by Max Manning
Daly led the way into the observation room. Bell didn’t wait for them to take a seat. He pointed a stubby finger at the detective sergeant.
“What are you doing, taking a break? He’s ready to confess to the lot. He can’t help himself. Get it out of him before a lawyer turns up and complicates things.”
Fenton took a half step, putting himself between Daly and Bell. “It was my call,” he said. “I think we should take this slowly. The suspect clearly has psychological problems.”
Bell rolled his eyes and shifted his position. The chair groaned. “Obviously, he’s as mad as a box of frogs. He was caught in the act. He’s not even trying to deny it. I want his confession quick smart so we can put out a statement confirming we’ve got our man.”
Fenton knew Bell well enough to know that arguing would be a waste of time. He tried anyway. “We’ve got him for the stabbing. No doubt. But as yet, we’ve no evidence linking him to the two murders. Nothing linking him to the killer’s online campaign.”
Bell levered himself to his feet with a loud grunt. “We’ll get all the evidence we need, believe me. I want this wrapped up as soon as possible. The guy’s been rambling on like a religious nutter, talking about sinners, evil, and quoting the Bible. As young Ince here pointed out earlier, this fits in with the two murder victims being laid out in a crucifix position.”
Fenton looked at Ince and shook his head. “So now you’re taking advice from a detective constable not long out of training college? You’re promoting him to senior investigating officer?”
“You’re in charge of the investigation, but never forget there is one person you answer to. Me,” Bell replied.
Fenton took a couple of deep, slow breaths. “I’m not saying he’s not the killer, but maybe it’d be sensible to wait for the knife test result and the background checks before we push Taylor to confess to anything. He’s paranoid, delusional, and rambling.”
Bell rubbed his hands together. “Just because he’s crazy doesn’t mean he’s not our killer. Surely, it makes it more likely? He said it himself. He’s on some mad crusade to rid the world of sinners.”
Fenton turned to the viewing mirror. Taylor, his arms folded across his chest, hands gripping his rib cage, appeared to be hugging himself. During the break, he’d been joined by a legal services lawyer. The pinched-faced woman sat beside her client looking unhappy at being called out.
“I don’t think Taylor’s attack comes close to matching the two murders. Sure, there are similarities, but that’s all they are. The throat wounds to Lauren Bishop and Edward Deere were clean, clinical, and fatal. One slash, one dead person. Taylor doesn’t seem to have been carrying a cell phone or a camera. I, Killer was superefficient, calculating, and organized.” Fenton nodded toward Taylor. “Look at him. That man isn’t remotely capable of any of that.”
Bell shrugged. “I don’t want to hear it. He fucked up. I want you asking the questions this time. If he wants to confess to the killings, let him spill.”
Fenton returned to the interview room with Daly in tow. This time, the detective sergeant took the seat in the corner. Fenton nodded a greeting at the graying lawyer. She responded with a pout.
He switched his attention to the suspect, treating him to a smile. “Do you own a cell phone, laptop, or computer?” he asked.
Taylor laughed. “They are Satan’s tools, holding the masses in their thrall.”
That’s probably the sanest thing he’s said since his arrest, Fenton thought. “When did you last eat?”
“I haven’t eaten for two days.”
“I can get someone to bring you a sandwich.”
Taylor looked at his lawyer as if he was expecting legal advice on whether he would incriminate himself by accepting the offer of a snack. He didn’t get any. “Not hungry,” he said. “My flesh is food. My blood is drink.”
Fenton pulled a chair up and sat down, resting his elbows on the table and his chin on his hands. “I take it you’re not denying that you tried to kill Tanya Reid?”
“I don’t know no one called Tanya Reid.”
“She’s the woman you stabbed in the neck tonight.”
Taylor grinned. “She’s marked. I saw the mark.”
“What mark?”
“Marked for cleansing.”
“Cleansing by you?”
Taylor sat up straight, looking from one wall to the next before settling his gaze on his and Fenton’s reflections in the two-way mirror. “They’re always watching.”
