by J. F. Kirwan
Here we go.
‘He led me to believe that you were–’
Greg didn’t want to hear it. ‘Save it for the court.’
Chalmers lips quivered, almost unnoticeably, but to Greg it was something.
‘Court?’ Chalmers said. ‘I assumed there would be a medical tribunal.’
‘Well, you know what they say about the word “assume”.’
Chalmers began putting the rest of his files into an open box. ‘I’m sure when they hear–’
‘Three to five years in prison,’ Greg said. ‘Minimum. Like it or not, you’re an accomplice to Rickard. He’s dead. The courts can’t punish him. And The Torch is walking free.’
Chalmers crumpled into his chair, the bluster gone out of him. He looked up, a harrowed expression in his eyes. ‘I had nothing to do with any of that,’ he cried. ‘I have a wife and children, for God’s sake.’
Greg didn’t fancy the survival chances of Chalmers’ marriage. But despite what Chalmers thought, he hadn’t come to gloat.
Chalmers face was almost on the desk, as if the weight of the world was crushing him.
Greg decided to put an end to this mini-psychodrama. He drew no comfort, let alone enjoyment, from Chalmers’ predicament.
‘I’ve come to make you a once-only offer, Chalmers, to reduce your sentence. You’ll be struck off and serve one year, but it will be a non-custodial sentence. Community service.’ That last part had been Donaldson’s idea. A nice touch.
Chalmers was practically on his knees. ‘Yes, yes, whatever it is, I’ll do it. What… what do you need me to do?’
‘I’ll start with the most urgent item.’
Chalmers stood up, waiting.
‘I need you to wake The Divine from his coma.’
An hour later, Greg left the office as Chalmers snatched up his doctor’s bag and hurried after him. Greg’s mind had been turning all night, and one of the motes in his head had finally latched onto Rickard’s cluster, triggered by something Anushka had said: Isn’t it a bit stupid putting all those serial killers in one place? Greg had mentally added the caveat: only if they got together, which technically couldn’t take place. Wrong. Rickard had been the bridge connecting them. Greg had originally assumed The Painter had been the mastermind behind everything. But it wasn’t really his style. This whole arrangement had been out of his league. It had to be someone who was at heart a strategist, a visionary.
They stopped outside a locked room in Wing H. ‘Arthur Frensham’ was the name on the door. An ordinary name. His self-labelled soubriquet was infamous, however. The Divine. Greg recalled capturing him a year ago, saving the girl while losing Kate. He’d also recalled one of the original clues The Divine had left at the third murder scene, one they’d never understood.
The Apostles will follow.
Greg was now sure The Divine had masterminded these killings, orchestrated the escape of The Torch, and tutored Rickard in the darkest of arts. Greg was glad he didn’t have Kate’s Colt with him yet, it would tempt him to give history a late course correction.
He paused. On the other side of the door was The Divine’s cell, his electronically secured home and cage this past year, its lone occupant in a coma, apparently. Greg believed otherwise. Chalmers swiped the door’s magnetic lock open and they entered the low-lit room containing a single hospital bed with a computer tablet at the end showing his vital signs. One chair, one tiny table, one frosted and steel-wired window, and one of the most intelligent serial killers Greg had had the misfortune to come across.
He’d aged in the past year. He looked positively frail, harmless, peaceful. White-haired, his face and forearms mottled by liver spots. In his late seventies. Not long for this world.
‘Wake him,’ Greg said.
Chalmers put his bag on the table and opened it up, fishing around inside as he spoke. ‘As you requested, I studied the medication record and his monthly blood tests, and you were right, there were anomalies, traces of other drugs.’ He grew almost enthusiastic. ‘I believe Rickard was keeping him in a superficially vegetative state, one from which he could be occasionally roused.’
‘Only by Rickard.’
Chalmers nodded. He flourished a syringe and a small glass bottle. ‘It’s risky,’ he said. ‘I don’t know the precise levels and mixture of drugs Rickard used. This,’ he said, indicating the bottle, ‘is my best guess. But he is very weak,’ he said, pointing at The Divine. ‘There’s a chance–’
‘Will he ever come out of coma without this?’
