Broken Dolls (A Jefferson Winter Thriller) (6 page)

The first movement drifted to an end and I opened my eyes. For a moment I just sat there and sipped my whisky. I’d lost track of how long it had been since I last slept, but even though I was so exhausted I could barely see straight, I wasn’t ready to sleep. The second movement started up and I checked my emails. There was nothing much there. An update on the Maine case, a request from the San Francisco Police Department, a couple of junk emails.

I headed out to the balcony for a last smoke, the rich sound of the second movement following me, gentle and soothing. A blanket of snow lay over London, painting the city clean. Sounds were more muffled than usual, the streets emptier. High overhead, a lone passenger jet roared through the stratosphere. The London Eye stood still in the distance, lit up in blue and white. I finished my cigarette and flicked it out into the dark. The glowing orange tip tumbled end over end, getting smaller and smaller until it disappeared altogether. I went back inside and chased a sleeping tablet down with a shot of Glenlivet. My last thought before crashing in to sleep was of victim number five. We had no idea who she was yet, but the one thing I knew for sure was that right now she’d be more alone than she’d ever been.

All alone and living the nightmare.

10

I’d promised Hatcher a profile by nine, but that wasn’t going to happen. Sleep usually gave me a clearer perspective. Not this time. If anything, this case was hazier than ever. I had some ideas, but nothing worth sharing. My profile would influence the direction the investigation took, and if I got it wrong an innocent woman would suffer. A bad profile was one of the best ways to screw up a case.

This case was unlike any other I’d worked. For starters, there was usually a dead body or two to work with. That bugged me more than anything else. Performing a lobotomy would take time and skill. It would be easier to kill the victim. It didn’t make sense, didn’t tally with what I knew about this unsub. This guy was careful and tidy, and he didn’t do anything without thinking it through first, so why go to all the trouble of performing a lobotomy? Also, this unsub got off on torturing his victims. He fed on their pain and screams. Once the lobotomy was carried out the fun would be over. No more pain, no more screams. So, at what point did he carry out the lobotomy? What was the trigger?

Another thing that bugged me was the contradictory way the victims were being treated. On one hand they were being brutally tortured. On the other hand they were being well cared for. It was possible the unsub was looking after his victims so he could prolong the torture. Possible, but the explanation didn’t sit comfortably.

I showered quickly then towelled myself dry and got dressed. Yesterday’s jeans still had some life left in them, but my T-shirt and hoodie were past their best. Today’s T-shirt featured Nirvana, and today’s hoodie was black. I ran a hand through my hair to tidy it up. I’ve never been sure whether one of my ancestors chose Winter as a surname because of that errant gene that caused our hair to turn white prematurely, or whether it was one of those cosmic flukes that occasionally happen. I wouldn’t call it coincidence because I don’t believe in coincidence or luck or fate. What I do believe is that in an almost infinite universe anything and everything is possible.

Like a kid in his early twenties with the surname Winter ending up with white hair. When you get down to it, as far as cosmic flukes go, it’s really not that impressive. Impressive is when two high-school sweethearts separated by circumstance and oceans and half a century of living bump into each other on vacation in some bizarre out-of-the-way corner of the globe, and get to pick things up right where they left off all those years ago.

I ordered the full English breakfast from room service because God only knew when I’d get to eat again. The first coffee washed down my breakfast, the second came out onto the balcony with me. With the city waking up below me, I lit a cigarette and took a long drag. The sky was a bright, sharp blue that reminded me of the winter mornings back in Virginia. The lack of cloud cover meant it felt even colder than yesterday, the mercury struggling to stay in the twenties. My morning fix of caffeine and nicotine kickstarted my system, and by the time I got back inside I was good to go.

Hatcher had emailed through a folder that contained the before and after pictures of the victims. I started with Patricia Maynard’s photos since she was the victim I knew best. The before picture was fairly typical in that it showed Patricia Maynard caught in a happy moment. These photos were supplied by the family and it was only natural that they would want their loved ones remembered with a rose-tinted glow. The truth was that Patricia Maynard was human. She had good days and bad days. Sometimes she was happy, sometimes she was sad, and sometimes she was angry. There were times she was a joy to be with, and times when she was a complete pain in the ass. The rollercoaster of emotions and moods of a normal life, in other words.

