by Max Manning
Leah was the first to crack. She turned away and continued walking to her car. More than anything, the man’s stillness had disturbed her. It was only when she reached her car and slid behind the steering wheel that she realised she’d been holding her breath. She emptied her lungs with a loud sigh and looked through the passenger window. The man was still there. Still motionless. His hands tucked into the pockets of his black overcoat.
She started the engine and drove off. The traffic was slow-moving, but she was glad to be on her way. Driving north along the perimeter of the green expanse of Wanstead Flats, she found herself thinking about Blake, something she’d been doing more and more recently. He was good-looking in a rough-around-the-edges kind of way. They had chemistry. That was undeniable. But chemistry isn’t everything. Lauren had seen the good in him. She’d wanted to save him. When it had become clear he didn’t want to save himself she gave up.
Leah made a mental note that she needed to meet Blake and Fenton soon, to bring a formal end to their arrangement. They’d done what she’d asked them to do. Unmasked the killer. Now it was up to the police to hunt Ray Partington down.
The further west Leah drove, the more congested the traffic became. As she reached the outskirts of Stratford, the clouds opened and dumped their rain. Big, fat raindrops pummelled the windscreen. Leah switched on the wipers, but for a split second she was driving blind. The downpour slowed the traffic to a crawl. An image of Partington’s face slid into her mind and she shivered. It was hard to believe that the man who’d treated her so sensitively at the press conference had killed Lauren and the others.
Murderous hands had helped her to her feet. She’d been comforted by a deceiving smile. A wave of repulsion swept through her, and tears of anger coursed down her cheeks.
69
Running in the rain isn’t a problem, as long as you run fast enough to generate the energy needed to keep warm. Slow down, or stop, when you’re soaked and you’re in trouble, as evaporating water droplets steal the heat from your skin.
The downpour had lasted no more than a few minutes, but its ferocity left Blake drenched to the bone. He slowed down as he approached Grove Road, and crossed into the western section of Victoria Park. The route around the park’s perimeter was usually a big draw for runners, but that afternoon Blake had it to himself. Everybody else had been warned off by the dark clouds shrouding the east of the city.
It wasn’t that he needed to run. He needed to think. He’d spent the morning reading the stuff Partington had posted after killing Vale, and his mind was churning with questions.
Delving into Partington’s darkness scared him. It made him wonder if he had the capacity for evil himself. Does evil fill the void in the absence of good? Blake shivered. He picked up his pace as he approached the north end of the boating lake. He was never going back to that place, he told himself. He was never going to leave a void again.
Once he’d left the park, it took him ten minutes to run home. He spent another ten minutes in the shower, standing motionless as the hot water stung his skin. He dressed quickly, grabbed a bottle of beer from the fridge and sat down with his laptop at the kitchen table. Blake opened the file Fenton had sent him and started to read. Somewhere, there had to be a clue to Partington’s next move.
After a few minutes, he stood up and walked to his bedroom, slid the wardrobe door open and pulled out a cardboard box. It was full of reporter-style notebooks. Most of them had been used and were full of notes he’d made while researching assignments. He took one from the middle of the pile and flicked through it. The scrawl was a mixture of longhand and shorthand. Nobody else had ever been able to make sense of his notes. The memory made him smile.
He rifled through the pile until he found a blank one, grabbed a ballpoint pen from the bottom of the box and returned to his laptop. A copy of Partington’s last message was still on the screen. Blake flipped the notebook open. We were so close and he sensed we were coming, Blake thought. He read the message again, this time aloud . . . bring her back and kill her again. Plain crazy. But not to Partington.
A knock at the door disrupted his train of thought. He considered ignoring it in the hope that whoever it was would go away, but the caller knocked again, louder and more urgently. On his way to the door he checked his watch. It was early evening. He wasn’t expecting anyone and didn’t like surprise visits. The thought crossed his mind that a visit from Leah wouldn’t be an unpleasant surprise, but when he opened the door Fenton stepped in without waiting for an invitation. ‘We’ve got a problem,’ he said.
