Phobia

by Dean Crawford

  Honor stared at the screen for a moment.

  ‘She’s being filmed,’ she observed. ‘Are there power units down there, cables, something that somebody might splice a camera into?’

  Paul Sharp, who was still hanging around in case he was needed for information, nodded.

  ‘Cables run through most sewer conduits, mostly fibre, some power but nothing high–grade. It would take skill, but it’s possible.’

  ‘Could just be a mobile phone, like at Southwark,’ DI Harper pointed out. ‘The battery would last long enough to broadcast this.’

  ‘But would it though?’ Honor asked. ‘Video runs batteries down real fast, and it’s got to be wet down there. A phone wouldn’t get a connection if it was that far below ground, but if a phone was wired into both…’

  Paul’s eyes lit up.

  ‘The phone,’ he said. ‘We never get mobile signals below ground. If he’s broadcasting this live, then he’s got to be wired in, and that means she’s opposite a fibre cable.’

  ‘How much does that narrow down the possible locations?’ DCI Mitchell asked. Paul turned to the sewer map.

  ‘Enough to rule out the very lowest stretches, the cables are placed for reasonably easy access from roads,’ he replied. ‘That rules out some of the interceptors. If I were to put money into it, I’d say she’s probably under a main road access platform.’

  ‘How many?’ Honor demanded.

  ‘Dozens, but if you’re thinking your killer wants to keep her inside the square mile, then we’re looking at maybe thirty locations. Fenchurch, Monument, London Bridge and Bank all have major access features.’

  DI Harper whirled to the MPU commander.

  ‘Get on them,’ she ordered. ‘Start targeting any of the entrances in the square mile, especially Whitechapel.’

  ‘Why Whitechapel?’

  ‘Tell you later,’ Harper replied.

  Detectives hurried to start spreading the word as Harper paced silently up and down like a caged animal, glaring at the screen.

  ‘Jesus, look at her, it’s almost up to her chin. She’s only got an hour at most.’

  Danny Green watched the screen from his desk, his face stricken. Honor knew that he’d taken the death of Amber Carson pretty hard, and now he was being forced along with all of them to watch the whole thing again.

  ‘We have to go public,’ DCI Mitchell said.

  ‘We can’t give him what he wants,’ Honor countered. ‘There’s something about this campaign that we’re missing. All of the victims have been the same age. I think he’s reliving something, over and over again, with each of his victims and he’s

  desperate to share it, to share it with the world. We can’t keep giving him what he wants, because it will just encourage him to continue. He’s desperate for the attention.’

  ‘And Jayden Nixx is desperate for her life.’

  Honor tried to reply, but no words passed between her lips. She knew that there was no way they alone could locate Jayden in time to save her life, and a glance out of the Incident Room windows revealed a darkening sky and torrential rain pouring down on the city. She looked at her watch, conceding the inevitable. Her fears were as nothing compared to Jayden’s ordeal. Face them, as Jayden is facing hers.

  ‘Half–past five. Rush hour. If we go now, we can get the eyes of the entire city looking for her and the conference will hit screens in time for broadcast on the six o’clock news.’

  Harper whirled away and called to one of the constables manning the phones in the Incident Room.

  ‘Push it up,’ she said. ‘They’ll be desperate to get in here anyway.’ Harper turned to Honor. ‘I need you in on that briefing.’

  ‘I need to be here,’ Honor replied. ‘There could be something on that film that reveals where she is and…’

  ‘There’s nothing there,’ Harper snapped. ‘Briefing room, fifteen minutes. We need to face the music and get the public in on this before it’s too late.’

  DI Harper turned away from Honor before she could say anything more, and hurried out of the room to prepare for the press conference. They all knew that the major media outlets would send people at the drop of a hat, knowing already that there was a woman in jeopardy somewhere in the city and that the police were scrambling to find her.

  Honor grabbed a remote and switched on another, smaller television, this one tuned to the BBC. Despite the random timing of her decision, she was met instantly with a report on the video now being viewed by millions around the world, and turned up the volume a little so that she could hear what the presenter was saying.

