by Andy Maslen
‘Ruth Kelly, Evening Standard,’ shouted an attractive woman in her early fifties with a sharp bob of silver hair and vivid orange lipstick. ‘Are you saying this is the work of a serial killer?’
As Kelly’s final two words hung, suspended in the conference room, Callie felt utterly alone. She had a fantastic team, and people she could talk to, including her old boss at Lothian and Borders, Chief Constable Gordon Wade. But the responsibility for the next few seconds was hers and hers alone.
She knew that as soon as she gave her answer, this would explode from a London story to a global one, with all the attendant pressure, prurient interest, social media theorising and conspiracy theorist ranting that could add days if not weeks of unnecessary work.
She squared her shoulders and inhaled.
‘Yes.’
Exactly ten miles south from Callie’s padded chair in the New Scotland Yard media centre, the killer stared intently at the live broadcast, waiting to hear what the uniformed police officer said next. It was vital she told the media what connected the women. Then they would understand. And forever remember the name, Malachi Jeremiah Robey.
Callie waited for the hubbub to die down, signalling with her clamped red lips and thousand-yard stare that she had no intention of competing with the baying crowd of journalists.
‘We believe that the killer of these three women has developed a grudge against the Christian religion. Niamh Connolly was a prominent Catholic. Sarah Sharpe was the editor of the Church Times. And his most recent victim, Moira Lowney, was the reluctant star of a TV reality show. We would reiterate our advice to the general public to be vigilant but, now, I must also add the advice that women with well-known religious beliefs, particularly if they have recently appeared in the media or in public forums, should be especially careful.’
Beside her, in his usual chair, Morgan answered the next question, which concerned, once again, the social class of the victims.
‘Yes, they were respectable women, but that makes no difference in the London of which I am proud to serve as its Deputy Mayor for Policing and Crime.’
58
FRIDAY 24TH AUGUST 5.10 P.M.
STOKE NEWINGTON
Arianna and her flat-mate, Belle, real name Louisa Shepton-Grand, had the evening to themselves. Neither had any bookings, and the streets outside were still so hot that the Johns had all but disappeared.
Belle was massaging Arianna’s shoulders, digging her strong brown fingers into the muscles each side of her friend’s thin neck.
‘Ah, that’s good, mate,’ Arianna groaned. ‘But I really need a fix, you know? Why aren’t there any blokes in Stokie who want a shag?’
‘They’re probably at home in front of the TV with a few cold beers. Maybe they’re even doing their wives.’
Arianne laughed.
‘Oh, yeah, well that’s the end, then, innit? The day the Johns get it between their wives’ legs, you and me babe? We really are fucked!’
Belle laughed.
‘What about trying Islington? I bet there’s a few rich bastards up there who’re horny enough to do a bit of business.’
Arianna straightened and refastened her bra. She turned to Belle.
‘That is actually not a bad idea. Come on, help me find something a bit more sophisticated.’
As they spread clothes out across the back of the sofa, Arianna turned and switched on the TV news. They gossiped about the other working girls they knew until a voice from behind them made Arianna turn round.
‘Yes, they were respectable women, but that makes no difference in the London of which I am proud to serve as its Deputy Mayor for Policing and Crime.’
Sitting beside a uniformed female police officer, silver bling all over her jacket, was Tony. And he was speaking into the microphone, answering a question from a reporter. It seemed she wasn’t the only one who’d decided to go upmarket. No hoodie and jeans this time. Tony was sitting there in a seriously high-end suit, probably Armani, or even Versace, she reckoned.
‘Huh!’ Belle said. ‘He says that, but I bet they’re having kittens ’cos it’s not us toms getting sliced up for a change.’
Arianna’s eyes were wide and her mouth had dropped open.
‘Oh my God! That’s Tony!’ She stabbed a long bright-pink nail at the screen.
‘What, the one who likes you to peg him with the dildo?’
‘Yes! He’s, like, the deputy mayor!’
‘Are you sure, babe? Not being rude or nothing, but you’re not always at your sharpest when you’re working.’
