Don't Look Now: A Novel

By Max Manning

When a woman is killed in an East London park, Detective Fenton can't help but hear about it—the murder is trending. The killer has posted a photo of his victim in her final moments, and in the first moments after she died. Before long, the world is taunted with posts of another victim's photos,and Detective Fenton finds himself searching for a serial killer with a fan following. The more he kills, the more he posts—and the more attention he gets, the more he kills...

A fascinating insight into the mind of a secret psychopath, Don't Look Now examines how dangerous our appetite for darkness really is, from a brand new talent in suspense.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Sourcebooks
• Release date: Aug 7, 2018
• ISBN: 9781492663775

Max Manning

Max Manning is a bestselling author and former national newspaper journalist. After starting his career as a news reporter for a regional newspaper, he went on to become a sub-editor for The Daily Telegraph. He currently resides in Essex, England.

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Copyright © 2018 by Max Manning

Cover and internal design © 2018 by Sourcebooks, Inc.

Cover design by Ervin Serrano

Cover images © Alexandre Cappellari/Arcangel Images, autsawin uttisin/Shutterstock

Sourcebooks and the colophon are registered trademarks of Sourcebooks, Inc.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval systems—except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews—without permission in writing from its publisher, Sourcebooks, Inc.

The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious and are used fictitiously. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental and not intended by the author.

All brand names and product names used in this book are trademarks, registered trademarks, or trade names of their respective holders. Sourcebooks, Inc., is not associated with any product or vendor in this book.

Published by Sourcebooks Landmark, an imprint of Sourcebooks, Inc.

P.O. Box 4410, Naperville, Illinois 60567-4410

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Fax: [phone]

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Originally published as Now You See in 2018 in the United Kingdom by Wildfire, an imprint of Headline Division of Hachette UK. This edition issued based on the paperback edition published in 2018 in the United Kingdom by Wildfire, an imprint of Hachette UK.

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is on file with the publisher.

Contents

Front Cover

Title Page

Copyright

Prologue

One

Two

Three

Four

Five

Six

Seven

Eight

Nine

Ten

Eleven

Twelve

Thirteen

Fourteen

Fifteen

Sixteen

Seventeen

Eighteen

Nineteen

Twenty

Twenty-One

Twenty-Two

Twenty-Three

Twenty-Four

Twenty-Five

Twenty-Six

Twenty-Seven

Twenty-Eight

Twenty-Nine

Thirty

Thirty-One

Thirty-Two

Thirty-Three

Thirty-Four

Thirty-Five

Thirty-Six

Thirty-Seven

Thirty-Eight

Thirty-Nine

Forty

Forty-One

Forty-Two

Forty-Three

Forty-Four

Forty-Five

Forty-Six

Forty-Seven

Forty-Eight

Forty-Nine

Fifty

Fifty-One

Fifty-Two

Fifty-Three

Fifty-Four

Fifty-Five

Fifty-Six

Fifty-Seven

Fifty-Eight

Fifty-Nine

Sixty

Sixty-One

Sixty-Two

Sixty-Three

Sixty-Four

Sixty-Five

Sixty-Six

Sixty-Seven

Sixty-Eight

Sixty-Nine

Seventy

Seventy-One

Seventy-Two

Seventy-Three

Seventy-Four

Seventy-Five

Seventy-Six

Reading Group Guide

A Conversation with the Author

Acknowledgments

About the Author

Back Cover

For Valerie, Becky, John, and Sarah

Prologue

She hears herself breathing, quick and shallow. She knows what’s coming, and there’s nothing she can do.

Tears sting, and she blinks hard. Dusk is falling like a gray shroud, and the undergrowth is thick with gloom. It’s an unseasonably warm September evening, but still she shivers.

He smiles and holds his phone up in his right hand. She can’t tell whether he’s taking a photograph of her or a selfie. All her attention is focused on his other hand.

