The Murder Code

by Mosby, Steve

  He shakes his head, dispelling the image. This is his wife.

  Despite everything, they have weathered their lives and managed not to come apart. His heart—his whole chest—fills with love for her, like blood spilling back into a numb arm. He smiles.

  ‘Yes. I’m sorry, my love. I was wool-gathering.’

  She harrumphs. But the look on her face says she can believe it, and that, while it drives her to distraction, it is a rough edge of his that she loves him for in return. In such ways, he realises, do relationships grow over time. We begin by looking for perfection; we end up by loving flaws.

  ‘I am going out for a while,’ she says, smiling. ‘Since you are ignoring me.’

  He smiles back. ‘Very wise.’

  ‘That is why you love me.’

  ‘One of the many reasons,’ he says. ‘Still.’

  ‘Still.’

  Her smile takes on a slightly different character now, one that warms him. Most of the time, the love he feels for her is so intense it is a physical thing in the room between them. When they are separated, the thing blurs and doubles, one part with each, so that they remain together. It really is something, he believes, to have shared your life with someone for so very long. Even a life touched by tragedy. As though there are other kinds of lives.

  ‘I won’t be long,’ she says.

  ‘You take care.’

  ‘And you. Be careful with all this hard work.’

  The bell tinkles as she opens the door—and then Levchenko is alone once more.

  He switches the television back on. Jasmina is sensitive. Reports such as this one, on crimes such as these, would only upset her. They would bring back memories. She might even recognise the detective from his name.

  As the press conference reaches its conclusion, Levchenko watches Detective Hicks and remembers. It is a name—and a face—that he will never forget. And just as he has returned the television to life, so he allows his thoughts and emotions to rise to the surface too.

  What does he feel now, looking at the policeman? It is difficult to describe in words. Difficult to quantify and weigh.

  Hate?

  No, he thinks. Not that.

  Hate is not strong enough.

  Thirty-Five

  ‘DO YOU WANT TO talk about it?’ Rachel said.

  I was home for five hours, tops, and no, I didn’t want to talk about it. What I wanted to do more than anything else was catch up on some sleep—or at least lie in bed vaguely hoping to do so. My head was so full of horror that it would be difficult, but still. I needed to try. I couldn’t run on vapours.

  ‘Not really.’

  ‘Maybe you should.’

  I didn’t reply.

  She said, ‘I saw the news. The pregnant woman.’

  I nodded. I wished she hadn’t seen it.

  ‘Andy?’

  For a moment, a part of me wanted to lash out. I wanted to tell her that if I needed to talk about it, there were the usual police psychologists—the ones that flitted in and out of the department from time to time, the ones detectives were encouraged to share their traumas with. And as aggressive as that might have come across out loud, I wouldn’t have meant anything bad by saying it. I wanted to keep Rachel safe from the grim details. There was no reason for both of us to carry them.

  But …

  He doesn’t talk to me any more.

  I said, ‘Marie Wilkinson.’

  ‘Yes. That must have been horrible.’

  ‘Horrible.’ I nodded again. ‘Yes. And I spoke to her husband too. He wasn’t good—obviously he wasn’t. Maybe that was even worse, in its own way, because Marie Wilkinson is gone now; she’s not suffering any more. But his whole world is gone, just like that. Jesus. There was nothing left of the guy.’

  ‘Except the baby.’

  ‘He has the baby, yes. Perhaps, anyway; that’s still touch and go. But not her. He doesn’t have her, and she never had the baby she wanted.’

  Rachel nodded. Her hands were over her belly, subconsciously protecting our unborn child. Perhaps she was trying to imagine what Marie Wilkinson had gone through, or what it would be like for me and our child if anything happened to her. Because she sensed it, probably: how little I wanted this child. Or at least I was sure that was what she thought.

  ‘What happened,’ I said. ‘Neither of them could ever have seen it coming.’

  ‘Does anyone?’