‘No, mate. I mean, yes! I’m totally sure. It’s him. Look!’ She pointed at a name card placed in front of her client. ‘Craig Morgan, Deputy Mayor for Policing and Crime.’
Belle turned Arianna to face her, holding her thin shoulders and staring straight into her kohl-rimmed eyes.
‘You could make some money out of him.’
‘What, like put my prices up, you mean?’
Belle smiled and shook her head so that her long beaded braids swung and clicked.
‘Sweet baby, you need to think big. Those politicians are always trying to keep their dirty laundry hidden away. He’ll pay you big time not to go the papers.’
Now Arianna did get it. Her eyes widened. She had a flash of an image in her mind’s eye. Her and Belle, cruising down Park Lane in a brand-new white Mercedes convertible.
‘I think I might try that next time he comes over, but you better be there hiding in case he tries anything rough.’
‘Don’t worry. Let Belle sort out the details. He could be our meal ticket.’
Sadly for the girls, that was not to be.
59
FRIDAY 24TH AUGUST 7.00 P.M.
CENTRAL LONDON
Professor Peter Karlsson was ready for his ordeal by fire.
Standing off to one side of the stage, his publisher’s PR manager was wearing black: a silk blouse, narrow-legged trousers that just skimmed the floor, and patent leather stilettos. Her blonde hair was swept back from a high forehead and held in place by a black velvet Alice band.
All in all, Karlsson thought, quite the package. The two of them were at the front of a packed room in the basement of a branch of Waterstone’s a few hundred yards from Euston station. The low stage just had room for two armchairs and a black coffee table, on which rested a carafe of water, a single glass and a copy of the professor’s new book.
In front of them, about forty invited guests sat on hard plastic chairs, fanning themselves with their stiff paper invitations, chatting and slugging back the wine – red or white, both the same temperature – that the publishers, Moathouse Press, had provided for the occasion.
Karlsson thought back to the day, several months earlier, when he’d received the invitation to the launch. He’d printed off the email and taken it from the immaculately ordered confines of his office to his secretary. She smiled as she saw him coming.
‘Yes, Peter?’ she asked. ‘What can I do for you?’
‘Could you check my diary then send a yes to this, please? If there’s anything in there, cancel or move it.’
‘Of course. Anything exciting?’
He grinned at her wolfishly.
‘Yes, actually. My book launch.’
She smiled back.
‘They won’t know what’s hit them.’
Back in his office, he resumed writing the proposal for an article to promote the book. He intended to take aim at a number of contemporary theologians and tear them apart.
He added a name to the list. Sarah Sharpe, the sanctimonious editor of The Church Times. Her recent hand-wringing editorials about human rights couldn’t obscure the systematic abuses of those same rights inflicted on non-believers down the ages.
Yes. It’ll be my pleasure. To destroy you all. A momentary flicker of anxiety crossed his mind as he thought of what his wife would say. He dismissed it. Love is blind. It belongs in the compartment called, ‘Things we never discuss’.
The PR woman stood, je
rking Karlsson out of his reverie. She stepped towards the mic stand and patted the air for silence. The hubbub died down as the chattering pairs and groups realised the show was about to start.
‘Good evening, ladies and gentlemen,’ the publicist said, beaming at the crowd. ‘My name is Meriel Ottway and on behalf of Moathouse Press, it is my great pleasure to welcome you to the launch of Professor Peter Karlsson’s latest book, um – ’ she glanced at the card in her hand ‘ – Unholy Pain: Martyrdom and the Cult of Cruelty in the Christian Church.’
She paused, smiling, and the audience dutifully responded with a round of applause.
‘I’m glad to see you’ve all got something to drink. I’m only sorry the fridge broke down so those of you on the white haven’t quite got the temperature the winemakers envisaged.’
This little joke provoked a polite smattering of laughter. Karlsson could feel sweat trickling down his ribs inside his shirt and hoped it wouldn’t start showing through his light-blue linen jacket. Meriel carried on with her speech.
