‘We could get DNA from hair and bone but we don’t have a surviving tissue source from Nolan to make a comparison,’ Barry Westmore rejected the idea.
‘What would it prove if it matched the samples we’ve picked up from the murder scenes so far?’ persisted Hirst.
‘That the body was Nolan’s and that our killer is a member of his family,’ said the forensic scientist. ‘If it were identical, then the face on the freeze frame is an identical lookalike twin brother: that’s the only way scientifically you get a perfect DNA match from two separate people. It wouldn’t explain the ageless face, the fingerprints or the handwriting, though.’
‘I still prefer it to people returning from the dead,’ said Clarence Gale. ‘We’ll get the body up.’
‘Shouldn’t we go back to Durham on the idea of the body in Nolan’s grave being that of someone else?’ said Amy.
Beddows frowned sharply at her intrusion. ‘We’ve already demolished that idea.’
‘I don’t think we have, not entirely,’ said the Director. ‘We’ve got people literally by his side. Let’s hit him with conspiracy to murder, see how he jumps. What about the house? Neighbours?’
‘Mr Invisible, according to neighbours,’ quickly replied Beddows, safe with basic investigatory procedure. ‘Haven’t yet located any regular delivery people. Lot of evidence that he’ll return. A fly settles, we know about it. We got people permanently inside, outside surveillance on every approach street. Telephone tapped. We’re getting telephone records, incoming and outgoing, for the four months he’s been there.’
Powell waited for the other man to complete his contribution. Then he said, ‘I found the inside of the house curious. Not a single proper letter or document of any sort. Just a couple of circulars with postmarks ending five days after Carr died …’
‘I’ve never seen a house like it, in any crime investigation,’ confirmed Westmore. ‘I only managed to lift three sets of prints throughout the entire building, all his. Not a single hair from the bed or around the bath. That’s virtually impossible: the place is sterilized. Even the window cracks stuffed with paper to keep dirt out.’
‘Perfectly fits the psychosis and the profile, although I’ve got to admit I’ve never encountered one to such a degree,’ said Geoffrey Sloane, who’d arrived for the conference direct from his examination of the Belmont house. ‘A nest is a total misnomer, but that’s what it is, his nest. Where he personally lives. It’s got to be perfect. Think of the neatness with which he displays the bodies and leaves their clothes. He’s revulsed by the blood he gets covered in. Can’t wait to clean himself. Why, in fact, he kills so neatly. He’s limiting to the utmost his getting dirtied by what happens when he starts dismembering.’
‘Why doesn’t he bother about fingerprints at the murder scene?’ challenged John Price.
‘He’s reduced the crime scenes to obscene filth. He’s too impatient to get out, once he’s cleaned himself. He’s also supremely arrogant. Believes he’s invulnerable. Beyond detection.’
There was a brief silence, as everyone digested the analysis. It was Matt Hirst who filled it.
‘The two references he provided, to get the place, are both forgeries,’ he announced. ‘One was a credit assurance, from the bank that reported the deposit – he obviously stole some letterheads during a visit – who say they never wrote it. The other was from the National Gallery of Art, where he claimed to be employed as a restorer. They’ve never heard of him. We got a man there now, showing the younger freeze frame picture, just in case anyone recognizes him.’
‘Everything we’re discussing is covered in the dossiers I’ve supplied,’ said Amy quickly. ‘In addition I’m computer checking Social Security against the names of Harold Taylor, Maurice Barkworth and Myron Nolan. I’m also running a trace through all the credit card companies, in all three names. Credit agencies, too. And I’m promised Pentagon records of officers of contemporary rank with General Carr who served in Berlin in 1949, both in the Army and as part of the Four Power Commission. If I cross-reference them with Army Records at Adelphi we might be able to fill in some of the missing tribunal panel who could be at risk.’
Slow down, thought Powell. Gale seemed impressed.
‘The bank are stalling,’ said John Price. ‘Say they complied with the Banking Act by reporting the deposit but we’re going to need a court order for any account details. They let slip, though, that there’s a safe deposit facility in Taylor’s name.’
