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Those who called Gordon ‘The Commissioner’ also referred to Gateside as Arkham, though once again they were totally wrong. Far from the gothic monstrosity that asylum was, this was new and clean – all white walls and metal and toughened glass. None of which made her feel any better about being inside its walls. Because as much as she knew the science of how the people kept here ticked, as much as she’d studied things like nature versus nurture, behavioural patterns and brain scans showing whether people had shrunken amygdalae (the seat of emotion, of empathy, conscience and remorse) or not, when you got right down to it, the prisoners shut away in this place were just plain scary.
Robyn usually did her best to hide her fear, putting on a front as always, because showing it only made things worse. You’d get nothing out of subjects if they thought you were terrified; it would just make them want to ‘play’ with you more. Serial killers liked to be in control, liked that feeling. If Robyn was to find out anything during her visits to Gateside, she had to at least appear as if she was the one in the driving seat. Easier said than done, when the man you were facing had once towered above you and been ready to take your life.
All too soon she was there, at the final door. Robyn peered in through the square of glass in an otherwise solid metal barrier, seeing him handcuffed at the table there, attached to chains that ran through metal hooks welded to the table – which itself was bolted to the floor for added security. She would be safe enough, especially with the guards just outside the doors here. Sykes wasn’t deemed as dangerous as some in Gateside, who you could only communicate with through bars or toughened glass, guards on either side ready to taser the person. She was at least allowed to sit in a room, sit down at a table with her … patient. A patient Robyn knew would never, ever be cured.
She swallowed again, sucked in another breath, and nodded at one of the guards who’d been with her since the inner door. He was dressed like something out of Judge Dredd, everything padded for his own protection, baton hanging from a belt at his waist – taser on the other side, looking for all the world like some kind of futuristic handgun. When he nodded back, helmet wobbling slightly, he reached out with gloved hands and undid the lock with a key-card, then held his hand out for Robyn to enter, like he was a butler at some kind of swish stately home.
Sykes barely looked up when she stepped inside the room, which was probably a good thing because the door slamming shut again made her start a little. Instead, he kept his head down, as if he was studying something in front of him on the table – though there was nothing there – bald patch on top clearly visible; premature for someone of his age. He wore the pale-yellow boiler-suit-style uniform of all the prisoners here, the theory being you wouldn’t then confuse them with the guards who were in muted blues and greys. Here, yellow rather than orange was the new black, but then Robyn doubted any of them were concerned about fashion.
Only when she reached the table itself did Sykes acknowledge her presence, looking up slowly and regarding her with those penetrating eyes. The ones she’d gazed into when she thought she was about to die.
‘Hello, Dr Adams,’ he said with a smile that sent shivers down her spine. ‘I wondered when I’d see you again.’
Chapter 2
Sykes’ tone was even and considered; unemotional.
Yet it was as if he knew Robyn couldn’t stay away, that she’d have to return and look again into those eyes, even though most people would have emigrated and spent the rest of their lives trying to forget the whole thing ever happened.
Not her. She was drawn back to this kind of thing again and again, and somehow Sykes knew that. Sensed it.
‘I’m just sorry it took so long, Kevin,’ she told him.
‘Well,’ he said, leaning back as best he could, ‘you were recovering. How are the scars, Doctor?’
She flashed back then to the attack, brutal and unrelenting, before dismissing it from her mind. ‘Pretty much healed,’ she replied, which was true enough. The scars from the cuts had almost healed, the most you could see now were the white lines where they’d been. As for the emotional scars, that was something else entirely. Robyn pulled the chair out, unintentionally scraping the floor and causing Sykes to wince. Then she sat down, taking out her micro-recorder and placing it on the table. ‘Do you mind if I …’
Sykes shrugged, then nodded to the cameras in the corners of the room behind her, which were scrutinising everything, as if to say: why bother?
‘This is for my benefit,’ Robyn explained. ‘My own research.’
He smiled again. ‘I see. If you’re expecting my help to catch Buffalo Bill, though …’
Robyn gave a snort, thinking to herself: Don’t kid yourself, you’re no Anthony Hopkins, mate. ‘Just hoping to talk to you, Kevin. That’s all.’
