Don't Look Now

by Max Manning

  “How did you know I missed breakfast?”

  “I guessed,” Fenton said, pulling another paper bag from his other pocket and taking out a similarly filled bagel. “These are good. Trust me. Freshly baked every morning at a place around the corner.”

  Blake took another bite and placed the remaining portion on the bench beside him. “Very tasty, but where’s the coffee I ordered?”

  Fenton ignored the jibe. “Let’s get on with your report, shall we?”

  Blake shook his head. “Oh, no, let me stop you right there,” he said. “Let’s get this straight. I’m not reporting to you. The only person I report to is my client. I’m passing on information. Letting you know what’s going on. I’m in charge of this investigation. You’re advising. That’s all.”

  Fenton bit into his bagel and chewed over his response. “I’m not sure your employer would totally agree with you, but let’s not quibble over semantics. What’s Ince been up to?”

  Blake didn’t dislike the detective. In a way, he had a lot of respect for him and his record and was pleased to have him as a sounding board. But this was his investigation, and he was going to do it his way.

  “Ince has been poking around your supposedly impregnable computer system like a pig rooting in shit.”

  “It’d help if you could be a bit more specific.”

  “Obviously, he has access to the murder files, because he’s part of the investigating team.”

  “Obviously.”

  “But according to my expert, he’s been dipping into files his security clearance shouldn’t allow him to access.”

  “Such as?”

  “Such as the personnel files of several of his fellow officers, containing their home addresses, phone numbers, next of kin, all that sort of stuff. He’s also been dipping into files holding details of the murder victims’ families, checking out a psychologist named Belinda Vale, and nosing around in the private files and documents of one particular senior officer.”

  “I take it you mean me?”

  “That’s exactly who I mean.”

  Fenton walked around to the front of the bench and sat down next to Blake but changed his mind and stood up straightaway. “As suspicious as it sounds, none of this actually proves that Ince had anything to do with the murders.”

  “How did I know you were going to say that?”

  “It does prove that he’s engaged in criminal activity, improper use of police databases, and he would certainly be booted off the force and face charges as a result, but we can’t do anything about it, because we’d be admitting that you and your hacker pal broke the law yourself. Computer hacking carries a maximum sentence of ten years in prison.”

  Blake smiled. “I like the way that, almost without hesitation, you switched the word ‘we’ to ‘you’ in that sentence about breaking the law.”

  Fenton stepped back off the towpath to allow another cyclist space to pass. “I hope your man knows what he’s doing, that’s all.”

  “Don’t worry,” Blake said. “He’s assured me he’s covered his tracks and our asses. As far as Ince goes, I get what you’re saying, but it’s all pointing to him. We can’t afford to pussyfoot around. We don’t know when the killer is going to strike again.”

  Fenton swallowed the last of his bagel, used the paper bag to wipe the grease off his fingers, and stuffed it back into his jacket pocket. “We have to make sure we’ve got enough to nail him before we move. If it is Ince and he finds out we’re onto him, he could do a disappearing act. We need solid evidence.”

  No surprise there, Blake thought. “What do you suggest?”

  “Old-fashioned surveillance. Follow him; stake out his home. See what he gets up to in his spare time.”

  Blake shook his head. “That’s it? All those years leading murder investigations, and that’s the best you can come up with?”

  “It works. Believe me, that basic stuff works. If there’s no DNA to work with, no fingerprints, no CCTV footage, all the technology in the world is useless.”

  “So I watch him. What then?”

  “The best scenario is that he leads you to a lockup garage or some other storage space stuffed with evidence. Weapons, photographs, the laptop or smartphone he’s been using to post his messages. The worst is that he’s nothing more than a cybersnooper. While you’re on surveillance duty, I’ve got a friend or two at the Yard who I can call on to look into Ince’s background.”

  Blake got up from the bench and took a step toward Fenton. “I take it you’ve seen the new I, Killer message on Twitter?”

  Fenton nodded. “Of course I’ve seen it. Everybody’s seen it.”

  “He’s warming up his followers. Telling them to be ready for his next show. What if I find someone is in imminent danger?”

  “Then we act fast. I contact my colleagues and tell them what’s been going on.”

  “Even though that’ll mean you’ll probably have to earn a living as a supermarket security guard?”

  “I’m not going to keep my head down and let someone die.”

  Blake nodded. He knew Fenton was the kind of man who always did the right thing in the end. That was one of his strengths. It was also his biggest weakness. “One other thing,” he said. “Before I declare this meeting over, do you know why Belinda Vale has a personnel file at the Yard?”

  Fenton shrugged. “She’s a psychologist. Has her own practice, in Holborn, I think. She also works as a criminal profiler. From what I can recall, she’s a damn good one. I’d guess she’s been called in to draw up a profile of the killer. What’s it to you?”

  Blake didn’t like the thought of admitting that he’d been seeing a psychologist. They’d only talked a few times, after all. It crossed his mind that it would be less embarrassing to lie and that there was no reason Fenton needed to know the truth, but he decided to come clean anyway. What the hell, he thought. Why should he care what anybody thinks?

