Then you might take time to read what was written; you might read the details.
‘Kimber, you sick fuck,’ Harriman said.
Stella was looking at the pictures.
A woman sitting at a pavement-café table, smoking, staring at nothing in particular, her hair drifting across her cheek.
A woman sunbathing in the park, the camera taking in a long length of leg and probing under her skirt.
A woman peering into a restaurant, searching for a friend maybe, her own reflection looking back at her.
A woman walking down the street, all purpose and urgency, her coat making wings either side, her hair flying.
A woman on a park bench leaning back to drink from a bottle of water, her throat arched, sunlight among the water as it flowed.
A woman preparing to dress a naked mannequin in a clothes-shop window, her arms round the dummy from behind, her face looking over its shoulder.
A woman leaning forward to attend to a child in a buggy, her blouse falling forward, the soft slope of her breasts.
And women framed in windows at night, or at dusk, some part-clothed, some naked, some in motion so slightly blurred, some on the far side of the room so muddled with reflections, some removing clothes so indistinct, some closing the curtains so sharp and defined. Many such women… though it would have taken time and trouble to find them and catch them like that: trapped for a moment inside their own lives.
Times and dates logged… and then the little stories, which were brief and dark and terrifying; stories of blood and pain and desecration. As Stella read them, they dizzied her; her throat tightened and the blood sang in her ears.
‘You think he did any of this stuff?’ Harriman was reading too.
‘I don’t know.’ She shuddered. ‘Jesus Christ, I hope not.’
‘We can check some of them. Some of them have names.’
*
Jack Cuddon was going from room to room like a man with a purpose, but, in truth, it was just nervous energy taking him forward. He was muttering to himself. Stella could feel the anger – as if he were shedding flakes of fire. He stared at the photographs in turn. He read the vile little stories word by word. He was breathing through his mouth like a man who had just stepped off a running track.
He said, ‘This is bad. This guy has to go down.’
Stella was staring at a photograph of a woman who was turning to look over her shoulder, almost as if she had spotted her follower or heard the sound of the shutter-release. The movement had brought her into half-profile, the curve of her breast, the sweep of her hip; her dark hair was back in a pony-tail and she had clean, delicate planes to her face, a small, straight nose.
Harriman moved to stand next to her. He said, ‘It’s Valerie Blake.’
In the bedroom, they found more photographs, both on the walls and in a long row of albums. They found a laptop computer. They found locks of hair, fifty or so, arranged on a black display card, time and date carefully recorded.
They found a notebook.
9
I will call this one Anthea.
I will call this one Beatrice.
I will call this one Cherie.
I will call this one Davina.
The book was spiral bound and close ruled. The writing was as neat and evenly spaced as the writing on the walls. There were faint traces of dusting-powder on the covers. Forensics had done a rush job on the book, principally for DNA samples; Stella would let them have it back for dye and heat tests, ink analysis and so forth. It was a book you could buy in any stationer’s and the ink was fine-point fibre-tip.
Harriman turned up at her desk with bad-joke coffee and a couple of report-sheets. She said, ‘Who’s cross-referencing the women in the pictures?’
‘Maxine and Sue. They’re getting some help from the indexers.’
‘Tell them that the names are not likely to help much. He’s naming them himself: going through the alphabet.’
‘Some might be right.’
‘Might be. But, if not, there’s nothing to go on except the faces; in other words, nothing to go on.’
‘The missing persons files.’
‘Missing persons with no names to match.’ She picked up his report-sheets and glanced at them. ‘How long before she came out?’
‘Two hours. Let me tell you how many people knocked on the car window and complained about pollution.’
‘You had the engine running.’
‘Two hours? An airflow coming in straight from the Arctic. They’re calling it an ice-wind; listen to the weather forecast.’
‘Duncan Palmer lives in a very middle-class area. People recycle; they ride bikes.’
‘They drive fucking great SUVs that never see a rock or a patch of mud.’
Stella was reading Harriman’s description. ‘Tall, sexy, blonde, slim.’
‘I didn’t say sexy.’
‘It’s between the lines.’ She put the report down. ‘You followed her to where she lives?’
‘She went back to Palmer’s flat.’
‘Did she now. And before that –?’
‘Went shopping. Picked up some bits and pieces in a food hall: something for the rest of the day. Pâté, pasta, salad, two swordfish steaks. And etcetera. Me next in the queue with my cheese and pickle sandwich.’
‘Then she went back.’
‘No. She went to a place called Filigree. It’s a jeweller’s in the Hypermarket. She was looking at a 1950s Rolex Oyster.’
‘Did she buy it?’
‘They’re trying to find her a Patek Philippe, whatever that is.’
‘Did she give a price range?’
‘Up to fifteen hundred.’
‘No kidding...’ Stella picked up Harriman’s report again and glanced at it, as if for confirmation. ‘A Christmas present,’ she said.
‘Could be for her father, brother...’
‘For her husband.’
‘There’s a thought,’ Harriman agreed.
‘But we think it might be for Duncan Palmer, don’t we?’
‘We’re thinking along those lines.’
‘Did you get her name?’