Chalmers shook his head. ‘No, on that point I’m sure.’
‘Then he has nothing to lose. You, on the other hand, have something to gain. Donaldson has agreed, and has the support of his superiors.’ Not entirely true; that last part was a work-in-progress.
Chalmers nodded quickly. ‘Right, yes.’ He jabbed the needle through the thin plastic cap on the bottle and extracted a dose, squirting a thin jet vertically from the needle to ensure there were no air bubbles inside. He swabbed The Divine’s elbow crease and injected him.
‘How long for it to work?’ Greg asked.
‘I’d say ten minutes. If it’s going to work at all. If he doesn’t go into cardiac shock.’
‘Fine. You may leave. Don’t forget the second task. Collins is waiting for you.’
Chalmers left to go to speak to his replacement about releasing Finch’s boyfriend, Simon, explaining that it had been Rickard’s influence all along that had kept him locked up. Collins would countersign the release form. Greg had promised Finch he’d do what he could, and right now he had maximum leverage.
He glanced once at his watch, pulled up the metal chair, and sat next to the man who’d killed six teenage girls in as many days. In the US such a killer was called a ‘spree’ serial killer, as if it was somehow temporary. Greg had never been convinced that The Divine was ‘done’ and had only let it go on account of the coma.
Which had been a lie.
‘Rickard, is that you?’ The Divine’s voice was sluggish, weak.
‘No,’ Greg said.
The Divine tried to lift himself, gave up, then squinted to see his visitor.
‘Ah, Gregory, I’ve been expecting you. In fact, you’re somewhat late.’ His voice quickly regained the iron Greg recalled from the few amateur recordings The Divine had made concerning his ‘doctrine’, for want of a better word, found after his arrest. Greg had listened to those tapes over and over, trying to understand The Divine’s true motivation. In them, he enunciated each word. What was it he’d said? ‘Words have power only if you sharpen them.’
‘Whose idea was the coma?’ Greg asked. He’d suggested the coma was a sham, though medical tests suggested it was genuine. The Divine had spent years in Tibet studying various esoteric meditation practises, including self-induced trances. Greg could have disproven those, given time. But he hadn’t counted on Rickard’s prowess with exotic and rare drugs.
‘Not mine, I assure you. Each time, a little death. I never truly know if I will awaken.’
‘When did Rickard first wake you?’
‘Is he dead, or in custody?’
Greg wondered if he should lie, and if in doing so whether it might lend him some leeway during this interrogation, because that’s what it was, albeit a year overdue. But there had already been too many lies.
‘Dead,’ he said. ‘By his own hand.’
‘And you are here because?’
Greg checked himself, momentarily wondering if he did have an ulterior motive. He glanced down at the bottle and syringe.
‘I need to understand it all,’ Greg said. ‘What’s been going on. I think I know, but–’
‘You want to make sense of madness. Why don’t you look in the mirror, Gregory? You are more like us than not.’ His leathery hand lifted from the bed, as if he was going to make a point, then it flopped down again. He gasped, short of breath. ‘And if it is madness, why look for reason? No one else does. These places exist precisely becaus
e there is no explanation other than madness. Rather tautological, don’t you think?’
Greg knew what The Divine was doing, trying to get inside his head. But Greg needed answers, or at least corroboration. And yet he had struck a nerve. Greg needed to believe there was some reasoning, no matter how distorted, underlying all this carnage.
‘I’ll tell you what I think has been going on,’ Greg said. ‘And you can tell me where I’m wrong.’
No response. From the limited profile they had of The Divine, that meant tacit acceptance. Greg began.
‘Rickard interviewed The Painter, ostensibly for his book or for therapeutic reasons, or both. In reality, he needed someone to talk to about his own dark side. Ideally, he wanted to talk to you.’ Because amongst serial killers, you are a king.
‘Throughout my life I have always been exactly where I needed to be,’ The Divine said.
Greg paused a moment, parked that statement for now, then continued. ‘Rickard found a way to induce coma and then rouse you, and sometime later brought you all together. Maybe not physically, though maybe he managed it once or twice. But this little group held you as its leader, and you hatched a plan.’
