by Max Manning
Partington wasn’t ready to throw in the towel. He pulled his mobile from his jacket pocket and tapped deftly on the screen. ‘The second murder sent Twitter crazy. It got several hundred more likes than the Instagram message and was retweeted 20,282 times.’
His patience worn thin, Fenton snapped. ‘I don’t give a damn about what’s happening online. The most important thing is that we catch this killer and I can’t do that sitting here talking.’
Bell’s scowl deepened. ‘We’re already being crucified by the media and this case needs to be sorted. The whole thing is making me look like a complete idiot.’
Fenton glanced across at the press officer, who raised his eyebrows. ‘I know it’s not my job, but I can’t help thinking that the killer’s social media posts are the key to this case,’ Partington said.
Fenton shrugged: ‘The cyber team’s doing everything they can, but they keep hitting dead ends.’
‘That’s because it’s so easy to cover your tracks. If you keep creating a different generic email address and use the wi-fi at some random coffee shop, or internet café, you’re going to be almost impossible to trace.’
Bell lifted his chin and puffed out his not inconsiderable chest. ‘The word impossible is banned in my office.’
Fenton slapped a hand on the desk and rose to his feet sharply. ‘I’ve got a murder investigation to run. We’re going around in circles here.’ He half expected Bell to order him to stay where he was, but Partington intervened.
‘Wait a minute, please,’ he said. ‘There’s one more thing I wanted to mention.’
After a moment’s hesitation, Fenton sat down. It was the ‘please’ that clinched it. Partington nodded his thanks. ‘I was wondering whether you’ve got someone monitoring the online comments about I, Killer?’ Bell threw Fenton a questioning look.
‘Of course,’ Fenton said. ‘We have a civilian support worker on it full-time.’
Partington winced. ‘I thought you might say that. The thing is, this is not a criticism, I’m trying to help, but I don’t think you understand the scale of the task.’
Fenton clenched his jaw. He wasn’t used to being told how to do his job, but was too professional to put personal pride before the investigation.
‘Apart from the I, Killer messages and photographs going viral across social media, people are discussing the murders on message boards and commenting on newspaper websites. We’re probably talking tens of thousands of posts, and more every day. The killer could even be joining in the discussions, making comments of his own.’
Fenton took a moment to let Partington’s words sink in. If he was right about the size of the monitoring task then they were going to need more manpower. ‘I’ll check it out right away,’ he said. ‘Thanks for bringing it up.’
Partington seemed genuinely pleased to have made a positive contribution to the investigation, but Bell took the opportunity to twist the knife.
‘Sort it out, DCI Fenton,’ he said. ‘I need everyone on the top of their game right now.’
20
Back in his own office, Fenton grabbed his computer’s keyboard and tapped #IKiller into the search engine. The results filled the screen. He clicked on the top one, #IKiller on Twitter. He had an idea what was coming but the sheer volume shocked him.
Hundreds of the tweets condemned the murders as evil, hundreds accused the police of incompetence, and hundreds more expressed a fascination with the killer and the photographs of his victims. Fenton’s heart sank as he skimmed the messages. Never seen a dead person before #coolcorpses #IKiller; Thanks for sharing. Made my day. Can’t wait for the next one #dyingformore #IKiller; Dead good photos. This is so evil . . . but I love it.HaHa #adyingart #IKiller.
Fenton closed the file and thought about repeating the exercise on Instagram, but couldn’t face it. Partington had been right. He needed to assign at least two more bodies to monitor the messages and comments.
He reached into his in-tray and started leafing through a hard copy of the Edward Deere forensic report. There were no spots of blood that didn’t belong to the victims, no clothing fibres, no stray hairs, no flakes of skin, no footprints or fingerprints.
Either the killer was extremely lucky, or he’d put a lot of effort into leaving the crime scene clean. Both murders were carried out in locations not covered by CCTV cameras. Fenton suspected there was nothing lucky about that. His line of thought was broken by the sharp rap of knuckle on door. He didn’t invite the visitor in, but the door opened anyway and the head of a uniformed constable appeared. ‘Excuse me sir, but . . .’
