But while Parker had found any number of people who heartily disliked Janson, none of them looked to have the makings of a murderer and none of them could be linked to either of the other crimes. Parker had a talent for spotting guilt, but not one of the people he interviewed had any effect on his inbuilt guiltometer.
Friday, May 10, Brighton Police Station, 7.00PM
By the end of the week, Saxon admitted reluctantly – but only to himself – that they’d hit something of a wall. A dead-end. He’d suspected they would. Frankly, there was nothing to get a handle on. With no forensic evidence, there was little anyone could do but look and look again for similarities and differences between the cases and just hope for a breakthrough of some kind. He had been over the details so often, the frustration was starting to make his head throb. There had to be something that may give him a lead. No matter how many times he turned it all over in his mind, there was nothing to see. Saxon was well aware that the first forty-eight crucial hours had long passed. His chance of solving this crime was now halved.
He remained convinced that there was a serial killer at work, but he had nothing new to show from their investigations. Saxon had reached the point where he was thinking the unthinkable: the only way forward would be for the killer to strike again and next time, make a mistake. A bloody great big one.
But that was the nature of serial killers; they don’t do it once because there’s a problem that needs sorting: like a straying wife or girlfriend; or a hopelessly senile but otherwise relentlessly healthy live-in relative; or a sudden panic situation when some poor bloody innocent bystander was just in the wrong place at the wrong time.
His father had been just such a victim. Even twenty-eight years after it had happened, Saxon could still remember so many details of the dreadful day. The police arriving suddenly at the front door of the house in Glynde. The muffled conversation, too indistinct to comprehend, and the sudden terrifying cries of his mother. Saxon was taken to his bedroom by a WPC, on the pretence that he could show her his toys. But he was a bright child, and knew something wasn’t right. Why would a policewoman want to see some boring old toys, when clearly something far more important was going on elsewhere in the house?
His father, Richard, had been a quiet, hard-working man, who described himself at dinner parties in their comfortable suburban world as a plain, boring office clerk. He was actually a highly successful accountant, working in the finance department of one of the local government offices in Westminster. He commuted between Glynde and London every day, a true slave to the British Railway system. He had his own seat, not officially of course, just an unspoken reservation. Along with his travelling companions, Richard would finish the Daily Telegraph crossword as the train slowly hauled itself into Victoria Station.
One day – his last – Richard Saxon’s destiny was changed by one tiny action. It was so trivial that at the time no one even acknowledged it as the factor that had cost him his life. Looking back and with the undoubted benefit of hindsight, Saxon was convinced that the police, always looking for motives and intrigue, overlooked the fact that it was a simple case of wrong time, wrong place.
Under normal circumstances, Saxon senior avoided public toilets. The character of those places dedicated to strange glances and unpleasant odours made him uncomfortable. On that day, the last one, he’d broken this habit because, quite simply, he had to. He knew he wouldn’t make it home without finding a toilet and if he used the one on the train, he would run the risk of losing his seat to another anxious commuter. Besides, he had a good ten minutes before the train would even arrive, so there was time. As it turned out, those ten minutes were far from good.
Nobody saw or heard a thing, as is usual in London when a crime is committed. It was the blood. Copious amounts of the stuff, seeping out from under the cubicle door, slowly progressing over the tiles, until it reached the urinal at the far end, where it then ran faster than most of the trains, down into the sewer. The poor man, who spotted it first, apart from pissing down his leg, also emptied the contents of his stomach into the Technicolor nightmare that had well and truly fouled up his evening.
No arrest was ever made, and the file gathered dust. And more dust. Nobody ever knew what had happened. It was never established whose path had crossed Saxon’s so dramatically that fateful evening. The fact that his briefcase was never found indicated that the motive was robbery. Eventually – even though the police hated to admit it, the file was put on the “probably will not be solved” pile. Although, as in all unsolved murder cases, it was never officially closed.
Saxon junior dragged himself back to the present. Serial killers were not like that. They played a completely different game. And there was precious little chance involved in most cases.
So on this Friday night, just five days after Janson had met his end at Sewel Mill, Saxon found himself in a situation that was not one he relished. By now, he normally had advanced to a more positive stage in a murder inquiry. At least, he usually had a suspect, someone to visit now and again and lean on, or even just to watch. This time he had nothing. He put the files away and checked that it was all tidy. Parker had gone back up to Croydon an hour or so ago, for a ferocious welcome from his kids. Saxon envied him and yet he didn’t. He left for home.
Friday, May 10, 12 Pavilion Square, Flat 4, Brighton, 9.00PM
Saxon’s apartment was in one of the Regency squares just up from the Brighton seafront. His mother had moved the family down to the coast from Glynde within a year of her husband’s death, in a desperate effort to get away from the memories. Saxon had since always lived by the sea, enjoying the sense of freedom and freshness.
