by Max Manning
Leah shrugged. ‘I believe he can do a good job. He’s got the skills. Otherwise it’d simply be a waste of time. I did some research of my own and he had a reputation as a fearless reporter.’
‘A bit too fearless if you ask me,’ Fenton said. ‘There’s a fine line between bravery and stupidity. Hanging around the Iraq–Syria border armed with nothing more than a pen, notebook and smartphone could be considered foolish.’
Leah shook her head. ‘He may be a bit reckless, but I don’t think he’s a bad person. He’s honest. Says what he thinks. I like that about him. Are you having second thoughts?’
‘I’m not. I simply want to understand who I’m working with and why.’
‘Another reason I chose Blake was to do something for Lauren. To try to finish what she started. She always said he needed to get back to work. To focus his mind. I also believe he wants to do it for Lauren. Needs to, even. Does that answer your questions?’
‘I suppose it does.’
Leah pulled her mobile from her pocket and tapped at the screen. ‘I’m ordering a taxi to pick me up in ten minutes,’ she said. ‘That should be long enough for you to fill me in on the progress you’ve made.’
Fenton thought her use of the word progress a little optimistic, but he didn’t say so. ‘It’s early days yet. I’m taking a fresh look at the three murders. Obviously, I haven’t got access to the files any more, but I did bring some notes home with me and I’ve a pretty good memory for details.’
‘What about this suspect Blake has already come up with? The detective who took the café’s security camera footage?’
‘I think calling him a suspect is a bit strong,’ Fenton said. ‘We’ve only got the café owner’s word for it. If it is true, we can’t afford to let Ince know that we know. If he gets a whiff of what we’re up to he could destroy the footage. It’s possible he’s done that already. But keeping this to ourselves makes me uneasy. I’ve been suspended not sacked. I’m still a police officer. I could be accused of withholding evidence.’
‘But nobody knows you’re working with Blake. I’m not going to tell anybody.’
Fenton took a swig of coffee, pulled a face, then took another. ‘Let’s hope we can keep it that way. I like Blake, but he seems to have no qualms about breaking the law.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘He’s arranged for that contact of his to take a look at the Yard’s computer system to see if anyone’s been accessing data they shouldn’t have.’
Leah frowned, her perfectly plucked eyebrows almost meeting. ‘That’s a problem because . . .?’
‘Because it’s as illegal as hell and he’s going to land us all in big trouble if he’s caught.’
Fenton stood at the window sipping a cold beer as he watched Leah slide into the backseat of the taxi. He put the bottle down, covered his face with his hands and rubbed his eyes. He needed sleep, but knew it wouldn’t come easy. Walking over to the sink he poured the remaining beer away. For a moment, he considered checking on Tess. Only for a moment. He didn’t want a grilling about Leah.
Feeling cowardly, he tiptoed past her bedroom, but the sound of sobbing stopped him dead. He pushed the door open and walked in. Tess had yanked the duvet over her head. He pulled the cover back and gently wiped a tear from her cheek with his thumb. ‘Don’t cry,’ he said.
‘I don’t want to go. Please don’t make me, Daddy.’
‘Hey, come on. What’s this about?’
Tess sniffed loudly. ‘I heard you. You’re sending me away.’
Fenton bent down and kissed her softly on the top of her head. ‘I think it might be a good idea for you to stay with Gran and Granddad for a while. You always love it when we visit.’
Tess rubbed her eyes hard with the back of her hand. ‘I want to stay with you.’
‘I know that, darling, but it’s my job to keep you safe.’
‘I’ll feel much safer, I’ll be much safer if I’m with you.’
Fenton pulled the duvet up to her shoulders, bent down and kissed her hot forehead. ‘I want to do what’s best for you. I’ll think about it. Okay?’ She replied with another sniff.
By the time he climbed into bed it was almost midnight. His eyes ached, but he knew sleep was a long way off. Opening the drawer of his bedside table, he pulled out a sheet of paper, unfolded it and carefully smoothed it between his fingers.
