Acid Lullaby (37 page)

Alison Dexter eventually returned to her apartment shortly before three in the morning. She checked the outside windows carefully before entering. The flat was empty. She had cleaned up some of the mess that Willis had created earlier in the day but was unable to contemplate going to bed until the flat was immaculate again.

She vacuumed the splinters of broken glass from her hall carpet and brushed up the rice that Willis had thrown across the kitchen floor. After an hour of agitated domestic labour, Dexter allowed herself the luxury of a shower and wrapped herself in her favourite dressing gown. She knew that it would be difficult to sleep. The dramatic events of the day would take a long time to be filtered out of her mind. Besides, she still had work to do.

Dexter knew that Mark Willis had become an addiction. She had fallen for him at a vulnerable moment in her life: a time when she was struggling through a painful transition. For a time, he had softened the edges of her world and given her the protection she had always lacked. Then she had become addicted to not being with him. For eight years, she had allowed her mind to wander into dark places with him during her weakest moments. The memory would give her an emotional hit and she would place him back in a safe part of her mind where she could control him. She wondered if she had relished the controlled pain; if
thinking of him had been the psychological equivalent of cutting her arms. Seeing him again had thrown her game into chaos.

Mark Willis was a black hole in her mind: a fixation that sucked in sanity and offered nothing in return. Dexter retreated to her bedroom and found her latest journal. She wrote down the day’s events tersely and accurately. She realised that she was ordering her thoughts to try and conjure a solution to the problem: like a mathematician progressively resolving stages of some impossible equation. She began to understand that her memories of Willis had been based on an unreal idealization of the man. Dexter bitterly recalled a moment after Willis had left the force. She had discovered by accident that the Parc de Buttes-Chaumont, the location of her most treasured memory, was itself an unreality. The steep verges and grass-covered enclaves were in fact sculpted onto the remains of an old quarry and landfill site.

Dexter had come to the understanding that the memory was built on shit: her mental construction of Willis had been artificial: the daughter she killed was conceived on a rubbish heap. She knew that it was time to excise Willis from her life once and for all. She had written two phone numbers into her police notebook after Willis had left her in tears the previous evening.

Now, with exhaustion tightening its grip on her beleaguered mind, Dexter drifted to sleep wondering which one she would call.

The following afternoon, Underwood sat in CID at New Bolden Station sipping a steaming coffee from a polystyrene cup. His wounded hand was bandaged tightly and his bruises ached. He had found that his damaged ribs prevented him from lying down comfortably. Once he had realized this grim fact in the early hours of the morning, he had resolved to ignore medical instructions and spend the day at work. Sitting bolt upright was just about tolerable and he wanted the distraction of work to numb his discomfort.

Harrison sat opposite him reading through some of the notes Dexter had made that morning based upon paperwork they had discovered at Yaxford Hall.

‘So tell me about him,’ Underwood instructed.

‘Maxwell Fallon. Aged thirty-eight. Unemployed. Formerly, Director of Bond Trading at Fogle & Moore Investment Bank. Fired for gross misconduct in August 2001. This wanker was clearing over a million a year.’

‘Unbelievable,’ Underwood muttered.

‘Most people don’t see that in a lifetime.’ Harrison returned to the notes.

‘Bought Yaxford Hall in September 2001. Sold his apartment in Chelsea at roughly the same time.’

‘Next of kin?’

Harrison checked through the pages. ‘It doesn’t say. Although it seems the body on the stairs was his father. We found a driving licence and credit cards in the deceased’s trouser pocket. Looks like a strong, positive ID.’

‘Do we know anything about the father?’ Underwood asked.

‘He was quite a big fish,’ Harrison replied, ‘Robin Fallon. Born nineteen forty-four. Eton and Trinity Cambridge. Twenty years in the Foreign Office. Worked in Pakistan, the
Philippines and was deputy Ambassador to India from ’seventy-six to ’eighty. Retired from the FCO in nineteen eighty-four and became the director of various companies. He’s in
Who
’
s
Who?
’

Underwood thought for a moment. ‘Jack Harvey was at Trinity, Cambridge. He’d be about the same age as Robin Fallon.’

‘Interesting,’ said Harrison. ‘I’ll check if they were there at the same time.’

‘It would explain why Harvey got involved in this mess,’ Underwood said sipping at the scalding coffee. He looked through the glass wall of Alison Dexter’s office. Dexter had not emerged from her room for nearly two hours. She sat with her back to them, scribbling notes onto a pad with her telephone jammed between her right ear and shoulder. It was unusual for Dexter to isolate herself from the buzz of the office. He sensed something was wrong.

