by Max Manning
Blake caught the eye of the youngest police constable and offered a sympathetic smile. Relieved to see a friendly face, the young man wandered over.
“Looks to me like you could do with a bit more manpower,” Blake ventured.
The police officer nodded. “It’s always the same nowadays. The thin blue line is so thin, it’s bloody anorexic.”
It wasn’t funny, but Blake laughed. Everybody felt good when their attempts at wit were appreciated. Even policemen. The officer smiled, and Blake took his opportunity. “What’s going on up there?” he asked, nodding into the distance where an impressive display of flashing blue lights lit up the darkness.
The constable looked uneasy and took a step back.
Blake wasn’t about to give up. “I don’t suppose the top brass bother to let you know what’s going on. Get you and your mates to do all the hard work but tell you nothing.”
The constable frowned. He didn’t like the suggestion that he was so far down the pecking order, his superiors would treat him with disdain.
Blake decided to change tack and rely on flattery. He’d always found that the younger police officers responded well to a bit of admiration. They joined up as idealists. After a few years of daily exposure to the worst elements of society, they turned into cynics.
“Anyway, as far as I’m concerned, you guys at the cutting edge do a great job. That’s what I think. I love all that police drama stuff on the TV. Can’t get enough of it.”
The constable looked over his shoulder to make sure his colleagues were coping and stepped closer. “All I can tell you is there has been an incident at the roundabout near the Barbican. We’ll open the road as soon as we can.”
Blake turned away. It was worth a try, he thought. He started to head back the way he’d come when an uneasy murmur rippled through the crowd. Everyone was staring, dumbfounded, at the screens of their cell phones.
A gangly teenager in a furry hoodie waved his screen in his girlfriend’s face. She squealed and pushed the phone away. The disgust on her face filled Blake with dread. He pulled out his cell phone and Googled I, Killer. Blake’s heart rate surged at the sight of a Reuters newsflash. I, Killer beheading on YouTube. Hands trembling, he navigated to the YouTube trending page. The video topped the list and had already clocked 223,557 views. He pressed the screen.
Vale sits on what looks like her office chair. Her hands are tied behind her back, her mouth gagged with gray duct tape. A large rectangular piece of card is taped to her chest. Written on it in capital letters are the words I MESS WITH MINDS. A man walks into the shot and stands behind her. His face is obscured by a black, full-face motorcycle helmet. He puts his right hand on Vale’s head and lifts his left, holding a black-handled hunting knife to her neck. With a nod to the camera, he starts.
Blake’s throat tightened, and he turned away from the screen and gasped for breath. Legs buckling, he staggered across the pavement, sat down on the curb, and threw up in the gutter. He wiped his mouth with his sleeve and looked at his phone again. The video had been replaced by a still image of a head impaled on a stake at the edge of a roundabout.
Blake released his hold on the cell phone and let it fall into the vomit.
Sixty-Three
Fenton waved his badge at the security guard and waited for her to raise the parking lot barrier. He flicked off the headlights, turned up the heating, and drummed his fingers on the steering wheel while she called through to reception to report his arrival. The sun had not yet risen, and a layer of morning frost framed his windshield.
The red pole lifted with a clunk, and Fenton drove to his usual parking space. He’d been awake but still in bed when Assistant Commissioner Patricia Hall called. He’d done his best to sound surprised when she told him that Ince couldn’t be the killer. There had been no need to fake shock when he heard Belinda Vale’s fate.
He stepped into the elevator and pressed the button for the fourth floor. Hall had wanted to see him as soon as possible. He’d made it clear that he wouldn’t consider leaving Tess on her own unless the twenty-four-hour guard was restored. Hall immediately arranged for a patrol car to blue-light its way to his apartment.
Fenton wondered what could be so urgent. He thought it highly unlikely that Hall wanted to reinstate him. If she’d found out about his involvement with Blake’s investigation, he could kiss his career goodbye.
One thing he knew for certain: the murder of Belinda Vale would have set off alarms bells all the way up to Whitehall, even as high as Downing Street. The killer was making fools out of everybody.
The door to the assistant commissioner’s office was open. Fenton stepped in.
Hall sat at her desk, her hands steepled beneath her chin, her brow furrowed. “Close the door and sit down,” she said. “I haven’t got a lot of time. I’ve a media conference to attend in a couple of hours, and I need to prepare.”
Fenton sympathized. The press would be scenting blood. “Why am I here?”
Hall peered over her glasses across the desk. She looked a decade older than when he last saw her, her face grayer than her hair, her eyes dull.
“You’re here because I need you,” she said. “DCI Tobin is standing down. He has no choice. A simple case of go before you’re pushed. I’ll be announcing at the press conference that I’ll be taking personal control of the investigation.”
By the expression on her face, Fenton guessed she didn’t volunteer for the job. I bet she’s still in pain from all that arm-twisting, he thought. It made sense though. Putting an assistant commissioner in charge was one way of showing the press and the public that the force was determined to sort this mess out once and for all. The big drawback was that Hall had no significant experience investigating murder cases.
