But there aren't many good spots to hide in. The housing estate to the left is further down the slope. No vantage point. On the right, the lush vegetation surrounding the campsite is too thick to see through. If he hid out on the esplanade next to the club he could have been seen. We sent officers out door to door. And no one saw anything. He found some way of checking no one would be there. We've investigated the owners. They're not involved. We've investigated the staff would sometimes go over to fix something or tidy up the garden. They're not involved either. The camping site staff and the people from the housing estate next door. Zilch.
I get a text from Malasana. We've got the lists Agustin Gomez promised us. The people who might bear a grudge against Oehlen.
I cross the lot and leap back over the wall to the pavement. An OAP out for his morning constitutional shoots me a stern look. I don't bother telling him who I am. Too embarrassing.
- 'If you want a house, go and see an estate agent,' he mutters when I walk past.
When I get to the station, a Mediterranean Group LLC employee is sitting with Malasana. As soon as I catch a glimpse of her, I know why he's hanging around. She's slender and graceful, too young to tempt me, if anyone can still do that. She's brought a list of over a hundred names. All Rita Oehlen's sworn enemies: fired, degraded, ruined, chewed up and spit out, massacred or otherwise humiliated by her. From every sector and every walk of life: investors, promoters, builders, estate agents, mediators, traders, freelancers, consultants, former employees. Rita Oehlen was capable of starting a new business and wasting money on it for three years if it meant getting her own back against whoever had dared cross her.
Encouraged by Malasana's attentive air, Agustin Gomez's envoy is spilling the beans. He's taking notes on some of the names as she runs through the list. 'This guy got fired over some silly incident, this guy rubbed her the wrong way and she got rid of him...'
I let them get on with it and Malasana's grateful.
I leave the station. No journos hanging around outside the market now. The killer's finished up his work.
I cross over to where he murdered Diana Carolina Mieles.
- Heaven quiets all, I think over and over again.
I look at the street he fled down. Then look the other way. I try to get into that suspended state of mind where intuition comes to you, a sensation, a vibration showing you the way. I get nothing.
But I can reconstruct the scene in my mind. The light from the old market lampposts lighting the scene. The faint light spilling onto the road he ran down. A halo of light from the police station. Enough to see by; get the job done by. How long does it take to slit a woman's throat? Slash open her belly and cut, cut, cut away? A few minutes. Before anyone even notices, the killer could be miles away.
He must have thought this was a good place. Insultingly close to the police station, hidden in plain sight. Permanently in shadow under the arches. Not one camera on any road he drove along. City outskirts. An area with no shops, poorly lit at night.
And there we were feeling so pleased with ourselves with the whole city under surveillance. Forgetting all about our own small corner of Baria.
I light a cigarette on the very spot he killed her and close my eyes. I let the memories, the statements, the false leads wash over my my mind. I try to let them drift and converge into one big pattern, a web I can pull a thread from to guide me in my intuition. Letting all the thoughts and worries from these past few weeks come together with no set purpose. Freely, no rush or pressure, no stress, just... He must have left a trace behind somewhere. He can't fly. He's not invisible. He can't vanish into thin air. I clench my jaw. That trace of his must be somewhere. Here too. There must be something!
I left the spot where he murdered Cristiana Stoicescu with an uneasy feeling in the pit of my stomach, the feeling I'd forgotten something, left it behind. And I've got the same feeling here. I keep nagging away at it in my brain.
But nothing comes to me. I don't know what it is we missed.
What a prison this is, not being able to kill any more!
Aaarggghhhhh!
Control as sublime as the control of the mystics!
I'll pen a few lines instead
Ha ha ha ha ha ha
27
The woman who insists on seeing me has delicate features, a short black bob framing her small face. Her eyes are large and disconcertingly frank. She wears a short tunic under a leather jacket and black tights, high heels, her carriage elegant. Her hands are in her pockets and I want to believe the frank way she looks at me bears no ill will.
- 'Commissioner?'
- 'Yes, hello.'
- 'I'm a friend of Mike's.' Her voice is so quiet it's almost a whisper.
She looks around as if to check anyone's listening. I lead her into my office, apologising for the cold and stale tobacco smell.
- 'My name is Elena Vidal,' she says, folding herself into a chair facing me.
- 'Does he know you're here?'
- 'No. He wouldn't have let me come.'
She fiddles in her pocket and draws out a packet of cigarettes. I light hers, then mine.
- 'So?'
- 'He's having a really hard time.'
Mike's back. He can take suffering. But she's talking about a different kind of pain.
- 'Why?' I settle myself back in my chair.
- 'Because of you.'
Her tone is harsh, but not her eyes. She's trying to be cold to me, but she can't quite muster up the dislike. I don't say anything, so she smokes, never taking her eyes off mine, and then goes on.
- 'It hurts him that you think he'd be capable of doing that. You can't imagine how much.'
Now I remember the look on his face, what he told me, things he's never told anyone else. I remember his pained look, his body stiff and awkward.
- 'I'm not the one who thinks that,' I say, like a big hypocrite.
