TORN (23 page)

Simon reached out, felt the cheap metal door handle, cold and slick against his sweating hand. He turned the handle, and went inside.

Ricky Webb lounged back in an orange Formica chair. He had a thick head of soft, dark hair swept back from his forehead. Even in his prison clothes – dark blue trousers, a white T-shirt, black trainers – he was cocky, had a presence about him. He looked up with interest as Simon entered the room, and stared him up and down, studying him.

‘All right?’

Simon nodded to the guard standing against the wall, hands behind his back, then carefully approached the table, and sat directly across from Webb. 

He set his briefcase down by the side of his chair, and looked up at Webb for the first time. ‘Hello.’

The prisoner gave him a grin. ‘So you’re the artist bloke?’

Simon nodded. Keep control. Everything is going according to plan.  This was what you wanted it. He breathed deeply, forced a smile to his face. ‘Yes, the artist bloke.’

Webb looked up at the guard, gave him a wink, then turned back to Simon.  ‘So what’s this all about then?’

Simon carefully folded his hands on the table in front of him, held them tight to each other to avoid them shaking. He needed steady hands for what he was about to do.  Just talk to him, get comfortable around him, forget what you know about him, and gradually relax, then you’ll be ready to get the job done.

‘I’m here to draw you,’ replied Simon.

Webb smiled. ‘Can’t blame you – I’m a bit of a picture, aren’t I, Carey?’  He looked to the guard for support, but was met with an indifferent stare. He turned his charm back on Simon.

‘So apart from my lovely looks, how come you’re drawing me?’

Simon slowly reached down, and slid his briefcase into his lap. ‘I’m doing a series of drawings of offenders – some when they have first been incarcerated, others when they are about to be released.’

Webb gave a big grin. ‘I’m out next weekend.’ He stretched his arms wide, as if embracing the whole world.  ‘Women of the world, look out, Ricky Boy is on his way.’

Simon’s blood went cold, but he knew he couldn’t allow his personal feelings to influence what he was about to do. It was essential that he didn’t do that. He opened his briefcase, pulled out a large sketch pad, and a set of artist’s pencils.

‘So what are you going to do with your pictures?’  Despite the chattiness, Webb wasn’t stupid.

Simon opened the pencil case. There were forty-eight pencils, each of a different color, organized in an elegant sequence. He blinked. Actually, no, there were only forty-seven – one was missing. He frowned in confusion.

Pushing the thought from his mind, he turned back to Ricky. ‘By comparing the faces, particularly the eyes, of new prisoners with those who are about to be released, I hope to see if their incarceration has had any effect on them. I believe that the pictures will show if you have been changed, rehabilitated by your experience,’ Simon explained.

Webb gave him a challenging look.  ‘But that all depends, doesn’t it?’

Simon’s eyes were still fixed on his pencil case, trying to figure out which one was missing. All were present and in order,
but for one – the orange one.

‘I said that depends, doesn’t it?’ Webb repeated.

‘What?’ Simon was put off his stride, knocked off balance. His heart pounded. He was so careful, so meticulous. Where could he have lost a pencil?  He tried to pay attention to Webb while casting his mind back – where had he last used them?  ‘Depends on what?’

‘On whether I was guilty in the first place.’

He looked up and met Webb’s gaze. ‘That is of no concern to me.’

Simon’s pencil moved fast across the page.  First he sketched the outline of Webb’s face.

‘Which way do you want me, Picasso?’ Ricky turned his head from side to side, gurning and grinning.

‘I don’t mind,’ Simon replied quickly, ‘as long as I can see your eyes, and as long as you stay still.’

Webb turned with the left side of his face slightly tilted. ‘I think that’s my best side. That do the trick for you?’

Simon nodded.  ‘Yes, that’s fine.’  He drew quickly, the pencil defining Webb’s high cheekbones, his strong jaw line, dark eyebrows, the sweep of his dark hair.

‘This going to take long?’ Patience was clearly not one of Ricky’s virtues.

