Like This, for Ever

by Sharon Bolton

  The question the whole country was asking. Barney, still a child, would expect a grown-up, a detective, to know the answer. ‘There are lots of reasons why people kill,’ she said. ‘And usually those reasons make no sense to people like us.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  Lacey sighed. She was wet, cold, some way from home and this kid wanted a psychological profile. ‘There may be something wrong with his brain,’ she said. ‘Maybe it was injured in some way that stops him feeling compassion and pity. Or maybe he went through a terrible experience when he was a child, bad enough to damage him, even if not in a physical way.’

  Barney had been watching her face rather than where he was going. He pushed his bike a little too close and almost knocked her off balance.

  ‘Steady!’

  ‘Sorry.’

  They walked on, until, in a quiet voice, Barney asked, ‘Can he get better?’

  ‘Better, as in … ?’

  ‘Can he stop doing it? Is there a way of making him good again?’

  They had to cross the main road at this point. Lacey waited for a gap in the traffic. ‘I don’t think so,’ she said, when they’d reached the other side. ‘I think when people are as damaged as he is, the only thing you can really do is stop them hurting anyone in the future.’

  ‘You mean send him to prison?’

  ‘Well, it might be to a secure hospital, but it would still seem very much like a prison.’

  ‘What if he’s got …’

  Lacey slowed down. Barney was no longer making eye contact. When she was looking straight ahead, his eyes never left her face, but the second she turned to him, he looked away. What was he hiding? ‘Got what?’ she asked him.

  ‘Nothing. Why does he kill kids, though? Why not grown-ups?’

  Wow, he wasn’t holding back with the tricky questions.

  ‘Well, that’s probably a question only he could answer, but usually when killers go for one particular type of victim, it’s because those victims remind them of a person in real life. Maybe someone who’s hurt them. They can’t kill the one they really want to, so they choose – do you know the word surrogate?’

  ‘I think so. You mean he’s killing ten- and eleven-year-old boys because there’s one particular ten- or eleven-year-old he really wants to kill but can’t?’

  ‘Well, it probably won’t be quite as simple as that, but basically—Barney, what’s wrong?’

  He was crying. The tough, defiant kid had tears gleaming in his eyes. Knowing she’d seen them, he brought his fists up to his face like a much younger child, to hide the tears and wipe them away at the same time.

  Lacey looked up the street and spotted a café still open. With one hand on Barney’s shoulder, the other steering her bike, she led the child across the road towards it. When he asked for a Coke, she ordered two to save hassle and led him to a table next to the wall.

  ‘Going to tell me?’ she asked, when nothing but gulping sounds and sniffs had come from Barney for quite some time.

  ‘I’ve been trying to find my mum,’ he said, as though he’d only been waiting for her to ask.

  ‘I didn’t know you had a mum,’ she replied.

  He looked up at her with eyes that were suddenly so much brighter than the grey they usually seemed. ‘Everyone’s got a mum.’

  ‘I know, sorry, I just assumed …’ She stopped. She hadn’t assumed anything, she hadn’t really given it any thought. ‘What happened to her?’ she asked.

  ‘She left,’ said Barney. ‘When I was little. I don’t remember her at all. I’ve got a picture, though, I know what she looks like.’

  ‘Does your dad know where she is?’

  ‘I don’t know. He never talks about her. All I can remember is him telling me she had to go away for a while. But that means she’s going to come back, doesn’t it? For a while means not for ever. Why would he tell me she’s gone for a while if he knew she wasn’t coming back?’

  To soften the blow, of course, thought Lacey. Hoping you’d forget, just get used to her not being around. Oh Barney!

  ‘Have you never talked about this with your dad?’ she asked him.

  ‘Not for a long time. I think when I was little, I used to ask where she was and he always said the same thing. Mummy’s gone away for a while. After a bit, I just stopped asking. I’ve been looking for her myself though.’

  Lacey listened, as the cappuccino machine hissed and spat, and while Barney told her about how he’d divided the whole city into zones, and researched the various newspapers and free-sheets in each area. That he was advertising in the classified columns, doing an area at a time, ticking them off when they were done and he’d got no response. He told her how he funded the cost of the advertisements from money he earned working at the newsagent’s, and about the secret email account that he checked every morning.

