by Max Manning
Macek moved his face even closer to hers. She thought he was going to kiss her. At that moment, she wanted him to.
“What is wrong?” he said. “You look, how do you say? Like a bunny caught in the headlights.”
Marta sat back and laughed. Macek joined in. The rest of the evening went better than Marta could have hoped. Macek paid her plenty of attention, but made a big effort not to pressure her.
At closing time, everyone was moving on to a club nearby, but Marta declined. She wanted to go home and get some sleep. Macek hid his disappointment and offered to escort her home. The ferocity of her refusal surprised him.
“No, you go on with the others. I don’t need a bodyguard.” Marta’s heart raced. Her mind conjured up a chain of events that would end in disaster. Dorinel wondering how she could afford to rent a room in Islington. Him asking questions and discovering her lies. Mr. Fenton finding out that she had never even been to Latvia, had never worked with children.
The thought of not having money to send home twisted her stomach. She blinked back tears. “You go on with others. Enjoy yourself.”
Macek raised both hands in surrender, turned, and made his way east along Seven Sisters Road. Their friends were waiting two hundred yards away, standing patiently in the neon glow of a kebab shop.
Marta waited a few seconds to gather her thoughts before walking in the opposite direction toward Finsbury Park Tube station.
Twenty-Nine
The last Victoria Line service to King’s Cross left Finsbury Park at twenty minutes past midnight. Marta leaped onto the train, narrowly avoiding the sliding doors. The carriage stunk of stale beer and fresh vomit. The only other passengers, two men dressed in jeans and T-shirts, sat side by side. The smaller of the pair slumped forward in his seat, put his head between his knees, and spat something unpleasant onto the floor. His friend laughed and slapped him hard on the back. Marta took a seat at the opposite end of the carriage.
After changing to the Northern Line at King’s Cross, she spent the short journey to Angel wondering if Dorinel would ever speak to her again.
On leaving the station, Marta crossed the A1 and walked briskly up White Lion Street. The road was well lit, and there were still plenty of people out and about.
After five minutes, she turned right onto Penton Street. She estimated it would take her at least another ten, maybe even fifteen minutes, to reach her destination. Marta cursed herself loudly for choosing to wear three-inch heels. They looked good, but every ligament, muscle, and joint in her feet was protesting loudly.
She was seriously considering taking the shoes off when a noise behind her made her glance over her shoulder. A tall figure headed her way, eating up the distance between them. Marta scanned the other side of the street, desperate to spot somebody else.
As she came level with a length of black railing in front of a row of five terraced homes, she opened the gate of the second house, swung it shut behind her, and climbed the half a dozen steps to the front door. She made a show of struggling to find her key before pulling one out of her jacket pocket. Taking her time, she lifted it toward the lock, waiting for the stranger to pass.
Her hand shook as the figure drew level with the gate. She held her breath, pretended to struggle to get the key in the lock, and listened to the footsteps fade into the night. Panic evaporated like sweat from her skin, and she chided herself for letting her imagination get the better of her.
Marta returned to the pavement and decided to change her route. Earlier, she’d passed the entrance to an alley she’d used several times to get to Tess’s school. Running between an office building and a terrace of homes, and cutting the corner at the junction of Penton Street and Risinghill Street, it would shorten her journey by a good ten minutes. She turned and walked back, retracing her steps, until she reached the entrance.
Thirty
She darts into the narrow passageway, counting her steps in her head. At fifty-five, she sees the welcome glow of a streetlight.
She lengthens her stride. One of her heels snags on a crack in the pavement, and she stumbles, scrapes a knee on the wall. Steadying herself, she looks up to see the silhouette of a man standing at the exit. He stretches out a gloved hand and beckons her. When she doesn’t move, he calls out to her.
“You shouldn’t be out on your own,” he says.
The streetlight behind the stranger forms a halo around his head. She takes a small step back. He takes a big step forward.
“Don’t be frightened,” he says. “I’m a police officer.”
Marta’s chest is burning. She’s been holding her breath. “You are police?”
The stranger nods and takes another step. “There are dozens of us out on patrol tonight. You must have heard the warnings. Now where is it you’re going?”
Marta finds her voice. “I’m on my way back to Risinghill Street.”
The police officer laughs. “We’re virtually there, aren’t we?”
He moves aside and gestures for her to pass. She steps forward, and he grabs her neck and slams her against the wall. She cries out, her legs fold, and she slides onto the ground.
“Please, no,” she sobs.
“Smile for the camera,” he says.
She blinks up at the cell phone.
She doesn’t see the hand whip toward her, a black-handled blade gripped by gloved fingers.
Thirty-One
Fenton always tried to eat breakfast with Tess, even on days when he wasn’t able to take her to school. It gave them a chance to talk about things that were important to her and often a complete mystery to him. He was trying his best to be a mum as well as a dad, but he felt he was failing miserably. More often than not, he found himself resorting to nodding, laughing, and agreeing thoughtfully in all the right places.
He’d been up since 6:00 a.m. that morning and had prepared them both scrambled eggs and smoked salmon on toast. He slid the plate in front of her with a flourish and a loud “Ta-da!”
