The door to the incident room opened and Stenning came in. When she and Anderson had returned to the station, Dana had left him in charge of talking to the residents of the string of houseboats.
‘How did you get on, Pete?’ she asked him.
‘There are twelve residential boats along that arm of the Creek,’ said Stenning, perching on the back of a desk and stifling a yawn. ‘All owner-occupied. Five of the owners were at home all evening, one couple arrived back shortly after midnight, two families are away for the weekend and one boat hasn’t been lived in since its previous owner died.’ Stenning stopped to check his notebook. ‘New owner is his son-in-law, a Stewart Roberts,’ he went on. ‘But he isn’t seen from one month to the next. I’ve got names for the other three owners, but no sign of them tonight. There are also about half a dozen vans in the yard and a couple of Portakabins. The site’s secured for now, we can do a proper search in daylight.’
‘Anyone you speak to see anything?’
Stenning shook his head. ‘One chap heard movement in the yard and saw some dark shapes, but he admits himself his eyesight is pretty bad. He yelled and they scarpered. He had a feeling it was kids.’
‘What time?’
‘Ten-thirtyish. Over two hours before we got there.’
‘Kids would explain all the smallish footprints we found on a couple of the boats,’ said Dana. ‘I can see kids spotting something in the water and pulling it out before they realized what it was. What I find harder to understand is why they didn’t let someone know immediately.’
The door opened again and the desk sergeant peered in.
‘Sorry, Ma’am, but Tyler King’s parents are downstairs. And a handful of journalists. They’ve heard we found a body tonight.’
‘How the hell?’ Dana began.
‘Ma’am, it’s on Facebook,’ said Mizon, who’d been at her computer for the last hour. ‘Peter Sweep posted three minutes ago. Shit, there’s a photograph.’
‘What?’ Dana was on her feet. She reached Mizon’s terminal first, the rest crowded round her as they read Peter Sweep’s latest post.
Badly decomposed body of Tyler King pulled out of Deptford Creek at 10.30 this evening. Slightly damp. Who said he would never be found? Never is an awfully long time and murder will out. Even mine.
A second later the relief sent a tremble through her. ‘That’s not our corpse,’ she said. ‘That’s not even Deptford Creek. This sick bastard found a picture on the internet and posted it for effect. I tell you one thing, when we find this Peter Sweep, whether he’s involved or not, I’m going to throw the book at him.’
‘Ma’am!’ She’d forgotten the desk sergeant. Forgotten Tyler King’s parents waiting downstairs, wondering if their long ordeal of not knowing was finally at an end, hoping and dreading, in equal measure.
‘I’m coming,’ she said.
35
Sunday 17 February
‘MUMMY’S GOING AWAY for a little while, Barney, just until she gets better.’
Barney realized he was sitting bolt upright on the sitting-room sofa. Wrong, wrong, wrong. Were the others still here? No, the house was dark and silent, he was alone. He had a vague recollection of them leaving, and then nothing. Had he fallen asleep? Impossible, surely, with all this mess. It had happened again.
He jumped up, saw the mugs stained with the remains of hot chocolate, the KitKat wrappers, the cushions scattered about the floor. All wrong. Not sure what to do first, he bent for the chocolate wrappers and stopped.
Until she gets better.
Had he just made that up? Or was that the second half of the memory, which for some reason had remained hidden until now? His dad’s voice telling him that Mummy was going away for a while was one of his earliest memories. How come, until now, he’d only remembered half ?
He’d think better when the room was tidy, he always did. He dropped the chocolate wrappers and gathered up the cushions. Two red, two gold, on each of the three sofas, arranged neatly in pairs, that was how it was done. He stood up and, for less than a second, caught another glimpse in the large wall mirror of the boy who wasn’t him. The boy who was smaller, and thinner, and who smiled an odd, knowing smile. He stared and the reflection became Barney again. Sad, worried, tired, and far too pale, but definitely him.
