Sydney responded quickly, almost angrily. It was the first time his mood had tightened since I’d been listening. ‘Oh yes I could! I took my time after your call – forgive me for not backing up your story to the police, but by the time they asked me if you’d called that night as you’d told them, the plot had moved on. Now where was I? Oh yes, after your phone call I chose a suitable weapon – one of those short chef’s choppers from my kitchen that was not quite like the murder weapon used in the previous serial killings, but which served my purposes perfectly – blabbermouth DC Coates had told me about the real weapon. Incidentally, I got rid of it in the Thames the same night. I went to the hotel and used the keycard to your suite – you remember, I acquired a key for myself when I booked you both in, so that I could come and go as I pleased, check on your progress from time to time. I let myself in and, as I’d hoped, because it was so late, past midnight, found Jim asleep fully clothed on his bed. I think he’d hit the whisky bottle after your bust-up. And my, what a deep sleep he was in. You might have thought he was already dead, so shallow was his breath. It made him a nice easy target. I wore gloves and one of those terrible, old, gaudy shellsuits I thought were the height of fashion in the eighties and which I’d never thrown away, so blood wasn’t a problem. Any that splashed onto my face I washed away in the bathroom. I’d brought the shellsuit and gloves along in my briefcase, the chopper too, and that’s where they were returned to after the deed, just in case anyone saw me leave. Oh, and of course, the other weapon came in the briefcase too, but that was left at the scene of the crime. Danny Coates told me about the knitting needle – seemed to think it was common knowledge anyway even though it had been kept out of the media, by mutual agreement. You could easily have learned of it through one of your journalist friends. And by the way, another mistake the police think you made was to use the knitting needle on Jim after you’d killed him with the chopper. Their forensic expert worked that one out. That was just another thing that led them to believe a copycat killer was the perpetrator.’
‘You’re insane,’ Oliver said thickly. (See how I’d reverted to ‘Oliver’ in my mind. I still hated him for what he’d done to me with my wife and how he’d stolen the most precious thing in the world to me, my daughter Primrose, but he hadn’t killed me, he hadn’t quite sunk that low. Because of his predicament right then, I almost pitied him.)
‘Not really,’ Presswell replied. ‘Let’s say years of resentment and my hopeless financial situation came together at a crucial moment. You know, Jim didn’t make anything as much as a moan when I cleavered his head. I find that quite surprising, don’t you?’
Oliver was right: Presswell was insane. Nobody normal could speak of such a horrendous act in the matter-of-fact tones he’d returned to. I felt sick, not physically, because I was inside someone else’s body, but spiritually sick, sick in my mind. It had been Sydney Presswell, not Oliver, all along. Butchered by my own business partner and friend. I might have laughed if my sense of humour hadn’t left me some time ago. This was the deviant madman who’d cut off my genitals and left them in a pile. How sick was that? I shuffled even closer to the opening, my ruptured face almost at the edge of the door. My killer’s back was to me.
‘Suitably,’ he continued, as if enjoying his own confession, ‘the hotel was like a morgue when I arrived and, because I used a staff entrance at the back, not even the night porter saw my coming and going.’
‘I don’t . . .’ Oliver began with some difficulty. ‘I don’t understand why they immediately suspected it was me.’
‘Because you were the last person to see Jim alive – always the first suspect, that person in this kind of case – and you’d been arguing with him in your suite – an extremely heated argument, they were told by the night porter. When they heard about the conflict between you two over the takeover by Blake & Turnbrow, they became even more suspicious of you. Then when I told DC Coates about your ongoing affair with Jim’s wife – well, I think that really clinched matters for them. You wanted your business partner out of the way because he objected to the takeover that would make you rich and also because you wanted his wife. Pretty strong motives as far as they were concerned. And by the way, I mentioned you were heavily into drugs.’ Presswell was hovering over Oliver, the heavy rule held like a club. Threatening.
