‘So, are we going to tell Olivier that we’ve just paid his mate a visit?’ asked Ramouter as they entered the legal visits room in Belmarsh prison.
‘No, not yet. To be fair, Olivier’s not stupid. He’s probably worked out that we would have been to see Blaine and that we know he lied.’
‘I don’t understand why he would do that. What’s he going to gain from it?’
‘Who knows? He probably needs a way to amuse himself.’
Henley held her finger to her lips as she heard Olivier’s raspy voice down the hall as he talked to the prison officer.
‘Inspector Henley and TDC Ramouter. We meet again,’ said Olivier. He stopped at the door and waited for the officer to remove his cuffs. ‘Thank you very much, Paul.’
‘I’ll only be down the corridor,’ Paul said to Olivier. Henley was slightly amazed; was the prison officer warning her that he had Olivier’s back?
‘So, what’s happened, has another one turned up? In pieces, covered in noughts and crosses?’ Olivier took a seat. ‘I prefer this room. It’s a lot brighter and you can see people.’ He nodded at the female solicitor passing by the window. The woman paused, smiled hesitantly before walking off.
‘TDC Ramouter,’ Olivier held out his hand.
‘Yes?’ Ramouter shook his hand hesitantly.
‘I’ve been thinking about you. I was thinking about the letter “T”.’
‘What about it?’
‘It’s a new one, isn’t it? I was trying to work out what the “T” stood for and then it hit me. “T” for Trainee. So, you’re Inspector Henley’s trainee. Someone to look after. To groom. It made me wonder what happened to—’
‘Olivier!’ Henley said forcefully.
‘Pellacia,’ Olivier said. ‘The one who used to groom you. He told you to stop, but you didn’t. Pellacia.’
He said the name with such force that Ramouter had to wipe away the traces of spittle that had landed on his face.
‘Pellacia. It’s Italian, isn’t it?’ said Olivier. ‘He was and probably still is a cunt.’
Henley willed herself to remain calm. Olivier wasn’t prepared to be compliant. He wanted to play. She wasn’t going to let him.
‘A third body was found yesterday morning in a churchyard in Deptford,’ said Henley.
Olivier raised an eyebrow. ‘That’s it? You’re not going to jump to your boyfriend’s defence?’
‘Shut up and listen.’
Olivier smiled, his expression unreadable.
‘It’s been confirmed that all three had a double cross and a crescent cut into them,’ Henley continued. ‘That’s your MO. That’s what you like to do. Carve symbols into their skin. To claim ownership.’
‘I didn’t do anything,’ Olivier said, leaning across the table.
‘What do you mean you didn’t do anything?’ Ramouter asked.
‘What do I mean? Ten misinformed idiots believed that I killed seven people but I didn’t. I put my hand on the bible and I swore to my god that I didn’t do anything.’
‘You were found guilty.’
‘Found being the operative word,’ Olivier replied. He waved his hand in front of Ramouter’s face. ‘What exactly do you know, trainee? You come in here in your nice suit and hipster beard, acting like you know things about me. You know nothing.’ Olivier fixed his gaze onto Henley. ‘Why don’t you tell him, Inspector? Tell your trainee that I was found guilty. I didn’t plead guilty. I didn’t admit to anything because I didn’t do anything.’ Olivier sat back. ‘It was a miscarriage of justice.’
‘You know that the information about the branding was never released, and now I’ve got someone on the streets doing a very poor imitation of your work. It’s a hatchet job.’
‘Poor choice of words.’ Olivier smirked.
‘Tool of your trade.’
‘Alleged work. As I said—’
‘I heard what you said,’ Henley snapped.
‘Be nice. I could have refused to come up here.’
‘Who did you tell?’
‘I didn’t do anything.’ Olivier sounded bored.
‘Well, let’s talk hypothetically then,’ Henley said. ‘If you had killed seven people and chopped up their bodies, would you have told anyone, not including your crap legal team, about cutting the symbols in their flesh?’
The room went quiet. Henley held Olivier’s gaze, daring him to blink first. In the distance, a door slammed shut, a set of keys jangled. Paul the prison officer walked past the window, paused briefly, nodded at Olivier, and carried on walking.
‘Hypothetically speaking. No one. They remanded me and kept me on the segregation unit until my trial in that kangaroo court. I didn’t see anyone. I didn’t talk to anyone. Don’t get me wrong, I was asked about the bodies.’
‘By whom?’
‘The others in here. Bloody nosy lot those prison officers are. Wanting to know how I did it, why I did it. Did I enjoy it? Hypothetically, of course.’
‘And did you enjoy it?’
Olivier laughed loudly. ‘Ramouter, did you hear her? Your boss thought that she was being clever.’
‘Did you tell them?’ Henley asked again.
‘Nothing to tell because I didn’t do anything. I can imagine that it would be quite messy though.’ Olivier’s voice was soft. ‘There would be a lot of blood. It would take a lot of work and patience to position the jigsaw just right. I would think that it’s the bone that would be the problem. It’s probably quite tough and if you haven’t got the right blade – well, you could easily go through a couple of blades before you perfected the technique, but once you got through the marrow, it would be soft, almost jelly-like.’
The silence was heavy. ‘And the symbols?’ Henley forced herself to ask.
‘It would be my tag, my artist’s signature. Why would I want anyone to use my tag? I made you a present.’
Henley blinked, thrown by the sudden change of subject.
Olivier placed a hand under his bib. ‘I didn’t want to squash it, so I kept it somewhere safe.’ He placed a small origami bird, made out of prison-issued writing paper on the table. ‘I know what you’re thinking,’ he said. ‘It’s not a swan. It’s an egret. Do you know about egrets, Trainee Ramouter?’
