by J. F. Kirwan
He walked over to the railing circling the small park, seized the cool, rough metal bars, and held on.
Matthews followed him. ‘You know who it is, don’t you?’
Greg nodded. Somebody he’d dismissed right from the beginning because, well… He recalled the Evidence Room, his six serial killers. He’d drawn a fat red cross over two of the faces because they were dead. One – The Surgeon – was taller and large, no way he could have pretended to be Fergus. But the other one… He could see the red eyes, as if the photo was right in front of him, and the shiny skin.
‘You know his name, don’t you?’ Matthews asked.
Greg swallowed. He didn’t want to speak it because it was like conjuring up a demon.
‘Tobias. Tobias Jones.’
There, he’d said it, named him, breathed life back into the worst of the worst.
Matthews frowned. ‘Wait a minute, I recognise that name…’
Greg did a visual sweep of the area. Was he here, in the shadows, watching?
Matthews’ brow smoothed. ‘Got it! Hey, wait a minute! He’s dead, isn’t he?’
Greg said nothing, and Matthews stormed over to a police sergeant and sequestered his radio to put out an arrest warrant. Greg heard the words ‘armed and dangerous’, which was half-true. Tobias didn’t use weapons such as knives and guns, instead relying on one of the oldest in the book.
Fire.
Matthews was shouting. ‘Yes, that is who I said… I know… Well, I wouldn’t be putting out an arrest warrant if he were actually dead, would I?’
Matthews returned to Greg, but his phone buzzed and he looked at who was calling, then veered off to take the call privately.
He returned. ‘It’s done,’ he said. ‘We’ll find him.’
You won’t find him. He’ll find me.
‘Where do we start?’ Matthews asked. ‘I mean, in the morning?’
‘Reedmoor.’
‘Why?’
The motes in Greg’s head were reorganising themselves.
‘Because everything leads back there. Everything in this case so far has been a lie. But I need to see Donaldson first.’
‘Ah, about that…’ Matthews filled Greg in about Donaldson being injured in the blast.
Greg shook his head. ‘It doesn’t matter. Tell Donaldson I need to see him first thing.’ He began walking away from the scene.
‘Where are you going? Where will you be?’ Matthews shouted after him.
Not at home. A hotel somewhere.
‘I’ll be at the end of my phone,’ he shouted back.
‘Hey, Greg, you did good today!’ Matthews words were barely audible, dispersed by the chill breeze.
Greg walked to the Thames at Lambeth Bridge and flagged down a cab. ‘Hotel Russell,’ he said, then added, ‘now the Fitzroy-something or other, I believe.’
‘I know the one,’ the cabbie replied.
Greg was going there for old time’s sake. He needed to be somewhere with happy memories, of him and Kate in better times, because hell was on his tail.
He checked in, went straight to his room and ordered a pot of strong coffee. Once it arrived, he double-locked the door, then used the hotel stationery to try and map out what had happened, to finally tie down the motes in his head. By 3am he knew who he had to go to see later that morning, the ‘he’ Rickard had referred to in his parting words, the one who had masterminded everything, and who wasn’t the other killer. Not The Painter.
Everything had been a lie.
He showered, dried off, and got in under the duvet, leaving the table light on. He couldn’t sleep. Maybe he was afraid he would dream. Tobias Jones. The stuff of nightmares. He recalled interviewing him, those bloodshot eyes that always focused somewhere behind you, his face shiny due to cheap plastic surgery after he’d gotten too close to one of his victims. The boy who liked to play with fire, to watch people burn.
Tobias Jones.
The Torch.
Part IV
33
It had been hard to tear himself away from the beauty of a building on fire, especially a landmark like New Scotland Yard, but Tobias Sebastian Jones had needed to know if Rickard could pull it off. He’d doubted him from the start. Rickard simply wasn’t serial killer material; the wrong stuff. Toby smiled at his clever play on words, but he knew he wasn’t the brains of this particular chess game. A rook, maybe. Rickard, in contrast, was a lowly pawn, now discarded in a black body bag. Toby hoped they’d cremate him.
Ashes to ashes.
From the fourth-floor window of a flat he’d rented on Airbnb, right across the park from the basement flat where he and Rickard had frightened Fergus to death, Toby had watched Adams wait for the fat policeman. Rickard’s approach to killing had intrigued Toby initially, but drug-infused pain and fear weren’t the real thing. Methadone in place of heroin.
Real fear, the certain knowledge that you were going to die in the most horrible way, that it was going to take a long time, and that no one would answer your screams… He dialled it back. His master had told him to control his emotions, to be a focused blowtorch rather than a wild, raging firestorm. At least until he had Gregory Adams properly prepared, and in the right place. Then he would light the match that would bathe the psychologist in glorious flame.
Adams had surprised them all, though. Perhaps they should have recruited him instead of Rickard. Adams had a dark streak in him…
Kindling.