She smiled wryly, as if she’d read his thoughts and agreed with them. “We’re not bringing you back to the team. We can’t be seen to be going backward. But it’s been decided that you should act as a consultant. Someone who I can talk the case over with, if and when I deem it necessary.”
For a brief moment, Fenton considered telling her about Blake, his anonymous call to the murder helpline, and their new line of investigation. But he said nothing. If he was going to put his career in jeopardy, it’d be better to do it from a position of strength. It’d be easier to admit what he’d been up to if he could hand over the killer at the same time.
Hall read his silence as reluctance. She put her hands flat on the desk and pushed herself up in her seat. “I want your help because I value your ability. You know why we took you off the case and that it had nothing to do with your performance. Even so, I had a hard time persuading colleagues to let you back anywhere near this investigation. Don’t let me down.”
“Don’t get me wrong,” Fenton said. “I’m happy to help, but how exactly is it going to work?”
Hall sighed, her thin frame sagging in her chair. “You don’t have to come into the office. It might be better if you didn’t. We don’t want the press making something negative out of this. I’ll keep you up to date with what’s going on, and when I need advice, I’ll call. As simple as that.”
“What’s happening with Ince?”
Hall screwed up her face. “Detective Constable Ince will be kicked off the force. He’ll be charged with improper use of our databases and maybe even with stalking. It seems he was set up for no reason other than to make us a laughingstock.”
Fenton shook his head. “There’s more to it than that. The killer arranged this whole thing as a demonstration of his cleverness. I doubt he ever intended Ince to be convicted of the murder. He’d hate the thought of anyone else getting the credit for what he’d done. He thinks he’s some kind of genius and wants everyone else to believe it.”
Hall picked up a pen, scribbled a note, and sneered. “So even though he’s a psychopath who loves nothing better that hacking off his victims’ heads, he’s r
eally quite a sensitive little shit.”
Fenton gave her a moment to calm down. He had a good idea what she was going through. Pressure from the press. Pressure from her superiors. Pressure from politicians. Stress like that takes its toll. “Putting on a gory public display at a busy roundabout in central London is pretty risky. Surely, the killer was caught on CCTV?”
Hall said nothing. Instead, she adjusted the angle of her computer screen so both she and Fenton could see it and clicked on a video file. The footage showed a steady stream of cars and the distorted glare of headlights snaking around the roundabout.
Fenton could see nothing untoward. He leaned forward in his seat and looked across at Hall.
She raised a bony finger and pointed it at the screen. “There,” she said.
A single headlight came into view approaching at speed along Old Street. As the motorcycle neared, Fenton could see the rider wore a full-face helmet. Fixed to the back of the motorcycle was what looked like a pizza delivery box, and strapped to the box was a short wooden stake.
They both watched in silence as the rider pulled up beside the roundabout and dismounted. The killer quickly but calmly used his bodyweight to twist the wooden pole into the ground. He lifted the head from the pizza box and unceremoniously rammed it onto the stake before getting back on the motorbike and riding off. From start to finish, the whole thing had taken three and a half minutes.
Fenton sat back in his chair. “No one wondered what was going on? Nobody challenged him?”
Hall shrugged. “I don’t suppose anyone realized what was happening until he’d gone.” She balled her bony hands and rubbed her eyes. “The killer must have broken into Ince’s apartment and planted the phone and murder weapon behind the bath panel. I’m guessing it was him who made the call to the murder helpline.”
Fenton nodded. “You’re probably right,” he said. You’re definitely wrong, he thought. “The killer selected Marta Blagar to teach me a lesson because he didn’t like what I said about him. It’s possible he chose Vale because her psychological profile wasn’t to his liking. Ince is out of the frame, but it’s still likely that the killer is someone close to the operation. Vale’s profile has never been made public. Only someone connected to the investigation would have access to it.”
Hall steepled her hands. “There’s no definite evidence that the killer has seen the profile, but I’ve asked for a list of everybody who has had access to it. I’m also sending a forensic team back to Ince’s apartment. We know someone broke into the place to plant the evidence, right?”
Walking back to the elevator, Fenton considered calling Blake to warn him that the police were about to descend on Dagenham but decided against it. He’d be meeting him in a couple of hours anyway. They were still one step ahead of the police investigation. A small step.
Sixty-Four
Blake followed the rental agent through the door and up the stairs. The layout matched the apartment next door. The rooms seemed bigger because they were sparsely furnished and free of clutter.
The agent, who had introduced himself as Ricky Dean, wore a cheap gray suit and had such bad acne, his face resembled a pizza. He waved an arm with a flourish toward the living room window.
“You got a lovely view of old Dagenham there, mate. All the hustle and bustle of East London. Check it out. Take your time. I ain’t in a hurry to get back to the office.”
Blake wandered across to the window. The view consisted of a fried chicken shop, a couple of vacant retail units, and a liquor store protected by a security grille.
He hadn’t slept the previous night. He’d climbed into bed with his laptop and scoured the news websites for stories about Belinda Vale’s murder. The papers had all picked up that the psychologist had been working on the I, Killer case, and several suggested that everyone working on the investigation should be considered possible targets. The sessions with Vale had stopped him going over the edge after the loss of Lauren. Now she had been taken too.
