A Reason to Kill (10 page)

BETH
parked her midnight-blue Lexus in the private car park of Hawksworth House, which was a modern apartment building in Roehampton. Her top floor flat had fine views over Richmond Park.

Taking the lift up, Beth tried to comprehend the complicated look that Matt Barnes had virtually nailed her to the spot with for a few seconds. There had been mixed emotions in those intense blue/grey eyes; a certain melancholy, depth of compassion, and a resoluteness born of abrasive life experience and daily confrontation. Just that one penetrating look had revealed a complex and interesting...enigmatic character. In Matt, she had seen qualities of dependability, stoicism, and a capacity to win out over adversity. She had also recognised a propensity for violence; a necessary if unsavoury trait, born of experiences in his chosen professions.

After changing into shorts and a sleeveless top, Beth went out onto the small balcony, taking with her a spiral-bound notebook, pen, and a glass of chilled white wine. She pulled a chair up to the round, cast-iron table and mentally ran through the salient points. This was not a crime she could compare in relation to others committed by the same perpetrator. It was unusual, in that her expertise was in evaluating similar offences with ritual or behavioural aspects to assist in building up a picture of a killer. She had told Jack McClane that she would not be able to produce much with only one crime to study. He knew how she worked, but asked her to come on board anyway and lend her skills to the investigation. It was a challenge. But she was frustrated not to have more. A comprehensive report to the level she was accustomed to working-up would not be forthcoming, yet.

Damn! Her mind had wandered. An hour had slipped by and the page in front of her was still blank. Wool-gathering, as her mother called it. She had always been prone to drifting off. Her focus was not constant; it manifested in short, intense bursts. Barnes had unsettled her. Why? Was she attracted to the unshaven cop? It was over seven years since her divorce. She was thirty-three, independent, and secure in both her field of work and single lifestyle. She needed a man like she needed toothache. Or so she liked to think. Why even consider complicating what she had? Truth being, she didn’t really have a damn thing. Being alone gave her a great deal of freedom and choice. But what did she do with it? Filled the time with work, eating out most evenings, and kidding herself that she was happy with her lot. She had grown into a role that was beginning to grate...Beginning to weigh heavy. There was a niggling fear that she might easily become an old woman in this flat. Maybe with a cat: stagnating as life rushed by around her. There had to be more to it than that.

She went into the lounge and looked about her as if for the first time. The place was minimalist; an environment that gave no hint as to the person who inhabited its almost barren confines. A TV and VCR/DVD in one corner of the lounge; small desk with computer and all necessary components in another; a dark Persian rug over smooth varnished floorboards that had never been contaminated by outdoor footwear; a leather hide ivory three-seater sofa, one easy chair, a dining set, a colonial-style beech wood coffee table and matching bookcase were the only other furniture. There were no photographs on view, just a large framed print on one of the apple white walls, which could have been purloined from any Best Western motel room on the planet.

Beth realised that a stranger walking into her home would gain no insight as to even the gender of its occupant. Only the books would give a hint as to the connection with psychology. The packed shelves were bereft of fiction.
Sad bitch
!

Refilling her glass with Merlot, she powered up the computer and redirected her thoughts back to the case, opening a new file and initially setting down all the known facts of the methodology employed by the perpetrator at the Page’s house, and his subsequent actions. Her main sources of information had been Penny Page and Matt Barnes, who had both survived the event and furnished her with what details they could. There was not a lot to give her the insight required to determine the precise personality disorder the killer was suffering from. She believed that he was in essence a repeat murderer; a schizoid type who would tend to be indifferent to forming social relationships. He would be introverted, unable to show affection in recognised and acceptable ways. He was probably a classic loner. Penny Page had noticed his shift from friendly to threatening behaviour, and found him detached, as though his attempt to be sociable was false. He had also talked to himself, which was significant. This was a psychopathic killer with a deeply rooted mental health problem. It was possible that he did not fit one recognised disorder, but was a breed apart. He had made no attempt to hide his face from the Pages, so had pre-planned on murdering them from the outset. It was conceivable that he needed to habitually use violence, and was obsessed with inflicting both psychological and physical pain, only feeling adequate when dominating and controlling others. The freak fed off it, and lacked the capability to feel guilt or remorse. This type had no conscience.

Beth saved the file and went back out onto the balcony. It was going to be very difficult to build a reliable profile, or be in a position to suggest a proactive strategy that the investigators might use to initiate the perpetrator making a move that would lead to his apprehension. The professionalism with which he had carried out the multiple killings suggested that he was a seasoned repeat offender, and so the main thrust of the profile would have to be an interpretation of Matt’s and Penny’s statements. She could sense his intellectual vanity, though, and would have to think her way into his mind and make the right jumps and connections. She had the feeling that this might be her toughest case to date. The only apparent motive for the crime was profit. It was beyond doubt that he had been hired to kill Lester Little. But he had, without compunction, murdered several others in furtherance of that goal. That he had used a handgun was irrelevant. He would employ whatever weapon or method necessary to get the job done. On this occasion, knowing that he would be facing armed resistance, he had opted for a firearm. Had the proposed victim not been protected, then the specifics of the crime scene might have been very different.

