The postmortem proved that beyond reasonable doubt. It was just another seedy little sex murder. Central should clear it up in a few days with a bit of help from Vice,’ Kevin said, the self-satisfaction obvious in his voice.
Penny bit on the bullet and said sweetly through clenched teeth, ‘And?’
‘And what, darling?’
‘If that was number one, there must be a number two.’
Kevin smiled, so smug that Penny made the instant decision that he was on the out just as soon as she had an acceptable alternative lined up. ‘Oh yes, number two. Stevie McConnell isn’t the killer.’
For once, Penny ran out of words. The information was shocking in itself. But more shocking was the fact that, knowing this, Kevin had said nothing. He had remained silent and let her paper run a story that was eventually going to make her look an ill-informed pillock. ‘Really?’ she said, in the superior accent she hadn’t used since the day she’d gratefully quit boarding school and made the decision to go vocally downmarket.
‘That’s right. We knew that before he legged it.’ Kevin lay back on the pillows, blissfully unaware of the look of distilled hatred that Penny was beaming in his direction.
‘So what exactly was that pantomime at court this morning in aid of?’ she demanded in tones her elocution mistress would have been proud of.
Kevin smirked. ‘Well, most of us had already decided that McConnell wasn’t our man. But Brandon had put a tail on him, so when he tried to skip the country, we were more or less obliged to pull him in. By that time, it was starting to look definite that McConnell isn’t the Queer Killer. Plus, he doesn’t fit the profile that Tony Hill came up with.’
‘I don’t believe I’m hearing this,’ Penny said sharply.
Kevin finally registered that all was not well. ‘What? You got a problem, darling?’
‘Just a fucking bit,’ said Penny, enunciating each syllable crisply. ‘You mean to tell me you’ve not only put an innocent man on remand, you’ve also let the world’s press broadcast the assumption that this man is quite probably the Queer Killer?’
Kevin propped himself up and took another swig of his drink, reaching out to rumple Penny’s hair with his other hand. She pulled away with a jerk. ‘It’s no big deal,’ he said patronizingly. ‘Nobody can get a lynch mob together and go round his house while he’s inside. And we reckon that telling the world between the lines that we’ve got the killer banged up might just provoke the real killer into getting in touch with us to make sure we know he’s still out there.’
‘You mean you want to drive him to kill again?’ Penny demanded, her voice rising.
‘Of course not,’ Kevin said indignantly. ‘I mean, to get in touch. Like he did after he’d killed Gareth Finnegan.’
‘My God,’ Penny said wonderingly. ‘Kevin, how can you sit there and tell me that nothing bad can happen to Stevie McConnell while he’s locked up in prison?’
While Penny Burgess and Kevin Matthews were arguing the morality of Stevie McConnell’s remand, in C Wing of Her Majesty’s Prison Barleigh, three men were taking turns to show Stevie McConnell what happens to sex cases in prison. At the end of the landing, a warden stood impassively, appearing as oblivious to McConnell’s screams and entreaties as a deaf man with his hearing aid switched off. And on the moors above Bradfield, a ruthless killer put the finishing touches to the torture instrument that would help show the world that the man in prison was not the person responsible for four perfectly executed serial punishments.
The HOLMES room was a quiet hum of activity, operators staring into screens and tapping keys. Carol found Dave Woolcott sitting in his office picking listlessly at fish and chips. He looked up when she entered and managed a wan smile. ‘Thought you were having a night off,’ he said.
‘I’m still hoping to. My brother promised to buy me a bucket of popcorn all to myself if I make it to the multiscreen before the film begins. I just wanted to swing by and run something past you.’ She dumped two plastic bags on Dave’s desk. Glossy computer magazines spilled out.
‘I’ve got this theory,’ she said. ‘Well, more of a hunch.’ For the third time, Carol outlined her idea about the killer importing videos and transforming them into supports for his fantasies.
Dave listened carefully, nodding as Carol’s ideas sank in. ‘I like it,’ he said simply. ‘I’ve read that profile a couple of times now, and I really can’t accept what Dr Hill says about keeping stable just by using videos of the killings. It doesn’t make sense. Your idea does. So what do you want from me?’
