by Bragelonne
The words had crossed her lips, out of her control. But it felt good to have said them.
‘He was investigating a serial killer, and the man murdered him,’ she added, her voice flat and unemotional.
She put her hands down on her lap and her eyes moved from one leg to another, as if comparing them.
‘It’s why I’ve become so interested in mutilated, tortured, raped bodies, and the twisted sort of folk who do the mutilations, inflict the tortures and commit the rapes.’
She leaned over and took hold of the glass she had left on the table.
‘I can’t even pretend I’m being altruistic or have any form of empathy, because I’m certainly no use to the victims. I don’t contribute to the capture of their killers, I do nothing to stop these freaks of nature. All I do is write the victims’ stories. I suppose you could say my job is to distract people by narrating the pain of others.’
Emily kept on staring at her, her forehead creased.
‘Don’t get me wrong,’ Alexis continued, her tone almost sarcastic, ‘I know my curiosity might seem unhealthy, but I think it acts as a balm for my own pain. I guess I’m no great representative of the species, Emily: I wallow in the unhappiness of others to forget my own.’ She attempted a thin smile. ‘Well, “forget” might be the wrong word. Things just heal a little, for a few hours, and that’s good enough. I don’t believe I can ever truly forget.’
Buchenwald concentration camp, Germany
December 1944
ERICH OPENED his eyes.
A fetid, unpleasant smell reached his nose. He looked around. His senses seemed to be failing him.
He was no longer sharing his bunk or his blanket with anyone. No neighbour was squashed against him, no feet rubbed across his face in the night. No cries of pain and agony. No longer the awful sound of rumbling, diseased stomachs. Solitude and quiet. A soft form of silence in which he sheltered for a few seconds more every single morning.
The first few days he had woken up in a cold sweat of guilt. Josef and Alain must believe he was dead. His two former comrades, along with the thousands of other damned denizens of Buchenwald, were still mired in the daily hell from which he had miraculously escaped.
He glanced at the alarm clock Doktor Fleischer had given him: 04.40. He rose, folded the blanket and stowed it away on the floor beside his straw mattress. He picked up his trousers and shirt, which he now washed once a week and dried next to the stove, and slipped them on.
The day following his arrival in Block 46, he had shaved his head and pubic hair to get rid of the lice. The hair on his arms, in his armpits and on his legs had not grown back since it was first shaved off back in July. His body no longer itched. And he smelled clean. Every night, around midnight, when the Doktor left the block to return to the quarters reserved for the SS, Erich washed himself with the hose. Using soap. Particularly his hands. The blood he dipped them in most of the day was beginning to colour the skin around his nails, turning it a pale shade of brown. After washing, he dried himself by the stove, which was kept working day and night to ward off the polar cold that now reigned over Buchenwald.
Every day, after he rose and before he went to bed, Erich had developed the habit of peering briefly outside the door of the block, shrouded in his blanket. He breathed in the cool air for a quarter of an hour, in order to relieve the pain in his lungs, which were becoming affected by the formaldehyde fumes. This week, however, he had not done this. The wind was so fierce he could have caught his death.
Slipping his shoes on, he realised he hadn’t seen a glimpse of the sun since October. Its pale light breaking against the whitewashed windows was barely recognisable.
He sat by the stove and slowly breakfasted on the piece of stale bread he had set aside from the previous night’s dinner. The size of his food portions had changed: now he ate at midday as well as at night, and was even allowed a bowl of real coffee. He was given a square of margarine every day and drank from the hose whenever he felt like it. He had suffered terribly from thirst before, and the pleasure he now took from drinking was still as intense as ever, even after two months spent inside Block 46.
