Senseless, page 22
‘What do you mean, didn’t want to get involved?’ she asked. ‘He reported it, didn’t he?’
‘That’s not what I mean,’ he explained. ‘I mean he sees a man sitting in his car, probably our killer, and he does nothing, even though he thinks it’s suspicious. Doesn’t challenge the guy. Doesn’t say anything. Doesn’t make a note of what type of car it is, its colour or even its number plate. Take a sneaky photograph of the guy and the fucking car at least. Jesus.’
‘Not everyone thinks like us,’ she reminded him. ‘Not everyone thinks like a cop.’
‘Maybe they should,’ he said unreasonably, causing a few seconds’ silence between them before Jones spoke again.
‘I thought you had him down as a suspect, the way you were going,’ she replied.
‘It was a possibility.’ He shrugged. ‘Like I said on the way down here, he wouldn’t be the first killer pretending to be a witness to try and get an insight into our progress.’
‘And you think Stoker is one of them?’ she asked.
‘No,’ he shook his head. ‘Not now. He would have been digging for more details if he was. I would have expected something more elaborate.’
‘Well,’ she said, ‘you certainly dragged every bit of information he had out of him.’
‘It was like pulling teeth,’ he complained, ‘but we got there eventually.’
‘And the description of the man he saw,’ Jones added. ‘Could be Cramer.’
‘Could be,’ he agreed, sounding unconvinced.
‘You still gone off him as a suspect?’ she asked. ‘Despite what Stoker told us?’
‘Cramer’s a vile creature,’ he told her. ‘But I’m not sure he’s our vile creature.’
‘What about the description of the car?’ she persisted. ‘Sounds a lot like Cramer’s.’
‘Only we’ve seized his car,’ he reminded her. ‘If he’s got another one, then we don’t know about it.’
‘We should watch him,’ she suggested. ‘See if he leads us to another vehicle.’
‘No,’ he said. ‘I don’t want to waste any more time on Cramer.’
‘You sure?’ she checked.
‘I’m sure,’ he insisted.
‘Then if Cramer’s no longer a suspect, we have nothing,’ she declared.
‘I know,’ he agreed.
‘So what we going to do?’ she asked. ‘Addis is not going to be a happy man.’
‘We’ve got bigger problems than Addis,’ he told her. ‘We’ve got a killer out there who is always ten steps ahead of us and one who has absolutely no intention of stopping. Unless we can find him and end this.’
Chapter Twenty
Thirteen-year-old Martin Thomas was still living in the children’s home. He was the longest-residing child in the home as most children were found foster homes or had been fully adopted. But not Thomas – and the staff had long since given up any real hope of finding him a home away from the care of social services and that suited him fine. Especially as his behaviour and lifestyle had become such that he needed the relative freedom of the care home. It would have been all but impossible to do the things he liked to do in the intimate surroundings of a private home. People would have noticed, but as the longest-serving resident in the home, he’d been able to secure his own room on the ground floor – the staff having learnt it was best for all if he was alone.
As a teenager, he’d become even more reclusive than before and was able to stay awake much of the night, sleeping until late when he could, although during school terms he was so tired he couldn’t concentrate and had begun to fail at his studies. His appearance had grown increasingly unpleasant too. A poor diet, combined with a lack of sunlight had left him with acne-riddled pale skin and deep bags under his eyes. He was overly slim and lacking good hygiene habits. The staff did what they could, but with so many other troubled children to care for, they didn’t make too much of a big thing of it. And so he settled into his nocturnal life, away from prying eyes that could lead to his nightly habits being discovered. Habits that had developed into far more extreme behaviour than when he’d first started his nightly excursions as a younger boy.
Now he roamed the neighbourhood under the cover of darkness looking for a door left carelessly unlocked or a ground-floor window. He didn’t yet dare climb to a first-floor window, even if he came across a temptingly easy opportunity. At night, that’s where the people were – on the first floor and above. He couldn’t risk sneaking into a bedroom and waking the occupant or occupants. It would almost certainly lead to a hostile confrontation and most likely result in him being handed over to the police, who would no doubt assume he was a burglar. A conviction would almost definitely mean a custodial sentence in a Young Offenders institution and he couldn’t risk that. Being locked in a place like that would be unbearable, so he stuck strictly to entering through the ground floor, but only after observing the house from outside for a long time, to be sure he’d be alone.
Summertime was the best, although a warm spring and early autumn brought easy pickings, when people forgot to close windows that had been left open all day or even deliberately left open – the people inside preferring to risk it rather than suffer from the heat. And once all or most of the lights had been doused and he’d waited long enough to be happy the people had fallen asleep, he’d emerge from his hiding place in their gardens and slowly, silently creep towards the house, ready to flee if a security light he’d missed suddenly illuminated him. But if it didn’t, he’d circle the house looking for weak points – trying the doors first, although an unlocked one was very rare – a real prize. More often it would be a window left open. So long as he could work one of his thin forearms through a gap, he could usually reach whatever catches were necessary to open it fully – always working quickly and silently before slithering through the entrance with superhuman dexterity, landing on the floor inside as softly as a spider from its silk thread – taking a few seconds to sense any unseen threats as he adjusted to his alien surroundings. Once he was happy he was safe, he would move deeper into the house – moving in slow motion. Not out of fear or trepidation, but because he wanted to totally absorb every second of the experience – all of which had to be fed to his other senses through his eyes as he immersed himself in his strange paradise.
