The Evil Beneath

by A J Waines

  ‘I’ve wracked my brains, Brad. I really don’t think I’ve ever met him. He doesn’t ring a bell in terms of any of my clients, or anyone from the demo…or anyone from University or Norwich.’

  ‘Nothing at all?’

  I shook my head, wishing I could say otherwise.

  ‘We’ve taken his fingers prints. He’s got a scar on his thumb, so if there’s anything decent from the boat, we might get a match.’

  We watched Mr Jones as he shifted from one position to another in his chair. He started untying and retying his shoelaces.

  ‘Do you think he’s got attention deficit disorder?’ he asked.

  ‘Definitely some sort of autism, I’d say. Possibly Asperger’s Syndrome.’

  ‘Asperger’s…’ said Brad, jutting out his jaw. ‘Interesting…’ Mr Jones started putting his hands down on the table in a repeating pattern. Right, left, right left, like an animal pawing the surface. ‘He’s certainly got a nervous tic,’ he said.

  ‘Might mean he’s just nervous…not necessarily guilty,’ I said. ‘Where does he live?’

  ‘A flat above a shop in Brixton, he told us. We’re checking his details.’

  ‘Does he drive? He said he went over to Kew on the bus.’

  ‘He said that he doesn’t have a car or a licence. We’re checking that with DVLA.’

  ‘Poor chap. He looks completely out of his depth.’

  Brad sighed. ‘I hope this isn’t another big fat red-herring.’

  ‘What happens now?’

  ‘I want to get a search warrant for his flat. The SIO will need more than this, though.’

  ‘Shall I go home?’

  ‘Hold on a minute.’

  He went out to the main incident room. A woman was clutching a phone to her chest, beckoning Brad over to her with wide swoops of her arms. He was out of breath and looked excited when he joined me again.

  ‘He used to work in a funeral parlour! He could have easily kept hold of a few body-bags.’ He tightened his hands into triumphant fists.

  As we crossed back through the main incident room, Katherine Lorriman, the Borough Commander, launched herself towards us like a missile.

  ‘What’s this about a search warrant?’ she said.

  ‘He lives alone…he’s got no decent alibi.. I want to get in there and see what he’s hiding.’

  ‘Being a loner is not a good enough reason and you know it,’ she hissed, wagging a finger at him. ‘We’ve got nothing on him. I thought we were looking for someone really smart - he keeps repeating himself. Looks like he’s a few sandwiches short of a lunchbox, if you ask me.’

  ‘Juliet…Ms Grey…thinks he’s autistic. The psychiatrist will be able to tell us more. I’m expecting a call any time now.’ Brad shifted his weight to the other foot, rapping his pen against his palm. ‘He used to work in a funeral parlour, would have had access to the body-bags…he was at the scene, acting suspiciously.’ I could see his jugular vein working overtime inside his collar. ‘We need to get into his flat. We’ve got nothing else.’

  ‘Why was he at Kew Bridge?’

  ‘A “trip out”, he said.’

  She drew her lips together as if she’d tasted something sour. ‘Can’t you do better than that? It’s too vague.’

  ‘We’re having to tread very carefully, ma’am. We don’t want to push him over the edge. He seems very fragile, vulnerable…and his solicitor’s a real…hardliner.’

  ‘Who is it?’

  ‘Melody Kemp.’

  She let a thin whistle escape her lips. ‘Enough said.’

  Brad drew his hands to his hips. ‘The warrant?’

  ‘Okay. Be it on your head, Madison’ she said, undoubtedly knowing that the responsibility would always fall, lock, stock and barrel, back onto hers.

  Clip, clop and she was gone.

  ‘I’ve got to get this done,’ he said.

  I went back into the booth alongside the interview room and watched William Jones again. I wanted to see what he got up to on his own before I left. He had pulled the two chairs together and was now standing on them, rocking from one to the other. He looked bored and frustrated, like a child having been sent to his room. Had the police tracked down a parent or guardian, I wondered, someone who was keeping an eye on this man?