‘They took her number and said they’d call her. Lauren Buchanan.’
‘What were you supposed to be doing?’
‘Browsing. The place was pretty full: it’s Christmas. She didn’t notice me, don’t worry.’ He paused a moment, then added, ‘Listen, he was in America. The appointments check out. A few cancellations, but nothing that would give him time to get back to England.’
‘I know,’ Stella said. Then, ‘Men can be bastards, can’t they?’
‘I don’t know,’ Harriman said. ‘Why ask me?’
The DNA reports from the scene of crime and from the post-mortem were still backed up in Forensics. Stella called the lab and asked for a cross-check on Kimber’s mouth swab. She was told it was going to take time. The guy on the phone sounded weary.
‘How much time?’ Stella asked.
‘Difficult to say.’
‘How difficult?’
‘It’s a process, you know? A process. Also it stands in line.’
‘What’s your name?’
‘Davison.’
‘Okay, Davison. This is a murder case and I’ve got a suspect – good suspect, really handy – but there’s a problem. He’s confessed.’
‘That’s lousy luck.’
‘Yes, it is. I’ve got some promising circumstantial evidence but nothing to nail it down with. You’ve got the DNA reports from the scene of crime and you’ve got the suspect’s DNA.’
‘Which scene of crime?’
‘Valerie Blake.’
‘That wasn’t me.’
‘What?’
‘I didn’t do the work on that. Might have been processed, might not.’
‘But it’s there. Someone’s got it. I mean, it’s in the lab, isn’t it?’
‘Oh, yes. But it’s not me.’
‘In about three hours, I’m going to
have to ask for a superintendent’s custody extension on the guy; after that, I’ll have to go to a magistrate and I might not get what I want. If I release him without charge and you come back some time later with the information that his DNA’s all over the victim and all over the scene of crime, I’m going to be unhappy.’
‘And you are–’
‘Detective Sergeant Mooney.’
‘Tom.’
‘What?’
‘My first name: Tom. What’s yours?’
‘Are you flirting with me, Davison?’
‘I don’t know. What colour underwear have you got on?’
‘Black,’ Stella said. ‘Lacy thong. Silk panels.’
‘Phone me in the morning.’
When Stella looked up, Sue Chapman was standing a few feet away and smiling. She said, ‘Don’t you find they ride up?’
‘I’m wearing M & S. There’s a “process”, it seems, and I want a quick result. Forensics should get out more.’
‘We’ve been in touch with the teams handling the other attacks. No matches that we can find. We’ve covered attacks further afield, too, and murders of women going back five years. If the faces are among Kimber’s photos, we can’t see them. No luck with missing persons either, not so far; but that’s a much bigger job. You asked me to update you.’
‘Keep them looking.’
‘About two hundred and ten thousand people are reported missing each year,’ Sue said. ‘Most return within seventy-two hours, but that still leaves twenty thousand. A lot of those are kids; some are men. Bring it down to women under thirty-five living in London and the south-east and, okay, you’re only talking about three thousand but he had a couple of hundred photos in that flat. Trying to make a match–’
‘I know it’s a long shot.’
Sue started back towards her own desk, then paused a moment; she turned and spoke from where she was. ‘The thing is… you look at Kimber’s pictures – those women being spied on. They don’t know they’re being watched. There they are, wearing their everyday faces. Then you look at the missing persons shots and they’re a section out of a family photo more often than not: a holiday snap or something taken at a party; and they’re laughing or smiling at the camera.’ Stella waited. ‘You’ve got the private face and the public face, haven’t you? They don’t look like each other.’
‘You’re right,’ Stella said. ‘I know you’re right.’ She went back to Kimber’s diary. ‘Keep them at it.’
10
I will call this one Anthea.
I will call this one Beatrice.
I will call this one Cherie.
I will call this one Davina.
I could be anyone thats the point. Davina walking down the street she thinks whos following me? She turns around to look. There are twenty people following her. Fifty. A whole streetfull of people. I could be anyone.
Look at how she walks my Elaine. My Fenella. Look at how things move. You can get in front some-times and watch her go by then drop back again to let her lead the way. You can take risks let her go round a corner and out of sight then find her again.
She stops for a coffee or she goes to a park with her lunch to catch the sun or she stops to look at something in a shop or she stands by the side of the road waiting for a cab.
You can be a long way off. You can be almost out of sight. Fast telephoto lens 500mm F4 800 ISO film. Its as good as binoculars you get right up close.
See her make a cup of her hands to shield the flame when she lights a cigerette.
See her undo the top two buttons of her blouse and hitch her skirt up to her thigh turning to put her face to the sun.
See her put out her tongue to catch a drop of mayonase that falls out of her sandwhich down along the side of her hand.
See her hook back some hair that the wind has blown across her face when she sits with her knees up reading her book.
The book is called Experience thats how good the lens is. Thats how close I can get.
See how she sits crosslegged in those jeans her hands resting between her legs the croptop the little pucker-up of her belly the silver ring.
This is where she lives my Gina. My Harriet. Now I know I can come back and find her here. Come back tonight. You need fast film. You need somewhere to stand.
