Read The Murder Code Online

Authors: Steve Mosby

Tags: #Fiction, #Mystery & Detective, #General, #Retail

The Murder Code (24 page)

BOOK: The Murder Code
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‘But you were there when it happened?’ I said. ‘Sit back down again, by the way.’

He did what he was told.

‘I don’t know,’ he said. ‘Maybe. Who cares anyway? It was only a cat.’

‘I imagine the cat cared. And I care. I like cats. Detective Fellowes?’

‘I like cats too,’ Laura said.

‘So there’s two of us who care, and we’re both police, and it happens to be a crime. So it matters quite a lot. You didn’t do it, is what you’re telling us. Who did, then? Because it
did
happen, didn’t it?’

Carl was silent. At the corners of his jaw, muscles were bunching and pulsing. His face was like a fist.

‘Carl?’

‘Yes. It did happen. It wasn’t me.’

‘But you were there.’

He nodded, looking more miserable now.

‘Tell us then.
When
did it happen?’

‘It was one night last summer,’ he said.

As he began to explain, it became obvious almost immediately that the incident he was describing was not one of those ‘Jimmy’ had recorded online. Aside from anything else, the animal killings shot outside had all taken place in daylight, whereas the incident Carl was describing for us had been at night.

He told us what we already knew—that groups of teenagers gathered at the top of Swaine Hill on a night-time for all the usual types of teenage misbehaviour: drinking, smoking, partying. It was mostly older kids there, he said, but they didn’t seem to mind him and a handful of his mates showing up from time to time. I imagined the older kids liked having them around—someone to look up to them—but was less sure what Mrs Robinson thought she was doing allowing a young child out alone at that fucking hour.

Carl said, ‘It was one of the older guys who brought the cat.’

‘Name?’ Laura was writing all of this down in her notebook.

‘I don’t know.’ He looked between us, slightly imploringly now. ‘Seriously. He wasn’t from our school. And anyway, it was him that brought it, but not him who did it.’

‘Age?’ Laura persisted.


I don’t know.

‘Then guess.’

‘A few years older. Sixteen, seventeen. But like I said, it wasn’t him that did it.’

‘So who did? What happened?’

‘He sold it.’

‘Brought a cat along and sold it?’

‘I think his family couldn’t care for it. Their own had just had a litter or something, so he was basically just getting rid of them wherever he could. I think this other guy had agreed to take it off his hands. He could have got it for free, but insisted on paying for it.’

‘You don’t know the guy’s name either?’ I said.

Carl shook his head. ‘Never seen him there before. He must have been friends with one of the other kids, but he was older than the rest. Probably in his twenties.’

‘Okay,’ I said. ‘So he bought the cat. And then what happened?’

‘Well, it was in a cage. This wire cage, you know—like a carrying case, but all open. And everyone was laughing about it at first, ’cos it was scared to death. There was all the noise, and we had a fire too. We always had a fire. So it was pretty funny at first.’

‘Pretty funny,’ I said. ‘Yeah, it sounds it. And then?’

‘And then the guy put the cage down and took out a knitting needle. And everyone sort of went … quiet.’

‘Not
pretty funny
any more?’

Carl shook his head.

I wasn’t sure I wanted to hear the rest, but I asked it anyway, because I had to.

‘And?’

‘People thought he was just messing around at first. But … he wasn’t.’

Carl told us the guy stabbed the kitten repeatedly through the holes in the mesh, softly at first, as though just playing with it, and then more seriously. The whole time, with this animal hissing and spitting and screeching, the guy was just crouched by the side of the cage, prodding at it.

Carl looked utterly miserable now. No longer half as cocky as he’d been when he’d walked in here. Somewhere inside him, it seemed, there was a kid after all. Not that you had to be a kid to feel sickened by what he was telling us.

‘He was trying to get its eyes.’

I shook my head. ‘And nobody tried to stop him?’

‘Sort of. But he was a bit older, like I said—he just shrugged them off as though he wasn’t interested. And for some reason that worked. I think everyone was a bit … it was weird to see it happening in front of you.’

‘Yeah, it would be.’

