Fatal Crossing Read online

  ‘Oh, I thought you just said it was complicated?’

  She lashed out at him, and he evaded her easily. ‘You know exactly what I mean.’

  ‘All I know is the way you feel about him, is the way I felt about Caroline. I thought tying myself down would be a drag. It would complicate everything. And now she lives in bloody Armadale outside Melbourne with a surgeon, and she's expecting their first child,’ Pete said with a slight jolt in his voice.

  It was rare for Pete to mention Caroline as anything other than a throwaway remark. The great love of his life that never fully blossomed was still an open wound, which in true Australian style was mostly silenced to death. Nora went quiet.

  ‘When did you hear that?’ she said eventually in a low voice.

  Pete kicked the kerb. ‘Last night. On bloody Facebook. God, I hate Facebook,’ he said.

  Following that announcement, there was really only one thing to do. They found a still-open Oddbins that, to Nora's delight, stocked Bowmore Legend. They needed nothing more.

  They walked down to the Thames with the bottle and, in the shadow of Cleopatra's Needle with Big Ben and the Houses of Parliament on their starboard side, they took turns drinking from it while watching the illuminated river boats, where tourists sat with their cardboard wine and rubber chicken dinner thinking they were seeing the real London with their guide.

  When it was almost two o’clock in the morning, Pete's considerable repertoire of sea shanties was nearly exhausted and he had reached the defiant stage.

  ‘I’m better off without her. She's probably gotten fat and boring as hell. It would never have worked,’ he said, before throwing up over the railings that were stopping him from falling into the river.

  Nora hailed a cab and assured the taxi driver that Pete would not throw up on the journey to Belsize Park. She kept her word, but only just. Pete regurgitated the other half of his Thai dinner the moment he stepped on to the pavement, just as Nora was paying.

  Pete tried to regain control of himself. ‘Right, then, sssseee you tomorrow,’ he slurred before walking straight into next door's front garden.

  ‘Pete, Godammit. You can’t go home in that state. You’re coming with me and I’m putting you in the recovery position.’

  ‘No, no, no, no, all I need is an itsy-bitsy bus,’ he slurred, before launching into a particularly grating version of the 1950s hit ‘Oh, Carol’ where he, without any sense of rhythm, renamed the love interest ‘Carol-iiiine’.

  Her neighbour flung open a window. ‘Do you think you could shut up, so we can all get some sleep!’

  Nora had to go into her neighbour's front garden to retrieve Pete. She grabbed him firmly by the arm and steered him to her front door. Pete clung to her like a drowning man in a storm, and Nora fumbled for her keys in her handbag, so she didn’t spot him immediately.

  Andreas was sitting on the doorstep, looking like a thundercloud.

  When they came closer, he stood up.

  ‘What are you doing here?’ Nora blurted out without thinking.

  ‘Nothing. Nothing at all, clearly,’ he said with a contemptuous glance at Pete who had lost all sense of decorum several hours ago.

  ‘Hey, mate — are you Andreas? He's really cute, Nora.’

  ‘Shut up, Pete, just shut up!’ she hissed, then managed to park him on the doorstep recently vacated by Andreas.

  She turned and called out to Andreas, who had started to leave. She could see his back in the white shirt as he slowly walked away from her. She called his name again.

  But he didn’t turn around.

  X

  The next morning Nora woke up to the aroma of freshly brewed coffee. Pete had showered, dug out her coffee grinder from the cupboard, found the beans and been to the shops for croissants and orange juice.

  ‘Strewth, Sand,’ he said, feigning jollity. ‘I’ve grown too old to carry off a bender with dignity.’

  Nora nodded her head gingerly to make sure she could stand up without her brain falling out. She could, but only just. Pete had nicked her Oxford University sweatshirt from her wardrobe. The sleeves were straining.

  ‘I had to have something to wear,’ he said apologetically, pointing to last night's outfit that looked like it had collided with a herd of cattle fleeing a wildfire.

  Nora staggered to the kitchen sink and drank cold water straight from the tap. It tasted of chlorine and she grimaced.

  ‘So did you hear this from Caroline?’

