by Max Manning
Blake was a long way from the podium, but he saw a trace of irritation flicker across the psychologist’s face.
“Criminal profiling has its flaws,” she answered. “But over the years, it’s been proved to be an extremely useful resource for officers trying to solve serial murders.”
The reporter came straight back at her with more of a comment than a question. “Yes, but isn’t it a skill rather than a science? Something that’s on trend but not much use to anybody?”
Vale looked at Partington again, and this time, he stepped in. “Before you get your answer,” he said to the reporter, “we need to know who you are.”
“Isabel Banks, chief reporter on the Standard.”
“Ms. Banks,” Vale said, “profiling is not a newfangled trend. It’s a technique that has been developed and honed over the years. In fact, something very similar to profiling was used by detectives hunting Jack the Ripper as far back as 1888.”
Vale realized what she’d done as soon as the words slipped out of her mouth. Blake cringed in his seat. He knew what was coming.
“They never caught him either, did they?” Banks said. Laughter rippled around the room.
“Next question,” Partington snapped, determined to keep control of the situation. “Let’s keep to the subject, please.”
“Dave Richards, BBC London. This killer is building a huge social media following. Perhaps you can explain the psychology behind this phenomenon?”
Partington opened his mouth to intervene, but Vale stopped him with a wave of her hand. “Good question, Mr. Richards,” she said. “I’m happy to answer, because it’s not about the killer. It’s more to do with the basics of human nature.”
Encouraged, the BBC reporter fired off another question. “Are the internet and social media to blame? Do we need tighter controls?”
Vale shifted closer to her microphone. “I’m not an internet expert, but I’m not sure it can be controlled. Social media isn’t to blame. It’s nothing more than a communication tool. How we choose to use that tool is a reflection of our nature.”
A hand shot up in the third row. The journalist didn’t wait for Partington to invite him to ask his question.
“Tom Foxton, freelance,” he announced. “Are you saying humans are inherently bad, naturally drawn to evil?”
Vale shook her head. “We are capable of amazing acts of kindness, sensitivity, sacrifice, and incredible creativity, but the human psyche also has a sinister side. The primitive part of the brain can make us capable of cruelty, torture, rape, murder, and war. We’re fascinated by death but don’t want to contemplate our own. It’s no surprise to me that so many people are obsessed by these ‘before death’ and ‘after death’ images.”
Vale paused, and Partington took the opportunity to move on to the next question, pointing at a flame-haired reporter in the front row.
“Bryony Noble, Reuters. I, Killer has become a celebrity psychopath. What about the moral position of his internet followers? Don’t they share some of the blame for the murders?”
“Social media provides anonymity for those who want it. People can hide behind their screens and feel safe exploring parts of their psyche they have repressed without fear of being condemned by their communities. Being online takes away all the normal restraints of society. I, Killer is making murder a shared experience.”
Another hand shot up. Partington pointed at the woman, nodding for her to go ahead.
“Tina Willis, Press Association. Some people believe that I, Killer’s last message suggests that his next victim will be a child. Do you agree with this analysis?”
Vale closed her eyes and took a deep breath. Blake guessed that this was a question the psychologist had been dreading.
“That kind of mind is capable of anything,” Vale said. “There are no limits.”
For a brief moment, an eerie silence settled over the room. The freelance reporter broke it with another question. “What about motivation? Is it sexual or simply a lust for blood?”
“It can be both of those things, as well as many others,” Vale said, propping her elbows on the table and resting her chin on her hands. “Sometimes they kill as revenge for a real or imagined slight or simply for the thrill of it. It then becomes a thrill they need to replicate. It’s often about empowerment. Power over another human being. The key is that after the first time, they are driven to repeat the experience. Like drug addiction, all they can think about is the next high.”
She sat back as several reporters tried to get her attention, waving hands and shouting over each other in an unseemly scrum. She started speaking over them, and they quickly fell silent. “You may not be aware, but you are playing a big part in this whole thing. Serial killers can become almost as addicted to the attention they’re getting in the media as they are to killing. They come to crave the notoriety. It becomes part of the game.”
Vale paused. This time, the room stayed silent. She had the journalists’ full attention. “Maybe,” she said, “if there’s one thing you can take away from here today, it’s that you should take care not to glamorize this kind of crime. I know you have a job to do, but please try to do it responsibly. Think about it.”
The plan might have been to keep her answers general, but she’s definitely talking about the I, Killer posts, Blake thought. A low murmur of excitement filled the room. Everyone was thinking the same thing.
A blond television reporter started to ask a question about police incompetence, but Partington closed her down. “I’m afraid that’s it, folks,” he said. “We’re out of time. Thank you for your cooperation.”
The press officer turned to his right to congratulate the psychologist on her performance, but she was already on her feet and striding off the podium.
• • •
Belinda Vale stepped into the elevator and pressed the button for the underground parking lot. The growing unease she’d felt from the moment she walked onto the podium to face the assembled media had taught her a valuable lesson. She swore under her breath that she’d never again be persuaded to do something that she didn’t want to do.
