The Murder Code (26 page)

Levchenko shook his head.

‘Please. You must protect her. Please. You must.’

There was a long silence, during which Hicks stared at him. Then he slid the photograph back and looked at it again. Levchenko saw his eyes flicking from bruise to bruise.

‘All right,’ Hicks said. ‘I’ll talk to him. To both of them. I’ll try, anyway.’

‘Yes?’

‘I’ll see what we can do.’

‘Yes.’ The tension burst in Levchenko’s chest, hope spreading like blossom. All was right with the world again. ‘Please. Yes, you will do that.’

‘But I have to warn you …’

‘You will keep her safe.’

Hicks did not reply to that, and his expression was unreadable. Thinking back, Levchenko would identify the look on the man’s face as boredom. He would decide that Hicks had only ever been humouring him—that he wasn’t going to do anything at all, and his promise was an empty one, designed to get this awkward and naive visitor out of the room as swiftly as possible. But at the time, he had hope. He believed it meant Emmy was going to be all right.

Levchenko stood up.

‘Thank you. Thank you. Make sure she is safe.’

And he had gone home that night—on the same old bicycle he is riding now—with a sense that it would be okay. Hicks would talk to John Doherty, to Emmy. He would recognise Doherty for the evil man he was, and he would arrest him and put him somewhere he could never hurt Emmy again. Because that was what was supposed to happen, wasn’t it? That was what the authorities were there for—to protect the beauty from the overwhelming presence of the ugly. Back then, he still believed that.

And yet, two days later, Emmy was dead.

I’m sorry.

Levchenko’s eyes blur slightly, and he thinks he should probably pull over for safety. The bicycle is going very fast now. For the moment, though, he blinks the tears away and continues on his way home, cutting quickly down the otherwise silent and empty country lanes. He wants to get home to Jasmina. He needs to hold her.

I’m sorry.

He is not even sure to whom he is addressing the apology. To God? To Emmy? Perhaps even, in some odd way, to the policeman himself?

For a moment, he nearly loses control of the handlebars, and he slows slightly, blinking at the tears blurring the road ahead. Regaining control of himself.

He needs to stop before he has an accident.

He needs to—

As he clenches the brakes, Levchenko focuses on the road for long enough to see that it is no longer empty. There is someone dressed in black at the tree line, just ahead on the left, running out of the woodland, as though coming to meet him.

What is—He barely has time to attempt a swerve—

And the world explodes.

Everything. Bright red.

A
ND THEN WHAT HAPPENED?

To begin with, the boy tells the policeman, it is much the same as other nights. The brothers sit in their small, dark room, listening to the sounds from the far end of the house, while at the same time trying not to hear. At some point, the boy falls asleep without realising it, because he feels the jolt as his brother gets up.

The house is silent now.

He’s gone to sleep,
John whispers.

The boy nods miserably and lies down sideways on his bunk, drawing his knees up to his chest. He expects his brother to tap back up the creaking ladder to the top bunk, so they can both snatch sleep, but instead John remains standing in the dark bedroom. He is very still, but the boy can hear him breathing. There is something a little like electricity in the air.

John?
he says.

Shhhh.

The boy sits up again, frowning.
John?

His brother reaches down and touches his cheek. It feels like his hand is trembling slightly.
It’s okay.
His voice is strained, thin.
I won’t be long.

Where are you going?

I’ve got his key.

It takes the boy a moment to work out what he means. By then, his brother has moved away, over to the bedroom door, and is opening it slowly, carefully, so as not to make any sound.

The boy stands up.

John?

Shhh. Stay here.

His brother steps out into the hallway—dark now—and closes the door behind him, leaving the boy alone in the pitch-black bedroom. His heart is hammering, and he can hardly breathe. All over his body, the skin is tingling.

He is terribly afraid.

He does not want his brother to do this—wants to call out instead. But he is scared for John. Whatever he does, he is scared. Their father is insurmountable; they both know this. They do not confront him. They do not intervene. Even that does not guarantee their safety, but the opposite removes it entirely. They have to keep quiet. They have to hide and remain unnoticed for as long as possible.