He steps around and behind her, moving so swiftly, it makes her head spin. The heat of his body burns through the thin fabric of her dress. He positions the phone in front of her face so she can get a good look at the screen.

It takes her a second to recognize the woman in the photograph. Her skin is paler than usual against her short, dark hair, the blue eyes startlingly wide.

You’re very photogenic, but you should have smiled, he says. You’ve got a beautiful smile.

Her heart races, and rivulets of sweat run down her spine. Maybe, she thinks, maybe there is still a way out of this.

Why me? she says, her voice part whisper, part sob.

He laughs softly, and she feels his breath hot on the back of her neck. This is so much bigger than you.

She wants to run, but her legs are shaking so badly, she can barely stand. She opens her mouth wide. The scream doesn’t come. Her breath has been sucked from her lungs. She tries to step away, but he grabs her right forearm, his fingers digging into the flesh.

He releases his grip and stands so still, so silently, she lets herself believe, for a fraction of a second, that he has gone. But all hope dies in a moment. He’s there, and the stillness and the silence mean he’s ready.

Hot tears spill down her cheeks. Her vision blurs, but she sees. She sees a dark-haired child learning to ride her first bicycle, her father cheering her on as he runs, arms outstretched, ready to catch her should she fall.

She recalls the excitement of her first kiss, the tenderness of her last kiss. She regrets the precious days she’s wasted, never saying the things she wanted to say. She feels the warmth of her mother’s hand.

One

Detective Chief Inspector Dan Fenton thought he’d seen it all. He stared at the images on the computer screen and shook his head in despair. It was the first time he’d looked into the eyes of someone who knew they were about to be murdered.

A second picture, taken later at a side angle and low to the ground, showed the same woman on her back, her arms splayed, her torso slick with blood and her legs crossed neatly at her ankles. In the background, the faint silhouette of a line of trees snaked into the distance.

A message typed next to the photographs read:

The world certainly looks different through the eyes of a killer. #IKiller

Fenton lifted a hand and massaged the back of his neck. They had a murder, showcased online. Before and after pictures of the victim. An email sent by the killer, generously providing a link to his handiwork. What they didn’t have was a body.

Yet.

His thoughts were interrupted when the office door swung open. Detective Sergeant Marie Daly paused to tug at her ponytail before stepping in.

The online team is trying to trace the source of the email, she said. Daly never used more words than necessary. Fenton valued that. He also trusted her to make good decisions under pressure.

How long is it going to take to get this stuff taken down? he said.

Daly shrugged. It’s a fake Instagram account, Boss. Created in the UK with the username @IKiller. We’ve put in a request, but it could take twenty-four hours. It’s already been viewed by several hundred people.

Fenton glanced at his watch and swore under his breath. Another long night at the office. Another broken promise. He slid his chair back and stood, resting his hands on the desk.

Whoever did this couldn’t wait to flaunt it. He jabbed a finger at the computer. We need teams searching every park in the city, every open space large enough for that many trees. Cancel all leave, and get every available officer out there looking. I want that body found.

Daly nodded and left the room. Fenton sat down, lifted his hands to his face, and rubbed his eyes gently with the tips of his fingers. What kind of mind could do that to another human being? God help us all, he thought.

Two

The key to everything was finding her. I’d been searching for a long time without knowing exactly who I was looking for.

That was a great moment for me. Strike that. The word great is far too weak. It was a prodigious, life-changing moment.

I’m still feeling the joy. Yes, that’s the word. The public loves my work. I knew they would. It’s hard to resist a glimpse into the darkness.

I can’t blame myself for what I’ve done, for what I have yet to do. Guilt is a concept I’ve never understood. It gets in the way of true creativity, stops you from doing things you want to do. Imagine not having a conscience. Think about it. Wouldn’t life be so much easier? Admit it.

A veil has been lifted. Life promises so much more for me now. I’m free to follow my path.

Three

Fenton pushed through the journalists, ignoring their shouted questions and turning his face from the flashing cameras.