“Who’s watching, Ellis?”
The smile disappeared, and Taylor’s face twisted into a mask of terror. “They’re waiting for me to fail. The sins of the world spring from failure. If I fail, I’ll be marked. If I have the mark, I’ll be cleansed.”
Fenton sighed. Taylor’s Biblical ramblings annoyed the shit out of him. “Are you telling me you killed Lauren Bishop and Edward Deere because they were sinners?”
Taylor’s eyes shifted to Fenton, back to the mirror, then to Fenton again. “They were sinners marked for death. We’re all sinners, but not all of us have been marked.”
Fenton let the statement, a virtual admission, hang in the air. He glanced at the lawyer, half expecting her to earn her money and intervene. She dropped her eyes to study the face of a gold watch on her left wrist and said nothing.
“You murdered Lauren Bishop and Edward Deere, slit their throats in cold blood, because you thought they were marked for death?”
Taylor sniggered. The snigger evolved into a cackle, bubbles of saliva oozing from the corners of his mouth.
“You don’t get it, do you?” he said. “I decide nothing. I don’t choose who lives or dies. It’s them. I’m their instrument. Their hand of wrath.”
Fenton caught the duty lawyer’s eye again. She shrugged and raised her eyebrows. He knew what she was thinking. Her client was crazy. What could she do? You could start earning your legal aid fee and advise him to shut the fuck up. Taylor needed to be locked up, he needed psychiatric treatment, and he’d probably admit to assassinating John F. Kennedy if someone asked him nicely.
Fenton was considering his next question when the door flew open. Chief Superintendent Bell straddled the threshold. “This interview is over,” he said. “Read him his rights and charge him. Two murders, one attempted murder.”
Fenton jumped to his feet “I haven’t finished the interview. I need another half an hour at least.”
Bell waved a hand as if he was swatting away a fly. “If I say the interview’s over, then it’s over. This is a waste of time. The man’s as good as confessed.”
“As good as isn’t good enough.”
Bell glared at Fenton, his cheeks wobbling. After a few seconds, he turned to Daly. “Get the suspect out of here now,” he barked. “Get him charged. Lock him up, and notify the duty press officer. I want a press release issued within the hour.”
Daly nodded at a police constable standing in the corridor. The officer approached Taylor, placed one hand on his wrist, another under his arm, and yanked him to his feet. Taylor’s eyes swiveled to Fenton, to Bell, to the door, and back to Fenton. He whimpered like a lost puppy as the constable marched him into the corridor.
Twenty-Two
Fenton tuned his car radio to a heavy metal station and turned the volume up as loud as he could bear. It was late—or early, depending on how you looked at it—and the traffic was light. He’d driven north across the city so many times, his brain often switched to automatic pilot, leaving him with little memory of the journey. He wasn’t a big fan of heavy metal music, but he hoped the distorted guitar riffs and relentlessly dense bass would drown out the memory of Ellis Taylor’s whining.
Marta had left the hall light on, and Fenton stifled a yawn as he climbed the stairs. He tiptoed into the kitchen and wondered if he could make himself a sandwich and open a beer without waking Tess.
Instead, he crept into his bedroom, clutching a glass of water.
He set the alarm on his cell phone for 7:00 a.m. Five hours’ rest would be more than enough, but he knew the likelihood of him sleeping for that long was slim. About the same odds as winning the lottery.
Fenton switched off the bedside lamp and slipped under the duvet. He rolled toward the center of the double bed, arched his back, stretched his legs, and produced a loud yawn. He closed his eyes and tried to clear his head, but he couldn’t stop thinking about Ellis Taylor.
Eventually, he drifted into a twilight sleep, his thoughts transformed into a series of images of Taylor hunched over the mutilated body of a woman. The sleep was shallow enough for him to be aware he was dreaming but too deep for him to wake up. Bent over the body, Taylor whimpered. Slowly, he straightened up and turned, revealing teeth and lips stained with blood. Fenton sat up with a start, reached out, and switched on the bedside lamp.