‘Do you want to hear what else we found?’ Harrison asked, noticing Underwood’s attention was drifting.

‘Of course.’

‘Obviously there were the five human heads in the library. The only ones that have been positively identified so far are Jack Harvey and Sarah Jensen.’ Harrison tried to sound matter-of-fact although the image and his emotions still tore at him.

‘I’m sorry,’ Underwood said flatly.

Harrison nodded. ‘The others have not yet been formally identified. Based upon age and sex of the victims, Leach reckons they’ll match up with the bodies we found on Fulford Heath. We also found some personal effects amongst the rubbish on the floor of the library: a wallet, some credit cards and a Fogle & Moore Photo ID card. We’ve made some provisional guesses as to the identities. You want to hear them?’

‘Go ahead.’

‘One of the heads belonged to a middle-aged man. That fits the profile of Victim A from the Heath. Fallon apparently had a caretaker living on site at Yaxford Hall. The wallet we
found belonged to one Roger Dean. Driving licence gives his date of birth as 23rd June 1948. It’s a fair bet that Victim A was Roger Dean.’

Underwood remembered the chronology of deaths that Leach had explained. Victim A had been killed at the end of January or beginning of February. ‘Is Dean on a missing persons list? If it is him, he’s been dead for some time.’

‘Not on any of ours,’ Harrison replied. ‘If he lived at Yaxford Hall, there’s a chance that he wasn’t missed.’

‘Unlikely but possible, I suppose,’ Underwood commented. ‘What else?’

‘Victim B from the Heath was a woman. One of the heads in the library belonged to a young female. Best guess is that we are talking about an Elizabeth Koplinsky. That was the name on the Fogle & Moore ID card that the SOCOs found. The picture resembles the head in the library. I spoke to a personnel manager at the Bank. Koplinsky left work four weeks ago. She was about to be transferred overseas and had a month off. She was only reported missing when she failed to turn up in their Frankfurt office last week.’

‘Tell me about the other guy, Victim D,’ Underwood asked.

‘Well, by a process of elimination, we think his name is Simon Crouch. We found two credit cards and Amex and a Visa in that name. I checked him out too. Guess what?’

‘Another Fogle & Moore employee?’

‘He resigned at the end of last summer.’

‘Victim D was killed recently right? In the last week?’

‘Correct.’

‘Have you located next of kin for these people?’

‘Working on it. Like I said, personnel at Fogle & Moore have been helpful.’ Harrison thought for a moment. ‘Interesting that he didn’t decapitate his father.’

‘Robin Fallon. The body on the stairs. Broken neck?’

‘Yeah. Seems a waste. You’d think it would have saved him some effort,’ Harrison muttered bitterly.

Underwood couldn’t explain the anomaly. He was concerned that Harrison was sinking. He feared that the memory of Sarah Jensen and the inexplicable destruction of
her life was beginning to overwhelm his Detective Sergeant. ‘Don’t strangle yourself looking for logic. Sometimes logic just breaks down.’

Harrison looked at him, surprised by Underwood’s insight. ‘What’s left then? How else can you explain this kind of shit?’

‘Emotion. Insanity. Chaos. Take your pick.’

‘All I know is that we have enough evidence to see this sick bastard banged up for the duration of his sorry life,’ Harrison replied, clenching a fist in anger.

Underwood shrugged. ‘If this ever gets to trial.’

‘You saying there’s a Mental Health Act issue here?’

‘Fallon will need to have a full psychological assessment,’ Underwood explained, wondering who would perform the task now Jack Harvey was dead. ‘Having spoken to him and seen first hand what he’s done, I’d say there’s a good chance he’ll be sectioned and deemed unfit to stand trial.’

‘That’s a joke,’ Harrison hissed. ‘These weren’t crimes of passion. These were planned. He was in control. He’s still responsible.’

‘I hear you, but I suspect the psychologists will see it differently.’

‘Hospital’s a soft option.’

‘Would you want to be pumped full of tranquillizers and strapped to a bed in a secure mental hospital for the next twenty years?’

‘You know what I mean. He should been chucked in a very dark hole and left there. Why should we treat him? He’s killed seven people. If he is mad then let him live with it. That should be part of his punishment.’

‘Let’s wait and see what happens.’

Harrison seemed agitated. ‘Sir, I’m still curious. I don’t understand. Why decapitate the bodies and string the heads up in a line? What was he trying to say by doing that?’

