Ergo doesn’t bark, he tilts his head sadly to the side. Just as he did with Young Levant.

  What a family.

  The old detective takes his jacket off the hook, opens the door, takes one last look at the forlorn canine and walks out, leaving the door slightly open.

  Anyone could walk in.

  117

  DELIBERATE MISTAKE

  Take John Christie. A textbook serial killer.

  Struggled with impotence and sought solace with prostitutes. If you wanted to look into the causes of that ineffective penis, it would undoubtedly trace back to an emasculating mother. Or a philandering father. The fact that his victims were all strangled leans things more towards the mother. It’s almost boring.

  Still, he followed that unwritten code that so many limp-dicked murderers do: strangle a woman of ill repute, nobody will bat an eyelid.

  Christie is worth studying. But only for his mistakes.

  Bodies under the floorboards. Mistake.

  Burying in your own garden. Mistake.

  Wrapping a victim in a blanket and leaving them in an outdoor wash house. Come on, Christie, do you want to get caught?

  Here’s an idea: strangle your wife in bed. Tell a different story of her whereabouts to her family, the neighbour, her friends. Sell her belongings. Collect her unemployment benefits.

  Now wait.

  You fucking idiot, Christie.

  Find another prostitute while you’re waiting for the wife thing to unravel. Gas her. Rape her. Strangle her. Rape her again. Wrap her in a blanket, stuff her in a kitchen alcove and cover up the hole with some wallpaper.

  Yes, everyone has heard of him, they know he lived at 10 Rillington Place, but he wasn’t a success. He killed eight people. That’s it. And it’s surprising he wasn’t caught sooner.

  But there’s a certain poetry to the way in which Christie was caught. Ambling around London. Aimless. Questioned on Putney Bridge by a policeman. He had no form of identification on him. Just some coins and a goddamned newspaper clipping of the man who took the fall for two murders that Christie had committed. Jesus Christ, John, you are ridiculous.

  Some serial killers are caught because they are stupid, they don’t know how to get rid of a body or they don’t think things through; they’re impulsive. Others, like Kemper, want to be caught because it’s the only way they can stop what they are doing. Or the escalation in the violence of their murders gets out of control, so there’s more evidence. Whatever the reason, to be a successful serial killer, you have to become known.

  You have to get caught.

  But, if you follow the guidelines that have been set out, you can do this on your own terms.

  Make a deliberate mistake.

  After following the rules for so long, chipping away at Shipman’s record for years, staying below the radar, seeking no fame, no glory, becoming the invisible cult leader, how fitting to be picked up on a London bridge by the local constabulary with no identification. A nod to Christie.

  So many years, hiding away, manipulating people into choosing death. Rarely witnessing the last moments of a victim. How perfect to watch those final twenty take the leap towards eternal nothingness.

  Take me.

  Now wait.

  118

  Detective Sergeant Pace wakes up on a day where nothing important is supposed to happen.

  The white envelope on the floor of his flat says exactly that.

  But Detective Sergeant Pace is not at his flat this morning.

  The swing-by he had planned ended up with two bottles of beer, prosecco and a light, quaffable pinot noir.

  It was easier for him to stay over after that.

  And it means that only nineteen people will jump off Tower Bridge later.

  Maeve Beauman saved Pace’s life.

  He is lying on his back, staring at the ceiling. Maeve is asleep on her side next to him; her hand rests delicately on his chest. Pace turns his head to look at her face. He’s not thinking how great last night was or how deep his feelings run for the woman in bed with him. His mind is on that name that kept jumping out at him during his limited investigation of The People of Choice.

  Levant.

  Two of them. The Man in the Light. And his uncle. Some old, retired detective, who had identified the body. He’d already been interviewed, but Pace wants a second go. Something wasn’t sitting right with that part of the story.

  He stares back at the ceiling. Maeve’s hand moves down his body. She’s awake. Pace knows she’s going to try it on with him. Part of him wants to get out and get on with his working day. Head across town to the address he pulled from the system for Mr Levant. Another part wants to look up at Maeve as she works him to climax, arching her back as she slides herself back and forth. That appeals to Pace.

  Pace starts to sit up. But it’s half-hearted.

  ‘Where do you think you’re going?’ Maeve asks, finally opening her eyes. Her hand gripping the waistband of his underwear.

  ‘Big day. Back on the case. I need to get to work.’

  Maeve leaves her hand and rolls away to look at the alarm clock on her bedside table.

  ‘It’s early. Lie back. We have some time.’

  Detective Sergeant Pace does as he is told.

  Then they’re both downstairs in the kitchen drinking coffee and he is talking about the case that isn’t even his but he can’t help but investigate. And Maeve is encouraging him to pursue it – she’s been fascinated by the news stories. Pace tells her that he is going to visit this Levant character today.

  And this is how his day begins. With a hangover and a beautiful woman and sex and tenderness and a hot shower and the same clothes as the day before and black coffee and that shadow over his shoulder. Not with a hangover, cheap coffee and burning the letter that sits on the floor of his modest flat.