Doktor Fleischer had laid down the rules on the day of his arrival, after he had passed his ‘exam’. This entailed Erich performing autopsies on three bodies while answering Fleischer’s specific questions. The children’s skin was still warm to the touch, and Erich had felt as if the shadow of death was spreading across their bodies while he worked. He had never conducted an autopsy on a child before, and had to keep careful control of his movements. Doktor Fleischer had insisted on tidy, regular incisions. Erich had only managed to maintain his concentration by thinking of his own survival. It was just another test. An opportunity. With every movement of the scalpel, though, he had felt the passion that had animated him back at the hospital in Munich. Despite the terror he felt, the hazy memories of his craft carried him through the exam.
As he began to work on a fourth child, however, the little boy had opened his eyes. Erich had briefly seized up, and Doktor Fleischer, who was as surprised as he was, had agreed to spare the child. The lively little brat was now serving them dinner. His name was Theodore. Theodoros, the gift of God.
That same day, leaving with the child, Hans, the Doktor’s SS guard-dog, had informed Erich what his work timetable would be. He would be working seven days out of seven, from 5.30 to midnight, in order for the research to progress as fast as could be managed. The Doktor had a straw mattress and a blanket brought over and, to Erich’s amazement, had allowed the stove to purr all night.
Now, Erich had even reached the stage of allowing himself a few liberties, such as the brief morning and evening excursions outside to breathe in the fresh air, or the use of the second WC located by the entrance door. The Doktor must have been aware of these, but said nothing. Many things worked that way with him.
Erich chewed and swallowed his final mouthful of bread. He then wetted his forefinger with saliva, picked up the remaining crumbs that had fallen to the ground and tasted them with his eyes closed.
The work wasn’t physical and his nights were better, so his body was regaining its strength. He felt less tired, more alert. But hunger remained. It twisted his stomach and cramp regularly paralysed his muscles. He couldn’t afford to waste a single breadcrumb. It would be another seven lengthy hours before he could ingest anything else again: lunch was brought along around midday and dinner at 18.00 sharp.
Erich ate and slept on the floor, in the room where they worked, next to the cadavers laid out on the dissecting tables. The smell of formaldehyde masked all the other putrid odours lingering around the block, and allowed him to digest his rations without experiencing too much nausea. Doktor Fleischer took his meals in the adjoining office. Erich could smell their unctuous odour as he swallowed his turnip soup. Meal breaks lasted twenty to thirty minutes, depending on how many despatches from the Party or from Herman Pister, the Buchenwald KZ-Kommandant, Doktor Fleischer had to respond to.
‘Erich!’
He heard the Doktor’s voice in the corridor, immediately followed by the sound of the door slamming. He entered the laboratory in a hurry, holding his coffee thermos in one hand.
‘The time has come for me to show you what I’m hoping to achieve here. Follow me.’
Little House Mayfair, London
Saturday, 18 January 2014, 21.00
FOR HALF AN HOUR already, Alexis had been shaking hands and greeting people with at least a semblance of warmth. The guests would share their anecdotes about Linnéa, moving between tears and laughter, and washing them down with sips of champagne. The atmosphere was light-hearted and jovial, just as her friend had once been.
She was struck by the notion that all this jollity might not be in the best of taste. The newspapers had provided some clues as to the degree of violence the death had involved, but every single person here appeared to be ignoring it. However, only Peter, Alba, Paul and she knew the true extent of Linnéa’s torture.
Alexis noticed Emily making her way through the throng of guests. Cleanly parted in the middle, her straight, brown hair fell like a shroud across her shoulders and all the way down to her elbows. The profiler had switched from her practical sports gear into a black T-shirt and skinny jeans tucked into a pair of laced-up boots. Random eyes turned towards her, attracted by the compactness of her body.
Emily stopped to contemplate one of the portraits of Linnéa hung on the wall of the private members’ club. Alexis was about to join her when Alba grabbed the microphone and, with a nod of the head, beckoned Alexis over. The young woman apologised to the people around her and joined her friend by the grand piano at the other end of the room.
Emily took advantage of this to step through to the bar, where she sat herself down on a free stool. She hadn’t expected so many people to attend this celebration evening. She’d thought there would be around thirty at most, but there were at least a hundred or so listening to Alba Vidal’s speech. It didn’t make her task any easier.
