Now You See: A gripping serial killer thriller that will have you hooked

by Max Manning

  ‘I get you,’ Blake said. ‘You say you gave the police a copy of the footage from your camera?’

  ‘I already said I did, didn’t I? The day after the murder the park was closed, but they let me and the other business owners in, cos we got stuff to do, yeah? I checked the DVD out, you know, but didn’t see nothing at first because I didn’t know what the woman looked like, did I? It wasn’t until I saw her picture on the news that I realised she was on there.’

  Blake grabbed the café owner’s right elbow. ‘You’re saying Lauren Bishop was on the camera footage?’

  ‘Get the fuck off me,’ Lee snarled, wrenching his arm free. ‘I told the detective she was on it. She came into the café just before closing time.’ It was a cool night, but Blake’s skin flushed with the rush of an adrenaline surge. ‘You gave the police a DVD of the footage from your camera showing the murder victim entering your café on the day she was killed?’

  ‘Yeah, that’s what I’m saying. Like I said, Detective Ince was his name. Young bloke, but he knew what he was doing. Good job too. The park was swarming with cops, but nobody came to ask about my camera. At that stage I hadn’t seen the television and didn’t know the woman was on the footage, you get me? It was lucky this Ince was on the ball. He turned up, asked me a couple of questions and took the DVD. I half expected them to get back to me, but they never did.’

  Blake said nothing. He was too busy wondering. Wondering why the police hadn’t released the footage of Lauren going into the café on the day she was killed as part of their appeal for witnesses. He was still thinking hard when they reached the park’s Crown Gate and stepped out on to Grove Road.

  Lee gestured at a plain white transit van parked nearby. ‘That’s my motor mate. I ain’t got time to stand around yapping. I got a hot date, remember?’

  Blake nodded. ‘One thing before you go. Was Lauren Bishop with anyone when she went into the café?’

  Lee shrugged and gave his beard a tug. ‘I think she was followed in by a man, a tall geezer he was, but it was hard to tell if he was with her or not. Like I told that Detective Ince, you can’t see much of his face because he was looking down. They’re both on the footage, but I don’t remember seeing either of them inside the café. It was a busy day.’

  Blake dug deep into his jacket pocket and pulled out one of the business cards he used to hand out while working as a reporter. ‘Thanks for talking to me,’ he said. ‘If you think of anything else, give me a call.’

  Lee screwed up his face and looked at the card as if he’d been offered a dog turd. ‘All right, mate, but I’ve told you everything I know.’

  Blake watched Lee climb into his van, start the engine and pull off into the rush-hour traffic. He waited until the vehicle was out of sight before heading south towards Mile End Road.

  It seemed possible that the killer had followed Lauren into the café, maybe charmed her enough to walk together towards Gore Gate, then produced a knife and forced her into the undergrowth. The police had found video footage of Lauren on the day she was killed. They’d chosen not to release it and to keep its existence secret. It didn’t make sense.

  36

  Blake had half expected the police to come calling again. He recognised Ince from their last encounter. This time he was accompanied by an older detective, a woman who flashed her badge in Blake’s face long enough for him to make out the name Daly.

  Thirty minutes later he was sitting in the familiar whitewashed interview room, sipping a lukewarm cup of coffee. Ince started off the interview going over old ground, asking Blake about his whereabouts on the night Lauren was murdered.

  ‘We’ve been through this before,’ Blake said wearily. ‘I told you I was in the pub all evening. You film these interviews so why don’t you watch the last one and leave me alone?’

  Ince rested his hands on the table, and leant across. Blake caught a whiff of cheap aftershave. ‘We don’t believe you. We’re going to double-check your alibi and we want to know exactly where you were when Edward Deere and Marta Blagar were murdered.’

  Blake sighed. He struggled to concentrate on what Ince was saying because all he could think about was the security camera footage from Vic’s Café. If the police knew about it why were they keeping it quiet? If they didn’t know about it then why had Ince buried it? Whatever the answer, he had no intention of revealing his hand until he knew what was at stake.

