by Tania Carver
Patel said nothing.
‘Think about it. About what someone might have gone through. What she might have endured. And then laugh and call her a man-hater.’ Her voice began to quaver.
‘Thank you for your time,’ said Imani.
Patel didn’t reply. He couldn’t find any appropriate words.
They said nothing more until they reached the car, drove away.
Then Imani received a call asking them to return to the station. Urgently.
Marina Esposito had something to tell them.
51
‘Right, listen up.’ Cotter, standing at the front of the incident room, made sure she had everyone’s attention. The lights were down low. ‘This couldn’t wait until morning. I want you all to go away thinking about it.’
Imani stood on one side of her, Marina on the other. We probably look like the worst girl band in history, Marina thought.
But it was just nerves making her think such things. She had enjoyed the day, getting back on the horse, feeling the blood pumping, doing what she should be doing. What she believed she was meant to be doing. This case had just reminded her.
‘Okay,’ said Cotter. ‘I’m going to hand you over to Dr Esposito. She’s come up with some preliminary findings that you all need to keep with you. I believe this is how we’re going to catch this guy.’ She looked at Marina. ‘Over to you.’
Marina took her place beside her laptop. She had rigged a projector on to the murder wall. An appropriate place for the team to focus on. She looked round. Felt energised. She had arranged with the departmental secretary, Joy, to have her lectures and seminars covered. More importantly, Joy was also picking up Josephina. And Joy’s boyfriend was a tae kwon do black belt. She was sure her daughter would be safe there for a while. And Josephina loved Auntie Joy.
She began her PowerPoint, feeling as if she was addressing a room full of students.
‘I’ve narrowed down the variables and come up with a profile of the person who I believe is our perpetrator. This is where we start. White, male, mid-thirties.’ She looked round the room, tried a smile. ‘I’m sure you’ve all watched enough films to reach the same conclusion. Intelligent, articulate. Likeable, even. Or at least doesn’t pose a threat. Knows how to blend in, adapt. A good predator is an expert at camouflage.’
‘Doesn’t that rule out Roy Adderley?’ asked Sperring.
‘Not necessarily. Apart from the fact that Sperring has no alibi for Janine Gillen’s murder, he may be playing a double bluff. Being too obvious, attracting our attention. The old hiding-in-plain-sight thing.’
She looked round the room. No more questions.
‘Right. Evidence for this. He has to persuade a vulnerable young woman to get in the car with him. There’s a password the driver has to give and he knows it. Must have got it through hacking the phones – not my department, I’m afraid – but he still has to be plausible.’
Next screen.
‘Does he work alone?’ The words appeared as she spoke them. ‘Answer: yes. What he’s doing is a very personal act. Intimate, even. Something that has meaning only to him.’
Key pressed again.
‘And how do we know that?’ The words once again appeared. ‘Hearts. He takes out their hearts. Cuts them from their bodies.’ As she spoke, the word hearts appeared on the screen. By chance, it covered the photo of Gemma Adderley’s face.
‘And that’s where the intimacy comes from. Because that act isn’t accidental. It’s not an afterthought. It’s specific, it’s targeted.’ She looked round the room once more. Continued. ‘Taking the heart is an attempt to bond with the woman he’s killed.’
‘Can I just ask…?’ Sperring.
‘Yes, Ian?’
‘His victims. You say there’s a bond. Does he actually know them?’
‘Not as such,’ said Marina. ‘Not personally. Or rather, not necessarily personally. We don’t know that for sure. But it’s the type he knows, or wants to know. The type, or even the archetype. These women all had one thing in common. They were all abused by men. But not just any men. Not randomers in the street or work colleagues or trolls on Twitter, no. Very specific men. Their partners. The men who were supposed to love them. Protect them, even.’
Marina stopped talking. An image of Phil had entered her mind. With a pang of regret, she let it go, continued with her presentation.
Another click, another slide.
‘He targets these women when they’re at their most vulnerable. They’ve all suffered. And he makes them suffer some more. Or he certainly did in the case of Gemma Adderley. She was in agony for a long time before she died. He knew what he was doing.’
Marina clicked on to the next slide. ‘This is a man who’s been grievously hurt by women. Or believes he has. Now by this I don’t necessarily mean physically. I don’t think he’ll bear any visible scars. It’s more emotional. He’s suffered in terms of his relationships with women. Or believes he has.’
‘He’s had his heart broken?’ asked Imani.
‘Exactly,’ said Marina, continuing. ‘And it’s that, I believe, that makes him want to take their hearts. The hearts of damaged, suffering, vulnerable women. This is the important bit in understanding what he’s doing, and why. These hearts are his…’ She searched for the right word. ‘His trophies. His mementoes. But of what? Of what happened to him. Of what he believes women have put him through. His agony. His pain. Transferred on to them.’
She had their rapt attention now.
‘He’s a man on fire. He’s burning. With rage. With hatred. And it’s all directed towards women. Vulnerable women. Women he thinks of as weak. Who probably are weak, at their lowest ebb. But he’s clever. He’s cunning. Let’s not forget that, not lose sight of it. And he hides his rage very, very well.’
