The Killing Habit

by Mark Billingham

  He walked slowly across the room towards the French windows, one eye on the lad, who sat, as though transfixed by some seemingly endless and noisy car chase. Stock-still, save for the small, elaborately inked hands which slid rapidly back and forth across his knees.

  Evans stared out across the grounds through a curtain of drizzle. A pair of squirrels chased each other around the fountain, then tore off across the lawn. He watched the tops of the trees behind the perimeter fence bend with the wind, and listened to the desperate scratch-hiss of flesh against polyester, and he wondered if he had been that bad a month or so back when he’d arrived.

  Worse, probably, he decided.

  His foot bouncing against the floor, like he was in fucking Riverdance.

  He still saw Call Me Rob for an hour every day, but now it was more or less just chatting. He had begun to look forward to it. They talked about the kind of job Evans might look for when he got home, about Paula and the baby.

  Normal stuff.

  There were still moments – flashes of hunger, a desire to lash out – but the last one seemed like days ago and, even before Tanner had called, he had started to believe that whoever killed that refugee and fitted him up for it had actually done him a favour. Him and his family. It hadn’t felt like that at the time, of course: dragged away from Paula and Sean; sitting in that cell wondering what the hell was happening; spirited away to a weird old house in the middle of nowhere and pumped full of pills.

  Now, those things felt like stories he’d heard about another person.

  Now, he could sleep, and they didn’t have to change his sheets every morning because he’d sweated so much it was like he’d pissed the bed.

  Now, he could go back to his new baby, clean.

  He turned away from the window and took a step towards the wall. He leaned so that he could get a better look at his fellow guest, who was still glued to the TV. The hands were still going nineteen to the dozen, rubbing and rubbing, but now Evans could see that the lad wasn’t actually watching anything; that both his eyes were screwed tightly shut.

  SIXTY-TWO

  Alfie sat playing with Helen’s old iPad at Thorne’s feet, while Thorne flicked through the documentation sent to him by the computer team. As he had suspected, it was no more comprehensible in black and white than it had been over the phone, but he was doing his best; telling himself that he didn’t need to understand how it worked, as long as it worked.

  ‘Yes!’ Alfie said. His little fist clenched in triumph, another jewel or chest or zombie chicken collected or captured or blown up.

  ‘Got one?’ Without a clue what was going on, Thorne leaned down to watch; amazed, as always, at how frighteningly adept the child was with the technology. At how kids could play games like this before they could read, could open apps and navigate screens before they could manage joined up writing. He remembered Alfie, eighteen months younger than he was now, trying to swipe the picture on the TV and announcing loudly that it was ‘rubbish’.

  ‘Eaten a massive snake.’ The boy raised the iPad to show him.

  ‘What are you playing?’

  ‘Slither,’ Alfie said. ‘Look how big I am now.’ He pointed and tried to explain that he was a snake that got bigger every time he swallowed another snake, but that if he was too greedy he would explode and then another snake would come along and eat all the bits.

  ‘Right.’ Thorne didn’t understand a word of it, but it was very obvious which one of them was having the most fun.

  Helen was sitting at the kitchen table, working on a report. As DI on a Child Protection Team, she was almost certainly enjoying herself least of all. She looked across. ‘Any the wiser?’

  ‘Well, the bit about snakes eating snakes sounds a lot like some senior officers I could mention,’ Thorne said. ‘But apart from that, no.’ He sat back, waved the sheaf of papers as if he were about to throw them across the room. ‘Still makes more sense than this, though.’

  ‘Maybe you should ask Alfie to have a look.’

  ‘I think he’s a bit busy.’

  Helen smiled, looked back down at her report. ‘So, who’s doing it? On the night?’

  ‘Who isn’t doing it? Mind you, I had to turn Christine Treasure down.’

  ‘Why? No reason two women wouldn’t work, is there?’

  Thorne thought about it. ‘I suppose not.’