  ‘… there is no doubt that the video footage is being streamed live from somewhere in London, and that the individual concerned is a British citizen. Video analysis experts have confirmed the live nature of the feed, and inquiries have determined that at least one London family may have been questioned about the video. There are numerous questions being put to the City of London Police, all of which have so far gone unanswered, with officers saying that they cannot comment on an on–going investigation. Demands for a public hearing have so far also gone unanswered, but the question that everybody is asking right now, is whether the video of the trapped woman is linked to the series of bizarre murders that have been committed in the past few nights across the square mile…’

  Honor switched the television off and stared at the blank screen for a moment. ‘Honor?’ She turned, to see Samir Raaya at the Incident Room door. ‘Press are already here; DCI and borough are waiting for you.’

  Jesus, she said fifteen minutes. ‘They’re here already?’

  ‘They’ve been camped outside all afternoon,’ Samir replied and shrugged. ‘They’ve smelled blood.’

  Honor felt her skin flush with colour as prickly heat irritated her neck. There was no use in putting it off any longer, she knew that she would have to face the cameras and the questions as the lead detective, and so with an expression of the damned on her face she grabbed her bag and walked on unwilling legs toward the door.

  ‘You want me to go?’ Danny asked as he stood up and blocked her path.

  The temptation to say yes was almost overwhelming, but she glanced at the television screen and saw there Jayden, fighting to the last.

  ‘No,’ she sighed. ‘I have to do this.’

  ‘Give ‘em hell,’ Danny said and squeezed her shoulder before standing aside.

  Honor didn’t reply, her mind fixated on the glaring black eyes of cameras and probing questions, the demands that they would make of her, the accusations that she somehow already knew would fly.

  She took the elevator down to the ground floor, her eyes closed on the way down as she built herself up to the dreaded moment. Steel and ice. She imagined an immoveable tower of solid metal and cold ice surrounding her, protecting her, a forcefield against the world outside. She imagined herself a foot taller than anybody else in the building, visualised herself walking with dignity and pride, finally free of all anxieties, always there with the right words, the right actions, the right solutions.

  The elevator door opened and she walked along a corridor toward the conference room, feeling a good deal shorter than her imagination would allow her to believe. She could hear a bustle of conversation from within, could see journalists hurrying into the room, and when she walked in, she could see probably a hundred seats, all occupied but for a single empty seat on a raised dais, flanked by DI Harper, DCI Mitchell and the borough commander.

  Her seat.

  Heads turned as she strode into the room. She kept her head high and her pace firm even as her guts turned to slime within her. The room went out of focus a little and she feared a sudden attack of dizziness, which then provoked further paranoia that such an attack might be inevitable. She felt her balance waver as she walked between the rows of chairs, saw cameras turned to point at her, kept her focus on the wall behind the dais.

  Cognitive Behavioural Therapy was of no bloody use to her now, as every sodding reporter in the room and
by extension half of the damned country were watching her.

  Behind the dais were images of Sebastian Dukas, Amber Carson, and Jayden Nixx. Honor noted that none of the gruesome video images of the victims had been used, and instead more casual images had been obtained from the families in order to portray the victims. Honor managed to walk up onto the dais without tripping or otherwise embarrassing herself, but her face ached, her teeth gritted in her jaw as she focused only on sitting down, arranging her bag and the microphone, and catching nobody’s eye.

  The assembled journalists settled down and Andy Leeson spoke into his microphone. ‘Ladies and gentlemen, as you know there has been an on–going situation in the City of London which we have been working to resolve, and at this time we have decided that the time is right to enlist the public to assist us – in this case, to save a life. We are asking for help in determining the whereabouts of Jayden Nixx, who as I’m sure many of you are aware, was abducted from her home last night in the city and is currently being held, against her will, somewhere in the city’s sewers.’

