by Max Manning
‘I wasn’t scared. You startled me, that’s all.’
It was a lie, but Blake understood her embarrassment. ‘I thought it might be interesting to see how the press is reacting to the case.’
‘And was it?’
‘Fairly. Those conferences can be difficult. You did well.’
Vale shook her head. ‘You won’t get me doing another one. Partington will have to find someone else to keep the press happy.’
‘He’s a pretty good operator,’ Blake said. ‘Knows his job.’
Vale gave Blake a long hard look. ‘You wanted a word?’ she said.
‘Why didn’t you tell me you were working on the I, Killer case?’
‘It wasn’t appropriate. I don’t want to mix my therapy work with profiling. It would be unprofessional.’
‘I suppose that makes sense,’ Blake said. ‘I’ll let you get off home. I’ll see you next week and I promise not to mention the murders.’
Vale watched and waited until Blake had reached the lift before opening her car door and sliding in behind the wheel. She started the engine and drove slowly towards the exit. By the time she reached the security barrier, she realised the unease she’d been feeling earlier hadn’t gone. It was still there, bubbling under the surface.
At the same time, it dawned on her that she hadn’t been completely truthful about the reason for her anxiety. She genuinely believed that criminal profilers shouldn’t let themselves become tainted by the media coverage of a case, but the real problem was the image that flashed through her mind while she listened to Tobin read his statement.
She’d had a vision of the killer sitting on his sofa watching that evening’s television news bulletins, fascinated by clips from the press conference, listening to psychologist Belinda Vale answer the reporters’ questions. He’d love every second of it.
Vale believed she knew better than anyone how this killer viewed the world. By agreeing to appear at the press conference she’d put herself in the public eye. Worse than that, she’d put herself in the hunting ground.
51
Fenton sat on the sofa, his head in his hands, anger churning like molten rock in the pit of his stomach. Detective Sergeant Daly stood in the centre of the room, watching her boss warily as a female police constable searched Tess’s room.
He’d returned home to blue lights flashing in the street, his flat full of grim-faced uniforms, and the news that Tess had gone. He clenched his fists, unclenched them and clenched them again.
In the two hours since his return, a witness had come forward to say she’d seen a child matching Tess’s description getting into a car. If he harms her, Fenton promised himself, I swear I’ll kill him and post pictures of his mutilated body all over the fucking internet.
Daly had never seen her boss consumed by fury before. ‘Would you like a cup of tea, sir?’
‘No, I don’t want tea. I want my daughter.’
‘We’ll find her.’
Fenton stood up, the suddenness of the movement startling his sergeant. ‘How did she get out? This place was supposed to be under police guard.’
Daly nodded and pulled nervously at her ponytail. ‘I’m told we had a uniform on the front door as usual but, because an FLO was with Tess, there was nobody round the back. We think she went into the garden and out into the alley.’
‘What have we got on the car?’
‘Colour and make, but no registration number unfortunately. We’re doing everything we can. Pulling out all the stops.’
Fenton paced over to the window and stared out on to the street. He wanted to be out there, looking for Tess, bringing her home.
‘I’ve got to ask you, boss,’ Daly said. ‘Is there any reason she’d go off like that?’
Fenton chewed his lip. ‘I suggested she should stay with her grandparents for a while. That’s all.’
‘Is there any chance she was going to meet someone she’d been chatting with online?’
Fenton stood up and disappeared into the kitchen. Daly heard a cupboard open and shut before he re-emerged holding a pale-pink laptop and a mobile phone. ‘I took these off her after Marta’s murder.’ He handed them to Daly. ‘Get them checked out, but I don’t think you’ll find anything. No, I know who’s got her and it’s not some paedophile.’
‘Who, boss?’
‘Who do you think?’
‘We don’t know anything for sure yet. We need to keep an open mind.’
