Page 103 of The Man Made of Smoke

Yes, I thought. Of course. I had just delivered Fleming not only asolid lead on an existing serial killer, but the key that might unlock an older mystery too. He had nothing approximating a poker face, and I could see him doing the calculations in his head.Off the record.The avarice in his expression was barely hidden; he wouldn’t want anyone else taking a cut of the credit.

I imagined my father standing behind me.

Let him have his moment, my son, he said.

Just keep him onside for now. Play the long game.

I will, I thought. But when this is over, you’re going to get your due.

I’m going to make sure that everyone knows it was you, Dad.

“Off the record,” I repeated carefully, “I’ve never encountered anyone like this. He’s intelligent and organized, and I assume he functions well in society. He moves freely without attracting attention. On the surface, he probably appears relatively normal. But from the ferocity of the murders, there’s clearly a deep well of rage and hate inside that’s driving him.”

“Makes sense.”

“But I think it’s more complicated than that.”

“Really? Go on.”

As best I could, I explained my theory: that the killings were a kind of test, an experiment designed to counter the worthlessness the killer felt. Fleming nodded as I was speaking, as though—again—it all made perfect sense. And I was sure I sounded confident and convincing. But even as I was speaking, there was still a wrinkle of doubt in the back of my mind. The picture I was painting wasalmostright, I thought, but it still felt like there was a piece I was missing that might change everything.

What wasn’t I seeing?

“But I don’t know,” I said finally, because it felt important to voice the doubt. “There’s still a lot I don’t understand. For one thing, I’m not sure how James Palmer could possibly have survived all these years without being discovered. My father must have assumed he was dead, and I would have done too. But there’s also just… something.”

“Like what?”

“I don’t know.”

Fleming leaned back and folded his arms.

Waited.

I did my best to ignore him. Instead, I thought back to my encounter with James Palmer in the rest area toilets, remembering the fear I’d seen on his face.

Please help me.

Hiding away in the cubicle was the first time I’d failed him. And it turned out that I had failed him for a second time when I gave in and agreed with the police’s conclusion that it had been Robbie Garforth.

Was I in danger of doing the same thing again now?

I looked down at the photograph of James Palmer I’d brought with me.

What evidence did Ireallyhave that he was the individual responsible for these murders? From my father’s files, I knew that James had been abducted before the first known victim of the Pied Piper and had still been alive three years later. Which meant I also knew that he had most likely suffered more trauma than I could possibly imagine.

But I also knew that trauma wasn’t enough to make someone a killer.

Fleming lost patience with me. “What?”

“I just keep thinking about how he looked that day,” I said. “Terrified. Desperate for help. He would have run away if he could have done, but he was too frightened. The one thing he didn’t look like was a killer.”

I shook my head.

“He looked like a scared little boy.”

James

August 2001

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