by J. F. Kirwan
He grew serious. ‘Listen, I got you on my team because you’re the best. I was hoping you’d have a bit more time to settle in, but…’ He shrugged. ‘You must use Kate,’ he said. ‘Push Greg with it.’
She stood, too. ‘He’ll never forgive me. Some lines once crossed…’
‘The Painter has his hearing tomorrow. Rickard had to let the Board know that Greg is under suspicion of a double homicide. Guess what comes next?’
She didn’t see him leave, because her mind was racing. The Painter would have leverage now. Adams’ testimony had locked him away. No way he’d be released, but perhaps he could be transferred to a less secure facility.
She took a taxi home and began considering tactics for the morning. She’d sat through a waterboarding once, while her Sarge interrogated a guy about a planned bomb attack on the base the next day. She’d squirmed through the whole ordeal and had to leave more than once to puke outside. But they got the intel and saved a lot of lives, including local civilians, not just soldiers.
‘You do what you gotta do,’ the Sarge had said to her afterwards.
All right then. She’d put her game face on. Just not the one Donaldson intended.
20
Greg still had his watch with him in the cell. 0950. It was an informal interview, though it would be recorded, a gesture of good faith on Greg’s part that would help his case with the judge if it went to trial. Donaldson had warned Greg that Rickard would be present, and while the professor habitually kept people waiting outside his office, Greg reckoned he’d turn up early just this once. This meant he had just a few minutes to go over his working theory again, because it wasn’t working. He was still missing something.
A copycat serial killer was repeating the murder style of Greg’s serial killers, and had probably killed The Dreamer first, then copied his style with Kate, followed by Fergus – à la Painter, and now Raj, à la Surgeon. Possibly he had also killed the young bully, à la Reaper, and the security agent – à la Divine. The big problem was that there were two of Greg’s signature serial killers left – The Gravedigger and The Torch. He doubted this serial killer would stop without completing the set.
This fitted into a pattern that had ‘serial killer’ all over the wrapping paper, but there was still a fundamental problem that had to do with motivation. The ostensible motive was to frame him, but that couldn’t be the entire picture. While he knew he could piss people off at times, even if one of the surviving serial killers held a massive grudge – The Painter being the most obvious candidate – this was far too elaborate, and far too big in scope to be just about him. To put him away would only have required Fergus. Raj was a bonus, and as for the others, they might actually weaken the case against him, because they didn’t fit Rickard’s Schism theory. The first one, for example, was too soon following Kate’s murder.
Something else was going on. He had no idea what.
The second problem – and it was huge – was the notion that there were two killers involved in Fergus’s murder, though not necessarily Kate’s, or Raj’s, or any of the others. Serial killers almost always worked alone. Two working together wasn’t simply a case of old wine in new bottles. It was a game changer. He and the gang used to joke that if you put seven serial killers in a cell in the evening, only one would walk out in the morning. Jennifer had once quipped that serial killers were nature’s aberration, and that nature herself had built in a fail-safe: they were loners, never trusting anyone, especially not another killer.
Jennifer. He’d heard nothing. Which was the plan, but he also wanted to know she was safe. She was the one who’d steered him onto the right track in the first place by saying it was personal. Which meant that sooner or later, the killers would turn their attention to her.
He glanced at his watch, got up and sat on the single chair at the table across from two empty ones. Footsteps approached, muffled voices. A woman saying ‘We’re early’ in a low voice. A creak as the guard checked on Greg through the peephole, the jangle of keys, the lock opening, Rickard bustling in with an armful of folders, Finch close behind, empty-handed. The guard closed the door behind him without locking it. Rickard and Finch sat facing him. Finch placed a recording device on the table between them and switched it on.
‘It is 0957, twentieth October, New Scotland Yard, interview of murder suspect Greg Adams by DCI Finch and Professor Emerson Rickard, in the investigation of the unlawful killings of Fergus McTainsh, and Rajash Amitalaya.’
