Don't Look Now

by Max Manning

  Blake raised his right fist and rapped his knuckles on the glass. There was no sound or movement inside. He was considering whether there would be any point in knocking again when someone tapped him on the shoulder. He spun around, his right fist still clenched.

  “Steady on, mate. No need for that. We’ve stopped serving. We’re closed. Banging on the door won’t do you no good. There’s plenty of takeouts nearby if you’re hungry.”

  Blake found himself looking down at a pair of dark hooded eyes and an aquiline nose, jammed between a shiny bald pate and a bushy beard. In his late thirties, the man stood at least three inches shorter than Blake and probably thirty pounds heavier. Most of that extra weight padded his torso between his chest and his waist.

  Blake unclenched his fist and stuck his hand back in his jacket pocket. “I’m not looking for something to eat. I want a word with the boss. It’s important.”

  “You’re speaking to the boss, mate. The owner, the manager, and the chef. The only thing I don’t do is wait on the tables or clean the toilets. I got people to do that. That’s what the minimum wage is for. Anyway, what’s important to you ain’t necessarily important to someone else. You get me? Now, this park is going to be shut in about fifteen minutes, the gates locked. We’ve got to get a move on, like, pronto.”

  Blake stepped away from the door and pointed up at the sign. “I take it you’re Vic?”

  The café owner scratched his beard, turned, and walked toward the eastern boundary of the park. Blake followed and found himself having to jog every now and then to keep up. “I’m not Vic,” the café owner said over a powerful shoulder. “The name’s Perry. Perry Lee. I called the place Vic’s Café because it’s in Victoria Park. See what I did there?”

  Blake didn’t answer. He didn’t think an answer was expected. “I’m making inquiries into the murder of Lauren Bishop, and I wanted to speak to you about your security camera.”

  Perry Lee stopped and looked up at Blake. “I’ve been through all this before, mate,” he said. “Weeks ago. Why’ve I gotta go through it all again? Who are you anyway? You ain’t no cop, I know that.”

  Blake nodded and smiled, eager to put the man at ease and get him talking. “Is it that obvious?”

  The café owner walked on. He might have smiled back, but it was hard for Blake to tell through the facial hair. “I can spot a plainclothes cop a mile off, don’t worry about that. They always look like a cross between an accountant and a nightclub bouncer. And that’s just the women. You get me?”

  Blake said nothing. He concentrated on keeping up. The sun had slipped below the horizon, and the light was fading fast. They were heading for the park’s Crown Gate. Blake estimated they’d reach it in about ten minutes.

  “I could tell you were no cop right off. You’re tall enough and ugly enough, I’ll grant you that. But you got an edge cops don’t have.”

  “I’ll take that as a compliment, shall I?”

  “Take it how you want. Don’t matter to me. But if you ain’t no cop, what are you doing poking your nose into this murder? And who are you anyway? You know my name. Rude not to introduce yourself, I always think.”

  Blake decided he had no reason to lie. “My name is Adam Blake. I’ve been asked by the victim’s family to look into the case. A bit of extra manpower. Help the police along if I can. That’s all.”

  Lee gave Blake a sideways look designed to let him know that he wasn’t fooled. “Like I said. I’ve been through it all before with the detective who came to see me on the day the body was found. Young bloke. Younger than me. Ince, I think. He seemed to know what he was doing.”

  Blake nodded. “I was trying to follow the route the victim took as she walked through the park, and I noticed the security camera above your door. I wanted to check that the police had asked to have a look at the footage.”

  The café owner stopped again and pointed a stubby finger in the direction of Gore Gate. “That’s where they found the body,” he said. “Hidden in the bushes there. A bloody mess apparently. They closed the park for a whole day near enough. My takings hit the sodding floor that week.”

  Blake wanted to focus on the security camera. “I know the park has its own CCTV cameras, but I take it the one above your café’s door is your own?”