  ‘Everything you’ve said about this bloke, how he sees the women on these websites, it might actually be a good idea.’

  ‘Got another one,’ Alfie said. ‘Huge one.’

  Helen looked across at Thorne. ‘That kind of mindset, you know? He might think a woman going out with another woman is as desperate as it gets.’

  ‘You might be right.’ Thorne was annoyed that he hadn’t considered it, when perhaps he should have, but it was too late to change the arrangements now. ‘Still not sure Christine would be the right choice, mind you. I’ve seen her get stuck in come closing time, but I’m not sure how she is on jobs that need a bit more… you know?’

  ‘Finesse?’

  ‘Good a word as any.’

  ‘Are you absolutely sure that you should be doing it?’

  Thorne looked up, saw Helen’s sarcastic grin and returned it with interest.

  ‘Doing what?’ Alfie asked.

  ‘It’s just a job that Tom’s got,’ Helen said. She looked over at Thorne again. ‘A very tricky one.’

  Alfie did not bother looking up from his screen. ‘What does finiss mean?’

  ‘Finesse.’

  ‘What does it mean?’

  Helen stared at Thorne, but he just held up his hands. Over to you.

  ‘It means… doing something very carefully.’

  ‘Skilfully,’ Thorne said. ‘Without making too much fuss.’

  ‘Like being sneaky?’ Alfie asked.

  ‘Yeah… sneaky.’

  Alfie nodded, getting it. ‘How I catch the other snakes,’ he said.

  Helen’s phone rang.

  Thorne watched her glance down at the screen, pick up the phone and walk towards the door without answering. It might have been a work call, of course, demanding conversation she would not want her son to overhear. But Thorne had recognised the look on Helen’s face when she’d seen who was calling.

  It wasn’t Alfie she was worried about.

  Jenny.

  After half a minute or so, Alfie stood up and clambered on to the sofa, pushing Thorne’s legs roughly out of the way. He settled back and said, ‘Do you want to play?’

  Thorne glanced at the file of technical notes he was still clutching.

  ‘It’s good fun. You can be a red snake or a blue snake. Any colour, really.’

  Thorne dropped the notes and wondered if the boy was as good at reading people’s moods as he was with technology. He said that he would very much like to play, and opted for something stripy.

  ‘You could be black and white.’ Alfie laughed. ‘Like Spurs.’

  Thorne could hear Helen murmuring in the bedroom.

  It was only a shame that Alfie was still too young for some of the more violent shoot-em-ups, because at that moment there was someone Thorne could easily imagine as a target.

  It would have been so easy to miss it. To miss her.

  He could have gone straight back to those three pictures, pinned up on the wall above his maps and charts with printed biogs beneath.

  Sarah (53) likes mountaineering and fine wine.

  Jo (41) is always there for her friends.

  Karen (26) doesn’t like to argue but she’s not a pushover!

  The last three candidates he had so carefully selected over previous weeks, pored over and pried into, moved up and down the running order as the mood took him. He could just have ploughed on and made his final selection, no real reason not to, but experience had told him that a last look was never a bad idea. Checking that each of those final three was sticking to the arrangements they’d made with their dream dates, that there hadn’t been any las
t minute changes.

  Times, places, all that.

  Cold feet or a better offer.

  It had not taken him long to see that there had been no emails between the six interested parties to get concerned or annoyed about. No reason to change his plans because they hadn’t changed theirs. Tick. On we go. But still, a voice in his head that he had come to trust had told him to wait, to bide his time just a little longer.

  Had said, You never know.

  So, just in case, he’d gone back to the site for what he’d guessed would be a cursory scan of the fresh arrivals, the eager new clients. A five-minute browsing session which, if he was lucky, might throw up another candidate to think about and perhaps get to know better a little further down the line.

  It was not a half-bad selection.

  A physiotherapist who thought she was ‘warm and intelligent’, a consultant (whatever that was) who had ‘so much to do and so little time’, a property manager who could not live ‘without smiles and hugs’.

