Frank was nowhere near as calm as he pretended to be. In all likelihood, Laura was dead. He felt in his heart that this was true. His every instinct told him that the monster had much to gain by lying, but had used the truth as a weapon.
Since the day she’d been taken, Frank had felt Laura’s presence. It was nothing he could identify, just a feeling, a sense that she was still alive and guiding him. Now he felt nothing but a cold isolation, no voice telling him it would be all right, that he still had time. Laura might well be dead, but he refused to believe in the truth. It was the only way he could get through these next few hours.
And he had to get through. Because there was someone waiting for him. Someone he had to talk to. Someone he would eventually kill.
The prisoner sat in the interview room fingering the neck of the paper suit they’d given him to wear. His clothes were already with forensics. The three police officers in the room were all armed. Tom Whelan stood directly behind him. Another DS stood beside the door, his eyes never straying from the bald-headed man. They waited patiently for Frank Rogers to appear.
When he finally entered the interview room, Frank felt himself guided into a chair opposite the prisoner as if he’d been blinded. Frank commented on this in a dry, hushed voice, and the two men exchanged uneasy grins.
Frank sat across the table from the man he had come to think of as a monster. So ordinary-looking, yet this man had murdered children in a variety of despicable ways, had tortured, and had disfigured their small corpses. A sick, perverted killer. He surely couldn’t be human, with a human heart, a human soul, human feelings. Was he capable of love? He must certainly be capable of hate. The two men locked eyes.
‘You understand that this interview will be recorded?’ Frank said to him. He wanted to reach over, to wrap his fingers around that solid neck and squeeze until his energy was drained.
‘I do.’
‘And even though you have been advised of your rights, you still do not want to be represented by a solicitor?’
‘It would serve no useful purpose.’
‘Okay. Well, let’s get on with it.’
The bald head shook. ‘No. I want them out of here. I want to be alone with you.’
Nicky took a step forward, arms folded across his chest. ‘I’m afraid that’s out of the question. You two cannot be left alone together.’
‘Cuff me again,’ the man said, smiling. ‘I won’t hurt him.’
‘That wasn’t quite what I had in mind.’
The prisoner’s smile broadened defiantly. ‘Oh, Frank won’t hurt me. Will you, Frank? You want to know if I was lying about Laura. And until you’re certain, you won’t let anything happen to me. No, I’m perfectly safe, DCI Loizou.’
Nicky cleared his throat. ‘Even so. Someone has to be here with you.’
For the first time, their suspect wrenched his gaze away from Frank. He fixed Nicky with a tight glare. ‘If I don’t speak to Frank alone, I don’t speak at all. I’ll go to my grave with the truth untold.’
Nicky gave a curt nod, and said, ‘Let’s step out of the room a moment, Frank.’
Outside the interview room, Nicky met Frank’s curious gaze. ‘This is one tricky son-of-a-bitch,’ he said in a low voice. ‘Now he has me trying to work out which is the lesser of two evils: not having him talk, or having you alone in there with him.’
‘We need him to speak. I need him to.’ It was as simple as that.
‘Promise me you won’t lay a finger on him. I mean it, Frank, one blow and you’re out, friend or no friend.’
Frank gave a wry grin. ‘You have my word.’
‘Very well.’
The two moved back inside the room. Nicky looked across at the prisoner. ‘I would like you to repeat your request on record, so as there’s no redress later.’
‘Whatever it takes.’
They went through the ritual of identifying those present for the recording devices, and their suspect repeated his request. He was then cuffed and the room was cleared. As Nicky left he patted Frank on his good shoulder. ‘I’ll be just outside in the corridor. Use the panic button if you have to.’
The prisoner gave a dry, harsh laugh. ‘He’d never have time,’ he said smoothly. ‘But don’t worry, it won’t come to that. I mean him no physical harm.’
When it was just the two of them, Frank began the interview recording once more, again naming himself. His prisoner had so far refused to give a name, so he was simply an unidentified suspect.