Fenton cut the young officer off mercilessly. ‘No, I won’t excuse you.’
‘Right, sir, sorry, sir.’
‘What’s your name officer?’
‘Mackie, sir. Police Constable Mackie.’
‘Well, Police Constable Mackie, can’t you see I’m busy?’
Mackie’s cheeks burned. ‘I didn’t realise, sir.’
Fenton prided himself on not being an arsehole boss, but the constable had caught him at a bad moment. ‘This is what’s called thinking, Mackie. You probably don’t do a lot of it at the moment, but if you get out of that uniform and become a detective one day, it’s going to be an important skill. When I’m thinking, I don’t like to be interrupted. Is that clear?’
Mackie nodded, pulled his head out of sight, poked it back into view, mumbled something unintelligible and ducked out again, closing the door behind him. Fenton checked his watch. He’d been at work for twelve hours. He hoped Tess wasn’t giving Marta too much trouble.
He stretched his legs, leant back in the leather chair and closed his eyes. He knew that sometimes killers prey on a certain physical type. People who remind them of the real target of their murderous urges. A mother, father, wife or ex-girlfriend. Each time they kill, they get the satisfaction of revenge. Lauren Bishop and Edward Deere couldn’t have been more different. Neither of them was sexually assaulted, before or after their death.
Fenton opened his eyes, sat up straight and took a notebook and pen out of the desk drawer. He flipped the notebook open and wrote, in capital letters, the words FASCINATED BY DEATH.
He wasn’t a psychologist, but he’d been around long enough to know that most serial killers are psychopaths, but not all psychopaths are serial killers. Some of the world’s most successful men and women, business tycoons and political leaders, have achieved what they achieved because they are charismatic, ruthless, lacking in empathy and manipulative. All classic psychopathic traits.
Fenton tried to imagine the killer’s day-to-day life. He probably holds down a job. Maybe even has a wife or family. Nobody suspects what he really is. During the killer’s childhood there would be unprovoked outbursts of violence, incidences of high-risk behaviour. By now he’d probably mastered the art of appearing normal. He’d be skilled at aping the emotions of non-psychopaths. Fenton put the pen to paper again and printed the words FAKING NORMALITY.
He reached for his white plastic in-tray, grabbed the autopsy reports and flicked through the pathologist’s conclusions. Inevitably, when someone’s throat is slit there is an awful lot of blood. Did the killer choose this method because he liked to, needed to, see the blood pumping from the carotid arteries, watch life seeping from the bodies of his victims? Fenton added the phrase A LUST FOR BLOOD to his list.
Did the killer saw at the homeless man’s neck in rage, frustration, or out of sheer curiosity? In both cases, the initial cut to the throat had been clean, lightning quick and fatal. The knife wielded from a freestanding position. The victims weren’t bound or held in position to ensure accuracy. That would require excellent coordination, strength and speed, and a lot of confidence in your ability to strike a fatal blow. Fenton closed the reports and dropped them back in the tray. He picked up the pen and grabbed the notebook. He paused for a moment before writing the words A TALENT FOR KILLING.
Fenton used the pen to drum a simple rhythm on the table. The internet photographs, the me
ssages, the IKiller hashtags: the killer had an ego the size of a small planet and it was going to need stroking regularly. He stopped drumming and made a final note. OBSESSED WITH FAME.
Fenton slipped the notebook and pen back in the drawer. He fished his mobile out of his pocket and checked for a text message from the nanny about Tess playing up. Nothing. He headed for the door. Before his fingers touched the handle, it opened slightly and Constable Mackie’s head appeared in the gap.
‘What now?’ Fenton asked. ‘I’m off home to read my daughter a bedtime story.’
Mackie edged nervously into the room. ‘I tried to tell you before, sir, but you were busy thinking. There’s been another woman attacked in Victoria Park. Stabbed in the neck.’
The constable’s words took a second to sink in. ‘Another body?’
Mackie shook his head. ‘She’s on her way to hospital. The attack was interrupted by a couple of joggers. They chased the man and held him down until a patrol car arrived. Detective Constable Ince is at the scene, sir.’
