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

by Max Manning

  He stepped on to the towpath and started walking back the way he’d come. He’d taken a couple of paces when Fenton called out for him to stop. ‘One last thing,’ the detective said. ‘If it turns out that Ince is our man then you need to be careful. Don’t go doing anything stupid.’

  Blake considered making a smart remark about being touched that Fenton cared. Instead, he gave an almost imperceptible nod and carried on walking. When he reached the York Way tunnel he looked back. Fenton had disappeared.

  The meeting had gone the way Blake had expected. He’d agreed to go along with Fenton’s cautious approach in principle, but a strategy that involved hours of watching and waiting didn’t suit his temperament. He believed in making things happen. Blake took a couple of deep breaths. He knew that London was one of Europe’s most polluted cities, but, as he stood by the water in the late-autumn sun, the air smelled fresh, almost sweet. As he watched a blond teenager and his even blonder girlfriend share a joke as they paddled by in red plastic canoes, Blake felt more positive about life than he had in a long time. If an opportunity to make things happen came along, he’d grab it.

  48

  The bitch has overstepped the mark. Claiming to know me. The real me. Telling lies about me. Making assumptions about my childhood. Who the hell does she think she is?

  She thinks she’s something special. She definitely wants others to believe she is. She’s that sort. To get what she wants she’ll lie. Not little lies. Great big, dirty, fat, twisted lies. She’ll repeat them with such conviction you won’t dare challenge them.

  I rarely get worked up about things. I prefer to be more considered in my response when people wrong me. Take my time, wait for the right moment, then slide the knife right in. I’ve undermined the confidence of a lot of tedious people. It’s easily done. All of these victims were feeble. There, I said it. Hit the nail on the head without even thinking about it. They were all victims. Victims from the day they were born.

  This woman has judged me to be no more than an inferior product of my childhood. Before I mastered the art of concealment, I had to deal with child psychologists. They came to the conclusion that I was different to other children because my parents didn’t bond with me on an emotional level.

  None of them could see the truth. I didn’t bond with my parents because I was different from other children. What is psychology anyway? Lots of long words to fool you into believing it’s scientific, but it’s all talk. Talk about narcissism, paranoia, inferiority complexes, superiority complexes. Well, from what I can remember, all of the psychologists I came across suffered from at least one of those personality disorders.

  By the time I was six I’d lost both my parents. I lived with eight sets of foster carers. I adapted to survive.

  I am not the product of my past. I am the master of my present, the creator of my future. I am my own God.

  What really gets me is that she hasn’t said anything positive about me at all. She’s not given me the credit I deserve. I don’t torture my victims, not physically. I haven’t killed any children. Not yet.

  49

  Tess sat at the kitchen table pretending to read. The family liaison officer stood at the sink rinsing out her mug. The soft-spoken constable, ‘call me Helen’, smiled over her shoulder. Tess smiled back, but impatience gnawed at her insides.

  Humming softly to herself, Helen wandered off. Tess kept her head down and turned a page, her eyes sliding sideways to follow the constable into the bathroom. The lock rattled and Tess sprung off her seat.

  She slipped her coat from the back of the chair and ran down the stairs. At the bottom, she turned right and let herself out into the back garden. She lifted the rusty latch and stepped into the alley.

  Tess didn’t like alleys. They were scary. She ran all the way to the end of the terrace and out on to Risinghill Street. After stopping for a moment to catch her breath, she walked purposefully along the road. She wanted to get back before her dad got home. Despite the sunshine, Tess shivered and zipped up her coat.

  Her plan was to head in the direction of her school. She knew that would take her close to her destination. She couldn’t go away without saying goodbye to Mummy. That wouldn’t be right.

  At the end of the street Tess stopped, her toes perched on the edge of the kerb. Marta always insisted that they crossed there because the traffic island meant they could stop halfway. She was about to cross when a car pulled up beside her. The driver leant over and opened the passenger door.

