lifestyle'.
No lurid nicknames, though if the Sun could have got away with 'Poof Killer' they would certainly have used it. Just 'Johnny Boy'.
The fourth victim had told a friend he was meeting a man called John for a drink. This was an hour or so before his heart was cut out and his genitals were removed. An approximation of what might be Johnny Boy's face stares down from the wall of every nick in the country. He's got dirty-blond hair and a sallow complexion. His eyes are blue and very, very cold.
It's a big one.
Detective Constable Thomas Thorne leans against the wall of the interview room at Paddington station and stares at a man with dirty-blond hair and blue eyes.
Francis John Calvert. Thirty-four. Self-employed builder from North London.
'Any chance of a fag? I'm fucking gasping…' Calvert smiles. A winning smile. Perfect teeth.
Thorne says nothing. Just watching him until DI Duffy comes back.
'Surely I'm allowed one poxy fag?' The film-star smile fading just a little.
'Shut up.'
Then the door opens and Duffy comes back in. The interview resumes and Tom Thorne doesn't say another word.
None of it is riveting stuff. Duffy is way past his best. It's purely routine anyway. Calvert is only there because of what he does.
A week before he died, the third victim told a flat mate that he'd met a man in a club. The man had said he was a builder. The flat mate made a joke about tool-kits and builders' bumcrack. Seven days and one body later, the joke wasn't funny any more but the flat mate remembered what his dead friend had said.
Thousands and thousands of builders to be interviewed. Some are seen at their home. Some are questioned at their place of work. Calvert gets a phone call and comes into Paddington for a chat.
Later, of course, it will emerge that he'd been chatted to before.
Duffy and Calvert get on like a house on fire. Duffy gives Calvert his fag.
He wants to get home.
Thorne wants to get home too, he's been married less than a year. He's only got one ear on the answers Calvert reels off.
At home with his wife.., three little girls are a right handful.., wishes he could go out at night gallivanting about… not to those sort of places obviously. Another flash of that smile. He's helpful, concerned. Wife only too happy to talk to you if you want. He hopes they find this nutter and string him tp. It doesn't matter what these pervs get up to in their private lives, what this killer's doing's disgusting… Duffy hands Calvert the short statement to sign and that's that. Another one crossed off the list. He thanks him. One of these days they'll strike it lucky.
Duffy stands and heads for the door. 'Show Mr. Calvert out, would you, Thorne?' The DI leaves to begin the tedious process of writing it all up. The investigation is awash with paperwork. There are distant rumblings about the arrival of computers that, one day, will simplify all this. But that's all they are. Distant rumblings. Thorne holds open the door and Calvert steps out into the corridor. He strolls casually past more interview rooms, hands in pockets, whistling. Thorne follows. He can hear a distant radio, probably in the locker room, playing one of his favourite songs – 'There Must Be An Angel' by the Eurythmics. Jan bought the record for him last week. He wonders what she'll have organised for dinner. Maybe he can go and get a takeaway.
Through the first set of swing doors and a left turn along another corridor, which sweeps round towards main reception. Calvert waits, allowing Thorne to catch up. He holds the doors for him. 'Bet you lot are making a fucking mint in overtime.'
Thorne says nothing. He can't wait to see the back of the cocky little fucker. Past another Johnny Boy poster. Somebody's drawn a speech bubble. It says, 'Hello, sailor.' Thorne's humming the Eurythmics song as he walks.
Then the final set of doors. The desk sergeant gives Thorne a nod. Thorne steps ahead of Calvert, pushes open the doors and stops. This is as far as he goes. This isn't a hotel and he isn't a fucking concierge. Calvert steps through the doors, stops and turns. 'Cheers, then…'
'Thanks for your help, Mr. Calvert. We'll be in touch if we need anything else.'
Thorne holds out his hand without thinking about it. He's looking towards the desk sergeant, who's trying to catch his eye and mouthing something about a party for one of the secretaries who's leaving. Thorne feels the large, callused hand take his and turns to look at Francis John Calvert.
And everything changes.
It isn't the resemblance to the photo fit. He'd registered that the instant he'd clapped eyes on Calvert and forgotten it again moments later. It isn't the resemblance but it is the face.
Thorne looks at Calvert's face and knows.
He knows.
It lasts no more than a second or two but it's enough. He can see through to what lies behind those deep, blue eyes, and what he sees terrifies him.
He sees boozing, yes, and football on a Saturday and wolf-whistles with the lads and an incandescent rage that is barely kept in check inside the cosy conformity of a loveless, sexless marriage.
He sees something deep and dark and rotting. Something fetid. Something spilling into the earth and bubbling with blood.
He cannot explain it but he knows beyond a shadow of the smallest doubt that Francis John Calvert is Johnny Boy. He knows that the man in front of him, the man shaking his hand, is responsible for stalking and slaughtering half a dozen gay men in the last year and a half.
Thorne is all but frozen to the spot, not sure how he will ever be able to move. He is rigid with fear. He is going to piss in his trousers any second. Then he sees the most terrifying thing of all.
Calvert knows that he knows.
Thorne thinks his face is frozen, expressionless. Dead. Obviously he's wrong. He can see the change in Calvert's eyes as they meet his own. Just a slight flicker. The tiniest twitch…
And the smile that is beginning to die a little. Then it's over. The grip is released and Calvert is moving away through the lobby towards the main station doors. He stops for a second and turns, and now the smile is gone completely. The sergeant is wittering at him about this party but Thorne is watching Calvert walk out of the doors. The look he sees on his face is something like fear. Or perhaps hate.
And, somewhere in the distance, a sweet, high voice is still singing about imaginary angels.
He tells nobody. Not Duffy. None of his mates or fellow officers. What's he supposed to tell them? Certainly not Jan. Her mind's on other things, anyway. They're trying for a baby.
At home with her that weekend, he knows he's distant. On Saturday afternoon as they stroll around Chapel Market she asks if there's anything wrong. He says nothing..
On Sunday night she's keen to make love, but every time he shuts his eyes he sees Francis Calvert, one arm round the neck of the young boy he's kissing deeply, pulling at him, holding the soft mouth against his own. As he groans, and comes inside his young wife, he sees Calvert's other hand, strong and callused, reaching for the eight-inch serrated knife in his pocket.
While Jan sleeps soundly next to him, he lies awake all night. By morning he's convinced himself that he's being stupid and within an hour he's sitting in his car in a small street off Kilburn High Road. Watching Francis Calvert's flat.
Monday 18 June 1985.
He just needs to look at him again, that's all. Once he watches him step out of that front door he'll see him for what he really is. A nasty piece of pond life for sure, but that's about all. A slimy little shit who's probably been done for driving without insurance, almost certainly doesn't have a TV licence and maybe slaps his wife around. Not a killer.
One more look and Thorne will know he was being stupid. He'll know that what happened in that corridor was an aberration. What Jan likes to call a mind fuck. He's here in plenty of time. People in the street haven't started leaving for work yet. Calvert's white Astra van is parked outside his flat.
For the next hour he sits and watches them leave. He watches front doors open up and down the street,