  ‘Yes. Everyone. Not so they can avoid it maybe. But it always makes sense, at least. There’s always a reason for it.’

  ‘Are you really so sure about that?’

  ‘Yes. Murder’s not like being hit by a truck or having a heart attack or anything. It’s not some random natural disaster. People are killed for reasons, even if they’re stupid reasons. Looking at the wrong person for too long. Sleeping with people they shouldn’t. Pissing someone off. None of it’s right, but it always makes some kind of sense.’

  Rachel didn’t reply.

  ‘But there’s no sense to what happened to Marie Wilkinson. We’re sitting there, and her husband asks me why, and I can’t tell him. I can’t fucking say anything. And it’s the same with all of them. They were killed for no reason at all. Not that I can tell.’

  ‘No reason?’

  ‘They weren’t robbed. They weren’t sexually assaulted. There’s no connection between them. The bastard doesn’t even seem to get any enjoyment from it.’

  ‘He must be doing it for some reason.’

  ‘Yes, he must. He is. We just can’t see it yet. If we take him at his word, he’s testing out a pattern to see if we can crack it. These people mean nothing to him. Literally. They don’t matter at all.’

  ‘I don’t understand.’

  ‘Do you want to?’

  ‘Yes. Tell me. Please.’

  So I did. The whole time, she listened carefully, not taking her hands from her stomach once. By the end, she was rubbing it gently.

  ‘You think he deliberately targeted a pregnant woman?’

  ‘Yes.’ And I thought, but didn’t say: yes, that does mean it could maybe just as easily have been you. ‘The victims mean nothing to him, but they represent something. He has a reason. It’s just a different kind than I’m used to. It’s a …’ I fumbled for a way to describe it. ‘It’s a dark-room crime.’

  ‘A what?’

  ‘A dark-room crime.’

  She looked at me blankly.

  ‘It doesn’t matter,’ I said. ‘It’s just … it’s evil.’

  ‘I don’t believe in evil.’

  ‘Me neither. Or I didn’t use to. Maybe I’m starting to.’

  ‘Well I’m not. I’m a scientist.’

  ‘You were, yes.’

  ‘And will be again.’ Her hands stopped moving. ‘You don’t want this, do you? The baby? You don’t need to answer that. I know you don’t.’

  I looked at Rachel. She looked back, waiting.

  ‘I don’t know,’ I said.

  And here, at last, we stood on the brink of the thing I couldn’t tell her. My words teetered on the edge, but wouldn’t go over, not all the way. Not far enough to fall all the way down to the truth.

  ‘I’m scared,’ I said. ‘I’m scared about our child.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘About keeping him safe.’

  ‘Oh.’ She shook her head. What—is that all? ‘You know, I think about that every day. I worry about it more than anything. I think everyone does, don’t they?’

  ‘Probably.’

  ‘But the thing is, we can. Keep him safe. Most children are safe, aren’t they? Even without parents as good as we’ll be.’

  I started to say something, but she interrupted.

  ‘As good as you’ll be.’

  ‘But I can’t protect him,’ I said. ‘Nobody can. It’s not possible, is it? There are no guarantees.’

  ‘No. There never have been. But the odds are good. You know that better than anyone, right?’

  She had m
e there. Yes, the probability was that our son would be just as happy and protected as any child could be, and that nothing bad would ever happen to him. The world can be a good place as well as a horrible one. Many people experience the former with only brief, bitter tastes of the latter, and there was no reason to think our son would be any different.

  Rachel said, ‘Your job …’

  ‘Makes me see the worst.’

  ‘So you have a skewed sample to work from.’

  ‘And it blinds me. I know that.’

  I nodded, because she was right in what she said. Yes, I could keep my son safe. I could teach him how to defend himself and the kind of people and places to stay away from. Rachel looked relieved. She thought I was finally talking to her about what had been on my mind all these months. It was only a small part of what had been bothering me—the safe part, perhaps—but because this sudden bridging of the distance between us felt so good, I found myself staying there.

