to make it look like he was sticking to the rules. Good behaviour, that’s what he wanted the prison staff to see. Put up with the shit and be a good boy, Jacko. But that was as much of an act as anything else.
Years ago he’d been watching the TV magazine show his ex-wife used to host when she’d interviewed the governor of a prison where there had been a terrifying riot, with the prisoners effectively taking control of the jail for three days. The governor had had a world-weary air to him, and Vance could still summon up his image when he recalled his words: ‘Whatever you put in place, they’ll find a way round it.’ At the time, Vance had been intrigued, wondering if it might be a hook for a TV programme for him and his team. Now, he embraced what it really meant.
Of course, in prison your options were limited when it came to finding a way round anything. You were thrown back on your own resources. That gave Vance a head start over most of his fellow inmates, who didn’t have much to draw on. But the attributes that had made him the most popular male presenter on British TV were perfectly suited to prison. He was charismatic, handsome, charming. And because he’d been a world-class sportsman before the accident that had ultimately led him to his TV career, he could lay claim to being a man’s man. And then there was the George Cross, awarded for risking his life to save small children after a fogbound multiple-vehicle accident on the motorway. Or maybe it was supposed to be a consolation for losing his arm in the failed attempt to get a trapped trucker out of his crushed cab. Either way, he didn’t think there was another jailbird in the country who had been awarded the highest honour for civilian heroism. It all stacked up in the plus column.
At the heart of his plan had been one simple element – befriend the people who had the power to change his world. The top guns who run the inmates; the officers who choose who gets the perks; the psychologist who decides how you serve your time. And all the while, he’d be alert for the key player he’d need to make it all come together.
Brick by brick, he’d built the foundations for his escape. The electric razor, for example. He’d deliberately sprained his wrist so he could plead the impossibility of a one-armed man shaving any other way. Then there had been the convenience of the Human Rights Act, which had ensured his access to state-of-the-art prosthetics. Because the money he’d made before he’d been revealed as a serial killer of adolescent girls had not been the proceeds of crime, the authorities couldn’t touch it. So his artificial limb was the very best that money could buy, allowing him intuitive control and individual finger movements. The synthetic skin was so good, people who didn’t know any better wouldn’t believe it wasn’t real. If you weren’t looking for fake, you wouldn’t see it. An eye for detail, that was what counted.
There had been a moment when he’d thought all his work had been wasted. But wasted in a good way. To the surprise of most people, the appeal court had eventually overturned the verdict against him. For a glorious moment, he’d thought he’d be walking out into the world a free man. But those bastard cops had slammed him with another murder charge before he could even get out of the dock. And that one had stuck like glue, as he’d always feared it might. And so it was back to the cell and back to the drawing board.
Being patient, sticking with the plan had been hard. Years had trickled by with little to show. But he’d toughed things out before. Recovering from the terrible accident that had robbed him of his Olympic medal dreams and the woman he loved had given him reserves of willpower that few people had access to. Years of training to reach the pinnacle of his sport had taught him the value of perseverance. Tonight, all that would pay off. Within a few hours, it would all have been worth it. Now he just had to make the final preparations.
And then he would teach some people a lesson they would never forget.
4
It was hard to see the victim clearly because of the white-suited forensic technicians working the crime scene. As far as Detective Superintendent Pete Reekie was concerned, that was no bad thing. It wasn’t that he was squeamish. He’d seen enough blood over the years to be pretty much immune to its stomach-churning potential. He could take any amount of straightforward violence. But when he was confronted by the perverse, he’d do all he could to avoid the kind of eye contact with the dead that would leave their broken and profaned bodies etched on his memory. DS Reekie didn’t like sick minds having access to his head.
It was bad enough that he’d already had to listen to his DI run through it on the phone. Reekie had been having a perfectly pleasant evening in front of his giant plasma screen, a can of Stella in one hand, cigar in the other, watching Manchester United cling on to a single goal lead against more stylish opposition in the European Championship, when his mobile had rung.
‘It’s DI Spencer,’ his caller announced. ‘I’m sorry to disturb you, sir, but we’ve got a bad one out here and I thought you might want to be informed.’
Ever since he’d taken over Bradfield’s Northern Divisional CID, Reekie had made it clear to his minions that he didn’t ever want to be blindsided by some case that the media decided to turn into an audience-grabbing crusade. This was the downside, being dragged away from a key match with fifteen minutes still to play. ‘Will it not wait till morning?’ Reekie demanded, knowing the answer before the question was finished.
‘I think you’ll want to be out here,’ Spencer said. ‘It’s another prostitute murder, same tattoo on the wrist, according to the doc.’
‘Are you saying we’re looking at a serial killer?’ Reekie made no attempt to hide his incredulity. Ever since Hannibal Lecter, every bloody detective wanted to jump on the serial-killer bandwagon.
‘Hard to say, sir. I never saw the first two, but the doc says it looks the same. Only … ’
‘Spit it out, Spencer.’ Already, Reekie had regretfully dumped his can on the table by his chair and stubbed out his cigar.
‘The MO … well, it’s pretty radical, compared to the other two.’
Reekie sighed, backing out of the room, half his mind on the languid centre-forward ambling towards a perfectly calibrated pass. ‘What the fuck’s that supposed to mean, Spencer? “Pretty radical”?’
‘She’s been crucified. Then stood upside down. Then had her throat cut. In that order, according to the doc.’ Spencer’s tone was clipped. Reekie wasn’t sure whether it was because Spencer was shocked himself or trying to shake his boss. Either way, it had certainly done the business for Reekie. He felt acid in the back of his throat, alcohol and smoke transformed into bile.
So he’d known even before he left the house that he wouldn’t want to look at this one. Now, Reekie stood with his back to the horrible tableau, listening to Spencer trying to make something substantial out of the shreds of information they had so far. As Spencer began to run out of steam, Reekie interrupted. ‘You say the doc’s sure it’s the third of three?’
‘As far as we know. I mean, there could be more.’
‘Exactly. A bloody nightmare. Not to mention what it’ll do to the budget.’ Reekie straightened his shoulders. ‘No disrespect, DI Spencer, but I think this is one for the specialists.’
