The witness, given his importance, was asked to attend Stewart Street police station for a more detailed statement. McGuigan desired to speak to him directly, while events were still fresh in the mind.
McGuigan now sat in an interview room with DS Kenny Dawson at his side. Opposite sat a forty-year-old man, dapper to the point of foppishness – tailored powder-blue wool suit, matching blue silk tie, shoes polished to a sparkle, his hair a cushion of black curls shaped close to his skull, his mouth prim. When McGuigan entered the interview room, his nostrils were assailed by the man’s aftershave.
“Thank you for coming,” McGuigan said. He scrutinised notes he had been given. “Mr Chapel?”
The man gave a delicate tilt of his head. “Bronson Chapel. Call me Bronson.”
Colourful name, thought McGuigan. The parents should be shot.
“Thank you, Bronson. My name is Detective Chief Inspector McGuigan, and my colleague is Detective Sergeant Dawson. I would like to go over your statement, if that’s okay. For clarity.”
Bronson gave a brief nod of assent. “Of course. For clarity.” He leaned forward. “It’s him, isn’t it?” His eyes seemed to shine.
McGuigan raised an eyebrow. “Him?”
“The Surgeon. Isn’t that what the media call him?”
Goddamned loose lips, thought McGuigan. This place leaks worse than a worn-out gasket. Heads will roll.
“Let’s stick to what you saw, Bronson.”
Bronson sat back, smiled, showing the tips of his teeth. “How can I help you, DCI McGuigan?”
“You were driving towards the house where the incident took place?”
“On my way to court. I was running a tad late. The particular judge I was due to appear before is a martinet when it comes to timekeeping. A real ballbreaker. That particular road can cut five minutes off my journey.”
“You’re a lawyer.”
He raised his hands, theatrically. “Guilty as charged. Don’t hold it against me.”
“Who do you work for?”
“I’m a partner. SJPS.”
McGuigan’s brow furrowed in bemusement. “Pardon me?”
“Stoddart, Jeffrey, Pritchard and Sloss. It doesn’t quite roll off the tongue. It’s a tad clumsy. We like to abbreviate. Adds a bit more… glitz, don’t you think? A bit more shine.”
He’s a garrulous one, thought McGuigan.
“I hope we’re not keeping you back.”
Bronson gave a broad grin. “No panic. I got the hearing rescheduled. Under the circumstances, how could they refuse?”
“What did you see, Bronson?”
Again, Bronson leaned forward. He exhibited a nervous energy. His fingers tapped on the desktop as he spoke, his heel tapped on the floor.
“I might have seen nothing if it hadn’t been for the cat.”
Dawson spoke up. “The cat?”
“Correct. A tabby. Big as a damned fox. Bigger. Ugly as sin. Ugliest cat you will ever see. Ran straight across the road. I jammed on the brakes. It missed being squashed by a whisker.” He smiled a pearly white smile. “No pun intended.”
McGuigan failed to see the humour. He was not in a humorous mood.
“I had stopped directly adjacent to the house,” continued Bronson. “I saw a man going up the front garden path. As he was doing that, another man came out of the house. He was closing the door, and had his back to the first man. I didn’t think anything of it. Why would I? I was about to pull off, when all hell broke loose. Like something you see in the movies. Hard to believe it was real.”
“It was very real, Bronson. How far were you from the front garden?”
“Yards. I’m no good at distances. Twenty yards maybe. Close enough.”
“What happened next?” said McGuigan.
“The man leaving the house pulled out a gun, from one of his pockets. A pistol. Don’t ask me what type. I don’t know the first thing about firearms. Other than they fire bullets. But the barrel was long. I think it had a silencer. Is that the right word – silencer?”
“You would recognise a silencer?” asked Dawson.
“It might not have been. But it looked the type of thing you see in the movies. You’ve seen Day of the Jackal? It was similar to that.”
“You like the movies, Bronson?”
“I do rather, yes. Everybody likes the movies. Don’t they? I’m sure you do, Detective Inspector McGuigan.”
“Detective Chief Inspector,” corrected McGuigan. “Please, continue.”
“The guy walking towards the house stopped, and just stood. Presumably in shock. The other one – the one leaving the house – didn’t move, like he was in shock too. Then he marched up to him, the gun in his hand. Arm out straight, like so…” Bronson demonstrated by stretching his own arm out, “…and he started firing. Gunfight at the OK Corral!”
“You could hear the shots?” said Dawson.
“Sounded like the pop of a champagne bottle. But much louder. Which is odd, don’t you think?”
“Why odd?”
“I thought the point of a silencer was to mask the sound.”
“To a degree,” said McGuigan. “It dampens the noise a little, but it’s still loud.”
“He kept firing. The other man – the one who was being shot – sort of… shook. Shuddered. As if a tremor had rippled through him. I suppose from the impact of the bullets. He stood. He didn’t fall. Not immediately. Then he did. The other one – the shooter – was over him, and…” Bronson took a breath, licked his lips.
Not really like the movies, thought McGuigan.
