What Lies in the Dark (2 page)

Today’s thirtieth caller will discover that their flatmate is dead. It is one in a sea of calls echoing that a girlfriend, a boyfriend, a sister, a brother, cannot be found and wasn’t answering their phone. One of many echoes stating that my neighbour, friend, lover did not come home last night. As news of a body spreads, people begin to notice that someone is missing, someone isn’t there. The survivors are jamming the phone lines, trying to reach out with a desperate plea, please don’t be them …
If I tell you what s/he looks like, then please tell me it’s not them, please …
It is her, Fran Lizzie Taylor, lying in the morgue with the number 22 cut into her left hand.

Fran Lizzie had been an ordinary twenty-two year old woman, living in a shared apartment. Monday to Friday, she worked as a sales assistant. Friday nights she went a little wild, to break up the monotony of the week. On Saturdays she would sleep till noon, only sometimes alone and then spend the rest of the day either shopping or visiting spas. On Sundays she would do all the little stupid jobs like the ironing or the washing and relax. She was planning her summer holiday in detail, fantasising about the sun, sand and sangria. Holiday brochures were everywhere in her flat, along with boxes of unworn shoes and coloured scarves. Fran Lizzie liked her life, liked her new boyfriend Steve, who might just be the one. Fran Lizzie liked it all, even her flat felt smiley and happy.

Bullface and Fletcher are now standing in the mess that was Fran Lizzie’s living room, with the intention of interviewing her sobbing flat-mate. Fletcher, who specialises in interviewing techniques, prides himself on being able to talk to anyone, even the scummiest of scum. But he always feels a little helpless when faced with a sobbing young woman, this woman is no exception.

“She … she … waaaaaaah … she …” More mascara trickles down her stained cheeks.

“Take a deep breath,” Fletcher advises as compassionately as he can. They have been trying for ten minutes now to find out where Fran Lizzie had gone last night and his patience is wearing a little thin.

“She … she … arrgggh.”

Fletcher patiently passes her a fresh tissue, while Bullface, who has little patience, continues her visual inspection of the living room, scanning the vast pile of scattered DVDs, looking for a sign that Fran or her flatmate were not as girly as they appeared. All she can see are chick-flicks, chick-flicks and more chick-flicks. Smiling happy actors stare out of abandoned DVD cases, mocking Bullface’s thoughts. Even the walls of the living room are painted a soothing light pink. There seems little possibility that Fran or her flatmate are moonlighting as dominatrix or anything even remotely dark. The room contains no explanation of why Fran had been picked to die.

“She … waaas going to … mughgo hgggr bddoosfid.” The flatmate tries again, choking in the folds of her nineteenth fresh tissue.

“I am sorry, what was that?”

“Meeet … hsffji frhg.”

“She was going to meet who?” Fletcher is met with a fresh wail of tears. This is going to take a while, a long while. His colleagues are not having much more luck either. Extra volunteer staff have been brought in to deal with the barrage of phone calls, as exaggerated rumours are still spreading. Officers have been sent around nearby streets to interview potential eyewitnesses. No one saw or heard anything strange last night. Well that’s not true, several screams had been heard, it was a typical drunk Friday night. Fran Lizzie had been found thirty minutes away from a very popular pub. She had been last seen leaving that pub, after meeting one of her workmates for a drink. Her flatmate was supposed to go with her, but after a bad argument with her boyfriend, she decided to stay at home, something she would regret for the rest of her life. Something Fran Lizzie regretted for the last few moments of her life.

No one had seen anything out of the ordinary, Fran
Lizzie had three vodka and cranberry juices before leaving. Her workmate would say later that she was happy, laughing over the rudest customer of that day, talking eagerly of her planned holiday to Ibiza. She had left the pub alone. The workmate had been busy chatting up a crush. No one had noticed anything suspicious or anyone following her.

The last day of Fran Lizzie’s life had just been like any other day.

Bullface and Fletcher left the flatmate sobbing and returned to the office to spend the last two hours of their shift writing up statements and reports, conferring with their colleagues over the total lack of evidence. Bullface and Fletcher had been assigned to this case, two other Detective Constables to a rape. Tomorrow will bring more interviews, more reports and the single fading hope that this is a one off.

Why 22? What significance did it have? They briefly consider the possibilities. Fran Lizzie was 22 and, ironically, 22 days. There was a possibility that her killer knew that. But then, Fletcher decides, her killer probably didn’t know her, nothing about this murder has suggested it is a personal hate kill. Bullface would back him up here, the way Fran Lizzie was so carelessly thrown over a fence, as if she meant nothing to the assailant. It was too cold, too calculating to be the work of someone who had known her.

