‘In a while,’ he said. ‘In a while.’
She gave herself up to him willingly.
‘There is something I haven’t told you.’
Peta replaced her mug of tea on the desk, readied herself to run.
‘Don’t worry,’ he said. ‘Not a bad thing. It’s just … the night of Jill’s … When Jill disappeared. I was supposed to … to be seeing her.’
Peta relaxed, nodded. ‘Wilco,’ she said. ‘The Wilco gig.’
He looked surprised, nodded. ‘Right. Ah, yes, of course. Because I … Yes.’
‘Because you asked me to go.’
‘Yes.’ The Prof blushed. Sipped his coffee. ‘The police, they know. I told them. It was a social affair. Many of us there. Not just … the two of us.’ He gave a weak smile. ‘You might have enjoyed it.’
Peta nodded, said nothing.
They sipped their drinks. Peta pointed to the file. ‘So this is your profile of the killer?’
The Prof nodded.
‘Why the Historian?’
‘In good time. Now, I’m sure the police have come up with their own profiles. I have a contact on the investigation, left over from the old days. In a lowly position, I’m afraid; just one of the foot soldiers. He has provided me with access to information not available to the press or the general public.’
‘Why?’
‘So I could come up with a profile. Present it to him.’
‘And he would take the credit?’
The Prof nodded. ‘If it was right. If I was wrong …’ The Prof shrugged. ‘No harm done. Having said that, some of this is still guesswork. Educated mostly, because that’s what I do, but occasionally requiring a leap of faith. This is what I’ve come up with. The killer knew all his victims. Perhaps not closely, but he was certainly in some form of contact with them.’
‘So he works at the university?’
‘My first thought. But then there was the first victim. Lisa Hill. I don’t believe it has been officially confirmed, but I do believe she was one of his victims. But not a student. So he had to know her another way. That fact must have thrown the police initially, stopped them connecting the three. But the thing that binds them together is the positioning of the bodies. All the clues are there if looked at in the correct way.’
Peta waited. The Prof got up, crossed to a shelf, took down some well-thumbed books and a full document file, placed them on his desk. He opened the file, took out photocopied sheets. Peta leaned over, looked at them.
‘What are they? They look like … maps.’
‘They are maps, Peta. But not current ones. Antique. Now, the past is one of the two connective things this killer is interested in.’
‘What’s the other?’ asked Peta.
‘Death.’
‘Well, no prizes for guessing that.’
‘I’ll explain what I mean in a while. First, the past. The places the bodies were left should have set any profiler’s alarm bells ringing. Lisa Hill was found at Barras Bridge. Ashley Malcolm in Westgate Road cemetery and Jill …’ He looked around his desk for the piece of paper.
‘The car park of the Blood Transfusion Service.’
The Prof nodded. ‘Proves my point.’
Peta frowned. ‘How, exactly?’
The Prof smiled, happy to be showing off his knowledge. He reached for the photocopied sheets, fanned them out on the desk, arranging them in some kind of order. Peta looked at them.
‘Maps, as you so correctly identified,’ he said. ‘Old ones. Of how the city used to be. Its past configurations.’ He pointed to somewhere on his left. ‘Westgate Road cemetery.’ He rifled through to the end of his file, picked up a sheet Peta hadn’t reached in her reading, continued. ‘Constructed in the 1820s, modelled, believe it or not, on Père-Lachaise in Paris. Obviously without Jim Morrison.’
‘And Edith Piaf.’
‘Quite. Disused since 1960.’ He looked directly at her. ‘Disused. Old. Obsolete. That’s the key. And the next one.’ Head down again, he ran his finger over the map, in a line from Westgate Road cemetery to Barras Bridge. ‘Here. Barras Bridge. Between the Civic Centre and the Newcastle Playhouse on St Mary’s Place. And just down the road from where we are now.’
‘And there’s a church there, St Thomas’s, isn’t it?’ asked Peta, warming to the theme. ‘That’s why he left her there.’
The Prof gave another one of his enigmatic smiles. ‘One would think, wouldn’t one? But no.’ His fingers traced the map again. ‘Look here.’
