by Max Manning
‘You shouldn’t be out on your own,’ he says.
The street light behind the stranger forms a halo around his head. She takes a small step back. He takes a big step forward.
‘Don’t be frightened,’ he says. ‘I’m a police officer.’
Marta’s chest is burning. She’s been holding her breath. ‘You are police?’
The stranger nods and takes another step. ‘There are dozens of us out on patrol tonight. You must have heard the warnings. Now where is it you’re going?’
Marta finds her voice. ‘I’m on my way back to Risinghill Street.’
The police officer laughs. ‘We’re virtually there, aren’t we?’
He moves aside and gestures for her to pass. She steps forward, he grabs her neck and slams her against the wall. She cries out, her legs fold and she slides on to the floor. ‘Please no,’ she sobs ‘Smile for the camera’ he says. She blinks up at the mobile phone.
She doesn’t see the hand whip towards her, a black handled blade gripped by gloved fingers.
31
Fenton always tried to eat breakfast with Tess, even on days when he wasn’t able to take her to school. It gave them a chance to talk about things that were important to her, and often a complete mystery to him. He was trying his best to be a mum, as well as a dad, but felt he was failing miserably. More often than not he found himself resorting to nodding, laughing and agreeing thoughtfully in all the right places.
He’d been up since 6 a.m. that morning and had prepared them both scrambled egg and smoked salmon on toast. He slid the plate in front of her with a flourish and a loud ‘Ta-da!’
Tess eyed him suspiciously. ‘My birthday’s months away,’ she said.
Fenton put his plate on the table opposite his daughter, sat down and pulled a mock-hurt face. ‘Just treating my best girl.’ Tess grinned at him and tucked in. The grin warmed his heart and he made a mental note to cook her special breakfasts more often.
Marta had been primed to take Tess to school today because Fenton needed to get into the office early. The onerous task of writing a detailed report on the Ellis Taylor fiasco awaited him, and he wanted to get it out of the way.
It wasn’t going to be easy to explain why they had charged Taylor with two murders he couldn’t have committed, without pointing the finger at Detective Chief Superintendent Bell. Of course, the fool was to blame. He’d been desperate to solve the cases and suck up to the media, but Fenton couldn’t say that. No way. As much as he might want to. Stitching up his boss wouldn’t go down well. Watch each other’s backs. The unwritten rule. The thing was, Fenton knew damn well that he couldn’t trust Bell to watch his. He washed a forkful of scrambled egg down with his coffee. ‘Is Marta up yet?’
Tess nibbled the edge of a bit of burnt crust. ‘Dunno, Dad. Haven’t seen her yet.’
Fenton stood and dropped another slice of bread into the toaster. He was hunting down a jar of marmalade when his mobile rang. He checked the screen and sighed. Daly didn’t make social calls. He shrugged an apology to Tess and answered it.
‘Sorry, sir, but I thought you’d want to know as soon as possible. There’s been another I, Killer internet posting.’
Fenton’s stomach tightened. ‘Shit,’ he said.
‘It’s on the image-sharing site Flickr. A close up of a woman’s face. She’s looking up at the camera and I’d guess she’s pleading for mercy. It’s been up since five a.m. and has already had several thousand views. These sickos must be constantly searching for new I, Killer posts.’
‘Unbelievable,’ Fenton said, more to himself than to Daly. ‘Just a headshot?’
‘That’s right. With a message, of course.’
‘And the message is . . .’
‘If you hunt the hunter, you risk becoming the prey.’
Fenton rolled his eyes at Tess and walked quickly out of the kitchen into the hallway, closing the door behind him. ‘What the hell is that all about?’ he said, not actually expecting an explanation. ‘No photo of a body, no report of a body found?’
‘Not so far,’ Daly said. ‘But the pattern suggests . . .’
Fenton shook his head. In a city like London, teeming with nine million people, predators will always find a victim. ‘I’ll be thirty minutes.’