“…shot him when the guy was lying there. Then he remained still. Just staring at the guy on the ground. As if he were… fascinated. Mesmerised, even.”
Bronson paused, rubbed his eyes, brushed away a bead of sweat from his forehead.
“Would you like a glass of water, Bronson?” said Dawson.
Bronson gave a tight smile. “You wouldn’t have a Glenfiddich? I could handle a single malt. No? Never mind.”
“What happened then, Bronson?” asked McGuigan gently.
Bronson cleared his throat, regained his composure. “Apologies. It’s not every day you see a man being shot in someone’s front garden. Or anywhere, for that matter. Still takes a little getting used to.”
“Of course. Take your time.”
“I’m sitting in my car, in the middle of the road, and I’m watching this surreal scene unfold. I’m having an ‘out of body experience’, thinking perhaps the whole thing is in my imagination. And I couldn’t move. I just… sat. I suppose I was rather like a bird, hypnotised by a snake.”
McGuigan shook his head a fraction. Bronson’s need to use flowery language was becoming a monumental pain in the arse.
“A manifestation of shock,” he said patiently. “The inability to move. A state of paralysis. And I believe the notion of a snake able to hypnotise is a myth.”
“I’m sure,” replied Bronson. “The guy snapped out his trance, and walked down the garden path. He walked straight towards me. Not in any hurry, I might add. Almost nonchalant.”
“You saw his face?”
“Clear as day. And he saw me. He couldn’t miss me.”
“And?”
“The spell was broken.” Bronson gave a brittle laugh. “I came to my senses, put the foot down, and got the hell away.”
“You drove off,” said McGuigan. “What happened then?”
“I watched him in my rear-view mirror. I was worried he might try and shoot. But instead he got into a white van. I slowed a little. He did a three-point turn, and drove away in the opposite direction. And then I phoned the police. Quite a morning.”
“Quite,” said McGuigan. “You can describe this man?”
“I saw his face, clear as day. He had on dark-blue overalls. The type a tradesman might wear. You know the sort. Lots of pockets and zips. But I can remember his face. Something I won’t forget. The striking thing was his complexion.”
“Yes?”
“Bone white. White as death.”
“Thank you, Bronson,” said McGuigan. “This is very helpful. If you don’t mind, we’ll now ask you to give a more detailed description to allow us to complete a photofit. You okay with that?”
“Delighted to help. But you didn’t answer my question.”
“Which was?”
“Did I see The Surgeon? Was it him? You’ve got to tell me.”
McGuigan regarded him, kept his voice level. “Thank you, Bronson. As I said, you have been most helpful.”
Bronson shrugged, sat back in his chair. He spoke, almost sulkily. “My pleasure.”
Bronson had been escorted from the interview room. The remnants of his aftershave lingered, suffused with his sweat, creating a raw, unpleasant odour.
“The Surgeon,” said Dawson. “Bloody media. Our star witness was more interested in a serial killer than the poor guy shot on his front lawn.”
“You can’t blame him,” mused McGuigan. “Our killer is prolific, he kills his victims with a barbaric but artistic flair, he has an ability to evade detection, and he’s been successful over a long period. I suppose it’s inevitable that such a person acquires an almost mystical status, despite the heinous nature of his crimes. People love a mystery. They love the grotesque. The wheres, the whys, the whens. Especially the whys. Make no mistake, books will be written, documentaries will be made. Maybe a film or two.”
“We have to catch him first.”
“We’re getting close. I can feel it in my bones.”
“I’m afraid my bones don’t share your feelings,” said Dawson.
“We have a witness. Plus, look at the third victim. Shot in public, and shot in a spray of bullets. Spontaneous. Which means to say, our pilgrim was caught off guard. He committed an unplanned, instinctive act. An impulsive act. Completely contrary to his normal behaviour. Our killer is careful and methodical. Obsessively so. His victims are targeted, his kills timed. He watches. He waits. He is the human equivalent of a spider, weaving his web, targeting his prey, lurking in the shadows. Imagine the patience required. The discipline. But this time, everything changes. The husband arrives home. This was unexpected. This was something he had not foreseen. Which tells us something.”
Dawson said nothing.
McGuigan allowed a wintry grin. “He’s becoming sloppy. Or complacent. Or maybe both. Which means we have a chance. Do you believe in God, Kenny?”
“I haven’t given it much thought.”
McGuigan rummaged in his jacket pocket, pulled out a bright-orange packet of bubblegum, carefully unwrapped one, popped it in his mouth, put the packet back in his pocket. He chewed as he spoke.
“My wife is an ardent fan. She is of the belief that all things are ordained, that we go down a path already set in stone. If this were indeed the case, then The Surgeon is merely following God’s will. I once put that to her. I asked her – why would God set such a path, allowing all these innocents to die, in such horrific fashion? It’s not very hospitable of him.”
“And her reply?”
McGuigan gave a small rueful smile. “As we walk the road, we have a constant companion, always present, always close to our side, who whispers in our ear. We choose either to listen, or ignore.”
“A companion?”
“The Devil. Who else? And in this case, our friendly neighbourhood serial killer loves to listen.”