  Detective Sergeant Pace, who told Dr Artaud that he was not seeing a woman from his previous case. Who didn’t mention those black flames or the shadow or the trail of bad luck that seems to follow him. Who was cleared to return to work but has not dealt with his issues. Who could snap and be engulfed by the darkness he continues to run from.

  Who should have been 255 – Detective.

  119

  243–248 – NOBODIES

  There are six of them for the Tower Bridge finale.

  The wheels of industry will not come to a grinding halt the moment their heads hit concrete. They’re nobodies. Sure, they are something to somebody, but not within The People of Choice.

  And that does not mean they are menial workers or unemployed or criminals or ravaged by war. There’s an accountant and a software developer among them. There’s a local councillor.

  What they lack is the ambition and guts of the Fighter, the ideology of the Teacher, the benevolence of the Doctor, the hope of the Poet.

  They’re functional. They’re here. They’re doing something. And the world needs a ton of nobodies in order to exist and get things done. But it also won’t miss them. They’re replaceable.

  So don’t worry about the Nobodies. The six nothings that are there to make up the numbers. The ones that Rossi, Erickson and Milton infiltrated on their very first session. It was so easy for them. Six people with names and titles and families and responsibilities. All deemed to be worthless.

  They get given a number.

  They will get their names back in a few days once family members have identified their mangled remains. It’ll be blurted out on the news for people to forget. These people have no story. They’re not interesting. The public will hook on to the Fighter and his struggle and the daughter he leaves behind.

  They will see the devastation of the Teacher’s year-four pupils. They will speculate about the Levants and their involvement. Conspiracy theories will abound. And the Nobodies will take their rightful place in the legacy of The People of Choice. They’re filler. Padding at best.

  But they all count.

  And how much does it really matter?

  Everybody dies.

  120

  The door is open.

  Pace taps lightly with his knuckle three times.

  ‘Mr Levant? Mr Levant, are you there? This is the police, I’d like a word with you about your nephew. Mr Levant?’

  He waits.

  After leaving Maeve’s house, Pace had gone straight to the office. He could have gone home and changed but he was clean enough. He just had to show his face for half the day, make it look as though he was chipping away at his caseload while, actually, pulling together details about The People of Choice.

  Nobody noticed when he left in the early afternoon. He had the old man’s address and that was his sole focus.

  Detective Sergeant Pace pushes the door open a little further and spots what he thinks is some kind of Alsatian. It isn’t barking. It doesn’t seem frightened. It isn’t protecting the flat. Pace thinks that a dog would only act this calm if the owner was still around. He’s wary.

  ‘Mr Levant?’ he calls again, looking around the lounge. He edges inside, carefully, and looks behind the door. Nothing.

  Then he spots that the dog is tied to the radiator.

  ‘There’s a good boy.’

  He sidesteps his way to the back of the lounge, towards the kitchen, keeping an eye on the dog and the other end of the room. There’s nobody in there, either.

  Pace moves more freely, now that he knows he isn’t going to get jumped from behind. He shuts the front door then checks the bathroom and the bedroom. The dog lies back down on the carpet. It doesn’t make a sound.

  One room left.

  ‘What the…?’

  He can see the entire room. Pace is definitely alone in this flat. Apart from the dog. It’s the only tidy room in the place. There’s a large table in the centre of the room, covered in papers full of notes and ideas. There’s a laptop and a printer. Both of them are powered up but the laptop is password protected. Someone at the station will be technical enough to get into it.

  It’s the wall in front of him that stops the detective in his tracks. The Thames stretches across its length with bridges drawn in order. Pictures of the victims. String to join certain victims together. He’s got more information here than has been seen on the news. He’s got more than Paulson has unearthed.

  Pace can’t make sense of it. There’s too much there. And he’s worried that Levant could come back at any second. Why did he leave the door open?

  One of the pieces of paper on the desk has The People of Choice’s mantra printed in capital letters.

  Is it him? Is he behind this? Did he kill his own nephew? That seems like such a stupid mistake to make? How would he recruit all of those people? Where the fuck is he?

  Pace doesn’t know what to do. He could call this in, get Paulson down here. Then he’d have to explain why he was investigating. But he can’t just leave it. Levant might be planning something else. Maybe the old man was just looking into things himself. He is displaying his findings in a psychotic way, but perhaps that’s just the way he works. He’s old school. An analogue guy in a digital world.

  He returns to the lounge faster than he entered. The dog jumps to its feet and starts barking. Pace slows and tells the thing to be quiet. He scours around the room quickly, to see if there’s anything else that might be seen as evidence of collusion with The People of Choice.

  The place is a mess. It smells like dog and beer and takeaway food. There’s half a tub of melted ice-cream on the carpet. Next to the landline telephone, Detective Paulson’s card. Beside that is a small notepad. Written in blue ink are two words. The first is string and has a line through it. The second is ERMA.

  Pace leaves the card and takes the pad.

  121

  242 – DETECTIVE

  The old man is the last one to jump off Tower Bridge. It wasn’t planned that way. The only stipulation regarding order was that the Teacher would lead the rest of the pack.

  He hesitates.

  The other eighteen jumpers were all patients of either Rossi, Erickson or Milton. 242 – Detective saw Dr Artaud.