He’d spied Adams below, down on the pavement, cowering in the shadows, glancing around like a scared animal. Toby had even opened the window wide and turned up the TV to attract his attention. But people never looked where they should, never saw what was right in front of them. They were lost in the smoke of life. But flames clarified everything. Especially when they crawled over your flesh, melted away the putrid skin until all that remained was purified, blackened bone. He liked to caress the skulls afterwards, trace his fingers around the smooth contours of the eye sockets, that inner empty space where the brain used to reside. Then he would smash and grind the skulls and bones into fine powder.
Ashes to ashes.
He recalled his meeting with Adams, when he’d masqueraded as Fergus. It had been so tempting to take him then, but his master would have been displeased. He’d said that killing Adams, who had put them all away, was not the endgame, though certainly he must die. Yet it was all Toby craved, and now he had been given the go-ahead. Now he would watch Adams squirm and struggle, try to hold back the screams. But they always succumbed. Like his own father had, all those years ago.
He followed Adams in a cab to Russell Square, watched him enter the terracotta building. Another smart move on Adams’ part. Too many people around. Not a problem. He could wait. There would be police bulletins out for his arrest, but it would take those clueless bluebottles days to get their shit together. Rickard had purged the digital files from the main and backup servers. The bomb he had placed in Rickard’s office, two days after the sweep, had been for the high security floor above, where neither he nor even Rickard could gain access, despite the cleaner’s pass Rickard had secured for him a month earlier. That room was where all the paper records were kept in fireproof cabinets. Fireproof? No such thing. Paper combusted at 451 degrees Fahrenheit. It was simply a question of heat and oxygen. Without those records, it would take them time to set up facial recognition using London’s security cameras. As for his fingerprints, he’d seared them off years ago.
He had two days before he needed to be gone from London forever, to return to Africa where he belonged. Where the fire ritual was still practised in secret. Where he’d be a High Priest, not a hunted criminal. His master had got him out of that sickening hospital, and he, in return, had promised to execute his master’s strategy. It was almost over. Endgame approached, and then Toby would be free of his duty.
He needed Adams to come to him. They’d planned to use Jennifer all along, and Rickard had almost screwed it up in Birmingham, spooking her into hi
ding. Then she’d come out, believing she was safe. They’d given her a bodyguard and invited her down to Scotland Yard to be interviewed. After all, where could she be safer?
Toby considered returning to the fire still smouldering there, to watch the cinders glow and maybe reignite. Too risky. Besides, he knew where he had to go. He had to attract a moth – Adams – to the flame. Moths know the flame will devour them, but they can’t help themselves. And Adams was easy to manipulate. He would come willingly if the right flame were present.
He made his way back to the rented flat, threw his coat on the stand, then regarded the listless female body on the couch. Rickard knew his drugs, he’d give him that. She’d be out for another twelve hours, and by the time she woke, they’d be far away. She’d get to watch Adams burn. And then she’d join him. Toby, after all, was a devout Christian in his own way, and divorce was a sin.
Till death do us part.
That was the contract.
He would enforce it.
34
Greg and Donaldson sat opposite each other inside a freshly erected Portakabin in the grounds of Scotland Yard. Just the two of them. Donaldson’s left arm was in a sling.
‘Suits you,’ Greg said.
Donaldson shrugged, then winced because shrugging hurt.
‘No sling, no medal.’
‘You saved Muriel,’ Greg said.
Donaldson paused mid-chew. ‘You saved Finch. And Matthews, by the way.’
‘Rickard died on my watch. I should have stopped him from using the dart. Somehow he might have proved useful.’
Donaldson stopped chewing a moment, then continued. ‘You saved God-fearing taxpayers a ton of money.’
Greg said nothing.
Donaldson took a sip of the cappuccino Greg had supplied.
‘The Torch will come for you.’
‘I’ll be ready.’
Donaldson sighed. ‘He was the worst, Greg. The others needed to kill. He needs to see unbearable pain. For him, death is just a side effect. Why am I telling you this? You analysed him. You wrote the report.’
Greg felt a shiver, suppressed it. He needed to switch tracks.
‘I need a favour.’
‘Go on, then.’
‘I need the Colt back.’
Donaldson swallowed some more coffee. ‘You know it’s evidence, right? Part of the crime scene? You do remember we have something called “Procedure”?’
Greg nodded. ‘Rush it through processing, forensics, whatever. I need it.’
‘Sure. No problem. Right away. Oh, hang on a minute, did you happen to notice on your way in that half the fucking building burned down last night?’
‘She needs to be with me when I take him down.’
Donaldson paused while he processed the ‘she’ Greg was referring to.
Kate.
‘Or when he burns you alive.’
Greg kept quiet.
Donaldson drummed his fingers on the table, loud.
‘All right. Matthews will bring it to you. After that you stay together. Where he goes, you go. You take a piss, he takes one too. Got it?’
Greg managed a smile. ‘I have a shy bladder.’
Donaldson smiled back. ‘Then don’t drink anything.’
‘Where is he, by the way?’
‘Where do you think he is? He’ll meet you at Reedmoor after you’re done.’
Greg got up to leave.
‘Try not to break any more hospital equipment.’
Greg spoke as he exited through the doorway. ‘No promises.’