  “That’s right, mate. There’s CCTV at the main gates, but most of the small entrances to the park aren’t covered. I gotta have my own protection, ain’t I? I’d be stupid not to. There’s a lot of dodgy people about. The gear’s a bit pricey, but it’s worth the investment. My camera catches everyone who comes in the café and everyone who passes by. It’s a digital camera, but I’ve set it up to convert the footage onto a DVD. I keep them a week then record over them. I ain’t got a camera inside the café. Like I said, they’re not cheap.”

  They’d started walking again and were no more than a couple of hundred yards from the gate. “I got me van parked out there, and I gotta get home quick. I got someone waiting for me, and she’s tasty. You get me? I ain’t got no more time to waste.”

  “I get you,” Blake said. “Are you saying you gave the police a copy of the footage from your camera?”

  “You’re not paying attention, are you? The day after the murder, the park was closed, but they let me and the other business owners here in, ’cause we got stuff to do, yeah? I checked the DVD out, you know, but didn’t see nothing at first, because I didn’t know what the woman looked like, did I? It wasn’t until I saw her picture on the news that I realized she was on there.”

  Blake grabbed the café owner’s right elbow. “You’re saying Lauren Bishop was on the camera footage?”

  “Get the fuck off me,” Lee snarled, wrenching his arm free. “I told the detective she was on it. She came into the café just before closing time.”

  It was a cool night, but Blake’s skin flushed with the rush of an adrenaline surge. “You gave the police a DVD of the footage from your camera showing the murder victim entering your café on the day she was killed?”

  “Yeah, that’s what I’m saying. Like I said, Detective Ince was his name. Young bloke, but he knew what he was doing. Good job too. The park was swarming with cops, but nobody came to ask about my camera. At that stage, I hadn’t seen the television and didn’t know the woman was on the footage, you get me? It was lucky this Ince was on the ball. He turned up, asked me a couple of questions, and took the DVD. I half expected them to get back to me, but they never did.”

  Blake said nothing. He was too busy wondering. Wondering why the police hadn’t released the footage of Lauren going into the café on the day she was killed as part of their appeal for witnesses. He was still thinking hard when they reached the park’s Crown Gate and stepped out onto Grove Road.

  Lee gestured at a plain white transit van parked nearby. “That’s my motor, mate. I ain’t got time to stand around yapping. I got a hot date, remember?”

  Blake nodded. “One thing before you go. Was Lauren Bishop with anyone when she went into the café?”

  Lee shrugged and gave his beard a tug. “I think she was followed in by a man, a tall geezer he was, but it was hard to tell if he was with her or not. Like I told that Detective Ince, you can’t see much of his face because he was looking down. They’re both on the footage, but I don’t remember seeing either of them inside the café. It was a busy day.”

  Blake dug deep into his jacket pocket and pulled out one of the business cards he used to hand out while working as a reporter. “Thanks for talking to me,” he said. “If you think of anything else, give me a call.”

  Lee screwed up his face and looked at the card as if he’d been offered a dog turd. “All right, mate, but I’ve told you everything I know.”

  Blake watched Lee climb into his van, start the engine, and pull off into the rush-hour traffic. He waited until the vehicle was out of sight before heading south toward Mile End Road.


  It seemed possible that the killer had followed Lauren into the café, maybe charmed her enough to walk together toward Gore Gate, then produced a knife and forced her into the undergrowth. The police had found video footage of Lauren on the day she was killed. They’d chosen not to release it and to keep its existence secret. It didn’t make sense.

  Thirty-Six

  Blake had half expected the police to come calling again. He recognized Ince from their last encounter. This time, he was accompanied by an older detective, a woman who flashed her badge in Blake’s face long enough for him to make out the name Daly.

  Thirty minutes later, he was sitting in the familiar whitewashed interview room, sipping a lukewarm cup of coffee. Ince started off the interview going over old ground, asking Blake where he was the night Lauren was murdered.

