“That’s a bit of a leap.”
“The trick is not to look at anything in isolation. Whether they mean to or not, most people continually reassess their belongings, adding and subtracting all the time to keep everything in balance. So I add the picture, the clock and the armadillo to that book over there.” He pointed to a single hardcover in an alcove beside the bed. Founders of the Empire was a volume on great British explorers. “It’s signed with a message from his father. No names, unfortunately.”
Banbury picked up the book and showed Bryant. He wasn’t about to let the detective touch it without gloves. “See, he’s written on the flyleaf. ‘An independent man makes his own way in the world – Dad’. Hard to imagine a more impersonal note. I guess he wanted his kid to grow up self-reliant and disciplined. No sign of a mother anywhere. Kid stuff here, near the bed – adult stuff over there. The teenage years are missing. Then we jump to a few recent purchases in the cupboard, the paperback copy of Machiavelli, psychology manuals, the fiction choice suggesting that he likes reading about villains more than heroes, American Psycho, The Killer Inside Me, damaged people. He’s interested in learning how to control others. He’s probably disdainful of ordinary folk, despises their weaknesses, thinks of them as lower life forms. The books and magazines are arranged thematically and alphabetically. Four separate volumes on the great disasters of London; maybe he enjoys reading about other people’s tragedies. He’s obsessive-compulsive because at first it was the only way to protect himself and keep his real feelings hidden, and now it’s an unbreakable habit.”
Banbury walked around the bed. “Check out the drawers. His clothes are neatly grouped into different outfits for the personalities he wants to project. Grey suit, white shirt, blue tie, jeans and grey T-shirt. Grey, white, blue – the colours of sorrow, austerity, emptiness. The brands are H&M, Gap, M&S. No choices that reveal any sign of individuality. The bed linen’s been washed so there aren’t even any fabric prints to lift. One plate and one mug – he certainly wasn’t planning to have anyone over to stay. He lives here and yet he doesn’t.”
“What do you mean?”
Banbury scratched his nose and thought for a minute. “Some people have no sense of belonging, because they live inside their heads. They carry themselves wherever they go. They’re complete from one moment to the next. Most of us, if we were told we had to board a plane in the next couple of hours, would need to head home first. We like to tell others what we’re doing, where we’re going. We go online, make calls, form connections. He doesn’t. No phone, no mail, no laptop, no keys, wallet, money, bills or passport. He always makes sure he’s got everything he needs on him.”
“But he had nothing on him when he was arrested.”
“Then he has a place to stash stuff. Obviously he’d be tagged at any airport.”
“I don’t think he wants to leave the country,” said Bryant, “or even leave the area. Something is keeping him right here.”
“Then what are we missing? Don’t touch that, it’s not been dusted yet.” Banbury pulled out a camel-hair brush and twirled it between his fingers. “It’s complicated. He’s living off the grid, old-school fashion, face contact only. He stays in this block because it’s local council-owned but cared for by the residents, which means the cops aren’t as familiar with it as they are with the Evil Poor housing up the road.” The so-called Evil Poor Estate was home to multigenerational criminal families whose recourse to violence and destruction was as natural to them as going to the office was for others. Such estates formed modern-day rookeries around London.
“Have a look at this,” said Banbury. “There are stacks of local newspapers in the cupboards, articles starred in felt-tip – he’s fascinated by London, particularly the area in which he lives. Plenty of neatly transcribed notes about the surrounding streets and tube stations. He has abnormally strong ties to his home. This is interesting because it contradicts all the other signifiers. To me, it’s the only part of his behaviour that’s outwardly irrational.”
“An emotional attachment to the neighbourhood. Why would you stick around if you’d killed someone?”
“Killers do. But it’s usually the disorganised, mentally subnormal ones who stay on at the location. The organised ones use three separate sites: where the victims are confronted, where they’re killed and where they’re disposed of. Then the killer leaves the area. So we have a contradiction.”
“Hm. Anything more from the newspapers?”
“He’s earmarked the obituaries of people who live around here. Maybe he was planning identity theft.”
“Think he’ll come back to the flat? Is it worth keeping someone on-site?”
“He’s got no reason to return. There’s nothing worth taking.”
“Come on, Dan, give me something I can use.” Bryant impatiently rattled the boiled sweet around his false teeth.
“Okay. His name. I’ve bagged one of the notes you might find interesting, some research about a dodgy pub that used to exist nearby called ‘The Fox at Bay’. Your killer’s clearly a local lad, born in one of the surrounding streets. Maybe he took his name from the pub. He won’t have become friendly with anyone else in the building, but maybe someone knew his old man. I think at some point your Mr Fox lost contact with his family, maybe when his folks split up. He cuts his own hair, is capable of changing his appearance quickly. But he’s cleaned his electric clippers so that there’s not so much as a single bristle left behind. He’s bleached everything. He left home fully prepared to travel, because there’s nothing of value here, only the two changes of clothes and one pair of knackered old shoes. No-one else’s fingerprints but his own, and he hasn’t got a criminal record so we can’t match them. No foreign fibres so far, nothing to link him to the murders beyond what we already have. We could try the National DNA Database, but less than eight percent of the population is recorded on it, so if he’s managed to keep himself out of trouble and away from hospitals, it’s of no use. He keeps his dirty work off the premises. Hair dye in the bathroom cabinet, and a pair of steel-rimmed spectacles with plain glass in them. Not exactly a master of disguise, but you do feel he enjoys the power that accompanies deception. No sign of a woman anywhere. He’s the kind of man who visits prostitutes. He can’t risk getting close to anyone. He wouldn’t trust them.”
“Well, I’m disappointed,” Bryant complained. “I thought you were going to provide me with some genuine revelations instead of a load of old guesswork.”
Banbury blew out his cheeks in dismay. “Blimey, Mr Bryant, I thought I was doing quite well.”
“Let me tell you something about this man. He doesn’t see himself as damaged. The cities are our new frontiers; it’s here that the battles of the future will be fought, and he’s already preparing himself for them. He knows that the first thing you have to do is chuck out conventional notions of sentiment, nostalgia, spirituality, morality. There’s no point in believing that faith, hope and charity can help you in a society that only wants to sell you as much as it can before you die. Mr Fox has divested himself of his family and friends, and he’s taking his first steps into uncharted territory. He considers himself as much of a pioneer as…oh, Beddoes or Edison.”
Banbury stared in bewildered discomfort at Bryant, who was cheerfully sucking his sweet as he considered the prospect.
“You think he’s some kind of genius? Sounds like you admire him.”
“No, I’m just interested in the way people protect themselves in order to survive. It’s an instinct, but Mr Fox has turned it into an art. And this solipsism ultimately blinds him. Ever had dinner with an actor?”