Now You See: A gripping serial killer thriller that will have you hooked

by Max Manning

  They both watched in silence as the rider pulled up beside the roundabout and dismounted. The killer quickly, but calmly, used his bodyweight to twist the wooden pole into the ground. He lifted the head from the pizza box and unceremoniously rammed it on to the stake, before getting back on the motorbike and riding off. From start to finish, the whole thing had taken six and a half minutes.

  Fenton sat back in his chair. ‘No one wondered what was going on? Nobody challenged him?’

  Hall shrugged. ‘I don’t suppose anyone realised what was happening until he’d gone.’ She balled her bony hands and rubbed her eyes. ‘The killer must have broken into Ince’s flat and planted the phone and murder weapon behind the bath panel. I’m guessing it was him who made the call to the murder helpline.’

  Fenton nodded. ‘You’re probably right,’ he said. You’re definitely wrong, he thought. ‘The killer selected Marta Blagar to teach me a lesson because he didn’t like what I said about him. It’s possible he chose Vale because her psychological profile wasn’t to his liking. Ince is out of the frame, but it’s still likely that the killer is someone close to the operation. Vale’s profile has never been made public. Only someone connected to the investigation would have access to it.’

  Hall steepled her hands. ‘There’s no definite evidence that the killer has seen the profile, but I’ve asked for a list of everybody who has had access to it. I’m also sending a forensic team back to Ince’s flat. We know someone broke into the place to plant the evidence, right?’

  Walking back to the lift, Fenton considered calling Blake to warn him that the police were about to descend on Dagenham, but decided against it. He’d be meeting him in a couple of hours anyway. They were still one step ahead of the police investigation. A small step.

  64

  Blake followed the lettings agent through the door and up the stairs. The layout matched the flat next door. The rooms seemed bigger because they were sparsely furnished and free of clutter.

  The agent, who had introduced himself as Ricky Dean, wore a cheap grey suit and had such bad acne his face resembled a pizza. He waved an arm with a flourish towards the living room window.

  ‘You got a lovely view of old Dagenham there, mate. All the hustle and bustle of east London. Check it out. Take your time. I ain’t in a hurry to get back to the office.’

  Blake wandered across to the window. The view consisted of a fried-chicken shop, a couple of vacant retail units and an off-licence protected by a security grille.

  He hadn’t slept the previous night. He’d climbed into bed with his laptop and scoured the news websites for stories about Belinda Vale’s murder. The papers had all picked up that the psychologist had been working on the I, Killer case, and several suggested that everyone working on the investigation should be considered possible targets. The sessions with Vale had stopped him going over the edge after the loss of Lauren. Now she had been taken too.

  Blake walked over to the bedroom and pushed the door open with his right foot to avoid leaving fingerprints on the handle. The room was empty. The rotting floorboards exposed. ‘I think I’ve seen all I need to see Ricky,’ he said. ‘What’s the rent on this place?’

  Ricky tapped the keys of his mobile phone and waited for the information to appear on the screen. ‘We’re asking for five hundred and fifty pounds a month. I reckon if you offer four hundred and seventy five it’ll be accepted.’

  ‘The money won’t be a problem, but I have a question about the previous tenant. You said he moved out a couple of weeks ago. How come the place looks as if it hasn’t been lived in for months?’

  Ricky grinned and bounced on the balls of his feet. ‘Yeah, that was a bit weird. We let it out to this guy for three months, but I don’t think he stayed here more than a few nights, if that. Maybe he was using it as a shag pad. Lucky sod.’

  Blake walked towards the stairs, nodding slowly. ‘Do you remember his name?’

  Ricky stared into space as he tried to remember, the cogs moving so slowly you could hear them squeak. ‘Something like Friar, I think. We’ve got all the paperwork at the office anyway.’

  Blake put a hand to his stomach and grimaced. ‘Would it be okay to use the bathroom? I think I’ve got a bit of a bug.’

  ‘Knock yourself out, mate. It’s going to be your place soon, anyway.’

  Blake bolted the door behind him and checked out the ceiling. The loft hatch was where he’d hoped it’d be. ‘Sorry Ricky,’ he shouted. ‘I may be some time.’

