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The two officers stood up and thanked Fitz for his time. They turned to leave, but the sound of the pathologist’s voice halted them.
“For what it’s worth, there’s something niggling me about this case.”
“What?” Gardener asked.
“I don’t know. I can’t put my finger on it yet… but I will.”
Gardener thought about his comment. Fitz was probably the best in the country, having devoted more than thirty years to anatomic pathology. He was a walking encyclopaedia on crime, had an eidetic memory. If it had happened somewhere else in time, Fitz knew. Gardener trusted him implicitly. If he had a hunch about something, Gardener would follow it.
“You’ve come across it before?”
“Possibly.”
Chapter Twenty-five
Vincent took the final mouthful of his favourite meal: rump steak – medium to well done – with lashings of chips. You couldn’t have steak without chips, as far as Vincent was concerned. He swilled it down with a can of lager he’d found in the fridge, cursing himself for having forgotten to buy some in the superstore earlier in the day. Not that it was a major problem, the place was open till ten.
Vincent had everything he needed living where he did. Morrisons was across the road, the library two doors down. A computer shop shared the block with a Barnardo’s charity shop, a tandoori restaurant, a butcher, and Coral bookmakers – he could waste many an hour in that place.
Walking into the kitchen, he threw his plate and cutlery in the sink with all the others from the rest of the week. He glanced around, scratching his head. The place was a tip, as ever. He could never find anything he wanted, and often turned rooms upside down, without bothering to tidy up afterwards. There were more important things to do than clean.
He strolled back into the living room. As if proving a point, it took five minutes to find the CD he wanted: a Johnny Cash album titled Man in Black. Vincent liked country music; in particular, he loved Cash.
He fired up his computer. It was time to compose a blog for what he’d discovered during the day. Which, in all honesty, wasn’t much.
What terrible times they were living in. It was coming to something when you weren’t safe in your own house.
He’d been to Cross Bank Road earlier. He’d flashed an old press card. People opened up to him. General opinion claimed a middle-aged male had died, but no one knew for certain. Amongst other options, he’d apparently been poisoned. Vincent had come across one or two of those in his time. One person had claimed the man had been brutally stabbed to death. Another idiot said he’d been set on fire. That was when Vincent had called it a day.
By the middle of the afternoon he was in Hume Crescent. A woman had been killed during the night. She’d been found naked, stabbed. A bayonet had definitely been mentioned.
Vincent’s head was full of thoughts. He needed another beer. He checked the fridge, hoping he’d made a mistake. One might be lurking in a darkened corner that he hadn’t seen earlier. No luck.
In the other room his computer pinged, informing him he had mail. To hell with that; he wanted another drink. He needed to compose his blog and have it on the site by midnight. Then he might pop over and see the police tomorrow, offer his help.
He left the flat, tore down the fire escape, and headed for Morrisons to pick up a four-pack. A simple job, one would think. Not so, these days. It took him ten minutes due to the Saturday night crowds.
Back in the flat, he rummaged around the kitchen for a clean glass. He searched the cupboards in vain. He finally chose a discoloured one from the sink. He was the last one to use it anyway.
Back in the living room he re-started the CD. He didn’t like to miss anything from the giant of country music. Having hit the random button, the first track was somewhere in the middle of the disc, but it was his favourite, and he knew every word.
The title track: Man in Black.
Sitting at his desk, he took a mouthful of lager, some Belgian stuff he’d picked up. He’d never tried it before, but it was okay.
He opened the desk drawer and found a Kit-Kat to go with it. Could have been there ages, but he wasn’t bothered about dates. People were too particular these days.
Seventeen emails sat in his inbox. One stood out, which he found very creepy. Vincent shuddered.
It was actually from The Man in Black. Couldn’t be old Johnny Cash himself. He’d gone to The Grand Ole Opry in the sky. Maybe it was some country and western fan club offering him life membership. He opened it.
What he saw was the last thing he’d expected, and certainly had nothing to do with Johnny Cash.
Vincent’s stomach lurched as he read the content. He had no idea who’d sent it, but they knew him – very well, judging by the detail.
The email carried two attachments. Vincent opened the first to find a figure in silhouette, resembling the American wrestler The Undertaker, wearing a long dark cloak and a black top hat. On the face he could only see the eyes. The second email was a close up of those eyes. They were veined and bloodshot, and Vincent felt that they were actually staring at him, as though somehow the figure was alive, in control.
Underneath the slogan read: the man in black is watching.
