Only the eponymous Tom from the novel The Talented Mr. Ripley bore any resemblance to him, with their shared love of the finer things in life and how the manner in which they attained them showed a clear lack of guilt. But Tom’s machinations resulted in a curious mix of triumph and paranoia, while Christopher’s did not.
Suddenly Amy’s attention was drawn to a white book that had no name on the spine. Christopher’s heart raced and he held his breath as her hand pulled it out a couple of inches further. The danger-seeking side of him had deliberately left it there and had wanted her to remove the book and open it, but his dominant controlling side knew that it would be game over for her if she did.
‘Your meal is getting cold,’ he said, and Amy left the book where it was and joined him at the table. ‘Why hasn’t your serial killer been given a name?’ he asked, firmly cutting into his steak.
‘What do you mean?’
‘Well, most serial killers are given a nickname, either by journalists or by the police. The Yorkshire Ripper, the Zodiac Killer, the Angel of Death … this guy hasn’t been given one.’
Christopher was genuinely insulted that his efforts had not yet been rewarded with a moniker. It made him question why nine dead women – and hopefully another to add to the list the following night – weren’t enough to be taken seriously.
‘I don’t know,’ Amy replied. ‘It’s usually the media. Would you like to come up with one yourself?’
‘Isn’t that a bit distasteful?’
‘Coming from a man with twenty books on his shelves about serial killers? You’re an expert.’
‘You need to tell me what you know about him first before I can pick a name.’
‘Well, this comes from my DI who’s been having meetings with all departments this week, just in case anything about the suspect sounds familiar. The psychological profiles tell us he’s male, aged between twenty and forty. He prefers to target single women living alone. His MO is always the same: he breaks in through a ground-floor door or patio doors by picking the lock – their doors are almost always quite old and security lapse – he kills them in the kitchen then lays their bodies out, arms to their sides and legs straight. Then he gives himself anywhere between two and five days to kill another woman, returns to the scene of the last crime and places a photograph of the most recent victim on her predecessor’s chest. He leaves no DNA that we know of, so he is methodical, but while the women targeted are only in the London area, he seems to be taking a scattergun approach to where they live, which makes it harder to narrow down where he might strike next.’
Christopher felt the butterflies in his stomach circle in a swarm and take off en masse, making his entire body buzz with excitement. He’d never heard anyone speak in person about his work in such detail before; his only interaction with others on the subject had been via anonymous web message boards.
‘We think he leaves the photographs either to taunt us, or to show he has no plans to stop,’ Amy continued. ‘And he leaves the same spray-painted image on the pavement outside each one of the victims’ homes to identify she’s inside – it looks like a man carrying something on his back.’
‘Yes, I saw the picture in the Evening Standard.’
‘He’s like a ghost in the way he just vanishes and then appears again.’
‘The Ghost Killer.’
Amy shook her head. ‘That’s a rubbish name for him.’
‘The Silent Killer.’
‘Isn’t that carbon monoxide?’
‘The Cheese Wire Strangler.’
‘The word “cheese” sounds like you’re trivialising what he does.’ Amy stopped abruptly. ‘How do you know he uses cheese wire?’
Christopher paused briefly, realising his error. All the reports he’d read about the murders had stated wire had been used to strangle the victims, but not specifically wire used to slice cheese.
‘It stands to reason,’ he said, thinking on his feet. ‘If you’re going to strangle somebody with wire that tough, you’re going to need handles to hold on to otherwise you’ll risk severing your own fingers.’
‘We think it’s cheese wire too,’ Amy said.
Good, she’d bought the lie.
‘Based on the width and depth of penetration, and the chemicals left in the victims’ wounds, it’s cleaned regularly between killings.’
‘Do you know where the weapon’s from?’
Amy nodded and ate another mouthful of steak.
‘And I bet it’s been available to buy across the country for years, hasn’t it?’
‘John Lewis and it’s been on the shelves for a decade at least. You’ve done your homework, haven’t you?’
Christopher nodded. Amy had no idea just how much homework he’d done or how happy she’d just made him.
‘Well, if you come up with a name for him, you should mention it at work,’ he urged. ‘How often do you get to come up with a nickname for a serial killer?’
‘Probably about as often as I spend time with one.’
Chapter 28
JADE
The man standing before Jade was most definitely Kevin, but clearly the pictures he’d sent her had been taken some time ago.
This was not the Kevin she had travelled so far to see. His face was youthful but his eyes had lost the sparkle that’d been captured in so many of his photographs. He was almost completely bald, all bar some soft wisps of hair covering his scalp. His arms were sinewy – his tracksuit bottoms and T-shirt had probably once fitted him but now hung loosely like they’d been thrown onto a scarecrow – and his skin was pale and gaunt. In his left hand, he held a portable drip, which was attached to a metal frame with wheels. Jade took in his appearance from head to toe, both astonished and confused by it. Her initial anger towards him rapidly dissipated.
‘Do you mind if we sit?’ Kevin smiled and she nodded, too lost for words to reply. She followed him into a spacious, brightly lit reception room with huge windows that overlooked miles and miles of fields, stretching as far as the eye could see. Kevin steadied himself against the arm of a chair and slowly lowered himself into it.
‘I’m sorry I asked you to leave when you called, but you kind of took me by surprise,’ he began, the youthfulness of his voice belittling his appearance. ‘The last thing I expected was for you to fly over here to see me.’
‘I only decided a few days ago,’ whispered Jade. ‘I … I’m … sorry.’
‘Wow – do you know that in the entire time we’ve known each other you’ve never said sorry?’ Kevin teased.
‘It’s not a word I’m used to.’
‘I’m kidding, and you shouldn’t be the one who’s apologising, it should be me. I haven’t been honest with you about everything. Well, I guess that’s pretty obvious. There’s no easy way to say this Jade but I have lymphoma. It’s now at stage four which means … well, it ain’t good.’
Jade found it difficult to maintain eye contact with him. She couldn’t make the connection between the man she had fallen in love with by telephone and text message and the sliver of a person standing before her.
‘I was diagnosed a year ago, before you and I were Matched,’ he continued. ‘I wanted to know if my perfect girl was out there somewhere and a few months later it turned out to be you. And I did consider leaving it at that and not giving out my contact details – it wouldn’t be fair on you – but it’s human nature to be curious and, when you spend so many hours of the day stuck in hospital or in this house like I do, it’s all you can think about. I really couldn’t stop myself from wanting to find out more about you. It was selfish and I’m sorry.’