The Grotesques (8 page)

“I dropped it.” The headache was easing, but her arms still ached and it was the best her foggy mind could come up with. “While taking pictures of the church.”

“How did it end up in the water?” Danes pressed for an answer.

“I was startled when the bats flew out of the tower. One thought my hair was interesting enough to flutter around. I’m not exactly fond of the creatures. I guess I was scared enough that I flung the camera away. More coffee?” They declined, but she poured herself another cup and cleaned Tilly’s bowl, replacing the cat’s dried up dinner with fresh breakfast. Tilly purred gratefully and began taking delicate mouthfuls. Ella rubbed her arm, reached for the ibuprofen in a top cupboard, and downed two in a single gulp.

“Not feeling well?” Rob had followed her to the kitchen.

“Headache.” She returned to the living room to collect the other mugs, hooking both handles through the fingers of her right hand.

“What’s wrong with your arm?”

“Just a scratch.” She squeezed past Rob, placed the mugs in the sink, and turned to put the milk in the fridge.

Rob blocked her way. “Show me your arm.”

“It’s nothing, Rob.”

It was a measure of just how fatigued she was that she let him take her arm and push the sleeve up. The antiseptic had to be working because the welts were not quite so angry. “Don’t tell me that’s nothing.”

“Tilly got a little carried away when I started playing.”

Rob looked like he had a great deal to say, but a glance at Danes convinced him to keep his mouth shut. The junior detective had risen and was indicating he wanted to leave. “You should come down to the station and sign a statement, Ella.”

She brushed him aside and opened the bare fridge. “Do I have a choice?”

It seemed not. Unsure how long she would be, Ella put Tilly, who never lifted a claw against anything larger than a cricket, outside. She reached for the camera, but Danes pocketed it. “I’m afraid that’s evidence for the time being, Ms Jerome.”

Of course it was. Why else would she or the police be interested in a useless camera?

She endured the ride to the station in silence. Thankfully, Danes peeled away, leaving Rob to walk her through to an empty office. Timber blinds cut the hazy sunlight from a window opposite the door. At right angles to it, and stacked with files, a battered wooden desk spanned almost the length of the confined room.

“Look. You need to give a statement, but before you do, why don’t you come clean.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Come on, Ella. I thought we had a deal going.”

“As soon as I find anything out, I’ll let you know.”

“You really want to play it that way?”

“Rob, I need your support. I need you to be there when it counts. All I can give you at the moment are a tangle of suspicions that are going to make me sound like I enjoy working for the
Informer
.”

“Don’t you?”

Her lips parted, but she saw the smile play around the edges of his mouth and eyes. She forgot the retort that had been on the tip of her tongue. “How did you know my arm hurt?”

“In all the time I knew you, you never carried two mugs in one hand.”

She smiled. Her obsession with precision had borne the brunt of his jokes. No matter the hour, she would trudge in and out of the dining room carrying no more than two pieces of her grandmother’s prized crockery back to the kitchen in one trip in case it chipped. Two a.m. dinner party finishes were murder when she needed to be at the paper by four. “I’ve changed.” The piles of crumpled clothing and lack of anything fresh in the fridge should have told him that.

“What happened to you, Ella?” The soft question bit particularly deep.

“You know what happened to me.”

“The Ella I knew would have fought to clear her name.”

“I did, or don’t you remember?” Her voice was heated. The wounds were still raw.

He held his palms up. “Truce.” She nodded and immediately settled. “Let’s talk about last night. What happened to your arm? And don’t tell me that teddy-bear of a cat scratched you.”

“The bats in the tower aren’t so loveable.”

“Just like at high school camp?”

“So I told you that story?”

“You did.” His voice remained level. His patience had always been one of his most endearing features. Pushy and persistent, always on the go, Ella had adored his calming influence. “I’d like to know what really happened.”

“I was attacked.”

“By whom?”

She shook her head. “I have no idea. No, I’m not being obtuse. It looked animalish, but was almost human in behaviour.”

“A person in costume?” He was looking at her sceptically, like he was wondering if she were caving in to the demands of her editor.

“I guess it could have been.”
If people could fly
. She hesitated, hoping to close the conversation. “I can get you a couple of photos of it. They’re nothing useful, though.”

“I’d be very interested. In the meantime, I’ll arrange for a regular patrol to check the area at night.”

“I need information.”

“What do you want to know?”

“Where exactly were Alicia Moffat and Melanie Denham found, and is there any connection between the missing girls?”

“I can’t tell you that to the first and none that we’ve established to the second.” Rob’s mobile rang with a standard, boring tone. He listened, then responded with, “Tell her I’ll be around shortly.” Snapping the cover shut, he headed for the door. “I’ll send someone in to take your statement.”

“Is Brendan Rhymes still around? I’d like to say hello.”

“Ella, don’t go back down there.”

“Sure, Rob.” They both knew she would.

Ella flipped through the files on the desk while she waited, not finding any related to the case, not expecting to. The door burst open, admitting Brendan Rhymes, looking smart in uniform if somewhat more worldly-wise. His brown hair was not as neat as she remembered, his face not as smooth, and his hazel eyes definitely wearier. He studied her, then carefully closed the door behind him.
Good old Rob
, she thought. Too preoccupied with the latest development to inform his subordinate that the victim had actually requested him.

“What’s going on?” he asked, nervously turning an ear to the door. “I thought I was going to take a statement from a victim.”

Ella had no smiles for Brendan. “Your victim needs to see the case files for the Port River murders,” she said without preamble.

He looked at her like a cornered deer might a lion. “Sorry, no can do.”

“I’m calling in a favour.”