Simon gave a tight smile. ‘It will be over soon enough.’ He took a colored pencil from the box, began adding some shading to Webb’s clear skin. ‘So what will you do when you get out of here?’

Webb gave a smile of deep satisfaction. ‘Like you said, I’ve been thinking about it for a long time.’ He rubbed his hands together. ‘So the first stop will be The Baggott Inn to get a few pints down me, and find all my old mates – that’s where we always used to meet up on a Saturday night ...’

Simon’s hands moved quickly across the page, capturing Webb’s lustrous black hair perfectly.

‘I’m not familiar with it,’ Simon replied.

Webb cast his eye over him again, took in his gray sweater, the prescription glasses, everything … ‘No, don’t reckon you would be,’ he said, smirking.

Simon managed a tight-lipped smile. All that was left to draw now were the eyes. 

‘Eighteen months and nothing … I’ve been saving it up – some little lady is going to be in for the night of a her life.’

Simon’s felt nauseous as he looked up over his sketchpad, and met Webb’s eyes. ‘You’re in for rape, aren’t you?’

Webb looked straight back at him, a cold, hard stare. For a moment there was silence, an almost electric pulse in the room. Simon never took his eyes from Webb, challenging him to look away first.

The guard unclasped his hands, and took a half-step forward.  He knew a confrontation when he saw one, had broken up hundreds of fights in his time.

Just as suddenly, Webb looked away and grinned. ‘Ah, that’s all behind me now.  Always said I was innocent, and parole board must believe me too. They’re setting me free, aren’t they?’

Simon’s pencil moved slowly across the page with infinite precision. He had looked into Webb’s eyes, got everything he needed. Everything to capture his essence perfectly – the mocking stare, the slight hint of weakness, the predatory cast. 

Simon looked at his picture, and smiled. ‘Yes, I’m a great believer in justice,’ he said slowly. ‘True justice.’

Webb grinned, but his eyes were less certain than before. He shifted in his seat.  ‘Right. Like the man said, I’ve done my time. Justice.’ He glanced at the guard again, but he had settled back against the wall, a slight smile playing around the edges of his mouth. Webb turned again to Simon.  ‘So, are we all done here now, or what?’

Simon nodded. He carefully packed his pencils away, closed the case and slipped it back into his briefcase.

The prisoner leaned towards him, trying to get a glimpse of the portrait.  ‘So is it any good?’

Simon closed the sketchpad, and put it under his arm. ‘Of course.’

Webb looked confused. ‘Go on then, show it to me.’

Simon snapped the brass locks on the case closed. ‘All in good time.’  He nodded to the guard.

Webb furrowed his brow. ‘In good time? What the fuck does that mean?’  He started to stand, but the guard took a step towards him, and fixed him with a hard glare. He sank back into his seat.

Simon turned towards the door. The guard stepped over, and unlocked it. ‘You said you’re out next weekend?’ he called back to Webb.

The prisoner nodded. ‘Right. Saturday.’

‘I’m putting on a small gallery exhibition of these pictures soon. I’ll make sure you have a personal invitation.’ He turned his back on the prisoner, and slipped out through the door.

Webb stood up and took a step forwards, but the guard stopped him with a stare. He called out after Simon,‘Wait … how will you find me?’

Simon’s voice drifted back into the room from the corridor. ‘Don’t worry, Mr Webb – I’ll find you.’

Reilly looked at Chris and Kennedy as they trooped into her office. They’d agreed to meet with O’Brien there, as the chief was in the GFU building that morning concerning another matter.

The detectives both looked tired but it was nothing Reilly didn’t recognize.  She had seen the same thing when she looked in the mirror that morning.  One advantage to being a woman – you could hide the worst of it with make-up.

Kennedy set a tray of coffees on the table, and dropping wearily into a chair, glancing up at the clock. It was five minutes before O’Brien was due to arrive. ‘What are the odds that Princess Reuben will be late?’ he grumbled.

Reilly looked at his sour face. ‘And good morning to you too.’