  “I’ve been to see her a couple of times,” he said. “To talk things through. I had no idea she was part of the murder investigation.”

  Fenton lifted a hand and rubbed the back of his neck. “A couple of officers I worked with had to retire early because of PTSD,” he said. “One was shot trying to arrest a drug dealer. He almost lost a kidney. The other entered a house after a neighbor called to report hearing strange noises. He found two girls, four and six, dead on their beds. Their drug addict mother had strangled them both before killing herself with a heroin overdose. Both officers swear therapy helped.”

  Blake knew that the point of the story was to show understanding and sympathy, but he didn’t need either. “All right, for now, we’ll do it your way,” he said. “I’ll keep a close eye on Ince, and we’ll see what happens. I’ll be in touch in a day or so. Thanks for breakfast.”

  He stepped onto the towpath and started walking back the way he’d come. He’d taken a couple of paces when Fenton called out for him to stop.

  “One last thing,” the detective said. “If it turns out that Ince is our man, then you need to be careful. Don’t go doing anything stupid.”

  Blake considered making a smart remark about being touched that Fenton cared. Instead, he gave an almost imperceptible nod and carried on walking. When he reached the York Way bridge, he looked back. Fenton had disappeared.

  The meeting had gone the way Blake had expected. He’d agreed to go along with Fenton’s cautious approach in principle, but a strategy that involved hours of watching and waiting didn’t suit his temperament. He believed in making things happen. Blake took a couple of deep breaths. He knew that London was one of Europe’s most polluted cities, but standing by the water in the late autumn sun, the air smelled fresh, almost sweet. As he watched a blond teenager and his even blonder girlfriend share a joke as they paddled by in red plastic canoes, Blake felt more positive about life than he had in a long time. If an
opportunity to make things happen came along, he’d grab it.

  Forty-Eight

  The bitch has overstepped the mark. Claiming to know me. The real me. Telling lies about me. Making assumptions about my childhood. Who the hell does she think she is?

  She thinks she’s something special. She definitely wants others to believe she is. She’s that sort. To get what she wants, she’ll lie. Not little lies. Great big, dirty, fat, twisted lies. She’ll repeat them with such conviction, you won’t dare challenge them.

  I rarely get worked up about things. I prefer to be more considered in my response when people wrong me. Take my time, wait for the right moment, then slide the knife right in. I’ve undermined the confidence of a lot of tedious people. It’s easily done. All of these victims were feeble. There, I said it. Hit the nail on the head without even thinking about it. They were all victims. Victims from the day they were born.

  This woman has judged me to be no more than an inferior product of my childhood. Before I mastered the art of concealment, I had to deal with child psychologists. They came to the conclusion that I was different from other children because my parents didn’t bond with me on an emotional level.

  None of them could see the truth. I didn’t bond with my parents because I was different from other children. What is psychology anyway? Lots of long words to fool you into believing it’s scientific, but it’s all talk. Talk about narcissism, paranoia, inferiority complexes, superiority complexes. Well, from what I can remember, all the psychologists I came across suffered from at least one of those personality disorders.

  By the time I was six, I’d lost both my parents. I lived with eight sets of foster parents. I adapted to survive.

  I am not the product of my past. I am the master of my present, the creator of my future. I am my own God.

  What really gets me is that she hasn’t said anything positive about me at all. She has not given me the credit I deserve. I don’t torture my victims, not physically. I haven’t killed any children. Not yet.

  Forty-Nine

  Tess sat at the kitchen table pretending to read. The family liaison officer stood at the sink rinsing out her mug. The soft-spoken constable—“call me Helen”—smiled over her shoulder. Tess smiled back, but impatience gnawed at her insides.

  Humming softly to herself, Helen wandered off. Tess kept her head down and turned a page, her eyes sliding sideways to follow the constable into the bathroom. The lock rattled, and Tess sprang off her seat.

  She slipped her coat from the back of the chair and ran down the stairs. At the bottom, she turned right and let herself out into the back garden. She lifted the rusty latch and stepped into the alley.

  Tess didn’t like alleys. They were scary. She ran all the way to the end of the terrace and out onto Risinghill Street. After stopping for a moment to catch her breath, she walked purposefully along the road. She wanted to get back before her dad got home. Despite the sunshine, Tess shivered and zipped up her coat.

  Her plan was to head in the direction of her school. She knew that would take her close to her destination. She couldn’t go away without saying goodbye to Mummy. That wouldn’t be right.

  At the end of the street, Tess stopped, her toes perched on the edge of the curb. Marta always insisted that they crossed there, because the traffic island meant they could stop halfway. She was about to cross when a car pulled up beside her. The driver leaned over and opened the passenger door.

  “Hello, Tess,” he said.

  She frowned and stayed silent. How did he know her name?

  The man wore a dark jacket, a baseball cap, and a friendly smile. “Your daddy sent me to pick you up,” he said. “He’s worried about you.”

  Tess shook her head. “I’m going to the cemetery,” she announced and walked away.

  The car rolled slowly after her, the passenger door still open.

  The driver’s smile broadened. “I know you are. Your daddy asked me to take you there. He’s busy right now, but he said to tell you he’ll meet you there later.”