Had his mum been ill? Was she, even now, in hospital somewhere? If so, she wouldn’t have seen any of his ads. Why was he only remembering this now?
A key was being turned in the lock. Barney remembered, in a split second, that his dad thought he was on a sleepover. No time to hide. He’d have to say he’d felt ill and come home. Jorge and one of the others had walked with him. How to explain being in the sitting-room in the middle of the night was another matter.
His dad had closed and locked the door and walked the length of the hall to the kitchen. Barney heard the sound of keys being dropped on to the table, of a tap being run. Then lights switched off. His dad was going upstairs. Movement in the room above, the toilet being flushed, the electric toothbrush, the bed creaking. Then nothing.
Why had his dad been at the boat? Why had he suddenly got so careful about the keys? And why had he lied, why had he claimed to be home when he plainly wasn’t?
Barney carried the mugs and the chocolate wrappers into the kitchen. He wouldn’t be able to wash them until morning but at least he’d know the living room was tidy. He put the wrappers in the bin and left the mugs on top of the washing machine.
The striped sheets he’d seen in the washing machine, they belonged on the boat. Suddenly Barney was sure of it.
Barney left the kitchen. He climbed the steps slowly and carefully, knowing exactly where to stand to avoid making a sound. On the first-floor landing he paused. The door to his dad’s study was open. His coat hung on the back of the door.
Why did his dad have a child’s glove in his pocket?
36
EVERYTHING INSIDE HER was wrong. Internal organs swelling, skin tightening, bones pressing closer together. Lacey’s body just didn’t seem to fit any more. Working parts she never normally gave a second’s thought to, systems she took totally for granted, were jarring and clashing like badly made clockwork.
Concentrate. She had to get down the steps without falling. God knows how she’d managed to drive home without killing someone. Maybe she hadn’t. Lacey realized she had no recollection of leaving Lewisham police station, of finding her car where Joesbury had left it, of driving across town to her flat. Maybe the screech of brakes on wet tarmac, the glance of terror, the thud of metal against flesh had just slipped her memory. She’d had blackouts once before, years ago, when long hours just slipped from her consciousness. Maybe they were happening again. Maybe there was someone bleeding on the roadside somewhere and it was all her fault.
The ache in her chest was spreading outwards, making her stomach cramp. She was at her front door, with no idea how long it had taken her to get down the steps. She had to go in, and yet the cold air and the rain on her face felt like the only things keeping her together. Noise above. Footsteps. She’d be seen.
Inside her flat, Lacey found herself searching her pockets for her phone, before remembering that Tulloch still had it. And who would she call anyway? Tulloch genuinely seemed to think she might have killed that boy, killed all of them. Hey, maybe she should confess – it wasn’t as though she had any plans for the rest of her life. Would prison really be any worse than what she was going through right now? They’d probably send her to Durham. At least then she’d have someone to talk to.
Lacey realized she was laughing. Too loudly. She had to stop, she’d wake the people upstairs.
But it was impossible to stop, even with both hands clamped to her mouth, and now the laugh was turning into a scream. She felt it, behind her hands, a steady, building pressure, like cheap fizzy wine pushing at a cork; she had to let it go, no one could keep this much pain inside them and not howl out loud.
The kitchen drawer slid open, smooth and silen
t. The knives looked very clean. Lacey’s fingers touched the one that was sharpest and she ran the edge of the blade along the length of the scar on her wrist.
The easiest thing in the world. She watched white skin fall apart like fresh snow before a plough. The pain was like an electric current, starting in her wrist and speeding out to every part of her. It was like energy. The blood appeared in tiny, perfect droplets that stretched and met, forming a single scarlet line.
She raised her hand, let the blood flow snake-like down her arm, bent her head and stretched out her tongue. Warm, salty, metallic.
The scream had gone from Lacey’s head. In its place was a soft, ivory light.
37
‘SOME OF THE boys didn’t die right away, did you know that?’
The psychiatrist opened her mouth to speak.
