Not even our devoted leader.

133

‘You did this.’

Detective Sergeant Pace walks towards his former psychiatrist and, instead of saying, Dr Artaud, you are under arrest on suspicion of blah blah blah, he comes right out with exactly what is on his mind.

You did this.

‘Detective Pace. I didn’t expect to see you here. Well, I did. But I thought that part of your brain would be hanging off that kerb over there. It seems I underestimated that brain.’

Pace inhales. One. Two. Three. Then exhales.

‘You. Did. This,’ he repeats. With more venom than his first attempt.

Artaud is unflinching. There’s a calmness that can only be achieved by those with nothing at all to lose.

‘I programmed you to check the mail before you leave your house in the morning. So that you wouldn’t miss the letter I had delivered for you.’ There’s a pause as the doctor plays things through in his head. He sucks down another mouthful of cigar smoke and blows it to the side of Pace’s glaring face. ‘So, I have to assume that I was correct and you are seeing that possibly psychotic woman. Bravo, detective. Bra-vo.’

Pace bats the cigar out of Artaud’s hand then grabs him by the lapels of his jacket and pushes him towards the barrier of Tower Bridge.

‘You want to push me over?’

‘Who would even know? Nobody here is looking at us. Nobody here cares about anything other than the dead bodies and their own safety. Who would care? Who would come looking for you?’

‘You’re right. Nobody.’ He still doesn’t look scared at all. ‘You are a man of the law, Detective. Throwing me into the Thames is not the justice that you seek.’

Pace lets go. ‘You did this, Artaud. You made those people jump to their death.’

‘I am quite perturbed that you have arrived so quickly. I thought I would have to wait for it to get dialled in. I’d hoped to have some time to walk among the dead. Reminisce over their tales of woe, one last time. I think the Fighter would have won his next match.’

‘You killed them. I don’t even know how many of them there are, yet. But you killed them.’

‘There are nineteen. It was supposed to be twenty. But nineteen is still enough.’

‘Say it.’

‘Is that what you want? A confession? I have written it all down. You can find the details—’

‘I have your book, Doctor,’ Pace interrupts.

‘So there you have it.’

‘Say it.’

‘That I killed them? Of course I did. All of them. And many more.’

That’s all Pace wanted to hear. He turns Artaud around. The old man feels weak and frail but his mind is still sparking correctly. The detective places handcuffs on his suspect. He doesn’t read him his Miranda rights, not yet; he tells the murdering son of a bitch, ‘You’re coming with me.’ And he walks him along the road, away from the bridge and back to the car he left a couple of hundred yards away.