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

by Max Manning

  Fenton couldn’t make sense of what he was hearing. ‘I don’t understand,’ he said. ‘What’s this got to do with Marta’s death?’

  Tess sniffed again. ‘I don’t know, but he talked about you. Said he knew you. He asked me to give you a message. What if he’s the one who killed Marta? We should have told you.’

  Fenton’s gut twisted. He crouched down until his gaze was level with Tess’s red-rimmed eyes. ‘Can you remember what he said?’

  Tess nodded. ‘I think so. It wasn’t horrible or anything. Something like, tell you to take care of the little things.’

  ‘Are you certain, Tess? Those were his exact words?’

  ‘I think so, yes . . . Tell him to look after the little things.’

  Fenton dropped to his knees and gently gripped her shoulders. ‘What did this man look like? Would you know him if you saw him again?’

  Tess’s bottom lip quivered. ‘He was very tall, but he was wearing a hoodie and a cap, like a baseball cap, under the hood. It made it hard to see his face. He sounded kind though.’

  Fenton pulled his daughter into a hug. ‘Don’t worry, darling, you’re not to blame,’ he whispered. She burrowed her head into his chest and he squeezed tighter.

  He left a still sniffling Tess sitting cross-legged on her bed, reading her favourite book, Charlotte’s Web. Her mother had given it to her a month before her death. Tess had read it so many times she could recite big chunks of it word-for-word.

  Fenton made himself a coffee and sat at the kitchen table, the stranger’s words bouncing around inside his head. Was this the man who beheaded Marta? His stomach churned. The only little thing that needed taking care of was Tess. It sounded like a harmless message, but felt like a serious threat.

  He drained his cup, strode quickly into the hall and skipped downstairs. He had a sudden need for fresh air, and to reassure himself that the day shift uniforms had turned up. He stepped outside in time to witness the changing of the guard. A freckle-faced female constable acknowledged him with a nod as she took her place beside the front door. Fenton watched the night shift drive off. ‘Where’s your oppo?’ he asked.

  The constable smiled. It made her look even younger, far too young to be in uniform on the streets of London. ‘Just me today, sir.’ Fenton shook his head. ‘I’m not going far. Just up the road for a few minutes.’

  The sky, heavy with cloud and streaked several shades of grey, pressed down hard on the city. Fenton stuck his hands in his trouser pockets and walked east along Risinghill Street. The air was heavy with moisture, but not enough to form a mist.

  Parked cars lined both sides of the road, except for a section where his had been on the day he found Marta’s head. That part of the street was still cordoned off with white tape, even though the forensic team had finished their work days before.

  Fenton knew what he should do. It was the opposite of what he wanted to do. The right thing would be to telephone New Scotland Yard and tell the new senior investigating officer exactly what Tess had told him. All his life he’d done the right thing, but, for the first time, the lines were blurring. Right for whom? For the force, his bosses, for society? What about doing the right thing for himself and for his daughter? If he did the correct thing, Tess would be taken in and questioned for hours, maybe even days, until they squeezed every detail of the encounter out of her. She’d handle it. He had no doubt about that, she was tougher than she looked.

  Still, she’d been through so much trauma, he didn’t want to put her through more if he didn’t have to. Wasn’t as if she’d got a good look at the man’s face, and there was no guarantee that the new senior investigating officer would draw the right conclusions, or do anything sensible with the new information. There was no hard evidence that the man near the school gates had been the killer, but gut feeling, and the threat implicit in the man’s words, told Fenton all he needed to know.

  He wanted the killer caught and caught soon. He also wanted to be the man to nail him. Wanted it more than anything. As things stood, that wasn’t going to happen.

  He was off the case officially, but what was stopping him from going after the killer unofficially? Well, for one thing, he’d probably be kicked out of the force. Fifteen years of loyal service, and all pension benefits, down the drain. Fenton shrugged the thought away. Tess’s safety was his priority. Nothing else mattered.