Two police constables guarded the Gore Road entrance into Victoria Park. As Fenton approached the iron gates, a photographer wearing a beanie and leather jacket stepped in front of him and raised his camera.

Fenton swerved slightly and turned his left shoulder, knocking the pressman off balance, forcing him to step aside. The discovery of the body hadn’t been made public, yet the media had arrived en masse. Fenton would make it his business to find out how the news had been leaked.

Passing through the gate, he stressed to the uniforms that on no account should any reporters be allowed in. To the left, about fifty yards away, a constable stood by a line of crime scene tape sealing off a triangular area of undergrowth that filled the gap between two towering plane trees.

As Fenton walked towards the constable, he was struck by how fresh-faced she looked. Probably a new recruit, he thought. He flashed his badge and a smile. You’re the one who found the body? he asked.

The constable’s face reddened. That’s right, sir.

Fenton nodded, ducked under the tape, and edged through a narrow gap in the shrubbery. The woman lay on her back in a small clearing. He moved close to her feet, putting himself where the killer must have stood to take the photograph. The coppery smell of blood turned his stomach as he moved beside the body and squatted to take a closer look. The victim appeared to be in her late twenties. Her eyes stared at the sky, lifeless and shiny. Like a doll. Fenton resisted a sudden urge to walk away. He needed to do his job properly.

This was somebody’s child. Somebody’s baby. When he’d first joined the force, arresting the bad guys, doing his bit for society, felt good. It was all about winning and proving yourself. After the birth of his daughter, that changed. One day, she’d be out there on her own. Taking bad guys off the streets had become even more important. It felt personal.

Dragging his eyes away from the woman’s face, he checked her hands. They were small and clean. No obvious defense wounds. No attempt to fend off the blade. Her dark-blue skirt was hitched up around her thighs. He could see no sign of sexual assault, but the pathologist’s report would provide the details.

He stood up and slipped through the undergrowth back onto the path. The police constable stood at attention. Fenton lifted a hand to acknowledge her and started walking back to the gate. After a dozen or so strides, he paused, took a few deep breaths to clear the smell of death from his airways, and gazed across the park.

The morning sun hovered low over East London’s tower blocks, its rays glinting off the surface of the boating lake. A thin line of mature oaks curved north to south across the green space, their leaves already changing color. At that time of day, the park would normally be bustling with people.

A white van approached through the trees. It turned onto the grass and pulled up beside Fenton. Ronnie Oliver, New Scotland Yard’s most experienced crime scene manager, and a younger, taller woman climbed out, both already wearing white forensic overalls.

Built like a pit bull, Oliver squared up to Fenton, his jutting jaw level with the detective’s chest. Don’t tell me you’ve contaminated my crime scene, he said.

Fenton shrugged. Okay, I won’t. I had a quick look. That’s all.

Oliver curled his upper lip and glanced at his colleague. She turned away and stared at the scenery. Fenton guessed she’d seen her boss lose it before. He admired Oliver’s passion for his job and his obsession with protocol and, most of the time, was prepared to indulge his tantrums. I had a look, but I didn’t touch anything. I’m in charge of this investigation, remember.

Oliver scowled. You could be the prime minister for all I care. Don’t come near my crime scene again unless you’re wearing a fucking forensic suit. With that, he strode off, his colleague scurrying after him.

It was going to be another long day and, unless they struck lucky, an even longer night. Fenton pulled his cell phone out of his jacket pocket. The call was answered after the sixth ring.

His neighbor sounded flustered. Bad timing, she said. We’re late for school.

Tina, I need a favor. Fenton paused, hoping for a positive response. He didn’t get one. Something’s come up, and I’m going to be late. Very late. Can she sleep over?

The silence on the other end stretched. When his neighbor finally spoke, her words sounded clipped. It’s early. How do you know you’re going to be so late?

You’ll see it on the news. It can’t be helped. I’m sorry.

