Police say it appears O’Brien had been living with his stepbrother in Spain since the 1980s, where he went by the name James Henry Bryant. O’Brien was badly injured in a car accident in 1988 where he suffered spinal damage; he used a wheelchair. Police say they believe he returned to England last year after the death of his stepbrother and has been living in sheltered accommodation in north London under the name Henry Carter.
Despite some similarities between the O’Brien murder and that of Daniel Sutherland, 23, six months ago—both bodies were discovered in boats on the canal and both died as a result of stab wounds to the chest and neck—police say they are not connecting the killings, pointing out that the woman convicted of murdering Daniel Sutherland, Carla Myerson, who has been imprisoned at HMP Bronzefield since July, pleaded guilty to the crime and made a full confession.
Carla stopped reading, folded up the piece of paper, and handed it back to the guard. “Thank you,” she said. “Theo’s said he’ll put a signed copy of his latest book in the post.”
* * *
A few days later, Carla received a letter from a criminologist, asking if she might visit her to talk about her case. Carla had no particular desire to talk to anyone about her case, but she did crave conversation with someone educated. She said yes.
The criminologist, a bright-eyed, freshly scrubbed, impossibly young woman who turned out to be a student with hopes of getting a first （and possibly even a book deal!） on the back of her thesis, of which she was hoping to make Carla the focus. There had already been one false confession in this case—was it possible that there had been two? Could Carla be a （self-harming） victim of a miscarriage of justice? Was there a serial killer targeting men living on or near the Regent’s Canal? Was there a serial killer targeting other killers?
The poor thing was so painfully earnest, Carla felt quite bad about bursting her speculative bubble. There was no miscarriage of justice, she told the young woman calmly. There is no serial killer operating on the canal. The one case has nothing to do with the other.
“But your husband, he thought—”
“Oh.” Carla smiled at her apologetically. “You’ve been talking to Theo. You need to take him with more than a pinch of salt, I’m afraid. He’s a dreamer; he lives in his own world.”
“So it was definitely . . . you definitely did it?” the young woman prompted, disappointment written all over her pretty face.
Carla nodded. “I did, yes.”
“Well . . . why? Could we talk about why?”
Carla shook her head. “I did say in my email that I wasn’t prepared to talk about the background in detail, I’m sorry.”
“Oh, really? But you’re so atypical—you’re middle class, you’re educated, you’re unmarried. . . .”
“What does that have to do with anything?” Carla asked. “My marital status, I mean.”
“Oh, well, female killers tend to conform to traditional gender roles, they’re usually married with kids, that sort of thing. You don’t really fit the mold.”
“I was married with a child once,” Carla said sadly.
“Yes, but . . . okay. Okay.” She was stumped. She looked unhappily but hopefully about the room, like someone stuck with a bore at a party casting about for someone more interesting to speak to. “Well,” she said at last. “Could you at least tell me this: Do you regret it?”
* * *
When Carla made her confession to Irene—not the one she made to the police, which wasn’t anywhere near full, it was barely a half confession, they got the bare bones, she refused to elaborate on the meat—she had dismissed the idea that what Daniel had done had been a childish mistake. She’d talked of torture and manipulation, and she had meant it.
Now, though, when she allowed her mind to wander—and it had little else to do—it went to places she would really rather it wouldn’t.
It wondered whether perhaps what she had read in that first flush of fury as manipulation might in fact have been something else. What if Daniel’s flirtatiousness wasn’t calculated? What if that was just the way he loved? What if he didn’t know any better? Maybe the story she’d told herself was no truer than the myth Daniel had made for himself.
It was a dark road to start down, and it became darker still as she realized that it was one-way: once started along, there was no exit, and no way back.
These days, when Carla thought about what she’d done, she saw her actions in a different light. No longer anesthetized by fear, by exhilaration （and yes, it had been exhilarating, in the feverish moment）， now she saw what she’d done. Blood, so much of it! The noise he made, the sickening gurgle in his throat, the wild whiteness of his eyes, the smell of iron, the smell of urine, the scent of his agony, his terror.