Now You See: A gripping serial killer thriller that will have you hooked Read online

  Copyright © 2017 Max Manning

  The right of Max Manning to be identified as the Author of the Work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  Apart from any use permitted under UK copyright law, this publication may only be reproduced, stored, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means, with prior permission in writing of the publishers or, in the case of reprographic production, in accordance with the terms of licences issued by the Copyright Licensing Agency.

  First published as an EBook in 2017 by WILDFIRE, an imprint of HEADLINE PUBLISHING GROUP

  All characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  Cataloguing in Publication Data is available from the British Library

  eISBN: 978 1 4722 5153 4

  Cover photographs © Steven Puetzer/Getty Images (eye), CulturaRM/Alamy (hair) and Mohamad Itani/Arcangel Images (reflection). Cover design by Andrew Smith.

  HEADLINE PUBLISHING GROUP

  An Hachette UK Company

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  50 Victoria Embankment

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  www.headline.co.uk

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  Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Dedication

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Chapter 50

  Chapter 51

  Chapter 52

  Chapter 53

  Chapter 54

  Chapter 55

  Chapter 56

  Chapter 57

  Chapter 58

  Chapter 59

  Chapter 60

  Chapter 61

  Chapter 62

  Chapter 63

  Chapter 64

  Chapter 65

  Chapter 66

  Chapter 67

  Chapter 68

  Chapter 69

  Chapter 70

  Chapter 71

  Chapter 72

  Chapter 73

  Chapter 74

  Chapter 75

  Chapter 76

  Acknowledgements

  About the Author

  For Valerie, Becky, John and Sarah

  Prologue

  She hears herself breathing, quick and shallow. She knows what’s coming and there’s nothing she can do.

  Tears sting and she blinks hard. Dusk is falling like a grey shroud and the undergrowth is thick with gloom. It’s an unseasonably warm September evening, but still she shivers.

  He smiles and holds his phone up in his right hand. She can’t tell whether he’s taking a photograph of her, or a selfie. All her attention is focused on his other hand.

  He steps round and behind her, moving so swiftly it makes her head spin. The heat of his body burns through the thin fabric of her dress. He positions the phone in front of her face so she can get a good look at the screen.

  It takes her a second to recognise the woman in the photograph. Her skin is paler than usual against her short, dark hair, the blue eyes startlingly wide.

  ‘You’re very photogenic, but you should have smiled,’ he says. ‘You’ve got a beautiful smile.’

  Her heart races and rivulets of sweat run down her spine. Maybe, she thinks, maybe there is still a way out of this.

  ‘Why me?’ she says, her voice part whisper, part sob.

  He laughs softly and she feels his breath hot on the back of her neck. ‘This is so much bigger than you.’

  She wants to run, but her legs are shaking so badly she can barely stand. She opens her mouth wide. The scream doesn’t come. Her breath has been sucked from her lungs. She tries to step away, but he grabs her right forearm, his fingers digging into the flesh.

  He releases his grip and stands so still, so silently, she lets herself believe, for a fraction of a second, that he has gone. But all hope dies in a moment. He’s there, and the stillness and the silence mean he’s ready.

  Hot tears spill down her cheeks. Her vision blurs, but she sees. She sees a dark-haired child learning to ride her first bicycle, her father cheering her on as he runs, arms outstretched, ready to catch her should she fall.

  She recalls the excitement of her first kiss, the tenderness of her last kiss. She regrets the precious days she’s wasted, never saying the things she wanted to say. She feels the warmth of her mother’s hand.

  1

  Detective Chief Inspector Dan Fenton thought he’d seen it all. He stared at the images on the computer screen and shook his head in despair. It was the first time he’d looked into the eyes of someone who knew they were about to be murdered.

  A second picture, taken later at a side angle and low to the ground, showed the same woman on her back, her arms splayed, her torso slick with blood and her legs crossed neatly at her ankles. In the background, the faint silhouette of a line of trees snaked into the distance.

  A message typed next to the photographs read:

  The world certainly looks different through the eyes of a killer. #IKiller

  Fenton lifted a hand and massaged the back of his neck. They had a murder, showcased online. A ‘before’ picture and an ‘after’ picture of the victim. An email sent by the killer generously providing a link to his handiwork. What they didn’t have was a body. Yet.

  His thoughts were interrupted when the office door swung open. Detective Sergeant Marie Daly paused to tug at her ponytail before stepping in.

  ‘The online team are trying to trace the source of the email,’ she said. Daly never used more words than necessary. Fenton valued that. He also trusted her to make good decisions under pressure.

  ‘How long is it going to take to get this stuff taken down?’ he said.

  Daly shrugged. ‘It’s a fake Instagram account, boss. Created in the UK with the username @IKiller. We’ve put in a request, but it could take twenty-four hours. It’s already been viewed by several hundred people.’