You know this can’t go on, don’t you? It’s not fair.

I’ll sort it out. I’ll call the agency.

Fenton waited for at least thirty seconds before he realized the call had been terminated. He took that as a yes.

He was staring at his cell phone’s blank screen, momentarily paralyzed by guilt, when he heard footsteps. He turned to see a pale, frowning face, topped with cropped reddish hair.

Everything all right, sir?

Detective Constable Ince had been on the team for less than six months. In that time, Fenton had come to appreciate his youthful enthusiasm. You were the first detective on the scene? Fenton said. It came out more as a statement than a question.

Ince nodded. Ten minutes after the uniforms found her. Made sure the area was sealed off straightaway. He paused for a few seconds, running the fingers of his left hand across the stubble on his head as he tried to come up with something to impress his boss. I think she’s probably been there all night, because the park closes at dusk and the gates are locked. I remember thinking there was a lot of blood.

Fenton kept the disappointment off his face. He was good at that. He’d had a lot of practice. Sometimes first sight of the body can provide a gem, a little nugget of information that can help break a case. Not this time.

Ince rubbed his head harder and pressed on. She wouldn’t have been visible from Gore Street or from inside the park because of the undergrowth, but she would probably have been found by a dog walker if we hadn’t gotten there first.

We need the victim’s ID confirmed, Fenton said. I know I can trust you to get it done quickly. He watched as Ince walked away, a spring in his step, his head held a little higher.

Four

It’s amazing how a simple act can have such complex consequences. Predictably, my Instagram post was wiped, but not before plenty of admirers shared it around. The ripple effect is a wonderful thing.

The one negative is I’m the only one who knows it was me. I’m not good at pretending to be humble.

The police are running around trying to look like they know what they’re doing, but they’ve nothing to go on. Find the motive and you’ll find the killer? No one finds me unless I want to be found.

The thing is, I have more than a motive. She was the first step on my journey. That’s the beauty of the relationship between predator and prey: it’s not personal. What does that say about me? It says I’m a cold-hearted son of a bitch. Did I plan it? Her death, yes, but not what it unleashed.

People like me. They always have. The deluded souls think they know me. If I put my mind to it, I can charm the pants off most people. Pay them lots of attention, show genuine interest in their pathetic little lives. Keeping up the pretense is hard, but I’m good at it. It’s my camouflage, my weapon of mass deception.

I know that if I want maximum impact, I’ve got to be inventive. When you’re in the entertainment business, you’ve got to up the ante. Your audience always wants more.

Five

All of the belongings she’d left behind went into three cardboard boxes. Blake lined them up in the hall near the front door. She wouldn’t have to venture far into the apartment when she came to pick them up. It’d be better for them both.

He walked down the narrow hall into the living room. At least he didn’t have to buy new furniture now. She’d hated his old two-seater sofa and the tiny television set he rarely switched on. Most of all, she’d hated the treadmill positioned in the center of the room.

Blake sighed and shook his head. He missed her. He missed the warmth of her smile, her touch, her kindness. If he begged her to come back, she probably would, but he’d ruled that out as an option. The best thing he could do for her was let her go. He stepped onto the treadmill, pressed the Start button, and began jogging. After a couple of minutes, he upped the pace and settled into a steady run. As always, he found comfort in the whirring of the electric motor and the rhythmic pounding of his feet.

By the time the tenant living in the apartment below started jabbing a broom handle against his ceiling, Blake was dripping with sweat, his T-shirt and shorts sticking to his skin. He checked his watch. Ten more minutes and he’d reach the four-mile mark.

When the knock on the door came, Blake was cooling down with a brisk walk. He stepped off the treadmill, wiped his face with a hand towel, and answered the door. His neighbor, a portly, middle-aged man with thinning gray hair, stood on the threshold. Arms held rigid by his side, he took in Blake’s sweat-stained shorts and T-shirt and snorted. Every day. Day after fucking day.