  Then, there she was.

  Her photograph, leaping from his screen, and London-based too, which was always handy. He wasn’t sure how long he’d stared at her pictures for. By a boat, leaning against a car, with a man who looked enough like her to almost certainly be her brother. Then he’d scrolled down through her personal profile. What made her laugh, how she spent her leisure time, what her one wish would be. It was the section of the site headed Neuroticism that he enjoyed the most, as always.

  All of us have the ability to feel intense emotions. This is perfectly normal. We all experience fear and elation, sadness and rage, as well as shame and envy. But to what extent do we control these emotions? Does your prospective partner have their emotions under control, or is it those very emotions that control them?

  He almost laughed out loud.

  According to the site’s Christmas cracker graph, she was quite stable emotionally. Well, thank heavens for that.

  He got up and wandered into the kitchen, his mind racing. He poured himself a glass of wine, downed half of it in one go then carried the rest back into the smaller bedroom, the one he used as an office. He barely glanced at the three pictures above the desk as he sat down.

  Sarah, Jo and Karen would have to wait a while.

  He stared at her picture.

  Yes, he had made amendments before now. A different choice of venue or the date being knocked on a week because the woman had a ‘work thing’ or the man was having a minor operation. There was one occasion when the happy couple had not been able to keep their hands off each other and had driven back to her place without even bothering to order dessert. No point him paying that randy little bitch a visit, was there?

  But abandoning a plan before he’d even begun and rethinking, that had never happened.

  He had simply never come across anyone who demanded it.

  No woman had ever been worth that.

  But this one was.

  SIXTY-THREE

  Tanner groaned as she listened to her phone message. She shook her head and cursed under her breath as she put the phone back on the table afterwards.

  ‘Look, I know I’m not really your type.’ Thorne leaned close to her. ‘But I think you should at least look like you’re enjoying yourself.’

  ‘I know, but —’

  ‘Nice and calm, OK? Happy.’

  Tanner kept her voice as low as Thorne’s. ‘Frances Coombs’s panic alarm was activated.’

  Thorne nodded, as though entranced by some personal anecdote of his companion’s. He said, ‘Tell me, but keep smiling.’

  ‘It could be worse, I suppose.’ She picked up her wine glass and Thorne leaned across to touch his own to it. ‘She was complaining about pains in her chest. Heart palpitations or some nonsense. They’ve taken her to hospital.’

  ‘No need to panic, then.’

  ‘I wouldn’t trust her as far as I could spit her,’ Tanner said. ‘How do we know who she’s been talking to, what she’s cooked up? Maybe they’ve made her a better offer.’

  ‘Whatever else that woman is, she’s not stupid,’ Thorne said. ‘So, just try and relax and remember how much fun we’re supposed to be having. I don’t think we need to worry that he’s able to hear us, but we have to at least assume he’s watching.’

  ‘I do know what we’re supposed to be doing, Tom.’

  ‘Alan,’ Thorne said. ‘Alan, the recently divorced landscape gardener. You like the fact that I work outdoors, remember?’

  ‘Well, it wouldn’t have been anything else, would it?’

  ‘Food’s pretty good, isn’t it?’ Thorne reached for one of the crostini on the plate between them. ‘And remember to hang on to the bill for expenses. I presume we’re going Dutch.’

  They were seated at a corner table in a smart Italian restaurant on the outskirts of Watford. At the same time, at an Indian restaurant in Bromley, Yvonne Kitson was dining with Russell Brigstocke, while Dipak Chall and a DC named Charita Desai sat in a wine bar in Hayes; all within twenty miles of central London. Six fake profiles posted over the previous week on the Made In Heaven website. Six new email addresses, online histories and social media identities, each carefully created and monitored by the operation’s computer team.

  The team which had confirmed that their suspect had illegally accessed the Made In Heaven website again, late the previous night.

