With No One As Witness (46 page)

“What have you come up with, Hamish?” Hillier asked, eschewing any polite preliminaries.

Robson used his thumbs to hold his legal pad across his knees. His face appeared feverish, and Lynley felt a momentary surge of sympathy for the man. It was the rock and the hard place for him once again.

“With the earlier crimes,” Robson said, and he sounded unsure about how exactly to negotiate the landscape of tension between the two Met officers, “the killer achieved the sense of omnipotence he was after through the overt mechanics of the crime: I mean the abduction of the victim, the restraining and the gagging, the rituals of burning and incising. But in this case, in Queen’s Wood, those earlier behaviours weren’t enough. Whatever he gained from the earlier crimes—let’s continue to posit it was power—was denied to him with this one. That triggered a rage within him that he hasn’t so far felt. And it was a rage that surprised him, I expect, since he’s no doubt come up with an elaborate rationale for why he’s been murdering these boys and rage has never come into the equation. But now he feels it because he’s being thwarted in his desire for power, so he feels the full brunt of a sudden need to punish what he sees as defiance in his victim. This victim becomes responsible for not giving the killer what he’s got from every other victim so far.”

Robson had been looking at his notes as he spoke, but now he raised his head, as if needing to be told he could continue. Lynley said nothing. Hillier nodded curtly.

“So he turns to physical abuse with this boy,” Robson said, “in advance of the killing. And he feels no remorse for the crime afterwards: The body’s not laid out and arranged like an effigy. Instead, it’s dumped. And it’s placed where it might have been days before anyone stumbled upon it, so we can assume the killer’s keeping watch over the investigation and making an effort now not only to leave no evidence at the scene but also to run no risk of being seen. I expect you’ve talked to him already. He knows you’re closing in and he has no intention of giving you anything henceforth to connect him to the crime.”

“Is that why there are no restraints this time round?” Lynley asked.

“I don’t think so. Rather, prior to this particular murder, the killer thought he’d achieved the degree of omnipotence he’s been seeking for most of his life. This delusional sense of power led him to believe he didn’t even need to immobilize his next victim. But without the restraints, as things turned out, the boy fought him, and that required a personal means of dispatching him. So instead of the garrotte, the killer uses his hands. Only through this personal means can he regain the sense of power, the need for which motivates him to kill in the first place.”

“Your conclusion, then?” Hillier asked.

“You’re dealing with an inadequate personality. He’s either dominated by others or he pictures himself as dominated by others. He has no idea how to get out of any situation in which he perceives himself as less powerful than the people round him, and he particularly has no idea how to get out of the situation he’s currently in.”

“The situation of the killing, you mean?” Hillier clarified.

“Oh no,” Robson said. “He feels perfectly capable of leading the police on a merry chase when it comes to murder. But in his personal life, he’s caught by something. And in such a way as to perceive no escape. This might be employment, a failing marriage, a parental relationship in which he has more responsibility than he likes, a parental relationship in which he has long been the underdog, some sort of financial failure he’s hiding from a wife or life partner. That sort of thing.”

“But you say he knows we’re on to him?” Hillier said. “We’ve spoken to him? Been in touch in some way?”

Robson nodded. “Any one of those is possible,” he said. “And this latest body, Superintendent?” This last he said to Lynley alone. “Everything about this body suggests you’ve come closer to the killer than you realise.”

BARBARA HAVERS WATCHED AS BARRY MINSHALL—AKA Mr. Magic—closed up his stall in the alley. He took his time about it, every movement designed to communicate how much trouble the rozzers were causing him. Down came the display of saucy playthings, all of which had to be placed with undo gentleness in collapsible cardboard boxes that he kept stashed in a pile in a cubbyhole designed for this express purpose above the stall. Put away were the gag items in a similar fashion, as well as a number of the magic tricks. Every object had its particular storage spot, and Minshall made certain it was deposited there in an exact position known only to him. Through all this, Barbara waited in ease. She had all the time he was intent upon demonstrating that he needed. And if he happened to be using that time to concoct a story about Davey Benton and the handcuffs, she herself used it to note those features about the alley that promised to assist her in the coming exchange with Mr. Magic. For there would be an exchange, she knew. This bloke didn’t look the type to stand by idly as she rooted through his van. He was heading for too much trouble for that.

