Shatter (25 page)

‘You ready, boss?’

‘Yeah. The Prof is coming with us.’

Roy looks at me. ‘Always room.’

The incident room is busier and noisier than before. There are more detectives and civilian support staff, inputting data and cross-referencing the details of each crime. This is now an official murder investigation with task force status.

Sylvia Furness has her own whiteboard, alongside Christine Wheeler’s. Thick black lines are drawn between family members, col eagues and mutual friends.

The taskforce has been split into two teams. One team has already devoted hundreds of hours to tracking down every person who was in Leigh Woods, locating vehicles, checking alibis and studying CCTV cameras.

It has also focused on Christine Wheeler’s debts and dealings with a local loan shark cal ed Tony Naughton, whose name appeared in her phone records. Naughton has been questioned but has an alibi for Friday October 5. Half a dozen drinkers say he was in a pub from early afternoon until closing time. The same half-dozen who give him an alibi every time he’s pul ed in by the police.

I listen as Veronica Cray brings everyone up to speed on the previous twenty-four hours.

‘Whoever kil ed Sylvia Furness
knew
about the handcuffs which means we could be looking at a former boyfriend, a lover, or someone who had access to the house. A tradesman, a cleaner, a friend…’

‘What about the husband?’ asks Monk.

‘He was in Geneva, shacked up with his twenty-six-year-old secretary.’

‘He could have hired someone.’

She nods. ‘We’re looking at his phone records and emails.’

She hands out tasks and then glances quickly at me. ‘Professor O’Loughlin has drawn up a psychological profile. I’l hand over to him.’

My notes are written on a page, tucked into my jacket pocket. I keep taking them out and glancing at them as if cribbing for a test. I consciously lift my feet and avoid shuffling as I move to the front of the gathering. It’s one those tricks I’ve had to learn since Mr Parkinson arrived. I don’t stand with my feet close together and I try not to pivot when I turn quickly.

‘The man you are looking for is a ful y-fledged sexual sadist,’ I announce, pausing for a moment to look at their faces. ‘He didn’t just want to kil these women, he wanted to destroy them physical y and mental y; to take bright, vibrant, intel igent women and strip away every last vestige of hope and faith and humanity.

‘You are looking for a male in the same age range as his victims or older. His planning, confidence and degree of control indicate maturity and experience.’

‘He has an above average IQ with high verbal intel igence and good social skil s. He wil come across as pleasant and confident, almost deceptively charming. For this reason his friends, workmates or drinking buddies are likely to have no idea of his sadistic nature.

‘His formal education won’t match his intel igence. He gets bored easily and is likely to have dropped out of school or university.

‘His organisational skil s and methodology suggest military training, but he has reached a point where he won’t take orders unless he respects the person giving them. For this reason, he is likely to be self-employed or work alone. The timings of the kil ings suggest that he may work flexible hours, nights or weekends.

‘He is likely to be a local, someone who knows the roads, distances and street names. He directed both victims by phone.

He knew where they lived, their phone numbers and when they’d be alone. This took planning and research.

‘He wil live alone or with an elderly parent. He needs the freedom to come and go, without having to answer questions from a wife or partner. He may have been married in the past and his hatred towards women could stem from this or another failed relationship or a problem in his childhood with his mother.

‘This man is forensical y aware. Apart from the mobile phone he gave to Christine Wheeler, he left nothing behind. And he uses concealing behaviour— buying different handsets under false names, choosing different cal boxes and staying on the move.

‘His victims were targeted. The question we have to answer is why and how. They were friends and business partners. They went to school together. They shared dozens of mutual friends and perhaps a hundred acquaintances. They lived in the same city, went to the same hairdresser and used the same dry-cleaning service. Find out why he chose them and we move a step closer to finding him.’

I pause and glance down at my notes, making sure I haven’t left anything out. My left forefinger has begun twitching but my voice is strong. I bob gently on my toes and begin pacing and talking at the same time. Their eyes move with me.