‘Like most men,’ said Imani.
The women in the room laughed. The men looked either angry or uncomfortable.
‘Like some men,’ said Marina, smiling. ‘But this one is cleverer than most. Or thinks he is. What he does takes planning. A lot of planning. And a lot of technical expertise. But with Janine Gillen he made a mistake. So he’s not infallible. Let’s not lose sight of that. Which leads us on to the next question.’
Another click.
‘Gemma Adderley’s body was found near Saturday Bridge, by the canal. Or rather in the canal. What does that tell us? Lots. And that’s without even going into forensics. The first question we have to ask about this is did he intend us to find the body? And find it as quickly as we did? Or is he getting too clever, starting to make mistakes? And the answer?’
She shrugged.
‘The location was specially chosen. Not so much for its geographical location in the city centre. Although, again, we have to think of the logistics of getting a body there and leaving it without being noticed. But that’s not the concern here. I believe he left her body where he did because it meant something personal to him. This was a place where something significant happened to him. Something involving a woman. A woman who hurt him in some way. And he works through this – exorcises it, even – by leaving a dead, heartless body there to mark the spot. It wasn’t a location chosen at random. But did he mean for us to find the body, and as quickly as we did? Did this methodical thinker miscalculate, or was it all part of his plan? Either he was panicked while leaving the body – somebody saw him, although no one’s come forward – or he was in a hurry and didn’t have time to secure it in place. The other option is he left it for us to find deliberately. So the answer: I still don’t know. It depends where he is in the cycle. We’ll come to that later.’
‘So how many times has he done it?’ asked Sperring, looking impatient.
‘I’m coming to that too, Ian,’ said Marina as calmly as she could. ‘Now.’ Another click, another screen. ‘Let’s look at Janine Gillen. She was a mistake. I don’t mean choosing her was a mistake. She very definitely fits into his victim profile.’
She noticed that most of t
hem were sitting forward now. Good.
‘He went to pick her up, charm her, use his schmooze, whatever, and it went wrong. So he killed her there and then. Botched job. Now, the question we have to ask here is why did it go wrong? Well, again there are a few possible answers. Maybe she got cold feet, decided she didn’t want to go to the refuge after all. Wanted to stay and sort things out with her husband. But she’d seen him, and more to the point, could identify him, so she had to be killed. One possible explanation. Another is that she recognised him already. Maybe she knew him.’
Sperring, Marina noticed, was leaning forward in his seat, listening intently. He nodded. To himself, thought Marina.
‘Or maybe,’ said Imani, ‘she had been told it was going to be a woman and wouldn’t get into the car with a man.’
‘Maybe,’ said Marina. ‘Whichever you decide, one thing is certain. This is where he went wrong. No doubts, or shadows of doubts, like with Gemma Adderley. He went wrong.
‘I believe that his pattern up until this point was to abduct the women, keep them alive, torture them, subject them to God knows what, and then eventually kill them. And afterwards take their hearts. To do with…’ she shrugged again, ‘whatever he does with them. Whatever his ritual is. But he couldn’t do that here. It went wrong. And the thing is, we might not even have recognised this as one of his if he hadn’t done that one thing. That one thing he had to do – take the heart. His compulsion, the thing that drives him to do this in the first place, wouldn’t let him behave any other way. Right, Ian.’ She pointed to Sperring. ‘The bit you were asking about. How many other victims.’
Another click, another screen. ‘Answer? I don’t know. But given what I’ve seen and read about Gemma Adderley, I’d say she definitely wasn’t the first. Why? Because serial killers – and there should be no doubt that we’re dealing with one of those – have a cycle. They go through phases. The initial phase is the getting started. Finding their voice, so to speak. Their… thing, for want of a better word. The one indefinable thing that motivates them. They might make a few missteps on the way. Sometimes they’re caught before they have the chance to set out. But if they get past that stage, they move on to the next one. That’s where they realise what they want and how to achieve it. When they refine their methods, their approaches. Hone their skills. This is their most successful phase.’
She paused, hoping this was all going in.
‘The next phase is one of… well, boredom, really. They’ve achieved what they want. But they want more. This type of killer is, among other things – all of them sexually motivated in some way – an egoist. A narcissist. They want the world to be aware of what they’re doing. How brilliant they are. Or how brilliant they think they are. And that’s when the trouble starts for them.’
Another click.
‘That’s what I believe has happened here. To Gemma Adderley. And in a way, the answer to the question I asked earlier is the same. Did he let us find her body because he wanted to, or did he make a mistake? It’s a moot point. He wants to let us find the body, say. He wants us to know how brilliant he is. It’s also his downfall, leading to the next part of the cycle. The one where he makes mistakes. Janine Gillen is proof enough of that. And that makes him easier to catch. In fact, it’s when most serial killers are caught. And usually for the stupidest of reasons. But it can also make him more desperate, quicker to lash out. Not so choosy with his potential targets. There’s even the temptation to go out with a bang. A big blaze of glory. All these things have to be considered.’
She looked round the room once more.