‘I would have thought you knew everything there is to know about me already, Doctor. How else would you have caught me? Oh, except you didn’t actually catch me, did you. I caught you if anything.’
‘And why did you do that, Kevin? It’s not as if I fitted your usual pattern. I wasn’t even the right sex, was I? Which was why, when it came right down to it, you couldn’t—’
‘I wanted to … to make you pay,’ he cut in. ‘For ruining everything.’
‘For stopping you from ruining any more lives, from taking any more lives.’ It was a statement rather than a question. ‘Devastating other families, like the ones you’ve already destroyed. Children who will grow up now without fathers, because of you.’
Sykes spat on the floor and Robyn couldn’t help herself, she instinctively sat back in her own chair, putting more distance between them both. It was a show of emotion she hadn’t been expecting – usually killers like this were good at mimicking those, but lacked the capacity to feel them. Then again, she had just mentioned his trigger. The father figure.
Kevin Sykes had grown up in an environment where his father was definitely the one in control, who made it clear in no uncertain terms that he wanted Kevin to be a real man when he was older … tough and strong and as in command as that man was, especially when it came to ruling a household. Ruling over Kevin’s mother, who couldn’t do a thing to stop him. But no matter what he did, Kevin was always destined to fall short of the mark – and that constant abuse would eventually turn him into the killer he was destined to become.
‘They’re better off without their fathers,’ Sykes told her then.
‘I think they might disagree with you there, Kevin. Those men you kidnapped, took, on their way home from work … and then killed. They weren’t like your own dad; they were loved. And they loved their children, took care of them.’
Sykes’ lip curled. ‘They’re all the same. They deserved what they got.’
Robyn shook her head. ‘No. No, they didn’t. You were trying to punish your father, I realise that. He died before you could do what you wanted to do to him. But those men, they didn’t deserve that kind of treatment.’
‘What’s deserve got to do with it?’ snapped Sykes.
‘Everything,’ said Robyn sadly. ‘No one deserved what you did. Not even your father.’
‘You don’t know … You think you understand, but …’ Sykes shook his head.
Robyn understood enough. Had worked out from studying the case, a series of missing persons – all male, thirty-five to forty-something, all fathers – that whoever took them wanted to punish someone. Punish a father figure definitely, but also by association punish a wife and mother. Might also see it as freeing the children left behind somehow, like he was doing some good. From there, working with Cavendish and the team, they’d figured out how he was selecting the victims – how he had to have known enough about them to cherry-pick.
‘Who do we give information like that to?’ she’d said, thinking out loud one night in the station, Cavendish nearby and supplying her with cup after cup of coffee.
‘The government, doctors, people in positions of power,’ the DI had replied, leaning on a nearby desk, playing with that ponytail of his and narrowing his eyebrows.
‘All positions of trust, yes. And of course that’s how Shipman was able to do what he did. But … no, I don’t think we’re dealing with someone who’d spend years training to do all that. I think he was quite eager to get started once he became an adult, those fantasies he dreamed of when he was young nagging at him more and more. Needing to move on from the Aura Phase to the Trolling Phase pretty quickly. From imagining it, to planning. These might not even be his first victims, Cav,’ she’d told him, comfortable now using the name other members of his team called him by. ‘He might have done this elsewhere; we just wouldn’t have put it together.’
‘So someone still quite young, you reckon?’ he’d asked her, scratching his goatee beard now; combined with his hair, it made him look a bit like a Musketeer she always thought.
‘Yeah, I think so. And what kind of jobs can young people walk into that give them access to that kind of information?’ Robyn had tapped a pen against her mouth as she thought about it. ‘Maybe even without any background checks … Telemarketing perhaps, or …’ They’d both turned to each other at the same time and said it:
‘Street marketing!’
The kind of people who annoy you by stopping you in the street, asking you questions. ‘We never really ask for their credentials,’ Robyn had continued. ‘It might not even be his real job. Offer some kind of incentive, like a prize draw for a holiday or whatever, get them to fill in a form. He might even get them to post back a questionnaire, have a PO Box set up?’
