‘The police have to know about this one,’ Paddy said. ‘It’s so similar to the others. The police must have learned about it from YouTube or the person whose account was used to upload it.’
‘Why didn’t they say anything about it on the news then?’ Lia asked.
The police probably wanted to protect their investigation, Paddy guessed. Three videos, three murders. That would have to set off one of the largest police operations the UK had ever seen.
‘And they don’t want to scare people any more than they already are,’ Berg said. ‘This is gruesome enough as it is.’
Lia sat in the statue garden on Kidderpore Avenue and looked at the building she lived in. It was late evening, and the students who lived in the King’s College residence hall were all home. A light burned in nearly every window.
Lia saw movement in the window above her own flat. She lived in a small room on the basement level, below the building’s caretaker, Mr Vong. The name was Lia’s own abbreviation of the original Laotian name, Chanthavong. Mr Vong had accepted it with friendly, restrained grace, as he did all of Lia’s actions.
Their friendship was quiet, based on coexistence and mutual respect and the occasional long card-playing session. Mr Vong had taken her in, giving her the small room very inexpensively, and once Mr Vong had even saved her from a very scary situation.
That had been connected to the discovery of a dead woman in the City, and as she remembered it, Lia realised she was going through the same feelings now as then.
These snuff films. All of the UK had seen two of them. Not many knew about the one that had appeared first though.
Lia needed to talk about them to someone. Mr Vong or the statues around her. Sometimes she told them the thoughts she couldn’t really share with anyone else.
But she couldn’t unload something like this on Mr Vong, and saying anything to her beloved statues didn’t feel quite right either.
If I talk about this out loud, that only makes it more real. Then the people who did all this have won.
She had to interrupt these thoughts. And she knew how to do just that.
‘You Finnish girls,’ Berg said, tut-tutting on the telephone. ‘Always making me traipse around in the middle of the night answering your calls.’
Berg’s voice was immediately comforting. Mari was the Studio’s leader, but Lia knew that with their greater life experience, Berg and Maggie were the group’s emotional stalwarts. With their help the others could always work through anything, and everyone felt a special companionship particularly with Berg.
‘Would Ms Brundtland like to come out for a walk?’ Lia asked.
‘She does like going out on the town at night,’ Berg said. ‘But where are you? An old man like me isn’t going out at this hour, and I wouldn’t be able to keep up with you anyway.’
Lia went to change into her running clothes and then took the Tube to Berg’s place in Barnet. She ran under the streetlights of Woodside Park, Gro at her side, keeping the leash just loose enough that the dog could jog properly but while it still tied them together.
Running at night calmed her. On the way home she was able to shut the evil images out of her mind and smile at passers-by. Even on weeknights an endless flow of people streamed through London in high spirits, on their way to clubs and bars, searching the night for a connection to someone else.
9.
The voices of Lady Gaga and Marc Almond alternated in the song like an old married couple having a heated conversation, and when either voice rose in the chorus the hands of the crowd swaying on the dance floor went up in the air.
Brian Fowler stood at the edge of the floor, in the line of men who weren’t dancing, each with his eyes fixed on someone in the moving mass. For now, watching was enough.
Gradually he noticed that he was also being watched. A man in a leather jacket off to the side was casting brief glances his way. The man never smiled, Brian noticed.
That wasn’t abnormal. There were ones who didn’t smile. For some of the customers at the Black Cap bar, keeping in character was important. These men never laughed and were never their true selves at the bars. That was part of the attraction, part of their promise of masculinity.
Brian never quite trusted serious, unsmiling men who sought company by pretending to be rougher than they were. Generally he considered them insecure, small people in whom there was no point taking any interest.
But this man in the leather jacket looked powerful.
Brian Fowler wasn’t sure what kind of men he trusted. Thirty-four years of life hadn’t made it any clearer. He did know what kind of men he liked though, and the man in the leather jacket fitted in that group.
Brian had come out as a sixteen-year-old, revealing his homosexuality to his parents on Mother’s Day, gifting them with the knowledge of something they had always known on some level but which had been too hard to think about. A week later he crossed another line and started visiting the clubs in Manchester. Later he moved to London, meeting more men than he could remember as he greedily drank in the feeling he got from them, a feeling he could not name. Perhaps it was some sort of precursor to love, the expectation of deep companionship. In due time he swallowed the pain of two long-term relationships that didn’t last. Now, he was more than ready for commitment. Of course he didn’t come to the Black Cap for commitment, but a gay man living in London who spent his days dedicated to his work always had a difficult choice of evening entertainment: going out to clubs or home to curl up feeling like you were wasting your life.
And Evelyn wanted to go out. Her endurance for partying was in a class of its own. Evelyn always wanted to go out in a twosome, preferably three nights a week, which outpaced her many gay friends’ motivation for clubbing, so Evelyn had to take them in turns. Brian had promised her this night. Sometimes you just had to go even if you didn’t want to, because that’s what he and Evelyn did for each other, create opportunities. A big part of their friendship was pushing each other out of the door to experience the feelings they came here for: the longing for people, the knowledge that anything could happen.
