rid of yet another selfish bitch who believed she had the right to ruin lives at others’ expense. They – the others – were life’s real victims, not her.

  The killer felt aroused just thinking about it.

  Natasha Coleridge was so wrong in thinking she could treat people the way she did. Just as women who failed their children were so wrong. Not least the woman who’d failed the killer, her only child.

  The killer smiled at the prospect of another kill and forgot about being stuck fifty metres below street level.

  Chapter Twenty

  Thursday, 4 December 2014

  Feet swung over his desk, Carver hurled the stress ball he’d received in last year’s Secret Santa at the wall to his right. It was only 7 am but he’d been in the office since 5 am, unable to sleep.

  Despite the little evidence they had to go on pointing to Stirling being their man, a persistent doubt lurked at the back of his mind. Besides, there was also something not quite right about his wife, something sinister, almost as if she was planning something nasty. As soon as Drake showed up, and the clock hit a reasonable hour, they’d go pay her another visit.

  There was a knock at the door, and the postboy walked in. He dumped a pile of mail on Carver’s desk and left. Hidden within it was a slim brown envelope. It looked very much like the one he’d received from the killer. There was no postmark, only a sticky white label with Carver’s name printed on it.

  Carver dashed outside and spotted the postboy at the end of the corridor. ‘Hey,’ he yelled, rushing towards him. The boy looked alarmed, only too aware of Carver’s reputation.

  ‘Any idea who brought this in?’ Carver waved the envelope at him.

  The boy shook his head. ‘Sorry, sir, I’ve no idea.’

  ‘Hmm. No matter.’ Carver turned away and headed back to his office.

  Dread took hold of him as he opened the envelope and unfolded the single sheet of A4 paper. Sure enough, it was from the killer, the font and spacing identical to the one before.

  Dear DCI Carver,

  I hope I find you well, and not too frustrated. You made a brave attempt with my last riddle, but unfortunately you didn’t quite make it. So here’s another one for you to solve. Be quick, Chief Inspector, you don’t have much time…

  “If you prick us, do we not bleed? If you tickle us, do we not laugh? If you poison us, do we not die? And if you wrong us, shall we not take revenge?” (William Shakespeare)

  And here’s another clue to help you along …

  She’s not a lawyer, but she’s the daughter of an eminent partner, a strong-willed warrior, a famous English poet. She lives alone. Her home is toxic.

  She will die like an ant by this time tomorrow.

  Trot along, Chief Inspector. The clock is ticking … tick-tock, tick-tock, tick-tock …

  Mother of God! Was he going to poison her?

  Carver hastily texted the riddle to Maddy, mindful of the killer’s letter to her. The last thing he wanted was to place her in danger, or cause trouble with her firm.

  But he needed her help. She had come so close to cracking the last riddle. He didn’t have time to bring fresh blood in.

  She was his best hope.

  ***

  Maddy zipped up her skirt, then tucked her shirt into the waistband. She sat down at her dressing table and fixed her long dark hair into a neat bun, decorated her ears with the pearl studs her grandmother had given her for her twenty-first, and sprayed a touch of perfume either side of her neck. She had a meeting with a major client later that morning, and she wanted to look the part: polished, professional, in control; someone the firm’s 55-year-old client – the CEO of a top investment bank – would believe capable of outsmarting the FCA of
ficials who were suing his bank for fraud. She removed her jacket from the wardrobe and dashed into the kitchen, intent on throwing back a quick cup of coffee and anything edible she could get her hands on.

  Paul wasn’t up yet. He’d been out with Justin the night before and hadn’t rolled in until the early hours. Maddy was dying to meet him. She was happy for Paul, but her instinct was to protect him, and she wanted to make sure she approved. She realised, what with recent events and work, that she hadn’t made much time for her best friend lately. She’d text him later. See if he wanted to go for a drink, catch up. It couldn’t be easy for him, having to pay the rent by waiting on others, when what he really craved was to earn his way in life through his writing. Still, she was sure he’d get there someday. He just needed that break.