Peta looked. The map was even older than the one relating to the cemetery. It showed a completely different layout for the town. Very old, hard to read. She squinted.
‘Barras from the word barrow. Meaning grave mounds,’ he said. ‘Twelfth century. The Hospital of St Mary Magdalene. For lepers.’
‘A burial ground for lepers?’
The Prof nodded. ‘Initially. As leprosy died out it was used for victims of plague or pestilence. Poor, obviously.’
‘And the Blood Transfusion offices? What’s buried under there?’
‘Nothing,’ he said sitting back, looking at her.
‘Nothing? Then doesn’t your theory fall apart?’
‘Not at all. Look here.’ He leaned forward, traced his finger in a line from the medieval map of Barras Bridge to the third one. ‘What d’you see?’
Peta looked. ‘Gallows Hole …’ She looked up, barely able to contain her excitement. ‘Jesus! Gallows.’
The Prof nodded. ‘I had a suspicion, something I read about once. In a book on the history of death in the northeast.’ He gave a shy smile. ‘My esoteric, eclectic tastes are well documented. I decided to follow it up. That’s where I’ve been today, getting these copied. The old public execution site is off the old Turnpike Road, past Gallowgate, now the car park of the Blood Transfusion Service. I don’t know the facts, but I’m willing to bet the body was found hanged.’
A shadow crossed the Prof’s features leaching the triumph out of him as he realized whom he was talking about. Peta shared the feeling, looked at the maps, tried to find something constructive to say.
‘This is brilliant. If you’re right.’
‘Yes, if I’m right. But I believe I am.’
‘So he’s the Historian because of his interest in the past?’
The Prof nodded. ‘Partly. There’s something else. Death. Or rather the ritual of death. That’s what I think appeals to him. My contact told me the bodies were found with their eyes and mouths sewn up.’
Peta’s face held a look of disgust. The Prof continued.
‘That led me to believe the bodies were all laid out in a certain fashion, possibly utilizing the ritual trappings of an antiquarian culture.’
‘How d’you mean?’
‘Even before I heard that, I believed he would have done something like that to the bodies. Pennies over the eyes, perhaps. But sewing up the mouths and eyes – that confirmed my way of thinking.’
‘Why?’
‘Because he’s sending us a message. This man, and I think we can safely say it is a man, has gone to a lot of time and trouble, and he wants people to know what he’s doing.’
‘He’s a vicious, psychopathic killer, don’t forget.’
‘Indeed he is. But I’m sure he won’t see himself in those terms.’
‘They never do.’
‘He believes he has a higher calling. Is on a mission.’
‘What?’
The Prof shrugged. ‘That I haven’t yet discovered.’
‘What about Michael Nell? Would this fit him?’
The Prof sat back, steepling his fingers across his chest, assuming what seemed an academic position. Peta could see no trace of the self-justifying druggie she had talked to earlier. His journey was obviously complete.
‘This is an angry man, obviously,’ he said. ‘Clever but not educated, I would say. Self-taught. That, I think, would tend to rule out Michael Nell. This man feels that the expression of his intellect has
been thwarted in some way. He wants us to know how clever he is. The body positioning is his way of showing it.’
‘I’m sure the police will have considered this.’
‘I’m sure they have. But at the risk of sounding arrogant, I don’t think they’re using the correct parameters. And unless they use the right parameters as a cross-referencing tool, they won’t get the right results. That’s why my contact came to me. He thought the investigation needed someone to think outside the box.’
‘You’ve got to take this to the police. Tell them what you’ve told me.’
‘My contact will take it.’
‘No, you. Now. They have to see this.’
The Prof shook his head. ‘And be dismissed as some crackpot? Especially an ex-druggie crackpot? Walking in off the street with a connection to one of the victims? What if I turned out to be wrong?’
‘Do you think it’s wrong?’
‘No.’
‘Then do it.’ Peta pulled her mobile out of her bag.
‘No. I won’t.’
Peta looked at him. Felt anger rising again. ‘All right, so you don’t want to risk being made a fool of. Have the police dredge up your past again. Fair enough. But what about doing this for someone else?’