‘You do that. I’m going to look for my daughter.’ Fenton strode out of the room and sprinted down the stairs. He stepped on to the pavement, his head turning from right to left, his mouth dry, his heart drumming his ribcage. It would be dark soon. Tess had never liked the dark. His car was still in the police pound where the forensic team had left it, and deep down he knew that randomly scouring the streets of London on foot would be a futile exercise, but he had to do something. He stuck his hands in his trouser pockets and walked east along Risinghill Street towards Chapel Market. The air was so crisp he felt it crackle as he filled his lungs. Parked cars lined both sides of the road, except for a section where his had been on the day he found Marta’s head. White tape still fluttered around that space.
At the junction with Chapel Market, he turned left into Penton Street. He frantically scanned the pavements and the passing traffic as he racked his brain for places Tess might have been taken. At the end of the road he pushed past a group of pedestrians waiting at a zebra crossing, dodged through the traffic and sprinted north towards Barnard Park.
Halfway up Copenhagen Street, and five minutes from the park, Fenton stopped and doubled over, his hands on his knees. He was still gasping for air when his mobile rang.
‘We’ve got her, boss, she’s fine,’ Daly said. ‘She just walked back up the street.’
His vision blurred. ‘You’re sure she’s all right?’
‘Yes, boss. I’m sure.’
Fenton’s whole body shuddered with relief. His mobile slipped from his sweaty fingers and clattered into the gutter. He dropped on to his knees, scooped it up and lifted it to his ear.
He could hear Daly shouting down the phone. ‘Are you there, boss? What’s going on?’
‘I’m on my knees thanking God,’ he said.
‘I’ll send a car to pick you up.’
Fenton used the short car journey to calm himself down. The last thing Tess needed was him ranting and raving at her. Daly stood waiting for him at the top of the stairs.
‘She’s in her bedroom,’ she said. ‘She’s tired and we’re letting her rest a little, but we’re going to have to take her in soon. We need to question her and she probably should see a doctor.’
‘You told me she was fine.’
‘She has slight bruising to her right wrist. Otherwise she seems fine, but we have to make sure. You know the drill.’
Fenton sighed. ‘Let me speak to her first,’ he said. He strode across to her room and went in. Tess was standing by the window looking out into the street. She turned, burst into tears and ran to him. He dropped on one knee and hugged her tight.
‘Did he hurt you?’
Tess shook her head. ‘He scared me, but he didn’t hurt me. He took me to the cemetery and helped me find Mummy’s grave.’
Fenton took her hand, led her to the bed and sat her down. He sat beside her and put an arm around her. ‘Did he touch you? You can tell me.’
Tess shook her head again. ‘He didn’t. He left me for a while so I could talk to Mummy. When he came back he gave me flowers for her. He said he’d bought them, but I know he stole them from another grave.’
Fenton squeezed her ribs. She felt so tiny and helpless he almost cried. ‘Was it the man you saw outside school?’
‘It might have been. I don’t know. I’m not sure,’ Tess said. Fenton took a tissue from his pocket and handed it to her. She dabbed her eyes, then wiped her nose and gave it back. ‘Are you angry with me?’
Fenton screwed the tissue up into a ball and put it ba
ck in his pocket. ‘No, but why did you leave on your own like that?’
Tess bowed her head and gazed at her feet. ‘I wanted to say goodbye to Mummy before I went away.’
Tears rolled down her cheeks and she wiped them away with a sleeve. Fenton bent down and kissed the top of her head. Her hair smelled of fresh apples.
52
Blake didn’t have a clue how much the Metropolitan Police Service paid detective constables. If asked to guess, he’d say not a lot.
The flat Ince rented took up the first floor of an end of terrace house. It looked as if it had been left to rot since its construction in the early 1960s. Several tiles were missing from the roof and the window overlooking the street appeared to be in danger of falling out of its crumbling frame. The flat next door, a faded ‘To Let’ sign pinned to its pitted brickwork, looked in an even worse condition.
It was feeding time for locals in the east London suburb of Dagenham. The smell of a fresh batch of chicken sizzling in a deep-fat fryer oozed from the Tasty Dagger takeaway and slithered down the street.