‘A few of the girls were yucked out. A few of the guys too. I mean, I didn’t like it. I didn’t like it at all. But people just walked away and left him to it. He wasn’t … well, it was like he was in a world of his own by then.’

Carl took a deep breath.

‘After a while he just got bored. There was some lighter fluid they’d brought to start the fire, so he used that and burned the thing up. The smell was fucking awful. It took ages to die.’

He fell silent for a few seconds, and I just stared down at him. Beside me, I could sense that Laura was looking off to one side.

Carl said, ‘He just stood there afterwards. Grinning. He was
grinning
at us, like he expected a round of applause or something. But by then everyone was just ignoring him. I don’t think anyone knew what to do.’

I knew what I wanted to do with him.

‘You’d never seen him there before?’

Carl shook his head.

‘And never since?’

‘I never went back—I didn’t want to see him again. And I think a lot of other people didn’t go back either. I don’t know if anyone goes there any more. But people heard about it at school, just ’cos it was so shocking, you know? And so I was just like, “yeah, I was there”.’

I stared down at him. He looked like he was going to cry.

‘It wasn’t me. It wasn’t!’

‘All right.’ I sighed. ‘All right. What we’re going to need are the names of
everyone
you were there with. Your friends. If you didn’t hear who this guy was, maybe they had better ears than you.’

‘Okay.’

He started to reel off a bunch of names. Laura wrote them down while I thought it over. As horrible as the story was, it moved us another step closer to finding this guy—assuming it
was
our guy. But it had to be. He’d practised with his animals, and for reasons I still couldn’t fathom—apparently not the normal basement ones—he’d then moved on to human beings. This was a break. As awful as it was, there was hope here, because some existing connection had taken him to the hill that night. Somebody would know someone who knew him, and that was about as solid a lead as we’d had so far.

‘Jimmy,’ Carl said suddenly.

Beside me, Laura’s pen froze.

‘What?’ I said.

Carl nodded brightly. ‘
That
was his name. I remember now. That was what somebody called him.’ He looked pleased with himself. ‘Jimmy.’

Thirty-Nine

L
EVCHENKO WOULD NOT BE
here now if it wasn’t for the policeman.

Business has been slow today—only three customers since midday—and under normal circumstances he might have closed the shop early and gone home with Jasmina when she left, an hour before. Instead, wanting to watch the press conference on the murders without her knowledge, he decided to stay here, just for a while, under the guise of earning the money they both knew they needed.

So he is here now, sitting in his shop, watching the small television on the counter. It is a little after five o’clock, but still bright and sunny outside. Inside the shop, however, it feels gloomy and dark. Perhaps that it is simply him. Perhaps that is simply the effect the policeman has on him.

Hicks …

On the screen, he is sitting on the far side of the table and the camera is zoomed in so that he fills most of the frame; you can just see the elbow of the female officer sitting beside him. Hicks is reading a statement from pieces of paper in front of him. Occasional camera flashes illuminate him, but it is impossible to tell if he notices them or cares.

Of course, he does not care. He never did.

Always so detached and professional.

Even now, still so young and polished.

‘We are currently looking for a man in his early to mid twenties,’ Hicks says.

In his smart suit, Levchenko thinks, he might as well be working in a bank. Or a similar place—one that deals with data rather than people.

‘His name might possibly be James or Jimmy, or at least people may know him by that name. He is approximately six foot tall and of average build, with sandy blond hair. It is possible he is known to older teenagers in the Farfield area of the city, and we encourage anybody with information about this individual’s identity to come forward.’

He looks up from his notes. Levchenko remembers his eyes from the last time they met. Although they seem much more serious now, don’t they? Tired and troubled.

‘We will treat any information we receive in the strictest confidence.’ Hicks puts the papers down. ‘I’ll now take five minutes of questions. Yes?’

A voice drifts over, barely audible.

‘Tom Benson,
Evening Post
. At this point, you indicate that the killer has claimed fifteen victims, but you’ve only named nine of those. Is that a problem of identification?’

Throughout the question, Hicks nods seriously.

‘I am not able, at present,’ he says, ‘to provide details on the victims whose names have not been released to the press.’