  The knowledge that the man who’d spoken to his daughter might have been I, Killer sent a chill through his body and triggered a thought that had hovered in the back of his mind for days. The killer knew where he lived and had probably followed Marta and Tess to school on more than one occasion.

  Like most senior police officers, Fenton’s personal details, address and telephone numbers were kept off all the commercial and public databases available online. At the junction with Penton Street and Chapel market, Fenton spun one hundred and eighty degrees and started back the way he’d come. This time his stride was longer, his pace more urgent.

  The killer must have found his personal details on the police computer system. He was either a computer geek who hacked into the network from a remote terminal, or a civilian support worker at New Scotland Yard. Or a police officer.

  39

  Fenton had his key in the lock of his front door when the press pack arrived. A convoy of four cars screeched to a halt at the kerb, each delivering a reporter and photographer on to the pavement.

  A tall woman in a tan trouser suit got to Fenton first, thrusting a digital recorder in his face. ‘What’s the real reason you’ve been taken off the case?’

  ‘No comment.’

  ‘Is I, Killer targeting your family?’

  ‘No comment.’

  The other reporters gathered round, all waving recording devices. ‘How did you feel when you found your nanny’s head on your car?’

  ‘Is this the end of your police career?’

  ‘Is there a message you want to send to I, Killer.’

  Fenton held up both hands and the journalists fell silent. ‘All questions must go through our press office,’ he said. ‘I’m sure you know the telephone number.’

  The woman in the trouser suit tried again. ‘What would you like to say all the people out there who are sharing the I, Killer posts?’

  From the back of the pack came a barrage of camera flashes. Fenton held up a hand to obscure his face, stepped back over the threshold, and slammed the door shut. He gripped the handle, his knuckles white. The sensible thing to do would be to ignore the last question, keep his mouth shut and let Partington handle the press.

  He yanked the door open and stepped on to the doorstep. The reporters, chatting among themselves as they strolled to their cars, scrambled back, excited by the thought that they were about to get a spicy quote, a new angle to keep their news editors happy.

  Fenton took a deep breath. ‘Anyone who goes online to search out images of people about to be murdered and photographs of their mutilated bodies simply to satisfy some sort of twisted, morbid curiosity should be ashamed of themselves. They should take a moment to think about the victims, and their families, then go and take a long, hard look in the mirror.’ The reporters surged forward, shouting over each other as they fired off new questions. Fenton stepped back and slammed the door shut.

  He was sitting on the sofa, his head in his hands, when his mobile rang. He snatched it out of his pocket, thinking it could be Daly with important information before he remembered he’d been taken off the case.

  Leah Bishop’s voice was low and he had trouble hearing what she was saying ‘You’ll have to speak up,’ he said. ‘Can you hear me?’

  ‘Loud and clear, detective.’

  For a second Fenton considered suggesting that she should call him Dan, but decided against it. ‘I’m sorry, but I can’t answer any questions about the investigation. You need to contact the incident room at New Scotland Yard.’

  ‘That’s not why I’m calling. It’s about a friend. A friend who wants to speak
to you.’

  Fenton remembered giving his private number to Leah after the press conference and assuring her that she could ring him for updates. ‘I’m sorry, Miss Bishop, but, like I said before, I’m no longer part of the team investigating your sister’s murder.’

  ‘I know all about that, but it’s you my friend wants to talk to. It’s important.’

  He considered claiming the signal was poor and cutting her off, but curiosity got the better of him.

  ‘Who is this friend?’

  ‘It’s someone I’ve asked to look into my sister’s murder. All the murders. You know, a fresh mind examining the facts. It’s not that I don’t trust the police to do their job properly.’

  I’m not sure I’ve got as much faith in them as you do, Fenton thought. ‘Are you talking about a private investigator? Do they know what they’re doing?’

  ‘It’s Adam Blake. He’s not being paid. He wants to help.’

  ‘Blake? You’re kidding.’

