Fever of the Bone (29 page)

‘But when we were talking about him dumping the body so fast, didn’t we talk about him maybe doing that because it freaked him out - doing it for real?’ Ambrose leaned against the car, arms folded across his chest, a physical manifestation of his reluctance to accept that they were only at the beginning.

‘That was your suggestion, Alvin. And it was a good thought because it makes sense of the evidence. But my experience says that’s not how it goes. Even if it did freak him out, he’s still going to want to try again. Only this time he’ll want to make it better. So we need to operate like we’re working against the clock.’

Ambrose looked disgusted. ‘I tell you what. I’m glad I’m inside my head and not yours. I wouldn’t want to have all that stuff swilling around all the time.’

Tony shrugged. ‘You know what they say. Find what you’re good at and stick to it.’

Ambrose shrugged himself upright and extended his hand. ‘It’s been an interesting experience, working with you. I can’t say I’ve enjoyed it all, but I’ve been very interested in what you have to say about the killer. I’m intrigued at the prospect of working with my first profile.’

Tony smiled. ‘I hope it doesn’t disappoint. You’ve not seen me at my sparkling social best, it’s true. But if I’m honest, I should tell you that life around me does tend towards the bizarre.’ He pointed to his leg. ‘You might have noticed the limp, for example. That was, literally, a mad axeman. One minute I was sitting in my office reading a Parole Board brief; next thing I know, I’m confronting a man with a fire axe who thinks he’s harvesting souls for God.’ His expression was pained. ‘My colleagues seem to avoid these extreme situations. Somehow, I don’t.’

Looking uneasy, Ambrose started to head for the driver’s door. ‘We’ll be in touch,’ he said.

Tony waved, then tossed his bag in the car. He hadn’t been entirely truthful with Ambrose. There would be a pub where he was going, but that wasn’t his primary destination. He’d collected more than one set of keys from Blythe’s solicitor. He knew absolutely nothing about boats, but apparently he was now the owner of a fifty-foot steel narrowboat called
Steeler
which came with its own mooring at the Diglis Marina. ‘Used to be the Diglis Canal Basin,’ the solicitor had said with distaste. ‘Complete with warehouses and Royal Worcester Porcelain. Now it’s got waterside apartments and light industrial and commercial units. The march of time, and all that. All that’s left of the way it used to be is the lock-keeper’s cottage and the Anchor Inn. You’ll like that. It’s a proper, old-fashioned boozer. Arthur was a regular there. They’ve got a traditional wooden Worcestershire skittle alley. He was in one of their league teams. Pop in there and introduce yourself. They’ll be pleased to see you.’

He’d save the pub for another day, he thought as he consulted the map and figured out how to get to the marina. Today he wanted to settle down in a corner of Blythe’s boat and write his profile. Maybe mooch around the boat, see if Arthur had left any clues to himself tucked away there.

He parked as close as he could get to the moorings, then spent ten minutes wandering around looking for the boat. Eventually he found her, tucked away at the far end of a row of similar craft.
Steeler
was painted in traditional bright green and scarlet, her name picked out in flowing gold and black. Four solar panels were fixed to the roof, tribute to Blythe’s ingenuity. So power wouldn’t be an issue, if he could figure out how to work the bloody thing.

Tony clambered aboard, his feet clattering on the metal deck. The hatch was secured with a couple of sturdy padlocks, whose keys the solicitor had cheerfully handed over. ‘Be good to see the boat properly looked after,’ he’d said. ‘Lovely example of the type. Arthur was a stalwart of all the rallies round the Midlands. He loved messing about on the water.’ That obviously wasn’t something transmitted in the genes. Tony had no affinity whatsoever for water or boats. He didn’t anticipate keeping
Steeler
for long, but now he’d come this far down the trail, he wanted to experience what Arthur had made of his other environment.

