by Max Manning
“I’m going to do it, but I won’t need to be paid.”
“You’ll need cash for expenses, surely?” Leah didn’t wait for an answer. She didn’t even pause for breath. Blake sensed she didn’t want to give him the chance to backtrack.
“Let me pay your expenses,” she said. “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 from 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.”
Thirty-Three
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.
Thirty-Four
Detective 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 that 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 gray 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 laughingstock. 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?”
Bell nodded sagely, a tactic he often used when he felt out of his depth. “I believe DCI Fenton can fill us in on that,” he said.
Fenton kept his expression neutral. His boss was a master at passing the buck. “I’m no expert, but I’m told there’s all sorts of software you can use to prevent detection. Even something as simple as moving around to use different public Wi-Fi services will make you hard to track down.”
Hall frowned. “You’re saying nothing can be done?”
“No, I’m not saying that. We have officers out visiting Wi-Fi spots in cafes, restaurants, hotels, libraries even, but it’s time-consuming legwork. I’d be lying if I said it wasn’t a long shot.”
Hall summoned something resembling a sympathetic smile. “And how are you coping with everything?” she said. “It must have been traumatic, finding that poor woman’s head. Don’t forget we have counseling services for officers who feel they need help with that kind of thing. If you haven’t already done so, I recommend you make an appointment.”
Fenton had the distinct impression that she didn’t really care whether he’d suffered trauma. She was simply saying what she thought she ought to say, expertly repeating responses learned at the numerous senior management courses she’d attended while climbing the career ladder.
“I can handle it,” he said. “I’m focused on doing my job.” It was a lie and an unconvincing lie at that. He hadn’t slept for more than thirty hours. Every time he closed his eyes, he saw Marta’s head on the hood of his car. He’d spent the last two nights outside his daughter’s bedroom, listening to her crying herself to sleep. He was exhausted and still suffering from shock. But he wasn’t going to admit it. This wasn’t the time to show weakness.
Bell opened his mouth to speak, but Fenton shut him down with a look. “The killer has changed his pattern to make a point, and that could turn out to be his downfall. Unlike the first two victims, Marta—I mean, Miss Blagar—was selected to specifically get at me. The killer wanted to demonstrate his superiority. His ego is making him take more risks. He’s been so careful up to now. To carry out a decapitation, he must have had much more contact with the body. This gives us a better chance of finding some forensic evidence that’s going to help us track him down.”
The assistant commissioner raised an eyebrow. “So you don’t feel at all responsible?”
“Responsible for?”
“Well, something you said during your last press conference must have gotten under the killer’s skin, goaded him into striking out at your household.”
Fenton was about to point out that they were dealing with a primary psychopath who wouldn’t need a reason to take someone’s head off when Bell jumped in. “I must agree with the assistant commissioner.”
“Of course you must,” Fenton snapped. “You’re a natural born ass-licker.”
Bell’s face reddened as he started to protest, but the assistant commissioner silenced his spluttering with a wave of a hand.
“That kind of language is unprofessional,” she said. “Personal insults will get us nowhere. We have a killer terrorizing the city, and we’re starting to look as if we couldn’t catch a cold in the Arctic.”
“I couldn’t agree more,” Bell said. “The press is havi
ng a field day at our expense. What I was trying to say before you started throwing insults around was that your maverick attitude has backfired big time. I had a complaint from the media office that you didn’t run your statement past them. If you had, they would have advised you to tone it down.”
“I don’t give a shit about managing the press. All I care about is catching this killer.” Fenton waited for another ticking off, but instead, Hall and Bell simply exchanged an uncomfortable glance. An uneasy feeling stirred in Fenton’s gut.
“We all want this case wrapped up as soon as possible,” Hall said. “We’re increasing the size of the investigation team again, and we believe the addition of a psychologist will prove important. Belinda Vale will study the case files to provide a detailed profile of the killer. This type of work has been pioneered by the FBI and has proved invaluable.”
