Face of Evil Page 5

  “But you did catch him?” Lydia prompts, gently.

  “We pulled some footage of a guy we thought might be him from the last crime scene,” says Alex. “Just half a face really, but I had everyone go through the look books and identify everyone who might fit the profile. Before we could even round them up, Devere turned himself in. Just walked into the station and confessed. Like the motherfucker had enough of playing and wanted to come home for dinner time.”

  “That’s strange,” says Lydia, as much to herself as to Alex.

  “Strange is kind of a common trait amongst serial killers,” says Alex, “but look who I’m telling.”

  “I’m just a writer,” says Lydia, not entirely convincingly. “You’re the expert.”

  “Yeah, well, don’t get me wrong, we woulda caught him eventually. But that was fucking annoying. In my ‘expert’ opinion.” Alex teases before continuing, “I think the creep turned himself in to shame us all, the force I mean. Didn’t want to give us the victory of bringing him in ourselves, in handcuffs, so he did it himself. Was frustrating as hell for all of us.”

  “I can imagine,” says Lydia, wondering whether she will get more out of Alex by letting him rant, or if she should rein him in.

  “You look around this city; the place is still plastered with missing posters. His victims, I’m sure of it. Not that the bastard will tell us where they are.”

  “When was the last time you spoke to him?” Lydia asks.

  “Months ago. I’d had enough. Never want to see his face again, if I’m honest.”

  “Would you like me to try?” Lydia asks, cautiously.

  “I’d like you to get in your car and drive back to New York,” says Alex.

  “Without any dinner?” asks Lydia, that twinkle back in her eye. Alex laughs. He can’t help himself.

  “Listen to me, Lydia,” he says, leaning across the table again, “you better not try this with him. You hear me?”

  “Try what?” asks Lydia, innocently.

  “This, the way you’re flirting with me. I don’t mind. I mean, I get it.”

  “Alex…”

  “But don’t play games with Devere. That’s what he enjoys. It’s what he lives for.”

  “So I’ve heard,” says Lydia, quietly. Alex shoots her a curious look. “You know what might help?”

  “What’s that?”

  “If I could get a look at the crime scene reports…”

  “No way.” Alex straightens up.

  “Just a little peek.”

  “No. Are you crazy? I could lose my job.”

  “Oh, don’t overreact,” says Lydia defensively, frowning. “It was just a thought.”

  “No, it wasn’t. It’s the whole reason we’re here tonight, isn’t it?”

  “Of course not—”

  “Be honest or I’ll leave.”

  Lydia looks at the detective, his chin jutting slightly in a gesture of defiance she finds somewhat childish, and finds herself torn between pity, irritation, and a third emotion she can’t quite place. “Fine,” she says. “Yes, of course that’s the main reason I wanted to meet. But, remember, I didn’t know who I was meeting tonight did I? Just came here to know more about exactly what he did, and I’m sure plenty of it didn’t make the newspapers.”

  “You have no idea.”

  “Exactly.”

  “So?” He shrugs. “That’s not my problem.”

  “Maybe I could help you,” Lydia suggests, lightly.

  “Help me with what?” There’s an edge to Alex’s voice now that’s grating on Lydia’s nerves. “Devere’s already locked up.”

  “I don’t know.” Lydia shrugs. “To find those missing people, maybe.” She catches Alex’s eye. “What?”

  “Nothing.”

  “No, go on. What do you want to say?”

  “Okay,” he prods his drink to one side and leans forward onto the table, “look, I’ve read your books and I know you think you’re, like, Miss Marple or whatever…”

  “Miss Marple?!” Lydia laughs, but her eyes are hard and cold.

  “Or whatever. But this is the real world, and police work isn’t a game.”

  “I never said it was.”

  “Lots of good people worked on that case – you think you’re smarter than all of them?”

  “I didn’t say that, I just—”

  “We don’t need your help.”

  Lydia stares at him for a long moment. “Fine.”

  “I’m sorry, that sounded harsher than I meant it to.”

  “Don’t worry about it.” She sits back and looks over to a table on the far side of the diner, where a young couple are laughing together. Alex follows her gaze and opens his mouth to say something, but seems to decide that giving her a little space to cool off would be the wiser option and takes a drink instead.