Not do this.

‘The key,’ the policeman says. ‘What did John mean by that? The key to what?’

The boy looks at him. Looks him right in the eye.

What the policeman sees there is, surely, not derision. Because that would be impossible. There is no way this child is old and wise enough to be mocking him. Perhaps he is lying—that much is possible—but a little boy would be keen to hide his lies, anxious that someone might see through them, rather than revelling in the fact that someone has and they both know it.

The policeman realises he is touching the cross on his necklace—that it has come out from beneath his uniform and he is rubbing it anxiously between his fingers. He forces himself to tuck it away. This child is not evil. He isn’t. He has simply been through so much.

And yet …

‘The key to what, Andy?’ Sergeant Franklin says. ‘The key to what?’

And with that same expression on his face, the eight-year-old boy says, ‘The key to my father’s gun cabinet.’

‘H
AVE WE MET BEFORE?’

I looked up from the coffee machine. I was in the lounge down the corridor from the operations room. It was a small room, with space for a sink unit and cabinets, the drinks dispenser I was standing by, and a couple of threadbare armchairs nobody ever had time to sit down in.

Franklin was standing in the doorway.

‘I don’t think so,’ I said.

He took a step into the room. ‘I’m sure we have. I’ve been thinking about it since I arrived, but haven’t had the chance to ask. And I’m
sure.
Where do I know you from?’

‘I guess I’ve got one of those faces.’

I did my best to shrug, half smile, and then, with my heart thudding hard in my chest, I turned back to the dispenser. Watched the hot water spitting and rasping into the thin plastic cup.

‘You’ve never worked in Buxton?’

‘Nope. Only ever here.’

Never worked in Buxton.

I grew up there though. My brother and me.

And yes, we have met before.

The coffee finally finished, I picked the cup out carefully, blowing the steam from the rim. Franklin was still standing there, still looking at me curiously, inquisitively. There was something about his body language that I didn’t like. It wasn’t cop-to-cop; it was more interrogatory than that, as though he’d decided that if he hadn’t encountered me as a colleague, then at some point he must have encountered me in a very different capacity.

Which of course he had.

The key to what, Andy?

The key to what?

I had changed, though. That was something to cling to. My surname was different now; my face and body had grown and altered. Only the thinnest ghost remained of the little boy he’d interrogated all those years ago—at least on the outside. And I remembered him so clearly because of the circumstances, and the impact he’d had on me, whereas his life since must have been littered with other similar incidents, his encounter with me lost and only half recalled amongst them.

I looked at him.

He hadn’t changed all that much from the policeman he’d been when he interviewed me all those years ago—back when I was eight years old. The brown hair might have silvered, but the face remained relatively unlined. The same bright blue eyes. I could see a thin chain around his neck, which I was willing to bet ended in the exact same crucifix I’d seen him touching as a young officer.

Faced with me.

This man, and the attitude he’d had towards me as a child, was responsible for so much of who I was.
Evil.
He’d thought I was evil. He hadn’t even made an attempt to hide it. I’d spent so much time denying that to myself—I wasn’t a bad person; there wasn’t anything intrinsically wrong with me; there was no
evil
—that the denial ran through me as deep as blood, and just as important.

But now, finally faced with him again, all that psychological armour was crumbling. I felt cold and small: powerless before the intimidating authority figure staring at me, accusing me with his eyes of being something monstrous.
Do I know you? Yes, I know you. I know what you are.
The time that had passed didn’t seem to matter any more. As I stood staring back at him, barely able to blink, I felt all the years I’d travelled, all the conviction I’d gathered, collapsing behind me like a bridge falling, the break rumbling towards me.

I opened my mouth to say … something. But nothing came out.

Then Franklin smiled at me. Shook his head.

‘Oh, I’m getting old.’

‘Sorry?’

‘I mean I’m not thinking straight.’ He half laughed, his manner changing instantly. ‘I’ve just realised—it will be from the television, won’t it? The press conferences. I remember seeing one of them. It must be from there.’