  God love him, it would never work. Even if his mother was still in London – in itself quite unlikely – what were the chances of her combing the local newspapers on a regular basis?

  ‘It won’t work, will it?’ said Barney, as though he’d read her mind. ‘You think I’m mad.’

  ‘I think you’re brave and intelligent and resourceful,’ said Lacey. ‘But you’re right, I’m afraid. It won’t work.’

  His face crumpled. They were facing each other across the table and all she could do was reach forward and pat his hand. She wondered how long it had been since a woman had hugged him. She sat there, feeling helpless and awkward, until he gave a massive sniff and looked up.

  ‘The police could find her, couldn’t they?’ he asked, and now his face had taken on a sly look. ‘They know how to find missing persons.’

  ‘The police have procedures for tracing missing persons,’ said Lacey cautiously, ‘but even they don’t always work. If people want to stay missing, they usually do.’

  ‘How do they do it?’ said Barney, leaning forward. ‘What do I have to do to find her?’

  ‘You know what a database is?’

  He nodded.

  ‘Well, the first thing the police would do is search through the various databases,’ she said. ‘We’d probably start with the police national computer. I’m sure this wouldn’t be the case, but if your mum has ever been arrested or given a police caution, there’ll be a record of it. Assuming that didn’t trace her, we’d check the electoral roll – you know, the list of people who are eligible to vote; then the DVLA, the people who issue car licences; the Department for Work and Pensions; Her Majesty’s Revenue and Customs; the various utility companies – phone companies, especially. Unless your mum has disappeared from sight completely, she’ll be on one, probably more, of those databases. They would give us a last known address and we’d take it from there.’

  ‘How long would it take?’

  ‘If you were in a real hurry, you could probably have it done in a few days.’

  ‘If I told them my mum was missing, would they look for her for me?’

  Oh, the poor kid. ‘Your dad would have to report her missing,’ Lacey said. ‘But as she went such a long time ago, I doubt they’d consider it a good enough reason to look now.’

  ‘But she is missing, and if anything happens to my dad, I’ll have no one to look after me.’

  He wanted Lacey to look for his mother. The unspoken question was shining out from his eyes. And she could, no doubt about it. How ethical it would be was another matter entirely.

  ‘Barney, if I could talk to your dad about it, I might be able to—’

  He looked at his wristwatch. ‘I should get back now,’ he said. ‘My dad will be wondering where I am. Don’t say anything to him, please. I don’t want to worry him.’

  Lacey stood and carried both Coke cans to the bin. ‘What’s your mum’s name?’ she asked.

  ‘Karen Roberts. Why?’ asked Barney, hope lighting up his face.

  ‘Do you know her maiden name? What she was called before she was married.’

  ‘My granddad was called Prince,’
said Barney. ‘Is that what you mean?’

  ‘Karen Roberts, née Prince. Barney, I’m making no promises, but I’ll have a think about it. Now, come on, let’s get you home.’

  44

  AT THE FRONT of the incident room, a large white screen had been hooked up to the internet. Four detectives sat watching the Missing Boys page update itself every few seconds. They’d already tried, and failed, to track Peter Sweep via the usual route – email address and internet service provider. This evening, Facebook had told them, Peter was posting using a smart phone. They’d been happy to supply the number, but all BT had been able to tell them was that it was being used within half a mile of a base station not far from Lambeth. The effort and thought Sweep had put into concealing his identity and whereabouts had done more than anything to convince most members of the team that he and the killer were one and the same. Most, not all.

  ‘Dana, I just don’t think it’s him,’ said Richmond.

  Dana watched Anderson stop pacing the room and turn on the spot to face the profiler. ‘What the hell do you mean?’ he demanded. ‘He’s got a picture of the kid. Scroll it back, Gayle. Let’s all have another look at the poor little bastard, shall we?’

  Richmond sighed and ran her hands through her hair. ‘I know that and I know what I’m saying will sound like it’s making no sense, but everything is telling me that this is not your man.’

