by Max Manning
Checks into Ince’s background had uncovered a surprisingly positive story. The only child of a single mother, he grew up on a rough estate in Barnet, north London, spent a few years in care. As a teenager, he’d kept out of trouble, except for one arrest for stealing beer from a supermarket. He was let off with a caution, and from that day set his sights on joining the police.
Vale closed her eyes and rubbed her eyelids with her fingertips. He didn’t fit her profile, or the typical profile of a serial killer. Maybe Ince was just an exception? One thing she had to admit, his performance under interrogation demonstrated a special talent for blending in, for deceiving. Behind that almost boyish mask of innocence and confusion lay a skilled manipulator.
She grabbed her pen again and added a final paragraph to her interview plan.
Appeal to Ince’s ego. Expose the secret narcissist. Hint at admiration for his achievements. Praise his organisational skills and daring. Phrase a few questions in a way that highlights the media interest in the case, and the public’s fascination with his internet posts. Eventually, he won’t be able to resist taking the credit and will tell everyone who will listen what a genius he is.
Vale looked at the clock on the wall opposite her desk. If she left now, she’d be home by 10.30 p.m. Her headache was easing off. With luck, a good night’s sleep would see her restored to full health. She’d email DCI Tobin a copy of her interview advice first thing.
She didn’t often drive to work, but her office came with its own parking space, which came in handy when she knew she’d be staying late. Putting her notes and her mobile phone into her leather briefcase, she switched off her office light and descended the stone steps that led to the back of the building.
60
Blake strode down Ludgate Hill, his breath curling like wisps of smoke from his lips, the huge, illuminated dome of St Paul’s Cathedral dominating the skyline behind him. Dodging the traffic, he crossed Farringdon Street, Perry Lee’s words repeating in his head like a mantra. ‘He wasn’t the Detective Ince who took the security camera footage. Didn’t look nothing like him.’
Halfway up Fleet Street, he turned into Wine Office Court and ducked into the Star. The bar was packed. Fenton was already waiting for him, seated at a rickety, dark wood table supping a pint of beer. Blake pushed his way through the crowd and slipped into the seat opposite Fenton, where a full pint waited for him. Without saying a word, he picked up the glass and took a long swig. When he’d finished, he wiped his lips with the back of his hand. ‘I needed that,’ he said.
Fenton got straight down to business. ‘Do you think this Perry Lee is telling the truth?’
Blake shrugged. ‘He’s got no reason to make this stuff up. Like I told you, he saw the mugshot on the television and realised it wasn’t the detective who came to his café.’
‘You know what this means?’
‘It means we’ve got a big problem.’
Fenton sized up the nearest group of drinkers, to make sure he wasn’t going to be overheard. ‘It means that there’s a good chance that Ince isn’t the killer. It means that the police have got the wrong man. We gave them the wrong man.’
Blake took another sip of beer and mulled over the possibilities. ‘What if Ince had an accomplice? Maybe the murders are the work of two men.’
Fenton shook his head. ‘It’s highly unlikely. Serial killers rarely work that way. They’re lone wolves.’
Blake knew Fenton was right. ‘But what about the knife? And the phone?’
‘Think about it,’ Fenton said. ‘There’s only one explanation.’
Blake already knew the answer. It’d been lurking in the back of his mind since Lee called him, but he’d pushed it away. ‘He was set up.’
Fenton nodded, picked up his glass and drained it. ‘You’ve got it. Top marks.’
Both men stared at each other as the significance of the situation sunk in. ‘There’s one thing I don’t understand,’ Blake said. ‘How did the killer know we’d find the stuff he planted?’
‘He didn’t know. He probably had a plan to lead the police to Ince, but because the café owner told you about the camera footage, we were ahead of the game. Well, we thought we were.’
Blake had to admit it made sense. With his help, the killer had struck lucky. ‘What now?’ he said. ‘What happens if we go to the police with this? Tell them everything?’