‘And Bob’s your uncle,’ Cavendish had said with a whistle. ‘Instant victim database. He’d know if people had wives or not, kids …’
‘Most importantly,’ Robyn had said, ‘he’d know their work and home addresses. He’d know just where to grab them between the two.’
‘Christ. That’s it! That’s how we’ll get him.’
And they had – almost. Teams had been organised to question the questionnaire people in the city of Hannerton and the neighbouring towns, asking for credentials. Only one person had bolted, led officers quite a merry chase before they lost him again. But in the process, he dropped his clipboard. Dropped the questionnaires he’d been handing out, complete with the PO Box people should send it back to in order to win a non-existent car. They traced the person who’d set it all up to a bedsit, a small apartment that had been searched thoroughly – with Robyn present. Kevin Sykes had fitted her profile almost exactly: mid-twenties and having lost his father a few years beforehand – his mother rotting away in some state-run home – he wasn’t originally from the area.
‘Now all we need to do is find him,’ Cavendish said, though they were all painfully aware he could be anywhere now. Might be setting something similar up somewhere else, under a different name. There was nothing stopping him.
A week or two went by after that, and Robyn had been walking to her Citroën in the university’s car park when she felt sure someone was following her. Racing to her vehicle she’d beeped it open and thrown herself inside, shrugging off her coat and pulling out her mobile, ready to report anything amiss. Only Sykes had been waiting inside the car for her, in the back seat, and the next thing she knew there was a handkerchief over her mouth and nose, the strong smell of chloroform assaulting her nostrils.
Then everything went black …
When she woke up again, everything was still black. Her eyelids fluttered, were definitely open, yet she couldn’t see anything. Was she blind? Robyn also couldn’t move very much, but realised that her hands were tied behind her back – felt like a plastic zip-tie – as were her legs, pulled together at the ankles. Her cheek kept brushing a cold, smooth surface, so she knew she was on the floor somewhere. Just didn’t have a clue where. What’s more, the police wouldn’t have a clue either.
She had no idea how long she’d waited in there, but a sudden banging made her start. And when the place was flooded with light suddenly, Robyn knew whoever had taken her was back. Grateful – when she blinked once, twice, making out shapes – that she wasn’t actually blind, her gratitude soon evaporated when she realised what was surrounding her. Or at least what little she could see from that floor.
The walls threw back her reflection … reflections, because they were covered in mirrors of all shapes and sizes; some with frames, others without. When she could tear her eyes away from them, Robyn saw that the room – which was no more than about fifteen feet by fifteen – seemingly had no way out. No, that wasn’t correct: the door, which itself was covered in mirrors, was shut, locked, and there was someone else in the space with her now. Might have been there for some time before he put the lights on, who knows.
He was average build, hairline receding at the front, and dressed in a shirt and trousers. She found out later that Sykes’ father had equated jeans with layabouts, always ‘encouraging’ his son to dress properly. Clean-shaven, the guy didn’t even have sideburns, but those eyes … dear God, his eyes! He was also wearing latex gloves, and when she looked down Robyn understood why the floor was so smooth.
It was covered in plastic, pinned down tightly. The kind that would be easy to roll up and get rid of, getting rid of evidence at the same time.
She was in Sykes’ murder room, the place he’d taken those men to kill them. The one bit of the puzzle they hadn’t figured out yet. But where … where …
Suddenly, he was moving towards her – and he had a knife in his hand. ‘Kevin. Kevin, wait!’ Robyn shouted. She didn’t bother calling out for help, figuring that if this was where he dispatched his prey it was bound to either be soundproofed or there was nobody around for miles. Couldn’t risk being discovered, being interrupted in his work, whatever that was (they’d had no bodies to examine on that score, none of the missing men having been recovered – alive or dead – though it was probably safe to say they were no longer breathing).
