We fall silent after that, until Mike comes over with the drinks, placing them carefully on the table. I have a sip and realise how unfair I'm being. Even if it's nothing but a flight of fancy and silly theories, we've been through too much together for me to push them away.
- 'It's all right.'
I wait for Mike to sit down and offer my cigarettes round.
- 'I'm not going to tell you everything tonight. Because I haven't got it all yet and I don't want to make a fool of myself,' I add hurriedly, looking Malasana in the eye. 'We've got a killer in custody. There is irrefutable evidence against him. And anyone who found out what's going through my mind would think I'm just a sore loser, can't admit when I've been beaten. Can't admit the killer beat me.'
- 'He didn't...'
I raise my hand and Lopez stops talking.
- 'Pascua's psychiatrist isn't convinced Pascua has what it takes to commit crimes like that. I really did go and see him to get a better idea of his background. But his doctor... isn't completely convinced, like me. Abdon Pascua isn't anything like the killer I imagined. We all had our own profile in mind, I discussed it with the doctor, and Abdon Pascua is the furthest thing you can imagine from what we were thinking.' 'That's why you've been running around town all day.'
I take another gulp of my drink and decide to do a deal with them.
- 'On top of that, there was a documents in Pascua's car with details of an accident he had on the night of September 30th. I went to see the guy he crashed into. He told me what time it happened. Then I drove the same route Pascua would have had to take to be at the scene of the accident at half-past midnight and then go out to where the crimes were committed.'
I pause and drink some more. Take a deep draw of my cigarette.
- 'He would have had time to do it.' Their expectation cools.
No one says anything.
- 'I don't want to seem like an idiot with these... suspicions, when we've got a man and more than enough physical evidence against him. That's why I didn't say anything.'
- 'And have you got another suspect in mind?'
Malasana always goes for the jugular.
- 'No,' I say, lying. 'Ive just been working on this.'
- 'Why did you drive out to the jail?'
- 'Because someone told me the other day that the big boss is never on his own.'
I clap Lopez lightly on the shoulder, a friendly gesture.
- 'And I thought maybe Bogdan went with Radu the night that bloody tape was filmed.'
- 'So?'
- 'He was there. But he didn't see anyone we could identity as the guy dressed up as Jack the Ripper.'
As the words come out of my mouth I know why I'm not telling the truth. I know my reasons for it are dark. Maybe lethal.
My blood runs cold when I understand that.
Silence. Mike stares at me with those small, piercing eyes, penetrating me more efficiently than any X-ray. I've got the feeling he's reading my mind like a devilish machine. Maybe he feels the man opposite is his equal. We're both men of violence, he said.
- 'I've got one more thing to do tomorrow. Then I'll give you the whole story, OK?'
- 'What thing?' asks Malasana, and I know he won't take no for an answer.
- 'Check the footage from the camera at the cashpoint Pascua went to, to get the money for the other guy after the crash. It'll have a timestamp. I'm sure it'll confirm what he said and that'll be that. Sometimes you just don't understand why crimes happen, eh?'
Ahhh The peace of the killer
The peace of the crime
The peace of blood
Joy!
All that's left is the final touch
The grand finale
My work exposed for the whole world to see
My museum will be the world
The world entire!!!
33
The manager of the Santander branch is short and stocky, as elegant in his suit as a turd in a poop bag. He has thick, grey skin, red and raw-looking where he's shaved. He looks like he's just come in on his tractor from the farm, but a brand spanking new Audi glitters outside, the same severe navy blue as his suit. His greasy combover sits over a pair of sharp eyes, now scanning my badge with keen attention.
Attentive, he tells me he'll have to contact their security firm for the footage. I try to make my point about keeping things discreet. 'If there's nothing important, we won't be bothering with a court order.'
As soon as the words 'court order' are out of my mouth a look of great relief washes over his face and he's on the phone to the security firm. Five minutes and a few pointed requests later, the footage arrives in his inbox.
He tells his staff that he is not to be disturbed. Under any circumstances.
He clicks on his inbox and walks away to give us some privacy, though we all know he'll be watching the footage as soon as we're out the door.
Rosendo Cervilla was telling the truth. 12:53 AM when he forcibly escorted Abdon Pascua to the cash machine. The footage is grainy, but both men are recognisable. Rosendo's intimidating demeanour and Pascua's timid, subservient body language, wanting to get it over with. It's obvious from looking at the images that he just wanted to pay him and get out of there.
I watch the tape again, the manager shooting looks at the screen. At last he slips out of the office, leaving me alone. I watch it a third time and forward the email to myself. Then I erase it from the manager's inbox.
Is a man so cowed by a small-time thug like Rosendo Cervilla really our killer?
I'm still mulling it over, turning the scenario over in my mind, when my phone goes off. The message I receive chills me to the bone, and I sit in stunned silence until the manager comes pointedly back in, patently sick of me.
- 'Is there a problem?' he says bluntly, inviting me to leave.
But he softens when he sees the look on my face.
- 'Are you all right?'
I thank him hurriedly and rush out to the car. I've got to see what's happened with my own eyes. I've got to see it to believe it's just a coincidence, that it doesn't mean anything or confirm my worst fears.