Beth went back to the computer and did more work on the profile, with a copy of the artist’s sketch of the gunman pinned up on a small cork notice board in front of her, for inspiration. Gut feeling was kicking in as she gave the bare skeleton of the schematic description of the unknown subject a little more depth and fleshed it out. She still had no more to work with apart from the two statements and the details of the shootings. Tangible forensic clues such as DNA, fibres, hair and prints were of little concern to her. Not that any had been found. To Beth, the way in which a victim had been killed, and the location and presentation of the body were all-important. She needed repeat performances to fully attune herself to the mind of the offender, if she were to be able to zero in. She was accustomed to using her training and uncanny instincts to steep herself in a perpetrator’s psyche and understand what drove the hidden wheels. One thing she was certain of; this killer was unstable and unpredictable, and would suffer from paranoid delusions. He would not be able to cope with the knowledge that two survivors of his massacre were able to identify him. At some stage he would make a further attempt on their lives. That was not an if, but a definite when.

Beth paced barefoot around the apartment, prowling, unconsciously taking pleasure from the textures of the carpet and varnished boards against her soles. Would Barnes fully appreciate the danger he was in? She thought not, and it concerned her. She went into the kitchen, rang the Yard and asked to speak to Tom Bartlett. Tom was off duty, but a DS Pete Deakin took her details and phoned back five minutes later with Matt’s number.

Matt was restless. He was not used to inactivity. He felt how he imagined a caged lion must. The house was a prison to him; his injuries the bars that confined him. Subtlety was not one of his strongest points at the best of times. He had always found it difficult to play by the rules, and had often made sorties across the fine line that the letter of the law bridged. He liked to go in quick and hard and get results. At the moment, as a semi cripple, he could not function effectively, and it was shredding his nerves. He knew that Frank Santini was the hub of a wheel, from which, like spokes, all roads led out from. And the crime lord was going to pay dearly for pointing his hired gun in Matt’s direction.

Attending funerals was not on Matt’s list of things to do, and even though seriously injured, he felt a survivor’s guilt, in having avoided the fate that his comrades hadn’t. He was sure that the families of his dead team members would – to some extent – hold him responsible. Everybody needs somebody to blame, it was human nature. And he was it: The man they could cast dark glances at and secretly loathe for still being alive when their nearest and dearest were gone. He could have pleaded that he was not fit enough to turn up at the services, but that would have been hard to live with. It was more psychological pain that he had to go through, get beyond, and use as added fuel to the fire within, which would not be extinguished until all guilty parties were dealt with. He was entering what he appreciated was the most seminal phase of his life to date. Everything that had gone before was impersonal compared with this; just part of the job. Now, he was centred and had a clearly defined focal point.

As he poured a large Scotch over ice, the phone rang. He finished pouring, screwed the top back on the bottle, and then picked up.

“Barnes.”

“It’s Beth Holder. Is this a good time?”

“A good time for what?”

“To talk.”

“I was about to hit the street for a five mile run, but it can wait.”

Beth ignored the flippant comment. The humour had not reached his voice. “I phoned because I came to the conclusion that you and Penny Page are in great danger, Matt.”

Matt swirled the contents of the glass and took a sip of the whisky as Beth spoke. “We realise he might consider us as being loose ends,” he said. “That’s why there’s an armed cop outside my place, and others protecting Penny.”

“There’s no
might
about it. He
will
try to kill you both. That is a definite in a world of uncertainty.”

“Because you think his paranoia will drive him to make a play?”

“Yes. Logic will tell him that you couldn’t possibly have seen him as you dived out of the way. But his misgivings will win out. After a while the anxiety will reach such a fever pitch that he will have to act on it. Penny will be first. The threat to her is imminent. She spent time with him, talked to him. He thought he’d killed her, and will feel cheated as well as threatened by the knowledge she is still alive.”

“He must know that we’ll expect an attempt,” Matt said. “The risk factor is too high.”

“That won’t deter him. He’s too damn arrogant to believe he can be taken. He found out where Little was being held, so how safe is Penny? If you’ve got an insider involved, then you have to assume that however few people are aware of her location, he might know it too. As for you, he could take you out on your doorstep from any high point in the immediate area. I think he is adaptable enough to employ whatever is needed to get the job done. A cop outside in the street won’t be much protection against a sniper’s rifle.”

“I think you must read too many thrillers, Beth.”

“The last fiction I read was Enid Blyton, when I was a kid. I mean it, Matt, you need to move Penny again, now, and not let anyone know where to. And if I was you, I’d move out of your home until this is resolved. Do a Lord Lucan.”

“I’ll take on board what you’ve said, Beth.”

“That means you’ll probably do nothing. You’re not taking him seriously enough. After what happened at the bungalow, you should. This is a pro that has carried out God knows how many hits, and was hired to nail Little because Santini knows how good he is. Try to picture him as a machine. He will be relentless in accomplishing whatever challenges he sets himself. Once programmed, he won’t let anything or anyone get in his way.”

“I’m not convinced,” Matt said after a five second period of silence became uncomfortable.

“What else do you need to hear to make you change your mind?”

“I think you should drive over to my place and we can go through it. I’ve made a few notes myself and come up with a rough evaluation, and even developed a profile of sorts.”

“What, now?” Beth said, the invitation coming out of left field, blind siding her.

“Seems like a good idea,” Matt replied. “Unless you were going to call it a night and snuggle up with a
Secret Seven
book.”

Beth was momentarily lost for words. She was a thinker and planner. Spontaneity was not one of her strong points.

Matt said, “Shall I put the coffee on?”

Her stomach cramped. Could he be hitting on her? No. He had barely survived being gunned down, was convalescing from serious injuries, and had just been dumped by a long-standing partner.

“I’ll be at your place in an hour,” she said. It was a challenge, and she would not give him the satisfaction of being right in assuming that she would not have the balls to meet it. “Have you eaten?”

“Not recently. Why?”

“Neither have I. Do you fancy a takeout?”

“Sounds good.”