  Tess halted. She wanted to believe him but knew he was lying. She knew not to accept lifts from strangers, especially this stranger. Her right leg started to tremble, and tears pricked her eyes.

  The man dug a cell phone from his jacket pocket and stretched across the passenger seat. “Here, you can call your dad if you want to check. Go on.”

  Confused by the man’s insistence, Tess reached out a shaking hand, hesitated, then pulled it back. That moment of hesitation was enough. Strong fingers curled around her tiny wrist and dragged her off her feet onto the passenger seat. The man leaned over her, tugged the door shut, and jammed his foot down.

  As the car accelerated away, he laughed softly. “Strap yourself in,” he said. “Daddy wouldn’t want you to get hurt, would he?”

  Fifty

  Blake arrived back at his apartment in time to shower, dress, and get to Westminster by midday. The demand for news updates on the hunt for the killer had become so unrelenting, New Scotland Yard’s media team was holding daily press conferences.

  He waved his old press card at a bright-eyed young woman behind the reception counter, his thumb strategically placed over the date of issue. Impersonating a newspaper reporter was, as far as he knew, not a criminal offense. Fraudulently gaining entry to the headquarters of the Metropolitan Police definitely was.

  He rode the elevator to the fifth floor in the company of a tall man in an expensive-looking light-gray suit. He looked familiar, but Blake couldn’t recall where he’d seen him before.

  The elevator juddered to a halt, and the doors slid open. Blake didn’t move, allowing his elevator buddy to exit first and stride down the corridor. The entrance to the media center was directly opposite the elevator. Blake pulled the door open and slipped in.

  He’d been to a few press conferences at the Yard before, and the setup was a familiar sight. The seating was laid out in ten rows of twelve. All but the last row had already been taken by reporters from newspapers, news agencies, news websites, television, and radio.

  In front of the seating, a raised podium was lit brightly with spotlights even though there was plenty of natural light from four large rectangular windows. On the podium were a long table, three microphones, and three empty chairs.

  Blake recognized a few faces among the reporters but stood on his own at the back of the room. The event was due to start, the sense of anticipation palpable. The excited chatter dropped to a respectful murmur when three people arrived on the podium and sat facing the audience. Two of them took Blake by surprise. One was the man he shared the elevator with, the other Belinda Vale. They sat on either side of a heavyset, graying man wearing the world-weary expression of a senior detective.

  The room fell silent as the younger man introduced himself as Ray Partington, a senior press officer. Blake remembered him as the man he’d watched comforting Leah when she broke down in front of the cameras. Self-assured and professional, he outlined the usual ground rules and introduced Detective Chief Inspector Norman Tobin as the man who had taken over the investigation.

  “We also have an expert guest today,” Partington said. “Psychologist Belinda Vale, the criminal profiler helping the investigation, has agreed to answer a few questions. The exact details of her profile of the killer will not be discussed. You’ll appreciate the reason why, I’m sure. She has kindly agreed to answer general questions about serial killers. We’ll kick off with a statement from DCI Tobin.”

  Blake watched Vale shield her eyes against the bright lights and wondered how much arm-twisting she’d suffered before giving in.

  A dozen or so cameras flashed as Tobin cleared his throat, glanced down at the statement he was about to read, and dipped his head closer to the microphone. “As the new senior investigating officer in this case, I want to assure the public that every effort is being made to apprehend the killer. Every
available officer, both uniformed and plain-clothed, is working flat out to achieve this end.”

  Tobin killed the atmosphere with his first few sentences. His round, florid face displayed even less enthusiasm than his monotone delivery. He droned on about how the public could be assured that any information received about the killer and his whereabouts would be treated in the strictest confidence.

  “And finally,” he said, words that were greeted with a collective murmur of relief, “I want to take this opportunity to repeat a general warning to the public to take precautions regarding their personal safety until an arrest is made. Women in particular should, when out late at night, make sure they are accompanied at all times. We don’t want to stop people from having a good time, but this is a situation where it is imperative that people use common sense.”

  Partington jumped to his feet. “Thank you for those wise words. Unfortunately, DCI Tobin will not be taking any questions today. You’ll of course appreciate he has a lot of work to do and won’t be staying with us. I’ll make sure you all get both a digital version and hard copy of his statement.”

  The detective stood up and ambled through a door behind the podium. God help us, Blake thought. If Fenton’s replacement is as good at hunting killers as he is at performing at press conferences, then they might as well award the killer the freedom of the city.

  Partington shifted along the table and sat next to Vale. “We’re moving on now to our esteemed psychologist,” he said. “She has kindly agreed to take a few questions, but I repeat, they mustn’t be about the specifics of her profile.”

  While he was instructing the reporters that before asking a question, they would be required to raise a hand and identify themselves, a female voice rang out from the front row.

  “Isn’t it the case that there is no real evidence that offender profiling has any value at all in this kind of investigation?”

  Vale looked at Partington, hoping that he might come to her rescue and steer the questioning back to the subject of serial killers. Instead, he gave a nod, encouraging her to answer the question.