by Max Manning
Since then, a steady stream of patients had arrived and departed. To ease the boredom, he’d changed his surveillance position every couple of hours, alternating between a bus shelter and the doorway of a pharmacy. Fortunately, both positions were close to a café selling iced doughnuts and cola.
Ince crossed the road and followed the psychologist back toward the Tube station. He slipped into the tide of pedestrians, positioning himself on the fringe of a small group of Japanese tourists dressed as if they were expecting a blizzard. Every few strides, he was able to catch a glimpse of the back of Vale’s head or her black high heels and slim ankles. She was a decent bit of stuff. No doubt about that. She’d be loaded too, Ince thought. Why her patients were willing to pay a small fortune to have her mess about with their minds he’d never know. They needed to get their bloody heads examined.
At the entrance to the Tube station, he stopped and watched her descend the stairs and approach the ticket barriers. Satisfied she was set on catching a Central Line train and heading home, he started walking back the way he had come. His car was parked nearby, and there was no need for him to follow her. He already knew her address. He’d gotten all the information he needed from the police database.
Like all the other officers at New Scotland Yard, he had access to the computer network, but he wasn’t supposed to use it to fish for personal information, especially if his inquiries were not connected to an official investigation. Improper use of the force computer system was considered a serious offense. The thing is, they’d have to catch him first, and he knew how to cover his tracks.
Ince crossed the road and went into the Corner Café. The woman behind the counter saw him approaching and smiled. She’d served him at least four times that day.
By the time he arrived at the counter, she had already placed an iced doughnut in a paper bag. He nodded a greeting and handed her a ten-pound note.
“Make that two doughnuts and a bottle of water please, love,” he said.
She raised her eyebrows and stretched her smile. “No cola this time?”
“Just water. One of the liter bottles.”
As she turned to pluck the mineral water from a low shelf, Ince took the chance to appraise her figure. Not bad, he told himself. Not bad at all. If he weren’t so busy, he’d seriously consider taking her out. She obviously fancied him something rotten. He dropped the change into his jacket pocket and grabbed the doughnuts and water. Pausing at the door, he looked back, flashing the woman a wink. He could still hear her laughing as he climbed into his car.
The drive through the center of the city was slow. Twilight fell, and the sky glowed purple. Ince looked in the rearview mirror and smiled at himself. It had been a good day so far. He’d arranged with Daly that he’d go to Victoria Park and reinterview some of the people they’d questioned after the murder of Lauren Bishop. The plan was that the detective sergeant would stay at the Yard and plough through the paperwork in the hope of turning up something they’d missed the first time around.
Ince had his own plan. Going over old ground with council officials and park traders would be a waste of his valuable time. He’d woken up that morning with a strong feeling that somebody needed to keep an eye on Vale. He alone knew, because of the extra surveillance work he put in on his days off, that she was treating Adam Blake. He couldn’t explain it, but something about that made him feel uneasy.
Ince had half expected Blake to turn up for another therapy session, but there had been no sign of him. He allowed himself another smile at the thought of his boss being booted off the case. Thank God the top brass weren’t totally stupid. Fenton was well past his sell-by date. Time for him to make way for new talent.
By the time Ince pulled up on the east side of the Barbican Shakespeare Tower, the sky was black and moonless. He counted seven stories up and shifted his focus to the corner of the building where he knew Vale’s apartment was located. The light was on in one of the rooms. Ince guessed it was the living area. He fiddled with the lever under his seat and slid back to give himself more leg room. The police pool car was uncomfortable and as draughty as hell. But it was bland and unlikely to attract attention, making it perfect for the job at hand.
He picked the bag of doughnuts off the passenger seat and took one out. Holding it delicately between his thumb and forefinger, he took a large bite before placing it on his lap. The sugar hit his bloodstream almost immediately, and he licked bits of icing off his lips. He needed to exercise control and ration his food. He was there for the night. If he was going to do a job, then he would do it properly. No messing about. Remembering that he’d thrown the water on the backseat, he shoved an arm back and rummaged around until his fingers closed around the plastic bottle. He unscrewed the top, opened the driver’s door a fraction, and poured more than two-thirds of the water into the gutter. Even as a young boy, he’d never liked drinking the stuff. Everybody told him it was tasteless, but they were wrong. It tasted disgusting. He’d bought it because the bottle would come in handy later when he needed a piss.
The window next to Vale’s living area lit up, catching Ince’s attention. It was either a bedroom or bathroom. He opened the glove compartment and took out a small but powerful pair of binoculars. He fiddled with the focus control until he could clearly see the psychologist reaching into a wardrobe and taking out what looked like a silk dressing gown. She put the gown on the bed and reached both hands behind her back to unzip her dress.
Ince’s breathing quickened. Without taking his eyes from the binoculars, he picked up the doughnut and licked the icing.
Forty-Two
Blake greeted Fenton with a curt nod. It had been his suggestion that they should meet in the Star. Fenton had been happy with the choice. He knew the old Fleet Street pub would be free from the menace of piped music. A table in the cellar bar would have the added advantage of rendering cell phones completely useless.