  Although every single person in the room knew damned well that Jayden Nixx was being held in a sewer, obvious from the footage of her suffering, the mention of her name, a humanising of her condition and confirmation that it wasn’t some kind of bizarre prank, drew a gust of shock from the journalists.

  ‘Furthermore,’ the commander went on, ‘we believe that Jayden’s case is not the first of its kind, and that her predicament may have also been faced in a similar way by two preceding victims.’

  Another ripple from the audience, and not for the first time Honor sensed delight and anticipation, the whiff of a major story, the hunt for the truth unfolding. Honor found her towers of steel and ice harden as she determined that she would keep this briefing focused on the victims, not the spectacle.

  ‘… you to the leading officer on this case, Detective Sergeant Honor McVey.’

  The cameras switched their unblinking black gaze to Honor, other cameras flashing as they took still images, and for a brief moment she froze. Everybody’s watching you. Honor hesitated, and then she thought of Jayden’s terrible ordeal, and her own terror abated. Get a grip, this is nothing compared to what that poor girl is going through right now. The ice hardened, the towers steadied.

  ‘Two days ago, we discovered the body of Sebastian Dukas hanged from scaffolding upon the spire of St Magnus the Martyr Church, near London Bridge. Initially thought to be a suicide, we now know that he was in fact murdered. A day later, Amber Carson was found buried alive in concrete outside Southwark Cathedral. The connection between the victims was that both suffered from extreme phobias: Sebastian Dukas was terrified of heights, and Amber Carson had a life–long fear of being buried alive.’

  Gasps went up from the audience, followed by a barrage of questions. Honor sat in silence, not moving, not listening, waiting instead as the tsunami of noise broke against the unbending steel and ice. DCI Mitchell raised a hand as though he was parting waves, and the journalists fell obediently silent.

  ‘We now also know,’ Honor continued, ‘that Jayden Nixx suffers from hydrophobia, a fear of water, as a result of a childhood accident. It is our belief that the individual behind these attacks is seeking victims based on their deepest phobias, and deliberately exposing them to those fears, with the express intent of watching them die.’ Another rush of strained gasps as the journalists scribbled furiously and the cameras recorded every word that Honor said. For a brief moment, she thought of all the millions of people watching the broadcast, and wondered what they were thinking right now. Were they on the edge of their seat with anticipation? Behind it, in horror? She reminded herself to focus on the suffering of Jayden Nixx.

  ‘Right now,’ she said, loudly this time, and the journalists fell silent, ‘a young woman’s life is in direct danger and we don’t know where she is. The storm passing over the country is flooding the sewers of London and she may only have an hour or so left before she is drowned. We have convened this conference with the express intent of asking the public for help in locating Jayden Nixx before she suffers the same horrific fate that befell Sebastian Dukas and Amber Carson. Furthermore, we are asking the public for assistance in identifying the man in this image.’

  Beside her, a City constable held up a large printed board with an image of the man seen on CCTV in the pubs where Sebastian Dukas and Amber Carson had spent their last night alive.

  ‘This man is a person of interest whom we would like to speak to, even if only to eliminate from our inquiries. He was caught on security cameras in the vicinity of two of the victims prior to their disappearance. If you know anything, if you’ve seen this man or anybody who has been seen entering or exiting the sewers of London via manholes or any other point of entry or exit, please call us on the phone number you can see on the front of this table.’

  The journalists erupted into questions once again, prompting DCI Mitchell to once again silence them with a wave of his hand and select a single journalist from the crowd, an attractive woman with long dark hair who spoke as soon as the furore had died down. ‘Are you telling us that this killer has been abducting people and taking them below ground, into the sewer network?’

  ‘Yes,’ Honor agreed, ‘we think that he’s been using an extensive knowledge of the sewer network to avoid detection by CCTV and security cameras.’

  Another clamour, before a male journalist was singled out.

  ‘The footage of Jayden Nixx is being viewed across the globe, and she may well die live on camera. How does this make you feel, as the lead investigator in the case?’

  Honor stared at the man without expression.