  He ran the hot-water tap and flushed the toilet, stepped on the edge of the bath and put one foot on the sink. The dimensions of the room were exactly the same as the flat next door. Blake slid the loft hatch to one side and hauled himself into the roof space. He stood up and rested a hand on a low rafter to steady himself. Once his vision adjusted to the darkness, Blake slowly edged his way towards the water tank and dividing wall, taking care to place his feet on the wooden joists. When he reached the tank, Blake dropped on to one knee and took a close look at the dividing wall.

  On the other side, he’d seen what appeared to be a hairline crack running vertically from the top to the bottom of the partition. Even in the dark Blake could see that someone had used a serrated blade, maybe even a small hacksaw, to slice through the plaster board.

  It would be easy for someone to swing the cut section out like a door, enter Ince’s loft, and wedge it back into place on their return. Blake clenched his right fist and punched the air. Returning to the hatch, he pulled the panel back into place as he lowered himself into the bathroom. He flushed the toilet again and washed his hands, wiping them dry on his jacket, unbolted the door and pulled it open. Ricky stumbled on to the threshold.

  ‘Are you all right, mate?’ he spluttered, his face burning with embarrassment. ‘I was worried about you. You were in there a while and I realised there wouldn’t be any toilet paper or nothing.’

  Blake smiled. ‘I’m much better. A touch of gut-rot that’s all. Let’s get back to your office and tie this deal up, shall we?’

  Ricky glanced at the toilet, twitching his nose like a sniffer dog. ‘All right,’ he said and headed for the stairs.

  65

  The walk back to the lettings agency took them ten minutes. Following Ricky through the glass door, Blake saw Fenton showing his warrant card to a plump woman with a bob of blonde hair.

  Fenton turned and beckoned Blake over. ‘This is my colleague, Adam Blake. I’m sorry he couldn’t be honest with you this morning, but as I’ve explained we’re investigating a very complex and serious crime.’

  Spotting the name badge on the woman’s left lapel, Blake stepped forward, smiled easily and offered her his hand. ‘We’re very grateful for your help, Janice,’ he said. ‘My apologies for posing as a potential customer, but it had to be done.’

  Janice took his hand and squeezed rather than shook it. ‘You could have come to me as the manager and explained the situation.’

  Blake widened his smile. ‘Like I said, I am sorry, but there are legal difficulties around this investigation that would have made that awkward.’ He looked at Fenton hoping for support and received a baffled expression in return.

  ‘Have you still got the previous tenant’s paperwork?’ Blake said.

  ‘Of course. It’s all on computer nowadays.’

  ‘That includes proof of identity?’

  ‘That’s right. It’s a new law that came in a year or so ago. We have to check that tenants have a right to rent in this country so we need to see a passport, or driving licence. You know, something with a photo.’

  Blake looked at Fenton and smiled. ‘You take copies of these documents?’

  The manager rolled her eyes: ‘Obviously. Didn’t I say that? We scan them in and upload them on to our computer. Give me a minute and I’ll get them up.’ She plodded over to her desk, sat down and tapped furiously at her keyboard.

  Fenton stepped closer to Blake and whispered: ‘How do you know about this stuff?’
<
br />   ‘I need to know about it. I’m a landlord.’

  ‘I take it you were right about the loft?’

  ‘Of course I was right.’

  Blake turned to Ricky and patted him on the shoulder. ‘Thanks for your help, but we’re done. Janice is sorting us out.’ The young lettings agent bowed his head and walked slowly into the back office.

  Both men walked over to the manager’s desk and stood behind her. ‘I’ll be with you in a second, gents,’ she said. She opened a folder tagged ‘scans’ and the screen loaded with files. ‘These are listed as property addresses, rather than names, because I’m terrible with names.’

  Fenton’s heart raced as he bent forward to get a better view. The manager opened a file near the top of the screen. ‘Bingo,’ she said.

  Fenton and Blake found themselves looking at a copy of a standard British passport opened at the photo page.

  ‘That’s right, I remember now,’ the manager said. ‘Peter Friel, that’s his name. He was a real sweetie.’

