The Murder Code (4 page)

‘Look.’ I’d had time to think about this. ‘So far, all the evidence in the Gibson case points to Tom Gregory being responsible. Without the second, as yet unidentified victim, we’d still be one hundred per cent convinced of that. Yes?’

‘Yes, but—’

‘Good. Since it seems far less likely that Gregory killed the second victim, that’s my basis for not linking the crimes.’

‘Because in your head, you’ve solved the first murder. And you can’t possibly be wrong about that.’

‘No, I could be wrong. But it doesn’t make any sense that Tom Gregory did both. What—he had a little residual anger left over and took it out on a homeless man? Or he warmed up for the main event beforehand?’

‘You’re assuming it’s Gregory.’

‘Actually, no: I’m assuming it’s
anyone
. For “Gregory”, read “anyone”. It doesn’t make sense.’

Laura sighed. ‘It doesn’t always make sense, Hicks.’

‘Yes, it does.’ I sat up properly this time. ‘It really does.’

Because this
mattered
. It
always
made sense on some level. Not in a satisfying way, perhaps, but always in
some
way. And the fact is that people don’t go on random killing sprees with blunt-force instruments. If they want to do that, they use guns. And while it was theoretically
possible
, spree killers also don’t just stop: they keep going until we take them down, or until they get taken down.

Yes, Laura was right. It would be a hell of a coincidence for two victims to die in very similar ways in such a short period of time. But the alternative—that Gregory, or anyone, had murdered both—seemed even more unlikely. On the basis of probabilities, I was going with my head over my gut on this one for now.

Which isn’t to say it wasn’t close.

Young had been sitting very still—really only his gaze moving, back and forth between Laura and me, following the tennis match—but now he leaned forward, rested his elbows on the desk and steepled his fingers beneath his chin. Ready to add his input and verdict.

‘What about if Tom Gregory had a reason to dislike this gentleman as well? Could there be a connection between the two victims?’

‘Possible, sir,’ I said. ‘But I can’t see it. It’s the same geographical area, but even given the general poverty, both victims are from massively different social circles.’

Young nodded.

‘But we need an ID before we can rule anything out.’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘And it’s possible the culprit went down to the river to dispose of the murder weapon. Encountered victim two and decided to get rid of him too.’

‘We’re dredging the river now, sir.’

‘You take my point, though.’

‘Yes, sir. Although if that’s the case, why the need for such extreme injuries? And it looks to me like the victim was asleep when he was attacked, so why not just back out and choose a different spot?’

‘Well. These are all questions that need answering, aren’t they? But in the meantime, we proceed as though they’re connected.’ He sighed; checked his watch. ‘Gregory should be here soon. Let’s see what he has to say, eh?’

‘Yes, sir.’

I looked at Laura. She looked back, then shook her head.

‘Yes, sir.’

What Tom Gregory had to say was, ‘You’ve got to be fucking kidding me. Fuck off. Both of you. Both of you can just fuck off.’

I said, ‘Tom, we really can’t fuck off.’

We were in one of the upstairs interview suites: a bare, functional room, containing just a steel table, chairs, Laura and me, and the current man of the hour. Gregory was in his early forties, six feet tall, wide at the middle, and had a certain meaty heft to him. The kind of guy who’d never done a day’s actual exercise in his life but would still be dangerous in a brawl. He’d shaved away his receding hair, and was wearing cheap blue jeans and a dirty red lumberjack shirt. The overall impression was that a dilapidated lorry was parked up in a truck stop somewhere waiting for its owner to come home.

‘You’ve got to be kidding me,’ he said again.

‘I can assure you that I’m not.’

He remained incredulous. It was an emotion that sat transparently on his stubbly face, in much the same way I imagined most emotions did. He was not a man of any obvious subtlety, and seemed to wear whatever he was feeling on his features without much concern as to what other people might think. For men like him, I guess, the fact they’re feeling it is usually enough to justify its immediate and forceful expression regardless of anything else.

He stared at me for a moment, then leaned back in his chair, which creaked beneath the bulk of him, and folded one beefy arm over the other. It was clear he thought the situation was stupid. To be fair, that was how I felt about him right now too.

‘You’ve got to be,’ he repeated.