Greg took a deep breath, and tried to maintain a professional detachment as they went through the evidence amassed so far, with all the photos… On the outside he retained his composure, but the blood-drenched images of Raj almost pushed him over the edge.
He stood up and turned away. ‘I need a moment,’ he said. He heard one of them, presumably Finch, gather the photos and replace them in the folder. He regained some semblance of composure and sat down again, as he was grilled again on each murder, his whereabouts, witnesses, personal motivations… He knew the routine backwards, but he’d never sat on this side of the table.
At the end of the day it was all about entanglement. The storyboard of evidence, even if all the pieces slotted together into a convenient narrative, was at best circumstantial. Finch and Rickard were there to trip him up, to make the case more solid.
Rickard leant back. ‘So, you admit you were angry when you met Raj?’
It wasn’t really a question, and barely deserved an answer. ‘Any normal person in my position would be angry.’
‘Angry enough to act on it?’ Rickard’s demeanour wasn’t aggressive, instead almost plaintive, as though he didn’t want to be doing this, as if to say ‘Greg, why have you done this to yourself, to my department?’
Greg remained focused, thinking carefully before responding. ‘Would a normal person torture and dismember the lover of his spouse?’
‘Would a normal person fire a loaded gun twice at his own temple?’
Greg did a double take. Had he said ‘twice’ in his deposition? He couldn’t recall.
Finch picked up the baton. ‘Forensics, along with your own statement, places you at the scene of Fergus McTainsh’s murder, during the time frame of his murder.’
He knew he could swipe this one aside. Forensics couldn’t pinpoint the exact time, and the range of uncertainty included a short period after Greg had left. Short, but long enough for someone else to have killed Fergus right after Greg’s departure. Any half-decent defence lawyer would boot this line of inquiry right out of court. But Greg needed to connect with Finch. This wasn’t just about his defence. The killers were out there and would kill again. Soon.
Maybe Finch could catch them.
‘I don’t understand it either,’ he said. ‘You have my statement. I don’t intend to change it. Which means you have your work cut out.’
Rickard leaned forward. ‘Which perfectly illustrates my Schism theory, that you were not really aware of what you were doing. Let us help you, Gregory. A plea of temporary insanity–’
Finch winced.
So did Greg. If he pleaded temporary insanity to murder, the next stop would be Reedmoor.
‘I’m not pleading insanity,’ he said, keeping his voice steady. ‘Do you want to know why?’
Rickard leant back and shook his head, then spread his hands. ‘Then be it on your own head, Gregory. You need to find a good lawyer. I know some excellent ones if that would help. But I must warn you, I will almost certainly be called as a witness in my professional capacity, you know that. I’ll do what I can, but…’ He picked up his briefcase, depositing the files into it, preparing to leave.
‘We’re not done,’ Finch said, cold as ice as she glanced at Rickard, probably recalling how she’d followed Rickard’s advice for her ‘friend’ in Afghanistan, who was now a long-term Reedmoor inmate.
‘I agree,’ said Greg. Back to stopping the killer. ‘The frequency of killings. It’s important. It’s one of the ways we profile a serial killer. I
t’s relatively constant. But these latest ones – Fergus, Raj – they’re speeding up.’
She waved a hand dismissively, but didn’t look at him as she did so, which was unlike her.
‘Less theorising,’ she said. ‘More facts, or in this case, supposed facts. You claim that Raj said Kate had received an incoming phone call during her call to him in the States. Yet we have no record of either call. How do you explain that?’
He studied her. Why wasn’t she listening to what he’d just said? But then maybe she was… Could she be sub-texting? He recalled his transactional analysis lectures, back at uni a lifetime ago. What if she was communicating with him, but making sure Rickard wouldn’t follow, and that on the recording it would all sound legitimate? The most obvious way of doing that was to tell him not to do something, when in reality she wanted him to do the opposite. Stop theorising, she’d said. What if she wanted him to theorise, because she had no leads, no theories? The second approach was to camouflage the real messages by overcoating everything she was saying with an attack. In which case, he needed to play his side of the game and act as if he was under intense strain.