‘You’d think if your throat was cut, right the way across from one ear to the other, you’d think you’d die pretty much straight away, wouldn’t you?’ continued the patient.
‘Even with very severe injuries, it can take a while for the body to shut down,’ said the psychiatrist.
‘There was this one kid I remember, his whole body was shivering. I suppose he was scared. He was, like, shaking with fear. I suppose I would have been.’
‘More likely his body was going into shock. Loss of blood and lack of oxygen getting to the main organs will send someone into shock. Seizures are quite a common symptom.’
‘He was looking at me while he was dying. Never took his eyes off me, all the time he was shaking and pissing himself. I’ll never forget that, the way he looked at me.’
PART TWO
38
Sunday 17 February
‘SOMEONE KNOWS THIS killer,’ said the dark-skinned detective. ‘He has friends, he goes home at night, he talks to his family. Someone knows who he is.’
By eight-thirty in the morning, Barney had already been up for two hours and it had felt safe to turn the TV on. The news on all channels was covering the discovery last night of the dead body of a young boy. It hadn’t officially been confirmed as that of Tyler King, the first of the Twilight Killer’s five victims, but no one really had any doubt.
‘We believe he lives or works in South London,’ the detective, Dana Tulloch, continued. ‘We believe he doesn’t live alone and that he has some good reason for being out of the house on Tuesday and Thursday evenings. That’s when the boys disappear and their bodies are found.’
Tuesdays and Thursdays – what he’d spotted days ago. Barney heard noise on the floor above him. His dad was moving around.
‘He doesn’t look like a monster. He persuaded five sensible, streetwise boys to leave their homes and go with him. He’ll be convincing, plausible. He’ll look normal.’
Footsteps coming down the stairs.
Almond-shaped eyes, oddly pale against the detective’s skin and hair, seemed to be looking directly at Barney. ‘It isn’t easy to betray someone you know and trust, maybe someone you love, but if you are protecting this killer, you are doing him no favours because he will carry on killing until he’s stopped. If you know something, anything at all, please help us to stop him.’
The picture on the screen switched to a shot of Deptford Creek. Barney could see the yard, the line of boats, the ring of police tape around where the body had lain. The reporter was talking to another detective, a young man with dark, curly hair. Behind Barney, the kitchen door opened.
‘Whoever found the body last night contacted the police anonymously,’ the detective was saying. ‘Whilst we appreciate their efforts to let us know immediately, we do need to ask them some further questions. If you were anywhere near this yard last night, please contact Lewisham police station as soon as you can.’
‘Morning, Barney.’
His dad looked tired, a bit more crumpled around the edges of his face than normal. ‘I see they found him.’ He was looking over Barney’s head at the TV screen, at footage taken the night before of a large black bag being carried out of the yard. ‘Poor kid.’
‘Isn’t that where Granddad’s boat is?’ said Barney, watching his father’s face carefully.
His dad screwed up his eyes, stepped closer to the screen. ‘Looks like it,’ he said after a moment. ‘Was he found at Theatre Arm Marina?’
‘That’s what they said,’ said Barney. ‘Must have been just by Granddad’s boat.’
His dad scratched the back of his neck. ‘Well, it’s a big area. All the same, we should pop down there soon, make sure it’s alright. Maybe when all the fuss has died down.’
Apparently losing interest in the TV, his dad opened the dishwasher to find it empty. Barney had already washed all the cocoa mugs by hand and put them away. The KitKat wrappers were in the outside bin and the sitting-room looked as if no one had been near it.
‘Why are you back so early?’
Barney shrugged. ‘We all woke up early,’ he said. ‘I didn’t really want to hang around.’
‘Bit messy, was it?’ teased his dad. ‘Dirty socks on the carpet?’
‘Something like that,’ admitted Barney, wondering if he found lying so easy because his dad did. Maybe it was a genetic thing.
‘Make sure you marry a tidy woman, son, or neither of you will have any peace.’