  “So,” he says finally, “what will you do next?”

  Lydia shrugs. “I guess I’ll just go and talk to him tomorrow, and take it from there.”

  “Okay,” says Alex, brusquely. “But you’re wasting your time.”

  “What makes you so sure?” Lydia snaps.

  “We tried a lot of things to get him to talk, Lydia,” says Alex. “I mean a lot of things. That place, Mortem, they ain’t squeamish. You know what I’m saying?”

  “I think I do.”

  “Don’t judge me. I know we have laws for a reason, but those people deserve to know what happened to their loved ones.”

  “I would never judge you, Alex,” Lydia says with a soft sigh, giving him a beseeching look to keep him sweet. “That’s not what I do.”

  Alex meets her gaze and seems to soften. He nods, and sighs, and sits back again. “So you met him already?”

  “Just briefly.”

  “What do you think?”

  “I think…” Lydia considers the question. “I think nobody is born capable of doing what he’s done. I think the world made him that way, and I’d like to understand how.”

  “Yeah?” Alex looks dubious. “That’s a real generous appraisal, if you don’t mind me saying.”

  “I don’t mind,” says Lydia, “but why do you think so?”

  “My mother told me if it looks like a duck, walks like a duck, and quacks like a duck, then it’s a duck.”

  “Hard to argue with that,” says Lydia, a smirk playing about the corners of her mouth.

  “Yeah, laugh it up. But Jason Devere is a monster. And that’s the only thing you’re gonna find out if you go back there.”

  “I guess we’ll see,” says Lydia. The two of them remain silent while the waitress arrives with their food.

  “Y’all need a refill?”

  “No thanks,” says Alex. Lydia shakes her head, smiling, and reaches for a large, crisp onion ring. She takes a bite and chews, thoughtfully, as Alex cuts into his steak.

  “That mark from a wedding ring?” Lydia asks casually.

  “Huh?” Alex follows her gaze down to his own finger. “Oh, yeah. Divorced. Over a year ago.”

  “And you still have a mark?” Lydia raises an eyebrow.

  “Sometimes I put it on when I’m talking to a suspect or a witness,” says Alex, defensively. “Helps them to trust me.”

  “I see.”

  “Didn’t you say something about not judging me?”

  “I’m not,” Lydia protests. “I just thought, you know, you might have…”

  “Taken it off to meet you?”

  “Some men do.”

  “Well I didn’t, okay? I use it to do my job. We all gotta use what we got, right?” He looks Lydia up and down with a feral aspect that reminds her a little of Jason. “You and your dress know all about that, I’m sure.”

  “What happened to being raised like a gentleman?” Lydia asks, coolly.

  “You’re right,” Alex holds his hands up, “I’m sorry.” He turns his attention back to his meal.

  “So did you leave her, or…?”

  “She left me. Got bored and ran off wi
th a bartender, okay? And I hope they’re very happy together.”

  “No, you don’t.”

  “No, I don’t.” He pauses, looking up at her with a twitch before continuing, “Listen, I’ll save you analysing anything else about me and just tell you that, she… Laura, Laura left me because she felt I got too wrapped up in my work and never made time for her. Which I guess, was true, got no one to blame but myself, I was a shitty husband, but no one can ever say I’m not committed to my job, which, funnily enough, has now taken up even more of my time now,” Alex states, taking a long swig of his drink. “Now, can we talk about something else?”

  “Why did you become a detective?” asks Lydia, coolly.

  “I liked the Saturday morning cartoons,” says Alex. “Like Batman, you know, where they figure stuff out and catch the bad guys? I wanted to do that.” Lydia nods, smiling broadly. “What?”

  “Nothing.”

  “What?” Alex demands.

  “Like Batman?” asks Lydia, with a giggle.

  “Sure, laugh it up,” says Alex, trying not to smile. “So, tell me, how did Lydia Tune become the world’s most famous mistress of the mind, as they say?”