The hatch slid back smoothly, allowing him to open the double doors that led below. Tony climbed cautiously down the high steps and found himself in a compact galley, complete with microwave, kettle and stove. Moving forward, he emerged into the saloon. A buttoned leather banquette sat against one bulkhead, a table before it. A big leather swivel chair sat on the other side, arranged so it could face either the table or the TV and DVD player. In one corner stood a squat wood-burning stove. There were nifty little cupboards and shelving everywhere, making the maximum use of every inch of space. A door at the end led to a cabin containing a double bed and a wardrobe. The final door at the end took him into a compact bathroom, complete with toilet, washbasin and shower cubicle, all gleaming white tile and chrome. To his amazement, it smelled fresh and clean.

He wandered back to the saloon. He wasn’t sure what he’d expected, but it wasn’t this rigid functionality. There was no personality here. Everything was so regimented, so neat and tidy. The effect the house had had on him was completely absent. In a way, that was a relief. There would be nothing to distract him from the profile he had to write. And there would be nothing to deter him from selling it in due course.

In spite of his general cack-handedness, Tony found it pretty straightforward to work out how to access the electricity. Soon, he had the lights on, and power to his laptop. No question, it made a great little office. All it lacked was wireless. For a wild moment, he considered driving the boat through the canal network to Bradfield and using it as an office. Then he considered the books and realised it was impossible. Not to mention the sort of thing that would send the likes of Alvin Ambrose running for the hills. The thought of how many things could go wrong between Worcester and Bradfield was truly terrifying. He’d settle for an afternoon’s work and then send her off to the broker. Did narrowboats have brokers? Or was it an informal network where deals were done over a game of skittles?

‘Get a grip,’ Tony said aloud, booting up the laptop. He loaded his standard opening paragraphs:

The following offender profile is for guidance only and shouldn’t be regarded as an identikit portrait. The offender is unlikely to match the profile in every detail, though I would expect there to be a high degree of congruence between the characteristics outlined below and the reality. All of the statements in the profile express probabilities and possibilities, not hard facts.
A serial killer produces signals and indicators in the commission of his crimes. Everything he does is intended, consciously or not, as part of a pattern. Discovering the underlying pattern reveals the killer’s logic. It may not appear logical to us, but to him it is crucial. Because his logic is so idiosyncratic, straightforward traps will not capture him. As he is unique, so must be the means of catching him, interviewing him and reconstructing his acts.

He read it through, then deleted the second paragraph. As far as they knew, this killer wasn’t serial yet. If Tony could help Ambrose and Patterson do their job, the killer might not get to the crucial ‘three plus’ that officially made him a serial. In Tony’s world, that was what passed for a happy ending.

On the other hand, if they didn’t succeed, there would be more. It was all a question of time. Time and skill. Just because they were in at the start didn’t mean this wasn’t a serial killer. With a sigh, he reinstated the paragraph then continued.

His fingers flew over the keys as he outlined in detail the conclusions he’d already run through with Ambrose at the body dump and earlier in the car. He paused for thought, then got up and explored the galley. He found instant coffee and creamer in jars and when he turned the tap on, water emerged. Cautiously he tasted it and decided it was fit to drink. While he waited for the kettle to boil, he searched for a mug and a spoon. The second drawer he opened contained cutlery. As he reached in to get a teaspoon, his thumb snagged on something. He looked more closely and found a thick white envelope the size of a postcard. When he turned it over, he was shocked to see his name on the front in neat block capitals. Arthur had written DR TONY HILL on an envelope and stuffed it in the cutlery drawer of his boat. It made no sense to him. Why would anyone do that? If he wanted Tony to have something, why leave it here, where it could so easily be missed, and not with the lawyer? And did Tony really want to know what the envelope contained?

He felt the envelope. There was something more than paper inside. Something light but solid, maybe ten centimetres by four, about the thickness of a CD box. He put it down while he made his coffee, constantly aware of its presence in his peripheral vision. He took the coffee and the envelope back to the table where he’d been working and set them down. He stared at the envelope, wondering. What had Arthur chosen to leave in so uncertain a way? And how would it help Tony to know what it was? He was sure there were things he didn’t want to know about Arthur, but unsure what knowledge he did want to possess.