Finding out where Ince lived hadn’t been a problem. If you’re going to pay someone to hack into the Yard’s computer system you might as well get them to harvest some useful information while they’re at it. Blake had given the hacker a long list of addresses he thought might come in handy.
A sharp chill fell like an icy shadow as the last of the daylight faded. Blake hunched his shoulders and pulled his coat closer. He didn’t know whether Ince was in the flat, on duty, or enjoying a day out somewhere in the city. The prospect of hanging around all night, waiting for him to turn up, didn’t appeal.
There must be a better way, Blake told himself. The technology existed. It would be easy to stick a tracking device on Ince’s car and follow him around on Google maps. Installing spyware on his computer would be useful. Better still, getting hold of his smartphone would probably tell you everything the detective had been getting up to.
Blake scanned the street. The rush-hour traffic crawled bumper to bumper. He was wondering whether it would be a mistake to leave his post to fetch a coffee when a dark shape flitted across the flat’s only window.
A second later, a light flickered on. Shit, Blake thought. Instinctively, he turned his back to the window and joined the queue for fried chicken. After studying the menu board for a couple of minutes, he turned and peered through the shop window. The light had been switched off and the curtains pulled. A familiar figure emerged from the side of the building. On reaching the pavement, Ince turned right towards Dagenham East Underground station.
Blake hurried out of the takeaway and followed, keeping a safe distance behind and staying on the opposite side of the road. Ince wore a dark-green puffer jacket, jeans, trainers and a black beanie hat. He wasn’t going to work. New Scotland Yard preferred its detectives suited and booted.
Fenton might well swear by old-fashioned leg work, but trailing Ince around the city could turn out to be one big waste of time, Blake thought. Maybe he was off to meet a friend, going out to eat, or simply planning to sink a few beers in his favourite pub. Having said that, there was always the possibility that he was on his way to remove victim number four’s head from his or her shoulders.
As they neared the Tube station, Blake darted across the road, squeezing between the front bumper of a black cab and the back of a double-decker bus. For a second he lost sight of Ince, but soon picked up his beanie hat bobbing in the crowd.
Blake reached the staircase leading down into the station in time to see Ince walk through the ticket barrier. He stayed where he was and watched him step on to the escalator and descend to the District Line platform. There’s a time to be cautious and a time to be bold, Blake reminded himself. He turned and walked back the way he’d come, stopping outside Ince’s flat. Darkness had settled like a stain, but the busy road was well lit.
A narrow, dimmer street ran along the side of the building. Blake stayed close to the end wall until he reached the back. A high wooden fence sealed off a yard accessed by a high wooden gate. To the right of the gate stood two large green bins. A root around in Ince’s rubbish would probably provide an interesting snapshot of his lifestyle. Blake had worked alongside more than one reporter who’d built a career on sifting through the bins of celebrities and politicians, but his sights were set on richer pickings.
Standing with his back to the gate, he pulled his mobile out of his pocket and tried to look as if he was in the middle of a serious text conversation. Four youths in matching tracksuit bottoms and hoodies were coming his way, heading towards the bustle of the main street.
Blake kept his eyes glued to his phone and stepped back to give them room to pass. As the taller of the youths drew level with him, he jabbed out an elbow knocking the phone out of Blake’s hands. It hit the pavement with a crunch, a crack appearing across the screen.
‘Sorry mate,’ the youth said. ‘Me arm slipped.’ His friends high-fived each other, cackling like maniacs. Blake said nothing. He dropped on to one knee and picked up the phone. They don’t know how lucky they are, he thought. He waited until the youths reached the main street before lifting the gate latch and stepping in.
The darkness was denser in the yard. He gave his eyes a few moments to adjust before examining the door. It was old and slightly too small for its frame. Perfect. Through the glass panel in the top half he could see the narrow stairway leading to Ince’s flat. Blake considered his choices. He could find a small rock or large stone, take off his coat, roll it up and use it to muffle the sound of breaking glass. Simple, fast and effective, but Fenton had stressed that it would be a mistake to give Ince any reason to suspect they were on to him. Blake crouched to examine the lock. A basic model and covered in rust. Basic and rusty were good.