  “Well, where to start?” Her fingers rub together as she proceeds to talk. “I started out as a criminal psychologist, then after a few years of private research, writing, and receiving countless rejection emails I finally managed to get my first book deal with The Masks We Wear. The book blew up and well, the rest is history.”

  “I like that, I like hearing the rejection part. You didn’t cheat the system. You earned your success.”

  “Oh believe me, I’ve more than earned my success,” Lydia says rigidly.

  “Hmm… so tell me some more about your books? The Masks We Wear was your first, right?”

  “Yes, it was the first and the best received.”

  “Oh really?”

  “Really. I say that like the other two have received negative reviews, they haven’t. Influencing Hearts And Minds and Breaking Down Our Inner Walls were critical darlings, but that first one, I don’t know, people really seemed to love it. It is after all what put me on the map.”

  Alex tilts his head. “And you feel like the others haven’t had the same degree of critical success?”

  Lydia’s neck twinges as she ponders the question herself, then answers. “Not that, I just felt so… satisfied with that first one. My first victory?”

  “Do you feel like you’ve never been able to make the lightning strike again since?”

  “Again, not that, it’s just never been the same since The Masks We Wear. Maybe because it was all so new to me, the success, I’m not sure.”

  “Yes, you are.” He bluntly chips in, meeting her withdrawn expression. “What was the first one about again?”

  “The book was about three different people in society that I analysed. A successful CEO psychopath, a narcissistic housewife and an anxiety-stricken construction worker. Focusing on the social constructs, the personas they had managed to make for themselves in their varying social circles. Families, friends, work lives and such.”

  “Very interesting.”

  “Indeed, and it sold well because it was something everyone could get behind and relate to. Everyone could see a part of themselves in the book, how they act. And that scared them.”

  “And as I’m sure you know, people like to be scared.”

  “Umm-hmm.” She nods in response. “But more so, I think it was a comfort to most, because it highlighted just how numb some of us can be, numb to so many things, behind our masks.”

  “In what way?”

  “The walls, the shields and defences we put up to deal with pain, after a while they manifest into a way of coping that triggers the brain, trains it to stay in certain states of numbness under certain circumstances. When pressed, dealing with new emotions or scenarios and even, like I said, dealing with pain,” Lydia says, looking away.

  “Doesn’t sound healthy.”

  “Oh it’s not, but I suppose we all find our ways of numbing ourselves don’t we?” Lydia concludes, grinning as Alex raises his drink up to chug back more sweet sin. “And I happen to believe there are some things far worse to feel, than simply feeling nothing at all,” Lydia states, coldly.

  With that, Alex gulped and pondered aloud to her. “Why did you become a writer?”

  “Oh, the usual reasons,” Lydia replies airily now. “Travelling to glamorous locations,” she gestures around the diner, “meeting interesting people.” She waves her hand at Alex.

  “You’re full of shit, Lydia Tune,” says Alex, but he’s laughing now too. “But what the hell, I’ll drink to that.” He raises his glass, and Lydia grins as she clinks it with her own.

  What a delightful tool he will be, she thinks.

  Seven

  Evil isn’t born it’s made

  Icy winds buffet Lydia’s car as she navigates the frozen streets under a grim, grey winter sky. She doesn’t mind the cold or the dark. In some ways they put her at ease, a reflection perhaps of herself. She catches a glimpse of something out of the corner of her eye, however, that causes her pale, slender fingers to clench the wheel tightly and her ruby ring to bite into her flesh. Strung across the window of a house set back from the road, twinkling, multi-coloured Christmas lights. A stark contrast against the otherwise monochrome scene, they are impossible to ignore, though she tries her best until she is past them and out of sight. With a sinking feeling she realises that they are but a harbinger, like the lone swallow to summer, soon they will be everywhere.

  Lydia turns a corner, the car’s wheels sliding on the frozen asphalt. Now the fierce wind is behind her, urging her on, almost lifting the car up off the road. Perhaps some invisible force is keen for her to reach her destination. In the rear-view mirror, she notices that the car behind her has made the same turn. Most people would dismiss this as a coincidence, but Lydia does not believe in such things. The knot in her stomach tightens as a glowing Santa waves to her from behind a white picket fence. Everything is gnawing at her nerves today. She presses down on the accelerator until she is satisfied that she has left her tail behind, and cruises for another mile or so before the sat nav indicates her destination a few hundred yards on the left.