He met her look, and for just a moment appeared about to say something smart, but couldn’t keep his irrepressible good nature under wraps. ‘And how do we find you this bright sunny morning, Miss Baywatch?’

Reilly glanced out her window at the gray leaden sky, a typical November shower hammering against the windows on the back of a cold easterly wind. ‘I feel a bit like the weather,’ she admitted.

Chris lifted the lid of his coffee, blew to cool it. ‘So what do we have?’

‘Too right, Chris,’ Kennedy quipped. ‘Let’s just dispense with the pleasantries and get straight to work.’

‘I just wanted to have all our ducks in a row for O’Brien before Knight flounces in. He’s bad enough when we know what we’re talking about – God knows what he’d be like if he saw we were disorganized.’

‘Who’s disorganized?’

Reilly looked up quickly.  Reubens tall frame filled the doorway. Today he was dressed in a dark pinstriped suit with a red tie, and matching silk handkerchief spilling extravagantly from his breast pocket.

‘Come on in and take a seat, Reuben,’ Reilly told him. 

He looked around, ignoring the detectives. ‘My first time in the castle of the fairy princess – fascinating.’  He gaze circled the room, before eventually zeroing in on Reilly’s bookshelf.  He stood in front of it, hands behind his back, perusing the titles. ‘You can learn so much about a person from their bookshelves, don’t you think?’

Chris looked at Reilly, then back at Reuben. ‘We really need to get this meeting started, Knight,’ he said testily.

‘Go ahead,’ the profiler replied without turning round. ‘I’m sure you have very important police work to do to get yourselves organized. I’ll just stay over here out of the way until you are ready for me.’

Chris sighed. ‘Fine. We’ll just pretend you’re not here – which is a pleasant thought, actually.’

Reilly gave Chris a reproachful look. Why was he being so rude? ‘Reuben, would you like a cup of coffee?’ she asked.

He turned and glanced at their paper cups on the table. ‘If you mean real coffee, made from freshly ground Colombian coffee beans, I would love a cup.  If you are referring to that execrable brown liquid they pump out of the machine down the hall, then no thank you. I would rather drink my own bile.’

‘That could easily be arranged,’ Kennedy muttered under his breath.

‘OK,’ Chris put in quickly. ‘What did we get from last night?’

‘Why don’t I go first?’ Reilly suggested.

Kennedy nodded into his coffee cup, while shooting a look at Reuben’s mute back that would cut diamonds. I took number of samples,’ she informed the detectives.  ‘Not surprisingly, there was horse feed aplenty in that barn – but none of it is a match to the stuff we isolated before.’

Chris looked surprised. ‘So you’re saying that it’s somewhere else he’s been getting horse feed on his feet?’

‘It looks that way.’

‘Are you really surprised that he didn’t take you straight to his home territory so early in the game?’ Reuben threw over his shoulder.

Chris ignored him. ‘So he’s got another barn somewhere else, and just used this one for Fitzpatrick’s killing?’

Reilly nodded. ‘That seems to be the case.’

‘It’s like we said before. He gives us exactly what he wants and no more.’

‘Very astute.’

‘I did, however, find something interesting.’ Reilly continued, quickly before Chris had a chance to respond to Reuben’s taunting.

Reuben paused, his head cocked slightly, listening carefully.

‘I think that Reuben’s right. Our killer is indeed an artist, not just in the metaphorical, but in the actual sense. Or at least fancies himself as one. I found an artist’s pencil hidden in the straw against the wall. Taken with the traces of rubber we found in the church tower—’

Reuben spun around, his eyes bright. ‘He’s drawing the victims, the murder scenes …’

Reilly met his gaze.  ‘So it would seem.’

The wheels of the profiler’s brain were spinning fast as he absorbed the new information. ‘Fascinating,’ he murmured, whipping out his fountain pen. ‘And understandable. The arrangement is so theatrical, so vivid.’

‘There’s more,’ Reilly continued.

‘Do tell.’ The profiler was now fully engaged, his brain working overtime to process the new information.