Sherlock
Carl Hedegaard looks young, and unattractive. His voice is even less comforting in real life than it was on the phone with Lestrade. He has a bulk that might be mistaken for fat, at a distance, and a lot of it probably is, but it's possible to tell he could lift the table in the interview room over his head, more than likely with a couple of officers sitting on it. He is that particularly Nordic shade of blond, combed assiduously back. Looks like somebody took a bicycle pump to Mycroft and left him in the sun to bleach… Hedegaard is patient, and apparently untroubled by having been arrested. But above all this, I return to my first observation, the first and most striking fact about him, he looks so young. His smooth, pink, unlined skin goes not match the type and scale of his crimes.
Of course, that's an utterly irrational connection to have made. It's not exactly as if there's a lot of precedent for what he's done. I can't say that all the serial-mass-murderers who have gone before were older men, perhaps with a few scars, peak of physical fitness, possible army discharges. Not that I've thought about that or tried any sort of amateur profiling. Anyway, I've seen Hedegaard's flat. I knew what to expect; a 'student', as Donovan put it. But I look at him now through the one-way mirror and that's the first thing that goes through my head, he looks so bloody young.
DCI Hazell, the one that had me interviewed and so politely thrown out at Scotland Yard, has graciously allowed me this little access. Naturally I can't speak to the prisoner. I'm not all that sure I want to. And Mycroft has graciously allowed me to come here, provided I wear another microphone. In the interests of barter-and-trade I agreed only conditionally; the earpiece stayed at his office. This way I don't have to listen to him.
Rather than do something high-profile, give the flashbulbs an excuse to pop, they brought Hedegaard here, to an old, rundown station nearest to his home. The uniformed duty sergeant on the desk just nodded along when CID wandered in, announced they were taking the place over. It's been nice to watch the police make a viable decision in all of this. Might restore a less wary man's faith.
Here in the anteroom, there's me and Hazell, a selection of officers I'm pretty sure are only here to gawp, a Met psychiatrist, assorted others. Nobody interesting. I lean back here by the door and say quietly to Hazell, "How are Donovan and Lestrade?"
"He's recovering nicely, but she's still unconscious."
Which tells me nothing except that Hazell is fairly useless and, while he might have been otherwise engaged today, hasn't even bothered to check on them. You'll remember, I was there when Sally came round. I was there to be informed that, at some point that night, Lestrade had ceased to recover nicely and gone into a deep sort of delayed shock that came and went from him in waves. So I'll see what happens here and then go and check on them myself. I'll bet no one's even told them about this, that we're all here, that two well-briefed officers, a man and a woman, are as we speak entering the interview room and sitting down opposite the captured killer. I would bet quite a bit on that. You have to, when you play the favourite, or it's not worth your while.
The beginning is classic. Who he is, who they are, what time it is, what the charges are.
It's that last which starts Hedegaard laughing. In his chair just in front of me, I watch the psychiatrist shudder, hard, like he's trying to crack a pain out of his neck. Preparing himself, probably, for the inevitable evaluation.
The first officer, "I don't see what's funny about it. Quite apart from all the dead bodies stacked up, you're in a lot of trouble."
Hedegaard sobers on a heartbeat. You can't do that if the laughter is genuine. He did it on purpose, led them on to this. "I am sorry," he says. "I had thought you must be joking. I am not the Sleeping Beauty killer." His eyes are wide, hands open on the table. A parody of outraged honesty. There is a trace of the laugh still on his voice.
"Did he struggle?" I ask Hazell. "I mean, when you brought him here?"
Hazell shakes his head. It's all he can do without taking his disgusted eyes off what's going on in there. I don't think he quite realizes the gravity of what he's not-saying. Hedegaard honestly thinks he can sit there and giggle his way through this. And I'm not so sure he can't. Do they have anything solid?
"We have an eyewitness," the second officer, the woman, tells him.
Oh, right, so Emilia's still going strong then. Cases would surely go a lot easier if there were more eyewitnesses with the X-ray vision to see through walls and doors. She'll have seen him on the news by now, too; his description will have come back to her in a sudden, perfect flash.
Carl, for his part, is rather annoyed with himself, and makes no attempt to hide it. He balks, "From where?"
"For us to know," says the first officer, "And you to find out at trial. Now, I'm going to give you some dates, and you're going to tell me where you were, alright?"
Ignoring the question entirely, Hedegaard nods at the woman and asks, "She is your secretary?"
She is unfazed, gives no more than a very slight and lopsided smile. They shouldn't answer him. I think they both know that. But the first officer shifts, sits straight and says, "That's my boss, actually."
"Then you are doing something wrong, my friend. Man works for man, like me."
"Now that's interesting," is the reply, "because we interviewed your work colleagues, and your manager is a woman, isn't she? Bernie, isn't it?"
Hedegaard sits back, sloping comfortably in his chair, with his smirk stretched out from cheek to cheek. "Bernie's not a real boss. I am a man, and a man works for a man. With a secretary."
And you can make whatever notes you like, about a warped vision of authority, about a relationship with the female that might be termed 'troubled' at best and at worst 'non-existent', about the delusion of servitude both Mycroft and I noticed in the original phone calls. You can. God knows the psychiatrist is scribbling like there are going to be questions after the lecture. You can say whatever you like about all this.
What you really should be saying is, 'Who is this successful, well-assisted man?'
