Leah shook her head, shooting the suggestion down the moment it left her partner’s lips. “I can’t risk it getting back to the gaffer. Hopefully, it won’t be that important in the long run.”

  “I hope you’re right,” Jonesy replied, feeling no choice but to go along with his superior’s request.

  They returned to the room where Malcolm Doyle looked a lot paler than when she left him. She could tell he’d spent a lot of time with the photographs more than anything.

  “This is a very savage killer,” Dr Doyle explained as he looked through the photos of Caroline Lennox. “And I’m not just talking about the physical wounds he inflicts on his victims. I’m talking about psychological wounds. He takes people who are struggling with bereavement and offers them a second chance at reconciliation. I wouldn’t be surprised if many of these victims had difficult relationships with their families beforehand. It’s an open wound he’s more than happy to exploit. We all long for catharsis and closure.”

  It sounded beat for beat what Charlotte’s phone call had been about.

  Seeing Leah getting lost in a train of thought, Jonesy took the lead. “So, what is the possible motive?”

  Malcolm pushed his glasses up his nose and gestured to the earliest crime scene photos, dated three and a half years ago. “When the first victim was discovered, it had been purely about money. Telling their families that they were in trouble and that they needed them to send money to get them out of it.”

  Jonesy scoffed, unable to believe that people could fall for it so easily.

  “The first murder wasn’t necessarily planned,” the psychiatrist continued, pointing to the photo of a woman with their blood sprayed all over the furniture. “You can see by how the crime scene is a haven for forensics. Clearly, the victim got wise to the idea and was unwilling to pay out any more money. So, while money seems to have been a starting motive, the killer is less concerned with gaining money and more with exploiting the psychology of the bereaved.”

  “So, what kind of person could we be looking for?” Jonesy asked, looked over at Leah every now and then to make sure she was listening.

  “Chances are, this killer will have endured a bereavement of some kind.” Doyle laid out his theory hesitantly, having had only an hour to reflect on it. “They never received any closure, and this is something that hurts them no end. And their method of dealing with this pain is to take it out on the rest of the world. I wouldn’t be surprised if he’s dealt with false hope in his lifetime. There’s nothing worse than having someone promise you a way forward, only to then snatch it away. What the specific circumstances would be, I couldn’t say. But he wants to inflict the same hope spot on other people. And if he can make a bit of money on the side, even better.” Doyle paused, reflecting on some of the later photographs. “But his approach seems to be evolving.”

  “How so?” Leah asked, wondering if it would make it difficult for them to find the culprit.

  “Over the last few killings,” Malcolm explained, pointing to the earliest photos and the latest ones for comparison. “He’s developed a theatrical side to his killings, a sense of showmanship.” He pointed to the picture of Caroline Lennox positioned in the chair. “It’s a morbid form of art. Granted; he hasn’t put much thought into it.”

  “Why go to so much trouble to lay out the body like that?” the inspector asked, looking at Caroline’s mutilated body. “Wouldn’t it just draw any attention to him?”

  “Serial killers develop a certain confidence in their acts, convinced that they could leave all the pieces out, and the police would be too foolish to put them all together,” Malcolm outlined before realising that he could have chosen his words better.

  “So how do we go about finding the next victim?” Leah asked, convinced that another victim would soon follow.

  “Well, there are a few ways around it,” Malcolm suggested, turning his attention away from the photos. “You could be on the lookout for anyone who’s suffered a bereavement within a two-to-five-year window. That seems to be when he strikes.”

  “The problem with that,” Jonesy began rubbing his eyes, still feeling the effects of a sleep-deprived night. “Is that that would include half of Bedford.”

  The mood darkened as they realised what it meant. The only way they could catch the killer would be to wait for him to make the first move and hope that the police would intercept him in time before he could claim his next victim.

  10

  “Is it worth putting in a call to Clarissa to send out a warning in the Bedford Gazette?” Leah asked, knowing that her friend was always eager to help out with her cases.

  “It’s too risky,” Malcolm replied, shaking his head and shooting the idea down. “The killer can just as easily pack up and leave Bedford.”

  “I thought you said this killer liked a challenge?” the inspector demanded, struggling to match the murderer’s warped sense of logic.

  “There’s enjoying a challenge,” Dr Doyle iterated, pointing to the photos again. “And there’s telling him he has no moves to make. If you want to catch this guy, you’ve got to work on his playing field. You know the expression, ‘the thrill is in the chase, never in the capture.’”

  “And how long do we have to wait until he calls somebody else?” Jonesy asked, sharing his partner’s frustration.

  “It’s hard to say,” the psychiatrist admitted with a shrug. “But there are other ways you can hone in on his location. We know that your man is likely to be a drifter. He won’t be a Bedford resident. So, in keeping with his nomadic existence, I would start looking into local B&Bs around Bedford, hotels, anything, see if anyone is staying there over an extended period.”

  Jonesy sighed. “Is there a part where our job actually gets easier?” he asked, feeling like the killer was going to slip through their fingers.