  Daly stepped away from the wall and let Ince know with a nod and flick of her ponytail that she was taking over.

  ‘If you hunt the hunter, you risk becoming the prey. What does that mean to you Mr Blake?’

  ‘The meaning is pretty self-evident, isn’t it?’

  Daly sat down and peered across the table. ‘I’d like to know what you think it means.’

  Blake kept his eyes fixed on the detective sergeant. ‘Like thousands of other people, including you no doubt, I’ve seen the messages. I guess only the person who wrote them knows exactly what they mean.’

  Daly took a moment to think before posing her next question. ‘Considering what happened to you in Iraq, how did the photograph of the severed head make you feel?’

  ‘I felt how any normal person would. Sick to my stomach.’

  ‘Yet you chose to go on the internet and search for the picture.’

  ‘I was curious.’

  ‘What about the pictures of your former girlfriend? Did you search for those too?’

  ‘I’ve learnt that it’s better to confront these things. Avoidance does you no good.’

  Daly managed a sympathetic smile. ‘Sounds like something a therapist would say.’ Blake stiffened in his seat. ‘Don’t worry Mr Blake. At this stage, your medical records are still confidential, but I’d be surprised if you weren’t seeing a psychologist. PTSD can cause serious problems. We see it in the police force a lot. Anger issues, violent outbursts. Are you having problems controlling your temper?’

  Blake shook his head.

  ‘Did you get angry with Lauren Bishop? Did you want to punish her for walking out on you?’

  ‘I cared about Lauren,’ he said, his voice barely more than a whisper. ‘I’d never hurt her.’

  Daly nodded. ‘That makes it worse, doesn’t it? Harder to bear. The killer who murdered your former girlfriend has moved on to beheading people. Isn’t that a strange coincidence?’

  Blake jumped to his feet. The sudden movement sent his chair crashing to the floor. ‘I need to go,’ he said. ‘I haven’t done anything.’

  Ince stepped forward, but Daly waved him back. ‘Pick up the chair and sit down,’ she said. ‘We’ve still got a lot to talk about.’

  37

  Belinda Vale lived alone. It was better that way. She’d never dreamt that she would end up on her own two years after getting married, but she’d come to terms with it. Her ex-husband blamed the failure of their relationship on her obsession with work.

  They didn’t part as friends. The bitter insults, the sneering, hurt her more than she let on. She didn’t want to give him power. You spend so much time straightening out the minds of your patients, you can’t see how screwed up you are, he told her.

  Her growing interest in the psychology of killers had been the last straw. He’d described the fascination as freaky, and as a parting shot he’d insisted that she needed to see a psychologist.

  She opened the door of her fridge, picked up a half-empty bottle of white wine, maybe it was half full, she wasn’t sure what mood she was in, and poured herself a large glass. On the way to her study she took a sip. The wine was sharp and cold, and made her wince. She put the glass down on the desk and opened up her laptop.

  After the divorce had been finalised, she had bought a two-bedroom flat in the Barbican’s Shakespeare Tower. Her practice was a lucrative business and helping people sort out their psychological problems was rewarding in other ways. In comparison, working on a freelance basis for the police profiling serial killers paid peanuts, but she knew she had a gift for it. Some
how, dealing with the details of violent death made her feel alive. The apartment’s second bedroom was no more than a box room and after moving in she had immediately turned it into an office. Before sitting down, she switched off the light and closed the door. While profiling she preferred to sit in darkness, focusing all her attention on the screen of her laptop.

  The desk was positioned in front of the room’s small window and for a moment she took in the view of east London at night. In the darkness, the city pulsed with light, energy and life. Was the killer out there, she wondered? Probably. Serial murderers rarely strayed from their home turf. They preferred to feel comfortable in their killing zones. Without a doubt, there were other damaged minds out there too, people who’d thought about killing, imagined themselves doing it, struggling daily to hold back their rage.

