‘If it doesn’t work, we’ve lost nothing,’ said Harper.
‘I’m okay with it, Tom,’ said Williamson. ‘I’m just not the innovative type, but you’re right to try. I’ve been going over the autopsy protocols again, seeing if we’ve missed anything. Looking at what this guy did to these kids. He’s evil. You understood that straight away, didn’t you? You saw it.’
Tom reached out and put his arm on Williamson’s shoulder. The man was fifty-four. His own daughter must be in her mid-twenties. ‘We’ll screw this bastard into the ground, Nate.’
‘Yeah, well I hope I’m there to see it. I want to put my heel in.’
‘Listen, Nate, I think I ought to do the press conference.’
‘Fuck that, Tom.’
‘This is going to rile him. He might react. It’s dangerous. It was my idea, I’m happy to front it.’
‘I’m lead, Tom, I lead. No question. If he wants to come and get me, I’ll be ready for him.’
Harper worked until the press release was ready to go, then he sat down alone in the bunkhouse and tried to get a few minutes of sleep before the evening sitting by the phone lines.
In the cold, drab room, Harper felt a sudden loneliness. For three months, there hadn’t been anyone to open up to. Lisa had been the only person he’d confided in, and now he didn’t know where to turn. He pulled out his phone and scrolled down to her name. He looked at it for a moment, then pressed call. She picked up.
‘Lisa. It’s Tom, you got a moment?’
‘I’m on my way out, Tom.’
‘Where are you?’
‘Not your business, remember.’
‘I just…’
‘What, Tom? How is this going to help?’
Welcome to my life, he thought. He loved Lisa, sure. And he knew he’d messed the whole thing up. It had gone wrong so slowly, almost invisibly, and then suddenly they didn’t know each other.
‘I love you,’ Harper said. There was a pause. ‘Don’t be angry.’
Lisa’s voice came back all calm and slow: ‘Tom, I know you think you do, but you don’t. You just don’t like to lose, Tom, and that’s ego — not love.’
It didn’t matter what she was saying. For a moment, it was just good to hear the way she spoke in nice neat sentences.
‘I’ll prove it to you.’
‘No. Listen. I don’t want you to prove it to me. It’s not the point. Listen to me. It’s hard. I know it is, and we’ve been doing this the hard way. You know. Love you, love this — just wrong time, wrong place… whatever.’
‘What are you saying?’
‘Tom, I don’t love you. This isn’t hard for me. This is good for me. I’m happy. I don’t have to go through it with you any more. I’m not in love with you. I don’t think about you. I’m not waiting. I’m not looking to move backwards. And another thing… I don’t think you can love…’
There was a silence. Lisa knew she had hit out but she knew the big hit was to come. That was all just padding. He knew it too. He sensed what was coming. He’d known for some time now. But he wasn’t going to let it happen.
‘Right,’ said Tom. ‘I’ll get off. Sorry I called. I gotta-’
She interrupted. A second later and he’d have ended the call.
‘I’m seeing someone, Tom. I’m seeing a guy I met. He’s a nice guy.’
‘Don’t lie to me, Lisa. You’re not seeing anyone.’
‘It’s goodbye, Tom.’
She hung up. He threw his phone hard across the room.
Chapter Twenty-Six
Fullerton Lounge
November 20, 6.23 P.M.
The man in the black suit and white shirt was drinking a martini in the Fullerton Lounge. He was dog-tired. Like someone had drugged him or something. He needed a pick-me-up. Killing wasn’t as easy as some people contended. It had its costs as well as its benefits.
The Fullerton Lounge on Lexington was an over-expensive and self-important bar that aimed to extract as many dollars as possible from people too self-consciously rich to dare to ask the price of things.
The man in the black suit liked it because it was quiet and dark. He had three newspapers from the last few days spread out in front of him. He picked up the Daily Echo and started to read the account of Jessica’s murder.
It was front-page news in all of the papers. It was page one to five in the Post. The headline in the Daily Echo read: ‘Devil Kills Fourth Angel’. He liked that. He opened the other papers. They’d all caught on now. They understood. This was serious. He was the main attraction. The killer smiled. It was in the detail that the horror lay. None of them had the level of detail that the Daily Echo reporter had got. He read Erin Nash’s exclusive with particular glee. She even had the nice touch of his with the cherry blossom. The public would be terrified and secretly excited by it all.
It was good to be the only man in the world worthy of the media attention. At 6.25 p.m., he asked the bartender to put on the news. He watched as they trawled through the political nonsense and finally, towards the end, they got round to the latest on his story.
A cop from the old school was speaking at a press conference about Jessica’s murder, telling the city that it was all under control. He was lying. They had nothing under control. They just didn’t know it yet. The cop said little more than had already been in the majority of the papers: a student had been murdered by her date. He said that it was a vicious attack and that the police were doing everything they could.
The killer sneered. He didn’t like the cop’s attitude. It was disrespectful. He’d murdered an entirely innocent, moral young woman in an apartment block full of residents and they didn’t have a single lead. Give the American Devil his due. He looked at the cop’s name: Detective Williamson. He made a mental note. He had a head full of mental notes. Then the cop’s face came right up close and personal. He wanted to make a statement to the public. The killer watched and listened.
Williamson cleared his throat. The statement he was about to read out was designed to prick the killer’s pride. ‘We are seeking help in finding this killer. The following information will help us to identify major suspects. We are looking for a man too weak to control his own temper, a man who routinely sees himself as inadequate. He always preys on weakness and is a confused and random opportunist. We are looking for a frightened individual who has difficulty holding down relationships or speaking to women. He only picks on defenceless victims because he is weak himself, weak and afraid. Further to that, he attacks these bright young women from behind with lethal force so that they are absolutely no threat to him. These are all symptoms of a deranged and fearful psyche. He will be unable to have normal sexual relations and will rely on fantasy to fuel his own self-hatred. He is not careful. He leaves a great deal of evidence, both physical and behavioural, at the scene. However, he does work and drive. At the last crime scene the killer left behind a very telling clue to his identity. We also know he drives a blue car. A premium brand classic car. We have a number of sightings of his car and his face. We need the public to help identify this killer. But we’d prefer to speak to the American Devil himself. This is a direct appeal. We know you did not intend to kill these girls. We know what happened at the first murder scene and that it was a mistake. You need help. We need you to get in touch with the NYPD on the number below to discuss the case. If you don’t, we are close to homing in on you, and you will be brought to justice by force. Please call the number below if you want to talk to us.’
The killer’s jaw was wide open. He looked left and right to see if anyone else was shocked and confused. He wasn’t anything like the portrait they’d painted. They were fucking idiots. They were the fucking incompetents. He had not left evidence and his victims had all been wide awake. The killer downed his shot and ordered another. The indignant anger was rising in his chest. He had to put this right. He had to make sure people knew what he was
