TORN (22 page)

Reilly swung her camera round, took several shots from different angles to capture the shadows that revealed where the table and chair had been. She checked the screen quickly. She loved digital cameras – could always make sure she had a good shot.  Satisfied, she turned her attention to the other cluster of indentations.

These were smaller, three close together in a small triangle pattern. Reilly looked at the position – beside the table – and scrunched her face up in thought.  Suddenly an image popped into her mind – three small legs, close together. A tripod? Was the killer taking photos, or perhaps videotaping the killings?

She quickly snapped another group of photos, a slight smile on her face.

It was a small detail, but she knew from experience that, little by little, eventually everything came together to reveal the bigger picture. Keep collecting the pieces, and soon the pattern would be revealed.

The indentations of the table and chair gave her a good focus for her search – the killer might have sat at the table, taking photos or a video of his torture.

Reilly moved on towards the wall, her torch leading the way, revealing the details that she would miss without its relentless focus. 

As she ran the beam along the base of the wall, a tiny flash caught her eye. Something bright, possibly metallic, was hidden in the crack between the floor and the wall.

She leaned down, and peered closer. Half hidden beneath the straw was a narrow wooden cylindrical-type object. A pencil. She carefully lifted it up by the tip, keeping her gloved hands away from any possible fingerprints. It was a pale shade of orange, the initials LFI embossed in silver on the wood.

Reilly straightened up, thoughtful, and dropped the pencil into an evidence bag. It looked to be good quality, and in pristine condition, which meant it couldn’t have been there longer than a couple of weeks …days, even.

A sudden flash of inspiration hit her as she remembered the tiny rubber shavings she’d found in the church tower. Those, taken with the pencil, had to mean—

‘Have you missed me?’ A distinctive plummy male voice cut right through Reilly’s concentration.

A young police officer stood in the doorway behind none other than Reuben Knight. ‘Sorry, Ms Steel, I tried to keep him out …’

The profiler was silhouetted by the vehicle light behind him, the blue casting a blinking ghostly glow over the scene. He was wearing a burgundy jacket with a paisley scarf carefully arranged at his neck, and looked dramatic standing in the doorway, his exuberantly coiffured hair silhouetted by the lights.

‘Go on then, flash your torch around and let me see what our little friend has been up to this time,’ he requested.

Reilly shook her head in irritation. ‘This isn’t some freakshow, Reuben. I’m working here.’ She stood up and shone her torch directly at his face.

He threw a hand up to block out the blinding light. ‘I know that – and for heaven’s sake get that blasted light out of my eyes.’

Reilly dropped the beam towards his feet. ‘You stay there, in the doorway – I’ve already had enough people prancing around in here.’

‘Of course, of course.’ Reuben sounded impatient – impatient and excited. He immediately began rummaging through his pockets, as if looking for his pen, and Reilly idly wondered if there wasn’t a touch of OCD about their esteemed profiler.

‘It’s not a pretty sight …’ she said, shining her torch towards the back of the room. As she did so, the oil drum, the trough and finally the victim came into view.

Knight gave a sharp intake of breath.

‘I warned you,’ Reilly said quickly. ‘Ugly, isn’t it?’

‘
Au contraire
, my dear,’ he replied breathlessly. ‘This … this is a work of art.’  He took a step forwards, then remembered himself. ‘Do you recall your Dante, Reilly?’

She nodded. ‘A lake full of pitch – corrupt politicians.’

‘Precisely!’ He sounded so gleeful, Reilly half expected him to rub his hands together.

‘So, what’s this all about, Knight?’

They both turned back to the doorway where Chris and Kennedy, who had obviously been made aware of Reuben’s arrival, now stood.

‘Well, for those of you whose education stopped at puberty …’ the profiler began, with a mischievous glance towards the detectives, ‘… in the
Inferno
, Dante wrote that the Eighth Circle, Bolga Five, was reserved for corrupt politicians. They were immersed in a lake of boiling pitch, which represented the sticky fingers and dark secrets of their corrupt deals.’ Reuben dabbled his own fingers in front of him, as though playing in a messy bowl of food.