  ‘What I feel doesn’t matter, it’s what Jayden and her family feel that matters. Has anybody got a sensible question they can ask?’

  ‘Detective?’ another man asked. ‘Were all of the murders filmed in this way? Why didn’t we see footage of Amber Carson’s murder?’

  Honor sucked in a breath.

  ‘It’s my belief that these murders are not random, but a premeditated campaign designed to escalate knowledge of the killer’s crimes. The murder of Amber Carson was filmed, but we were unable to release the footage publicly as that would have fed into the killer’s plans.’

  There was another rush of whispers and shocked stares.

  ‘You knew that Amber Carson was dying and you were unable to save her?’ asked another female journalist, from the back of the room.

  ‘We were unable to locate her before she died,’ Honor acknowledged.

  ‘You watched her die?’ asked another. ‘Why didn’t you go public with an attempt to find Amber?’

  ‘Because Amber was buried alive,’ Honor replied sharply, anticipating the question. ‘There was nothing at all in the footage that could betray her location, whereas with Jayden Nixx there is at least a slim chance that she can be found before…’

  ‘Amber’s footage was broadcast though,’ accused another, ‘so there was a chance that she could have been located.’

  ‘We were very close to saving her life,’ Honor said, sticking to her guns. ‘We were only moments too late, and yes, we were searching for the broadcast via Internet IP addresses. Sadly, we were unable to reach her in time.’

  There was a moment of incredulous horror from the collective of journalists. ‘You let her die rather than go public?’

  Honor opened her mouth to reply, but it was DI Katy Harper who stepped in, her voice like a whiplash cracking the air over the heads of the journalists.

  ‘Let’s not forget who is the enemy here and who is trying to catch them. Apportioning blame for the loss of life in this case should be reserved for the killer, don’t you think? Or are you suggesting that our detectives should be put on trial rather than the person committing the crimes?’

  The journalist who had shouted the accusation blushed. Honor felt a warm pulse of gratitude toward the DI as the journalist visibly shrank into her seat, but another took her place in an instant. />
  ‘Sebastian Dukas died three days ago, and yet you don’t have any suspects in this case?’

  ‘We are pursuing several leads,’ Honor replied, ‘but as yet we do not have a named suspect. As I said, we believe this to have been a meticulously planned campaign, and right now all we’re interested in is finding Jayden Nixx before it’s too late.’

  A moment later, a quiet female voice piped up from near the back of the room. ‘Why do you think that they’re killing their victims in this way?’

  Honor saw the diminutive form of Priya Lakshmi, a freelancer, black hair and neat spectacles, a notepad in her hand. There was no accusation in her tone, no outrage, just inquiry and observation.

  ‘We don’t know for sure, yet,’ Honor said, loathe to give the killer the fame they were so clearly seeking and yet knowing that she had to reveal some kind of insight for the journalists to run with. ‘However, I suspect that the killer suffers from his own phobia, and that he’s reflecting that fear onto his victims, deflecting it perhaps. The killer is almost certainly male, physically capable given the lengths he goes to keep his victims out of sight, and possibly suffers from something known as Thanatophobia, a deep–rooted fear of death.’

  There was a genuinely interested silence as the journalists noted this new and unsuspected angle.

  ‘So, he’s playing out his own fears and watching the results,’ Priya went on, ‘a morbid fascination with his own phobia, and denial of his own mortality.’

  Honor was impressed, and encouraged.

  ‘That would fit with our basic profile of the killer,’ she agreed. ‘There also appears to be a suspected obsession with Jack the Ripper. The killings are occurring at around the same time of year, and the killer appears to hunt in some of the older and more notorious areas of the city; Whitechapel, Spitalfields, Cheapside and so on.’

  ‘Where the Ripper killed,’ Priya acknowledged. ‘And the Ripper’s victims were all innocent women, despite the misogyny of the original investigations, that much we’re certain of. But this suspect is killing men as well as women, and he’s doing it more quickly.’