‘Yes,’ I said. ‘It’s probably that.’

He leaned against the wall, visibly relaxing. My gaze followed him. The rest of my body didn’t move, aside from my heart, knocking hard against my lungs.

‘To be honest,’ he was saying, ‘I don’t know where I am at the moment. It’s this case, I think. It’s the worst one I’ve ever seen. And I’ve seen a lot.’ He looked at me. ‘How old are you?’

‘Thirty-five.’

‘Really? You look younger. Well, trust me, Andy—by the time you get to my age, you’ll have seen far too much.’ His hand went to his chest, to the crucifix I imagined nestling beneath his shirt. My gaze followed it. ‘Far too much. And this … this is just evil, isn’t it. Pure evil.’

It wasn’t a question.

I said, ‘I don’t know if I believe in evil.’

‘Really? Wait a while.’ He lowered his hand and gave that half-laugh again. ‘Wait a while.’

I should have been prepared to argue; in my head, I’d been doing so ever since. But I found myself nodding slightly, entirely unequipped for this moment that had arrived. Franklin’s arrival had whipped off the flimsy film of self-deception, and now I just wanted away from this, not to engage in it, not to try to stand up to him.

‘It’s just this case, anyway.’ Franklin moved away from the wall again. ‘That’s what’s throwing me. Can’t think straight in the face of it.’

‘I get you. Believe me.’

He shook his head. ‘Just don’t tell anyone, will you?’

‘Don’t worry.’ I did my best to smile back. ‘I won’t.’

I needed some fresh air.

Taking my coffee with me, ignoring the way it scorched my fingertips, I headed for the lift and pressed the button for the ground floor. As it descended, I told myself:

He doesn’t recognise me.

As much as my defences had crumbled in the moment, I was already spinning the encounter. But still—it was true. The confrontation that had made such an impression on me, that had affected my whole life …
he didn’t fucking remember it.
He hadn’t looked at me and seen the evil little boy he had at the time, and he hadn’t recognised something wrong with me now. So regardless of anything else, I was not that child any more. I was no longer what Franklin had thought I was all those years ago. If I ever had been at all.

That was what I’d been afraid of all these years. That was what I’d expected to face when Franklin joined the investigation. And it hadn’t happened. What I felt now was almost relief, except that word wasn’t strong enough. It was
euphoria
. I was still trembling slightly, but now there was so much energy coursing through me it felt like I could bounce on the spot. It felt like I could do anything at all.

Catch this fucker.

Yes, that was what remained. Catch him. End this. And we would. As the lift hit the ground floor, I smiled to myself, and took a sip of the coffee without thinking. The heat sang in my upper lip, but I barely even noticed.

Ting.

I stepped out and headed through the foyer, past the reception, towards the sliding glass doors that led outside. It was sunny out there today. No storm clouds gathering; even the ones in my head were clearing. Free, free, free. There was a woman at the reception desk, but I was so distracted that I barely caught what she was saying as I walked behind her.

‘My
husband.
’ She was clearly frustrated, obviously repeating what she had already told the duty officer. The doors slid open in front of me just as she said, ‘Gregor
Levchenko
.’

A moment later, as I was still frozen in place, the glass doors slid closed again in front of me.

And then I turned slowly back.

I
T IS TIME, THE
General thinks, to end this.

Standing in his office, wearing his uniform, he keeps his back to the dreaded thing in the corner and focuses on the computer screen in front of him. He watches the videos, one by one, moving only to change CDs as each clip comes to an end. One by one, he places the discs in a growing pile on the desk.

The murder of Vicki Gibson: haphazard and hand-held, camera held so close that blood spatters the lens. He was still learning at that point.

Derek Evans. Murdered the same night, but far more carefully. The camera is balanced on a wall before the homeless man is approached and beaten.

Sandra Peacock, John Kramer and Marion Collins. All die in much the same way: the only thing that changes in the footage is the addition of one and then two bodies beside the dying victim.