Imago Page 10

  She caught herself wondering how she could contrive to let Anderton know she’d gotten a date for Friday evening. Then the memory of poor Claudia on the autopsy table reoccurred, and she didn’t think much about anything else for a time.

  J’s diary

  It’s funny. The further along in my journey I get, the shorter the time I spend in my transformed state. By which I mean that glorious Technicolor feeling of really living after each time is getting shorter and shorter. Grey reality began to intrude mere days after I killed Claudia. It felt so unfair, as I’d had such a lovely time planning it. The anticipation was almost better than the actual event. Now it’s over and done with, and the colour is draining back out of the world, the black clouds are gathering.

  It would be wonderful if there could be some way of filming what I do so I could watch it over and over again. Of course, it wouldn’t be the same as actually doing it, but it might tide me over for a few more weeks. I’m beginning to feel the urge again now, and there’s no one suitable in sight. It makes me itchy and frustrated and I find myself pacing around the house in the evenings, drinking whisky and holding the knife in my hand. Plunging it into something soft, stabbing a pillow for example, brings a mere flicker of the real thing; it’s not enough. And yet, how can I get the real thing when I haven’t even found the next one yet?

  It worries me because the worse the longing gets, the more likely it is that I’ll succumb without having planned it all first. I simply cannot be caught. I need to go on doing this. It’s the only thing that makes life worth living.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Kate was so busy worrying about Claudia and Anderton and why they didn’t seem to be getting anywhere with this case that she had completely forgotten that today was the day Jerry got back from Brighton. She walked quite confidently into the office, shoulders back, determined not to let Anderton know how she was feeling. Raising a hand to Rav at his desk, she swallowed hard when she saw Jerry sat opposite him. He looked up as if drawn by her gaze, gave her a blank stare for a moment and then turned his eyes back to his computer screen.

  Kate fumbled her own chair out from under her desk and sat down shakily. Luckily, there were only a few people in the office to witness her discomfort. She sat it out for a few minutes, head bent down studiously, reading the same report over and over again without taking in a word of it, before deciding to head up to the viewing room. She wanted to see what was happening with the questioning of Michael Brannigan. And she wanted a coffee. That was it. No other reason.

  She forced herself to go up to Rav and Jerry and ask them if they wanted a drink. Jerry ignored her, and Rav shook his head with an embarrassed smile. Kate smiled back brightly and wheeled around, marching from the room.

  Up in the viewing room, she collapsed in front of the screens with a sigh. The sight of Anderton, even on CCTV footage, made a tide of longing rise up within her. She brought her coffee cup up to her lips, scalding her throat as she gulped.

  “The receptionist at the Pines Hotel has made a tentative identification of you and Claudia Smith,” Anderton was saying.

  Father Michael leaned forward.

  “That’s good. Yes, we stayed there several times.”

  Anderton nodded slightly.

  “The only trouble is,” he went on. “Is that she is unable to confirm your presence there on the night of Mandy Renkin’s death.”

  Kate saw Father Michael’s knuckles whiten as his clasped hands clenched.

  “Well, we were there,” he said after a moment. “We were there all night.”

  “So you say. But the problem is that we have no way of confirming that fact. Did you sign the guest book?”

  Kate reluctantly smiled. She knew damn well that the guest book would have been one of the first things he checked.

  Brannigan shook his head.

  “Well, why was that?” asked Anderton.

  “I would have thought it was obvious.”

  “You didn’t want anyone to know you were staying there. I see. The trouble is, Father, is that without a definite identification that night, with no record of your visit, we only have your word for it that you were ever there.”

  “Yes, I know—”

  “When you were first asked your whereabouts on the night in question, you told our officers that you were at home alone, all night.”

  Father Michael’s head dropped forward. He spoke so softly that Kate could barely hear his words.

  “I lied.”

  “Yes,” said Anderton, and he let the pause after his comment spool out for a few uncomfortable seconds. The implication was clear – that Father Michael was lying about everything.

