The Victim
Page 21
The thin morning light slid through the blinds, throwing angled stripes on the wall. In the distance, Gem could hear the constant rumble of traffic. She’d been awake all night and desperately needed the refuge of sleep. The last thing she wanted to do was lie there awake, imagining Drew stretched out cold and lifeless on his office floor, but she knew she would.
The detectives would be back in a few hours to ask her more questions. They hadn’t yet told her who they suspected had murdered Drew. As if she needed telling.
She squeezed her eyes shut as tears slid down her cheeks. Drew’s life had been snuffed out like the flame of a candle. If she hadn’t stopped at the store on her way home that night, if she’d been more passive when attacked, done what she’d been told, let Norton grope her and take the car, none of this would have happened. If she could go back and do it differently, be a meek little victim, she would.
Why had she gone to the press and humiliated her attacker, provoked him? Drew had been unhappy about her decision to go public. He’d urged her to be cautious, but she’d pushed his concerns aside.
She hugged the T-shirt and photograph closer to her stomach. Drew had gone. Nothing would bring him back. But part of him would always be with her.
The Detective
Day and Shields sat through the video footage of Drew Bentley having the life choked out of him in silence. Both of them had dealt with dead bodies before, but this was the first time they’d watched someone being murdered.
When the recording finished, Day raised a hand to his face and rubbed his eyes. A mixture of anger and despair filled his chest. Who or what shaped this cold-blooded killer? he wondered.
“Do you want a replay?” Shields asked.
Day shook his head. “No, shut it down for now. I think we’ve seen more than enough for the moment.”
Shields closed the video file, stood up, and limped slowly over to the window. The thigh wound was obviously taking its toll on her physically, and seeing Norton choke Bentley to death would have reminded her how close she’d come to a similar fate. He considered suggesting that she take some time off but dismissed the thought straightaway. He needed her on this case.
“Why is Norton so keen for us to see him in action?” Shields asked. “He set up the camera he stole from the Daily News photographer to film everything and left it there for us to find. The footage starts with him flipping a coin. What the hell does that mean? It must be important.”
“He wants us to see because he’s proud of what he’s doing,” Day said. “He’s an exhibitionist. The sicko is showing off and mocking us at the same time. He gave you a moment when you could have resisted him, you didn’t, and that turned out to be the right decision, because he let you live. It looks to me like he deliberately gave Bentley a similar opportunity to have a go. When he dropped the money and reached down to pick it up, it looked to me as if he was tempting Bentley to fight back. The way Bentley held himself, leaned forward, at that moment suggests to me that he was poised to go for it but decided not to. They seemed to be having a long discussion prior to that, but the sound was off, so I guess the conversation wasn’t important as far as Norton was concerned. But I’d bet money that he was goading him to fight for his life.”
Shields sat up straight in her seat. “You flip a coin to settle something, decide something. Heads or tails. Everyone knows that. Maybe that’s what Norton’s doing here. Deciding whether his victim lives or dies.”
Day locked eyes with his sergeant. Something told him she was on the right track. “I don’t think it’s going to be quite as simple as that,” he said. “But it’s possible Norton has come up with some kind of twisted game and is using the coin to set the parameters. Everything seems to hinge on whether his victim fights back or caves in. What if that split-second decision Bentley made not to risk resisting cost him everything? If he’d fought for his life, then maybe Norton would have allowed him to live.”
Day paused and tried to put himself inside the head of a psychopath, a person with no conscience, devoid of empathy. He thought about putting his needs, his desires, above all else, about controlling people for fun, about hurting people for the sheer thrill of it and not giving a shit. It was surprisingly easy to think that way if you tried hard enough.
“Well, I don’t think he’s using the coin to decide who his victims are. He clearly has other motives that seem to be linked to Gem Golding. Maybe he’s flipping the coin to decide how they will die.”
“I think that could be right,” Shields said. “I also think it’s unbelievably twisted. It’s full of risk though. How could Norton be sure that he would be able to get the better of Bentley if he needed to? It could have gone the other way. If I’d taken the fight to him, maybe he’d be behind bars already.”
Day shook his head and slapped the desk. “That’s just it. Real hard-core psychopaths love taking risks. I’ve met a few, and believe me, the excitement of risk-taking, the thrill of the kill, is one of the few emotions they’re capable of feeling. Apart from that, their egos cannot let them even envisage defeat. They come to believe they are invincible, especially after they have killed. The more people they kill, the more they think they are untouchable. That’s usually their downfall, how they end up getting caught. They eventually push the risk-taking too far.”
“Hang on a minute,” Shields said. “Let’s run the Bentley video again. Just the start though. The bit where he flips the coin.”
She limped back to her chair, grabbed the mouse, and clicked Play. They watched the pound coin spin, land in Norton’s palm, and then be flipped onto the back of his other hand. Day leaned closer to get a better look.