Ramouter didn’t reply.
Olivier shook his head and tutted. ‘It’s good manners to reply when someone asks you a question. Egrets are common around the Thames, especially on Deptford Creek when it’s low tide. They like to travel in pairs. I made it for you.’
Henley refused to look down at the origami egret on the table.
‘You could at least look at it.’ Olivier’s voice was harsh, suddenly irritated. ‘Oi, you. Trainee.’
Olivier slammed his hand on the table with such force that Henley was surprised the formica didn’t crack. She could hear Ramouter’s breathing, shallow but rapid. The sound was familiar to her – the sound of someone trying to control a panic attack.
‘Why are you not paying attention, Trainee? Someone cut your tongue out?’
‘I’m… I’m not—’ Ramouter stuttered.
‘What was that? I’m not. You’re not what? Not worthy of carrying that pathetic badge in your wallet?’
Olivier placed his elbow on the table and leaned his head against his hand, creating a barrier between Henley and Ramouter. She pulled back quickly as Olivier’s arm brushed against her.
‘What makes you think that you’re up to this job? Maybe you should think about going back to where you came from.’ Olivier hissed at Ramouter. ‘Don’t look at me like that. I’m not a racist. I just think that our little trainee would be better off playing cops and robbers back on the moors.’
‘Stop it,’ said Henley.
Olivier smiled with satisfaction as he turned his body towards Ramouter. ‘What are you? Thirty-three, thirty-four years old. Married.’ Olivier stretched his long fingers and tapped the solid gold band on Ramouter’s finger. Ramouter recoiled and his hand disappeared under the table.
‘I doubt that it can be a very happy marriage,’ said Olivier. ‘Not if you’re spending all your time with the Inspector. Did they warn you about her? She has quite a way with men.’
‘I told you to stop,’ Henley interjected.
‘No,’ said Olivier. ‘I’m talking to the trainee. Has your wife met the Inspector yet? I would imagine that she would feel a bit threatened. Insecure. Lonely. Or maybe you’re the one who’s lonely.’ Olivier’s face fractured into a smile. ‘That’s it, isn’t it? You’re here. Alone. With just me and the Inspector for company.’
Ramouter’s eyes widened.
‘Don’t you think that he looks like him, Inspector?’ Olivier asked as he turned towards Henley and held up eight fingers. ‘Jeremey Hicks. Same build. Same height. Same nervous eyes. Out of his depth.’
Hicks was Olivier’s fifth victim and had been found in eight pieces by a group of schoolchildren.
‘They found him in Bermondsey,’ said Olivier. ‘He begged. Doesn’t Ramouter look like someone who pathetically begs for you not to kill him?’
Ramouter got up from the table and moved towards the door.
‘Going already? I’m not the same man who put a knife into your inspector’s stomach.’ Olivier stood up and Ramouter pressed the red alarm button on the wall.
‘Sit down!’ Henley shouted.
‘Look at him.’ Olivier slowly sat back down and placed both hands on the table as the alarm rang out. ‘I think that your trainee might need a fresh pair of pants.’
Henley held up her hand as three prison officers appeared at the door. She indicated for Ramouter to leave. Now it was just her and Olivier. She tried to calm herself as the silence between them stretched on.
‘What do you know about these murders?’ she asked eventually.
‘I don’t think you should keep him. He won’t last a month.’
‘Shut up.’
‘That’s why I like you.’ Olivier smiled. It was almost affectionate. ‘You always had a lot of passion. Nice to know that you didn’t lose it when all that blood was spilled.’
Henley held her breath as the anger raged inside of her.
‘You’re shaking, Inspector.’
Henley looked down at her right hand and saw that Olivier was right. She placed her hands under the table.
‘You’ve been talking to someone about what you did. How you killed those seven people, and now that person is mocking you.’
Henley saw the change in Olivier’s demeanour. The games had stopped.
‘It must wind you up,’ said Henley as she pushed on slowly. She wanted it to sting – lemon juice on a paper cut.
‘Careful, Inspector.’
‘It must be frustrating, to be stuck in here, unable to do anything about this person claiming to be better than you. I don’t know, it must make you feel… impotent.’
Olivier held her gaze. ‘I told you before; I didn’t do it.’
‘You’ve told someone about carving those symbols into your victims’ bodies. Maybe you’ve got Joseph McGrath, sorry, Chance Blaine, helping you out.’
Olivier’s gaze was steady, unflinching. ‘Get the evidence to prove it and come back to me. I’ll be right here. Waiting for you.’
Olivier walked around the empty exercise yard. Two prison officers watched from the back. He had demanded to be let out, even though he knew that access to the yard wasn’t allowed until after lunch. They watched him circle the yard, knowing that it was better for him to be outside instead of taking his anger out again on one of the other prisoners. They had learnt their lesson eight months ago, when he had broken the jaw of the inmate who hummed continuously while he ate his lunch.
Impotent. She had called him impotent. The growing fury accelerated his footsteps. He wanted to hurt someone. He needed to feel the raw pleasure of release as he inflicted pain on Henley. It wasn’t flattering, it was insulting to have someone out there killing people in his name. He didn’t want to be motivating or inspiring anyone. It was his notoriety. His infamy. He was the one to be feared; not a cheap mimic.
‘Fucking bitch,’ he hissed. It had been grating on him since Henley had told him about the first victim. One victim he could cope with, but now there were three. He could see Henley’s face as she took pleasure in telling him about the copycat. She was mistaken if she thought that the copycat had more power than him. The fucker wasn’t going to get away with it.
‘Who are you?’
Olivier’s voice penetrated the air, rising above the sound of the crows screeching as they sat on top of the prison wall.