  Her fingers fluttered across the keyboard as she located the files containing New Scotland Yard’s reports on the three murders. The prospect of putting herself inside the killer’s mind filled her with dread and excitement in equal parts. Before she could start work on the profile, she had to find out as much detail as she could about the people selected to die, and how their lives ended. Who was killed and how would provide a valuable insight into the killer’s desires and motivations.

  She would also study copies of the I, Killer internet posts. To her they were a wonderful thing – a rare insight into the mind of a ‘Pure Psychopath’. She reached out a trembling hand and clicked the first file.

  At 5.30 a.m. Vale hauled herself out of bed, slipped on her silk dressing gown and hurried into the study. As she waited for the laptop to power up, she looked out the window at another grey morning breaking over the city. She’d finished the first draft of her profile at 2 a.m. and fallen asleep the instant her head had touched the pillow. Turning her attention back to the laptop’s screen, she started to read through her work.

  Serial killers are typically male and often claim first victims in mid-twenties to mid-thirties. No reason to believe this one is different. Method of killing and the decapitation involved in latest murder require high level speed, power and strength.

  Although first and second murders appear to have impulsive element, in the killer’s mind they will have had a definite purpose. The third involved careful selection and detailed planning. Am certain next one, and there will be a next one, will be organised rather than impulsive, and involve another beheading. Killer has evolved since the first kill. The clear escalation of violence is a search for identity. Beheading is now the dominant signature. Don’t think the posing of bodies into crucifix position is significant. Unlikely to be a religious element to murders. Psychopaths have no need for gods. They worship only themselves.

  Killer is building a big following on social media. Is addicted to the dark side of the human psyche, and is using internet posts to draw more followers in. Organised murderers are commonly intelligent and meticulous. They obsess over the details of their killings, wanting them to be ‘just right’. They are often successful in their ordinary lives and have an inborn ability to blend in. Our killer may be a monster, but will not look like a monster.

  Will have a good knowledge of forensic science and how to avoid leaving evidence at the crime scene. Serial killers often develop a fascination with police procedure and methods of detection. Victims so far: one man, two women. If pressed, I would predict next target will be female.

  She turned away from the screen and gazed out of the window at the east London skyline. The first kill. The first time. A visceral thrill. The discovery of a pleasure so intense, so exquisite, everything else pales into insignificance. The second killing failed to live up to the first. A homeless man sleeping under a bridge. No challenge there. The next time sights must be set higher. A challenge to be risen to. A senior detective’s household, a severed head. A demonstration of dominance, power, omnipotence.

  She shifted away from the window and turned back to the laptop. Lifting her hands to her aching head, she gently massaged her temples before reading on.

  Not all serial killers are psychopaths, but everything suggests that this one is. To cut a woman’s head off as part of a cold, organised murder, rather than in a wild, uncontrolled rage, that takes a high level of psychopathy. That doesn’t mean insanity, far from it. The brain is different. Brain scans have shown psychopaths have abnormalities in the prefrontal cortex of the brain, areas associated with impulse control, empathy and remorse. An estimated 1 in 100 people are psychopaths, but most don’t turn out to be killers. The general consensus is that those that do are exposed to an environmental trigger. This can be a traumatic childhood, sexual or physical abuse, regularly witnessing violence.

  Psychopaths despise authority figures because they crave control themselves. They are drawn to jobs that will give them power over others, and high status, such as lawyer, surgeon, civil servant, police officer.

  Selecting Detective Chief Inspector Dan Fenton’s nanny shows a desire to up the stakes, increase the thrill of the kill. There is common belief that serial killers take more and more risks because they want to be caught. This is false. The opposite is true. What actually happens is that they often have a superiority complex, sometimes even a God complex, and as a result believe they are invincible. They believe they will never get caught. This over-confidence can lead to mistakes and, in the end, to their capture.

  She turned off her laptop, tucked it under her arm and allowed herself a wry smile. No matter how much she loved it, profiling could never be a substitute for hard, forensic evidence, for a confession, for catching the perpetrator in the act of murder. It was like explaining how, and why, a volcanic eruption had occurred, rather than predicting when it was going to happen.

