Bryant & May 08; Off the Rails b&m-8 Read online

  “Well, give me your impression.”

  “I don’t do impressions. Let me think. Slight but muscular. About five ten. Smooth, unmemorable face, like a young actor without makeup. Fair complexion. Grey eyes. Not much hair, although I have a feeling he shaved his hairline. I wish we’d had a chance to photograph him. I got one interrogation in before going to brief the others – entirely my fault; I was anxious to get down the details of the case. We should photograph them on arrest, the way they do in America. John took a picture on his mobile phone, but the room was dark and it didn’t come out very well.”

  “Okay, so we don’t have an ID for him, but there’s a piece of face recognition software that might pick up his main features from Mr May’s shot. Maybe we can find a match. That’s assuming he has a record.” Banbury took a few steps forward, pinched his nose, leaned, peered, scratched at his stubbly head. “I’ve already had a good look around, of course – ”

  Of course you have, thought Bryant. Natural curiosity got the better of you. We all want to know about the kind of man who can kill without thinking twice.

  “I think he’s probably lived here since his late teens, which makes him just under thirty. A loner from a broken home. Very closed off about the past. Something bad happened there that he doesn’t want to remember – there’s usually some kind of family trouble in the background. We know that his friendships are cultivated for their usefulness, and any emotions he expresses are meticulously faked. The habit of never presenting his true self to anyone is probably so ingrained that he wouldn’t be able to reveal himself now if he tried. A classic user, unemotional and unrepentant. You tell ‘em they’ve done wrong and they look at you as if you’re speaking French. This really does place him in the serial killer category. Clever planning, no witnesses, no evidence; it’s a pattern. I bet he hasn’t used his real name for so long that he’s almost forgotten it. Probably OCD. A fantasist, a re-inventor, but it has all come out of necessity.”

  “Where are you getting all this?”

  “Oh, the belongings, mainly.” Banbury waved a hand across the shelves. “A few other points of interest. The picture on the wall there.” He indicated a photograph of an empty red metal bench against a white tiled wall. “You couldn’t get much more sterile than that, could you? He doesn’t do people. Except his grandparents – there’s an unframed photo of an old couple in the bedside table. We’ll see if we can get anything from it. There are only two types of items here: the stuff he owned as a child, and recent acquisitions. In the former group you’ve got the alarm clock with the chicken on it beside the bed, and that little grey metal animal, an armadillo I think. The clock’s from the early 1950s so I’m guessing it was purchased by the grandparents. Anything that ugly would have to have sentimental value. Those armadillo figurines were popular in Texas in the mid 1970s, but they were available here. Maybe it reminds him to keep a tough shell. Might have been a gift from his father.”

  “That’s a bit of a leap.”

  “The trick is not to look at anything in isolation. Whether they mean to or not, most people continually reassess their belongings, adding and subtracting all the time to keep everything in balance. So I add the picture, the clock and the armadillo to that book over there.” He pointed to a single hardcover in an alcove beside the bed. Founders of the Empire was a volume on great British explorers. “It’s signed with a message from his father. No names, unfortunately.”

  Banbury picked up the book and showed Bryant. He wasn’t about to let the detective touch it without gloves. “See, he’s written on the flyleaf. ‘An independent man makes his own way in the world – Dad’. Hard to imagine a more impersonal note. I guess he wanted his kid to grow up self-reliant and disciplined. No sign of a mother anywhere. Kid stuff here, near the bed – adult stuff over there. The teenage years are missing. Then we jump to a few recent purchases in the cupboard, the paperback copy of Machiavelli, psychology manuals, the fiction choice suggesting that he likes reading about villains more than heroes, American Psycho, The Killer Inside Me, damaged people. He’s interested in learning how to control others. He’s probably disdainful of ordinary folk, despises their weaknesses, thinks of them as lower life forms. The books and magazines are arranged thematically and alphabetically. Four separate volumes on the great disasters of London; maybe he enjoys reading about other people’s tragedies. He’s obsessive-compulsive because at first it was the only way to protect himself and keep his real feelings hidden, and now it’s an unbreakable habit.”