Gale turned to him but before the Director could speak Powell said, ‘I’ve already spoken to Brett Hordle, who came to New York with me and is fully up to date. He doesn’t think he can get anything until after the weekend: it’ll have to be a private application in front of a judge.’
‘Tell him I want the name of the judge. I’ll speak direct, say I want it by tomorrow, at the latest,’ said Gale. To Price he added: ‘Tell whoever you’re dealing with at the bank not to go away for the weekend.’ He looked around the table. ‘Anyone got any more points?’
‘There’s the media,’ said Powell, who’d been waiting for the opportunity, aware of Clarence Gale’s publicity pursuit. ‘Harry’s been talking about it to Mark Lipton, haven’t you, Harry?’ Payback time, Powell thought.
‘No!’ Beddows contradicted, off balance and momentarily confused. ‘I mean it was just a general conversation. I didn’t give any instructions.’
‘I thought he complained about my insisting that any release had to be approved first by the Director. Wasn’t that what you told me?’
‘He’s concerned about the attacks. So am I. I’ve left it to be discussed here, now.’ Beddows was only just managing to keep the irritation from his face and voice.
‘I’m concerned too,’ said Gale. ‘We need to get a handle on this right away. Get it right.’
‘Didn’t you think of inviting him, when you convened the meeting?’ persisted Powell.
‘Like you, I felt it should be fully discussed with the Director first,’ said Beddows.
‘Concerned as you rightly are, you must have thought about it?’ pursued Powell. ‘You think the Director should personally give a press conference?’
Gale looked sternly sideways. ‘What personal press conference!’
‘Mark Lipton’s suggestion,’ said Powell, hoping he’d pitched the ingenuousness properly. ‘He talked to me about it before speaking to Harry, so I assumed it had been passed on for approval.’ He attempted an innocent smile. ‘Why don’t I stop trying to second-guess and leave Harry to tell us what he’s come up with?’
Stiffly Beddows said, ‘I’ve already made it clear I think we should take guidance from the Director.’
‘Lipton didn’t have any thoughts either?’
‘No!’ snapped Beddows.
Hopefully stressing the positive contrast, Powell said, ‘We can’t make any disclosure about the names, freeze frame photographs or Belmont: he’ll run if we go public on any of that. And he won’t go anywhere near New York if he suspects we know about Durham. And until there’s something more, his coming back here or hitting on Durham again are our best two chances – our only two chances – of getting him.’
‘Which yet again leaves us with nothing,’ sneered Beddows.
‘To which the Director shouldn’t be exposed,’ Powell seized his chance. ‘It leaves us with the truth. We’re totally baffled and we don’t understand it. We say so. We appeal for anyone who might in the past have known any of the three victims – which might, in fact, get us to other potential victims we don’t yet have – and talk about one of the cleverest multiple killers we’ve ever confronted …’ He stopped, looking to the forensic psychologist. ‘All serial killers are control freaks, in some way or another, right?’
‘Right,’ agreed Geoffrey Sloane, curiously.
‘If he believes he’s controlling us, the FBI, you think that might tempt him into a challenge?’
Sloane smiled. ‘That could work. That really could work!’
‘The Bureau never admits it’s beaten,’ protested Beddows, coming in too late on Gale’s media awareness. ‘That’s totally the wrong public message.’
Risking all, Powell said, ‘Then until now the Bureau’s been stupid not using the ploy. And it’s not a message to the public. It’s a message – a challenge – to an overconfident killer.’
As always, Clarence Gale’s expression was impenetrable. Beddows was shaking his head, in open rejection. The psychologist still smiled, although doubtfully. The uncertainty was more obvious from everyone else. He wouldn’t rush to finish, Powell decided. He was sure he could turn whatever was said into his planned denouement.
Predictably the attack came from Beddows, as Powell hoped it would. The division chief said, ‘We’re already being accused in the media of not knowing what we’re doing. Now you’re actually suggesting we agree that they’re right!’ He hesitated, with an imagined denouement of his own. ‘That could end up with demands for the Director to be dismissed. Resign.’