  ‘I’ve never been more serious.’

  ‘You know he’s still considered a suspect?’

  ‘I do. He’s been questioned again, and released. I trust him completely. He wants to talk to you. It’s important. He says you’d be a great help, a valuable asset to have on board.’

  ‘He does, does he? I’m glad somebody thinks so.’ Fenton paused to weigh up the situation. This was an unexpected turn of events. By all accounts, Blake had been a formidable journalist. Maybe, with expert guidance, he could dig something up that could be useful.

  ‘I need to think about this,’ Fenton said. ‘I’m not ruling it out, but I’ve got to tread carefully.’

  ‘That’s great. I’d be so grateful. We’d be so grateful, if you could spare the time to talk. I understand you’re in an awkward position.’

  Fenton had hoped that his suspension would be short-lived, but after his performance on the doorstep that was unlikely. ‘I’ll let you know, one way or the other, in a couple of hours,’ he said, pressing the ‘end call’ button without waiting for a response.

  He liked Leah Bishop, she seemed intelligent and trustworthy. Blake was clearly as sharp as a razor, but harder to read than hieroglyphics. He gave off a dangerous energy that reminded Fenton of some of the more volatile criminals he’d dealt with over the years. But you never know, Fenton thought. Maybe it could work.

  40

  There is nothing like death to make you feel alive. I was pretty attuned to my surroundings before, but now I’m seeing, hearing, smelling and feeling on a higher plane.

  The world is obsessed with my exploits and now Inspector Clueless has been suspended. New Scotland Yard’s finest investigator found himself up against a far superior intellect and crumbled.

  Time is passing faster every day. I need to focus on my mission. I’m close now, but I don’t want to rush. That’s how mistakes are made.

  Ninety-nine point nine per cent of the population couldn’t do what I do. They don’t have it in them. I see weak people all around me, living a life of ignorance and defeat. This is why my following increases day by day. Through the medium of the internet they can get a little taste of what it means to be me.

  As you can tell, I’m in a philosophical mood. Maybe analytical is a better word. It’s probably the news that the police have engaged a psychological profiler that’s got me thinking this way.

  What a joke. I know exactly what will be appearing in the report and it angers me that someone thinks they know what’s going on inside my head.

  What really gets to me is all the personal, family stuff this shrink is going to be guessing at. Falsely claiming an intimate knowledge of my thoughts and motivations to inflate her ego.

  I can’t abide the idea of someone with a few letters after their name judging me, judging Mother. I don’t behead people because I lost my father. I’m not impelled to spill the blood of innocents because Mother did what she did.

  I kill because I can.

  41

  Detective Constable Ralph Ince watched his target leave the Victorian town house in High Holborn.

  Seven hours ago, he’d had no problem spotting the psychologist amid the commuters streaming out of Holborn Tube station. It took her four minutes to walk to her consulting rooms and he’d followed at a safe distance. Her first patient, a tall, elegant woman wrapped in a black leather coat, arrived at two minutes to nine.

  Since then, a steady stream of patients had arrived and departed. To ease the boredom, he’d changed his surveillance position every couple of hours, alternating between a bus shelter and the doorway of a pharmacy. Fortunately, both positions were close to a café selling iced doughnuts and cola.

  Ince crossed the road and followed the psychologist back towards the Tube station. He slipped into the tide of pedestrians, positioning himself on the fringe of a small group of Japanese tourists dressed as if they were expecting a blizzard. Every few strides he was able to catch a glimpse of the back of Vale’s head, or her black high heels and slim ankles. She was a decent bit of stuff. No doubt about that. She’d be loaded too, Ince thought. Why her patients were willing to pay a small fortune to have her mess about with their minds he’d never know. They needed to get their bloody heads examined.

  At the entrance to the Tube station, he stopped and watched her descend the stairs and approach the ticket barriers. Satisfied she was set on catching a Central Line train and heading home, he started walking back the way he had come. His car was parked nearby and there was no need for him to follow her. He already knew her address. He’d got all the information he needed from the police database.

