carried a briefcase, which he’d dropped onto the BMW’s back seat. The pair looked like work colleagues who had just put in a stint of overtime. Once settled in the car, they practically hurled themselves at each other, mouths pressed tight, arms never still. Their kiss was passionate, their embrace ardent; they fumbled at each other and I began to feel embarrassed. Moker kept low in his seat, but constantly peeped over at the couple, obviously aroused, but wary of being spotted. Just when it seemed that the man and woman were about to lose all inhibition, an EXIT door about fifty yards or so away opened and three men stepped through. They were loud, laughing at each other’s remarks, one of them playfully punching another on the upper arm. The couple in the BMW froze for a moment, then sat up, the man fiddling with the key in the ignition as if getting ready to start up. When the three men lingered by two cars not far away, one of them looking across and spying the couple, the driver of the BMW did start the engine and switched on the headlights, muttering something inaudible as he did so. He drove off, probably to find some other secluded place for their after-work activities.
As the BMW sped by, the three men split up, two of them getting into a blue Peugeot estate, the remaining one walking to a parked Celica and climbing in. Moker straightened up as the Celica drove off, then bent forward to pick up something from under his seat, the small bundle he had stowed away earlier. As he held it in his lap and unwrapped the cloth, I heard the familiar clicking sounds and I leaned forward for a better view. Although the lighting in the underground car park was inadequate, I was able to see what he held up to the windscreen to scrutinize.
It was one of those wickedly sharpened coated-steel knitting needles.
I sank back in the seat, suddenly very afraid. Why was Moker loitering in this badly lit and isolated place? Why was he holding that modified wicked-looking domestic tool? It didn’t take a genius to figure it out. Oh God! I wanted to get out. I didn’t want to be a witness to murder! Not when there was nothing I could do to prevent it. I —
The EXIT door opened again. Moker’s head snapped up. A figure, silhouetted by the light inside the stairwell, came through. Footsteps echoed around the concrete walls and pillars. The figure walked under the dull glow of a ceiling light and both Moker and I saw at the same time that it was a man. According to the newspaper reports, gender didn’t matter to the killer whose rampage had continued over barely six weeks. So if Moker was the serial killer—and by now I was sure he was—then a solitary man in this empty place would be an ideal victim. The ENTRANCE/EXIT part of this car park was three floors up, with thick concrete ceilings between.
Moker held the knitting needle upright in his hand like a knife while he waited for the man to draw nearer. I felt him tense, heard his breathing held in check; his other hand fingered the Hillman’s inside door handle. The man came closer, unaware he was being watched. He moved through an ocean of shadow until he passed beneath another overlight and I heard Moker give out a little moan of disappointment.
The man, who was squinting around through heavy-lensed glasses, was short, overweight and balding. Little did he realize that his plain looks were to save his life that night. I didn’t realize either until a little later. Moker slumped in his seat once more, leaning across the passenger seat so that he would not be seen from outside the car. The man, lucky to live a longer life, passed by about fifteen yards away and, with a “humph” of recognition, made his way towards a grey Saab several vehicles further along. I watched with relief as he started his car and drove out of the parking space, his headlights lighting up the interior of the Hillman for a couple of seconds. Moker kept out of sight until the Saab had passed and was heading up the curved ramp to the next level.
I’m not sure just how much longer we waited, but it must have been at least half an hour before the EXIT door opened again. This time a woman came out, her shape in silhouette, and I felt Moker’s rising excitement. She was alone and that made her very vulnerable. She was slim and had long flowing hair which made her a definite target, for I began to understand how the killer chose his target.
We could see more of the woman now and although she was not quite as glamorous as the first glance had suggested—her nose was a little large, her jaw a little weak—she carried herself well and the skirt and slim topcoat she wore accentuated the attractiveness of her figure. Her blouse plunged open a button too far and her ankles were trim in high-heel pumps. Now Moker’s excitement had him trembling.
His hand crept to the door handle once again as he watched the woman go to her car and we heard the “dweep” of her electronic door key. Moker pulled the handle slowly, deliberately, quietly, and eased the door open a fraction, checking that the woman, who was just opening her own door, had not heard the sound. She hadn’t; she opened her car door just as Moker pushed his wide.