  “The technology,” Dr Doyle answered quickly, surprising both Leah and Jonesy. “Given how easily people are buying into the illusion, I think it’s safe to assume you’re not dealing with an impressionist. The killer may be using audio technology to capture the tone and style of the deceased voices.”

  “Is there really a piece of tech that can do that?” Leah asked with surprise, wishing she kept more up to date with current technology.

  “You’d be surprised how sophisticated the audio work can be,” Malcolm replied with a hint of dread. “There was a case a few years back about an actor who lost his voice due to complications from throat cancer. He commissioned this audio software using archived clips from his films and interviews, and it was able to recreate his voice.”

  The detectives’ eyes widened in amazement… before the inevitable dread set in at how sophisticated the killer’s approach was.

  “The good news,” Malcolm explained, feeling the need to reassure them, “is that this kind of tech is quite sophisticated. It’s not the kind of app you can download from an app store.”

  “So, basically, we need to look for a short-term resident who’s going to be packing fancy tech on his computer?” Leah asked, wondering how this was any better than when they started.

  “I’m afraid so,” Malcolm responded, feeling he was at the end of what he could offer. “If I could see any other way forward, believe me, I would share it with you.”

  “And how do we know he’s not just going to skip straight to the killing?” Jonesy asked, feeling the need to consider the worse-case scenario.

  “Because the killer considers himself a showman,” the psychiatrist reiterated, feeling exhausted from going over the subject matter. “He wants to build up that sense of hope before crushing it. Looking over the previous killings, I’d say from the moment he contacts somebody, you’ll have little more than a week before he puts them in the ground.”

  Once Dr Doyle had left, Leah brought together members of the team, including Jonesy, DS Jeff Rowan, and DC Farah Hussein together. “Listen up,” she announced in the main office. “We have reason to believe that our killer is a drifter travelling through Bedford. We have yet to establish specific characteristics, however, we believe he has a temporary residence in Bedford, so I’m going to speak with uniformed officers about visiting some of these residencies.”

  Jeff held up a hand to speak. “Don’t you think we need a bit more specificity?” he asked, trying not to come across as the lone contrarian.

  “Unfortunately, this is all we have to work with,” Leah replied, having anticipated some resistance. “But I’d rather think about how we’re going to catch this man as opposed to how we’re going to justify not catching him.”

  That sent ripples through the gathered officers, just the effect she wanted.

  Jeff was trying to stop himself from panicking.

  He’d underestimated DI West. Underestimated how quickly she would work her way towards the truth.

  He waited until everyone was dismissed before he went into the corridor and dialled a number. He was taking a huge risk in calling the number, but he felt that he had no other choice.

  “Hello?” The voice came through on the other end, and Jeff wasn’t sure if the voice had been digitally altered in any way.

  “It’s Rowan,” he stated breathlessly, looking over his shoulder.

  “Is it really safe to contact me?” the voice chided playfully.

  “Listen, West is starting to close in on you. She’s going to start checking every hole you could be hiding under.” He spoke in a hushed voice, frantic, and not sure how much time he had.

  “So, what are you asking me to do?” the voice queried in a neutral tone. “Do you want me to kill her? Forgive me, DS Rowan, but I was under the impression West was supposed to be ruined, not dead.”

  “There’s no time for any of that,” the sergeant continued, walking down the corridor and feeling claustrophobic.

  “And what does our mutual friend say about this?” the voice asked silkily. “They don’t strike me as the kind to change tactics without warning. He’ll probably want to know about this…”

  “There’s no time!” Jeff snapped, drawing the attention of a PC walking past him. Lowering his voice again, he whispered, “She’s getting too close. We need to find a way to throw her off the scent.”

  There was silence on the other end. And for a moment, Jeff suspected he’d lost the connection.

  No. The killer was simply considering fresh tactics. “Leave this with me,” he assured the sergeant, full of confidence. “I’ll have her running in circles.”

  11

  Thomas Howard lay flowers down on the grave mechanically, his grief long since spent for his brother.

  They’d never pulled a body out of the burning house fire. But time and time again, he’d been hit with the same words, “Nobody could have survived that.”

  And he could tell they blamed him. They would feel that he hadn’t acted quickly enough, that there was still time to go in and get his brother before the roof caved in.

  And now, every time they looked at him, he could tell they wished it was his brother standing there, not him.

  He tried to think about what he could have done differently. If there was a side entrance he could have gone through or if there was a way he could have carried his sleeping brother out of the house. In short, he’d spent the past three years ruminating over the events of a single night.

  He’d barely left the cemetery when his phone started ringing. “Hello?” he asked wearily, not having the energy for any conversation.

  “Tommy?” came the voice, and Thomas was suddenly rigid, alert.

  People hadn’t called him Tommy since childhood, and there was only one person who still did. Until three years ago.

  “Kyle?” he asked, feeling a rush of memories coming back, as though the increasingly hazy picture of his brother was coming back into focus. “How are you…”

  “I got out,” the voice explained simply, as though the answer was so obvious. “Through the back.”

