He handed Lynley the photocopy and the enlargement of the mark that had been made upon Kimmo Thorne. Lynley laid them side by side as he reached in his jacket for his reading glasses. The parts of the symbol were all present in both of the documents: the circle, the two lines crisscrossing each other within and then extending beyond the circle, the cruciform tips at the end of the two lines.
“The same,” Barbara Havers said, craning her neck to see the two documents. “What is it, Simon?”
“An alchemical symbol,” St. James said.
“What does it mean?” Lynley asked.
“Purification,” he replied. “Specifically, a purification process achieved by burning out impurities. I’d say that’s why he’s scorching their hands.”
Barbara gave a low whistle. “‘There is no denial, only salvation,’” she murmured. And to Lynley, “Burning out their impurities. Sir, I think he’s saving their souls.”
St. James said, “What’s this?,” and looked to Lynley, who fetched him the copy of the note he’d received. St. James read it, frowned, and gazed towards the windows in thought. “It could explain why there’s no sexual component to the crime, couldn’t it?”
“Is the symbol he’s used on the note familiar to you?” Lynley asked his friend.
St. James studied it again. “You’d think it would be, after all the icons I’ve been looking at. May I take this with me?”
“Have at it,” Lynley said. “We’ve other copies.”
St. James put the paper into his manila envelope. He said, “There’s something else, Tommy.”
“What’s that?”
“Call it professional curiosity. The autopsies refer to a consistent bruiselike wound on each of the bodies, on the left side, between two and six inches beneath the armpit. Apart from one of the bodies where the wound also included two small burns in the centre, the description is the same every time: pale in the middle, darker—nearly red in the case of the body from St. George’s Gardens—”
“Kimmo Thorne,” Havers said.
“Right. Darker, then, round the edges. I’d like to have a look at that wound. A photograph will do, although I’d prefer to see one of the bodies. Can that be arranged? On Kimmo Thorne perhaps? Has his body been released to the family yet?”
“I can arrange it. But where are you heading with this?”
“I’m not entirely sure,” St. James admitted. “But I think it might have to do with how the boys were subdued. There’s no trace of any drug from toxicology, so they weren’t sedated. There’s no evidence of a struggle prior to placing restraints round the wrists and ankles, so there wasn’t an initial assault. Assuming this isn’t some sort of S and M ritual—a young boy being seduced into kinky sex by an older man who murders him ahead of the sex act—”
“And we can’t discount that,” Lynley noted.
“Right. We can’t. But assuming this has no overt sexual component to it, then there has to be a way your killer is managing to tie them up prior to the torture and the killing.”
“These are streetwise kids,” Havers noted. “They’re not likely to have cooperated with some bloke wanting to tie them up for a lark.”
“That’s very much the case,” St. James agreed. “And the presence of this consistent wound suggests that the killer knew to expect that from the very first. So not only must there be a connection among all the victims—”
“Which we’ve already found,” Havers cut in. She was beginning to sound excited, which, Lynley knew, was never a good sign when it came to keeping her on track. “Simon, there’s an outreach group called Colossus. Do-gooders working with inner-city youth, kids at risk, young offenders. It’s near Elephant and Castle, and two of these dead kids were involved over there.”
“Two of the identified bodies,” Lynley corrected her. “One other identified body isn’t connected to Colossus. And there are others still not identified at all, Barbara.”
“Yeah, but I say this,” Havers argued, “dig through the records and find out which kids stopped showing up at Colossus round the time of those other deaths we’re dealing with and I’d say Bob’s your mum’s little brother when it comes to identifying the other bodies. This is a Colossus situation, sir. One of those blokes has got to be our man.”
“There’s a strong suggestion they knew their killer,” St. James said, as if in agreement with Havers. “There’s a good possibility that they trusted him as well.”
