White Corridor Part 16

'You think he followed you here for no other purpose than to prevent you from exposing him?' asked May. 'May I see your evidence?'

'I have it in an envelope, or rather I've put it somewhere safe, in the car we rented-I can go back and get it for you.' She tried to set her handbag on the dashboard but it slid off, her book and purse falling out on the floor. Bryant shovelled everything back in and handed it to her. As he did so, he studied her eyes for clues to her state of mind, and saw a mother determined to show strength for the sake of her child.

'Perhaps we should get it later. Tell us about the contents of the envelope-'

'The pa.s.sport of one of the men he murdered, and a set of photographs, terrible photographs-' She pressed a hand to her face, lowering her voice to a whisper. 'Women whose faces he'd disfigured with some kind of tool; he takes their picture afterwards and keeps them on him. Why would a man do something like that? I had no idea how dangerous he was, until-he moves about in the snow like an animal, and I think he carries a hunting knife. He chased us through the village, and came to find us when we got off the ferry to hire a car. We were barely able to escape with our lives.'

'The issue-point of the pa.s.sport could give us some idea of the trail he's leaving,' said May. 'There have been killers operating in Europe who have a.s.sumed the ident.i.ty of each of their victims before moving on. It's not difficult to do when you're crossing so many borders and states.'

'I took something from the envelope, just to carry with me.' She handed the detectives a single sheet of paper.

May unfolded the page and examined the names scribbled on it. 'What's this?' He read: Pascal Favier, Patrice Bezard, Johann Bellocq, Edward Winthrop, Paulo Escobar, Pierre Castel Pascal Favier, Patrice Bezard, Johann Bellocq, Edward Winthrop, Paulo Escobar, Pierre Castel.

'I think they're names he's copied from other pa.s.sports, people whose ident.i.ties he has a.s.sumed,' said Madeline.

'And you say one of these names belongs to the old man you saw lying dead in the villa he took you to?'

'That's right, but I didn't see him dead, I just thought I did. Johann told me he had left the owner upstairs, dead.'

'And he insisted that his name was Johann Bellocq, so perhaps he had taken the ident.i.ty of this latest victim. Which means you have no idea what his real name might be.' May glanced up at the frozen woman and her son. 'Look, we have food in the cabin. Make yourself at home while John and I think this through.'

'Why?' said Madeline. 'He just needs to be stopped, can't you see that?'

'Yes, but it's not the way we work,' said May apologetically.

'We need to know where the sequence of victims begins.' Bryant studied the page of names. 'I have some people I can contact.'

'I hope they're in the Surete,' said May.

'Not exactly. Do you remember the members of the Panic Site?'

'That website set up by Dr Harold Masters, the academic who runs the Insomnia Squad? Arthur, they're all completely loopy.'

'Obsessives perhaps, but occasionally quite brilliant.' Masters's group of rogue intellectuals stayed on-line through the night to argue about everything from Quakerism to corn deities before returning bleary-eyed to their jobs in the capital's museums and art galleries. 'They're affiliated to a bunch of expatriate crime fans based in Nice, most of whom are former coppers. Janice put the number in my speed dial.'

'Can you give them a call?'

'I'm afraid I have absolutely no idea how to use that particular function,' Bryant admitted.

'Give me your mobile. You think they'll know someone who can run a check on these names?'

'Bound to, old sock. I told you we were looking for someone from a mountain region. Mrs Gilby is right, he's probably adept at moving about in extreme weather conditions. If he's a tracker, he'll run a sweep from car to car, narrowing down the search until he finds her-and us.'

It was too cold to remain outside for another minute. They settled Madeline and Ryan in the rear of the van and locked them inside, then returned to the cabin to call Dan Banbury, who was better positioned to find out the status of the rescue services. 'They're waiting to try again with the chopper,' he told them, 'but it looks like there's one more really big squall on the way. It should hit you in the next hour or so. After that, you'll have to hope that the northeasterly wind drops and makes way for rising temperatures. The Devon and Cornwall police say there's little chance of the snowploughs breaking through until daybreak tomorrow. Part of the road outside Totnes has collapsed, and there have been avalanches large enough to block nearly all of the major routes.'

'Then we really are alone,' said May, dismayed. 'Except for a few frozen salesmen, a terrified woman, a handful of practising pagans and a murderer.'

'Who are you calling now?' asked Bryant.

'A friend of mine at the International Bureau of Investigation. Before you start trying with Harold Masters, let me run the list of names past them. We need to see if any of these have been reported. If we can place them in the right order, starting in the French Alps and plotting a path to Dover, they might give us a clue to his real ident.i.ty. Don't worry, I'll fall back on your friend Dr Masters if I have to.' And all normal paths of investigation fail first, And all normal paths of investigation fail first, he caught himself thinking. he caught himself thinking.