In the end, his curiosity won over his doubt. He ripped open the envelope and shook out its contents. There was a sheet of A4 made from the same heavy paper stock as the envelope. And a tiny digital voice recorder, the type Tony used himself these days when he was dictating patient notes for his secretary. He pushed at it with one finger, as if expecting it to burst into flames. Frowning, he unfolded the paper. Across the top, Arthur Blythe’s name was engraved in copperplate script. He took a deep breath and started to read the neat handwriting that covered the page.

Dear Tony, it began.
The fact that you’re reading this means that you’ve chosen not to ignore your inheritance. I’m glad about that. I failed you while I was alive. I can’t make up for that, but I hope you can use what I’ve left you to give yourself some pleasure. I want to explain myself to you but I understand that you owe me nothing and you might not want to hear my self-justification. For a long time, I never knew you existed. Please believe that. I never intended to abandon you. But since I found out about you, I’ve watched your progress with a pride I know I have no right to. You’re a clever man, I know that. So I leave it up to you whether you choose to hear what I have to say.
Whatever decision you make, please believe that I am sincerely sorry you grew up without a father in your life to help and support you. I wish you all kinds of happiness in the future.
Yours truly,
(Edmund) Arthur Blythe

In spite of his determination not to be moved, emotion closed his throat. Tony struggled to swallow, touched by the simple honesty of Arthur’s letter. This was far more than he’d expected and he thought it might be more than he could bear. At least for now. He reread the letter, taking it line by line, feeling the weight of the words, imagining Arthur putting it together. How many drafts had he taken to get it right? His precise engineer’s hand crossing out first and second and third attempts, trying to strike the right note, making sure he said what he meant, not leaving room for misunderstanding. He could picture him in the house, at the desk in his study, the lamp casting a pool of light over his writing hand. It suddenly occurred to him that he had no clear idea what Arthur had looked like. There had been no photographs on display in the house, nothing to indicate whether father and son shared any physical resemblance. There must be some; he made a mental note to look next time he was in the house.

Next time
. As soon as he had the thought, Tony understood its significance. There would be a next time. Something had shifted inside him in the previous twenty-four hours. From wanting to maintain the distance between him and Arthur, he now wanted connection. He didn’t know yet what form that would take. But he’d know when he got there.

What he did know was that he wasn’t ready for Arthur’s message yet. He might never be. But right now, he had work to do. Work that was more important than his own emotional state. He turned back to his laptop and started typing again.

‘The killer is likely to be white,’ he wrote. Almost invariably this kind of killer stayed within their own ethnic group. ‘He is aged between twenty-five and forty.’ Twenty-five, because it needed a level of maturity to engage in this degree of planning and to sustain the plan once the killing started. And forty, because the rule of probabilities stated that by then they’d either been caught, killed or calmed down.

He is not a lorry driver - several of the locations where he has used public-access computers are not convenient for lorry parking, e.g. Manchester Airport and the shopping centre in Telford. But he certainly owns his own vehicle - he would not risk leaving traces in a vehicle owned by a third party. It’s likely to be a reasonably large car, probably a hatchback. I don’t think he’s a commercial vehicle driver, even though that is a hypothesis that has some attractions. It would certainly account for his movements up and down the motorway network. But given the tight schedules of commercial drivers, I doubt whether this would give him the degree of flexibility or free time to have set Jennifer up then abducted her.
He is likely to be educated to university or college level. His awareness of computer technology and his level of familiarity with its possibilities indicates a high level of skill in this area. I believe he is an ICT professional, probably self-employed. The electronics industry is a loosely knit community of consultants who have a great deal of flexibility in their working hours and the locations of the companies they contract to.
In terms of personality, we’re looking at a high-functioning psychopath. He can mimic human interaction but he has no genuine empathy. He’s likely to live alone and to have no deep emotional ties. This will not mark him out as particularly unusual in his work community, since many ICT professionals appear similar although in fact many of them are perfectly capable of emotional interaction. They just prefer their machines because that takes less effort.
He may well be addicted to computer gaming, particularly to violent online multi-user games. These will present him with an outlet for the nihilistic feelings he has towards other people.