  The room was empty but for the four of them: Dana, Anderson, Richmond and Mizon. The rest of the team were out looking for Oliver Kennedy. Anderson had made no secret of his desire to join them out in the field.

  ‘Go on,’ said Dana.

  ‘Boss, with respect, I think I can be more use out on the streets. At least I can knock on doors, ask questions. Sitting here is doing my head in.’ Anderson had walked to the door now, practically had hold of the handle.

  ‘I know that, but I need you here, Neil. Somebody has to do the thinking.’

  ‘Not my forte, Boss. If it’s all the same to you, I’ll leave that to the women.’

  ‘Sit down, please, Sergeant Anderson, Susan has something she wants to tell us.’

  Anderson, red-faced and hard-eyed, sank clumsily into the nearest seat and glared at Richmond.

  ‘I won’t say our killer is the most controlled I’ve ever come across because that would mean relatively little,’ said Susan. ‘The chance to work with serial killers doesn’t come along very often.’

  ‘Well, excuse us for not providing job satisfaction,’ began Anderson.

  ‘Stop it!’ snapped Dana. ‘I’m sorry, Neil, but we’re all on edge here. Just try and hold it together, will you?’

  Anderson gave a heavy sigh and shook his head.

  ‘But those of us who do this line of work keep 100 per cent up to date with what’s going on elsewhere,’ Richmond continued. ‘Every time a new serial killer raises his head, whether it’s here or overseas, most commonly the US, we hoover up every bit of information we can find. Every big case has reams written about it and we read everything.’

  ‘OK, we get you’re well informed, what’s the point?’

  ‘The point, Sergeant, is that this is one of the most controlled killers anyone has come across. Highly intelligent, exceptionally organized, no hint of anger of any sort. He made one mistake, right at the start, when he didn’t leave Tyler’s body where you’d be bound to find it, but since then, nothing. He plans what he’s going to do, he stalks his victims for days, maybe for weeks, gets his snatch absolutely right. There is nothing sexual or angry about what he does to them. He keeps his cool throughout, then he leaves them for us to find. He is ice man, or woman.’

  Dana found herself, once again, thinking about Lacey Flint. Ten minutes ago, from the privacy of her office, she’d asked local uniform to check whether Lacey was in her flat.

  ‘But suddenly, tonight, that’s all changed. Suddenly he’s like a kid who’s had too many blue Smarties. He boasts in advance about what he’s going to do, he names his victim within minutes of having got him, now he’s giving us a blow-by-blow account of what he’s supposedly doing to the poor kid. There’s a malicious, impish glee about it all and it’s completely out of character.’

  ‘Another one,’ said Mizon from her desk. ‘This is starting to turn my stomach.’

  ‘What is it this time?’ asked Anderson. ‘More blood-lust bollocks?’

  Mizon nodded. ‘You know what? I think it is him,’ she said, ‘but something has made him go a bit mental. Maybe it’s all this talk about vampires.’

  ‘No,’ said Richmond. ‘He’s enjoying the vampire angle. We’ve had – what – three references to blood-drinking in the past hour? But all pretty samey and unimaginative. He keeps talking about the warm, nourishing taste of blood, it’s stuff straight out of a cheap vampire thriller.’

  ‘I get that,’ said Dana. ‘I really do, but isn’t this just the sort of escalation we see with serial offenders? Isn’t it possible that his need for greater public attention this time is just part of the escalation?’

  ‘If he were showing any sign of reckless behaviour, I might agree with you,’ said Susan. ‘But he isn’t.’

  ‘You don’t think telling the world what he’s doing is reckless in itself ?’ suggested Mizon. ‘Suddenly he’s the most hated man on the planet. If ever there were a candidate for public lynching, he’s it.’

  ‘Another reason why I don’t think it’s him. I don’t think our killer wants to be hated. I think he wants to be understood.’

  Anderson gave a short, guttural cough, beneath which the word ‘bollocks’ could be plainly heard.