‘I think our perpetrator convinced each woman that they had no choice but to co-operate or their daughters would suffer. This suggests that he is supremely confident verbal y but I think there is a question mark over his physical confidence. He didn’t overpower these women with brute force. He used his voice to intimidate and control. He may lack the courage for a face-to-face confrontation.’

‘He’s a coward,’ says Monk.

‘Or he’s not physical y strong.’

DI Cray wants more practical information. ‘What are the chances that he’s an old boyfriend or spurned lover?’

‘I don’t think so.’

‘Why?’

‘If either victim had escaped or been rescued they could have identified an old boyfriend or lover. I doubt if he’d take this risk. There’s another issue. Would these women have fol owed his commands so completely if they knew him? The unknown voice is more frightening; more intimidating…’

Someone coughs. I pause, wondering if it’s a signal. There are muffled comments.

‘This leads me to another point,’ I say. ‘He might not physical y have touched them.’

Nobody reacts. Monk speaks first. ‘What do you mean?’

‘The victims might not have
seen
him.’

‘But Sylvia Furness was handcuffed to a tree.’

‘She could have done that to herself.’

‘What about the hood?’

‘She could have done that too.’

I explain the evidence. The field was muddy. Only one set of footprints was found beneath the tree. There was no evidence of sexual assault or defence wounds. No other tyre tracks led to the field.

‘I’m not saying that he didn’t visit the scene in advance— he chose it very careful y. I also think he was nearby— the mobile signals indicate as much— but I don’t think she saw him. I don’t think he touched her— not physical y.’

‘He fucked with her mind,’ says Safari Roy.

I nod.

There are whistling sighs and grunts of scepticism. This is beyond their comprehension.

‘Why? What’s the motive?’ asks the DI.

‘Revenge. Anger. Sexual gratification.’

‘What— we take our pick?’

‘It’s al of them. This man is a sexual sadist. It’s not about kil ing women. It’s more personal than that. He humiliates them. He destroys them psychological y because he hates what they represent. He may have had issues with his own mother or an ex-wife or a former girlfriend. You might even find that his first victim sparked his resentment.’

‘You mean Christine Wheeler?’ says Monk.

‘No. She wasn’t the first.’

Silence. Disbelief.

‘There are more?’ asks the DI.

‘Almost certainly.’

‘When? Where?’

‘Answer that question and you’l find him. The man who did this has been working towards this moment— rehearsing and refining his techniques. He’s an expert.’

Veronica Cray looks away, gazing silently out the window, staring so hard I wonder if she wants to escape outside and disappear into someone else’s life. I knew this would be the most difficult point to get across. Even experienced police officers and mental health workers struggle with the reality that someone could experience intense pleasure and exhilaration from torturing and kil ing another human being.

Suddenly, everyone is talking at once. I’m bombarded with questions, opinions and arguments. Some of the detectives appear almost eager, excited by the hunt. Perhaps I have the wrong mindset but nothing about murder exhilarates or energises me.

Solving crime is a vocation for these men and women. It is a longing to restore moral order to a fractured world: a means of exploring questions of innocence and guilt, justice and punishment. For me the only truly important person is the victim who triggers everything. Without him or her none of us would be here.

The briefing is over. DI Cray escorts me downstairs.

‘If you’re right about this man, he’s going to kil again, isn’t he?’

‘At some point.’

‘Can we slow him down?’

‘You might be able to communicate with him.’

‘How’s that?’

‘He’s not looking to engage the police in some sort of cat and mouse game but he wil be reading the newspapers, listening to radio and watching TV. He’s plugged in, which means you
can
send him a message.’

‘What would we say?’

‘Say you want to understand him. The media are putting labels on him that are less than flattering. Let him correct the misunderstandings. Don’t demean. Don’t antagonise. He wants respect.’

‘And where does that get us?’

‘If you can get him to cal , it means that you have dictated an outcome. It’s one smal step. The first.’

‘Who delivers the message?’

‘It has to be one face. It can’t be a woman. It must be a man.’

The DI raises her chin slightly as if something on the horizon has caught her attention.

‘What about you?’

‘Not me.’

‘Why not?’

‘I’m not a detective.’

‘Makes no difference. You
know
this man. You know how he thinks.’

