Nobody True

  The commander stared at him for a second or two and, as an observer who didn’t like the grubby little detective, I enjoyed Coates’s discomfort.

  ‘Let’s hear the rest, Simmons,’ Newman said, redirecting his gaze.

  ‘Yes, Sir. Well, although it was unfortunate that we didn’t catch Moker at home there was enough evidence in that place to know we’d found our serial killer, and forensics are going through the flat with a fine-tooth comb as we speak.’

  Commander Newman gave an encouraging nod of his head and Simmons went on.

  ‘We found newspaper clippings of every murder and mutilation so far, including James True’s. We also found a whole bunch of knitting needles stashed away in a cupboard, some of them already sharpened and all the same brand as the murder weapon.’

  ‘Well done,’ Newman acknowledged, slapping the leather gloves into the palm of his hand. ‘Now, how does it tie in with all this?’ This time he nodded down at the dead bodies on the ground.

  ‘Yes, I’m not too clear about what you told me over the phone,’ put in Simmons’s immediate boss, Sadler. ‘You said Moker turned up at this James True’s house.’

  It was odd being referred to in this way when I was standing only a couple of feet away (I’d moved away from the wall to get closer to the group).

  With Coates chipping in every so often to let his superiors know he was in the picture, Simmons quickly explained how they had found news clippings showing pictures of Andrea and Primose, and then had noticed the missing page in the telephone book from the T section. They’d immediately – and quite smartly, I thought – put two and two together, so they sped to my home in force and found a distraught Andrea and Prim. With what they’d learned from Andrea they had put out a fresh APB for all units to step up their search for Moker’s Hillman which, in the event, was spotted by an officer on fixed point outside a VIP diplomat’s house, who called in the information. The Hillman was only two streets away from the agency and that was when Simmons and Coates suspected (again, quite astutely, I thought) Moker had gone after Oliver Guinane, the man who had tried to appropriate his, Moker’s, crimes.

  It was Sadler who interrupted the flow. ‘Is this man Guinane inside the agency now?’ The tall man glanced up at the lights on the fifth floor and, reflexively, the commander did the same.

  ‘Not sure, Sir. I sent some men up there a little while ago to look, but they haven’t reported back to me yet. I was about to go up there myself, just before you arrived. Thought I’d better put you and the commander in the picture first.’

  ‘Right. Good. Let’s all—’

  The policeman Simmons had ordered to search Moker’s car appeared at the detective’s side carefully carrying an object in one hand, a large handkerchief preventing contact between it and his palm and curled fingers. I moved even closer for a better look, peering over Coates’s left shoulder.

  It was Sadler who spoke to the PC, who seemed reluctant to interrupt his superiors.

  ‘Uh, small chopper, Sir. I suppose you’d call it a hatchet.’

  ‘You found it in the Hillman?’ Simmons leaned forward with great interest.

  ‘Yes, Sir. Under the driver’s seat.’

  Moker’s mutilation tool. I’d forgotten all about it. Oh thank God he didn’t bring it with him into the house . . .

  ‘I told him to search Moker’s car when we got here,’ Simmons said to both the commander and the chief superintendent.

  The loud wail of an ambulance; we hadn’t noticed its approach. The sound cut out as its driver waited for a policeman to hold back the blue and white tape that had already been strung across the street at both ends.

  Our attention returned to the nasty little weapon in the constable’s hand.

  ‘Didn’t have to break into the vehicle, Sir,’ the young policeman said to no particular sir, displaying the hatchet proudly. ‘It was unlocked and it didn’t take long to find this. Lots of blood on it, even the handle. Newish and old stains. Looks as if it’s never been cleaned.’

  Simmons grinned broadly and, although now I couldn’t see his face from behind, I’m sure Coates was grinning too. Sadler allowed himself only a small smile.

  ‘Well done, constable,’ the commander said to the young policeman (What was he? Twelve years old? His head was too small for his helmet). ‘Extremely well done.’ (Spoken like a leader of men.) ‘Bag it and give it to forensics when they turn up. What’s your name?’

  ‘PC Kempton, Sir.’

