by Max Manning
That’s probably the sanest thing he’s said since his arrest, Fenton thought. ‘When did you last eat?’
‘I haven’t eaten for two days.’
‘I can get someone to bring you a sandwich.’
Taylor looked at his lawyer as if he was expecting legal advice on whether he would incriminate himself by accepting the offer of a snack. He didn’t get any. ‘Not hungry,’ he said. ‘My flesh is food. My blood is drink.’
Fenton pulled a chair up and sat down resting his elbows on the table and his chin on his hands. ‘I take it you’re not denying that you tried to kill Tanya Reid?’
‘I don’t know no one called Tanya Reid.’
‘She’s the woman you stabbed in the neck.’
Taylor grinned. ‘She’s marked. I saw the mark.’
‘What mark?’
‘Marked for cleansing.’
‘Cleansing by you?’
Taylor sat up straight, looking from one wall to the next, before settling his gaze on his and Fenton’s reflections in the one-way mirror. ‘They’re always watching.’
‘Who’s watching, Ellis?’
The smile disappeared and Taylor’s face twisted into a mask of terror. ‘They’re waiting for me to fail. The sins of the world spring from failure. If I fail I’ll be marked. If I have the mark, I’ll be cleansed.’
Fenton sighed. Taylor’s biblical ramblings annoyed the shit out of him. ‘Are you telling me you killed Lauren Bishop and Edward Deere because they were sinners?’
Taylor’s eyes shifted to Fenton, back to the mirror, then to Fenton again. ‘They were sinners marked for death. We’re all sinners, but not all of us have been marked.’
Fenton let the statement, a virtual admission, hang in the air. He glanced at the lawyer, half expecting her to earn her money and intervene. She dropped her eyes to study the face of a gold watch on her left wrist and said nothing.
‘You murdered Leah Bishop and Edward Deere, slit their throats in cold blood because you thought they were marked for death?’
Taylor sniggered. The snigger evolved into a cackle, bubbles of saliva oozing from the corners of his mouth.
‘You don’t get it do you?’ he said. ‘I decide nothing. I don’t choose who lives or dies. It’s them. I’m their instrument. Their hand of wrath.’
Fenton caught the duty lawyer’s eye again. She shrugged and raised her eyebrows. He knew what she was thinking. Her client was crazy. What could she do? You could start earning your legal-aid fee and advise him to shut the fuck up. Taylor needed to be locked up, he needed psychiatric treatment and he’d probably admit to assassinating John F. Kennedy if you asked him nicely.
Fenton was considering his next question when the door flew open. Chief Superintendent Bell straddled the threshold. ‘This interview is over,’ he said. ‘Read him his rights and charge him. Two murders, one attempted murder.’
Fenton jumped to his feet ‘I haven’t finished the interview. I need another half an hour at least.’
Bell waved a hand as if he was swatting away a fly. ‘If I say the interview’s over then it’s over. This is a waste of time. The man’s as good as confessed.’
‘As good as isn’t good enough.’
Bell glared at Fenton, his cheeks wobbling. After a few seconds, he turned to Daly. ‘Get the suspect out of here now,’ he barked. ‘Get him charged. Lock him up and notify the duty press officer. I want a press release issued within the hour.’
Daly nodded at a police constable standing in the corridor. The officer approached Taylor, placed one hand on his wrist, another under his arm and yanked him to his feet. Taylor’s eyes swivelled to Fenton, to Bell, the door and back to Fenton. He whimpered like a lost puppy as the constable marched him into the corridor.
22
Fenton tuned his car radio to a heavy-metal station and turned the volume up as loud as he could bear. It was late, or early, depending on how you looked at it, and the traffic was light. He’d driven north across the city so many times his brain often switched to automatic pilot, leaving him with little memory of the journey. He wasn’t a big fan of heavy-metal music, but he hoped the distorted guitar riffs and relentlessly dense bass would drown out the memory of Ellis Taylor’s whining.
