by Tim Weaver
Gaishe was on one side, I was on the other, Wellis was in the middle. Gaishe had blood on his face, I had a crowbar and a shirt tucked into the back of my trousers, Wellis had no shirt or shoes on – but it was still early, not even six, and there was no one around. ‘Are you going to help us?’ Gaishe asked as we got to my car.
‘Yes,’ I lied, and flipped the boot.
I glanced up and down the road. No one watching. No one around. I lined Wellis up, his eyes widening as he continually tried to focus, then I pressed his head down and forced him into the back. He folded easily; he still didn’t have the power to fight me.
‘What are you doing?’ Gaishe said.
‘What does it look like?’
‘You’re putting him in there?’
‘Yeah,’ I said. ‘And you’re going in too.’
He frowned, and then I grabbed him by his neck and jammed him down into the space. He climbed in clumsily, hit his knee and his head, but then finally came to rest next to Wellis. They both looked up at me, one dazed, one scared. Rapists. Animals.
And then I shut them in.
28
8 March | Three Months Earlier
They now had a third photograph to pin to the wall of the incident room. Steven Wilky, Marc Evans and the very latest: a 24-year-old office cleaner called Joseph Symons. He’d been gone eight days by the time his father reported him missing, nine by the time the task force realized they had another victim and had descended on his place in Clerkenwell, a pokey fourth-floor flat in a tower block called Dunkirk House. Healy had given Craw a lift from the station.
Now they were the only ones left in the apartment.
The approach to the flat had been in near darkness – the lights in the hallways out, the ones at the entrance too; broken, vandalized – and Healy stood by himself in the bedroom looking at the bed. Forensics had taken the hair from the pillow, fibres from the sheets and trace evidence from the floor, and finally the flat had a strange kind of silence to it. The faint creaks and groans of the walls and floorboards, the drip of rain on the windowsill, but nothing else.
Healy stepped away from the bed, turned and took in the room. There was no sign of a break-in, which meant – just like Wilky and Evans before him – Symons knew who the Snatcher was. He’d invited him in, maybe innocently, maybe not-so-innocently, but he would have had no idea who he really was, and no sense of what was to come. From there, the case became guesswork. When did the Snatcher strike? How did he suppress his victims? How did he get them out without being seen? Where did he take them? What did he do with them? The press – ravenous, pumped-up and baying for blood – referred to him as a serial killer, but you were only a serial killer if you killed people. All the police had so far were three missing men, all tied together by a single piece of evidence: the hair from their heads, left on their pillows.
For a moment, sudden and uncontrolled panic hit Healy. What if you can’t find him? What if you haven’t got it in you any more? What if this one breaks you like the one before? He took another step back and reached out to the nearest wall, his mind turning over and over like a trawler being rolled across the waves.
He remembered Leanne, his daughter; the way she’d looked when he’d found her body, and the road he’d had to walk to get there. And then he remembered the case before that. The one that had ripped his life, and his marriage, apart: two eight-year-old girls raped and killed down in New Cross, and he’d never been able to find the bastard who did it. It had consumed him, completely and utterly suffocated him, until one day it all came out: he discovered his wife was having an affair and he flipped. In a moment of weakness, a moment that was filled with so much shame and regret he could hardly bear the weight of it, he hit his wife.
Don’t let them see you like this. Don’t show any weakness.
He stepped away from the wall, breathed in and moved to the window in the bedroom. It looked down across the rain-soaked front entrance of the tower block. In a patch of darkness out towards the main road, he could see flashbulbs going off, and cones of light where TV reporters were broadcasting live. Off to the left, where a thin walkway connected this building with the next, people watched, gloved hands on the railing, breath forming above their heads like balls of gauze.
‘You all right?’
He looked around. DCI Melanie Craw was standing in the doorway of the room, head tilted, eyes analysing him. She’d given him his chance, made an unpopular decision, and for that he owed her. But she still looked at him like all the others did: waiting for the moment he said something or did something stupid; the moment he screwed it all up. And sometimes her gaze was even more intense than that: sometimes it felt she was looking right into his head, reading his every thought, and he became worried that she’d figured out what he was doing at the prison.
‘There’s no sign of forced entry anywhere?’ Healy asked.
Craw stepped into the bedroom. ‘No. Symons is just like Wilky and Evans. Our suspect is definitely invited in. Most likely he follows them, gets to know their routines, then initiates a meeting and gains their trust.’
‘And when he gets inside the flats, he drugs them.’
‘That seems the most likely course of action, yes.’
‘Because how else does he shave their heads, right?’
‘Right.’
‘But what about once they’re drugged?’
She looked at him, seeing that he had a theory. ‘He leaves with them.’
‘But there have been no witnesses at any of the scenes. So, how do you carry a grown man like Symons out of a fourth-floor flat without raising any suspicion?’
Craw shrugged. ‘You wait for the right moment.’
‘Or you don’t knock them out.’
She stepped closer, frowning. ‘What do you mean?’