  Waiting for the kettle to boil, she checked her messages. Her pulse quickened when she saw a text from Carver. Too jittery to sit down, she rocked from one foot to the other as she tapped it open and read the letter – as disturbing as the last.

  Paul was only a few doors away, but she couldn’t help scrutinising her surroundings, as if she was being watched.

  She told herself to get a grip, not let fear cloud her judgment. The killer had made it plain there wasn’t much time. She glanced at her watch: 7.45. She needed to leave by 8. Her appetite gone, she hastily made a coffee, sat down at the table, and willed herself to crack the riddle before another innocent life was taken.

  ***

  Carver watched Drake read the letter. When he’d finished, Drake looked up blankly.

  ‘No ideas then?’ He knew the answer to his question but desperation made him ask it all the same.

  ‘All I can think of is poison, sir. But I haven’t a clue about the victim.’

  Carver shook his head. ‘Me neither. I’ve sent it to Kramer. Let’s hope she comes up with something. Meantime, get the entire team on it. We need to brainstorm.’

  ***

  ‘What’s wrong?’ Paul appeared at the kitchen doorway as Maddy sat at the table, her head buried in her hands. She glanced up at him. Barefoot, dressed in stripy pyjama bottoms, he seemed thinner of late. She hoped he wasn’t running himself ragged, writing all day, working all night.

  ‘The killer’s sent Carver another riddle,’ she explained. ‘We have to act fast before he strikes again.’

  Paul had seen that determined look before. ‘Jesus, Mads, look what it’s doing to you. How can you focus on work like this? It’s not your job. It’s Carver’s and his team’s.’

  Maddy wasn’t surprised by Paul’s reaction. Which is why she hadn’t told him about the killer’s letter to her. He’d go ballistic if he knew.

  ‘The killer’s using legal terminology, but the police aren’t lawyers, Paul. They don’t know the subjects like me. I was so close to figuring out the last one.’

  Seeing that same hell-bent look, Paul realised nothing he said was going to change her mind.

  He made himself a coffee and sat down beside her. ‘Can I take a look?’

  Maddy smiled gratefully. ‘Sure. Poison has to be the method of killing. I just can’t decipher the crucial bit – the who and the where.’ She passed him her phone, watched him stare at the riddle for a minute or two.

  After a while, he looked up. ‘I agree. Toxic must mean it’s poison.’

  ‘Yes. The riddle implies it’ll happen at the victim’s home. But who is the victim?’

  Paul read the text out loud: ‘“Not a lawyer. The daughter of an eminent partner, a strong-willed warrior, a famous English poet.” What the hell?’ He shook his head in frustration, then glanced up at the clock. ‘Mads, you do know it’s nearly 8.15? You’ll be late for work.’

  ‘Shit!’ She had a team meeting at 9.15 before the client arrived. The partner in charge would kill her if she missed it.

  ‘I’ll forward this to you,’ she said, gesturing to her phone as she scraped back her chair. She gave Paul a quick kiss, threw down the last of her coffee – now almost cold – then raced out of the room.

  ‘Yes, do,’ Paul called after her. ‘Have a good day.’

  She didn’t respond. Paul heard the door slam, then turned his attention to breakfast.

  ***

  Maddy texted Carver her thoughts – which didn’t amount to a whole lot more than what he’d already surmised himself – as she walked to Bow Road station. She then stared at the riddle all the way to work, wedged inside the oppressive Tube train so tightly she could scarcely draw breath.

  How was poison related to one of the three legal subjects the killer had yet to inscribe? Maddy wondered.

  EU? Equity? Tort?

  She stared and stared and stared. Then suddenly …

  ‘Yes!’ she screamed. She felt herself turn pink and muttered a quick apology to her fellow passengers. She received a few smiles, several irritated scowls but then, the unexpected excitement over, everyone got back to their own business.

  Maddy studied the killer’s words again: “Trot along, Chief Inspector.”

  “Trot” was an anagram for tort, an area of law concerned with civil wrongs as opposed to criminal wrongs – wrongs like negligence, trespass, nuisance, product liability, in respect of which a claimant might try and claim compensation for the harm allegedly done to him or her.

