used it on Gibson, so he left a lot more behind during the assault on Evans.’
I blew out slowly.
The horror of it was one thing—the imagery it conjured up—but I tried to concentrate on what it meant. Had the killer been attempting not to leave evidence behind? That didn’t make much sense.
‘He wanted to keep the weapon clean?’
‘Could be,’ Laura said. ‘Or else he wanted to carry it around without arousing suspicion. Beforehand, obviously. Not much chance of that afterwards, I’m guessing.’
‘Unless he turned the bag inside out.’
Laura grimaced again. ‘You have a sick mind, Hicks. But that’s also true. The river search has turned up lots of old bags, so that’ll keep us busy. I’ve also ramped up the search of bins in the vicinity. It’s possible he abandoned the bag when he was done with it, especially if it had ripped that badly.’
‘Maybe.’
I didn’t think we’d get that lucky, though. I leaned back in my chair, thinking it all over. Our killer had come prepared to attack Vicki Gibson; he’d been successful enough in that—but then he’d wandered a reasonably short distance, found Evans asleep on a bench, and killed him too, even more viciously.
I said, ‘We need to find the connection between them.’
‘If there is one.’
‘There must be something. If not, it means we’ve got a guy who attacks people at random. And that doesn’t make any sense to me. None. At. All.’
‘Maybe not entirely at random,’ Laura said.
‘What do you mean?’
She sighed, then gestured vaguely at the piles of paperwork on the desk. The witness reports—the interviews that had got us nowhere because, for some inexplicable reason, nobody had seen anything at all.
‘Explain?’
‘Maybe she was just the first available person, and Evans the second.’
I looked at the statements. And thought about it. A killer carrying his hammer out of sight in a carrier bag. Just wandering. Innocuous. Someone who didn’t stand out.
Laura said, ‘We were wondering how he’d managed to catch Vicki Gibson at a time when nobody was around and nobody was looking. But maybe that’s not what happened at all.’
‘He didn’t find her deliberately,’ I said. ‘He just happened to be in a place without witnesses when they crossed paths.’
Laura nodded. ‘I think that’s what might have happened.’
‘That would mean it could have been …’
‘Anyone,’ she said. ‘Yes. I think it could have been anyone. Anyone at all.’
Eleven
K RAMER’S HEART IS THUMPING hard as he walks.
His breath clouds in front of him. The night is cold, the sky overhead clear of clouds. You can’t usually see the stars here in the city, not with the light pollution, but a few have prickled through. The moon is bright and full, a worn silver coin hanging over the city.
He shivers as he walks, his teeth chattering.
It’s partly the cold, but most of it’s adrenalin.
That’s okay. When he first started working the doors, Trevor told him it was natural to be scared. Everybody is scared of physical confrontation. On the door, you have to hide it, but only on the surface, only ever from your opponent. If you hide the fear from yourself, it fucks you over, but if you’re canny you can use the adrenalin. That’s what gives you the edge.
Ideally, though, he wants to dampen it down a little before he reaches his destination, so he rolls saliva around in his mouth. That’s another piece of advice Trevor gave him: control the fear by rolling spit. It works too, although he doesn’t know why.
So he walks, trying to stay calm but ready. Trying to keep everything coiled up for when he needs it.
Not far now. Not long.
Kramer checks the carrier bag he’s holding. If there was anyone around, to all appearances it would just look full of laundry. That will be his immediate explanation if he’s stopped by the police. It’s unlikely they’ll search the bag. If that happens, he’s in deep shit. Hidden beneath the
I blew out slowly.
The horror of it was one thing—the imagery it conjured up—but I tried to concentrate on what it meant. Had the killer been attempting not to leave evidence behind? That didn’t make much sense.
‘He wanted to keep the weapon clean?’
‘Could be,’ Laura said. ‘Or else he wanted to carry it around without arousing suspicion. Beforehand, obviously. Not much chance of that afterwards, I’m guessing.’
‘Unless he turned the bag inside out.’
Laura grimaced again. ‘You have a sick mind, Hicks. But that’s also true. The river search has turned up lots of old bags, so that’ll keep us busy. I’ve also ramped up the search of bins in the vicinity. It’s possible he abandoned the bag when he was done with it, especially if it had ripped that badly.’
‘Maybe.’
I didn’t think we’d get that lucky, though. I leaned back in my chair, thinking it all over. Our killer had come prepared to attack Vicki Gibson; he’d been successful enough in that—but then he’d wandered a reasonably short distance, found Evans asleep on a bench, and killed him too, even more viciously.
I said, ‘We need to find the connection between them.’
‘If there is one.’
‘There must be something. If not, it means we’ve got a guy who attacks people at random. And that doesn’t make any sense to me. None. At. All.’
‘Maybe not entirely at random,’ Laura said.
‘What do you mean?’
She sighed, then gestured vaguely at the piles of paperwork on the desk. The witness reports—the interviews that had got us nowhere because, for some inexplicable reason, nobody had seen anything at all.
‘Explain?’
‘Maybe she was just the first available person, and Evans the second.’
I looked at the statements. And thought about it. A killer carrying his hammer out of sight in a carrier bag. Just wandering. Innocuous. Someone who didn’t stand out.
Laura said, ‘We were wondering how he’d managed to catch Vicki Gibson at a time when nobody was around and nobody was looking. But maybe that’s not what happened at all.’
‘He didn’t find her deliberately,’ I said. ‘He just happened to be in a place without witnesses when they crossed paths.’
Laura nodded. ‘I think that’s what might have happened.’
‘That would mean it could have been …’
‘Anyone,’ she said. ‘Yes. I think it could have been anyone. Anyone at all.’
Eleven
K RAMER’S HEART IS THUMPING hard as he walks.
His breath clouds in front of him. The night is cold, the sky overhead clear of clouds. You can’t usually see the stars here in the city, not with the light pollution, but a few have prickled through. The moon is bright and full, a worn silver coin hanging over the city.
He shivers as he walks, his teeth chattering.
It’s partly the cold, but most of it’s adrenalin.
That’s okay. When he first started working the doors, Trevor told him it was natural to be scared. Everybody is scared of physical confrontation. On the door, you have to hide it, but only on the surface, only ever from your opponent. If you hide the fear from yourself, it fucks you over, but if you’re canny you can use the adrenalin. That’s what gives you the edge.
Ideally, though, he wants to dampen it down a little before he reaches his destination, so he rolls saliva around in his mouth. That’s another piece of advice Trevor gave him: control the fear by rolling spit. It works too, although he doesn’t know why.
So he walks, trying to stay calm but ready. Trying to keep everything coiled up for when he needs it.
Not far now. Not long.
Kramer checks the carrier bag he’s holding. If there was anyone around, to all appearances it would just look full of laundry. That will be his immediate explanation if he’s stopped by the police. It’s unlikely they’ll search the bag. If that happens, he’s in deep shit. Hidden beneath the
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