“I’m sorry,” he says. His bulging eyes look like they are reading my thoughts. “I’m so very sorry.”
“Why? You've nothing to be sorry for, Richard. You’ve always been there for me. I'd never have made it this far without you. This is just a glitch. You're the one who tells me not to take things out of proportion.”
Richard shakes his head. “That's what makes it so terrible, so awful. I have always been there. Nothing hurts more than being disappointed by the person you thought would never hurt you. I've lived by that all my adult life. Never did I think I'd be the one inflicting the pain.”
I glance around the room from his side of the desk, at the bookshelf, the sofa, the rug. “What are you talking about?”
“You know when you are put in a position where you sacrifice yourself or you sacrifice somebody else? Do you throw yourself in the way of a bullet, or throw somebody else in front of the bullet? Well, now I know what type of man I really am. I threw you in front of the bullet, Marcus.”
“What?”
Richard moves back a step or two, then straightens his back. His fingers wipe tears from the underside of his eyes. “Don't you get it? Everything I've been telling you the last two sessions. I don't believe any of it. I've told you to do things I don't even believe in myself...”
I nod my head. I do get it. I suspected it after our last meeting. Knew something wasn't right. Knew something was horrifically wrong. He holds his arms up rigid, unsure how I'll react. I want to tell him how sorry I am, that I wish he never had to be put in this position, sorry I'd ever entered his life, just like I was sorry I'd ever entered Ken's life.
“Why?”
“He told me to do it. To say it. He threatened me with my job. I need my job, Marcus. If I don't have my job then I could lose everything I love, including my family. It wasn't what he said, but the way he said it. I know he wasn't just talking about my job.”
“Who did?” I ask. “Who made you say it?”
Richard takes a deep intake of air and then blows it out from his puffed cheeks.
“My boss did,” he says.
DAY TWENTY-SEVEN
27TH JUNE 2018
It is no surprise that his mother opens the front door. It is a surprise, however, that she breaks into a smile when she sees me standing at her doorstep.
"You two youngsters must really be getting on like a house on fire," she says. "I've never known one of Simon's friends come back for a second visit. Even I think he is peculiar, and I'm his mum. He's in the garden, love. Just go through the house. Don't worry about taking your shoes off. The back door is open."
Has she been popping the Prozac? And what is up with Simon? Admittedly, it is yet another scorching June day, yet I still expected the pasty streak of piss to be holed up in the darkness of his basement, the only light emitting from the flashing computer screens. Pushing open the back door, though, I find him sat on the patio, shoulder blades thrust close together, hunched over his laptop. I wish I'd brought my sunglasses, for he even has his shades on, seemingly soaking up the rays. I'm Mr Popular today; even Simon bares his teeth when he sees me.
Standing up, he moves to pull out a chair, but with a flick of my finger I tell him to sit down. He does so without blinking. Shutting the laptop cover, he slides it across the round garden table. I feel my body tense as I think the laptop might topple over the edge, but it stops dead just in the nick of time. Creases spread from the corners of Simon's eyes: he knows he is in trouble.
"You killed him, didn't you?"
I sit down close and wait for him to act the fool. I'm already prepared with a list of counters. I've been rehearsing on the way here. Who? What you going on about? You crazy?
"I did, yes..."
My body deflates. I'd geared myself up for a battle, a boxer psyched before entering the ring. I imagine DCI Baldwin giving me a subtle, impressed nod of the head. Maybe I was a natural at forcing out a confession? Simon momentarily sinks his head in his hands, and when he removes them, his face is flushed crimson. He blows out air, then shakes his head.
"God, it felt good to get that off my chest," he says. "Thanks for forcing it out of me."
I puff out my chest. It does feel like I've achieved something, though I'm fully aware that, really, I did fuck all. Simon glances around. Is he looking for his mother, hiding in the clothes line?
"Nobody else knows. You can't tell anybody. I'll be in serious shit."
"You normally are in shit when you kill somebody, Simon. This isn't stealing from a sweet shop, you know. You need to tell me what happened. Now. Before I tell somebody else and they make up their own mind. And no bullshit. I need to know who or what I'm working with. I need to know whether you're somebody I want on my side...”