  Wrongs which also included: toxic torts.

  A “toxic tort” was a type of personal injury lawsuit in which the claimant alleges that exposure to a chemical caused the claimant injury or disease. As a trainee, Maddy had spent the best part of her litigation seat assisting a partner with a mass toxic tort case involving a major pharmaceutical company. The action had centred on one of the company’s products, the claimants alleging that it had induced heart attacks and other personal injuries in users of the product.

  But if she and Paul were right about the killer’s intention to poison his next victim, and “trot” was an anagram of tort, what kind of toxic tort did the killer have in mind?

  Exposing the victim to a dangerous chemical in a public setting would endanger other lives as well as the victim’s and was therefore far too risky. Plus, she felt sure this wasn’t what the killer wanted. Carver had told her that serial killers usually targeted a specific type of victim, rather than carrying out some random killing spree against people they had no gripe with. Besides, the killer specifically said that the victim’s “home” was toxic.

  She looked down at the riddle again. Who was this girl? Who was her father? And why had the killer chosen her?

  They were still underground. No signal. But Liverpool Street station was only two stops away. Once she was out in the open, she’d call Carver; texting took too long, and it was too important to delay getting the information to him a second longer.

  Time wasn’t on their side. Every second counted.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Fifteen minutes later, Carver put down the phone, turned to Drake and explained Maddy’s theory. ‘She’s got a meeting now she can’t get out of. Doesn’t expect to be free before one. Get the team to look into toxic torts. Particularly those that might occur in people’s homes. The killer says the victim’s not a lawyer, but Kramer thinks she must have some legal connection, else it doesn’t fit the pattern.’

  ‘Excuse me, sir, but isn’t the father the connection? “An eminent partner”.’

  ‘Yes, Drake, but what if there’s more to it than that? She may not be a lawyer, but that doesn’t mean she’s not studying law. Like all the others did. That, plus Stirling has been the common thread so far. Let’s head for the academy. We need to find out if they’ve had any female students in at least the last five years whose fathers, or mothers for that matter, are partners at major law firms.’

  Carver grabbed his coat from the back of his chair and made for the door. ‘And we’ll say hello to Professor Stirling while we’re there.’

  ***

  Maddy sat on one side of the conference table pretending to take notes, her mind only half there. She wanted to be in the lib
rary, researching toxic tort, trying to figure out which one the killer was likely to choose.

  Next to her sat the lead partner on the matter, Jeremy Banner, plus a senior associate, and two trainees who looked like they might burst with eagerness. Sitting across from them was the CEO of the investment bank they represented, flanked on either side by his two underlings. Dressed in dark suits, with deadpan expressions, they looked like a couple of villains from The Matrix.

  ‘Maddy, what do you think?’

  Maddy jolted to attention and glanced in surprise at Banner. He didn’t look pleased. And neither did his clients. She didn’t know what he was referring to, and everyone around the table knew it.

  ‘Sorry, what was that?’ She felt herself colour.

  An hour later, the clients gone, for now appeased by Banner’s damage-limitation tactics, Banner took Maddy aside. ‘That was unacceptable. Completely unprofessional and, quite frankly, embarrassing.’

  Maddy was mortified. She’d never messed up like that before. He was right. It was embarrassing, and she couldn’t stand to come across as incompetent. But she had good reason. The last few weeks had changed things, thrown her and her ordered life out of sync.

  ‘I’m sorry, Jeremy. It’s been a tough few weeks, and I’ve not been sleeping well.’

  Lame, lame, lame!

  ‘I know it’s been difficult, with everything that’s gone on, and it can’t be easy losing a good friend. But you have to get your act together. We’re not in kindergarten playing dress-up. You work for a leading City law firm, representing the crème de la crème of clients. It’s a time of huge change in the legal industry, and we can’t afford to mess up. Even more so after what’s happened.’

  Maddy nodded. What he said was true. She’d said as much to Carver a few weeks back. Was it only a few weeks? It felt like six months, so much had happened.

  ‘William Coleridge tells me you’ve been helping the police with their investigation.’

  Another nod.