by Ashley Dyer
“Who’s on the search for the van?”
Ruth Lake had tasked three detectives to search traffic cam and CCTV footage for the Ford van that had probably been used in the professor’s abduction.
A paunchy, middle-aged cop in a crumpled suit raised his hand.
“Where are we with that?” Carver experienced a slight discomfort that he couldn’t remember the detective’s name.
“Nothing so far, boss,” the detective said. “But there’s a hell of a lot to get through, and, you know, white vans—” He shrugged. “Like searching for a snowflake in a blizzard.”
Carver didn’t like the man’s slouch. The Liverpool victims were effectively cold cases, but the professor was very much a hot investigation, and as such, their best chance of finding new leads. He needed sharp eyes and keen minds committed to treating even the most tedious jobs in the inquiry as potential leads.
“We know the professor disappeared midafternoon, four days ago,” he said. “London Met have a first sighting of the van on the M40, heading into the city at eleven a.m. that day. We know the plates were stolen from Liverpool the night before, from—” With a dull thud, Carver realized he couldn’t remember the time, or place.
“Merlin Street in Toxteth,” Ruth supplied. “Between midnight and four a.m.”
“The most likely route would be to take the M62 east, then head south on the M6,” Carver went on. He pulled up an image of the van parked at the side of the Theodore Bullfrog pub in London. “Look for this white Ford Transit at junctions one to six of the M62 between those hours on the day Professor Tennent disappeared.”
Ruth Lake spoke up again: “Professor Tennent disappeared between Charing Cross Station and Embankment, just after two thirty that afternoon,” she said. “Assuming the same travel time of four to six hours to drive back to Liverpool, you’re looking for the van to appear here in Liverpool on the return leg of the journey, any time from six thirty p.m. until about nine.”
“Yeah,” the detective said with another dismissive shrug, “and what if he parked up for a few hours in London after he snatched the professor, waited till after dark to make his way back?”
You always got one doomsayer in any investigation: someone you could rely on to make a mountain from a speck of dust, just so he could say how hard it would be to get over. Carver would’ve liked to give the detective a verbal slapping, but he still couldn’t remember the man’s name, and for some reason his healing brain couldn’t get past that. He felt his skin break out in a sheen of sweat and he couldn’t find the words to answer.
“You keep looking till you see him,” Ruth said, in her usual, imperturbable manner. “But we know that the plexiglass our killer used to make the disks takes up to twenty-four hours to harden, so he’d be pushed for time. Remember, he had to extract the brain and slice it before he could even start to set it in the plexiglass.” Carver saw a few winces, but Ruth carried on as if she hadn’t noticed: “The disk would need to be properly hardened before he could drill it and thread the wire through, ready for hanging. Our man is a planner; he’d’ve thought of that. He’d drive straight back.” She looked at the detective, her gaze steady and implacable. “Get on with the job.” It wasn’t entirely clear if she was making an observation about the killer or issuing an order to her griping colleague. “DC Gorman, isn’t it?”
Gorman—of course. Carver felt the coil of anxiety loosen around his chest.
Ruth went on: “If you want to make life easy for yourself, you might look into traffic conditions that day, adjust the ETA, then scour CCTV for the license plate.”
Carver saw a smudge around Gorman’s eyes, a shadow, tinged with burnt orange. The man was angry, but embarrassed, too, that he hadn’t thought of this himself.
“While you’re on a roll, DS Lake,” Carver said, “d’you want to tell us what the pathologist said?”
Ruth Lake walked swiftly to the front of the room, drawing the eye of every straight male. She moved with the effortless grace of an athlete, aware of her body, yet unselfconscious. Carver saw a dull glow to the left of the gathering and identified the source as DC Gorman. His gaze was a little too intense to be respectful. They made momentary eye contact, which Gorman broke first. But Carver kept his eyes on the detective until he picked up a pen and started taking notes.