Jim
Seeing I hadn't heard from her since her morning coffee meeting, I phoned Danielle. This is about an hour ago. "Just thought I'd let you know," I said, "You can sleep safe in your bed tonight, in no danger of ending up… in your bed, if you know what I mean."
"Because 'we're getting Carl bumped' is just too simple to say aloud."
"Well, quite. Look, long story short, Moran's doing it right there in the interview room. He's wondering if there's anything he needs to know about infiltration."
He was wondering no such thing. He thought I couldn't see him, but he was turning this way and that in front of the hall mirror, loving the look of himself in that black and white uniform, shrugging in and out of the fluorescent yellow coat, trying his hat on and off his shiny bald head. He was wondering nothing about the actual performance, everything about his costume. But like I say, I hadn't so much as heard from her since first thing this morning. Felt like I should ask something.
"Is he dressed as a cop?" she said, and I confirmed. "And he has ID?", which I was also able to confirm. "And he's walking into a police station that's already overrun with officers they don't know. Nobody's going to look at him, Jim; what could he need to know about infiltration?"
That annoyed me. I'll admit it, that really got to me. Because I knew all that. I didn't have to ask her anything, I didn't have to involve her, and she had nothing to give up but sarcasm. Not so much as a handy hint. She has a police uniform in her work wardrobe. She's got one in her private wardrobe too, but that's more the Ann Summers model. Less said about that the better. Surely she has something to say – how to walk like a cop, what to say, who to nod at… But no, no, I didn't get any of that.
"I'll need you to set up something in the aftermath. I'm emailing you exact instructions."
"It's done," she said. On the surface, a very agreeable thing to say. I don't know, maybe I was just irritable with her by that point, but that felt sarcastic too. "Is Seb there? Can I wish him luck?"
"I'm not sure he needs it, but - Moran, stop perving at your own arse and get in here; Dani's on the phone." Bless him, he jumped a foot in the air because I'd caught him. Then he came running with his beaming smile to tell her the details, like a kid talking to the parent who doesn't live here anymore.
Saying to her, "Yeah, of course you get a full report afterward… Yes, down to any tea-leafy patterns in the spatter… Yes, down to the looks on the faces during my daring escape, naturally."
They went on like that for a while. Me, I got a bit of work done, tied up a few loose ends so nobody would be captured or shot. Just in the background, y'know? Silly stuff, really.
Anyway, like I say, that was about an hour ago. Because I sort of guessed they'd take the Creep to his nearest station rather than drag him across town on a horse and cart to be pelted with rotten fruit, I had the afternoon to look into the security. Like the rest of the station, it's a little bit antiquated. For instance, at Scotland Yard they've got swipe cards on nearly every door. Couldn't have had that faked in time. They have an incredible CCTV system, as you might expect. It's supposed to be tamper-proof. What that really means is it would have taken me a few extra hours to tamper with it. Probably would have had to get an outsider in for that, actually.
But lucky for me, I'm not even sure they have interview rooms down Victoria way. But they did when we were Victorian, like this red-brick conversion, this little dive, with the basic cameras that took all of ten minutes to hijack.
Their desk sergeant can't see anything moving. I can watch Moran moving with all the ease and command of a shark through water down the corridor, down the stairs to the basement. I can guide him to the right door.
This makes twice in a day I've watched him at work, after so long ignorant of it.
In his windowless box, the Creep looks like he's holding up alright under the hot lights. He looks relaxed and comfortable. He's talking with his hands as he shapes some concept for the watching officers. Whatever he's talking about, they're not so happy with the topic as he is. There's a scruffy gent asking with his eyes when he gets to start throwing punches, an icy type with her hair scraped back thinking of bringing back the firing squad. Actually, as I'm watching, I think I recognize the argument those big thick hands are putting forward, clawing towards each other like two warring parties. I think he tried to explain this to me once and I was too busy hoping Moran would call. I think this is what Dani told him not to mention.
Thankfully, then, Moran knocks on the door. Says, "Excuse me, Sarge."
The woman turns round. I can just make out, "This had better be-" then bang, and I never find out what it better have been.
She got it between the eyes. There isn't so much as a heartbeat before the second bullet goes through the back of Scruffy's head. He didn't even have time to turn. Carl's big doughy face has lit up. Thinks he's getting rescued, probably.
The door of the room next door, where the analysts and ghouls were gathered, starts to empty. "Moran, unfriendlies on the corrid-" But I don't get to finish either. Because Carl Hedegaard thinks he's so safe, so comfortable, Moran just turns away from him. Fires two shots down the hall, and hits another two heads. Anybody who doesn't retreat into the observation room hits the floor. Then, as a couple of cops start down from upstairs, Moran turns back to Carl.
I'm not sure how many bullets were left in that gun, but I think Hedegaard gets most of them, and it's only the very last one that probably ends the pain.
Those who have come to stop him, Moran moves out of his way in great swipes, like a bear and no less powerful. And then he leaves, dumping the distinguishing features of his disguise in the grim, grey-tiled lobby. He walks out of there in black trousers and a white shirt, top couple of buttons undone, looking clean and casual and utterly unhurried. The gun, he drops carelessly into the gutter; no need to worry about that. It was fresh today, never knew the touch of unguarded flesh and he'll never be near it again.
All of this done he says softly, "Still there, Jim?"
I have to clear my throat, swallow the dryness out of my mouth, just to tell him I'm sending him a car.