He ended the call, ran upstairs to his bedroom and grabbed a jacket from the wardrobe. Marta hadn’t shown her face. Probably suffering after her night out, he thought. She needed to get a move on if she was going to get Tess to school on time.
He walked to her bedroom door and knocked softly. No response. He grabbed the handle and thought about going in, but a natural reluctance to invade a young woman’s private space held him back. He was still thinking about it when Tess appeared beaming at the top of the stairs
‘Don’t worry, Dad. We’ve got plenty of time to get to school.’
Fenton backed away from the door and returned his daughter’s smile. ‘All right, darling,’ he said, bending down to kiss her forehead. ‘Have a great day. I’m probably going to be home late tonight, sorry.’
Tess gave a ‘whatever’ shrug. ‘What’s new, Dad? I don’t think you’ve ever not been late back from work.’
Fenton checked his watch and headed downstairs. Stepping outside, he put his hands on his hips and tried to remember how far up the street he’d parked his car. Vehicles of all shapes and sizes lined both sides of the narrow road. He shivered, the cool morning air damp against his skin. He spotted the Ford Focus about fifty yards away, and as he neared it something caught his eye. The front of the vehicle faced away from him, but through the rear window he could see what appeared to be a cardboard box on the bonnet. Bloody vandals, he thought, breaking into a jog. As he drew level with the car’s boot, he got a clearer view and slowed to a walk. The standard brown packing box had been placed upside down, close to the windscreen. Fenton gripped it and slid his fingers underneath. The lid flaps felt loose and slightly sticky. He lifted the box, and stared at the object left on the bonnet.
He turned away, grabbed the handle of the passenger door, bent over and vomited his breakfast into the gutter. Wiping his mouth with the sleeve of his jacket, he raised his head and looked back at the severed head, the blue eyes open and as lifeless as marble.
32
The beheading of Marta Blagar ignited a media frenzy that spread like wildfire.
Within an hour of Fenton’s discovery, the killer had added fuel to the flames by posting a second picture. Blake sat on the edge of his bed, his laptop on his knees, and stared, mesmerised, at the look on the young woman’s face the moment it dawned on her that she was about to die.
In the ‘after’ photograph, a thick layer of blood caked the jagged edge of her neck. Blake swallowed hard and fought the urge to look away from the screen. The facial expression appeared strangely serene, the skin translucent and alabaster pale. From both eyes, dark red trails ran down the cheeks like tears of blood.
Blake slammed the laptop shut, stood up and undressed, dropping his clothes in a pile on the bed. Slipping on a pair of shorts, a vest and trainers, he headed for the running machine. He switched it on and started jogging.
As usual, the electronic hum of the treadmill helped him block out the world and think. He’d been doing a lot of thinking lately.
Since his last session with Vale, Blake had been feeling calmer and less burdened. The beheading of the Romanian nanny had changed something else. As he’d stared at the photograph on his laptop something had shifted deep inside his chest. Of course, the image sickened him. It threatened to unearth too many buried horrors. But, more than anything, it had forced him to think more about Lauren. About her lying on her back, the wound across her neck gaping like a second mouth.
He was sweating heavily now. The beads of perspiration running down his cheeks camouflaged his tears. He grabbed his vest, lifted the material to his face and wiped his eyes. For the first time in a long time he felt driven. Right or wrong, he wasn’t going to stand by and do nothi
ng. Never again. He slammed a hand down on the treadmill’s red stop button and picked up his mobile.
Leah answered the call straightaway. ‘What?’ she said.
Blake didn’t think much of her phone manners, but decided it’d be wise not to voice his opinion. ‘How are you?’
She let out a short sigh. ‘How do you think I am?’
After their last conversation Blake had hoped for a warmer response. ‘Please, Leah. We need to speak. It’s important.’
‘What’s the problem? You sound out of breath.’
‘There’s no problem. We need to talk, but not over the phone.’
She sighed again. ‘What’s so important?’
‘What do you think? It’s about Lauren.’
Leah fell silent for a moment. ‘All right,’ she said. ‘Come over.’