Fenton had been asking himself the same question. ‘They’re not going to take our word for it, that’s for sure. They’ll need to speak to Perry Lee. Interview you about breaking into Ince’s flat. Speak to me about working on the case with you.’
‘So, I’ll be charged with burglary and you’ll be kicked off the force?’
Fenton lifted his empty glass, stared into it for a few seconds and put it back on the table. ‘That’s about it,’ he said.
Blake downed the last of his beer and stood up. ‘Do you want another?’ Fenton shook his head. Blake edged his way through the crowd towards the bar. He was gone a good ten minutes. When he returned, he was carrying two pints. He put one on the table in front of Fenton. The detective said nothing, but nodded his thanks.
‘I’ve been thinking,’ Blake said.
‘Why doesn’t that surprise me?’
‘I was wondering how the killer planted the evidence in the flat.’
‘He probably did what you did. In through the back door. It can’t be that difficult if you managed it.’
Blake ignored the insult. He was too busy thinking. ‘Maybe there is a way to sort out this mess.’
‘Such as?’
‘Catch the real killer.’
Fenton shook his head. ‘It wouldn’t be right to keep this information from the police. If the killer’s still out there it wouldn’t be ethical to keep this to ourselves. He could be ready to kill again.’
‘You said yourself that even if we give the police everything we’ve got they’re unlikely to believe us until they’ve completed a thorough investigation. Going it alone could mean the killer is off the streets before he kills again. Surely, that would be justification enough?’
Fenton gave Blake a curious look. ‘I agree that if we genuinely believed we could find the killer quicker than the police, then maybe that would be the way to go.’
Blake smiled for the first time since he took Perry Lee’s call.
‘I take it you’ve got an idea?’ Fenton asked.
‘Damn right I have.’
61
Belinda Vale opens the door to a blast of cold air. She steps into the darkness, turns, closes the door and locks it.
She walks quickly to her car, sighing as she slides behind the wheel. Pulling her seatbelt across her body, she starts the engine, switches on the headlights and reverses in a gentle arc. A grinding noise causes her to stop. She tries again. The grinding is even louder.
Banging the palms of her hands on the steering wheel in frustration, she climbs out of the car to check the back of the vehicle. The nearside tyre is flat. A six-inch gash in the rubber.
‘For fuck’s sake,’ she shouts. She stands in the dark for a few seconds, taking deep breaths. Pulling her mobile phone out of her jacket pocket, she decides it’s too cold and too dark to wait outside. She walks back to the door, unlocks it and steps inside. As she turns to shut the door it swings inward, smashing into her shoulder, spinning her around.
She staggers, breaks her fall with outstretched arms. Something snaps in her right wrist, but she ignores the pain, scrambles up and runs to the stairs.
Halfway up she misses her footing and sprawls face down. A hand grasps her left ankle. She cries out, more in fear than pain, and looks over her shoulder. She recognises him immediately. With that recognition comes two thoughts. One. My profile was right all along. He’s a perfect match. Two. I’m going to die.
He has her ankle in his right hand and a mobile phone in his left. He aims the camera lens at her face. ‘I’m going to make you a star,’ he says.
62
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Walking along Cannon Street, heading east, Blake was oblivious to the glittering beauty of the city at night. He had only one thing on his mind. If he was right, they had a chance to unmask the real killer. He’d explained his plan to Fenton and they agreed to give it a try. Tomorrow couldn’t come quick enough.
The last Tube trains had long gone, but the heart of London never stops beating. The streets were still busy with revellers looking for another late bar. Blake turned up Old Broad Street, Perry Lee’s words still ringing in his head.
Ahead, a large crowd milled around the junction with London Wall, the air thick with voices. Blake thought about taking a diversion down Great Winchester Street, but curiosity got the better of him. Edging through the mêlée, he reached a single line of police tape stretched across the road. Two police constables and one police community support officer, all of them wearing stab vests, were doing their best to stop people breaching the fragile barrier.