Fenton pushed Mackie aside and sprinted down the narrow corridor.
Half a dozen spotlights lit the crime scene. Inside the lights, police tape sealed off a rectangular area of grass. Inside the tape, four scenes-of-crime officers wearing plastic overalls, hoods and face masks crawled in formation. Fenton spotted Detective Constable Ince talking to two female uniformed officers outside the tape on the edge of a children’s play area. Both of the women were laughing loudly at something the detective had said. Ince noticed his boss approaching and ushered the uniforms away.
‘What have we got?’ Fenton asked.
‘Attempted murder of a woman in her thirties, sir. It looks like the suspect tried to slit her throat, she twisted away but wasn’t able to avoid being stabbed in the side of the neck.’
‘She’s alive?’
‘The paramedics reckon she’ll survive. The blade just missed her left carotid artery. She’s in a medically induced coma for now. She was lucky.’
Fenton thought Ince looked as if he was enjoying the gory part of the job a little too much. ‘You call being stabbed in the neck and being put in a coma lucky?’
Ince had the good sense not to respond.
‘And what about the suspect?’
‘The park was pretty deserted, it closes at dusk, but a couple of students out for a run were heading for the eastern gate when they witnessed the attack. They dialled 999, disarmed the suspect and sat on him until the uniforms arrived. I think they were rugby players, sir, you know, big buggers.’
‘Where’s the suspect now?’
‘He’s cuffed, in the back of a patrol car and on his way to the station.’
Fenton buttoned up his jacket and shivered. ‘What about the weapon?’
Ince grinned. ‘We’ve got it. It’s sorted. Once we match the cutting edge to the other wounds, it’s done. Case closed.’
Fenton blew on his hands and shivered again. A dangerous man was off the streets. There was no doubt about that, but Ince’s smugness made him uneasy.
21
Interrogation could be the hardest and, at the same time, the most satisfying part of a detective’s job. There were rules to be followed, techniques to draw on and plenty of psychological plays to snare a criminal in his own web of lies.
Fenton sat in the corner of the interview suite, observing the suspect as Daly, his team’s most experienced interrogator, fired off the questions. For thirty minutes they went unanswered. The suspect, tall, muscular and in his mid-twenties, sat upright, his white-knuckled hands gripping the edge of the table, his eyes flickering constantly around the room.
When asked repeatedly to give his name he gave no sign that he’d even heard the question. He said nothing when told he was being questioned in connection with two murders and one attempted murder.
The breakthrough came after a police constable entered the room and handed Daly a piece of paper. She scanned it and passed it to Fenton. Daly stopped pacing and sat opposite the suspect. She tried to look him directly in the eyes, but he shifted his head, just a fraction.
‘We know your name is Ellis Taylor. We know you are twenty-six and live at 22a Butterfield Road, Bow.’
The suspect turned slowly to face the two-way viewing mirror spanning most of the wall to his left and stared at his reflection.
‘That’s not me,’ he said. ‘I don’t know no Ellis Taylor.’
‘That’s weird, because according to our database, you’ve got his fingerprints.’
Taylor kept his eyes on the mirror, behind which Bell and Ince were watching in the dark. Daly waited patiently until Taylor turned back to face her. This time he let their eyes lock.
‘We’ve got officers on their way to your flat, others digging deep into your records. Within the hour we’ll know everything about you. There’s no point playing this game any more.’
‘I’m not playing. She deserved to die. She was an evil bitch.’
Daly glanced at Fenton. ‘You knew her then?’
Taylor nodded. Strands of dark hair fell from behind his ears, framing his narrow face. ‘I knew all about her. She deserved to be punished.’
‘Punished for what?’
Taylor twisted his lip. ‘The soul who sins deserves to die.’
‘What was your relationship with her?’
‘I don’t have relationships with sinners.’
Daly took a moment to consider her next question. She looked at Fenton again. He gave nothing away.
She turned to address Taylor, only to find him staring at the mirror again.