“The coin landed on heads,” Day said. “Bentley scorned the opportunity to fight for his life and was killed. If he had gone for it when Norton bent down to pick up the cash he clearly deliberately dropped, would he have been allowed to live? Think about what’s happening to Gem Golding. She fought back. What if he’d flipped tails and she needed to surrender to survive. Instead, she got away, and that means he still has to apply the rules. Why he won’t let it go.”
Shields shrugged, but a surge of adrenaline quickened Day’s pulse. They were finally getting under the killer’s skin, delving into his thought processes. His time on the murder squad had taught him that was a good thing. He’d arrange for a police psychologist to study all the footage they had to draw up an offender profile and, at the same time, give her opinion on the flipping of the coin. These people knew more than anybody how the minds of killers like Norton worked.
“Of course, the murder investigation team will take on the Bentley murder, which is obviously linked to the Gem Golding carjacking. However, the carjacking is still technically our case.”
“The Yard may not see it like that,” Shields said. “In fact, I’m pretty sure that they’ll see it as unnecessary interference with the potential to obstruct their murder inquiry. They won’t want us stepping on their toes.”
“I don’t care what they might think,” Day said. “We’re still investigating the carjacking, and as long as we move quickly, we could pick up Norton before the MIT even get rolling. That can only be a bonus. I don’t see how Scotland Yard can complain about that. I want a thorough check on Bentley’s background. His family, all that stuff. Remember, officially, this is part of the carjacking investigation, not his murder.”
Shields opened her mouth to protest but changed her mind. Day knew what she was thinking, why she was concerned about bending the rules.
“There’s no reason for you to worry about any comebacks on this. It’s my decision. If we catch Norton before the murder squad get close, then all’s good. No one in their right mind is going to complain about us catching a killer. On the other hand, if it all goes to shit, then you were only following orders. My orders.”
40
Surrender
Gem the Victim
Gem stood un
der the showerhead, letting the hot spray sting her face until she stopped crying. She stepped out of the cubicle, placing her feet carefully on the white rubber mat, and dried herself slowly and methodically.
Her mother had taken the train back to Wales but had promised to return to London before Drew’s funeral. When that would be was anybody’s guess. So far, the police had been unable to say when the body might be released, especially now that his death was being treated as murder.
Gem was secretly content to push the finality of a funeral service to the back of her mind. For now, she wanted to focus her mind on the hunt for the killer.
She’d finished drying off when the hall telephone rang. She needed to get dressed for work and was tempted to ignore it. Instead, she wrapped the towel around her body, walked out onto the landing, and headed down the staircase.
She hitched the towel a fraction higher and picked up the receiver, anticipating a call from the police or the Daily News reporter she’d spoken to a couple of days ago.
“Hello,” she said.
Silence.
“Hello.”
“How are you?”
The voice was deep, smooth, and familiar. A shiver played down Gem’s spine.
“Who is this? What do you want?”
“I’m sure you know who I am, Gem.”
The casual use of her first name made her stomach churn, and she fought the urge to slam the telephone down. Instead, she took a long, deep breath.
“You killed Drew,” she yelled. “You murdered him.”
The line fell silent again, but Gem could hear his breathing, faint and steady. She didn’t wait for him to respond.
“Why are you doing this? I don’t understand.”
“Oh, but I think you do understand,” he said, a smile in his voice. “Deep down, you know, but you won’t accept it, not yet. Drew Bentley wasn’t the man for you. He would have destroyed your life. I know it’s difficult for you right now, but there is no need to worry. I’ll look after you. You can depend on that.”
Gem’s head swam. He wasn’t making any sense. “Why did you kill Drew? Why are you coming after me? Haven’t you done enough?”
She could hear her own breathing, loud and ragged. A single bead of sweat trickled down her forehead. She didn’t know whether she should keep him talking or end the call.
“You’re confused, of course, but it will all make sense to you soon. I promise you. You’re wrong about one thing though. I’m not coming after you, Gem. Not at all. I’m coming for you. We’re going to be so good together.”
Gem wiped her moist brow with the back of her hand. “You must be a madman, totally insane.”
He laughed loudly. The sound scared her more than anything he’d said. “My sanity has been questioned before, but in a crazy world like this, I think it helps if you’re a little bit unhinged.”
Gem leaned against the wall to stop her legs giving way. “Why me? What is it you want?”
“Isn’t it obvious? I want you, Gem. Right now, I want you to go upstairs and put some clothes on. You must be getting cold standing there in nothing but a towel.”
Gem let the telephone fall to the floor and dropped into a crouch, pulling the towel higher to her shoulders and tugging it down over her knees.
The Detective
The woman who opened the door looked younger than Day had expected. Amanda Turner had been employed at the Greenhills children’s home for ten years, and by the time it closed, she’d worked her way up to the position of assistant manager. Tall and stick-thin, with straight, gray-streaked brown hair, she peered at the two detectives from under blunt bangs.
Day held up his ID. “Good afternoon, Mrs. Turner. You’re looking a bit confused, but Detective Shields here did speak to you earlier on the phone to ask if we could talk to you about Greenhills.”
