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  Chapter Fourteen

  Kate slept with her mobile phone by her bedside, relying on the alarm clock function every morning to get her out of bed. The ringing woke her from a deep sleep, and she grabbed at the device, peering blearily at the screen. It was Anderton calling.

  That woke her up. She sat up in bed and pressed the answer button.

  “Kate,” said Anderton. She could hear something in his voice, something that tightened her stomach, just from that one word. Something had happened.

  “What’s wrong?”

  Anderton said nothing for a moment, but she could hear him breathing heavily. She found she was clutching the duvet cover in her free hand.

  “What is it?”

  “There’s been another killing. Another girl.”

  Kate closed her eyes briefly. As the first wave of shock subsided, a thought struck her.

  “But, Father Michael—“

  “Is still in custody. Yes.”

  “Fuck,” said Kate.

  “Fuck indeed,” said Anderton. “I need you down here right away. We’re at Charlotte Street, the alley that runs along the back of it. Can you get here soon?”

  “I’m on my way,” said Kate, already scrambling out of bed.

  The drive to Charlotte Street was a short one. Despite the warmth of the summer morning, Kate felt cold. She pressed herself back into the car seat, almost shivering. Another killing. Another one. And it had happened while they were questioning the wrong man. After a moment, she turned the heater on and adjusted the vent so that warm air blew onto her face.

  She parked a few streets away from Charlotte Street. As Kate got out of the car, she could hear the choppy roar of a helicopter overhead. As she rounded the corner, the blue and white crime scene tape was almost invisible behind the seething mass of photographers, camera crews and journalists all vying for an interview – or better yet, a glimpse of the body, thankfully shrouded by a white tent. Kate set her features to neutral, took a deep breath and pushed through the tumult, ducking under the tape while a fusillade of camera flashes went off around her.

  Anderton, Olbeck and Jerry were all in the tent, all looking at the body. Kate joined them without speaking. Looking at the small, curled shape on the dirty concrete, she was overcome with a sense of sick, sweeping déjà vu. The long, dark hair, the slender body…just like Mandy. Just like Claudia. Kate crossed her arms across her body, hugging herself. Who was this man who kept killing women? What was driving him on? How could they catch him, and what would happen if they couldn’t? Kate felt something unusual, something almost akin to panic. How could they stop him? How many more women were going to die?

  She wheeled around and went back out of the tent. Cameras flashed and she flinched, unable to help herself. Trapped between the tent and the phalanx of photographers, Kate hesitated, not even sure of where she wanted to go. She heard the flap of the tent entrance again and then Anderton was behind her, beside her. He put a hand under her elbow and steered her out of the view of the press pack, around and out of sight to where his car was parked. Gesturing for her to get in the front passenger seat, he closed the door after her and went around to the driver side door.

  Once he was in the car with the doors closed, they sat in silence for a moment. Then Anderton reached over and took Kate’s hand. Kate glanced around nervously, hoping no one could see them.

  Then Anderton spoke.

  “I’m lost, Kate. I don’t know what to do.”

  There was something in his voice. It was barely perceptible but enough to make Kate’s feelings of anxiety rise up a notch. He sounded – could it be possible? – as if he were close to tears.

  “Three women have died, and I have absolutely no idea who killed them.”

  “I know,” said Kate, helplessly. “I know what you mean.”

  Anderton raised his head and looked her in the eyes.

  “What the hell do we do?”

  So now it’s ‘we?’ Kate forced the rogue thought down. This wasn’t the time for recriminations. She shrugged.

  “We keep digging. We keep questioning.”

  Anderton sighed and leant his head back against the headrest of the car seat, closing his eyes.

  “The press is going to have a field day,” he said, after a moment. “They’ll rip us apart. I can see the headlines now.”

  “I know.”

  “The Chief Constable is going to have my balls on a stick.”

  “I know.”

  Anderton opened his eyes, gazing at the car roof.