Not a problem.
He lowered his head into his hands a moment, as if washing his face in water, then came back up for air, defiant, angry.
‘You’re not listening to me! Either the killer removed a phone I didn’t know she had, or else somebody in this building has covered up that call. And if it was the first, there should still be traces of the call, because I can’t imagine Kate buying a burner phone, and the call to Raj in the States would stick out a mile.’
Finch stood up and slammed her hand down on the table. ‘Forget this bullshit about phone calls! We’re not buying it; we checked the records and there was nothing there, because there never were any calls!’
Greg drew back, feigning anger. So they agreed. Someone inside the Yard had deleted the record. Probably the same person who stole the code to release his electronic bracelet. And, as if on cue…
She sat down again, straightened hair which didn’t need straightening. ‘As you know, we found your tag bracelet at the scene of Raj’s murder. What did you use to cut it from your wrist?’
Rickard glanced at her. She was giving Greg a piece of information he didn’t have. The bracelet must have been cut with a bolt cutter after it had been released, because then there would be no need to check who had access to the code.
‘I don’t know what you’re talking about. I’ve already told you, Inspector Finch–’
‘Save it!’ She stared at the table for a while, picked up her bottle of water and took a couple of gulps. It gave Greg time to glance at Rickard. In the past hour, Finch had been relentless in her inquisition, and had made Greg appear defensive and even incoherent at times. All of this was grist for Rickard’s mill, for his Schism theory. Maybe this would end up a chapter in Rickard’s sequel, or a journal paper on the Schism theory…
Greg sensed it wasn’t over. Finch proved him right.
‘Adams,’ she began, resealing the bottle. ‘We found certain materials in your cellar. Do you know what I am referring to?’
Rickard’s head swung towards her. He clearly had no idea either.
‘No, I don’t,’ Greg said. ‘Why don’t you enlighten me?’
Her eyes steeled. Either she was a really good actress, or…
‘Bandages, Adams, very long cotton bandages, and paraffin wax.’
The Torch. His nasty habit of mummifying his victims in flammable bandages, head to toe, leaving a gap for the eyes, then setting fire to them at the feet, and letting them slowly burn. Greg felt a special nausea he hadn’t felt for a long time. He’d visited the crime scene where they’d found one of the corpses four years ago, thinking it might help him profile The Torch. Ever since, he’d wished he hadn’t.
Rickard looked lost for a moment, then recovered. He must have realised she was bluffing. They’d found nothing in the cellar. If they had, Donaldson would have somehow let Greg know.
‘Is The Torch’s method next in line?’ She slammed her hand down on the table, hard, as she stood up, shouting, ‘Who is the target?’
Greg understood. He and Finch were on the same page. She also thought the killer – or killers – weren’t done. She was asking him who he thought was next, and how they would be murdered. But answering the two questions was risky for Greg, especially if the killer found out his answer and that person was subsequently murdered in that way. Even if the schism label never stuck with a jury, the prosecution could state that there were indeed two killers, and that Greg had been one of them. If Greg’s prediction of who was next and how they would be killed came true, it would crush any juror’s doubt.
He knew he should say nothing. That the lawyer who had turned up earlier, whom Greg had sent packing, would have hit him over the head with his briefcase to prevent him answering. But he also knew why Finch was asking. To save a life.
He took a breath. ‘This is only my best guess, but my ex-wife, Jennifer, is the most likely next victim, because she’s my ex, and…’ it wasn’t well known except to a few in the Force, ‘…she helped me on two of the early cases, unofficially.’ He hoped to fuck she’d gone to ground as he’d told her to do. He gathered himself. ‘But not using The Torch’s methods.’
Finch’s eyes softened, just a fraction, and only for a split-second, as if to say ‘Thank you’. ‘So, The Gravedigger, then?’