“And that’s another key to what goes on at Colossus,” Havers added. “Trust. Learning to trust. Sir, Griff Strong told me that’s even part of their assessment course. And he leads the trust games that some of them do together. Bloody hell, we ought to take a team over there and grill the hell out of him. And those three other blokes. Veness, Kilfolye, and Greenham. They’ve all got a connection to at least one of the victims. One of them’s dirty. I swear it.”
“That might be the case, and I appreciate your enthusiasm for the task,” Lynley said dryly. “But you’ve got an assignment already. Camden Lock Market, I believe.”
Havers had the grace to look chastened. She said, “Oh. Right.”
“So perhaps now would be a good time to do it?”
She didn’t appear pleased, but she didn’t argue. She got to her feet and plodded towards the door. “Good to see you, Simon,” she said to St. James. “Cheers.”
“And you,” St. James said as she left them. He turned back to Lynley. “Trouble on that front?”
“When is there anything else when it comes to Havers?”
“I’ve always thought you considered her worth it.”
“I do. She is. Generally.”
“Close to getting her rank back?”
“I’d give it back to her, despite her bloody-mindedness. But I’m not the one making the decision.”
“Hillier?”
“As ever.” Lynley leaned back in his chair and took off his glasses. “He pigeonholed me this morning before I even got to the lift. He’s been trying to run the investigation through the machinations of the Press Bureau, but the reporters aren’t being as cooperative as they were in the beginning, grateful for the coffee, croissants, and the scraps of information Hillier’s been supplying them. It seems they’ve put it all together now: three mixed-race boys murdered in a similar fashion prior to Kimmo Thorne, and so far no appearance on Crimewatch by anyone from the Met. What’s that about? they want to know. What does that say to the community about the relative importance of these deaths to others in which the victim was white, blond, blue-eyed, and decidedly Anglo-Saxon? They’re starting to ask the hard questions, and he’s ruing his decision not to fight to keep the Press Bureau at a greater distance in all this.”
“Hubris,” St. James noted.
“Someone’s hubris run amok,” Lynley added. “And things are about to get worse. The last murdered boy—Sean Lavery—was in care, living up in Swiss Cottage with a community-activist type who—Hillier told me—is having a press conference himself round noon today. One can only anticipate what that’s going to do to the collective blood lust of the media.”
“Making Hillier his usual pleasure to work with?”
“Amen. The pressure’s on everywhere.” Lynley looked at the photocopy of the alchemical sign, considering the possibilities it offered of shedding light on the situation. He said to St. James, “I’m going to make a phone call. I’d like you to listen in, if you’ve time.”
He looked for the number for Hamish Robson and found it on the cover sheet of the report that the profiler had given him. When he had Robson on the phone, he switched it to the speaker and introduced him to St. James. He went through the information that St. James had provided, and to this he added an acknowledgement of Robson’s prescience: He told him the killer had been in contact.
“Has he indeed?” Robson said. “By phone? By post?”
Lynley read him the note. He said, “We’re concluding that the purification symbol on the forehead and the burning of the hands are connected. And we’
ve tracked down some information on ambergris oil, which was found on the bodies. Evidently, it’s used for works of wrath or vengeance.”
“Wrath, vengeance, purity, and salvation,” Robson said. “I’d say he’s broadcasting his message fairly clearly, wouldn’t you?”
“There’s thought here that this is all coming from an outreach programme across the river,” Lynley said. “It’s called Colossus. They work with troubled youth. Do you want to add anything at this point?”
There was silence for a moment as Robson thought this over. He finally said, “We know he’s above average intelligence, but he’s frustrated that the world doesn’t see his potential. If you’ve come close to him in the investigation, he’s not going to put a foot wrong to let you get any nearer. So if he’s taking boys from one source—”
“Like Colossus,” Lynley added.
“Yes. If he’s taking boys from Colossus, I very much doubt he’ll carry on doing so when he sees you there asking questions.”
“Are you saying the killings themselves will stop?”