Blake led him into the kitchen without asking what the problem was. He opened the fridge, took out a beer and offered it to his visitor. Fenton shook his head and waved a hand impatiently. ‘Didn’t you hear what I said?’
Blake put the bottle back and closed the fridge. ‘I heard you. I’m waiting for you to tell me what’s up.’
‘Someone’s sent me an email.’
‘Wow. You’re so popular. I’m jealous.’
Fenton scowled. ‘It was from a generic address and said “Cubitt Town. The Dutton Hotel. Room 107. I, Killer”.’
‘And you believe it? You don’t think it’s some idiot winding you up?’
‘I don’t know what to believe.’
Blake sat at the kitchen table, nodding for Fenton to join him, but the detective stayed pacing around the room. Blake switched his laptop off and closed it.
‘Why would Partington hide in a hotel on the Isle of Dogs? Every police officer in the city, no the country is looking for him. The Dutton Hotel is less than ten miles from his flat.’
Fenton shrugged. ‘It’s close to City Airport. There are daily flights to the continent.’
‘So, let’s check it out. What’s the big problem?’
Fenton stopped pacing and sat down opposite Blake. ‘The problem is I should call this in and let the Yard take care of it.’
‘Well. Do it then.’
‘That’s the problem.’
‘What problem?’
‘I don’t want to call it in. I want to check it out myself. If Partington is there I want him. I want him badly. My career’s shot anyway. I’m not coming back from this. I might as well go out in a blaze of glory.’
Blake grinned. Fenton had fire in his belly after all. ‘Have you got your car?’
Fenton nodded.
‘And what about your daughter?’
‘Sleeping over at a neighbour’s, but the uniforms know and they’re guarding the house.’
‘What are we waiting for then?’
Darkness fell fast. Each autumn day shorter than the last. Blake’s Mile End Road flat was only five miles from the hotel, but the traffic was bumper to bumper. He looked out of the passenger window and watched the haphazard streets of east London slide slowly by.
Fenton took his left hand off the steering wheel and switched on the radio. The lead item on BBC Radio 4’s eight o’clock news was an update on the I, Killer murder hunt. It ended with Assistant Commissioner Patricia Hall insisting that Partington’s capture ‘was only a matter of time’. The second item was a story about Syrian refugees drowning off the coast of Turkey. Fenton turned the radio off.
‘Did you read the reports?’ he asked.
Blake nodded. ‘The man’s messed up. He’s not going to stop killing until he’s behind bars, and even then he’ll be a danger to other prisoners unless he’s in solitary confinement.’
‘That passport he used to rent the flat next to Ince’s was his father’s,’ Fenton said. ‘He added his photo and doctored the birth date. By all accounts he was a nightmare child, but eventually managed to fool one foster couple. They adopted him. He took their name, changed his ways, they financed him through university to do, guess what? A computer science degree.’
Blake thought about what Fenton had said. It had suited Partington to hide his evil, bury it deep for all those years, letting it multiply like a virus. He thinks he can do it again, but he’s not in control an
y more.
The traffic congestion eased as they turned left on to Commercial Road and Fenton accelerated. Blake stared at the headlights cutting through the darkness. They turned sharply on to Marsh Wall. They were ten minutes away from the hotel. Blake couldn’t stop thinking about Partington playing the perfect son. ‘What about the adoptive parents? Do they know what he’s done?’
Fenton flashed Blake a sideways look. ‘Would you believe Geoffrey and Jean Partington died in a fire at their home? The apple of their eye dropped out of university after a year and was back at home looking for a job. He was out the night the house burnt down. No definite cause was ever established. Police put it down to an electrical fault. They had no natural children. He inherited a pile of money.’
‘Lucky boy.’