Greg studied Finch a moment. She’d done her homework, predicting that the killer would continue to use the methods of serial killers Greg had helped put away.
He nodded.
‘For the record,’ she said, ‘note that Mr Adams nodded in the affirmative.’
Greg felt reamed out. Whether Finch had meant it or had been role playing, she was good at this.
‘I really think we’re done here now, don’t you, DCI Finch?’ said Rickard, with more than a hint of respect. He reached forward to switch off the recorder. Finch’s hand arrived first, keeping it on.
‘One last question. Why not use The Torch’s method?’
It was a good question, and the answer had only just arrived with him, and was mainly intuition. He knew that simply saying something doesn’t make it true. But as the words left his mouth, it felt prophetic, as if he was carving his own tombstone.
‘Because the killers will save that for me.’
21
Finch didn’t usually touch the hard stuff until the evening, but here she was with a Scotch on the rocks and a plate of chicken-and-mushroom pie with chips that Matthews had shoved in front of her. His cheeseburger and extra chips had long vanished, and he was weeding her thick-cut chips away from her plate two at a time. It didn’t matter; she couldn’t eat. Not until she had a way forward.
Her grandfather had sat her down one day, after she’d won a chess competition at school, and told her that her mind was like a greyhound. ‘If you want a greyhound to run really fast, to catch something, you don’t feed it. You give it any food whatsoever, it won’t run.’
He had a lot to answer for. She’d been eternally thin.
Matthews sighed. ‘You know, a chicken died for that,’ he said, pointing a greasy fork at her pie. He pulled the plate across to his side. The waitress passed and picked up Finch’s cutlery and Matthews’ original, almost clean plate, and whisked them away. Finch considered that although Donaldson and Matthews both loved their food, Donaldson at least had some basic rules of engagement.
‘All yours,’ she said. She waited until he’d sawn off a big chunk of gooey suet-cum-pastry and it was about to go down the hatch, then said, ‘His ex is next.’
Matthews, to his credit, actually paused, but only a heartbeat. He spoke while chewing. She didn’t look away. She was used to it.
‘And you know that how?’
‘She’s gone. In the wind.’
‘Why her?’
‘She helped him on The Painter and The Surgeon cases.’
‘Oh.’ His fork hovered
between plate and mouth. ‘Maybe he warned her. He had one phone call.’
‘He tried. I checked it out after Donaldson asked me to. We traced her number and accessed her call history. Greg phoned her and left a message. But she’d already vanished before he made the call. We checked with her neighbours. And she never accessed her voicemail.’
He met her eyes.
‘Guess who was the last person seen with her?’ she asked.
Matthews put down his fork. ‘Greg.’ He pushed the plate away, took a swig of bitter. ‘Who’s on the case?’
‘Birmingham Metro. It’s out of our jurisdiction for now, but I know someone there.’
‘Good. She’ll turn up,’ he said. He took another swig. ‘You look pissed off.’
‘Rickard gave me a bollocking after the interview with Greg. Said he didn’t want any more surprises. I also got a lecture on how he was looking after Greg’s interests, but also those of the Force, blah, blah, blah.’
‘If Rickard is his last hope, then Greg’s really up shit creek.’
She remembered why she put up with Matthews.
He added, ‘But we’re not going to feed Rickard more evidence to puff up his schizoid theory, are we?’
‘Schism,’ she corrected.
‘Po-tay-to, po-tart-oh,’ he said, and resumed stuffing his mouth.
‘One of us needs to find out if that call was suppressed. The one Raj told Greg about.’
‘That would be me,’ he said.
‘Could require… workarounds. Maybe bending a few rules. Peeking behind Yard firewalls.’
He spoke, but what he said was almost completely muffled by his chewing and swallowing. She gathered he’d said ‘Same answer’. He was nearly done. He paused with the fork over the last chip. ‘Sure?’