30 Days in June Page 9

  "You don't say."

  "Would you like a drink?"

  Sometimes I go black. Sometimes I have sugar. Sometimes, if I'm feeling particularly rebellious, I even have chocolate sprinklings on top. "A white coffee, no sugar, would be just grand.”

  Simon has long legs and suitably long strides, and he reaches the stairs in no time. He is keen to play the perfect host, I think. Stopping at the bottom of the stairs, he stretches his narrow body so that the blue veins in his neck are visible.

  "Mum!" he shouts. "Can you please make a white coffee? Oh, and bring me an energy drink, please."

  His mother groans from somewhere upstairs, somewhere in the house.

  "Listen, I'm sorry to hear what happened to your mum, yeah?"

  "That's okay," I reply. "And thank you."

  "My dad is no longer with us, either," he says. "The circumstances surrounding that weren't good, either.”

  "Right."

  "So...?"

  "So...?"

  He shifts on his seat. "It is obviously a privilege to have you visit my humble abode," he says, looking around at the dark, dismal surroundings and allowing himself a smile. I'm momentarily impressed by his self mockery. "This isn't purely a social visit, is it? Why are you here? What has happened...?"

  I've asked myself these very questions over the last few days - repeatedly - and yet I still don't have a credible answer. But the simple answer is that I need help. I doubt that he can give any, but I'm running out of options. At the very least this guy should be interested in what I have to say.

  "I would like your opinion on something."

  "My proverbial door is always open."

  "You're a writer, right?"

  "I write books, yes. It still doesn't sound quite right to me when I say that I'm a writer, but I'll accept the compliment, for sure."

  "You write books about serial killers?"

  "I'm a true crime writer, incorporating serial killers."

  "And you know who I am, yes?"

  "Better than you can imagine. You're Marcus Clancy; formerly Jeffrey Allen. "

  "Right. Well. The other day I was in the library, browsing through books about Spartacus. I was amazed how many books there are. This guy kills people. What can possibly be the fascination? Anyway. One book caught my attention. I looked at the back cover and it was your ugly mug. You're something of an expert, right?"

  Simon theatrically fans his face. The guy (I think) has a sense of humour. Clearly, though, he is not used to this level of flattery. "Put it this way, if I ever appeared on Mastermind, then serial killers would be my specialist subject. I don't know much about anything else really. Spartacus is easily my favourite serial killer. He's the one that really gets my blood racing."

  I bow my head. "Thought so."

  I remind myself that I know something about him, something about his theories on what happened, that he won't be aware of. I do this to give me some inner-strength. It somehow feels like it gives me the upper hand.

  "I'm hoping you might be able to help with my current predicament."

  I sense Simon leaning forward. We are linked in a conspiracy. I can smell his aftershave. It is surprisingly (and welcomingly) overpowering, like he has sprayed on too much to drown out all the other stale odours in his den. It must have taken copious sprays. Reminds me that Baldwin always smelt good. Simon whispers, "Is he back?"

  I look up and notice that his eyes, under his glasses, are like saucers: large and round and expectant. I'm shocked by this question. "Why would you think that?"

  Simon chuckles. His teeth are unexpectedly small, orderly and white. My first impression was of a crooked, yellow teeth kind of guy. He runs his hands through his long hair. "Oh, come on, Marcus. Why else would you be here...? You've been completely off the grid for thirty years. You've done everything you physically could do to remove yourself from your past life. And then one day - today - you appear in my den asking for a white coffee. Where on earth is that drink by the way? I'm prone to an afternoon dip if I don't get my energy drink." Simon gets up on his feet and stares at the ceiling, like a man might look to the heavens, but then he shakes his head and sits down again. I presume that, now he is on something of a roll, he has concluded that this is far more important. "Listen. My point is that you moved away, you changed your identity, you did everything you possibly could to get away from him, and now suddenly here you are, asking questions. Look at it from my perspective. Put yourself in my size tens for a moment. What else could possibly drive you to make that radical, crazy step...?"