  “All right,” he said. “Let’s get back there. There must be something. Something we’re missing.”

  They braved the photographers again and ducked back into the tent. Doctor Telling had arrived and was leaning over the body of the woman. Olbeck and Jerry were stood to one side, not speaking.

  Kate realised she hadn’t even asked who the victim was.

  “We don’t know,” said Anderton. “No ID on the body, no handbag. Just like the others.”

  Kate moved around a little so she could see the girl’s face, dreading the moment of recognition. But it never came; this woman was a stranger.

  “I’ve not seen her before,” she said.

  “She’s not from the Mission?”

  “Not that I can remember.”

  Anderton looked at Olbeck, who shook his head.

  “I can’t remember seeing her there either.”

  Anderton brought one hand up to his temple, as if afflicted by a sudden headache.

  “He’s escalating,” he said. “It’s days since the last murder. Days, not weeks.”

  Nobody said anything for a moment.

  Incredibly, Anderton smiled, a grim smile that was more like a grimace. He looked at his officers.

  “This is good. It means he’s getting careless. It means he’ll make mistakes.”

  Jerry said nothing. Kate looked at him curiously. The white canvas of the tent gave everyone within it a pallid hue but, Kate suddenly realised, Jerry was worse than that. He was grey. He was staring fixedly at the body as Doctor Telling was beginning her examination. His hand crept up to his shoulder, squeezing his upper arm.

  Kate was just about to ask him if he was all right when Anderton spoke his name, sharply.

  “Jerry? Jerry!”

  Jerry dropped like a stone. Kate gasped. Frozen to the spot for a moment, movement returned, and she leapt forward at the same time as Olbeck and Anderton. Jerry had fallen next to the body, the arm that had gripped his shoulder falling loose, as if pointing towards the dead girl. There was a moment of pure chaos, people shouting, pushing. Anderton got to Jerry first, calling his name in a voice ragged with panic, before Doctor Telling moved him aside with practised authority and laid her fingers on Jerry’s neck. Then she put one slender, long-fingered hand under his neck, tipping his face upwards, and began mouth to mouth resuscitation.

  “Call an ambulance,” she gasped as she came up for air, but Olbeck was already doing just that.

  Kate, barely knowing what she was doing, took Anderton’s arm, drawing him away from where Doctor Telling was battling death before their eyes.

  “He’ll be okay,” she whispered, just for something to say. She didn’t believe it for a moment. Anderton took her hand, crushing it within his grip. They watched, helplessly, for what felt like endless hours before they heard the siren of the ambulance over the bay of the mob outside the tent.

  Anderton went in the ambulance, with Kate and Olbeck following behind in Kate’s car. Several photographers followed the ambulance, breaking away from the crime scene when they realised there was another element to the story breaking right there. Kate crawled through the mass of people blocking the road as she tried to keep the ambulance in sight. Hands thumped on the side of the car, making her flinch. Olbeck rolled down the passenger side window.

  “Clear the road. Now!”

  Kate put her hand on the horn and kept it there. Wincing, people began to fall back so she could pick up a l
ittle speed. She had to fight the urge to put her foot down hard on the accelerator and drive through, scattering paparazzi like confetti.

  When they got to the Royal Abbeyford Hospital, Jerry had already been carted off somewhere. The Intensive Care Unit, thought Kate, hoping he had at least made it that far. Anderton was in a side room off the main reception area, pacing the small area of tiled floor like a man possessed. Kate came through the doorway first, and he came forward as if to throw his arms around her, bringing himself to a sudden halt as Olbeck followed her through the doorway.

  “You all right?” said Olbeck.

  “I’m fine,” Anderton muttered.

  Kate hugged her arms across her body. The three of them stood in a little huddle, not knowing what to do or what to say.

  “Well, we can’t all stay,” said Anderton. “Christ, I’ve got a serial murder investigation to run.”

  “It’s all right,” said Olbeck. “I’ll stay. I’ll ring you later with a progress report and someone can come and take over.”