The elevator door pinged open, and she hurried out. Although there was still an hour to sunset, the parking lot was dark and poorly lit. She stopped for a moment as she tried to remember where she’d left her car and set off again after spotting it wedged between a marked Metropolitan Police Range Rover and a brick wall.
The rapid clicking of her high heels echoed in her ears. Inexplicably, the sound made her feel vulnerable. In her peripheral vision, a shadow moved. She took a sharp breath and increased her pace. She’d almost reached her car when she heard a definite footfall behind her and swung around, gripping her car keys in her hand like a weapon.
Blake held both hands up and stepped back. “Whoa there,” he said. “Take it easy.”
Vale let out a long breath. “What the hell are you doing creeping up on me like that?”
“Sorry if I scared you,” Blake said, taking another step back, his hands still raised. “I looked in on the press conference and wanted a word.”
“I wasn’t scared. You startled me, that’s all.”
It was a lie, but Blake understood her embarrassment. “I thought it might be interesting to see how the press is reacting to the case.”
“And was it?”
“Fairly. Those conferences can be difficult. You did well.”
Vale shook her head. “You won’t get me doing another one. Partington will have to find someone else to keep the press happy.”
“He’s a pretty good operator,” Blake said. “Knows his job.”
Vale gave Blake a long hard look. “You wanted a word?” she said.
“Why didn’t you tell me you were working on the I, Killer case?”
“It wasn’t appropriate. I don’t want to mix my therapy work with profiling. It would be
unprofessional.”
“I suppose that makes sense,” Blake said. “I’ll let you get off home. I’ll see you as usual next week, and I promise not to mention the murders.”
Vale watched and waited until Blake had reached the elevator before opening her car door and sliding in behind the wheel. She started the engine and drove slowly toward the exit. By the time she reached the security barrier, she realized the unease she’d been feeling earlier hadn’t gone. It was still there, bubbling under the surface.
At the same time, it dawned on her that she hadn’t been completely truthful about the reason for her anxiety. She genuinely believed that criminal profilers shouldn’t let themselves become tainted by the media coverage of a case, but the real problem was the image that flashed through her mind while she listened to Tobin read his statement.
She’d had a vision of the killer sitting on his sofa watching that evening’s television news bulletins, fascinated by clips from the press conference, listening to psychologist Belinda Vale answer the reporters’ questions. He’d love every second of it.
Vale believed she knew better than anyone how this killer viewed the world. By agreeing to appear at the press conference, she’d put herself in the public eye. Worse than that, she’d put herself in the hunting ground.
Fifty-One
Fenton sat on the sofa, his head in his hands, anger churning like molten rock in the pit of his stomach. Detective Sergeant Daly stood in the center of the room, watching her boss warily as a female police constable searched Tess’s room.
He’d returned home to blue lights flashing in the street, his apartment full of grim-faced uniforms, and the news that Tess had gone. He clenched his fists, unclenched them, and clenched them again.
In the two hours since his return, a witness had come forward to say she’d seen a child matching Tess’s description getting into a car. If he harms her, Fenton promised himself, I swear I’ll kill him and post pictures of his mutilated body all over the fucking internet.
Daly had never seen her boss consumed by fury before. “Would you like a cup of tea, sir?”
“No, I don’t want tea. I want my daughter.”
“We’ll find her.”
Fenton stood up, the suddenness of the movement startling his sergeant. “How did she get out? This place was supposed to be under police guard.”
Daly nodded and pulled nervously at her ponytail. “I’m told we had a uniform on the front door as usual, and because an FLO was with Tess, there was nobody around the back. We think she went into the garden and out into the alley.”
“What have we got on the car?”
“Color and make, but no registration number unfortunately. We’re doing everything we can. Pulling out all the stops.”
Fenton paced over to the window and stared out onto the street. He wanted to be out there, looking for Tess, bringing her home.
“I’ve got to ask you, Boss,” Daly said. “Is there any reason she’d go off like that?”
Fenton chewed his lip. “I suggested she should stay with her grandparents for a while. That’s all.”
“Is there any chance she was going to meet someone she’d been chatting with online?”
Fenton stood up and disappeared into the kitchen. Daly heard a cupboard open and shut before he reemerged, holding a pale-pink laptop and a cell phone. “I took these off her after Marta’s murder.” He handed them to Daly. “Get them checked out, but I don’t think you’ll find anything. No, I know who’s got her, and it’s not some pedophile.”
“Who, Boss?”
“Who do you think?”
“We don’t know anything for sure yet. We need to keep an open mind.”
“You do that. I’m going to look for my daughter.” Fenton strode out of the room and sprinted down the stairs. He stepped onto the pavement, his head turning from right to left, his mouth dry, his heart drumming in his rib cage. It would be dark soon. Tess had never liked the dark. His car was still in the police pound where the forensic team had left it, and deep down, he knew that randomly scouring the streets of London on foot would be a futile exercise, but he had to do something. He stuck his hands in his trouser pockets and walked east along Risinghill Street toward Chapel Market. The air was so crisp, he felt it crackle as he filled his lungs. Both sides of the road were lined with parked cars. White tape still fluttered around one empty space.