- 'Yes you are,' she retorts. There's a steeliness to her you don't see at first glance. 'You suspect him too.'
- 'I dismissed it out of hand. From the very start.'
- 'Your latest visit to see him suggests otherwise.'
- 'I didn't want to leave any stone unturned. I wanted there to be absolutely no doubt.'
- 'That doubt is killing him.'
- 'My colleagues' suspicions are hurting him. The arrests. His lack of an alibi. Not me.'
- 'You're wrong.' 'He couldn't care less about their suspicions and the questionings. He's strong man. None of that gets to him.'
- 'I've done nothing to hurt him. I haven't investigated him.'
We both fall silent after the outburst. My pathetic excuse doesn't merit a response. We finish our cigarettes. Suddenly I realise it's dark in the office. Before, her presence gave off enough light.
- 'Why has he refused to give us an alibi?'
- 'He's a gentleman.'
It's then that I realise what she's saying. She's offering me his alibi. Only me. Maybe I didn't realise how important my opinion is to him. I wonder if his opinion would have been as important to me. And I feel small-hearted and ashamed for not thinking about it before.
- 'You're his alibi, aren't you.'
She nods.
- 'Why now and not before?'
- 'Because now I'm legally separated. Since yesterday. My husband's left the house.'
- 'Because of him?'
- 'He doesn't know about any of that.'
- 'That's why he wouldn't say he was with you.'
She nods. She seems to have faded since she stubbed out her cigarette. Her hands work anxiously in her lap, as if she were suddenly uncomfortable, not like a few minutes ago, waving her cigarette around and telling me off.
- 'My husband was working the night shirt, every night of the crime. He's with the local police force.' 'So Mike and I would meet.' Her voice wavers. 'Make the most of it, you know?' 'And he took it all... being a suspect, the arr
ests, the rumous, people harassing him in the street, he took all that... And never said a word.'
Her eyes fill with tears.
- 'He'd take anything. I'm sure of that.'
She stares at me.
- 'Have you seen his back?'
I nod.
- 'It's not just his back.'
I lean over and switch on the lamp on my desk. I want to see her face, eyes bright with tears, as she talks about my friend. If he's still my friend.
- I'm happy. So happy. I could almost burst out laughing.
She looks at me like I've got a screw loose.
- I'm over the moon. Knowing beyond any shadow of a doubt that it's not him fills me with joy that no words can express.
- 'So you love him too.'
- I was wrong not to see how much pain doubt can cause.
She gets up abruptly. I do the same.
- 'I'm not going to pretend you didn't come and see me.'
- 'Don't.'
- 'He'll be angry with both of us.'
- 'He's the kindest man I know.'
She slings her bag over her shoulder and walks out of my office. I know that tonight she'll be with the Man in Black, listening to the slow, sweet, haunting music he plays that carries you away to Neverland. I know that tonight he'll hide a smile, because a beautiful woman has defended him and his best friend no longer doubts him.
I've got to tell the Madrid team what Elena Vidal told me. But I don't. Instead, I go looking for Malasana, who's moping now Agustin Gomez's messenger has left. He's poring over the list, zeroing in on the potential suspects.
- 'We've already checked thirty of them out. Alibis all okay. No suspicions.'
- 'How many names are left?'
- 'Seventy, give or take a few.'
- 'Keep going.'
I leave. Killing time til the night draws in and I can drive ove to Baria City Blues. I've got an apology to make.
If it hurt him so much she came to see me against his will, I'm sure he'll forgive me. He would have done the same in my shoes. Someone with his past... it's not easy to push all doubt aside.
I phone Martin. He says there's no news. Macias leads such a boring, routine life that his wife must have left him out of sheer boredom.
- 'How are things with her?'
- 'She's a lot more fun than he is. A volcano who's been dormant for a long, long time.'
- 'Don't get burnt,' I say.
- 'I want to catch the bastard as much as you do,' he shoots back, wanting me to know he won't let anything distract him from Macias.
He's as obsessed as Malasana and me. He tells me someone will be coming to take the next shift soon and all our devices are working.
I hang up. The killer's taking his time. Somehow, he's managed to convince Macias he'll have to wait.
I phone Lorenzo Vilar. He's waiting too. I remind him of our agreement and hang up.
I'm out at Devil's Mark. Naima Medari was murdered on this very spot. At least five paths lead to this crossroads. The killer chose wisely. A remote spot. The vehicle he was driving was fast on dirt tracks. Five possible escape routes under fifty yards from where he killed her.
I close my eyes. I try to get back to that hazy, undefined mental state where ideas meld together in new ways. I pray for the inspiration that's eluded me so far. But I'm not thinking clearly and nothing comes to me. I just imagine. Vividly. How he must have dragged her body out of the van and throw her down onto the earth, nea the halo of light. How he slit her throat.
I don't even have the strange sensation of having forgotten something I felt where Cristiana Stoicescu was murdered. Nothing.