  “Doesn’t he have any family?” asked Kate.

  Anderton shook his head. “No immediate family. All right, Mark. Let’s do that. Come on Kate. I’ll drive.”

  They drove back in silence except for one outburst from Anderton while they were waiting at the traffic lights. He pounded the steering wheel with a fist, making Kate jump.

  “I told him, the stupid idiot. I told him. ‘You drink too much, you smoke like a chimney, you eat shit…’ What did he think was going to happen?”

  Kate knew it was a rhetorical question. She said nothing but shrugged and shook her head.

  “Stupid idiot,” said Anderton, and then the lights changed and they were off.

  When they got back to the office, the atmosphere was palpable. Jane’s eyelids were as red as her hair, and Rav and Theo were looking very sombre. As Anderton and Kate came into the room, everyone, bar Theo, leapt to their feet.

  “He’s still alive,” said Anderton wearily. “That’s about all we know for now. The doctors are doing all they can for him, and Mark will give us an update as soon as he hears.”

  “Was it a heart attack?” asked Jane, timidly.

  Anderton nodded.

  “We think so. Almost certainly.”

  He walked up to the notice boards and stood before then, regarding the mess of scribbled notes, photographs, documents, connecting arrows and other information.

  “Where to start?” was what Kate heard him say to himself, almost under his breath.

  “We’ve got a tentative ID on the latest victim,” said Rav and Anderton turned, his eyebrows raising.

  “You have? Excellent.”

  “A Mrs Pauline Brennan reported her daughter Karen missing after she failed to return home last night. We spoke to her over the phone, and we’re bringing her in to ID the body right now.”

  “Fits the description?”

  Rav nodded.

  “Small, long dark hair, young. She – Karen – went out clubbing with friends last night, she was supposed to get the last train home. Her friends say she left to catch it, but she never went home.”

  “And that alleyway is the shortcut home from the station. Sounds like it’s her all right. Poor woman.” Anderton sat down on the edge of a desk. “Let’s get a positive ID before we do anything else. What else have we got? Anyone got any more information?”

  Work went on that afternoon, but there was little sense of anything being accomplished. Jerry’s desk stood horribly empty. At three o’clock, Kate texted Olbeck to see if there was any news, and he texted back, still in ICU, no other news x.

  Mrs Pauline Brennan identified the body of her daughter, Karen Brennan, with the calmness of what Kate recognised as complete and total shock. The identification over, Mrs Brennan walked back out into the corridor and promptly collapsed, prompting another dramatic five minutes where officers swarmed, shouted and eventually ushered in the paramedics who, thankfully, advised after a few minutes’ examination that the poor woman had merely fainted.

  House to house enquiries were continuing along the alleyway where the body of Karen Brennan had been found and in all the neighbouring streets. CCTV footage from the train station and along Charlotte Street was being examined. Kate sat at her desk and briefly imagined herself as the spider in the centre of an enormous web of information: words, pictures, data, number plates, descriptions, interviews, forensic examinations, post mortem reports… all of it flowing to her and over her while she drowned within the torrent, snatching vaguely with her hands at scraps of knowledge that took her no further.

  And out there, hidden by the darkness of ignorance, was a man who killed women and who kept killing women, and she couldn’t see how they would ever catch him.

  J’s diary

  The mask is slipping. I can no longer rely on my disguise. No, that’s not true. Of course I can rely on my disguise – no one can see through that – but at the same time, the real me, the one underneath the mask is beginning to surface. I am transforming. For months I could always chose who to be; it was me who decided which face to present to the world, but that is beginning to be the case no longer.

  Now, when I look in the mirror, I’m no longer sure of who I will see looking back.

  This scares me. The real me, the one who does these things to these girls, is the one who will not be accepted. They – and I don’t need to say exactly who ‘they’ are – they will stop me, if they catch me. They cannot catch me. I cannot allow it.

