‘That’s okay,’ she smiled. ‘Well, I think I’ll go make myself some breakfast.’
She left Paul standing in the hallway, not feeling the least bit hungry as she made her way to the kitchen.
Chapter Forty-Two
Carver was dead to the world when a loud thumping on his front door woke him. For a moment, he wasn’t quite sure of his bearings. He’d spent so little time at home lately, it was as if he’d woken up in a strange environment. It didn’t help that he’d drunk too much last night. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d been able to fall asleep naturally, without the aid of alcohol, pills or punishing exercise. It had probably been the first few months of Daniel’s life, when he’d shared the bottle feeds with Rachel, and it hadn’t taken much to make him doze off while the most precious thing that had sprung from their relationship lay contentedly in his arms.
He turned his head a fraction, but even that small movement hurt. He pressed his palm against his temple but it did no good.
More incessant thumping was this time accompanied by a voice. ‘Sir, you in there?’ Carver squinted at the bedside clock: 10 am. He hadn’t meant to sleep that long. Then again, he’d never meant to drink that much. More thumping. God, that boy can be annoyingly keen at times.
He realised he was freezing. Looking down, he saw that he’d not actually made it under the covers. Dressed in nothing but his vest and boxers, no wonder he was cold. It was nearly mid-January and his heating had been up the creek since late December. He simply hadn’t had time to get it fixed.
‘Coming,’ he called out gruffly. It took every effort to haul himself off the bed, throw on the trousers he’d worn yesterday, stagger out of the room and open the door.
Drake was one of the most tactful young officers Carver had come across, but even he couldn’t disguise his dismay on seeing the state of his superior. ‘You okay, sir?’
‘Me?’ Carver said in surprise. ‘Yes, why shouldn’t I be? What you got? I thought you were about to break the bloody door down. It’s a wonder the neighbours aren’t out here complaining.’
‘Sorry, sir, but we’ve got a trace on the call made to Janis Stirling. To a block of flats on the Edgware Road. Seems to be the same area the hacker operated in.’
Carver felt re-energised. Quickly forgot about his raging hangover. ‘That’s probably because the hacker made the call, Drake. Give me ten minutes to get myself sorted, check my messages. In the meantime, get a uniformed team on standby in the area. I don’t want to call them in until we’ve checked it out for ourselves. It’s vital we don’t alert the killer. But they need to be ready all the same. This could be it, Drake, and I’m not taking any chances.’
***
One hour earlier
‘Off out?’
Two hours on from their uncomfortable encounter, Maddy caught Paul at the front door, coat on, rucksack slung over his left shoulder.
He looked around in surprise. ‘Er, yes. My mother’s. Why are you still here? Thought you were going in early. It’s just after nine.’
And the lies keep on coming. Maddy ignored his question.
‘You’ve gone from not seeing her since last year, to three days in a row? Is she ill or something?’ She fixed her gaze on Paul, goading him to spout yet more lies.
He gave a heavy sigh. ‘Yes, you’re spot on. She’s not been well at all, actually. I didn’t want to bother you with it, what with all that’s been happening. Doctors aren’t sure what’s wrong with her. They’re doing all the tests, but it’s frustrating.’
Incredible! Who is this person standing in front of me?
‘Yes, it must be. Why the sudden concern for someone you can’t stand – someone who’s made your life a misery over the years?’
It was a reasonable question to ask, but her tone was interrogative, rather than curious. Their roles had been reversed from earlier; this time it was Maddy’s glare that drilled through Paul.
He laughed uneasily. ‘What can I say? Blood is thicker than water. She is my mother after all.’
Their eyes remained glued on one another, neither willing to yield. But in the end, it was Maddy who relented. If she pressed the point, it would look suspicious. Hell, I’ve probably overstepped the mark already. She softened her gaze. ‘Yeah, that’s true. I can understand that. Well, give her my best, won’t you?’
‘Will do.’ Looking relieved, Paul smiled nervously back, then walked out the door.