  Richmond stared Anderson straight in the face. He looked away first. ‘We have to concentrate on what he’s doing to these boys,’ she went on. ‘He’s draining the blood out of them. Now, we have no idea why he’s doing that, and I certainly don’t believe he’s drinking it, but he will have a reason. It’s part of some ritual that is very important to him and I know he does it calmly and in a controlled fashion. He will want to be alone, to give it his full attention. He won’t want interruptions and he won’t want to break off every few minutes to give an update on Facebook. Killing is an intensely personal, private experience and he will not want to share it.’

  Dana’s desk phone rang. She listened for a few moments, then replaced the receiver. Lacey Flint’s whereabouts were unknown.

  ‘Deep down, I don’t think he wants to hurt these boys. I think he can’t help himself. He may even be deeply ashamed of what he’s doing. This freak-show going on right now feels completely wrong.’

  Up on the large screen, another post appeared.

  Oops! I think that last one was a bit deep. Oliver isn’t moving any more.

  ‘Oh, God help us,’ muttered Anderson, dropping his head into his hands.

  ‘Oops?’ snapped Richmond. ‘Now seriously, did you ever hear of a vicious killer using the word “oops” before? This pillock is playing with us! He’s getting off on making us sick to our stomachs, but he isn’t killing Oliver at the same time.’

  Anderson glared at her. ‘You have no idea how much I hope you’re right.’

  ‘I think she could be,’ said Dana. ‘He’s never killed a child the same night he abducted him before.’

  ‘Ladies, I would be with you a hundred per cent, were it not for the small matter of Oliver Kennedy being missing and a picture of him tied up and screaming being on the ruddy internet.’

  ‘Is it possible the photo isn’t Oliver?’ asked Susan. ‘Just some other kid who looks like him? I know his parents identified him, but they were under a lot of stress.’

  ‘He’s still bloody missing.’

  ‘This is getting us nowhere,’ said Dana. ‘OK, I’m going back to talk to his parents. Neil, can you check on how the searches are going? Gayle, you OK to—’

  ‘Keep watching Facebook? Yes, Ma’am.’

  45

  ‘LACEY, CAN I tell you something else?’

  They were home. Once they’d left the ca
fé, Barney had been anxious to get back so they’d ridden fast. Lacey had insisted Barney stay in front and wait for her at each junction. More than once, passers-by had glared at her, no doubt thinking her highly irresponsible to have a child out on his bike so late. Now they were both out of breath, warm despite the cold wind and drizzling rain. Lacey leaned her bike against the railings above her flat.

  ‘Of course,’ she said, wondering what on earth was coming now.

  ‘I think there’s something wrong with my brain.’

  She honestly never knew what this child was going to say next. ‘Barney, you’re the most intelligent child I know.’ No need to tell him he was practically the only child she knew. ‘I really doubt there’s anything wrong with your brain.’

  He looked pleased, then doubtful, finally uncertain.

  ‘Why do you think there’s something wrong?’ she asked, removing her helmet. Her hair, damp with rain and sweat, clung to her head.

  ‘I have episodes,’ he said, after a moment.

  ‘Episodes?’

  ‘It’s the right word. I looked it up.’

  ‘What sort of episodes?’

  His eyes fell to the rain-streaked pavement. ‘I lose time,’ he said. ‘I just don’t remember anything. Hours can go by and I haven’t a clue what I’ve done.’

  ‘And when do these episodes happen?’

  ‘Usually when I’m alone,’ he said. ‘At home, or out skating. But it happened in class once. The bell rang and I realized I hadn’t a clue what I’d been doing for about half the class, since Mrs Green told us to work through our maths books. I’d done the work, I just couldn’t remember doing it.’

  ‘Sounds like a daydream to me. I had them a lot when I was your age.’

  She had, too. It had been her way of dealing with a pretty awful life. ‘You say hours can go by?’ she asked him. That had been an exaggeration, surely. Daydreams lasted minutes at most.

  ‘This one time, I was sitting at my computer and I realized I’d no idea what I’d done all evening. I couldn’t even remember getting home from school. I thought I’d been out, because my coat was wet, but I just didn’t know.’