He waited until his breathing slowed before settling back on the pillow, stretched out an arm to turn the lamp off, but decided to leave it on. His bedroom was at the front of the house, and he could already hear the steady hum of traffic.
Shifting over to the bedside table, he checked the time on his cell phone. It was 6:00 a.m. He had to be up in an hour. He closed his eyes and instantly fell asleep. Twenty minutes later, his cell phone rang. Swearing loudly, he grabbed it, checked the ID, and accepted the call. “This better be good, Daly,” he said.
“We need you in, Boss. We’ve got a bit of a crisis, and Chief Superintendent Bell wants you to sort it out.”
“He can sort it out himself. I’m dropping my daughter off at school this morning. It’s probably the only time I’ll get to see her today. I’ll be in after that.”
Daly didn’t reply, but Fenton could hear her breathing. “Did you get that?” he prompted.
“I heard, sir, but I think you’d better arrange for someone else to do the school run.”
“What’s happening?”
“It’s Ellis Taylor, sir. We finally got access to his health records, and he was diagnosed as a paranoid schizophrenic five years ago. He’s been in and out of various psychiatric clinics ever since.”
Fenton swiveled until he was sitting on the edge of the bed and yawned down the phone. “Tell me something that surprises me.”
“The thing is, sir, his last spell inside was two months in the Whitehall clinic, a secure psychiatric unit in East London. He was released because the clinic was under pressure to free up beds. Apparently, his new medications were working well.”
“He didn’t seem stable to me.”
“That’s just it. When we searched his apartment, we found boxes of his medications unopened. It seems he stopped taking the tablets four days ago. As soon as he walked out the door of the clinic.”
Fenton thought for a moment. His brain may have been thick with sleep, but Daly’s last sentence made no sense. “Taylor was released into the community four days ago?”
“You’ve got it.”
“Prior to that, he’d been in the clinic for two months?”
“They confirmed the dates.”
“You’re telling me he was definitely locked up when Bishop and Deere were murdered?”
“Locked up and dosed up. The shit has well and truly hit the fan here.”
Fenton gripped his phone so tightly, the blood drained from his fingers. “Let me guess,” he said. “Bell is keeping his fat head down. It’s been left to me to face the press and explain why we totally fucked this one up.”
Daly didn’t respond. She didn’t need to.
“I’m on my way,” Fenton said.
Twenty-Three
The sound of the mourners singing “The Lord Is My Shepherd” carried across the graveyard to where Blake stood behind an iron gate. If asked, he’d find it difficult to explain what he was doing there. Funerals had always disturbed him. Graveside sobbing, awkward small talk, and sad silences made him feel uncomfortable.
The City of London Cemetery and Crematorium in Manor Park, East London, had five chapels, three for cremations and two for burials. Lauren Bishop’s funeral was being held in the larger of the burial chapels, which was located on the east side of the complex.
Blake’s resolve had weakened the previous night. He’d lain sleepless for a long time. He’d initially put his restlessness down to the fact that he had made a second appointment with the psychologist. In the end, he’d had to admit the truth.
The singing stopped, and the chapel fell silent. Blake glanced at his watch. He had an hour and a half to get across the city to his appointment. The gothic-style wooden doors of the chapel opened, and the coffin containing Lauren’s body emerged on the shoulders of six pallbearers. Dressed identically in black suits and black ties, Blake guessed they were employees of the funeral directors. A group of mourners, about fifty strong, followed the coffin. They were led by Leah Bishop. Head bowed, she walked slowly, a black handbag clutched to her stomach. Blake felt a twinge of regret that he lacked the courage to stand beside her.
He sidestepped to his right to take cover behind a gray stone wall, his head far enough around the gatepost to see the funeral party arrive at the edge of a grassy area dotted with tombstones. Blake noticed that most of the grave markers were shiny and new. Death is relentless, he thought.