  I seize the opportunity. I don't want his professional opinion as an academic; I want his personal opinion, off the record. Some colour has risen to his chalky complexion. His emotions are running high; he is a kid visiting Disneyland, or an Apple store, for the first time. There is a decent chance he has lowered his guard. "So, you think he is still out there?"

  Simon shrugs his narrow shoulders. "Why wouldn't he be? I see no reason why Spartacus shouldn't be a fit, healthy and functioning member of society. Sure, he could be in prison, but I think he is too clever to get caught. By all accounts, from the very little we know, and, to be blunt, most of that information has come from you, he was just a teenager when he went on his killing spree. Spartacus was probably eighteen or nineteen back in June 1988. The statements from Julie and Kate Phillips back this up, even though he was dressed as a bio-exorcist when they encountered him. And so, thirty years later, he is still only a guy in his late forties, the same as you."

  "Middle-aged?" I say, smiling.

  Again, Simon chuckles. "Hey, you said it, not me. What you haven't told me," he continues, rubbing his thighs with his hands, "is what exactly has happened that brings you here."

  I held back with Reeves, of course. He wasn't taking me seriously, and so I didn't want him to know everything. This guy is different. I tell Simon about the lift, and about the library. This time, however, I tell him what he said about the thirty days. He listens intently, his eyes growing larger, like I'm shining a torch in his face.

  Simon's mother, Janet, appears with the coffee. She sweeps her hand over a side table, not caring that papers fly everywhere. Simon gives her a vexed look. I thank her profusely, more than a little embarrassed by the situation. She nods her head at me, acknowledging my existence, face still frozen like she has been injecting Botox, and then disappears back upstairs without uttering a single word.

  "Sorry about that," Simon says, though it isn't clear what exactly he's apologising for. "So, have you been to the police?"

  I tell him about my meeting with Reeves. My words fade away before I get to the end. Simon glances around the room. He releases a dismissive grunt. It reminds me of one of the exercises I use in my workshops. I can tell he is waiting for me to get to the end, counting down the seconds, so I decide to get there quick.

  "Have you told Baldwin?" he asks.

  I pull my head back. Of course, he knows all about DCI Baldwin. His books are filled with candid observations and descriptions of the detective. Other writers failed to resist the temptation to depict him as a caricature, as the pantomime villain. Simon delved deeper than this. He considered the full circumstances at the time, the motives for what he did, for how he behaved.

  "Why would I go to him?" I ask. "You know what happened last time. And he didn't solve it then, so what good would he be now?"

  Simon blows out hot air. I sense disappointment. He thought I was serious; now he suspects I am hiding from the truth. I wonder just how much he does know. I wonder whether he knows everything. This terrifies me.

  "Nobody could have solved it last time," he says. These words are a relief. He has decided to not tell it how it is, decided not to get to the crux of the matter. "But you know he put his life and soul into catching him. He turned stones than should have been left untouched, but that was only because he was prepared to do anything to catch the monster. You know that." Simon glances away. I sense he is priming himself to say something. The dread re
turns; it wraps around my throat and strangles me. "And if you really are serious, then you'd forget what happened last time and speak to him anyway."

  This is a test. The guy is challenging my masculinity, sizing up my balls. Right now they feel like I've been playing football in skimpy shorts in the freezing cold. I prickle with a mixture of simmering anger and respect. At least, I think, he is prepared to speak his mind. Truth be told, I'm not sure whether I can face DCI Baldwin yet, for reasons even this guy doesn't realise. Are my balls really big enough? For a brief moment, it crosses my mind that I'd come face to face with Spartacus before I'd dare face DCI Baldwin. This is ridiculous, though. DCI Baldwin (hopefully) wouldn't be carrying a cut-throat razor.

  I do my best to deflect the challenge, to bat it away. "Do you think it is him?" I ask.

  Simon tangles his hands together and cracks his knuckles. "Who knows?"

  "But what is your professional opinion? Or even your personal one? Does this sound like something he'd do?"