  Maybe Artaud isn’t as good as the others. Maybe he’s just starting out. Maybe he’s not a part of it. Maybe he’s being used for his police patients to give the cult some credibility. Maybe the victim thinks about his nephew before committing to his own death. Maybe he spares a thought for Ergo, being passed around from owner to owner, left alone again. Maybe a camera flash knocks him into reality and he doesn’t know where he is.

  Maybe you haven’t been listening.

  It’s foolproof. You get the letter, you jump. That’s it. It always works. No leader. No trail. No evidence.

  Old Levant does not consider his life or what he made of himself. He doesn’t reflect on how he treated his family or his friends or how he was treated by them. He doesn’t reminisce about days with his partner before he was killed and he doesn’t feel ill towards him for the blackouts that manifested as a result of his electrocution.

  It’s a 200-foot drop, but that takes a second. Nothing slows down for him. No life – good, unfulfilled or momentless – flashes through his mind in that time. There’s not long enough.

  It goes like this: Scream one. Scream two. Look at all the lights. Do I want to die? No. Step off the edge. Burst organs. Brain damage. Eternal blackout.

  Unless Detective Sergeant Pace can figure out what has been happening. And stop it.

  122

  Detective Sergeant Pace left the door open, too.

  Ergo was still chained to the radiator. If he got hungry, he had some melted ice-cream to lap at. He wasn’t going to die.

  Pace didn’t call it in. He should have, of course, taken the rap for doing things his own way, working someone else’s case. But his mind was focused.

  ERMA. The note on that pad said ERMA.

  Erickson.

  Rossi.

  Milton.

  Artaud.

  Back at the station, he searches for Levant in the records and finds that he had an exemplary career, marred only by the death of a fellow officer, which he witnessed, and treatment for the consequent blackouts he experienced after the incident.

  Pace’s first thought was to doubt that Levant’s partner’s death was an accident. Then he finds what he is looking for. The name of the doctor that had treated Levant’s affliction.

  Artaud.

  Was he still seeing Artaud after all this time? What did the doctor know about Levant? Did he know the younger Levant?

  Whatever the answers, Pace had what he needed. A link. Enough reason to go back to those offices, under the barrier, over the bumps.

  He leaves the station in a rush. He doesn’t tell anybody where he is going or what he is doing. He needs to speak to his doctor. To Levant’s doctor.

  Then he’s in the car and negotiating the traffic, heading towards the ERMA offices while nineteen other people he is supposed to be meeting are making their way to Tower Bridge.

  There are three missed calls from Maeve on his mobile phone that he doesn’t have the time or energy to deal with right now. He sees the back of Royal Festival Hall and knows that he is close.

  The barrier is open. He doesn’t slow down for the speed bumps and, when he pulls up outside the offices, he doesn’t need to press one of the bells on the brass ERMA plaque, because another door has been left open for him.

  123

  TWO HUNDRED AND FIFTY-SIX

  It could have been so many more. Decades of patients. But not everyone comes to see a therapist in secret. Not everyone is ashamed to ask for help. Those people were treated. If they ended up taking their own life somewhere down the line, it was their choice. It doesn’t count towards the final number.

  You can’t kill everyone.

  Even if you really want to.

  Even if they come to you and their troubles are insignificant in your eyes. They were feeling down, but then the closure of the local boulangerie really tipped them over the edge because they don’t want to support big business and the supermarkets charge so much more for the spelt ciabattas that it is criminal.

  You want to kill these idiots. But you can’t. Because they’ve told their peers that they are in analysis. It may be that they are acknowledging that they need the guidance or self-awareness. Maybe they’ll get around to that story about the tactile uncle who made them sit on his lap or the way those God-fearing nuns would discipline at that Catholic school or how they find one of their parents attractive.

  Maybe they do, maybe they don’t. But if they’re coming to you with these problems and they’ve let somebody else know that they’re doing it, that makes it harder to kill them. Because you don’t want that trail. You don’t want anything to lead back to you.

  You want to remain invisible.

  Until the end.

  Until you can kill no more.

  You need to retire.

  Damn, it could have been so many more. Decades of patience. Picking them off, one by one. Never getting carried away. Honing the craft. You think it’s easy getting away with murder? The pleasure can eat away at you when there’s nobody to share it with. Leaving no evidence, no fingerprints – physical or figurative – is the easy part. Subverting your own joy is the real pain.

  But pain endures.

  Take Shipman, who is now the second most prolific serial killer we’ve seen. He’s been overtaken. Twenty-three years without detection. A strong business model. All these American hillbilly whore-killers, they’ve got the right idea, but there’s a never-ending feed of pensioners. And, when they die, people care about it even less than they do when a prostitute is found burned in a ditch. Old people are expected to die. They’re sick all the time and they need looking after and they have to be reminded to take the pills for their diabetes and arthritis and the extra pills to counteract the side-effects of these other pills they have been prescribed.

  You get to a certain age and you become a drain. On your family and your carers. Your government doesn’t give a shit that you paid your taxes forever or that you went to war. That doesn’t mean you should be able to heat your one-bedroom palace for the whole of winter.

 

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