‘Michael reckons that tracing the buyers of Vicom 3D Commander might lead us to him if we’re right. I’m not so sure. It’s possible that the company the killer works for has the software, and he does the manipulation work there. To be on the safe side, though, he’d need to do all the scanning and digitizing at home. So I thought it would also be worthwhile doing a trawl of the suppliers of video digitizers and video capture cards. We can find suppliers via the ads in these magazines, since virtually all computer stuff comes mail order. We should also contact local computer clubs too. If you’ve got any bodies to spare, that is.’
Dave sighed. ‘Dream on, Carol.’ He picked up a magazine and flicked through the pages. ‘I suppose I could draw up a list tonight and tomorrow, and first thing Monday morning we could get a couple of DCs to do a ring- round. When my operators will have time to input the data, I don’t know, but I will see that it gets done. OK?’
Carol grinned. ‘You’re a star, Dave.’
‘I’m a bloody martyr, Carol. My youngest’s cut two teeth that I haven’t even seen yet.’
‘I could stay and help you go through the magazines,’ Carol said reluctantly.
‘Oh, bugger off. Go and enjoy yourself. It’s about time one of us did. What are you going to see?’
Carol pulled a face. ‘It’s a Saturday Special double bill – Manhunter and The Silence of the Lambs.’
Dave’s laughter echoed in her ears all the way to the car.
The long howl seemed to come from the pit of his stomach. As his orgasm shuddered through him like a runaway train, Tony felt a glorious sense of release. ‘Oh, God,’ he groaned.
‘Oh, yeah, yeah,’ Angelica gasped. ‘I’m coming again, again, oh, Tony, Tony…’ Her voice faded in a gulping sob.
Tony lay back on his bed, chest heaving, the smell of sweat and sex heavy around him. He felt as if he’d been suddenly detached from a burden he had been carrying for so long he had ceased to notice its weight. Was this what being cured felt like, this sense of light and colour, this sensation of having dumped the past like sacks of coal in a bunker? Was this how his patients felt when they’d unloaded their mess on him?
In his ear, he could hear the ragged sound of her breathing. After a few moments, she said, ‘Wow. Just wow. That was the best ever. I just love the way you love me.’
‘It was good for me, too,’ Tony said, meaning it for once. For the first time since they had started this strange combination of therapy and sexual game-playing, he’d had no trouble with his erection. Right from the start, he’d been hard as a rock. No fading, no wilting, no shame. Just the first problem-free sex he’d had for years. OK, so Angelica wasn’t actually in the room with him, but it was a giant step in the right direction.
‘We make the sweetest music,’ Angelica said. ‘Nobody’s ever turned me on like you do.’
‘Do you do this often?’ Tony asked languidly.
Angelica chuckled, a husky, sexy gurgle of laughter. ‘You’re not the first.’
‘I could tell that. You’re far too much of an expert,’ Tony flattered, not entirely insincerely. She’d been the perfect therapist for him, that much was certainly true.
‘I’m very choosy about the men I allow to share with me,’ Angelica said. ‘It’s not everyone who appreciates what I have to offer,’ she added.
‘They’d have to be very strange not to enjoy it. I know I do.’
‘I’m glad, Anthony. You’ll never know how glad. I have to go now,’ she said, her tone changing abruptly to the businesslike one Tony had come to associate with the end of their calls. ‘Tonight has been really special. We’ll talk soon.’
The line went dead. Tony switched off the phone and stretched out. Tonight, with Angelica, for the first time in his life, Tony had felt a protective care that succoured without smothering. His grandmother, he knew intellectually, had loved him and cared for him, but theirs had never been a demonstrative family, and her love had been brusque and practical, meeting her needs rather than his. The women he’d been involved with in the past had, he now realized, been her emotional doppelgangers. Thanks to Angelica, he dared hope the pattern had been broken. It had caused him enough pain over the years.
His sexual life had started later than most of his contemporaries, in part because his body had been reluctant to mature. Until his seventeenth year, he’d been by far the smallest boy in his class, condemned to dating the