  Fenton and Blake weren’t listening. They were fully focused on the photo. The image was grainy and few years old, but they were looking at a face they’d both seen before.

  66

  Am I mad or bad? Some would say both. Others would argue that if I’m mad I can’t be bad because I’m not in my right mind. If I don’t know the difference between right and wrong, I can’t be held responsible for my actions. Bullshit.

  I am not mad. I am not bad. I am dangerous.

  I’ve been playing a dangerous game. It’s been interesting, but it’s getting to that time when I have to complete my mission.

  The time is near for me to do what I did all those years ago. I need to shed my skin again and slide into the undergrowth.

  The problem is, so far, nothing has matched the joy of my first kill. The lovely Lauren still dominates my thoughts. I’ve tried so hard to recreate that feeling. Maybe it’s like first-love syndrome. I wouldn’t know.

  I don’t like having to accept that I can’t do something. If I need to kill Lauren Bishop again, then I’ll find some way to do it. My brain is already working on it. I feel something stirring, deep inside.

  67

  Discovering the identity of a serial killer is no mean feat. Blake wasn’t expecting a financial reward, to be hailed a hero, or even a pat on the back, but a thank you would have been nice.

  Instead, he found himself sitting in the same police interview room where he’d been questioned twice about Lauren’s murder, under the watchful gaze of a red-haired female police constable.

  He’d spent the past two hours with Detective Sergeant Daly, detailing the events leading up to the moment he and Fenton found the photograph of Ray Partington. Throughout the interview, the detective ignored Blake’s questions about the press officer, then left without comment.

  Blake understood that the police wouldn’t be overjoyed that he’d beaten them at their own game. In the end, all that mattered was that Partington had been exposed, flushed out like a spider forced from the darkness of its den.

  The door opened and Fenton walked in carrying a coffee in a plastic cup. He was followed by a grey-haired woman wearing a uniform similar to the constable’s except for the crown and commander badges on the epaulettes.

  Fenton gave Blake a nod and handed him the coffee. ‘Thought you might need a drink,’ he said.

  Blake took the coffee and placed it on the table. He said nothing. He was pissed off and he wanted them to know it. The older officer sat down opposite Blake. She wore a rigid expression, her nose wrinkled as if she had a bad smell under it.

  ‘This is Assistant Commissioner Hall,’ Fenton said. ‘She’s in command of the investigation.’

  Blake didn’t look impressed. That’s because he wasn’t. ‘I’ve been wondering when someone was going to thank me. Now I know why it’s taken so long. You’ve been waiting for an officer of suitable superiority to become available. How nice.’

  Fenton opened his mouth to speak again, but Hall twitched her thin lips and raised a hand to silence him. ‘I assure you, Mr Blake, that I’m grateful that you have discovered the identity of the killer. However, I’m afraid to say that knowledge came to us a bit late. Partington must have known you were getting close. He’s vanished. Gone to ground. So you see why we’ve been too busy to congratulate you on your amateur detective work.’

  Blake glanced up at Fenton. ‘He’s done a runner?’

  The detective nodded. ‘He’s been off work sick for a couple of days. An armed-response unit was sent to his flat in Shoreditch to bring him in, but there was no sign of him. The place was spotless. Sparsely furnished. You wouldn’t think anyone’s been living there. The neighbours say Partington didn’t interact much, but those he did speak to say he told them he was a police officer. A detective.’

  Blake picked up his coffee and sipped. It was weak and tepid. He pulled a disgusted face and took another sip. ‘What happens now?’ he asked. ‘Yeah, he’s bolted, but he can’t hide for ever. We know who he is. What he looks like.’

  ‘We’re doing everything we can,’ Hall said. ‘In the next hour or so the newspapers and television stations will have a photograph of him. The whole country will know his face. We’ve also put airports, ferry terminals and the Channel Tunnel on alert. Of course, if you’d come to us sooner we’d have him behind bars now.’

  Blake suppressed an urge to hurl his half-full cup of coffee at the wall. Not because of what Hall had said, but because she had a point. Instead, he directed his anger at Fenton.

