“We’re thinking there’s no sexual component to the crimes,” Lynley said, “which rules out previous Category A offenders.”
“This is about power,” Robson agreed, “but so are sex crimes. So you may well find something sexual down the line, perhaps a sexual degrading of the body should the murder itself not continue to provide the killer his required degree of satisfaction and release.”
“Is that normally the case?” St. James asked. “In murders like these?”
“It’s a form of addiction,” Robson said. “Each time he indulges his fantasy of salvation via torture, he needs a little bit more to satisfy him. The body grows tolerant of the drug-whatever the drug-and more is necessary to achieve nirvana.”
“So you’re saying to expect more. With possible variations on the theme.”
“Yes. That’s exactly what I’m saying.”
HE WANTED TO feel it again: the soaring that came from within. He wanted the sense of freedom that engulfed Him in the final moment. He wanted to hear His soul cry Yes! even as the muted shriek below Him strained out its last weak No! He needed this. More, He was owed it. But when the hunger rose in Him as an exigent presence, He knew that He couldn’t be hasty. This left Him with the wanting and a bubbling mixture of necessity and duty that He could feel in His veins. He was like a diver ascending to the surface too quickly. The longing was fast transforming into pain.
He took some time to attempt a mitigation. He drove to the marshes, where He could walk the tow path along the River Lea. There, He thought, He could seek relief.
They always panicked when they regained their senses and found themselves strapped down to the board, their hands and feet bound, and their mouths taped silver. As He drove them through the night, He could hear them struggling vainly behind Him, some of them in terror, others in anger. By the time He reached the appointed place, though, they had all passed through their preliminary and instinctive reaction and they’d arrived at the bargaining table. I’ll do what you want. Just let me live.
They never said this directly. But it was there, in their frenzied eyes. I’ll do anything, be anything, say anything, think anything. Just let me live.
He always stopped in the same safe spot, where a dogleg in the ice rink’s carpark protected him from view from the street. There, a spot was wildly overgrown with shrubbery and the security lamp above the area had long ago burnt out. He switched off the lights-both inside and out-and climbed into the back. He squatted next to the immobilised form and waited till His eyes adjusted to the darkness. What He said then was always the same, although His voice was gentle as well as regretful. You’ve done wrong. And then, I shall remove this-with his fingers on the tape-but only silence will keep you safe and ensure your release. Can you be silent for me?
They would nod, always, desperate to talk. To reason, to admit, sometimes to threaten or to demand. But no matter where they began or what they felt, they were reduced to supplication.
They felt His power. They could catch the strong scent of it in the oil He’d used to anoint His body. They saw it in the glint of the knife He brought forth. They felt it in the heat from the stove. They heard it in the crackle of the pan.
I don’t need to hurt you, He would tell them. We must talk, and if our talk goes well, this can end in your freedom.
Talk they would. Indeed, they would babble. His recitation of their crimes generally elicited nothing but anxious agreement from them. Yes, I did this. Yes, I am sorry. Yes, I swear…to whatever it is you will have me swear, just let me go.
But they added to that mentally, and He could read their thoughts. You filthy bastard, they concluded. I’ll see you sent to hell for this.
So, of course, He could not possibly release them. At least, not in the way they hoped to be released. But He was nothing if not a man of His word.
The burning came first, just of the hands, to show them His wrath as well as His mercy. Their declarations of guilt opened the door to their redemption, but they had to suffer in order to be cleansed. So He taped their mouths again and He held their hands to the white-hot heat till He smelled the odour of searing meat. Their backs arched for escape, and their bladders and their bowels gave way. Some passed out and did not then feel the garrotte first slide and then tighten round their necks. Others did not, and it was with these that Fu felt Himself truly exulting as their lives left their bodies and transported His.
And then He always meant to free their souls, using the knife against their earthbound flesh, opening them for their final release. It was what He had promised them, after all. They merely had to admit their guilt and express a true desire for redemption. But most of them did only the first. Most of them didn’t begin to understand the second.
The last had done neither. To the end, he’d denied. I didn’t do nothing, you freaking bastard, I didn’t do nothing, you got that straight? Fuck you, motherfucker, let me go.
Release, then, was impossible for him. Freedom, redemption, anything Fu offered, the boy both spat upon and cursed. He went unpurified, with his soul unreleased, a failure on the part of the Creature Divine.
But the infinite pleasure of the moment itself…That had actually remained for Fu. And that was what He wanted again. The seductive narcotic of utter command.
Walking the River Lea did not provide it. Nor did memory. Only one thing ever could.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
BARBARA HAVERS WAS IN A FOUL MOOD WHEN SHE finally reached Camden Lock Market. She was angry with herself for having allowed personal considerations to get in the way of properly doing her job. She was on edge having to drive all the way back to North London shortly after having already suffered through the morning traffic on the way into the centre of town. She was irritated that parking restrictions made it impossible for her to get anywhere close to the market without engaging in a hike. And she was self-righteously positive that this entire engagement was an absolute waste of her time.
The answers resided within the walls of Colossus, not here. Despite the fact that at heart she believed the profiling report was rubbish, she was willing to accept at least part of it, and that part was the description of their serial killer. Since at least four men fitted that description-all of them employed across the Thames at Colossus-she knew that she was unlikely to find anyone else so described wandering round the stalls and the shops near Camden Lock. And she certainly didn’t expect to find any trace of a suspect at Wendy’s Cloud. But she knew the wisdom of appearing to walk the straight and narrow for Lynley at this point. So she fought the traffic and found a distant parking space into which she crammed her Mini like the foot of one of the ugly stepsisters. Then she hoofed it back in the direction of Camden Lock with its shops, its stalls, and its restaurants strung along the water and away from Chalk Farm Road.
Wendy’s Cloud was not easy to find, as it possessed no signage. After reading a directional board and asking round, Barbara finally located it: a simple stall within one of the permanent shops in the market. The shop sold candles and candleholders, greeting cards, jewellery, and handmade stationery. Wendy’s Cloud had massage and aromatherapy oils, incense, soap, and bath crystals on offer.
The eponymous owner of the establishment sat in a beanbag chair, hidden from view behind the counter. Barbara thought at first she was keeping an eye out for light-fingered customers, but when she called, “Excuse me, c’n I have a word?,” it turned out that Wendy was nodding off on a substance that was probably not for sale on her stall. Her eyelids hung well below half-staff. She didn’t so much stagger as claw her way to her feet, using one of the legs of the counter and resting her chin for a moment among the bath crystals.