Marta had left the hall light on and Fenton stifled a yawn as he climbed the stairs. He tiptoed into the kitchen and wondered if he could make himself a sandwich and open a beer without waking Tess. Instead, he crept into his bedroom clutching a glass of water.
He set the alarm on his mobile for 7 a.m. Five hours’ rest would be more than enough, but he knew the likelihood of him sleeping for that long was slim. About the same odds as winning the lottery.
Fenton switched off the bedside lamp and slipped under the duvet. He rolled towards the centre of the double bed, arched his back, stretched his legs and produced a loud yawn. He closed his eyes and tried to clear his head, but he couldn’t stop thinking about Ellis Taylor.
Eventually he drifted into a twilight sleep, his thoughts transformed into a series of images of Taylor hunched over the mutilated body of a woman. The sleep was shallow enough for him to be aware he was dreaming, but too deep for him to wake up. Bent over the body, Taylor whimpered. Slowly, he straightened up and turned, revealing teeth and lips stained with blood. Fenton sat up with a start, reached out and switched on the bedside lamp.
He waited until his breathing slowed before settling back on the pillow, stretched out an arm to turn the lamp off, but decided to leave it on. Outside the city was stirring into life and he could already hear the steady hum of traffic.
Shifting over to the bedside table, he checked the time on his mobile. It was 6 a.m. He had to be up in an hour. He closed his eyes and instantly fell asleep. Twenty minutes later his mobile rang. Swearing loudly he grabbed it, checked the ID and accepted the call. ‘This better be good, Daly,’ he said.
‘We need you in, boss. We’ve got a bit of a crisis and Chief Superintendent Bell wants you to sort it.’
‘He can sort it himself. I’m dropping my daughter off at school this morning. It’s probably the only time I’ll get to see her today. I’ll be in after that.’
Daly didn’t reply, but Fenton could hear her breathing. ‘Did you get that?’ he prompted.
‘I heard, sir, but I think you’d better arrange for someone else to do the school run.’
‘What’s happening?’
‘It’s Ellis Taylor, sir. We finally got access to his health records and he was diagnosed as a paranoid schizophrenic five years ago. He’s been in and out of various psychiatric clinics ever since.’
Fenton swivelled until he was sitting on the edge of the bed and yawned down the phone. ‘Tell me something that surprises me.’
‘The thing is, sir, his last spell inside was two months in the Whitehall clinic, a secure psychiatric unit in east London. He was released because the clinic was under pressure to free up beds. Apparently, his new medications were working well.’
‘He didn’t seem stable to me.’
‘That’s just it. When we searched his flat we found boxes of his medications unopened. It seems he stopped taking the tablets four days ago. As soon as he walked out the door of the clinic.’
Fenton thought for a moment. His brain may have been thick with sleep, but Daly’s last sentence made no sense. ‘Taylor was released into the community four days ago?’
‘You’ve got it.’
‘Prior to that he’d been in the clinic for two months?’
‘They confirmed the dates.’
‘You’re telling me he was definitely locked up when Bishop and Deere were murdered?’
‘Locked up and dosed up. The shit has well and truly hit the fan here.’
Fenton gripped his phone so tightly the blood drained from his fingers. ‘Let me guess,’ he said. ‘Bell is keeping his fat head well and truly down. It’s up to me to face the press and explain why we fucked up.’
Daly didn’t respond. She didn’t need to.
‘I’m on my way,’ Fenton said.
23
The sound of the mourners singing ‘The Lord Is My Shepherd’ carried across the graveyard to where Blake stood behind an iron gate. If asked, he’d find it difficult to explain what he was doing there. Funerals had always disturbed him. Graveside sobbing, awkward small talk and sad silences made him feel uncomfortable.
The City of London Cemetery and Crematorium in Manor Park, east London, has five chapels, three for cremations and two for burials. Lauren Bishop’s funeral was being held in the larger of the burial chapels, which was located on the east side of the complex.
Blake’s resolve had weakened the previous night. He’d lain sleepless for a long time. He’d initially put his restlessness down to the fact that he had made a second appointment with the psychologist. In the end, he’d had to admit the truth.