Fenton didn’t look convinced. “Surely, it doesn’t take a genius to come up with suggestions about the personality of a cold-blooded murderer. I can tell you now, he’s definitely a psychopath. He’s probably in his midtwenties, fit and athletic. More than likely he lives in London, has a good job. In his spare time, he’s an evil bastard who loves killing people and gets off on the feel of his blade penetrating their skin and the sight of blood draining from their bodies. And, of course, he was abused or traumatized, or both, as a child, so it’s not really his fault that he grew up like this, is it?”
Fenton forced himself to stop talking. Anger was his natural response to threat. At the same time as satisfying his bloodlust, the killer had threatened both Fenton and his daughter. He’d wanted to make the point that getting to Tess would be easy.
Hall exchanged looks with Bell again. “I have been reviewing the case with Chief Superintendent Bell, and we are both wondering why you haven’t pulled Adam Blake in for additional questioning.”
“He has a cast-iron alibi. The landlord of the South Pole pub has confirmed that Blake was there all night on the evening of Lauren Bishop’s murder.”
Hall lifted a bony hand. “We all know what happened to Blake. Pure coincidence? We’re going to pull him. Question him again. Double-check the alibi.”
Fenton wasn’t used to being told how to do his job. It pissed him off big time. Especially when the person issuing the instructions was right. “I’ll get my team onto it,” he said.
Hall looked momentarily taken aback, as if she’d expected more resistance, hoped for it even. She glanced down at a sheet of paper on the desk in front of her. Fenton guessed she was consulting notes she’d made prior to the meeting, and that added to his growing unease. In his experience, if a superior officer brought a script into a meeting, it almost always meant they were about to break bad news.
She looked up at Fenton and cleared her throat with two short, sharp coughs. “This unpleasant business has been difficult for you, and I know you’d want to make your family, your daughter, your priority. After an internal review of the murder investigations and an assessment of your position, it has been decided to remove you as senior investigating officer.”
Fenton said nothing. His brain struggled to process what he’d heard. He looked to Bell for some kind of support, but his boss avoided his gaze.
Hall cleared her throat again. “It’s been decided that you should take compassionate leave,” she said. “The length of that leave, which starts right now, has yet to be decided. Of course, you will remain on full pay. I stress, this is not a disciplinary action, rather a measure to give you the time and space to recover from the trauma you suffered and to care for your daughter.”
Fenton stiffened, the look of surprise on his face changing to disbelief. “You’ve got to be joking. This is crazy. It doesn’t make sense. Taking me off the case is going to set the investigation back. You’re playing right into the killer’s hands.”
Hall looked down at her notes again. “I’m sorry,” she said. “It’s done. You’re officially on compassionate leave. You’d be wise to make the most of it. Rest and recover, spend some quality time with your daughter. We all know what she’s been through. Losing her mother to cancer and now this. She’s going to need her father.”
Fenton turned accusingly to Bell. “What have you got to say? I assume you knew this was coming.”
“Having considered everything very carefully, I have to agree with Assistant Commissioner Hall.”
“Of course you fucking do.”
Hall clenched her jaw so tightly, the blood drained from her lips. “I’m aware this is not what you expected to hear, so I’m prepared to cut you some slack. This time. But there’s no leeway on this one, I’m afraid. You’re out. It’s been decided.”
Fenton shook his head in frustration. How high does this balls-up go? he wondered. If no higher than Hall, then maybe he had a chance to challenge it. “This is going to stall the investigation at a time when we need to rev it up,” he said. “What the hell do you think the press is going to make of it? They’re going to go to town on it. It’s admitting failure. Who’s going to take my place? Nobody on the team has the experience to run an investigation. This is my case.”
Hall shrugged her narrow shoulders. “It’s not as if you’ve made much progress. Quite the opposite in fact. The papers are already baying for blood. It might be viewed as a good thing that we’re shuffling the pack. Trying something new. A press release will be put out explaining that you are being replaced because of personal reasons. That won’t be hard to justify after what happened. The killer has targeted you and your family. That makes it personal. It wouldn’t be right for you to be involved in the investigation. Surely you can see that?”
