He moved around the desk and sat in the office chair. It was a swivel chair but it didn't turn and he had to adjust the position by shifting the wheels. But the hinge to allow the chair to recline worked a treat. Einar leaned back and stared up at the wooden ceiling, where he saw a calendar stuck above his head. Some cheesy thing with a woman draped over a fast car. It was dated last month, suggesting Chopper either couldn't bothered to change it or liked that picture. Certainly the bikini-clad woman was attractive, although Einar like his girls a little plumper - some remnant of his heritage, he guessed.
He climbed onto the desk and reached up. He yanked down the calendar, planning to change the month. It annoyed him, for some reason. And when he plucked it free, he exposed a trapdoor.
No, not a trapdoor at all, because there was no handle and it was too small. A square no bigger than a CD case had been cut free and reinserted. Einar plucked his knife and jabbed the end into one side and prised the portion free. He tried to catch it but it slipped through his fingers and a corner broke off as it bounced off the desk. Oh well, didn't matter. The busted hasp on the door was proof enough that someone had been here unauthorised.
The hole was black. Einar shone his phone's flashlight inside and saw the brick curve of the bridge's archway high above. Nothing else. He fed his hand in, but could only just get his palm inside. The edge of the hole scraped his wrist as he felt about.
His fingers touched something. Something touch but flexible and tubular. He grasped it and pulled it free.
A folder of some kind, wrapped into a cylinder and secured with elastic bands. He slipped them off and skimmed through it. What he saw made him shiver and smile. He sat in the chair before he fell down.
It was a blank scrapbook into which Chopper had glued pictures and text, all of it either from newspapers or printed off the Internet. A kill book. Einar couldn't believe what he'd found.
He flipped to the front and turned the first page. There was a cropped photo of the interior of a pub lounge, empty of people. An inset photo showed the place from outside, a squat building on a corner. Print along the bottom of the pixelated main photo said: THE THREE DUCKS IN EARL'S COURT ROAD, SCENE OF THE MURDER OF ALAN BULLING. A piece of text below told the story that Davey had related. Local bruiser beaten to death in the Three Ducks by a guy dressed as a biker, although nobody could remember at what time it happened, or describe the biker's gear, or recall anything that was said. A corner of the photo was loose and Einar folded it, glanced at the other side and saw a portion of some offer and a voucher for money off some bullshit item. And a valid until date that was almost eight years old.
He was thrilled. People's lives were a source of wonder to him, but this was pure gold. Einar had never thought to keep trinkets or newspaper snipping of his crimes, usually because he was out of the country by the time the media got hold of the story. But he knew some people did, and he had never expected Chopper to be such a man. Then he remembered the fact that Chopper had been planning to kill Marsh by dumping him in a swimming pool with a weight on his leg. Chopper was a sadist. Chopper was a serial killer more than he was a contract killer. He murdered for kicks more than money. And Einar had read lots about serial killers. Sometimes they relived their crimes by flipping through scrap books like this one. Sometimes they took a lock of hair or a shoe from the victim and masturbated over it. Einar climbed onto the desk and put his hand in the hole again, praying he'd find a bag of mementoes, but there was nothing. He climbed back down.
The next kill seemed to be considered an accident. Some kid in his late teens who had been accused of molesting a girl had only gone and slipped off his own high balcony. There was a wide shot of the tower block and a red arrow showing the path he plummeted, as if the readers needed such education in the laws of gravity. A police mug shot of the victim. A quote from his mother saying how sweet a boy he was, how he wouldn't ever hurt anyone. Just as mothers did the world over.
Einar flipped to the next, then the next. In total, he found ten. The last was some drunk driver who'd been so riddled with guilt over the death of the kid he'd killed, he'd slit his own throat in his car while it was parked outside his girlfriend's house in some run-down street in Hackney. But another snippet pasted next to it screamed MURDER. A pathologist had performed an autopsy and determined that the dead man couldn't have slit his own throat so wide and deep. Eight months ago.