  Rather than question the likelihood, Thomas was swept into the illusion and asked, “Why didn’t you tell us you were alive?” He suddenly felt a rush of anger that his brother had allowed him to live with the guilt all this time when all it would have taken was one phone call just to ease the burden.

  “Because I wanted to disappear,” Kyle replied in a monotone. “Because I wanted a better shot at life. A clean slate.”

  “So, what are you doing contacting me?” Thomas demanded, thinking of how the call had come in a year too late for their father, struggling with dementia and now in a care home. Even if Kyle walked into the home to see him, there was a chance he wouldn’t recognise his long-lost son.

  “Because I need your help,” Kyle began, and for the first time, there was a flicker of emotion. “I’m in trouble, and I need some money.”

  “You’ve got to be joking,” Thomas exclaimed, unable to comprehend how his brother had only contacted him for a handout. “I don’t hear from you for years. You let me believe you are dead, and now you want a handout?”

  “There are people who are going to kill me!” Kyle pleaded, sounding more like a lost child than a grown man. “I wouldn’t be asking you this if I didn’t need it.” And then he said the words that he knew would win his brother over and forsake all logic. “This is a chance for you to make up for not saving me.”

  “I’ve got to be honest, DI West, I think you’re taking a very big risk,” Superintendent Wade remarked having heard Leah’s latest suggestion.

  Leah had figured that while most people would think to call the police, others would be too wrapped up in the illusion to call them, leaving them as easy prey for the killer.

  “People need to know that someone is posing as their loved one,” Leah explained, knowing she’d need to justify herself.

  “Journalists and police don’t always go hand in hand,” Nora replied, her distaste for the profession shining through.

  “Clarissa Everett is one of the most decent people I know,” Leah insisted, unable to think of a time when her friend hadn’t come through for her.

  “I’m not talking about the woman’s integrity,” the superintendent fired back angrily. “I’m talking about how it could hinder the integrity of this investigation. Need I remind you that one of the reasons why your conduct is being questioned is due to your unorthodox methods? I’m trying to prove to them that you can do things aboveboard, but what you’re suggesting is tantamount to pouring petrol on a bonfire.”

  “The killer is a showman,” the inspector explained, switching tactics and drawing on the logic Dr Doyle had put forward to her. “He likes the attention. He’s going to enjoy reading about himself in the paper, knowing the kind of damage he is doing. You know how all these serial killers are prone to flattery.”

  Wade leaned back in her seat. She was not interested in the workings of a serial killer, preferring a mentality where the motive was plain and simple. “All right,” she finally answered in a tone that said, ‘I’m going to regret this.’ “But I want the finer points of the case kept under wraps.”

  “Understood,” Leah replied, grateful for the lifeline. Now all she needed to do was take it to Clarissa.

  But no sooner had she taken out her phone to call her friend, it started ringing. “DI West,” she answered with a sigh. But as she listened in, her eyes widened in disbelief.

  He’s done it again.

  Leah and Jonesy sat in Thomas Howard’s home and listened as he told them how he’d lost his brother in a house fire, how a body had never been found, and now, against his wildest expectations, his brother was contacting him and asking for money.

  “How much did ask for?” Jonesy asked, notebook primed.

  “About £3,000,” Thomas explained, the number making him wince as he said it.

  “Did he give any indication why he was asking for it?” the inspector asked, running through a list of excuses in her mind.

  “He said he was in danger,” the brother replied, prompting a small nod from the two. They knew by now that the excuse of his life being in danger prompted a sense of urgency in the victim.

  “Mr Howard,” Leah began, seeing how he was clinging to the faint hope that his brother might still be alive. “We have reason to believe that you’re being scammed—”

  Suddenly, Leah’s phone started ringing. Her first instinct was to let it go to voicemail, but she decided to answer it. “Hello?”

  “Do you ever ask yourself what would have happened if you hadn’t left me alone that night?” the familiar voice of Charlotte rang out. “Do you think you might have even become a detective?”

  Leah bolted from her seat, now oblivious to everyone else in the room, and hissed, “I don’t know who you are, you vicious little bastard, but you’re not pulling the wool over my eyes. I know exactly what you’re doing.”

  “You can’t say that,” Charlotte fired back. “I’ve rattled your cage, and you know it.”

  “Do you think,” Leah began, raising her voice, “that impersonating my best friend is supposed to throw me off my game? Well, you’re wrong. I don’t know where you are, you sick bastard, but Bedford is not big enough for you to hide from me. I’m going to find you, and I’m going to rip your voice box out myself!”

  She waited for Charlotte to fire off another lie, a reminder of the past to lure her back.

  But the line went dead.

  Leah whipped around and saw her partner and the witness looking at her with bewilderment and fear etched on their faces.

  I’m coming apart, just like they wanted.

  12

  Despite the lack of progress so far, Detective Constable Farah Hussein was enjoying the mundaneness of her assignment.

  She and DS Rowan had journeyed to three hotels in the Bedford area and checked through all the residents that had checked in for extended periods, and so far, none of them fit the profile provided to them by DI West.

 

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