by Max Manning
Vale knew better than to interrupt when one of her clients was in full flow. An imperceptible nod, a sympathetic frown, an interested tilt of the head—these were the tools of her trade. She’d consider jumping in with a question or a subtle prompt only when a pause for breath stretched into an uncertain silence.
“Earl worked for a charity supplying water, food, and medical equipment. I was staying at the camp for a couple of days. On the second night, they came to my tent. Two men dressed in black, both armed with Kalashnikov AK-47 assault rifles.”
Blake stood up and walked across the room. He rested his hands on the windowsill, his back to Vale, and looked out at the cars, crawling bumper to bumper along High Holborn.
“I was blindfolded, thrown into the back of a truck, and taken to a village on the Syrian side of the border. They put me in a hole. A hole dug under the floor of a village house. It took four days for me to stop shaking. On the fifth morning, they brought my usual breakfast of dry flatbread. They also brought Earl Davis. Until then, I’d no idea they had taken him as well.”
Blake pivoted to his right, sat back on the windowsill, and dropped his gaze to the floor.
Vale waited patiently. Eventually, she prompted him with a question. “Did you get to know him well?”
Blake walked slowly back to his chair and sat down. “When you share a hole in the ground with another person for three weeks, you get to know them very well, believe me. We had nothing to do except talk. We had nothing to cling to except each other. We’d run on the spot for ten minutes at a time for exercise. Even then, we’d talk. Talk until we ran out of breath. I got to know more about Earl than I did about my closest friends and most of my family.”
The psychologist glanced at the clock mounted on the wall opposite her chair. She kept her head still, but her eyes shifted slightly. Blake took it personally.
“Sorry, I’m rambling,” he said, rising to his feet. “I’ve used up my time, and you’re busy. I don’t want to keep you.”
Vale stood up quickly. “No, sit down. Please sit down.”
Blake did as she asked and studied the back of his hands.
“How did your captors treat you?”
“They looked after us, I suppose, but only because we were a commodity. I thought they were after a ransom, but it turned out they had different plans.” He stopped talking and clenched both his fists. His forehead glistened with sweat. “Their leader called himself Ghazwan. One day, he announced I had to die, to pay the price for Britain’s foreign policy. He jammed the lethal end of a pistol against my temple. I’m not ashamed to admit that I wet myself.
“Earl spoke up for me. He pleaded for my life. He appealed to Ghazwan’s better nature. The problem was the bastard didn’t have one. He pressed the gun harder against my skull and pulled the trigger. It wasn’t loaded. I collapsed anyway. Ghazwan placed the sole of his boot on the back of my head and ground my face into the dirt.”
Blake faltered. This time, the silence was too painful to be left unfilled.
“I’m so sorry,” Vale said.
“I thought I could do this, but…” Blake’s voice trailed off.
Vale knew better than to show disappointment. She lifted her electronic tablet off her desk and tapped her diary icon.
“Same time next week? Or I can do sooner if you’d prefer.”
Blake shook his head. “I’ll call when I’m ready.”
Twenty-Six
The new, larger incident room buzzed with a controlled excitement. Fenton stood in the doorway and studied his team. At the far end of the room, four civilian support workers sat in a row, taking telephone calls from members of the public, simultaneously logging any information they considered useful on their computers.
In the center, two intelligence analysts scoured national crime databases for past murders, attempted murders, or violent assaults that might be linked to the case. It was a long shot, but Fenton was determined to throw everything at the inquiry. When a third body turned up, and past experience told him that was probably going to be soon, he’d start blaming himself. That was a dark, familiar place. He didn’t want a return visit if he could help it.
He walked to the front of the room where Detective Constable Ince sat on the corner of a desk close to a large whiteboard, flicking through a pile of that morning’s national newspapers. A few still featured the manhunt on their front pages, but most had moved the story on, focusing on I, Killer’s growing social media following. The tabloids were having a field day. Fenton picked up a couple and read the headlines with dismay: INSTAGRAM KILLER IS ONLINE THRILLER and SOCIAL MEDIA FRENZY OVER TWITTER RIPPER.
“How is it you’ve time to read that crap?” he snapped at Ince.
The detective jumped up, a startled look on his pale face. “Sorry, sir,” he said. “I thought it’d be a good thing to keep up with the press coverage of the case.”
Fenton glanced down at the broadsheet newspaper Ince had been reading. He was glad to see that some sections of the press were treating the story seriously. The headline across a lengthy double-page article read IF MURDER WAS A CLICK AWAY, WOULD YOU LOOK? Underneath, a subheading made the paper’s view on the subject clear: Killer’s Growing Celebrity Highlights Sinister Side of Social Media.
Fenton grunted his agreement but was still seething over the tabloid coverage and took it out on Ince. “We’ve got a press office full of men and women who are paid to keep tabs on the press. Let them do their job, and you concentrate on doing yours.”
At that moment, Daly walked in carrying three coffees on a cardboard tray.
“Thanks for joining us, Detective Sergeant. I was wondering when you were going to show your face,” Fenton said.
