The Quiet Man

by James Carol

  ‘Yeah, she taught me to play,’ he said.

  ‘Are you any good?’

  ‘I’m okay.’

  ‘Which means you’re a damn sight better than okay. You’re an overachiever, Winter, someone who has to be the best at everything they do.’

  It was his turn to stare and keep quiet. He picked up his tumbler and took a sip. The third movement had just started. Where the second movement was sombre, this was playful. For a moment he was almost able to forget why he was in Vancouver.

  ‘Okay,’ he said. ‘Let’s play I’ll show you mine, you show me yours.’

  ‘As much as I’m flattered, I should remind you that I’m almost twenty years older than you.’

  ‘That wasn’t a pass.’

  ‘Good to hear.’ Anderton smiled and reached for her glass. ‘So how does this work?’

  ‘You’ve been working on this case for three years. In that time there will be things that must have struck a discordant note with you. Things that just didn’t fit.’

  She nodded. ‘The victimology is the big one for me. There’s nothing that ties them together. They have different colour hair, different colour eyes. Isabella and Alicia are Caucasian. Lian is Asian. Their ages range from twenty-eight to thirty-two, but that on its own doesn’t really help. There are plenty of people living in our target zone who fall within that age range.’

  ‘There’s got to be something that links them, though. This killer is highly organised. Something about the victims must have resonated with him.’

  ‘But what?’

  ‘Maybe he saw them in his everyday life. Maybe he worked in a store they frequented, or he was a delivery man. Hell, maybe he’s their dentist.’

  ‘He’s definitely not their dentist.’ Anderton cracked a small smile. ‘I’m not a rookie, Winter. Believe me, we dug as deep into their lives as we could get, but there were no points of intersection.’

  ‘Not even between two of them?’

  ‘Not even.’

  ‘I find that hard to believe. In any given day you’re going to have dozens upon dozens of interactions. Most of those will be so small that they barely register. Like a thank you for the kid at the store who bagged your groceries, or a quick shared look with the person sitting opposite you on the bus, or asking that guy who just stepped into the elevator what floor they want. But if one of those people happens to be a serial killer, and you happen to be their type, then you can bet your ass that it’s going to register with them.’

  ‘And I agree with everything you just said, but my previous statement still stands: as of right now we have yet to come up with an intersection point. Okay, your turn. What’s bugging you?’

  ‘The fact that this guy doesn’t profile like a bomber. He devotes a lot of care and attention to building his bombs. They’re a real labour of love. Which is exactly what you’d expect to see. But that’s where it ends. A big part of the game for a bomber is the bang. This guy doesn’t seem bothered by that, though. It’s like sex without the orgasm. He’s done the wining and dining, and the foreplay, he’s even got naked and sweaty, then he pulls out before the big payoff. It doesn’t make sense.’

  ‘Yeah, that’s been on my mind, too. So why go to the trouble of building a bomb if you’re not going to watch it explode?’ Anderton fell quiet for a second. ‘It’s like he doesn’t care what happens. He plants his bomb and that’s where it ends for him.’

  ‘Like I said, it doesn’t make sense.’

  ‘No, it doesn’t.

  ‘Okay, your turn,’ Winter said.

  ‘What about the lack of escalation? I’d expect to see the ante being upped significantly with each kill, but that hasn’t happened. We’re on the countdown to murder number four. The buzz won’t be anywhere near as intense as it was for Isabella Sobek’s murder. He’s going to be gaining in confidence as he gets more practised, and he’s going to be getting dulled to the experience. So why aren’t we seeing this reflected in the murders?’

  ‘It’s like he’s got himself locked into a groove that he’s happy to stay in.’

  ‘But serial killers don’t operate like that,’ Anderton said.

  ‘No, they don’t.’

  ‘So what’s going on?’

  Winter shook his head. ‘It’s a good question.’

  ‘Well, when you get a good answer, feel free to share. Okay, your turn.’

  ‘The cat feels like a missed opportunity.’