  I’d never had a client with Asperger’s, but I knew from my training that those with the syndrome became agitated when their routine was interrupted and I was witnessing such a situation right now. William was now standing on the table and I was starting to get worried that he was going to harm himself. I was just about to go for help, when Brad went into the room accompanied by the others. He asked William to get down from the table and he did so, without any shame or embarrassment.

  Brad spent a few more minutes with him but nothing new came to light.

  ‘I don’t think we should leave him in there alone again,’ I said, when he came back to the adjoining room. ‘He was getting very antsy.’

  ‘I’m on to it,’ said Brad. Sure enough, the social worker went back into the room and sat down opposite William Jones. The uniformed officer stood by the door, his hands clasped in front of him.

  ‘You were right,’ said Brad. ‘The psychiatrist called me before I went back in. William has Asperger’s,’ he said. ‘Come to my office and we can talk to him on speaker-phone.’

  We weaved back through the main incident room and sat either side of the box at the edge of Brad’s desk.

  ‘I’ve worked with children and adults with this syndrome’ said Dr Mountfield, his voice echoing as if he was inside a church. ‘They’re often very bright, but have problems with basic social skills like small talk, eye-contact and empathy. They retain facts and figures, but they find it hard fitting in.’

  ‘Are they killers?’ asked Brad, squinting as though a bright light was being shone into his eyes.

  ‘No more and no less than the rest of the population,’ said the psychiatrist. ‘Not unless there’s also schizophrenia or psychopathology involved. Or substance abuse. There’s no evidence of that, so far, with Mr Jones, but we’d have to do full diagnostic tests to be sure. I can arrange that.’

  ‘Is there any connection between Asperger’s and criminal behaviour?’ asked Brad.

  ‘No. The moral development of adults with Asperger’s is often impaired and they don’t see the consequences of their actions, but there is no clinical evidence of violent acting-out, as a result. They’re more likely to be victims than offenders,’ he said. ‘They are often suggestible. Their naivety and vulnerability make them easy targets.’

  ‘They often find it hard to lie, I believe,’ I said, refusing to let Dr Mountfield take all the kudos.

  ‘Yes - they tend to deal with actualities. Metaphors and idioms go right over their heads.’

  ‘Difficult for them to find suitable jobs, I imagine,’ said Brad.

  ‘A funeral parlour sounds about right,’ said Dr Mountfield. ‘He would have a nice rapport with the dead, I’d say.’

  ‘There’s one more thing that could be useful,’ I said. ‘Asperger’s sufferers are collectors, aren’t they?’

  ‘That’s a common trait,’ said the psychiatrist.

  Brad was on his feet. ‘All the more reason to get round to his flat as soon as we can,’ said Brad.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Unfortunately, there was no place for me in the search of William Jones’ flat, so I spent Wednesday morning with supervisees at Holistica, trying to fool myself into thinking everything was normal. I kept checking my phone for a message from Brad, but it was blank. I was waiting for a breakthrough, some ultimate discovery that would signal that this monstrous case was heading towards closure. It had gone on far too long and I felt like I’d been emotionally wrung out weeks ago.

  When I’d finished my sessions, I noticed from the appointment book that Cheryl had no one booked in. I’d bought her an apricot croissant during my coffee break, so now was the ideal time to hand it over, before I left
for my afternoon clients. It was a safer bet than leaving it under Clive’s dubious custody.

  I tapped on the door of her consulting room and hearing no reply, tentatively opened it. I stalled, realising she wasn’t alone.

  ‘Sorry,’ I said, backing out.

  Cheryl beckoned me in. ‘It’s okay,’ she said. ‘Leyton’s just leaving.’

  The broad man sitting beside her didn’t give the impression of doing anything of the sort. He was leaning back on a fold-out chair that under his great weight looked like it was made for a child. He didn’t look anything like the man in the tattered photograph Brad had shown me of Cheryl’s brother; he was clean shaven for a start, and there was nothing austere about his face.

  ‘This is Juliet Grey,’ she said. ‘You remember I mentioned her to you?’

  Leyton clambered to his feet and gave me a gracious smile, resting a puffy hand on my shoulder and reaching out the other. It was warm and his flamboyant gesture reminded me of the sincere manner of a particular uncle I adored when I was little. Leyton was all crumples and smiles, but once he’d got his balance and stood tall, his shoulders went back and I remembered what Brad had said about him being in the armed forces until he retired. His deportment confirmed it.