  Banbury walked around the bed. “Check out the drawers. His clothes are neatly grouped into different outfits for the personalities he wants to project. Grey suit, white shirt, blue tie, jeans and grey T-shirt. Grey, white, blue – the colours of sorrow, austerity, emptiness. The brands are H&M, Gap, M&S. No choices that reveal any sign of individuality. The bed linen’s been washed so there aren’t even any fabric prints to lift. One plate and one mug – he certainly wasn’t planning to have anyone over to stay. He lives here and yet he doesn’t.”

  “What do you mean?”

  Banbury scratched his nose and thought for a minute. “Some people have no sense of belonging, because they live inside their heads. They carry themselves wherever they go. They’re complete from one moment to the next. Most of us, if we were told we had to board a plane in the next couple of hours, would need to head home first. We like to tell others what we’re doing, where we’re going. We go online, make calls, form connections. He doesn’t. No phone, no mail, no laptop, no keys, wallet, money, bills or passport. He always makes sure he’s got everything he needs on him.”

  “But he had nothing on him when he was arrested.”

  “Then he has a place to stash stuff. Obviously he’d be tagged at any airport.”

  “I don’t think he wants to leave the country,” said Bryant, “or even leave the area. Something is keeping him right here.”

  “Then what are we missing? Don’t touch that, it’s not been dusted yet.” Banbury pulled out a camel-hair brush and twirled it between his fingers. “It’s complicated. He’s living off the grid, old-school fashion, face contact only. He stays in this block because it’s local council-owned but cared for by the residents, which means the cops aren’t as familiar with it as they are with the Evil Poor housing up the road.” The so-called Evil Poor Estate was home to multigenerational criminal families whose recourse to violence and destruction was as natural to them as going to the office was for others. Such estates formed modern-day rookeries around London.

  “Have a look at this,” said Banbury. “There are stacks of local newspapers in the cupboards, articles starred in felt-tip – he’s fascinated by London, particularly the area in which he lives. Plenty of neatly transcribed notes about the surrounding streets and tube stations. He has abnormally strong ties to his home. This is interesting because it contradicts all the other signifiers. To me, it’s the only part of his behaviour that’s outwardly irrational.”

  “An emotional attachment to the neighbourhood. Why would you stick around if you’d killed someone?”

  “Killers do. But it’s usually the disorganised, mentally subnormal ones who stay on at the location. The organised ones use three separate sites: where the victims are confronted, where they’re killed and where they’re disposed of. Then the killer leaves the area. So we have a contradiction.”

  “Hm. Anything more from the newspapers?”

  “He’s earmarked the obituaries of people who live around here. Maybe he was planning identity theft.”

  “Think he’ll come back to the flat? Is it worth keeping someone on-site?”

  “He’s got no reason to return. There’s nothing worth taking.”

  “Come on, Dan, give me something I can use.” Bryant impatiently rattled the boiled sweet around his false teeth.

  “Okay. His name. I’ve bagged one of the notes you might find interesting, some research about a dodgy pub that used to exist nearby called ‘The Fox at Bay’. Your killer’
s clearly a local lad, born in one of the surrounding streets. Maybe he took his name from the pub. He won’t have become friendly with anyone else in the building, but maybe someone knew his old man. I think at some point your Mr Fox lost contact with his family, maybe when his folks split up. He cuts his own hair, is capable of changing his appearance quickly. But he’s cleaned his electric clippers so that there’s not so much as a single bristle left behind. He’s bleached everything. He left home fully prepared to travel, because there’s nothing of value here, only the two changes of clothes and one pair of knackered old shoes. No-one else’s fingerprints but his own, and he hasn’t got a criminal record so we can’t match them. No foreign fibres so far, nothing to link him to the murders beyond what we already have. We could try the National DNA Database, but less than eight percent of the population is recorded on it, so if he’s managed to keep himself out of trouble and away from hospitals, it’s of no use. He keeps his dirty work off the premises. Hair dye in the bathroom cabinet, and a pair of steel-rimmed spectacles with plain glass in them. Not exactly a master of disguise, but you do feel he enjoys the power that accompanies deception. No sign of a woman anywhere. He’s the kind of man who visits prostitutes. He can’t risk getting close to anyone. He wouldn’t trust them.”