No sooner had he left than Maddy grabbed her handbag, phone and flat keys, slung on her raincoat, and slipped out the door, closing it gently behind her. Work could wait. Besides, it might look suspicious if she went back as right as rain the day after she’d supposedly been at death’s door.
She had to be quick. She heard the communal entrance door slam shut, then raced down the stairs two at a time, nearly tripping and falling flat on her face in the process. Her heart raced as she reached the door, turned the knob and pushed it open. Out on the street she glanced right to see Paul turn the corner onto Whitechapel Road. Bow Road was the nearest Tube to the right. But he went left, in the direction of Mile End station.
She pulled her hood over her head and started to follow him, terrified he’d look back at any moment and see her. If he did, she’d just say she was heading into work, and fancied walking the extra bit to get a direct Central Line Tube from Mile End to Liverpool Street.
London was waking up. By the time she reached Mile End station, the traffic along Whitechapel Road was moving at a snail’s pace, and the commuters were arriving in droves. She had to use every scrap of concentration to keep track of Paul. He was a fast walker with a longer leg stride, and she found herself running every so often to keep up with him.
Oyster card at the ready, she held back at the entrance, waiting for him to go through the gates before doing the same, tracing his path to the westbound platform towards West Ruislip. Where the hell is he going? She prayed she could keep enough distance between them so that he didn’t spot her, but at the same time, not so much that she lost sight of him.
She lingered at the top of the stairs leading down to the platform, waiting for him to find a spot in front of a carriage. She’d stay there until the Tube arrived, wait for him to board, then hurtle down the stairs and jump on herself.
It was a six-minute wait. She noticed him check his watch every so often, glancing around anxiously, as if concerned someone might be watching.
She decided to text Carver. She had no idea where she was going, but her instinct told her to let him know she might be onto something, and that if her intuition was right, she might be in grave danger.
I think Paul might somehow be involved in the murders. He’s gone to meet Marcia Devereux. She left a message on his phone about destroying evidence. She’s Paul’s therapist. I think you interviewed her after she found Lisa. I’m following him now, but to where I don’t know. Hope to text you with more info when I can. MK
The Tube pulled up at the station just as she pressed Send. She started down the stairs, camouflaging herself behind a lofty teenager who didn’t appear to be in any hurry, earphones on, seemingly immune to the world around him. Just as Paul stepped onto a carriage, he glanced up right. Shit. She quickly ducked her head back in behind the boy, her heart burning as she prayed Paul hadn’t spotted her. She willed him to hurry up and board properly, fearing that she was going to miss her chance to get on. She had no choice but to sneak a peek around the boy to see if Paul was on board. Her pulse racing, she took a furtive peep. She couldn’t see him. He must have boarded, and he couldn’t have seen her. Thank God. She raced down the stairs as the doors were about to shut, and just made it onto the adjacent carriage, the sliding doors nearly slicing through her left ankle as she did so.
It was the tail end of rush hour and still busy. For once, she was grateful to be squashed up against the door, barely able to breathe. She clung onto a handrail as the Tube ploughed its way west, picking up passengers at every stop. At the same time, she desp
erately tried not to lose sight of Paul, who’d miraculously managed to get a seat. Rucksack resting on his lap, earphones on, he kept his head down the whole way.
The Tube driver was a particularly mad one, swinging the Tube this way and that as if he was competing at Silverstone. Finally, as the Tube approached Marble Arch, Paul got up and moved towards the nearest exit. Maddy’s pulse quickened as she realised she needed to get off, keep pace with him, and yet, at the same time, not let him see her.
She mumbled her apologies to her fellow passengers as she shuffled herself into position facing the door, primed like a gazelle to get off. But she wasn’t the only one. There were hundreds like her, looking to disembark at one of London’s prime tourist hotspots. She had no choice. She became one of those commuters she slated every day, rudely shoving her way off the carriage, attracting angry glares all round as she stepped onto the platform and craned her neck to keep sight of Paul. She spotted his head in the masses and started to follow him … up the stairs from the platform level to the escalator.