  “We’ve been through this before,” Blake said wearily. “I told you I was in the pub all evening. You film these interviews, so why don’t you watch the last one and leave me alone?”

  Ince rested his hands on the table and leaned across. Blake caught a whiff of cheap aftershave. “We don’t believe you. We’re going to double-check your alibi, and we want to know exactly where you were when Edward Deere and Marta Blagar were murdered.”

  Blake sighed. He struggled to concentrate on what Ince was saying, because all he could think about was the security camera footage from Vic’s Café. If the police knew about it, why were they keeping it quiet? If they didn’t know about it, then why had Ince buried it? Whatever the answer, he had no intention of revealing his hand until he knew what was at stake.

  Daly stepped away from the wall and let Ince know with a nod and flick of her ponytail that she was taking over.

  “‘If you hunt the hunter, you risk becoming the prey.’ What does that mean to you, Mr. Blake?”

  “The meaning is pretty self-evident, isn’t it?”

  Daly sat down and peered across the table. “I’d like to know what you think it means.”

  Blake kept his eyes fixed on the detective sergeant. “Like thousands of other people, including you, no doubt, I’ve seen the messages. I guess only the person who wrote them knows exactly what they mean.”

  Daly took a moment to think before posing her next question. “Considering what happened to you in Iraq, how did the photograph of the severed head make you feel?”

  “I felt how any normal person would. Sick to my stomach.”

  “Yet you chose to go on the internet and search for the picture.”

  “I was curious.”

  “What about the pictures of your former girlfriend? Did you search for those too?”

  “I’ve learned that it’s better to confront these things. Avoidance does you no good.”

  Daly managed a sympathetic smile. “Sounds like something a therapist would say.”

  Blake stiffened in his seat.

  “Don’t worry, Mr. Blake. At this stage, your medical records are still confidential, but I’d be surprised if you weren’t seeing a psychologist. PTSD can cause serious problems. We see it in the police force a lot. Anger issues, violent outbursts. Are you having problems controlling your temper?”

  Blake shook his head.

  “Did you get angry with Lauren Bishop? Did you want to punish her for walking out on you?”

  “I cared about Lauren,” he said, his voice barely more than a whisper. “I’d never hurt her.”

  Daly nodded. “That makes it worse, doesn’t it? Harder to bear. The killer who murdered your former girlfriend has moved on to beheading people. Isn’t that a strange coincidence?”

  Blake jumped to his feet. The sudden movement sent his chair crashing to the floor. “I need to go,” he said. “I haven’t done anything.”

  Ince stepped forward, but Daly waved him back. “Pick up the chair, and sit down,” she said. “We’ve still got a lot to talk about.”

  Thirty-Seven

  Belinda Vale lived alone. It was better that way. She’d never dreamed she would end up on her own two years after getting married, but she’d come to terms with it. Her ex-husband blamed the failure of their relationship on her obsession with work.

  They didn’t part as friends. The bitter insults, the sneering, hurt her more than she let on. She didn’t want to give him power. You spend so much time straightening out the minds of your patients, you can’t see how screwed up you are, he told her.

  Her growing interest in the psychology of killers had been the last straw. He’d described the fascination as freaky, and as a parting shot, he’d insisted that she needed to see a psychologist.

  She opened the door of her fridge, picked up a half-empty bottle of white wine—maybe it was half-full, depending on what mood she was in—and poured herself a large glass. On the way to her study, she took a sip. The wine was sharp and cold and made her wince. She put the glass down on the desk and powered up her laptop.

  After the divorce had been finalized, she had bought a two-bedroom apartment in the Barbican Shakespeare Tower. Her practice was a lucrative business, and helping people sort out their psychological problems was rewarding in other ways. In comparison, working on a freelance basis for the police profiling serial killers paid peanuts, but she knew she had a gift for it. Somehow, dealing with the details of violent death made her feel alive.