‘You’re being a bit slow here, Tom. It’s surprising, really. You look like you’d be so much sharper.’

‘What’s that meant to mean?’

‘It’s not
meant
to mean anything. It
means
you’re acting pretty dumb. Dumber than you look, in fact. Somehow, you are achieving that. Your ex-partner is dead and you have a history of violence against her, so you’re going to have to do better than telling me I’m making it up. Because I know I’m not.’

‘I didn’t kill her.’

‘You don’t look too broken up about the situation.’

‘Why should I be? We were long over with. I’d put her out of my mind altogether—that’s the truth. I wish I’d never met her in the first place.’

‘Wish she was dead?’

‘No.’ But then he shrugged. ‘I don’t fucking care, though, if that’s what you’re asking. Why should I? You tell me why I should care. You can’t. She was a dirty, lying bitch. Something was always going to happen to her eventually.’

‘
Something was always going to happen to her,
’ I said. ‘This is good stuff, Tom. You remember this is all admissible in court, don’t you? Keep it up, we can dispense with the trial. I’ll just pull my gun out and shoot you now.’

‘What I
meant
is living where she did.’ He looked slightly more contrite now, probably only because he’d realised what he’d just said. ‘That horrible place. All those fucking scumbags and junkies hanging around. Telling lies about people too. That was what she did. It was only a matter of time before she ended up in trouble.’

‘Like she used to get in trouble with you?’

‘I never did anything.’ He tapped the table. ‘See any convictions in my file?’

‘No.’

‘So it never happened.’

Beside me, Laura took a deep breath. I sensed she was losing her patience, which didn’t happen very often. But I sympathised. Gregory was sitting there with a smug look on his face now.
It never happened.
At heart, men like Tom Gregory are still children. Their response to being told off is to be indignant, to not understand, to say
I didn’t do it.
It’s always someone else’s fault to people like him. If it happens out of sight, if they can’t prove it, you’re all right.

I decided to needle him a bit.

‘Great logic, Tom. But you know what? We have the call logs and witness statements. Not to mention all the other actual convictions you have. Short temper, haven’t we?’

He glared at me. ‘Sometimes.’

‘Sometimes.’

While none of the charges relating to Vicki Gibson had stuck, others had. He had three convictions for assault and two for violent disorder. The usual drunken bar fights. One count of criminal damage too. Suspended sentence and fine for each offence.

‘Lose it when you’ve had a few, yeah?’

‘Sometimes.’

‘Anger-management issues.’ I shook my head. ‘You’re funny, aren’t you? People like you.’

‘Funny?’

‘Yeah. You always say you have trouble controlling yourselves. The red mist descends and you can’t help it. All that bullshit. But I don’t see you losing it with me. Controlling ourselves, are we?’

‘Maybe I’m counting to ten.’

‘Maybe you can. No, I don’t think so. The truth is that people like you are cowards. Right? For some reason, you only lose control when you can get away with it. Funny that, isn’t it? It makes me laugh.’

Tom Gregory just looked at me. I stared back, letting the silence pan out. Rattling his cage was more enjoyable than it probably should have been, but I was angry. Partly it was what he’d done in the past—the kind of man he was—and partly the attitude. Maybe it was also the fact that, deep down, I suspected he was telling the truth—that he hadn’t killed her—and the possibility bothered me.

I settled back in my chair.

‘I didn’t kill her,’ he said. ‘I was at—’

‘Yeah, you said. Shut up.’

Gregory had already given his whereabouts the previous evening to the officers who’d arrested him earlier on. He’d then given them to us as soon as we’d walked into the interview suite. He’d been in O’Reilly’s bar from six until throwing-out time, somewhere between two and three, before leaving in the company of a middle-aged woman from the eastern quarter. He’d spent the night at her flat. We’d picked him up at the end of his walk of shame, assuming he was capable of that emotion.

On the face of it, it was a solid alibi. He certainly stank of alcohol, and none of his clothes were bloodstained, despite it being obvious he’d been wearing them for a good twenty-four hours. O’Reilly’s was a shitty, bare-boards half-club—a bar, pool tables and a floodlit dance floor by the toilets’—but it saw enough trouble for the owner to have installed CCTV. It was also a fair distance from the grids. The address he’d given for the anonymous lady of spectacularly poor taste was even further away. I knew that area, and many of the blocks of flats there had cameras too.