  ‘What have you been doing while I was being interrogated as if I’m some sort of suspect?’

  Fenton didn’t react. He simply stared at Blake as if he were an errant child throwing a tantrum.

  ‘Like you, DCI Fenton has been questioned thoroughly, Hall said. ‘Your statements have been compared and they appear to match. He has a lot more to lose than you. Clearly, you broke the law entering Ince’s home, but you’re unlikely to be charged. DI Fenton’s role in your unofficial investigation will certainly lead to serious disciplinary proceedings. He’s still advising me at the moment but, once we have Partington, he’ll have to face up to what he’s done.’

  Blake didn’t like her use of the phrase ‘unlikely to be charged’. But he knew it was probably not a good idea to argue the point.

  He downed the rest of his coffee and tried to refocus his thoughts on the hunt for Partington. ‘Are you telling me that you’re pinning everything on Partington’s photograph and a public appeal? That’s all you’ve got?’ Fenton looked across at Hall. She gave him a go-ahead nod.

  ‘There is something else we’re working on,’ he said. ‘A few hours ago Partington posted online again. Another fake Twitter account.’

  Blake tensed in his seat: ‘He’s killed again?’

  ‘No. This is different from the others.’ Fenton hesitated as he considered the best way to break the news. ‘It’s about Lauren.’

  Blake stood up, felt his head spin and sat down again. ‘Can I see it?’

  Fenton turned and took a sheet of paper off the uniform. He glanced at it then placed it on the table. Partington had uploaded the headshot of Lauren the police had issued to the press at the start of the investigation. Blake looked down at the wide smile and blue eyes, and his throat tightened.

  The tweet read: Time to bring her back to life. Time to kill again #IKiller.

  Blake looked up at Fenton and frowned. ‘What the hell is this?’

  ‘We don’t know yet. We’re trying to work it out. We’ve got psychologists analysing his background. Hopefully they’ll come up with something. It seems he spent most of his childhood in care. His real dad, Peter Friel, was stabbed to death by his mother.’

  ‘My heart bleeds for him.’

  Fenton shrugged and carried on: ‘It seems he tried to join the Met four years ago, but failed the psychological evaluation.’

  ‘Why doesn’t that surprise me?’ Blake screwed up the printout of the tweet
and hurled it at the wall. ‘Is there any chance your experts can come up with a likely target?’

  Fenton hesitated for a moment and swapped glances with Hall. The assistant commissioner pursed her lips. ‘We were hoping that’s where you might be able to help, Mr Blake,’ she said. ‘DI Fenton thinks you have a special talent for getting inside Partington’s mind. He’s persuaded me to allow you to have access to all our reports.’

  Blake wanted to take what he’d just heard as a compliment, but wasn’t sure that’s how it was meant. ‘Are you suggesting I think like a psychopath?’

  ‘DCI Fenton believes you can. It’s not something to be ashamed of. I wish more of my detectives possessed that ability. After all, you did work out how Partington framed Ince.’

  Blake turned to Fenton and gave him a long, hard stare. ‘Thanks a lot,’ he said.

  68

  Leah Bishop stood beside her sister’s grave, bowed her head and wondered why she’d even bothered to make the journey. Lauren wasn’t there. Wherever she was, she wasn’t in the wooden box buried in front of the white marble headstone. That contained only decaying flesh and bone.

  She had wanted to speak to Lauren, to tell her she was sorry for not being the sister she should have been. They’d been close as little girls, but adolescence brought on a hormone-fuelled sibling rivalry.

  Leah turned away from the memory and headed back towards the car park. A thick blanket of cloud draped over the city, the air still and moist. Rain was on the way, but around the cemetery Leah could still see several people watering pots of flowers they’d placed around their loved ones’ graves.

  Approaching the entrance to the car park, she noticed a man standing in the middle of a row of gravestones about one hundred yards to her left. He wasn’t tending a grave, or reading a headstone. He was looking directly at her. She stopped and returned his gaze. He was tall, with fair hair cropped close to his scalp and, despite the greyness of the day, his eyes were hidden behind a pair of wraparound sunglasses.