This photo froze her in a moment when she was at her best. It was taken in a restaurant and she was smiling as though she didn’t have a care. There was no indication that she was going to end up colliding head-on with her worst nightmare, and that her life would effectively be over.

The photograph had been cropped to show Patricia Maynard’s face, making it difficult to tell what the occasion was. Maybe it was her birthday, maybe it was someone else’s birthday. It had been a celebration of some sort. You didn’t take photographs in a restaurant unless there was a reason you wanted to remember the occasion.

Her hair was brunette, her eyes brown, and she was attractive. Not stop-the-traffic gorgeous like Templeton, but she would definitely make a man look twice. She was in good shape, healthy and a good weight, and she was wearing a blouse with the top two buttons undone to show off a glimpse of her cleavage and the tiniest tease of lace. Patricia Maynard had been a happy, confident, attractive woman who’d had her whole life ahead of her.

The after photo had been taken by a police photographer and there was nothing rose-tinted about it whatsoever. This photograph was stark and brutal, and there wasn’t a hint of the confident, attractive woman Patricia Maynard had once been. Her eyes were puffy and red and shut tight, like she’d gone fifteen rounds in a boxing ring. The slackness in her face made me think of stroke victims.

I went through the before and after photographs for the other three victims, the rose-tinted family shots and the cold, stark police shots. Sarah Flight, Margaret Smith, Caroline Brant. I pulled up the four after shots and arranged them in two neat rows. Sarah Flight and Margaret Smith were on the top row, Caroline Brant and Patricia Maynard were on the bottom. A prickle of excitement made the hairs on the back of my neck stand up. Laid out like that with their bald heads and their puffy boxer eyes, they could have been one person.

I opened a new screen and pulled up the before photos and laid them out in the same configuration as the after photos. I saw the resemblance immediately. I’d missed it earlier because two of the victims had dyed their hair. Hatcher answered his phone on the second ring.

‘I’ve sent a car,’ he said. ‘It’ll be there in a few minutes.’

‘That’s great. I need the car, but I’m not coming in. Not this morning, anyway.’

‘What about the profile?’

‘I need to do some more work on it.’

‘What the hell are you talking about, Winter? You said it would be ready by this morning.’

‘Shut up and listen a second. I don’t have a profile for the unsub but I do have a profile for the next victim. Have you got a pen?’

There was a rustle of paper and plastic on the other end of the line, then Hatcher was back. ‘Okay, fire away.’

11

‘You’re looking for a woman aged twenty-five to thirty-five.’ I kept it slow so Hatcher’s pen could keep up. ‘She’s going to be married, but there will be problems in the marriage. The husband will have had an affair. Possibly multiple affairs.’

‘I don’t know if you can make that assumption, Winter. The Flights’ marriage was sound. Granted there were problems in the other victims’ marriages, but the Flights were fine.’

‘Were they?’

‘We checked it out. They were as happy as Romeo and Juliet.’

‘Not the best example,’ I said.

‘My people are good. If there had been anything going on they would have found it.’

‘And you’re prepared to put your money where your mouth is?’

‘Are you serious?’

‘Let’s say twenty pounds. No, let’s make it interesting. How about fifty?’

‘That isn’t exactly ethical,’ said Hatcher.

‘Firstly, you haven’t said no. And secondly, that’s loser talk.’

‘Fine, I’ll be happy to take your money.’

‘Okay,’ I said. ‘The victim will be a brunette, brown eyes, and she’ll be attractive, too. Bear in mind that her hair might be dyed, so don’t rule out other colours. Caroline Brant and Margaret Smith both dyed their hair. What you’re looking for is a natural brunette. She’ll be a career woman, educated to university level. This is a high-risk target for our unsub.’

‘Why take that risk?’ Hatcher asked. ‘If this guy’s whole game is to make these women suffer, why not kidnap a prostitute or a junkie?’

‘Because that’s not his whole game. These women represent someone significant to him. His ex-wife, would be my initial guess. Whoever the real target is, she’s the one he really wants to hurt, but he doesn’t have the courage to do that yet. He’s scared of her. Absolutely terrified. That makes him angry, and he takes that anger out on his victims.’

‘So, he’s just practising with these other women, working up the courage to go after his ex.’

