national task force for profiling repeat offenders. Well, we’re going to be the guinea pigs. Dr Tony Hill, the man who’s going to be telling the Home Office what to think, has agreed to work with us. Now, I know there are some amongst you who think that profiling is a load of crap. But like it or not, it’s part of our future. If we cooperate and work with this guy, we’re a lot more likely to see this task force end up something like we want it to be. If we piss him off, we’re liable to be lumbered with a bloody great millstone round our neck. Is that clear to everyone here?’
Brandon looked sternly round the room, not missing out Tom Cross. The nods varied from enthusiastic to barely perceptible. ‘I’m glad we all understand one another. Dr Hill’s job is to assess the evidence we provide him with and to come up with a profile of the killer to help us focus our enquiries. I’ve appointed Inspector Carol Jordan as the liaison officer between the murder squad and Dr Hill. Inspector Jordan, can you just stand up a minute?’
Startled, Carol scrambled to her feet, dropping her files on the way. Don Merrick immediately got down on his knees and grabbed the spilling papers. ‘For those of you from other divisions who don’t know Inspector Jordan, there she is.’ Nice one, Brandon, thought Carol. As if there were squads of female detectives to choose from.
‘Inspector Jordan is to have access to each and every piece of paper on this enquiry. I want her kept fully informed of any developments. Anyone who is pursuing a promising lead should discuss it with her as well as with their own inspector, or Superintendent Cross. And any requests from Inspector Jordan must be treated as urgent enquiries. If I hear that anybody’s being a smartarse, trying to freeze Inspector Jordan or Dr Hill out of the investigation, I won’t be taking prisoners. The same goes for anybody who leaks anything about this aspect of the investigation to the media. So think on. Unless you’ve got a burning ambition to climb back into uniform and walk the streets of Bradfield in the rain for the rest of your career, you’ll do everything in your power to help her. This isn’t a competition. We’re all on the same side. Dr Hill isn’t here to catch the killer. That’s your-’
Brandon stopped in mid-sentence. No one had noticed the door opening, but the words of the communications room sergeant captured everyone’s attention faster than a gunshot. ‘Sorry to interrupt, sir,’ he said, his voice tight with suppressed emotion. ‘We’ve got an ID on yesterday’s victim. Sir, he’s one of ours.’
F ROM 3' DISK LABELLED: BACKUP. 007; FILE LOVE. 004
It was an American journalist who said, ‘I have seen the future and it works.’ I know just what he meant. After the dog, I knew Adam wouldn’t be any problem.
I spent the rest of the week in a state of nervous tension. I was even tempted to try one of the tranquillizers myself, but I resisted. This wasn’t the time to give in to weakness. Besides, I couldn’t afford to be anything less than completely in control of myself. My years of self-discipline paid off; I doubt if any of my colleagues noticed anything unusual in my behaviour at work, except that I couldn’t bring myself to do the weekend overtime I usually volunteer for.
By Monday morning, I was at a peak of readiness. I was primed and polished, the perfect killer-in-waiting. Even the weather was on my side. It was a crisp, clear autumnal morning, the kind of day that brings a smile even to the lips of commuters. Just before eight, I drove past Adam’s home, a new terraced three-storey town house with integral garage on the ground floor. His bedroom curtains were closed, the milk bottle still sitting on his doorstep, half a Daily Mail protruding from his letter box. I parked a couple of streets away outside a row of shops and retraced my journey. I walked down his street, satisfied that so far I was right on time. His bedroom curtains were drawn back, the milk and newspaper gone. At the end of the street, I crossed to the little park opposite and sat on a bench.
I opened my own Daily Mail and imagined Adam reading the same stories that I was staring at unseeingly. I shifted my position so I could see his front door without craning round the paper, and put my peripheral vision on alert. Right on schedule, the door opened at eight-twenty, and Adam appeared. Casually, I folded up my paper, dumped it in the litter bin by the bench and strolled off down the street in his wake.
The tram station was less than ten minutes’ walk away, and I was right behind him as he strode on to the crowded platform. The tram glided into the station moments later and he moved forward with the flow of passengers. I hung back slightly and let a couple of people come between us; I was taking no chances.
He was craning his head as he entered the carriage. I knew exactly why. When their eyes met, Adam waved and squirmed through the crowd so they could chatter mindlessly all the way into town. I watched him as he leaned forward. I knew every expression on his face, every angle and gesture of his lean, muscular body. His hair; the little curls in the nape of his neck still damp, his skin pink and glowing from his shave, the scent of his Aramis cologne. He laughed aloud at something in their conversation, and I felt the sour taste of bile rise in my mouth. The taste of betrayal. How could he? It should have been me talking to him, making his face light up, bringing that beautiful smile to his warm lips. If my fixity of purpose had ever wavered, the sight of the pair of them enjoying their Monday-morning encounter would have turned my resolve to granite.
As usual, he left the tram in Woolmarket Square. I was less than a dozen yards behind him. He turned back to wave to his soon-to-be bereaved lover. I swiftly turned away, pretending to read the tram timetable. The last thing I wanted right then was for him to notice me, to realize I was dogging his steps. I gave it a few seconds, then took up the pursuit. Left into Bellwether Street. I could see his dark hair bobbing among the shop and office workers crowding the pavements. Adam cut down an alley to his right, and I emerged in Crown Plaza just in time to see him enter the Inland Revenue building where he worked. Satisfied that this was just another Monday, I carried on through the plaza, past the squat glass and metal office block, and into the newly restored Victorian shopping arcades.
I had time to kill. The thought brought a smile to my lips.
I went off to do some studying in the Central Library. They had nothing new in, so I settled for an old favourite, Killing for Company. Dennis Nilsen’s case never ceases both to fascinate and repel me. He murdered fifteen young men without anyone even missing them. No one had the faintest idea that there was a gay serial killer stalking the homeless and rootless. He befriended them, took them home, gave them drink, but he could only cope with them once they had been perfected in death. Then, and only then, could he hold them, have sex with them, cherish them. Now that is sick. They’d done nothing to deserve their fate; they had committed no betrayal, no act of treachery.
The only mistake Nilsen made was in the disposal of the bodies. It’s almost as if subconsciously he wanted to be caught. Chopping them up and cooking them was fine, but flushing them down the toilet? It must have been obvious to a man as intelligent as he was that the drains wouldn’t be able to handle that volume of solids. I’ve never understood why he didn’t just feed the meat to his dog.
However, it’s never too late to learn from the mistakes of others. The blunders of killers never cease to amaze me. It doesn’t take much intelligence to understand how the police and forensic scientists operate and to take appropriate precautions, especially since the men who earn their living trying to catch the killers have obligingly written detailed textbooks about the precise nature of their work. On the other hand, we only ever hear about the failures. I knew I was never going to appear in those catalogues of incompetence. I had planned too well, every risk minimized and balanced against the benefits it would bring. The only account of my work will be this journal, which will not see printer’s ink until my last breath is a distant memory. My only regret is that I won’t be around to read the reviews.
I was back at my post by four, even though I’d never known Adam leave work before a quarter to five. I sat in the window of Burger King on Woolmarket Square, perfectly placed to watch the mouth of the alley leading to his office. Right on cue, he emerged at 4.47 and headed for the tram stop. I joined the knot of people waiting on the raised platform, smiling quietly to myself as I heard the tram hoot in the distance. Enjoy your tram ride, Adam. It’s going to be your last.
4
The fact was, I ‘fancied’ him, and resolved to commence business upon his throat.
When Damien Connolly failed to turn up at the start of his shift as local information officer in F Division’s