‘Ah, you feel the need for there to be a grand plan, don’t you, Gregory?’
Greg ignored the jibe, which he reckoned was designed to put him off track. For here was the crux of the problem. There was a grand plan, but Greg couldn’t see it. He gave it his best shot.
‘To frame me for two murders, to free The Torch. To–’
‘You’ve gone off-piste, dear boy.’
Greg had guessed as much. ‘Which part?’
‘All of it. None of it. You’re not seeing the big picture.’ The Divine shook his head ever so slightly, as if having to deal with a simpleton. He had registered an IQ of 194, the same as the chess grandmaster, Kasparov. He’d even joined Mensa in his youth, but apparently had become bored with the so-called ‘genius’ club.
‘How many of us did you put away, Gregory?’
‘Six.’
‘Didn’t it strike you, or anyone else at New Dullard’s Yard, that there had been a significant upswing in the number of serial killings during the past decade?’
It had. They’d not known what to make of it, other than to play it down.
‘Perhaps you thought it was a by-product of television and cinematic media, creating copycat serial killers? Killers doing what everyone else in society was doing, creating brands?’
That theory had been laid on the table, but Greg had scotched it, saying you can’t create true serial killers that way. Something Rickard had grasped only at the end.
The Divine was scrutinising him. ‘I believe you do know, Gregory. You’ve known all along, but your mind won’t let you face it.’ He flourished a dry, open hand towards Greg. ‘I wonder. Did your beautiful wife ever see it in you? Did you ever let her see it, Gregory? Did she ever wonder how you got six of us? Takes one to know one, and all that.’
Greg didn’t want to go there. ‘Why did you free Tobias?’ he asked.
The Divine’s pale blue irises bored into Greg. ‘Really? That’s what you want to discuss?’
‘Really,’ Greg answered.
The Divine did his best to shrug. ‘Very well. It wasn’t easy faking his death, you know. Aside from finding a suitable victim on the outside, sectioning him, having him scheduled for release, swapping the dental records…’ He waved a hand, as if in fact that had been the easy part. ‘The main problem was Tobias himself. He insisted on being there to watch the wretch burn. Rickard had to drug Jones. Collins became suspicious after the dust – or should I say ash – settled, so to speak, and started paying far closer attention to Rickard’s activities.’
‘You’re avoiding the question,’ Greg said, ‘which was why you wanted him to escape.’
The Divine smiled enigmatically. ‘Two reasons.’
‘One was to kill me. Eventually.’
The Divine prodded Greg’s arm with a bony finger. ‘That’s what I believe is called a no-brainer. And you are too good at catching us. It would have been better if you had swung for two murders, the media would have loved it, though that part of the plan clearly had too many moving parts. But rest assured, Tobias will kill you. Everything is on track.’ He winked. ‘The grand plan, you know.’
‘The second reason?’ This was the part Greg couldn’t yet see.
‘What is the most interesting piece on a chessboard?’
A classic serial killer non sequitur. The most interesting piece on a chessboard? Greg could think of several…
Suddenly The Divine’s head jolted upright, like a turtle’s head poking out of its shell. He stared upwards, then towards the frosted window. ‘What’s wrong with the lights?’ he said.
Greg did a double take. ‘There’s nothing wrong with the lights.’
Those terribly pale blue irises suddenly looked vulnerable. ‘I… I don’t feel right. Something’s… Wait, please tell me you found Rickard’s formula for waking me?’
‘No,’ Greg said. ‘What’s that got to do–’
The Divine’s head slumped back onto the pillow. ‘We have a problem,’ he said, his gaze returning to the ceiling. ‘Rickard told me the drug had to be just right, and that each time he used it, it strained certain blood vessels in the brain, weakened them.’
Shit.
Greg hadn’t considered such a possibility. Nor had Chalmers. Sure enough, a drop of blood began building at the base of The Divine’s right nostril.
‘Little death becomes big death,’ The Divine said, his voice losing its power. His eyes closed slowly.
Greg grabbed his shoulder, shook him. ‘The grand plan. What is it? You don’t have much time.’
It seemed to wake him up. ‘It doesn’t rely on me anymore, you see. Alfred Ellerton had the right idea, you know. But he recruited Rickard. An error of selection, one might say.’
