by Max Manning
Something clicks in her head, and she knows. This time, it will be different. She is different. Whatever happens, she will not be his victim again. As he lifts his foot, she kicks out at his standing leg, jamming her heel as hard as she can into his knee. She hears something crack, like a twig snapping, and knows she’s done some serious damage.
Norton cries out, and his leg gives way. He topples to the ground, his arms outstretched to cushion his fall. The impact jars the knife from his grasp.
Gem snatches it up and scrambles to her feet, ready to run. She hesitates and looks down at Norton. This has to end here, she thinks.
Norton tries to get up, but the knee gives way again, and he rolls onto his back. Gem shifts the knife from one hand to the other, then back again, feeling its weight.
Norton glares up at her. “You haven’t got it in you,” he says.
“You’d be surprised what I can do if I’ve got a good enough reason.”
Norton grimaces as he pushes himself up into a half-sitting position. “If you’re going to do it, then get on with it,” he snarls.
Gem looks at the knife for a second, then sprints to the patrol car and climbs into the driver’s seat. She has to get PC Weaver to a hospital, but she isn’t finished with Norton yet.
She hears another siren, the wailing getting closer every second. She revs the engine a few times before reversing, keeping her eyes on Norton. He has rolled onto his front and is slowly hauling himself toward the car, like a wounded soldier crawling through mud.
Gem stops and shifts the gear stick out of reverse. She can end this now, she tells herself. Make sure that Norton never taints her life again. She can make the city a safer place for everybody. The sirens sound very close now. She has to make a decision. The patrol car’s headlights encase Norton in a tunnel of light. She thinks she can see him smiling, daring her to do it.
She puts her foot on the accelerator, holding the steering wheel steady as the engine roars. She sees no sign of fear in Norton’s eyes, only surprise.
At the last second, she slams her foot hard on the brake, but the ground is wet, and the patrol car skids, tires screeching. A police car, siren screaming and blue lights flashing, speeds into the parking lot. An unmarked vehicle follows. Shields leaps out from behind the wheel and sprints to Norton.
Day and two uniformed officers hurry over, and the police constables drag Norton away. Gem climbs out from behind the steering wheel and staggers over to Day. “PC Weaver’s in the trunk,” she says. “I think he’s badly hurt.”
An ambulance pulls into the parking lot, and Day waves it over. He and Gem watch the paramedics lift the police constable gently onto a stretcher.
Gem’s legs wobble, and Day offers her a hand. She grips it and steadies herself.
“It’s over,” he says.
Gem doubles over and clutches her stomach. “Is it really?” she gasps.
56
Surrender
The Detective
“I hate this smell,” Shields said, striding along the hospital corridor. “The scent of sickness, decay, and death.”
Day stepped to his left to allow a nurse pushing a pajama-clad woman in a wheelchair to pass. “You’re in a sparkling mood this morning, I see,” he said. “Look at it another way. It may be an unpleasant odor, but think of it as the scent of healing, caring, and hope.”
Shields shot her boss a suspicious look. “What’s got you all warm and cuddly today?”
Day allowed himself a smile. Two days had passed since Norton’s arrest. The media coverage was in full swing, the tabloids splashing the story across their front pages. A Matt Revell exclusive revealed that the arrest had been made by Hackney CID, and he’d given Day and Shields full credit for taking a serial killer off the streets. Hardy would be foaming at the mouth.
“I’m just happy that we’ve got Norton locked up, that’s all,” he said.
“I suppose you’ll have a bit more time to try to save your marriage now.”
Day shook his head. He’d usually shy away from discussing his personal life with colleagues, but Shields was different. He didn’t know why; she just was.
“No, the divorce is happening. I accept that. I’m taking a leaf out of your book, focusing on work and forgetting about relationships. Except for Tom, of course.”
At the end of the corridor, they stopped outside the entrance to the ward. “Are you ready?” Shields asked.
Day nodded, and she pressed the buzzer.
57
Surrender
Gem the Victim
Gem tore her eyes away from the television beside her hospital bed as Day and Shields entered the room.
The detectives both glanced at the screen. Beneath footage showing sniffer dogs searching an area of woodland near Croydon, a scrolling red banner announced Breaking news: Shallow grave of missing girl found in woods. Gem adjusted her pillow and sat up straighter, pulling the crisp white sheet above her waist.
“It’s so sad for her parents, isn’t it?” she said. “After all this time.”
“At least they know for sure now,” Day said. “It must have been torture for them, clinging desperately to the hope that their daughter was still alive.”
Gem couldn’t imagine how anyone could go on with life, day after day, fearing the worst but never knowing.
“Now you’ll be able to charge Norton with her murder, won’t you?” Gem asked.
Day sighed and nodded slightly. “We hope so, yes…and with the murder of her unborn child.”
Gem closed her eyes and dropped her chin to her chest. How can one person cause so much evil? she wondered. “Is Norton talking to you, admitting what he’s done?”
Day stepped closer to the bed. “He’s not admitting anything at the moment, but I think he will. People like him believe they are cleverer than the rest of us, and they can’t resist letting us know how they outsmarted us.”