Written on the paper, in a flowing elegant script, was Josie’s last message to him. Fenton smiled to himself. He’d been lucky to have married an amazing woman. She knew what was coming and she knew it was coming soon, and she chose to write him a list of instructions. Josie had always loved writing lists.
Her last list was almost certainly the shortest. Three things, just three things he had to promise to do. Number one was the easiest. Take all of Josie’s love and give Tess double. Number two. Make our daughter laugh at least once every day. He’d failed miserably on that one. Number three. When you’re ready, find Tess a new mum. Fenton doubted that was ever going to happen, but he’d promised anyway.
He carefully folded the sheet of paper up, slipped it back in the drawer and switched off the light. Lying in the darkness, he tucked his hands behind his head. The likelihood of him sleeping was zero unless he stopped thinking about Josie.
He started mulling over the events of the last few days. He’d always been a stickler for following rules and regulations, doing everything by the book. That had been a big part of his success. Most big cases were broken by slow, steady police work. Each stage of a murder investigation, from initial door-to-door inquiries, to background checks on suspects, and the assessment of forensic evidence had to be done meticulously and in the right order.
One careful step at a time. That was how he led murder inquiries and, until now, it had worked for him. Somehow, he’d found himself banished from the Yard, entangled in an unofficial inquiry with a former journalist who didn’t follow the rules. Hell, Blake didn’t even acknowledge that a rule book existed. It wasn’t too late to back out. To admit he’d made a mistake. So, what was stopping him?
Fenton closed his eyes in a feeble attempt to block unwanted thoughts. After a few seconds, he opened them again. As his vision adjusted to the darkness, he accepted the undeniable truth. More than anything, he wanted to be part of taking this killer down. The Yard had decided to deprive him of that privilege. He couldn’t accept it. It was unacceptable. Evil had come to his doorstep. He wasn’t going to sit around waiting for his replacement to get lucky.
Fenton’s eyes closed again. This time they were heavy with tiredness. He rolled over on to his side, ready to embrace sleep; then his mobile rang. He reached over to the bedside table, snatched up the phone with one hand and switched on the lamp with the other.
‘What the hell is it, Blake?’ he said, wanting to shout but having to keep his voice down because he was worried about waking Tess. ‘Do you know what time it is?’
‘I do, but here’s a tip for you, detective. If you haven’t got a watch, take a look at the screen of your mobile. The time should always be on there.’
Fenton pushed himself up into a sitting position and swung his legs over the side of the bed. He’d told Leah that he liked Blake, and he’d been telling the truth, but sometimes the man could be downright annoying.
‘I assume this is important.’
‘Sorry to interrupt your beauty sleep,’ Blake said. ‘I know how much you need it.’
‘What is it?’
‘Detective Constable Ince.’
‘What about him.’
‘He’s been a naughty boy. Accessing parts of the computer network way above his security level. Looking at stuff he shouldn’t be looking at. Reading information about people he shouldn’t be reading about.’
Fenton stood up and switched on the main light. ‘Are you sure about this?’
‘My contact is sure and I’m sure he knows what he’s doing.’
‘Shit,’ Fenton said. ‘How did Ince get into thes
e files if he didn’t have the right clearance? The security on the system is meant to be virtually impregnable.’
‘I think the word “virtually” is the key to answering that question. According to my man, Ince must have specialist knowledge. A talent for all things techie that he’s been keeping secret.’
‘What files has he been looking at?’
Blake hesitated before answering. When he did speak it was clear he’d chosen his words carefully.
‘I don’t want to go into that sort of detail right now. Like computer systems, phones can be hacked into fairly easily, if you know what you’re doing. Get back to your beauty sleep and we’ll talk more in the morning. Somewhere out in the open maybe.’
‘Where do you suggest? I don’t want to leave Tess for too long.’
‘I’ll text you in the morning. Goodnight. Sleep tight.’
Fenton tossed his mobile on to the bed. There was no way he was going to sleep. He picked the phone up, went to Google and searched for I, Killer. One point seven million results in 0.89 seconds. Fuck.
