Sycamore Gap: A DCI Ryan Mystery(64)
The question remained: did he purchase the bracelets and, if so, why would he now lie about it?
“We’re not here for a cosy chat. You say you didn’t kill Amy, you say you didn’t give her the bracelet and didn’t buy any, though we’ve got a witness who says you did.”
“Well done,” Edwards said with condescension. “You’ve grasped the situation admirably.”
“Tell me, then, what is your relationship with Colin Hart?”
Edwards flashed a grin.
“Now, finally, we’re getting somewhere.” He made to cross his legs, before remembering that his ankles were also restrained, to the thick metal rings drilled into the floor. Anger washed over him again.
“Everybody needs a guide, somebody who can help to nurture one’s talents.”
“You’ve communicated with Colin Hart? You’re claiming to be his mentor?”
“I believe I might have answered a letter, or two. I’m sure you will be asking for copies from the guards – they keep all of them, you know. They’re probably hoping to sell them on eBay.”
Phillips stopped himself from making any obvious comments to the effect that they wouldn’t get much for the ramblings of a murderous psychotic, because the sad truth was that there would be people out there willing to pay good money for letters written by Keir Edwards. It continued to feed the man’s ego, knowing that there was a fan base in the wider world outside his cell.
“Did you instruct Colin Hart to kill?”
Ryan stared into the face of a murderer and thought that it was curious that they, too, could be loyal to their own.
Edwards said nothing, meeting Ryan’s stare with frank contempt. He would tell them nothing more.
“What do you want?”
“What do I want?” Edwards laughed then, a harsh sound in the confined space. “I want your head on a plate in front of me, Ryan. I want to watch your eyes die. But, since present circumstances prevent it, I’ll settle for wounding you instead.”
“You’ll never catch me unguarded again,” Ryan gritted. “For the rest of your life, you’ll know it was me who put you where you are.”
“And, for the rest of your life, you’ll know it was me who let you.”
“You believe that?” Ryan stood up now, the interview over. “You got sloppy, Edwards. You lost your edge. Maybe you never had it. The man we’re looking for at least has the brains to remain undetected – for now.”
Edwards watched as Ryan and Phillips stood up, preparing to leave. He burned to rise up from his chair and fight.
Instead, he fell back upon the only warfare he could.
“It eats you up, doesn’t it Ryan, not knowing? How many others? How many did you miss?” He chuckled quietly, entranced by his own reflection in the two-way glass opposite. He looked up and into the reflected image of Ryan, as he stood beside the door behind him.
“You wonder ‘how’ and ‘why’, brooding about it until you can’t sleep and you can’t eat, but the answers lie inside you; you have only to look into a mirror. The mind is its own place, Ryan, and it can make a Heav’n of hell, a hell of Heav’n.”
Ryan dragged his gaze away from Edwards’ and burst out of the room.
CHAPTER 14
“There’s nothing in any of these letters except a bunch of navel-gazing,” Phillips pronounced.
Ryan looked up from his inspection of the prison records to meet Frank’s baffled face. They were seated in a small conference room, which had been built to allow inmates to converse with their legal representatives.
“There may not be anything obvious,” he suggested. “Some of his responses could be obtuse, or coded.”
Phillips looked back down at a copy of a letter from Edwards to Colin Hart, dated less than a month after he had been incarcerated.
“Dear Colin,
Many thanks indeed for your kind letter and sincere apologies for the delay in responding to you. I regret that the procedures in place within these walls prevent me from replying to you as soon as I might wish.
I confess myself immensely moved by your desire to understand my evolution and, for the sake of posterity alone, will do my best to enlighten you.
Where to begin? In the way of David Copperfield? I was born, I grew up … but really, the details of my unremarkable childhood aren’t important. I have no family, none that share my blood.
All my life has been spent masked, my true nature hidden beneath the clothes and personality, which I wore as a cloak every morning and took off each night. How can I describe to you, my friend, the mounting pressure and the growing need, which built each day and demanded release?