  ‘The one the Kirchners owned? What was it called again? Mouse?’

  ‘Yeah, that’s the one. Anyway, Mouse was locked in the kitchen because he kept throwing up hairballs, so the killer would have seen him when he arrived. Now we know this guy’s a sadist. He’s looking to terrorise his victims. And we know that people love their pets.’

  ‘So why not leave Mouse in the kitchen with the victim?’ Anderton said. ‘Why let him out?’

  ‘Exactly. Imagine you’re taped to the chair and the cat is wandering around, blissfully unaware of what’s going on. Maybe it rubs up against your legs looking to be fed. Maybe it jumps up onto your lap wanting to be stroked. Whatever it’s doing, you’re going to be aware of it.’

  ‘And you’re going to be aware of the fact that you’re powerless to do anything to save it,’ Anderton put in. ‘Because that’s this guy’s main weapon. He disempowers his victims. Leaving the cat with them would be another way for him to underline the fact that he’s in control. Okay, here’s another thought, why not just kill the cat? He could even have made Alicia watch.’

  ‘Like I said, it’s a missed opportunity.’

  They drifted into another silence, Mozart playing gently in the background. Full dark had fallen and the moon sat big and fat in the night sky. Up here on the fifteenth floor they could see the lights of West Vancouver stretching into the distance. In the foreground, the water of the harbour stole the darkness and held on to it.

  Anderton finished her drink and stood up. ‘I’m going to go.’

  Winter nodded to her empty glass. ‘Sure I can’t tempt you to another? Sobek’s paying.’

  ‘You can tempt me, but I’ll have to say no. It’s a big day tomorrow. I really should try to get some sleep. You as well.’

  ‘Not going to happen. I get the feeling tonight’s going to be one of those nights where the insomnia wins.’

  After showing Anderton out, he locked the door and made sure the limiter was in place. It was unlikely the killer would come after him here, though. This one was a shy boy. A move like that just didn’t fit with what they knew. Winter went back into the main part of the suite, topped up his tumbler and sat down on the sofa. He picked up his laptop and found a recording of Mozart’s Requiem. Everything that Mozart ever composed was stored on his hard drive. That said, he was always on the lookout for new recordings. His aim was to find the defining versions of each piece. New recordings were appearing all the time, so this was a work in progress, one that would keep him going to his dying day.

  The orchestra started up and Winter stretched back on the sofa. This was the last piece Mozart ever wrote, one that he never got around to finishing. All sorts of legends and stories had grown up around it, which gave it an added air of mystique. The music was dark and oppressive, as though death was stalking the space between the notes. It seemed to suit the mood. There were just too many uncertainties right now. Was the killer going to strike tomorrow? If so, where? Everyone was living on borrowed time, but for one person in the city time was running out quicker than they could possibly imagine. Perhaps they’d seen the interview. Perhaps they’d be able to save themselves. Winter hoped so. When he closed his eyes all he saw was the sand running through the hourglass faster than ever.

  In a little over two hours’ time August 4 would become August 5. Neil Armstrong had been born on August 5, 1930, and gone on to great things. His one small step would be talked about for as long as mankind was writing history.

  And last year on August 5 Lian Hammond had died.

  And on Augu
st 5 the year before that Alicia Kirchner had died.

  And the year before that it had been Isabella Sobek’s turn to get taped to the chair.

  The date had to be significant. It couldn’t be random. Winter navigated to the folder containing the emails from Anderton, and scrolled down until he found the attachments relating to Isabella. He opened the transcript of Anderton’s first interview with Sobek and began to read. He could hear Sobek’s arrogance in the printed words. He could sense the perceived superiority. Some people considered psychopaths to be the next stage in human evolution. Who knows, maybe they were. And if that turned out to be the case, world watch out. Winter picked up his tumbler and took a sip, then carried on reading, searching for the significance of that date. It was going to be a long night.