Chris looked as unimpressed as ever.  ‘Wonderful. I’m sure Fitzpatrick’s family would be delighted to know that you are so gleeful about his demise.’

Knight waved him off. ‘Nonsense, Detective. I am merely showing professional respect for a worthy adversary – one, I might add, who is showing a remarkable flair for constructing original crime scenes for his chosen victims.’

Reilly was beginning to realize what an enthusiast Reuben was at heart, despite all the bluster.

Chris looked disgruntled.  ‘So he’s following the script. What does that tell us about him that we don’t already know?  Will this make it any easier to find him?’

Knight gave him a dismissive look. ‘As usual, Detective, no foreplay, always straight to the point. That won’t woo the heart of a maiden like Miss Steel, you know.’

Reilly flushed, but before Chris could reply, Knight turned quickly back to her.

‘When you spoke just now, there was a definite tremor in your voice. Is it just the thrill of the crime scene, the proximity to the rather overdone Mr Fitzpatrick, or do you have something to share with us?’ He coughed. ‘Have you found something?’

She was faintly impressed. Knight might be unorthodox but he was good. She nodded in acknowledgement. ‘I think I’m getting a better idea of how he works.’

‘Please enlighten us.’

Reilly directed her torch to the ground at her feet. ‘Over here, there are some clear indentations in the straw.’

‘And?’

‘I’m thinking that there was a small table here, and possibly a chair.’

Reuben nodded, looking thoughtful. ‘So our killer is a voyeur; he likes to sit back, relax and watch his victims die?’

‘There’s more than that.’ Reilly pointed to the floor again. ‘Here, there is a smaller set of imprints.  I think it could be a tripod, for a camera, maybe a video camera.’

‘I see.’ Reuben fiddled idly with the fountain pen. ‘So not only does he like to watch, he likes to record the details too?’

‘Perhaps not just with a camera,’ Reilly said, Reuben’s comment suddenly putting her recent finds in perspective. ‘I picked up some fragments of rubber at the Jennings scene, and here I’ve found a pencil. I’m now thinking the fragments could perhaps have come from an eraser. Which indicated that the killer may have been drawing or sketching the Jennings scene in the tower with his pencil. He’d made a mistake, corrected it, and absently brushed the rubber detritus onto the floor, little suspecting that someone would find the almost microscopic traces.’

Knight clapped his hands together, and turned back to the detectives, triumphant. ‘What did I tell you? An artist at work, I said!’

‘Lucky guess,’ Kennedy mumbled.

‘Pshaw! No such thing!’ Reuben ran his hand across his hair. ‘Well, my little investigators, I can see you have a long night ahead of you.’  He straightened his scarf. ‘I have a date waiting.  You continue doing whatever it is you do, and I shall return to my beau. Why don’t we reconvene first thing tomorrow? You can tell me what you found here, and I’ll present you with a detailed portrait of our killer.’

He flashed Reilly a smile, then pushed past the detectives and back out into the damp night.  He unfurled a large umbrella and disappeared across the muddy yard.

‘I swear, one of these day I’m going to strangle that guy,’ Kennedy growled.

‘You’ll be easy to catch,’ Chris joked. ‘Motive, opportunity …’

Reilly smiled, absently trying to figure out if Reuben’s date was male or female. It was all too easy to assume him gay, but from the way he flirted so relentlessly with her she couldn’t be sure.

She rolled her shoulders and neck, tired from both lack of sleep and the intense concentration. ‘Are my guys here yet?’

Chris nodded. ‘Just saw them outside getting changed.’

‘Good. I’m itching to have a proper look at the body before the doc gets here. They can finish up the rest of the room.’

She cracked her knuckles, then looked back and forth between the detectives, an impish smile on her face. ‘Come, gentlemen, come!’ she said imitating Reuben’s distinctive manner. ‘The game is afoot. Not a word! Into your clothes and come!’

