“No.”
“Don’t. All they ever talk about is themselves. They never ask questions, never bother to find out who you are. They’re not interested in anything but getting to the truth of their characters. And in most cases there isn’t any truth, just an empty, dark, faintly whistling void. The serial killer Dennis Nilsen was so incredibly boring that he actually sent his victims to sleep.”
“Blimey.”
“I had an aunt once who appeared in drawing room comedies. She was doing a Noel Coward at Richmond Theatre, Hay Fever, I think, when a man in the front row dropped dead. She was very put out, because there was a practical meal in the second act and she was starving. They had to halt the show while the St John’s Ambulance Brigade carried the corpse out, and she complained to the house manager that her food had got cold. Heartless and selfish, you see. Do you want a gummy bear? They’re a bit past their sell-by date but that just improves the flavour.” He seductively waved a paper packet at Banbury.
“No thanks. I’m going to close up here, then.” Banbury stopped in the doorway and looked back. “It’s almost inconceivable that someone can operate as a lone agent in a city this size. You wouldn’t think it possible. We’ve got four million CCTVs beaming down on us, rampant personal data encryption and local authority surveillance – and yet he can still make himself invisible.”
“Urban life has an alienating effect on all of us, Dan. When was the last time someone smiled at you in a shop or you actually talked to someone on the tube? Mr Fox has learned to adapt. He embraces the new darkness. He has the tools to control it. His life unfolds inside his head. I need to know what he’s planning next.”
“I don’t know how you can find that out. He’s a murderer, Mr Bryant. He’s different from everybody else.”
“Maybe he always has been. What happened to create the void in him? There’s a danger that when you pack up from here, tape the front door shut and leave, we may never see or hear from him again, do you understand? I can’t let that happen.”
Banbury shrugged. “I’ve done my best but I can’t work with what isn’t there.”
“We’re supposed to specialise in finding out what isn’t there. Find me something.”
“Some people” – Banbury sought the right phrase – “don’t have a key that unlocks them. But if Mr Fox does, I’m willing to bet it’ll be in his formative years, between the ages of, say, seven and twelve. It won’t tell us where he is now, of course – ”
“Maybe not, but it’s a place to start,” Bryant interrupted. “Keep looking, and leave everything exactly where it is, just in case he decides to come back. I’ll see if we can run surveillance for a few days at least.”
Bryant was about to leave, then stopped. In the open bathroom cabinet he could see a small white plastic pot. Removing it, he checked inside. “He wears contacts. The case is still wet, and there’s what looks like an eyelash. Can you run this through your DNA database?”
“Depends on whether the saline solution has corrupted the sample. But I’ll give it my best shot.”
“You’ll need to. We don’t have anything else.”
“Do you think he’s insane?”
“We’re all mad,” Bryant replied unhelpfully. “That chap Ted Bundy was working as a suicide prevention officer while he was murdering women. In 1581, the test of legal insanity was based upon an understanding of good and evil. A defendant needed to prove that he couldn’t distinguish between right and wrong. But what if he could prove it, and still commit atrocities? The insanity ruling was amended to allow for those who couldn’t resist the impulse to kill. Nowadays, that clause has been removed because serial killers don’t fit the legal definition of insanity. They accumulate weapons, plan their attacks, hide evidence and avoid detection for years, so it’s clear they should know right from wrong. They certainly appear to be making informed choices. Voices in the brain? Perhaps. Something in the darkness speaks to them.”
“I thought you didn’t know anything about serial killers,” said Banbury.
“I don’t,” Bryant replied. “But I’ve seen the things that make men mad.”
∨ Off the Rails ∧
5
Trouble
Detective Sergeant Janice Longbright was not exactly the tearful type. Longbright had been around police stations all her life, and it took a lot to upset her.
When she was seven years old, she had been sitting in the public area of the old cop shop in Bow Street, waiting for her mother to come off duty, when a distressed young man walked in and cut his wrists with a straight razor, right in front of her. The scarlet ribbons that unfurled from his scraggy white arms were shocking, certainly, but she’d been fascinated by the trail of blood splashes he left as he walked on through the hall, because for two weeks before that, she had been seeing their pattern whenever she shut her eyes. His death seemed to clear the problem; her sleep that night was deep and dreamless.
Longbright’s mother had often brought copies of case notes home with her at night. Gladys was always careful not to leave them lying around the flat, but her daughter knew exactly where to find them. Shootings, stabbings, men ‘going a bit mental’, political correctness had been thin on the ground back then. No diversity training, no child trauma services, nothing much to comfort the beaten and bereaved beyond a cup of strong tea and a comforting chat. And somehow, perhaps because she was used to the subject of death being introduced at the meal table or between Saturday night TV shows, young Janice had remained a well-balanced child.
Gladys had discussed the mysteries of human behaviour with her daughter in a kindly, dispassionate manner, as if they were stories that could damage the sensibilities only of other, less robust families. Janice had grown up tough enough to survive the defection of her father and the loss of her beloved mother. She had spent eleven years with a partner whose nerve had ultimately failed him when faced with commitment. There was a core inside her as firm as oak, inherited from a long line of strong women, and nothing could chip it away.
But by God, she was sorry to lose Liberty DuCaine.
Friends for four years, lovers for one night, they would probably have proven too similar for their relationship to grow further, but the chance to try had been snatched away from her. So she sealed his death inside her head, somewhere at the back with the other sad things, and told herself she might look back one day in the future, but not yet. There was too much to do. Her colleagues probably all thought she was an icy bitch, but it couldn’t be helped. There was a time to cry, and it was not now.
First things first; if they were really going to clear up all outstanding work by the end of the week, they needed to get organised. The offices were a dirty, dangerous disgrace. The Unit hadn’t had a chance to catch its breath since it moved in. Crates were piled in the hall, taps leaked, lights buzzed and smouldered, the floors were strewn with badly connected cables, doors jammed shut or opened by themselves. The detectives’ files were a hopeless mess. Bryant kept hard copies in cardboard folders, May kept his on discs, and neither knew what the other was doing.
She had hoped April would help her sort everything out, but the poor girl had declined into her former agoraphobic state after DuCaine’s death, and could not be persuaded to return to the Unit. Janice was annoyed with her for giving in to her demons. April’s departure had handed another small victory to Mr Fox. She’s gone and it’s a shame, but there’s work to do, Longbright thought, rolling up her sleeves and filling a bucket.