“No!” I shouted as I lunged forward to grab him by the shoulders. It was useless, of course—my hands merely went through his body, raincoat and all. But he did hesitate. And I withdrew sharply, as though zapped by a thousand volts, for I had sensed him, caught sight of his nature, and the infringement was shocking. I felt as if my soul had lurched into something unbearably evil, an existence that was devoid of all compassion and wretched in its malice. It was only momentary—for both of us apparently, because Moker sat rigid, as if stunned—passing quickly and taking some of my energy with it. Moker turned and seemed to look directly at me as he had before now, but naturally seeing nothing. Even so, it was a relief when he turned away again and pushed the door, which had swung closed a little. He was about to step from the car when the EXIT door crashed open once more and two men virtually spilled out, laughing and giggling together at some joke that only the truly inebriated find funny.
Startled, Moker immediately pulled the car door shut again and watched the two drunks walk unsteadily along a row of parked vehicles. He gripped the Hillman’s steering wheel tightly with one hand and I heard him sounding off what must have been incoherent oaths. The woman, who had been about to climb into her car, glanced up and gave a disgusted shake of her head before getting in. I heard her car’s engine start and the head- and tail-lights came on. She reversed out and swept round, honking at the men, who had taken exaggerated steps to get out of her way, as she passed them by. One of them gave her the finger, which the other thought was hilarious. Her tail- lights disappeared up the ramp and the two drunks found the car they were blindly searching for. That neither one should be driving in their state didn’t seem to bother them. One climbed into the driver’s seat and the other went round to the passenger door and let himself in. The Jaguar reversed out perfectly and headed smoothly for the incline. It was quickly gone, the driver remembering to switch on his lights just as the Jag disappeared round the ramp’s curve.
Moker and I were left alone in the shadows once more.
We waited a long time.
There were still a few cars parked and some, I assumed, would remain there overnight, but no one came to collect any for quite a while and I thought my nerve—and my resolve—would break long before then. After all, I’d touched this man, I’d sensed him, I’d felt the harsh bleakness of his soul. I wondered if he had been born evil, or if his disfigurement—lifelong?—had made him that way. Bad as his disability might be, it was hard to justify his apparent hatred of normal human beings. And hate them, he did; I’d felt it when part of my body had merged with his. Could you be born evil? Or did you learn from environment and condition? I could hardly ask him the question.
How long was this psychopathic monster prepared to wait here for a suitable victim? Oh yes, I was doubly sure now that this was his intention—why else the sharpened knitting needles, why had he made a move towards the lone woman, if not waiting for suitable prey? But why not the first man who had come along? There had been no one else about, and previous victims had included both men and women. Also, the man had been overweight and soft-looking, hardly the type to put up a fierce struggle. It had seemed that Moker was about to go for him, but when he saw the man’s face he had relaxed back in his seat again. That was when it finally dawned on me. Was it that the first guy had been particularly unattractive? In fact, to be blunt he was downright ugly. Was the qualification for murder that the victim had to be handsome or beautiful or at least, presentable? So was that what Moker was looking for? The woman who had come along was certainly good-looking and Moker had prepared himself to go for her, only the two drunks arriving at an inopportune moment having saved her. According to the lurid reports in the tabloids, all victims so far had been either successful or fairly successful business types, smartly dressed and, from the photos of the deceased, attractive. That was why back in the hotel room Chief Superintendent Sadler had asked Oliver if I’d been handsome! Did Moker have a grudge against good-looking and smart people? Did he envy them? Did he want to eradicate them—and, of course, spoil their looks—because he could never be like them? I was soon to learn that killing these people was only part of it; Moker’s vengeful jealousy went far beyond that.
He was patient, this nasty psychopath. So very patient. Just when I thought he must surely give up his vigil, that the rest of the cars in the car park were here for the night, we both heard the clatter of what could only be a woman’s high-heeled shoes coming from the direction of the curving ramp. Amplified by the low concrete ceiling
