Right to Kill

by John Barlow

  Andy waited until it had sunk in.

  ‘DPS?’ Joe asked.

  ‘Nah, internal. Just say you were doing background interviews. It’ll be OK.’

  ‘But I…’

  ‘Save it, Joe. I’ll be on the panel. Can’t hear it ’til then. Meanwhile, keep out of the news for a few days, and get your story straight, all right? Gwyn’s taking over. He’s all I’ve got. And he’s already working with Kirklees. It makes sense.’

  ‘Gwyn? No, no, Andy. Look…’

  ‘No more.’

  ‘Andy, you’ve got to…’

  ‘No, you’ve gotta shut your mouth. Now.’

  Joe sighed.

  ‘I can’t believe what just happened.’

  ‘Believe it.’

  ‘Am I suspended?’

  ‘As soon as we get round to ordering the investigation. It might not come to that. Just keep a low profile. I’ll see what I can do.’

  Joe waited, expecting more.

  There was nothing more.

  Back in the operation room, the chatter fell away immediately, discretion having lost out to schadenfreude.

  Sod ’em. Sod ’em all. He grabbed the pile of documents on his desk, plus duplicate case files for both murders, and headed for the doors, pointedly returning the stare of anyone who dared to look at him.

  34

  He spent most of the time it took to drive up the A46 to York switching from one radio station to another. Rock, jazz, pop, classical… couldn’t quite find what he wanted. He knew it would only take one piece of music to sort him out, not so much a matter of soothing the savage breast as restoring the balance of his sanity. It had been out of kilter for a while, and the threat of an internal investigation wasn’t helping.

  By the time he pulled into the first car park on York University’s sprawling campus, he still hadn’t found the magical song. Perhaps the right music for his current predicament simply hadn’t been written. If that were the case, he really was in trouble.

  The car park was protected by a barrier.

  ‘Detective Sergeant Joe Romano, Leeds CID,’ he said into the intercom.

  ‘Who is it concerning, please?’

  ‘Crime.’

  ‘Do you have an appointment, Sir?’

  ‘I have a warrant card. The last time I checked the statutes, that was enough.’

  Having pointlessly annoyed a random member of the security staff, it crossed his mind that she might have seen the tweet, and name-checked him: boozy cop Romano out carousing with a witness. It was probably all over the internet by now.

  ‘I’m here to see Dr Megan Vicary, Department of Psychology,’ he added.

  ‘I will just check that, Sir.’

  He bit his tongue and waited, knowing that however long he was kept waiting, it was his rightful punishment for thoughtless arrogance. As he sat there, he considered calling Rita. But over in Kirklees they’d be getting stuck into Turner by now, which was as good an excuse as any for not having to offer her a grovelling apology. He checked his messages. Nothing from her. Perhaps best if it stayed that way for a while.

  Finally, the barrier lifted and he was spared further humiliation.

  Megan was in their usual meeting spot, sitting on a bench under a willow tree, a cloud of cigarette smoke hanging around her. She wasn’t far off, almost close enough to shout, but there was a lot of water in the way.

  The university campus was built around a large artificial lake that meandered across several acres of sculptured grassland, decorated by covered walkways and bridges, and populated by a large community of geese and ducks. Dotted along the lake’s edge were low-rise residence blocks and faculty buildings, all prefab concrete and wooden panels. It was the same functional sixties architecture as the Brown Cow in Batley, only here, surrounded by trees, grass, and with the gentle flutter of the breeze on the water’s surface, the effect was charming, almost dream-like.

  Definitely not charming was the quantity of goose shit. By the time he’d found a footbridge to cross, then made his way over the lawns towards Megan, his shoes were caked in the stuff.

  ‘Are all these wild fowl strictly necessary in a seat of learning?’

  ‘You’re joking,’ she said, getting up and kissing him lightly on both cheeks. ‘The geese are smarter than most of my students. How’re you doing, Joe?’

  Megan’s accent was part American drawl, part English temptress. It was the kind of voice a well-aged fairy godmother might have after three continents, two divorces and a life-long penchant for late nights and single malts. Born on the plains of Alberta, Canada, she’d moved to Santa Barbara, to Mexico City, to Sydney, and finally to York, hopping from university to university, where she taught psychology and dabbled in criminal profiling as a hobby.

