Cold Kill (34 page)

‘He must have thought he was away clear. Almost nothing. Next to nothing. Infinitesimal.' He smiled. ‘But then infinitesimal is my stock-in-trade.'

‘And you can place him at the scene?'

‘God knows what he was wearing, frogman's outfit, I should think. But he couldn't go out like that, could he? Had to take it off. And when you remove clothing, you shed DNA. I can put him by the front door, both inside and outside the house.'

Stella picked up the evidence-tree and stared at it. ‘And your theory is?'

‘Christ, I haven't got a theory. I'm a scientist. Theories are guesswork; science is fact.'

‘Here's a theory of mine,' Stella said. ‘You're not married, are you?'

‘No,' Davison said, ‘I'm not. That's a fact.'

Jan leaves work. Jan walks to the tube. Jan stops to buy a paper or she goes to the 7/11 for some bread or something today she bought salad and soup and toothpaste. Jan goes three stops then changes then goes five stops. She wears the red wool hat so I cant clip her. Jan goes out in her lunch break too and thats when I can take photos. Jan walking down the road Jan going through the park Jan waiting for a take away coffee Jan close enough to touch. Sometimes I close my eyes and I think about Patricia except she was really called Kate Reilly I found out from the papers. I think about Kate Reilly but I change her into Jan or into Stella so its the same and Im following and Ive got the hammer and its just the way it was the same things happen and I get the same feelings but when I do her when I kill her its Jan. Or its Stella. I havent told Leon Bloss about this because he says we must stop for a while but the thing is Ive only just begun. Its new to me. Not the thinking about it. I used to think about it all the time but its different when you think about it after youve done it. Its different because you know what it really is you know what its really like. When I think about Kate Reilly its really good but its a memory. Ive done it and its over. When I think about it and pretend its Jan or Stella I know Ive
got it ahead of me and I get really hard and have to hand myself off but even then I go on thinking about it. Leon Bloss doesnt understand about following. He knows about the killing but he doesnt know about my way of doing things. The following and the photos and the clippings and being close enough to touch. He keeps saying wait and I will wait but only until the time comes. Now Ive done Kate now Ive got Kate under my belt sort of thing I know that theres a right time for this sort of event. Its when the following isnt enough and the clippings and the photos are not enough. When the story I write about them needs a proper ending. Before I met Leon Bloss the stories were instead. There was the following and the photos and the hair clipping and the story was the rest of it. Now the story is just a beginning. No not a beginning its a plan. A guideline. Yes its a guideline like people have for making a film. A senario. I always thought Stella would be next but sometimes I think it must be Jan. I dont know how to choose. Perhaps something will choose for me. Perhaps either Jan or Stella will choose by doing something or being somewhere but I havent reached it yet – I havent reached the moment when I have to. Leon Bloss says wait but I know I have to. Hes got no right to tell me just because he was the person who showed me how to. He started me off with Kate. Now its up to me.

Stella leaves work and she goes to Vigo Street or she goes to the pub first and I can follow or I can wait for her at her home. I know Stella better because she questioned me about Valerie Blake but
that makes things more difficult. With Jan I can sit opposite her in the tube and she doesnt know me I can go right up to her and stand behind her in a shop. Jan shares with someone which means I would have to do Jan like I did Kate in the street or somewhere. Stella lives alone at Vigo Street so I could go in. I could go in to her which makes for a different way of doing things. More time. More things to do. With Jan theres the risk and thats another thing thats exciting too. Ill think about it. Ill write some stories. Some guidelines. Yes. A senario. Yes.

Stella woke in the dark to the sound of someone speaking and thought it must have been herself. She got out of bed and went to the window, but there was nothing to see. She walked naked into the living space and looked out from there, but the street seemed empty. She switched on a standard-lamp that shed a yellowish glow like snow-light. A cab cruised past. Somewhere off on the high road a car alarm started up, then cut out. Her coat was on the sofa and she put it on in place of a robe. She found a drink and sat on a kitchen stool, her elbows resting on the worktop.