“The killer used formalin to preserve Eddings’s and Martin’s brain tissue,” Ruth said, “so establishing their cause of death will be difficult if not impossible, but he didn’t mess with Tennent’s—his was fresh when it was set in the acrylic . . . The pathologist is fairly sure that he was asphyxiated.”
A brownish fog misted around DC Ivey’s face.
“Petechiae,” Ruth said, addressing him as though he’d voiced the question forming in his head. “Small pinpoints of red in the brain tissue. Burst blood vessels,” she explained. “Given the circumstances of the professor’s disappearance, it could be he was either suffocated—plastic bag over the head, say—or else strangled.”
“Wait a minute.” CSM Hughes riffled through some papers stacked on the table in front of him. “I’ve been looking at the scene record the Met’s Evidence Recovery Unit sent through.” He carried on talking while he found the right page and skimmed the list: “This is stuff they picked up from the alley near Charing Cross Station . . .”
Carver had seen the list: thirty cigarette butts, spent matches, various sweet and food wrappers, trodden gum, three beer bottles, and two used condoms scooped up from the probable abduction location.
“We’ve been examining the plexiglass for physical trace,” Hughes went on, “. . . and found a few unusual orange synthetic fibers . . .” Another pause as he turned the page. “Got it. Item one-three-seven: a sixty-centimeter length of orange nylon cord. It could be the murder weapon.”
“I’ll request a sample for comparison,” Carver said.
“We also need to get it checked for DNA—if the professor’s is on there, then maybe the killer’s is too,” Hughes said.
Carver made a note.
Ruth spoke up: “Did you find any other trace in the disks, John?”
“A brown, powdery particulate,” Hughes said. “We haven’t finished the analysis, but I’ll let you know when we have an idea what it might be.”
“How much specialist skill would the killer need to do the dissections and make the disks?” Carver asked.
Ruth said, “The pathologist reckons he could be using a butcher’s knife to slice through the brain tissue; I found craft kits online that would make acrylic of the right grade. The path lab will run the dye through HPLC, but the pathologist thinks our guy just dropped the brain sections in a container of food dye, left them to steep for a couple of days. As for skill, he said a reasonably competent first-year biomed student could remove and slice the brain, fix, stain, and embed it with comparable results.”
Hughes said, “Maybe, but I had a CSI make some disks using slices of pig brain. The base comes as a gloopy liquid; all you do is add a small quantity of enzyme and mix to get the solid acrylic. But you need to measure the liquid base and the enzyme precisely, mix them thoroughly, pour the stuff carefully into the molds. Even then, you can get bubbles ruining the set. And don’t forget, he would’ve had to create the disk in at least two stages—one layer on top of the other. He might not be an expert, but he’s got skills—and he’s had practice—plenty of it.”
A rustle of unease ran through the gathering.
“The pathologist said the same thing.” Ruth paused. “Would the first layer have to be hardened before he poured the second?”
“Hardened, but not completely set.”
“I’m just wondering how he managed two lots of pouring and setting—or partial set—for Professor Tennent,” Ruth explained. “He had the drive back from London; time must’ve been tight. Can you speed up the process? Using specialist equipment, maybe?”
Specialist equipment meant a narrower search.
“You can . . .” Hughes gave an
apologetic grimace. “But all you need is gentle heat from a household oven or a space heater.”
If she was disappointed, Carver couldn’t see it in her face.
“Okay,” she said. “Craft kits and space heaters aren’t going to lead us to this toe-rag. We need something more specific and specialized.” She looked around the room. “Any suggestions?”
“Would he need a special kit to get the brain out of the skull?” DC Ivey asked.
“If he didn’t want to make a mess of it,” she said, with an appreciative nod. “A sagittal saw would be the best tool for the job—that’s the gadget they use to remove the brain cap during postmortems. But this is a good news/bad news scenario. Bad news: you could probably pick one up on eBay for a few hundred quid. Good news: I doubt if they’re big sellers, so if we’re really lucky, you’ll find one among the victims’ credit card purchases.”
“Where are you on card use?” Carver asked. DC Ivey had been tasked with checking purchases for the missing.
