by P. R. Black
Becky waved her concerns away. ‘There are a couple of coincidences. But if that’s true, how do you explain the DNA evidence? It wasn’t him. Wasn’t his saliva. Wasn’t his hair. Wasn’t his semen.’
‘That brings me to a new theory.’
‘One that I haven’t heard before?’ Becky smiled wryly. ‘Go on, then.’
‘There were two killers, not one. Maybe even more than two.’
Becky shook her head and sipped at her coffee. ‘There was only one killer.’
‘With respect, there is some evidence that suggests maybe more than one man was involved. You saw one killer, but…’
Frustration bunched Becky’s shoulders, but she kept her voice level. ‘With respect, I was there. In the teeth of it. I know. And there was only one killer. It was the same man, all the way through.’
‘But you didn’t actually see his face – you admit that. You can’t even be sure what colour the hair on his head was, what colour his eyes were.’
‘His eyes were black. I looked into them.’
‘It would have been easy to make a mistake. You looked into a mask…’ Rosie hesitated for a moment, then laid a hand on Becky’s. ‘I’m not saying this to annoy you, okay? But you have to consider every possibility. You said it yourself – your guy is still out there, so something, somewhere, has been missed.’
Becky took a deep breath. ‘Okay. That seems fair enough. I’m listening.’
‘You say there was only one guy there, and that you recognised his voice and his accent, and would do again. I believe that. I believe there may have been only one person who dealt with you. But there are gaps, leaps of logic that don’t make sense.’
‘I’ve heard all this before,’ Becky said. ‘On some dark nights I start to wonder if it’s true. You could see how someone would entertain those ideas. I mean there were five of us, right? How could one guy stop five of us? But I can tell you how; he threatened to kill my little brother. Anyone does that in front of you, then you do what they tell you, and you don’t run. And on top of that, he tied a very good knot. I know that from experience. We couldn’t escape. What he did was crazy, but he was methodical in setting it up, systematic in the way he carried it out. He’d planned it, well in advance. Possibly he’d had lots of practice.’
‘There are theories about all that, too.’ Rosie paused. ‘And about why your evidence might be unreliable.’
‘I know all about those, too. I’ve read the same websites as you. There’s the theory that I grew confused; that I was stressed; that I lost my mind; that a lot of my evidence can’t be taken seriously. “All perfectly understandable” – that’s how they qualify it. Someone hypothesised that I passed out for a whole day through thirst and hunger, before he returned… but I didn’t. I know what happened. The theories are just that, only theories. Only one man was involved. It seems hard to believe, but it’s true.’
‘You have to look at the places where the patterns don’t fit, surely. That might bring us closer to the truth.’
Becky bit the inside of her mouth. ‘Listen. If I was to hold a knife to your neck… a long, sharp knife, the kind you might use to gut a deer… and then hold it to your sister’s neck, or your mother’s… then you’d get an idea of how I felt. And then, when you see him do what he did to my father, when you understand what he is capable of, then you might know why we didn’t try to fight, like he did.’
‘I understand.’ Rosie’s enthusiasm for the topic had given way to anxiety. ‘I’m sorry. I don’t mean to hurt you.’
‘It’s… fine. I get what you’re saying.’
‘One thing you maybe don’t appreciate… we’re only trying to help.’
‘Who’s “we”?’
‘The community. There are groups dedicated to crowdsourcing solutions to unsolved crimes. I’m involved in one of them. Have you heard of the Dupin Collective? Maybe you’ve heard our podcast?’
‘I’ve heard about that. Read a few articles. Mostly to do with my family. But I’m afraid I don’t see many master detectives at work, there.’
Rosie folded her arms. God, Becky thought, she’s actually in a huff.
Becky continued, ‘Meaning… you seem like enthusiastic amateurs. It was a little bit grim, though. Well meaning, but sensationalist.’