  Kate had seen enough. She dropped her empty coffee cup in the recycling bin and headed downstairs to her desk.

  Rav had gone somewhere else when she got back to the office and only Jerry remained. Kate sighed inwardly. Then, mentally preparing herself, she walked up to Jerry.

  “Hi.”

  He ignored her. Kate gritted her teeth.

  “I’m sorry about the other night.”

  He still ignored her. Fine, if that’s the way you want to play it.

  “Can I borrow the file on Ingrid Davislova if you have it? Please?”

  For a moment, Kate thought Jerry was going to continue to ignore her. Then, without raising his head or acknowledging her in any other way, he threw a cardboard folder across the desk at her.

  “Thanks,” muttered Kate. You grumpy old fucker. She took the file back to her desk and sat down.

  Kate pulled the cardboard folder towards her and opened it. There was frighteningly little inside it. Just another case of a forgotten woman, someone who fell through the cracks, someone unimportant to those who have the power.

  Was that what this killer was doing? Was he purposefully targeting the forgotten ones, the ones no one cared about? He wouldn’t be the first. There’s a reason a lot of serial killers target prostitutes, Kate remembered Anderton saying. They’re accessible and they’re forgettable. And there’s still a section of society who think that they deserve everything they get. Kate remembered the serial killings in Ipswich in 2006, the headlines screaming, ‘Prostitutes Killed’ and the articles that referred to the victims as ‘murdered prostitutes,’ as if the fact that those woman had sold sex was the only thing that would ever define them – not the fact that they were mothers, daughters, sisters, aunts and friends.

  Kate resettled her face from the frown than had emerged while she thought. She leafed slowly through the paperwork in the folder, looking for something, anything that might give her a clue to this killer.

  She’d been reading for almost an hour when she spotted it. In the pathologist’s report, he’d mentioned a small bruise on the victim’s upper chest, just under her collarbone. In the usual medical jargon, the doctor had pointed out the unusual shape of the bruising, quite clearly the shape of a butterfly or moth. He speculated that it had been caused by a metal button, or badge, or brooch that was shaped like the insect, and suspected that it had pressed hard enough into Ingrid Davislova’s flesh that the blood vessels beneath her skin were broken into the shape of the pattern. Kate stared at the pictures from the PM, the close-up shots of the mark, blotchy purple against pallid skin. She traced the shape with her finger nail. Why there? She touched the site of the bruise on her own skin. Surely that button or brooch or whatever it was had been pinned or sewn to the killer’s jacket lapel. Ingrid had been stabbed from the front, facing her murderer – just like the others. Kate checked the medical report again. Ingrid had been one hundred and sixty seven centimetres tall, or about five feet and six inches, so if the bruise was at lapel height on her, then the killer must be much the same height. Was that right? Kate considered, chewing her thumb nail.

  She found the pathologist reports from the autopsies of Mandy Renkin and Claudia Smith. There was nothing in them regarding a butterfly-shaped bruise. Was she just chasing shadows, looking for something that didn’t exist? Kate rubbed
her eyes. So – what about these women? They were all young, all small and slight, all with long, dark hair. They were all killed in out-of-the-way places: waste grounds, back alleys, places where most people didn’t go, or if they did, not at night. Was that significant? Did they meet their killer there, and if so, why? Did they know their killer? Kate tapped her pen on her teeth. They must have done, surely? Why would you meet someone in what was essentially a rather sinister and dangerous place if you didn’t trust them?

  Which brought her back to Father Michael. He’d known both Abbeyford victims; he was in a position of authority. He was someone that they would trust. Kate found it hard to imagine the tall, thin man plunging a knife into anyone, but people were very often not how they appeared. Everyone had something hidden inside them: good or bad. For a moment, Kate remembered Anderton poised above her, his expression one she had never seen before. The strength of his hands, gripping her wrists.

