Imago Page 13

  The house seemed very quiet. Kate sat for a moment longer, trying to keep hold of the momentary calmness. Now that the thoughts in her head had settled a little, she became more aware of her surroundings, the dust flying in the shafts of sunlight that lanced through the gap in the dirty curtains. The smell of the room filled her nostrils. A thought struck her which made her heartbeat speed up again to alarming levels.

  What if there were more bodies in the house?

  Kate leapt up, her hand to her mouth. Her imagination was flying again, bringing up all sorts of hideous pictures. She thought again of tabloid headlines, pictures of erstwhile normal suburban houses that had concealed a raft of horrors. Would the paparazzi be camped outside this innocuous-looking Victorian terrace tomorrow morning? Of course they would. Perhaps they were already on their way. But how could they be?

  Kate no longer knew what she actually knew or what she had conjectured. She felt dizzy with the enormity of what had happened. Where the hell was Olbeck? She breathed in sharply, and the room smelt even ranker than it had before. Kate backed away from the bed, eyeing the dark space beneath it. She stood for a moment, indecisively, wringing her sweaty hands. She knew she should look under the bed. She knew she should, but she quailed from the idea. Although it was unusual, she was afraid to look. Come on, Kate. What could be as bad as what you’re imagining?

  She took a deep breath, almost gagged and dropped to her knees with a thump, peering into the murk, sweating with fear. There was nothing under the bed but clumps of dust and hairs, an empty shoe box and a plastic biro. Nothing there. Kate sat back up, her in-held breath rushing out in one long sigh.

  She checked her phone. Nothing from Olbeck. Nothing from Anderton. Her fevered speculation about her boss was beginning to die away. Surely it was too ludicrous a thought even to be entertained?

  All of a sudden, Kate knew she had to get out of the house. Another minute here in this fetid, dusty atmosphere would see her lose the plot. She hurried downstairs, prickling with fear, terrified of what she might see in the corner of her eye. She closed and locked the front door behind her and stood for a moment on the porch, taking in great gulps of fresh air.

  Her relief at being outside the house was so great that it took her a moment or two to realise that someone was talking to her, addressing her by name.

  “—Redman?”

  Kate blinked. The woman speaking to her from the pavement was vaguely familiar, but Kate’s current emotional state was such that she couldn’t place her. After a moment, thankfully, her memory returned.

  “Hello, Miss Paling.”

  Margaret Paling was looking at her curiously.

  “What brings you hear, dear?”

  “Do you live near here?” asked Kate, countering with a question. Margaret waved a hand at the row of houses opposite.

  “My house is over there. Number Fifteen. This is Jerry’s Hindley’s house, isn’t it? Didn’t he mention we were neighbours?”

  Had he? Kate felt so battered by the revelations of the past hour that she couldn’t remember.

  Margaret was still looking at her with concern.

  “Are you all right, dear? You’re as white as a sheet. Quite as white as a sheet.”

  Kate opened her mouth to say ‘I’m fine,’ but somehow the words wouldn’t come out properly.

  “Why don’t you come over and have a cup of tea?” asked Margaret. “Or a glass of water, or something. Seriously, dear, you look like you’re about to faint.”

  Kate opened her mouth again to refuse politely and then thought better of it. If this woman was Jerry’s neighbour, it was possible she might have witnessed something. At the very least, Kate thought, I’ll be able to find out a little bit more about Jerry’s background.

  “Yes, I will. Thank you.”

  Chapter Seventeen

  Number Fifteen, Smithson Street, was almost a carbon-copy of Jerry’s house in age, layout, décor and furnishing, except it was considerably cleaner and had none of the masculine accoutrements lying about. Margaret ushered Kate through the main hallway into a neat and tidy kitchen and sat her down at the table. She kept up a stream of inconsequential chatter as she prepared the tea, the words washing over Kate in a rather soothing stream that she barely heard. The kettle boiled and the water was poured into a fine china teapot to brew. Margaret handed Kate a plate of biscuits.