I’ve finished, Blake said. It’s done.

It’s got to stop.

It’s stopped. You won’t hear a thing for the rest of the evening.

You’re setting off the wife’s migraine.

How many times do I have to say it? I’ve finished.

We can’t hear the bloody telly.

Funny you should say that, because I can hear your television all the time.

The neighbor unclenched his fists, wriggled his fingers, and clenched them again. We’re not putting up with this, you know. Why don’t you run in the park or something, like a normal person?

Blake shrugged and started to close the door. His neighbor edged forward a couple of inches, a defiant look on his face despite the fact that at six foot two, Blake was taller, fitter, and twenty years younger.

I’m warning you for the last time, mate. This has got to stop.

Or what? What are you going to do?

I’ll tell you what I’m going do, his neighbor said, puffing up his chest like a strutting cockerel. I’ll take it up with the fucking landlord. That’s what. We pay rent, you know. We got rights.

Blake shivered, his skin clammy with cold sweat. The landlord’s a prick, and you can tell him that from me, he said, slamming the door in his neighbor’s face.

He spent longer than was necessary in the shower, but running hot water was one of the little luxuries Blake appreciated since his return to civilization. After dressing, he sat at the kitchen table with a glass of beer and powered up his laptop. Before he could check his emails, there was another double knock at his door.

The first thing Blake did after moving into the apartment was disconnect the doorbell. You can tell a lot about an unexpected visitor from the way they knock. He stayed seated, waiting to see if the caller gave up or tried again. The second knock was a triple rap, loud and impatient. Blake walked slowly to the door, pulled it open a couple of inches, and peered through the gap. A young man with reddish hair cropped close to his skull, wearing a brown suit that hung loose on his wiry frame, stood next to an older, stern-looking brunette in a police uniform.

The man flashed a Metropolitan Police badge. Detective Constable Ince, and this is Police Constable Price, he said. We’re looking for Adam Blake.

You’ve found him. Well done. Good detective work.

Ince hesitated and glanced at his colleague for support. She kept her eyes on Blake.

May we come in, sir? she said. We need to speak, and we don’t want to do it out here on the doorstep. I’m sure you can appreciate that.

Blake got the impression that she had done this sort of thing hundreds of times before. If this is about the noise, then it’s a bit over the top.

The detective lifted a hand and rubbed his chin. It’s got nothing to do with noise.

Blake let go of the door, gestured with a nod for the police officers to follow, and led them down the hall. The policewoman and Blake sat on the sofa.

Ince stood facing them, next to the treadmill. You run a lot then? he said, nodding toward the machine.

Blake responded with a shrug.

I understand you recently had a relationship with a woman named Lauren Bishop?

Blake couldn’t keep the surprise off his face. What’s this about?

A few questions first, Mr. Blake. How long were you and Lauren in a relationship?

Blake twisted in his seat to face the policewoman in the hope of getting some sense out of her. I don’t understand, he said. We were together for almost a year. She moved out six weeks ago.

When was the last time you saw her?

We haven’t spoken since she left. She’s supposed to pick up a few bits and pieces. They’re in those boxes in the hall.

The police officers exchanged a look that made Blake feel uncomfortable.

What’s going on? he asked.

Lauren Bishop is dead, Ince said. Murdered. Her body was found early yesterday morning in Victoria Park.

Blake shook his head slowly. An image of Lauren splayed, bloodied and lifeless, flashed through his mind. He opened his mouth to protest that they must be mistaken, but instead, he sucked in a mouthful of air and swallowed it along with his words. He looked at the policewoman. She studied him, trying to assess his reaction. He gave her nothing except for another shake of his head.

It’s probably best that you come with us to the station to answer a few more questions, she said.

It can’t be her, he insisted. Not Lauren.

I’m afraid it is, Ince said. Her sister has identified the body.

Blake shot to his feet, swayed like a drunk, and