Alongside a number of the entries, there was another that mentioned a biker the police wished to eliminate from their enquiries. Four of the ten. In four cases, a man in black on a black bike had been seen in the immediate vicinity. There was an article in which one journalist tied together three of the cases, but Einar found nothing of the police agreeing. But that proved nothing: maybe Chopper hadn't collected such articles. And he knew from Davey that Chopper was a known entity. But he had done a good job of not getting captured, and not leaving enough clues for the authorities to conclusively state that there was a serial killer out there. That was worth some praise, because it mirrored Einar's world to a degree. Nobody had ever connected two or more of his kills together, yet Einar's name was out there, known by people, albeit as little more than a rumour. Like Bigfoot.
Einar replaced the folder in the ceiling and slotted the piece home. He sat the in the chair afterwards and wondered why he had done this. He could have outed Chopper. Professional courtesy? He truly didn't know.
He forgot about the scrapbook and turned his attention to the laptop. The scrapbook had been the most intriguing thing he'd seen in a long time, but it moved him no closer to his foe. Maybe he had left digital clues instead.
No password, which was a relief. The desktop had just a few icons against the background of a sunny beach. Four icons. Internet Explorer, Recycle Bin, The Attic, and some kind of music file. Einar clicked on The Attic. It contained only six word documents whose titles were all dates. He clicked on the latest, dated eleven days ago.
It was a letter. Some address at the top, and the name Dale Somersby. He read the letter. It was all about this guy called Dale and yet another late arrival for work. Some disciplinary letter. A verbal warning. So Chopper had a job, might be some kind of manager.
Einar paused. Something stirred in his gut. He hit CTRL and END on the keyboard and the curser jumped to the end of the document. It was only two pages, and only four words, over two lines, dribbled over onto that final page.
JAMES MARSH
ASSISTANT MANAGER
***
Jimmy drove over the bridge and stopped. He knew he was wasting time, but he had to know as early as possible. He ran to the parapet and peered over and down at the arches. He could see the doors, and the one to his lock-up was closed. But the hasp was hanging loose. He cursed, hopped back in his car, and raced off.
Four minutes later he pulled up again. Ran to his door and kicked it open. No caution, because he believed the killer had been and gone. And he had: the lock-up was empty, the light off. But his laptop was open, its screen spraying white light against the brick wall beyond the desk..
He didn't care what else the killer might have found, and that included the scrapbook where he kept newspaper cuttings of his previous kills. He remembered the last thing he had used that laptop for. He ran around the desk, and there was his worst fear, displayed on the screen.
He never turned off the laptop, and so all his open Internet pages were arranged along the taskbar. One had been clicked on, which now filled the window. The website of the estate agency where he'd found the cottage. Almost two weeks ago he had been taking a break from working on his bike and had been idly surfing the net, seeking a new house, when he found the place in Lamberhurst. He had sent Maria the link via email. Then he had closed the laptop and hadn't used it since.
And there it still was. A photo, the description, the price, and a map of the village of Lamberhurst. And worse: a postcode for someone wishing to visit.
Someone like the killer.
Jimmy pulled his mobile a
nd phoned the cottage. But it rang and rang. No answer. He slotted the mobile away and ran for his car. Only one thing to do now, if the killer was currently en route to the cottage.
Get there first.
***
The question that kept repeating in his mind was, Who the hell did I kill at the swimming pool?
Not Chopper, for sure. James Marsh was Chopper. Explained his skills. The guy got immensely lucky, getting the contract on himself. If the Paymaster hadn't been so tight with his money and had hired Einar outright, James Marsh would never have known and would be dead already. But instead he had had the ultimate kind of warning.
The Paymaster. Einar really wanted to tell him, just to see his reaction. But he couldn't. the Paymaster already thought Einar had killed Chopper. He would wonder who Einar had killed instead. He would wonder how Einar had made such a mistake. It wouldn't look good for Einar. So he wouldn't mention a thing.