‘We want to help,’ Rosie said, solemnly. ‘I don’t deny there are a few ghouls who are into true crime, the horror of it all. And there are plenty of people turned on by serial killers and freaks, crime scene photos and the like, but… by and large, we want to solve your case. We hate what happened, hate the fact that he’s still out there, hate the fact that you went through that godawful nightmare. It’s a case of morality. We’re not playing. We want him caught.’
For a moment Becky felt a wave of self-pity lifting her up, a sudden swell that usually occurred to her while she was drunk or getting there.
‘Me too,’ she said, at length. ‘That’s why I want you to be very careful with the article. Understand? I’ll give you some quotes. I want them printed verbatim. It’s important.’
‘You’ll get your quotes. I promise.’
‘Any distortions or misinterpretations, wilful or otherwise, and I’ll sue. That’s not a threat. It’s a guarantee.’
It was Rosie’s turn to be irritated, her thick eyebrows bunching together. ‘Hey – we’re talking world exclusive here. I’m not going to pass it up, am I?’
‘Good. All right then. Give me a moment to think about it, then once it’s down, we’ll go over it.’
‘Not a problem. By the way – what name are we using? I know you changed it somewhere along the line. It’s been a hard job tracing you on the electoral roll or phone records.’
Becky hesitated for a moment. Then she smiled, on open, warm smile. ‘I’ve only got one name. Use it in full. Rebecca Morgan.’
21
Rupert wore a virtual bear mask, a fuzzy brownish haze with a dewy nose that was possibly meant to look cute.
‘I’ve seen your face, Rupert,’ Becky said, folding her arms. ‘What’s with the stupid get-ups?’
On the computer screen, Rupert’s hand disappeared into the cartoon fuzz, possibly to scratch his real chin. ‘I don’t know… I guess because it makes me feel better when I’m doing all this illegal stuff, maybe?’
‘It’s childish and it puts me off.’
‘Would you like me to wear a proper mask?’
‘Is that supposed to be funny?’
‘Sorry. Maybe we should just talk business, and take it from there?’
‘That’s probably for the best.’
Rupert tapped at the keys, then the bear mask disappeared, and the face she’d seen during their last contact reappeared. She could see him sifting through some sheaves of paper – a series of handwritten notes, rather than printouts. She settled back, the wood-panelled walls of her cottage in the woods creaking at her back. The encounter with the girl from The Salvo had discomfited her, almost as much as the news about their front-page splash. Becky had planned to put her head above the parapet at some stage, but not quite so soon.
‘First things first,’ Rupert said, ‘the tip your late friend Mr Galbraith provided… the January Orchestra. Whew.’
‘You got something?’
‘I got something. It’s an odd name. At first, the only thing that came up was spelling mistakes. I’m not just talking Google, either – I mean the dark web. The kind of clubs where the gangsters, child molesters, jihadis and thrill killers hang out and do their business. Then I began to realise there’s a reason it’s so hit-and-miss. I carried out some fuzzy searches, looking at variations in how you spell “January” … numbers in place of letters, alternate spellings… and… well. See note one.’
Becky clicked on a thumbnail which flashed up on screen. It contained three screengrabs, all from fairly non-descript front pages of websites. They all showed the same graphic – a set of closed doors, with shiny brass handles – but in different colours. One door was white, one jet black, anoth
er a gaudy shade of purple. In the top left were what appeared to be the same words, in the same subtle script, in white or black depending on the background. The spellings in each case differed in subtle ways. Sometimes there were capitals in odd places, or numbers in place of letters, like ‘J4NU4RY’. Colours aside, the basic template image of the site was the same on each occasion.
‘So they change the name,’ Becky said. ‘It’s different every time.’
‘Exactly right. Standard practice really – the address changes, and even that’s a jumble of text that you couldn’t type in by mistake if you tried a billion times. It’s like if you reconfigure your password regularly – it makes it more difficult for hackers to steal it. Still one of the best defences you’ve got, such as they are.’
‘You got in, though?’ On the screengrabs, at the bottom, she noticed there was a log-in box, the same colour of the background. Only a solid cursor gave away its position.