Towering over her, he hadn’t spoken a word, just lunged with the knife … To cut the plastic ties holding her ankles together. Then, moments later, she was on her feet – almost fell over sideways because legs that were practically dead were attempting to hold her weight. Robyn hoped the rest of her wasn’t about to follow suit. ‘Kevin, look, we can talk about this. I’m Dr Adams and—’
‘I know who you are!’ he’d said with a snarl. Of course he did, he’d been waiting for her in the car. Knew where she worked, knew that she’d been assisting the police to find him, and Lord knows what else. ‘You’re the reason I have to start again, move away!’
‘I can help you, Kevin. Talk to me, tell me what you—’
‘No talk,’ he whispered in her ear, pulling them both around to face one of the mirrors. ‘It’s time to end this.’
But then he’d paused, as if he was used to doing something at this point with his victims. Used to saying or getting them to say something into the reflective surface. But he just hung his head, shook it. ‘No … no.’
Robyn saw her window of opportunity, and seized it. ‘What? What is it, Kevin? Something to do with your dad? Is that it? To do with mirrors and your dad?’
‘No … No!’
‘What? What is it you do with those men, to those men? To make you feel better, to make you feel like you’re in charge? In contro—’
But she pushed it too far and Sykes grabbed her, shoving her back into one of the mirrors, which shattered behind her, showering her with glass. Robyn even felt one or two of the shards embedding themselves into her shoulder blades through the blouse she was wearing, having been relieved at some point of her jacket. He swung Robyn again and again into more of the mirrors that were clearly somehow significant to him and his practices, until she fell to her knees. Then he lowered the knife and held it to her throat.
This is it, thought Robyn. After all these cases, after all the good I’ve done, this is the end for me.
Except Sykes hadn’t been able to do it. Hadn’t been able to kill her, as frustrating as that seemed to be for him. Then the sirens had come, the breaking open of the door and the men entering with their guns up and aiming at Sykes. Forcing him down, as Cavendish rushed over to Robyn – now on the floor again. Shouting for the paramedics, he’d freed her hands.
That was the last thing she remembered before waking up in the hospital, surrounded by Cav, Gordon and a few of her other colleagues, all with looks of huge relief on their faces. ‘How … how did you …?’ Robyn was aware she was slurring her words, on some kind of strong painkillers, but they understood what she was trying to ask.
‘He’d registered a lock-up in his mother’s name,’ the DI told her. ‘We didn’t find out about it until after you’d been taken. Just sorry it took so long.’
Sorry it took so long … Her words to Sykes when she arrived, and it brought her back to the here and now, sitting across the table from the man they now knew had carved up all of those missing men and carried bits of them away in cases to dispose of, to bury. He’d told them happily after he was in custody where they could find them, was even proud of what he’d done. Oddly, he hadn’t used the knife to take their lives, but rather had strangled his victims. More intimate, Robyn had informed Cavendish, and slower, giving him time to see the life leave them as they fought for breath.
‘You weren’t able to kill me, though, were you Kevin,’ she said to him now, as their allotted hour drew to a close. ‘Weren’t able to do to me what you did to those men.’
‘I did enough.’
Robyn shook her head. What he’d done, he’d done out of annoyance not out of revenge. ‘You see, I think a part of you understood that your mother didn’t have a choice. That she was frightened of your dad. It’s why you’ve only killed men, only killed fathers.’ The press had dubbed Sykes ‘The Oedipus Killer’ after the fact, but as with all things they totally misunderstood what he was about. Oedipus wanted to kill his father and sleep with his mother, while Sykes had simply wanted his father dead; had no interest in anything else. ‘But why the mirrors, Kevin?’
‘You tell me,’ he said to her.
‘I have my theories, but I’d rather hear it from you. What did your father used to do with them? Why were they significant?’
Sykes shrugged once more, as if he didn’t see any reason to withhold it now. ‘He … he would grab me by the neck, point to himself and say, “That’s what a man looks like, boy!” Then he’d force me to look at myself and ask me what I saw.’
‘And what did you say back?’
Sykes sneered at her.
She shook her head. ‘All those families,’ Robyn said again.
