The Dead Tracks

    I thought of the cask. The police had found it in Healy's car after getting to the woods. Now it was probably in a forensics lab somewhere.

    'This ringing any bells with you?' I asked him.

    Again, no reply. His face was blank now.

    'Who else was pregnant?' Still nothing. Eventually, when it was obvious he wasn't going to be drawn, I turned to the one-way glass. 'Did any of the other women show signs of having given birth? A C-section? Vaginal trauma?' A pause. A click. Then an echoey response from Phillips: 'No.' Silence in the interview room again. I looked at Crane. 'Whose hearts were they?'

    He watched me, the forefinger and thumb of his left hand brushing together. A thinking gesture. Finally, he shrugged. 'It's not important to this case.'

    'Which case?'

    'The six women.'

    I studied him. 'Do you mean you've killed more?'

    He sniffed. The six women, they were all just practice runs. I cut them up because it felt good. I like cutting people. But I did it in the name of research too.'

    'What research?'

    'I wanted to see how faces could be changed. Think of those women as the first of two canvases. And the second one was the masterpiece.'

    'What do you mean?'

    He went to speak then stopped himself. Drummed his fingers on the table. 'I just like blondes, David — what can I say?'

    'What research?' I said again, fists clenched.

    'I guess it's a Marilyn Monroe thing' He flashed a smile again. 'Or maybe they remind me of my mother.'

    'Why would you say that?'

    'Isn't that what we're all about?'

    ''We're'?'

    'Serial killers.' Another smile drifted across his lips. 'Come on, David. You know as well as I do that a serial killer has got to stick to his MO. It's so important. Well, the women ticked all the boxes for me. Blonde. Good, strong features. A few flaws — but nothing that couldn't be rectified with a quick…' He used his free hand to simulate the slash of a knife. They were feminine. Pretty. Slim - but not all skin and bone. I don't like them like that. I like them with a bit of shape. If I wanted skeletons, I'd dig them up.'

    'Where did you meet them?'

    He looked at me. Still, except for his eyes, which moved across my face. 'I met them around and about. Feisty little Isabelle I met at a workshop I was attending.'

    'A medical workshop?'

    'No. I was learning how to make masks. Kind of a part- time vocation. After all, I didn't have a day job, and there were only so many Ferraris I could buy with all that dirty money.' His eyes sparkled. 'One of the consultants that I shadowed during my year of specialist training put the idea into my head. Weird little man, he was. He used to order in purpose-made latex masks to put on to dummies, so that we'd always have to look at a face when we were talking about cutting into something. He thought it would be a way of humanizing everything; even mounds of plastic. If you always had to look at a face, you'd always tread more carefully. Except I didn't give a shit about any of that. I just kept looking at the masks and thinking how it would feel to become someone else.'

    'So why Sykes?'

    'I found him interesting.'

    'Because he killed thirteen women?'

    'No, because people are still scared of him, even now. You go down to Hark's Hill and mention his name to the old-timers, and they'll fill their pants on the spot. You mention him to the kids that live around there and they might not have heard of him, but they'll know one thing: there's something wrong with that place. I mean, you've been there, David. You've felt it, right?'

    I didn't say anything.

    He smiled. 'Of course you've felt it. He buried thirteen women in those woods, and no one could find them. And as long as no one found them, that place never lost its power. And all they could do in the end was put up a concrete wall and a fence at one end and let nature take over everywhere else. Try to forget about the bodies, and the house he'd been born in, and the ghosts that wander through that place.' He paused and leaned forward, dropping his voice to a whisper. 'But I didn't forget about them. I had to find those bodies.'

    'Why?'

    'Let's call it a psychological advantage. Find the bodies, and Sykes has no hold over that place any more. He's no longer the daddy.' He paused. Winked, 'I am.'

    'You're fucking nuts.'

    'Am I?'

    'Listen to yourself.'

    'I'm listening.' He cupped his free hand to his ear. 'Oh, I think I sound great, David. I mean, I'm the man who found Milton Sykes's victims. The police should be thanking me. I solved a hundred-year-old mystery.'

    'How did you know where they were?'

    He leaned forward. Brushed a finger against his broken nose. 'The dog found them.'

    'The greyhound?'

    'I discovered it wandering around the woods early on. Then it started following me around; bugging me. And then it started digging in that area of the woods day after day after day, and finally it brought back a thigh bone.'

    'And you rewarded it so well.'

    'I did, didn't I?'

    'Cigarette burns, transplanted skin, cutting out one side of its face. Most dog owners just give their pets Pedigree Chum.'

    He smiled. 'Some days it annoyed me. Some days I felt sorry for it.'

    'I doubt that.'

    'It had skin cancer. I took some skin from one of the women's thighs and transplanted it on to the dog. Not very scientific, I'll admit, but what the hell - the girl was already dead.' He shrugged. 'See? Even I can be a nice guy.'

    Thirty seconds passed. Neither of us spoke; just looked at one another. Eventually he broke the silence.

    'Interesting area, Hark's Hill,' he said. 'A whole other world under the surface of the woods, and most people don't even know it's there. Or they've just forgotten. That's where Sykes took Jenny Truman, you know. He convinced her to leave with him, then smuggled her into the tunnels that fed out from the factories.' He stopped. A flash in his eyes. 'It was a ready-made hiding place. That boarded-up door next to the air vent? That leads all the way to the old munitions factory on the other side of the woods. I brought everything down through there. The supplies. The tools. The equipment. And when I was finished, I welded it shut.'

    More silence. We looked at each other. He had the same blank expression on his face again; no hint of emotion, no clue as to what he was thinking. He pushed a strand of dark hair away from his eyes and then sniffed gently, as if inhaling something sweet.

    'Why leave the necklaces behind?' I asked.

    'Because it was fun.'

    'It was what got you caught.'

    'Was it?'

    'If it hadn't been for the necklaces, no one would have tied the women to each other, or to you. You gave yourself away.'

    He shrugged. 'I wasn't far off finishing my little project.'