  ‘Hello, Tess,’ he said.

  She frowned and stayed silent. How did he know her name? The man wore a dark jacket, a baseball cap and a friendly smile. ‘Your daddy sent me to pick you up,’ he said. ‘He’s worried about you.’

  Tess shook her head. ‘I’m going to the cemetery,’ she announced and walked away. The car rolled slowly after her, the passenger door still open.

  The driver’s smile broadened. ‘I know you are. Your daddy asked me to take you there. He’s busy right now, but he said to tell you he’ll meet you there later.’

  Tess halted. She wanted to believe him, but knew he was lying. She knew not to accept lifts from strangers, especially this stranger. Her right leg started to tremble and tears pricked her eyes.

  The man dug a mobile phone from his jacket pocket and stretched across the passenger seat. ‘Here, you can call your dad if you want to check. Go on.’

  Confused by the man’s insistence, Tess reached out a shaking hand, hesitated, then pulled it back. That moment of hesitation was enough. Strong fingers curled around her tiny wrist and dragged her off her feet on to the passenger seat. The man leant over her, tugged the door shut and jammed his foot down.

  As the car accelerated away he laughed softly. ‘Strap yourself in,’ he said. ‘Daddy wouldn’t want you to get hurt, would he?’

  50

  Blake arrived back at his flat in time to shower, dress and get to Westminster by midday. The demand for news updates on the hunt for the killer had become so unrelenting, New Scotland Yard’s media team were holding daily press conferences.

  He waved his old press card at a bright-eyed young woman behind the reception counter, his thumb strategically placed over the date of issue. Impersonating a newspaper reporter was, as far as he knew, not a criminal offence. Fraudulently gaining entry to the headquarters of the Metropolitan Police definitely was.

  He rode the lift to the fifth floor in the company of a tall man in an expensive-looking light-grey suit. He looked familiar, but Blake couldn’t recall where he’d seen him before.

  The lift juddered to a halt and the doors slid open. Blake didn’t move, allowing his lift buddy to exit first and stride down the corridor. The entrance to the media centre was directly opposite the lift. Blake pulled the door open and slipped in.

  He’d been to a few press conferences at the Yard before, and the set-up was a familiar sight. The seating was laid out in ten rows of twelve. All but the last row had been already taken by reporters from newspapers, news agencies, news websites, television and radio.

  In front of the seating, a raised podium was lit brightly with spotlights even though there was plenty of natural light from four large rectangular windows. On the podium were a long table, three microphones and three empty chairs.

  Blake recognised a few faces among the reporters, but stood on his own at the back of the room. The event was due to start, the sense of anticipation palpable. The excited chatter dropped to a respectful murmur when three people arrived on the podium and sat facing the audience. Two of them took Blake by surprise. One was the man he shared the lift with, the other Belinda Vale. They sat on either side of a heavy-set, greying man wearing the world-weary expression of a senior detective.

  The room fell silent as the younger man introduced himself as Ray Partington, a senior press officer. Blake remembered him as the man he’d watched comforting Leah when she broke down in front of the cameras. Self-assured and professional, he outlined the usual ground rules and int
roduced Detective Chief Inspector Norman Tobin as the man who had taken over the investigation.

  ‘We also have an expert guest today,’ Partington said. ‘Psychologist Belinda Vale, the criminal profiler helping the investigation, has agreed to answer a few questions. The exact details of her profile of the killer will not be discussed. You’ll appreciate the reason why, I’m sure. She has kindly agreed to answer general questions about serial killers. We’ll kick off with a statement from DI Tobin.’

  Blake watched Vale shield her eyes against the bright lights and wondered how much arm twisting she’d suffered before giving in. A dozen or so cameras flashed as Tobin cleared his throat, glanced down at the statement he was about to read, and dipped his head closer to the microphone.

  ‘As the new senior investigating officer in this case, I want to assure the public that every effort is being made to apprehend the killer. Every available officer, both uniformed and plain-clothed, is working flat out to achieve this end.’