  ‘Leyton Meade at your service,’ he said and a waft of lemony freshness enveloped me. He talked to me as if we were old friends and told me about all the tourist attractions he’d visited since he’d arrived in London, two months ago.

  Cheryl had her arms folded and breathed heavily from time to time.

  As Leyton spoke I recalled the rest of my conversation with Brad; the catalogue of heinous crimes Leyton Meade had allegedly committed, but for which he had never been convicted. I was trying to assess whether this man was capable of those violent assaults - beatings, rape, torture - and whether he could be involved with the bridges murders. He was certainly big enough, strong enough, mobile enough to lift the bodies and his hands would have no problem wrapping around a neck twice the size of mine. But was Leyton a killer?

  Psychologists claim that everyone is capable of murder, if pushed to the limit. What do you look for when meeting a potential killer? What are the warning signs? Characteristics such as over-control, a sense of entitlement, an impulsive temper, jealousy and possessiveness are the commonly known triggers that can tip people over the edge. I decided I would need to see Leyton under stress to be able to make any sort of judgement. As it was, he appeared to be as convivial and playful as an oversized teddy bear.

  Cheryl looked at her watch. ‘I’ve got a client, Leyton,’ she said.

  ‘Okay,’ he said, jovially. I knew for a fact that she hadn’t. He got to his feet. ‘I’ll have to take leave of you two lovely ladies.’ He shook my hand again and turned to Cheryl, who avoided any contact and reached over to open the door.

  ‘I’ll be in touch,’ she said, in a matter of fact way as he left.

  ‘Sorry to barge in,’ I said. I handed her the white paper bag. ‘Thought you might like this - you said the other day you were partial to anything with pastry.’

  She peered inside and licked her lips. ‘Perfect,’ she said. ‘Thank you.’

  ‘Your brother seemed charming,’ I said, hoping to probe a little into why there had been such a tense atmosphere between them.

  ‘Yes,’ she said. I saw her arms stiffen as she spoke. ‘Isn’t he…just?’

  The clock behind Cheryl’s head said it was two minutes to one and I realised I had to get back home for my clients. When I left the room, I was cross with myself: I’d missed several opportunities with both of them to dig deeper.

  During the afternoon I had two clients who were making progress - and then Lynn Jessop. In most cases, counselling helped turn people’s lives around, but there would always be the odd exception, like Lynn, where it barely seemed to scratch the surface. In cases like hers, I felt lost and de-skilled.

  Lynn looked more tired than usual when I opened my front door. Her iron-coloured eyes fixed on mine straight away; they were heavy and hard with contracted pupils that made me think of a stag beetle.

  Before she launched into another catalogue of concerns about Billy, I wanted to check the number she’d given me for her GP. I’d tried to reach the surgery and only got as far as a recorded message saying that the number had been discontinued. I wasn’t quick enough, however. Before I could take a breath, she was off.

  ‘They’ve been dunking him in the water…trying to drown him,’ she said, spitting the words at me as though it was my fault.

  ‘I’m so sorry,’ I said. ‘What happened?’

  ‘I followed Billy after school again and they came after him. One boy in particular. They forced him down to the water…knee in his back…banged his head…pushing his face under…’ Her sentence gave up the ghost. ‘They laughed. I didn’t know what to do.’

  Tears were tipping on to her cheek and I leant over with the box of tissues.

  ‘Is Billy okay?’

  ‘I took him to A&E. Concussion. They couldn’t say if there would be any permanent damage. They kept him in a day or two.’

  ‘This is really serious, Lynn, did you report it? Would you recognise the boys?’

  ‘I can’t always be there. He won’t talk about it.’

  ‘But, did you tell the police?’

  ‘They won’t do anything. I’ve reported it before. I told you. I know who the ring leader is now. He should be punished.’

  ‘Is he at the same school as Billy?’

  ‘No. But I’ve seen him before. In the neighbourhood. I know his name.’