  Pete shook his head. ‘Oh no, we’re no longer in touch. I don’t think the surgeon would approve. He's not known for his open-mindedness and tolerance. It was her cousin, Miranda, who told me when we were chatting on Facebook. The worst thing was she just dropped it into the conversation as if I already knew.’

  ‘Ouch.’

  ‘I don’t know. Perhaps I thought the surgeon was just a phase. That she missed Australia and all she needed was to go home and be reminded of what it's like. But she stayed, believe it or not. And now there's a baby on the way.’ He shook his head. ‘A baby. That's the end of that, isn’t it?’

  Nora poured coffee for both of them. ‘Do we have any milk?’

  Pete produced a milk bottle with a cheeky smile. ‘Courtesy of your neighbour. He shouldn’t have shouted at me last night.’

  ‘Really, Pete, that's not on.’

  ‘Ah, the police will never catch me. I’m going to Phnom Penh tomorrow.’

  She reached across him, tore off a bit of croissant and popped it into her mouth.

  ‘But apart from that, once you’re done in Cambodia, perhaps you could nip home via Melbourne and just double-check the news about Caroline. It might even be worth meeting with her. You’re pretty much in her neck of the woods, and I’m sure that George wouldn’t mind -’

  ‘George! Fuck! What time is it?’

  ‘A quarter past ten.’

  ‘Fuck, fuck, fuck. I’m meeting him in Docklands at eleven o’clock.’

  Pete grabbed his bag, knocked back half of his coffee and ran out of the door. He took three steps, then turned around, came back, and gave her a quick hug.

  ‘Bye, Sand. See you when I see you.’

  She winked at him. ‘Yeah, when you run out of money. And call me when you’re back at Heathrow.’

  He blew her a kiss and raced down the stairs. Nora shut the door after him and took out her mobile. No missed calls, no messages on her voicemail. What had Andreas wanted last night?

  She sat for a while with the mobile in her hand, wondering if she should call him. Explain. But she decided against it.

  Screw him. He could think whatever he wanted to. He was the one with a girlfriend. He was the one in a relationship. Not her.

  20

  She turned on her laptop and showered before going out for papers and more milk.

  Tomorrow was H-Day. H for Hix. But she sensed that today should be kept free from murders. And Andreas.

  She scanned the newspapers and the online news before she called the Crayfish and convinced him that it was a matter of pressing urgency that she write an article about the Irish construction boom. She started researching it immediately and tried getting interview appointments in place. But no matter how many dull reports she ploughed her way through on housing statistics, variable interest rates and predictions of foreclosures south of Cork, Hix kept looming on the fringes of her mind like a black shadow.

  She thought about Spencer and his instruction to be herself. Be herself while she asked questions on behalf of the police, so Hix wouldn’t figure out who was behind them.

  She dearly wished that Andreas could have come with her on the journey to Wolf Hall Prison. Wait outside for her. He didn’t have to say anything, just be there. With his calming presence.

  But it was not to be. Then again, she had managed fine without him for years. Survived conflicts, malaria, and even being robbed in Nairobi, without having Andreas by her side. So why would tomorrow be any different?

  Right then her mobile ran
g. She experienced a microsecond of hope, but it was only Spencer.

  ‘Just calling to check if you’re ready for tomorrow?’

  ‘Well, I don’t know. Can you ever prepare yourself for meeting a killer?’

  ‘Remember, he can’t hurt you. He can’t touch you. He's restrained, and he’ll spend the rest of his life in jail.’

  ‘I thought I heard his lawyer say something about an appeal to the parole board?’

  ‘Don’t worry, Miss Sand. He doesn’t stand a chance. We think he has killed many more young women than those we already know about. He hasn’t cooperated with our investigation. He has nothing to trade with. Life means life unless the Home Secretary decides otherwise, and the odds on that are just as big as the chances of finding a politician who doesn’t give a damn about negative publicity.’

  ‘Right. I’ll have to take your word for it.’