“They might. But only for a time. Killing provides him too much gratification to stop entirely, Superintendent. The compulsion to kill and the pleasure it yields will always overwhelm the fear of capture. But I expect he’ll take far more care now. He may change ground, move farther afield.”
“If he thinks the police are closing in,” St. James said, “why get in touch by post?”
“Ah, that’s part of the psychopath’s sense of invincibility, Mr. St. James,” Robson said. “It’s evidence of what he sees as his omnipotence.”
“The sort of thing that leads to his downfall?” St. James said.
“The sort of thing that convinces him he can’t make the one mistake that will doom him. It’s rather like Brady attempting to bring the brother-in-law into the fun and games: He thinks he’s so mighty a force of personality that no one who knows him would think of turning him in, let alone dare to do it. It’s the great flaw in the psychopath’s already flawed personality. Your killer in this case believes you can’t touch him no matter how close you get. He’ll ask you outright what evidence you have against him should you question him, and he’s going to be careful not to give you any henceforth.”
“We’re thinking there’s no sexual component to the crimes,” Lynley said, “which rules out previous Category A offenders.”
“This is about power,” Robson agreed, “but so are sex crimes. So you may well find something sexual down the line, perhaps a sexual degrading of the body should the murder itself not continue to provide the killer his required degree of satisfaction and release.”
“Is that normally the case?” St. James asked. “In murders like these?”
“It’s a form of addiction,” Robson said. “Each time he indulges his fantasy of salvation via torture, he needs a little bit more to satisfy him. The body grows tolerant of the drug—whatever the drug—and more is necessary to achieve nirvana.”
“So you’re saying to expect more. With possible variations on the theme.”
“Yes. That’s exactly what I’m saying.”
HE WANTED TO feel it again: the soaring that came from within. He wanted the sense of freedom that engulfed Him in the final moment. He wanted to hear His soul cry Yes! even as the muted shriek below Him strained out its last weak No! He needed this. More, He was owed it. But when the hunger rose in Him as an exigent presence, He knew that He couldn’t be hasty. This left Him with the wanting and a bubbling mixture of necessity and duty that He could feel in His veins. He was like a diver ascending to the surface too quickly. The longing was fast transforming into pain.
He took some time to attempt a mitigation. He drove to the marshes, where He could walk the tow path along the River Lea. There, He thought, He could seek relief.
They always panicked when they regained their senses and found themselves strapped down to the board, their hands and feet bound, and their mouths taped silver. As He drove them through the night, He could hear them struggling vainly behind Him, some of them in terror, others in anger. By the time He reached the appointed place, though, they had all passed through their preliminary and instinctive reaction and they’d arrived at the bargaining table. I’ll do what you want. Just let me live.
They never said this directly. But it was there, in their frenzied eyes. I’ll do anything, be anything, say anything, think anything. Just let me live.
He always stopped in the same safe spot, where a dogleg in the ice rink’s carpark protected him from view from the street. There, a spot was wildly overgrown with shrubbery and the security lamp above the area had long ago burnt out. He switched off the lights—both inside and out—and climbed into the back. He squatted next to the immobilised form and waited till His eyes adjusted to the darkness. What He said then was always the same, although His voice was gentle as well as regretful. You’ve done wrong. And then, I shall remove this—with his fingers on the tape—but only silence will keep you safe and ensure your release. Can you be silent for me?
They would nod, always, desperate to talk. To reason, to admit, sometimes to threaten or to demand. But no matter where they began or what they felt, they were reduced to supplication.
They felt His power. They could catch the strong scent of it in the oil He’d used to anoint His body. They saw it in the glint of the knife He brought forth. They felt it in the heat from the stove. They heard it in the crackle of the pan.
I don’t need to hurt you, He would tell them. We must talk, and if our talk goes well, this can end in your freedom.