The singing stopped and the chapel fell silent. Blake glanced at his watch. He had an hour and a half to get across the city to his appointment. The gothic-style wooden doors of the chapel opened and the coffin containing Lauren’s body emerged on the shoulders of six pallbearers. Dressed identically in black suits and black ties, Blake guessed they were employees of the funeral directors. A group of mourners, about fifty-strong, followed the coffin. They were led by Leah Bishop. Head bowed, she walked slowly, a black handbag clutched to her stomach. Blake felt a twinge of regret that he lacked the courage to stand beside her.
He side-stepped to his right to take cover behind a grey stone wall, his head far enough around the gatepost to see the funeral party arrive at the edge of a grassy area dotted with tombstones. Blake noticed that most of the grave markers were shiny and new. Death is relentless, he thought.
The mourners gathered in a circle and Blake watched the dark oak coffin descend into the ground. Two men in grey suits, and a woman in a dark coat with a pony tail, stood several yards back from the grave. The police always turned up at the funeral of a murder victim. Maybe they were hoping the killer would arrive clutching a wreath and weeping tears of remorse. Blake thought that an unlikely scenario.
The day had started out hazy. By midday the cloud layer had burned away, leaving the sky a washed out blue, the autumn sun the colour of old gold. Despite the warmth in the air, Blake shivered. He immediately recalled a saying from his childhood: ‘Someone’s just walked over my grave.’
As a boy, he’d puzzled over its meaning. The thought that somewhere in the world his grave waited for him had been scary. And who was this person daring to desecrate his future resting place? Recent events had changed his attitude to mortality. There are worse things in life than death, he told himself, and a grave is nothing more than a hole in the ground.
Leah stood beside the grave, her eyes closed, next to an elderly chaplain. His head bobbed as he read from a prayer book. Blake couldn’t hear what he was saying, but guessed it was the usual stuff. Religious platitudes, mumbo jumbo.
He stepped away from the gatepost to give himself a better view of the coffin being lowered into the ground. The ritual left him cold, but an unexpected memory bubbled to the surface. The day they first met, Lauren had laughed at almost everything he’d said. Even when, no, especially when, he’d been trying to make a serious point. That was one of the first things that had attracted him to her. Her laughter. Her laughter, and the way she moved. Blake shook his head and allowed himself a wry smile. Lauren would definitely be laughing if she could see him now.
The chaplain made the sign of the cross, closed the prayer book and slipped it into his jacket pocket. Leah turned to a woman beside her, who passed her a handful of white roses. She took a tentative step forward and dropped the flowers, one by one, on top of the coffin. Stepping back, she paused for a moment, raised her head and appeared to look straight at Blake. He darted sideways and pressed his face to the stone gatepost.
A couple of minutes passed before he risked taking another look. The mourners were walking, in dribs and drabs, towards the car park. Leah still stood beside the grave, her head bowed.
24
If it wasn’t so insulting it’d be funny. The police arrest some crazy schizo, and try to pin the murders on him. When they announced that he’d been charged I felt a pang of jealousy.
I hate the thought of someone else getting the credit I deserve. Anyone with an iota of intelligence should be able to see this was the work of a brilliant mind.
They wheeled out that detective to grovel to the press. Sorry, but the psychologically challenged man charged with the murders was locked up in the madhouse at the time. Yes, I know, we should have checked first, but we’re incompetent. I guess my little joke, laying my prey out in the crucifix position confused them. It doesn’t take a lot.
Inspector Clueless. People like him, they’re ordinary. Ordinary people lack imagination. They fear. They worry. About their families, their friends.
Don’t get me wrong. I can understand why people have these fears. I have the emotional intelligence to work out what people are feeling and why. I’d be frightened too, if I was one of the herd.
Fenton is an ordinary man trying to do an extraordinary thing – catch me. I’ve already met his daughter. A little thing. It must be a big responsibility looking after a child. Children are such delicate creatures. They break so easily.