  ‘Don’t start by asking him about the girls who went missing after he went to jail. We want him to think that you know something he doesn’t, if you get my drift. Unless he has to work for it, Hix doesn’t care about anything. And he doesn’t care about other people's feelings either, he finds them dull. Pain and tears interest him only as an intellectual phenomenon. Something he can trigger in other people to a greater or lesser extent. Appealing to his so-called conscience will get you nowhere. I think that was James's biggest mistake with Hix. He kept thinking he could uncover some kind of humanity. Believe me, Miss Sand, I’ve known Hix for years, and if that humanity exists, I’ve yet to catch a glimpse of it. My theory is that he cut out the tongues of his victims to make them shut up. He couldn’t be bothered to listen to them plead for their lives. That might be worth bearing in mind,’ Spencer warned her.

  Nora gulped. ‘Well, when you put it like that it's impossible to think of anything else.’

  ‘My point is, he wants to be the one doing the talking, never forget that. He's not interested in listening to other people. That was all I wanted to tell you.’

  ‘Hmm. I guess I should say thank you.’

  ‘Why don’t you start with two Danish girls? As far as I could gather from Mr Cross, they were what piqued his interest.’

  ‘Yes, and that was the reason I originally wanted to talk to him.’

  ‘There's just one more thing, Miss Sand. I know you probably think I’m being intrusive, but believe me — that's not my intention. What are you planning on wearing tomorrow?’

  ‘Planning? I don’t plan my outfits. Especially not when visiting a prison,’ Nora said.

  Her throat felt dry. She went to the fridge to get the carton of orange juice that Pete had left behind. With her mobile wedged between her chin and shoulder, she reached for a glass in the cupboard.

  ‘But you should be. There's no point in leaving it to chance,’ Spencer said.

  ‘Mmm,’ she said, sneaking in a sip of juice. ‘Right then, the honest answer is that I was thinking a pair of jeans and a white shirt. With buttons. A pair of sandals. Nothing special.’

  ‘That would be a mistake.’

  ‘You’re entitled to your opinion, Mr Spencer. But I don’t regard tomorrow's interview as a dating opportunity. It's work. Filthy, shitty work, to be completely honest, and if you really want to know what I would like to wear after reading about Bill Hix and his crimes, my choice would be an old-fashioned diving suit with a copper helmet on my head, like you see in Tintin. But this isn’t Tintin.’

  ‘No, it isn’t. It's so very much isn’t,’ Spencer agreed.

  She heaved a deep sigh and caved in. ‘All right. I’m not saying I’ll follow your instructions down to the last detail, but I’m listening. What should I wear tomorrow?’

  ‘Dress like a modest woman. With the emphasis on woman. A dress or a skirt would be fine, but it must go below the knee. Make-up is acceptable as long as it's discreet. Imagine how his mother would have dressed. You don’t have to be her, but perhaps evoke a few memories. Put up your hair. Pearls and a cardigan would be great. As far as we know, the only woman he has ever shown any kind of respect is his mother.’

  ‘Hmm. I guess that does make sense,’ she conceded.

  ‘I’m not making any promises, but it's worth a try,’ Spencer said.

  ‘It's worth a try,’ she agreed.

  ‘We’ll send a car to pick you up when you’ve finished at the prison. It's best that we talk while it's all still fresh in your mind. You’re aware that you won’t be allowed to bring your mobile or Dictaphone into the prison, aren’t you?’

  Nora began to think that she might grow to like Spencer on closer acquaintance. For a brief moment she considered sharing the information about Oluf Mikkelsen with him.

  Then the moment passed, and they rang off. Once again Nora felt that the one person in all the world she wanted to talk to more than any other was the one person she couldn’t call. Not ever.

  X

  The next morning she woke up with a jolt.

  The last time she had checked the clock it had said three forty-five, and this was the fourth time she woke up in a cold sweat of fear. Every time she was on the verge of nodding off, she felt herself fall backwards into a deep nameless darkness and she would wake up again in sheer terror.

  She staggered to the bathroom while she tried to work out why visiting Bill Hix was turning into such a problem.

  It wouldn’t be the first or the last time she spoke to a killer. The Rwandan schoolteacher she had interviewed on the south coast probably had many more lives on his conscience than a busy British serial killer would ever manage.

