The Slowest Cut (8 page)

Nicky smiled. Her voice was anything but dulcet but she appreciated the thought. “Des. The woman’s shoe print you found. What was the heel like?”

“What do you mean what was it like? It was just a woman’s heel.”

She raised her eyes to heaven. Men. “Have you any idea how many different heel shapes there are on women’s shoes, Des? No, I bet you haven’t. Right. Tell me the dimensions, just of the heel. Then tell me the shape of the sole.”

One minute later Nicky was drawing shoes on a notepad with Davy gawping at her. The heel Des had described had been stiletto and the sole of the shoe had been pointed. That left two likely types of heel. A kitten heel, small stilettos about one-and-a-half inches high, and a full stiletto, anything up to six inches. Nicky lifted the phone again and put it on speakerphone. This time Des was well prepared.

“I like Jimmy Choo’s new heel. It would go really well with my jeans.”

Nicky laughed for the second time that day, this time at the image of the bearded scientist wearing stilettos. “Go back to the sole print for me, Des. How is the weight distributed? Uniformly throughout, slightly more towards the front, or all towards the front?”

There was silence for a moment while Des checked. When he spoke again his voice contained something bordering on awe. “It’s all at the front. But how did you know?”

“There’s only one heel narrow enough to fit your dimensions – a stiletto. And depending on the height of the heel, a small kitten heel, to one a full six-inches high, the foot would be arched differently. The higher the heel the more her foot would arch and throw the weight towards the front. From your print I’d say she was wearing stilettos of any height between three and five inches. If she was really small five inches would look ridiculous and potentially tip her over head-first, but she could have got away with three.”

“Mrs Morris, you’re a goddess!”

“Not the first time that’s been said, but always good to hear. Bye Des.”

Nicky clicked the phone off to see Davy frantically typing away. He turned the screen towards her again.

“Even if your theory’s right that still makes the suspect five-feet-two or less. That’s tiny, Nicky.”

She frowned then pulled over a chair and sat down. “Yes, it is. It’s hard to picture someone that size as a murderer.”

Just then Liam entered the squad, followed closely by the others. His voice boomed across the room.

“What size?”

Davy explained and Liam turned to Nicky with an affronted look.

“Here, so you’re saying that small people are less likely to kill? What about Napoleon then? And I suppose that means tall people are more likely. That’s size-ist!”

Davy gave him a sceptical look. “It doesn’t work in reverse. Usually…”

Craig sat down beside Nicky, pleased to see her smiling. He stared at the screen and nodded. “Davy and Nicky are right, Liam. Look at the model on the screen. Excellent work you two. OK. If the female is that small, with or without heels, then we were right. The likelihood is that her partner or partners included at least one man to do the heavy lifting. Eileen Carragher wasn’t a light woman.”

Jake sat forward to interrupt. “There aren’t many adult women that height, sir. Is there likely to be some sort of register somewhere? Like on old passports.”

Craig laughed, thinking of Natalie. “Big Brother doesn’t require people to register their heights yet, Jake. Although you’re right, the old passports used to carry it, but even then it was self-reported. My other thought is, in what groups are women likely to be small?”

Annette was the first to answer.

“Well…elderly women tend to be small and Asian women tend to be smaller than Caucasians, sir. And East Asian. There were quite a few Filipino nurses where I trained and they were all very petite.”

“OK. I think we can probably rule out elderly women on the basis of strength. Even with two people, lifting Eileen Carragher would have been a challenge. They would have needed strength; so probably young. Asian, East Asian, women from the Indian subcontinent, all of those groups fit.”

“Growth restricted people as well. People with chronic childhood illness, or a genetic predisposition.”

“OK, again bear in mind strength, but Annette, you and Jake look into that.” He turned towards Liam and was pleased to see that Nicky hadn’t headed back to her desk. “Anything from Vice, Liam?”

Liam gave him a knowing look and then glanced at Nicky. She squinted at him in warning.

“If you think you’re getting rid of me just when you reach the juicy part, you’ve another think coming, Liam Cullen.”