‘Who?’
‘Jill.’
The Prof sighed, put his head in his hands. His body seemed to sag. Peta couldn’t tell if a great weight had been applied to him or lifted from him.
‘Do it,’ he said.
Peta didn’t wait for him to change his mind. She dialled Nattrass.
Michael Nell stood on the street corner, watching.
Anita was back in the bar, working. He felt a thrill run through him, the like of which he had hardly experienced before. The power he yielded. The sweet power he had over her was immense. He was like Superman. No, not Superman; someone equally powerful, but darker. Lex Luthor. Or Neo in The Matrix. The one.
He was having the time of his life. For the first time ever he was in control. Complete control. And it gave him a hard-on he could barely shift, a need he could hardly satisfy. Away from his father, from university. From expectations. He was himself. He was free.
He laughed to himself. On the run, but free.
And then there was Anita. He had never met a girl like her. She fitted him so perfectly she could have been designed for him. His soul mate. He had never felt such all-encompassing love for another human being, especially in such a short space of time, as he did with her. He had never felt love before. When they met, when they touched, it was like electricity passed between them. They didn’t need to talk: the understanding went deeper than that.
Soul deep.
She was his life, his love, his heart.
His perfect victim.
And he knew nothing would ever force them apart.
His erection was twitching again. He wanted her. Right then and there. But she was working. Giving her body to other men. For money. And that just made him want her all the more.
His whore.
His love.
The door of the bar opened and she emerged, walking arm in arm with a punter over to the hotel. She looked over to him. He blew her a kiss. She turned back to the john, pretended to find what he was saying really interesting. They went through the double doors.
Michael Nell sighed. He could imagine what they were doing in there. But he didn’t need to. Later he would ask her and she would tell him. And he would take her again.
His erection was threatening to burst out of his jeans now. He should wait until later, but he couldn’t. He looked around for a secluded spot where he could go. Away from pedestrians, CCTV cameras. Somewhere he could relive his fantasies, imagine Anita all over again.
He turned and walked away, his heart full of love.
39
Donovan snapped his old, bulky phone shut, slid it back into his pocket, where it left an unsightly bulge. He didn’t have time to care about that now.
‘That was Amar,’ he said. ‘And shit is happening.’
Donovan repeated to Turnbull what Amar had just told him. Kovacs. Katya and Dario Tokic. Decca Ainsley. The cobras. Tyne Dock. He sat back, scarcely able to believe the words that had just come out of his mouth.
‘Tell him to stay there,’ said Turnbull. ‘Wait for uniforms to turn up.’
‘He’ll be long gone, Turnbull. Phoned 999 anonymously, then he’ll have split with Jamal. You think they’re going to hang around there? Now?’
Turnbull opened his mouth to answer. Donovan cut him off.
‘And, anyway, you’re in no position to go issuing official orders.’
Turnbull said nothing, sat staring at Donovan, simmering in silent, dangerous resentment, like a dried-out pan left on an electric hob. Ready to go at any time.
They were sitting in a pub in Bensham, Gateshead. One of a dying breed of literal street-corner pubs. Small, old and with no attempt at décor beyond the basics, it was as familiar a part of the lives of the regulars as their living rooms or bathrooms.
The streets around were old dirty red-brick terraces, front doors facing out directly on to the street. No gardens at the back to speak of. No great treasures inside. A wide-screen TV and Sky Sports the height of luxury. That kind of area.
Donovan and Turnbull sat at a corner table, the rest of the pub giving them a wide berth. They were outsiders, but even worse: one, if not both, was a copper. They could sense it, despite how he was dressed. Years of practice. So pints in front of them, they sat.
They had taken a break from looking for the elusive women in the photos after having come across what could have been a promising lead. By chance, they had found a working girl standing alone on a street corner just off Bewick Road. Rounded more than curvy, her tight, skimpy clothes either an approximation of what she thought would attract the punters or an exercise in self-denial about her actual size. She wasn’t doing a very good trade, and her smile had been fixed in place by the time the two men had approached her, hoping against experience that it meant double money. Turnbull had started talking, introducing himself, flashing his warrant card, ignoring the light dimming in her eyes. Donovan had stepped in.
