The Detective's Daughter

3

Monday, 10 January 2011

Jack sang softly while he strolled through the subway and up the ramp. At the statue he paused under cover of the hedge and the bells pealed again, this time counting the hour. The church clock was a minute fast – not that when he was walking he cared about measuring time. On his journeys he noted only slipshod work, wanton neglect and deliberate damage; he counted dented cars, skirting scatterings of windscreen glass glittering on kerbstones and squashed smouldering cigarette butts tossed in gutters. Jack took trouble on behalf of those who did not bother.

The sound of the bells reverberated in his ear. Sundays were the worst, Jack confided to the statue of the Leaning Woman; the chimes and changes upset him more than horns, or roadside drilling, which at least had purpose. Blood had trickled down his neck, warm at first, drying to a crust. He had been instructed not to tell and, good at keeping secrets, told no one. He cupped a hand over his ear – the cold made it worse – but the ache was too deep.

In the lamplight breaking through the tree branches, the statue stretched her arms out to him.

Today’s journey had been simple; the route on the page was like two circles attached by a straight line and Jack ended up where he had started: on Church Road in Northolt in the London Borough of Ealing. From there it was no distance across Western Avenue to the Underground station, a building dating from 1948. After clicking through the route on Google Street View he scribbled the year on page fifty-three in his street atlas. On Street View, he plotted anything of potential interest in the A–Z before embarking on the actual journey. The five and three of fifty-three added together equalled eight and the numbers 1948 added up to twenty-two which in turn equalled four. Four and eight made twelve which made three. If this was a sign, Jack did not know what it signified.

He had chosen the middle carriage in the train. Northolt was on the Central line so he was unlikely to know anyone, and if he did, he was ready with a plausible excuse.

He made the journeys in strict page order during the day. At night, his favoured time was reserved for walking the city without a map, when he was reliant on a future Host to lead the way. As he passed each house, he saw which blinds were drawn, which curtains pulled or shutters swung across. People were careless, and left gaps. He slowed down when a possible Host stopped at his gate, dawdling to get out his door key. Most did not have the forethought to have it ready as Jack always did; if they did this he would know they did not after all have a mind like his own. However, they might offer him a warm and friendly home while he looked for the True Host.

If the man entertained suspicions – those with minds like his own were men – Jack walked on head-down, his efficient step intended to allay their suspicions; he was just a man going about his business.

He marvelled that people set store by burglar alarms or a steel-plated doors with double mortice locks and then left doors on the latch to pop out to dump newspapers and cans in the recycling bin or to whisk a dog around the block for a last walk. He tut-tutted at the welcome of keys beneath doormats, secreted under ivy or tucked inside plant pots. Those who made him truly at home left him a key dangling from a string on the inside of the front door.

He would wait beneath a sill out of sight of the street or in the recess of a bay window while lights went on and later were extinguished. He was soothed by the muffled jumble of music and voices within, confident that soon he would join them. If the person lived alone, he would have liked to reassure them that soon they would have company.

Jack regretted that these relationships, however meaningful, had to be short. He called the unwitting residents Hosts, preferring to think of himself not as a guest or cuckoo in the nest but as belonging.

Only those with minds like his own knew a person can be randomly chosen by another and such a mind is alert for that eventuality. Like the man sipping coffee in the window of a café, or the man wired to an MP3 player on a Tube escalator who did not acknowledge Jack when he made room for him, or the fussy middle-aged man on the towpath. When certain inhabitants of London slotted their security chains into place before going to bed, they were unaware they had a visitor.

People were oblivious. How often solitary dog walkers, children playing, joggers – those types who strayed off paths and were out at odd times – reported nearly missing a body, assuming it to be a pile of clothes or rubbish. Sometimes, even in a city, the dead lie undiscovered – buried in snow, on wastelands, in alleyways – for weeks.

The presence of water does untold damage to a crime scene.

For those killers intending the corpse as a gift, like a cat with a bird, he presumed this was a disappointment. For professionals with a mind like his own, those who did not crave cheap adulation, measured time mattered only briefly: every second was good because vital clues were eroded and destroyed. Jack understood how valuable was the currency used to buy or kill time.

He was disappointed how few had minds like his own and was meticulous in eliminating each one.

He slipped a roll-up out of a slim silver case and in the shelter of his coat lit it. He palmed it and, hiding the glowing tip, stepped from behind the hedge on to the pavement. At Rose Gardens North he checked but the Toyota Yaris was still missing, the house in darkness. He continued into St Peter’s Square. Restless and alert though the old lady was, she must be asleep by now.

Jack’s choice of Host was not always random.