Cold Kill (17 page)

‘Bad dreams –'

‘No dreams at all.'

He put his arms round her and kissed her. The liquor had made her breath hot and heady. He said, ‘I love you,' which was true and she knew it.

‘How are your street-people?'

‘They're out in the cold.'

‘In both senses'

‘Exactly. They're beginning to sense a genuine affinity with the Baby Jesus.'

‘But they're good copy.'

‘Couldn't wish for better.'

‘This case,' Stella said, ‘this fucking case is going a step forward and a leap backwards.'

‘What's the step forward?'

‘We found a DNA match at the Simms and Blake scenes of crime. Exclusive to those scenes.'

‘And it doesn't belong to Robert Kimber.'

‘No, it doesn't.'

‘But that still doesn't help you find –'

Stella held up a hand to stop him going any further. ‘It should have been Kimber,' she said. ‘He sounded right and he felt right and he had the look.'

‘What look?'

‘You know it when you see it.'

‘Copper's instinct.'

‘That would be it.'

‘Gut feeling… sort of a hunch, really.'

‘Shut up.' She hit him on the arm, laughing, and turned to put the salmon into the oven. ‘Make the salad. You open the bag and invert it over a bowl; tricky till you get the hang of it.'

Delaney opened his mouth to tell her about Kimber's emails, then closed it again. He wasn't through with Kimber: there was more to be had. But if he let Stella know that he'd visited the man and interviewed him, that chance would be lost. All he'd hear would be the sound of doors slamming and one of them would probably be the door to his flat.

Valerie Blake's video was lying on the worktop. He moved it to find a place for the salad bowl. ‘What's this?'

‘I don't know yet,' she said. ‘Put it on.'

Stella cut a lemon into quarters. She dropped one of the quarters into her drink and splashed a little more vodka into the glass.

Delaney poured vinegar and oil into a screwtop jar. He added a little Dijon mustard and some crushed garlic and shook the jar hard.

Kimber said, ‘Hello, Valerie. You don't know me but I know you.'

Stella paused, the glass at her lip. Delaney paused in mid shake. The man on the video was wearing a face-mask made
of some thin, glossy material, satin or silk, with holes cut for the eyes and mouth. His lips were slightly pursed and damp and pink. Even though the tape was short, he had a lot to say for himself.

After a while, Stella said, ‘It's Kimber.'

Delaney knew it was but couldn't say so. They watched it three times. Later, Marilyn Hayes would make a transcript of it for circulation, and, as she set down the words, she would feel her face burn, feel the nerves in her back jump as if someone had pulled a wet thread in her spine.

Hello, Valerie. You don't know me but I know you. I know where you go and what you do. I know where you live… as you can tell, or how could I have sent you this message? What did you think when the postman delivered it? Something a friend had sent? And what do you think now? [
LAUGHTER
] Well, I am a friend, Valerie. Think of me as a friend you haven't met as yet. A friend in the offing, you might say. I watched you reading on the tube the other day. I don't read much, really, but I might try that book, just to imagine you following the story, just to share it with you. I like it when you go jogging, Valerie. I can see your shape. I can see your breasts move. I like the way your hair lifts in the wind when it's not tied back. When you're walking in the street you look from side to side, look into shops. If you'd known, you might have seen my reflection there sometimes, just behind you, waiting for you to set off again. Sometimes I'll be coming towards you, sometimes I'll be behind you. You never knew, did you? I'm always there. It would be no good looking, because I'm just one in a crowd. How would you know me? You don't know me, but I know you. [LAUGHTER] I think I'll come over and see you some night. I think I'll come round. You'll be asleep. Fast asleep, but when you wake up I'll be there. I'll be
there in the room with you. And we'll have such fun. [
LAUGHTER
] Let me tell you what we're going to do...

After the screen went to blue for the third time, Stella speed-dialled Sorley and held the phone close to the TV while he listened.

He said, ‘What do you want to do? We know he's not our man.'

‘What we do know is that he's a stalker and he had a lot of fun at our expense. Now this. Intimidation, issuing threats, obscene articles through the post, intent to commit a serious crime, you name it. And he's walking the streets, free as air.'