  Fenton glanced at his watch and swore under his breath. Another long night at the office. Another broken promise. He slid his chair back and stood, resting his hands on the desk.

  ‘Whoever did this couldn’t wait to flaunt it.’ He jabbed a finger at the computer. ‘We need teams searching every park in the city, every open space large e
nough for that many trees. Cancel all leave and get every available officer out there looking. I want that body found.’

  Daly nodded and left the room. Fenton sat down, lifted his hands to his face and rubbed his eyes gently with the tips of his fingers. What kind of mind could do that to another human being? God help us all, he thought.

  2

  The key to everything was finding her. I’d been searching for a long time without knowing exactly who I was looking for.

  That was a great moment for me. Strike that. The word great is far too weak. It was a prodigious, life-changing moment.

  I’m still feeling the joy. Yes, that’s the word. The public love my work. I knew they would. It’s hard to resist a glimpse into the darkness.

  I can’t blame myself for what I’ve done, for what I have yet to do. Guilt is a concept I’ve never understood. It gets in the way of true creativity, stops you doing things you want to do. Imagine not having a conscience. Think about it. Wouldn’t life be so much easier? Admit it.

  A veil has been lifted. Life promises so much more for me now. I’m free to follow my path.

  3

  Fenton pushed through the journalists, ignoring their shouted questions and turning his face from the flashing cameras.

  Two police constables guarded the Gore Road entrance into Victoria Park. As Fenton approached the iron gates, a photographer wearing a beanie hat and leather jacket stepped in front of him and raised his camera.

  Fenton swerved slightly and turned his left shoulder, knocking the press man off balance, forcing him to step aside. The discovery of the body hadn’t been made public, yet the media had arrived mob-handed. Fenton would make it his business to find out how the news had been leaked.

  Passing through the gate, he stressed to the uniforms that on no account should any reporters be allowed in. To the left, about fifty yards away, a constable stood by a line of white tape sealing off a triangular area of undergrowth that filled the gap between two towering plane trees.

  As Fenton approached he was struck by how fresh-faced she looked. Probably a new recruit, he thought. He flashed his warrant card and a smile. ‘You’re the one who found the body?’ he asked.

  The constable’s face reddened. ‘That’s right, sir.’

  Fenton nodded, ducked under the tape and edged through a narrow gap in the shrubbery. The woman lay on her back in a small clearing. He moved close to her feet, putting himself where the killer must have stood to take the photograph. The copper-coin smell of blood turned his stomach as he moved beside the body and squatted to take a closer look. The victim appeared to be in her late twenties. Her eyes stared at the sky, lifeless and shiny. Like a doll. Fenton resisted a sudden urge to walk away. He needed to do his job properly.

  This was somebody’s child. Somebody’s baby. When he’d first joined the force, arresting the bad guys, doing his bit for society, felt good. It was all about winning and proving yourself. After the birth of his daughter that changed. One day she’d be out there on her own. Taking bad guys off the streets had become even more important. It felt personal.

  Dragging his eyes away from her face, he checked her hands. They were small and clean. No obvious defence wounds. No attempt to fend off the blade. Her dark blue skirt was hitched up around her thighs. He could see no sign of sexual assault, but the pathologist’s report would provide the details.

  He stood up and slipped through the undergrowth back on to the path. The police constable stood to attention. Fenton lifted a hand to acknowledge her and started walking back to the gate. After a dozen or so strides he paused, took a few deep breaths to clear the smell of death from his airways and gazed across the park.

  The morning sun hovered low over east London’s tower blocks, its rays glinting off the surface of the boating lake. A thin line of mature oaks curved north to south across the green space, their leaves already changing colour. At that time of day, the park would normally be bustling with people.

  A white van approached through the trees. It turned on to the grass and pulled up beside Fenton. Ronnie Oliver, New Scotland Yard’s most experienced crime scene manager, and a younger, taller woman climbed out, both already wearing white forensic overalls.

  Built like a pitbull, Oliver squared up to Fenton, his jutting jaw level with the detective’s chest. ‘Don’t tell me you’ve contaminated my crime scene,’ he said.

  Fenton shrugged. ‘Okay, I won’t. I had a quick look that’s all.’

  Oliver curled his upper lip and glanced at his colleague. She turned away and stared at the scenery. Fenton guessed she’d seen her boss lose it before. He admired Oliver’s passion for his job and his obsession with protocol, and most of the time was prepared to indulge his tantrums. ‘I had a look, but I didn’t touch anything. I’m in charge of this investigation remember.’

  Oliver scowled. ‘You could be the Prime Minister for all I care. Don’t come near my crime scene again unless you’re wearing a fucking forensic suit.’ With that he strode off, his colleague scurrying after him.