Important to work out the gography. Wheres the bedroom? Wheres the bathroom? And the timing thats important. When does she go to bed? Does she take a shower in the morning or at night?
If she lives with a man
If she lives
If someone else is around I wait. I bide my time. If she draws the curtains I wait. I bide my time. If she goes out again if she gets into her car if a taxi calls I wait. I bide my time.
See her in the bedroom as she goes back and forth unbutoning shaking her hair free.
See her in the bedroom in her panties and her bra deciding what to wear.
See her in the bedroom turning naked thinking that perhaps she ought to draw the curtains. Maybe coming over to draw the curtains. Now she comes over.
See her in the bathroom the window a little foggy. The windows not overlooked. Why worry?
Or you can go up to the Strip. Sometimes I go up to the Strip. The girls on the Strip are okay for some things but theres nothing secret about them. Nothing private. I fuck them. I fuck them really hard and I make them do things and thats OK but you cant really get close to them because they can see you. You can fuck them but you cant get right up close like you can with the binoculars or the supertelephoto. You can fuck them and there giving it come on come on baby thats great and there right in your face but it doesnt matter who you are. Theres one called Nancy is what she says shes called. Ive used her a few times. Shes got a room upon the Strip. They dont all have rooms some want to do you in the car or in a doorway. Some go into the cemetry. They suck you off there just inside the gate. I tried following her but it didnt work. There wasnt any danger in it. Danger for her I mean. I followed her back to where she lives and I took a photo through the window but what good was that when she had already taken her clothes off in front of me? Also they are prostitutes and any-body can do anything they want to them.
See my Irene walking to the tube station. I’m a long way off. Supertelephoto 500 F4. Long way off and right up close. See the way the wind lifts her hair.
I will call this one Jennifer.
I will call this one Katherine.
I will call this one Lavinia.
11
Stella and Maxine Hewitt passed Jack Cuddon on their way to the interview room. ‘He’s had a chicken curry,’ he told them, ‘and he’s had his rest period and he’s all yours.’
Stella started the tape, gave the date and time, then announced herself and Maxine. She let Kimber know that they’d found his flat and they’d looked at the walls. He smiled at her. She told him they’d found the locks of hair. He smiled again. He said, ‘Is that all you found?’
A breath of the ice-wind crept into the room. ‘What did I miss?’
‘My little keepsake.’
It was the same word that Duncan Palmer had used. Stella let the tape run. She could feel the pulse in her own wrist. ‘A keepsake –’
‘Valerie’s cross. Gold cross on a chain. Gold chain.’
Stella lowered her head as if in thought; she was pacing herself, trying not to rush him or offer a lead. When she looked up, she asked, ‘Where is it?’
Kimber smiled at her, then redirected the smile to Maxine. He looked pleased and excited. ‘Where is it?’ he said. ‘That’s for me to know.’
They went back to the flat with a full crew; they took the place apart. Maxine went as a fresh pair of eyes. She looked at the photos on the walls and what was written beneath them. She didn’t speak until she and Stella were back in the car. Then she said, ‘It’s a man’s world.’
They’d pretty much dismantled the flat and everything in it. Under the floorboards they’d found a collection of dull porno tapes and a trunk-tracking police-base sc
anner, but they hadn’t found a gold cross on a gold chain.
‘He knows about it, that’s the important thing. The jogging sweats and the chain.’
‘He was logging police calls,’ Sorley said. ‘He’s got a hundred-channel, twelve-band Bearcat scanner, for Christ’s sake. He probably knew what the scene of crime guys were thinking. Look at the transcripts. See if there’s anything on them about the sweats and the chain.’
‘There couldn’t be anything about the chain. Sam Burgess picked up on that and Duncan Palmer confirmed it later.’
‘About the sweats, then.’
‘He did it,’ Stella said. ‘He’s playing a game. Maybe he thinks he can withdraw the confession later, get a smart counsel.’
‘Has he signed a statement?’
Stella shook her head. ‘That’s something else… he’s teasing. But the chain’s real evidence: on the tape, loud and clear.’
‘DNA,’ Sorley observed. ‘That’s real evidence.’ He glanced at his watch and lit a cigarette. Stella wondered whether the two events were causally connected: a sixteen-hour, forty-cigarette day would allow him a cigarette every twenty-four minutes. He looked hungry for it. ‘What else do we know about this guy – apart from the fact that he’s a self-confessed killer?’
‘Nothing. No form, no social services record. He lives up on Harefield. His neighbours have collective amnesia. But it’s not his background I need to know about.’
‘No?’ Sorley drew on his cigarette so hard that his cheeks dimpled. ‘What, then?’
‘How he thinks.’
‘And –?’
‘There’s someone who might be able to tell me about that.’
‘A friend of his?’
‘She’s never met him.’
Anne Beaumont spread copies of the forensic search-site photos of Kimber’s flat out on her conservatory table and looked at them one by one, moving as someone moves at an art exhibition: comparing, judging, looking for continuity and style. Photos of photos; they took in three or four areas of wall and were sufficiently detailed to make legible the stories Kimber had written beneath.
Cold Kill Page 6