As the door closed behind Greg, Donaldson regarded his phone. No return call from Greg’s ex yet, though she’d been seen exiting the Yard shortly after the explosion with her bodyguard. He didn’t blame her for being cautious, already on her way back to Birmingham according to the email she’d sent in the early hours. He’d thought about telling Greg, but there was no need to worry him. Not yet, at any rate.
As he stared at the phone, a thought occurred. He made the call. ‘Stevens? Yeah, hurts like hell. Listen, can you track down the bodyguard from Birmingham who was with Greg Adams’ ex-wife yesterday? Come back to me when you’ve located him.’
Donaldson stared at the clock. He’d give Stevens three hours. Until midday. Then he’d start to worry.
In the meantime… He glared at the mountain of paperwork on his desk and wondered how it had survived all those flames.
Greg rolled his Subaru into the visitor’s car park at Reedmoor and walked the rest of the way to the outer security station. He was given a special pass and let through the barriers. Once inside the complex, he didn’t go through the security X-ray machine as usual. Instead, he was invited to walk around it.
The red carpet treatment.
Collins met him just outside the main entrance by the large wooden doors. Gaunt and upright, Reedmoor’s governor still had an ageless intensity. Rumour had it he could outstare serial killers, make them blink. Yet a lorryload of shit had gone down on Collins’ watch, including The Torch somehow escaping and another inmate being burned to death, because that’s what must have happened. Greg and others had definitely seen a fresh, charred-beyond-recognition corpse at the time. Rickard must have switched the dental records. Rickard had also been able to create some kind of network of serial killers, right here, under Collins’ nose. Greg doubted Collins would retain his position as governor for very long. When word got out about The Torch having escaped, the Home Secretary would need to offer up a sacrificial lamb for the press and social media. Collins’ white-haired scalp would fit the bill nicely.
Collins got straight to the point. ‘Greg,’ he said, offering his hand, shaking it thoroughly. ‘What an awful business this has been, for you personally: Rickard; your ECT treatment… I honestly don’t know where to begin.’ He let go of Greg’s hand, and lowered his voice. ‘I heard about the arrest warrant issued last night for Tobias Jones. Is it true? I can scarcely believe it.’
‘Let’s talk inside,’ Greg said.
‘Of course.’
As they walked to Collins’ office, they passed the corridor leading down to the ECT room. Greg quickened his pace and had to squeeze his hands into fists to stop them from shaking. He relaxed once Collins closed his office doors.
Collins studied Greg for a moment. ‘Do you need a drink?’
He shook his head. ‘No, let’s do this. First, Tobias Jones. His staged death. Tell me how it happened.’
Collins was prepared, he’d been up most of the night checking through the files. He’d been on leave when the fire in The Torch’s cell had occurred, out of contact on a deep sea fishing expedition in the Caribbean which, in retrospect, was far too convenient to be a coincidence. One inmate had been burned beyond recognition, another burned and hospitalised. This second victim – sectioned the week before by Rickard no less – had been due for release the very next day, and so was briefly hospitalised before being discharged… into Rickard’s care, ostensibly to avoid post-traumatic stress, and also to cover the stand-in governor’s arse in case of a lawsuit. Rickard had evidently doctored files and records to cover everything up, but truth was nobody looked too deeply. Everyone was glad Tobias Jones had met the same fate he’d meted out to his victims.
All in all, well played.
‘By the time I was back,’ Collins summarised, ‘everything had been handled. The Home Secretary wanted it to go away, and the second man, whom we now know to have been Jones, was in the wind.’ Collins looked miserable. ‘I should have seen it.’
‘Seems like everything was tied up with a neat bow by the time you returned.’
Collins looked distraught. ‘I should have felt it in my gut. Instinct counts in this business, as you of all people know.’ He brightened a little. ‘Still, it’s good of you to come by and inform me personally.’
Greg hated being the bearer of bad news. ‘There’s more. Is Dr Chalmers still here?’
Collins’ features tightened. ‘Cleaning out his office. Thi
ngs are going to go very hard for him.’
Greg nodded. ‘I need a favour from him.’
Collins leaned back in his chair. ‘You’d better tell me everything, Greg.’
Greg assumed that Chalmers, the psychiatrist who had subjected him to seven brain-sizzling sessions of ECT, would be sheepish, recalcitrant, apologetic. None of it. Instead, the man who had broken his medical oath and practically fried Greg’s brain was angry, plain and simple. Under different circumstances, Greg would have been interested to hear the perverse rationale Chalmers was telling himself in order to remain the aggrieved hero in his own version of this scenario, but Greg had zero interest in that today. Additionally, he had to focus hard on not punching him square in his smug face.
‘Mr Adams, come to gloat?’ Chalmers retained his arrogant dignity, standing fast in his doctor’s white coat, stethoscope folded in his top pocket. His stoic, chiselled features, along with his imperturbable expression, all telegraphed a simple message: I did no harm.
Greg surveyed Chalmers’ near-emptied office, full of half-packed boxes. A single framed photo hung on the wall, of him graduating in Psychiatry from University College London. Rickard was in the back row.
Small world.
Chalmers followed Greg’s gaze and cleared his throat. ‘I had no idea. I mean, about Rickard. You have to understand,’ he said.