The mourners gathered in a circle, and Blake watched the dark oak coffin descend into the ground. Two men in gray suits and a woman in a dark coat with a ponytail stood several yards back from the grave. The police always turned up at the funeral of a murder victim. Maybe they were hoping the killer would arrive clutching a wreath and weeping tears of remorse. Blake thought that an unlikely scenario.
The day had started out hazy. By midday, the cloud layer had burned away, leaving the sky a washed-out blue, the autumn sun the color of old gold. Despite the warmth in the air, Blake shivered. He immediately recalled a saying from his childhood: “Someone’s just walked over my grave.”
As a boy, he’d puzzled over its meaning. The thought that, somewhere in the world, his grave waited for him had been scary. And who was this person daring to desecrate his future resting place? Recent events had changed his attitude to mortality. There are worse things in life than death, he told himself, and a grave is nothing more than a hole in the ground.
Leah stood beside the grave, her eyes closed, next to an elderly chaplain. His head bobbed as he read from a prayer book. Blake couldn’t hear what he was saying but guessed it was the usual stuff. Religious platitudes, mumbo jumbo.
He stepped away from the gatepost to give himself a better view of the coffin being lowered into the ground. The ritual left him cold, but an unexpected memory bubbled to the surface. The day they first met, Lauren had laughed at almost everything he’d said. Even when—no, especially when—he’d been trying to make a serious point. That was one of the first things that had attracted him to her. Her laughter. Her laughter and the way she moved. Blake shook his head and allowed himself a wry smile. Lauren would definitely be laughing if she could see him now.
The chaplain made the sign of the cross, closed the prayer book, and slipped it into his jacket pocket. Leah turned to a woman beside her, who passed her a handful of white roses. She took a tentative step forward and dropped the flowers, one by one, on top of the coffin. Stepping back, she paused for a moment, raised her head, and appeared to look straight at Blake. He darted sideways and pressed his face to the stone gatepost.
A couple of minutes passed before he risked taking another look. The mourners were walking, in dribs and drabs, toward the parking lot. Leah still stood beside the grave, her head bowed.
Twenty-Four
If it wasn’t so insulting, it’d be funny. The police arrested some crazy schizo and tried to pin the murders on him. When they announced that he’d been charged, I felt a pang of jealousy.
I ha
te the thought of someone else getting the credit I deserve. Anyone with an iota of intelligence should be able to see this was the work of a brilliant mind.
They wheeled out that detective to grovel to the press. Sorry, but the psychologically challenged man charged with the murders was locked up in the madhouse at the time. Yes, I know, we should have checked first, but we’re incompetent. I guess my little joke, laying my prey out in the crucifix position, confused them. It doesn’t take a lot.
Inspector Clueless. People like him, they’re ordinary. Ordinary people lack imagination. They fear. They worry. About their families, their friends.
Don’t get me wrong. I can understand why people have these fears. I have the emotional intelligence to work out what people are feeling and why. I’d be frightened too if I was one of the herd.
Fenton is an ordinary man trying to do an extraordinary thing—catch me. I’ve already met his daughter. A little thing. It must be a big responsibility looking after a child. Children are such delicate creatures. They break so easily.
It’s a diversion from my mission, but Inspector Clueless needs to be taught a lesson. A little something to make sure he’ll never underestimate me again.
Twenty-Five
Blake couldn’t explain how Vale got him to talk about the thing he never talked about. Maybe it was because she never asked him to tell her about the day his captors forced him to witness the ritual beheading of another hostage. She simply suggested he tell her something interesting about himself.
Her self-satisfied smile irked him. She looked far too comfortable leaning back in her expensive leather chair, her perfectly manicured fingers fluttering lightly on the dark-green armrest, her legs crossed demurely at her ankles. He wanted to shock her. Shake that complacent look off her face.
“I’d met Earl Davis briefly a few days before they took us. He was working for an American charity, helping refugees from Syria in a small camp across the Iraqi border. I was there to write a series of articles on border activity.”