He was fighting to stifle an urge to hurl his mobile at the wall when the third item on the results list caught his eye. Breaking news on the BBC. New I, Killer post. He opened the page. The bulletin was brief. Serial killer sends internet followers chilling new post. Police say the message appeared on Twitter account set up one hour ago.
My next victim has shown her childish face #IKiller.
Fenton read the news bulletin again. The killer wanted his followers to be ready for his next offering. Whetting their appetite . . . her childish face. Fear for Tess flamed in his chest.
47
The Regent’s Canal is one of London’s best-kept secrets. Stretching nine miles from Paddington in the west to the Limehouse Basin in the east, Blake thought of it as an oasis of calm in a city of troubles.
Sitting on a wooden bench facing the waterway, he tilted his face to the sky and let the autumn sun warm his skin. The four-mile walk along the towpath, from Victoria Park to the York Way canal bridge in south Islington, had given him plenty of time to think how best to handle Fenton.
The suspended detective would advise caution; suggest that, based on his vast experience, they shouldn’t jump to conclusions. Blake had other ideas. He was in the mood to jump so high he’d need a parachute.
He nodded encouragement as a puffing, middle-aged man wearing unflattering, skin-tight Lycra pedalled by, and returned the smile of a woman in her mid-twenties jogging in the opposite direction. For almost a year, Blake had done all his running indoors. Watching a green and red narrowboat chug under the bridge, he allowed himself to consider joining the towpath joggers.
He turned at the sound of footsteps to see Fenton descending the slope. Wearing a dark suit, white shirt and black tie, the police officer looked like he was on his way to a funeral. ‘Right on time,’ Blake said. ‘Nice of you to dress up for the occasion. If I’d known I’d have worn something smarter.’ Fenton stopped behind the bench, took a white paper bag out of his jacket pocket and tossed it to Blake. ‘Shut up and eat,’ he said.
Blake opened the bag and pulled out a bagel filled with bacon and cream cheese. The bagel was still warm. He took a bite and licked his lips.
‘How did you know I missed breakfast?’
‘I guessed,’ Fenton said, pulling another paper bag from his other pocket and taking out a similarly filled bagel. ‘These are good. Trust me. Freshly baked every morning at a place around the corner.’
Blake took another bite and placed the remaining portion on the bench beside him. ‘Very tasty, but where’s the coffee I ordered?’
Fenton ignored the jibe. ‘Let’s get on with your report, shall we?’
Blake shook his head. ‘Oh, no, let me stop you right there.’ he said. ‘Let’s get this straight. I’m not reporting to you. The only person I report to is my client. I’m passing on information. Letting you know what’s going on. I’m in charge of this investigation. You’re advising. That’s all.’
Fenton bit into his bagel and chewed over his response. ‘I’m not sure your employer would totally agree with you, but let’s not quibble over semantics. What’s Ince been up to?’
Blake didn’t dislike the detective. In a way, he had a lot of respect for him and his record, and was pleased to have him as a sounding board. But this was his investigation, and he was going to do it his way.
‘Ince has been poking around your supposedly impregnable computer system like a pig rooting in shit.’
‘It’d help if you could you be a bit more specific.’
‘Obviously, he has access to the murder files because he’s part of the investigating team.’
‘Obviously.’
‘But, according to my expert, he’s been dipping into files his security clearance shouldn’t allow him to access.’
‘Such as?’
‘Such as the personnel files of several of his fellow officers, containing their home addresses, phone numbers, next of kin, all that sort of stuff. He’s also been dipping into files holding details of the murder victims’ families, checking out a psychologist named Belinda Vale, and nosing around in the private files and documents of one particular senior officer.’
‘I take it you mean me?’
‘That’s exactly who I mean.’
Fenton walked round to the front of the bench, considered sitting down next to Blake, but changed his mind. ‘As suspicious as it sounds, none of this actually proves that Ince had anything to do with the murders.’