‘You want to nail him anyway.'

‘That's right. Bring him in and hand him over to Serious Crimes. He'll have sent other videos to other victims. There'll be crime reports. DNA, voice-printing, shouldn't be difficult.'

‘You could give them the video. Let them go after him.'

‘Why wait?'

‘Is this personal, Stella?'

‘Yes, it's personal.'

‘Fair enough. Go and get the bastard.'

The message she left on Pete Harriman's mobile said, ‘I know what you're doing and I know who you're doing it with, but you're missing all sorts of fun at sixteen thirty-one, Block C.'

She took Maxine Hewitt and Frank Silano and called in two ARV teams to watch their backs. The Hatton gun made a bass-percussion sound as it took the door out, but at that time of night it was one bass-percussion sound among many.

There was a detritus of odds and ends scattered about and, in Kimber's bedroom, the closets and drawers were
empty. The scant furniture was still in place, but the small workstation had gone. They made a search anyway, but it was clear there would be nothing to find.

‘Think he knew,' Silano asked, ‘or got lucky?'

‘Lucky. Two hours ago, I didn't know myself.'

Silano took the kitchen. A full rubbish bin, stale food, cardboard sleeves from ready meals.

Maxine took the bedroom. A jumble of unwanted clothes and a dirty sheet heaped on the mattress; she turned them with latex-gloved hands.

Stella took the main room. Circulars, giveaways, pizza vouchers.

John Delaney's business card.

As they were leaving Kimber's apartment, the Drugs Squad were emerging from Jaz's place. Jaz was with them, his wrists snared by plastic handcuffs. When he spotted Maxine, he looked puzzled for a moment, then he saw the light. He showed her his teeth and she smiled back at him.

‘I told you,' she said, ‘that it was just a matter of time.'

The girl stood in the doorway, looking a little unsteady on her feet. She focused on Maxine and called her a fucking bitch, but didn't know what to do next.

Stella watched as Jaz was hauled off. She said, ‘Did you do that?'

Maxine shrugged. ‘Someone certainly did.'

‘Ask me,' Stella told her. ‘Ask me before you call up the heavy squad.'

‘I didn't say it was me.'

‘No, you didn't,' Stella agreed. She might have been smiling.

In the bull ring, a group of boys had gathered, hoodies pulled forward, diesel denim scuffing the ground. Stella and
Frank Silano got into the car, but Maxine delayed a moment. She pointed at the boys, her thumb cocked.

‘You're next,' she advised them, and her thumb wagged: one round, two rounds, three. Blam-blam-
blam
!

Bloss and Kimber strolling on the Strip, up among the druggies and the whores, the dealers and the high-rollers. The night was cold, but everyone was out to play. Although it wasn't raining, there was a light mist in the air, a thin cloud of droplets that carried exhaust gases and fast-food stain and ganja-smoke and a rainbow haze of neon. Bloss had taken Kimber to a studio flat on the main road, just before you hit the Strip. It was over a bookie's and faced the cemetery. Just now, they were checking the territory; they were getting the lie of the land.

‘Anyone,' Bloss was saying. ‘Anyone you choose. But here's the trick: it has to be someone you don't know. Who doesn't know you. As if they were random.'

‘They always are,' Kimber told him. ‘The ones I follow.'

‘We're not talking about following.' Then Bloss checked his stride and glanced at Kimber. ‘Are we?'

Kimber looked away to where a girl was making a sale to a punter driving a family hatchback, bending low to give him a good look at what was on offer. She undid the top button of her fake-fur coat and named a price. All the girls were wearing fur: red, blue, pink, black, orange, tiger-striped or pinto.

‘Her?' Bloss asked. ‘Yes, it could be her. Bit close to home, perhaps.'

Kimber nodded. ‘I used to see a girl up here. Nancy.' He looked round as if he might find her. ‘I paid her, you know. I like that. It's the best way. I paid and I did what I wanted.'

‘And what was that?'

‘Games.'

They walked a little further. The whores eyed them but didn't approach. Bloss had a look that said
Not me; not now
. The pimps eyed them too, then shrugged and turned away; these guys weren't punters and they weren't cops, so obviously they had business of their own and as long as it didn't stop the hookers hooking, the pimps would have no complaints.