‘Well, not quite. First of all, these are cached versions. I found them backed up on a message board. The content itself is long gone – I would say whatever tunes the January Orchestra played, they changed the name of the band long ago. Wonder what they mean by January?’
Becky shrugged. ‘I guess most people have a hard time in January. So does anyone who sees their performance.’
‘I was thinking… January… comes from Janus… a god with two faces.’
‘Interesting,’ Becky said. There was something there; some insight she’d missed. She made a note. ‘What about the message board? What did it discuss?’
Rupert hesitated. ‘Snuff movies,’ he said quietly.
‘Murders? In real life?’
‘Yes.’
‘Where did you find the data?’
‘They were stuck in a file originally saved at a local Spanish police office. Just the one file, buried away. Part of a dead-end investigation into a child abuse ring. A tangent, you might call it, nested among a bigger discussion. The message board was in Spanish, and it’s from a few years ago.’
‘What was the discussion?’
‘You can see for yourself. I don’t know what your Spanish is like…’
‘Passable. Where is it?’
‘Hold on a second. Look… there was an image attached with it.’
‘So?’
‘I’m just warning you, all right?’ Rupert’s fingers rattled on the keys. Another clickable thumbnail appeared on Becky’s screen. She opened it.
It was similar to a Reddit discussion, but with red lettering on a black background. The screen IDs of the people on the boards had no images attached to identify them, not even a concession to irony in the form of crazy avatars. Becky began to translate some of the screeds of text. It was unusually detailed, with not much in the way of internet contractions, text speak or coding slang, which probably denoted older users.
And then the image stopped her dead.
‘Oh, good Christ.’
‘I did warn you. It’s…’
It was Clara. Becky’s throat was dry. Her hands began to shake, uncontrollably.
The black and white JPEG was in very fine grain. The hair was unmistakeable. The fringe was whipped over the eyes and nose, and what was visible of the face was completely ruined, of course, the way it was when Becky had last seen it in the flesh. But there was something about the way the upper teeth protruded slightly over the lower lip that gave the game away. It was this expression in particular, rather than the pooled blood and the gory muddle below the point of the chin, which had excited the people on the message board.
Becky composed herself; forced herself to look at the image; accepted it; exhaled. ‘What did you find out about the January Orchestra?’
‘Very little. But I would say, it looks like a point of contact of some sort. Heavily encrypted. There’s no battering ram I can think of that would get through those doors. You have to know people, basically. A passkeeper. Probably not too many of them. Except it looks like someone on the message board knew all about the case and shared the picture with some like-minded souls. He also shared an image of January’s log-in page.’
‘What for? To make money?’
‘More likely just a sicko. The real stuff can be hard to get hold of. Especially from famous murder cases.’
‘When is this dated?’
‘Eight years ago. The system it uses is long out of date.’
Becky scanned the handles. ‘What about the ID? The guy who shared the picture? “Pedro L”?’
‘I did some digging. Pedro L was a little bit slapdash, it seems. Prone to boasting, here and there. He didn’t share this image again, but I got some details.’
‘Who was he?’
Another thumbnail appeared. The image of a jowly but handsome man opened up, his hairline still dark but badly receded, Hispanic in complexion. There was an official title: ‘Henrique Lopez’.
‘Worked in government, would you believe,’ Rupert said.
‘He was a politician?’
‘No – more in the line of the Spanish civil service. Justice department.’
Becky scanned the job title appended to the picture; she scribbled notes. ‘Where is he now?’
‘Six feet under, I’m afraid. Not long after he posted this photo, he ended up dead.’
‘Killed, you mean?’
‘Well, not by anyone else. But I must admit, my ears pricked up when I read about how he did it.’ Another thumbnail – this time a Spanish language newspaper.
She scanned the tight print, read the headline and the first three paragraphs over and over. ‘Jesus. He killed himself. Carbon monoxide. In his garage.’
‘Stunning coincidence, I’m sure.’