So it was either a very good alibi or a very bad one indeed.

I said, ‘You were drunk last night.’

‘Yeah. So? That’s not a crime.’

‘But you managed to get through the evening without the red mist descending, yeah?’

‘Yeah.’

‘You sure about that?’

He didn’t reply.

The door opened then, and a young WPC pushed her head in and jutted out her chin, indicating that she’d like a word. Laura and I pushed back our chairs. But I didn’t need to speak to the WPC to read the expression on her face.

Tom Gregory had a very good alibi.

In the observation room, I ran my hand through my hair and stared at the small monitor, which showed Gregory still sitting in the interview suite. Needless to say, my hair didn’t fall back down anything as neatly as Laura’s would have done. I don’t primp for such eventualities. I rarely face them.

‘He
has
to have done it,’ I said. ‘He
has
to.’

‘But he didn’t. Face facts, Hicks. We have camera footage of him being everywhere he claims to have been. Putting it all together, it makes it impossible he did it.’

‘He could have paid someone.’

But that was grasping at straws. Deep down, I knew my theory was wrong, and I was going to need to rethink this whole thing.

‘He can barely pay his rent,’ Laura said. ‘Besides, the whole point of his record is he does things like that himself. He’s a creep, don’t get me wrong, but his violence is all impulsive, spur-of-the-moment stuff. He’s not the type to hire someone to do his dirty work.’

‘No, I know.’

‘Plus, why would that same person kill our homeless John Doe as well?’

‘All right, Laura.’

‘Hit men not being in the habit of throwing in a second, random victim for free. I feel the need to hammer these points home, so I know we’re on the same page.’

‘Unfortunate choice of words, but yes. We are.’

On the screen, the same WPC who’d given us the bad news entered the interview suite, preparing to escort Tom Gregory out and back to the holding cell.

‘One killer,’ I said. ‘Two victims. The connection between them as yet unknown.’

‘I agree.’

I turned to her. ‘But there will be a connection, Laura. Nobody kills two people at random like that. There’s a reason. Something we’re not seeing.’

‘Ah. But you said before it was unlikely there was a connection between them.’

‘It was unlikely before. Now it’s the most likely explanation. You see how this works, right? It means I’m not technically wrong. I’m just altering my theory to fit the presently available facts. You should try it.’

Laura smirked. ‘What about him?’

I looked back at the screen. Tom Gregory was gone now, so I reached out and flicked off the feed switch, and the screen went blank.

‘No reason to keep him in,’ I said.

‘No.’

I checked my watch.

‘But we’ve got another sixty-eight hours before we need to charge him with anything. So let’s keep him for a bit.’

‘Why? What’s the point?’

‘Because I don’t fucking
like
him.’

I turned away and walked towards the door.

‘That’s the point.’

T
HE GENERAL SURVEYS HIMSELF
in the bathroom mirror.

His short hair is combed and gelled neatly; his face blank but stern. It is the face of a capable man: not someone to catch the eye of, not a man to be crossed. A soldier’s face—finally.

Below the shaved-red flesh of his throat, the uniform is green and straight; the red tassels at the shoulders stand out as bright as berries on sunlit grass. He holds the cap in his hands, clasped before him, and stands with rigid legs, feet shoulder-width apart. His black boots are polished enough to glint back the overhead light.

He can stand for hours like this on a night. He stares at his own reflection for so long that the face dissolves and reforms, becomes that of a stranger. Until, in fact, he feels oddly threatened by the man looking back at him. Frightened of the figure he sees, but also in thrall to the superiority there. Other times he feels disgust for him.

Often, the feelings vacillate, and that mixture of sensations, that internal conflict, can send him curling towards an unfathomable part of himself. He becomes lost in this image that encapsulates him. Hypnotised by the half-glimpsed, winking face of his soul.

But tonight, it is getting late. He has work to do.

So the General nods to himself—
dismissed
—then leaves the bathroom and moves through the silent house to his office. It is a small room. At one side, there is the terrible, half-formed thing that both repulses and fascinates him, but he ignores that for now and turns his attention to the opposite wall instead, where he keeps his desk and computer.