Imago (12 page)

In the car on her way to to the pathology lab, Kate found herself grinding her teeth in rage, both at herself and at Anderton. 
You idiot, Kate. You know what happened in Bournemouth, you swore it wouldn’t happen again, and yet here you are, making the same stupid mistakes. Don’t you ever 
learn
?
She repeated the last sentence out loud and then she yelled it. Unfortunately the car was stationary at the time, and she caught the gaze of an astonished elderly gentlemen, who was crossing the road in front of her and clearly perplexed at the sight of a red-faced women shouting at herself in the rear view mirror. Kate forced a smile as he shuffled away, staring back over his shoulder until mercifully the lights changed and she was able to accelerate out of his sightline.

Unwelcome memories assailed her as she drew into the car park of her destination. For the first time in a few days, she remembered Jerry’s sneer and his accusatory words. “
Why would I like, much less respect someone who gets ahead by getting on her back?”
 
There’s no truth to that
, Kate told herself stoutly as she locked the car door.
No truth at all.
But, thinking back, she had to admit that it was possible Jerry might have gotten hold of the wrong end of the stick. There had been enough innuendo and rumour flying around for a while, after all. And hadn’t he once been based in Brighton? It wasn’t beyond the realms of possibility that he’d heard what had happened.

Nothing much 
had
 happened. Kate, like so many people, had had a short affair with one of her colleagues in Bournemouth. A ridiculous, disastrous affair that lasted all of six weeks. And yes, she admitted to herself as she went into the reception area of the labs, she’d fallen into bed with someone who was technically her superior. And yes, she admitted to herself as she flashed her warrant card and was directed up to one of the theatres on the first floor, she’d obtained her transfer and promotion quite soon after that affair had ended. But, and she was absolutely clear on this, her promotion had been gained entirely on her own merit. The way the affair had ended, she’d been lucky to get any kind of reference at all.

When she considered explaining this to Jerry, however, she was forced to give herself a mental slap in the face.
You made a mistake then, you made one now. Learn from it and move on, Kate. When you next see Anderton, be professional, be courteous and be distant.
She arrived outside the door she was seeking and smoothed back her hair.

The pathologist conducting the autopsy of Claudia Smith was Andrew Stanton, and if Kate hadn’t been in such a neurotic and anxious state, the pleased expression when he saw who had come to act as a police presence might have both amused and irritated her. As it was, she barely noticed, automatically returning his greeting. Her gaze was drawn, inevitably, to the small body of Claudia Smith, which lay supine on the hard metal surface of the table.

For the first time in an hour, all thoughts of Kate’s romantic troubles fled. She was struck, as she so often was at post mortems, by the intense vulnerability of the corpse. Claudia looked so young; of course, she had 
been
 young, but her body looked tiny, diminished in death. She had given birth to a child, but her shallow-breasted, narrow-hipped body looked too young and undeveloped to have done so. Stripped of that awful makeup, the fake tan washed away, her body had achieved a kind of morbid beauty; the purity of her profile suggested the blanched, sculpted face of a marble statue.

Andrew Stanton had a brusque, no-nonsense method of working; his hands were less gentle than the delicate fingers of Doctor Telling. Kate waited and watched, listening to the doctor commenting on his findings, trying not to wince. Occasionally she asked a question.

“When was she killed?”

Doctor Stanton was rinsing a scalpel and the knife clattered against the tap with a ringing metallic sound.

“Between 2:00 a.m. and 3:30 a.m., the night before last. I can’t narrow it down much further than that, I’m afraid.”

“That’s fine,” said Kate. “So she was killed in the hours of darkness? It starts to get light about four thirty at the moment, doesn’t it?”

“Yep,” said Stanton. “Summer solstice has just passed, I think.”

Kate nodded.

“Any sign of sexual assault?”

“Not that I could find. She’d had a child, as I expect you know.”

Kate nodded, thrusting the thought of Madison’s lost little face away with an effort. Stanton, having finished the autopsy, pulled the green sheet up over the body, hiding Claudia’s face away.

Kate rubbed her finger over her top lip, thinking.

“No sign of sexual assault at all?” she asked.

Stanton looked at her with surprise.

“No. Didn’t I just say?”

“Yes. Yes, you did, sorry. I was just thinking…” She trailed off. No sign of sexual assault on Mandy’s body either, although hadn’t Doctor Telling found traces of lubricant? What did that mean? Had the killer raped or had sex with Mandy? Why not with Claudia? Was that significant?

It’s probably nothing
, thought Kate. Mandy was a prostitute. She’d probably had sex with another punter before she met the one who killed her.

She came to with a start, realising Doctor Stanton was speaking to her.

“So that’s all sorted, right?”

“Sorry?” asked Kate.

“My report. I’ll have it to you in the next couple of days, okay?”

“Right. Great,” said Kate, still thinking.

Andrew Stanton took off his lab coat and threw it into the laundry basket by the sink. He switched from his professional manner to his usual semi-jokey, flirtatious banter.

“So,” he said, “It’s dinner on Friday, right?”

He always said that, and Kate normally treated it like a little joke they shared, refusing him in the same joshing manner. She opened her mouth to give her usual, humorous refusal. She suddenly thought of her last, clipped conversation with Anderton, felt a rush of misery and found her mouth saying to the good doctor, “Why not? I’d like to.”

The look on Andrew Stanton’s face made Kate wish she’d agreed before. He goggled for a moment before rallying quite magnificently.

“Seriously? I mean, great. Great! Seriously?” He looked at Kate’s face. “Well, that’s great. When shall I pick you up?”

Back in her car and driving back towards her house, Kate found herself giggling despite herself. Then she took herself in hand.
You shouldn’t have done that, Kate. You don’t feel like that about him, you’re giving him false hope.
She slowed down for a junction, caught her own gaze in the mirror and found herself saying out loud, “Oh fuck 
off
. I’m entitled to think of myself for once. It could be a nice evening.”

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.