Chris gave her a look of deep suspicion. ‘Are you quoting Sherlock Holmes at us?’

Reilly grinned. ‘Yep, the night is young, the trail is still hot. This is what we live for, why we do this, right?’

He scowled, and looked outside at the dark, wet night. ‘Knocking on doors of unsuspecting neighbours in the middle of the night in the rain? Your trail may be hot, but ours looks distinctly damp.’

‘Well, actually I think Reuben is right,’ she said, thinking that now that they could recognize the killer’s MO, they’d figure out more about him from this scene than the other three put together. ‘We are making progress – I can just smell it, can’t you?’

Chris turned his collar up, his tone unusually curt. ‘At the moment, Reilly, all I can smell is toasted politician and dodgy aftershave.’ 

Simon Darcy slowed as he approached the turn. The sign at the entrance left no doubt where you were, or what to expect:

Government Property – Entry Forbidden

Visitors and Authorised Vehicles Only Beyond This Point

Simon looked outwardly calm, but inside his nerves were jangling. 

He drove carefully, taking his time over everything. Finding an empty space at the far end of the car park, he reversed in. He couldn’t help but smile – it was almost as if he was planning a quick getaway.

The building loomed overhead, an uninspiring edifice of granite, but the tall red-brick tower and the razor wire surrounding the perimeter betrayed its real purpose. This building was built to contain, incarcerate.

Carrying his briefcase, Simon slowly approached the main door of Mountjoy Prison. 

He passed through the first doors, the security barrier ahead. His briefcase went through the scanner, and was subjected to a cursory search. Simon himself went through, and was checked over with a hand scanner.

The guard was tall, middle-aged, a weary expression on his thin face. He recognized Simon. ‘Who you seeing today, then?’

‘Ricky Webb.’

The guard grunted. ‘Good luck with that one – he’s a right little shit.’

Simon nodded. ‘Thanks for the warning.’

‘I can’t believe he’s getting out,’ the guard continued, scowling.  ‘If I had my way, a little prick like that would never see the light of day again.’

Simon looked sympathetic. ‘Oh, well, we’ll just have to trust that they all get their just deserts in the end.’

The guard sat back on his metal folding chair, looking at Simon from under the brim of his cap. ‘I wouldn’t hold my breath on that one.’

The reception desk was behind a thick glass window. Simon stared at his reflection while he waited for the officer to finish talking on the phone.  He ran his hand through his thinning fair hair, and slid his passport under the glass. His heart was pounding, his palms clammy.

The guard finished up on the phone, glanced at Simon’s ID, then down at his face. ‘Officer Carey’s gone to fetch Webb – interview room two.’

Simon felt as though a serpent had wrapped its coil around his gut. ‘Thank you.’

‘You know where it is?’

Simon nodded. ‘I’ve been on that block before – end of the hall, turn left?’

The guard smiled.  ‘That’s it. Second door on your left. Need any help?’

‘I’m fine, thanks.’

The other man slid a visitor’s badge under the glass. ‘You know the drill – keep this on you at all times.’

Breathe deeply, stay calm …
‘Thank you.’ Simon took the badge, clipped it to his gray sweater, and turned and headed down the hall.

The hallway was long, lined with CCTV cameras.  Simon tried to relax, tried to act normal, but he was sure that every camera was watching him, that sooner or later he would hear the loud angry buzz of the alarm, the pounding of polished black shoes on the linoleum, that a group of guards would come thundering round the corner, seize him, and drag him off to a cell.

He couldn’t help himself; as he reached the end of the corridor he glanced up at the camera, the red light blinking insolently at him, the all-seeing, never-resting eye.  Just as quickly he looked away. 
Relax, try to stay calm, keep going …

Simon stopped in front of the second door on the left. Interview room two.  This was it. He gripped his briefcase tight – everything he needed to do the job was inside. Take a deep breath.