About twenty heads separated them on the escalator. The ticket hall was bustling with activity when she reached the top. She fought her way through the crowds, sprinted through the exit gates and kept her eye on Paul as he took the stairs up and out of the station. She waited until he’d reached the top step, then jogged up the twenty or so steps herself. He turned right out of the station, and she followed, this time more closely. There were hordes of people, and it was far easier to lose herself in the crowds here than it had been at Mile End. He didn’t stay on Oxford Street for long, taking a right onto Edgware Road. For Maddy, it brought back memories of her days at the academy; when they’d go clubbing around Oxford Street, end up at some dodgy kebab house at 4 am, hankering after grease to mop up the booze. Happy, carefree days.
There was no other road like it in London: Little Beirut, or Little Cairo, as it was more affectionately known. Whatever the day, whatever the weather, Edgware Road never slept, wall to wall with traffic and a diverse array of sounds, smells and cultures.
She continued to follow Paul, ducking out of view every now and again when he occasionally looked back over his shoulder. She was still wearing her hood and felt confident he hadn’t spotted her. Otherwise, he’d have turned around and confronted me, surely?
They were about halfway between Marble Arch and Edgware Road Tube stations when Paul crossed over the road, then turned left onto a side street. Maddy held back a few seconds before doing the same. The street led onto Park West – a smaller side street housing a vast block of serviced apartments on either side, connected by a covered walkway. She watched from a distance as Paul crossed over to the main entrance, pressed the buzzer and appeared to talk to someone over the intercom. Marcia? Within seconds, he pushed open the door and entered the building, disappearing from sight.
Now came the tricky part. She’d done well to get this far without alerting him, but how the hell was she going to get into the building? She looked around, hoping to spot a resident or visitor, but there was no one about. It was a long shot, but there was no harm in trying. She tore across the road and up to the front entrance. Looked at the list of names to the side of the door. She didn’t recognise any of them, while one of the buzzers was nameless. She tentatively tried the door. She couldn’t believe it. It was open. How can Paul have failed to close it? It didn’t matter. The fact was – she was in.
Inside, an aroma of spices greeted her: cardamom, cumin, nutmeg. Given the area, she wasn’t surprised. There was a lift to her immediate left. It looked in sore need of repair. There was also a set of stairs. She was suddenly at a loss. She didn’t have a clue which apartment Paul had gone into. She thought about ringing Carver, letting him know where she’d ended up, that she’d lost Paul, needed help with next steps. But then, just as she reached in her pocket for her phone, she heard music.
It was coming from above and must have been turned up very loud for her to hear it from the ground floor. Or perhaps it was coming from one of the first-floor apartments, and therefore in close range? Slowly, she made her way up the stairs, letting her ears lead her in the direction of the music. She was right: it was coming from the first floor. She exited the stairs and found herself on a long, brown-carpeted corridor. The music to her left was getting louder. She knew that piece. It was unmistakeable: Beethoven’s Symphony No. 5. – loud and dramatic.
She turned left, walked the length of the corridor, stopping at the last apartment on the right. The door was ajar. Her chest burned. This was all too easy. Am I being led into a trap? Her head told her to run for her life, call the police. But her fearless side willed her to see it through.
She cautiously pressed her hand against the door and pushed it open. It led her into a studio apartment with a worn beige carpet, a basic kitchenette to her immediate left and a threadbare two-seater sofa in the centre. But she barely noticed these, or any of the furnishings at first, her line of vision immediately captured by the newspaper cuttings and photographs pinned to the off-white walls.
Photos of the seven victims – of Carver and Drake, Stirling and his wife, and the most chilling of all as far as Maddy was concerned, a photo of herself. All had been taken without any of the subjects’ knowledge – at work, on the street, in a public building and, in her case, at home as she sat curled up on the living room sofa, watching television, stroking Atticus.