There is no need to tell me the motive. The motive is clear. But I do want to know how he did it: the nuts and bolts. I know the outcome. The gory details are freely available on the internet. But I have a compulsion to know the build up, how his brain ticked.
Simon bounces his trainers off the patio slabs, brushes his hand across the garden table. "The case had gone cold. Their idea of time was different from my idea of time. Months had passed since his last murder. Robert Price had gone quiet. Intelligence was that he was unlikely to kill again. The initial thrill of the case had disappeared. He was yesterday's news. He'd only killed three people, and they were all taxi drivers. Who really gives a fuck about tax drivers? Price wasn't perceived to be a risk to the general public, either by the police or by the general public themselves. It is a natural human instinct: so long as it doesn't happen to me, then I don't really care. Not really. Price didn't cause mass hysteria. Not like Spartacus. Remember I told you about the different categories of killers?"
"Organised and disorganised?"
"Right. You listened. Well, Price was your typical disorganised killer. The police didn't know his identity, of course, but it was fair to say he was likely to be a loner, a loser, somebody who didn't have too much going on up top. A simpleton. They were looking for a weirdo..."
"And he wasn't a weirdo?"
"Oh, he was a weirdo alright!" Simon snaps. "This guy was the stereotypical monster at the bottom of your bed. His motive was simple, and it was deprived. Price had a fixed routine that worked. So far. No reason to change it. No brains to change it. How did he do it? He jumped in a taxi and gave an address that was in the middle of nowhere, that led to a dead end. The driver invariably got lost, because the address led nowhere, and that was when he struck. Leaned forward from the rear seat, used wire to strangle the tax driver. The driver struggled, lost consciousness, crashed the car..."
"Didn't he get hurt, too, when the cab crashed? Wasn't this a risk?"
Simon twirls his finger by his temple. "Probably minor injuries, sure. The cab was most likely moving slowly because - remember - they were driving down dark lanes in the middle of nowhere. Truth be told, he probably got turned on by pain. Anyway, he dragged the dead body out of the cab and then had sex with them in the overgrowth on the side of the road. And he'd just leave them there. Then he'd drive the taxi back and just abandon it closer to home. Remember, it was always the middle of the night...."
Simon rubs his finger over a bloodshot eye. No wonder he is upset.
This is his dad he is talking about.
The monster murdered his dad, had intercourse with his corpse and then just abandoned him on the side of the road. No wonder Simon killed him. I would do the same. I consider telling Simon that he really doesn't need to say any more, that he has said enough, but I figure he wants to, that it will be a relief to tell somebody.
"So – sure - I became obsessed with finding him. I searched for clues day and night. Turned into something of a lunatic. All clues led to dead ends. My focus was on where Price was picked up from, and where the bodies were found. He was always picked up within a two-mile radius, so it was fair to assume he lived locally. But the end locations were miles apart, all in different directions. There seemed to be
no link at all. But I examined these locations deeper, like only an obsessive could. The only pattern I could find was that, within three or so miles of each location, there was a pond. These ponds were remote and hidden away and you'd only ever know about them for one reason; you fished there. Something struck me; the murder weapon wasn't just wire, it was fishing line. The murderer knew these three locations because he'd fished at the ponds."
"Why didn't you tell the police your theory?"
"Why didn't you tell the police about your updates?" Simon retorts, not missing a beat. "I didn't want the son of a bitch to be caught, did I? Lock him in a cell, put a roof over his head, keep him fed. I wanted him dead. Anyway, this was where the long hours started. It was a long shot, I knew that, but it was the only shot I had. I waited for hours and days hidden away at each pond waiting for him. And, then, in the blink of an eye, there he was..."
"So you just went over and killed the bastard? Good on you..."
"No. I didn't, even though the urge to do so was overwhelming. Even I knew there was a chance this wasn't my guy. There was a chance I could be killing an innocent man, maybe a father just like my dad, merely out fishing..."
