“My name’s Robinson. Gideon Robinson.”
“We don’t take too kindly to people wasting police time,” Prosper said. “So, Mr. Robinson, let’s start again shall we. Why, if you think you’ve got some information relevant to this case, didn’t you come forward sooner?”
Robinson licked his lips. “I don’t know. I suppose I was scared.”
“Scared! What about?”
“What do you bloody think? About the killers coming after me of course.”
“So if you’re so afraid, what are you doing here now, and how can you have the gall to accuse me of all people?”
“You’ve got no reason to be afraid. Everything you tell us will be in the strictest confidence,” Jill cut in.
Robinson snorted. “I bet it will.”
Prosper grimaced at Robinson’s innuendo “Let’s go back to the beginning. When I walked in, you thought you recognised me. Why?”
“The night Mack Taylor was attacked, I’d been in the pub, the one on
Lee Avenue, The Hanging Man.” The Hanging Man. Prosper cringed inside.
“Well, I saw you and your friends attack Mack Taylor.”
“You mean you saw someone who looked like me, is that what you’re saying?”
“No, I saw you. Definitely saw you.” He pointed a bony finger.
Prosper slammed his fist on the table, making both Robinson and Jill jump. “Look, I’ve had enough of this shit. Either you’ve got some relevant information, or get the hell out of here and stop wasting our time.”
Robinson scowled and looked at Jill. “Are you going to let him talk to me like that? I’m a witness to a crime, and I expect to be treated better than this.”
“So far, you haven’t told us anything,” Prosper snapped.
Robinson leaned back in his chair and stared at Jill. “If you want proof, go to the alley between
Cushing Road and Pearl Street. That’s where they did it. There’s still blood there.” “Get this idiot out of my interview room,” Prosper bellowed. He stood up and leaned over Robinson. “If I see you in here again, I’ll make sure that—”
“Sir ...” Jill placed a soothing hand on Prosper’s shoulder.
Prosper nodded his head, stood up straight, and readjusted his tie. He gave Robinson a withering glare and turned to Jill.
“Get this buffoon out of here, and don’t let him in again unless you’re arresting him for wasting our time.”
Jill bit her lip. “But—”
“But what, Constable?” Prosper cocked his head.
Jill shrugged. “Nothing. Come on,” she said, turning to Robinson, “let’s go.”
“But what about what I saw?” Robinson said.
“Was this after you came out of the pub?” Prosper rolled his eyes in feigned annoyance and disbelief.
“I wasn’t drunk ...” Robinson stood up.
“Get him out of here,” Prosper ordered. After they left the room, Prosper chewed at the skin around his fingernails, spitting the bits on the floor.
His criminal résumé was growing; now it included perverting the course of justice.
That night, Prosper sent an e-mail to the Kult account, informing them that the drunk from the night they abducted Hatchet Man had finally come forward. He didn’t want them to be unprepared if the police turned up on their doorstep. He had to be sure they had their stories straight.
After sending the message, Prosper went downstairs. Natasha sat watching a wildlife documentary, and she smiled as he entered the room.
“Come and sit down,” she said, patting the seat beside her. “You’re working too hard. You’ll burn yourself out if you don’t slow down.”
Prosper slumped next to her and looked at the television without really seeing it. Since Robinson had turned up, he hadn’t been able to concentrate on anything. Was there any trace of blood left at the scene? What about the person that shouted for them to be quiet. Had he seen anything? If he came forward and corroborated Robinson’s story …
The fabric of his world was slowly unravelling, with Robinson pulling the thread.
What if Robinson reported what he’d seen to someone else? Someone who might start investigating more thoroughly.
It took him a moment to realise Natasha was stroking his neck. He turned to face her, and she crushed her lips against his, her tongue delving into his mouth. Prosper tried to respond, but couldn’t.
Natasha turned away.
“Sorry.” It was all he could think of to say.
CHAPTER 28
A couple of days passed with no other developments after Gideon Robinson appeared to give evidence, and Prosper should have felt more relaxed. But he kept expecting someone to arrest him. Expected someone to have discovered Hatchet Man’s body and followed a DNA path to his door.