‘So to sum up, I believe there are other victims out there. Ones he’s hidden, managed to cover up. And we have to find them. Then we’ll know what we’re dealing with. But more to the point, this Heartbreaker, as the media’s calling him – and I apologise for saying that – is going to kill again. And it’s up to us to stop him.’
52
He stared at his boxes. Lined along the walls, all around him. Every one a specially – lovingly – prepared final resting place for his darkest, bitterest, most disappointing and hurtful memories. Individually thought out, the trappings to match the memory, the shelf positioning matching the severity of pain. It was a room of loss, of failure, of harm, but also of hope. For the future. Strip the damage and the anger away, store it up here. Emerge a new man. A happy man. A perfect man.
But that wasn’t what he felt now as he looked on his work. All he felt inside him was rage. And fear. One feeding and stoking the other.
The police were circling ever nearer. He could feel it, sense it. He had tried to enquire as to where they were with the investigation, what they were doing, how much progress had been made. There was a limit to what he could ask without giving himself away, though. And he was careful to skate along that line. As careful as he could be.
How could he stop them? Or at least hold them off until he had finished what he had set out to do? He didn’t know. He had to think. Think hard.
Anger and fear roiled inside him once more. No. He couldn’t be stopped. Not now. Not yet. He hadn’t reached the point he needed to. Become the person he wanted to become. The good person. No.
So what, then? How could he stop them? Could he kill them? No. That wasn’t part of what he was doing. His work didn’t extend to something of that nature. That would just be murder. Pointless, senseless murder. And that wasn’t what he did. Who he was. Murder was for lesser people. For those who couldn’t help themselves. Who solved arguments not with rational discourse but with brutality. Not at all like what he was doing.
This was a calling. An experiment. And a successful one too. It was working. He was becoming a better person the longer it went on, the nearer he came to achieving his goal.
But…
Something would have to be done. If not killing, then… what? He walked round, stared once more at the empty boxes, more empty ones than filled ones. So many memories still to be locked away…
He knew what he had to. Escalate his plan. Find the next one straight away. Tonight, even. Weigh up the risks, of course, but keep moving. Only that way could he —
He heard a noise from outside. A voice.
Cunt.
Time to go back, he thought reluctantly. Time to put his emasculated mask in place once more, rejoin the rest of the world.
For now.
53
‘Where you going?’
‘Just out. For a bit.’
‘Where?’
‘Just…’ Ellison sighed. He hated being questioned like this. ‘Just out. Seeing someone from work. That’s all.’
Helen stared at him. God, he hated the woman. Didn’t know why he’d married her. There she sat, in the same chair she was always in, her arse wedged in permanently, too fat to get up and do anything. The house was a tip. She never cleaned. And he was always having to bring in takeaways because she wouldn’t – or couldn’t – cook. Christ. What had he done to end up with her?’
‘Who?’
And he hated her voice. Probably that most of all. Even above the sound of the TV, some inane chat-show thing, she could always find the right frequency to screech into his brain.
Hate wasn’t a strong enough word for what he felt about her.
‘You don’t know them. No point in telling you. Christ, it’s like living with my bloody mother.’
‘Don’t swear. I won’t have you swearing in this house.’
‘Fuck off,’ he mumbled under his breath.
‘When are you coming back?’
‘Later. I don’t know.’
‘Don’t be too late. There’s that murderer on the loose. It said so on the news.’
‘I’m sure you’re safe from him.’ Too bloody right, he thought. Bastard would want his head examining going after her.
She kept talking but Ellison wasn’t listening. He slammed the door, breathed in the damp evening. It smelt of freedom.
He walked to his car, plans for the night already taking
shape. He kept a few things in the boot for such occasions. Playthings. A dress-up box. A few drinks first, to get him in the mood, then that.
Fun.
He got in the car, drove away.
54
‘God, what a day…’
Claire was opening a bottle of red when Keith walked into the kitchen. ‘Want a glass?’
‘Lovely,’ he said.
She poured one for him, handed it over with a kiss and a smile. ‘Cheers,’ she said.
He returned both the words and the smile.
She walked into the living room. He followed her.
‘Where’s Edward?’ she asked, looking round before sitting down.
‘Went to a friend’s after school. Something involving computer games, I think. Call of… I don’t know. Something.’
She nodded, took a sip. ‘More violence. Anyway.’ She put her glass down, leaned back in her chair. ‘Had the police back in today,’ she said.
‘You too? Lot of it about.’ He didn’t look at her while he spoke.
‘Oh.’ She looked surprised. ‘What for?’
He shrugged. Kept his voice light. ‘Oh, Janine Gillen. Had anything slipped my mind, had she said anything, all that. The kind of things you see on TV but real. All the clichés. What about you?’
‘Same, really. Nice girl, though. DC Oliver?’
‘Oh yeah. Spoke to her yesterday. Knows her stuff. Had a different one today. A bloke. Sperring.’ He forced a laugh. ‘Old-school. More at home in The Sweeney, I think. The dinosaur type.’
‘Lovely,’ she said.
‘Anything planned for tonight?’ he asked.