He left the M25 and merged onto the A21, which would take him most of the way south to Lamberhurst in Tunbridge wells. The Internet had told him Lamberhurst was an ancient village, which he liked the idea of. Less than fifteen hundred occupants. Quiet, peaceful, at least until he started shooting.
He drove at fifty miles an hour, at which the engine made a purring noise he liked. Checked the SatNav: just seventeen miles to go. Einar blanked his mind. Sometimes he liked to do that because it was usually on the go, go, go, never taking a rest. Sometimes after a long day in which his brain and mind had been powering along like race cars, he almost expected something to blow - again, just like in an overworked race car. At the end of such a day, every twinge in his head was something about to fail. He worried that some mental chip would burn out and suddenly his combat muscle memory would vanish, or he wouldn't remember how to drive a car or clean a gun. Then he would blank his mind. And he tried that now. Resting the mental engine.
A few times he found himself forced to slow down because the two lanes became one and the traffic got thick. During these moments of crawling, being trapped by cars and trucks, hearing engines, smelling exhaust fumes, Einar's mind woke again. He tried to avoid thinking about the job ahead, thinking instead about calmer things: portions of his life he enjoyed, others he wished he could have done differently. Then the absent second carriageway would reappear and the traffic would flow again and Einar let his mind go blank. It stayed that way until a roundabout after which the road was again a single lane and full of bends. Einar got slowly annoyed.
Soon he hit something called Forstal Farm Roundabout and was told by the SatNav to take the third exit. Another road with fields and trees on both sides. He couldn't help but get the feeling he was headed into the middle of nowhere, even though he knew England was small. You couldn't get lost for long in this country if you had a car.
Suddenly the SatNav said he had arrived at his destination.
He pulled over, forcing his wheels onto the grass verge because, although the road was two lanes, it was very thin. Arrived? There was nothing here. He checked the SatNav again and this time opted for the satellite photo version. He scrolled out, and there it was. Ahead, slightly, and beyond the trees on this side of the road. A shield-shaped pair of roads with buildings contained within. Printed across the image was the word RIVERBED. The entrance was just ahead, concealed by trees at this angle.
Einar smiled. He drove on. The turning was indeed on the left, and on the left, directly across from it, was a lay-by. He parked there and got his gig bag from the boot. Slung it over his shoulder and crossed the road. He didn't take the new road, though: instead he slipped into the trees to the left of it.
Once he'd pushed through, he thanked God. He was not a religious man, but how could he not believe that this location had been a gift to him from the Heavens.
Riverbed was slightly below him. He could see the road curving right around it. The land sloped sharply downwards seven or eight metres, giving him an elevated view. He could see it all. From this eastern corner of the shield, he was overlooking a flat area with a lake and rows of benches. Some kind of picnic area. Beyond a river that sliced the shield in half were the homes, five cottages. Einar moved through the trees. A few minutes later he came to a bridge crossing the river. A minute after that he stopped and sat in the undergrowth. He was overlooking the five cottages now. The nearest one, just fifty metres away, was ELM, the cottage from the website. The one he wanted. He was as high as its roof, a perfect elevation. There was nothing in the way. The only negative was that he was facing the building's side, and here there was only one window. Upper floor, probably at the top of the stairs. If he waited here, then he would need his targets to climb the stairs, or exit into the back garden or out the front.
So he moved on. Stopped close to the western corner, now viewing the house at an angle. Not perfect, but better. Einar extracted his rifle from the bag and put it to his shoulder. He had brought his pistol, so if he got no joy within a few minutes, he would climb down the slope and enter the house. Way out here, nobody would hear the shots, except whatever neighbours were at home. And, if need be, Einar would kill them, too.
Things were changing in Einar. He had noticed them. And one was his patience. Normally he could have sat here in the trees for hours, not moving an inch, holding his piss, ignoring hunger and insects and the pain in his ass. He could have waited for night and beyond, seeking that one moment when a target shows enough flesh to blast a fatal wound into. But today Einar was a different animal. He got agitated very quickly. The barrel of the Steyr started to waver, then literally shake. Einar tossed it down, stood, yanked out his pistol, and started down the slope.