A spinner with
STAND
on one side and
FAST
on the other was advertising a minicab rank. Bloss made a deal with one of the drivers and they went down to Notting Hill and ordered drinks in the Ocean Diner.

He said, ‘Here's how it works. You pick your ground, you pick your person, you pick your method. If there's no connection between you, you can't be caught. In order to be caught, you have to make a mistake. That's why I wanted to make it look as if Valerie and Sophie had been done by whoever attacked the other women – because it's likely
he'll
make a mistake. There was nothing between Valerie and me; nothing between Sophie and me.' He was drinking whisky over ice, rolling it round his mouth, savouring it. ‘Except that I killed them, of course.'

‘Did you follow them?'

‘Follow...?'

‘For a few days, maybe. A week or so. Beforehand.'

Bloss shook his head. ‘Went out. Chose someone' – he made a short, chopping motion with his right hand, the hammer coming down – ‘took my chance.'

‘I'd follow,' Kimber said. A man with his preferences; a man with his own way of doing things. ‘I'd want to follow for a bit. Get to know them, get a good sense of them. Tease myself with it.'

‘Riskier,' Bloss advised. ‘You can be seen.'

‘I'm never seen. I'm the invisible man.'

While they were talking, Kimber had been watching people go by in the street. Bloss followed his eyeline and laughed. ‘Sure,' he said, ‘any of them. Pick any one of them.'

Suddenly, Kimber seemed feverish. His eyes glistened. ‘What should I use?'

Bloss finished his drink and signalled for another. He said, ‘You have to look at possibilities, weigh things up. It's winter. It's cold. People are wearing heavy coats and other clothing underneath. A knife could be deflected, or might not go deep enough. Do you see what I mean? You might not get the
depth
. You're probably coming up behind the person, so you want your first move to be decisive. More than that, you'll have chosen your ground. You'll have found the place. So you don't want that person getting clear, getting into the open.'

‘A hammer,' Kimber suggested, taking a tip from the expert.

‘A hammer's good. A hammer works.' Bloss waved a hand to the barman and held up three fingers – make it a triple. ‘Now, there's the question of whether you want to kill that person outright, kill her right there and then, or whether you want to spend some time with her.'

‘Spend time...?'

‘You see, that can be a tricky thing. You want to spend some time, so you try and get the swing just right, hard enough to put her down but not so she's dead. Maybe not even out, but let me tell you, that's more luck than judgement. Some people have thin skulls.'

Kimber had a schooner of beer in front of him, almost untouched. ‘Valerie?' he asked.

‘Sophie. Second strike, the hammer went through. Went through and stuck. I had to stand on her shoulder and heave to get it back.' Bloss laughed. ‘Here's a tip, Bobby. Get a reversible coat. There's always a bit of a problem.'

‘Problem?'

‘Splatter problem.'

Bloss's drink arrived and he took a long swallow. Kimber said, ‘It's Robert.'

‘What?'

‘Not Bobby – Robert.'

‘And babywipes. Don't forget the babywipes.'

A car alarm kicked in directly outside the diner, started by nothing more than the wind. On the other side of the road, a beggar was sitting on her sleeping-bag and playing the penny whistle, her Christmas carol drowned out by the two-tone shriek.

‘Now there's a good hit,' Bloss suggested. ‘Street-people. No one knows them, no one gives a fuck.'

‘A bit impersonal,' Kimber said.

Bloss looked at him and laughed. ‘You're right. Bobby, you're so right.'

Earlier, Bloss had watched as Kimber unpacked. The photos that Kimber had pasted to his walls were in an artist's portfolio along with the card of hair-clippings. While Kimber went round the tiny flat distributing his belongings, Bloss sat quietly by the window holding the card, his fingertips making the faintest contact with the blonde, the brown, the red, the black. He wasn't looking at the snippets, but his hands moved like those of a blind man, tracing the features of a loved one whose face he'd never seen. He lifted the mounting-card closer and took the scent: still a trace of perfume, he thought, and, somehow, wonderfully, a trace of the girls themselves.