'Edward Winthrop,' said Bryant, tapping his dashboard. 'The name rings a bell. It sticks out from all the others on that list. I've definitely heard it before.' He dug a battered alligator-skin address book from his overcoat and flicked through it.

'What have you got in there?'

'Missing persons, murder victims, suspects, Alma's shopping lists, key witnesses and people who have generally annoyed me,' said Bryant. 'It runs into several notebooks, as you can imagine, especially the last category. Here we are. Edward Winthrop, a London lawyer murdered in Ma.r.s.eilles in 2004.'

'Why would he be of interest to you?'

'Because he was killed in a police station,' said Bryant with some satisfaction, 'by the young man he had come to represent. It was in all the papers, sparked an extraordinary court case. You have your starting point, I think.'

May connected his laptop to his mobile and began composing e-mails. 'I know nothing about the movements and motives of serial killers,' he admitted. 'So many other terrible crimes go unreported, it seems they get a disproportionate amount of publicity through books, films and television, yet there are only really a handful.'

'A handful who get caught,' Bryant corrected. 'We have no way of knowing how many others are cunning or merely lucky enough to get away with their crimes. Roberto Succo terrorised the South of France in the 1980s, slaughtering anyone who got in his way. He was a twenty-five-year-old Italian who'd been locked in a mental inst.i.tution for stabbing his parents to death. A supreme egotist-nothing mattered to him, not life or death. He saw himself as already dead, and was so confident that he operated right under the noses of the police. How do you catch someone like that? Andrei Romanovic Chikatilo killed over fifty women and children in Russia. He showed no remorse or even any understanding of his cruelties.' He settled himself into his seat. 'Most of the murderers we've faced have been desperate men and women who've killed to cover their own weaknesses, not murdered indiscriminately. I've done a bit of reading in this area and have some statistics here somewhere.' He pulled a handful of black leather notebooks from his pocket and blew the fluff from them.

'Hang on,' said May, 'exactly how many of those do you own?'

'Forty-six,' Bryant answered matter-of-factly. 'I was going to quote from a few during my convention speech.' He riffled the pages. 'Ah, listen to this. Did you know that seventy-seven percent of all serial killers are American citizens, and only sixteen percent are European? Eighty-four percent are white, sixteen percent are black. Ninety percent are male heteros.e.xuals. Sixty-five percent of the victims are female, and ninety percent of all victims are white. A quarter start killing when they're teenaged, half start in their twenties, the remaining quarter begin in their thirties. But then we have the anomalies, like the elderly Dr Harold Shipman, the world's worst serial killer, with at least four hundred attributable deaths to his name, who injected lethal doses of Pethidine into vulnerable English ladies who loved and trusted him. He fitted the pattern of being arrogant and violent-tempered, but many of his crimes remained undiscovered for decades. His wife Primrose supposedly never guessed the truth. Dozens of questions about him remain unanswered, and the authorities are still not sure if they've found all the victims.

'A lot of serial killers are boring, mentally subnormal and inadequate as human beings, which rather mitigates against the image of the superior intellectual usually portrayed in films. We've never really dealt with psychopathic brutality before. My wits can't protect me against such an opponent, and this hostile environment makes me realise how vulnerable I've become. How do you find, let alone stop, someone like this? The PCU isn't equipped to locate such people. There are special units to deal with them, I remember, because I took Alma to see The Silence of the Lambs. The Silence of the Lambs. If I were to speculate on how such people are created, I'd guess that geography plays a part, just as much as family upbringing and rogue chromosomes. Europe can be just as lonely as America. Think of all the desolate landscapes that are barely populated for most of the year, places where no-one remembers you.' If I were to speculate on how such people are created, I'd guess that geography plays a part, just as much as family upbringing and rogue chromosomes. Europe can be just as lonely as America. Think of all the desolate landscapes that are barely populated for most of the year, places where no-one remembers you.'

'But the same things happen in cities, where alienation and hardship are just as rife,' argued May. 'Look at London, and how conducive its society has been to cruel practises. Children are raised in a paradoxical environment of decadence and restriction. How many of them truly learn to think and behave like rational adults? What are we breeding in our schools and on our streets now that traditional society has been so radically transformed?'

