Chapter 19
We held the press conferences in the middle of the afternoons, which wasn’t ideal for the Evening Post but worked well for the broadcast news.
By now, the nationals were picking up on us as well, of course: a serial killer always delivers the requisite headlines.
Several news-teams had set up camp outside the building, and whenever I ventured through reception there always seemed to be reporters either leaving or arriving.
I did my best to avoid them; I wasn’t entirely comfortable with the attention – with being the ostensible face of the investigation. Not because the letter had been addressed to me, as such, but because I’d never been happy in the press spotlight.
I’d had to get used to it.
The press room was packed this afternoon: the air, hot and still.
I sat at the end, behind a small table, speaking into a microphone, a dark blue banner behind me.
Laura was beside me, silent for the moment.
The pre-prepared statement was mine today.
In front of us sat rows of journalists, taking feverish notes on their laptops, maybe even writing copy live for website feeds.
Cables spooled across the floor. The whole time I spoke, I was assaulted by camera flashes from the photographers crammed in at the sides of the room.
‘We are now sure,’ I concluded, looking up, ‘that Marion Collins, John Kramer and Sandra Peacock are the victims of the same killer as Vicki Gibson and Derek Evans. We encourage anyone with any information relevant to this inquiry to come forward at the earliest opportunity. Thank you.’
I leaned back slightly, signalling that my part was done.
Laura took over. ‘There will now be a few minutes for questions.’
A dozen hands went up at once. She signalled to one person at a time, and I listened to the questions and her measured responses.
Laura was much better at handling the media than I was, even though she disliked them at least as much as I did.
Blood sells, and a lot of papers aren’t shy about splashing the lurid details around, so when you’ve sat with the grieving relatives, when you’ve invested in the lives of the victims, it’s difficult to feel much love for the parasitical fuckers.
‘Do you believe the killer was known to the victims?’
‘That is something we cannot say for sure,’ Laura said. ‘It’s certainly possible, and it’s one of the avenues we’re pursuing.’
Bullshit, of course – I was increasingly certain that if we could ‘rewind’ Vicki Gibson’s movements alongside those of the killer’s, the time and place of her murder would be the only real connection they shared.
The same with the other victims. I didn’t think he scoped them out in advance.
But of course, we couldn’t be sure. Maybe he was each and every one of them’s best friend, and we’d somehow missed it.
So you never say anything definitive to the press.
It’s a balancing act – a weird kind of arms race.
You need them and they need you. You need to get information to and from the public; they need a story to shift units.
As an investigation progresses, they need new angles.
It’s inevitable that, having drained all other resources, the angle that ‘the police know nothing’ appears eventually.
Regular as clockwork, usually – you can time an investigation by it.
You get to expect certain questions. Reporter bullshit bingo, we call it in private.
‘Have you any suspects at this time?’
‘We have spoken to a number of people in the course of our enquiries. We will continue to do so.’
The woman pressed it. ‘But nobody in particular?’
She wanted a quote on Tom Gregory, obviously, who’d been smeared in more than one of the papers and then predictably outspoken in others upon his release. Not our fault. Scenting blood, the press had just leapt ahead of us like a pack of hounds.
Laura said, ‘Several people have been questioned and those people have subsequently been eliminated from our enquiries. We are grateful for their assistance.’
The reporter seemed unhappy with that answer. She looked down at her laptop and began typing something.
Another hand.
‘Are you happy with the way the investigation is progressing?’
Out of sight beneath the table, I made a little ticking gesture on an imaginary scorecard. There it was. A stinker of a question too. What were you supposed to say? Yes? No?
‘We are not happy,’ Laura said slowly, ‘that the individual responsible for these horrific crimes remains at large. But our team is working hard, round the clock, in an attempt to apprehend him. We will continue to do so. Everything that can be done is being done, and I am confident that results will be forthcoming.’
‘Should the public at large be scared?’
Another tick there – because the one thing that sells newspapers even better than a serial killer is a serial killer who might theoretically come after you. It makes it very important you buy the paper to find out about him, and whether the police investigation is going well or not.
‘We are advising the public to be mindful,’ Laura said, sounding cautious. ‘We have more officers on the streets than ever before and are doing everything we can to safeguard the public. Where possible, we do advise people to avoid isolated areas, and to travel in groups whenever they can.’
Laura spun it out a little longer. Experienced as she was, she knew we were dealing with time here rather than a set number of questions. So she ran with that one. It also helped her avoid answering the question directly.
Should the public be scared?
Yes.
They certainly should.
‘But as I said, the most important thing the public can do right now is come forward with any information they might have. Someone out there knows this man.’
‘Is there any connection between the victims?’
‘At this stage, we can’t comment on that.’
Another hand.
‘Have you had any communication from the killer?’
I did my best to remain implacable. It was too hot in here, and I wanted to loosen my shirt collar, but the cameras pick up everything.
Laura said, ‘Any communication?’
The reporter looked a little sheepish.
‘It’s not unheard of for killers of this type to communicate with the police, is it? Given the apparent lack of any motive for these attacks, I was wondering whether you were considering the possibility that he was enjoying the attention.’
Been reading too many books, I thought.
But he was right, of course. We remained undecided as to whether the letter was genuine or not.
With an operation like this, you deal with cranks.
Aside from the letter, the front desk had received three confessions in person and eight over the phone.
All turned out to be impossible, but each had to be followed up, and everyone involved would be charged with wasting police time.
It sounds frivolous, that charge, but time is all we have.
‘Firstly,’ Laura said, ‘I would say it’s far too early in the investigation to speculate on what the killer’s motive might be. And as I said, we are discounting nothing. We are pursuing all possible lines of enquiry. As for communication – no, we have received nothing specific.’
Nothing specific. If the letter was fake, it was of no consequence. If it was real, perhaps not mentioning it would encourage the killer to write another. Or do something else.
I thought about that, as Laura moved onto the next question, indicating that it would be the last.
Or do something else.
That was another balancing act.