‘Didn’t you tell me that Public Affairs were being asked for the name of the agent-in-charge?’ asked Powell.
Beddows swallowed, gazing alertly across the table. ‘Yes?’
‘Then why don’t we give it to them?’ said Powell. ‘Make it obvious that I’m the one who’s beaten. That way the attacks are deflected from the Bureau and the Director, to me. And Harold Taylor’s got a person he thinks he can control – manipulate.’
‘That’s a curious strategy,’ said Gale, at once recognizing its necessary element of personal protection.
He was almost there, Powell decided. ‘Only as far as the general public is concerned. I retain your total confidence, don’t I, Mr Director?’
‘Absolutely,’ said Gale at once.
‘And when we get Taylor I’m confident you’ll make it quite clear that the whole thing was the subterfuge it is, to trap a killer.’
Gale smiled, halting the head movement towards Beddows. Instead he said to Geoffrey Sloane, ‘What do you think?’
‘I haven’t heard anything better,’ said the psychologist. ‘Like I said, it could work. And Wes being identified certainly gives Taylor a target.’
‘We’ll do it,’ decided Clarence Gale.
Powell’s name was released in time for the early evening news. So was a photograph. The newscast also included the fact that the two previous investigations he’d led had ended badly. He hadn’t expected Beddows to do that. Maybe it wasn’t such a good idea after all. He certainly hadn’t enjoyed playing the sycophant: he’d never make a team player, according to the Washington rules.
‘Did I screw up?’ demanded Amy.
‘Close.’
‘Your idea needed more support.’
‘Beddows is too big for you to confront.’ It had been Powell’s suggestion they come to the conveniently close round bar at the Willard, to get her away from Pennsylvania Avenue.
‘Gale was right about your strategy to confront him. It’s certainly curious,’ she said. ‘It couldn’t have been like this when you guys worked together?’
‘It wasn’t. Things change.’
‘Why?’
‘You know something? Once – just once – I’d like to be asked a question I knew the answer to.’
‘Try this. Why did you insist on my being there today?’
‘Who else in that room totally – from front to back – knew every detail in those case dossiers, apart from you? I didn’t want any more questions I didn’t know the answer to.’
She looked at him curiously. ‘That all?’
‘Didn’t hurt to make an impression, did it?’
She hesitated. ‘Then you should have told me before we went in. I might have kept quiet.’
‘Gale went along with you. So you got away with it. And now he knows your face.’
‘And everybody in America knows yours, after today’s media release. And we’ve already agreed there’s going to be another killing before we can stop Taylor. Maybe not even then. The public opinion pressure gets too much, you quite sure Gale will go on supporting you? Things change: your words.’
‘It’s a risk,’ admitted Powell.
‘Means I’m working for both our careers now.’
‘Each dependent upon the other.’
‘I’m happy with that,’ she said, lightly but holding him in the direct look he’d come to recognize. ‘And thanks for including me: letting the Director know what I look like. That was very generous of you.’
Was this an invitation for him to go beyond their agreed professional level? She’d made herself too indispensable – she genuinely was the only person who had the minutiae at her fingertips – for him to chance trying to find out. ‘All part of the service.’
Beth said, ‘I saw the newscast. Guys were saying you were incompetent.’
‘As bad as that?’ He was glad it had been Beth who answered the telephone. He hadn’t wanted to talk to Ann.
‘Dad, I’m serious!’
‘So am I. Serious about tomorrow.’
‘Mom thought you might have to cancel.’
‘I won’t, it I can possibly help it. I just might be a little late. Any plans?’
‘What we did last Saturday.’
* * *
The time difference made it 4 a.m. in England, which Harold Taylor saw at once when the ambulance lights woke him, coming up the drive. The old lady was already being manoeuvred from her wheelchair into the vehicle, the hurriedly dressed Janet clambering in behind her.
‘Do you want me to follow you?’ he asked. Shit! They were being taken away from him: taken to somewhere he couldn’t play the game he was enjoying! He burned with anger.
