40

The moment the knife slid through skin and ligament.

The look in the boy’s eyes just before his light dimmed.

The arc and spray of blood.

The gasp and shudder of his own pleasure.

Poetry.

Leonard has set up station in his hotel room. He chose one of those anonymous hotel chains that provide a corporate view of what a dormitory might look like, and it amuses him to think that the length and breadth of the country, men and women, after a day’s work away from the comforts of home, accept such a homogenised view of rest and respite.

He imagines legions of these servants of capitalism approaching a receptionist to book into their rooms. Faces the colour of whey, they open their mouth to speak and the only sound to come out is the bleating of sheep.

He looks around himself at his room. Large bed with a dark blue covering. Fat, white pillows. A two-seater sofa offering as much cushion as cardboard and a covering harsh enough to scour skin should anyone be foolish enough to sit while naked. The walls are magnolia, and the wardrobe is fabricated from a factory version of pine.

There’s a dresser in front of a large mirror. He takes a seat and stares at his image. Wonders if that is really him. Stares down the wormhole of his own pupils.

Relives the moment of the boy’s death again. Feels the rush and heat of pleasure. Draws back from full immersion. He has a job to do.

The killing was a bonus, but he couldn’t allow it to become a distraction.

He opens the lid of his laptop. Fires it up, and as he waits for the screen to build he thinks about the various people in his web and how they might help his plans.

The Davis twins and the dead girl. Simon was her boyfriend, so he’s going to be the main suspect. Clearly the police have no evidence or he’d be in custody. If that boy’s a killer, I’m a bar of butter, thinks Leonard. Could the girl have had something going on with the brother?

He has already befriended Simon on Facebook (as his fake persona), so he checks through his friend list. Finds the dead boy’s timeline. And with a few well-chosen words, plants a seed. Let’s see what the court of public opinion makes of that. Feels a thrill at the possible repercussions.

Next, he goes to the Time4Twin website. Types an apology for Simon’s attention and then settles in to wait.

Surprisingly quickly, Simon replies.

‘I understand,’ his message reads.

‘When it came down to it, I just couldn’t have that conversation.’ Leonard explains.

‘No problem.’

‘You seem distracted,’ Leonard types, allowing a smile to heat his face and knowing what the source of that distraction would be. ‘What’s up?’

There was a long wait before the screen filled with an answer.

‘Just got back from the police station. A guy I know was killed last night. Just across the road from my house. Shit, that was scary, mate. Sorry. I shouldn’t be telling you this. That’s unprofessional.’

Leonard knew the boy would be conflicted in telling him and yet anxious to be talking to someone unconnected. A conflict that he could manipulate. ‘No problem. It’s understandable. You must have got a fright. Any reason why the police wanted to speak to you?’

‘Well, I did know him. And it happened just outside my house.’

‘Do they think you were involved?’

‘Don’t think so.’ Pause. ‘Surely not? They were just fishing. Has to be just a coincidence that they had to check out.’ Another, longer pause. ‘And we got some hate mail that night. If it was the dead guy who sent it, that could throw suspicion on me again.’

‘Hope not, mate,’ Leonard replies. ‘But as far as the police are concerned, when it comes to crime, there’s no such thing as coincidence.’ Then he stops typing, thinking, let the boy stew on that a while.

‘Shit. You’re right. But they let me go. And my mum told them I was in the house all night.’

‘What about your brother?’

‘What about him?’

‘Was he in the house all night? Could he be involved?’

‘Jesus. No. Matt’s no murderer.’

‘Who knows what we’re capable of when we’re trying to protect our families? Could he know that this guy was leaving the hate mail?’

‘It came in not long after Matt left the house.’ Pause. ‘Surely not. No. Not going there. Matt will defend himself, but he wouldn’t take a knife to someone. No way.’

‘OK,’ replies Leonard. Another seed sown.

He finishes up the session with an offer to provide a listening ear and a renewed promise to meet up to finally address his issues.

Then he clicks through a number of websites. Takes in the information. Searches the girl’s name. Finds the news item about the father’s apparent suicide attempt and his subsequent coma. What’s going on there? Daddy is consumed by guilt? Why? Did he do it? Does he know who did it and did nothing to stop it?

Another news site and McBain’s worn and grey face fills the screen. The sound is on mute, but Leonard fills in McBain’s silent mouthings with his own thoughts. Police cliché playing the part of public information service while obfuscating the truth.

McBain’s female colleague stands just behind his left shoulder, and Leonard wonders again at this relationship. She was the underling, yet McBain draws something from the relationship. More than friends? Or is it just a strong bond forged in the fire of a trying occupation?

Leonard thinks of his long dead brother. Feels the twist and ache of his loss. It has never diminished despite the passing of the decades.

He remembers that very first killing. All of those children standing round the old man’s bed. The old man they thought was responsible for their violation. His feeble attempts at self-defence. The metallic tang in the air as blood was spilled. A cloud of white feathers when the blade missed and hit a pillow.

In his mind’s eye, Leonard goes round that bed. Lays to rest each of those white faces. All of them are dead, save him and one other.

McBain.

But there’s more suffering to be had before that last one can take his final exhalation.