Blake walked over to the bedroom and pushed the door open with his right foot to avoid leaving fingerprints on the handle. The room was empty, the rotting floorboards exposed. “I think I’ve seen all I need to see, Ricky,” he said. “What’s the rent on this place?”
Ricky tapped the keys of his cell phone and waited for the information to appear on the screen. “We’re asking for five hundred and fifty pounds a month. I reckon if you offer four hundred and seventy-five, it’ll be accepted.”
“The money won’t be a problem, but I have a question about the previous tenant. You said he moved out a couple of weeks ago. How come the place looks as if it hasn’t been lived in for months?”
Ricky grinned and bounced on the balls of his feet. “Yeah, that was a bit weird. We let it out to this guy for three months, but I don’t think he stayed here more than a few nights, if that. Maybe he was using it as a shag pad. Lucky sod.”
Blake walked toward the stairs, nodding slowly. “Do you remember his name?”
Ricky stared into space as he tried to remember, the cogs moving so slowly, you could hear them squeak. “Something like Friar, I think. We’ve got all the paperwork at the office anyway.”
Blake put a hand to his stomach and grimaced. “Would it be okay to use the bathroom? I think I’ve got a bit of a bug.”
“Knock yourself out, mate. It’s going to be your place soon anyway.”
Blake bolted the door behind him and checked out the ceiling. The attic hatch was where he’d hoped it’d be. “Sorry, Ricky,” he shouted. “I may be some time.”
He ran the hot water tap and flushed the toilet, stepped on the edge of the bathtub, and put one foot on the sink. The dimensions of the room were exactly the same as the apartment next door. Blake slid the attic hatch to one side and hauled himself into the roof space. He stood up and rested a hand on a low rafter to steady himself. Once his vision adjusted to the darkness, Blake slowly edged his way toward the water tank and dividing wall, taking care to place his feet on the wooden joists. When he reached the tank, Blake dropped onto one knee and took a close look at the dividing wall.
On the other side, he’d seen what appeared to be a hairline crack running vertically from the top to the bottom of the partition. Even in the dark, Blake could see that someone had used a serrated blade, maybe even a small hacksaw, to slice through the plasterboard.
It would be easy for someone to swing the cut section out like a door, enter Ince’s attic, and wedge it back into place on their return. Blake clenched his right fist and punched the air. Returning to the hatch, he pulled the panel back into place as he lowered himself into the bathroom. He flushed the toilet again and washed his hands, wiping them dry on his jacket, unbolted the door, and pulled it open.
Ricky stumbled onto the threshold. “Are you all right, mate?” he spluttered, his face burning with embarrassment. “I was worried about you. You were in there a while, and I realized there wouldn’t be any toilet paper or nothing.”
Blake smiled. “I’m much better. A touch of gut rot, that’s all. Let’s get back to your office and tie this deal up, shall we?”
Ricky glanced at the toilet, twitching his nose like a sniffer dog. “All right,” he said and headed for the stairs.
Sixty-Five
The walk back to the rental agency took them ten minutes. Following Ricky through the glass door, Blake saw Fenton showing his badge to a plump woman with a bob of blond hair.
Fenton turned and beckoned Blake over. “This is my colleague, Adam Blake. I’m sorry he couldn’t be honest with you this morning, but as I’ve explained, we’re investigating a very complex and serious crime.”
Spotting the name badge on the woman’s left lapel, Blake stepped forward, smiled easily, and offered her his hand. “We’re very grateful for your help, Janice,” he said. “My apologies for posing as a potential customer, but it had to be done.”
Janice took his hand and squeezed rather than shook it. “You could have come to me as the manager and explained the situation.”
Blake widened his smile. “Like I said, I am sorry, but there are legal difficulties around this investigation that would have made that awkward.” He looked at Fenton, hoping for support, and received a baffled expression in return.
“Have you still got the previous tenant’s paperwork?” Blake said.
“Of course. It’s all on computer nowadays.”
“That includes proof of identity?”
“That’s right. It’s a new law that came in a year or so ago. We have to check that tenants have a right to rent in this country so we need to see a passport or driver’s license. You know, something with a photo.”
Blake looked at Fenton and smiled. “You take copies of these documents?”
The manager rolled her eyes. “Obviously. Didn’t I say that? We scan them in and upload them onto our computer. Give me a minute, and I’ll get them up.” She plodded over to her desk, sat down, and tapped furiously at her keyboard.
Fenton stepped closer to Blake and whispered, “How do you know about this stuff?”
“I need to know about it. I’m a landlord.”
“I take it you were right about the attic?”
“Of course I was right.”
Blake turned to Ricky and patted him on the shoulder. “Thanks for your help, but we’re done. Janice is sorting us out.”
The young rental agent bowed his head and walked slowly into the back office.
Both men walked over to the manager’s desk and stood behind her.
“I’ll be with you in a second, gents,” she said. She opened a folder tagged Scans, and the screen loaded with files. “These are listed as property addresses, rather than names, because I’m terrible with names.”
Fenton’s heart raced as he bent forward to get a better view.
The manager opened a file near the top of the screen. “Bingo,” she said.