  ‘I’m doing…’ he said, as they sat down, ‘I’m doing, ehm, I don’t know whether you…’

  ‘Oh, I’ve seen the tweet. Nice-looking woman. I assume it’s got you in trouble?’

  ‘Follow your own road, and let the people talk!’

  She raised her eyebrows, but left it at that.

  ‘You’ve got something for me, then?’

  He handed her the files on Shaw and Beverage.

  ‘Just the murders, plus background on the victims. Is that OK?’

  She held the files in one hand, weighing them.

  ‘Give me half an hour. There’s a coffee shop through that archway.’

  He bummed a cigarette and left her to it, ignoring her suggestion of coffee and walking around the edge of the lake as he smoked. He wondered how much more stress it would take before he found himself with a packet of Marlboro permanently in his pocket. He puffed on the cigarette, not really enjoying the taste, but knowing that it gave him an excuse to put off the inevitable call to Rita.

  He got his phone out, googled himself. He was already national news. The Sun:

  BANGED TO RIGHTS!

  The detective heading the hunt for the Graphite Assassin was snapped boozing the night away less than twenty-four hours after the killer claimed his second victim. West Yorkshire Police has so far made no comment on Sergeant Joe Romano’s unusual investigation techniques…

  He didn’t bother with any of the other papers. Twitter was far more illuminating; #graphiteassassin was still trending, with inappropriate police behaviour adding new zest to the stream of opinions on offer. Gemma’s original post now had close to five hundred retweets, and many of them, strangely, were in support of him:

  Good work, Det. Romano. Best way to deal with #graphiteassassin. Lay back an think of england!!!

  DS bags MILF as #graphiteassassin gets away. streets a bit safer. go joe!

  And then, amid the stream of predictable nonsense, something new:

  #graphiteassassin going after the 1%? Raises a fair question, doesn’t it? #OneSixtySix

  He searched the hashtag #OneSixtySix. It was gaining momentum, and not all the tweets were the brainless squawks of the angry masses. The case was generating serious discussion. Some of the posts were even written in full sentences.

  He found a bench and slumped down. His legs and back had started to ache. He stubbed out the cigarette in a tissue and dropped it into his pocket. There was a message from Sam.

  Dad, Gemma says she’s really sorry. Didn’t know you were on the Graphite murder thing. Hope we didn’t cause you any problems. Sam.

  The ache in his back began to creep higher. He dug his fingers into the muscles at the base of his neck, pushing the pain around. Two young women walked past, deep in conversation. Not so long ago he would have avoided looking directly at them. These days it didn’t matter; the age-gap was such that they didn’t seem to notice that he was there at all.

  He wondered what Gemma was like. Considerate? Selfish? Had she really been sorry when she saw the photo splashed all over the national press? Or were she and Sam laughing about it now, giggling over their phones, oblivious to the damage they’d done?

  New friends, new romances, a new life. W
hat bliss it was in that dawn to be alive… Sam was a young man, and Joe desperately wanted his son’s time in Edinburgh to be bliss, the kind spent in the company of caring people. Wholesome, decent people. He repeated the words to himself. They sounded inadequate, yet he could think of none better. Jason Beverage and Craig Shaw? He doubted that their youths had been blissful.

  He sat there and watched the ducks, knowing that he had to ring Rita. Follow your own road, and let the people talk! Where was that from? Dante. Were there any ducks in the Divine Comedy? Dante, ducks? Where would ducks go? Down in the ‘Inferno’, or up with the innocents? He looked at the traces of slimy green shit on the edges of his shoes, and hoped the ones in York would be going all the way down. A quick search online didn’t help: Dante the Duck, apparently, was a video game.

  Finally, having run out of excuses, he gave her a call.

  ‘Rita? Hi, how’s it going?’

  ‘We’ve done Turner’s house, office. Nothing yet. He’s getting the full treatment, though.’

  She let out a long, audible sigh.