Let's try to make sense of this. Mister Mystery thinks he's leaving no DNA trace. Kimber's leaving lots. MM's being careful, Kimber's not. Or doesn't know he should be.

So why doesn't MM warn him? Why doesn't he say, ‘Do like me – wear the full-body condom and a pair of tights on your head'?

She took a slug of her drink. She wanted vodka but could find only whisky.

Let's go further back. MM wants us to think his killings are the work of Martin Cotter, that's why he half strips them – because Cotter had a sexual motive. And that's why he uses a garrotte. But Cotter's been kept under wraps, nothing in the papers, nothing on TV.

Right. So as far as MM's concerned, we might still be thinking of his crimes and Cotter's as being by the same man.

Right. And if we did think that, given the DNA evidence, who would we think that man was?

We'd think it was Robert Adrian Kimber.

Exactly. Kimber confessed to Blake's murder. MM read about this. He contacted Kimber. Then he and Kimber killed Kate Reilly, Oscar Gribbin and Ellen Clarke. Each time MM tries to leave no trace. Each time Kimber leaves half a ton.

Especially in the Gribbin/Clarke case.

You would think it was a master–apprentice thing, wouldn't you? Old hand teaches the new hand. Thrill-kill as a diploma course. Except the master doesn't seem to have noticed that the pupil is making a very basic mistake.

Or has noticed.

What?

What did Anne say? Think of them as separate events. Okay, let's do that. One: we've got a killing that has the Blake/Simms/Reilly MO all over it. Two: we've got something else entirely. A double murder with an opportunist robbery.

Here's something else. Mister Mystery doesn't know that Cotter has been arrested, sure, but he also doesn't know that he's been shedding DNA. As far as he's concerned, we think that Kimber did Cotter's work, and killed Blake
and
Simms
and
Reilly
, and
was responsible for Gribbin and Clarke.

Two separate events. So look at the individual deaths: the victims. Go all the way back and work forward. Where does the pattern break? Who's the odd one out?

Oscar Gribbin.

Stella spoke out loud. She said, ‘Jesus Christ, I know what this is.'

From the bedroom came the sound of a footfall. Stella was caught up in her thoughts and registered it only after a beat or two. Then the door opened. Tom Davison took a step into the room, then stopped. He said, ‘Are you going?' She looked puzzled, so he added, ‘You've got your coat on.'

‘Couldn't find a robe.'

‘Cupboard in the bathroom.'

He made a move in that direction, but she said, ‘It doesn't matter.'

Davison fetched a glass and helped himself to some of his own whisky. He said, ‘Don't feel bad.'

‘Why do you say that?'

‘You're sitting up at almost four a.m. drinking whisky and looking gloomy.'

‘I was thinking.'

‘Gloomy thoughts.'

‘No. Work stuff.'

‘Productive thoughts?'

‘So-so.'

She knew that what Davison had said over dinner had started the train of thought that had led her to what might be a solution, but she didn't feel inclined to share the outcome with him. Maybe it was mean-minded of her, but he wasn't the person to talk to on this. That would be Harriman or Sorley or Maxine Hewitt.

Or John Delaney.

Davison said, ‘I've got an early start.'

‘Me too.'

‘So come back to bed.' He leaned over and kissed her. ‘Because I like what you do there.'

She kissed him back, touching his cheek with the palm of her hand. She said, ‘I'd better go.'

‘Will I see you again?'

‘I don't think so.'

‘I don't think so meaning “I haven't decided” or –'

‘There's a complication.'

Davison sighed. ‘I thought there might be.' He drank his whisky. ‘It's a shame. I liked you on the phone and I like you even better now.'

Stella said, ‘And I like you,' but he didn't seem to hear her; he wandered back into the bedroom and sat on the bed. She followed him in and found her clothes on the floor. He looked away while she got dressed.