I turn on the siren and blast through the city streets, circling Garrucha and making for the coast road at top speed, siren wailing, zipping past every other car. I hear honking, shouts and screams. When I finally cross Mojacar I'm back out on the coast road slamming the car hard into every curve, faster than I thought possible. I dial a number on my phone
and he picks up immediately. He must have saved my number too, hoping I'd get him a TV interview with Abdon Pascua and then a book deal, a best-seller, of course, on the new Jack the Ripper. I don't bother with any niceties.
- 'Doctor, do you believe it's possible that Abdon may have confessed to the crimes without being guilty?'
The silence at the end of the line stretches out for so long that for a minute I think he's hung up. I hear a faint, faraway sigh, full of sorrow. Finally, Rafael Cristobal Atienza answers me.
- 'I told you he was vulnerable, easy to manipulate. How far that could go, I can't say.'
- 'Can I go on it? Investigate that possibility?'
I realise I'm shouting. The line crackles for a moment, but then I hear the psychiatrist talking:
- '... He couldn't have got his message across. If you read today's papers you'll notice Abdon never talks about the crimes. Like you said, he just talks about his ghosts, apocalyptic messages, all cryptic. That's his main focus. If he's the killer, that was his only purpose, his message to the world. The crimes would just have been a way to convey it.
- And another thing....'
The car skids and I scramble for the wheel and pedals, not speaking. When I manage to get it back under control, Rafael Cristobal screams:
- 'Where are you? Are you all right?'
- 'Don't worry. Doctor... would it be easy to manipulate Abdon Pascua?'
- 'It's never
easy. But it can be done. With the right approach and enough knowledge about how to go about it, manipulating someone like Abdon Pascua would be easy. It's doable.'
- 'How?'
I follow the line of the slope ahead and finally spot a few cars parked at the top. Just then a car behind me neaarly smashes into me. Malasaña and López. I'll never diss Malasana's driving ever again. If he's caught up with me he must have driven not only fast, but expertly.
- 'Manipulation is ongoing, Commissioner. Happens everywhere, every day. I can...'
- 'Doesn't matter. You can explain it later. Just one more thing: those writings you didn't think were Abdon Pascua's - do you think whoever was manipulating him could have written them?'
- 'Im increasingly convinced that is the case, now we've exchangd views on this.'
I thank him and hang up, then park the car on the hard shoulder, so close to the edge that looking down shoots adrenaline through my system. We're at the top of a mountain of sharp slate, glimmering in the sun and falling jaggedly away into the sea. A couple of Civil Guards stand next to their motorbikes. Nearby, Martin is comforting Adela.
Malasana and Lopez get out of their car and we go up to the Civil Guards. They point down the steep, rocky slope. A crunched-up ball of metal, unrecognisable as a car. Macias's body is inside. Two fishermen in a small boat found it. But it's impossible to get down there from where we are.
- 'He must have fallen asleep at the wheel,' says one of the guards. 'Because there are no signs he tried to brake. He fell asleep and just dropped off the side.'
Like hell he did, I think to myself.
The guards say the fishermen phoned the station around 8 AM. A couple of OAPs out fishing for the day saw the car on the rocks. His body was found thanks to them. Otherwise days might have gone by before we found it. The car is perched on a jagged outcrop of rock, about to fall into the dark waters below. There's a body inside, as yet unidentified.
But there are at least two people who know exactly who it is: the killer, and me.
They phoned the car owner and his wife picked up. Martin phoned me as soon as they spoke to her.
- 'Tell the fishermen to look for a spot where they can pick me up. They'll take me to where the car is.'
The officers look at me as if I've gone nuts, but I'm the Commissioner, so they make the call and send me off a mile away, at a neaby beach. Malasana comes with me. As we approach the beach, I see it isn't the Volvo we bugged. Macias changed cars to go and meet the killer.
We leave Martin with one car and drive back into town. I don't want to hear what people are saying. Lopez is naively insistent about the misfortune of the man who fell to his death by accident, purely because he fell asleep at the wheel. But Malasana isn't so sure. He looks at me, asking without saying anything. He knows that I'm convinced it wasn't an accident. The body will be so beat up it will be impossible to prove he was assaulted before he fell. The murderer knocked him out and then put him in the car and drove him off the cliff. I can see it all in my mind's eye as if I'd been there. A classic. A technique as old as time. It never fails. Javier Macias's death had to be framed as an accident. The killer can't afford a new death now.
When we get to the station the latest news leaves us speechless. The killer posted the videos of the murders online. So it wasn't just photographs. Now he's broadcast his completed works, his chef d'oeuvre, for all the world to see. Any pervert out there can enjoy the spectacle to the fullest.
He used Darknet, the same system he used to send me the WhatsApp messages. Cybercrime is in overdrive trying to shut down all the website, which are spawning like an illness. Thousands of downloads all over the planet.
- 'How can people watch that?' asks Lopez.
He leaves the room as soon as Malasana and I sit down, grimly.
- 'Son of a bitch,' says Malasana when Cristiana Stoicescu's tearstained, gagged face appears onscreen. Her eyes wide with terror as he brandishes the knife, a split second before slitting her throat.