But the voice persists.

‘We are aware of a number of crime scenes across the city. Were these additional victims found at those locations?’

‘I am not able, at present, to provide details on the victims whose names have not been released to the press.’ Hicks nods elsewhere in the room. ‘Yes?’

Levchenko smiles to himself—but without humour. The detective has not changed: still stonewalling; still treating legitimate questions and enquiries with indifference—contempt, even. It occurs to him that not only is he here in the shop right now because of Hicks, but at this place in his life as well. And that due to the spread of cause and effect that ripples from even the smallest actions, at least one other person is not.

Emmy.

Lost in memories, he misses the question. On the screen, Hicks stares out at his unseen audience.

‘We are pursuing several lines of enquiry. But I reiterate: I am not able, at present, to provide details on the victims whose names have not been released to the press.’

Because you haven’t found them,
Levchenko thinks.

That’s the subtext of the detective’s words, isn’t it? Surely everybody in the room there can pick it up if he can? That must be why they’re pecking at him, like chickens scrabbling at dirt.

‘Over a week into the investigation,’ a reporter asks, ‘without an arrest. How close are you to identifying the suspect you’ve described?’

It might be Levchenko’s imagination, but he thinks he sees Hicks’s expression drop slightly. That makes sense, doesn’t it? The detective wouldn’t like to be criticised. Too sure of himself for that.

‘As I’ve said, we are pursuing several lines of enquiry. We encourage anybody with the information I’ve indicated to come forward. We’re confident that an arrest will follow shortly.’

Are you?

Another smile without humour—though a small part of Levchenko is enjoying seeing the detective floundering under pressure. But there is the fact that people are dead. That is nothing to celebrate. And the fact that whatever happens to Hicks, nothing can change the past.

Nothing can bring her back.

Levchenko shakes his head.

It is true, of course, and he experiences a moment of guilt. What is the point in the vague thrill he feels at the detective’s troubles? God would not approve—yet he feels it anyway, and suppresses the shame that accompanies it. Why not? Surely God does not approve of Hicks either. Just as we are judged for what we do, so must we be judged for what we do not.
Will you allow me this?
he asks God.
Nothing can bring her back now, but something at the time might have stopped it.

Hicks could have saved her.

Levchenko could have …

But he clamps down on that.

It is important to remember this, to repeat it: there was nothing he could have done beyond what he did. He is a good citizen, so he reported his concerns to the relevant authorities—to the people who
should
have done something, because that is the point of them—and so the blame lies with them.

The blame
has
to lie with them.

He stares at the television screen.

With him.

The bell above the door tinkles.

Levchenko looks up suddenly. An old lady is pushing her way in, with some trepidation, as though she isn’t sure whether she’s allowed to.

‘Hello?’ she says. Her voice trembles. ‘Are you still open?’

‘Yes. Please, come in.’

Levchenko uses the controller to switch off the television. He wants to see the end of the press conference—wants to see the detective squirm—but he can hardly turn down the business. And even if he could afford to, manners forbid it. He can hardly send this old woman away now she is inside the shop.

‘What can I do for you?’

‘Your candles,’ she says. ‘The special ones you make?’

‘Oh yes.’ Levchenko nods, pleased. ‘Yes. How can I help you?’

‘It’s short notice.’

‘That’s all right,’ Levchenko says, although he wonders whether it is. It depends on how short the notice is. His stock of standard pre-made candles is plentiful, but he is out of wax pellets and certain shades of dye for the base.

The elderly woman unfolds a piece of paper.

‘It’s for one of your special candles,’ she says. ‘One cast at the moment?’

‘Yes. I know the ones you mean. When is it for?’

The woman smoothes out the crinkled paper.

‘Tonight,’ she says. The time does not matter, but it has to be today. It would be my daughter’s birthday.’

Levchenko pauses. Normally, he would refuse—but with business the way it has been, that is hard to do. Besides, something about her troubles him. The way she is shaking slightly. And her choice of words, too: it
would be
her daughter’s birthday. It makes him think of Emmeline, which spurs him on.

BOOK: The Murder Code
10.76Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
ads

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