  ‘Once you’ve passed it over to the bods, carry on with the search of the vehicle, see what else you can find. And get someone to help you, I want two men on the job.’

  ‘Already taken care of, Sir,’ Simmons put in quickly, but not defensively. ‘The other man’s continuing the search as we speak.’

  Commander Newman gave a satisfied nod of his head.

  ‘Sir!’ the young policeman said smartly and took his leave. He marched off towards a patrol car, no doubt to collect a plastic bag big enough to hold his prize.

  Simmons, and probably Coates too, were still grinning.

  ‘Well I think the hatchet, together with those knitting needles you found in Moker’s flat, ties it all up rather neatly,’ commented Sadler as if in praise of his two detectives.

  ‘Except for this other man lying here,’ said Commander Newman to spoil the fun. ‘What did you say his name was?’

  ‘Presswell,’ Coates quickly told him. ‘Sydney Presswell. We think he might have got in a tussle with Moker. Syd— Presswell was probably trying to save Guinane from Moker and they crashed through the window and over the balcony.’

  ‘We’ll know more if Guinane is up there,’ Simmons said helpfully. ‘He might be hurt, maybe unconscious.’

  ‘Then we’d better find out,’ said Newman, slapping the gloves into the palm of his hand again like a punctuation mark to the detectives’ report.

  I’d almost lost interest by now. The facts were clear as far as I was concerned and I didn’t need to know any more. They’d find Ollie semi-conscious in our old office and no doubt he’d fill in the details for the police when he was able to. He would tell them about Sydney’s foolhardy confession – Sydney thought he was talking to a man who would be dead in a matter of moments – and they’d check out our devious bloody bean counter – yeah, I really did think of him like that now, although I hadn’t before – and discover all the little discrepancies in the accounts which foxy old Sydney wouldn’t be around to explain away, and they’d delve into his background thoroughly, find out about his debts, his gambling, his alimony payments to two high-maintenance ex-wives, a third one coming up. The drugs. They might – no, they would search his home after Oliver had spoken to them – and find his stash. Or maybe one of his exes would rat on him for revenge – it’s impossible for a wife not to know her husband is doing drugs. Of course, all that wouldn’t necessarily make him a killer, but he’d lose all credibility as a fine upstanding man. They’d dig even deeper and would come up with something, I was sure about that.

  Ollie? He wasn’t guilty of the crime of murder, but he was guilty of other things where I was concerned. I could never forgive him but, hey, suddenly I didn’t care as much. I seemed to be moving away from emotional things like anger tonight. Oddly, I couldn’t even hate Sydney for cheating and murdering me; I just thought he was a very sick man. God, I even felt pity for Moker.

  Imagine remembering your mother’s rejection at your own birth! Followed by rejection for the rest of your life! Born to be reviled or spurned by the ignorant few – few, but still too many! – driven crazy by your own disfigurement. (It seemed that if anger was slipping off the board, then compassion appeared to be growing stronger.) I felt sorry for the poor, poor guy who had tried to kill Andrea and Primrose, sorry for someone who’d already murdered four other people, used them, then chopped three of the bodies to pieces, and it beat me, I couldn’t understand why. Probably because I’d had glimpses of his life literally from the inside, experienced his sorr
ow and pain. But then, I’d also felt his excitement and sick joy for those terrible things he’d done. I’d felt the lingering shadows of his black soul – the whole of which had repelled those good souls who had sunk into his foulness in a vain attempt to influence the man. There was nothing worthy there, only wretched darkness and cruel malevolence. Could evil ever be absolute? Nothing there to glimmer in the umbra? I’d never thought so before, but now I wasn’t so sure. Maybe Moker’s soul would have been evil whatever the state of his body.

  Anyway. Time to move on. Nothing left for me to hear, I had the answer I’d sought. Have to return home, see for myself if Prim and Andrea were okay. My wife – who’d deceived me. My daughter – who wasn’t truly mine. Oh Hell—!

  What did it really matter? I still loved them both. Yeah, even Andrea. Our marriage may have been a lie, but there’d been good times, great times. (Maybe love was growing stronger too, moving in to fill those gaps from where the negative vibes were absconding.) And nothing ever – ever – would diminish my love for Primrose. No, that couldn’t change.