Brian had put on tight black jeans and, after a brief hesitation, his Vivienne Westwood shirt, the right side of which was completely black and the left side of which was bright red, the collar black and red stripes. He had paid a lot for it, and it was a little too small, but sometimes he just had to wear it. To stand out from the crowd if nothing else.
The man in the leather jacket didn’t smile. But occasionally, very briefly, he looked Brian in the eyes. There was strength in that look.
Half an hour later Brian had drunk two drinks, lost sight of the man in the leather jacket and realised that Evelyn was also going to disappear somewhere too if he wasn’t careful.
Bars made Evelyn too boisterous. Brian caught sight of her laughing face every now and again as she appeared in his field of vision always in the middle of some new group of friends, and then disappeared again.
Feeling a light touch on his shoulder, Brian turned.
The man in the leather jacket was there next to him. The man was older than Brian had thought. But he was also in fantastic shape, Brian could see through his shirt. Muscles.
The man did not speak.
‘Hi,’ Brian said.
The man still didn’t say anything. He just looked. Brian had never seen eyes like that before. The man’s gaze devoured him.
Brian smiled quickly. What was the man waiting for? Was he one of the ones who didn’t want to talk at all? Something was wrong. Instead of telegraphing desire, the man’s eyes seemed to be appraising him.
‘What do you like?’ the man asked.
A deep voice. Sexy, Brian thought with relief. A manly voice.
‘Lots of things,’ Brian said.
Did the man just want sex? That would be a small disappointment – but maybe OK too.
‘And you?’ Brian asked.
The man did not reply. Slowly he extended one of his hands towards Brian. Th
e motion was controlled and calm – he didn’t want to startle Brian when he touched him.
The man lightly rested his hand on Brian’s shoulder. Brian felt as the man probed his shoulder and shirt. Maybe he was feeling to see if he worked out. What a strange situation – did this guy choose his companions like squeezing fruit at the greengrocer’s?
‘I like the dark,’ the man said.
Brian stared in confusion. He didn’t know this code word. It sounded intriguing but strange.
Then the man left. Just like that, disappearing as quickly as he came.
Brian stared into the mass of humanity in the middle of the dance floor, hurt, rejected, useless.
Two hours later he had had enough.
The night had not been good. Not bad, since Evelyn and other people he knew had been around, but nothing had led anywhere. He hadn’t seen or wanted to see the man in the leather jacket any more, and the two others who caught his attention hadn’t shown any signs of interest. Evelyn had confided in him about worries at work – she was having a hard time getting past the open disdain one of her colleagues showed for her – but there was nothing new in any of this. Evelyn was always having some problem at work, and there were always men in the bars who were destined to be nothing more than eye candy.
Walking to the door, he wiped the sweat from his brow. Adele was singing one of her songs that you felt through your whole body. Brian waited to hear the end.
Once Adele’s confession was complete, Brian found Evelyn smoking outside. Two boys were bumming fags from her. Too young for Brian.
‘Ready, Evie?’ he asked.
In reply he received kisses, one on one cheek and then another on the other. Evelyn was drunk, almost too intoxicated to walk.
‘Completely ready,’ Evelyn sighed.
‘Complete idiot,’ Brian said affectionately.
If nothing else came of these evenings, at least they brought the two of them closer together.
Evelyn was in no shape for the Tube, so they would have to get a taxi. Brian glanced up and down Camden High Street, but no taxis were anywhere near. What he could see were men standing around.
There were always a few standing around outside gay bars like the Black Cap looking for company. The ones who didn’t dare go inside or who didn’t want to for one reason or another. Some of the guys loitering outside were always hopeless cases, and sometimes they were prostitutes looking for clients who hadn’t found anyone to go home with in the bar.
Walking past these men was a sort of little test. You had to be looked at, to have glances follow you. Sometimes someone approached him, but Brian wasn’t looking for that – the man of his dreams wasn’t going to be hanging around outside a bar like this.
But if no one even looked, that would also be a sign. Brian was well over thirty, but still a good prospect for a while yet. How long exactly would be measured here, among other places.
Slowly he walked along the street, looking for a taxi and keeping a lazy eye on the loiterers. One looked. Then another. Thoroughly. That one would have come over to chat if he had looked back.
Brian’s shirt might be a little too small, he might never have been able to make a relationship work and now he’d been on one more night out he would never remember, but he still had a future at least.
Then, far ahead, he saw the man in the leather jacket, waiting on a street corner. The man was looking at him, waiting for him. His eyes burned even at this distance.
Bing. Round One. It was as if Brian heard a real sound in his head, the bell at the beginning of a boxing match announcing one and only one thing: sex. In two steps he turned from a tired barfly into a prizefighter tensing before a bout, stepping into the ring where there would only be the two of them, he and the athletic, taciturn opponent with the hard eyes.
Let him be a little strange. At least he would get some sex.