  38

  ‘It’s my fault she got killed, Dad. My fault.’

  Fenton shook his head and reached out to console his sobbing daughter. ‘No, Tess, it’s nothing to do with you. It’s just one of those terrible things. Sometimes, bad things happen to good people.’ As the palm of Fenton’s hand settled gently on the girl’s head, she shied away, sat on the edge of her bed and pulled both hands up into the sleeves of her daisy print pyjamas.

  ‘You mean like Mum?’ she asked softly.

  Fenton nodded and swallowed the lump in his throat. ‘Exactly. She was a good person. The best.’

  Two weeks had passed since Marta’s murder. Every day since, Tess had cried herself to sleep. Were all the tears shed for Marta? Fenton doubted it. He’d confiscated Tess’s mobile phone and banned her from using her laptop. The thought of a friend sending her a link to the photographs of Marta terrified him.

  He stepped closer and sat beside her. She kept her head down, but shifted a few inches further along the bed. Fenton sighed. ‘What happened to Marta was terrible. But you’re not to blame. That doesn’t make sense. I won’t be going into work for a while because I want to make sure you’re all right. Don’t worry, darling, we’ll catch the man who killed Marta. I promise.’ He tried his best to sound as if he believed what he was saying. There was no doubt in his mind that taking him off the case had seriously compromised the investigation. For a start, his replacement, Detective Chief Inspector Norman Tobin, had a well-deserved reputation for being slow off the mark and even slower on the uptake. By the time he’d got up to speed, who knows how many more bodies would be out there?

  Fenton had been told to stay away from the office, and strictly forbidden to contact anyone on the murder team. It made no sense. He’d got under the killer’s skin. Rubbed him up the wrong way. There was a clear link between them now and that link could be exploited to lure the bastard in.

  He edged closer to his daughter and wrapped an arm around her shoulders. This time she didn’t shy away. Her frail body shuddered against his ribcage as tears spilled down her face.

  ‘You don’t understand what I’m trying to tell you,’ she said. ‘I’m scared it’s my fault that Marta’s dead. What if I could have saved her? We should have said something. It might actu
ally by my fault. Actually, Dad.’

  Fenton knew the pain of guilt and helplessness. He’d lived with it for months after his wife’s death, and even now, on some days, the bad days, it would resurface. ‘What do you mean, Tess? That’s just not true. If anyone’s to blame then it’s me. The killer chose Marta because I was leading the team trying to catch him. He wanted to get at me. To show me how clever he is and how stupid I am.’

  Tess shook her head, put both her hands on her father’s ribs and pushed herself away. ‘You’re not listening. Please listen to me. We should have told you, I know that now, but it’s too late. Marta said the best thing for everybody would be not to say anything. We agreed to keep quiet about it. It was our secret, but it all went wrong. We should have told you what happened. You could have saved her.’

  Fenton frowned, stood up, turned and leant forward to face his daughter. He placed his hands under her elbows and gently lifted her to her feet.

  ‘Told me what, Tess? What secret?’

  ‘About the man after school.’

  ‘What man?’

  ‘It happened about two weeks ago. On a Monday, I think. Marta was late picking me up from school. I wandered off, to teach her a lesson really, to scare her. I was being horrible. It was before I liked her.’

  ‘What man, Tess?’

  ‘He seemed nice. He asked me if I was lost. He had a nice smile. We talked for a couple of minutes until Marta came.’

  ‘Why keep it from me? I don’t get it.’

  Tess sniffed and wiped her nose with her pyjama sleeve. ‘Marta was worried that you’d be angry about her being late. Frightened she’d lose her job. She didn’t say it, but I knew that’s what she was panicking about. I thought you’d be cross with me because I’d gone off on my own. We agreed not to say anything about it. We were friends after that, so I thought it was a good thing, you know, keeping the secret.’