So in the minutes he took to shut up shop, she saw what could help her when the time came to put the thumbscrews on the magician: the CCTV cameras mounted at the mouth of the alley near a Chinese food stall and a bath-salts vendor some six yards away, who was watching Minshall with a great deal of interest even as the vendor devoured a samosa, the grease from which dripped down his hand and into the cuff of his shirt. That bloke, Barbara decided, looked like someone with a tale to tell.

He did, in a manner of speaking, when they passed him a few minutes later on their way out of the alley. He said, “Gotcherself a lady friend, Bar? Now that’s a change, innit? I thought you liked the boys.”

Minshall said pleasantly, “Do go fuck yourself, Miller,” and passed by the stall.

Barbara said, “Hang on,” and paused. She showed her ID to the bath-salts vendor. “Think you could identify some pictures of boys who might’ve hung about his stall in the past few months?” she asked him.

Miller was suddenly cautious. “What sort of boys?”

“The sort who’ve turned up dead all round London.”

He flicked a glance at Minshall. “I don’t want no trouble. I di’n’t know you were a cop when I said—”

“What difference does that make?”

“I di’n’t see anything.” He turned and busied himself with his wares. “It’s dim along here. Wouldn’t know one boy from another anyway.”

“Sure you would, John,” Minshall said. “You spend enough time ogling them, don’t you?” And then to Havers, “Constable, you were interested in my van…?” He continued on his way.

Barbara took note of the vendor’s name. She knew that his remarks about Barry Minshall could mean nothing, as could Minshall’s remarks about him: just the natural animosity that males sometimes have for each other. Or they could have been the result of Minshall’s oddity of appearance and Miller’s schoolboy reaction to that. But in either case, they were worth looking into.

Barry Minshall led her in the direction of the main entrance to the Stables Market. They emerged into Chalk Farm Road as a train rumbled by on the overhead tracks. In the fading light of the late afternoon, the streetlamps glowed against the wet pavement, and the diesel fumes of a passing lorry scented the air with the heavy bouquet that was quintessentially winter London in the rain.

Because of the cold and the damp, the usual suspects—Goths head to toe in black and old-age pensioners wondering what the hell had happened to the neighbourhood—were absent from the pavements. In their places, commuters hurried home from work and shop owners began to move their wares inside. Barbara noted the looks that Barry Minshall got as they passed these people. Even in an area of town known for the general weirdness of its inhabitants, the magician stood out, either for the dark glasses, long coat, and stocking cap he wore, or for an emanation of malevolence that formed an aura round him. Barbara knew which she believed it was. Stripped of the patina of purity suggested by the innocence of his magic tricks, Barry Minshall was a nasty piece of business.

She said to him, “Tell me, Mr. Minshall. What sorts of places do you usually perform? The magic, I mean. Can’t be you only use it to entertain the kids who stop at your stall. I expect you’d get a little rusty round the fingers if you left it to that.”

Minshall shot her a glance. She reckoned he was evaluating not only the question but also the various reactions she might have to his answers.

She offered him options. “Cocktail parties, for example? Ladies’ clubs? Private organisations?”

He made no reply.

“Birthday parties?” she went on. “I expect you’re quite the thing at them. What about at schools, as a special treat for the kids? Church functions? Boy Scouts? Girl Guides?”

He plodded onward.

“What about south of the river, Mr. Minshall? Ever do anything there? Round Elephant and Castle? What about youth organisations? Trips to borstal in the holidays?”

He gave her nothing. He didn’t intend to phone his solicitor about her request to see his van, but he clearly wasn’t going to say a word that might put him in further jeopardy. So he was only half a fool, she decided. No problem. Half was probably enough.

His van turned out to be on Jamestown Road, parked with one tyre on the kerb, facing the oncoming traffic. Fortunately, Minshall had left it beneath a streetlamp, and a pool of yellow light fell directly upon it, enhanced by a security system that switched on brightly at the front of a house some fifteen feet away. That, in addition to the daylight still lingering, made further illumination unnecessary.

