to control others. He’s probably disdainful of ordinary folk, despises their weaknesses, thinks of them as lower life forms. The books and magazines are arranged thematically and alphabetically. Four separate volumes on the great disasters of London; maybe he enjoys reading about other people’s tragedies. He’s obsessive-compulsive because at first it was the only way to protect himself and keep his real feelings hidden, and now it’s an unbreakable habit.”
Banbury walked around the bed. “Check out the drawers. His clothes are neatly grouped into different outfits for the personalities he wants to project. Grey suit, white shirt, blue tie, jeans and grey T-shirt. Grey, white, blue – the colours of sorrow, austerity, emptiness. The brands are H&M, Gap, M&S. No choices that reveal any sign of individuality. The bed linen’s been washed so there aren’t even any fabric prints to lift. One plate and one mug – he certainly wasn’t planning to have anyone over to stay. He lives here and yet he doesn’t.”
“What do you mean?”
Banbury scratched his nose and thought for a minute. “Some people have no sense of belonging, because they live inside their heads. They carry themselves wherever they go. They’re complete from one moment to the next. Most of us, if we were told we had to board a plane in the next couple of hours, would need to head home first. We like to tell others what we’re doing, where we’re going. We go online, make calls, form connections. He doesn’t. No phone, no mail, no laptop, no keys, wallet, money, bills or passport. He always makes sure he’s got everything he needs on him.”
“But he had nothing on him when he was arrested.”
“Then he has a place to stash stuff. Obviously he’d be tagged at any airport.”
“I don’t think he wants to leave the country,” said Bryant, “or even leave the area. Something is keeping him right here.”
“Then what are we missing? Don’t touch that, it’s not been dusted yet.” Banbury pulled out a camel-hair brush and twirled it between his fingers. “It’s complicated. He’s living off the grid, old-school fashion, face contact only. He stays in this block because it’s local council-owned but cared for by the residents, which means the cops aren’t as familiar with it as they are with the Evil Poor housing up the road.” The so-called Evil Poor Estate was home to multigenerational criminal families whose recourse to violence and destruction was as natural to them as going to the office was for others. Such estates formed modern-day rookeries around London.
“Have a look at this,” said Banbury. “There are stacks of local newspapers in the cupboards, articles starred in felt-tip – he’s fascinated by London, particularly the area in which he lives. Plenty of neatly transcribed notes about the surrounding streets and tube stations. He has abnormally strong ties to his home. This is interesting because it contradicts all the other signifiers. To me, it’s the only part of his behaviour that’s outwardly irrational.”
“An emotional attachment to the neighbourhood. Why would you stick around if you’d killed someone?”
“Killers do. But it’s usually the disorganised, mentally subnormal ones who stay on at the location. The organised ones use three separate sites: where the victims are confronted, where they’re killed and where they’re disposed of. Then the killer leaves the area. So we have a contradiction.”
“Hm. Anything more from the newspapers?”
“He’s earmarked the obituaries of people who live around here. Maybe he was planning identity theft.”
“Think he’ll come back to the flat? Is it worth keeping someone on-site?”
“He’s got no reason to return. There’s nothing worth taking.”
“Come on, Dan, give me something I can use.” Bryant impatiently rattled the boiled sweet around his false teeth.
“Okay. His name. I’ve bagged one of the notes you might find interesting, some research about a dodgy pub that used to exist nearby called ‘The Fox at Bay’. Your killer’s clearly a local lad, born in one of the surrounding streets. Maybe he took his name from the pub. He won’t have become friendly with anyone else in the building, but maybe someone knew his old man. I think at some point your Mr Fox lost contact with his family, maybe when his folks split up. He cuts his own hair, is capable of changing his appearance quickly. But he’s cleaned his electric clippers so that there’s not so much as a single bristle left behind. He’s bleached everything. He left home fully prepared to travel, because there’s nothing of value here, only the two changes of clothes and one pair of knackered old shoes. No-one else’s fingerprints but his own, and he hasn’t got a criminal record so we can’t match them. No foreign fibres so far, nothing to link him to the murders beyond what we already have. We could try the National DNA Database, but less than eight percent of the population is recorded on it, so if he’s managed to keep himself out of trouble and away from hospitals, it’s of no use. He keeps his dirty work off the premises. Hair dye in the bathroom cabinet, and a pair of steel-rimmed spectacles with plain glass in them. Not exactly a master of disguise, but you do feel he enjoys the power that accompanies deception. No sign of a woman anywhere. He’s the kind of man who visits prostitutes. He can’t risk getting close to anyone. He wouldn’t trust them.”
“Well, I’m disappointed,” Bryant complained. “I thought you were going to provide me with some genuine revelations instead of a load of old guesswork.”
Banbury blew out his cheeks in dismay. “Blimey, Mr Bryant, I thought I was doing quite well.”
“Let me tell you something about this man. He doesn’t see himself as damaged. The cities are our new frontiers; it’s here that the battles of the future will be fought, and he’s already preparing himself for them. He knows that the first thing you have to do is chuck out conventional notions of sentiment, nostalgia, spirituality, morality. There’s no point in believing that faith, hope and charity can help you in a society that only wants to sell you as much as it can before you die. Mr Fox has divested himself of his family and friends, and he’s taking his first steps into uncharted territory. He considers himself as much of a pioneer as…oh, Beddoes or Edison.”
Banbury stared in bewildered discomfort at Bryant, who was cheerfully sucking his sweet as he considered the prospect.
“You think he’s some kind of genius? Sounds like you admire him.”
“No, I’m just interested in the way people protect themselves in order to survive. It’s an instinct, but Mr Fox has turned it into an art. And this solipsism ultimately blinds him. Ever had dinner with an actor?”
“No.”
“Don’t. All they ever talk about is themselves. They never ask questions, never bother to find out who you are. They’re not interested in anything but getting to the truth of their characters. And in most cases there isn’t any truth, just an empty, dark, faintly whistling void. The serial killer Dennis Nilsen was so incredibly boring that he actually sent his victims to sleep.”
“Blimey.”
“I had an aunt once who appeared in drawing room comedies. She was doing a Noel Coward at Richmond Theatre,
“No thanks. I’m going to close up here, then.” Banbury stopped in the doorway and looked back. “It’s almost inconceivable that someone can operate as a lone agent in a city this size. You wouldn’t think it possible. We’ve got four million CCTVs beaming down on us, rampant personal data encryption and local authority surveillance – and yet he can still make himself invisible.”
“Urban life has an alienating effect on all of us, Dan. When was the last time someone smiled at you in a shop or you actually talked to someone on the tube? Mr Fox has learned to adapt. He embraces the new darkness. He has the tools to control it. His life unfolds inside his head. I need to know what he’s planning next.”
“I don’t know how you can find that out. He’s a murderer, Mr Bryant. He’s different from everybody else.”
“Maybe he always has been. What happened to create the void in him? There’s a danger that when you pack up from here, tape the front door shut and leave, we may never see or hear from him again, do you understand? I can’t let that happen.”
Banbury shrugged. “I’ve done my best but I can’t work with what isn’t there.”
“We’re supposed to specialise in finding out what isn’t there. Find me something.”
“Some people” – Banbury sought the right phrase – “don’t have a key that unlocks them. But if Mr Fox does, I’m willing to bet it’ll be in his formative years, between the ages of, say, seven and twelve. It won’t tell us where he is now, of course – ”