‘You tried to make it look as if it was just another serial killing, but although you’d found out about the murder weapon, you were unaware of one other vital element in those crimes, something you could never have arranged even if you hadn’t been. How could you know of the victims’ crazy behaviour before they died? Only the police directly involved in the cases knew that the three previous victims had acted totally out of character before they were killed. They had degraded themselves after leading perfectly respectable lives. The Press never found out, it was a factor that was completely hushed up. Oh yes, I knew, because my ex-brother-in-law wanted me to think he was a very important policeman who worked only on A-list crimes, and he loved to let me in on inside stuff, things he thought made him a big man in my eyes. The copycat killer – you, Oliver – made an important mistake because he hadn’t full knowledge of the crimes. The previous victims were under duress, perhaps their families were under threat if the intended victim didn’t comply with the killer’s instructions. Or they were being blackmailed. Or hypnotized. All kinds of theories have been put forward, but the police cannot know for sure. What they are agreed on is that the killer is a very sick person with no apparent motive. But you, Oliver, you have a couple of motives for killing Jim, and as far as they’re aware, you might be scheming, but you’re not sick. Even chopping off Jim’s private parts had some peculiar logic – he was sleeping with the woman you loved. That’s what makes you different from their target and why this murder is not like the others. Even the murder weapons were used in the wrong order.’
There seemed to be more humour in his laughter now, but the hysteria that was only hinted at before had become more noticeable.
I saw Oliver try to rise to his feet, but Sydney struck him again with the rule, using only the flat side, bringing it down hard against Oliver’s scalp. Oliver yelped, then groaned and collapsed once more.
He was still conscious though, because I heard him say, ‘I’ll . . . tell them . . . I’ll tell them about you . . .’
Still in view, Sydney leaned over him. ‘You won’t be around to tell them anything. Are you really so stupid that you think you’re going to live through the night? That I was confessing all this to ease my conscience? Huh! You really are a first-prize idiot, d’you know that? All brains and no sense, as my dear mother used to say.’
He straightened, and carried on talking as he did so. ‘I have to admit I’ve been working half on instinct all this week, improvising as things went along, but tonight you’ve given me the perfect ending. Tonight you die, you see? And you leave behind your confession. You knew the police were on to you, you were full of remorse over killing your best friend, so you took the only honourable way out.’
And your lover had thrown you out, I could have added but didn’t.
Oliver had grabbed the edge of the desk with both hands and was trying to pull himself up. Sydney ignored his efforts, although he now kept the steel rule raised over the struggling man.
‘Let me give you the whole scenario, Oliver. You came here tonight, your last place of refuge, as it were. Nobody else was around. No, not even me. I was at home tucked up in bed – as I was that fateful Sunday night. Yes, I’d worked late, but had left before you arrived. You typed your confession on your computer and left it on the screen, no hard copy necessary. You’ve been screwing your best friend’s wife for years, you and he had business differences, and in a fit of rage you killed him. Naturally, I’ll type all of this for you and I’ll use my handkerchief over my index finger so the only fingerprints on your keyboard will be yours alone. I’m told computer suicide notes are popular these days. No handwritten signature necessary, which is parti
cularly helpful to me in these circumstances.’
I could feel any power I had left over Moker’s body swiftly ebbing away. I had to make my move, but couldn’t just yet: Sydney’s exposition to a man he thought would shortly be dead was not quite finished.
‘Why, Sydney?’ I heard Oliver ask. ‘Why do this after all the years we’ve worked together? Surely nothing’s worth killing your friends for.’
‘You still don’t get it, do you? Neither of you ever realized the pressure I was under. Well fuck you!’
You know what? That shocked me. Hearing Sydney Presswell swear shocked me. Ridiculous, I know, considering he’d just confessed to years of embezzlement and, worse, my murder, and hearing Sydney – Presswell! – say ‘fuck’ absolutely shocked me. You see, I’d never heard him curse like that before, not once, not ever, even when we argued over some company matter or other. In fact, I can’t recall Sydney ever getting angry before. Or cross. He’d always been mild-mannered. Not docile, I don’t mean that, but he’d always been the perfect gentleman, the most even-tempered person I’d ever known.