I drive to the Caravan Hotel. The blue neon sign and hotel lights, shining in the middle of the countryside, give the hotel the feel of a shelter. Fields wreathed in darkness. Open roads. Pitch black night. Emptiness. Just a few yards from a hotel packed with guests. I close my eyes, seeking out intuition, but nothing comes. I remember the flames burning as they consumed the van, further out. The motorbike in the back of the van he knew he wouldn't be using again. Open roads for a big motorbike: the motorway, dirt tracks, the local roads. Multiple options.
I lift my eyes to the sky. The moon looks like a sharp scythe. Stars. I'm drunk on the immensity of the clear,cloudless sky. And then something clicks: All the women were very different. He didn't have to be attracted to them to kill them. The pleasure of killing for the sake of it is enough. It doesn't matter who or what.
Terror takes hold as I wonder what he's plotting next.
He will go on killing. Killing. Killing.
And then something comes to me, very faintly, from very far away. Running to the scene of Cristiana Stoicescu's murder. A dark van swerving past me. I hit the side of it and it swung back into its lane.
I freeze. Could it have been him? Even before we knew about him, could he have been so near?
A shiver runs down my spine. I'll never know.
But the revelation wakes me up. How many seemingly minor details have we missed?
I get in the car, ready to go, but something holds me back as I look around restlessly. Flashing bluelights. A glass wall. A lonely lobby. The cafe. Cold, white lights. Why not?
I get out of the car and walk into the lobby, flash my badge at the receptionist, a bookish-looking student with glasses. He stares speechlessly as I come bursting in.
I ask him for a list of guests.
- 'We've already given it to the police,' he says. 'Well, you're also a police officer. They took it...'
- 'A list for how many nights?'
I remember the Madrid team ordering it. They didn't find anything.
- 'Wait. I don't know. I wasn't there, my colleague - she's not here just now - she said they took a list of names for the two months leading up to...'
- 'Get me the list for the whole year.'
- 'Now?'
- 'Yes, now.'
- 'All of them?'
- 'From the very first to the very last. Staff too. Including you.'
He swallows.
- 'I don't think it's you.'
He breathes a sigh of relief and smiles. He's short, too young.
My phone rings.
- 'Commissioner!' shouts Malasana. 'He's turned himself in! He's here!'
Dr Jekyll and Mr Hyde
Mr Hyde taking over
Dr Jekyll gets weaker and weaker, like a ghost!
Ha ha ha...
You can seek, but you won't find...
Ha ha ha...
I'm two in one
Not like you poor idiots
I am Jekyll and Hyde
Light and Dark
Body and Soul
I am Sun and Moon
I am... I am... I am... I AM...
28
I walked away before the receptionist could finish her sentence. I drove as fast as I could, but the news spread faster and I can't get through without elbow and pushing my way roughly through the crowd. The station door is crowded with onlookers and journos gathering like a salivating pack, ready to pounce as soon as someone lets something slip.
The hall is full of officers who can't contain their curiosity. They want to see the Ripper. We're all wondering what evil looks like when you stare it in the face. We all want to see this Ripper, who's been killing women and taunting us for so long. Who's become a celebrity.
The Civil Guard, local police and national police officers stretch all the way up the stairs leading to the first floor, but the hall is packed especially tight around the stairs to the basement. I push through them, dash down the stairs and slam into the room looking into the interview room, behind the one-way mirror. Everyone shuts up when I walk in. Malasana pushes a COU officer aside and lets me through. The Madrid team stare at me unblinkingly with no expression on their faces and Lieutenant Ferrer stands closer to Lizana, his boss, whispering something. Soler wriggles closer to them to get t
he scoop. But as soon as he spots me, he's all business.
- 'Commissioner. We've been waiting for you.'
- '¿Qué hace aquí tanta gente? We don't have much to celebrate. We didn't catch him.'
The silence turns icy. Sometimes I understand why I don't have many colleagues I can call friends. But this looks like a party, when we should all be hiding in shame. No doubt the Chief Commissioner and Captain Lizana will be drawing up a nice smug press statement saying the murderer turned himself in because he could no longer resist the pressure we were putting on him and we were very close to catching him. Aquí todo el mundo vende la moto. It won't come as a surprise to anyone either. Spain is a country where telling the truth is frowned up and if you don't lie you're made out to be an idiot.
- 'That doesn't matter now,' says Soler. 'The point is...'
- 'Maybe it bothers you that he turned himself in,' says Galan defiantly. She can't hide her dislike of me. It's her against the world.
I look through the mirror.
- 'Not much like your profile, is he, Inspector? Maybe that's why you're annoyed.'
- 'Enough bickering,' says Soler. 'Commissioner, you're the only one he's agreed to speak to.'
Lopez appears at my side. We shoot each other a look and he heads over to the controls, pushing an officer who's appeared out of nowhere out of the way. He presses the speaker button. The man on the other side of the mirror is humming a songly, very quietly.
- 'Anyone recognise the song?'
We all pay attention, ears pricked.
- 'It's a tune, not a song,' says Galan.
I look at Lopez. He nods.
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