‘I agree that he drugs them,’ Healy replied. ‘It makes them much easier to control that way. There’s no way they would allow him to shave their heads otherwise. But I don’t think they’re unconscious while he’s doing it. In fact, I don’t think they’re unconscious at any point. Wilky, Evans, Symons – I think he gave them enough so they were malleable – and then I think he walked them right out the front door. And he’ll do exactly the same to the next one.’
Date Night
It had been a long time. As Jonathan Drake waited in his flat, perched on the arm of a sofa, the TV on in the background, he tried to remember how long. Maybe a year. Maybe more. You lost track after a while.
He didn’t mind dating, he didn’t mind meeting new people, but he hated the build-up. He hated the early stages, the moments where you initiated conversation in the hope they wouldn’t automatically turn you down, and then the weeks after, where everything was about making an impression, about saying the right things at the right times. None of it came easily to him. He wasn’t asocial – quite the opposite, in fact – but the process was never one he’d been 100 per cent comfortable with, ever since he was a teenager. Chatting people up in nightclubs, at bars, at house parties, it all just felt so false. Because of that, for a long time he couldn’t be bothered with it. He didn’t want the embarrassment. He spent months actively avoiding dating and, after a time, became very comfortable with his decision. He even grew to quite like it. He could go out with friends, with the people he worked with, and not feel under any pressure. He watched everyone else ride the tidal wave of men and women, in clubs, in bars, and it gave him a great perspective on how empty and unsatisfying that lifestyle was. But eventually, everyone – even those for whom detachment becomes second nature – starts to feel the ache of loneliness. And a year later, he realized something: humans weren’t meant to be alone. They needed company.
So here he was.
He’d met this one by chance, while walking home, and they’d continued chatting on their daily commute. Drake preferred it that way. When you met someone unexpectedly, you sidestepped the really inelegant moments, the uncomfortable ‘Do you come here often?’-style conversation,
because you weren’t expecting anything to happen. And then it was easier to move to the next stage: where both of you liked the look of each other, and you gradually started to develop some kind of bond. He was nervous, but he was excited too about what the evening had in store for them.
Getting to his feet, he padded back through to the bedroom and looked at himself in the mirror. He was five-eight, slight, not handsome exactly – he knew that much – but rugged and dark. He had tiny pockmarks in and around the slope of his nose, running in an arc at either cheekbone, but it was the only part of him he disliked.
He turned and looked around at his flat.
Thin, worn carpets, faded wallpaper, damp in the corners of the room. Off to the right, in the kitchen, he could see a watermark had stained the cream linoleum. There were no pictures anywhere. No plants. No decor of any kind apart from a bookshelf full of books, and a TV perched on top of a wheeled cabinet. He’d have liked a better flat, but he was pretty philosophical about it: the rent was cheap, and there was no one else to help pay it. Until he got a promotion at the store, or won the lottery, this would do fine.
A knock at the door.
Drake studied himself in the mirror again. ‘Come on, Jonny Boy,’ he said. ‘This could be the one. This could be the start of something good. Time to turn on the charm.’ He stood there for a moment more, brushing himself down and smiling at the fact he was giving his own reflection a pep talk, and then he headed across the flat to the door. Before opening up, he looked out through the peephole. His date looked a little different than he remembered: somehow slightly older, but cleaner cut and better-looking. It was difficult to make out too much more: a bunch of youths had been through the hallway a couple of days before and smashed all the light bulbs for no other reason than they could.
He unlocked the door and pulled it open.
‘Leon,’ Drake said.
‘Hello,’ Leon Spane replied. ‘How are you doing, Jon?’
Drake held out his hand. ‘I’m good. You?’
‘Really good, thanks,’ Spane said, smiling.
They shook. Spane had big hands, but they were cool and clammy, and in a weird kind of way, Drake was pleased. Maybe he’s as nervous as me, he thought, and then he invited Spane in. Spane thanked him with another smile, and stepped past, into the flat.
‘I like your bag,’ Drake said.
Spane brought the satchel he was carrying around to his front, as if he’d never thought to look before. ‘Oh. Thank you. I’m a bit of an eBay addict.’ He paused, as if he’d noticed the rest of what he was wearing. ‘I might need you to give me a few fashion tips, actually. I remember you said you worked in fashion.’
‘Well, I work in a clothes store.’
‘That’s good enough.’ He smiled. ‘I’m always looking for new fashion ideas.’
Drake looked Spane up and down: smart tan leather boots, name-brand jeans, a black shirt and a black thigh-length jacket. ‘I think you look pretty good,’ he said.
Spane laughed. ‘And I didn’t even have to pay you to say that.’
Drake grabbed his jacket from a peg and slipped it on. The two of them looked at each other for a moment, and then both broke out into smiles at the same time.
‘You didn’t have any trouble getting here, did you?’ Drake asked.
‘No. No, not at all. I know Hammersmith a little bit.’
‘That’s good. Thanks for coming down here.’
Spane patted his bag. ‘The Tube was why they invented books.’
Drake nodded. A reader. That was a good start. ‘I booked us a table at a restaurant just down the road. An Italian. I hope that’s okay with you.’
‘Absolutely. That sounds great.’ Spane looked around the flat and his eyes fell on the toilet on the other side of the living room. ‘Could I be rude and ask to use your loo? It’s not usually the kind of first impression I like to make, but I came straight from work.’