Tess eyed him suspiciously. “My birthday’s months away,” she said.
Fenton put his plate on the table opposite his daughter, sat down, and made a mock hurt face. “Just treating my best girl.”
Tess grinned at him and tucked in. The grin warmed his heart, and he made a mental note to cook her special breakfasts more often.
Marta had been primed to take Tess to school today because Fenton needed to get into the office early. The onerous task of writing a detailed report on the Ellis Taylor fiasco awaited him, and he wanted to get it out of the way.
It wasn’t going to be easy to explain why they had charged Taylor with two murders he couldn’t have committed without pointing the finger at Detective Chief Superintendent Bell. Of course, the fool was to blame. He’d been desperate to solve the cases and suck up to the media, but Fenton couldn’t say that. No way. As much as he might want to. Incriminating his boss wouldn’t go down well. Watch each other’s backs. The unwritten rule. The thing was, Fenton knew damn well that he couldn’t trust Bell to watch his.
He washed a forkful of scrambled egg down with his coffee. “Is Marta up yet?”
Tess nibbled the edge of a bit of burnt crust. “Dunno, Dad. Haven’t seen her yet.”
Fenton stood and dropped another slice of bread into the toaster. He was hunting down a jar of marmalade when his cell phone rang. He checked the screen and sighed. Daly didn’t make social calls. He shrugged an apology to Tess and answered it.
“Sorry, sir, but I thought you’d want to know as soon as possible. There’s been another I, Killer internet posting.”
Fenton’s stomach tightened. “Shit,” he said.
“It’s on the image sharing site Flickr. A close-up of a woman’s face. She’s looking up at the camera, and I’d guess she’s pleading for mercy. It’s been up since 5:00 a.m. and has already had several thousand views. These sickos must
be constantly searching for new I, Killer posts.”
“Unbelievable,” Fenton said, more to himself than to Daly. “Just a headshot?”
“That’s right. With a message, of course.”
“And the message is…”
“‘If you hunt the hunter, you risk becoming the prey.’”
Fenton rolled his eyes at Tess and walked quickly out of the kitchen into the hallway, closing the door behind him. “What the hell is that all about?” he said, not actually expecting an explanation. “No photo of a body, no report of a body found?”
“Not so far,” Daly said. “But the pattern suggests…”
Fenton shook his head. In a city like London, teeming with nine million people, predators will always find a victim. “I’ll be thirty minutes.”
He ended the call, ran upstairs to his bedroom, and grabbed a jacket from the wardrobe. Marta hadn’t shown her face. Probably suffering after her night out, he thought. She needed to get a move on if she was going to get Tess to school on time.
He walked to her bedroom door and knocked softly. No response. He grabbed the handle and thought about going in, but a natural reluctance to invade a young woman’s private space held him back. He was still thinking about it when Tess appeared, beaming, at the top of the stairs.
“Don’t worry, Dad. We’ve got plenty of time to get to school.”
Fenton backed away from the door and returned his daughter’s smile. “All right, darling,” he said, bending down to kiss her forehead. “Have a great day. I’m probably going to be home late tonight. Sorry.”
Tess gave a “whatever” shrug. “What’s new, Dad? I don’t think you’ve ever not been late back from work.”
Fenton checked his watch and headed downstairs. Stepping outside, he put his hands on his hips and tried to remember how far up the street he’d parked his car. Vehicles of all shapes and sizes lined both sides of the narrow road. He shivered, the cool morning air damp against his skin. He spotted the Ford Focus about fifty yards away, and as he neared it, something caught his eye. The front of the vehicle faced away from him, but through the rear window, he could see what appeared to be a cardboard box on the hood. Bloody vandals, he thought, breaking into a jog. As he drew level with the car’s trunk, he got a clearer view and slowed to a walk. The standard brown packing box had been placed upside down, close to the windshield. Fenton gripped it and slid his fingers underneath. The lid flaps felt loose and slightly sticky. He lifted the box and stared at the object left on the hood.
He turned away, grabbed the handle of the passenger door, bent over, and vomited his breakfast into the gutter. Wiping his mouth with the sleeve of his jacket, he raised his head and looked back at the severed head, the blue eyes open and as lifeless as marble.
Thirty-Two
The beheading of Marta Blagar ignited a media frenzy that spread like wildfire.
Within an hour of Fenton’s discovery, the killer had added fuel to the flames by posting a second picture. Blake sat on the edge of his bed, his laptop on his knees, and stared, mesmerized, at the look on the young woman’s face the moment it dawned on her that she was about to die.
In the “after” photograph, a thick layer of blood caked the jagged edge of her neck. Blake swallowed hard and fought the urge to look away from the screen. The facial expression appeared strangely serene, the skin translucent and alabaster pale. From both eyes, dark red trails ran down the cheeks like tears of blood.
Blake slammed the laptop shut, stood up, and undressed, dropping his clothes in a pile on the bed. Slipping on a pair of shorts, a T-shirt, and sneakers, he headed for the treadmill. He switched it on and started jogging.
As usual, the electronic hum of the treadmill helped him block out the world and think. He’d been doing a lot of thinking lately.
