by Max Manning
In the centre, two intelligence analysts scoured national crime databases for past murders, attempted murders or violent assaults that might be linked to the case. It was a longshot, but Fenton was determined to throw everything at the inquiry. When a third body turned up, and past experience told him that was probably going to be soon, he’d start blaming himself. That was a dark, familiar place. He didn’t want a return visit if he could help it.
He walked to the front of the room where Detective Constable Ince sat on the corner of a desk close to a large whiteboard, flicking through a pile of that morning’s national newspapers.
A few still featured the murder hunt on their front pages, but most had moved the story on, focusing on I, Killer’s growing social media following. The tabloids were having a field day. Fenton picked up a couple and read the headlines with dismay: Instagram Killer Is Online Thriller and Social Media Frenzy Over Twitter Ripper.
‘How is it you’ve time to read that crap?’ he snapped at Ince.
The detective jumped up, a startled look on his pale face. ‘Sorry, sir,’ he said. ‘I thought it’d be a good thing to keep up with the press coverage of the case.’
Fenton glanced down at the broadsheet newspaper Ince had been reading. He was glad to see that some sections of the press were treating the story seriously. The headline, across a lengthy double page article read: If Murder Was A Click Away, Would You Look? Underneath, a subheading made the paper’s view on the subject clear. Killer’s Growing Celebrity Highlights Sinister Side Of Social Media.
Fenton grunted his agreement, but was still seething over the tabloid coverage and took it out on Ince. ‘We’ve got a press office full of men and women who are paid to keep tabs on the press. Let them do their job and you concentrate on doing yours.’
At that moment Daly walked in carrying three coffees on a cardboard tray. ‘Thanks for joining us, Detective Sergeant. I was wondering when you were going to show your face.’
Daly shot Ince a questioning look. Her boss didn’t usually resort to sarcasm. ‘Actually, boss, I did get here a while ago, but thought I’d nip out and get us all a coffee.’
She placed the tray on the desk and handed Fenton his drink. He nodded his thanks, the coffee hot against the tips of his fingers through the plastic cup. Taking a sip, he turned and scanned the whiteboard. Mugshots of the two victims looked accusingly back at him, the dates, times and locations of their murders printed in black marker pen beneath the photographs.
The bottom half of the board was tellingly bare, except for a single image of a long, serrated hunting knife, which the pathologist was pretty sure would be similar, if not identical, to the weapon used by the killer to cut his victim’s throats.
Fenton took one last look at the faces of the victims and turned around to address Daly and Ince. ‘We haven’t been able to gather any forensic evidence. The killer has been careful to not leave any DNA at the scene, no skin cells, no hairs, no clothing fibres, nothing. This may be simple good fortune. Or it could be the result of meticulous planning. My guess is it’s probably a bit of both as well as being partly due to the fact that neither of his victims had the opportunity to engage him in a struggle before they were killed.’
Daly glanced across at Ince. We’re going to need a bigger team, sir,’ she said. ‘Preferably detectives with plenty of experience.’ She looked pointedly at Ince again. He didn’t rise to the bait.
‘That’s already sorted,’ Fenton said. ‘We’re bringing in more officers. You’re going to be paired up. I want you and Ince to work together.’
Daly swore under her breath and the detective constable straightened in his seat on hearing his name. ‘Excellent decision sir,’ he said. Daly shot him a look and mouthed ‘arse-licker’.
Fenton watched the pair leave the room and checked his watch. He was considering having a word with the intelligence analysts before going home, when Partington walked in.
‘There you are,’ he said. ‘I’m glad I caught you. Detective Chief Superintendent Bell asked me to prepare a press release announcing that a psychological profiler is being brought in. I thought I’d let you know, out of courtesy, what we were doing.’
Fenton scanned the room. Everyone was hard at work. He kept his voice low. ‘Fuck courtesy,’ he said. ‘I’m the senior investigating officer and the content of all press releases should be run past me as a matter of course.’