Drake laughed. ‘Of course you can. It’s just over there.’
Spane thanked him, slipped off the satchel and dumped it onto the sofa, then headed to the bathroom, pushing the door closed. Drake wandered through to the kitchen.
The flat was designed so that the kitchen was offset from the living room, the whole thing partially hidden behind an old-fashioned serving hatch, and you could enter the kitchen from either side. Drake flicked the lights on and looked in the fridge. He wanted to make sure that he had some wine chilled for later on. He already had a good feeling about tonight, but some alcohol might help loosen them both up a little bit more once they got back.
He closed the fridge and moved back into the living room. Spane was still in the bathroom. Maybe he’s puking up, Drake thought, and the idea made him smile. He dropped into one of the chairs and checked his phone. A few emails from friends. If it didn’t go well tonight, at least he could keep them entertained with the gory details. Before he’d gone into relationship exile, his tales of dating disasters had always amused his mates.
Suddenly Drake had a thought, got up and headed back into the kitchen. He didn’t bother flicking on the lights this time; just opened the fridge and slid out the bottle of wine he’d been looking at a moment before. Sauvignon Blanc. What happens if he doesn’t like white wine? He cursed himself silently. Should have got a bottle of red as well, just in case. Then, across the top of the fridge door, he noticed something.
The bathroom door was open.
He pushed the fridge door shut – an automatic reaction – and for a moment the flat was plunged into darkness. All the lights were off.
A second before, they’d all been on.
He felt his heart shift and he moved forward slowly in the dark, to the light switch in the kitchen. He flicked it on. Above him, a strip light hummed and then broke out into a stark white glow. Through the serving hatch, he could see out into the living room – but only about halfway. Around the edges of the room were thick blankets of shadow, like curtains pinned from ceiling to floor. He looked left, out to where the bathroom was, and then right, into the living room. The kitchen light made it even harder to see into the dark.
‘Leon?’ he said.
No reply.
He moved left, towards the bathroom. ‘Leon?’
This time his voice betrayed him, and a ripple passed through it. He cleared his throat, as quietly as he could, coming around the edge of the wall dividing the kitchen from the living room. He flicked a look into the empty bathroom, and then fixed his eyes back to the living room, trying to will them to see more. He knew where everything was placed in the flat – he knew the layout, he knew where the light switches were – and yet, as he moved further in, it was like being in a place he’d never been before. He was disorientated.
‘Leon?’ he said again, scanning the flat.
Nothing.
Gradually, though, his eyes were starting to adjust to the light, and in front of him shapes were forming. Furniture. The TV. The music system. His PC on an old stand his parents had given him. Spane wasn’t there.
Which meant he was in the bedroom.
Then, something twinged in Drake’s neck.
A short, sharp pain, there and gone again. He reached up and touched the area just below the curve of his jaw and, when he brought his fingers back, in the shadow of the room he could see something even darker on them. He rubbed them together. Blood.
What the hell …?
He felt a shiver pass through him. Quick and sharp. And a split second later he knew why: Spane was behind him.
He turned.
‘Fuck!’
Drake stumbled back, tripping against one of the sofas and falling to the ground. Spane had been on his shoulder the whole time, his face contorted by shadows, his body twisted and wrapped in them. He seemed bigger in the darkness – taller, wider, more threatening – but as Drake desperately tried to get to his feet again, his legs gave way. Spane stepped forward, out of the dark, towering over Drake as he looked up from the floor. He was wearing pale la
tex gloves and, in his left hand, holding a syringe.
‘Whatthefuckareyoudoin …’ Drake said, but as the words came out of his mouth, they didn’t sound quite right. And then he realized something else: he was starting to feel woozy. His muscles were relaxing. His head kept rolling left to right. When his vision cleared a little Spane leaned down, pulled him up, dropped him into one of the armchairs and turned on the lights.
‘Whatsssssoingon?’ he asked again, his speech slurred.
Spane didn’t respond. He carefully placed the syringe he’d used into the satchel and then brought out a small leather pouch. Drake tried to haul himself up, but his arms had no strength. He couldn’t support himself. Every muscle in his body had liquified. When he tried to use his legs, place them down flat to the floor and manoeuvre himself forward, nothing happened. The whole time Spane calmly unzipped the leather pouch.
‘Whatssssssssssssoingon?’ Drake asked again.
His speech was getting worse by the second.
Spane opened the leather pouch, holding it in the middle like a book. With his left hand he adjusted something, and then looked back at Drake. ‘I’m really glad we have this chance to be alone,’ he said, his voice so soft it was barely audible. He laid the leather pouch down on the sofa as carefully as if it were made from glass, and then parted Drake’s legs. Drake couldn’t do anything about it. He had no reaction. No fight.
Spane moved in closer, positioning himself level with the knees. ‘This is how it’s going to be from now on,’ Spane continued, his voice gentle, almost affectionate. And then he looked up from beneath his brow, his eyes so big and dark they were just holes in his head. A whimper passed up through Drake’s throat; a reflex, like a noise from a cornered animal.