At the junction with Chapel Market, he turned left onto Penton Street. He frantically scanned the pavements and the passing traffic as he racked his brain for places Tess might have been taken. At the end of the road, he pushed past a group of pedestrians waiting at a pedestrian crossing, dodged through the traffic, and sprinted north toward Barnard Park.
Halfway up Copenhagen Street and about a minute from the park, Fenton stopped and doubled over, his hands on his knees. He was still gasping for air when his cell phone rang.
“We’ve got her, Boss. She’s fine,” Daly said. “She just walked back up the street.”
His vision blurred. “You’re sure she’s all right?”
“Yes, Boss. I’m sure.”
Fenton’s whole body shuddered with relief. His cell phone slipped from his sweaty fingers and clattered into the gutter. He dropped onto his knees, scooped it up, and lifted it to his ear.
He could hear Daly shouting down the phone. “Are you there, Boss? What’s going on?”
“I’m on my knees thanking God,” he said.
“I’ll send a car to pick you up.”
Fenton used the short car journey to calm himself down. The last thing Tess needed was him ranting and raving at her.
Daly stood waiting for him at the top of the stairs. “She’s in her bedroom,” she said. “She’s tired, and we’re letting her rest a little, but we’re going to have to take her in soon. We need to question her, and she should probably see a doctor.”
“You told me she was fine.”
“She has slight bruising to her right wrist. Otherwise, she seems fine, but we have to make sure. You know the drill.”
Fenton sighed. “Let me speak to her first,” he said. He strode across to her room and went in.
Tess was standing by the window, looking out into the street. She turned, burst into tears, and ran to him. He dropped to one knee and hugged her tight.
“Did he hurt you?”
Tess shook her head. “He scared me, but he didn’t hurt me. He took me to the cemetery and helped me find Mummy’s grave.”
Fenton took her hand, led her to the bed, and sat her down. He sat beside her and put an arm around her. “Did he touch you? You can tell me.”
Tess shook her head again. “He didn’t. He left me for a while so I could talk to Mummy. When he came back, he gave me flowers for her. He said he’d bought them, but I know he stole them from another grave.”
Fenton squeezed her ribs. She felt so tiny and helpless, he almost cried. “Was it the man you saw outside school?”
“It might have been. I don’t know. I’m not sure,” Tess said. Fenton took a tissue from his pocket and handed it to her. She dabbed her eyes, then wiped her nose and gave it back. “Are you angry with me?”
Fenton screwed the tissue up into a ball and put it back in his pocket. “No, but why did you leave on your own like that?”
Tess bowed her head and gazed at her feet. “I wanted to say goodbye to Mummy before I went away.” Tears rolled down her cheeks, and she wiped them away with a sleeve.
Fenton bent down and kissed the top of her head. Her hair smelled of fresh apples.
Fifty-Two
Blake didn’t have a clue how much the Metropolitan Police Service paid detective constables. If asked to guess, he’d say not a lot.
The apartment Ince rented took up the first floor of an end of terrace house. It looked as if it had been left to rot since its construction in the early 1960s
. Several tiles were missing from the roof, and the window overlooking the street appeared to be in danger of falling out of its crumbling frame. The apartment next door, with a faded FOR RENT sign pinned to its pitted brickwork, looked in even worse condition.
It was feeding time for locals in the East London suburb of Dagenham. The smell of a fresh batch of chicken sizzling in a deep fat fryer oozed from the Tasty Dagger takeout and slithered down the street.
Finding out where Ince lived hadn’t been a problem. If you’re going to pay someone to hack into the Yard’s computer system, you might as well get them to harvest some useful information while they’re at it. Blake had given the hacker a long list of addresses he thought might come in handy.
A sharp chill fell like an icy shadow as the last of the daylight faded. Blake hunched his shoulders and pulled his coat closer. He didn’t know whether Ince was in the apartment, on duty, or enjoying a day out somewhere in the city. The prospect of hanging around all night, waiting for him to turn up, didn’t appeal.
There must be a better way, Blake told himself. The technology existed. It would be easy to stick a tracking device on Ince’s car and follow him around on Google Maps. Installing spyware on his computer would be useful. Better still, getting hold of his smartphone would probably tell you everything the detective had been getting up to.
Blake scanned the street. The rush-hour traffic crawled bumper to bumper. He was wondering whether it would be a mistake to leave his post to fetch a coffee when a dark shape flitted across the apartment’s only window.
A second later, a light flickered on. Shit, Blake thought. Instinctively, he turned his back to the window and joined the queue for fried chicken. After studying the menu board for a couple of minutes, he turned and peered through the shop window. The light had been switched off and the curtains pulled. A familiar figure emerged from the side of the building. On reaching the pavement, Ince turned right toward Dagenham East Underground station.