Partington took a moment to adjust his tie. ‘That’s what I’m doing now. I emailed you a copy of the press release earlier. As you didn’t respond I assumed you hadn’t seen it. Of course, it won’t go out until you approve it.’
Fenton raised an apologetic hand: ‘Right, thanks. Sorry about that. It’s been a long day. I thought you were telling me that the press release had already gone out.’
The press officer smiled: ‘No worries.’ He turned to go, but Fenton wasn’t done.
‘One more thing,’ he said. ‘Is there nothing we can do online to at least try to counter this fascination with images of murder victims? It’s annoying the shit out of me that so many people find a killer’s handiwork entertaining.’
Partington shook his head. ‘I know what you mean. But the internet is a lawless environment. Right now children can access hard porn, terrorists can post videos of their crimes, cyber bullies are driving teenagers to suicide and there is nothing anyone can do about it. The best way to shut down I, Killer’s disgusting fan club is to catch him.’
27
Detective Constable Ralph Ince sat at a white plastic table outside a coffee shop on High Holborn and pretended to read the sports pages of The Times. A black baseball cap covered his cropped hair, the peak pulled low. Every now and then his eyes flicked from the newspaper to the door of a Victorian town house twenty yards to his left.
Ince loved surveillance jobs. Secretly watching people going about their business gave him a thrill. It started at secondary school. He found it hard to make friends, and would spend his lunchbreak trailing random people around the town centre, making a game of finding out what they were buying and trying to work out what they did for a living. He loved the power of seeing without being seen.
The brass handle of the door rattled and Ince raised his head a couple of inches, tugging his cap down. His target emerged on to the brown stone doorstep and hesitated before stepping on to the pavement. Ince lifted his expensive cup of coffee to his lips and concentrated on blowing the froth as Adam Blake passed by, heading east along High Holborn.
Ince allowed himself a smile of satisfaction. Surveillance was one of the reasons he’d been determined to get out of uniform as soon as possible. The other thing he loved about spying on people was you didn’t have to be on duty to do it.
He’d spend most of his days off following people he considered interesting, or suspicious. Sometimes they’d be total strangers he didn’t like the look of. On other occasions, they’d be people he’d come across investigating a case and decided to check out even if his superiors thought they were innocent. He took another sip of coffee and wiped the froth off his upper lip with a swipe of his thumb. Why people paid good money for shit like this he couldn’t understand. Still, if the best place to stake someone out is a scummy coffee shop, then you have to order a scummy coffee.
He folded the newspaper and pushed it to the other side of the table. Growing up at school he’d hated sport. Especially team games. He never could kick a ball straight, or catch one, and his classmates never hesitated to tell him that he sucked.
He always did his best work alone. Like today. Blake’s alibi had checked out, but Ince believed his bosses had been wrong to rule him out as a suspect. He’d devoted his day off to an unofficial surveillance mission and his hunch had been proved right.
Blake spent the morning sneaking around the City of London Cemetery and Crematorium spying on Lauren Bishop’s funeral. That wasn’t normal. In Ince’s mind, it smacked of guilt. He hadn’t been a detective for long and he’d be the first to admit he had
a lot to learn, but he’d heard of several cases of killers attending their victims’ funerals.
From the cemetery, Blake had walked to Stratford, where he’d caught a bus to Holborn. He climbed the stairs to the top deck in search of a seat, while Ince hid in the huddle of passengers standing near the exit doors. The journey to Holborn took thirty minutes. He followed Blake straight to the town house and the brass plate screwed next to the door revealed the purpose of his visit. If that’s not suspicious then I’m Jack the Ripper, Ince thought.
He reached for his cup, but changed his mind. He didn’t need to pretend to like coffee any more. He took his cap off and ran his fingers over the bristles on his head. After spending an hour or so researching Blake on the internet, he’d become even more convinced that the journalist needed to be watched closely.