It always amazed him how, even in these modest homes, the normal people had so many possessions. As he quietly crept around the houses, he would take his time to hold and examine items that most intrigued him, taking as much pleasure as he’d ever felt from touching them – often trying to work out what they were even for. He owned very few things himself. Only exactly what he needed. He could have had more. The staff at the home were constantly offering him things – computers, phones, gadgets of all descriptions, but he wanted none of them. They were useless to him – dangerous to him. Computers could be used to monitor his interests. He’d heard the phone could be used to track his movements. Better to stay in his minimalist world, where he could control everything.
But still the items he found fascinated him. Particularly the small, clearly personal objects. It was as if he could somehow feel the people who lived in the house by touching their things. Could almost imagine their normal lives, which only served to reinforce in him just how different he was to them. How different his life was and always would be from theirs. He felt like a wild animal looking at the lives of pets, feeling both jealousy and pity. Yet almost accidentally – unconsciously – he began to take some of the more wonderfully irresistible items with him when he left the houses – fleeing back to the children’s home with his small trophies crammed into his pockets, to be pawed over once he was safely back in his own room. His eyes studying every millimetre of each prize, interpreting how they may smell, sound or taste for his other dulled, damaged senses. They were the greatest moments he’d ever had in his troubled young life.
At sixteen years old, he was still living in the children’s care home, but was not the same person he’d been three years before. He’d changed a lot. He’d had an epiphany. An instant understanding that he would always be different from other people and that there would always be things he wanted to do that others would disapprove of. Things they would judge him badly for. Things that would make people both fear and hate him for, although he didn’t fully understand why, which only added to his feeling of being apart from the rest of society.
But he’d realised he wasn’t old enough, independent enough or even strong enough to search for the things he desired in the only way he knew how. No longer could he go on his nightly adventures around the neighbourhood, sleeping during the day or being barely awake at school and failing as a consequence, although he still sneaked out occasionally to satisfy the need. It attracted too much negative attention and could only delay his steps towards independence and he needed that freedom so very badly if he was to lead the self-contained private life that was so necessary if he was to begin his journey of discovery. Now was the time to hide in plain sight while he gathered his strength and made his plans.
Along with better sleeping habits, he now also ate well and healthily, which cleared up his once poor skin. He also worked out a lot and was growing fitter and stronger by the day. His behaviour had become exemplary, never losing his temper and attacking other children anymore and he’d even learnt to successfully interact with other people, being polite and engaging, managing to hide how much of an effort it was to do so from the recipients of his small talk and false empathy. Even his schoolwork had improved dramatically and he was now anticipating good, if not spectacular GCSE grades. He was never going to be an academic genius, but he had proved himself to be intelligent and motivated.
Both his teachers and carers now held him up as a model of success as they congratulated themselves on their efforts to turn him around from a troubled child to a young achiever. But what none of them could know was his real motivation to succeed and be free of their institutions. They couldn’t possibly imagine the ideas forming and solidifying in his young mind. Dreams of pain, torture and death that surely only a complete madman could perceive. If they did, he would never be allowed the freedom he so badly craved.
Chapter Twenty-One
Geoff Jackson was enjoying a few drinks after work with some journalist friends in their office. Normally they’d all meet up in a Wapping pub that was a favourite haunt of the local hacks, but it, like everywhere else, had been forced to shut down. No one seemed in a hurry to leave and a quick drink was threatening to turn into a session when Jackson felt his phone vibrating in his jacket pocket. He assumed it was his girlfriend wanting to know where he was as he pulled it free with a sigh. But when he checked the caller ID there was none and it wasn’t a number he recognised. He gave it a suspicious glance before deciding to answer it. ‘Hello.’
‘Geoff Jackson?’ a nervous voice asked.
‘Who wants to know?’ Jackson replied, his interest already piqued.
‘A friend,’ the man’s voice told him.
‘If you were my friend, I’d know who you were,’ Jackson said.
‘It doesn’t sound like you’re in your office,’ the voice said, ignoring him. ‘I called your office.’
‘I’m at work,’ Jackson told him.
There was a few seconds’ silence before the man spoke again. ‘I need to know I’m speaking to Geoff Jackson.’
‘You’re speaking to Geoff Jackson,’ he assured him. ‘Chief Crime Correspondent for The World. Britain’s bestselling newspaper,’ he couldn’t resist adding.
‘I know who you work for, Mr Jackson,’ the man told him. ‘That’s why I’m calling you.’
‘And why are you calling me?’ Jackson pressed.
‘I was wondering if you are interested in a big story?’ he asked. ‘A really big story.’
‘Tell me what you know and I’ll decide if it’s a big story,’ Jackson told him.
‘Not on the phone,’ he insisted. ‘I don’t trust phones.’
‘So how do you want to play it?’ Jackson asked.
‘Meet me,’ the man told him.
