Last Kiss (3 page)

The smile didn’t impress her. At first, she had warmed to Mark Lynch, liking his efficiency and attention to detail, but during the last investigation she had noted a darker side to the young detective. It had slipped out while he was interviewing
a vagrant, and once she had witnessed it, she had felt that something not so sweet teetered below the surface. She let his last remark go unanswered.

‘The body has been purposely positioned,’ she continued. ‘It’s more than the use of ropes. The killer has something to say.’

Ian Morrison leaned over to examine the victim’s fingernails, but Lynch’s interest was spiked by her last comment. ‘Which is what?’ he asked.

‘At first I thought of a crucifixion, but then …’ She paused, as if contemplating the value of her next point.

‘Go on.’

‘Look at the positioning. It’s very specific.’ She tilted her head to the side, again staring into the dead man’s face. ‘Mark, do you know anything about Tarot cards?’

‘I’m not into fortune-telling, if that’s what you mean.’

‘The body …’ once more, she hesitated ‘… is laid out like the Hangman card from a Tarot deck.’

‘Meaning?’

‘It’s one of the higher Arcana cards. I profiled a case in the UK a few years back. The killer believed the cards had powers. He thought they were guiding him. The Hangman,’ she continued, ‘depicts a man hanging upside-down by one foot, usually suspended from a wooden beam or a tree. The gallows he’s suspended from forms a tau cross, while the position of the legs,’ she pointed to the body, ‘forms a fylfot cross. You can see how one leg is bent under the other with the hands tied behind the back.’

‘So what does it tell us?’ A slight impatience had entered the detective’s voice.

Morrison looked up, his interest, too, aroused.

‘It’s associated with a god called Odin from Norse mythology,’ she replied. ‘Odin hung from a world-tree, an Yggdrasil, for nine days. He wanted to obtain wisdom and retrieve the runes, or words, from the Well of Wyrd.’

‘The Well of what?’ Lynch raised his eyebrows.

‘Wyrd,’ she repeated. ‘It was regarded as the source of mystery and knowledge. The moment Odin glimpsed the runes, he died, but the knowledge was so strong that he immediately regained life.’

‘I don’t think there’s much chance of that happening here,’ interjected Morrison, in his deadpan style.

‘No, I agree,’ Kate said, matter-of-fact. ‘What are your observations, Ian?’

‘Our guy was tied up after death. Although the ropes are secured tightly, the blood vessels haven’t reacted as I would have expected them to if they had been active.’

‘Go on.’ Lynch looked down at the body as if it had taken on a whole new meaning.

‘Blood vessels leak, imparting a blue-black colour to the tissues. There’s no sign of that here.’ Morrison pointed to the area around the ankle, before moving further down the body. ‘There are whip marks on the buttocks, but judging by the skin, they were probably made prior to death.’

‘If the ropes were applied after death, Ian,’ Kate stood back from the bed, ‘then the scene was stage-managed by the killer.’

‘That’s not my area of expertise. I’ll know more later on, but for now, all three of us can see the obvious. His throat has been cut. If it turns out to be the cause of death, the most likely
scenario is exsanguination, with the external jugular vein and carotid artery severed.’

‘And the other possibilities?’ Lynch asked, pushing the pathologist while he still had him in his sights.

‘It’s possible he choked to death on his blood or an embolism occurred, air entering the jugular vein.’

‘Was the same knife used throughout?’ Kate, like Lynch, was keen to get as many answers as possible.

Morrison let out a deep breath, as if it helped him to concentrate. ‘It’s impossible to say, but we’re talking about a large blade, capable of deep penetration.’

‘How large?’ Lynch wasn’t letting go.

‘Too soon to tell exact dimensions, but I’ll give you what I can once I’ve done a full examination.’

‘And the trajectory of the wounds?’

Morrison gazed at the detective, contemplating, Kate thought, whether or not he should reveal any more at this point. Finally he said, ‘The puncture wounds are relatively straight, possibly coming from above with the victim lying down.’

‘Any idea of time of death?’ Kate quizzed.

‘At least seven hours.’ Morrison pointed to the victim’s face. ‘The corneas, the clear covering over the pupils, are cloudy and opaque. If the eyes were closed, this could take up to twenty-four hours. The process speeds up when the eyes are open.’

‘Placing the time of death at around two a.m.,’ Lynch said.