  Like all the other officers at New Scotland Yard, he had access to the computer network, but he wasn’t supposed to use it to fish for personal information, especially if his inquiries were not connected to an official investigation. Improper use of the force computer system was considered a serious offence. The thing is, they’d have to catch him first and he knew how to cover his tracks.

  Ince crossed the road and went into the Corner Café. The woman behind the counter saw him approaching and smiled. She’d served him at least four times that day.

  By the time he arrived at the counter she had already placed an iced doughnut in a paper bag. He nodded a greeting and handed her a ten pound note.

  ‘Make that two doughnuts and a bottle of water please, love,’ he said.

  She raised her eyebrows and stretched her smile. ‘No cola this time?’

  ‘Just water. One of the litre bottles.’

  As she turned to pluck the mineral water from a low shelf, Ince took the chance to appraise her figure. Not bad, he told himself. Not bad at all. If he wasn’t so busy he’d seriously consider taking her out. She obviously fancied him something rotten. He dropped the change into his jacket pocket and grabbed the doughnuts and water. Pausing at the door he looked back, flashing the woman a wink. He could still hear her laughing as he climbed into his car. The drive through the centre of the city was slow. Twilight fell and the sky glowed purple. Ince looked in the rear-view mirror and smiled at himself. It had been a good day so far. He’d arranged with Daly that he’d go to Victoria Park and re-interview some of the people they’d questioned after the murder of Lauren Bishop. The plan was that the detective sergeant would stay at the Yard and plough through the paperwork in the hope of turning up something they’d missed the first time around.

  Ince had his own plan. Going over old ground with council officials and park traders would be a waste of his valuable time. He’d woken up that morning with a strong feeling that somebody needed to keep an eye on Vale. He alone knew, because of the extra surveillance work he put in on his days off, that she was treating Adam Blake. He couldn’t explain it, but something about that made him feel uneasy.

  Ince had half expected Blake to turn up for another therapy session, but there had been no sign of him. He allowed himself another smile at the thought of his boss being booted off the case. Thank God the top brass weren’t totally stupid. Fenton was we
ll past his sell-by date. Time for him to make way for new talent.

  By the time Ince pulled up on the east side of the Barbican’s Shakespeare Tower, the sky was black and moonless. He counted five storeys and shifted his focus to the corner of the building where he knew Vale’s flat was located. The light was on in one of the rooms. Ince guessed it was the living area. He fiddled with the lever under his seat and slid back to give himself more leg room. The police pool car was uncomfortable and as draughty as hell. But it was bland and unlikely to attract attention, making it perfect for the job in hand.

  He picked the bag of doughnuts off the passenger seat and took one out. Holding it delicately between his thumb and forefinger, he took a large bite before placing it on his lap. The sugar hit his bloodstream almost immediately and he licked bits of icing off his lips. He needed to exercise control and ration his food. He was there for the night. If you’re going to do a job, then do it properly. No messing about. Remembering that he’d thrown the water on the backseat, he shoved an arm back and rummaged around until his fingers closed around the plastic bottle. He unscrewed the top, opened the driver’s door a fraction and poured more than two thirds of the water into the gutter. Even as a young boy he’d never liked drinking the stuff. Everybody told him it was tasteless, but they were wrong. It tasted disgusting. He’d bought it because the bottle would come in handy later when he needed a piss.

  The window next to Vale’s living area lit up, catching Ince’s attention. It was either a bedroom, or the bathroom. He opened the glove compartment and took out a small but powerful pair of binoculars. He fiddled with the focus control until he could clearly see the psychologist reaching into a wardrobe and taking out what looked like a silk dressing gown. She put the gown on the bed and reached both hands behind her back to unzip her dress.

  Ince’s breathing quickened. Without taking his eyes from the binoculars, he picked up the doughnut and licked the icing.