  She allowed herself a moment’s luxurious remembrance and then dismissed the thought, turning her attention back to the files in front of her. Something nagged at her, something she’d recently noticed. Flipping the pages of the report in front of her, she remembered. The button-shaped bruise on Ingrid Davislova. If Father Michael had worn that on his lapel, then how could it have bruised Ingrid’s chest? He was a foot taller than she was. Perhaps he’d pinned it lower down. But why would he?

  Kate leaned forward, head in her hands, eyes scanning the words she’d looked at before. She had the feeling, growing for a while now, that she’d let these women down. No, the whole team had let these women down. They’d failed to catch the killer after Mandy Renkin’s death, and now he’d killed again. She dug deep, forcing an acknowledgement. Was it because these women weren’t important to anyone that no one had worked their hardest? That no one had really had the passion to see the case through to a successful conclusion? Or was there some other reason, some other reason why nothing seemed to be working?

  Kate blew out her cheeks and stood up, fed up with it all. Olbeck looked up from his desk.

  “What’s up?”

  “Nothing. I’m just frustrated, that’s all. Thought I’d spotted something significant and now, I don’t know…”

  “What is it?”

  Kate brought the files over to Olbeck’s desk and told him about the butterfly bruise.

  “Did it show up on any of the others?”

  Kate shook her head.

  “Well, then,” said Olbeck, reasonably. “How does it help us?”

  “Oh, I don’t bloody know,” said Kate. She got up again. “I’m going out for a bit.”

  Olbeck pushed back his chair.

  “I’ll come with you. I could murder a coffee. Whoops, bad phrasing. I could do with a caffeinated beverage, I mean.”

  They walked down to the local greasy spoon and found a wobbly table out on the grimy stretch of pavement at the front of the shop. Kate took care of the seats while Olbeck got the drinks.

  Kate stirred her cappuccino and told Olbeck what she’d just been thinking.

  “Seriously?” he asked. “You think we’ve all been – well, slacking a bit?”

  “I didn’t exactly mean that,” said Kate, uncomfortably. “But it’s just – why aren’t we further forward in the case? It feels like whatever we do, something is – I don’t know – blocking us from getting any further.”

  Olbeck was looking mystified.

  “I’m not sure what you mean.”

  Kate shrugged. “I don’t know exactly what I mean either. It’s just a feeling, really.”

  “Feelings aren’t evidence. If you’re saying we should have caught him before he killed again then yes, of course I agree with you. But we’re not superhuman, Kate. We can only go so far and so fast. You know that. We can’t go hauling everyone who might even be vaguely guilty of something.”

  “Yes, I know.” Kate drew a spiral in the foam of her coffee cup with the handle of a teaspoon. She gestured to it.

  “That’s us,” she said. “Going round in ever decreasing circles.”

  “Listen,” said Olbeck, leaning forward. “Maybe we are a bit out of our depth, I don’t know. It’s not like we get a lot of these cases in Abbeyford, thank God. Perhaps we ought to talk to Anderton. Perhaps we need more expert guidance.”

  Kate raised her eyebrows.

  “Call in the Yard?”

  “If necessary. It might happen anyway.”

  “Hmm.”

  Olbeck looked a little annoyed. “Well, what do you suggest then? You think we’re not getting very far. For what it’s worth, I agree. What do you think we should do?”

  Kate stirred the dregs of her coffee moodily. She was starting to regret saying anything.

  “What can we do? Just more of the same but more thoroughly. Talk to the people who knew the victims. Check alibis, check CCTV. Find something that connects them.”

  “We know what connects them. Father Michael.”

  “He’s guilty of having an affair with Claudia Smith. We can’t prove he’s guilty of her murder.”

  Olbeck sat back in his chair, blowing out his cheeks.

  “Maybe we’re looking at this the complete wrong way. We’re assuming it’s a serial killer. What if it’s not?”

  Kate looked at him narrowly. “What do you mean?”

  “Is it possible that these deaths are actually coincidental?”

  “Oh, come on,” scoffed Kate. “Same MO, same weapon, same victim type?”

  Olbeck stared into the middle distance for a moment. Then he grimaced and threw up his hands.