It took Blake thirty minutes to walk to the Docklands. It would’ve been a ten-minute journey on the Underground, but he still couldn’t face descending into the tunnels. He walked along the Mile End Road, taking in the sights, smells and sounds of a vibrant Muslim street market before turning into White Horse Lane. By the time he crossed the congested Commercial Road, he could see the London’s mini-Manhattan in the distance. Canary Wharf’s silver steel and glass skyscrapers jabbed aggressively at the grey clouds lurking over the Isle of Dogs.
When Blake arrived, he found Leah waiting for him on her doorstep, dressed casually in black skinny jeans and a pastel green jumper. She led him down the hall, pointed to the sofa and asked if he wanted a tea or coffee. He declined both. Leah sat in a tan leather chair directly opposite him, perching on the edge of the seat. She didn’t look particularly happy to see him.
‘I’ve been thinking about what you said. About us starting our own investigation into Lauren’s murder.’
She waved a dismissive hand. ‘I remember. You needed time.’
‘What makes you think I can do any better than the police?’
‘I don’t think you can do any worse. I desperately want to do this and I’d hoped you would too. You know how to ask the right questions and who to ask.’
She waited for him to respond. He stayed silent. She dropped her head for a second then lifted it and looked at him. ‘I’ve seen the news. That poor woman.’
Blake shook his head. He wasn’t there to talk about that. ‘The thing is, I can’t stop thinking that if I hadn’t driven Lauren away she’d probably still be alive.’
Leah eyed him sympathetically. ‘Don’t torture yourself. I’ve decided that if you won’t do it, I’m going to find someone who will,’ she said. ‘The police aren’t getting anywhere. If nothing comes of it, then at least I’ve tried. I don’t understand why you’re not as desperate as me to catch this man. Lauren talked about you all the time you know.’
‘She walked out.’
‘She couldn’t stand to see you wasting your life. She said you were too comfortable being miserable.’
The words hit Blake like a slap in the face. ‘She said that?’
‘She desperately wanted to help you, but said you wouldn’t help yourself. Wouldn’t even consider therapy. You need to stop feeling sorry for yourself, get off your arse and do something.’
Blake smiled. For some reason, her anger amused him. ‘Thanks for the advice,’ he said. He stood up and paced to the other side of the room. ‘Actually, I’ve started seeing a therapist. The psychologist they referred me to when I first got back.’
He could tell that the announcement had caught Leah off guard. She glared at him, her eyes wide. Eventually she forced a smile. ‘That’s good. Really good. I’m glad. I really hope it works out for you.’
Blake nodded, relieved that she hadn’t berated him for not taking this step when he was with her sister. ‘It has helped,’ he said. ‘A bit. But, to tell you the truth, I’m not sure whether I’m going back.’
For a drawn-out, awkward moment they looked at each other in silence, both unsure what to say next. Leah spoke first.
‘I think you should carry on with it. That kind of therapy can be incredibly effective.’
Blake held Leah’s gaze as he spoke. ‘You know they made me watch as they hacked off my friend’s head?’
He knew Leah had probably read the newspaper reports, but she recoiled at the words, a look of horror on her face. Blake laughed softly at her discomfort. ‘Don’t worry,’ he said. ‘I’m not going to burden you with the gory details. I just want to explain. I’ve never been able to get what happened that day out of my mind, the terror on Earl’s face. Since Lauren’s murder things have changed. It’s her face I see now before I fall asleep. She was a good person.’
Leah swallowed hard. Blake hoped she was starting to understand why he struggled with emotion, that her sister had fallen for him, hard and fast, at a time when he wasn’t ready to catch her.
‘I’m pleased you feel we can talk like this,’ she said.
Blake took a deep breath. For more than a year now he’d been battling an overwhelming sense of helplessness. That feeling had been replaced by something he couldn’t put a name to. Something powerful.
‘I won’t take any money,’ he said.
Leah stood up quickly, her cheeks flushing pink. ‘Are you saying what I think you’re saying?’