Turner stepped back nodding, holding the door open wide for them to enter. “Of course,” she said. “Forgive me. I don’t know why, but I was expecting someone in a police uniform.”
She led them into a tiny, cluttered living room. Extra shelves had been put up in the alcoves on either side of the fireplace to display porcelain figurines of every type of animal you could think of. Next to the ancient-looking television stood a glass display case full of miniature crystal ornaments.
There was just enough room for the detectives to sit side by side on a tiny sofa, their shoulders and elbows touching, while Turner disappeared into the kitchen. She promptly reappeared carrying three milky teas in delicate china cups on a floral-patterned plastic tray.
Day would have preferred a large mug of coffee, but he smiled his thanks and took a sip. Shields took her cup and drained it in one gulp.
“Interesting collection you’ve got here,” Shields said, nodding at the animal figurines. “Must have taken you years to amass this lot.”
Day slid her a sideways glance, wondering whether she was simply being polite or had extremely poor taste.
Turner put the tray on the reproduction coffee table and sat down. “They were all collected by Charlie, my late husband. He died of a heart attack a year ago. I don’t like them actually. Never have done, but I can’t bring myself to get rid of them. Not yet. It doesn’t seem right.”
Day put his cup on the table. He understood that the woman was making the most of the company, but he was eager to get straight to the point.
“We want to ask you some questions about your time at Greenhills,” he said. “In particular about a couple of the residents. Connor Norton and Andrew Bentley. Do you remember them?”
“Connor and Andrew? Yes, I remember them, of course. Greenhills was small, and we had no more than fifteen residents at a time. Boys between the ages of fourteen and seventeen. With the older ones, we’d be focused on preparing them to cope on their own once they’d left the home.”
“How old were Norton and Bentley when you started working at the home?”
Turner took a moment to think, crinkling her brow in concentration. “It was a long time ago, but I think they must have both have been around fifteen or sixteen.”
“Did they get along? Were they friends?”
Turner picked up her tea and raised it to her lips. Shields noticed her hand trembling as she put the cup down, a smear of dark-red lipstick on its rim.
“As far as I can remember, they got on like a house on fire. They shared a room at one point, I think, and I don’t recall them ever falling out, which is unusual for kids of that age. I think they’d both been in the foster care system since they were very young. Toddlers even. Never knew anything different. They were both excited about reaching the age when they could leave Greenhills and had even talked about getting a place together.”
“Were they difficult teenagers?” Shields asked. “How would you describe their personalities?”
Turner put her hands on her stomach and clasped them tightly. “Every child at Greenhills had their own issues,” she said. “As a young boy, Connor would regularly get in fights with locals, but he started therapy with a child psychologist, and it seemed to work. He learned to control himself most of the time, but he could still be extremely intimidating when he wanted to.”
“What about Bentley?” Day asked.
“Like I said before, all these children had problems. Remember they would have either been orphaned, abandoned, neglected, or abused. The thing about Andrew was he was very focused and very ambitious. That’s why I found it strange that he and Connor were so close. Naturally, it all changed when…”
“When what?” Day prompted.
Turner blinked and lifted a hand to her throat. “Oh God, don’t tell me Connor has turned up? After all these years. Is that what this is all about?”
Shields breathed in sharply and leaned forward in her seat as if she was unsure whether she’d heard right. “What do you mean turned up?”
“No, we haven’t found his body. What did you mean about him turning up?”
Turner looked quickly at Day, then back at Shields. “Oh, right,” she said. “I assumed you knew about Connor running off. He had only a year or so before he would have been old enough to leave us anyway, but he disappeared. Ran off and was declared missing.”
Day couldn’t make sense of what he was hearing. “You’re saying Connor Norton was officially a missing person?”
Turner nodded. “That’s right. He was and, as far as I know, still is. Hundreds if not thousands of children in care homes go missing every year. A lot of them turn up eventually, but some don’t. Connor never did. And it wasn’t because the police didn’t try to find him. It was a big story around here. His disappearance coincided with the disappearance of a local girl. Mary Freeman, she was fifteen I think, vanished from her parents’ home on one of Croydon’s biggest estates. The police thought the disappearances could have been connected, that they might have run off together, but couldn’t find anything to link them. The girl’s poor parents even made a television appeal for information, but she was never found.”
Day shot a look at Shields. They were both thinking the same thing. “What about Bentley? How did he take losing his best friend?”
“Surprisingly well, actually. Andrew always was the sensible one. When he left Greenhills, he went on to further education, and we heard that he eventually qualified as a lawyer. We were all very proud of him. Andrew was definitely Greenhills’ biggest success story.”
Day stood up. “Thanks for the tea,” he said. “You’ve been extremely helpful.”
Turner put her hands on the arms of her chair and pushed herself up with a groan. “You didn’t answer my question about Connor earlier. I’ve wondered what happened to him a lot over the years. Has he turned up?”
“He’s turned up all right,” Shields said.