  “I think you should have one of those, dear. Sugar’s very good if you’re feeling a bit shaky.”

  She hadn’t yet asked what had so upset Kate. Kate wasn’t sure what she was going to say if Margaret did ask the question.

  The tea was hot and strong, and Kate drank it gratefully.

  “Do you know Jerry well?” she asked.

  “Not very well, I must say. We’re neighbourly. Friendly but not friends, if you see what I mean.” Margaret took a sip from her own cup. “How is he? We’ve all been rather worried about him.”

  “Oh, you know he’s in hospital?”

  “Yes, Mrs Culson at Number Nine told me yesterday. Poor man, he’s not had a good year, what with his bereavement and everything else.”

  “Bereavement?”

  “Yes, dear. His mother died, oh, it must be six months ago now. Terribly hard, isn’t it, when you lose a family member? I lost my own mother last year, and it does take a while to get over it.”

  “I’m sorry,” said Kate automatically. She was going to say “I didn’t know” and then realised how callous and ridiculous that sounded. How could she not have known Jerry lost his mother? Why hadn’t anyone told her?

  The knowledge of what Jerry had done thumped her in the stomach again, and she put the remainder of her biscuit down on the little plate in front of her.

  Margaret Paling chatted on.

  “Of course, it’s hard being on your own. I had Jerry over for dinner a few times, and I think it helped. He’s always struck me as a bit of a lonely person. Very much keeps to himself.”

  The stuff of cliché: the quiet killer, the respectable murderer. Kate felt a hysterical giggle rise up inside her, and she coughed, a hand to her mouth. For a horrible second, she thought she wouldn’t be able to control herself – she could feel raucous laughter rising up her throat – and she swallowed, crookedly, which hurt and helped to push the feeling down.

  She wasn’t sure Margaret had noticed. The other woman was engaged in pouring out the last drops of tea into Kate’s cup.

  Kate swallowed, and then swallowed again and cleared her throat.

  “Have you lived here long?” she asked, once she could be sure of her voice.

  Margaret set the empty pot back on the table.

  “Around here? My whole life, dear. My mother and father bought this house before the war, I believe. I was actually born here.”

  “That’s nice,” said Kate, automatically. She wanted to check her phone to see if Olbeck or Anderton had tried to contact her, but she couldn’t think of a way to do it without looking rude.

  “Yes, I’ve seen a lot of changes in the town over the years. Not always for the better either. But never mind me. I’m just an old woman stuck in my ways.”

  Kate smiled again and did a sort of half shake of the head. What was there to say to a remark like that? An agreement was rude and a negation didn’t sound right either.

  “You’re looking a wee bit better,” said Margaret. “Now, would you like some more tea? Or I can make coffee, if you prefer?”

  Kate managed a smile.

  “You’re very kind,” she said, “But please don’t worry. That cup did me good, and that’s all I needed, thank you.”

  “That’s no problem. Happy to help.”

  Margaret stood up.

  “Now, would you excuse me for a moment, dear? I have to go to the little girl’s room.”

  For some reason she giggled, a rather odd, girlish sound. Kate nodded and smiled automatically, her mind on something else.

  When Margaret had left the room, Kate sat, trying to pin down what it w
as that was making her uneasy. Something that Margaret had said, just now. What was it? Something… something about coffee. That was it. What was it about coffee that was important?

  Kate stared ahead, her fingers unconsciously tapping the table. Coffee and Rav – something Rav had said. What the hell was it? After a moment of blankness, the memory returned. Rav and she had been sitting in the car, and she’d wanted to stop for a coffee. That was it. Rav had joked about her throwing a drink in his face, because she’d done that to Jerry the night before. What an idiot she’d been.

  Kate frowned, unsure of why her brain was telling her this was so important. Then comprehension dawned. After he’d joked about the coffee, Rav had said something about going clubbing: that he and Jerry and the others had been at a club all night. Hadn’t he said something about it being daylight by the time they left? That was the night Claudia Smith was killed. How could Jerry have killed her when he was with the other officers at a nightclub for the entire night?