"Fishing might be boring as fuck, but it isn't a crime," I say, smiling. Simon warns away my attempt to lighten the tone with a steely glare.
"So I follow him, don't I? I find out where he lives. Fucking dive, as you'd expect. I wait for him to go out. I break in. I search for clues. I recovered his recently deleted search history on his laptop. You know what I found? Necrophilia porn. I had to put my hand to my mouth to stop from vomiting. This was my guy..."
I slam my fist down on the table. "This sick bastard watched pornography of dead people...?"
"This sick bastard had sex with dead people, so what do you expect? Of course he fucking did. Search histories give a great insight into somebody's character. This guy isn't Mary Poppins, you dumb fuck..."
I hold my hands up. I'm alarmed by the intensity of his words, but I know I deserve every single one of them fired in my direction.
"I'm sorry. It's just...well, you know? I went through his drawers and you know what I found? Photos of the dead victims. Photos of my dead dad. Can you imagine? The stupid idiot had taken photos and printed them and left them in his flat. I trashed the place, stole a few things and then made out it was a burglary. After all, I'd broken down his door to get in."
I nod; avoid eye contact. This is horrific. I fear that even I might break down.
"Then it was just a matter of waiting. I could have just killed him in his flat, but as soon as he saw me he'd know who I was, what I was there for. I wanted to toy with him. Besides, I didn't want to leave any trace. So, I waited. Kept coming back, hiding in the shadows. Days passed. Finally, I watched him put his fishing gear in his car. I followed him. Again. This time I waited a good time before I joined him on the bank of the pond..."
"You went fishing with him?"
"Yes. I was all ready. I had the gear in the car. I asked if he minded if I joined him. He mumbled that he didn't mind, but I could tell he was uncomfortable. He didn't want me anywhere near him. The guy was socially inept. Hell, I was like that Rylan Clark off the TV next to this guy. I asked if he came here often, if he knew the area. I said that my dad came here once. He was a taxi driver. And then I said his name. I watched his eyes bulge and his body tense as the penny dropped. He went to move – to run - but I was already primed. I strangled him with the same fishing line he used to kill my dad. He was found by another fisherman three days later."
I gulp. This is a lot to take in. So the bastard ran. He didn't fight. I glance at Simon, his pale skinny legs shaking, his long slender fingers tapping against the table. The whole thing is fucked up. My overriding feeling, however, is that I underestimated the guy.
"Didn't the police question you? After all, the crime has never been solved. The murderer - you - is still out there."
Simon shakes his head. "They came around, of course, to tell me that they'd found a body and that, after searching his flat, they believed it was my father's killer. This was confirmed later, of course. They said it was most likely a revenge killing. The file is still open. I don't think they are pursuing it too actively. The general consensus from the public is that the killer saved taxpayers' money that would otherwise have been spent keeping the monster alive. I'm happy with that consensus."
We sit in silence for God knows how long. Eventually, Simon looks up. His long, greasy hair covers his eyes.
"Do you understand why I did it?"
I nod. "Of course I do, you mad bastard."
His smile is sheepish, embarrassed. "Do you want me on your side, then?"
I lean forward and look him straight in the eye. "I can think of no better person," I say.
DAY TWENTY-EIGHT
28TH JUNE 2018
Rather than making the most of every second I have left till the end of the month, till the 30th, I long for the seconds to pass, to just get on with it, to accept whatever my fate may be.
The phone wakes me. My mouth feels toxic, like my gums are corroding. I have no idea what time it is, but judging by the brightness of the room, it is probably the middle of the day. My duvet lies in a ball at the end of the bed, but still my shirt clings like a second skin to my oven-like, glistening body. With the back of my head still engulfed in the pillow, I extend my arm and pick up the phone.
The red one.
I hold it above my head, my thumb navigating the buttons.
Good afternoon, Jeffrey. Only two days left. How very exciting! You'll find your invite in your boat. Don't make too much of a mess looking.
Fuck that. I just need to know what he has lined up for me, however horrific. I pull open cupboards, sweeping glasses and cups to the side. Glass clatters to the worktop. Blood smothers my fingers. I slam doors shut. Drop papers from files.