The Dutton Hotel was an ultra-modern, five-storey glass and steel building in Cubitt Town, an area of the Isle of Dogs named after a former mayor of London. Fenton pulled into the hotel car park and found a space close to the main entrance. The two men approached the revolving glass door in silence, Fenton leading the way as agreed. He was a senior police officer, and he looked like a senior police officer. He waved his warrant card at a smartly dressed young woman behind reception.
‘Detective Chief Inspector Fenton, I need to speak to your manager, please.’
The woman’s smile faltered a touch. ‘Can I ask what this is about, sir?’
Fenton stiffened his jaw and gave her a stern look. ‘I’m investigating a serious crime and need your manager here right now.’
The receptionist dashed into the glass-walled office behind the counter and picked up a telephone. Blake, standing a couple of steps back like a well-trained subordinate, was impressed with Fenton’s performance. It was a big improvement on his effort at the lettings agency. The guy was a fast learner.
A couple of minutes later a short, slim man in his forties strode across the lobby and introduced himself as Joseph Cook, the night manager.
Fenton got straight down to business and explained that he needed access to room 107. After tapping away at the keyboard of her computer, the receptionist confirmed that a Ray Bishop had booked into the room two days ago. She’d been on duty and remembered him as tall, with cropped blond hair.
Blake caught Fenton’s eye. ‘Lauren’s surname. He can’t resist playing games.’
The night manager took the lift with them to the second floor and led them to the room at the far end of the corridor. Blake stepped up to the door and raised his fist. Before he could knock, Fenton pulled him aside.
‘This isn’t a great idea,’ he said, lowering his voice to a whisper so the night manager couldn’t hear. ‘Partington’s killed four people. Neither of us is armed. This isn’t the most sensible way of doing this.’
‘I don’t do sensible,’ Blake said, stepping back to the door and rapping hard with his knuckles three times. ‘Anyway, I’m pretty sure there’s nobody in.’ He waited a few seconds and knocked again. The room was silent.
Blake stretched a hand out to the night manager, who passed him the master keycard. He opened the door and stepped into the room. Fenton followed, signalling to the night manager to stay put.
It was a standard, mid-range hotel bedroom. A double bed, a television, a table, two chairs and a bathroom. There was no sign of Ray Friel, or Ray Partington, or Ray Bishop. Fenton walked over to the window, which had a good view of the office block across the road. It was late, but all the floors were still lit, and he could see several people working at their desks.
The room was clean. The only sign that it had been occupied was the unmade bed. Blake poked his head into the bathroom and beckoned Fenton over. A half-empty bottle of what looked like hair dye lay on its side in the sink and the floor tiles were littered with strands of dark hair.
When they emerged into the corridor, the night manager was standing with his hands behind his back, a nervous look on his face.
‘It’s empty,’ Blake told him. ‘I don’t think your guest will be coming back.’
‘But Mr Bishop hasn’t checked out yet. He hasn’t paid his bill.’
Blake shrugged and walked back into the room. Fenton followed and stared out of the window. ‘Do you think it’s definitely Partington?’ he asked.
Blake sat on the end of the bed. ‘It’s possible he sent you the email. It can’t be a coincidence that the man who booked in used the surname of Partington’s first victim.’ Fenton turned back to face Blake. ‘What’s he up to? He should be keeping his head down.’
Blake thought for a moment. He tried to put himself in Partington’s shoes and work out what he’d have to gain, other than the satisfaction of pulling their strings. The answer he came up with sent his pulse rate into orbit.
‘He wants to distract us. To know where we are. To make sure we’re not somewhere else.’
The colour drained from Fenton’s face. ‘What are you getting at?’
Blake stood up. He knew he was right about this. ‘He’s going to kill again. Tonight.’
Fenton took his mobile out of his jacket pocket, all fingers and thumbs as he frantically punched in his daughter’s number. It went to voicemail. ‘Hi, Tess, it’s Dad. It’s late so I guess you’re in bed asleep. If not and you get this, ring me back, please.’
‘It’s not your daughter,’ Blake said. He could see in Fenton’s eyes that he wanted to believe him.
‘How can you be so sure?’