'For once I must agree with you,' said Bryant. 'I think the science of rationality is being pushed aside to make way for new superst.i.tions. Look at the move to teach the mysteries of G.o.d's will beside Darwinism under the term "intelligent design," or the reliance on discredited homeopathic drugs to treat cancers we know to be caused by poor diet and cigarettes, or the rise of pyramid-selling religions sold under the guise of lifestyle-improving courses, the blurring of boundaries between greed and honesty. It's obvious when you think about it. Through the proliferation of deliberately obscuring clutter, our access to hard information is being radically reduced. If you take away knowledge you create myth, not the old myths that help to underpin and elucidate the human condition, but ones with the more sinister purpose of increasing commercial gain.'

May shook his head sadly. 'I thought the Internet would transform the world, but it's fast proving to be just another method of spreading disinformation. This isn't our field, Arthur. Look how the Highwayman had us fooled, simply because we refused to believe the truth that was right in front of us.'

'Some changes in society are too painful to accept easily,' Bryant admitted, his eyes downcast. 'The power of the human mind remains inexplicable.' He was thinking of May's guarded reaction to the spirit writing. 'Where does that leave us now?'

'We may be isolated in a hostile environment, but we have a world of help at our fingertips. He's just one man working alone in a limited s.p.a.ce, and we will catch him. Now, you call Harold Masters, and I'll call the Bureau.'

38

HEART OF OAK 'There's something I have to tell you,' said DC Meera Mangeshkar. 'Let's grab a sandwich.' Meera and Colin were returning from a fruitless visit to Owen Mills's neighbours, who had treated the officers with a mixture of disdain and mistrust. 'My sister Jezminder works here.'

Bimsley noted the family resemblance the minute he saw the girl behind the counter of Cafe Nero in Camden High Street. Jezminder was older and taller than her sister, more graceful of limb, more downcast of eye, although, he noted, she wore Meera's trademark toe-capped boots and men's baggy jeans. They ordered tea and toast as Meera circled sections of her copious notes. 'That girl on the top floor fancied you,' she remarked with studied casualness.

'The one with the blond plait?' He folded a whole piece of toast into his mouth and couldn't speak for a minute while he tried digesting it. 'I didn't notice,' he finally managed.

'Oh, come on, all that guff about why you weren't in uniform and where you go in the evenings. She didn't answer any of your questions properly, and kept watching you from the corner of her eye.'

'She didn't know Owen Mills.' Bimsley dunked his second piece of toast in his tea, filling the saucer. 'She was just a time-waster.'

'Then you shouldn't have kept on asking her questions. If you fancy her, you can go back there on your own time, not the unit's.' Meera pointedly tore the girl's interview form into quarters.

'I don't know what's wrong with you,' he complained. 'I can never do anything right.'

'Let's just drop it.'

'Is this what you wanted to talk to me about? Or did you just want to have a good old go at me somewhere warm, where your mouth could work properly?'

'No, it's about Finch. You know I admitted I was there on Tuesday morning.'

'I heard. You wanted to sit in on the autopsy.'

'Yeah. Actually, I had a bit of a row with him. He wouldn't let me stay, said it violated the privacy rights of the victim. Started going on about dignity in death, and how I didn't have the proper qualifications. I answered back, you know how I do, and he virtually started pushing me towards the door. It wasn't like him. He was agitated, sweating and red in the face, really angry, and the room was really warm, like he'd had the wall heaters going full blast, but he always says how much he hates the heat in there.'

'Why didn't you tell Raymond all this?'

She looked sheepishly down at her tea mug. 'I was upset. I get treated like the office junior even though I've got years of experience in some of the toughest cop shops in London. Even May's granddaughter gets more respect, and she's got no formal training. I didn't go for sergeant because it would have meant I couldn't stay at the unit, with Janice already occupying that position. I just want to be taken seriously.'

'For what it's worth, I take you seriously,' said Bimsley. 'You're a true professional, Meera. You're just too hard on yourself. All you need to do is lighten up a bit. But you need to tell the others about arguing with Oswald.'

'I've a feeling some of them suspect me,' she said miserably. 'I haven't exactly made friends at the unit.'

'It's never too late to start,' said Bimsley, giving her an encouraging smile.

He thought about the young Indian detective constable while she went to speak with her sister; perhaps the fault had lain with him. He had a.s.sumed that her anger was an issue connected with race and cla.s.s, some kind of att.i.tude she was working through. Now he saw that she simply wanted to be accepted as a team player.

His thoughts were interrupted by the sound of raised voices at the counter. Glancing up, he saw an emaciated young man with a shaved head attempting to grab Jezminder's arm as Meera warned him off. Bimsley instinctively pushed back from the table and made his way over.

'Let go of the lady, mate,' he warned.

'I've told him,' said Jezminder, 'he can't come in here while I am working.'

'Who is he?' asked Colin.