  ‘I do know it,’ I said again. ‘But it’s still hard for me. I’m scared. Even knowing all that, I’m still scared.’

  ‘Yes. And that’s why you’ll be a good father.’

  ‘Will I?’

  ‘Yes. Because you’re a good man.’ She stared at me, long and hard, then sighed. ‘Do you know, that’s the most you’ve said to me in months?’

  ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘You don’t need to be. I’m glad—well, I mean I’m glad you finally did. But look, we’ll be okay. You have to believe that, Andy. I have faith in you.’

  ‘Do you?’

  ‘Always have. Don’t see any reason to stop now. Well, I see a few, but maybe now they’re not quite as big as they were. Thank you.’

  I smiled at her, and she smiled back. As nice as it was, at the same time it made me feel guilty.

  You’re a good man.

  No, Rachel. No, I’m not.

  And I almost said something—about Buxton, perhaps, or about Emmeline Levchenko—but at that moment she stepped forward and embraced me. After a second, I hugged her back, as fiercely-gently as I could manage, and whatever I’d been about to say dissolved in the feel of her, the presence of her. I couldn’t remember the last time we’d hugged so easily. She felt at once like a stranger in my arms and someone achingly familiar.

  ‘This case can’t be making it any easier for you.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Because this guy strikes at random?’

  ‘We can’t work out the pattern, so we can’t stop him. While he’s out there, we can’t protect people.’

  ‘Well then.’ I felt her chin against my collarbone and her breath warm on my neck. Our son, inside her, pressed against my stomach. ‘You know what you need to do, don’t you?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘You need to catch the fucker.’

  I nodded. All else aside, that much was true.

  ‘You need to catch him.’

  DAY NINE

  Thirty-Six

  ‘HE’S PLAYING WITH US,’ Laura said.

  ‘I know.’

  ‘There is no pattern.’

  ‘I think you’re right.’

  She looked at me, surprised. ‘That’s not what I expected you to say.’

  ‘No?’

  ‘Normally, even if you did think that, you’d disagree with me on general principles.’

  I shrugged. We were perched at a desk in the corner of the operations room, going through every single scrap of data over and over again. It was tedious work, but I was glad of it. Maybe I was just glad that Franklin wasn’t here today. He was due back this afternoon, but until then, at least his absence had lifted a little of the pressure.

  Still. We’d achieved nothing—found no pattern at all. I was becoming convinced there was no success to be had. That the bastard had always been misleading us.

  ‘When someone’s right, they’re right,’ I said. ‘Even you. I’m beginning to think the letters are a red herring. All this talk of finding a pattern—he’s using it to throw us off track for some reason. To keep us busy. Stretched too thin.’

  Laura grunted at that, meaning: it’s working, then.

  The operations room around us was a hive of activity. Phones were ringing constantly, and officers kept drifting in and out, delivering reports and collecting fresh actions. As much manpower as we had, it was nowhere near enough, not for this many crimes, and the atmosphere in the room felt strained and urgent. We were all tired and frustrated. And that, of course, was what he wanted. Regardless of his real motive for the killings—still clinging to the assumption that there was one—he wanted us strung out.

  ‘It’s not just the pattern, either,’ I said. ‘He’s laughing at us in other ways too.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  I gestured at the room. ‘Look at what we’re doing. We’re chasing anything and everything, because we have to. And the more data we have, the worse it gets. Do you know the birthday problem?’

  ‘Oh—more and more, as the years pass.’

  ‘It’s a maths puzzle. In a room full of people, how many need to be there for it to be likely two of them share the same birthday?’

  ‘I’m not getting out my calculator, Hicks.’

  ‘It’s twenty-three,’ I said.

  ‘Twenty-three?’

  ‘Yeah, exactly. It seems like it should be more, but that’s the number where two of the people present—any two of them—are likely to have the same birthday.’