But he had Evelyn with him. Evelyn was waiting at the door of the Black Cap, propping up the wall. Brian looked back. If he got Evelyn a taxi and went it alone, what might the night have yet to offer?
Turning, he walked straight towards the man in the leather jacket, towards the match.
The man did not smile, but looked him in the eyes. Bing bing.
The man disappeared around the corner. Brian’s breath caught, and he turned one more time back to the Black Cap. Evelyn was waiting there, and Brian saw Evelyn see him – Brian waved, hoping that Evelyn would understand that she should wait while Brian arranged his entertainment for the night.
Striding around the corner, Brian found the man waiting for him, in the alley, still not smiling, just with that look. Brian looked the man over again, finding his previous evaluation accurate. A worthy opponent.
Brian heard the bell ringing inside him bing bing bing bing and thought: Evelyn isn’t going to come barging in here. She’ll know to wait. And then the man in the leather jacket extended his left hand. Brian looked at the hand, which was empty, and wondered why he was doing that again. Then an unimaginable pain struck Brian’s shoulder.
He felt the man’s other hand at his throat, a crushing grip. Brian groped for his shoulder – he had never experienced anything like this. Did pain like this really exist? He tried to scream, but no sound came. The man’s stranglehold prevented him from crying out.
The man held him in his grasp. Brian saw his eyes and felt a rending pain.
He tried to hit, to flail, but the man’s squeezing sapped his strength.
Air. He gasped for air, but the man’s grip held. Second by second Brian felt himself suffocating.
Movement at the corner. Someone was coming. Brian recognised Evelyn – drunk Evelyn was coming to look for him. The man in the leather jacket released his grip on Brian’s throat, but the squeezing in his shoulder was spreading inside, something horrible was spreading through him. He had to warn Evelyn, he had to scream, but the sound wouldn’t come out.
As he fell to the ground, Brian saw the man in the leather jacket turn towards Evelyn.
10.
The discovery of three bodies at one time shocked the entire country. Left on the street in different parts of London during the night, they triggered special reports on every television channel. The police cordoned off the surrounding streets for their investigation and called in dozens of detectives from various police divisions in the Greater London area. Dubbed Operation Rhea, the authorities said the police inquiry would be one of the largest London had ever seen.
Most people had no points of comparison for the murders. They had a place in their minds for alcoholic fathers who went crazy and shot their families and then themselves. Cases like that fell into a certain category, just like cars skidding off the road, individual gangland assassinations and people freezing to death sleeping rough in the winter.
But three bodies at once, thrown out on the street like rubbish? Things like that didn’t happen. The idea was difficult to accept. This was London, a city of order and culture, a collection of tiny old villages that grew together and spread into a metropolis, attracting a population of millions while still preserving its feeling of peaceful coexistence. This was England. They weren’t living in the middle of a South American drug war or riots in India.
Three murdered bodies was news for which everyone wanted an explanation.
Not particularly well concealed, the bodies were nevertheless left in places where no one would notice them other than at close range. The male victim left in Vauxhall was sprawled on the pavement in the doorway of a deserted warehouse near the Tube. In the West End, near Charing Cross, there was a man in a small alleyway, and in Camden a woman had been shoved between two rubbish bins in a side street.
Because there were three bodies, the police soon announced that there had also been three videos.
There was no doubt they were the same people from the videos, the police announced. The marks from dozens of kicks were clear. Covered with abrasions and bruises, they were unmistakable, although two of the victims had been kill
ed several days before and post-mortem changes in skin colour and bloating were already significant.
At home in Hampstead, Lia watched the live morning broadcast in which the Operation Rhea detectives attempted to negotiate the siege of reporters. Whenever anyone interviewed a police officer in the media, she remembered her meetings the year before with Detective Chief Inspector Peter Gerrish of the City of London Police. Gerrish had told her some details about the investigation into the woman’s murder, and in turn Lia had helped him with information the Studio was able to gather about the case.
Gerrish was not investigating the videos, but what little she knew about the work of the police gave her the feeling she knew something about what was happening behind closed doors. If nothing else then the enormous amount of work that was going into solving these murders.
That workload was visible in the focus of the police on the TV news, in the seriousness of their demeanour and the curt comments they gave to the media: the investigation was ongoing; they were only just getting started. They didn’t have any answers, and they were just trying to get through the questioning without saying anything.
Lia went to Level for a few hours and then took the rest of the day off. Her boss agreed to requests like that these days without complaint because he knew Lia would make sure her work got done. And Lia knew she wanted to be at the Studio.
‘The most frightening thing about this is that it was all so well executed,’ Mari said.
The whole Studio had gathered in Mari’s office. On the large TV screen on the wall was a frozen frame from the first video. They had all seen the video enough times, and no one wanted to see it again.
‘This was planned,’ Mari said. ‘Nothing like this happens on the spur of the moment.’
Leaving the victims in different parts of the city on the same night told of startlingly cold calculation. The perpetrators had saved up two of the bodies for several days.
Black Noise Page 5