Fenton slid onto the chair opposite Blake, cupping a half-full whiskey glass in his hands. “What’s this about?” he said.
Blake’s mouth curved with the threat of a smile, clearly happy to follow Fenton’s lead and dispense with social niceties. “I take it Leah has already explained what’s going on?”
“She has, but I want to hear it from you.”
Fenton hadn’t been in the Star before, but he guessed the place probably hadn’t changed much over the centuries. The lighting was weak, the tables randomly patterned with woodworm holes, and the room smelled strongly of spilled beer, stale sweat, and testosterone. It was early, but the place was already filling up.
“Leah wants me to look into her sister’s murder,” Blake said. “I refused to consider it at first. Thought it’d be better to leave it to the police. But she is very persistent when she wants to be.”
Fenton found Blake’s casual use of Leah’s first name irritating. “What exactly did your former girlfriend’s sister do to change your mind?”
“She convinced me that asking a few questions couldn’t do any harm. That anything I could do to help catch this man would be a bonus. After thinking about it carefully, I agreed.”
Fenton took a sip of whiskey and studied the man sitting opposite. Tall and lean and in his early thirties, Blake wore jeans, a white T-shirt, and a brown corduroy jacket. His dark hair accentuated an angular face. His eyes were close together, his stare like a hawk’s. There was something unpredictable about him. Fenton wondered whether he’d always been that way.
“My feeling is that your first thought, the one about leaving the case to the police to sort out, was spot-on,” Fenton said. “The new senior investigation officer still considers you a suspect, especially since the beheading.”
Blake stared into his beer. “What about the old senior investigation officer? What do you think?”
Fenton picked up his whiskey and took another sip. “My gut tells me that they are wasting time and resources trying
to link you to these crimes. On the other hand, either this escalation to a beheading is pure coincidence, or someone is deliberately trying to make life difficult for you.”
Blake said nothing, and Fenton used the silence to think. If the beheading was designed to point the finger at Blake, then maybe he and his team had been wrong-footed from the start.
“Do you think it’s possible that the killer selected Lauren because she was your ex-girlfriend? That her murder wasn’t random at all?”
Blake’s expression didn’t change, but Fenton felt him tense. “That makes no sense. I can’t think of any reason anyone would target me. Anyway, what about the second victim? Edward Deere has no link to Lauren or to me.”
Fenton had no answer. “You’re right. The murder of Deere doesn’t fit in, but maybe we shouldn’t rule anything out.” He still wasn’t sure about joining forces with Blake, but he was willing to listen. “What have you got?”
Blake pushed his glass to one side and leaned forward. “I’ve already made a few inquiries. Went to Victoria Park and spoke to a few people about the day Lauren was murdered. I found out something weird. Something that doesn’t make sense. Leah thought maybe you could explain it.”
Fenton sighed. Everybody thought they were bloody detectives. Too many crime dramas on television. “She did? So where is she? I thought she was going to be here.”
“Something must have come up,” Blake said. “She’ll get here when she can.”
Fenton nodded, more to himself than to Blake. “I can’t hang around for long. I’ve got a daughter at home being looked after by a female police constable she doesn’t know. She won’t go to bed until I’m back.”
Blake made a face as if he’d tasted something unpleasant. “What I don’t understand is if you had security camera footage showing Lauren going into a café on the day she was killed, why didn’t you use it in the appeals for information?”
Fenton shook his head slowly. “What do you mean?”
“The security camera film of Lauren, and possibly the killer, going into Vic’s Café. It doesn’t make sense not to make it public.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“You were in charge of the investigation, weren’t you?”
“You know I was. If there was any footage of the victim in the park, then I would know about it. No question.”
“The café owner is certain Lauren was on the film.”
Fenton shifted forward to the edge of his seat. “You’ve seen it? The footage.”
“No. It was handed to one of your team. Detective Ince.”
“Ince took the film?”
“That’s what I was told.”
“And you believe it?”
“Why would anyone lie about it? The café owner, a Perry Lee, said he thought the police hadn’t noticed his security camera. He installed it himself. It’s not part of the park’s CCTV system. He thought your team had cocked up until Ince arrived and demanded the previous day’s footage. Lee checks the film at the end of every day, but he had no idea Lauren was on there until he saw her picture on the news bulletins and recognized her. I assumed you knew all about the footage and had made a decision not to release it.”
Fenton considered what he’d heard. He found himself thinking the unthinkable. Why would Ince withhold vital evidence? To protect somebody. Maybe even himself? That wasn’t possible. Was it?
Fenton watched Blake’s eyes narrow as he put two and two together. “If Ince is hiding or has destroyed the footage, then he’s got to be a suspect.” Blake clenched his right fist and hammered the table. “Shit,” he said. “It could be a fucking cop.”
Forty-Three
Fenton raised a hand. “Calm down,” he said. “Let’s not jump the gun. We’ve got to think about this carefully. Not rush into doing anything stupid.”
“What’s there to think about? Ince is hiding evidence that could have led you to the killer. Especially if the killer is on film as well. Are you saying Ince can’t be our man?”