‘He saw himself as a god. He believed that he was living the myth of this Soma figure; that he was about to father the lunar race on earth. The timing was important. Last night the five inner planets Mercury, Venus, Earth, Mars and Jupiter came into alignment. He attached great significance to this.
The Soma was the moon god. Fallon believed the planetary alignment portended the conception of his offspring. I think that by murdering the victims and removing their heads, he believed that he was drawing each of the planets into alignment. Each head represented a planet. One by one he strung the heads up into a line; one by one the planets are pulled into alignment. I think he believed that, as a god, he was pulling the strings of the cosmos.’

‘Jesus,’ Harrison breathed, despairing that Sarah Jensen had been brutalized for such an insane purpose.

‘The drugs were designed to alter the way he was perceived. He wanted his victims to see him as a god, not as a man. He wanted them to celebrate in his transformation: become his disciples if you like.’

‘I see what you mean,’ Harrison said bitterly. ‘A trial is going to be unlikely.’

‘Very.’

Underwood saw that Dexter was finally off the phone and he walked over to her office. She jumped as he knocked on the door and stepped inside.

‘Everything all right, Dex?’

‘Why wouldn’t it be?’ she snapped defensively.

‘You’re very quiet.’

‘I’m very busy.’

‘It’s more than that.’ Underwood sat down opposite her. ‘Look, I’m hardly perfect but you can talk to me.’

Dexter seemed ruffled by his directness. ‘There’s nothing to talk about. You and Paddy McInally can relax. Your little girl’s untwisted her knickers.’

‘Then why the attitude?’

‘I’d just rather be alone, John,’ she said wearily. ‘The last few days have taken it out of me.’

He decided to bite the bullet. ‘Mark Willis is a thug. He should be inside. If he’s up here and you know where he is, we should bring him in. It’s that simple. Whatever has happened between you in the past is over. Don’t let it crush you.’

‘It’s not a problem anymore,’ she said. ‘And frankly I’d appreciate it if you and McInally respected my judgment on
the matter. I don’t need you all buzzing around me like wasps.

I don’t need protecting.’

‘No,’ Underwood said quietly, ‘I guess you don’t.’

‘And shouldn’t you be resting?’ Dexter observed, a little less abrasively.

Underwood clicked the office door shut behind him.

Mark Willis was sitting in a café opposite the front entrance to New Bolden Police Station. There were two off-duty traffic policemen eating sausage sandwiches at the table next to him. He ignored them, preferring to concentrate on his full English breakfast and his view of Dexter’s car. He felt his mobile phone vibrate in his trouser pocket and withdrew it immediately. He had received a text message and was interested to see it was from Dexter. Placing his knife and fork carefully on the table, he read it to himself:

‘
Norbury
Services
M11.
Southbound
Car
Park.
10p.m.
tonight.
Take
what
you
want
and
go.’

Mark Willis couldn’t help but smile. He slipped the phone back into his pocket and returned to his fried eggs enthusiastically.

Doctors moving over him. White coats and unfamiliar inquisitive faces. His hands were tied down. Memory was no longer knowledge. The two had become jumbled and smashed out of order.

Max
Fallon
remembered
a
stiflingly
hot
evening
in
India
some
thirty
years
previously.
He
was
sitting
in
the
back
of
his
parents’
Land
Rover
as
it
bounced
uncomfortably
through
the
North-western
outskirts
of
New
Delhi.

His
father
was
driving.
His
mother
was
chattering
in
the
passenger
seat.
She
wasn’t
wearing
a
seat
belt.
She
never
wore
a
seat
belt.
The
show
at
the
English
School
in
Shiv
Vihar
had
been
a
great
success.
He
had
won
a
prize.
His
costume
had
been
the
best.

‘What’s
the
best
way
back
at
this
time
of
night,
darling?’
his
mother
was
saying.

‘I’m
going
to
cut
through
the
Rohini
district
and
pick
up
the
Rohtak
Road.
We
should
be
back
in
Chanakyapuri
before
midnight,’
Robin
Fallon
replied.

‘I’ll
never
find
my
way
round
this
city.’
Elspeth
looked
out
at
the
cluttered
pavements
and
maze
of
twisting
side
streets.
‘It’s
too
confusing.
’

‘You’ll
be
fine.’
Robin
Fallon
half
turned
in
his
seat.
‘You
already
know
your
way
around,
don’t
you,
Max?’

‘Not
really,
daddy,’
Max
heard
himself
say.

‘Where
do
we
live?’
Robin
Fallon
asked
his
son.

‘Chanapooey,’
Max
said.

‘Chanakyapuri,’
his
father
corrected.
‘And
where’s
your
school?’

‘Shiv
–
something.’

‘Shiv
Vihar.’

‘Well
done
baby,’
his
mother
had
said
with
a
smile.
‘You’ll
be
my
navigator.’