  It was going to be another long day and, unless they struck lucky, an even longer night. Fenton pulled his mobile phone out of his jacket pocket. The call was answered after the sixth ring. His neighbour sounded flustered. ‘Bad timing,’ she said. ‘We’re late for school.’

  ‘Tina, I need a favour.’ Fenton paused, hoping for a positive response. He didn’t get one. ‘Something’s come up and I’m going to be late. Very late. Can she sleep over?’ The silence on the other end stretched. When his neighbour finally spoke, her words sounded clipped.

  ‘It’s early. How do you know you’re going to be so late?’

  ‘You’ll see it on the news. It can’t be helped. I’m sorry.’

  ‘You know this can’t go on, don’t you? It’s not fair.’

  ‘I’ll sort it. I’ll call the agency.’

  Fenton waited for at least thirty seconds before he realised the call had been terminated. He took that as a yes.

  He was staring at his mobile’s blank screen, momentarily paralysed by guilt, when he heard footsteps. He turned to a frowning pale face, topped with cropped reddish hair. ‘Everything all right, sir?’

  Detective Constable Ince had been on the team for less than six months. In that time Fenton had come to appreciate his youthful enthusiasm. ‘You were the first detective on the scene?’ Fenton said. It came out more of a statement than a question.

  Ince nodded. ‘Ten minutes after the uniforms found her. Made sure the area was sealed off straightaway.’ He paused for a few seconds, running the fingers of his left hand across his forehead as he tried to come up with something to impress his boss. ‘I think she’s probably been there all night because the park closes at dusk and the gates are locked. I remember thinking there was a lot of blood.’

  Fenton kept the disappointment off his face. He was good at that. He’d had a lot of practice. Sometimes first sight of the body can provide a gem, a little nugget of information that can help break a case. Not this time.

  Ince rubbed his forehead harder and pressed on. ‘She wouldn’t have been visible from Gore Road, or from inside the park, because of the undergrowth, but she would probably have been found by a dog walker if we hadn’t got there first.’

  ‘We need the victim’s ID confirmed,’ Fenton said. ‘I know I can trust you to get it done quickly.’ He watched as Ince walked away, a spring in his step, his head held a little higher.

  4

  It’s amazing how a simple act can have such complex consequences. Predictably my Instagram post was wiped, but not before plenty of admirers shared it around. The ripple effect is a wonderful thing.

  The one negative is I’m the only one who knows it was me. I’m not good at pretending to be humble.

  The police are running around trying to look like they know what they’re doing, but they’ve nothing to go on. Find the motive and you’ll find the killer? No one finds me unless I want to be found.

  The thing is, I have more than a m
otive. She was the first step on my journey. That’s the beauty of the relationship between predator and prey. It’s not personal. What does that say about me? It says I’m a cold-hearted son of a bitch. Did I plan it? Her death yes, but not what it unleashed.

  People like me. They always have. The deluded souls think they know me. If I put my mind to it I can charm the pants off most people. Pay them lots of attention, show genuine interest in their pathetic little lives. Keeping up the pretence is hard, but I’m good at it. It’s my camouflage, my weapon of mass deception.

  I know that if I want maximum impact I’ve got to be inventive. When you’re in the entertainment business, you’ve got to up the ante. Your audience always wants more.

  5

  All of the belongings she’d left behind went into three cardboard boxes. Blake lined them up in the hall near the front door. She wouldn’t have to venture far into the flat when she came to pick them up. It’d be better for them both.

  He walked down the narrow hall into the living room. At least he didn’t have to buy new furniture now. She’d hated his old two-seater sofa and the tiny television set he rarely switched on. Most of all she’d hated the running machine positioned in the centre of the room.

  Blake sighed and shook his head. He missed her. He missed the warmth of her smile, her touch, her kindness. If he begged her to come back she probably would, but he’d ruled that out as an option. The best thing he could do for her was let her go. He stepped on to the treadmill, pressed the start button and began jogging. After a couple of minutes, he upped the pace and settled into a steady run. As always, he found comfort in the whirring of the electric motor and the rhythmic pounding of his feet.

  By the time the tenant living in the flat below started jabbing a broom handle against his ceiling, Blake was dripping with sweat, his vest and shorts sticking to his skin. He checked his watch. Ten more minutes and he’d reach the four-mile mark.

  When the knock on the door came, Blake was warming down with a brisk walk. He stepped off the treadmill, wiped his face with a hand towel and answered the door. His neighbour, a portly, middle-aged man with thinning grey hair, stood on the threshold. Arms held rigid by his side, he took in Blake’s sweat-stained shorts and vest and snorted. ‘Every day. Day after fucking day.’