  "That - right there - is partly what fascinates me about Spartacus, more than any other killer I've studied. Sure, there are others who killed more, who were infinitely more gruesome, but then none of them made less sense, were more of a paradox. Serial killers usually fall into two categories. The disorganised killer is often a social outcast, driven by compulsion and need. They're usually of below average intelligence. They often fit the stereotypical weirdo or oddball tag. Organised killers, on the other hand, can be intelligent, respected members of society, the last person you'd expect to be a killer. Now, I've no doubt that Spartacus is an organised killer..."

  "What's your point...?"

  Simon stares dreamily into space, presumably creating an image in his mind, probably contemplating the wonderful complexity of Spartacus.

  "Even organised killers have patterns. The supposedly complex ones are still driven by some underlying urge or motive. Their killings follow some sort of routine. Their motive may not be outwardly clear, but you can work it out, with research and a little head scratching. Spartacus, though; now he is different. The victims follow no pattern. There are couples, young girls, older women, a young guy. The locations are sporadic. It is almost like he has gone out of his way to avoid any pattern. The only thing that is consistent is how he cuts the victim, down the chest, in Roman numerals, to indicate what number victim they are. Unfortunately, you know about this, of course, even though you survived."

  I nod my head. Feeling his eyes on my chest, like he is undressing me, I wonder about his urges. I need to move the conversation forward quickly before he asks me for a picture. "So, you're a leading expert on the subject. You must have an opinion. Why do you think Spartacus kills? Killing is quite a big deal. It isn't like deciding to collect Panini stickers for the World Cup. He must have a reason. Folk get angry that their football team is losing, and so they wash their car. Men find out that their girlfriend is sleeping with their brother, and so they beat their brother to a pulp and then drink themselves to oblivion. They don't go on a killing rampage. There must be something that drove Spartacus to do what he did..."

  Simon shrugs his shoulders. I feel like killing him, right there and then, with my bare hands. Talking of motive, I have real motive, for sure - the lanky shit really pissed me off. But I am a guest. Simon regrets his shrug, I can tell, for he quickly continues to - or at least tries to - give some sort of explanation. "We know less about Spartacus than any other killer, with the exception - possibly - of Jack the Ripper. But Jack had it easy. He was in the right place at the right time. There was no DNA, no cameras, an abundance of dimly lit alleyways, and most of London at the time had a drinking problem. But I digress. Most of what we know about Spartacus is merely speculation, based on circumstantial evidence, law of averages and, probably most significantly, common sense, or lack of it. I suspect the Roman numerals tell us more about his motives than anything..."

  I have an urge to rub my hand over my chest, along the outline of my scars, my dark secret. It itches. I resist the temptation to scratch. "What are the Roman numerals about?" I ask. "Surely it is for show? He only killed six people. It can't be that difficult to keep count, can it?"

  Simon smirks. I wish he wouldn't. His eyes penetrate into the hollows of my own eyes. I wonder what he sees. "Have you ever been a bit of a stud, Marcus?" he asks. "Slept around a bit?"

  "What the fuck is wrong with you?"

  Simon holds his hands up in protest. "Let me explain. I think, for Spartacus, it might merely be notches on his bed post. The ultimate sign of disrespect. His way of saying that I've killed somebody - but you know what - it didn't really mean anything. Just another number. He is trivialising the murders. Just a bit of fun..."

  "Just a bit of fun? He killed innocent people, most with their whole lives ahead of them. How can it just be fun?"

  "I know. I know. Don't shoot the messenger. It is just my theory. But that is what - for me - makes Spartacus more terrifying than any killer. If what drives him is excitement - if it really is just a big game - then just how dangerous does that make him...?"

  I want to wipe the excited smile from his face. I shake my head to show him that I'm not convinced. Really, though, I've never been so convinced by anything my whole life. If Simon were to tell me right now that the world was flat, that if I kept walking and walking then eventually I'd drop over the edge and into an abyss, then I'd make damn sure I walked on the spot, or maybe in a circle. Now, I doubt I really knew Spartacus at all. I thought I was morbidly obsessed at the time of the killings, but this is real obsession. My fingers twitch. I have no idea what is going to happen to me. I do know, however, that it is going to be much worse than what happened last time, and I never even thought that was possible.

