The Victim

by Max Manning

  The trip to the woods. That was the day that had changed everything. It was the day he had discovered the thrill of gaining and exerting power over another human being. Of course, he knew long before he started killing that he was going to end up killing. Murder was the ultimate form of control.

  The Detective

  Day looked across at the little man and shook his head in frustration. Kev Finch had refused the offer of having a public defender present, but he’d obviously watched a lot of TV crime shows.

  “How long had Connor Norton been a tenant in your apartment?”

  Finch folded his arms tight across his chest and sat back in the chair. “No comment.”

  “Did you know he had left the property?”

  “No comment.”

  “Did he tell you where he was going?”

  Finch’s sly eyes slid to the right to look directly at Day. “No comment.”

  They had already run through their list of questions twice, and every time Finch parroted the words No comment, Day found the urge to punch his smug face a little harder to resist. He decided that enough was enough. Finch was enjoying himself far too much.

  Day clenched his right fist and brought it down hard on the table. “Norton is wanted in connection with serious crimes, including assault and possibly murder, and you’re in danger of being charged with harboring a violent criminal.”

  Finch sat up straight in an unconvincing show of defiance. “No comment,” he said, the smirk wiped from his face for the first time since the interview had begun.

  Day felt a stab of satisfaction. “This is wasting everyone’s time. I know you think you’re being clever, but all you are doing is digging yourself into a deeper hole. It’s starting to make me wonder why you are so keen to protect a fugitive like Norton. Maybe the two of you were in on these crimes together? Now he’s run off and left his pal to face the music.”

  Finch studied the room’s whitewashed walls, then raised his eyes to the ceiling. “He’s definitely not my pal. Never was. I wouldn’t spit on him if he were on fire. The evil bastard owes me money.”

  Day nodded, stifling a smile at the breakthrough. “Norton paid you rent for the apartment then?”

  The lines around Finch’s thin lips tightened. “No comment,” he said.

  The apartment above the kebab shop had been barely habitable. It had no heating, the walls were riddled with damp and covered in black mold, and the crime scene investigators had discovered signs of rodent infestation. Apart from a few clothes and a couple of illegible notes scribbled on scrap paper, they hadn’t found any personal belongings.

  An unofficial arrangement would have suited both men. Norton would stay unrecorded on any documents, and Finch would be able to pocket rent without having to spend money upgrading the accommodation or declaring the extra income to the tax man.

  Day placed his hands on the table and clasped them tightly.

  “I want you to think very carefully about what I am about to say. I really don’t give a shit if you have managed to avoid paying a few hundred pounds in tax. What I do care about is catching violent criminals like Norton. If I think that you are deliberately obstructing my investigation, I’m not going to be happy, am I? Understandably, I’m almost certainly going to be less laid-back about you dodging a bit of tax. One brief but satisfying telephone call to Her Majesty’s Revenue and Customs is all it’d take. I guarantee they’ll sink their teeth into you faster than you can say doner kebab.”

  Finch’s scrawny body sagged, his narrow shoulders slumping in defeat. “Norton moved into the apartment about three months ago,” he said. “Someone told him I had a place to rent, but he didn’t want anything official. Nothing on paper. He liked to keep everything under the radar, you know. That’s what he told me. Didn’t want anybody knowing where he was or what he was doing. I would have been happy with a proper tenancy agreement. I really would’ve. But he insisted, and he’s a scary son of a bitch.”

  “He scares you, does he?”

  Finch nodded. “I’ve not actually seen him hurt anyone and he can be a smooth talker when he wants to, but he can turn in a second. You know, like that Jekyll and Hyde character, or whatever he’s called. Then he looks at you, stares at you like you’re a snack and he’s hungry. There’s something about him that frightens the shit out of me. I wouldn’t advise anyone to mess with him, if you know what I’m saying.”

  Day knew exactly what he was saying. Norton had tried to throttle Gem Golding and had almost certainly murdered her boyfriend. “Where does Norton get his money to live on, to eat, to pay rent? If he’s living under the radar, he wouldn’t be able to claim benefits.”

  Finch shrugged. “There are always plenty of opportunities to get your hold of cash in a city like this if you are comfortable breaking the law, if you’re prepared to intimidate, threaten.”

  “Not like you then,” Day said. “What a fine, upstanding, clean-living, tax-paying citizen of the world you are. An example to us all.”

  Finch tried his best to appear insulted, but instead, the way he screwed up his face made him look as if he was suffering from a serious case of trapped gas.

  “Didn’t you see the news coverage about the carjacking of that public relations executive?” Day asked. “The woman was assaulted, then run over with her own vehicle. I’m surprised you didn’t recognize Norton from the CCTV footage or the police e-fit.”

  Finch shook his head for several seconds. “No, didn’t see them,” he said. “Don’t watch the news. Can’t bear all that doom and gloom. Too depressing. Norton doing that stuff don’t surprise me at all though. If I’d known, I would’ve sold him out to you lot, no question about it.”

  Day didn’t believe a word of it. He thought it more likely that Finch hadn’t wanted to lose a tenant who didn’t give a damn about living in a rat-infested hovel. Or maybe he didn’t want him hauled off by the police before he’d coughed up the rent he’d owed.