Becky gripped the arms of her chair. ‘It’s a link. God almighty, you’ve got something. Was there an investigation? Anything untoward?’
‘This is the really suspicious thing. In official and unofficial communications, from the coroner’s office through to the police, through to what his wife said on the emails I dug out… There’s nothing. No suspicious activity. Nothing on his computer equipment that would indicate anything untoward – not even any garden variety porn. He was clean as a whistle.’
‘Why does that make you suspicious?’
Rupert laughed. ‘Who in the name of god doesn’t have something nasty on their search history? It’s so easy to call up something questionable purely by accident. My guess is, he was ultra-careful. Separate computer, nothing that could be tied to him, somewhere well off-grid. Something untraceable, should he get caught. You know that old joke about assigning a friend to clear your search history if you should die suddenly? It’s kind of like that.’
‘Was he anything to do with the January Orchestra?’
‘He definitely knew something about it. If he was in the Orchestra, then Mr Lopez would have pissed his fellow performers off. They are a very clever, very cautious bunch. Curtains behind doors behind walls, and all of that hidden behind passwords and codes, keys and locks. It seems to change and shift and move houses at random times and places. It’s probably a cryptographer’s nightmare – or wet dream, depending on how you look at it. My guess is, even if I cracked January wide open, I wouldn’t find much bar gobbledegook and nonsense – something abstract that means something to them, rather than anyone or anything specific. Euphemisms and innuendo. I’ll say this, though; the fact they’re so sneaky and secretive about it means they are up to absolutely no good. QED – it’s on the dark web.’
‘So what’s the point of the site?’
‘It wouldn’t be to share videos or still images. My guess is, it’s a point of reference. Something that points towards coordinates, times and events. Places where they meet up. Something that might be explained away should anyone ask questions.’
‘Where did the picture come from, do you know?’
‘The girl’s head? I’m not sure who took it, but I know where they got it from. The picture is from the crime scene photos. The English family who were kille
d in France.’
‘You know this for a fact?’
‘Yes. Because I’ve got the crime scene photos you asked for. All the data. All the suspects, all the interviews. Everything on that case. Everything. And a few more cases besides. I hope you haven’t eaten anything lately.’
22
‘There’s a lot of stuff here,’ Rupert said. ‘I can’t pretend I’ve gone through it in any kind of detail, much less catalogued it.’
‘Not a problem.’ Becky scrolled past folder after folder as they appeared on-screen. A virtual filing cabinet-full. ‘How long will it take to download?’
‘Could be a while, if you’re pushed for time. I’ve sent a link to the email address you gave me. Did you keep it clear of other emails, like I asked you?’
‘I don’t think I’ve even been spammed yet.’
‘Excellent. It should all fit on a decent data stick.’
‘I’ve got a few of those.’
Becky wanted to delve into it; one folder was marked ‘suspects’, and she couldn’t resist. Inside, a sub-folder of files and thumbnail pics fanned out. There were dozens of them.
‘It could be a long day for you, so I’m going to get back to reality now,’ Rupert said.
‘This is great. Ideal, in fact. Thank you.’
‘Hey, you’re paying, I’m providing.’
‘If I need you for anything else, can I contact you in the same way?’
‘Of course. I’m kinda curious about the January Orchestra now, myself. I can think of some dudes who would be very interested in that little band’s back catalogue. They’re up to no good.’
‘Please stay in touch – and let me know if you find out anything else.’
‘Of course.’ He grinned. ‘What would you do without me, Rebecca?’
She started to protest, then smiled. ‘You got me. Rebecca it is.’
‘Aren’t you just?’ Rupert winked, then signed off.
*
As she scrolled through a grisly cavalcade of bodies and blood contained within Rupert’s files covering many cases, Becky did not altogether dislike the feelings of disgust, or the sense of shame at having witnessed things no normal person should have to see. It was a reminder, she supposed, that despite everything, she was still human. She could experience these sensations, feel the wounds inflicted on her soul. Not everything had been taken away from her.
