Chapter 39
Levchenko would not be here now if it wasn’t for the policeman.
Business has been slow today – only three customers since midday – and under normal circumstances he might have closed the shop early and gone home with Jasmina when she left, an hour before.
Instead, wanting to watch the press conference on the murders without her knowledge, he decided to stay here, just for a while, under the guise of earning the money they both knew they needed.
So he is here now, sitting in his shop, watching the small television on the counter. It is a little after five o’clock, but still bright and sunny outside. Inside the shop, however, it feels gloomy and dark. Perhaps that is simply him. Perhaps that is simply the effect the policeman has on him.
Hicks …
On the screen, he is sitting on the far side of the table and the camera is zoomed in so that he fills most of the frame; you can just see the elbow of the female officer sitting beside him.
Hicks is reading a statement from pieces of paper in front of him.
Occasional camera flashes illuminate him, but it is impossible to tell if he notices them or cares.
Of course, he does not care. He never did.
Always so detached and professional.
Even now, still so young and polished.
‘We are currently looking for a man in his early to mid twenties,’ Hicks says.
In his smart suit, Levchenko thinks, he might as well be working in a bank. Or a similar place – one that deals with data rather than people.
‘His name might possibly be James or Jimmy, or at least people may know him by that name. He is approximately six foot tall and of average build, with sandy blond hair. It is possible he is known to older teenagers in the Farfield area of the city, and we encourage anybody with information about this individual’s identity to come forward. ’
He looks up from his notes. Levchenko remembers his eyes from the last time they met. Although they seem much more serious now, don’t they? Tired and troubled.
‘We will treat any information we receive in the strictest confidence.’ Hicks puts the papers down. ‘I’ll now take five minutes of questions. Yes?’
A voice drifts over, barely audible.
‘Tom Benson, Evening Post. At this point, you indicate that the killer has claimed fifteen victims, but you’ve only named ten of those. Is that a problem of identification?’
Throughout the question, Hicks nods seriously.
‘I am not able, at present,’ he says, ‘to provide details on the victims whose names have not been released to the press.’
But the voice persists.
‘We are aware of a number of crime scenes across the city. Were these additional victims found at those locations?’
‘I am not able, at present, to provide details on the victims whose names have not been released to the press.’ Hicks nods elsewhere in the room. ‘Yes?’
Levchenko smiles to himself – but without humour.
The detective has not changed: still stone-walling; still treating legitimate questions and enquiries with indifference – contempt, even.
It occurs to him that not only is he here in the shop right now because of Hicks, but at this place in his life as well.
And that due to the spread of cause and effect that ripple from even the smallest actions, at least one other person is not.
Emmy.
Lost in memories, he misses the question. On the screen, Hicks stares out at his unseen audience.
‘We are pursuing several lines of enquiry. But I reiterate: I am not able, at present, to provide details on the victims whose names have not been released to the press.’
Because you haven’t found them, Levchenko thinks.
That’s the subtext of the detective’s words, isn’t it? Surely everybody in the room there can pick it up if he can? That must be why they’re pecking at him, like chickens scrabbling for dirt.
‘Over a week into the investigation,’ a reporter asks, ‘without an arrest. How close are you to identifying the suspect you’ve described?’
It might be Levchenko’s imagination, but he thinks he sees Hicks’s expression drop slightly. That makes sense, doesn’t it? The detective wouldn’t like to be criticised. Too sure of himself for that.
‘As I’ve said, we are pursuing several lines of enquiry. We encourage anybody with the information I’ve indicated to come forward. We’re confident that an arrest will follow shortly.’
Are you?
Another smile without humour – though a small part of Levchenko is enjoying seeing the detective floundering under pressure. But there is the fact that people are dead. That is nothing to celebrate. And the fact that whatever happens to Hicks, nothing can change the past.
Nothing can bring her back.
Levchenko shakes his head.
It is true, of course, and he experiences a moment of guilt.
What is the point in the vague thrill he feels at the detective’s troubles?
God would not approve – yet he feels it anyway, and suppresses the shame that accompanies it.
Why not? Surely God does not approve of Hicks either.
Just as we are judged for what we do, so must we be judged for what we do not.
Will you allow me this? he asks God. Nothing can bring her back now, but something at the time might have stopped it.
Hicks could have saved her.
Levchenko could have …
But he clamps down on that.
It is important to remember this, to repeat it: there was nothing he could have done beyond what he did. He is a good citizen, so he reported his concerns to the relevant authorities – to the people who should have done something, because that is the point of them – and so the blame lies with them.
The blame has to lie with them.
He stares at the television screen.
With him.
The bell above the door tinkles.
Levchenko looks up suddenly. An old lady is pushing her way in, with some trepidation, as though she isn’t sure whether or not she’s allowed to.
‘Hello?’ she says. Her voice trembles. ‘Are you still open?’
‘Yes. Please, come in.’
Levchenko uses the controller to switch off the television.
He wants to see the end of the press conference – wants to see the detective squirm – but he can hardly turn down the business.
And even if he could afford to, manners forbid it.
He can’t send this old woman away now she is inside the shop.
‘What can I do for you?’
‘Your candles,’ she says. ‘The special ones you make?’
‘Oh yes.’ Levchenko nods, pleased. ‘Yes. How can I help you?’
‘It’s short notice.’
‘That’s all right,’ Levchenko says, although he wonders whether it is. It depends on how short the notice is. His stock of standard, pre-made candles is plentiful, but he is out of wax pellets and certain shades of dye for the base.
The elderly woman unfolds a piece of paper.
‘It’s for one of your special candles,’ she says. ‘One cast at the moment?’
‘Yes. I know the ones you mean. When is it for?’
The woman smoothes out the crinkled paper.
‘Tonight,’ she says. ‘The time does not matter, but it has to be today. It would be my daughter’s birthday.’
Levchenko pauses. Normally, he would refuse – but with business the way it has been, that is hard to do. Besides, something about her troubles him. The way she is shaking slightly. And her choice of words too: it would be her daughter’s birthday. It makes him think of Emmeline, which spurs him on.
He says, ‘Let me check.’
He picks up the phone and calls the warehouse where he buys his wax supplies. It rings for a few moments – the woman before him fidgets nervously – and is answered by Robi, the shipping manager. He sounds harried, and Levchenko talks to him in his own language, detailing what he needs.
‘I cannot have it in the post tonight obviously,’ Robi says.
‘That’s okay. I was hoping to call in.’ Levchenko checks his watch and calculates the distance involved. ‘I can be there in a little under an hour?’
‘That … should be okay. Who am I fooling? I will be here all night anyway. I will have it waiting.’
‘Thank you, Robi.’
‘You are welcome, Gregor.’
He puts the phone down and thinks – he has no intention of being here that late himself, so he will cast the candle in his garage.
From the warehouse, taking his bicycle, he will have to circle round the top of the city slightly, but the evening is warm and fresh, and the country roads in that direction are pleasing. He likes it out there a lot.
He smiles at the old woman, as kindly as he can. ‘Let me have the details, please. What is your name?’
‘Carla Gibson,’ she says.