  Nor did she presume that Hix outdid ‘Mr Benn’ when it came to the torture of helpless victims. Her thoughts slipped back to her interview with Mr Benn and the monotonous voice in which, without any sign of emotion, he told her how he and his gang of guerrillas had given women, children and old people the choice between long or short sleeves, when he passed by with his machete to chop off their arms.

  And before the schoolteacher, there had been Serbian soldiers, Kosovo-Albanian rebel fighters and visits to mass graves telling their own story of how far the human soul can travel into the darkness of evil without perishing. Many of those killings were committed ostensibly for political reasons, but often by soldiers who were set on personal gain, or who simply acted out of pure, senseless brutality.

  It wasn’t the violence as such that had kept her awake that night. Rather it was the thought that Bill Hix had enjoyed every moment of it while his victims had lived in fear for their lives. The thought that every single abduction and every subsequent murder had been planned down to the last detail, and that even today, after so many years, he was willing to let the victims’ families live in ignorance of what happened, where the girls’ last resting place was and why they had died.

  There was no reason other than his own personal pleasure.

  Perhaps it was the absence of other reasons that scared her the most. Even in the darkest times in the Balkans or during inhuman conflicts in Africa, Nora had somehow been able to navigate her way to an understanding, if not of the violence, then at least of the cause of it. Explanations frequently rooted in poverty, unscrupulous leaders, greed or external factors. She could unpick her way back from effect to cause via the many links that had led to torched villages, rapes, murders and destruction. There were reasons to be found.

  However, when she looked into Bill Hix's soul there was only darkness. A gaping hole like the one he had left in the mouths of his victims. And now it appeared that there were more girls who had been robbed of their lives, more parents suffering the slowest and most agonising death a parent can experience. To lose a child and never know what happened to it.

  She shuddered and turned up the cold tap to distract herself. Afterwards she dried her hair and tried getting a grip on herself.

  It was up to her to tread so skilfully that Hix would slip up and reveal his connection to Lisbeth, Lulu and the other twelve girls, or if he had had an accomplice. The responsibility weighed on her chest like a
black lump, and Nora recognised that it was this lump that had stopped her from sleeping.

  She took a tweed midi skirt from a hanger, bought in a winter sale when she had been going through a short Virginia Woolf phase. However, the right Bloomsbury mood had never arisen and she hadn’t worn the skirt until today. She smoothed yesterday's shirt and put on a grey marl cardigan.

  Nora completed her look by putting her hair in a bun, and snarled at her own reflection in the mirror. She looked like a model in an ad for support stockings. To brighten things up a bit, she applied a little make-up, and rummaged around her Indian jewellery box until she found a necklace with three antique keys she had once bought from a street vendor in Amalfi. Very fitting for a prison.

  As an afterthought she went to her computer, found the picture file with the photo of Lulu and Lisbeth that Magnus had scanned for her, and pressed print.

  As usual, her printer played up and produced three boarding passes and a long article about multicultural schools, before the photograph of the two girls finally appeared in the tray. The quality wasn’t brilliant, but you could easily see them and where the photo had been taken.

  Nora pensively folded it into a small square and tucked it inside her bra.

  Finally there was nothing more to do. She put her Dictaphone, notepad and pens into her bag. It was time to meet the monster face to face.

  21

  Prisons have a very special smell, the individual components of which are hard to identify. There was sweat, desperation, industrial soap, chlorine, chemicals, urine and boiled cabbage in the mix, but also something that was trickier to make out, Nora thought, as a grumpy prison guard checked her papers.

  Without a word he waved her through and pointed to a dilapidated redbrick building marked ‘Administration’.

  Nora heard the gate behind her slam shut with a bang, and couldn’t help smiling as she was reminded of the old Danish heist comedies where Egon Olsen invariably ended up in Vridsløselille Prison after yet another brilliant plan that simply couldn’t go wrong. But the smile was wiped off her face when she glanced up at the high walls topped with Dannert wire. This was serious. No one ever escaped from Wolf Hall.