Daly shot Ince a questioning look. Her boss didn’t usually resort to sarcasm. “Actually, Boss, I did get here a while ago, but thought I’d nip out and get us all a coffee.” She placed the tray on the desk and handed Fenton his drink.
He nodded his thanks, the coffee hot against the tips of his fingers through the paper cup. Taking a sip, he turned and scanned the whiteboard. Mugshots of the two victims looked accusingly back at him, the dates, times, and locations of their murders printed in black marker beneath the photographs.
The bottom half of the board was tellingly bare, except for a single image of a long, serrated hunter’s knife, which the pathologist was pretty sure would be similar, if not identical, to the weapon used by the killer to cut his victims’ throats.
Fenton took one last look at the faces of the victims and turned around to address Daly and Ince. “We haven’t been able to gather any forensic evidence. The killer has been careful to not leave any DNA at the scene, no skin cells, no hairs, no clothing fibers, nothing. This may be simple good fortune. Or it could be the result of meticulous planning. My guess is it’s probably a bit of both as well as being partly due to the fact that neither of his victims had the opportunity to engage him in a struggle before they were killed.”
Daly glanced across at Ince. “We’re going to need a bigger team, sir,” she said. “Preferably detectives with plenty of experience.” She looked pointedly at Ince again. He didn’t rise to the bait.
“That’s already sorted out,” Fenton said. “We’re bringing in more officers. You’re going to be paired up. I want you and Ince to work together.”
Daly swore under her breath.
The detective constable straightened in his seat on hearing his name. “Excellent decision, sir,” he said.
Daly shot him a look and mouthed Ass-licker.
Fenton watched the pair leave the room and checked his watch. He was considering having a word with the intelligence analysts before going home when Partington walked in.
“There you are,” he said. “I’m glad I caught you. Detective Chief Superintendent Bell asked me to prepare a press release announcing that a psychological profiler is being brought i
n. I thought I’d let you know, out of courtesy, what we were doing.”
Fenton scanned the room. Everyone was hard at work. He kept his voice low. “Fuck courtesy,” he said. “I’m the senior investigating officer, and the content of all press releases should be run past me as a matter of course.”
Partington took a moment to adjust his tie. “That’s what I’m doing now. I emailed you a copy of the press release earlier. As you didn’t respond, I assumed you hadn’t seen it. Of course, it won’t go out until you approve it.”
Fenton raised an apologetic hand. “Right, thanks. Sorry about that. It’s been a long day. I thought you were telling me that the press release had already gone out.”
The press officer smiled. “No worries.” He turned to go, but Fenton wasn’t done.
“One more thing,” he said. “Is there nothing we can do online to at least try to counter this fascination with images of murder victims? It’s annoying the shit out of me that so many people find a killer’s handiwork entertaining.”
Partington shook his head. “I know what you mean. But the internet is a lawless environment. Right now, children can access hard-core porn, terrorists can post videos of their crimes, cyberbullies are driving teenagers to suicide, and there is nothing anyone can do about it. The best way to shut down I, Killer’s disgusting fan club is to catch him.”
Twenty-Seven
Detective Constable Ralph Ince sat at a white plastic table outside a coffee shop on High Holborn and pretended to read the sports pages of the Times. A black baseball cap covered his cropped hair, the peak pulled low. Every now and then, his eyes flicked from the newspaper to the door of a Victorian town house twenty yards to his left.
Ince loved surveillance jobs. Secretly watching people going about their business gave him a thrill. It started at secondary school. He found it hard to make friends and would spend his lunch break trailing random people around the town center, making a game of finding out what they were buying and trying to work out what they did for a living. He loved the power of seeing without being seen.
The brass handle of the door rattled, and Ince raised his head a couple of inches, tugging his cap down. His target emerged onto the brownstone doorstep and hesitated before stepping onto the pavement. Ince lifted his expensive cup of coffee to his lips and concentrated on blowing the froth as Adam Blake passed by, heading east along High Holborn.
Ince allowed himself a smile of satisfaction. Surveillance was one of the reasons he’d been determined to get out of uniform as soon as possible. The other thing he loved about spying on people was that you didn’t have to be on duty to do it.
He spent most of his days off following people he considered interesting or suspicious. Sometimes, they’d be total strangers he didn’t like the look of. On other occasions, they’d be people he’d come across investigating a case, and he decided to check them out even if his superiors thought they were innocent. He took another sip of coffee and wiped the froth off his upper lip with a swipe of his thumb. Why people paid good money for shit like this he couldn’t understand. Still, if the best place to stake someone out is a scummy coffee shop, then you have to order a scummy coffee.
He folded the newspaper and pushed it to the other side of the table. Growing up at school, he’d hated sports. Especially team games. He never could kick a ball straight or catch one, and his classmates never hesitated to tell him that he sucked.
He always did his best work alone. Like today. Blake’s alibi had checked out, but Ince believed his bosses had been wrong to rule him out as a suspect. He’d devoted his day off to an unofficial surveillance mission, and his hunch had been proved right.