Liam shrugged and continued. “It seems there’s quite the BDSM scene in Belfast.” He turned to Jake, pre-empting his interruption. “Whatever BDSM stands for nowadays. There are at least five clubs advertised in the city centre.”

Annette frowned, trying to imagine where they were hiding, amongst the fashion shops and burger bars.

“And more underground parties held regularly at people’s houses. They cover everything from the usual to a few more niche preferences.”

Nicky couldn’t stop herself asking. “What do they cater for?”

Liam voice took on a lofty tone. “There are limits to what I’ll discuss in mixed company, Madam.”

Nicky snorted at the same time as Annette. “Since when?”

“Since I heard what they do in these clubs. Let’s just say some people have warped minds.”

All their pleading couldn’t persuade Liam and he turned towards Craig. “All right if I go with Davy to see D.C.I. Hughes? I think there’s mileage here.”

Craig nodded. Aidan Hughes was an old friend of John’s and his from school. He was a real joker and he could see the Vice Squad giving him plenty to crack jokes about. Craig updated everyone on their interview with Gerry Warner and announced they were extending his holding time for another twelve hours.

“Take photographs of the Carraghers and Warner with you when you go to see Aidan, Liam. Let’s see if he recognises them. There can’t be that many people on the BDSM scene.”

Nicky smiled coyly. “Oh, don’t be too sure, sir.”

She strolled back to her desk to the sound of laughter, leaving a distracted Liam in her wake, reminding them all of his little crush on her. Craig broke up the group and headed for his office then Liam yelled after him.

“And thanks for landing me in it with Jack Harris about the gimp suit. He’s planning all sorts of hell for me now.”

***

It hadn’t taken as long to kill Ian Carragher as his wife. He’d basically wanted to die, welcoming it as some sort of release. But that hadn’t stopped Mai performing the same ritual and taking her time, adding an extra little treat just for him. After the third defibrillation failed even she knew it was time to stop.

She scowled down at the body and swore. How dare he die on her so quickly? She’d wanted to cut his throat at the scene, the same way as his wife. Now they’d have to find some other way to show their disgust. She slapped Carragher’s moribund face in frustration.

The young man wiped the last smear of blood from the blade and placed it back in its case. He rubbed his brow with a bloodied hand and gently turned Mai to face him, watching as she dragged her eyes reluctantly away from the corpse.

“We need to decide how to leave him, Mai. Let’s shower now, then have some sleep. We can think about it tonight.”

Mai rested her tiny hand on his chest and gazed into his dark eyes. “You go on. I want to stay here for one more minute.”

He nodded and turned, leaving her alone with their prey. Mai stared down at the pulseless man, his doughy face still intact. They wouldn’t destroy the face this time; he was the worst scum of all and she wanted him recognised straight away. She stood for a moment longer then filled her mouth with saliva, spewing it onto Ian Carragher’s face. Then she turned on her heel and joined her lover, to rest before they took the next step.

***

John wandered through Belfast’s city centre, stopping occasionally at jeweller’s shops then glancing quickly over his shoulder, in case he was seen by anyone he knew. He wasn’t looking for an engagement ring, definitely not; he was just looking at watches. He needed a new one. Window-shopping, that’s what he was doing, but people might get the wrong idea. People were like that.

He wandered for ten minutes in a state of denial and then halted in front of a small jewellery shop that he hadn’t noticed before. There was something old world about its bowed front window, shaped from panes of thick, leaded glass. Its contents glittered with antique silver, and diamonds so highly polished they made you want to peer closer to see if they were real. Before John realised it he was inside, smiling at the tinkling bell above the door. Much more romantic than CCTV, or door-opening buttons on the counter that you had to press.

A man in late old age emerged slowly from the back of the shop. He smiled in a way that made John feel like he was back at school, standing in front of his favourite teacher; Mr Pogue. He’d had a way of making you feel important without saying a word and the man possessed it too. He gave John his full attention and smiled.

“Can I help you, sir?”

The man had a soft, round countenance, deeply scored with the lines of age. When he smiled the ones round his eyes folded and spread, so that all that could be seen were two small, blue dots of light. John knew that this man had seen everything in life and probably already knew why he was there.