  For a moment, Kate felt as if her brain had actually given way under the strain. If Jerry hadn’t killed Claudia, then who had? Who had killed the other women? Who?

  Kate came back to reality with a start, unsure of how long she’d been sitting at the table, staring into space and drumming her fingers on the edge. She looked around. The house seemed very silent. Where had Margaret gone?

  Kate got up and stretched. It was time for her to go, but she should say goodbye first. She went out into the hallway and looked around, listening for sounds of movement. There was nothing. Kate hesitated. There was a tiny thread of uneasiness running through her, some almost subconscious sense of something not being quite right. Was it something else that Margaret had said?

  Kate began to climb the stairs, thinking hard. Something about Margaret that rang another faint bell. What was it? For a moment, Kate feared she had actually gone mad, the fear and strain of the past few hours taking their toll. Was she being paranoid? She climbed further, treading softly, the old polished wood of the banister sliding smoothly under her palm.

  Kate reached the top of the stairs. Through a half-open door to the right, she could see the edge of a bath, a sink, a tiled floor. That was the bathroom, but it looked empty. Where was Margaret? Had she actually come upstairs?

  Kate shifted from foot to foot, standing at the top of the stairs. The old floorboards creaked under her feet. That sense of uneasiness was growing – in fact, it was almost fear. What was there to be afraid of? Was it the silent house, the disappearance of her hostess – or something else?

  Beyond the bathroom door was another door. Kate tiptoed towards it and pushed it gently open. It opened into what was obviously the master bedroom. Kate hesitated in the doorway, unsure of what she was doing or what she would find. The room was empty, the double bed made neatly with a pink candlewick bedspread tucked across it. At the far wall was a small, wooden dressing table with an adjustable mirror on the top. On the surface of the dressing table, on a white lace doily, was a small, wooden jewellery box.

  As soon as Kate saw it, she knew what she’d been thinking of. Brooches. Margaret’s rhinestone brooch. Without stopping to think, Kate strode forward until she reached the dressing table and lifted the lid of the jewellery box.

  A part of her had been expecting what she saw, but still she heard herself gasp. Again, she had that feeling of freefall, something heavy moving downwards through her body, leaving her weak and trembling. The dark interior of the jewellery box could not quite dim the blue shine of the butterfly brooch within it. Kate stared at it, seeing again the bruise on Ingrid Davislova’s skin. She could hear the roar of her heartbeat in her ears, pounding like a bass drum, but even beyond that, she was suddenly aware of something, some other sound just on the edge of hearing: a whisper of a footstep in the corridor outside, the faint hiss of an indrawn breath.

  Time stood still for a moment. Kate’s horrified gaze rose slowly, from the jewellery box to the mirror. There was a flicker in the glass and a dark shape rushed at her from behind, growing larger with terrifying speed.

  Already pumped full of adrenaline, Kate’s body reacted before her mind did. She darted sideways just as the figure crashed into the dressing table, making the mirror rock back against the wall. As she turned to run, Kate caught sight of her attacker, dressed in an old-fashioned men’s suit and hat that shadowed the face.

  Despite her shock, Kate was thinking it must be an unknown relative of Margaret’s: a son, a brother. Seconds later, the hat fell off as the person rushed forward, and Kate saw the face; it was Margaret’s face but it had been distorted, teeth bared, eyes glaring. She was so shocked that she almost didn’t register the knife before it came down in a sweeping rush that Kate, feinting right, barely escaped.

  Sobbing with fear, Kate turned, scrambling for the door before slamming it shut in Margaret’s maniacal face. Kate ran for her life, slipping a little at the turn of the corridor, stumbling down the stairs. Everything had happened so quickly that she was barely aware of anything else besides the overwhelming desire to run. She fell the last three steps, turning her ankle but hardly registering the flash of pain. Above her, she could hear the bedroom door thud back against the wall and Margaret’s hissing breath as she ran after Kate. In three bounds, Kate reached the front door, scrabbled for the lock and handle, pulled.

  The door was locked.

