Page 32

Twenty-Nine

Hours passed.

Whatever other qualities Fleming might have lacked as a man, he was predictably ambitious. I imagined he was as bored and frustrated with police work on the island as my father had been. Perhaps he liked to think of himself as a king here, but he must have known that his court was a small one. The case I laid carefully out for him was bigger than anything he’d ever encountered. Big enough for him to make a name for himself.

If I had arrived at the station without any evidence then I had no doubt he’d have given me short shrift. Instead, I had provided him with a name for the body found yesterday, and as I walked him through the rest of the case, he became increasingly engaged. I could see it in his eyes. The potential glory of solving the investigation was enough for him to forget how much he hated me.

I explained who James Palmer had been, showing him the photograph and the sketch. I showed him the picture that had been delivered to my father, and explained how it had led me first to Darren Field, and from there to Rose Saunders and the other victims. All the people who had failed to save James that day.

I made sure to flatter him by allowing him to make a few of the connections himself rather than spelling them out. And at the same time, I didn’t give him everything. He didn’t need to know about Sarah’s involvement for the moment, or about our visit to Michael Johnson’s flat today. The former would only inflame him. The latter still wasn’t my decision to make. If the investigation led Fleming to discover either thing then I would deal with it then.

He worked at the computer the whole time, looking up details to corroborate what I was telling him, and even making a couple of calls to departments on the mainland. I waited patiently through those, attempting to glean information from the one side of the conversation I could hear. He wasn’t being told anything that contradicted the theory I was presenting him with, and he was listening to at least a few details that confirmed it.

Finally, I showed him the last item in the file.

He looked at it and frowned. “What’s this?”

“It’s a photograph,” I said. “Of me. It was taken three days ago, in my father’s garden, on the night I came back to the island. I had no idea anyone was there. Whoever took it delivered it to the house yesterday. They wanted me to find it.”

It surprised me how calm my voice sounded. The truth was that it took all my resolve to sit there across from Fleming as he stared down at a picture of me at my most exposed and vulnerable. My emotions on display. But it was necessary for him to see it, I thought. Not only was it part of the story, if I hadn’t already convinced him then I imagined being this open in front of him would help to clinch it.

He studied the photo for a time then leaned back.

“So,” he said. “What’s your theory?”

“My theory?”

“Well, you’re the serial killer expert.” He gestured around the office, as though it was a stage and he was giving me a rare chance to audition. “What do you imagine is going through this guy’s head? What makes him tick?”

“Well—”

“Off the record, of course.”

Yes, I thought. Of course. I had just delivered Fleming not only a solid lead on an existing serial killer, but the key that might unlock an older mystery too. He had nothing approximating a poker face, and I could see him doing the calculations in his head. Off the record. The avarice in his expression was barely hidden; he wouldn’t want anyone else taking a cut of the credit.

I imagined my father standing behind me.

Let him have his moment, my son , he said.

Just keep him onside for now. Play the long game.

I will, I thought. But when this is over, you’re going to get your due.

I’m going to make sure that everyone knows it was you, Dad.

“ Off the record ,” I repeated carefully, “I’ve never encountered anyone like this. He’s intelligent and organized, and I assume he functions well in society. He moves freely without attracting attention. On the surface, he probably appears relatively normal. But from the ferocity of the murders, there’s clearly a deep well of rage and hate inside that’s driving him.”

“Makes sense.”

“But I think it’s more complicated than that.”

“Really? Go on.”

As best I could, I explained my theory: that the killings were a kind of test, an experiment designed to counter the worthlessness the killer felt. Fleming nodded as I was speaking, as though—again—it all made perfect sense. And I was sure I sounded confident and convincing. But even as I was speaking, there was still a wrinkle of doubt in the back of my mind. The picture I was painting was almost right, I thought, but it still felt like there was a piece I was missing that might change everything.

What wasn’t I seeing?

“But I don’t know,” I said finally, because it felt important to voice the doubt. “There’s still a lot I don’t understand. For one thing, I’m not sure how James Palmer could possibly have survived all these years without being discovered. My father must have assumed he was dead, and I would have done too. But there’s also just… something.”

“Like what?”

“I don’t know.”

Fleming leaned back and folded his arms .

Waited.

I did my best to ignore him. Instead, I thought back to my encounter with James Palmer in the rest area toilets, remembering the fear I’d seen on his face.

Please help me.

Hiding away in the cubicle was the first time I’d failed him. And it turned out that I had failed him for a second time when I gave in and agreed with the police’s conclusion that it had been Robbie Garforth.

Was I in danger of doing the same thing again now?

I looked down at the photograph of James Palmer I’d brought with me.

What evidence did I really have that he was the individual responsible for these murders? From my father’s files, I knew that James had been abducted before the first known victim of the Pied Piper and had still been alive three years later. Which meant I also knew that he had most likely suffered more trauma than I could possibly imagine.

But I also knew that trauma wasn’t enough to make someone a killer.

Fleming lost patience with me. “What?”

“I just keep thinking about how he looked that day,” I said. “Terrified. Desperate for help. He would have run away if he could have done, but he was too frightened. The one thing he didn’t look like was a killer.”

I shook my head.

“He looked like a scared little boy.”