He knew they should have been more careful. At least he’d taken the precaution of burning the clothes he wore that night, but that didn’t mean there weren’t genetic traces on Hatchet Man, vital clues that would lead to his killers: a hair, a piece of skin, blood from Paris’ nose, a clothes fibre. It didn’t take much for the forensic bloodhounds to sniff out the quarry.
They were trained to turn over every leaf, to explore every avenue, to search every nook and cranny.
Now he thought about it, he started wondering where Wolfe had buried the corpse. What if someone found it?
Prosper wound the window down and leaned back in the seat chewing his ragged fingernails. Jill Jones was driving him to interview Hatchet Man’s parents. He had deferred talking to the couple up until now as he didn’t want to face them, not after what he had done, but Jill kept pestering him to talk to them, and he couldn’t think of any more excuses.
Today Jill had opted to wear a grey skirt, and her shapely legs kept drawing his eyes as she played the pedals. Then he remembered Natasha’s legs and he looked out the window. They had hardly spoken since he rebuked her advances the other night. He didn’t like how he was treating her, but he couldn’t help it. Something just seemed to take over, the words coming out of his mouth automatically. He didn’t like what he had become.
When they arrived at their destination, Jill parked the car in front of the house and Prosper exited. His legs felt a bit shaky, the muscles rebelling. Along the side of the road, telephone wires hummed with electrical discord like a sibilant, ghostly vocal chord.
Hatchet Man’s parents lived in a detached house in an affluent part of town, and Prosper couldn’t help wondering whether it had been paid for by the wages of sin.
He looked up. A window in the attic disturbingly reminded him of the warehouse extension Hatchet Man had hung from and he looked away before the memories took over.
A porch sheltered the front door, the leaded windows open in an attempt to release the pressure cooker heat the sun generated. The front garden appeared neat and tidy, and despite the hosepipe ban, the lawn was green and lush.
He walked to the front door and rang the bell, and a moment later he heard footsteps approaching.
The door opened and Prosper recoiled in shock. He stared at the figure standing before him and his head started to spin. He opened his mouth, but couldn’t speak. His heart hammered. His hands felt clammy. He saw Jill’s mouth move from the corner of his eye, but couldn’t make out what she said.
Hatchet Man glared at him from the doorway.
Prosper’s world contracted, suffocating him. He was dreaming; having another nightmare. Hatchet Man was dead. It wasn’t possible.
He stared at the figure in the doorway and stumbled back, his mouth opening and closing in silence.
“Sir, are you OK?” Jill asked.
The man in the doorway frowned. “Can I help you?”
Prosper swallowed. It wasn’t Hatchet Man after all, but an older version of him, a doppelganger. Feeling foolish, Prosper composed himself and cleared his throat. Although not quite as tall, the bald headed man possessed the same bone structure, the same primitive features and the same, cruel expre
ssion as Hatchet Man.
“Vincent Taylor?” Prosper enquired. “I’m Detective Chief Inspector Prosper Snow. We’re here about your son, Mack.” He showed his identification, his frenetic heartbeat gradually slowing.
The man peered at the wallet in Prosper’s hand and nodded.
“You’d better come in then.” After they entered, Hatchet Man senior poked his head out of the door and surveyed the road before shutting it behind them.
Following Hatchet Man’s father along the black and white tiled hall, Prosper surreptitiously took stock of the house contents: a gilt-edged mirror, an alabaster female bust on a plinth, a coat rack adorned with a fur coat like a hunter’s trophy, bone china ornaments and a landscape painting. He wondered how much of it was stolen.
In the drawing room, Vincent Taylor introduced his wife, Clarissa, a small woman with greying hair. Prosper wondered how she’d given birth to a behemoth like Hatchet Man without causing permanent damage; she looked as fragile as the china in the hallway, her complexion pale and her eyes still red from crying.