Talk they would. Indeed, they would babble. His recitation of their crimes generally elicited nothing but anxious agreement from them. Yes, I did this. Yes, I am sorry. Yes, I swear…to whatever it is you will have me swear, just let me go.
But they added to that mentally, and He could read their thoughts. You filthy bastard, they concluded. I’ll see you sent to hell for this.
So, of course, He could not possibly release them. At least, not in the way they hoped to be released. But He was nothing if not a man of His word.
The burning came first, just of the hands, to show them His wrath as well as His mercy. Their declarations of guilt opened the door to their redemption, but they had to suffer in order to be cleansed. So He taped their mouths again and He held their hands to the white-hot heat till He smelled the odour of searing meat. Their backs arched for escape, and their bladders and their bowels gave way. Some passed out and did not then feel the garrotte first slide and then tighten round their necks. Others did not, and it was with these that Fu felt Himself truly exulting as their lives left their bodies and transported His.
And then He always meant to free their souls, using the knife against their earthbound flesh, opening them for their final release. It was what He had promised them, after all. They merely had to admit their guilt and express a true desire for redemption. But most of them did only the first. Most of them didn’t begin to understand the second.
The last had done neither. To the end, he’d denied. I didn’t do nothing, you freaking bastard, I didn’t do nothing, you got that straight? Fuck you, motherfucker, let me go.
Release, then, was impossible for him. Freedom, redemption, anything Fu offered, the boy both spat upon and cursed. He went unpurified, with his soul unreleased, a failure on the part of the Creature Divine.
But the infinite pleasure of the moment itself…That had actually remained for Fu. And that was what He wanted again. The seductive narcotic of utter command.
Walking the River Lea did not provide it. Nor did memory. Only one thing ever could.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
BARBARA HAVERS WAS IN A FOUL MOOD WHEN SHE finally reached Camden Lock Market. She was angry with herself for having allowed personal considerations to get in the way of properly doing her job. She was on edge having to drive all the way back to North London shortly after having already suffered through the morning traffic on the way into the centre of town. She was irritated
that parking restrictions made it impossible for her to get anywhere close to the market without engaging in a hike. And she was self-righteously positive that this entire engagement was an absolute waste of her time.
The answers resided within the walls of Colossus, not here. Despite the fact that at heart she believed the profiling report was rubbish, she was willing to accept at least part of it, and that part was the description of their serial killer. Since at least four men fitted that description—all of them employed across the Thames at Colossus—she knew that she was unlikely to find anyone else so described wandering round the stalls and the shops near Camden Lock. And she certainly didn’t expect to find any trace of a suspect at Wendy’s Cloud. But she knew the wisdom of appearing to walk the straight and narrow for Lynley at this point. So she fought the traffic and found a distant parking space into which she crammed her Mini like the foot of one of the ugly stepsisters. Then she hoofed it back in the direction of Camden Lock with its shops, its stalls, and its restaurants strung along the water and away from Chalk Farm Road.
Wendy’s Cloud was not easy to find, as it possessed no signage. After reading a directional board and asking round, Barbara finally located it: a simple stall within one of the permanent shops in the market. The shop sold candles and candleholders, greeting cards, jewellery, and handmade stationery. Wendy’s Cloud had massage and aromatherapy oils, incense, soap, and bath crystals on offer.
The eponymous owner of the establishment sat in a beanbag chair, hidden from view behind the counter. Barbara thought at first she was keeping an eye out for light-fingered customers, but when she called, “Excuse me, c’n I have a word?,” it turned out that Wendy was nodding off on a substance that was probably not for sale on her stall. Her eyelids hung well below half-staff. She didn’t so much stagger as claw her way to her feet, using one of the legs of the counter and resting her chin for a moment among the bath crystals.
Barbara cursed inwardly. With her stringy grey hair and Indian bedspread caftan, Wendy didn’t look like a promising wellspring of information. Instead, she looked like a refugee from the hip generation. Only the love beads round her neck were missing.
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