  16

  Winter woke up on the sofa with a crick in his neck, a banging in his head, and no answer to the question of why August 5 was so important. His laptop was on the table, but he couldn’t remember putting it there. The last time he’d checked his watch it was after two. There was a quarter-inch of whisky left in the tumbler.

  The banging started up again and it took a moment to work out that this wasn’t the start of a hangover. He stood up, scrubbed at his face to work the sleep away, then went to answer the door. Before opening it, he checked the spy hole. Just in case. The woman standing beside the room-service trolley looked too awake for this time of the day. According to his watch it wasn’t even six yet.

  Winter yawned, then stood to one side so she could push the trolley in. She parked it by the sofa, then left quickly. Thankfully, she didn’t say anything. He walked over to the trolley and checked it out. There was a bit of everything. Pastries, fruit, cereal. Bacon and pancakes. Lots of coffee. He hadn’t been sure what he’d feel like, and Sobek was paying, so he’d used the scattergun approach when ordering. Right now, though, he didn’t feel much like eating anything. He poured a coffee, loaded it with sugar and called that a good start.

  It looked like it was going to be another beautiful day. The sun was on the rise and the water of the harbour was glowing orange. The birds had the cloudless sky all to themselves. He drank some coffee and checked his cell. The world he’d woken up to was as close to the one he’d fallen asleep on as to make no real difference. Nothing happening on the case. Nothing out of the ordinary happening anywhere.

  He finished his coffee and hit the shower, blasting it hot then cold until he felt human again. He dressed quickly. Clean jeans because yesterday’s were a bit stale, and a clean T-shirt because he wasn’t a complete slob. Frank Zappa was staring out from the front of the T-shirt, wild eyed and crazy as a loon. The long hair reminded him of Sobek’s. He still wasn’t hungry but forced himself to eat. There was no telling how long it would be before he got the chance to eat again.

  A cab was waiting at the Shangri La’s entrance. The driver looked half asleep and was giving off a vibe like he’d rather be anywhere but here. This wasn’t a problem. If he’d been looking for conversation it wouldn’t have ended well. Winter knew how and where to hide the bodies. The driver asked him where he wanted to go. Winter told him. The driver’s surprise lasted all of two seconds. He shrugged a ‘whatever’ then pulled away from the hotel.

  Winter spent the first part of the journey checking to make sure they weren’t being tailed. Freeman had promised to back off, but Winter had been around long enough to know that words meant only as much as you wanted them to mean. This time of day, the streets were practically empty. If anyone had been following they would have stood out straight away.

  Fifteen minutes later the cab stopped outside the tall iron gates that marked the main entrance of Mountain View Cemetery. An Aston Martin Vantage was parked a little further up the street. It was a fine-looking vehicle. Sleek, grey and stylish. The cemetery was a 106-acre swathe of green that sat slap bang in the middle of Vancouver. As the name suggested, there was a great view of the mountains to the north. The location was a developer’s dream. They’d kill to get their hands on a site like this. The sign on the gate stated that the cemetery opened at seven. According to Winter’s watch it was five before. According to his eyes, the gates were wide open. It didn’t matter where you were in the world, money talked.

  Winter told the driver to keep the meter running and got out. He closed the door and walked over to the gates. The area was deserted. Anyone with any sense was still in bed. He glanced back at the cab. The driver was already tugging his baseball cap over his eyes and settling down for a nap. Winter had printed off a map of the cemetery in the Shangri La’s business centre. Isabella Sobek’s grave was marked with a red cross.

  He lit a cigarette and started walking. He was almost down to the butt by the time he reached the grave site. It was a picturesque spot in the shade of an alder tree. Rows of headstones spread out in all directions. They’d been positioned with military precision, order imposed on the chaos and uncertainty that inevitably followed every death. Winter took one last drag on his cigarette, stubbed it out, then pushed the butt into his cigarette pack. He’d find a trash can later.

  Nicholas Sobek was already here. He would have arrived as the sun came up, and he’d be here until it went down again. That’s what had happened for the last two years. Why should this year be any different? He was sitting on a fold-up camping chair at the foot of his wife’s grave, gazing toward the mountains. The sun was still working at warming up the day and he was wearing a leather jacket. His long hair had been washed and brushed through and hung down loose to his collar. It looked as though he’d trimmed his beard.