Gem frowned and levered herself up into a higher sitting position, nodding at him to go on.
“The evidence you gave us about Norton flipping a coin has intrigued the psychological profiler working on the case. We don’t have any details yet, but she believes that he has devised some kind of twisted game, using a coin to decide whether his victims live or die, depending on whether they submit to him or try to fight back.”
Gem caught her breath. In her mind, she saw the coin spinning in the darkness.
“That’s so sick,” she said.
Day’s phone trilled. He pulled it from his pocket and checked the screen. “Sorry, I have to take this,” he said and hurried out of the room, his phone clamped to his ear.
When he’d gone, Shields sat down beside the bed. “How have you been sleeping?” she asked.
Gem smiled. “I think I’ve had more sleep the last two nights than in two weeks. They’re discharging me later today. I can’t wait to get home, put all this behind me, and get back to work.”
“How’s the bump?” Shields said.
Gem couldn’t help but beam at the detective. “They tell me that everything’s fine. I’ve had a scan, and apparently, it’s all good. I’ve got extensive bruising around my stomach, but it’s all external.”
“Did Drew have any idea that you were pregnant?”
Gem rubbed her eyes. “No, he didn’t. I didn’t even know myself at first. I was late, but with all that had happened, the stress and everything, I thought… Well, I’m not sure exactly what I thought.”
Day reentered the room, his expression a mixture of shock and excitement. “When the forensic team started exhuming Mary Freeman’s remains this morning, they found a coin on her skull.”
Gem looked at Shields, then back at Day. “What does that mean?”
“It means we have a direct link between Norton’s attacks on you and the killing of Mary Freeman. It also means that we are
going to have to reexamine every unsolved murder and every missing person case over the last seven years. It looks like Norton’s been playing his murderous game for a long, long time.”
When the detectives left, Gem pushed the sheet back, climbed out of the bed, and walked to the window. Small, wispy clouds raced across the sky, matching the hustle and bustle of the city.
The thought of a teenage Norton squatting by Mary Freeman’s body with a coin in his hand turned her stomach. She shook her head to push the image away. It was immediately replaced by the realization that the choice she’d made on the night of the carjacking had changed everything.
She’d lost a lot but gained so much. She had a career to restart and a new life to build. There was no need to overthink it. I’ll never be anybody’s victim again, she told herself. And neither will my baby.
Read on for a look at Don’t Look Now by Max Manning, available now from Sourcebooks Landmark
Prologue
She hears herself breathing, quick and shallow. She knows what’s coming, and there’s nothing she can do.
Tears sting, and she blinks hard. Dusk is falling like a gray shroud, and the undergrowth is thick with gloom. It’s an unseasonably warm September evening, but still she shivers.
He smiles and holds his phone up in his right hand. She can’t tell whether he’s taking a photograph of her or a selfie. All her attention is focused on his other hand.
He steps around and behind her, moving so swiftly, it makes her head spin. The heat of his body burns through the thin fabric of her dress. He positions the phone in front of her face so she can get a good look at the screen.
It takes her a second to recognize the woman in the photograph. Her skin is paler than usual against her short, dark hair, the blue eyes startlingly wide.
“You’re very photogenic, but you should have smiled,” he says. “You’ve got a beautiful smile.”
Her heart races, and rivulets of sweat run down her spine. Maybe, she thinks, maybe there is still a way out of this.
“Why me?” she says, her voice part whisper, part sob.
He laughs softly, and she feels his breath hot on the back of her neck. “This is so much bigger than you.”
She wants to run, but her legs are shaking so badly, she can barely stand. She opens her mouth wide. The scream doesn’t come. Her breath has been sucked from her lungs. She tries to step away, but he grabs her right forearm, his fingers digging into the flesh.
He releases his grip and stands so still, so silently, she lets herself believe, for a fraction of a second, that he has gone. But all hope dies in a moment. He’s there, and the stillness and the silence mean he’s ready.
Hot tears spill down her cheeks. Her vision blurs, but she sees. She sees a dark-haired child learning to ride her first bicycle, her father cheering her on as he runs, arms outstretched, ready to catch her should she fall.
She recalls the excitement of her first kiss, the tenderness of her last kiss. She regrets the precious days she’s wasted, never saying the things she wanted to say. She feels the warmth of her mother’s hand.
One
Detective Chief Inspector Dan Fenton thought he’d seen it all. He stared at the images on the computer screen and shook his head in despair. It was the first time he’d looked into the eyes of someone who knew they were about to be murdered.
A second picture, taken later at a side angle and low to the ground, showed the same woman on her back, her arms splayed, her torso slick with blood and her legs crossed neatly at her ankles. In the background, the faint silhouette of a line of trees snaked into the distance.
A message typed next to the photographs read:
The world certainly looks different through the eyes of a killer. #IKiller
Fenton lifted a hand and massaged the back of his neck. They had a murder, showcased online. Before and after pictures of the victim. An email sent by the killer, generously providing a link to his handiwork. What they didn’t have was a body.