‘If you want we can postpone this interview until we get you a lawyer. You’re entitled to legal aid.’
Taylor kept his head still. ‘I don’t need no lawyer. I’ve done nothing. Only good things.’
‘Stabbing Tanya Reid in the neck is good? Killing Lauren Bishop and Edward Deere is good? We have witnesses. The men who apprehended you saw you stab Miss Reid. We have the knife, we’ll be able to match the blade to the murder wounds. You cocked up this time.’
Taylor looked straight ahead and released his grip on the table. ‘I must be careful. They’re watching me. Watching and listening. Happy is he who does not condemn himself.’
For a moment, Fenton thought he had worked out that the mirror was two-way, but as he watched the corners of Taylor’s mouth twitch, fall still, and twitch again, he realised the real reason for his outburst. Paranoia, plain and simple.
Fenton caught Daly’s eye and raised a hand. ‘The interview is suspended,’ she said. ‘I think we all need a few minutes.’
Daly led the way into the observation room. Bell didn’t wait for them to take a seat. He pointed a stubby finger at the detective sergeant.
‘What are you doing taking a break? He’s ready to confess to the lot. He can’t help himself. Get it out of him before a brief turns up and complicates things.’
Fenton took a half-step, putting himself between Daly and Bell. ‘It was my call,’ he said. ‘I think we should take this slowly. The suspect clearly has psychological problems.’
Bell rolled his eyes and shifted his position. The chair groaned. ‘Obviously, he’s as mad as a box of frogs. He was caught in the act. He’s not even trying to deny it. I want his confession quick smart so we can get put out a statement confirming we’ve got our man.’
Fenton knew Bell well enough to know that arguing would be a waste of time. He tried anyway. ‘We’ve got him for the stabbing. No doubt. But as yet we’ve no evidence linking him to the two murders. Nothing linking him to the killer’s online campaign.’
Bell levered himself to his feet with a loud grunt. ‘We’ll get all the evidence we need, believe me. I want this wrapped up as soon as possible. The guy’s been rambling on like a religious nutter, talking about sinners, evil, and quoting the Bible. As young Ince here pointed out earlier, this fits in with the two murder victims being laid out in a crucifix position.’
Fenton looked at Ince and shook his head. ‘
So now you’re taking advice from a detective constable not long out of short trousers? You’re promoting him to senior investigating officer?’
‘You’re in charge of the investigation, but never forget there is one person you answer to. Me.’
Fenton took a couple of deep, slow breaths. ‘I’m not saying he’s not the killer, but maybe it’d be sensible to wait for the knife test result and the background checks before we push Taylor to confess to anything. He’s paranoid, delusional and rambling.’
Bell rubbed his hands together. ‘Just because he’s crazy doesn’t mean he’s not our killer. Surely, it makes it more likely? He said it himself. He’s on some mad crusade to rid the world of sinners.’
Fenton turned to the viewing mirror. Taylor, his arms folded across his chest, hands gripping his ribcage, appeared to be hugging himself. During the break he’d been joined by a legal-services lawyer. The pinched-faced woman sat beside her client looking unhappy at being called out.
‘I don’t think Taylor’s attack comes close to matching the two murders. Sure, there are similarities, but that’s all they are. The throat wounds to Lauren Bishop and Edward Deere were clean, clinical and fatal. One slash, one dead person. Taylor doesn’t seem to have been carrying a mobile phone or a camera. I, Killer was super-efficient, calculating and organised.’ Fenton nodded towards Taylor. ‘Look at him. That man isn’t remotely capable of any of that.’
Bell shrugged. ‘I don’t want to hear it. He fucked up. I want you asking the questions this time. If he wants to confess to the killings, let him spill.’
Fenton returned to the interview room with Daly in tow. This time the detective sergeant took the seat in the corner. Fenton nodded a greeting at the greying lawyer. She responded with a pout.
He switched his attention to the suspect, treating him to a smile. ‘Do you own a mobile phone, laptop, or computer?’ he asked.
Taylor laughed: ‘They are Satan’s tools, holding the masses in their thrall.’