  Tobin killed the atmosphere with his first few sentences. His round, florid face displayed even less enthusiasm than his monotone delivery. He droned on about how the public could be assured that any information received about the killer and his whereabouts would be treated in the strictest confidence.

  ‘And finally,’ he said, words that were greeted with a collective murmur of relief, ‘I want to take this opportunity to repeat a general warning to the public to take precautions regarding their personal safety until an arrest is made. Women in particular should, when out late at night, make sure they are accompanied at all times. We don’t want to stop people having a good time, but this is a situation where it is imperative that people use common sense.’

  Partington jumped to his feet. ‘Thank you for those wise words. Unfortunately, DCI Tobin will not be taking any questions today. You’ll of course appreciate he has a lot of work to do and won’t be staying with us. I’ll make sure you all get both a digital version and hard copy of his statement.’

  The detective stood up and ambled through a door behind the podium. God help us, Blake thought. If Fenton’s replacement is as good at hunting killers as he is at performing at press conferences, then they might as well award the killer the freedom of the city.

  Partington shifted along the table and sat next to Vale. ‘We’re moving on now to our esteemed psychologist,’ he said. ‘She has kindly agreed to take a few questions, but, I repeat, they mustn’t be about the specifics of her profile.’

  While he was instructing the reporters that before asking a question they would be required to raise a hand and identify themselves, a female voice rang out from the front row.

  ‘Isn’t it the case that there is no real evidence that offender profiling has any value at all in this kind of investigation?’

  Vale looked at Partington hoping that he might come to her rescue and steer the questioning back to the subject of serial killers. Instead he gave a nod, encouraging her to answer the question.

  Blake was a long way from the podium, but he saw a trace of irritation flicker across the psychologist’s face. ‘Criminal profiling has its flaws,’ she answered. ‘But over the years it’s been proved to be an extremely useful resource for officers trying to solve serial murders.’

  The reporter came straight back at her with more of a comment than a question. ‘Yes, but isn’t it a skill rather than a science? Something that’s on trend, but not much use to anybody.’

  Vale looked at Partington again and this time he stepped in. ‘Before you get your answer, we need to know who you are.’

  ‘Isabel Banks, chief reporter on the Standard.’

  ‘Ms Banks,’ Vale said. ‘Profiling is not a new-fangled trend. It’s a technique that has been developed and honed over the years. In fact, something very similar to profiling was used by detectives hunting Jack the Ripper as far back as 1888.’

  Vale realised what she’d done as soon as the words slipped out of her mouth. Blake cringed in his seat. He knew what was coming.

  ‘They never caught him either, did they?’ Banks said. Laughter rippled around the room.

  ‘Next question,’ Partington snapped, determined to keep control of the situation. ‘Let’s keep to the subject, please.’

  ‘Dave Richards, BBC London. This killer is building a huge social media following. Perhaps you can explain the psychology behind this phenomenon?’

  Partington opened his mouth to intervene, but Vale stopped him with a wave of her hand. ‘Good question, Mr Richards,’ she said. ‘I’m happy to answer because it’s not about the killer, it’s more to do with the basics of human nature.’

  Encouraged, the BBC reporter fired off another question. ‘Is the internet, social media, to blame? Do we need tighter controls?’

  Vale shifted closer to her microphone. ‘I’m not an internet expert, but I’m not sure it can be controlled. Social media isn’t to blame. It’s nothing more than a communication tool. How we choose to use that tool is a reflection of our nature.’

  A hand shot up in the third row. The journalist didn’t wait for Partington to invite him to ask his question. ‘Tom Foxton, freelance,’ he announced. ‘Are you saying humans are inherently bad, naturally drawn to evil?’