Fenton couldn’t see it. He didn’t even want to look in its direction. What he did want to do was catch the man who’d killed Marta. Evil had come too close to his daughter. They’re right about one thing at least, he told himself. Damn right it’s personal.
“This is a big mistake,” Fenton said. “There’s a good chance that my press statement may have forced the killer into making his first error. It bruised his ego. Changing his selection process meant he probably had to hang around, watching my apartment for days, tracking Marta’s movements. He had to follow her, then lie in wait for her. There’s a good chance someone saw him or that he was caught on CCTV somewhere. I’ve got people studying footage from cameras in the area right now. This could be our chance.”
Hall nodded her agreement. “That’s all true,” she said. “Rest assured, your replacement, an experienced senior investigating officer from another division, has already been fully briefed. I repeat what I said earlier. You’re out. At least until this case is over. There’s no going back.” Hall stood up and raised both her hands to signal that she’d had the final word.
The instant the door closed behind her, Bell stood up, walked around his desk, and reclaimed his chair. He puffed out his chest, relieved to be back on the power side of the desk. “I’m sorry, but there was nothing I could do,” he said. “The decision to replace you has been approved at the highest level. I couldn’t do anything to stop it, even if I wanted to. I had no choice but to go along with it.”
Fenton’s shoulders drooped, and he hung his head. Bell was a sniveling asshole, but there was nothing to be gained from telling him something he already knew. Hurling abuse at the toad-faced bastard might well offer a distraction from the guilt he felt about Marta, but that relief would be fleeting. A young woman had been murdered, mutilated, simply to send him a message. Teach him a lesson. An innocent life snuffed out. He wondered why she had thought it necessary to lie to him. The poor girl had never even been to Latvia.
Tess hadn’t attended school since Marta’s murder. She’d barely ventured out of her bedroom. The family liaison officer watched over her while he was out, and the uniformed officers standing guard outside their front door were supposed to reassure her. Instead, they only added to her anxiety. He’d go back, comfort her when she cried, and try
to answer her questions. He no longer had an investigation to run, a team to lead.
Fenton stood and walked slowly to the door. As his fingers slipped around the chrome handle, he turned back to face Bell. “You’re making a big mistake,” he said.
Thirty-Five
Blake stood facing the northern perimeter of the western section of Victoria Park. Directly in front of him was Gore Gate, the entrance from Gore Road. To the right of the gate, he could see the spot where Lauren’s body had been found in dense undergrowth between two mature plane trees.
The late afternoon sun hung low, casting long shadows across the park, the crispness of the air giving a false impression of purity. Blake tucked his hands in his jacket pockets and recalled the news reports on the murder. The police believed Lauren had been killed shortly before dusk.
He imagined her enjoying the softness of twilight as she walked unsuspectingly toward her death. With that image firmly in his mind, he turned and walked toward the center of the park. The light was dimming fast, and he guessed he probably had no more than twenty minutes before the park rangers ushered the stragglers out and locked the gates.
Apart from a couple of cyclists heading west, the half dozen people Blake could see were using the time to exercise their dogs before heading back to their tower blocks. Heading his way, a scrawny black youth in a gray tracksuit was being taken for a walk by a powerful-looking black-and-tan dog with a head the size and shape of a rugby ball. Neither the youth nor the dog gave Blake a second glance.
After five minutes, the path veered east toward a modern, redbrick building with a few wooden tables outside the front entrance. Above the glass, in bold red script on a white sign, were the words Vic’s Café. To the left of the sign, a small, black security camera pointed its lens in Blake’s direction. The tables had been cleared and wiped clean, and inside, the café looked empty, but he stepped off the path and walked to the door. He pushed his face close to the glass and peered in. He could see another group of tables, but these ones were topped with red-and-white-checkered tablecloths.