  “You’re right. It’s a stupid idea.”

  “Well, if it’s ideas you’re looking for, then I’m clean out.”

  The two of them were silent, regarding the empty, foam-caked cups before them. Kate, inevitably, felt her thoughts being drawn back to Anderton. For a mad moment, she opened her mouth to tell Olbeck, and then sanity returned and she shut it with a snap.

  “Come on,” said Olbeck. “Let’s get back.”

  They walked the short distance back to the office in silence. Kate felt depressed, heavy with regrets and unspoken thoughts. She and Olbeck had never really had any secrets before. Now there was a big one between them. Now, there was distance.

  J’s diary

  I can remember when I first found heard about John. I was seven years old – could I really have been only seven? – and it was an incredibly blustery rainy day, the water falling from the sky in rippling sheets. Mrs H, who’d popped round for her usual cup of tea and gossip session with Mother, had almost been blown in the front door, shrieking and dripping water all over the floor. I’d come to the doorway of the dining room and stood there, silently watching, until Mother and Mrs H had looked over and frowned to see me, their usual expression whenever they regarded me.

  “Go to your room,” Mother said sharply. I turned and trudged up the stairs as they went through into the kitchen. I heard Mother muttering something about my behaviour as they disappeared from view.

  “…at the end of my tether, that child is so underhand. I sometimes think there’s something really wrong with—”

  Her voice faded out of my hearing, and I couldn’t hear Mrs H’s reply. I paused at the top of the stairs, my fists clenched. For some reason I thought of Mrs H’s son, who was younger than me, although only by a few years. For a while, we’d been allowed to play together, but that had stopped suddenly. I wasn’t that fussed about it, to be honest. He was a bit of a cry-baby and never wanted to play the games that I did.

  I turned and crept back down the stairs. I wasn’t going to be sent to my room like a baby. I was only seven, but already I was creeping around, listening at doors and overhearing things that perhaps I wasn’t meant to hear. Looking back, I know now that it was the only way I could retain some power, the only way I could have something of my own that Mother didn’t know about.

  I tiptoed up to the kitchen door, which was slightly ajar. Mrs H and Mother were talking in lo
w voices, and I could hear the thin stream of tea being poured from pot to cup and the chink of cup on saucer.

  Why did they talk about it on that day? What made Mother suddenly open up to Mrs H about something that almost nobody else knew? I don’t know. Perhaps Mrs H was gossiping about someone else who’d had twins, or a miscarriage, or a friend whose baby had died. I don’t know, and all I have is conjecture. I couldn’t hear proper sentences, just the odd word here. Fraternal twins, said Mother. Died at birth, said Mother. I could hear Mrs H expressing shock and sympathy, with just a tinge of greedy curiosity. Terribly hard, said Mother, and I could hear something in her voice that I had never heard before, a softness, a trembling.

  There was silence for a moment in the kitchen. Then Mother said something else, whispering so I could barely hear. Then I heard Mrs H’s loud repetition, the shock in her voice.

  “Strangled?”

  “Asphyxiated,” said Mother, a big word that I didn’t understand. “By the other cord.”

  “Oh my goodness, how terrible.”

  “He came out first,” said Mother. “But by then it was too late.”

  Their voices sank again. I held my breath, straining my ears to try and hear more but the only thing that I heard clearly was the name John.

  “His name was John,” said Mother, and then I heard the shift and scrape of a chair as she pushed it back from the kitchen table, and I turned and fled.

  Up in my room, I looked out of the window at the quiet street beyond, unseeing. Most of what had just passed was too big for me to grasp, but I must have retained the elements, the crux of it must have sunk deep into my psyche, because from that day forward, I often found myself thinking of John, of the brother I’d never known, the one who’d been with me when I was born.

  For years I knew a part of me was missing. But there was something else too, something that grew and grew with me, a blackly blooming knowledge that lodged deep inside me and spread its dirty tentacles through my mind. I was born a killer, it seemed. There was no escape from that fact.