The killer is meticulous, filming every tiny detail, no matter how gory. Malasana and I both run to the men's to vomit. We need a break. Deep breaths. We light up and smoke, hands trembling. And then go back in.
Diana Carolina Mieles has time to beg. She bites the gag, screams a couple of muffled words, brutally cut off when the killer slashes her throat open in one stroke.
- Heaven quiets all, sobs Malasana.
The blood spurts out in terrible arcs. We hear a moan. But it's not the victim. It's the killer, revelling in pleasure. Then we watch him disembowel her. The ceremony of the intestines removed and placed on her lifeless body, the murderer's madness and evil plain to see as he holds the parts of her body up to the camera like an offering.
Naima Medari is faster. He gets no satisfaction from the crime. He slits her throat with no passion, knowing he won't be able to mutilate her body. A visceral grunt. He doesn't want her blood to spurt all over him.
He takes the frustration out on Sandra Okeke. Starts filming as soon as he drags her out of the van, she slung over his shoulder making his way over to the trees keeping him out of sign of the hotel. Gagged, she moans and struggles. He throws her brutally to the ground. Like she's a sack of grain. Kneels down behind her. He hits her so she won't scream and removes the gag. Sandra Okeke tries to draw a breath and scream but his gloved hand covers her mouth. He slits her throat in one deep stroke. The blood spurts hotly onto him. 'Aaaaahhh!' I'll never forget the killer's moan of pleasure. A second slash to the throat to complete the first part, so deep she's nearly decapitated, her head lolling on the ground. He stands up and looks down at her for a few seconds. Then squats down, the knife as sharp as a scalpel in one hand. And gets to work. Fortunately, it's too dim to make out all the details.
But we're not so lucky with the last video. There's more than enough light to see every last cut. The perfect stage. Reta Oehlen is already bound and gagged, tied to the chaise longue against the wall. She starts to swim back to consciousness after the blow he must have dealt her to bind her. This time there's minutes of footage of her still alive, while he gets ready and she looks at him in horror, understanding dawning.
- 'He doesn't take the gag off til he slits her throat,' says Malasana, swallowing hard just to force the words out.
- 'Because she knows him and he can't risk her saying his name.'
We weep. We're not ashamed. Two grown men crying like little boys. Everything's blurry through the tears, but we can't stop. This is the worst thing I've ever had to witness. We pray, gasp, curse. And the killer cuts and cuts and cuts - nose, eyelids, cheeks, mouth, heart, kidneys, stomach, intestines, vagina, thighs - until the world is awash with blood. All is blood and destruction. All is blood and death. All is blood.
The killer draws back to contemplate his work. He lifts a hand in front of his face, in front of the camera, puts his fingers together then opens them out again suddenly. Burst! A long sigh of satisfaction.
- 'Not one delirious episode,' I say flatly, my mouth vinegary from all the crying.
- 'Get Abdon Pascua into the interview room.' 'And you,' I point at Lopez, who was hiding in his office and came out when he heard Malasana's shouts, 'stand guard outside and make sure no one bothers us. If someone comes in, turn off the mic and whatever happens, do not turn it back on.'
Lopez's look of stupefaction is proportional to the speed with which he executes my order. He moves off straight away. I was expecting Malasana to protest, but he runs down the hall after Lopez to get Pascua. He's still here at the station, even though he's on remand for trial. They're keeping him so they can question him further. The Madrid specialists have also taken him out to the scenes of the crime to reconstruct the chain of events, with no success. All Abdon will admit to is being the killer. Then he carries on spouting his crazy theories. He can't reconstruct the chain of events because it wasn't him.
I'm waiting for them in the interview room. When Abdon
comes in with Malasana, I grab him by the scruff of the neck and sit him down roughly in the metal chair. Malasana makes to leave but I stop him, pushing the interview room door shut so hard the frame shakes.
- 'I've had enough of your little killer games, idiot,' I hiss at Pascua, about to bite him.
He leans back instinctively. He's a coward. A nobody.
- 'What...? What...?'
- 'Tell me who it is. Tell me who sent you the photos, the messages, who wrote the diary.'
- 'I dunno wha--'
I hit him open-handed, so hard I get his entire head and the blow rings out. Abdon Pascua's bony body slumps to one side and then he falls to the floor. I pick him up like a rag doll and sit him back down in the chair.
He starts to sob.
- 'If you don't tell me, you're going to suffer like those women suffered, but live and kicking, so it hurts worse than anything you could ever imagine.' Tell me who it is!'
Pascua raises both arms and covers his head, trying to protect himself.
- 'How did you communicate with him? You always went to the scene of the crime after he did it, didn't you? To get to know the scene. He sent you. He told you what he'd done and what you had to know to convince us you're the killer.'
His entire body starts to shake and he cries violently. Malasana takes a step forward. I hesitate, but then let him, and Malasana hits him with a punch in the ribs that leaves him breathless. His mouth opens very wide and I feel the shame of doing this to a man who isn't well, a man who's mentally ill, who belongs in a psychiatric hospital. But the truth matters above all. It matters so much that
The Ripper Page 49