  So. Time to go.

  I started to drift away down the street, oblivious to the rain and the bustling uniformed figures around me. Started to drift away, but something stopped me, something said among the small group I’d been eaves-dropping on. Something said by Coates.

  ‘She should’ve stuck to knitting scarves,’ Coates had said.

  Commander Newman, who had taken a couple of strides towards the gtp entrance with Chief Superintendent Sadler by his side, stopped short and turned round to Coates and Simmons. The two detectives were following so close behind they almost bumped into the senior officers.

  I turned to look at Coates as well.

  ‘What did you say?’ the commander demanded, his expression severe. Sadler looked puzzled as he took in the detective constable.

  ‘What did you say, man?’ Newman glared at Coates with steely eyes.

  ‘Er, we found a whole pile of badly knitted scarves when we searched the flat. Long ones, all dark. A few balls of wool and more knitting needles. She must have had an obsession for needles.’

  Sadler cut in. ‘What the bloody Hell are you talking about Coates? Who’s this she?’

  ‘Her, Sir.’ Coates looked confused as he pointed back at the dark shapes lying in the street. ‘Moker.’

  ‘Moker?’ It was Newman again, his eyebrows arched, but his jaw set firm. ‘Do you mean to tell us that Moker—’ now he was pointing at the bodies, ‘—Moker,’ he repeated, ‘is – was – a woman?’

  ‘Uh, yes, Sir.’ The detective constable was distinctly uncomfortable. ‘I thought you knew. Alexandra Moker. That was the full name on the electoral roll and driving licence. We found tampons in her bathroom but not much other woman’s stuff though.’

  I was stunned. I stood rigid, light rain falling through me. Moker had been a woman. It was unbelievable. Did it make any difference? Yeah, it did to me. Somehow it made the misery she’d had to bear all her life even more poignant. Call me a sucker, call me old-fashioned, but I’d always had a great respect – and a soft spot – for women, young or old, fat or thin, pretty or – or not pretty; I’d always cherished women. Even my mother had not managed to change my regard for them. To me, women were vulnerable, they needed protection. Not politically correct these days, I know, but they’d always be the weaker sex (physically, I mean, not mentally, not even emotionally) to me. I’d always open a door for one; I’d always give up my seat for one. Believe it or not, I used to stand up most times a woman or girl entered the room. An anachronism? Maybe I was, but I’m not around anymore to be called names. Besides, nearly every woman or girl I’d ever known seemed to appreciate my regard for them.

  So that probably was why finding out that Moker had been female hit me hard. God, what had life been like for her? And had her physical appearance driven out all her femininity? I mean, just the way she walked! And I thought she was just plump when I saw her naked chest! What was God’s great plan for her? My spirit – literally – my spirit sagged. I couldn’t move so had to listen to Coates as he continued.

  ‘Those telephone books, by the way,’ the detective was saying. ‘We wondered about them when we searched Moker’s flat. You know, without a proper mouth there could hardly be any two-way dialogue, plus there wasn’t a phone in the flat anyway. James True’s wife – widow – told us Moker never said a word when she attacked her and her daughter, she just made kinda grunting noises and snorts.’

  Sadler, no doubt still digesting the startling news of Moker’s gender – I’m sure there can’t have been many female serial killers in the annals of crime – spoke curtly to Coates. ‘What’s your point?’ he snapped.

  Simmons came to his colleague’s rescue. ‘We also found unposted letters in the flat. Poison-pen letters, no two alike, every envelope addressed differently and to both men and women. We reckon she chose them from the telephone books and got some kind of perverted kick out of sending them. They were pretty horrible. Sick, I think you’d call them. You know, sex stuff.’

  Neither Newman nor Sadler wanted him to elaborate and Sadler made it clear. ‘Enough of that for now. Let’s get into the building and see if Oliver Guinane is inside. He might be lying dead for all we know.’

  Without a further word from any of them, all seemingly lost in thought save for Coates who began to whistle quietly, they made their way towards the agency building. As they entered the glass doors of my old agency, I saw one of the cops Simmons had sent in earlier coming from the lift. He saluted the commander and began telling the group something, a finger jabbing upwards as if to indicate the top offices. I hoped they’d managed to bring Ollie round. I also hoped he wasn’t badly hurt.