Kate again looked at the victim’s eyes. ‘What are those dark marks around the pupils?’

Morrison appeared pleased with her question, replying with enthusiasm: ‘It’s called tache noir, one of the most important
post-mortem changes in the eye. If the eyes are open after death, the area of the sclera exposed to the air dries out, which results in a yellowish, then brownish-blackish band, which is what we have here. This level of discoloration will appear around the seven-hour mark.’

Kate walked over to the windows, which looked out onto the hotel car park, then turned to face both men. ‘Ian, were the eyes forced open?’

‘I can’t be sure. As soon as death occurs, the muscles in the eye stop functioning. He could have died with his eyes open or they could have been opened afterwards.’

‘What about DNA?’ Lynch looked up from his notebook.

‘It would be tricky. Even if we could pull a sample, it’s unlikely we’d get enough to produce an adequate profile.’

‘Anything else?’ Lynch asked.

‘Yes, the concentration of potassium within the vitreous humour—’

‘The what?’ Lynch sounded irritated again.

‘If you didn’t keep interrupting me, Detective, I might be able tell you.’ It was Morrison’s turn to be irked. Kate smiled to herself.

‘It’s the thick jelly-like substance that fills your eyeballs. It increases slowly after death, but is already clearly visible here. Understandably, the body temperature has dropped too, from the normal temperature of 98.6 degrees Fahrenheit. The body loses heat at a rate of 1.5 degrees per hour, but in a heat-assisted room like this one, it loses it a lot slower, yet our man’s has dropped over four degrees.’

‘I see,’ Lynch replied.

‘You’ll have to wait for the full autopsy report if you want any more than that from me. The only other obvious detail is a series of older tears in the skin, especially on the upper thighs and arms.’

‘And the cause?’ Kate asked.

‘They could be self-inflicted, but again, I’ll know more once I’ve had a chance to examine the body in detail.’

Kate turned to Lynch. ‘Were the room lights on or off?’

‘Off. Why?’

‘The curtains are open. I assume they were that way when you arrived.’

‘Correct.’

‘There’s plenty of lighting in the car park outside. It would have lit up the room if the drapes were pulled. The buildings opposite are at a lower level, so the killer may have felt they couldn’t be seen.’

‘What are you getting at, Kate?’

‘Perhaps he or she used the exterior light to prepare the victim, and there’s something else.’ Both men looked at her. ‘The lack of blood spatters and pooling beyond the vicinity of the bed is odd. It doesn’t look as if our victim put up much of a fight. Ian, did you find any notable signs of a struggle on the body?’

‘No obvious ones. I’ll be running full pathology tests for possible drug intake prior to death. We’ll pull fluid from the eyes too. It’s the last fluid in the body to peak. If the victim was drinking prior to death, the vitreous alcohol level will tell us if our dead friend was on his way up or on his way down.’ Morrison pointed to the eyes again. ‘We can also look to the vitreous for any signs of Fentanyl or 6-Mam, both derivatives of
heroin, as we won’t find these or their metabolites in the blood samples.’

‘What about cocaine?’ Lynch pointed to the corpse. ‘As well as increasing aggression, it’s used as a sexual stimulant. Our friend here hired an escort before he snuffed it.’

‘Thank you for your scientific observations, Detective.’ Morrison didn’t sound appreciative. ‘That will all come out in the toxicology reports.’ He turned to Kate. ‘If the victim was compromised prior to death, in other words, if he was drugged with any form of sedative substance, and wasn’t physically able to defend himself, it would explain the localisation of the blood spatters. It would certainly have made him more susceptible to having his throat slit. After that,’ the pathologist looked cheerfully from Kate to Lynch, ‘he was a dead man one way or another.’

I use the Rider-Waite Tarot cards, not because they are popular. They chose me. Some people think the cards are evil, but fear drives their ignorance. The same kind of stupidity that is capable of terrible things – unsavoury behaviour from closed minds combined with a dash of terror.

Part of knowing the Tarot is the understanding of numbers. We all have a birth number. For most, it’s a single digit, 1 to 9. It’s easy to work it out. All you have to do is write down the date you were born. Let me help you – the ninth day of the eleventh month in the year 1990. Add the numbers together until you reduce them to a single digit: 9 + 11 + 1 + 9 + 9 + 0. This gives
you 39. Then add 3 to 9 and you get 12. Break it down again, 1 + 2, and you have 3.

