Imago (13 page)

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 low 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.

Chapter Fourteen

Kate slept with her mobile phone by her bedside, relying on the alarm clock function every morning to get her out of bed. The ringing woke her from a deep sleep, and she grabbed at the device, peering blearily at the screen. It was Anderton calling.

That woke her up. She sat up in bed and pressed the answer button.

“Kate,” said Anderton. She could hear something in his voice, something that tightened her stomach, just from that one word. Something had happened.

“What’s wrong?”

Anderton said nothing for a moment, but she could hear him breathing heavily. She found she was clutching the duvet cover in her free hand.

“What is it?”

“There’s been another killing. Another girl.”

Kate closed her eyes briefly. As the first wave of shock subsided, a thought struck her.

“But, Father Michael—“

“Is still in custody. Yes.”

“Fuck,” said Kate.

“Fuck indeed,” said Anderton. “I need you down here right away. We’re at Charlotte Street, the alley that runs along the back of it. Can you get here soon?”

“I’m on my way,” said Kate, already scrambling out of bed.

The drive to Charlotte Street was a short one. Despite the warmth of the summer morning, Kate felt cold. She pressed herself back into the car seat, almost shivering. Another killing. 
Another
 one. And it had happened while they were questioning the wrong man. After a moment, she turned the heater on and adjusted the vent so that warm air blew onto her face.

She parked a few streets away from Charlotte Street. As Kate got out of the car, she could hear the choppy roar of a helicopter overhead. As she rounded the corner, the blue and white crime scene tape was almost invisible behind the seething mass of photographers, camera crews and journalists all vying for an interview – or better yet, a glimpse of the body, thankfully shrouded by a white tent. Kate set her features to neutral, took a deep breath and pushed through the tumult, ducking under the tape while a fusillade of camera flashes went off around her.

Anderton, Olbeck and Jerry were all in the tent, all looking at the body. Kate joined them without speaking. Looking at the small, curled shape on the dirty concrete, she was overcome with a sense of sick, sweeping déjà vu. The long, dark hair, the slender body…just like Mandy. Just like Claudia. Kate crossed her arms across her body, hugging herself. Who was this man who kept killing women? What was driving him on? How could they catch him, and what would happen if they couldn’t? Kate felt something unusual, something almost akin to panic. How could they stop him? How many more women were going to die?

She wheeled around and went back out of the tent. Cameras flashed and she flinched, unable to help herself. Trapped between the tent and the phalanx of photographers, Kate hesitated, not even sure of where she wanted to go. She heard the flap of the tent entrance again and then Anderton was behind her, beside her. He put a hand under her elbow and steered her out of the view of the press pack, around and out of sight to where his car was parked. Gesturing for her to get in the front passenger seat, he closed the door after her and went around to the driver side door.

Once he was in the car with the doors closed, they sat in silence for a moment. Then Anderton reached over and took Kate’s hand. Kate glanced around nervously, hoping no one could see them.

Then Anderton spoke.

“I’m lost, Kate. I don’t know what to do.”

There was something in his voice. It was barely perceptible but enough to make Kate’s feelings of anxiety rise up a notch. He sounded – could it be possible? – as if he were close to tears.

“Three women have died, and I have absolutely no idea who killed them.”