  ‘Won’t the police follow it up? Talk to the school, his parents?’

  ‘You, of all people, should know that doesn’t happen.’ Her sudden sharp tone took me aback. It was as if, again, she was accusing me of being part of the problem.

  I knew before I said it that I was overstepping the mark. ‘I know a decent police officer. I could talk to him about this…confidentially.’ A look of horror shot across her face, but I carried on, anyway. ‘Whereabouts do you live, Lynn?’

  ‘No. That’s not going to work.’ She continued to shake her head. ‘They’ll tell the school and Billy will get all upset and hate me for it.’

  ‘But Billy is getting seriously hurt. Doesn’t he want it to stop?’ She gave me a pleading look. I didn’t know what it meant. ‘I know I shouldn’t be suggesting this,’ I said. ‘I’m a psychotherapist, not a social worker, but this has been going on —’

  ‘No. You don’t understand.’

  ‘Understand what? Tell me…I want to help.’

  ‘You can’t. It’s too late. It’s far too late for all that!’

  She was on her feet, punching out those final words in my face, before she yanked open the door. I opened my mouth but nothing came out. As her stomping footsteps faded away down the corridor, the door handle was left swinging out of its socket; she’d pulled it right off.

  I flopped back into the chair, flummoxed. I heard the front door slam and went down to lock it. I was done for the day in more ways than one.

  There was a note on the mat. Lynn had trodden on it, on her way out. It simply said: Outside. I recognised the writing. I opened the door and found Brad leaning against his car with his ankles crossed.

  ‘I was just passing,’ he said, smiling in a way that indicated we both knew he was fibbing.

  ‘Is everything okay?’ I said.

  ‘It does get to that stage, doesn’t it?’ he said. ‘When every time you see a policeman you assume something awful has happened…’

  ‘Sorry…it’s just…’

  ‘Bad day?’

  ‘Not my best - are you coming in?’

  He nodded. ‘I’m off duty for once.’

  ‘Hot chocolate?’ I suggested, as I slammed the flat door to shut out the cold. I needed something warm and soothing.

  ‘Love one,’ he said. I liked the way he settled himself on the sofa without being invited. ‘Wanted you to know the latest.’ He patted
the space next to him. He looked smug. I could only assume there’d been an arrest. ‘Good news and bad news.’

  ‘Did you go to Mr Jones’ flat?’

  I flopped into the space he’d indicated, faintly warmed by his hand.

  ‘No obvious evidence of the victims, but we’ve sent various fibres to forensics. Nothing there about Fairways, nothing yet about you. But, we found two folded body-bags in his wardrobe.’

  ‘Really? Anything else?’

  ‘The voice scan is a match. It was him who left the last message over the phone.’

  ‘Wow - that’s brilliant.’

  The elation on his face faded.

  ‘Downside is his shoe-size is nine and we’re looking for size ten - we checked all this shoes - so that’s not good. Plus, his hands are too small to have made the marks on the victim’s necks.’

  ‘It’s not him?’ I sank back, let my face fall into my hand.

  ‘He didn’t do it, but it looks like he could be working with someone who did. An accomplice who is pulling the strings. The psychiatrist says Jones is a follower; he’s highly suggestible, he’ll do what someone with influence asks of him.’

  ‘And this someone is the actual killer…’ I sat up.

  ‘Presumably. We’re pretty certain now that the bodies were driven down to the water in body-bags, then put in a boat, perhaps a fair distance away from the bridges. Forensics says the fibres of PEVA we found are a match for the same type of body-bags as the ones William had in his flat - same colour, same material, same make.’

  ‘So you’ve got him,’ I said.

  He put his hand up.

  ‘Not exactly - the type of body-bag is the same, but we haven’t got the actual body-bag he used and we know William isn’t the one who strangled the victims.’

  ‘Is it enough to arrest him?’

  ‘Not yet. The only real link is the body-bags and his message. The boat that turned up at Kew Bridge had been stolen from the river bank near Hammersmith, but there are no matches for William’s prints.’

  ‘You’ve let him go?’

  ‘For now, but he’s under strict surveillance. We’re hoping he’ll contact the other guy.’