Anyone held hostage by a bunch of fanatics before being forced to witness a friend’s head being cut from his shoulders is going to have issues. Ince also spent time watching the video of the beheading on the internet. He’d watched it over and over again. The footage was grainy and you couldn’t really see the gory details. But Blake had been right there, on the spot, watching the hooded knifeman go to work on his friend’s neck.
28
Marta tried her best to hide her delight when her boss arrived home early and told her she could take the rest of the evening off. She didn’t want Tess to see how desperate she was to get away from the house for a few hours.
The two of them had been getting on so well since the incident at the school, and she didn’t want to do anything that might jeopardise their improving, but still fragile, relationship. She’d put the progress down to their agreement not to tell Tess’s father about the stranger. The intimacy of a shared secret.
She initially declined the offer of a night off, knowing full well that Tess’s father would insist. When he recruited his daughter to his cause, both of them declaring that she deserved the treat of an extra evening out, Marta agreed, surprising herself with her ability to conjure up the perfect mix of gratitude and reluctance.
An hour later, she was sitting at a table in a pub in Finsbury Park, drinking vodka and coke with half a dozen Romanian friends. The Eagle didn’t have a lot going for it. The building’s modern exterior promised more than it delivered. Inside, the décor was stuck in the 1990s.
The rust-coloured walls, which had originally been bright orange, clashed with a threadbare, heavily stained, green carpet. The whole place reeked of stale beer and stale bodies and an unusually high percentage of regular customers had a tendency towards violence after a few drinks. There were two good reasons Marta spent time in the pub whenever she got the opportunity. First, the drinks were cheap. Second, most of the Romanians living in that part of north London loved to hang out there. She could be herself, speak her native language and truly relax. Even so, she couldn’t drop her guard completely. None of her friends knew she worked as a nanny for a senior policeman, or that she was living a lie. They all thought she earned her money waiting on tables at a pizza restaurant.
Marta sipped her drink and looked around the table. Her friends – she considered them friends though she couldn’t allow herself to get too close to them – were all in their early twenties.
She watched the two single women and two couples talking animatedly, their voices raised enough to be heard above the clamour of the crowded bar and smiled to herself. Like her, they were fighting to survive, to build a future. Despite that, or maybe because of it, when the opportunity came along they loved getting drunk and having a good time.
As she downed the last of her vodka, a familiar figure weaved through the crowd and approached the table. She considered Dorinel Macek tall, dark and not quite handsome. His eyes were too close together, his nose appeared off centre and his mouth too wide. Still, there was something about him women found appealing. Marta included.
Macek squeezed on to the bench and handed her a large vodka and coke. ‘Seems like I have come here in time. You are having not much fun without me.’
Marta knew he’d lived in London since his early teens. She couldn’t understand why he struggled with the language. The last time they had talked she asked him for an explanation. He threw his head back and laughed out loud.
‘I knew you were not just a pretty face,’ he told her. ‘You also have a good brain, no? Me, I am a pretty face only.’ She laughed too, but didn’t believe a word of it.
She raised her glass to him. ‘Thank you for this, but if you think I need you around to have a good time then you are crazy.’
Macek tried to look hurt, but his eyes smiled. The more Marta tried to keep him at arm’s length, the more he worked to wear her down. ‘I only wonder why a girl like you is not all the time smiling. I think I will make you a happy person, if you give me a chance.’
Macek liked her a lot. You didn’t have to be a genius to work that out. She liked him too and found his persistence flattering, but she was unsure about allowing their relationship to move past flirting. He had already asked her out twice and both times she had knocked him back. He’d handled rejection well and refused to give up.
Marta lifted her glass to her lips, but didn’t take a sip. They were packed so tightly around the table she could feel the warmth of his thigh against her leg. If she had too much to drink she might end up doing something she regretted. Her life was complicated enough. In an ideal world, she would love to be Macek’s girlfriend, but she owed it to her mother and sister to be disciplined. To focus on keeping her job.