‘They’re better off,’ Sykes repeated. ‘Sometimes it’s better to be by yourself.’ He studied her. ‘You disagree?’
Robyn said nothing. Then, without warning, ‘I feel very sorry for you, Kevin. Even after everything you’ve done.’ And she meant it.
‘I feel more sorry for you,’ he threw back.
‘Why?’
‘Because I’m alone by choice. You’re not. Who do you have, Doctor? Not a boyfriend, or husband. I know that from following you.’ That made Robyn shiver again, the thought that Sykes had been tailing her before he jumped her. ‘You try and make up for it with your little police friends, but somehow that just doesn’t cut it, does it? At least I had a family, as messed up as it was. Who do you have? Nobody, I think.’
Perhaps he was as perceptive as Lecter after all, she thought. Then she rose, switching off her recorder as she snatched it up. Robyn walked to the door as calmly as she could, rapping on it to be let out. But his words trailed her as she left Sykes behind in that room.
‘Who do you have? Nobody you can turn to … nobody who’ll ever really need you.’
***
Robyn made it to her car, sliding in behind the wheel again – checking the back seat first, as was her habit now – before the tears came.
She’d thought she was ready for this, had always been a big believer in facing your demons. They were, after all, stock in trade where her line of work was concerned. Both Cav and Gordon had warned her it was too soon, said that she really should talk to someone herself, but she’d wanted to prove them wrong she supposed. And it had at least proved some of those theories correct she’d had about Sykes, about his father, about the mirrors. But oh, the price she’d paid, back then and now.
He’d got inside her head. How had he done that? Was it purely because they’d spent that time together in the lock-up – how vulnerable that had made her, how scared Robyn had been that she was going to die? Or something more, the way he’d studied her almost like she studied people like him, like she’d come up with notions about his life … And hadn’t he been proved just as correct back there?
Who do you have? Nobody.
Who did she have?
Your little police friends.
They’d accepted her, they needed her – didn’t they? Robyn told herself they did, but Cav and his team had been solving crimes long before she came along. And some were still wary of having a psychologist around, weren’t they? In case she saw something she shouldn’t, was analysing them or whatever? Suspicious of her.
How many of them ever invite you to their houses, Robyn? she said to herself. They’re your friends, like family – that’s how you think of them anyway – and yet …
Then there was Cav. Happily married Cav.
Sometimes it’s better to be by yourself …
Not a boyfriend, or husband.
Robyn began slamming the steering wheel, pounding it with the heels of her hands – so hard it rocked the car from side to side – and she screamed. Then she threw herself back into the seat, suddenly looking about her, worried that she might have drawn attention to herself, even though she’d deliberately parked all the way at the back of the facility’s car park.
Nobody had seen her outburst, her tantrum as her late mother would have called it when she was little. Robyn’s back ached, the soreness returning that she knew was just psychosomatic. Yet she found herself reaching into her pocket again for the painkillers, the ones they’d returned to her when she left the facility, along with anything else she wasn’t allowed to take in with her.
She popped a couple into her mouth and held them there for a moment, relishing the sourness of their taste … before reaching into the glove compartment for the bottle of water there. She’d been signed off from the pills for a couple of weeks, but found that she couldn’t really do without them. Had sourced some herself when her doctor wouldn’t give her any more, said that she was worried Robyn might become addicted. If you knew the right people, however, and especially if you were in the profession, you could get hold of just about anything. She’d be the judge of when she needed to come off them! When the pain stopped, Robyn promised herself. When things didn’t hurt quite so much. When she could sleep without relying on other pills, or alcohol.
Like mother, like—
The tinkling sound of her phone – which had also been recently returned to her – made her start again. It would be Gordon or Cav, seeing if she was okay after the visit.
Who do you have, Doctor?
Would be able to tell from her tone that she was far from all right, and would probably say, ‘We told you so’. Robyn fished out the phone and for a moment thought about just switching it off, letting it go to voicemail, but that wouldn’t really address the problem. Then she spotted the number, and frowned. It wasn’t one she immediately recognised, certainly not one the phone recognised or a name would have flashed up on the screen.