  “Well, I’m disappointed,” Bryant complained. “I thought you were going to provide me with some genuine revelations instead of a load of old guesswork.”

  Banbury blew out his cheeks in dismay. “Blimey, Mr Bryant, I thought I was doing quite well.”

  “Let me tell you something about this man. He doesn’t see himself as damaged. The cities are our new frontiers; it’s here that the battles of the future will be fought, and he’s already preparing himself for them. He knows that the first thing you have to do is chuck out conventional notions of sentiment, nostalgia, spirituality, morality. There’s no point in believing that faith, hope and charity can help you in a society that only wants to sell you as much as it can before you die. Mr Fox has divested himself of his family and friends, and he’s taking his first steps into uncharted territory. He considers himself as much of a pioneer as…oh, Beddoes or Edison.”

  Banbury stared in bewildered discomfort at Bryant, who was cheerfully sucking his sweet as he considered the prospect.

  “You think he’s some kind of genius? Sounds like you admire him.”

  “No, I’m just interested in the way people protect themselves in order to survive. It’s an instinct, but Mr Fox has turned it into an art. And this solipsism ultimately blinds him. Ever had dinner with an actor?”

  “No.”

  “Don’t. All they ever talk about is themselves. They never ask questions, never bother to find out who you are. They’re not interested in anything but getting to the truth of their characters. And in most cases there isn’t any truth, just an empty, dark, faintly whistling void. The serial killer Dennis Nilsen was so incredibly boring that he actually sent his victims to sleep.”

  “Blimey.”

  “I had an aunt once who appeared in drawing room comedies. She was doing a Noel Coward at Richmond Theatre, Hay Fever, I think, when a man in the front row dropped dead. She was very put out, because there was a practical meal in the second act and she was starving. They had to halt the show while the St John’s Ambulance Brigade carried the corpse out, and she complained to the house manager that her food had got cold. Heartless and selfish, you see. Do you want a gummy bear? They’re a bit past their sell-by date but that just improves the flavour.” He seductively waved a paper packet at Banbury.

  “No thanks. I’m going to close up here, then.” Banbury stopped in the doorway and looked back. “It’s almost inconceivable that someone can operate as a lone agent in a city this size. You wouldn’t think it possible. We’ve got four million CCTVs beaming down on us, rampant personal data encryption and local authority surveillance – and yet he can still make himself invisible.”

  “Urban life has an alienating effect on all of us, Dan. When was the last time someone smiled at you in a shop or you actually talked to someone on the tube? Mr Fox has learned to adapt. He embraces the new darkness. He has the tools to control it. His life unfolds inside his head. I need to know what he’s planning next.”

  “I don’t know how you can find that out. He’s a murderer, Mr Bryant. He’s different from everybody else.”

  “Maybe he always has been. What happened to create the void in him? There’s a danger that when you pack up from here, tape the front door shut and leave, we may never see or hear from him again, do you understand? I can’t let that happen.”

  Banbury shrugged. “I’ve done my best but I can’t work with what isn’t there.”

  “We’re supposed to specialise in finding out what isn’t there. Find me something.”

  “Some people” – Banbury sought the right phrase – “don’t have a key that unlocks them. But if Mr Fox does, I’m willing to bet it’ll be in his formative years, between the ages of, say, seven and twelve. It won’t tell us where he is now, of course – ”

  “Maybe not, but it’s a place to start,” Bryant interrupted. “Keep looking, and leave everything exactly where it is, just in case he decides to come back. I’ll see if we can run surveillance for a few days at least.”

  Bryant was about to leave, then stopped. In the open bathroom cabinet he could see a small white plastic pot. Removing it, he checked inside. “He wears contacts. The case is still wet, and there’s what looks like an eyelash. Can you run this through your DNA database?”

