by Max Manning
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 burned 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 ultramodern, five-story 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 parking lot 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 badge 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. The guy certainly knew how to exude self-confidence and authority.
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 checked 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 elevator 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, signaling to the night manager to stay put.
It was a standard, midrange 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 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 checked 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 color 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 cell phone out of his jacket pocket, all 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, call 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 cell phone and dial his neighbor’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 apartment 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 elevator, Fenton close behind him.
The elevator 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,” Blake said.
“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 re-create Lauren’s murder. He used their surname to book the room.”
The elevator 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 cell phone 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 elevator and across the lobby, his cell phone clamped against his ear.
Seventy
Blake ran across the parking lot, slowing at the exit to study a map of the area on his cell phone. 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 apartment in under two minutes. He’d be lucky if he made it in three. After a few hundred yards, he turned left again onto 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 physical exer
tion.
Up ahead, a couple holding hands stopped as they spotted him running toward 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 streetlight, 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. Leah’s apartment 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 apartment, 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.
Seventy-One
On her knees in the center of the room, Leah’s hands were bound behind her back, a thick strip of gray duct tape sealing her mouth. Her head slightly bowed, her eyes were fixed on the floor. Behind her stood Ray Partington. His long, dark hair had been cut close to his scalp and dyed blond. His right hand was tucked into the pocket of his black coat. His left hand hung at his side, the serrated blade of a black-handled hunting knife glinting against his thigh.
Partington smiled. “I wondered what the commotion was,” he said.
His words caused Leah to raise her head. Her eyes widened at the sight of Blake standing in the doorway. He took a step forward. Partington raised the knife and placed the blade flat on Leah’s head.
“At last,” he said. “We’ve been waiting for you. The guest of honor. I don’t like being kept waiting, and it’s not a good idea to get me angry. I’m not a particularly nice person, even when I’m in a good mood.”
He took his right hand out of his pocket, grabbed a handful of Leah’s hair, and yanked her head back, exposing the soft flesh of her throat. She cried out, but the duct tape muffled the sound. Blake moved forward but stopped when Partington slipped the knife beneath Leah’s chin.
Blake’s heart thumped against his ribs. He doubted he could reach Partington in time to stop him slitting her throat. The burglar alarm stopped. Blake prayed that one of Leah’s neighbors had called the police.
Partington laughed softly, as if he could read Blake’s thoughts and found them ridiculous. “Don’t pin your hopes on the police coming to the rescue. You know what this city’s like. As long as people feel safe behind their own locked doors, they’d rather keep their heads down and not get involved.”
He’s probably right, Blake thought, but he trusted Fenton. “The police will be here soon,” he said. “I called them a few minutes ago.”
Partington laughed again. “Nice try, but you’re a terrible liar. Lauren is going to die. I’ve never killed in front of an audience before. This will be an interesting experience.”
“That isn’t Lauren Bishop. You know that.”
Partington stiffened. He yanked hard on Leah’s hair and pushed the blade against her skin. A single drop of bright red blood slid down her neck. “I know a lot of things. I know that I’m going to enjoy killing her, but she’s only the sideshow here.”
Unable to make sense of what he was hearing, Blake glanced at Leah. Her eyes were shut tight, her nostrils flared as they sucked in air. He took two steps back. He wanted to give Partington space and time. Space to breathe and time to think. “Believe me, Ray, I’m trying to help you. You deserve the truth.”
“I am the truth. You tried to deny me, but the truth can’t be denied.” Partington smiled at the confusion on Blake’s face. “I thought you were supposed to be smart, but you haven’t worked it out yet, have you?”
Keeping the knife against Leah’s throat, he released his grip on her hair and used his free hand to pull a folded piece of paper from his jacket pocket. He flicked it in Blake’s direction, and it fluttered to the floor between them.
Blake stepped closer, bent down, and picked it up. It was an old, stained newspaper cutting. Under the headline WIFE STABBED HUSBAND WHILE HE SLEPT was the reporter’s name: Adam Blake.