It’s a diversion from my mission, but Inspector Clueless needs to be taught a lesson. A little something to make sure he’ll never underestimate me again.
25
Blake couldn’t explain how Vale got him to talk about the thing he never talked about. Maybe it was because she never asked him to tell her about the day his captors forced him to witness the ritual beheading of another hostage. She simply suggested he tell her something interesting about himself.
Her self-satisfied smile irked him. She looked far too comfortable leaning back in her expensive leather chair, her perfectly manicured fingers fluttering lightly on the dark green armrest, her legs crossed demurely at her ankles. He wanted to shock her. Shake that complacent look off her face.
‘I’d met Earl Davis briefly a few days before they took us. He was working for an American charity, helping refugees from Syria in a small camp across the Iraqi border. I was there to write a series of articles on border activity.’
Blake paused, hoping for encouragement. He needed some sign that the psychologist was not only listening, but was genuinely interested in what he was saying. Vale obliged with an almost imperceptible nod and a sympathetic frown.
‘Earl worked for a charity supplying water, food and medical equipment. I was staying at the camp for a couple of days. On the second night, they came to my tent. Two men dressed in black, both armed with Kalashnikov AK 47 assault rifles.’
Blake stood up and walked across the room. He rested his hands on the window sill, his back to Vale, and looked out at the cars, crawling bumper to bumper along High Holborn.
‘I was blindfolded, thrown into the back of a truck and taken to a village on the Syrian side of the border. They put me in a hole. A hole dug under the floor of a village house. It took four days for me to stop shaking.
‘On the fifth morning, they brought my usual breakfast of dry flatbread. They also brought Earl Davis. Until then I’d no idea they had taken him as well.’
Blake pivoted to his right, sat back on the window sill and dropped his gaze to the floor. Vale waited patiently. Eventually she prompted him with a question.
‘Did you get to know him well?’
Blake walked slowly back to his chair and sat down. ‘When you share a hole in the ground with another person for three weeks you get to know them very well, believe me. We had nothing to do except talk. We had nothing to cling to except each other. We’d run on the spot for ten minutes at a time for exercise. Even then we’d talk. Talk until we ran out of breath. I got to know more about Earl than I did about my closest friends and most of my family.’
The psychologist glanced at the clock mounted on the wall opposite her chair. She kep
t her head still, but her eyes shifted slightly. Blake took it personally.
‘Sorry, I’m rambling,’ he said, rising to his feet. ‘I’ve used up my time and you’re busy. I don’t want to keep you.’
Vale stood up quickly. ‘No, sit down. Please, sit down.’ Blake did as she asked and studied the back of his hands.
‘How did your captors treat you?’
‘They looked after us, I suppose, but only because we were a commodity. I thought they were after a ransom, but it turned out they had different plans.’ He stopped talking and clenched both his fists. His forehead glistened with sweat. ‘Their leader called himself Ghazwan. One day he announced I had to die, to pay the price for Britain’s foreign policy. He jammed the lethal end of a pistol against my temple. I’m not ashamed to admit that I wet myself.
‘Earl spoke up for me when he could have stayed silent. He pleaded for my life. He tried to appeal to Ghazwan’s better nature. The problem was the sick bastard didn’t have one. He pressed the gun harder against my skull and pulled the trigger. It wasn’t loaded. I collapsed anyway. Ghazwan placed the sole of his boot on the back of my head and ground my face into the dirt.’
Blake faltered and covered his face with his hands. This time the silence was too painful to be left unfilled. ‘I’m so sorry,’ Vale said.
‘I knew this would be hard. I thought I could do it, but . . .’ Blake’s voice trailed off.
Vale lifted her electronic tablet off her desk and tapped her diary icon.
‘Same time next week? Or I can do sooner if you’d prefer.’
Blake shook his head. ‘I’ll call when I’m ready.’
26
The new, larger incident room buzzed with a controlled excitement. Fenton stood in the doorway and studied his team. At the far end of the room, four civilian support workers sat in a row taking telephone calls from members of the public, simultaneously logging any information they considered useful on their computers.
