James Carol - The Quiet Man

He glanced over at Anderton. She’d moved further along the wall and was completely absorbed by what she was seeing. Winter grabbed the photograph, folded it in two and stuffed it into the back pocket of his jeans. A second later, she turned to face him. There was no suspicion in the look, just wide-eyed curiosity. She stared for a second longer then shook her head and returned her attention to the photographs.

Winter took one last look at the pictures of Gifford’s wife-slash-girlfriend then walked across to the workbench. A tool board was attached to the gable wall. All the tools were neatly arranged and within easy reach. There was a pair of magnifying glasses for the fiddly work and a bench-mounted clamp to hold things still. There was enough evidence scattered across the surface to put Gifford away for life. Anderton coughed at his shoulder. A pair of latex gloves was dangling between her thumb and forefinger. He took them and put them on. Anderton was already wearing hers.

Dozens of fireworks were piled up on the left side of the bench. The packaging was bright and garish and they had names like Krakatoa and Dragon’s Breath. The fireworks had been bought over the counter and, in most respects, were no different from the fireworks that were sold in their millions every Fourth of July. But these fireworks weren’t about fun and celebrations. They were about death, destruction, carnage and suffering. There were two sealed plastic tubs next to them. One for the gunpowder, one for the coloured flash powder.

A little further along was a box of matches and a small plastic tub that held the Christmas-tree light bulbs. A second tub contained three finished detonators. Winter picked one up. The glass part of the bulb had been wrapped with insulating tape to contain the sulphur scrapings from the match heads. The two wires coming out of it had a quarter-inch of exposed copper at each end. It felt so light and harmless, but it wasn’t. Touch the exposed wires to the terminals of a nine volt battery and it would flare to life. So simple, yet potentially deadly. Winter put the detonator back into the tub and moved along to the end of the bench. There was a finished bomb here. He picked it up and Anderton took a sharp intake of breath.

‘Should you be doing that?’

‘Relax. They only become dangerous when you add electricity. We could play catch with it and we wouldn’t be in any real danger.’

‘I’d rather we didn’t.’

Winter walked beneath the closest striplight so he could study the bomb more closely. It wasn’t as big as he’d imagined, or as heavy. It was three inches long and had a diameter of about an inch. The size wasn’t a complete surprise. Look how big bullets were, and there was no question how lethal they could be. Despite everything, he couldn’t help being impressed. The killer had a problem and he’d thought long and hard about it, and this was the solution he’d come up with. There was an elegance to the design that was hard to deny. It was pragmatic and simple. And deadly. And that’s the point where Winter stopped being impressed. At the end of the day this device had been designed and built with one purpose in mind. He held the bomb out to Anderton.

‘Do you want to take a look?’

She held up her hands and stepped back. ‘I’m good, thanks.’

‘It’s perfectly safe.’

‘So you keep saying.’ She took out her phone. ‘We’re now up to one hundred per cent. Gifford’s our guy. No doubt about it. Freeman needs to know about this.’

‘You’ll get no argument from me on that score.’

Winter put the bomb back where he’d found it, then walked the length of the attic to the make-up table. The mirror was two feet square and surrounded by lit bulbs on three sides. The chair was upholstered with padded black vinyl and comfortable to sit in. There was nothing on the surface of the table. No brushes or make-up. No nail varnish or eyeliner pencils. No lotions or potions. A small ball of adhesive putty was stuck to the edge of the mirror frame. Anderton’s footsteps came up behind him. A second later her face appeared in the glass.

‘How’s Freeman?’ he asked her reflection.

‘He’s not answering. I’ve left a voicemail.’

‘So, have you worked out what this make-up table’s for?’

‘It’s so he can practise his facial expressions. He watches the husbands on their webcams and when he sees an expression that appeals to him he freezes the frame and manipulates it until the picture is as good as he can get it. Then he prints it onto a sheet of photographic paper.’ She pointed to the small ball of putty. ‘Then he uses that to attach the photograph to the edge of the mirror and starts practising. And when he’s mastered the expression he takes a self-portrait and the two pictures go up on the wall, side by side.’

‘But why do that? What’s he actually trying to achieve?’

‘Good question.’

Winter jumped to his feet and made his way back along the sloped sheetrock wall to the workbench. He was going more slowly this time, his gaze moving from one pair of photographs to the next. Anderton was a step behind, doing the same. They stopped halfway along and turned to face each other.

‘Why are there no smiles and laughter?’ Winter asked her.

‘And what about the thoughtful expressions?’ Anderton asked. ‘Or the curious ones? Or the puzzled and perplexed ones? Gifford seems obsessed with the negative emotions. The despair, grief, guilt and devastation. That’s what seems to fascinate him. But why?’

It was another good question. Winter turned his head and looked at the workbench, his eyes travelling from left to right. The detonators, the explosives, the finished bombs. How much time and effort had Gifford put into the design? How much time had he spent building them? When it came to their favourite pastimes, serial killers didn’t do anything by halves. Nor did they do anything unless there was a damn good reason. Winter turned his attention back to the make-up table. It was easy to imagine Gifford sitting there for hours on end, experimenting with different expressions, wearing each one like a mask. What was he trying to achieve?

‘What are you thinking?’ Anderton asked him.

‘I’m not sure.’

‘Well, here’s an idea: Try thinking out loud. Maybe that’ll help you to get your thoughts straight.’

‘Okay, we know that the actual murders are a means to an end. Isabella, Alicia, Lian and Myra were collateral damage. Gifford was actually targeting the husbands. Question: what purpose do the murders serve? What is the end game here?’ Winter paused. ‘It’s like Gifford wants to get as close as he can to the grief and despair. He does that by studying the effect that the murders have on the husbands. The murders are instigating events. They’re catalysts.’

He looked back along the photographs, his gaze moving down the wall they were standing next to and returning along the opposite one.

‘Sobek’s not here,’ he said. ‘It’s just Eric Kirchner and David Hammond.’

‘That’s because the security on his computer was so much better.’

Winter went quiet again, thinking things over. If you threw the pieces in the air where would they land and what sort of picture would they make? In other words, what did the chaos look like?

‘The first murder in any series often tells you more than all the other murders put together,’ he said.

‘So what can we learn from Isabella Sobek’s murder?’

‘That’s not quite the right question. Remember, the murders are a means to an end. This is about Nicholas Sobek. So, the question we should be asking is what did Gifford see when he met him? It must have been something fairly monumental because Isabella was his first.’