Unlocking my desk drawer, I take out two different photographs – one of Maya Kirk and another of Daniela Linares. I put them side by side on the desk. Light and dark. Blonde and brunette. Salt and pepper. Former colleagues. Nurses.
I am starting to understand this crime. The details have been floating in front of me like snippets from a film that needs to be edited into a story. The person responsible is no longer a mystery. I can see the world through his eyes. He’s not a collector. This possession is about revenge, not ownership. It is about the yearning for a lost child; or a life that could have been.
Taking a large piece of paper, I concertina-fold it as though creating a road map that can be unfurled. On the first fold, I write the names of the three nurses. Maya Kirk. Daniela Linares. Lilah Hooper. On the second fold, I list the families: Rennie and Thompson.
Next, I create a timeline that begins with the tragedy at the hospital. Lilah Hooper was attacked seven months after the death of Oliver Rennie and six days after the manslaughter charges against her were dropped.
Eight years then passed before Maya Kirk was taken from her home. In that time, both families received compensation payments from the hospital, which settled without admitting liability; and none of the nurses were convicted of negligence or wrongdoing.
Although the world is naturally chaotic and unpredictable, there are cycles and patterns in nature that go beyond the passing of seasons and rise and fall of the sun; the petals of a flower, the notches on a pine cone, the Fibonacci spiral on a snail’s shell, the fractals of frost crystals. There are countless examples of logic and order rather than randomness, but that does not mean that our fates are preordained.
Some people can see the world in patterns. In 2002, a middle-aged furniture salesman named Jason Padgett was attacked from behind and knocked unconscious as he left a karaoke bar. He suffered concussion and post-traumatic stress, but also, quite literally, he began seeing the world in a different way. Familiar scenes now had discrete geometric patterns superimposed on his vision. He saw fractals everywhere: in trees and clouds, in drops of water, in the number pi, or when he turned on a tap, or dipped his toothbrush. Padgett became a mathematics genius who could draw these fractals by hand.
As a psychologist, I look for the fractals in human behaviour. The things that are repeated or can be predicted. I can see one now. A man in his forties with a formal education to secondary level, and possibly a degree. Above-average intelligence, with strong geographical connections to Nottingham. He is a planner, who has made attempts to misdirect investigators and camouflage himself, hiding in plain sight. Some of the mistakes were genuine and others were manufactured to misdirect and deceive.
This is a man who has been frustrated at some point, who believes he deserves much better than life has given him. He has prepared for this, but not everything has gone to plan. When he slipped a drug into Maya’s drink, he didn’t expect Anders Foley to take her home. And he didn’t realise that Rohan Kirk was in the house.
Foley didn’t lie to the police about leaving Maya on the sofa. He covered her in a duvet and put a bowl next to the sofa in case she vomited. Yes, he took advantage of her stupor and masturbated on her dress, and stole underwear from her bedroom, but he didn’t murder her father.
Somebody was waiting outside, watching him leave. He rang the doorbell. Maya struggled to her feet and answered. She would have seen her visitor through the reinforced glass, but she was groggy and disorientated. She turned the latch. He shoved her backwards. The door slammed against the wall, leaving a mark in the plaster. Her father heard the commotion and came downstairs. He interrupted the intruder, who panicked and picked up the closest weapon, the fire-poker. Blows rained down.
The killer was covered in Rohan Kirk’s blood. Traces were found in the hallway, on the kitchen floor, and in the sink. He took off his clothes. He washed his face and hands. Then put his clothes in the washing machine and cleaned them, spending up to an hour in the house before taking Maya. That takes remarkable, almost sociopathic, calmness.
He took Maya to a waiting vehicle and kept her somewhere for forty-eight hours. Mortar was found embedded in her knees and paint flecks beneath her fingernails. It was somewhere old, an historic building, or an abandoned one.
I hear a creak on the stairs. Elias appears. He’s dressed in baggy pyjama bottoms and an old T-shirt.
‘Has something happened? Evie isn’t in her room.’
I wonder how he knows, but her door is probably open.
‘She stayed with a friend.’
He blinks at me. ‘She doesn’t like me, does she?’
‘She doesn’t know you.’
DCI Gary Hoyle has a regular court booked at the Nottingham Squash Rackets Club in Tattershall Drive. He plays with his brother-in-law, who is younger, fitter and a better player, but Hoyle makes up for his shortcomings by cheating. Whenever he’s about to lose a point, he charges into his opponent, calling a foul. His brother-in-law doesn’t complain. If anything, he seems to enjoy toying with Hoyle, missing a few easy forehands to make the score appear less lopsided.
I’m watching them through the glass wall at the back of the court. Hoyle waves enthusiastically when he spies me and tries to lift his game. Sweat drenches his T-shirt and runs into his eyes behind a pair of plastic safety frames. After another bodycheck and a mishit, he wins two points in a row and raises his arms in triumph. They shake hands and troop off the court.
‘Cyrus, how nice to see you,’ says Hoyle. Big smile. Sweaty handshake. He introduces his brother-in-law as Miles.
‘This is our resident shrink,’ he says. ‘Careful what you say around him.’
Miles gives me a forced smile, before heading for the showers.
‘I’m surprised they let you in,’ says Hoyle. ‘This is a private club.’
‘I told them I worked for the police.’
‘You don’t carry a badge.’
‘Not everybody does.’
Hoyle wraps every statement in a smile, but his eyes don’t change.
‘I left you a message this morning.’
‘Early hours, by the look of it,’ he says.
‘Did you read my email?’
‘Six pages. I’m waiting for the movie.’
He’s heading for the locker room. I follow him through the swing doors into a dry area where a handful of men are getting changed. Hoyle peels off his T-shirt and drops it on the floor. His body is white and pale. A lone tattoo, inked along his forearm, reads: I am not afraid. I was born for this.
‘Three nurses – all involved in the same incident – all targeted,’ I say. ‘Maya Kirk and Lilah Hooper had their hair hacked off. Both were bound with rope.’
‘Lilah Hooper wasn’t abducted,’ says Hoyle. ‘And we caught her attacker.’
‘Mitchell Coates is innocent.’
‘He told you that, did he? I saw him mowing your lawn. He was living in your house when we arrested him. You make very odd choices when it comes to lodgers, Dr Haven.’
Naked, he grabs a towel and strides towards the showers, his dick literally swinging.
‘They were targeted because of what happened to the babies. The families were angry. You need to track them down. Interview them.’
‘You described Maya Kirk’s murder as a sex crime, but now you think it’s an act of revenge.’