Like you did, Barney wanted to say. His mum had been tidy. Is that a genetic thing, too? Did I get my tidiness from Mum and my ability to lie from you? He couldn’t say it out loud. Mentioning Mum was a taboo he couldn’t possibly break. Even now.
‘Are we going to watch the rugby this morning?’ his dad asked him.
The others from last night would be at the rugby. He could check none of them were having jitters. Reassure them they’d got away with it. The body had been found and no one suspected they’d been involved. It was all fine.
Barney ran upstairs. He just had time to check Facebook before he went. He found his jacket, hat, scarf and gloves while he waited for the system to boot up. He logged on to Facebook and went to the Missing Boys page.
Christ, everyone on the planet had been on the site this morning, he’d never have time to read through it all. Barney started scrolling down. The usual messages of sympathy, expressions of outrage, taunts from the sickos. Barney kept going, looking for the earliest time the news about Tyler’s body could have been broadcast.
Shortly after midnight, the boy calling himself Peter Sweep had posted.
Badly decomposed body of Tyler King pulled out of Deptford Creek at 10.30 this evening. Slightly damp. Who said he would never be found? Never is an awfully long time, and murder will out. Even mine.
Peter had finally admitted that he was the killer.
39
‘NO, SORRY. I think her face was thinner. The sort of face that would be pretty, if it had a bit more flesh on it.’
‘Like this?’
Dana leaned back on her chair. Her eyes were getting sore from spending too long staring at one image on a computer screen. The image of a Caucasian woman, in her late thirties to early forties. ‘Yeah, that’s better. But shorter. A smaller face.’
The image on the screen compressed.
‘Bigger eyes. There was something a bit elfin about her. Yeah, that’s getting closer.’
‘How’s the mouth?’
The mouth was unsmiling, medium in size, full lips with a good natural colour.
‘You know what? I think that’s as close as we’re going to get,’ she said. ‘Can you run a check? See if there’s anything on the system.’
‘No worries. You expecting her to have a police record?’
Dana thought about it for a second. ‘I won’t be at all surprised,’ she said. ‘I’ve definitely seen her before.’
40
WHEN BARNEY AND his dad arrived at the rugby club, the Chiswick Crusaders were leading ten points to five against the Lambeth Lions. The wind was rough, stirring up hair and scarves and tempers. Barney took in the field, and knew it was a game without the usual rhythm and grace, a gam
e of irritable break-outs, subdued tension and an undercurrent of violence.
He spotted Sam and Lloyd standing with their dads, some way apart as they’d agreed, and Jorge, Harvey and Hatty, who seemed to have come without adults. Also Huck Joesbury, next to a tall woman with long blonde hair. On the other side of the pitch Mr and Mrs Green stood together. Mrs Green spotted them and gave Barney a wave.
As Barney and his dad approached the touchline, Chiswick were in possession and on the attack. A slick back-row move saw Chiswick’s number 8 slip the ball to one of the two flankers, who threw a long pass to the other. The second flanker, Barney realized, was Huck’s dad. Joesbury Senior accelerated forward from the touchline, sidestepped a tackle, reached the try line and dived over. The Chiswick supporters cheered and Huck jumped in the air, both fists raised above his head.
Jorge, Hatty and Harvey were making their way towards Barney. Both Sam and Lloyd slipped away from the adults too.
‘Won’t be a sec,’ Barney announced, stepping away from his dad. Together the boys and Hatty walked down the touchline until they knew they couldn’t be overheard.
‘Anybody have any trouble?’ asked Jorge. One by one the children shook their heads.
‘Our mum nearly rang yours, Lloyd, to thank her this morning,’ said Harvey, ‘but Jorge told her the whole family would be at church.’
‘What’s church?’ said Lloyd.
‘I still think we should say something,’ said Sam. ‘They’re bound to find out we were at the Creek.’
‘They won’t,’ said Barney. ‘No one saw us, and even if they did, they just saw a bunch of kids. There are thousands of kids in London. And we left it over an hour before sending that text.’
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