He often walked along the coast, no matter what the weather threw at it or him. He liked to think that the wind seemed to blow away the trivia attached to a case he was working on and leave the relevant facts neatly filed in the right part of his mind. When thinking, serious thinking, was required, there was no better place as far as he was concerned.
Closing the door behind him and locking it, he picked up the post on the mat and glanced through it. There was nothing there that wouldn’t wait, at least until Saturday morning, and he spotted a few things that would go straight in the bin without even being opened. How on earth did some of these people come by his name and address?
Dropping the unopened post with his keys on the hall table, he took off his jacket as he walked through to the sitting room. The apartment was extensive and bright, chosen by Emma at least in part for its light.
Saxon had trusted her judgment on this, since he couldn’t quite see much difference between the five places they had eventually whittled the choice down to. The short list, for him, was clear: transport and access to the sea-front. Once they were met, Emma had his blessing to make all the final decisions.
Fortunately, the ones she liked had met his requirements too, so there had been no disagreement on that score. They’d lived there about two years now.
Everything in the apartment was white and minimalist, but right now, it had to be admitted, it was somewhat untidy, certainly more so than usual. For a start, there were dirty clothes slung across some of the chairs. And Saxon paused to admire the tottering, but interesting, dish and plate sculpture growing in and around the kitchen sink.
Must stack that lot in the dishwasher. It wasn’t the first time the thought had crossed his mind.
Saxon didn’t cook much, at least not while Emma was around and even less when she was away. There didn’t seem to be much point. So why rush to wash up every five minutes? They had plenty of china and enough forks. The dishes only greased up again next time you used them. He survived as much as he could on instant meals and the odd takeaway. Anything, in fact, except police canteen food. Unless of course, it was fried eggs and bacon on the menu – it was difficult to get that wrong. Any other delicacies were fed to the criminals in an effort to make them talk. He had grinned to himself, enjoying the traditional humour.
Emma was an interior
designer and the flat was a prime example of her talent. He winced slightly at the thought of her reaction to its current state. He got himself a Scotch and water and stopped worrying. She and Kate were very successful at what they did. Emma’s ideas were much sought after.
Money was not a problem to either of them. Her income outstripped his considerably though he didn’t let it bother him. On the contrary, Emma’s success was something he admired about her and always had. He’d been drawn to her in the first place by her energy and her determination.
He thought about her now, thought about what she might be doing as he sat and sipped his drink. He loosened his tie and put his feet up. Looking straight ahead, he faced the sea; it had been a pleasant day weather-wise and there were still some yachts racing back and forth between the two piers. The majority of them, however, headed back to the marina, as they were amateur sailors who didn’t want to sail after sunset.
The sounds of traffic were muted because they were four floors up. Another one of the benefits of living in the top apartment. He recalled Kate’s flat in Marylebone High Street. He liked the area, although he wouldn’t have wanted to live there himself. They had been there for drinks and dinners on more than one occasion. He imagined the two of them coming home from work. No, they’d probably be going out to dinner somewhere, maybe after a brief drink in some wine bar with a friend or business acquaintance.
So, Emma was with Kate for the foreseeable future.
Paul Saxon settled down for a night of channel flicking and Scotch. He wasn’t hungry.
Friday, May 10, Kemp Town, Brighton, 9.15PM
Across town, at chez Tucker, an altogether different kind of evening was kicking off.
Steve Tucker had earned the nickname “Fucker Tucker” during his limited time at school. Schoolboy humour being what it was, and is, there was no great mystery about the origins of the name.
Tucker had hated school with a passion. He didn’t want to be there and never had. In Tucker’s view, a good enough reason for not being there, but not particularly persuasive to the authorities. Sadly, nobody else wanted him at school either. Not the other kids and not the teachers either. One or two of his teachers had gone so far as to tell him that he would never amount to much, if anything.
It was hardly surprising then, that he had concluded at a relatively early age that for some strange reason he would never attain his full share of what life freely gave to others. Sometimes he thought that maybe it was his teachers’ fault that his life was so clearly substandard compared to the lives of people around him. But he wasn’t sure because he couldn’t pin it down to anything specific. But he was sure they must have had something to do with it. Something they said maybe.
He planned to seek revenge on those teachers on a fairly regular basis, and show them just how clever he had become. How he would actually accomplish this never fully gelled in his mind. One idea he had considered was to send them something nasty in the post. But he wasn’t sure how he’d get it in the envelope. Besides, it would probably seep out before it was delivered.
His revenge plots never came to fruition, as did very little else, because his concentration would waver after a few minutes, and he would become entranced by a television advert for a chat line or a refrigerator. Thirty seconds later, as with most things, the plans for revenge became a distant memory. He was a sad case.
You could describe Tucker’s past as a disaster and have no fear of repercussions under the Trade Descriptions Act. But he had hopes for the future. Tucker saw himself as a comedian. He always had a filthy joke on the tip of his tongue, and had dreams of being a stand-up comic. The trouble was he had no concept of timing and zero talent. He couldn’t understand why, at the few auditions he’d attended, he had never been allowed to lurch more than one minute into his routine. Some bastard always stopped him with a ‘Thanks, we’ll phone you.’ They never did, the sods, they were bastards. Ignorant bastards.