Several members of the public were yelling about having last trains to catch, and every so often one plucked up the courage to duck under the tape and sprint across the road towards Liverpool Street station.
Blake caught the eye of the youngest police constable and offered a sympathetic smile. Relieved to see a friendly face, the young man wandered over.
‘Looks to me like you could with a bit more manpower,’ Blake ventured.
The police officer nodded. ‘It’s always the same nowadays. The thin blue line is so thin it’s bloody anorexic.’
It wasn’t funny, but Blake laughed. Everybody felt good when their attempts at wit were appreciated. Even policemen. The officer smiled and Blake took his opportunity. ‘What’s going on up there?’ he asked, nodding into the distance where an impressive display of flashing blue lights lit up the darkness.
The constable looked uneasy and took a step back.
Blake wasn’t about to give up. ‘I don’t suppose the top brass bother to let you know what’s going on. Get you and your mates to do all the hard work, but tell you nothing.’
The constable frowned. He didn’t like the suggestion that he was so far down the pecking order his superiors would treat him with disdain. Blake decided to change tack and rely on flattery. He’d always found that the younger police officers responded well to a bit of admiration. They join up as idealists. After a few years of daily exposure to the worst elements of society they turn into cynics.
‘Anyway, as far as I’m concerned, you guys at the cutting edge do a great job. That’s what I think. I love all that police drama stuff on the TV. Can’t get enough of it.’
The constable looked over his shoulder to make sure his colleagues were coping and stepped closer. ‘All I can tell you is there has been an incident at the roundabout near the Barbican. We’ll open the road as soon as we can.’
Blake turned away. It had been worth a try, he thought. He started to head back the way he’d come when an uneasy murmur rippled through the crowd. Everyone was staring, dumbfounded, at the screens of their mobile phones.
A gangly teenager in a furry hoodie waved his screen in his girlfriend’s face. She squealed and pushed the phone away. The disgust on her face filled Blake with dread. He pulled out his mobile and googled I, Killer. Blake’s heart rate surged at the sight of a Reuters newsflash. I, Killer beheading on YouTube. Hands trembling, he navigated to the YouTube trending page. The video topped the list and had already clocked up 223,557 views. He pressed the screen.
Vale sits on what looks like her office chair. Her hands are tied behind her back, her mouth gagged with grey duct tape. A large rectangular piece of card is taped to her chest. Written on it in capital letters are the words I MESS WITH MINDS. A man walks into shot and stands behind her. His face is obscured by a black, full-face motorcycle helmet. He puts his right hand on Vale’s head and lifts his left, holding a black handled hunting knife to her neck. With a nod to the camera, he starts.
Blake’s throat tightened, he turned away from the screen and gasped for breath. Legs buckling, he staggered across the pavement, sat down on the kerb and threw up in the gutter. He wiped his mouth with his sleeve and looked at his phone again. The video had been replaced by a still image of a head impaled on a stake at the edge of a roundabout.
Blake released his hold on the mobile and let it fall into the vomit.
63
Fenton waved his warrant card at the security guard and waited for her to raise the car park barrier. He flicked off the headlights, turned up the heating and drummed his fingers on the steering wheel while she called through to reception to report his arrival. The sun had not yet risen and a layer of morning frost framed his windscreen.
The red pole lifted with a clunk and Fenton drove to his usual parking space. He’d been awake, but still in bed, when Assistant Commissioner Patricia Hall called. He’d done his best to sound surprised when she told him that Ince couldn’t be the killer. There had been no need to fake shock when he heard Belinda Vale’s fate.
He stepped into the lift and pressed the button for the fourth floor. Hall had wanted to see him as soon as possible. He’d made it clear that he wouldn’t consider leaving Tess on her own unless the twenty-four-hour guard was restored. Hall immediately arranged for a patrol car to blue-light its way to his home.
Fenton wondered what could be so urgent. He thought it highly unlikely that Hall wanted to reinstate him. If she’d found out about his involvement with Blake’s investigation he could kiss his career goodbye.