  ‘Any luck on the bike?’ he asked.

  ‘The tyre print matches. But so do half the bloody tyres in the world. They’re analysing the mud traces now.’

  He gave it a second.

  ‘Sorry about the stuff with Twitter,’ he said. ‘It’s not what it looks like.’

  ‘Ah, screw that. Keep going, Joe. My super’s just talked to Andy Mills. He’s holding off on an internal, apparently.’

  ‘For how long? Did he say?’

  ‘We told him all that stuff in the pub was part of the case. He was politely asked to leave you alone. I mean, you were working, weren’t you, give or take a few drinks?’

  He watched a family of ducks wander past on the path in front of him.

  ‘I’m on the case now. I’ll be on it ’til they chuck me off.’

  ‘Bollocks to the lot of ’em, Joe. Keep digging. I’ll ring you later.’

  ‘I’m digging. Speak soon.’

  ‘Oh, just one thing. Will you run everything past Gwyn from now on? I mean, while you’re keeping your head down? He’s in charge at your end, right?’

  He was already back on his feet, striding out across the grass, as he ended the call. The backache had gone, and he kicked coils of dried goose shit into the air as he went. Not quite digging, but it would do as a metaphor.

  ‘You’ve read them?’

  ‘Yup,’ Megan said, the files already sitting next to her, closed. ‘I was familiar with the case anyway.’

  ‘Really? Why’s that?’

  She squinted, head back.

  ‘Because I’m interested in Forensic Psychology. Because I know you. Because…’ She stopped. ‘Joe, everybody’s talking about this. Hadn’t you noticed?’

  ‘I’ve been a bit too busy trying to solve it.’

  ‘Oh, by the way, you got lucky. There’s just been an explosion at an oil refinery in Wales. No one hurt, but, y’know, a bit Jerry Lee Lewis.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Great balls of fire. God, you’re really not on form today!’

  ‘Could be a slight hangover.’

  ‘Oh, I see. Anyway, you’re not the top story on the lunchtime bulletins.’

  ‘Relegated to old news almost before I knew I was new news.’

  ‘Welcome to the digital age!’

  He sat down.

  ‘So, what do you think?’

  ‘The first murder’s unusual, intriguing. The car more or less disappears, which presents us with an interesting state of mind.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘Well, the killer’s definitely lucid as he drives off. Thinking straight. That’s not easy, right after you’ve murdered someone. Plus, it suggests he knows the roads, the traffic cameras, the lie of the land.’

  ‘Local knowledge.’

  ‘Obvs, as my daughters would say. How’s Sam doing in Edinburgh, by the way?’

  ‘Fine. Can’t thank you enough for the reference.’

  ‘Smart lad. He got in on merit.’

  ‘Smart, but he never rings. The twins?’

  She snorted.

  ‘Private schools around here, you know how much they cost? They’ve got posh boyfriends called Giles, Jake, I dunno. The money? It just goes.’

  She paused, the very thought of school fees enough to crush her soul.

  ‘Also,’ she said, ‘there’s zero forensics, apart from the pencil. Even with the fire, it’s meticulous. And the timeframe? Looks like the car and body were hidden somewhere for, what, two whole days? Then it’s left burnt out in a car park, where it’ll definitely be found. Somebody who knows what they’re doing. It’s all very thoughtful, efficient. But…’ She shook her head. ‘They leave him in the passenger footwell. He must have been put there post mortem, yet there’s no clear signs of a struggle before that. A drug dealer who doesn’t put up a fight?’

  ‘Body in that state it’s difficult to know for sure.’

  ‘Still, someone puts a pencil into your eye socket and it goes all the way in? You don’t try to fight ’em off?’

  ‘He was taken by surprise?’

  ‘Must have been, I guess. No substances in his blood either, no sedation? Jesus, Joe, you know how to pick ’em!’

  ‘It’s opportunistic, right?’

  ‘Yes, it looks that way. But the pencil? That’s the strange part. The killer must have known the victim, or was comfortable in his presence. At the very least they must have been close up, talking. It’s the only way. Even then, it’s a stretch to incapacitate someone with a well-sharpened HB. But, y’know, the first kill? The unplanned ones can be weird. They can come from nowhere.’