Since his last session with Vale, Blake had been feeling calmer and less burdened. The beheading of the Romanian nanny had changed something else. As he’d stared at the photograph on his laptop, something had shifted deep inside his chest. Of course, the image sickened him. It threatened to unearth too many buried horrors. But more than anything, it had forced him to think more about Lauren. About her lying on her back, the wound across her neck gaping like a second mouth.
He was sweating heavily now. The beads of perspiration running down his cheeks camouflaged his tears. He grabbed his T-shirt, lifted the material to his face, and wiped his eyes. For the first time in a long time, he felt driven. Right or wrong, he wasn’t going to stand by and do nothing. Never again. He slammed a hand down on the treadmill’s red Stop button and picked up his cell phone.
Leah answered the call right away. “What?” she said.
Blake didn’t think much of her phone manners but decided it’d be wise not to voice his opinion. “How are you?”
She let out a short sigh. “How do you think I am?”
After their last conversation, Blake had hoped for a warmer response. “Please, Leah. We need to speak. It’s important.”
“What’s the problem? You sound out of breath.”
“There’s no problem. We need to talk, but not over the phone.”
She sighed again. “What’s so important?”
“What do you think? It’s about Lauren.”
Leah fell silent for a moment. “All right,” she said. “Come over.”
It took Blake thirty minutes to walk to the Docklands. It would’ve been a ten-minute journey on the underground, but he still couldn’t face descending into the tunnels. He walked along the Mile End Road, taking in the sights, smells, and sounds of a vibrant Muslim street market before turning into White Horse Lane. By the time he crossed the congested Commercial Road, he could see London’s mini Manhattan in the distance. Canary Wharf’s silver steel-and-glass skyscrapers jabbed aggressively at the gray clouds lurking over the Isle of Dogs.
When Blake arrived, he found Leah waiting for him on her doorstep, dressed casually in black skinny jeans and a pastel-green sweater. She led him down the hall, pointed to the sofa, and asked if he wanted a tea or coffee. He declined both. Leah sat in a tan leather chair directly opposite him, perching on the edge of the seat. She didn’t look particularly happy to see him.
“I’ve been thinking about what you said. About us starting our own investigation into Lauren’s murder.”
She waved a dismissive hand. “I remember. You needed time.”
“What makes you think I can do any better than the police?”
“I don’t think you can do any worse. I desperately want to do this, and I’d hoped you would too. You know how to ask the right questions and who to ask.”
She waited for him to respond. He stayed silent. She dropped her head for a second, then lifted it and looked at him. “I’ve seen the news. That poor woman.”
Blake shook his head. He wasn’t there to talk about that. “The thing is, I can’t stop thinking that if I hadn’t driven Lauren away, she’d probably still be alive.”
Leah eyed him sympathetically. “Don’t torture yourself. I’ve decided that if you won’t do it, I’m going to find someone who will,” she said. “The police aren’t getting anywhere. If nothing comes of it, then at least I’ve tried. I don’t understand why you’re not as desperate as I am to catch this man. Lauren talked about you all the time, you know.”
“She walked out.”
“She couldn’t stand to see you wasting your life. She said you were too comfortable being miserable.”
The words hit Blake like a slap in the face. “She said that?”
“She desperately wanted to help you but said you wouldn’t help yourself. Wouldn’t even consider therapy. You need to stop feeling sorry for yourself, get off your ass, and do something.”
Blake smiled. For some reason, her anger amused him. “Thanks for the advice,” he said. He stood up and paced to the other side of the room. “Actual
ly, I’ve started seeing a therapist. The psychologist they referred me to when I first got back.”
The announcement caught Leah off guard. She glared at him, unsure how to react, her mind a jumble of conflicting emotions. Eventually, she managed a smile. “That’s good. Really good. I’m glad. I really hope it works out for you.”
Blake nodded, relieved that she hadn’t berated him for not taking this step when he was with her sister. “It has helped,” he said. “A bit. But to tell you the truth, I’m not sure whether I’m going back.”
For a drawn-out, awkward moment, they looked at each other in silence, both unsure what to say next. Leah spoke first.
“I think you should carry on with it. That kind of therapy can be incredibly effective.”
Blake held Leah’s gaze as he spoke. “You know they made me watch as they hacked off my friend’s head?”
He knew Leah had probably read the newspaper reports, but she recoiled at the words, a look of horror on her face. Blake laughed softly at her discomfort. “Don’t worry,” he said. “I’m not going to burden you with the gory details. I just want to explain. I’ve never been able to get what happened that day out of my mind, the terror on Earl’s face. Since Lauren’s murder, things have changed. It’s her face I see now before I fall asleep. She was a good person.”
Leah swallowed hard. Blake hoped she was starting to understand why he struggled with emotion, and that her sister had fallen for him, hard and fast, at a time when he wasn’t ready to catch her.
“I’m pleased you feel we can talk like this,” she said.
Blake took a deep breath. For more than a year now, he’d struggled with an overwhelming sense of helplessness. That feeling had been replaced by something he couldn’t put a name to. Something powerful.
“I won’t take any money,” he said.
Leah stood up quickly, her cheeks flushing pink. “Are you saying what I think you’re saying?”