Frank took a sip from a plastic beaker of water, then clasped both hands before him on the table. ‘Right,’ he said. ‘Let’s get down to it. First off, I’ll ask you once more to give me your name.’
‘Lawrence Wilde.’
Frank raised his eyebrows. ‘Why did you refuse before?’
‘Because I felt like it.’
‘I see.’ Frank got up and opened the door, whispered a few words to Nicky, then returned to his seat.
‘Off to see if I have a record?’ The prisoner shook his head. ‘So predictable.’
‘That’s right. Standard procedure, Lawrence.’
‘Call me Larry. We’re friends now, after all.’
Frank ignored the sarcasm. ‘Larry it is. Why did you ask me to call you Oscar before? Any significance?’
The man smiled that same confident smile. His eyes never rose above freezing-point. ‘Work it out, Frank. You can, you know. Now that you have the full details. Don’t ask me anything else until you have.’
Frank edged forward. ‘More games?’
There was no response. Frank nodded reluctantly and set his mind to work. Now that he had the full details. Well, the only extra detail he had now that he didn’t have before was the name. Lawrence Wilde. His eyes opened wide. Wilde. Oscar.
‘Of course. How stupid of me. All those annoying little sayings of yours. You sounded so clever, and yet you were using someone else’s material. They’re all from works by Oscar Wilde. I have a feeling you even used perhaps his most famous line, ‘I have nothing to declare except my genius’. But it was the last one that triggered something in my mind: ‘People are either charming or tedious’. It rang a bell, but I couldn’t put my finger on it at the time.’
The prisoner looked impressed. Frank felt his loathing spring to the surface once more. He held it in check. ‘So, Larry. You’re a fan, I presume.’
The man dipped his head. ‘I have that honour. Your little girl was, too, I think. After a time.’
Frank’s eyes narrowed dangerously. ‘Was?’
‘I told you, Frank. Used. Abused. Disposed of. Now, I may well be lying. Then again, I may not. That’s for me to know and you to find out. You’re the detective, after all. So, detect away. It suits my purposes for the doubts to slop around inside your head. Wouldn’t want you to do anything silly, would we?’
Frank took a breath. Don’t lose your temper, he told himself. He repeated the words silently like a ritual chant. Not until you know for sure. The bastard is cuffed and on his way to a life sentence, and still he has you by the balls. Just don’t allow him the pleasure of giving them one last squeeze.
‘In what way might Laura have become a fan of Wilde?’ he asked.
‘I left books for her to read. One contained several of his works. I believe she read it.’
Frank nodded. ‘Okay, Larry. Let’s talk about the gifts you left me. The girls.’
‘Girls? Gifts? I have no idea what you’re talking about.’
Frank stared hard at him. The bastard actually looked bewildered. ‘Larry,’ he said, shaking his head, ‘we have you cold. You were good at not leaving fingerprints, or anything else for us to trace. It was smart going into the houses naked. We’ve seen that you are completely shaved, so no hairs, no fibres. But you did leave something for us at each house.’
The man’s features did not alter in the slightest.
‘You left your semen. You’re a clever man, Larry. All that business with the offices and Tanner and the phot
ographs was inspired. Oh, yes, we know all about that. But giving us your DNA was a bit careless, don’t you think? And of course, there’s your voice. We have it on record, telling us where to find the girls. Did you know that each voice has its own characteristics? Each has its own peaks and troughs when analysed. Each one is unique. That and the sperm samples place you at the homes and with the girls, Larry. In short, you’re fucked.’
Then the man did something Frank wasn’t expecting. He began to snigger. ‘Oh, Frank. Do you really believe any of this matters?’ He gave an exaggerated yawn. ‘Yes, I did it. I killed them all. But I’m not going to prison for it, Frank.’
‘You angling for a plea of diminished responsibility and a psychiatric ward, Larry? I don’t think that’s going to work.’
‘No, no. What I mean is, I won’t even be charged. You’ll be letting me go.’