‘I’ll stay with her in hospital until I find out what’s wrong.’
‘I’ll come in first thing, so you won’t be stuck without a car. If you want me earlier, call.’
Janet smiled, through her concern. ‘I always seem to be thanking you for something, don’t I?’
Chapter Eighteen
He was too angry, fury literally shaking through him, even to think of returning to bed. For a long time all he could do was stump around the house, wanting movement, wanting to destroy. He actually considered it, smashing everything that was breakable before torching the place, watching it burn to the ground: wipe them out. Wrong way, he reminded himself, regaining control. That wouldn’t be wiping them out. They’d still be alive. Shouldn’t have let himself react like this. He was always in control, manipulating everyone else. Couldn’t be helped, if the old bitch died. That was always allowed for. He still had Janet to play his new game with – intentionally delaying the killing – to make the pleasure last.
Needed to do something, though: punish them in some way. What? Invade their privacy: handle – fondle – their intimate things, learn their secrets. Taylor smiled, pleased with the idea. That was the way to control people. Know everything about them.
He was offended by the untidiness of the emergency there had been in Edith Hibbs’s bedroom, the bed covering cast back, the heavy wardrobe door hanging open. The clothes inside smelt of mothballs and age. Nothing exciting inside: nothing he wasn’t supposed to see. He was glad the commode didn’t stink of her use. The smaller closets and two separate chests of drawers were better. A lot of underwear, most of it silk, long-legged knickers and chemises and stiff-boned corsets that would have encased her from breast to buttock, like armour. He sniffed them, particularly the knickers, wondering about the sort of souvenir he hadn’t taken before. Not the old woman’s. If it was anyone’s it would be Janet’s. Something to think about.
Taylor found the trove at the bottom of a built-in closet, box upon box of letters and albums as well as loose photographs and diaries, virtually the life history of Major and Mrs Walter Hibbs.
Taylor worked methodically, properly, taking each box from its storage place and assembling its chronology from the dated letters and diaries inside, starting in the order that Edith Hibbs had begun, from her wedding to the
stern-faced bastard who even when he was young – nineteen, according to the marriage certificate he found – affected that ridiculous moustache. Everything about the two of them was ridiculous, he decided, reading steadily. At first the stupid bitch wrote as if she were talking to a real person. Dear diary, I am so happy. Dear diary, I am so glad I saved myself for marriage. Dear diary, Walter is so wonderful: I am so proud. Dear diary, I pray that God will keep him safe.
The drivel went on and on: about her fear of pregnancy and her joy of having a boy (my angel, my most adorable baby) to continue the family name and then of becoming pregnant with Janet (it’s happened again: why is God so good}). She’d called Janet beautiful and he decided Janet was, even as a child, never gawky or awkward, definitely far more attractive in a dated photograph when she was nineteen than her mother had been in her wedding portrait at that age.
The entries got longer – more detailed – with Edith Hibbs’s maturity. The proud-parent university graduation photographs of begowned and mortarboarded Timothy and Janet each went with two entire page entries, as did Timothy’s qualification as a doctor and his decision to volunteer for relief work in Africa. Timothy’s illness had been remarkably quick, only three weeks. Dear God, don’t take him. How can he save if he is not saved himself? Not Timothy. Not my brilliant, wonderful Timothy. I cannot stop believing, but I will never understand.
Whenever she had responded to a letter from her husband, during the war and when he was stationed abroad in its immediate aftermath, Edith had made a diary note, which made it easy for Taylor to read in their proper order Walter Hibbs’s letters to her. As he did so he decided reports were a better description than letters. There was a complete lack of personal emotion or affection – my dear wife, your respectful husband – and Taylor sneeringly wondered how the man had succeeded in coupling with the woman on the two occasions it would have taken to make her pregnant. Perhaps the gardener had seeded more than his flowerbeds.
The smile, at his own joke, abruptly froze on Taylor’s face and for several moments he sat holding the next letter in front of him in disbelief. It was him! The motherfucker was actually writing about him!
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