‘I’m going to do it, but I won’t need paying.’
‘You’ll need cash for expenses, surely?’ Leah didn’t want to stop talking in case he changed his mind again. ‘Let me pay your expenses. Anyway, I expect you to do a professional job. A proper job.’
Blake nodded, more to himself than to Leah. ‘Let’s see how it goes. I’ll have to do some research first.’
Leah blinked hard, but couldn’t stop tears rolling down her face. ‘We can do this. I know we can. It has to be on a professional basis though. I’d want regular reports.’
‘I can’t promise anything,’ Blake said. ‘If the police can’t track down this killer there’s no reason to believe it’s going to be easy.’
He stood up and Leah stepped forward and hugged him tight. He felt the dampness of her cheek against his neck and pulled her a little closer.
‘Thank you,’ she whispered. ‘We can do this.’
33
I think Fenton got the message. Loud and clear. Don’t mess with the big boys. Don’t hunt the hunter. Don’t fuck with me.
It was easier to take the head off than I imagined it would be. It helped watching those videos on the internet. A handy way to pick up a few tips on technique. I’m so talented at this killing business it’s frightening. Sometimes I scare myself.
The girl radiated fear. It flowed out of her. There was a moment when the penny dropped and she knew that she was living the last few moments of her life. That’s where the power of the internet comes in. Why the camera is mightier than the knife. I get to share that special moment.
I’m trending on Twitter and going viral on Facebook. Everything is going perfectly to plan. Plenty of people are denouncing me as evil, that’s no surprise. But they’re still drawn, still clicking, still looking.
The media coverage is stirring up fear across the city. Warnings about walking the streets alone at night, more appeals for information. It’s priceless really. When panic spreads through a herd, the chaos makes it easier for a predator to pick off the weak. When people lose their heads, they’re more likely to lose their heads.
The only negative thing about the press coverage is the way the papers refer to me as evil. That’s such a simplistic, naive view. Branding me evil is downright stupid. It can’t be evil to be true to yourself. It’s in my blood, my sweat. Are soldiers who kill when they’re ordered to evil? Is a father, or mother, who kills to protect their children evil? Is a wife, or husband, who puts their terminally ill partner out of their misery evil?
I don’t believe in God or the devil. I don’t believe in atheism. I definitely don’t believe in humanity.
Evil, like beauty, is in the eye of the beholder.
34
De
tective Chief Superintendent Bell squinted across the desk as he tried to smile, but only succeeded in looking as if he was suffering from a bad case of trapped wind. Fenton put it down to nerves. The reason sat opposite them both, her body ramrod straight, her arms folded across her chest.
Assistant Commissioner Patricia Hall had commandeered Bell’s office for the morning meeting and Fenton could feel his boss’s discomfort at having to temporarily surrender his personal seat of power.
‘We have a situation which is running out of control and we can’t allow this to go on,’ Hall said, her voice low and forceful. The assistant commissioner’s grey hair was cropped short. She had a wiry frame and wore a permanent expression of disapproval that reminded Fenton of his old headmistress.
‘We can’t have people being beheaded on the streets of London. The fact that the victim was an employee of the man leading the investigation only makes matters worse.’
Bell shifted on his chair like a fat worm wriggling on a hook. ‘We’re doing everything possible,’ he said. ‘We’re doing our best, throwing everything we can at trying to catch this man and I’m confident we’ll get a breakthrough soon.’
The assistant commissioner threw him a look of disdain. ‘Your best is obviously nowhere near good enough. This killer is fast becoming some kind of twisted celebrity and we’re becoming a laughing stock. I’m informed one enterprising trader is even selling T-shirts with I, Killer printed on the front in blood red, and he’s selling a fair few by all accounts.’
‘That’s sick,’ Bell said.
For the first time in a long time, Fenton found himself in full agreement with his boss.
The assistant commissioner had no intention of letting up. ‘Why haven’t we been able to trace the source of these posts?’