  "So why did he suddenly stop killing?"

  "Possibly because he got bored. The eighth ride of the roller coaster will never be as exciting as the first. Maybe he'd completed the challenge? No longer gave him the buzz he sought? On the other hand, maybe you were the game changer? It is quite possible - and perfectly logical - that nearly getting caught made him rethink this whole adventure of his."

  I look away. I'm getting answers, much more than I've had before, and so I'm keen to keep asking questions. "If it is him, then what has he been doing all this time? How could he disappear off the face of the earth and then suddenly reappear thirty years later?"

  "He's probably capable of doing whatever he wants to do. The most logical answer is that he's been doing whatever he chose to do. That could be something, or it could be nothing. I very much doubt that he is driven in any way by what others expect of him. He might fit perfectly into society, but probably only to deflect suspicion. And so, he could have been doing absolutely anything..."

  "That's kind of general," I reply, trying to keep my voice level. "If he is back, then why? And why now? It has been thirty years, for God's sake!"

  "We don't know he's back, though, do we? As far as we're aware, even if it is him, he hasn't killed anybody, has he? Yet. He's only been playing with you. And he's already had ample opportunity to kill you. You'd be dead now if he wanted you dead, we both know that." His eyes flicker. He is contemplating whether to add any more. "Unless..."

  "Unless?"

  "Unless he is bored of the way he killed people before. It just isn't exciting enough. Unless he wants to do things differently. Make the game more interesting: add new dimensions. Now, the dates he made contact are interesting, aren't they? There actually is a pattern there. If I were a betting man - and I'm not - then I would wager that he wants to do things differently, really savour the experience and take his time. It sounds like he has already set a date..."

  30th June.

  I sense Spartacus is totally in control of everything that happens from here. I am a cartoon character and he is the cartoonist. Maybe he has already sketched how it will play out? Maybe he could use an eraser and start again? Maybe he is waiting to see what move I make next before deciding?

  "How can I be
at him?"

  Simon looks at me like I'm joking. "However clever you think you are, he is much, much cleverer. You can't do it yourself. You need help. And you need to decide your game plan. Are you going to run? Are you going to hide? Or are you going to set a trap...?"

  Simon has toppled me from my chair and now he is kicking me when I'm down. I decide to take flight of our little meeting. There is no good news. I can't take any more. Spartacus had better get to me quick before I jump from London Bridge.

  I shake Simon's reluctant hand and thank him for his time, tell him to thank his mother for her kind hospitality. Clearly, he is distraught that I'm leaving. I'm one of his projects, and ideally he'd like to stick me in a jar so he can prod and experiment on me.

  Simon starts talking again just as I reach the stairs. "There is one thing that has troubled me more than any other," he says. I stop to wait for him to continue. He takes his time. The guy starts picking his nails. I feel like I'm sat in the cinema waiting for the credits to finish just in case there might be an extra scene. "I still don't know why he didn't manage to finish you off the first time..."

  I walk up the stairs, much colder and narrower than on the way down. I need to get out of here quick.

  DAY THIRTEEN

  13TH JUNE 2018

  This isn't the sort of establishment I usually frequent. It isn't the sort of place I usually spend my money.

  It is unexpectedly busy, mainly with lone wolves perched on high stools, gazing out of the window and, presumably, people-watching. Don't people work anymore? There are forecasts of doom and gloom ahead, but two years after the Brexit vote more and more people are in work, so how come so many are idling with me in this coffee shop in the middle of the day?

  I'm reminded of when Emma was a toddler; we were social butterflies on the cafe scene back then. Not fancy places like this, more out of principle than the expense, but anywhere that sold a cheap tea and an orange or blackcurrant. Mainly on the weekends, when I gave Jenny some much-deserved time to herself. It wasn't that I craved lukewarm tea from a polystyrene cup, it was just that Emma was so much better behaved when we were in public that I sometimes couldn't wait to get out of the house, break up the day. We'd sit on opposite sides of the table and just talk.