‘Because I know who it is. The last I, Killer message. He wants to resurrect Lauren, bring her back to life and kill her again. He can’t do that, but what’s the next best thing. He’s going to kill Leah.’
Fenton nodded slowly as Blake’s words sunk in. His response was to lift his mobile and dial his neighbour’s number. The call went to voicemail again. ‘Hello, Tina, it’s Dan,’ he said. ‘When you get this message please double-check that the officers who were on duty outside my flat have shifted to your place. If not call me back straightaway.’
Blake had been waiting patiently. He understood Fenton’s concern for his child, but his patience was running out. ‘We need to move,’ he said, sprinting into the corridor. He barged by the bemused night manager and headed for the lift, Fenton close behind him.
The lift door was already open. Blake stepped in and pressed the ground floor button. Fenton slid in as the door closed. ‘Millennium Drive is only a half a mile from here. I’ll call Leah to warn her once we’re in the car.’
‘I’m not coming,’ Fenton said.
Blake thought he must have misheard. ‘You what?’
‘I’m not going with you.’
‘What are you talking about?’
‘I’m driving home. I need to know Tess is safe.’
‘I told you. It’s Leah. He wants to recreate Lauren’s murder. He used their surname to book the room.’
The lift stopped and the door opened. Both men stared at each other.
‘I’m sorry, but I can’t risk it. Partington got to Tess once before, remember?’
Blake tore his mobile out of his pocket, glanced at the screen, then back at Fenton. ‘Do what you have to do, but call the police first.’ He ran out of the lift and across the lobby, his mobile clamped against his ear.
70
Blake ran across the car park, slowing at the exit to study a map of the area on his mobile. He tried phoning Leah, but the call went to voicemail. He turned left and ran at a steady pace along Stewart Street, the cold night air stinging his lungs.
In his prime, Blake would have made it to Leah’s flat in under two minutes. He’d be lucky if he made it in three. After a few hundred yards, he cut right then turned left again into Manchester Road. The pavement was wider, the street busier and better lit. According to the map, it was a straight run from here to Leah’s street.
He checked his phone’s screen again. It showed he had a quarter of a mile to go. He was already sweating heavily, his shirt sticking to his back, the palms of his hands damp. It wasn’t all the result of ph
ysical exertion.
Up ahead, a couple holding hands stopped as they spotted him running towards them, and crossed hurriedly to the other side of the road, throwing nervous glances at him as he passed.
Blake clung to the forlorn hope that he might be wrong. That he’d misread the clues. But there was a twisted logic to Partington’s fantasies. Despite the fact that his legs were screaming stop, he lengthened his stride. I can’t let this happen, he told himself. Not again. He lifted his right arm and wiped the sweat from his eyes with the sleeve of his jacket. Up ahead, under an orange street light, a road sign marked the entrance to Millennium Drive. He slowed a little and tried to calm his breathing. He needed to save some strength.
At the sign, he turned left, and then left again. Leah’s flat was in the first low-level block on the right. He crossed the road and approached the entrance. Still catching his breath, he found Leah’s name on the intercom panel and pressed the button. There was no response. He pressed it again, holding it down for several seconds. Still no response.
He turned to the door, jammed his palms against it and pushed. It gave way a little before springing back into place. The bolts and hinges had been weakened by years of constant use. Blake had the strength to force it. He knew it would almost certainly set off an alarm and decided that would be a good thing. He took two steps back and shoulder charged the door. It gave way with an ear-splitting crack, the wood around the lock splintering into jagged shards.
Blake’s momentum carried him through. He ran to the staircase and bounded up the stairs, the electronic howl of a security alarm ringing in his ears. When he reached Leah’s flat, he found the door fractionally ajar. That was the moment all hope left him. Someone had picked the lock and deliberately not closed the door behind them because they wanted to keep their approach silent.
Blake had no need, or time, for stealth. He gripped the door, flung it aside and charged in. He turned into the living room and stopped dead. He was too late.