Tucker handled these rejections with the thought that there was room for another Jack Dee in the world, there had to be. When fate whittled down the other – lesser – comedians a little, there would be space for him. Until then, he was going to show commitment to his chosen career. His plan was to keep up the practice and try to reach perfection. He believed in his talent, it just wasn’t his time yet. He knew it would come one day.
In the meantime, Tucker was making do with regular employment. When he finally conned an employer that he was worth taking on, it was as a mortuary attendant. Most of the inmates didn’t care and would never complain about his behaviour – after all, they could neither see nor smell him.
His tasks were menial; there was nothing in his daily routine to cause his brain to struggle too much. Just gurney pushing and large-drawer opening, and closing. Once a post-mortem was finished, he would hose down the bodies and the stainless steel tables, and wash the floors. These chores, though far from complicated, would on occasion become too much. Stress would frequently build up to such a crescendo in Tucker’s life that he would have to relieve himself with a quick wank.
Wanking was the only way he could he could handle stress; the few moments of pleasure would wipe everything from his mind, rather like an electrical overload in a computer. Other people in a similarly stressful situation might go to the gym and work out for a few hours. Or take a walk in the fresh air, or maybe read a book. Not Tucker though, he would wank, preferably during his lunch break, whilst the other staff were outside in the sun enjoying a sandwich or a couple of pints in the pub.
As he stroked himself, he would be leering at one of the fresh bodies. When he reached his climax, which was usually in less than fifteen seconds, semen would fly in all directions and, because he never planned ahead more than ten seconds, a tissue was never at hand to contain the explosion. It often went down his leg. So far, he had been lucky – no one had spotted him at it. People weren’t sure what the stains were. They only had their suspicions.
So it was that Tucker rather enjoyed the silent company of corpses, particularly the younger fresher ones. The sex of his companions was of no importance.
To his credit, he did have manners. He didn’t stint on the pre-or post-coital conversation. He would talk to them for hours, knowing they would never answer back or turn away from him. This morning’s little chat had been fairly typical.
‘God, didn’t I nearly break me fuckin’ neck on the way in this mornin?’ he had started. ‘Fuckin’ tripped on the fuckin’ steps and woss more I’m gonna get condensation for me injuries.’ He stabbed his fingers into the chest of the nearest body. ‘You’ll see, fuckin’ government, got more money than sense anyway…Tossers.’
To his co-workers he occasionally appeared to be in a trance, as if the clientele were talking back to him. Maybe they were. Only he knew the answer to that one.
Tucker existed in a small dark basement flat in Brighton, not that the other flats in the building were dark or particularly small. Just his. It was clear that he’d never had the benefit of an interior designer looking around and giving him pointers on colour and texture.
He owned a television, a sofa, a beaten-up old chair, a few piles of rather old and by now quite sticky porn mags, and some bags of rubbish that had almost bonded with the floor.
On this particular Friday night his routine varied little. He came home, switched on the TV and was soon stuffing his face with the fish and chips that he’d brought with him from a takeaway down the road. He had a very international approach to his diet, with curry one night, Chinese the next. He didn’t cook. Not even toast.
Fame was the only thing Tucker craved, apart from sex with someone who breathed – or had recently. Hence, his feeble attempts to break into the stand-up comic business. The thought that really sent shivers of excitement through him was not the telling of the jokes, or the joy of skilled delivery, timed to perfection. No, it was much more basic than that. To have several hundred people hanging on to his every word. To possess that level of control. Even thinking
about it made him tremble with anticipation.
Just to have one person’s attention for more than a few seconds was uncharted water for Tucker.
He had role models. He collected pictures and videos of his favourite stars, and had pasted and taped pictures all over the wall of his television room. He didn’t call it a sitting room, because he wasn’t sure what the difference was between a lounge and a sitting room. It was less embarrassing if he referred to it as the television room.
Loneliness and desperation usually caught up with Tucker on Friday and Saturday evenings, when he would wander the promenade and, if he was feeling bold, indulge his urge to watch couples on the beach, writhing around in the darkness.
He occasionally stood in the shadows under the crumbling West Pier. He chose this spot in preference to the Palace Pier because the seriously randy couples came here, knowing that there was less chance of being seen.
Once, a few years back, Tucker was caught dick-handed and was forced to run for his life. The bloke who’d spotted him was massive and could throw the cricket-ball sized pebbles from the beach with the force of an Olympic shot-putter. Three quite large boulders hit Tucker squarely in the back, knocking the wind out of him. He found it impossible to run fast with his trousers around his knees and a stiffy thrashing about in front. Completely ruined what little streamlining he had. Luckily for him the guy didn’t give chase – he had bigger fish to fry.
Saxon Page 5