‘In a moment, I’ll ask Professor Karlsson to share a few thoughts with you, then he’ll read a short extract from his book. Then we’ll open it up to questions from the floor. Before you leave, please buy a copy. Waterstones have kindly offered a ten per cent discount on all orders placed tonight, and I know Professor Karlsson will be delighted to sign any books you want to buy and take away. So–’ She turned to Karlsson, catching him in the act of wiping a handkerchief across his hot and sweating forehead. ‘Without further ado, here is the man you’ve all come to hear from. Professor Peter Karlsson.’
Once the applause had died down, Karlsson approached the mic. He stroked his neatly trimmed beard as he stared out at the dozens of people waiting for him to speak. He inhaled deeply, and spoke in the clear, sonorous voice he had perfected for holding lecture theatres spellbound.
‘Picture a mortuary. Large enough to accommodate dozens of corpses. The victims have been subjected to the most hideous, disgusting, stomach-churning tortures imaginable. Mutilated. Burned. Crushed. Disembowelled. Scourged. Skinned alive. Gang-raped. Then, when their torturers grew bored, or had exhausted their appetite for violence against these particular victims, they killed them. By beheading… stoning… drowning… impalement… crucifixion.’
He paused to gauge the audience reaction. The indrawn breaths and winces told him he was on track. The slight push he gave to the phrase ‘gang-raped’ worked like a charm on the women in particular. Time to continue.
‘The killers are known to the authorities. Because they are the authorities.
‘Ladies and gentlemen, this is not the premise of a new series of CSI. Nor the imaginings of a pulp novelist. This is history. So who were the perpetrators of these egregious crimes against innocent people? The Nazis? Always a good bet, but no. Government torturers in Chile, Burma or Syria? Again, quite possible, but no. Serial killers, then? The modern age’s favourite bogeymen. One last time, no.’
He spread his hands wide and took a few seconds to look around the audience. He caught the eye of a couple of his colleagues from the Philosophy faculty at University College London, who offered encouraging nods and smiles. They knew his schtick for what it was but were prepared to go along with it, needing to know Karlsson would return the favour when one of them had a new book out.
‘No, ladies and gentlemen. The people who gleefully reduced men and women to mere cuts of meat, sometimes butchered or burnt beyond all recognition as human beings, were churchmen. And I use that word advisedly. Despite today’s clamour for sexual equality, the tortures of which I speak were exclusively inflicted by men. In the name of God. The dictionary word for it is martyrdom. I prefer a simple word. Murder.’
He took a moment to wipe his brow, which was running so freely with sweat in the un-air conditioned basement room that salt was stinging his eyes.
He resumed speaking, now discussing the premise of his book. Despite the blood ’n’ guts he’d opened with, his intention had always been to engage his audience with the serious point he was making. That the Christian church’s foundations in wanton cruelty had infected its teachings through the ages.
It was a controversial viewpoint and had garnered him vociferous criticism in religious circles and their media outlets: The Church Times and the Catholic Herald in England, even Il Osservatore, the Vatican newspaper, which had weighed in with a full-page editorial excoriating Il Professore Inglese che ha Dichiarato Guerra alla Chiesa – The English Professor Who Has Declared War on the Church.
After a short reading, Karlsson snapped the thick hardback shut and reversed until the soft edge of the armchair nudged against the back of his knees and he folded, gratefully, into its embrace.
Meriel was on her feet again, and Karlsson admired the perfect swell of her bottom in the tailored trousers.
‘Thank you, Professor Karlsson,’ she said to the audience, as if he were sitting somewhere in the middle of the fifth row instead of a few feet behind her. ‘I’m sure lots of you have questions, but it’s such a hot evening and I gather we’ve managed to get the fridge working so there are cold beers and wine available,’ a small ironic cheer went up at this point, ‘so perhaps we’ll keep the Q&A short.’
A hand shot up immediately. It was connected by a pale, bare arm inked with a skull surrounded by roses, to a young man of maybe nineteen or twenty, long, dark hair like a girl’s framing his angular face. A PR assistant hurried over with a wireless mic, which the young man took, mouthed a ‘thank-you’, then stood.