“Let’s have a look, then,” Barbara said, with a nod at the van’s rear doors. “D’you want to do the honours, or shall I?” She dug round in her bag and brought out a pair of latex gloves as she spoke.

This, it seemed, prompted him to speak. “I hope you see my cooperation for what it is, Constable.”

“And what would that be?”

“A fairly good indication that I wish to be helpful. I haven’t done anything to anyone.”

“Mr. Minshall, I’m dead chuffed to hear it,” Barbara said. “Open her up, please.”

Minshall fished a set of keys out of his overcoat. He opened the van and stepped back to let Barbara inspect its contents. These comprised boxes. Boxes upon boxes. The magician, in fact, appeared to be keeping the entire cardboard industry in business. Felt-pen markings identified the putative contents of what seemed like three dozen containers: “Cards & Coins”; “Cups, Dice, Hankie, Scarf & Rope”; “Videos”; “Books & Mags”; “Sex Toys”; “Gags.” Beneath all of these, however, Barbara could see that the floor of the van was carpeted. The carpet was frayed, and a curious dark stain shaped like antlers reached out from beneath the cards and coins box, suggesting not only more of a stain beneath but also—possibly—an attempt to hide it in the first place.

Barbara stepped back. She swung the doors closed. Minshall said, “Satisfied?,” and he sounded—to her ears—like a man relieved.

She said, “Not quite. Let’s have a look up front.”

He seemed as if he wanted to protest but thought better of it. With a mutter, he unlocked the driver’s door and opened it. Barbara said, “Not that one,” and indicated the passenger’s door instead.

Inside, the front of the van was a mobile rubbish tip, and Barbara sifted her way through food wrappers, Coke cans, ticket stubs, carpark stubs, and handouts of the sort one found placed beneath windscreen wipers after a stint of parking on a public street. It was, in short, a treasure trove of evidence. If Davey Benton—or any one of the other dead boys—had been in this van, there were going to be dozens of signs indicating that.

Barbara slid her hand under the passenger seat to see if there were more goodies hidden from the eye. She brought forth a plastic disk of the sort one gets when checking a coat somewhere, along with a pencil, two biros, and an empty videocassette case. She moved round to the other side of the car, where Minshall stood at the driver’s door, perhaps mistakenly thinking she intended to let him drive off into the sunset. She gave him the nod and he opened it for her. She slid her hand under the driver’s seat.

Her fingers made contact with several objects here as well. She brought out a small pocket torch—operational—and a pair of scissors—dull and suitable for cutting only butter. And finally a black-and-white photograph.

She looked down at this and then up at Barry Minshall. She turned it round, facing him, and held it to her chest. “D’you want to give me the story on this, Bar?” she asked him amiably. “Or shall I guess?”

His reply was immediate, and she could have laid money on its coming. He said, “I don’t know how that—”

“Barry, save the line for later. You’re going to need it.”

She told him to hand over his keys and she pulled her mobile phone from her bag. She punched in the numbers and waited for Lynley to take the call.

“UNTIL WE FIND that van from the CCTV film,” Lynley said, “and until we know why it was going into St. George’s Gardens in the middle of the night, I don’t want it broadcast.”

Winston Nkata looked up from the notes he was taking in his small, leather-bound book. He said, “Hillier’s going to blow—”

“That’s the risk we’ll have to take,” Lynley cut in. “We run a bigger risk—a double risk—if the news of that van goes out prematurely. We tip our hand to the killer or, if that van on the tape does have a reason for being there, we’ve just predisposed the public to be thinking in terms of a red van when the actual vehicle could be something else.”

“That residue on the bodies, though,” Nkata said. “It says Ford Transit, doesn’ it?”

“But not the colour. So I’d like to avoid the whole matter for now.”

Nkata still didn’t look convinced. He’d come to Lynley’s office for the final word on what was going to be broadcast on Crimewatch—having been entrusted with the task by AC Hillier who, it appeared, had given up micromanaging the investigation for the time it was probably going to take him to decide what he wanted to wear on television in a few hours—and he looked down at his meagre notes and no doubt wondered how he was going to relay this information to their superior officer without raising his ire.