  It is a unique house, tall yet still half-hidden by trees that look to have grown unchecked for many years. She turns into the driveway and crawls up towards the front porch, sturdy wooden beams stained deep brown and a chair that sways and creaks loudly in the wind. What used to be a lawn has been swallowed up by weeds and bushes. Give it a few more years and the whole house will suffer the same fate, she thinks. But Lydia is not surprised, and she does not judge. She has seen many times what happens to places when their inhabitants stop caring. Some people might call it negligence, but she knows better. She knows that you can’t hold a person responsible for having been beaten by life. It beats us all in the end.

  She picks her way over the rocky path to the front steps, slippery with melted snow and moss. Even the sturdiest hiking boot could fall victim to their treachery. A slender finger reaches out and presses the doorbell. Just an ordinary bell with an ordinary sound, but it reminds her powerfully of the one at her childhood home. She remembers waiting for her father to open the door so that she could run inside and escape the cold, and the echo of that little girl’s gratitude makes her feel physically sick. She wishes she could take it back. He didn’t deserve it. He never deserved it.

  Muffled footsteps on the other side of the door, the heavy scrape of the lock and then a thin, high creak as rusty hinges wake momentarily from their slumber. A large, round pair of spectacles perched upon the small nose of a face at once both old and yet unspoiled by the usual cracks and crevasses that time inflicts. A knitted green cardigan and slippers, both well worn.

  “You must be…” his fragile voice trails away. Lydia can’t tell if he has forgotten her name, or forgotten that he was speaking. The large, deep, brown eyes behind those jam jar lenses d
rift out of focus. This man was at school with Jason? It doesn’t seem possible. Cecil could be his father. “Lydia?” he finishes finally, taking her somewhat by surprise.

  “That’s right,” she smiles her most friendly smile. “And you must be Cecil.”

  Cecil Sprinkler nods, returning the fake smile with a genuine one, and opens the door all the way. “Come in!” he insists. “Please come in!”

  The hallway is lined with closed doors and cardboard boxes, their contents spilling out chaotically over the floor. Lydia remembers a fact she has read somewhere about some three million Americans exhibiting various degrees of hoarding behaviour. Cecil, she decides, is somewhere towards the extreme end of that spectrum. Clothes, newspapers, books, dishes, knick-knacks of all kinds, all over the place.

  “I’m afraid you’ll have to excuse the mess,” he says, as though reading her mind. “I just got out of bed, as you can tell.” From the look of the place, Lydia thinks, Cecil Sprinkler hadn’t gotten out of bed in years.

  “It’s no problem,” she replies brightly. “I’m just grateful you were able to meet with me.”

  “Yes, well,” Cecil kicks a small yellow pencil on the floor to one side, “there are things that need to be said about Jason.”

  “Oh really?” Lydia says, trying not to sound too eager. Everyone has an agenda, she reminds herself, and she doesn’t yet know what Cecil Sprinkler’s is. She doesn’t want to let him know just how valuable his information might be to her.

  The hallway is long, and claustrophobic, and the air musty. Lydia wishes that Cecil would move a little more quickly. Her breaths deepen and then, as they enter a room, a powerful aroma blasts her nostrils, making her gag. She covers her face with the sleeve of her jacket and looks around for the source of it. Air fresheners, at least three or four of them plugged into seemingly every available electrical socket. The combination of old, sticky perfume and dank, still air is suffocating. Keepsakes and souvenirs sit upon shelves thick with dust. The green floral wallpaper looks yellowish brown in the over-warm orange glow of the only light bulb. Above the hearth, a picture of a couple. The man, she guesses, is Cecil, albeit a different Cecil from a lifetime ago. The woman, his wife? She may ask, once they are better acquainted. Either side of the photograph are propped half a dozen Christmas cards, but they too are faded, yellowed with age, decades most likely. Does he bring them out every year, or just leave them up? Lydia can’t decide which would be more tragic.