  “Depends on whether the saline solution has corrupted the sample. But I’ll give it my best shot.”

  “You’ll need to. We don’t have anything else.”

  “Do you think he’s insane?”

  “We’re all mad,” Bryant replied unhelpfully. “That chap Ted Bundy was working as a suicide prevention officer while he was murdering women. In 1581, the test of legal insanity was based upon an understanding of good and evil. A defendant needed to prove that he couldn’t distinguish between right and wrong. But what if he could prove it, and still commit atrocities? The insanity ruling was amended to allow for those who couldn’t resist the impulse to kill. Nowadays, that clause has been removed because serial killers don’t fit the legal definition of insanity. They accumulate weapons, plan their attacks, hide evidence and avoid detection for years, so it’s clear they should know right from wrong. They certainly appear to be making informed choices. Voices in the brain? Perhaps. Something in the darkness speaks to them.”

  “I thought you didn’t know anything about serial killers,” said Banbury.

  “I don’t,” Bryant replied. “But I’ve seen the things that make men mad.”

  ∨ Off the Rails ∧

  5

  Trouble

  Detective Sergeant Janice Longbright was not exactly the tearful type. Longbright had been around police stations all her life, and it took a lot to upset her.

  When she was seven years old, she had been sitting in the public area of the old cop shop in Bow Street, waiting for her mother to come off duty, when a distressed young man walked in and cut his wrists with a straight razor, right in front of her. The scarlet ribbons that unfurled from his scraggy white arms were shocking, certainly, but she’d been fascinated by the trail of blood splashes he left as he walked on through the hall, because for two weeks before that, she had been seeing their pattern whenever she shut her eyes. His death seemed to clear the problem; her sleep that night was deep and dreamless.

  Longbright’s mother had often brought copies of case notes home with her at night. Gladys was always careful not to leave them lying around the flat, but her daughter knew exactly where to find them. Shootings, stabbings, men ‘going a bit mental’, political correctness had been thin on the ground back then. No diversity training, no child trauma services, nothing much to comfort the beaten and bereaved beyond a cup of strong tea and a comforting chat. And somehow, perhaps because she was used to the subject of death being
introduced at the meal table or between Saturday night TV shows, young Janice had remained a well-balanced child.

  Gladys had discussed the mysteries of human behaviour with her daughter in a kindly, dispassionate manner, as if they were stories that could damage the sensibilities only of other, less robust families. Janice had grown up tough enough to survive the defection of her father and the loss of her beloved mother. She had spent eleven years with a partner whose nerve had ultimately failed him when faced with commitment. There was a core inside her as firm as oak, inherited from a long line of strong women, and nothing could chip it away.

  But by God, she was sorry to lose Liberty DuCaine.

  Friends for four years, lovers for one night, they would probably have proven too similar for their relationship to grow further, but the chance to try had been snatched away from her. So she sealed his death inside her head, somewhere at the back with the other sad things, and told herself she might look back one day in the future, but not yet. There was too much to do. Her colleagues probably all thought she was an icy bitch, but it couldn’t be helped. There was a time to cry, and it was not now.

  First things first; if they were really going to clear up all outstanding work by the end of the week, they needed to get organised. The offices were a dirty, dangerous disgrace. The Unit hadn’t had a chance to catch its breath since it moved in. Crates were piled in the hall, taps leaked, lights buzzed and smouldered, the floors were strewn with badly connected cables, doors jammed shut or opened by themselves. The detectives’ files were a hopeless mess. Bryant kept hard copies in cardboard folders, May kept his on discs, and neither knew what the other was doing.

  She had hoped April would help her sort everything out, but the poor girl had declined into her former agoraphobic state after DuCaine’s death, and could not be persuaded to return to the Unit. Janice was annoyed with her for giving in to her demons. April’s departure had handed another small victory to Mr Fox. She’s gone and it’s a shame, but there’s work to do, Longbright thought, rolling up her sleeves and filling a bucket.