  Although I’d turned to watch Newman and his detectives enter the building, I still hadn’t moved from the spot. Maybe I was bewildered by what I truly wished was the last revelation in a very traumatic week.

  Moker. Alexandra Moker. A woman. Even when I’d used her body for my own purposes I didn’t have a clue. Was there supposed to be a difference, should a cuckoo spirit feel the physical variation between a man or woman without sight of those differences? I honestly had no idea, and right then it was of no great importance to me. I just wondered why I’d so naturally assumed Moker was a man.

  I remembered the mortuary earlier that day – God, was it the same day? All right, it might be after mid-night, but it was still today’s night as far as I was concerned. When, alone in the mortuary, Moker had molested a female cadaver, did that mean she was a lesbian? But then she had commandeered a young woman that evening and gone off with the debauched men for sex. There had also been a previous female victim. My guess was that her sexuality meant nothing to her because there had probably never been an opportunity to make love with either male or female. Despite her necrophilia, I still felt pity for her.

  It occurred to me that my confusion over her sex was for a far simpler reason. When she had arrived at the morgue, her boss had asked whose grubby apron had been left in the corpse room, and her co-worker, who was about to leave, had pointed a thumb over his shoulder at Moker and replied; ‘Alec’s’.

  Only he hadn’t said ‘Alec’s’ at all. He’d replied ‘Alex’, short for Alexandra. That’s how I’d made the mistake in the beginning; also I’d expected the serial killer to be a man, as had the police themselves. She even walked like a man!

  My melancholy gave way to numbness. Moker had been a monster in every sense of the word. But her life had been miserable, her birth had been hideous. No excuse for the odious things she’d done, but . . . but . . .

  I would have wept for the woman called Alexandra Moker that night. But lately, I’d wept too much.

  46

  After returning to Primrose and Andrea and making sure they were okay – they were both asleep in Andrea’s and my bed, front door securely locked, a policeman keeping guard on the doorstep, the bedroom door locked too – I wandered. And have wandered ever since.

  Litera
lly as a lost soul, I drifted through the city, day and night. I observed people, almost living their sorrows with them. I eavesdropped on conversations and heated debates, even watched couples making love (no pervy sexual thing for me this last one, because sex or desire no longer played any part in my make-up; rather it was a personal wish to see men and women bonding in the most intimate way possible, a need to feel their commitment to one another at its strongest – yet too often all I sensed was their lust). I think I was just searching for love in this sad old world of ours and, yes, I did find it and it wasn’t rare. It was in most people, young and old – especially in these two extremes, in fact – and in those of middle years as I had been. Sounds corny, I know, but it was a great comfort to me.

  I experienced everything in a fresh and new way, and every detail was of interest to me. It was the same feeling you get immediately after you’ve recovered from a serious or debilitating illness, only this was a hundred times more intense. I sat in parks and watched people, muffled up in the cold, pass by, momentarily sensing their feelings, their thoughts. I was especially fond of watching children in school playgrounds, because their unbounded zest for life when they were playing touched me deeply. If only you could see their colourful and vivacious auras.

  Some animals sensed me, others didn’t. Cats were particularly sensitive to my presence whereas most dogs became confused, often afraid. Birds deliberately ignored me when I sat on park benches, coming close to peck at insects or any breadcrumbs they might find, yet never invading my space. It was as if they were aware of me, but it was of no concern to them, I was neither a threat nor a means of more food.17

  One day, I dropped by Westminster Cathedral. It must have been a Sunday morning – I’d lost all sense of time by then – because a High Mass was in progress. When I walked out later I found I was relieved of the guilt, baggage – never a burden, but ever a nag – I’d carried around with me as a pathetic Catholic (in common with many other Catholics) for far too many years. I’d discovered that pomp and ceremony were not essential to belief, although the ritual and symbolism were necessary for many and essential for some. Individual or collective worship were both right – naturally a combination of both was the ideal because neither one precluded the other – and a person was free to choose without persuasion or dictates by those who had set themselves up as conduits to God.