  ‘Spontaneous?’

  ‘You wouldn’t choose a pencil, would you?’

  ‘The second kill? That was a choice.’

  ‘Yes. Different kind of thing altogether.’

  ‘Could it be two killers?’

  She shifted on the bench.

  ‘It’s possible. But, I dunno, there’s something about both murders, apart from the pencils, something that connects them. They’re mad, but there’s an element of control. Manic but calm. I can’t put my finger on it… The second one, he gets the victim there by posing as a police officer. Forensics still pretty minimal. Meticulous. But it’s so completely different. Everything about it.’

  ‘I know, I know…’

  ‘Classic escalation, though. That’s my instinct. The first one: we don’t really know. But then he goes out, gets another victim, simple, planned, wallop. But you see the difference with the pencil?’

  Joe nodded. ‘He only leaves it the second time.’

  ‘A calling card. But only he knows for certain that it leads back to the first kill.’

  ‘For his own satisfaction?’

  ‘Gotta be. Strengthens the case for the first one being opportunistic.’

  ‘If so, what’s the second? A campaign, a cause?’

  ‘I dunno, but it’s personal. It’s not for our benefit. This is all about the killer. Something about that first kill in particular, and the transition to the second. Kill number one becomes important. It overpowers him, compels him.’

  ‘A crusade?’

  ‘Drug dealers, social detritus? Could be. Get low-lifes off the street. The victims were known criminals, their names in the papers. If the second one’s been selected, it was an easy pick.’

  ‘Who are we looking for?’

  ‘Best guess, the first kill’s a trigger. We’ve got no idea how, or why. Nothing. But it sets off a rage in the killer’s mind, something that’s been sublimated. It’s made him want to do it again, given him a raison d’être. The second kill is very clean and calculated, but it’s also odd, unhinged. And it feels a bit too quick. Too soon. Then, of course, there’s the ages.’

  ‘Ages?’

  She looked at Joe as if he was dim.

  ‘First victim, twenty-five. Second, nineteen. Barely a man. I might be wrong, but the second victim was chosen. And he
was six years younger. If there’s a plan to get low-lifes off the street, age might be another criterion.’

  ‘Age?’

  ‘Get ’em while they’re young. Or younger.’

  ‘Shit.’

  ‘Shit indeed. You want me to put a few quid on it?’

  ‘The next one? You mean…’

  ‘Oh, there’ll be a next one. And soon.’

  ‘Younger still?’

  ‘Fifty quid says yes. Let me know. I need the money.’

  She handed him the files.

  ‘So, Mr Romano, apart from the murders, how’re you doing? Anything of significance going on with you?’

  ‘Not really. Why do you ask?’

  ‘Let me see. There’s a slight swagger in the way you walk. It’s very subtle, but it’s oh-so-new. You’re tense, out of sorts, but you’re carrying it well. A bit too well for the old Joe. Plus, vis-à-vis the lady in the pub, there’s Occam.’

  ‘You can apply Occam’s Razor to a single photo taken in a pub?’

  ‘A photo with your arms round each other, heads together? And the eyes! Oh, the eyes, Joe!’

  ‘It was nothing! It’s… nothing!’

  ‘You sure?’

  ‘I’m on a bloody murder inquiry!’

  ‘Not forever, you’re not.’

  35

  There were several calls on the way back from York. He ignored them, having finally found a radio station playing a string of Bruce Springsteen favourites, which came closer to hitting the spot than anything else so far. Curiosity got the better of him in the end. Up ahead he saw a familiar layby, and an even more familiar building. He pulled over to see who’d been ringing.

  The calls were all from the District Communications Officer, who had also left a voicemail and an email. Joe had seen the Comms bloke around HQ. Early thirties, poached from the Merseyside Force for his social media savvy. He’d done a few presentations for CID, which had been pretty interesting, although the durability of news cycles and the predictability of trending peaks had been of little interest to Joe, with his usual workload of break-ins and low-level missing persons. It was interesting now, though. Pity he’d not bothered to take any notes.