‘It’s OK,’ he said. ‘You’re not under arrest or anything. You’re not going to be moved on. We just need a bit of help.’
The woman, not missing a trick, asked, ‘You ganna pay for it, like?’
‘Depends if you can help,’ said Turnbull. ‘We just want you to look at some photos, see if you can identify anyone in them.’
‘That’s it?’
‘That’s it.’
‘I’m not ganna have to pick anyone out of a line-up, am I? ’Cos if I am I’m not doin’ it, like.’
‘You won’t have to pick anyone out of a line-up,’ said Donovan, taking the photos out of his jacket pocket. ‘Here.’
He handed them over, looking at her face when she took them. Her eyes had a look he’d seen before, simultaneously sharp and unfocused. A druggie’s eyes. Hunger and need balanced with numbing pain relief.
The woman looked through the photos, nothing registering on her face. Then she stopped.
‘I know her. Met her before.’
‘Where?’
The woman wrinkled her face as she looked closer. ‘They’re a bit rough, these, aren’t they? Tried that. Didn’t like it. But sometimes you’ve got to do what you don’t want to do in this life, don’t you?’
‘Who is she? Where d’you know her from?’ Turnbull letting his impatience show.
The woman sighed. ‘She used to work this side of the water. In one of the …’ She cast her eyes down, closed her mouth.
‘You can say it,’ said Turnbull. ‘Nothing’s going to happen to you for it.’
‘Fuckin’ better not, an’ all.’ She nodded, not quite believing him, but continued. ‘In one of the brothels. Down on Saltwell Road. Nice house. Posh. The kind you wouldn’t think. She used to have a room next to me. Used to work the same shifts.’
‘Ca
n you remember her name?’ asked Donovan.
The woman shook her head. ‘She was Russian or somethin’. Serbian. Somewhere there. The blokes mindin’ her, they were bad bastards. You didn’t want to tangle with them. They told her what she had to do. Like it or lump it.’
Donovan interjected, tried to keep her on track. ‘D’you know a name? Where these photos were taken?’
The woman thought hard. ‘I remember … somewhere in Newcastle. There was a few girls went there. Let’s see them photos again.’
Donovan handed them back to her. She looked hard at them this time, really studied them.
‘Yeah,’ she said, pointing to another picture. ‘Knew her.’ Another one. ‘Her an’ all. And her.’
Donovan and Turnbull exchanged glances, shrugs. Not knowing if she was telling the truth or off in a fantasy world. ‘Do you know where these might have been taken?’ Donovan trying to keep her on the right track again. ‘Any idea?’
Her eyes were screwed up tight. She could have been thinking hard, or she could have been suffering withdrawal symptoms.
Turnbull waded in. ‘Think, please. You could help to catch a killer here.’
Her eyes opened wide. ‘A killer? Are all these dead? I never saw them again, like. But then I don’t work in the brothels any more. Can’t afford the rents. Better off here, like.’
‘Please,’ said Donovan, ‘just think. For a moment. Then we’ll be gone. Do you know where these photos were taken?’
Her face brightened, as if a light bulb had gone on in her head. ‘They asked me once. If I wanted to go have me photo taken. This must have been it …’ Behind her, Turnbull shook his head, began to walk away. Donovan persisted.
‘Well, where was it? Can you remember?’
‘Never stayed in the brothel long enough. Came here before I could go. Don’t like it, but, like I say, you’ve got to do things you don’t like in this life.’
Donovan felt like joining Turnbull. ‘Can you remember?’ He grabbed her shoulders, felt flabby, clammy goose flesh. She looked at him as if in shock, as if seeing him for the first time. ‘Can you remember?’
‘Somewhere beside the Grainger Market,’ she said, her voice like that of an automaton. ‘A disused old shop that’d been turned into a studio. On the corner, they said. You can’t miss it. Boarded up. Used to sell clothes. An’ wool. Fabric. Threads an’ that. On the corner.’ She shook her head. ‘Never went there meself …’
Bone Machine Page 34