  Vale shook her head. ‘We are capable of amazing acts of kindness, sensitivity, sacrifice and incredible creativity, but the human psyche also has a sinister side. The primitive part of the brain can make us capable of cruelty, torture, rape, murder and war. We’re fascinated by death, but don’t want to contemplate our own. It’s no surprise to me that so many people are obsessed by these “before death” and “after death” images.’

  Vale paused and Partington took the opportunity to move on to the next question, pointing at a flame-haired reporter in the front row. ‘Bryony Noble, Reuters. I, Killer has become a celebrity psychopath. What about the moral position of his internet followers. Don’t they share some of the blame for the murders?’

  ‘Social media provides anonymity for those who want it. People can hide behind their screens and feel safe exploring parts of their psyche they have repressed without fear of being condemned by their communities. Being online takes away all the normal restraints of society. I, Killer is making murder a shared experience.’

  Another hand shot up. Partington pointed at the woman, nodding for her to go ahead. ‘Tina Willis, Press Association. Some people believe that I, Killer’s last message suggests that his next victim will be a child. Do you agree with this analysis?’

  Vale closed her eyes. She’d been dreading this question, but she didn’t feel it’d be right to dodge it completely. ‘That kind of mind is capable of anything. There are no limits.’

  For a brief moment, an eerie silence settled over the room. The freelance reporter broke it with another question. ‘What about motivation? Is it sexual, or simply a lust for blood?’

  ‘It can be both of those things, as well as many others,’ Vale said, propping her elbows on the table and resting her chin on her hands. ‘Sometimes they kill as revenge for a real or imagined slight, or simply for the thrill of it. It then becomes a thrill they need to replicate. It’s often about empowerment. Power over another human being. The key is that after the first time they are driven to repeat the experience. Like drug addiction, all they can think about is the next high.’

  She sat back as several reporters tried to get her attention, waving hands and shouting over each other in an unseemly scrum. She started speaking over them and they quickly fell silent. ‘You may not be aware, but you are playing a big part in this whole thing. Serial killers can become almost as addicted to the attention they’re getting in the media as they are to killing. They come to crave the notoriety. It becomes part of the game.’

  Vale paused. This time the room stayed silent. She had the journalists’ full attention. ‘Maybe,’ she said. ‘If there’s one thing you can take away from here today, it’s that you should take care not to glamorise this kind of crime. I know you have a job to do, but pl
ease try to do it responsibly. Think about it.’

  The plan might have been to keep her answers general, but she’s definitely talking about the I, Killer posts, Blake thought. A low murmur of excitement filled the room. Everyone was thinking the same thing.

  A blonde television reporter started to ask a question about police incompetence, but Partington closed her down. ‘I’m afraid that’s it, folks,’ he said. ‘We’re out of time. Thank you for your cooperation.’

  The press officer turned to his right to congratulate the psychologist on her performance, but she was already on her feet and striding off the podium.

  Belinda Vale stepped into the lift and pressed the button for the underground car park. The growing unease she’d felt from the moment she walked on to the podium to face the assembled media had taught her a valuable lesson. She swore under her breath that she’d never again be persuaded to do something that she didn’t want to do.

  The lift door pinged open and she hurried out. Although there was still an hour to sunset, the car park was dark and poorly lit. She stopped for a moment as she tried to remember where she’d left her car, and set off again after spotting it wedged between a marked Metropolitan Police Range Rover and a brick wall.

  The rapid click-clicking of her high heels echoed in her ears. Inexplicably, the sound made her feel vulnerable. In her peripheral vision, a shadow moved. She took a sharp breath and increased her pace. She’d almost reached her car when she heard a definite footfall behind her and swung around, gripping her car keys in her hand like a weapon.

  Blake held both hands up and stepped back. ‘Whoa there,’ he said. ‘Take it easy.’

  Vale let out a long breath. ‘What the hell are you doing creeping up on me like that?’

  ‘Sorry if I scared you,’ Blake said taking another step back, his hands still raised. ‘I looked in on the press conference and wanted a word.’