One thing he knew for certain. The murder of Belinda Vale would have set off alarm bells all the way up to Whitehall, even as high as Downing Street. The killer was making fools out of everybody. The door to the assistant commissioner’s officer was open. Fenton stepped in. Hall sat at her desk, her hands steepled beneath her chin, her brow furrowed. ‘Close the door and sit down,’ she said. ‘I haven’t got a lot of time. I’ve a media conference to attend in a couple of hours and I need to prepare.’
Fenton sympathised. The press would be scenting blood. ‘Why am I here?’
Hall peered over her glasses across the desk. She looked a decade older than when he last saw her. Her face greyer than her hair, her eyes dull.
‘You’re here because I need you,’ she said. ‘DCI Tobin is standing down. He has no choice. A simple case of go before you’re pushed. I’ll be announcing at the press conference that I’ll be taking personal control of the investigation.’
By the expression on her face, Fenton guessed she hadn’t volunteered for the job. I bet she’s still in pain from all that arm twisting, he thought. It made sense though. Putting an assistant commissioner in charge was one way of showing the press and the public that the force was determined to sort this mess out once and for all. The big drawback was that Hall had no significant experience investigating murder cases.
She smiled wryly, as if she’d read his thoughts and agreed with them. ‘We’re not bringing you back to the team. We can’t be seen to be going backwards. But it’s been decided that you should act as a consultant. Someone who I can talk the case over with, if and when I deem it necessary.’
For a brief moment Fenton considered telling her about Blake, his anonymous call to the murder helpline, and their new line of investigation. But he said nothing. If he was going to put his career in jeopardy it’d be better to do it from a position of strength.
It’d be easier to admit what he’d been up to if he could hand over the killer at the same time. Hall read his silence as reluctance. She put her hands flat on the desk and pushed herself up in her seat. ‘I want your help because I value your ability. You know why we took you off the case and that it had nothing to do with your performance. Even so, I had a hard time persuading colleagues to let you back anywhere near this investigation. Don’t let me down.’
‘Don’t get me wrong,’ Fenton said. ‘I’m happy to help, but how exactly is it going to work?’
Hall sighed, her thin frame sagging in her chair. ‘You don’t have to come into the
office. It might be better if you didn’t. We don’t want the press making something negative out of this. I’ll keep you up to date with what’s going on and when I need advice I’ll call. As simple as that.’
‘What’s happening with Ince?’
Hall screwed up her face. ‘Detective Constable Ince will be kicked off the force. He’ll be charged with improper use of our databases, and maybe even with stalking. It seems he was set up for no reason other than to make us a laughing stock.’
Fenton shook his head. ‘There’s more to it than that. The killer arranged this whole thing as a demonstration of his cleverness. I doubt he ever intended Ince to be convicted of the murder. He’d hate the thought of anyone else getting the credit for what he’d done. He thinks he’s some kind of genius and wants everyone else to believe it.’
Hall picked up a pen, scribbled a note and sneered. ‘So even though he’s a psychopath who loves nothing better than hacking off his victims’ heads, he’s really quite a sensitive little shit.’
Fenton gave her a moment to calm down. He had a good idea what she was going through. Pressure from the press. Pressure from her superiors. Pressure from politicians. Stress like that takes its toll. ‘Putting on a gory public display at a busy roundabout in central London is pretty risky. Surely the killer was caught on CCTV?’
Hall said nothing. Instead she adjusted the angle of her computer screen so both she and Fenton could see it and clicked on a video file. The footage showed a steady stream of cars, and the distorted glare of headlights, snaking around the roundabout.
Fenton could see nothing untoward. He leant forward in his seat and looked across at Hall. She raised a bony finger and pointed it at the screen. ‘There,’ she said. A single headlight came into view approaching at speed along High Holborn. As the motorcycle neared, Fenton could see the rider wore a full-face helmet. Fixed to the back of the motorcycle was what looked like a pizza delivery box, strapped to the box a short wooden stake.