  “Have you any idea where Norton could have gone? Did he ever mention any old haunts, any parts of the city he preferred, any places where he might have friends or family?”

  Finch laughed, a snickering, wheezing sound. “You’ve never met him, have you? The man’s got no friends, and I reckon any family would have disowned him years ago. Shortly after he was born probably.”

  Day reached across to the recording device and turned it off. “You’re not taking this seriously or being as helpful as I had hoped,” he said. “Perhaps I should do my duty and inform the tax man about your little arrangement after all. They’ll probably want to check your little kebab shop business out too.”

  Finch blanched. “All right, calm down,” he said. “I know that before coming to me, Norton was staying at some cheap bed-and-breakfast place in Stepney. I’m not saying he’d go back there, but if he needed to find somewhere quickly, it’d be convenient, wouldn’t it?”

  There were thousands of places across the city offering bed-and-breakfast at various price ranges. Day was pretty sure that Norton wouldn’t stray far. The streets of east London were his territory, his hunting ground.

  “What did you say was the name of the place in Stepney?” he asked.

  “I didn’t say, but I think it was Roman Villa, or Roman Villa Rooms. Sounds grand, don’t it? It’s probably just a tarted-up Victorian terrace.”

  Day sat back in his chair. He was about to take a coffee break when Finch raised a hand and snickered. “Yeah, I remember now. The woman who ran the place, she had a thing for Norton, apparently. The gossip at the pub was that they were sleeping together. Of course, nobody dared mention it when he was around, but I reckon he was doing it so he didn’t have to pay for his room.”

  Day slipped his right hand under the table, made a fist, and thumped his thigh. A few days ago, they had nothing on Norton. Not even his name. Now they had an ex-girlfriend.

  31

&n
bsp; Fight

  The Mastermind

  Norton sat on the edge of the bed and rubbed the coin between his fingers. Last night’s bit of fun with the detective couldn’t have gone better. The coin had chosen surrender, and then she had obliged. She might not have realized it yet, but by following her instinct not to resist him, she had come out of the game with her life.

  In that sense, she’d won, but Norton knew that the victory would be hollow. She’d bowed to his will. He’d exercised such total control over her, she’d ignored her police training and failed to do her duty. For one precious moment, the detective had belonged to him. She would have to live with that knowledge forever.

  There had been only one real victor. The game master had triumphed. He lay back on the bed, put his hands behind his head, and wallowed in the memory. The rules of the game meant he had to spare her. The simple act of letting her live had thrilled him to the core. It had been almost as empowering as depriving someone of their life. Almost. He was already impatient to play the game again. A flip of the coin would decide, fight or surrender, and the victim’s choice would seal their fate.

  Norton rolled off the bed, walked out into the living area and over to the cluttered kitchen counter. He picked up a loaf of bread, pulled out two slices, and studied them for mold before dropping them into the toaster. He hadn’t eaten for more than twelve hours, and his stomach was letting him know it. Hidden under a pile of dirty plates and empty soup tins, he found a half-empty can of tuna. When the toast was done, he laid the chunks of fish between the two slices and took a large bite.

  His mouth was still full when he heard a knock on the door. It was early for Finch to come calling. The greedy little rodent had probably come to whine about the rent. Norton was in the mood to teach him a lesson.

  He was still chewing when he opened the door to be confronted by a slender man in a crumpled linen suit and an older, taller, greasy-haired man holding an expensive camera. The younger man attempted a smile, and Norton remembered why his smug face was so familiar.

  “My name is Matt Revell, and I’m a reporter from the Daily News. I’m here to ask you about—”

  Before he could utter another word, Norton took a long stride forward, forcing the two men backward. The photographer raised the camera. That was his first mistake. Norton grabbed at it, wrenched it out of his hands, and smashed it with as much force as he could muster onto the bridge of his nose.

  The photographer staggered back and fell to his knees. He cupped his hands over his face as blood streamed into his beard. He looked up at Norton and yelled, “I’m suing you for assault, you fucker!”

  That was his second mistake. Norton’s right foot connected with the center of the man’s chest, rocking him off his knees and sending him crashing onto the floor. He writhed on his back, making horrible choking sounds as the blood from his nose streamed down his throat. Norton turned to Revell, who was standing with his back to the wall, his eyes wide, the color draining from his face.

  “The Daily News… I mean, we…believe you are the suspect,” the reporter stuttered, holding the portable digital recorder in his right hand. “Believe you are the person wanted for the crime…in connection with…the attack…the violent assault on Gem… The police are on the way. Would you like to comment?”

  Norton stared at the reporter, his dark eyes narrowing to slits. After a few seconds, he reached out and took the recorder from Revell’s hand, then turned and walked back into the apartment.

  Keep calm, Norton told himself, dropping the camera and the recorder on the food-stained sofa. Walking across the room to his bed, he smiled. What the hell was he thinking? He’d never had a problem keeping calm, even when the rage burned inside. On the outside, he always stayed in control, always knew exactly what to do and when to do it.

