‘No, it’s not random. You just don’t know the link yet.’
‘I don’t, but you do. And there’s no room for doubt, is there?’
‘No. I take my time, I make sure they’re the right one.’
Back in his own chair, Tony folded his arms. ‘Why do you care?’
This time, the pause in what he thought of as the killer’s chair was longer. He tried to let the dark draw him into a place where these killings made sense. ‘I don’t want them to breed.’
‘So you’re killing them before they can get round to having kids of their own?’
‘That’s part of it.’
‘It’s all about them being the last in their line? That’s why they’re all only children?’
‘That’s right.’
Tony returned to his own chair, at a loss where to go next with this. He felt he was on the edge of grasping something, but it kept slipping from his reach. He went back to the victims, summoning their images up before his eyes, struck again by the underlying resemblance. ‘They all look like you did,’ he said softly. ‘That’s why you choose them. You’ve made your victims in your own image.’
Into the other chair. ‘So what if I have?’
‘You’re killing your own image.’ He shook his own head, not getting it. ‘But most serial killers want immortality. They want reputation. You’re doing the opposite. You want to obliterate yourself but for some reason, you’re getting rid of kids who look like you rather than killing yourself.’ It was baffling. And yet he felt he’d made some sort of a breakthrough. It was often the way with these dialogues. He didn’t know how he did it or why it worked, but it seemed to free up some subconscious understanding.
Tony couldn’t see how this latest insight would help them find the killer. But he knew that, when they did, it might be the key to breaking him. And for Tony, finding out why was at least as important as finding out who.
It was late in the afternoon when Bill Carr drew up in the middle of nowhere. Ambrose was taken aback by the emptiness of the landscape. It had only been ten minutes since they’d left the margins of the city behind, but out here on the edge of the rolling moors, it was as if Manchester didn’t exist. Drystone walls bordered the narrow road. Behind them were slopes of rough pasture where sheep browsed uncuriously. The fields were broken up by dense stands of Forestry Commission conifers. They hadn’t passed another vehicle since they’d turned off the minor road before this one. ‘I don’t get it,’ Ambrose said. ‘Where’s the house?’
Carr pointed ahead, where the road disappeared almost immediately round a tight bend. ‘It’s a mile up the road. As soon as you come round the bend, their security cameras pick you up. There’s no CCTV for miles on these roads, but Warren and Diane have their own setup. They’re paranoid about security. It’s what their clients are paying for, I suppose. So this is where I leave you to it. Just head on up the road. You’ll see the fence. There’s a pull-in by the gate. You have to use the intercom.’
Ambrose checked the wing mirror to make sure his escort was behind them, then got out. He leaned back into the van. ‘Thanks for your help.’
‘Just don’t mention it to Warren, OK?’ Carr looked momentarily anxious but the cloud passed.
Ambrose wondered if his cousin paid Carr for his mailbox service. If he did, that might go a long way to explaining why he was so nervous about bringing them out here. ‘I’ll keep you out of it,’ he said. He’d barely closed the door when Carr threw the car into a sharp turn and headed back towards Manchester. Ambrose watched him go then got into the car.
‘Straight on,’ he said. ‘There’s a gate up ahead on the left.’
It was just as Carr had described. The road swung round the corner and a line of trees gave way to a two- metre-high chain-link fence behind the wall. A camera was mounted on its corner, with others visible along the perimeter. Behind the fence there was more coarse moorland grass which grew right up to a cluster of traditional grey stone buildings. As they grew closer, Ambrose identified the farmhouse and two big barns. Even from the road, he could see that one barn had steel doors and extractor units on the roof. They pulled off in the gateway where a sign simply said, ‘DPS’ and identified themselves over the intercom.
‘Hold your ID out of the window so the camera can pick them up,’ a crackly voice said. Ambrose handed over his warrant card and the aide brandished them at the lens. One gate swung open and they drove inside. A woman emerged from the steel doors, which swished shut behind her. She waved them over to the farmhouse and joined them as they got out of the car.
Ambrose sized her up as he introduced them. Somewhere around forty, five five or six, slim and wiry. The kind of sallow skin that would tan well. Dark hair brushing her shoulders. Brown eyes, button nose, thin-lipped mouth, dimples that were starting to turn into deep lines. Black jeans, tight black hoodie, black cowboy boots. A pair of glasses hanging round her neck on a fine silver chain. Right from the off, she seemed to be buzzing with energy. ‘I’m Diane Patrick,’ she said. ‘Half of DPS. Which stands for Davy Patrick Security or Data Protection Services, depending on how I’m planning to pitch you.’ She smiled. ‘How can I help you, officers?’
‘You take your security pretty seriously,’ Ambrose said, wanting to play for a little bit of time. Sometimes his gut instinct told him to ease into things, not go straight to the point.
‘We wouldn’t be a very effective data-storage facility if we didn’t,’ she said. ‘Is this to do with one of our clients? Because I should warn you, we take the Data Protection Act very seriously here.’
‘Can we talk inside?’
She shrugged. ‘Sure, come on in.’ She unlocked the door and led the way into a typical farmhouse kitchen. An Aga, scrubbed pine worktops, a big table in the middle of the room with half a dozen matching chairs. Money had been spent here, but not recently. It had the comfortable, lived-in feel of a home rather than a showpiece. The table was littered with magazines and newspapers. A webbook sat open in front of one of the chairs, an open packet of chocolate digestives next to it. Diane Patrick’s boot-heels rang out on the quarry-tiled floor as she made for the kettle sitting on the range. She put the kettle on to boil and turned to face them, her arms folded over her small breasts.
‘We’re looking for Warren Davy,’ Ambrose said, scanning the room and taking in every detail.
‘He’s not here,’ she said.