He was right. Without another word the man reached below the counter and pulled out a tray of sparkling rings. There were diamonds, gleaming alone and with other stones; green, blue, and even pearls. The designs were stunning, better than anything he’d seen all day. But how had he known when John had only come in looking for a watch?

“Is the lady petite, sir?”

John gawped at the guru in front of him and gave a mute nod.

“And dark-haired?

Another nod. He knew as a doctor that people telegraphed information before they opened their mouths, but this was sheer mind-reading.

“What colour are her eyes?”

“Light blue”

“And her favourite stone?”

John shook his head. He didn’t know and he suddenly thought that he should. He knew how many degrees Natalie had and every research prize that she’d won, but not her favourite stone. Work had bonded them together, but now he needed to think of her as a woman and himself as the man wooing her.

He blushed and the man smiled kindly, reading his thoughts again. John noticed that he wore arm bands, elevating his shirt sleeves and revealing his weathered wrists and hands. He hadn’t seen anyone wear those since his father had died. He’d worn them when he was gardening, the only time he’d ever unbuttoned his waistcoat when John was a child. A sudden sob caught in his throat and he choked it back. His parents had been dead for so long that he barely thought of them nowadays, yet suddenly he wanted them there, to tell them about Natalie. He glanced at the man and he was still smiling. He gave John a wise look.

“A big day soon.”

“If she says yes.”

The man nodded. “She will. Choose a ring and leave it here, then you can bring her in and see if it’s the one she picks.”

He lifted a tray from a small cabinet and set it in front of John, pointing at a canary yellow diamond with a Marquis cut. It was stunning. John took it out and held it to the light, watching as it glistened and shone. It was glorious and unusual, just like Natalie.

“It’s perfect! Can I leave it over, for a deposit?”

The old man considered John for a moment, as if he could read his soul, then he shook his head and John’s heart sank. It needn’t have.

“Leave it for one week with just your name. Propose to the lady and bring her in. It will still be here for you, I promise. And it will be the one she picks, if I know my grooms.”

The jeweller laid the ring on a velvet square and nodded John on. John gazed at him, confused. Did he want him to try it on? It wouldn’t even fit his little finger! The man smiled encouragingly.

“Go ahead, sir. Take a picture with your modern phone.”

John smiled, imagining a 1940s Bakelite handset in the back room. He quickly took a photograph and they parted friends, then John stepped back onto Royal Avenue in a daze, feeling as if he’d been in another time. Cars were still whizzing around the City Hall and people were still walking and talking and carrying the things they’d bought, but he felt different somehow. He was about to get engaged. He hoped. And he did hope it, really hope it, he knew that now. He smiled back at the small shop doorway one last time then headed cheerfully for his car, planning exactly how he was going to propose.

***

Fitzwilliam Primary School, Lisburn Road, Belfast.

Annette knocked on her tenth classroom door of the week and waited to be invited in. She’d seen all the teachers but one now, and none of them had offered anything of use. Mrs Carragher had been a good headmistress, if a bit hard to get on with at times. They really couldn’t think of a reason why anyone might want to kill her. The last comment was delivered with a similar lack of enthusiasm across the piste, and Annette saw frosty encounters and turbulent staff meetings written on the faces of each one. She shrugged. Lots of people were unpopular at work; it didn’t mean they were bad people. She smiled, imagining a sarcastic comedian’s voice delivering the phrase like a punch line. But it was true. She’d heard enough stories from Pete to tell her that schools were just like small villages, and the village elder was rarely universally loved.

Annette peered through the door’s frosted glass and just made out the shape of a man hunched over the teacher’s desk. She knocked again more firmly and the shape turned towards the door, beckoning her in. She entered, expecting to be greeted by rows of low-slung desks, but they were higher than before and Annette remembered that this was the senior class, readying themselves to transfer to secondary school.

The man scanned her coolly and his gaze gave Annette the same shudder that she’d felt with Gerry Warner. He was somewhere in his twenties and slim, with cold dark eyes and sallow skin. She supposed that he was good looking, but not in a way that would ever attract her.