  ‘Your point? Wait. No, I get it.’

  ‘Exactly.’

  It wasn’t just that every individual victim needed to be scrupulously investigated in their own right—although that took enough time in itself—but the results also needed to be examined across the entire breadth of the investigation. With this many victims we were bound to find connections eventually. And we had. Marie Wilkinson, for example, was known to one of the women who worked in the launderette with Vicki Gibson. She had been a regular customer, and it was probable that the two women had met at some point. We were sure it was a coincidence, but it had still needed investigating. Nothing. Similarly, Sandra Peacock had often gone to Santiago’s, where John Kramer had worked as a bouncer. Was that important? It turned out that no, it didn’t seem to be. But we had to waste time looking into it anyway.

  The missing-persons reports and the unidentified victims in the video just added extra complications. We thought we had two of them pinned down, and a potential ID on a third, but we couldn’t be sure. So did we run with that data or not? Obviously we had to. Obviously we wouldn’t know if we were right even if we did find something. Which we had not.

  ‘It’s a fucking arms race,’ I said. ‘That’s what we have here. We only need him to make one mistake; that gets more likely with every murder. But the more he doesn’t make one the busier we are and the harder it’ll be to spot when he does. Perhaps he already has.’ I picked up a file of reports and dropped it on the floor. ‘And we’re too lost in fucking paperwork to see it.’

  Laura shook her head, then reached down and picked up the file and put it back on the desk on top of all the others.

  ‘If there is a pattern,’ she said, ‘we’re going to find it.’

  I sighed. ‘What time is this woman coming in?’

  Given that I was in a relationship with a scientist, I suppose I should have known better than to have a stereotypical view of what one would look like. But still, I had certain expectations of the mathematician we’d arranged to see. She would be serious and austere. Logical and businesslike. Somewhat grey.

  And as Professor Carol Joyce was shown into the small office, I realised I’d been more or less spot on. She was in her fifties, silver-haired, with rough and lined skin, wearing brackets around her mouth. But there was also an air of casual authority to her that was quite striking. I imagined that to make it as a woman for so long in academia required a degree of toughness. She looked no-nonsense. I had little doubt that every single second of this meeting would be billed to expenses, right d
own to the bus ticket across town.

  ‘Detectives,’ she said.

  We all shook hands, and then she shrugged off an expensive handbag and thin coat, hanging both over the back of the chair across from us.

  ‘Thank you for coming,’ I said as she sat down.

  ‘Not at all. Apart from anything else, I’m curious.’ She looked around the small room, seeming almost amused by her surroundings. ‘I’ve never been in a police station before. Not once.’

  ‘Is it living up to your expectations?’ I said.

  ‘So far.’ She glanced at me, still apparently amused. ‘What can I do for you?’

  ‘Well, we’re hoping you can help us. We have a code we need to break. A possible code, anyway.’

  ‘How fascinating.’

  I slid a sheaf of papers across the desk to her, and she lifted them with elegant hands, peered for a moment, then reached down and retrieved a glasses case from her handbag. The case pocked shut, then she hooked on small circular spectacles and peered again, a little more successfully.

  ‘Before we discuss any of this, I should explain that everything in there is confidential.’

  She didn’t look up, but raised an eyebrow. ‘Would you like me to sign something?’

  ‘Not at all. We can’t, of course, stop you mentioning our conversation, but we’d appreciate it if you didn’t. The fact is you’d possibly be putting lives at risk.’

  ‘You don’t have to worry. And anyway, I think I’ve already guessed what this is about.’ She looked up. ‘It’s the murders, isn’t it?’

  I smiled non-committally.

  ‘That’s fine.’ Professor Joyce waved a hand vaguely. ‘I don’t expect you to confirm it. I remain curious, though. I’ve never been approached for something like this before, and I’m not sure how I can possibly help you. I suppose it depends on what you feel comfortable telling me.’