There are exceptions to the single-digit rule: in numerology the master numbers, 11 and 22, require special attention. They are for those who are endowed with extra gifts, and are usually found in people who have had a challenging upbringing – the inference being a dark one. Perhaps you don’t believe your life can be preordained from birth, that pure evil exists, or that people are born with it. I have experienced evil at first hand. You learn to sink or swim. One man’s evil is another man’s pleasure. I was born on the eighth day of October 1982. That makes me the number 11, the number of the Master Teacher. The words ‘intuitive’, ‘prisoner’, ‘mystical’ and ‘alternative consciousness’ are all part of it, but there is so much more.

I’m not egotistical, or over-fond of the term ‘Master Teacher’. I prefer ‘illuminator’ or ‘messenger’ – but maybe I’m splitting hairs. The numbers are what they are.

I have a
new
man in my life. His card has yet to be chosen, but the Lovers would be the icing on the cake. He called a few moments ago: he needs to see me
desperately
, he said. I won’t deny I took pleasure from this, his voice barely above a whisper, as if the little wife was close by. He wants us to go back to the hotel.

I sensed his excitement when I agreed to meet him – his voice becoming confident, saying how he knew the room was important to me, his words full of sexual suggestion. I encouraged him, manipulating, teasing, relishing. He lapped it up like a sex-starved dog. The control game is beginning, and he thinks he might be in charge.

The Wheel of Fortune is one of my sought-after cards of the Tarot – spin the wheel and take a chance. Do nothing, be afraid, and all could be lost. Maybe that will be his card. I need to move to the next level. I won’t make the same mistake as I did with Rick, although I take pleasure in knowing that I was the one who introduced him to the cutting. Even seeing the blade became a turn-on for poor Ricky. Like me, he enjoyed the initial surge, the sight of his own blood, and knowing he could do it added to the joyous, electrifying appeal. His delight was obvious, and he thought he had me exactly where he wanted me, but concealment is one of my better-learned art forms.

After the night of the party, everything changed. Rick sealed his fate, and four weeks later, it was goodbye, Rick. I can recount the evening frame by frame, hour by hour and moment by moment. Everyone wore masks. It was the usual private affair – invited guests only, making the participants feel special, elusive and selective. The location was out of town, top secret, isolated, a large country house that belonged to someone born into money. It had been done up especially for the party. There were private rooms for those who preferred coupling, but Rick wasn’t looking for that: his ego demanded more.

When we arrived, the beam of his headlights shone across the wide pebbled drive. I wore a gold dress, low cut at the front and back, with earrings that dangled and glistened like fairy lights. My hair was up, a long fringe hanging sideways across my face. I remember seeing my reflection in the tiny passenger mirror and thinking I looked like someone else. I can still see the eagerness in his eyes, even after he had put on his masquerade mask. I knew the party was supposed to get him
up close and personal with people who mattered, but I hadn’t known I was part of the prize. I hadn’t seen that coming, his desire to share me with others, as if I was his favourite pig at a fair.

The party started with the anticipation of sex, everyone waiting for the first participants to get down to it, as if it was a dance floor, not a sex-play area. It wasn’t long before bodies were sprawled and entwined across half a dozen double beds rammed together, making it impossible to tell which leg was connected to which body in the mass nakedness. I have no doubt Rick visualised the fun he would have – a highly charged turn-on. I should have known there was another reason he looked so satisfied. I was the sacrificial offering to be slaughtered. I don’t like being downgraded and objectified. I don’t have issues with sharing, but I have issues with choice.

I should have trusted my instincts. When we arrived and he opened the car door, I had thought about not moving – a flicker of foresight told me not to go inside. I wavered – BIG MISTAKE. Danger, like evil, is subjective, and as the lights and sounds of the party spilled onto the drive, it was as if they were calling me for a dance. I heard my feet crunch on the gravel and, as my body moved, it seemed to belong to someone else.

I soon realised I was the target for Rick’s collective goonies. He had led me down a long, dark corridor into the private room, on the pretext of being alone, and my stupidity slapped me across the face. I wasn’t the only trophy female there, but I hadn’t come prepared for a forced gang-bang: if I’d known, I would have taken a knife with me, slit their throats and cut off their excuses for manhood, used on me to prove their worth.