The Killing Habit

by Mark Billingham

  ‘Fair enough.’ Thorne knew that Tanner had spent most of the weekend making the arrangements for Andrew Evans, as well as trying to make inroads into the data she had amassed on eighteen months’ worth of unsolved murders. He knew she had earned whatever overtime she would be due, and knew equally that, unlike most other officers – himself included – she would be claiming no more than she was owed. ‘People don’t usually snore when they’re awake though, do they?’

  Tanner ignored him. She was already pulling papers from her bag and arranging them in her lap.

  ‘And you’ve dribbled a bit.’ Thorne drifted across into the inside lane and slowed a little. The person they were on their way to see wasn’t going anywhere, and Thorne wanted time to discuss the progress, if any, that Tanner had made.

  She spent another few moments arranging the papers to her satisfaction, then stabbed at the top sheet. ‘So, just looking at homicides where the cause of death was strangulation, we’ve got six unsolved.’

  ‘That’s not too bad,’ Thorne said.

  ‘Gets better, actually.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Up to a point.’ Tanner removed another sheet. ‘Now, I’m not totally discounting the one eleven months ago in Aviemore, but I’m setting it aside for the time being, because the north of Scotland is way further afield than he’s gone with any of the cat killings.’

  ‘Sounds reasonable.’

  ‘Just for the time being, like I said. He might have found himself up there for whatever reason and couldn’t help himself. Maybe he’s got family in that part of the world or maybe he just likes walking in the Highlands. We shouldn’t rule out anything.’

  ‘Obviously.’ Thorne was already growing frustrated with the lorry doing less than fifty in front of him and moved out to overtake.

  ‘I’m setting aside two more. One because the team investigating it were convinced it was domestic, even if they still can’t prove it, and one because the pathologist says the killer’s female.’

  ‘Perera said that might be a possibility. That we shouldn’t rule it out, anyway.’

  ‘Really?’ Tanner looked at him. ‘I can’t see it.’

  ‘Me neither.’

  ‘She’s covering herself, that’s all.’

  ‘So, we’re down to three,’ Thorne said.

  ‘Right. Fairly widespread geographically, no one location within a hundred miles of another, but all in the final few months of last year.’

  Thorne looked at her.

  ‘And the most recent one was just a few weeks before the cat-killing started.’

  ‘That’s great,’ Thorne said. He shook his head, slammed a palm against the wheel. ‘You know what I mean. Great work, Nic…’

  If Tanner was bothered by Thorne’s unfortunate choice of words, she didn’t show it. ‘We’ve got a botched burglary, what looks like a homicide carried out by someone the victim knew and one that sounds like a dead end. Like I said, promising up to a point.’

  ‘Tell me about the victims,’ Thorne said.

  Tanner shuffled her papers again, put those she was finished with back into her bag in the footwell. ‘Patricia Somersby, a fifty-eight-year-old widow and retired librarian from Bristol. Annette Mangan, twenty-six, a mature student at Kent University, and Leila Fadel, a doctor.’ She checked her notes. ‘Thirty-one. She was murdered in Norwich.’

  ‘Someone who travels for work, do you reckon?’

  ‘Maybe,’ Tanner said. ‘Or wants us to think that.’

  ‘That’s a big variation in ages.’ When Thorne glanced across, Tanner was holding up three pieces of paper, fanned out; the photos of the three murder victims next to one another. ‘Completely different physical types, too.’

  ‘If the person responsible for the cat-killing is also responsible for these murders, I don’t think he’s bothered about types,’ Tanner said. ‘I mean, it’s not like he only targets ginger toms, is it?’

  Thorne waited.

  ‘Women are his type.’

  ‘No obvious connections between them?’

  Tanner shook her head. ‘We’ve got similarities, though. All the victims were single, for one reason or another, and all of them were killed at home.’

  ‘Right.’

  ‘I know…’

  A domestic crime scene in itself was probably not significant. They both knew that the vast majority of female murder victims died in their own homes, and Thorne supposed that, in the end, it didn’t much matter whether you were face down on your own carpet or the dirt of a rutted back alley. He doubted that a familiar photograph or kitchen cabinet was of much comfort to anyone when the life was being squeezed out of them.