  But who do I mean when I say ‘I’?

  This last one scared me. I hadn’t planned it, I wasn’t even truly looking. I was merely walking back from the station, and I saw her walk into the alleyway, staggering a little. She was the right type: she was alone, she was drunk. All my objections fell away in an instant. Before I could tell myself that it was too dangerous, that someone would see, that she would call out or do something to call attention to what was happening…all of my internal objections counted for nothing. I was seized with the breathless, choking feeling that was beginning to come upon me more and more. I can no more conquer the urge than I could stop breathing. My feet, seemingly of their own accord, turned to follow the girl into the alleyway.

  There was no one else there – of course not, it was very late. I had taken a late train back to the town and of course, I was in my usual disguise. I entered the alleyway. I like to think that if someone else had been there to witness what was about to happen, I could have controlled myself.

  I like to think that, but I’m not sure.

  There was no one else there. I had the knife in my hand, and I was running before I could even acknowledge what I was doing. I fell upon her from behind – she gave one small choked cry of surprise – and then the knife was going in, again and again and again. I was frenzied, my cries muffled against her back.

  When it was over, I got up and staggered home. I didn’t even look behind me. It makes me shudder now, to think of all the evidence I left behind me. That’s what scares me. I lost control and I know – I know that it will happen again. I can’t be caught. But I can’t stop.

  I can’t stop.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Kate pulled up outside her house at about twenty minutes to seven that night. She locked the car, pulled her bag onto her shoulder and wearily made her way indoors. The house seemed very silent. She threw her bag on the floor of the hallway, kicked off her shoes and slumped through to the living room where she flung herself down onto the sofa, fully intending not to move from that location for the rest of the evening, possibly even the rest of the night.

  The doorbell rang five minutes later, and she swore so loudly she was surprised the person on the doorstep didn’t hear it. Kate lay, eyes closed and muttering curses under her breath, before heaving herself up and stomping through to the front door.

  She yanked it open to find Andrew Stanton on the doorstep, smartly dressed and carrying a bouquet of pink roses. To Kate’s tired eyes, the unexpected nature o
f the sight was such that for a moment she thought she was seeing things…until memory came crashing back.

  Andrew took in her dishevelled, clearly-not-dressed-for-a-date appearance, and the smile he’d been wearing when the door opened fell off his face so fast it would have been funny had it not been so embarrassing.

  “You forgot,” was all he said.

  “I’m sorry. God, I’m sorry.” Kate was hanging onto the door as if it were the only thing keeping her from collapse. After the horrors of the day, this added complication was about as much as she could bear.

  “That’s fine,” said Andrew, stiffly. “Perhaps another night, Kate. Good night.”

  He turned away, flowers dangling from his hand.

  “Wait!” Kate caught at his arm to stop him. “Wait, please, Andrew. I’m sorry, okay? Why don’t you come in?”

  Once he was inside the hallway, Kate shut the front door and leant on it.

  “I’m really, really sorry,” she said again. “I can guess you’ve seen what’s been happening?”

  “I have,” admitted Andrew. “I guess I should have phoned ahead. My fault.”

  “No, completely mine,” said Kate. She felt like hitting herself sharply on the forehead. Was there a single working relationship that she hadn’t managed to fuck up completely? “I hope you haven’t booked anywhere…?”

  Andrew half-smiled. “Well—”

  “Oh, God. Where?”

  “Well – Bailey’s.”

  “Oh, God.” Bailey’s was an extremely expensive restaurant located in a former stately home on the edge of Abbeyford. “That’s lovely of you. Tell you what, wait here and give me ten minutes. Literally ten minutes.”

  She virtually pushed him through to the living room, ran through to the kitchen, poured him a glass of what she always thought of as ‘Mark’s wine,’ kept exclusively for him, ran back through – carefully – with glass in hand, set it on the living room table, smiled brightly, said ‘ten minutes!’ and pelted for the stairs.