***
The police stopped Jimmy not far south of the A26 junction. Here the road narrowed to one lane, but he didn't cut his speed and chose instead to cut around an Asda van. The guy honked his horn and flashed his lights as Jimmy swerved in front of him. Checking the rear-view mirror, he didn't see the vehicle in front until he felt a flash in his eyes. They darted forward, and there was a police car right in front of him. The siren whined, just once, and the police car indicated that it was pulling to the side of the road. And wanted Jimmy to follow.
He cursed. His mind cycled through options. He could race away, force the police to follow him, lead them right to the cottage. No way the killer would try to kill the family with cops around - or would he kill the officers, too? He tossed that option anyway, because even if the killer ran away, Jimmy would be left in the hands of the authorities, and he just couldn't risk that. If he was arrested, he might be safe, but his family wouldn't.
He could ride this out, take whatever warning or fine the police would give him. But that would waste time. Maybe just enough time that he'd arrive at the cottage to find bodies broken like his world.
Jimmy didn't realise what he was planning until he stepped out of the car and tossed the ignition keys over his head, into the grass. The driver of the police car exited the vehicle. Jimmy saw he was alone.
"Back in the car, please. Sit in your seat."
"My wife's hurt, she's -" His words cut off as he tripped, stumbling forward. The policeman moved forward, mouth opening to speak again. Jimmy rose quickly in front of him, hand coming up. The potato peeler he'd stolen jabbed into the cop's throat, right under the chin, making him freeze.
A car blew past with a honk of its horn. Jimmy had to move quickly, well-aware that it was brought daylight on a busy road and he was threatening a police officer. He dropped the hand holding the weapon, brought up his elbow, rammed it right into the cop's forehead. The cop grunted and staggered back. Jimmy bent low and rushed him, driving forward, past the open door, almost into the traffic surging by. He felt blows rain on his back but powered on, turning around the front of the car, then pushed and sent the cop sprawling into the wild grass alongside the road. By the time the cop had gotten to his feet and started running back, Jimmy was in the police car. He tore out of there, hearing a thud against the vehicle as the cop lashed out. More painful than
the bang on the head was the notion of the trouble he'd get into for letting some guy steal his vehicle.
Jimmy hit the accelerator. He found the button for the siren and hit it. After that, it was as if he drove a snowplough, as vehicles parted ahead of him.
***
Only when Louise took the kettle did Maria finally notice. For the last half an hour her daughter had been rushing in and out of the house from the back yard, then scuttling off. Maria had twice shouted from the living room and asked what was going on, but the reply had been "Nothing" both times. She was in the living room with a book, trying to relax, trying to erode time. Trying to take her mind off Jimmy. Trying to ignore the fact that he was out there doing God knew what.
She went to the kitchen to make a cup of tea and saw the kettle gone. The toaster was gone, too. Freshly washed cutlery and plates were missing from the draining board. She looked out of the window and saw Louise, running back towards the house. She knocked on the window and Louise froze, that guilty look on her face.
But when Maria got to the door, Louise was gone.
"Louise?"
No answer. Maria felt panic rising. The fence at the back was low, and she realised Louise could have used the tree with its low branches to scale that fence. The river! She ran to the end of the garden, up to the fence, peered over. Wild grass sloped down to the calm water, but Louise wasn't there.
"Nothing," said a voice right by her.
The treehouse was five feet in the air, a corner right by Maria's head. A ladder led inside through a hole in the floor. Made of planks of wood, it was shaped like a house, complete with a small door and windows of clear plastic. Louise's head was at the hole, peering down.
"You just gave yourself away, little miss," Maria said. She started to climb the ladder. Louise tried to stop her with a palm pressed on the head, claiming there was nothing inside, she hadn't taken anything. Maria loved how children could sometimes admit a wrongdoing in the way they admitted it.