Prosper shook her hand and Clarissa reached for a handkerchief and dabbed at her eyes.
“You’ll have to excuse me,” she said, her voice almost too quiet to hear. “I still haven’t gotten over the shock. He was such a lovely boy. Always thought of his mother. Never once forgot my birthday, did he Vincent.” She looked at her husband, and he nodded gravely.
“We don’t want to distress you, but we have a few questions further to what you’ve already been asked,” Jill said.
Clarissa nodded. “I understand. We’ll do anything we can if it will help catch our son’s killer, won’t we dear?”
Vincent nodded again, taciturn.
Prosper hoped his cheeks weren’t glowing with the guilt he felt.
“Please, sit down,” Clarissa said, motioning to the seats opposite.
Prosper sat down on the shiny, burgundy leather chair and looked around the room, admiring the selection of ornaments on the Edwardian sideboard. The ornaments were mainly art nouveau pieces, sensual bronze figures in evocative poses. There was also a selection of bone or ivory figures, small but lifelike female forms, dressed like cabaret girls.
Prosper couldn’t imagine Hatchet Man being raised in a house like this. It looked like a museum. He absently wondered what Hatchet Man’s life had been like, and what had caused him to follow a life of crime. Was there a catalyst, or had he just fallen into it, taking a path easier to walk than the straight and narrow? Of course it didn’t look as though his home life had contributed. Before coming here, Prosper had assumed Hatchet Man had been raised in a rough part of town, not the affluent surroundings in which he now found himself. It just went to show how first assumptions could be so wrong.
“Now how can we help you?” Clarissa asked.
“We just need to clarify a few things and to ask you a few more questions. Did your son mention seeing anything strange before he disappeared? Anyone following him?” Jill asked.
Clarissa frowned, breaking her fragile countenance. “No, nothing like that.”
“Sir?” Jill enquired, looking at Vincent.
Hatchet Man’s father turned away and looked out of the patio doors at the back garden. Prosper followed his gaze and noticed it was more dishevelled than the one at the front which was an artificial face to show the neighbours.
“Did anyone bear him a grudge?” Jill asked. “Anyone he’d argued with lately that he spoke about?”
Hatchet Man’s parents shook their heads.
“Do you know where your son would have been on the day he disappeared? What he would have been doing? If we can ascertain his routine, it will help enormously,” Jill said.
Yes, he was visiting brothels, and no doubt getting freebies while collecting the proceeds, Prosper thought.
Clarissa put a hand to her mouth, her brow furrowed in concentration. “He didn’t talk a lot about work, did he dear? He told us he was working in management for a big corporation. I didn’t like to pry. You know what little ones are like if their parents pry too much into their business.”
Little! The man was built like a mountain. Prosper would have grimaced but all his conscience would let him do was look away from the grieving woman and let Jill dictate the way the interview went.
“Did he ever mention if he had any problems, anything that had upset him?”
“He was a sensitive soul. I’m sure I would have known if there was anything bothering him.”
Prosper frowned. Sensitive! He was a pimp/drug pusher/thug. The more he thought about it, the more he thought perhaps they had done the right thing. And he almost convinced himself until he looked back at the man’s grief stricken parents.
He hadn’t spent much time on Hatchet Man’s case – what was the point? – pretending to go through the motions, and he hoped no one noticed. But since Gideon Robinson turned up at the station, Jill had been acting strangely, staring at him when she thought he wasn’t looking. It was getting a bit unnerving. Did she suspect something amiss? He couldn’t blame her if she did.
After a few more questions, and eager to leave the house, Prosper thanked Clarissa for her time and followed Vincent out of the room.
At the front door, Prosper turned towards Vincent.
“Well, thank you. I hope we find your son, if only to give you peace of mind.”
Vincent grabbed Prosper by the shoulder and pulled him close, whispering in his ear, “Clarissa has a high opinion of our son, and I don’t want her to hear this, but I know he worked somewhere near
Pearl Street ... and it wasn’t for any big corporation.” He released Prosper as abruptly as he had grabbed him, nodded his head and opened the door. Prosper hoped Jill hadn’t heard what Vincent said, but he could tell by her eyes that she had; cerebral cogs were whirling. Next she would be reaching for her notebook.