  ‘It’ll have to do for now,’ Tanner said.

  There was clearly a long way to go, but much as he would have liked a little more to be excited about, Thorne still felt as though he and Tanner already had plenty to work with. He pulled across into the fast lane, thinking it through. The fact that these three murders had taken place within a few months of one another had to be significant.

  He said, ‘I wish we could get stuck into this now. Start digging around.’

  ‘Yes, me too, and we will.’ She turned in her seat to face him. ‘Russell’s gathering the troops. Yvonne and Dipak are on it right this minute. I told you, we’ve got the time to work both these cases.’

  Thorne nodded ahead. ‘How long do you think we’re going to be there for?’

  ‘I don’t know. Not all day. Look, for a few hours at least; we need to focus on a murderer we know is out there. On what else the people who organised the killing are capable of.’

  Frustrated as he felt, Thorne couldn’t argue, because Brigstocke and those above him had already set out the guidelines. Since the Adnan Jandali case had taken its surprising turn a few days earlier, it had become clear that it could turn out to be an inquiry every bit as important, in its own way, as the hunt for an as yet theoretical serial killer.

  If Thorne wanted Tanner’s help, he had to help her in return.

  Tanner put the rest of her notes away and sat back. ‘Right, let’s find out how Andrew Evans has settled in, shall we? See what else he has to say for himself.’

  EIGHTEEN

  Long Barrow Manor sat in six acres of its own land, a mile or so south of Salisbury. The front of the house overlooked fields and parkland, but on a good day any resident staying in a bedroom at the back could gaze out across water meadows to the River Avon beyond and just make out the tallest cathedral spire in the country. Provided the occupant was in a fit state to get out of bed and gave two stuffs about the view, which was never guaranteed.

  During the remainder of their drive down, Tanner had given Thorne a potted history of the place.

  Once a grand manor house, and later a privately owned asylum, it had been taken over by the NHS in the mid-fifties and run as a psychiatric hospital before it was finally closed down thirty years later and left abandoned. Nobody was quite sure whose idea it had been to turn Long Barrow Manor into the somewhat peculiar establishment it was now, but since it promised to be useful to several forces, including the Met, raising the funds necessary to buy and renovate the place had not been a problem.

  Thorne was doubtful such a scheme would be approved today. The drastic budget cuts of recent years meant that the acquisition of a new kettle for a squad room was seen to be pushing the boat out.

  ‘Makes sense, when you think about it,’ Tanner had told Thorne in the car. ‘You’ve got witnesses who are likely to be in danger and need protection, so they have to be kept out of the way. If they also happen to have addiction issues, you need to get them clean if their evidence is going to stand up. So, you need somewhere that can do both.’

  ‘Part safe house, part rehab.’

  ‘It’s a clever idea.’

  ‘Counter-intuitive,’ Thorne had said.

  Tanner told him about the friend, an officer from the Gangs and Organised Crime team, who had first mentioned the place to her a year or so before.
‘He said it was a bit like the Priory, only with tattier furniture. A few more armed robbers and not quite so many pop stars.’

  ‘Sounds lovely.’

  ‘The countryside’s nice.’

  ‘Do they take bookings?’ Thorne had slowed a little, the turn-off only a mile ahead. ‘I’ll see if Helen fancies a weekend away.’

  Tanner had laughed, then pointed out the sign for the exit, just in case Thorne hadn’t noticed the three previous ones. ‘I’m sure it isn’t the sort of place where you’d want to go for a romantic mini-break. But once it started to look like we’d got the Jandali inquiry arse about face, I thought this might be just the place to stick our star witness.’

  ‘Let’s hope that’s what he is —’

  ‘It’s this exit,’ Tanner said, pointing again.

  ‘I know,’ Thorne said.

  They skirted the town centre and followed handwritten instructions to an unmarked road that wound for another half-mile or so; rattling across cattle grids, tall hedges looming on either side. Just past a flaking sign for fresh farm eggs, they turned sharply on to a narrow track and stopped. The car had presumably triggered some kind of alert, because a uniformed officer appeared within half a minute and carefully checked their ID before opening the gate.

