by J. F. Kirwan
The third type of candidate was harder. It was Greg’s domain: a fan, or a copycat. Often the former ended up becoming the latter. The best chance of catching such a person was in the ‘experimental’ phase – when they killed for the first time, because they would be so – ‘excited’ was the only word for it – that they would become sloppy.
But Kate’s murder hadn’t been sloppy. Fergus’s murder had the initial appearance of being maniacal, but the killer had in fact been very careful. So far, forensics had nothing. No leads, no fingerprints besides his own and Fergus’s, not even a reliable estimate of time of death yet. They hadn’t found the murder weapon either. It was as if the killer had wanted to give Fergus’s murder the appearance of being sloppy, as well as vengeful. Why? Greg felt a chill. If it was true, then not only was the killer definitely not an amateur, but he was also good at hiding his tracks. It also meant this new spider didn’t care about media attention. Greg stared long and hard at the photos. But there was only so much you could learn from case histories.
Greg went over to the small printer just outside the kitchenette, and opened the paper tray, extracting two sheets. On the first one he wrote ‘The Dreamer’, because he was still somehow connected to all of this. For a moment he mulled over the fact that they should have discounted The Dreamer from the start, as he always targeted people in the media who were getting away with crimes, or helping others to do so. Kate having an affair was hardly a crime, and she had zero media presence.
On the second sheet he drew a large black question mark. The new spider.
Greg made himself another espresso – the last for tonight, he promised – and spent the next twenty minutes staring at the two facing walls. Nothing. The neurons in his brain weren’t able to make the right connections. He knew what he needed to do. Sometimes, to pick up the scent, you had to face the real thing. He studied the faces of the two non-defunct killers currently residing in Reedmoor at Her Majesty’s pleasure. The Reaper had been the only one who’d shown any hint of remorse, but after his trial he’d become locked inside his own world, having conversations with himself that no one could unravel, not Greg, not even Rickard. He was heavily sedated most of the time to prevent self-harm.
That left The Painter. Who loved to talk. Especially to Greg. Some of the most chilling interviews Greg had ever had to conduct inside Reedmoor had been with him. Afterwards, he’d sworn he’d never go back.
He downed the last sip. He’d call first thing, set it up, if Donaldson and the others would allow it, because there were protocols to be observed. He couldn’t just arrive unannounced. He checked his watch. The last bus had left thirty minutes ago. Still, there was just enough time to get a taxi home, shower, grab maybe three hours’ sleep, and be back for nine thirty. He headed out, switching off the lights, passing one of the cleaners who’d been washing the corridor floor.
‘Watch your step, sir,’ the cleaner said, without looking up from his mopping.
‘Will do, thanks,’ Greg replied.
‘Okay to clean in there now? I’ve been waiting,’ he asked.
Greg paused, his hand on the handle. Out of habit, he checked the man had a badge. Shit, was he becoming that paranoid? The guy would have a pass anyway, they had to, and the bin was full of empty coffee cartons.
‘Sure, go ahead,’ he said, and headed for the lift.
‘Okey-dokey,’ the man replied.
Greg walked a few blocks away from the Yard and the Thames, and waited for a black cab, warming his hands with his breath in the chilly air on the mostly empty street. A couple of young drunks were singing their hearts out – REM from what he could tell – and there was the sound of a glass bottle smashing on the pavement further down the road. As he craned his neck to see the approaching lights of a taxi cab, its headlamps silhouetted a figure. A man in a long overcoat and hat, immobile, facing Greg, as if staring at him, maybe thirty yards away on the other side of the road. The conversation with his ex, Jennifer, came back to him.
Someone is watching you.
Greg hailed the taxi as it passed the figure and then did one of those turn-on-a-sixpence U-turns that only black cabs could pull off, stopping right next to Greg.
‘Maida Vale, please, but could you head back up the street?’ He needed to see whoever was standing there.
‘Whatever you say, guv’nor.’
Greg scoured the spot where the figure had been. Nobody there. Nor was it clear where he could have gone. Had he imagined him? No. It could have been some random guy just looking down the road. After all, as he’d said once to a disturbed and paranoid individual, if you see someone staring at you, doesn’t that mean you’re staring at them?