  Isabella’s grave was marked with a five-foot high white marble angel. The pedestal was engraved with her dates. She’d been born in March 1982, which made her a Pisces, and she’d been murdered on August 5 three years ago, which meant that she’d only lived to be thirty. The epitaph read: A THOUSAND YEARS BEGINS AND ENDS WITH YOU. The words sounded impressive and heartfelt, but what did they actually mean? That was the thing with death, the big gestures always seemed to ring hollow. There was an empty camp chair next to Sobek’s. Winter sat down and crossed his legs, then gazed toward the north where the mountains were rising up from the land, huge and humbling.

  ‘I was wondering when you’d turn up,’ Sobek said.

  17

  ‘On this day in 1966, the Beatles released Revolver in the UK,’ Winter said.

  ‘And four years earlier in 1962, Nelson Mandela was arrested,’ Sobek replied.

  ‘And three years ago you killed your wife.’

  Sobek stopped staring at the mountains and turned to face Winter. ‘I thought we established that I didn’t do it.’

  ‘No, we established that you didn’t murder her. That’s not the same thing. You killed Isabella when you opened the kitchen door. That’s a fact. There’s no doubt whatsoever. You killed your wife.’

  Sobek locked eyes with Winter. ‘Do you have any idea what it feels like to kill someone you love? Do you have any idea how much guilt that entails?’

  ‘I can imagine.’

  ‘No you can’t. There’s no reference point for something like this. Either you’ve passed through the hurricane, or you haven’t.’

  ‘Believe me, I know what it’s like to pass through the hurricane.’

  ‘I don’t think so.’

  ‘I guess we’ll have to agree to differ, then.’

  ‘Anderton tells me you spoke to Eric Kirchner yesterday, and that you tried to speak to David Hammond. Is that why you’re here? You want me to describe what it felt like to kill Isabella?’

  ‘Actually, I was hoping you’d tell me how you two met.’

  That stopped him in his tracks. ‘And how will that help to catch her killer?’

  ‘Something about the victims resonated with this guy. He didn’t choose them at random. Because Isabella was his first, that resonance would have been stronger with her than it was with the other two victims. She was the catalyst for turning fantasy into reality. If we can work out how she appeared on
his radar, then we can catch him. The more I know about Isabella, the more chance there is of that happening.’

  Sobek picked up a flask and nodded a question. Winter nodded an answer. The coffee was strong and bitter. No sugar, but he drank it anyway. The smell of coffee wafted between them for a second before being picked up by the breeze and blown away to nothing.

  ‘Isabella applied for a job at my company. I was looking for a new PA. I still remember the moment I first saw her. The door opened and there she was, the most beautiful woman I’d ever set eyes on. Have you ever wanted someone so much that it feels like your heart is being cut from your chest?’

  Winter shook his head. ‘I can’t say I have.’

  ‘Well, up until that point, neither had I. But that’s what it felt like.’

  ‘Did she get the job?’

  ‘Of course she did. It took a month before she would agree to have dinner with me. Eight months later we were married. And two years after that she was dead.’

  Winter drank some coffee and went back over what Sobek had just said. It sounded plausible, but it didn’t sound like the whole truth. He thought about Isabella being a possession, something for Sobek to own.

  ‘When you hired Isabella she was seeing someone, wasn’t she?’

  ‘She was,’ Sobek replied carefully.

  ‘Which would have made her all the more attractive. After all, it’s the forbidden fruit that tastes sweetest. So how did you get the boyfriend out of the equation? You couldn’t just leave things alone and hope that they’d split up. That’s too passive. And you wouldn’t have been happy having an affair because you needed the world to see that you owned her. And you couldn’t just buy the boyfriend off because he might have told Isabella, and then she wouldn’t have wanted anything to do with you. My guess is you framed him.’