Standing in the centre of the boat, with my hands on my hips, I survey the colossal mess I've created. I don't know where else to look. Then I remember the first hiding place I always chose with Luke. I slide my hand underneath the bed, searching for something, hoping I'll know what it is when I find it. My chest tightens. There is something there. I'm reminded of the painting I slid under the bed when there was no room left on the walls. It isn't that. Too narrow. I pull it out. Hold it in my hands.
My jaw drops. I stare at the front cover of the book. I don't need to look inside. Reality has already hit.
I remember, during the early days, Erica sent Jenny messages from my phone. Told her to keep away. Said I'd moved on. Pretended to be me. Deleted the messages. When I found out, as I inevitably did, she showed no regret, only bravado. Reminded me what that woman had done to me, how she had torn my life apart. Told me she was looking out for me, that she did it because she loved me and didn't want me hurt again. I believed her.
Stood here now, book shaking in my trembling hands, it dawns on me that maybe I shouldn't have.
“What the hell is all this mess...?”
I jerk my head over my shoulder. Erica's eyes can't quite take in what she is seeing. “What, have you been burgled?” she asks.
I'm not interested in her question, barley even hear it, let alone register it. Right now, I'm interested in her.
I hold the book out, let her take in the title. “This is yours, isn't it?” I ask. “You know who I am, don't you? Who I really am? You've always known, haven't you?”
Erica takes a step back, hands held up to her chest. “What the fuck are you talking about, Marcus?”
I lunge for her, but slip on some broken glass. I look up at her from the floor, crumpled and beaten, like a rolled-up piece of paper.
“This is the last straw, you crazy bastard,” she says.
I don't see her leave. I only hear the door slamming. Sucking the blood from my cut hand, I wonder whether I'll ever see her again.
DAY TWENTY-NINE
29TH JUNE 2018
I return to my empty boat late afternoon.
I bend at the knees and pick up a couple of leaflets from the mat. Buy one get one free pizza. I now have a collection of cards for the same taxi firm. Not sure I'll look at a taxi in the same way after recent revelations.
Absent-mindedly running the tap and taking a few slurps of water, I gaze through a crack in the net curtain; my mind wanders. I think back to the last time I counted down the days until the end of the month. As a kid, of course, I counted down the days to my birthday, to Christmas. It wasn't that long ago though, surely? Of course, it was back when payday really made a difference, when it meant something.
With no qualifications or experience, I started in the city right at the bottom of the ladder. Officially I was a Junior Administrator, but unofficially I was the shit on everybody else’s polished shoes. It didn’t matter. I was there. I could have been cleaning the toilets so long as it was in the city. I was part of the morning stampede across London Bridge, brushing shoulders with men and women dangling expensive leather briefcases. It was exciting to be surrounded by so much adrenaline, so much success, so much money. It was a godsend compared to the lonely nights when I first arrived in London, before I managed to get a job. There was so much of everything in the city, including people, that it was nearly impossible to stand out, and I managed to blend in, just as oblivious as everybody else. Of course, without meaning to state the obvious, that was exactly what I needed at that specific point in my life.
Payday was a big deal. It wasn’t like I was hard up. Rent in London was nothing like it is today, when you have to pay a small fortune to live in a shed or a cupboard under the stairs like Harry Potter. Catching the tube didn’t eat into your pocket like it does these days. It was so much more realistic – more achievable - for a singleton on basic pay to enjoy London, not just survive. I never went without. But still, I counted down the days from about the middle of the month. I ticked off each passing day like it was a success. Payday was a big deal because, suddenly, I was flush. I had notes in my pocket I could flash between my thumb and forefinger at the bar. Not that the barman took much notice, of course. I could mingle with those who really had money (and not just for a day or two). It felt that, just for a few hours, I belonged in this city of success, extravagance and greed. Of course, I was a pretender, but my whole life was a pretence, so what did one more thing matter? I was hungry to earn more, to live like this all of the time.
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