It could be a secret connection that only time would reveal. It could be the start of a code, although Bullface thought this was a stupid suggestion. The marks had been inflicted post-mortem so it was extremely unlikely Fran Lizzie had inflicted them herself for whatever bizarre reason. Bullface used to encounter a street crazy who carved words into himself, etching random names, a shopping list and an illegible list. Come to think of it, Bullface hadn’t seen him around lately. She had never asked him why, it seemed to her an idiot question to ask, if you take the time to permanently carve something into skin, then it must mean something, even if no one else understood the meaning. The number on Fran Lizzie has to mean something. Both of them just hope,
pray, mentally plead that this does not mean that she is victim number 22. That there are 21 others out there, somewhere, screaming silently in the dark and dirt.

The pubs are quiet tonight, unusually quiet for a Saturday night. Not many women want to risk going out tonight, especially not alone. Next week the pubs will be filled again, but not tonight. Tonight people seem to be mourning a girl they have never met. Perhaps people are paranoid, thinking that he might strike again tonight. Every smooth-tongued man could be him, every drink could be spiked. Tonight, he could be there, out to get another unsuspecting victim. Everywhere the atmosphere is tense, though ironically, the pubs are the safest place to be.

The conversations are all about him. Hushed whispers as every stranger, every loner is carefully scrutinised. Inevitably, “Maybe it was The Krill,” is one joke made by several different groups, a joke always met with nervous laughter, no one wanting to acknowledge the dark truth lying behind the joke. It could be the Krill. Here tonight, and tomorrow night, even for the rest of the year, people are thinking, jumping to conclusions and that is always dangerous. It isn’t the first murder that this city has seen, not even the first this year, but the fact that it is a young girl, killed with no obvious motive. The fact that the news has covered it so mysteriously: confirming the mutilation but not giving any juicy details has sent the city into motion. Several super-sleuths are already blaming her boyfriend, romanticising the idea of a torrid affair, maybe with her boss, which had been fatally discovered. Not knowing that Fran Lizzie’s boss is actually a happily married 60-year-old woman.

Stella is still working tonight, even though she has heard about the murder, she doesn’t really care. Stella isn’t going to lose forty, sixty quid over some girl. Stupid bint probably deserved it anyway. Stella hoists her short neon skirt even
higher, revealing even more tantalising thigh. The lack of girls out tonight will probably work to her benefit anyway.

The sword squelches through the green flesh, pixels of blood washing across the screen before dramatically fading as the orc falls to the ground. Another one bites the dust. Kain, even after two hundred orcs is still thirsty for more, craving that teeny rush of power derived from a kill. The power Kain so rarely feels in real life, the secret thrill of just being better than everyone else at something drives Kain to continue. It isn’t as if there was anything better to do now, just yet.

Slice, slash, and squelch. Next!

Kain inhales another lungful of smoke, heightening the heady rush of orc demise, maybe next it should be a dragon demise. Every so often just checking, making sure there is no chance. No, but you have to be sure, just have to check … no definitely not, safe for now …

Fran Lizzie’s flatmate has finally stopped wailing. She is staring blankly at Fran Lizzie’s bedroom door, just waiting for Fran Lizzie to get up. Fran’s jacket is still draped across the kitchen chair. Her dirty dishes from last night’s dinner still lie in the sink, three messages from Steve are bleeping on the answer machine. The whole flat seems to be waiting for Fran to come home. To step through that door, because everything is just fine and everything is OK and Fran will be here, any minute now, any minute now … now … now. Fran Lizzie’s flatmate just doesn’t know what else to do, so she is sitting here, waiting … waiting. Tomorrow Fran Lizzie’s mother will be here, just to check, and there will be more tears and her flatmate will finally realise. But for now she is just waiting and waiting, staring numbly at the closed door.

Brandi is listening to her mother bragging on and on about the nice young man her sister is seeing, a bright young man who just happens to earn lots of money doing some computer
nonsense. Her mother will never understand the internet industry, always arguing that it is for people who have too much time on their hands … but those who are making their fortunes from such an industry,
Well hello Mister and do have some tea.

Brandi can’t stand listening to her mother’s insistence: “You could also find such a man if you tried, maybe if you straightened your hair and wore that dress I got you for Christmas.” The offending unworn dress that Brandi had decided made her look like a thirty-something, has-been hooker.