It was 4.30am. Forget about it, drop it. Drop it. He closed his eyes, conjured up the image of the silhouette. Not quite symmetrical, as if holding something…
Greg tapped with his knuckle on the glass barrier separating him from the cabbie. ‘Sorry, mate, can you turn around again, I need to check something. Can you pull over just here? Thanks, that’s perfect.’
Greg lowered the window and scanned the pavement where the figure had been. And then he saw it.
‘We going now, guv?’ asked the cabbie.
Greg dug out his temporary Scotland Yard ID and showed it to the cabbie. ‘I’m afraid not. We need to wait for the police.’ He handed the cabbie a twenty. ‘Please don’t drive off, I just need to prevent anyone picking it up.’
‘Picking what up?’
It could be random, unrelated, but no… In the pale blue light from an electronics shop window, Greg could see it clear enough. A hammer, with dried blood on the head and handle. It could have been anyone’s, but he’d wager a month’s salary that the blood had belonged to Fergus McShane.
He zipped up his coat, pulling his collar closer as he made the call to wake up Donaldson. Jennifer had been right. The killer was watching Greg’s every move. And now they had the murder weapon, which the killer had left for Greg – and no one else – to find.
Why?
11
Greg sat outside one of the Yard’s compact meeting rooms with frosted windows, trying to untangle the muffled voices, to no avail. Donaldson’s voice was loudest, Finch’s sharp and clipped – Matthews’ ironic, almost whiney, and Rickard’s, well… his was barely under control. Greg couldn’t blame him. If this went south, there would be implications for Rickard as well, as he was responsible for all criminal psychologists in the Force.
The door opened. Donaldson. ‘You’d better come in, Greg.’
The room was stuffy and cramped. Although technically it was big enough for ten people, the backs of the chairs grazed the walls when you sat in them. It reminded him of the desks at his old school, difficult to get out of in a hurry. Donaldson was at one end of the table, Rickard at the other, Finch and Matthews on the opposite side to where Greg stood. He dragged out one of the heavy metal chairs, eased into it and sat down.
No one else was on his side of the table.
Donaldson was highest ranking on the case, but Rickard was Greg’s division superior. Greg guessed what was coming.
‘We’ve been discussing the facts,’ Donaldson started.
‘And deciding whether to arrest you,’ Matthews threw in.
Donaldson rapped his fingers loud enough on the table to silence Matthews. Finch studied her fingernails; Rickard, the door.
Greg needed to take control, insofar as he could. If he was going to be taken off the case, or worse, he’d rather it were on his account. If he was going down, he didn’t want to drag anyone with him, especially Donaldson, who might otherwise try and protect him.
‘I can see why,’ he said.
All eyes swung his way.
‘Fact: as far as you’re all concerned, I was the last person to see Fergus alive. Fact: I found the murder weapon.’ Forensics had earlier confirmed it had Fergus’s blood on it, though no other traces or prints. ‘Fact: the taxi driver didn’t see the man I claimed to have seen.’ He’d asked
the driver several times before the police arrived on the scene.
He continued. ‘Motive one: Fergus claimed to have intel, which proved to be gibberish, so rage would be a not entirely inhuman response. Motive two: by now you know the news I got yesterday…’ he glanced at Donaldson, who nodded, ‘…that my wife had been having an affair, so maybe I was somehow involved in her murder. The logic then follows that Fergus knew something about the murder, and I was connected, so I killed him to protect myself.’
No one said a word.
‘You all saw the photos of my wife, right?’ Greg heard the unevenness in his own voice and knew it would be all the invitation Rickard needed.
Sure enough, Rickard puffed up his chest and clasped his hands together, as if about to give a sermon. ‘Which is why–’
‘Which is why I need to stay on the case,’ Greg interrupted.
They all looked at each other. That clearly hadn’t been on the table.