Blake spent the morning sneaking around the City of London Cemetery and Crematorium, spying on Lauren Bishop’s funeral. That wasn’t normal. In Ince’s mind, it smacked of guilt. He hadn’t been a detective for long, and he’d be the first to admit he had a lot to learn, but he’d heard of several cases of killers attending their victims’ funerals.
From the cemetery, Blake had walked to Stratford, where he’d caught a bus to Holborn. He climbed the stairs to the top deck in search of a seat, while Ince hid in the huddle of passengers standing near the exit doors. The journey to Holborn took fifty minutes. He followed Blake straight to the town house, and the brass plate screwed next to the door revealed the purpose of his visit. If that’s not suspicious, then I’m Jack the Ripper, Ince thought.
He reached for his cup but changed his mind. He didn’t need to pretend to like coffee anymore. He took his cap off and ran his fingers over the bristles on his head. After spending an hour or so researching Blake on the internet, he’d become even more convinced that the journalist needed to be watched closely.
Anyone held hostage by a bunch of fanatics before being forced to witness a friend’s head being cut from his shoulders is going to have issues. Ince also spent time watching the video of the beheading on the internet. He’d watched it over and over again. The footage was grainy, and you couldn’t really see the gory details. But Blake had been right there, on the spot, watching the hooded knifeman go to work on his friend’s neck.
Twenty-Eight
Marta tried her best to hide her delight when her boss arrived home early and told her she could take the rest of the evening off. She didn’t want Tess to see how desperate she was to get away from the house for a few hours.
The two of them had been getting on so well since the incident at the school, and she didn’t want to do anything that might jeopardize their improving but still fragile relationship. She’d put the progress down to their agreement not to tell Tess’s father about the stranger. The intimacy of a shared secret.
She initially declined the offer of a night off, knowing full well that Tess’s father would insist. When he recruited his daughter to his cause, both of them declaring that she deserved the treat of an extra evening out, Marta agreed, surprising herself with her ability to conjure up the perfect mix of gratitude and reluctance.
An hour later, she was sitting at a table in a pub in Finsbury Park, drinking vodka and coke with half a dozen Romanian friends. The Eagle didn’t have a lot going for it. The building’s modern exterior promised more than it delivered. Inside, the decor was stuck in the 1990s.
The rust-colored walls, which had originally been bright orange, clashed with a threadbare, heavily stained green carpet. The whole place reeked of stale beer and stale bodies, and an unusually high percentage of regular customers had a tendency toward violence after a few drinks. There were two good reasons Marta spent time in the pub whenever she got the opportunity. First, the drinks were cheap. Second, most of the Romanians living in that part of North London loved to hang out there. She could be herself, speak her native language, and truly relax. Even so, she couldn’t drop her guard completely. None of her friends knew she worked as a nanny for a senior policeman or that she was living a lie. They all thought she earned her money waiting on tables at a pizza restaurant.
Marta sipped her drink and looked around the table. Her friends—she considered them friends, though she couldn’t allow herself to get too close to them—were all in their early twenties. She watched the two single women and two couples talking animatedly, their voices raised enough to be heard above the clamor of the crowded bar, and smiled to herself. Like her, they were fighting to survive, to build a future. Despite that, or maybe because of it, when the opportunity came along, they loved getting drunk and having a good time.
As she downed the last of her vodka, a familiar figure weaved through the crowd and approached the table. She considered Dorinel Macek tall, dark, and not quite handsome. His eyes were too close together, his nose appeared off center, and his mouth was too wide. Still, there was something about him women found appealing. Marta included.
Macek squeezed onto the bench and handed her a large vodka and coke. “Seems like I have come here in time. You are having not much fun without
me.”
Marta knew he’d lived in London since his early teens. She couldn’t understand why he struggled with the language. The last time they had talked, she had asked him for an explanation. He had thrown his head back and laughed out loud.
“I knew you were not just a pretty face,” he had told her. “You also have a good brain, no? Me, I am a pretty face only.” She had laughed too but didn’t believe a word of it.
She raised her glass to him. “Thank you for this, but if you think I need you around to have a good time, then you are crazy.”
Macek tried to look hurt, but his eyes smiled. The more Marta tried to keep him at arm’s length, the more he worked to wear her down. “I only wonder why a girl like you is not all the time smiling. I think I will make you a happy person, if you give me a chance.”
Macek liked her a lot. You didn’t have to be a genius to work that out. She liked him too and found his persistence flattering, but she was unsure about allowing their relationship to move past flirting. He had already asked her out twice, and both times, she had knocked him back. He’d handled rejection well and refused to give up.
Marta lifted her glass to her lips but didn’t take a sip. They were packed so tightly around the table, she could feel the warmth of his thigh against her leg. If she had too much to drink, she might end up doing something she regretted. Her life was complicated enough. In an ideal world, she would love to be Macek’s girlfriend, but she owed it to her mother and sister to be disciplined. To focus on keeping her job.
She tilted her head and leaned toward him until she could feel his breath on her lips. Being disciplined didn’t rule out having a good time, and she didn’t need to get drunk to enjoy flirting.
“I know how to have a good time, Dorinel,” she whispered. “I also know you could probably make me happy. But should I give you a chance? I’ll have to think about that.”