  The apartment’s second bedroom was very small, and after moving in, she had immediately turned it into an office. Before sitting down, she switched off the light and closed the door. While profiling, she preferred to sit in darkness, focusing all her attention on the screen of her laptop.

  The desk was positioned in front of the room’s small window, and for a moment, she took in the view of East London at night. In the darkness, the city pulsed with light, energy, and life. Is the killer out there? she wondered. Probably. Serial murderers rarely strayed from their home turf. They preferred to feel comfortable in their killing zones. Without a doubt, there were other damaged minds out there too, people who’d thought about killing, imagined themselves doing it, struggling daily to hold back their rage.

  Her fingers fluttered across the keyboard as she located the files containing New Scotland Yard’s reports on the three murders. The prospect of putting herself inside the killer’s mind filled her with dread and excitement in equal parts. Before she could start work on the profile, she had to find out as much detail as she could about the people selected to die and how their lives ended. Who was killed and how would provide a valuable insight into the killer’s desires and motivations.

  She would also study copies of the I, Killer internet posts. To her, they were a wonderful thing—a rare insight into the mind of a “pure psychopath.” She reached out a trembling hand and clicked the first file.

  • • •

  At 5:30 a.m. Vale hauled herself out of bed, slipped on her silk dressing gown, and hurried into the study. As she waited for the laptop to power up, she looked out the window at another gray morning breaking over the city. She’d finished the first draft of her profile at 2:00 a.m. and fallen asleep the instant her head had touched the pillow. Turning her attention back to the laptop’s screen, she started to read through her work.

  Serial killers are typically male and often claim first victims in midtwenties to midthirties. No reason to believe this one is different. Method of killing and the decapitation involved in latest murder require high-level speed, power, and strength.

  Although first and second murders appear to have impulsive element, in the killer’s mind, they will have had a definite purpose. The third involved careful selection and detailed planning. Am certain next one, and there will be a next one, will be organized rather than impulsive and involve another beheading. Killer has evolved since the first kill. The clear escalation of violence is a search for identity. Beheading is now the dominant signature. Don’t think the posing of bodies into crucifix position is significant. Unlikely to be
a religious element to murders. Psychopaths have no need for gods. They worship only themselves.

  Killer is building a big following on social media. Is addicted to the dark side of the human psyche and is using internet posts to draw more followers in. Organized murderers are commonly intelligent and meticulous. They obsess over the details of their killings, wanting them to be “just right.” They are often successful in their ordinary lives and have an inborn ability to blend in. Our killer may be a monster but will not look like a monster.

  Will have a good knowledge of forensic science and how to avoid leaving evidence at the crime scene. Serial killers often develop a fascination with police procedure and methods of detection. Victims so far: one man, two women. If pressed, I would predict next target will be female.

  She turned away from the laptop and gazed out the window at the East London skyline. The first kill. The first time. A visceral thrill. The discovery of a pleasure so intense, so exquisite, everything else pales into insignificance. The second killing failed to live up to the first. A homeless man sleeping under a bridge. No challenge there. The next time, sights must be set higher. A challenge to be risen to. A senior detective’s household, a severed head. A demonstration of dominance, power, omnipotence.

  She shifted away from the window and turned back to the laptop. Lifting her hands to her aching head, she gently massaged her temples before reading on.

  Not all serial killers are psychopaths, but everything suggests that this one is. To cut a woman’s head off as part of a cold, organized murder, rather than in a wild, uncontrolled rage—that takes a high level of psychopathy. That doesn’t mean insanity. Far from it. The brain is different. Brain scans have shown psychopaths have abnormalities in the prefrontal cortex of the brain, areas associated with impulse control, empathy, and remorse. An estimated one in one hundred people are psychopaths, but most don’t turn out to be killers. The general consensus is that those who do are exposed to an environmental trigger. This can be a traumatic childhood, sexual or physical abuse, regularly witnessing violence.