Partington took hold of Leah’s hair again. “Read it,” he said. “Let’s see if it jogs your memory.”
Blake skimmed the text. The defendant was Rachel Friel of Lewisham, South London. The victim Peter Friel. “That was years ago. It must have been one of the first court cases I covered.”
Partington pulled the knife away from Leah’s throat, wiped the blade on his thigh, and placed it back under her chin. “You do remember it then. Read me what it says, in paragraph eight, about my mother.”
Blake took a few seconds to find the right place and quickly read the paragraph to himself first.
Leah yelped under the tape as Partington jerked her head back. “I asked you to read it out loud.”
“All right. Don’t hurt her,” Blake pleaded. “I’ve found it. It says that the accused, aged thirty-five, has no children.”
“That’s exactly what it says. Can you explain to me how, if that was the case, I am standing here?”
Details of the court hearing were coming back to Blake. It’d been his first murder trial, and he’d been disappointed when it had been adjourned for psychiatric reports.
“I think there’s a simple explanation for this,” Blake said. “I take it you were put into care when your mother was arrested?” Partington didn’t answer. “Well, once a child is in foster care, nothing can be printed that might identify him or her.”
Partington lifted his left foot and jammed it into Leah’s back, sending her crashing facedown to the floor. “That’s your justification for denying my existence?”
Blake held his hands up and took a step back. “Okay, keep calm,” he said. “Are you really telling me you’re doing this because your name was left out of a newspaper report all those years ago?”
Partington’s eyes narrowed. “That cutting was in a box of my mother’s belongings they gave to me when she died. She hanged herself. Killed herself because of that article. Because of what you wrote.”
Blake shook his head. “You don’t know that, Ray. I’m sorry that happened to you, but unless your mother left a suicide note, there is no way of knowing why she did it.”
Partington pointed at the newspaper cutting. “You don’t get it, do you? That’s her suicide note. You wrote her suicide note. When she read that, when it dawned on her that I no longer existed in her life, she knew she had nothing to live for. She put that cutting in the box with her stuff because she knew it would be sent to me. She wanted me to know so I could put things right. I kept it with me. I waited patiently, year after year. I knew the time would come, and when it did, I was ready. Your return from Iraq made the news big time, didn’t it? That’s when I recogniz
ed the name. That’s when I knew my time had come.”
Blake’s head was spinning, but things were falling into place. The coverage of his ordeal had been Partington’s trigger. “That’s why you chose Lauren. That’s why you started beheading your victims. But Lauren had left me by then. Why not come straight for me? Why did the others need to die?”
Partington sneered, “I killed them because I wanted to. I am a killer. I exist. I, Killer. They were enjoyable diversions on the way to you. A demonstration of what I’m capable of. You’ve seen the hysteria on the internet, the newspapers. My followers adore me. No one can deny my existence now, can they?”
Blake desperately tried to recall every detail of the reports on Partington’s childhood, searching for a weakness he could exploit. “You’ve got me now,” he said. “You don’t need to harm Leah. You can let her go.”
“I can, but I won’t. It’s touching that you care so much, but that only makes me more determined to let you watch me deprive her of her existence, like you deprived me of mine. Like you deprived me of my mother.”
Seventy-Two
Time was running out. Blake edged closer, trying to put himself into a position where he had a chance of throwing himself between Partington and Leah. “I’m asking you to think carefully for a moment, Ray. If this is some kind of sick revenge on the world, then you’re setting yourself up to be disappointed, let down again. Like all the times you were let down before. When you were a child. Little Ray Friel.”
Partington’s head snapped back as if he’d been slapped in the face.
Eager to press his advantage, Blake chose his words carefully, firing them like bullets. “You know what I think? I think you’ve only got yourself to blame for the bad things that happened to you and your family. Your mother killed your father then herself. That’s no one else’s fault. Certainly not mine. From what I’ve heard, Ray Friel was a sick little bastard, and Ray Partington is an even bigger, sicker bastard.”
Partington said nothing. He lifted the knife and stared at his reflection in the blade. His eyes darkened.