I’m standing in the foyer as she lists al the arguments without giving me a chance to rebut. A police car accelerates out of the rear gates, the bleat-bleeping siren drowning out my protests.

‘So that’s decided then. You script a statement. I’l set up a press conference.’

The electronic doors unlock. I step outside. The sound of the siren has faded and left behind a feeling of change and of loss. Putting down my head, I swing my arms and legs, aware that she’s stil watching me.

32

There are flowers everywhere— propped against the railing fence and the trunks of trees. A photograph of Christine Wheeler is wedged in a clear plastic sleeve at the centre of the largest wreath.

Darcy is wearing one of Julianne’s dresses and a black winter coat that almost touches the ground as she walks. She stands in a circle on the opposite side of the grave, beside her aunt— who arrived this morning from Spain— and her grandfather who sits in a wheelchair with a tartan blanket over his knees.

Her aunt is a tal woman who stands squarely as though addressing a golf bal instead of a person. The breeze is playing havoc with her hair, flattening it on one side of her head.

I’ve been to funerals before but this one is wrong. The mourners are too young. They’re Christine’s old school friends and mates from university. Some had nothing appropriate to wear in their wardrobe and have chosen muted greys rather than black. They don’t know what to say so they stand in clusters, whispering and glancing sorrowful y at Darcy.

Alice Furness peeks out from beside her aunt Gloria. Her father, home from Geneva, is dressed in a black suit and talking on a mobile. His eyes meet mine and then his gaze drifts to the right and he reaches out and puts a hand on Alice’s shoulder. He has to bury
his
wife next. I can’t imagine what it would be like to lose Julianne. I don’t want to imagine it.

On the opposite side of the cemetery, gathered on a ridge, TV crews and photographers have taken up positions behind a barricade of traffic cones and police tape. Uniformed officers are keeping them away from mourners.

Safari Roy and Monk stand shoulder to shoulder, looking like pal bearers. DI Cray is standing separately. She has brought a wreath of flowers, which she rests on the mound of dark brown earth that is covered by a carpet of artificial grass.

A hearse murmurs through the gates. The curved road is lower than the surrounding grass and I can’t see the tyres turning. It gives the impression that the vehicle is floating towards us.

Julianne’s shoulder brushes mine and her right hand takes my left hand— the one that trembles. She holds it stil , as though keeping my secret.

Ruiz joins us. I haven’t seen him since yesterday.

‘Where you been?’

‘An errand.’

‘Care to elaborate?’

He glances across at Darcy. ‘I’ve been looking for her father.’

‘Seriously?’

‘Yeah.’

‘Did
she
ask you?’

‘Nope.’

‘She’s never met him!’

‘Never met mine either,’ he shrugs. ‘Stil thought he might like to know. If he turns out to be an axe-murderer I won’t give Darcy his address.’

The coffin has been placed in a cradle over the grave. Flowers are piled high on the polished wood. Darcy is crying openly. Her aunt doesn’t seem interested. Another woman wraps an arm around Darcy’s shoulder. Wretched and red-eyed, she’s wearing a black coat over a long grey skirt.

Suddenly, I recognise the man next to her— Bruno Kaufman. It must be his ex-wife, Maureen. Bruno mentioned that she went to school with Christine, which means she also went to school with Sylvia. My God, she’s lost two friends in just over a week. No wonder she looks so desolate.

Bruno raises a finger towards me in a casual salute.

The vicar is ready to start. His voice, thick with cold, is too clogged to carry far. I find my mind drifting further, over the gravestones and lawns, beyond the trees and the machinery shed to where a gravedigger sits watching. He peels an egg, dropping the pieces of shel into a brown paper bag.

Ashes to ashes, dust to dust… if God don’t get you, the devil must. Have you ever noticed how cemeteries smell like compost heaps? They’ve sprinkled blood and bone on the
roses. It gets right up my nose.

The mourners are in black like crows around road kill. I can feel their sadness, but it doesn’t feel sad enough. I know true sadness. It’s the sound of a child opening birthday presents
without me; wearing clothes that I paid for. That is sadness.