  The copper pointed the way, then smiled, rueful. ‘I don’t know about lunatics taking over the asylum —’

  It was presumably some clever line the officer had come up with and trotted out for each visitor, and Thorne felt a little guilty at driving away before the man had a chance to finish it.

  Five minutes later they drew up in front of the house.

  Two more officers in plain-clothes checked their ID a second time and took them through to a small office in the entrance hall to sign in.

  ‘How many guests?’ Tanner asked.

  The chattier of the two said, ‘Just the one, believe it or not. There’s a couple more coming in a few days, but it’s all pretty quiet at the moment. Between us and the security team, doctors and therapists and what have you, there must be twenty-odd people here playing nursemaid to your bloke. Makes you wonder, doesn’t it?’

  ‘Does it?’ Tanner made a show of looking at her watch, before the officer took the hint and led them back out into the hall and along a corridor to a pair of tall double doors.

  ‘I’ll leave you to it,’ he said. He knocked gently, then eased the doors open, though he looked very much as if he’d have preferred to kick them in.

  ‘Bloody hell.’ The room was probably as big as Thorne’s flat. Ahead of them windows ran the length of one wall, a pair of French doors opening out to a covered patio with plastic tables and chairs and, beyond that, an overgrown lawn sloping away towards a thick line of trees. There were seemingly dozens of mismatched armchairs and small sofas, which together with the collection of side tables and standard lamps made the whole room resemble a freakish, down-at-heel furniture showroom. Moving further into the room, Thorne could see that almost everything else was bland and utilitarian: dark brown corduroy curtains; an industrial grey carpet with fresh hoover tracks; a few crappy prints in clip-frames above a large oak fireplace and a large TV on a dusty glass and metal stand.

  A few DVDs scattered beneath. 100 Great Premiership Goals, Michael McIntyre Live & Laughing, Fast & Furious 6.

  There was a smell too – a sharp tang of cleaning fluid and something musty – and Thorne realised that what it reminded him of, above all, was the day room in an old people’s home.

  Andrew Evans was sitting on a sofa in the corner, next to a middle-aged man in a suit, who stood up as Thorne and Tanner came in. He mumbled something to Evans, then smiled at Thorne and Tanner as he walked past them and closed the doors behind him.

  ‘Counsellor,’ Evans said. ‘Load of old toss, but it’s not like I’ve got anyone else to talk to, is it?’

  ‘Well, you’ve got us, now.’ Tanner introduced Thorne and the two of them drew a pair of ratty armchairs closer together.

  Evans watched as Thorne took off his jacket and continued to stare around the room. ‘It’s all right, isn’t it?’

  ‘Better than a cell, I should imagine,’ Thorne said. Though the furnishings left a lot to be desired, the room itself remained impressive, and he found himself wondering what its original function had been. A room that had probably hosted balls or banquets, he guessed. Back before it had become home to those locked away because their behaviour offended Victorian sensibilities. Men who were suffering from stress or had perhaps liked a drink too much and women with post-natal depression or whose infidelity was labelled ‘moral insanity’.

  ‘Worth a few bob, I reckon,’ Evans said, nodding. ‘Sort of place my company used to snap up, when I was a city-boy wanker. That was back in the day, obviously, when there was still plenty of money sloshing around. You know, before…’

  ‘We know,’ Tanner said. ‘It’s all in your file.’

  ‘Before you decided to check Facebook at fifty miles an hour,’ Thorne said.

  Evans lowered his head and tugged the sleeves of his sweatshirt down to cover his hands. ‘That was my joke, when I was inside,’ he said. ‘That I didn’t know which I was more ashamed of. What I did to that lad I hit, or the fact that I used to work in the city.’ He looked up, reddening. ‘Stupid joke…’

  ‘You’re looking better than the last time I saw you,’ Tanner said.

  ‘You think?’ His face was still drawn and pasty, and the heel of one foot bounced almost constantly against the grey carpet. Along with the baggy blue sweatshirt, he was wearing faded tracksuit bottoms and training shoes, all presumably provided from a collection of clothes on site.

  ‘Well, a bit.’

  ‘Don’t feel it.’

  ‘How’s it going?’

  ‘Oh, apart from not sleeping or eating properly, chucking up once an hour and shitting through the eye of a needle, it’s cracking.’