Brandi sometimes wondered what her mother actually wanted from her. Why torture her every week with,
“You could be like your sister if only you would …”
What exactly did her mother want? Brandi had a goodish job, she didn’t want for anything (well maybe those boots she had seen, so sexily centred in the shop’s window.) But that just wasn’t good enough for Brandi’s mother, oh no. She had to be sleeping with the next nerdy millionaire and buying diamonds like candy. The resentment is enough to make Brandi want to drink until sunrise because Brandi knows, her mother knows, her sister also knows that Brandi will never be good enough, she will never date the right man, or wear the right clothes, never do anything quite right. The next door neighbour and the milkman also probably know this. So why does her mother do this to her? Why continue to torture her every week with nagging whines?

Brandi decides it is simply because her mother is Satan reincarnated.

Fletcher is cooking, it is what he does, particularly when he is stressed or worried. He doesn’t do decorating or cars, the sad kitchen will attest to that. He is standing in a kitchen that is desperately in need of a paint job, the grease-stained walls need to be re-tiled and while we are on the subject, his car needs a wash and a vacuum, and Mrs Claire Fletcher would be very happy if Fletcher would just clean out the empty crisp packets.

Tonight Fletcher is in the mood for chilli.

The chilli recipe his mother had written down was neat and precise. She has even added little explanations to each ingredient, explaining why the cumin/chilli/paprika need to be added, to flavour the meat and dull the harshness of the red chilli powder. After careful deliberation Fletcher decides that Chinese five spice and mixed herbs are just as good. He pokes around the overflowing cupboard for kidney beans, Claire had promised to buy some and they are in there, behind the tins of mixed vegetables. But Fletcher cannot see them. Giving up, he decides that baked beans are just as good and throws those in instead. Stirring the concoction briefly, he thinks the chilli is looking pretty damn fine, get a whiff of that lads! His stomach is rumbling in anticipation.

Fletcher then chops the peppers, concentrating every brain cell on not cutting his fingers, just focusing on slicing through the thick green flesh of the pepper, forgetting, again to remove the pepper seeds. Trying to think only of the food and not the female, chop, now lying, chop chop, dead on the cold glass chopping board, chop chop chop, every violated piece being probed, chop chop, by the doctor’s scalpel. Examined then thrown to boil. Chop chop, trying to focus on chopping the wretched peppers and not those tiresome questions, chop chop, why no defence wounds? Chop chop chop! Why didn’t she struggle? chop! Chop! Why 22? Chop! Why aren’t there any kidney beans? Claire had promised, chop chop chop! She had promised to come straight home! Chop! Cho- the peppers have been slaughtered, the burning pan is making protesting fizzles but Fletcher is no longer hungry.

Four months have passed, Fran Lizzie Taylor and her secrets have been buried, and her tombstone is still covered with flowers. Her smiling photo has haunted the city’s television screens for long enough. People have calmed down, there doesn’t appear to be any more danger. Fran has gone now, even Fran Lizzie’s part of the flat has been emptied by one of her brothers, with most of her possessions going to charity. The magazines advertising fun in the sun were recycled and the holiday to Ibiza completely forgotten. Despite this, Fran Lizzie’s flatmate is still waiting for Fran to come home.

No one has been charged for Fran Lizzie’s murder yet. Although Fran Lizzie’s boyfriend Steve was investigated and even his mother will still regard him with suspicion for a while, Bullface, to her disappointment, has proved him to be innocent. Not that Steve cares, he has lost the one person he was living for, for now anyway. Fletcher and Bullface still wait for the DNA results to be returned. Hoping, despite eyewitness testimony, that something will match Steve, just so this would be an easy open and shut case. An attempt to baffle them away from a personal kill but they know the truth, that Steve is innocent, Fran’s family and flatmate who all have been DNA tested will also be innocent. Bullface is convinced that her killer did not know her. Maybe something will be on her clothes or the cigarettes or the briefcase, a little speck of his DNA. The random objects might not be random, there is always a chance. Maybe, but the chances are low. They have got nowhere with the carved number. While Fletcher thinks it might be a code or something along those lines, Bullface believes it means Fran Lizzie is the twenty-second victim and that they should be looking for others. It just sounds so unlikely, how could there be others? So many others, surely someone would have noticed something … she wants to start searching but she doesn’t know where to start. Bullface has realised that she is just waiting for the next murder, knowing there will be another one, while Fletcher
remains a little more optimistic. To him, this could still be a one-off well-disguised murder of passion. They are also investigating several other cases, which are looking a little more promising. That is not a comfort to Fran Lizzie’s mother, Jennifer Taylor, who still phones every week, wanting to hear of progress, always hanging up angry and disappointed.