Frank’s face set hard. ‘The only things I am certain of right now are that you will be charged, you will be found guilty, and you will be sentenced. Don’t kid yourself otherwise.’
‘We’ll see.’
Frank didn’t like the smug certainty of that face, that smile, the air of calm indifference. He didn’t like it at all. He dismissed it, though, and got back on track.
‘Larry, we have to establish a few more details. You have murdered many people, for which you will later be charged. And so far, you have given us four of the seven girls you abducted. The condition of those girls will also be discussed at length later on. But tell me, Larry, where are the others? Anne Smith, Samantha Penny, and … Laura Rogers.’
Again, that icy, lupine grin appeared. The suspect glanced up at the ceiling as if trying to remember. ‘Who can tell?’ he said finally. ‘What may be considered a state of death to some may be seen as perfect, eternal life, for others.’
‘You don’t deny that you abducted them?’
‘No. I don’t.’
‘But you won’t tell me what has become of them.’
‘No. I won’t.’
‘We know about the taxidermy, Larry.’
For once the smile and the confidence was wiped away. It was only for a second, less even, but it was enough for Frank to know that he had struck a blow.
‘You do?’ Larry said, and the smile returned. ‘Good for you. A certain fictional detective from Baker Street would have been proud of you. You were responsible, I take it? Yes. Had to be you. You’re so very clever. In another life, you and I could have been close.’
In the next life, maybe we will be, Frank thought. But you’ll be getting there ahead of me. His head was reeling with the conversation. He had no plan of attack, but he wanted to shy away from discussing Laura. The only way through was to keep the man off guard, let him trip up over something less direct.
Frank’s hands and shoulder hurt like hell. The legs weren’t so much of a problem, though he knew he’d he hobbling for a while yet. He noticed the prisoner moving his neck against the paper collar, something he’d been doing throughout. The room was stifling, yet Frank felt cool. Almost cold. He looked at the man just a yard away and realized that the monster’s evil was emanating from his pores, emerging as a chill essence. How did you get this way? he wondered. How have you come to this?
‘Let’s start again,’ he said. ‘We know that you and Mr Tanner, your employee, took photographs, and from these you chose certain girls as your victims. You broke into their homes, murdered their families, took them from their beds. The first victim was tortured and mutilated before you killed her. Another three have also been found murdered, and you attempted to perform human taxidermy on them all. Why don’t you tell me, in your own words, how it all happened?’
‘Are you pandering to my ego, special detective?’ The smile was now coy. So cool.
‘I think you have a story to tell. I’d like to hear it.’
The man opened his mouth to speak, and as he did so the door flew open. Frank turned quickly. ‘Out!’ he snapped angrily, not knowing who stood there, seeing only his daughter’s life dangling from a thread.
It was Nicky. ‘You’d better come,’ he said. ‘We have something interesting.’
‘So do I.’
‘Frank … just come.’
And when he looked into his friend’s eyes, he saw a glimmer of hope. It was more than he’d seen in the monster’s glassy orbs. ‘I won’t be long,’ he said to his prisoner. ‘Don’t go away.’
As he reached the door, he heard the man say, ‘Hurry back, Frank. We don’t have much time.’
55
All the way along the dim corridor and up one flight of stairs to Nicky’s office, Frank fired questions. ‘Wait and see,’ was his only answer. When the two men reached the office, an elderly woman sat at the desk waiting for them, a uniformed PC standing by her side.
‘Thank you, constable,’ Nicky said, nodding his appreciation. ‘Mrs Shaw will be fine with us now.’
The PC smiled and excused herself from the room. Nicky shut the glass-panelled door before taking his seat. The office was a testimony to Nicky’s lack of organisation; files and documents either scattered across the grey cord carpet, or stacked in towering piles that looked as if a single gust of wind would send them crashing. Two tall windows would have provided a good source of light, had their blinds not been drawn.
Frank remained standing, leaning back against the only wall to contain shelves, arms folded across his chest. Nicky looked up at him and said, ‘Frank, this is Mrs Irene Shaw. She has some information for us.’