‘None of you really think it’s me, right? I mean, look at me, I’m a train wreck.’ He let this sit a moment. ‘So, this is what I think is going on. Fergus was right, I don’t know how, certainly not from talking to ghosts, but he was onto something, the first solid lead in a year. And if he was right, and The Dreamer is dead, then whoever killed him and Fergus is still out there. He’s watching me. It’s personal for some reason. I don’t yet know why. The point is, he’s extremely likely to kill again.’ He looked at each one in turn. ‘You all know it; it’s what your instincts are telling you, which is why you’ve been in here for an hour and a half rather than the ten minutes it would have taken if you were rookies.’
Finch spoke. ‘Let’s go down this track a moment. If you’re correct, why hasn’t he killed for a year?’
Greg had been turning over the same question. Serial killers reminded him of the old adage about the scorpion and the frog: scorpions sting, it’s in their nature.
‘I think he has, only we’ve not been able to make the connection.’
That got their attention. Even Rickard’s. But only for a moment.
‘Even if this alternative hypothesis–’ Rickard waved a hand as if swatting a fly, ‘–is true, it’s even more reason to take you off the case.’
‘Wrong,’ Greg stated. ‘I know the theory. Once I’m part of the killer’s playbook, part of his schema, it interferes with the case, and how can I be objective about anything?’
‘Precisely!’ Rickard banged the table, eliciting a sideways glare from Finch.
‘But you’re forgetting something,’ Greg said, then sat back, and said no more.
Rickard looked flustered. He was clearly less at home here, surrounded by seasoned officers, than in the comfort zone of his office. ‘What?’ he said, first looking at Greg, then at the others. ‘What am I forgetting?’
Donaldson said nothing, though for sure he got it. Finch and Matthews exchanged a glance.
Rickard’s palm slammed down on the table. ‘Will somebody please–’
Oddly, it was Matthews who leaned forward, and addressed him.
‘We’ve got squat, doc. No motive, no idea who did this. And I’ve gotta admit, his theory that the killer hasn’t been dormant has got my attention. We have at least twenty unsolved murders in the past year. We can take Adams off the case, even arrest him on suspicion, but…’ he glanced at his partner, ‘…maybe it’s better to leave him in play. For now at any rate, with a tail on him. Unless you have some idea of how to catch the killer. Or unless you honestly think it was him?’ he said, pointing at Greg.
Rickard shook his head. ‘Of course not. And you all know I tried every medical trick in the book to bring The Divine back out of that very inconvenient coma, to unearth what was behind what he said to Adams.’ He clasped his hands together again and gathered himself. ‘Very well. But I may face questions outside this room. Imagine if there is – God forbid – another murder, and Adams is again somehow implicated?’
‘What do you suggest?’ Finch asked.
‘I want him tagged.’
‘That’s not your call,’ Donaldson said.
‘If he is in this building, he comes under my jurisdiction,’ Rickard said. ‘And if anything else does happen, our decision will look a little more reasonable, though certainly not prudent.’
‘The tag’s not such a bad idea,’ Greg said. ‘If the killer captures me, for example.’
Donaldson put his hands on the table and rose slowly. ‘Then I think we all have work to do.’ He nodded to Rickard. ‘Thank you for joining us, Professor.’
Rickard left without a second look. Matthews got up to leave.
‘Close the door, Greg,’ Donaldson said. Matthews sighed and parked himself again.
‘This is how it’s going to be,’ Donaldson began. He dished out orders to Finch and Matthews, namely to check the past year’s unsolved murders and then run them past Greg. He approved Greg’s plan to visit Reedmoor. Finch and Matthews departed. The door closed again.
Donaldson spoke first. ‘You got your head out of your arse just in time.’
‘Rickard isn’t wrong. I’m a long way from objective on this case. And if something else does happen…’
Donaldson leaned forward on forearms that would have passed for thighs on many people.
‘He’s all wrong, Greg. More interested in his career than catching criminals. The larger picture, all that crap. I know for a fact he’s trying to expand his staff. Doesn’t mean he’s bad at his job, but still… I also hear he’s writing his fucking memoirs. He struck gold once and has been living off it ever since. You rile him because he knows you’re the real deal. You’ve helped take down six serial killers, Greg, six. Forget about him. Besides, you’ve just enlisted Finch and Matthews who were out for your blood before you came in. Nice form, I have to say.’