‘Yes, hello, Professor Karlsson.’
Karlsson smiled, though inwardly he groaned. He knew his questioner. His name was Harry King, a PhD student in his department. He was Harry’s advisor and, of late, he’d become acutely aware that Harry had developed a crush on him. No! he chided himself. Crushes are harmless. This is something else.
He’d checked with a colleague in the Psychology department. Professor Margie Sellars had been quite clear after he’d described Harry’s behaviour. The ‘chance’ meetings in his street. The intimate photographs he’d emailed. The detailed and sexually explicit letters he’d handwritten and stuffed in Karlsson’s pigeonhole at the university.
‘Sounds like erotomania to me, Peter,’ she’d said in her book-lined office. ‘It’s a rare form of paranoid delusion, also known as De Clerambault’s syndrome. But Harry’s showing the classic symptoms. You have higher social status than him. He believes you’re in love with him.’
Karlsson had protested vigorously.
‘But I’ve never shown him even the slightest encouragement! I’ve even met him privately to warn him off. I explained that I was straight, and happily – very happily – married.’
Margie had smiled.
‘All of which he will have interpreted as signals, maybe even secret, coded messages, that you are in fact in love with him.’
‘But what can I do?’
Margie shrugged.
‘Erotomania is often linked to other underlying psychiatric disorders. He could be bipolar, or have some sort of schizo-affective disorder. I think your best first step is to try to get him to see one of the university GPs, if he doesn’t have his own.’
That had been four weeks earlier, and Harry had smiled pityingly at him when he’d suggested, gently, that maybe, perhaps, he ought to check in with a GP, ‘just to check everything’s working the way it should, you know,’ he’d said, pointing vaguely in the direction of his own skull, ‘up there.’
‘Oh, Peter,’ he’d crooned, tapping him lightly, but disturbingly, on the tip of his nose, then stroking his index finger over Karlsson’s moustache, ‘you don’t need to worry about me. I know how you feel about me. And once we’ve got rid of your wife, we can finally be together.’
And now, here he was, standing just ten feet away from him, a mic clutched in his long, pale fingers.
‘My question is this. I know you have critics. Every genius does, of course. But don’t you think that your work, your a
mazing work, I mean, would be more widely accepted if people were brought face to face with the realities of the cruelties you describe in your book.’
‘I’m sorry, Harry. I don’t think I understand what you mean.’
‘Oh, sorry. I probably didn’t explain it well. I’m a bit nervous. What I meant to say was, like, if people were being tortured and killed like that now, and it was, like, on social media and everything, well, there’d be an outcry, wouldn’t there? Like with this serial killer on the TV?’
Karlsson smiled and shook his head. It was a good point. Just a pity it had to be Harry who was making it. He’d heard a few sniggers as he called him a genius.
‘Well, yes. I’d have to agree with you. Some of the Renaissance paintings make the whole process look no more painful than having a tetanus shot. All those saints gazing wistfully into the middle distance while a couple of burly blokes in leather jerkins sawed them in half.’
Clearly satisfied, Harry handed the mic back to the hovering PR assistant and sat down, to begin making notes in a black Moleskine notebook perched on his lap.
Relieved that at least Harry hadn’t proposed marriage, Karlsson relaxed. The next question was a lowball from one of his colleagues and he was off the hook. Another few minutes and I get to the signing and then the pub, he thought.
60
FRIDAY 24TH AUGUST 10.00 P.M.
ISLINGTON
At 10.00 p.m. Arianna emerged onto Stoke Newington High Street. Her usual outfit – spaghetti-strap vest, white PVC micro-mini and four-inch baby-pink stilettos was gone. In its place, a short-sleeved white top, still extremely low-cut but with sprigs of flowers across the upper half; a pair of white cotton shorts, as tight as a groper’s fist but still decent; and a pair of white heels, half the height of her preferred footwear. Belle’s verdict: ‘if one of them bankers doesn’t go for you in that getup, babe, they must be gay.’