Yet.
His thoughts were interrupted when the office door swung open. Detective Sergeant Marie Daly paused to tug at her ponytail before stepping in.
“The online team is trying to trace the source of the email,” she said. Daly never used more words than necessary. Fenton valued that. He also trusted her to make good decisions under pressure.
“How long is it going to take to get this stuff taken down?” he said.
Daly shrugged. “It’s a fake Instagram account, Boss. Created in the UK with the username @IKiller. We’ve put in a request, but it could take twenty-four hours. It’s already been viewed by several hundred people.”
Fenton glanced at his watch and swore under his breath. Another long night at the office. Another broken promise. He slid his chair back and stood, resting his hands on the desk.
“Whoever did this couldn’t wait to flaunt it.” He jabbed a finger at the computer. “We need teams searching every park in the city, every open space large enough for that many trees. Cancel all leave, and get every available officer out there looking. I want that body found.”
Daly nodded and left the room. Fenton sat down, lifted his hands to his face, and rubbed his eyes gently with the tips of his fingers. What kind of mind could do that to another human being? God help us all, he thought.
Two
The key to everything was finding her. I’d been searching for a long time without knowing exactly who I was looking for.
That was a great moment for me. Strike that. The word great is far too weak. It was a prodigious, life-changing moment.
I’m still feeling the joy. Yes, that’s the word. The public loves my work. I knew they would. It’s hard to resist a glimpse into the darkness.
I can’t blame myself for what I’ve done, for what I have yet to do. Guilt is a concept I’ve never understood. It gets in the way of true creativity, stops you from doing things you want to do. Imagine not having a conscience. Think about it. Wouldn’t life be so much easier? Admit it.
A veil has been lifted. Life promises so much more for me now. I’m free to follow my path.
Three
Fenton pushed through the journalists, ignoring their shouted questions and turning his face from the flashing cameras.
Two police constables guarded the Gore Road entrance into Victoria Park. As Fenton approached the iron gates, a photographer wearing a beanie and leather jacket stepped in front of him and raised his camera.
Fenton swerved slightly and turned his left shoulder, knocking the pressman off balance, forcing him to step aside. The discovery of the body hadn’t been made public, yet the media had arrived en masse. Fenton would make it his business to find out how the news had been leaked.
Passing through the gate, he stressed to the uniforms that on no account should any reporters be allowed in. To the left, about fifty yards away, a constable stood by a line of crime scene tape sealing off a triangular area of undergrowth that filled the gap between two towering plane trees.
As Fenton walked towards the constable, he was struck by how fresh-faced she looked. Probably a new recruit, he thought. He flashed his badge and a smile. “You’re the one who found the body?” he asked.
The constable’s face reddened. “That’s right, sir.”
Fenton nodded, ducked under the tape, and edged through a narrow gap in the shrubbery. The woman lay on her back in a small clearing. He moved close to her feet, putting himself where the killer must have stood to take the photograph. The coppery smell of blood turned his stomach as he moved beside the body and squatted to take a closer look. The victim appeared to be in her late twenties. Her eyes stared at the sky, lifeless and shiny. Like a doll. Fenton resisted a sudden urge to walk away. He needed to do his job properly.
This was somebody’s child. Somebody’s baby. When he’d first joined the force, arresting the bad guys, doing his bit for so
ciety, felt good. It was all about winning and proving yourself. After the birth of his daughter, that changed. One day, she’d be out there on her own. Taking bad guys off the streets had become even more important. It felt personal.
Dragging his eyes away from the woman’s face, he checked her hands. They were small and clean. No obvious defense wounds. No attempt to fend off the blade. Her dark-blue skirt was hitched up around her thighs. He could see no sign of sexual assault, but the pathologist’s report would provide the details.
He stood up and slipped through the undergrowth back onto the path. The police constable stood at attention. Fenton lifted a hand to acknowledge her and started walking back to the gate. After a dozen or so strides, he paused, took a few deep breaths to clear the smell of death from his airways, and gazed across the park.
The morning sun hovered low over East London’s tower blocks, its rays glinting off the surface of the boating lake. A thin line of mature oaks curved north to south across the green space, their leaves already changing color. At that time of day, the park would normally be bustling with people.
A white van approached through the trees. It turned onto the grass and pulled up beside Fenton. Ronnie Oliver, New Scotland Yard’s most experienced crime scene manager, and a younger, taller woman climbed out, both already wearing white forensic overalls.
Built like a pit bull, Oliver squared up to Fenton, his jutting jaw level with the detective’s chest. “Don’t tell me you’ve contaminated my crime scene,” he said.
Fenton shrugged. “Okay, I won’t. I had a quick look. That’s all.”
Oliver curled his upper lip and glanced at his colleague. She turned away and stared at the scenery. Fenton guessed she’d seen her boss lose it before. He admired Oliver’s passion for his job and his obsession with protocol and, most of the time, was prepared to indulge his tantrums. “I had a look, but I didn’t touch anything. I’m in charge of this investigation, remember.”