'He used to be her boyfriend,' said Meera with a grimace of disapproval. 'Jake, she's told you before about turning up here. She doesn't want to see you anymore.' He was half as tall again as the little detective constable. Meera was prepared to take on anyone, but even she stepped back as he tried to slap her with a bony fist.

'I'm her man, not yours, all right? So I've got the right to-'

It took barely a second for Bimsley to a.s.sess the situation. The boyfriend was chasing cash, and he could see why; the urgency burned fiercely within his hollow eyes, robbing him of rationality. Heroin addicts were usually wheedling, pathetic, needy, but this one was dangerous. He grabbed at Jezminder's bag, breaking the strap as the two girls tried to push him away.

Colin had trained for six years at the Hoxton Boys' Boxing Club until his instructor had warned him to stay away, not because he lost his matches or failed training, or even because he lacked the essential hand-eye coordination of his profession, but because his reach was too short and his wildly swinging fists were potentially lethal.

He unleashed one now, the right, and listened as it connected with Jake's jaw. There it was, the sound he remembered hearing at the gym, the tearing of jaw muscle as Jake went down.

'Ganesh!' said Meera, watching as he slammed onto the tiled floor, for her mother had taught her to invoke Indian G.o.ds rather than swear like a navvy whenever she was surprised. Jake was out cold.

'Do you want him in rehab, or do you just want him gone?' asked Colin, sitting his opponent upright and checking his jaw.

'Gone,' whispered Jezminder.

Back on the street, Meera looked at him warily, as if seeing a new side of her colleague.

'What?' he asked, not liking to be stared at. 'I'm sorry about that. I'm usually a bit of a pacifist. I didn't mean to hit him so hard.'

'Never mind.'

'Then don't stare at me. You make me uncomfortable.'

'I was noticing. You have a heart of oak,' she said finally. 'Probably got a head to match, though.' She saw that the knuckles of his right hand were sc.r.a.ped, dripping dark sap.

'I'm fine,' he told her. But he could sense that something had changed between them. For the first time, she was looking upon him with kindness and, unless he was imagining it, something altogether more interesting.

39

CIRCE The fake-leopardskin coat scratched her neck, the red woollen two-piece suit was too tight across the bust, and the patent-leather heels pinched, but DS Janice Longbright looked good and knew it. This is no way to run an investigation, This is no way to run an investigation, she thought, strutting across the illuminated green gla.s.s of the causeway that acted as a catwalk into Circe, she thought, strutting across the illuminated green gla.s.s of the causeway that acted as a catwalk into Circe, but I know it's what Arthur would have made me do but I know it's what Arthur would have made me do. She strode up to the counter and asked to see the woman whose name was on the card she had been given. She had decided to pay her induction fee by using the credit card details Raymond Land had asked her to acquire for his wife. Leanne Land deserved to pay for having an affair with a golf caddie behind her husband's back.

'I'm afraid Miss Grutzmacher is taking a cla.s.s at the moment, but you can see someone else about induction suitability,' the receptionist told her, picking up a modular white trim-phone and smiling vacantly into the middle distance.

Juan-Luis was a ponytailed young Spaniard with more than a hint of the flamenco dancer in his movements. He shook Longbright's hand so lightly that she felt touched by an angel, then led her to a white room bordered by recessed blue lights and deep-purple seating before flopping into the unit beside her. 'You say you were recommended by Monsieur Alphonse for one of our rejuvenation courses?' he said, checking his PDA.

'I won't be on the system yet,' said Longbright. 'I only just saw him this morning. You come very highly recommended. A friend's daughter has been receiving treatment here, a girl called Lilith Starr. I wonder, how is she doing?'

Clearly, the conversation had taken a turn for which he had not been prepared. A momentary fl.u.s.ter occurred in his composure before he returned to form. 'I'm not sure I know who you mean-'

'You must do. She was personally recommended by Mr Spender.'

'Well, that wouldn't be my area. I only handle induction. Besides, our client details are confidential.'

'But if you conduct all the inductions, you must have seen her.'

Juan-Luis sighed. Clearly, the subject was not going to go away. 'I think she is no longer with us.'

'Really? I find that surprising, as she was singled out for special attention.'

'I heard the treatment proved unsuitable for her. A medical condition-'

'Surely your treatments don't require a doctor's intervention...'

'Everyone has to fill out an approval form, and she omitted to tell us about certain-ah-medications.'

'You mean not just prescription drugs but others a.s.sociated with-'

'-lifestyle choices. That's correct.'

So he knows about her habit, thought Longbright. 'But I thought she came to you for several treatments. My friend said-' thought Longbright. 'But I thought she came to you for several treatments. My friend said-'

'Look, as soon as we discovered she had filled the form in falsely, we cancelled her appointments.'