Now he’d said the f— word and that clinched everything for me. Sydney – see? I couldn’t even call him Presswell for long – was two people, it seemed: the nice, quiet, soft-toned accountant and respected colleague, and the scheming killer who leaned over Oliver now. The ‘fuck’ confirmed it. Sydney was completely crazy.
His voice was raised; he was almost shouting at Oliver.
‘You creative people are always complaining about tight copy dates, lack of time for presentations, over-night layouts and copy ideas, all that crap! But never did you understand the pressure I’m under, and I don’t mean the kind that goes with the job! I’m in deep shit, Oliver, and it’s been coming to a head for some time now. I don’t just mean greedy ex-wives and kids’ school fees. I owe serious money to people who don’t like to wait too long for payment. Money I haven’t got. That is, I haven’t got it right now.’
I practically jumped out of the body I was occupying when he brought the metal rule down hard on the desktop.
‘But all that will change once the deal has gone through. I’ve already been asked to stay on as a financial consultant at a higher salary, but the real reward will be the partners’ bonus from Blake & Turnbrow and the large secret commission I’ll receive for brokering the deal in the first place. You and Jim were never supposed to know about that, but I guess in the words of the late, great Buddy Holly, it doesn’t matter anymore.’
Somehow I was even more scared now that his voice had resumed its normal, placid pitch.
‘So, what’s to be done with you, Oliver?’
Sydney made the question sound reasonable. Mr Nice Guy again.
He answered his own question. ‘It’s actually very simple. You have to die, of course, but then I’m sure you already knew that. So it begs the question. How are you going to die? Again, the answer is simple. You’re going to take a high dive.’
Another moan from Oliver, a kind of despairing protest.
‘Your confession is taken care of – or it will be in a few minutes’ time. All that needs doing is the deed itself. I suppose I’m going to have to drag you over to the windows, aren’t I? No chance of you helping me with that? I thought not.’
I heard him walk across the room, his voice fading slightly.
‘I warned you about these floor-to-ceiling windows with that pointless balustrade right outside them, told you both they were dangerous when opened, but you loved the elegant style too much to care. Now you’re about to learn how seriously dangerous they are.’
The sounds of bolts being drawn, a catch turned. Then a fresh breeze pushed at the door I was hiding behind, narrowing the gap. A scuffling noise came from inside, Oliver moaning protests again, a soft dragging sound.
Oh dear God, the moment was here. I had to do something and do it quickly.
I dug a hand into one of the raincoat’s deep pockets, stiffened fingers feeling for the knitting needle I’d put there. My fingertips were numbed, but I forced them closed around the thin weapon, gripping the needle as best I could, slowly drawing it out, afraid I might drop it.
With my other hand, I shoved at the door, sending it wide. I held the needle out in front of me, the lethal tip pointed upwards.
But strength was quickly draining from the body I possessed. The knees were giving way, the raised arm was trembling.
I’m losing it, I thought. I’m losing control!
Sydney Presswell was halfway across the room, Oliver limp in his arms, the copywriter’s feet dragging over the carpet, the French windows open wide before them.
Sydney heard my heavy shambling footsteps. He looked back over his shoulder, saw me, and astonishment stretched his bland features.
43
But as I stood there in the doorway, the knitting needle’s point quivering in my unsteady hand, I knew I no longer had the strength to attack. Moker’s skin felt like a deep-sea diver’s suit, his head like the metal helmet. I felt my own spirit struggling to free itself of the useless body, to discard it like an unnecessary layer. In a few short moments, Oliver would be thrown over the low balcony outside the windows and I shouldn’t – no, I honestly couldn’t, despite what he’d done to me – let that happen. He’d sold me out, stolen my wife, and had cheated me out of the daughter that should have been mine. But he hadn’t killed me. Sydney had done that. Greedy, resentful Sydney Presswell, mild-mannered, easy-going Sydney. Embezzler Sydney. Perverse Sydney. Killer Sydney! And I’d grown too weak to prevent him from killing someone else! Oh, Jesus God, please help me! Give me that last ounce of strength or willpower, whatever it takes to stop Sydney throwing Oliver out the window!