  Kate had time to think about running for the back door, a second’s vision of making her escape that way. Then the blow came, a hard punch to the base of her ribs, which drove the breath from her body for an instant. Margaret’s body pressed up against hers from behind, pinning her to the door. There was an excruciating moment of pain as the knife went in, a shockingly intimate penetration, and then a dragging heaviness and a blooming dull heat.

  Kate thought confusedly, I’m okay, I’m okay, I’ve got my stab vest on, but of course she wasn’t on patrol anymore, was she? She wasn’t wearing a vest. Margaret was panting loudly in her ear. Kate felt the knife pull back, leaving her body, and she thought, She’s going to stab me again. Without thinking, she gasped for air and pushed herself backwards, bringing her head back sharply.

  The back of her skull connected violently with Margaret’s nose. There was a crunch and a muffled scream and then the pressure on Kate was relieved.

  Margaret fell backwards, her nose gouting scarlet. Kate turned, feeling a great wash of blood from the wound in her back go flooding through her shirt, warm and wet. She staggered past Margaret, who was scrabbling to get up from the hallway floor, and limped into the first room off the hallway, the living room, before her legs gave way and she thumped down onto the carpet in front of the fire.

  I’m going to die here, I’m going to die was the only thought going through her mind. Kate managed to turn over and face the doorway just in time to see Margaret, face streaked with blood, up on her feet and waving the knife. She saw Kate helpless and spread-eagled on the carpet and screamed triumphantly, running forward with the knife, ready to swoop down in the final, fatal blow.

  It was Kate’s legs that saved her. Strengthened and toned from weeks of training, they kicked not out, but up, catching Margaret on the run and pushing her towards the ceiling so that the momentum of her movement carried her up through the air, above Kate, to crash into the marble mantelpiece. The movement was too quick for her to cry out. Her head hit the mantelpiece, and she dropped like a stone, almost on top of Kate, who managed to roll away a little, screaming herself at the pain in her abdomen as the knife wound opened and the blood flowed.

  Gasping, Kate propelled herself backwards on her elbows, pure adrenaline moving her muscles. Margaret lay, crumpled and silent, by the hearth. Kate reached the sofa, tried to pull herself up to a standing position. Was Margaret dead? Where was the knife?

  Kate felt for her mobile phone in the back pocket. Every movement exploded with pain and brought with it a fresh flow of blood from the wound. She could feel her vision fogging; greyness began to creep into her line
of sight. She managed to grasp the phone, brought it out, dropped it as it slithered through her bloody fingers. Breathing was becoming difficult now. Kate groaned, feeling the blood flowing like a river down her back, down her legs. Her shirt was sodden.

  She took every last bit of energy, stood up and staggered to the mantlepiece. Her shaking fingers reached out to grasp the heaviest thing she could reach, a gold-framed black and white photograph. Kate gasped like a fish, took in what little breath she could and hurled the picture as hard as her fading strength would allow at the living room window.

  Dimly she heard the crash of falling glass, but before the musical tinkle of the shards landing on the ground outside had faded, Kate felt herself slide forward, sinking to the blood-wet carpet as everything went black.

  J’s Diary

  The butterfly brooch is by my hand while I write. My eye keeps being drawn to it; this small piece of cheap, enamelled metal. I keep seeing portents in everything; the most random things become meaningful. Is this madness? There are those who would say that what I do is madness, but I don’t feel mad. Quite the opposite. The more I kill, the more I feel in control. The cooler and calmer I get.

  Perhaps that’s what it’s all about after all. Control.

  Mother was always the one in control. There was only one time I saw her fearful. That was the day of my first transformation. The butterfly brooch had a part to play there as well; perhaps that’s what reminded me.

  It was last summer. For some reason, I had gone into Mother’s bedroom, and the butterfly brooch was lying in the middle of her dressing table, quite alone. I stood there for several minutes, staring at it. I couldn’t have said why.

  There was a flicker in the glass of the dressing table mirror, and I looked up and into it to see the reflection of Mother standing in the doorway to her room, staring at me.