“Mostly food and booze from small convenience stores,” Ivey said. “I plan to start visiting them today. And I did find a couple of online electrical goods suppliers on the statements as well—I’ll ring them this morning.”
“Good. Ask if anything was delivered to the card holders’ addresses. If it was, we might find trace. Focus on the two confirmed victims, for now.”
Carver asked for Dr. Yi’s observations.
He pursed his lips. “There’s no physical similarity between the victims.”
“Do you think that the professor’s Fact or Fable? show was the trigger for his abduction?” Carver asked.
“I do . . .” Yi said carefully. “But I believe his reasons for taking the professor are not as straightforward as they might first appear.”
Carver waited for the psychologist to gather his thoughts.
“It’s tempting to think that this was an act of rage. A narcissistic killer, injured by the dismissive tone of the TV program, murdered Tennent and included him in his exhibit as proof of his power over life and death.”
“Tempting, but not convincing?” Carver said.
“He has been active for at least six months, yet the Ferryman handle has only emerged in the past few weeks—and seems to’ve been spontaneous.
“The timing is also important,” he went on. “As Sergeant Lake says, he plans ahead, and he’s disciplined. He waited half a year before staging this ‘exhibit’—why rush it after all that time and preparation?”
Carver nodded. “Good point. He found one of the few places in London where he could snatch the professor out of security camera range. He had to’ve planned ahead—so it does seem odd that he didn’t take more time over Tennent.”
“On the other hand, the Ferryman rumors have had a lot of press,” Dr. Yi said. “And the Fact or Fable? program drew four million viewers—as high as some TV dramas. Added to which, the killer used the program title as the name of his exhibit.”
This was exactly what Carver had suggested yesterday. “You’re saying it was about publicity after all?” he asked.
The forensic psychologist’s dark eyes met Carver’s, a hint of rueful amusement in them, but he didn’t answer immediately.
“Do we know how many followers FerrymanArt’s Instagram account has gained since the program aired?” he asked.
“Sixteen thousand and counting,” Ruth replied.
“Well, then. Yes, it seems you were right, Chief Inspector,” Yi said. “He’s media-savvy and opportunistic.”
“So he didn’t hold a grudge against the professor?” Carver said.
“He may have resented the disparaging tone of the program,” Dr. Yi said. “But that wasn’t his primary motivation, in my opinion. Your two Liverpool victims will provide the most clues to the killer’s home base—even serial killers have a comfort zone. And that’s likely to be close to where he lives or works.”
Carver nodded. This was basic geographical profiling. “Can you give us some more insights into the man, based on what we have?”
Yi considered the question, taking a sip of water before answering.
“He has resources—some stolen from his victims, clearly. And he has time, which suggests he’s not in regular employment. This is a man who is driven, and focused. The degree of planning, the care in execution, the ability to remain unnoticed until a time of his choosing suggests a mature, intelligent person, in full control of his faculties. He is also a sociopath who will kill without hesitation, or regret, to achieve his goals.”
“Which are?”
“In the short term, it would seem that he craves power and notoriety,” Dr. Yi concluded. “But there is never enough of either to satisfy that kind of hunger.”
8
Carver’s mobile rang as he reached his office. Number unknown.
He answered briskly, ready to cut off any telesales chancer before they launched into their script.
“Mr. Carver, it’s Doctor Thomas.”
His neurologist. Carver had asked for a phone consultation after the weird waking-dream he’d experienced the morning before. He ducked into his office, thanking the doctor for making the time.
“I wanted to ask—are vivid dreams associated with migraines?”
“They can be. Have you had any change in symptoms—pain, for instance?”
“No.” Although Carver experienced visual disturbances during migraines, he’d never had any pain.
“Are they more frequent? Severe?”
Both, Carver thought. He admitted to more frequent.
“Hm . . . if your symptoms are worsening—”
“I wouldn’t say that,” Carver interrupted, trying not to sound too defensive; Dr. Thomas was one of the team charged with managing his return to work.