‘How did I know you were going to say that?’
‘It does prove that he’s engaged in criminal activity – improper use of police databases – and he would certainly be booted off the force and face charges as a result, but we can’t do anything about it because we’d be admitting that you and your hacker pal broke the law yourself. Computer hacking carries a maximum sentence of ten years in prison.’
Blake smiled. ‘I like the way that, almost without hesitation, you switched the word “we” to “you” in that sentence about breaking the law.’
Fenton stepped back off the towpath to allow another cyclist space to pass. ‘I hope your man knows what he’s doing, that’s all.’
‘Don’t worry,’ Blake said. ‘He’s assured me he’s covered his tracks, and our arses. As far as Ince goes, I get what you’re saying but it’s all pointing to him. We can’t afford to pussyfoot around. We don’t know when the killer is going to strike again.’
Fenton swallowed the last of his bagel, used the paper bag to wipe the grease off his fingers and stuffed it back into his jacket pocket. ‘We have to make sure we’ve got enough to nail him before we move. If it is Ince, and he finds out we’re on to him, he could do a disappearing act. We need solid evidence.’
No surprise there, Blake thought. ‘What do you suggest?’
‘Old-fashioned surveillance. Follow him, stake out his home. See what he gets up to in his spare time.’
Blake shook his head. ‘That’s it? All those years leading murder investigations and that’s the best you can come up with?’
‘It works. Believe me, that basic stuff works. If there’s no DNA to work with, no fingerprints, no CCTV footage, all the technology in the world is useless.’
‘So, I watch him. What then?’
‘The best scenario is that he leads you to a lock-up garage or some other storage space stuffed with evidence. Weapons, photographs, the laptop or smartphone he’s been using to post his messages. The worst is that he’s nothing more than a cyber snooper. While you’re on surveillance duty I’ve got a friend or two at the Yard who I can call on to look into Ince’s background.’
Blake got up from the bench, and took a step towards Fenton. ‘I take it you’ve seen the new I, Killer message on Twitter?’
Fenton nodded. ‘Of course I’ve seen it. Everybody’s seen it.’
‘He’s warming up his followers. Telling them to be ready for his next show. What if I find someone is in imminent dan
ger?’
‘Then we act fast. I contact my colleagues and tell them what’s been going on.’
‘Even though that’ll mean you’ll probably have to earn a living as a supermarket security guard?’
‘I’m not going to keep my head down and let someone die.’
Blake nodded. He knew Fenton was the kind of man who always did the right thing in the end. That was one of his strengths. It was also his biggest weakness. ‘One other thing,’ he said. ‘Before I declare this meeting over, do you know why Belinda Vale has a personnel file at the Yard?’
Fenton shrugged. ‘She’s a psychologist. Has her own practice, in Holborn, I think. She also works as a criminal profiler. From what I can recall she’s a damn good one. I’d guess she’s been called in to draw up a profile of the killer. What’s it to you?’
Blake didn’t like the thought of admitting that he’d been seeing a psychologist. They’d only talked a few times, after all. It crossed his mind that it would be less embarrassing to lie and that there was no reason Fenton needed to know the truth, but he decided to come clean anyway. What the hell, he told himself. Why should he care what anybody thought?
‘I’ve been to see her a couple of times,’ he said. ‘To talk things through. I had no idea she was part of the murder investigation.’
Fenton sensed Blake’s discomfort. ‘A couple of officers I worked with had to retire early because of PSTD,’ he said. ‘One was shot trying to arrest a drug dealer. He almost lost a kidney. The other entered a house after a neighbour called to report hearing strange noises. He found two girls, four and six, dead on their beds. Their drug addict mother had strangled them both before killing herself with a heroin overdose. Both officers swear therapy helped.’
Blake knew that the point of the story was to show understanding and sympathy, but he didn’t need either. ‘All right, for now we’ll do it your way,’ he said. ‘I’ll keep a close eye on Ince and we’ll see what happens. I’ll be in touch in a day or so. Thanks for breakfast.’