But it was no good – I had hardly anything left. Astonished, surprised, he might be, but there was no fear in Sydney’s eyes, and certainly no shock.
But it was that lack of shock that gave me the idea. And the idea was inspired by the real serial killer.
I had to make Sydney so afraid of me he’d be paralysed if only for a few seconds, like Moker’s victims. It might just give me enough time to stab him with the needle, but in the neck, an easier target than his awkward-to-get-at heart.
I tore at the scarf around my face – no, my arm was too dysfunctional to move swiftly; more accurate to say that I worked at the scarf with my free hand – to get it loose and reveal the deformity that Moker had borne all his life, the facial aberration that had frozen the people he was about to kill for a few crippling seconds.
And in a way, it worked, although in Sydney’s case, fear was not a factor. No, revulsion had replaced the astonishment, disgust at this deformed creature that, for the moment, was interfering with his grand plan. Then something else flickered behind those rimless glasses he wore. Was it recognition? His eyes had left my face to stare at the nasty-looking weapon I held towards him. The sharpened knitting needle. Had he made the connection?
And I think it was this also that sent a fresh pulsing through Moker’s corpse. I don’t know, I’m not absolutely sure about these things, but I thought that maybe whatever remnant of Moker’s psyche was left behind inside his battered brain, or even inside the flesh of his body as a whole, had stirred up memories of a lifetime’s rejection, years of being an outcast, because of normal people’s revulsion of him. The same revulsion that was behind the fear in Sydney’s eyes. Did flesh and blood absorb such soul-rending emotions? Was everything that happened to us throughout our lives recorded, somehow embedded into our very substance? I’ve no idea, but the angry surge now pouring through Moker’s body could not be denied.
Another thought: maybe the anger that brought strength with its flow naturally came from myself, my own spirit. Hadn’t I wept for Moker earlier? Hadn’t I experienced the emotional pain he had felt all his life? Was my sympathy for him, my empathy for him, my anger for him, empowering my own last reserves of willpower? Had Sydney’s undisguised revulsion at the grotesque who stood before him triggered a reaction shared between mysel
f and whatever was left of Moker? I can only guess at the answer.
This returning vitality sent me rushing across the room at Sydney.
Oliver dropped to the floor when Sydney let him go and raised his hands to ward off my attack.
The knitting needle was held high in my hand and I brought it down just before I cannoned into Sydney, aiming for his plump neck but missing, the sharpened point piercing his cheek, an inch below his left eye, my clumsy but fierce momentum pushing him backwards, either the pain or the surprise provoking a shrill shriek, his fear and revulsion turning to horror as he pedalled back, my force and his own panic sending us towards the open windows.
I dug down with the needle, ripping his cheek, and now he screamed, a full-blooded sound, a frightened cry of conviction, this from a man I’d never known to show strong emotion. Blood spurted from his face to join the crusted blood on my forehead as I pushed with strength that was already waning once more, driving us both through the tall open windows onto the foot-wide false balcony outside.
An odd thing happened when we tottered there on the brink of the sixty-feet drop to the shiny wet street below. Sydney, with the back of his knees pressed against the stone balustrade, looked directly into my – into Moker’s – eyes. The moment froze, became meaningless as far as real time was concerned in the way such important moments often do.
Just for that ceaseless instant, his pale-grey eyes widened and I thought I saw recognition in them.
Maybe his guilt, with oblivion or hell a breath or two away, caused his mind to superimpose my real face onto one that was largely absent, because I’m sure his mouth and his voice started to shape my name, the fright in his eyes swapped briefly for a question.
‘Ji—?’ I’m certain he was about to say, but overbalance tore him away from me.
The half-formed query – if I’m correct in judging it so – swelled into a ferocious scream that withered to a self-pitying wail just before he hit the ground.