Greg’s self-doubt lingered. He was too close to it all; he’d botched the visit with Fergus. Yet he needed crystal clear objectivity. And there was something off about Fergus’s murder. Like a serial killer, yet not. He trawled his fingers through his hair. ‘This is–’
Donaldson rose. ‘Scary, complicated shit, that’s what it is. But that’s what you do, Greg. I’d say don’t sweat it, but you need to. If this sonofabitch, whoever he is, has been eluding us for a year as you say, he won’t be easy to catch.’
Greg had already begun a profile of the killer. ‘He’s extremely cold, detached, unhurried. And methodical.’
‘So you need to make it personal.’
Greg looked up.
‘Mess with him. You can do that, right? Find a way to put him off his stroke.’ Donaldson was by the door, fingers on the handle. ‘Stay here, I’ll get the tag order. Oh, and I suggest you start carrying Kate’s little Colt around with you – I presume that’s what you used the other day when playing Russian Roulette?’ He didn’t wait for an answer. ‘I’ll add it to the paperwork.’
‘Wait a second, there’s something else. Kate’s affair, I’m having trouble–’
Donaldson placed a hand on Greg’s shoulder. ‘I knew Kate, and I know this. She loved you with an intensity that’s rare. She had a wobble, that’s all. Shit timing in retrospect. Don’t let it rock your world. Focus on the case. Find the killer.’
12
Finch sat across from Greg. ‘You know how they say a woman loves surprises?’
Greg’d made it a policy years ago never to answer rhetorical questions.
‘Well, this one doesn’t. What’s your next move?’
‘Talk to Kate’s lover.’
‘You said you didn’t know his name?’
‘I don’t.’
‘So, you’re going to find him. How, exactly? Matthews and I can go and question Mrs Moore. I’m pretty sure she’ll tell us.’
‘Then he’ll be in the wind, if he isn’t already. And you know it.’
She stared at him a moment. Unwavering gaze. Not cold, but hard. She’d clearly been through some rough times of her own.
She spoke. ‘You do know
what the “C” in DCI stands for, right?’
Okay, he should maybe respond to this one. ‘Then make the call, Chief.’
‘Matthews and I have to be in court all afternoon, sealing the knot on our last case. As soon as it’s over, we’re heading to see Mrs Moore.’ She rose, then handed him a card with a number on it. ‘Key it in,’ she said.
He pulled out his phone and complied.
She leaned forward across the table. ‘You find anything, you text me, understood?’
She left.
He looked at his watch. He’d better get moving.
He played with the tag around his wrist, a copper-coloured bracelet. It was tight and very unlikely to come off without the required magnetic signature. He didn’t mind; it was far less clunky than the ankle bracelet usually used. If the killer was stalking him, this could help find him. He nursed a macchiato, his second, in an attempt to clear his mind. He was back in Islington, near the Angel tube, in the Caffè Nero opposite Kate’s old workplace. He preferred Starbucks, but Kate had said Nero’s coffee was better. Which wasn’t why he was here. He had a hunch. And despite what he’d said to Finch, he did have a name.
Kate had introduced him to a colleague a couple of years ago at a Christmas party. Rajash. Or was it Raj? Raj. She’d waxed lyrical about him, said how good he was at counselling, and that he was a bit of a dish, so that all the women fell for him, though she wasn’t interested. A while later – he couldn’t recall when – she’d stopped mentioning him when talking about work. When men had affairs, they left a trail – receipts, hotel bills on credit cards, email records, whatever. Kate had said it was because men wanted to brag, that it was hardwired into their balls. Women were more discreet. With women, you had to look to where the usual signposts vanished.
It was 5pm. Head-home time. He hoped Finch and Matthews were having difficulty with the heavy traffic. Ash-coloured clouds had been gathering for the past hour, and now it began to spit rain the way it often does in London, just a little, so you’re never sure whether or not to bother to put up an umbrella, on account of the wind and the fact that at rush hour people pour into the Underground like rabbits bolting for their warrens. Umbrellas become lethal weapons.