‘Sure,’ Jackson agreed, his well-tuned journalistic instincts telling him it was something worth pursuing. ‘Do you have somewhere in mind.’
‘My flat,’ the man said. ‘Meet me at my flat and make sure you bring a photographer.’
‘Okay,’ Jackson agreed, his fears of being set up fading after the caller’s insistence at bringing another person. He’d taken bigger risks to get a story in the past. Even meeting wanted killers face to face while they were still being hunted by the police. ‘What’s the address?’
Jameson was back at the second crime scene, alone. The bodies of the woman and her dog had been replaced with flowers. Some old and withered. Some new and fresh. He’d brought photographs of the scene and various forensic reports relating to it with him. He wasn’t sure exactly what he hoped to achieve, but his mind had been fogged by countless routine tasks and requests, to the point where the scene was already feeling stale. He needed to get his feeling back for what had happened here only a few days ago, to try and tune his mind to the killer’s. He sat on one of the surrounding boulders, opening the file on his lap and studying the photographs, wincing and looking away at the sight of the first picture before steeling himself to continue.
Looking at the photographs brought the scene alive again, almost as if he’d travelled back in time to how it was the first time he’d been here. Emily Connor and her dog lying close together in death. It suddenly occurred to him that he didn’t know the dog’s name. He vowed to discover it as soon as he could. It may even be of some relevance, although he doubted it. He sighed deeply as he looked around the scene, mentally putting everything back in place, just how they’d originally found it, as unpleasant as it was – looking up and down from the photos and reports to the area around him. ‘You knew she had a dog, so you came prepared,’ he whispered, his words lost in the sound of the wind and the offshore turbines. ‘Or maybe you just knew many women walked here with their dogs and came prepared to deal with them?’ He questioned his own theory. ‘Maybe I’m giving you too much credit.’ He took a while to consider the possibility before dismissing it. ‘But other women come here without dogs, so why take the risk? Unless, for some reason it had to be her. And if that’s true, then you’d seen her before or maybe you even knew her.’ He considered his thoughts for a while. ‘If you’ve seen her before, then you’ve been here before, but what made you pick this place? We know most serial killers like to stick to places they know. It makes them feel safer. So what’s this place to you?’ Again he paused to allow his mind time to answer its own questions. ‘What brought you to this place in the first place? Walking here for pleasure? To watch women who you can then fantasise about? Something to do with your work? Christ,’ he complained to himself. ‘How could this place have anything to do with anyone’s job?’ He scribbled a note on the file to check if any park rangers worked in the area or someone from the National Trust, British Heritage – anything that could bring someone here for work.
The wind suddenly picked up, carrying the sound of the turbines on its tide, making him look up, annoyed at being distracted by the unwanted intruder. He hunched up against the gusts and returned to his reports before slowly looking up again, listening intently to the noise that surrounded him. ‘Noise,’ he said to himself. ‘It drowns everything else out. There were planes flying low over the first scene. More noise that blocked all other sounds out. Is that important to you and if so, why?’ It was the same question he kept returning to. ‘Even if they screamed, no one would hear them out here, but you taped over their mouths,’ he added, undoing his own theory. ‘Shit,’ he said, his instincts telling him it was somehow important, but the noise and the tape contradicted each other. One or the other made perfect sense, but not the two together. ‘You removed the tape,’ he reminded himself, closing his eyes against the frustration of not being able to reach a logical conclusion. ‘And then replaced it. Why the fuck would you do that?’ He paused again, visualising the victim lying on the ground, still alive, fighting against the pain and fear. ‘Was it so you could hear her scream?’ he asked. ‘Is that one of the ways you get your kicks out of this? But you’d barely be able to hear her with the wind and the damn turbines, so why bother? Why bother to remove the tape if you couldn’t hear her anyway?’ He froze for a few seconds, afraid that any movement could push the answer even further away. ‘Was it because you wanted to see her scream. You couldn’t hear, but still you wanted to see her scream?’ He considered it for a moment. ‘But screaming is a sound. The sense it affects is hearing. It’s not visual, so why… Jesus Christ. I must be going fucking mad,’ he suddenly said, shaking his head. ‘These madmen are driving me insane. Maybe I should go back to the Anti-Terror Squad. At least I can understand their motivation. There’s nothing here for me,’ he told himself, tidying up his file and getting to his feet. ‘But I will find you,’ he promised. ‘I’m getting closer and closer to you. Somehow, I can feel it.’
Martin Thomas lay naked next to Sophie in her bed, her arm draped over his chest, his wrapped around her shoulders. They were tired after spending most of the evening making love, leaving him more relaxed and happy than he’d ever felt before. Not a single dark thought had invaded his mind the entire time he’d been with her, even when he’d been climaxing, which had caused him problems the first time they’d had sex. She stroked his chest with her fingers and turned her eyes upwards to look at him.
‘Are you happy?’ she asked.
‘Of course,’ he told her with a smile. ‘Why do you ask?’
‘Oh, it’s just you don’t say much,’ she answered. ‘I mean you talk as much as anyone, but you don’t say much. You don’t give a lot away about yourself.’