  He’d been thinking about leaving Finch’s rathole anyway. He walked over to his unmade bed and picked up his jacket. Lifting the mattress, he poked a hand underneath it and rummaged around until his fingers closed around the hilt of the hunting knife. He slid it into his pocket, then swept up a handful of coins scattered on the bedside table.

  He had to move swiftly. They had been telling the truth about the police, he knew that. The reporter didn’t have the guts to come knocking on his door without backup.

  Norton thought about the pile of clothes he’d stashed under the bed and decided to leave them. He’d be able to buy a whole wardrobe of new gear soon. He strode over to the sofa, picked up a cushion, unzipped the cover, and pulled it off. Picking up the camera and the reporter’s recorder, he put them inside the cushion cover and headed for the door.

  Stepping outside, he saw Revell kneeling beside his semiconscious colleague, trying but failing miserably to stem the flow of blood. Norton considered using his knife to make the reporter reveal the name of the person who’d betrayed him. The wail of a siren stopped him. Instead, he placed the sole of his boot on Revell’s back and pushed hard, sending him crashing on top of his bloodied colleague.

  Norton ran down the stairs, slipped out the back door, and sprinted along the passageway. Emerging onto Broadway, he casually stepped onto the sidewalk to join the stream of commuters heading for Stratford’s Underground station.

  Dozens of heads turned as a police car passed, its siren screaming and blue lights flashing as it wove its way through the rush-hour traffic. Norton kept his eyes forward and his pace steady as his mind replayed the morning’s events.

  By the time he reached the entrance to the Tube station, the answer had come to him. As far as Norton was aware, only one person knew where he lived. Only one person was such a slave to greed that he’d sell that information to a newspaper and risk the consequences.

  The Reporter

  Revell accepted the cup of coffee from the uniformed constable and took a sip. It was lukewarm, but he desperately needed a shot of caffeine. He’d already given a detailed witness statement describing the assault on the Daily News photographer and had expected to be allowed to go home.

  Instead, the fair-haired constable, who Revell guessed was about his age, had advised him there would be more questions and explained that the interview would be led by a senior officer. The use of the word interview had set alarm bells ringing. It was too close to interrogation.

  The door opened, and a detective entered. He took a seat but said nothing. Revell sensed that he was being weighed up, and the feeling was unnerving.

  The older detective looked to be in his midthirties. He was the tallest in the room and lean with it. His dark-brown hair showed no sign of graying, but faint lines around his eyes suggested a lack of restful sleep.

  Revell lifted the paper cup and took another sip. The movement spurred the senior detective into action.

  “I am Detective Inspector Elliot Day,” he said. “This interview will be recorded, and it may be used as evidence if your case is brought before a court.”

  Revell choked on the coffee, coughing and spluttering until his eyes watered. “Hey, wait a minute,” he said, still struggling for breath. “What’s going on? If my case goes to court? What the hell are you talking about?”

  Day put his hands flat on the table and drummed his fingers. “I’m talking about using the tape of this interview as evidence if we decide to charge you.”

  Revell looked at the constable, hoping for some sign that they were joking, but all he got in return was a stony glare. “You’re kidding me, right? All I’m guilty of is trying to do my job, witnessing a colleague being brutally assaulted, and having my digital recorder stolen. I’m a victim, not an offender.”

  Day smiled and drummed his fingers again. “What about withholding evidence?” he said. “How long have you known where a possible suspect in the Gem Golding case, the man you have identified as Connor Norton, was living? He’s an extremely dangerous man, and if you’d told us earlier, we’d almost certainly have him locked up by now.�
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  Revell lifted his hands to his face and massaged the bridge of his nose. The action made him think about the Daily News photographer lying in a hospital bed. Day was right. A violent man was still prowling around the city because he wanted his name above the crime story of the year. He still had a story to write once he got out of there, of course. A pretty hot one. But not the one he wanted.

  “I’m genuinely sorry about Norton getting away,” he said. “But you know a charge of withholding evidence is never going to stick. I was doing my job, that’s all, and the paper did call you to report the suspect’s whereabouts before I went in.”

  Day put his elbows on the table and leaned forward, pushing his face close to Revell’s. “Tell that to Gem Golding,” he said. “How do you think she’s feeling about all this?” Day sat back and gave the uniformed officer a nod. “Let’s switch the recorder on and get started with the interview, shall we?”

  Revell took a deep breath and thought about asking for a lawyer. The Daily News would willingly provide one. He discarded the idea, because it would only lengthen his stay at the station. The last thing he wanted was to spend a night in a holding cell because a hotshot lawyer wasn’t immediately available.

  He wanted to get out of there as soon as possible to get working on the story. He was already thinking about a follow-up interview with Gem Golding.

  32

  Surrender

  The Detective

  Shields pressed the doorbell and waited. She caught Day’s eye and pressed it again, holding the button down longer this time. “I don’t think it’s working,” she said. “I can’t hear it chiming.”

  Day stepped forward and knocked three times on the flaking paintwork.

  Above the door, a hand-painted sign attached to the Victorian brickwork by four rusty screws read Roman Villa. Day wondered if the interior of the guesthouse was in a better state of repair than the outside.