When he looked at Vincent, Prosper saw Hatchet Man staring back and he hurried to the car.
Jill unlocked the doors and slid into the driver’s seat. Prosper collapsed beside her. A moment later Jill said, “Sir, that name.
Pearl Street. The witness who came forward the other day, Gideon Robinson, he mentioned the same street name.” “One’s a bereaved father, the other a man who was drunk. Have you never heard of coincidence?”
Jill pursed her lips. “But sir, we have to check it out.”
Prosper’s stomach tied itself in knots. She was a ticking bomb, and Vincent Taylor had lit the fuse.
Back at the incident room, Jill stood by the door, notebook open in her hand as she flicked through the pages, her expression pensive.
Over at the desk, Prosper noticed the mountain of paperwork seemed to have grown, but lying on top of it was a photograph.
As he walked towards it, Mike Holmes came running over.
“We’ve got another murder.” He sounded breathless.
Prosper felt the walls of the room close in. “When? Why didn’t you call me?”
“We were about to. It’s only just arrived.”
“Is that it?” Prosper asked, pointing towards his desk and the avalanche waiting to happen.
“Yes. The main print’s been sent to forensic, but I rushed a few copies off.”
Prosper nodded his head, walked over to his desk and picked the photograph from the top of the pile. He noticed Jill looking at him, her notebook open, a concerned expression adorning her face. Despite the sad implications another murder presented, at least it meant they wouldn’t be rushing straight off to
Pearl Street to follow up on the statements, for which Prosper was grateful. He stared at the photograph and his jaw dropped, his face going ashen. The room began to spin, his sight to blur. Was this a joke? He gripped his collar and ripped his tie off. He coughed, put a hand to his mouth.
“What’s wrong, sir?” Mike asked.
“I know him. It’s … it’s Jerel Jones,” Prosper said, hardly able to hear himself above the roaring in his ears.
CHAPTER 29
Jerel’s mutilated body was suspended from a cross, his hands and feet nailed to the beams. Nails formed a macabre crown around his skull, his tongue pulled through a slit in his throat; stomach sliced open, his entrails a grotesque rope hanging from the cavity. His head hung limp, but Prosper could still see his eyes, wide and alarmed, in pain, a tortured look. Serial killer pictures adorned the cross.
A label accompanied the photograph: DECEIVER, courtesy of the Oracle.
“I know him,” Prosper stammered. “Knew him,” he continued, fighting to take it in, to make sense of it.
“Sir!” Jill walked across the room, her expression one of concern.
“You knew him,” Mike said, shaking his head. He let out a low whistle. “Poor bastard.”
Is he referring to Jerel or me?
It would have been no good lying. They’d discover Prosper knew Jerel when they started investigating Jerel’s life; where he grew up, where he went to school.
Questions ran through his head. The man they had framed for Hatchet Man’s murder had killed the person who had plotted the whole thing. But how? How did he find Jerel? How did he know it was them?
“Are you sure this is the work of the Oracle?” Prosper asked.
“It sure looks like it,” Mike said. “Who else puts photographs of other serial killers around the corpses like some sort of sick homage?”
“Sir, how did you know him?” Jill asked.
“We were friends, when I was younger we used to hang around together.”
Prosper couldn’t tear his gaze away from the photograph.
Jerel.
Killed by the Oracle.
That’s if it was the Oracle that killed him.
Why would the Oracle have killed Jerel? How would he have even known him, unless ... A cold sweat made him shiver.
Mike coughed. “I’ve just done a quick check. Your friend recently left the army and moved back to the area. He was arrested the other week for being drunk and disorderly. He was held overnight to sober up and then released without charge. There were a couple of incidents when he was in the army, small infractions, the usual things soldiers on leave get up to, fighting and the like. Do you know of any reason why he might have gotten drunk the other night though?”
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