“You tried to make it look as if it was just another serial killing, but although you’d found out about the murder weapon, you were unaware of one other vital element in those crimes, something you could never have arranged even if you hadn’t been. How could you know of the victims’ crazy behaviour before they died? Only the police directly involved in the cases knew that the three previous victims had acted totally out of character before they were killed. They had degraded themselves after leading perfectly respectable lives. The Press never found out, it was a factor that was completely hushed up. Oh yes, I knew, because my ex-brother-in-law wanted me to think he was a very important policeman who worked only on A-list crimes, and he loved to let me in on inside stuff, things he thought made him a big man in my eyes. The copycat killer—you, Oliver—made an important mistake because he hadn’t full knowledge of the crimes. The previous victims were under duress, perhaps their families were under threat if the intended victim didn’t comply with the killer’s instructions. Or they were being blackmailed. Or hypnotized. All kinds of theories have been put forward, but the police cannot know for sure. What they are agreed on is that the killer is a very sick person with no apparent motive. But you, Oliver, you have a couple of motives for killing Jim, and as far as they’re aware, you might be scheming, but you’re not sick. Even chopping off Jim’s private parts had some peculiar logic—he was sleeping with the woman you loved. That’s what makes you different from their target and why this murder is not like the others. Even the murder weapons were used in the wrong order.”
There seemed to be more humour in his laughter now, but the hysteria that was only hinted at before had become more noticeable.
I saw Oliver try to rise to his feet, but Sydney struck him again with the rule, using only the flat side, bringing it down hard against Oliver’s scalp. Oliver yelped, groaned and collapsed once more.
He was still conscious though, because I heard him say, “I’ll… tell them… I’ll tell them about you…”
Still in view, Sydney leaned over him. “You won’t be around to tell them anything. Are you really so stupid that you think you’re going to live through the night? That I was confessing all this to ease my conscience? Huh! You really are a first-prize idiot, d’you know that? All brains and no sense, as my dear mother used to say.”
He straightened, and carried on talking as he did so. “I have to admit I’ve been working half on instinct all this week, improvising as things went along, but tonight you’ve given me the perfect ending. Tonight you die, you see? And you leave behind your confession. You knew the police were on to you, you were full of remorse over killing your best friend, so you took the only honourable way out.”
And your lover had thrown you out, I could have added but didn’t.
Oliver had grabbed the edge of the desk with both hands and was trying to pull himself up. Sydney ignored his efforts, although he now kept the steel rule raised over the struggling man.
“Let me give you the whole scenario, Oliver. You came here tonight, your last place of refuge, as it were. Nobody else was around. No, not even me. I was at home tucked up in bed—as I was that fateful Sunday night. Yes, I’d worked late, but had left before you arrived. You typed your confession on your computer and left it on the screen, no hard copy necessary. You’ve been screwing your best friend’s wife for years, you and he had business differences, and in a fit of rage you killed him. Naturally, I’ll type all of this for you and I’ll use my handkerchief over my index finger so the only fingerprints on your keyboard will be yours alone. I’m told computer suicide notes are popular these days. No handwritten signature necessary, which is particularly helpful to me in these circumstances.”
I could feel any power I had left over Moker’s body swiftly ebbing away. I had to make my move, but couldn’t just yet: Sydney’s exposition to a man he thought would shortly be dead was not quite finished.
“Why, Sydney?” I heard Oliver ask. “Why do this after all the years we’ve worked together? Surely nothing’s worth killing your friends for.”
“You still don’t get it do you? Neither of you ever realized the pressure I was under. Well fuck you!”
You know what? That shocked me. Hearing Sydney Presswell swear shocked me. Ridiculous, I know, considering he’d just confessed to years of embezzlement and, worse, my murder, and hearing Sydney— Presswell!—say “fuck” absolutely shocked me. You see, I’d never heard him curse like that before, not once, not ever, even when we argued over some company matter or other. In fact, I can’t recall Sydney ever getting angry before. Or cross. He’d always been mild-mannered. Not docile, I don’t mean that, but he’d always been the perfect gentleman, the most even-tempered person I’d ever known.
Now he’d said the f— word and that clinched everything for me. Sydney—see? I couldn’t even call him Presswell for long—was two people, it seemed: the nice, quiet, soft-toned accountant and respected colleague, and the scheming killer who leaned over Oliver now. The “fuck” confirmed it. Sydney was completely crazy.
His voice was raised; he was almost shouting at Oliver.
“You creative people are always complaining about tight copy dates, lack of time for presentations, overnight layouts and copy ideas, all that crap! But never did you understand the pressure I’m under, and I don’t mean the kind that goes with the job! I’m in deep shit, Oliver, and it’s been coming to a head for some time now. I don’t just mean greedy ex-wives and kids’ school fees. I owe serious money to people who don’t like to wait too long for payment. Money I haven’t got. That is, I haven’t got it right now.”
I practically jumped out of the body I was occupying when he brought the metal rule down hard on the desktop.
“But all that will change once the deal has gone through. I’ve already been asked to stay on as a financial consultant at a higher salary, but the real reward will be the partners’ bonus from Blake & Turnbrow and the large secret commission I’ll receive for brokering the deal in the first place. You and Jim were never supposed to know about that, but I guess in the words of the late, great Buddy Holly, it doesn’t matter anymore.”
Somehow I was even more scared now that his voice had resumed its normal, placid pitch.
“So, what’s to be done with you, Oliver?”
Sydney made the question sound reasonable. Mr Nice Guy again.
He answered his own question. “It’s actually very simple. You have to die, of course, but then I’m sure you already knew that. So it begs the question. How are you going to die? Again, the answer is simple. You’re going to take a high dive.”
Another moan from Oliver, a kind of despairing protest.
“Your confession is taken care of—or it will be in a few minutes’ time. All that needs doing is the deed itself. I suppose I’m going to have to drag you over to the windows, aren’t I? No chance of you helping me with that? I thought not.”
I heard him walk across the room, his voice fading slightly.
“I warned you about these floor-to-ceiling windows with that pointless balustrade right outside them, told you both they were dangerous when opened, but you loved the elegant style too much to care. Now you’re about to learn how seriously dangerous they are.”
The sounds of bolts being drawn, a catch turned. Then a fresh breeze pushed at the door I was hiding behind, narrowing the gap. A scuffling noise came from inside, Oliver moaning protests again, a soft dragging sound.
Oh dear God, the moment was here. I had to do something and do it quickly.
I dug a hand into one of the raincoat’s deep pockets, stiffened fingers feeling for the knitting needle I’d put there. My fingertips were numbed, but I forced them closed around the thin weapon, gripping the needle as best I could, slowly drawing it out, afraid I might drop it.
With my other hand, I shoved at the door, sending it wide. I held the needle out in front of me, the lethal tip pointed upwards.
But strength was quickly draining from the body I possessed. The knees were giving way, the raised arm was trembling.
I’m losing it, I thought. I’m losing control!
Sydney Presswell was halfway across the room, Oliver limp in his arms, the copywriter’s feet dragging over the carpet, the French windows open wide before them.
Sydney heard my heavy shambling footsteps. He looked back over his shoulder, saw me, and astonishment stretched his bland features.
43
But as I stood there in the doorway, the knitting needle’s point quivering in my unsteady hand, I knew I no longer had the strength to attack. Moker’s skin felt like a deep-sea diver’s suit, his head like the metal helmet. I felt