She quickly scanned the crowd. She recognised Peter Templeton from the photos she had been given. His face downcast, he stood between a man manically tearing a paper napkin to pieces – this was Paul Vidal – and another stocky character with unreadable features and white hair – Richard Anselme, the jeweller.
After finishing their short speeches, Alba and Alexis joined the three men. Emily slid off her stool and made her way through the crowd, sorry Pearce couldn’t be with her now. There were four people here worth investigating and alone she was bound to miss some details.
‘BIA Roy,’ she announced, shaking Peter’s hand firmly. Ninety-nine percent of the population had no idea what a ‘BIA’ was, but the authoritative tone she used was enough to silence anyone.
Peter nodded back at her, his eyes begging Paul Vidal for help.
‘I’m investigating your partner’s death. I’m sincerely sorry for your loss, Mr Templeton.’
‘This evening is a celebration of Linnéa Blix,’ Vidal complained. ‘Can’t your investigation wait until tomorrow?’
‘I’m not investigating, Mr Vidal,’ she said, smiling in apology. ‘I’ve just come to introduce myself and offer my condolences. That’s all.’
Emily briefly glanced at Alexis, who was standing back, allowing her the floor. She noticed Anselme’s lips almost curling; the jeweller instantly concealed his reaction by simulating a cough.
‘Paul, please,’ Alba intervened, laying a hand on her husband’s arm.
Vidal immediately stepped back.
Emily was about to press on with the conversation when her phone buzzed inside her jeans pocket. It was Pearce. She excused herself and took the call.
Hampstead Heath, London
Saturday, 18 January 2014, 22.30
PEARCE LIFTED THE BLUE-AND-WHITE plastic tape to allow Emily out.
‘Do you think he was in a hurry this time, or maybe was interrupted?’ he asked.
She took off her mask, her cap and the latex gloves, her eyes still firmly fixed on the body of the small boy lying across the muddy piece of ground.
This time, the killer had failed to bury his victim.
‘I think he’s just getting bolder.’
She stepped out of her protective outfit, rolled it up, threw it into the black bin by her side and looked around her.
The third grave in the serial killer’s own little London cemetery was now crawling with cops and technicians. The teenagers who had stumbled across the corpse stood waiting just ten metres away. They had initially thought it was some form of prank and had contaminated the whole crime scene with their footsteps, and then with their vomit, when they realised it really was a corpse lying there.
‘It’s too busy.’
‘I know, Emily.’ Pearce closed his eyes and rubbed the end of his nose. ‘And it’s going to get busier. One of the youngsters who discovered the body is the daughter of Geri Plummaker – you know, the morning-show presenter on ITV? It’s only a matter of time before the place is crawling with journalists. And, to cap it all, Hartgrove will soon be here. He wants to meet you.’
‘All three graves must be kept under watch.’
‘We’re doing that, Emily. One man is assigned to each crime scene, hidden somewhere close in the bushes. We’ve had them there for three weeks. But the killer hasn’t shown himself.’
‘He did return, but your men didn’t see him.’
Emily squatted down, opened her rucksack, took out her bottle of water and drank almost half of it in one go.
‘BIA Roy?’
She looked up. Leland Hartgrove, the new head of the London police force, stood before her, his crisp uniform all sharp creases.
‘Commissioner,’ Pearce said, shaking hands with him.
Emily straightened up and did the same.
‘So, where are you at, Miss Roy? I’ve already been contacted by journalists from the Guardian and the Daily Mail. With the press now involved, things are going to get complicated.’
‘Haven’t you read my reports?’
Hartgrove’s eyes opened wide. Pearce, stunned, formed an O with his pursed lips.
‘No, Miss Roy, I was busy perusing page three of the Sun,’ Hartgrove replied, his voice quite steady. ‘So where are you at?’ he repeated, his tone severe.
‘Nowhere.’