‘The Torch. What’s his role?’
But The Divine’s eyelids fluttered. The drop of blood ran down his cheek towards his ear. ‘Out of time, dear boy. Out of…’ He clutched Greg’s wrist with clammy fingers, then the breath went out of him, his hand slipped back onto the bed, and his eyes closed. His chest rose and fell slowly, rhythmically, his face serene, the grandmaster serial killer submerged somewhere deep inside.
When Chalmers returned, Greg was sitting alone with his thoughts.
‘It’s done,’ Chalmers said. Then he noticed his patient. He walked over to the peaceful, softly breathing body, and inspected the dried streak of blood on his right cheek. He lifted The Divine’s wrist, took his pulse, opened an eyelid, and shone a pencil torch onto his pupil. He then opened both The Divine’s eyes and tilted his head left and right. Greg guessed he was looking for the doll’s eye reflex. Chalmers finally walked over to the computer tablet recording The Divine’s vitals, fiddled with it a while, then came back around and sat on the edge of The Divine’s bed, facing Greg.
‘What happened?’ Chalmers asked.
‘He said that unless we had the precise drug formula, his brain would haemorrhage.’
‘Well, he was right. Our resident serial killer mastermind has gone from a metabolic comatose state to a structural one.’
‘He’s not coming back, is he?’
‘No. Unless as a vegetable. We could do an MRI, but he’s very weak. If we try these types of drugs again, it will certainly kill him. We’d need to know the exact dosage history, titrations used… and we simply don’t.’
Greg stood. ‘Let’s go and see Collins.’
‘What about him?’ Chalmers said, pointing at The Divine.
‘Up to you,’ Greg replied. ‘Officially, he was in a coma before, and now he’s in a coma again. I don’t know about you, but I have little to say on the matter.’
Chalmers paused, as if debating it in his head. Then he picked up the bottle and syringe, deposited them in his bag, and cleaned up The Divine’s face and ear with a swab and a little alcohol.
‘Right,’ he said. ‘Collins’ office.’
Collins wasn’t alone. An equally tall but far stockier man stood to one side. Mid-thirties, he looked hollowed-out, though there was still a spark behind dark eyes fringed by wild, goat-black hair. He seemed distracted, elsewhere. Greg could easily imagine the man before him out in the mountain passes, listening and constantly watching for snipers. More likely, right now, he was waiting for orderlies to take him away for ‘treatment’. Greg could relate to that.
‘This is Corporal Simon Masters,’ Collins said.
He didn’t look like a handshake-guy, so Greg simply nodded, while Chalmers studied the window. Simon stared at Greg, as if trying to gauge if he was a hostile, or a friendly. Then those fierce black eyes tracked across to Chalmers and narrowed.
Collins’ voice sharpened. ‘Sign here, Chalmers.’
Greg noted he’d not called him ‘Doctor’.
‘You may leave,’ Collins said, once Chalmers had signed the document. Collins waited until the doors had closed behind his former employee, and Greg found that he, too, was relieved. He’d never have to see Chalmers again, not even in court. Knowing Donaldson, he’d make sure that Chalmers’ community service would be in Maida Vale. Greg might bump into him cleaning the roads.
Collins addressed Simon. ‘You are hereby officially released.’
Simon flinched, as if suddenly awakened from a dream. ‘Where do I go?’ he asked, his voice deep, smooth.
Greg stepped in. ‘I’ll take you to Finch.’
Simon again looked at Greg. After a moment, he nodded.
‘Good,’ Collins said. ‘Mr Masters, would you mind waiting outside a moment? I need to finish some business with this gentleman.’
Simon walked out, cautiously, as if waiting for someone to jump out from behind the furniture and tell him it was all a bad joke and drag him back to his cell.
Once gone, Collins spoke. ‘Are you going to tell me what happened?’
Greg shook his head. ‘He was in a coma when we arrived, in a coma when we left.’
‘I see,’ Collins said. He got up and walked around his desk. ‘We don’t need The Divine to tell us that Jones is coming for you. You were the one who worked out where he was. You alone saw the pattern in his killings, and how he selected his victims.’