  ‘The treatment, I mean.’

  ‘Well, the counselling stuff’s started, for what it’s worth, but they can’t really start the detox until I get through this bit.’ Evans smiled, showing surprisingly good teeth. ‘Ten times worse than heroin withdrawal, they keep telling me. Coming off Spice. Makes me think I should have taken heroin instead, but that was even more expensive inside.’

  ‘Yeah, it’s shocking some of the prices these days,’ Thorne said.

  Evans ignored him, still looking at Tanner. ‘I’m on something to make sure I don’t have seizures, something else for what they call my discomfort and another one I can’t even pronounce to try and calm me down. I’m rattling.’

  ‘Got to be done,’ Tanner said.

  ‘I’ve got this counsellor talking to me about how I need to sort my life out and I keep telling him that I want to.’ That foot was still bouncing off the carpet. ‘It’s why I’m here, isn’t it?’

  ‘It’s only part of the reason you’re here,’ Tanner said. ‘You understand what’s going on, right? Why we’re here?’

  Evans nodded. Said, ‘Course I do.’

  ‘Good.’ Tanner leaned forward. ‘So, I know the story.’ She nodded towards Thorne. ‘And obviously I’ve told my colleague, but I’d like him to hear it from you. So, tell it again.’

  Evans took a deep breath and described his first few, terrible weeks in Her Majesty’s Prison, Pentonville. He talked about the weeks and months afterwards that had seemed far better at the time; that had passed more quickly, thanks to the drug on which he’d quickly developed a dependence, and the woman who had delivered it.

  ‘The woman you called the Duchess?’

  ‘She knew that’s what we called her,’ Evans said. ‘I think she liked it.’

  Thorne knew very well that drug use in prison was at an epidemic level, and that smuggling in everything from heroin to mobile phones was seriously big business. He was still shocked, though, to hear of the ease with which such things were done.

  ‘Drones are the big thing now,’ Evans said. ‘The Duchess is probably into all
that too, but she wasn’t quite that high-tech with us. She’d bring in these phones that were small enough to hide up your arse, two or three at a time if you wanted to. Small enough for her to bring into the visiting area inside a Mars bar. She could do that with the Spice too, but she had plenty of other ways. She’d get it as a liquid and spray it on to kids’ drawings then let them dry. Easy enough to hand them over, then you just tear a piece off, roll it into a fag and you’re away. You just had to call her and she’d bring in whatever you wanted.’

  ‘What about after you were released?’ Thorne asked.

  Evans did not describe the latter part of the journey that had brought him so low quite as easily. He stumbled over his words and the pauses grew longer as he tried to gather his thoughts. He seemed close to tears several times as he talked.

  ‘The people who’d been supplying the Spice made it clear that if I wanted to pay off my debt… if I wanted more of it… I’d need to… do things for them.’

  ‘And you really didn’t have any idea what these things might be? What, you thought you might have to do a bit of DIY for somebody? Help out with some paperwork?’

  Tanner threw Thorne a look. Go easy…

  ‘You think I had any choice? You think I wanted to?’

  Thorne said nothing.

  ‘They gave me stuff to look after for them, bags I hid in the loft… drugs or cash, I never looked. Then there were jobs… just putting the wind up other poor sods that owed them money. Nothing too heavy at first, then this bloke brought a gun round.’

  ‘What bloke?’

  Evans shook his head. ‘I never saw his face. He had a crash helmet on, same as mine. That was the gun I used to threaten that sad case in Tottenham; the same one that was used to kill Jandali. The bloke came round to collect it after that first time… that’s why it had my fingerprints on.’ He looked from Tanner to Thorne and back. ‘That was obviously their game all along, but I still don’t understand why.’

  ‘Because you’re expendable,’ Tanner said.

  ‘Right,’ Thorne said. ‘It’s the way they do business. Maybe Jandali had threatened to go to the police, or just told them that he wasn’t going to pay them any more. Either way, they decided that killing him would send a message. And I’m betting they didn’t want to risk losing the man they sent to deliver it, who’s obviously very good at his job. So they set you up for it, because sending that message to others was more important than the money Jandali owed or whatever you owed.’ He shrugged. ‘You came in handy, that’s all.’