Fenton drained his glass. The heat of the alcohol burned his throat. “What I’m saying is we have to tread carefully. We’re not in possession of any hard evidence yet. If the killer is someone who works inside New Scotland Yard, then the last thing we should do is report our suspicions officially. That could mean the killer, whoever it is, would know we’re onto him. He could go to ground, cover his tracks. Make a run for it even.”
Fenton could tell his suggestion that they should show caution wasn’t going down well.
“While we’re pissing around, someone else is going to get killed,” Blake said. “We’ve got to do something, and we’ve got to do it quickly.”
“We don’t do anything. I’m a senior police officer. I won’t be one for long if I start interfering in a murder investigation. I daren’t even think about taking a close look at Ince, checking his background, his private life. I couldn’t do any of that—or advise anyone else to do it—without getting into a heap of trouble. Do you understand what I’m saying?”
Blake frowned. “Do you think I’m stupid?”
“I think you’re a bit touchy.”
Over the years, Fenton had earned himself a reputation as a hotshot detective and at thirty-four was the Met’s youngest senior investigating officer. He considered himself a good judge of character, but he couldn’t fathom Blake at all.
“If, theoretically, this Detective Constable Ince is the killer,” Blake said, “then he has access to all the investigation documents. He’s always going to be several steps ahead of the investigation.”
Fenton nodded. “He’d also have access to all of the Yard’s computer databases. I think that’s how the killer found out my address and targeted my daughter’s nanny.”
“How old is she? Your daughter.”
“Tess is eleven.”
“How is she?”
“How do you think she is?”
Blake didn’t respond. The two men were staring at each other across the table when Leah arrived.
“I hate awkward silences,” she said, dragging a stool from a neighboring table and sitting down in one seamless movement. “They can be really, what’s the word? Really awkward.” She smiled.
Fenton smiled back. Blake didn’t. He got up and shouldered his way to the bar. By the time he returned to the table, carrying a pint in one hand and a white wine and a whiskey in the other, Fenton had brought Leah up to speed.
“I can’t believe you’ve got a suspect already,” she said. “I knew you two would make a great team.”
Blake dished out the drinks and sat down. “While I was at the bar, I had an idea,” he said. “If the detective here agrees, I think we can nail this thing.”
Fenton gave a noncommittal nod, inviting Blake to go on.
“It seems that even if Ince is innocent, the killer is still someone inside the Yard. He almost certainly has the ability to break through computer security, giving him unlimited access to police databases. I know someone with a talent for getting into networks they’re not supposed to get into. With a bit of cooperation from the detective here, they’ll be able to hack into the Yard’s system, have a good rummage around, and tell us who’s been accessing information they shouldn’t.”
Fenton laughed, but the sound was humorless. “You want me to help some dodgy geek hack into the Yard’s computer network? You’re crazy.”
“It’s the only way we’re going to speed things up,” Blake said. “We need to catch this killer before he decapitates someone else.”
Fenton flinched. He closed his eyes as he tried to blot out the image of Marta’s bloodied, severed head.
Blake pressed his advantage. “This person I know has worked for a couple of newspapers on major investigations. He owes me a favor, and he’s good at what he does. Extremely good. He could probably hack into the system without o
ur help, given time. But we haven’t got time, have we? If you give us your password, he’ll be in and out in a few hours. He can cover his tracks. He’s done it before and he’s never been caught.”
Fenton turned to Leah, hoping she’d back him up.
She shrugged. “If this is what it takes to catch Lauren’s killer. To stop him taking another life. Isn’t it worth it?”
“Of course I want him caught. But I also want a job to go back to when this is all over. I know it might be hard to believe, but I like being a detective. I like catching killers.”
Blake and Leah exchanged a glance that made Fenton feel like an outsider. “The only illegal thing we’re asking you to do is supply us with your password,” Blake said. “We can make sure nobody ever finds out. Any advice, expertise you’re willing to share, then sure, I’ll take it on board. We don’t have to broadcast that either. Any dirty work that needs doing, you can leave that to me.”
Fenton believed Blake, especially his promise that he’d be up for any dirty work. The thought crossed his mind that deep down, he had already made a decision. Why else would he have agreed to the meeting? He wanted a chance to finish the job he had started. To put the killer behind bars. Not because that’s where he deserved to be. Not because it was his duty. He needed to do it for Tess.
Across the table, Blake shifted impatiently on his seat. For a moment, Fenton considered stretching out his silence to see how long it took before Blake blew. He picked up his whiskey, took a sip, and smacked his lips in appreciation.
“There is one thing I haven’t told you,” he said. “It’s possible the killer has spoken to my daughter. At her school gates, a few days before Marta was murdered.”
Blake and Leah exchanged a look of incredulity. “Are you serious?” Blake said. “In that case, why can’t we just show her a picture of Ince?”
“She says she can’t remember anything about the man except that he was tall. Tess is small for her age. She’d probably describe any man as tall. Anyway, he made sure she didn’t get a good look at his face. Wore a hoodie and baseball cap under it for good measure. He gave her a message for me, but I think the real message was that he could get to her whenever he wanted. That I couldn’t keep her safe.”