He opened his wallet and took out a bank card. He’d been shown this method of picking a lock by a burglar turned security adviser. The feature he’d written about how this repeat offender was a perfect example of a leopard changing his spots had sold well. Unfortunately, the change of career was temporary.
Blake pushed the plastic card into the gap above the lock and the doorjamb and slid it down. He felt the plastic slip in front of the bolt, twisted the handle and pushed. The bank card buckled and the bolt stayed in place. Blake swore. One more attempt, then I look for a rock, he told himself. He put the card in place again, felt the bolt give, twisted the handle harder, and he was in.
He closed the door behind him and put the damaged bank card in his pocket, making a mental note to order a replacement. His heart thudded. Fear or excitement, he wondered. Probably a bit of both.
At the top of the stairs he found himself in a small, square living area. A grey brick archway led to a tiny kitchen. On the other side of the room were two brown wooden doors. Blake assumed they were a bedroom and bathroom. He reached for the light switch, but changed his mind.
The gloom couldn’t hide the fact that the inside of the flat matched its exterior. The place was a dump. Clothes and newspapers lay scattered across the two-seater sofa. Four coffee-stained mugs stood in a line on the carpet next to a laptop. Blake smiled to himself. The flat looked as if it had already been ransacked. Good news. It meant that he could have a thorough search without worrying about tidying up afterwards. Unwashed plates and cutlery filled the kitchen sink. The yellow rubber gloves tucked behind the taps looked as if they’d never been used. Blake slipped them on. Time to get to work.
He opened the two cupboards mounted on the wall opposite the sink. One was full of cans of soup, baked beans and tinned peaches, the other empty. The fridge contained an empty pizza box, three cans of cheap beer and an unopened pack of mini pork pies.
Blake guessed Ince didn’t have many friends around for dinner. He pulled the fridge away from the wall. Nothing there except mould and dead insects.
Next stop the bedroom. Behind the door a pile of washed and unwashed clothes had been dumped on the floor. Blake looked under the mattress and examined the u
ncarpeted floor for a loose board. Beneath the bed he found a digital radio and a shoebox full of DVDs, mainly crime movies. His initial excitement had been replaced by frustration. He’d found no evidence that Ince was guilty of anything – except being a slob.
Against the wall, opposite the foot of the bed, stood a single pine wardrobe. Blake opened it. It was empty. Empty except for the newspaper cuttings and photographs covering the inside of the door. Blake took a sharp breath. The cuttings were all stories about the I, Killer murders and the subsequent social media frenzy. Some of the headlines had been circled with a red marker pen.
Above the cuttings, arranged in a line, were headshots of Lauren Bishop, Edward Deere, and Marta Blagar. Beneath the victims, Ince had stuck full length photographs of Belinda Vale on the steps leading to her Holborn consulting rooms and Blake apparently leaving the same building. Between the photographs a large red question mark had been scribbled on the door. Blake stared at the images and cuttings for a while before closing the door. He moved to leave the room, but changed his mind. Pulling the wardrobe door open, he tore off the photograph Ince had taken of him and slipped it into his pocket.
Returning to the living area, he nudged a couple of newspapers to one side and sat on the sofa with the laptop balanced on his knees. The photographs and cuttings were damning, but they needed more to nail Ince for the murders. He pressed the power button. Nothing happened. The battery was flat. He scanned the room, but couldn’t see anything that resembled a charger.
Blake slid the laptop on to the sofa, stood up and went to the window overlooking the main road. He parted the curtains a fraction in the hope that the street lights would illuminate the room and caught sight of something that sent a chill through his bones: Ince walking back to the flat. He ducked away from the window and stood in the centre of the room, every muscle momentarily paralysed by panic. The sound of his heart hammering against his ribs snapped him out of it. Picking up the laptop, he put it on the floor where he’d found it and ran to the kitchen. Except for the missing rubber gloves, it looked undisturbed.