“All right. Could you describe the nature of these dreams?” Dr. Thomas asked.
“As I said—they’re vivid. Surreal.”
“I wouldn’t place you in the category of the ‘worried well,’ Mr. Carver—so I imagine you called me because you find them disturbing.”
“Yes,” Carver said, hearing the tightness in his voice.
“Like the hallucinations you experienced in the beginning?”
“More like replays of things that happen in the day,” Carver said, falling back on his own small knowledge of the psychology of dreams, wishing he’d googled his symptoms instead.
“So, not hallucinatory episodes?”
The episode had happened during the day—he’d thought he was awake, but he couldn’t admit to that, so he answered with a firm “No,” adding, “I am still experiencing the synesthesia, though.”
“Interesting,” Thomas said, although he had the good grace not to sound too excited by the prospect.
Carver had resisted becoming the neurologist’s pet project. But Dr. Thomas had the power to have him consigned to sick leave, so he added, “D’you think the auras will stay with me for life?”
It was a cynical ploy to deflect the neurologist from turning the phone consult into a monitoring session.
“As your brain recovered, it had to reroute nerve pathways around the damaged tissue,” Thomas said, slipping into teaching mode. “It seems to have forged novel—even unique—ways around the lesions via your visual cortex. Which explains the unusual associations you have between color perception, mood, and body language. It’s entirely possible that the new nerve pathways are a permanent feature.” He paused. “Does that prospect trouble you?”
“It can be tiring trying to make sense of what I see,” Carver said. “But I’m learning to live with it.”
“These dreams, on the other hand, do bother you.” Like the good doctor he was, Thomas had circled back to the real subject of the call. “How’re you sleeping?”
“Not well,” Carver had to admit.
“That could certainly be a factor,” the neurologist said. “Napping at work?”
“No.”
“You’re sure?”
“I think I’d kno
w,” Carver said, evading a direct answer.
“Well, if you do, take it seriously.”
“I will.” Focusing on the topic of migraines seemed a safer option than exploring the possibility that he was taking microsleeps during the working day, so Carver added, “I really just wanted to know about dreams and migraines.”
The doctor seemed to debate for a moment whether to push harder, but after an agonizing pause, he said, “When the sleep cycle is disrupted, dreams can become intrusive. Added to which, disturbed sleep often causes the neck muscles to tighten. The occipital nerves can become irritated and inflamed. Result: migraine. Stress, too, can affect sleep—and you’re heading up the inquiry into the missing men, aren’t you? There’s been a development in the case, hasn’t there?”
This was dangerous territory: in all his dealings with the neurologist, he’d seemed curiously ignorant of what was happening in the world beyond neurosciences. Dr. Thomas had definitely been briefed.
“I am heading the inquiry, yes, and yes, there has been a development,” he said.
“Which makes me think—”
“Overstimulation,” Carver said, putting words in Thomas’s mouth. “That’s probably it. I need to work harder on my relaxation techniques.”
“I can arrange for you to see a neuropsychologist, if you’re concerned—”
Sweat broke out on Carver’s brow. “There’s really no need.” The last thing he needed right now was greater supervision.
“Well, keep it in mind,” the consultant said. “And you should mention this to your therapist.”
“I will.” He made an effort not to hang up too hurriedly, thanking the doctor for his time, telling the neurologist that he felt reassured. As for the Review Board shrink—of course he’d divulge that he was having trouble sorting reality from dreams, micronapping, and suffering sleep paralysis in the middle of the day.
On the very day hell froze over.
9
I have five screens streaming news items twenty-four/seven. I’ve set up Google alerts for the keywords “Tennent,” “John Eddings, “Dillon Martin,” “Fact or Fiction,” and, of course, “Ferryman.” I have BBC Radio Merseyside playing at a low volume while I work on an exhibit—not artwork 2, which is ready and waiting for the green light. Nor is it artwork 3, which is already edited and ready to roll. What I hold in my hands is artwork 4; I have a title for it already: Art for Art’s Sake.