Brendan ran a finger inside his collar. His neck had become very red. “I need to take your statement.”

“Let’s get our priorities straight, Rhymes.”

“If anyone catches me, I’d be straight off the force.”

“Yeah, well someone did find out about a year ago, didn’t they?” She broke eye contact, shaking her head to let him know his self-preservation was the most selfish act she had ever encountered.

“It’s over, Ella.”

She leaned against the desk. “Not for me.”

Considering what she had on him, he didn’t really have a choice. “Wait here.”

He was back in a couple of minutes. Ella planted herself behind the desk, pulled out the files on Alicia Moffat and Melanie Denham, and scanned the information. Both girls’ remains had been discovered on the rocky slopes of the Port Canal, just behind the Church of the Resurrection, Alicia’s by Genord and Melanie’s by a jogger. Ella jotted down names and addresses then concentrated on their movements up to the time of their disappearances. Melanie Denham had started attending service at the Church of the Resurrection a few weeks prior to her disappearance. Alicia, the fifth victim, had attended the Church of the Resurrection against her parents’ wishes, but was not at the church the night she disappeared. Like Melanie, she had been visiting friends on the night of her disappearance.

Ella opened the file on Caroline Jones. The twenty-eight-year-old solicitor and second victim frequently ran along the path leading around the rear of the church. She lived alone and no-one had seen her jog the night she disappeared, but she had come home late after a demanding day at the office, and friends claimed she never missed her run, no matter the hour. It left a question mark as to the exact time and place of her disappearance. Connecting her to the church would be hard. Not so for Joanne Travellian. The fourth young woman to disappear, she and her family were regular attendees at the church.

So far Ella had skipped Cecily Williams’ file. Time was short so, much as it pained her, she would have to trust Adam. Just as she pushed the file aside, she was struck by a thought. She slid the folder closer and opened it, scanning the pages until she found a description of the victim’s appearance. Blue jeans, black blouse, no jewellery; confirmed by both Mr Adam Lowell, cousin, and Mrs Natalie Lowell, aunt.

No connection between any of the girls except the area. Exactly the same area. The Port was a fair size and yet these girls had links to the church by location, if not by faith.

“This is taking too long,” Brendan interrupted.

She barely looked up, but noticed he kept checking the door.

“Why don’t you go get us some coffee?”

“It would look strange.”

“It would look natural. I’m in here, not an interview room, because I know Detective Hamlyn, who asked you to take special care of me. And I’m a complete wreck after my ordeal last night so my statement’s taking ages.” She concentrated on the page, barely heard the door click, and was granted a few minutes solitude.

Bekka Todd was shopping with her boyfriend. He had left her outside the shoe store, more eager to watch his new DVD than help his girlfriend choose a pair of heels for her new secretarial job. No connection to the church mentioned. She began to wonder if Adam’s theory was wild conjecture, especially when the pathologist was so certain Melanie had died in the water. Genord certainly gave her the creeps and obviously had been spying on her, but his style would be more humiliation than mutilation.

Brendan reappeared. “Detective Danes is asking for those,” he blurted, shoving a coffee in front of her. He scooped up the files, loose papers flapping up until he snapped the folders shut, and was out of the room again before she had time to respond.

Ella considered leaving before he returned. He would deserve that. In the end she made a statement to the effect that she had been attacked from behind and had failed to see her attacker, even after she escaped, because the night was so dark. Her description was full of holes and inconsistencies, but she pleaded a memory shaken by shock. This particular officer was not about to question her further when she was known to the lead detective and could dish up such delicious dirt on Brendan’s past.

ELLA RAPPED ON
the door. Inside, muffled bangs preceded complete silence.

“Perhaps this isn’t such a good idea.” Beside her, Adam was looking back at the cars. “He probably thinks you’re an annoying reporter. He probably just wants to be left in peace.”

She banged her fist against the wood. “I am an annoying reporter, and annoying reporters don’t leave people in peace.” Trusting the cops were too busy to listen, she had called Adam before she had even exited the police station, given him this address, and told him to meet her around the corner in two hours, resenting the delay the bus trip home to pick up her car was going to cause. She figured that since annoying journalists didn’t get admitted into grieving relatives’ homes, the only way in was to play the sympathising I’m-a-victim-too angle and she needed Adam for that.

“Hold ya horses. I’m coming,” a voice yelled from inside.

Ella raised an eyebrow at Adam. “See.”

He shifted uncomfortably. The door opened, and a man in his early twenties, dark dishevelled hair clinging to his ears, squinted at them before managing to open bloodshot eyes. His fleecy tracksuit pants were in slightly better repair than his worn grey tee-shirt.

“I’z sleepin’,” he yawned at them.

Adam stepped forward. “Matt Hayes? My name’s Adam Lowell. My cousin, Cecily Williams, disappeared from the area three weeks ago.” Ella could hear the lump in his throat constricting his words. Six families had been torn apart now. She could not imagine how someone got over such a tragedy. Her problems abruptly paled into insignificance.

“Oh, yeah. Me girlfriend Bekka’s missing too.”

“That’s why we’re here.” Adam looked at Ella, who nodded encouragement. “We were hoping we could talk to you.”

He scratched his head and sniffed. “You wanna come in?”

The door admitted them directly into the carpeted living room. A bland coffee table littered with empty beer cans sat between a television on a battered entertainment unit with open doors and a vinyl bean bag. DVDs and videos were scattered all over the place, most, Ella noticed with amusement, sci-fi, including a number of copies of
The X Files
. Matt gathered the DVDs on the sofa and dumped them onto the already crowded table, knocking a can onto the floor. Ella saved a disc from the dripping beer and wondered just how much time he spent watching this rubbish.