  Two further officers had been posted undercover inside each meeting place, as fellow diners or members of staff, with several more on surveillance at carefully chosen positions outside. High speed pursuit vehicles stood ready close to each location, with firearms units on standby at the vacant properties which were ‘home’ that night for the three women who might be targeted. Thorne, Tanner and the others on bogus ‘dates’ made up no more than a fifth of the officers on operational duty that evening.

  As Jesmond had suggested, it had been a big ask, but they had put it all together remarkably fast. Now, they simply had to hope that the man they were aiming to tempt would take the bait. Three desperate single women to choose from, three single men who lived alone and would struggle to find an alibi, and, if the geographical profiler was right, all on dates close to where the killer was based.

  They’d made it nice and easy for him.

  The waiter brought their main courses and asked how they were enjoying their meal. He topped up both glasses. There had been careful liaison with management and staff in the days leading up to the operation and the waiter did not seem concerned that he was pouring grape juice from a bottle of Pinot Grigio.

  He rather seemed to be enjoying the subterfuge.

  Thorne took the opportunity to check out the people sitting at adjacent tables. Would the killer really be that close to them? There was no reason why not, he certainly wasn’t lacking confidence, but Thorne could see no single men. It struck him suddenly that they had never considered the possibility that the killer might be on a date himself. It was a perfect cover, after all. He might be sitting with a woman unaware of his real motives or he might be there with an accomplice. Thorne took another look at the couples eating nearby. There had been nothing to indicate that the man they were after was working with anyone else, but perhaps it was a theory that should have been looked into. The operation had been put together quickly, because it had needed to be, but now, at the eleventh hour, Thorne could not help worrying that rushing might have caused them to miss something.

  He could not help worrying about all sorts of things.

  They ate and talked, and Tanner, her back to the wall, took her own chance to look at the restaurant’s other customers. She leaned close. ‘Single man at the bar. Came in just after we sat down.’

  Thorne did not turn round. ‘Age?’

  ‘Fifties. Greying hair, six one, maybe taller. It’s not Aiden Goode.’

  ‘Spotting Aiden Goode would be a bonus,’ Thorne said. ‘But we can’t be certain he’s who we’re looking for.’

  ‘And we can’t be certain that the man we’re
looking for is even in here,’ Tanner said. ‘Or in the curry house, or the wine bar. He doesn’t need to be. Easy enough for him to be watching the place from outside. He just needs to see that the woman he’s after leaves on her own.’

  If so, there was every chance that the surveillance team had already spotted him. Thorne would not know about that until he was outside, in his car and in radio contact with the rest of the team.

  ‘Which I will,’ Tanner said. ‘Sorry, but I’m not really sensing a connection. There’s no spark.’

  ‘I’m doing my best,’ Thorne said.

  At ten o’clock, Thorne asked for the bill, knowing that in Hayes and Bromley, as arranged, their colleagues would be doing exactly the same thing. He finished his coffee and watched Tanner finish hers; a welcome shot of caffeine as they approached the business end of the evening. He handed over a credit card, thanked the waiter, then stood and helped Tanner on with her jacket.

  A final chance to get a good look at those around them.

  A glance at the officer working undercover on the door.

  Clocking the man’s hand signal indicating that he had no concerns.

  They walked out together and along the main road to the car park. It was a dry evening and the Friday night traffic would work to their advantage too, with any car they might need to pursue unable to get anywhere terribly fast.

  ‘All set?’ Thorne asked.

  ‘Oh Christ, yes,’ Tanner said. ‘Ten minutes from now I’ll be at home to visitors.’

  ‘Let’s hope you get one.’

  They walked to their cars, which had, with the same meticulous eye for detail the logistics team had applied to every other aspect of the operation, been registered with the DVLA in the names under which they’d signed up to the Made In Heaven website. Both looked like bog-standard saloons, but each had been upgraded and was capable of outrunning almost anything else likely to be on the road.

  Thorne leaned in to kiss Tanner on both cheeks.

  ‘I’m on the other end of the radio if you need me, OK?’