‘Pretty much,’ I agreed. ‘You need to get your people to look at every missing person report for the last three days. All of them. I’m particularly interested in anyone reported missing over the last twenty-four hours. If I’m right about the way this unsub is escalating then that’s where we’ll find our next victim.’

‘So you think he’s already snatched someone?’

‘Without a doubt.’

‘What sort of area are we looking at?’

‘Everything north of the Thames.’

Hatcher took a sharp intake of breath on the other end of the line, a reaction that was perfectly understandable since I’d just narrowed the search down to an area of hundreds of square miles and a population in the millions.

‘It gets worse,’ I added. ‘It wouldn’t surprise me if he starts targeting victims outside of London. That stunt with the car park security light in St Albans shows he’s looking for ways to mislead us. From here on we need to assume he’ll send us on a wild goose chase at every opportunity. That said, let’s start with the area inside the M25 first. If we don’t get any hits there we’ll widen the search to take in the Home Counties.’

‘I’ll get right on to it,’ said Hatcher.

‘I’m going to need to see photographs ASAP. Send them to my cellphone.’

‘No problem. So when can I expect a full profile?’

‘I’ll have something for you by the end of the day.’

I hung up, put my coat on, stuffed my cigarettes and Zippo into a pocket, then headed downstairs. An unmarked BMW was waiting outside and I had to smile when I saw the driver. I stepped from the Cosmopolitan’s revolving door and walked over to the car.

‘Morning, Templeton.’

‘Morning, Winter.’

Templeton was leaning against the BMW dressed in a thick padded coat. Her jeans were so tight they clung to her legs like a second skin, and her blonde hair was scraped back in a ponytail. If anything, the daylight made her eyes appear even more spectacular. The way she was leaning on the car, she could have been in an advert.

‘So you drew the short straw again,’ I said.

‘Believe it or not, I volunteered for this. I’m interested in seeing you work first-hand.’

‘I’m flattered.’

‘You should be. Usually, I’d rather pull out my own wisdom teeth than play babysitter.’

We got into the car and buckled up. A rock channel kicked in when the key was turned, classic Aerosmith pumping from the speakers. Templeton leant over the dash and turned the volume down. The engine had heated up during the drive from New Scotland Yard and the heater was working overtime to keep the chill out.

‘You said babysitter rather than taxi driver,’ I said. ‘That means you’ve spoken to Hatcher.’

Templeton nodded. ‘He called five minutes ago. He said you hadn’t done the profile yet. He sounded pretty pissed off about it.’

‘What else did he say?’

‘He told me to keep an eye on you and report back on everything you get up to.’

‘Will you?’

‘That depends on what you get up to. So where do you want to go?’

‘Enfield. I want to visit the first victim, Sarah Flight.’

We turned right out of the Cosmopolitan’s driveway and I flashed my cigarette pack at Templeton.

‘Fine with me, so long as you’re sharing,’ she said.

I lit two cigarettes and passed one to Templeton. The traffic was slow and sticky. Almost as bad as New York traffic, but nowhere near as bad as LA traffic. We drove in silence, Templeton concentrating on driving while I concentrated on the case. It was a comfortable silence, companionable, there was nothing forced about it.

I finished my cigarette and pitched the butt out of the window, hit a button on my door and the window buzzed shut. Thirty seconds later, Templeton followed suit. The buildings got smaller and greyer and bleaker the further north we drove. The winter sunshine made the architecture look better than it had yesterday, but not by much. The radio played a steady stream of classics. Hendrix, the Eagles, Led Zeppelin. Great tunes from a long-ago time.

‘So what was he like?’

I’d heard that question plenty of times so I didn’t need to ask who Templeton was referring to. Usually people waited until they knew me better, but I wasn’t surprised she’d asked. She didn’t strike me as someone who would tiptoe around a subject.

‘He was completely plausible,’ I said. ‘A pillar of the community. He taught math at college and by all accounts he was popular with his colleagues. The kids liked him, too. He was outgoing and inspiring, your typical eccentric teacher. He had one of those brains that never switches off. While he was at San Quentin numerous attempts were made to measure his IQ but he just used them as an excuse to mess with the shrinks. All any of them could say for certain was that he’d easily qualify for Mensa.’