She tilted her head and leant towards him until she could feel his breath on her lips. Being disciplined didn’t rule out having a good time and she didn’t need to get drunk to enjoy flirting.
‘I know how to have a good time, Dorinel,’ she whispered. ‘I also know you could probably make me happy. But should I give you a chance? I’ll have to think about that.’
Macek moved his face even closer to hers. She thought he was going to kiss her. At that moment, she wanted him to. ‘What is wrong?’ he said. ‘You look, how do you say? Like a bunny caught in the headlights.’ Marta sat back and laughed. Macek joined in. The rest of the evening went better than Marta could have hoped. Macek paid her plenty of attention, but made a big effort not to pressure her.
At closing time, everyone was moving on to a club nearby, but Marta declined. She wanted to go home and get some sleep. Macek hid his disappointment and offered to escort her home.
The ferocity of her refusal surprised him. ‘No, you go on with the others. I don’t need a bodyguard.’ Marta’s heart raced. Her mind conjured up a chain of events that would end in disaster. Dorinel wondering how she could afford to rent a room in Islington. Him asking questions and discovering her lies. Mr Fenton finding out that she had never even been to Latvia, had never worked with children.
The thought of not having money to send home twisted her stomach. She blinked back tears. ‘You go on with others. Enjoy yourself.’
Macek raised both hands in surrender, turned and made his way east along the Seven Sisters Road. Their friends were waiting two hundred yards away, standing patiently in the neon glow of a kebab shop.
Marta waited a few seconds to gather her thoughts before walking in the opposite direction towards Finsbury Park Tube station.
29
The last Victoria Line service to King’s Cross left Finsbury Park at twenty minutes past midnight. Marta leapt on to the train, narrowly avoiding the sliding doors. The carriage stunk of stale beer and fresh vomit. The only other passengers, two men dressed in jeans and T-shirts, sat side by side. The smaller of the pair slumped forward in his seat, put his head between his knees and spat something unpleasant on to the floor. His friend laughed and slapped him hard on the back. Marta took a seat at the opposite end of the carriage.
After changing to the Northern Line at King’s Cross, she spent the short journey to Angel wondering if Dorinel would ever speak to her again.
On leaving the station, Marta cross
ed the A1 and walked briskly up White Lion Street. The road was well lit and there were still plenty of people out and about.
After ten minutes, she turned right into Penton Street. She estimated it would take her at least another ten, maybe even fifteen minutes, to reach her destination. Marta cursed herself loudly for choosing to wear three-inch heels. They looked good, but every ligament, muscle and joint in her feet was protesting loudly.
She was seriously considering taking the shoes off, when a noise behind her made her glance over her shoulder. A tall figure headed her way, eating up the distance between them. Marta scanned the other side of the street desperate to spot somebody else.
As she came level with a length of black railing in front of a row of five terraced homes, she opened the gate of the second house, swung it shut behind her and climbed the half a dozen steps to the front door. She made a show of struggling to find her key, before pulling one out of her jacket pocket. Taking her time, she lifted it towards the lock, waiting for the stranger to pass.
Her hand shook as the figure drew level with the gate. She held her breath, pretended to struggle to find the right key and listened to the footsteps fade into the night. Panic evaporated like sweat from her skin and she chided herself for letting her imagination get the better of her.
Marta returned to the pavement and decided to change her route. Earlier, she’d passed the entrance to an alley she’d used several times to get to Tess’s school. Running between an office building and a terrace of homes, it led directly to Risinghill Street, cutting her journey by a good ten minutes.
She walked down Penton Street, retracing her steps, until she reached the narrow entrance.
30
She darts into the narrow passageway, counting her steps in her head. At fifty-five she sees the welcome glow of a street light.
She lengthens her stride. One of her heels snags on a crack in the pavement and she stumbles, scrapes a knee on the wall. Steadying herself, she looks up to see the silhouette of a man standing at the exit. He stretches out a gloved hand and beckons her. When she doesn’t move, he calls out to her.