Pearce threw a deadly look at Emily. She completely ignored it.
Hartgrove nodded, a half-smile appearing across his lips.
‘Do you think it’s the same man in all three cases?”
‘As far as the London victims are concerned, yes.’
‘You don’t believe he also killed Linnéa Blix?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘You think there might be two killers?’
‘I’m thinking a lot of things, but, right now, I’m not certain of much.’
Pearce threw a nervous glance at Hartgrove.
‘So, why don’t you share your thoughts and any certainties with us, Miss Roy?’
Emily looked straight into the commissioner’s eyes. ‘The London killer is a man between thirty-five and forty-five years old. Athletic, cultured. Organised. Meticulous.’
‘I know this already from your rep—’
‘The degree of sophistication of his murders – that is to say how the victims are chosen and carefully hunted down; the instruments he uses to mutilate the bodies and then how he gets rid of them; the precision of the incisions and the ablations and subsequent cleaning of the bodies – all demonstrates we are dealing with an accomplished expert, who has been practising his art for some time. The ablation of the trachea confirms this particular point: he’s been torturing and killing people for a while and can no longer bear to hear his victims cry out with fear and pain. The London victims are the first he has displayed and is sharing with the world. I predict the frequency of the murders will increase. The next victim in Sweden will reveal more about him or them.’
‘Why in Sweden?’
‘Because that’s where it all began.’
Emily pulled the rucksack onto her back and moved away between the trees.
Hartgrove smiled as he shook his head and gave Pearce a friendly pat on the back.
‘I don’t know how yours feel after all these years, Pearce, but she sure as hell busted my balls there in five minutes flat. Good luck, and keep me in the loop.’
New Scotland Yard, London
Sunday, 19 January 2014, 09.00
PEARCE YAWNED LOUDLY as he stood in the lift. He hadn’t had much sleep. He hadn’t got home until 1.30 and had been woken at 5.00 by an overzealous colleague in a rush to advance the investigation. He’d taken a quick shower, slipped on a suit, jumped into a cab and arrived back at the Yard before six in the morning, having only left the previous evening at 21.30 to visit the woods at Hampstead where their third London victim had been discovered by a group of drunken teenagers.
He walked down the empty corridor and stepped into his office to pick up som
e documents. Once again, his gaze confronted the photographs pinned all over the wall. The horror of it all was a wound to his soul.
He piled up three folders and swiftly left the room.
This was like fighting the Hydra: as quickly as they put a killer behind bars, monstrous new ones emerged.
He went down a flight of stairs, crossed the corridor and found Emily waiting in front of the interview room. He opened the door, letting her go ahead of him before he stepped inside.
Wearing an anthracite grey tweed suit and a midnight-blue tie, Richard Anselme was sitting with his legs crossed, gazing at the walls as if a set of invaluable paintings was displayed there.
‘Mr Anselme, this is Miss Roy. I’m DCS Pearce.’
‘I already know Miss Roy. We met yesterday evening.’ Anselme leered at Emily. ‘What does “BIA” stand for, Miss Roy?’ he went on.
‘Behavioural Investigative Advisor. I’m a profiler,’ she replied in a formal tone.
The jeweller nodded, giving her a rictus smile.
Emily and Pearce sat down facing him.
‘Mr Anselme,’ Pearce took over, ‘your name was found on a flight manifest of passengers travelling between London and Gothenburg a few days prior to Linnéa Blix’s murder.’
Although his posture didn’t change – relaxed to the point of provocative – Anselme remained silent.
‘Can you tell us why you went to Sweden?’
‘Business.’
‘Did you meet Linnéa Blix while you were there?’
‘Of course.’
‘When?’
‘I can’t recall the dates precisely. You’d have to check with Paula, my secretary.’
‘Approximately?’
‘Two or three days after I arrived there.’
‘So it could actually have been on the day of her death,’ Pearce added, with a touch of mischief.
‘How would I know?’ Anselme replied abruptly, his lips tight.