The streets were bright with frost; Stella's footprints were a dark spoor. She stood on Chiswick High Road hoping to find a cab, but the night traffic was trucks and party-people. A patrol car cruised by looking for drunk drivers. Stella dialled Delaney's number and got his answerphone, so she dialled his mobile and he picked up almost at once.

‘It's four a.m., where the hell are you?'

He laughed. ‘Freezing my arse off in an alley. It's called research.'

‘You're with the street-people. Your street-people.'

‘They do this every night. I'm doing it just the once. As a lifestyle, it leaves a lot to be desired.'

‘Don't tell me you've been panhandling the public as well.'

‘A particularly aggressive beggar. I ought to be arrested.' She heard him speak to someone, a reassurance, then he came back. ‘Jesus, it's cold out here. There's one hell of a frost.' A little silence fell, then he asked, ‘Why did you call?'

‘Couldn't sleep.'

‘Come and sleep with me.'

‘In an alley?'

‘Tomorrow.'

The light of a black cab was visible fifty yards up the road but moving fast. Stella said, ‘I'll call you. Don't get frostbite.'

He said, ‘Okay, sure,' but it seemed to come from a long way off.

She flagged the cab and gave the Vigo Street address.

*

Sadie had made a connection late the previous night: a good score. She was hunkered down in her bag and feeling no pain. Jamie wore his quilted coat inside his bag and had pulled everything over his head. He was awake and singing softly to himself.

…
have yourself a merry little Christmas
…

There were three other rough sleepers in the alley apart from Sadie and Jamie. The Ocean Diner was open all night and the sous-chef came out a couple of times with a handout. Delaney ate some cold potato wedges and slugged from the hip-flask he'd brought with him. The others watched this but didn't crowd him. They seemed to have some help of their own, mostly chemical. They were wary of him anyway. He was the guy with the cassette-recorder and the mobile phone. He was also the guy with the pocketful of money.

He had a new goose-down bag and thermal skin-wear. He had ski gloves and fur-lined knee boots. He had a pricey apartment less than half a mile away and a vestige of a social conscience.

Stella sat in the back of the cab and stared out at London's homeless and rootless and witless. The city was never calm, it never settled into sleep.

Does it matter?

You tell me.

It was just a fuck.

Oh, really?

Listen, I liked him. Davison. He's a nice guy, he's bright, he made me laugh. In another life –

Shut up, for Christ's sake. Don't tell me that stuff. Save it for yourself. What are you going to do?

Morning-after pill.

I know that. I mean what are you going to do –

It was just a fuck.

– about Delaney?

I don't know. Give me a lead
.

Okay, in the short term, do you tell him about tonight? In the long term, are you staying or leaving?

I need some time. I've got a murder case to solve
.

Sure. What are you going to do?

Listen, I think I know what it is. I think I know what Mister Mystery –

Sure. What are you going to do?

A couple of days. Let me leave it just a few days
.

Until Christmas?

Okay, yes, until Christmas
.

You're full of shit
.

I expect you're right, but that's the deal
.

And are you all right with this? Tell me how you're feeling?

Listen, it was just a fuck
.

No, it was a test
.

Oh, yeah? Testing what?

You, Delaney. You and Delaney. The whole thing. And it was stupid.

You think so?

It was stupid.

The storefront windows were bright with neon and starburst stickers. There was a queue outside an all-night fast-food place and a drunk was sitting propped up in a bus shelter. Boys in hoodies and girls wearing blocky heels and fake fur. London streets at 4 a.m.

Okay, it was stupid.

She felt like crying, but that would have been the easy thing to do.

*

She switched on all the lights and took a fast shower. There was something about sounds you make in the early hours of the morning, in the pre-dawn dark – doors closing, water running – they were louder, they had a strange sort of shock value. She got into bed but it was a lost cause, so she got up and made coffee, then started putting together some notes for the squad meeting she would call later that morning.

She wrote the name Mister Mystery and remembered something Tom Davison had said. He's tricky, but I'm trickier.