The woman glanced at Frank, nodded once, before turning her attention to Nicky. Irene Shaw was in her late sixties, Frank guessed. Smart and upright, well-groomed with plump, sanguine cheeks. She had the kind of face you could easily see advertising home-made apple pie.
‘It’s about a letter I received,’ she began. ‘From my county council. It referred to my time with social services. I worked with the welfare department.’
‘And you have something to tell us, something you feel may be important,’ Nicky said. He snapped a glance at Frank. Smiled briefly.
‘Yes. At least, I think I do. The letter outlined a particular set of characteristics, asking whether I recalled any similar cases during my time as a social worker. I don’t remember many, I must admit. They were all pretty run-of-the-mill, as I never rose to a senior position. But this one particular case did stick in my mind.’ She shook her head briefly. ‘Hard for it not to.’
Frank came forward and perched on the edge of the desk. ‘You mean you were able to match some of the characteristics?’
The woman beamed, eyes still alert behind her glasses. ‘Not some. All. I remember it vividly, because it was one of those dreadful cases that went terribly wrong. The managers tried to hush it up, tried to shift the blame, as they do. But I was there, and I remember it like it was yesterday.’
Frank nodded eagerly. ‘Go on. Please.’
The woman folded her hands on her lap. ‘It was twenty-two years ago. Due to a number of complaints, a family by the name of Swain were investigated by my department. The initial investigation told us that the father was a joiner, mother a housewife. They had a boy and a girl, both of whom showed all the signs of being both mentally and physically abused. Too many bruises in the wrong places, extremely non-communicative, demonstrating aggressive behaviour, that sort of thing.
‘The father was arrogant, volatile, a heavy drinker. Something of an enigma, because he was also devoutly religious. The mother was quiet and down-trodden. After a thorough investigation, the children were taken into care for observation. There we discovered burn marks on the boy’s body, and tiny little nicks, like paper cuts. Many were on his … his genitals. The girl had been abused also, and sexually molested, though not raped. When questioned, however, they maintained that their wounds had either come about naturally or were self-inflicted.’
‘Self-inflicted!’ Frank cried. ‘Surely your people didn’t believe that.’
‘At the time, no. Later, however, it was though
t that some of their claims may have been true. Anyhow, they were seen by a child-psychologist. Both children displayed a total apathy for life, but not once did they ever accuse their parents of anything untoward. There were many verbal traps laid, but neither child fell into them.’
‘So, they were returned to their parents,’ Nicky said, shaking his head in disgust.
‘Yes, I’m afraid so. You must understand that child welfare wasn’t as advanced in those days. It was always thought that the parents had a priority, and if the children weren’t going to admit anything, there really wasn’t much we could do.’
‘But something else happened,’ said Frank. He knew the best – the worst – was yet to come.
‘We were summoned to the house by the police after a neighbour called in, distressed at what she was hearing from the Swains’s home. By the time the police got there, they found the mother and father both dead, a twelve-year-old girl also lay dead by their side.’
‘And the boy?’ Frank asked. This was important. The boy was their very own monster. Had to be.
‘They found him inside a tiny cupboard. With his sister.’
‘Sister? But you said she was alongside the parents, dead.’
The woman shook her head. ‘No, you see, there was another daughter. We had no record of her, had no idea she even existed. She must have been born at home and never registered. It was she who died, while the twins survived.’
‘Twins!’ This was Nicky. ‘They were twins?’
‘Yes.’
‘And the boy, presumably, had murdered them.’
‘Not exactly. From the boy, we got absolutely nothing. He refused to utter a single word to anyone, just kept drifting away somewhere inside his head. But from his sister we did learn one or two things. Evidently, the other sister had been kept inside the same cupboard for just about twenty-four hours a day. She was fed irregularly, and often with ghastly things like spoilt milk, mice or rats, insects. She was treated terribly. The only times she was allowed out were when her parents needed … well, needed to use her.’
Degrees of Darkness Page 29