She ventured closer. Saw that the newspaper cuttings included in-depth reports of each murder, interviews with the victims’ families, friends and work colleagues, press statements made by Carver and others in his team, leads and updates on the case, feature centre spreads analysing the minds of pathological serial killers.
Maddy could scarcely believe what she was seeing. Her stomach reeled as she scanned the walls, almost breathless with fear.
At the far end of the room there was a table propped up against the wall, a chair tucked under it. On top of the table was a laptop. The cover was up, and the machine appeared to be turned on, whirring steadily. Clearly, someone had been using it recently, and that knowledge made Maddy’s heart gallop even faster. The source of the music was also resting on the table, to the right of the laptop. A sleek red MP3 player, so tiny it was hard to believe the strength and range of sound coming from it.
To the left, lying on a smaller table, was a printer, and nestled in the far right corner of the room was a two-door wardrobe.
It was warm in the studio, but Maddy couldn’t help shivering as she looked around and surveyed the scene, trying to get her head around it. Run, run. But a burgeoning curiosity propelled her further into the room. She walked over to the wardrobe, opened it tentatively. Inside were two knee-length leather jackets, three pairs of leather gloves, a box of latex gloves and two pairs of black Nike trainers. One pair of trainers looked brand new, as if they hadn’t been worn outside. There was also a nun’s habit. On the floor of the wardrobe there was a bottle of heavy-duty hairspray, a manicure set and a shallow crate holding a pistol, some rope, separate bottles of Paul Smith aftershave, chloroform, propofol and potassium cyanide, and a clear plastic bag containing several hypodermic syringes.
Was she looking at some kind of uniform, disguise, belonging to the killer?
Leather was wipe-clean, resistant to loose fibres; gloves would hide any trace of DNA or fingerprints; hairspray would prevent any unwanted hairs from falling onto the victim or the surrounding crime scene; Nike trainers were fast, sleek, noiseless, including a new pair to wear inside, leaving no footprints, while nail clippers would avoid nails catching skin or other fibres.
And the items in the crate? All were weapons and instruments to help facilitate the killer’s vile design.
Maddy walked back over to the printer, which was on, and opened the tray. It was loaded with paper. She pressed Print, waiting with her heart in her mouth as the machine droned into action and did its job. A single sheet of paper slid out the bottom. She picked it up. What she saw made her heart beat even faster.
>
The page had faint streaks running across it. Just like the letters she and Carver had received. Just like the letter Paul had no doubt written to himself.
It said: You shouldn’t have come.
She started to edge backwards, panic rising in her as she reached inside her pocket for her phone. She wondered if Carver had seen her message. Whether he had or not, she needed to call him. Now. She pulled her phone out, went to her contacts list.
‘Put the phone away, Maddy.’
She knew that voice. She lived with that voice. It was the voice of a friend. But why does he now sound like the enemy?
Slowly, she turned around. Paul was standing there. He had a coldness in his eyes she’d never seen before.
‘Paul, what have you done?’ Her voice was weak, choked with fear. ‘All this time, it was you.’
‘You shouldn’t have followed me, Maddy.’
‘You saw me?’
‘Yes, I’m afraid you’d make a lousy snoop. I spotted you at the top of the stairs at Mile End station. Did you think I’d left the front door open by accident?’
‘Why didn’t you confront me until now?’
‘Because I had to let you come. I know you listened to that message. You think I wouldn’t have noticed that you’d dialled voicemail? That I had a missed call from Marcia?’
‘I … I thought it might have been urgent.’
‘You shouldn’t stick your nose into other people’s business, Maddy. That’s when you get yourself into trouble.’ He took a step closer, and she retreated in fear. ‘You were warned not to help Carver, but you just wouldn’t listen. Not even after I killed your bloody cat.’
Tears flooded Maddy’s eyes. ‘You’re an animal. You knew what Atticus meant to me, how could you?’
‘I hated that cat, Maddy.’ His tone was cruel, his eyes laced with scorn. ‘I only put up with it because I cared for you.’
The Scribe Page 32