What Lies in the Dark (3 page)

Marie Eine is unremarkable. Marie is a little like Joanna Reagan, patient, still … skeletonised. Marie does not have a family wondering where she is, no one really noticed when she disappeared. No one has noticed her in all the years she has been lying here. Marie has been covered in leaves, eaten by bugs, pulled apart and scattered by animals, but she is still waiting for someone to realise that she is here. She has been waiting even longer than Joanna.

This morning, with great excitement, a child will pick up her skull and proudly show it to horrified parents. Police will be called, another investigation will start. Unfortunately Marie Eine won’t be identified to the rest of the world, she is Jane Doe 217. Most of her bones will forever remain unclaimed. Some little bone fragments will still remain here, waiting, in this part of the forest. One or two of her teeth have been trodden further into the dirt by unsuspecting police officers. They will search as much and as well as they can, but the forest will keep part of her body hidden and safe.

Marie, in another life, had been a prostitute, not a very good one. She had lasted three months before picking the wrong guy, and then she lasted two scream-filled days. He would admit later, to himself, that with her he had been too sloppy, too eager. Perhaps if she had just been found earlier, then there would have been enough evidence on her to … well it is too late for that now.

A forensic anthropologist will state that the skeleton is most likely to be female, aged between seventeen and twenty-five, he bases this on the fusion of epiphyses in the humerus. The anthropologist determines that the victim has
been in the ground for anything between two and five years. Cause of death: undetermined, foul play suspected. She had been dumped naked, they are sure of that much. No fragments or shreds of clothing could be found close by, nothing that could be used to identify Jane Doe number 217. No purse, no jewellery, no shoes, no skin. Trauma to the bone was detailed, several chew marks caused by animals. Then several marks across the two of the metacarpal bones, bones that had previously formed the left hand, notches on the bones that had not been caused by a fang.

In desperation, they will hire a facial reconstruction expert, who, to her credit, will do a good job. The first time he saw the facial sketch, blaring across the screen in an appeal for information, he was shocked. He wasn’t expecting her to be found, didn’t expect any of his early ones to be found. The second time he saw the picture … the second time, well, he masturbated. He, like a million other viewers were accosted with the image of not-quite-Marie Eine, staring at them with vacant reconstructed eyes and a pronounced jaw. He and five other clients recognised her but none of them ever cared to admit it.

He is busy now, too busy to care that much about Marie Eine. At the moment he is busy jogging, he goes jogging most nights. Surveying new areas, measuring the pros and cons of the next possible dump site, planning and playing out every possible element in his head. There is another girl, a slender dark-haired girl. Who smiles at him, in that accidental moment when opposing joggers’ eyes meet. He can smell the sweet scent of her hair as she passes. He can almost sense her desperation too, the silent prayer,
oh god, please let him notice me.
He can see that her looks, her pleasing but not beautiful looks, are starting to blemish. That her jogging routine was only taken up recently in a futile battle against her growing bulges. She wasn’t special enough for him to waste too much time on, but she would be fun to play with for a little while. He had some big plans but they would take a little while longer to play out. He needed this now! It has been two long agonising months since his last quick fix.

Maybe for this one, he will suggest a picnic. A romantic little lunch in a secluded area, she might say yes to this, she gives off the impression she is married. The ring on the finger is a dead give-away but that smile suggests she is willing to play. Particularly if he asks the right way, really playing up the bashful yet handsome side, trick the silly bitch into saying yes. She wouldn’t say no anyway, not to him, bitch is practically begging for it. They were all begging for it. There she is now, right on time, quick check to make sure they are really alone and then slow down a little.

Smile that shy boy smile and say, “Hi there.”

Stella hoists her short red skirt higher, revealing even more tantalising thigh. Worked all day, whored all night! The white powder is calling to her and well, fuck it, she has earned it now hasn’t she? Last fucking bugger tipped her well, hurriedly shoving the cash towards her before retreating, ashamed, back to his fucking family. Maybe one more, she’s got to eat tonight. She stubs her cigarette out on a
Missing
poster, mashing the hot residue straight into the photograph, burning away Adelina Sasha’s features.

She poses against a wall, a wall coated with sperm and urine. Her scuffed red leather boots twisting as she slides down the slime. Her short red skirt rising higher and higher, revealing more bruised and needle poked thighs. Deflated withered breasts being slowly coated with warm blood.

She is still warm when they find her. They snap shots with camera phones before walking on with a laugh. But someone eventually will call the police. The call goes out, the rats gather round. A dead prostitute surrounded by shrunken condoms, approximately twenty this time, more trash and probably a rat carcass or two. More bagging and processing to do, each bag to be sealed with biohazard tape. Each item marked, recorded and photographed before being removed. The entire scene has to be preserved, even the slime, the filth and the sperm. The officers work quietly and solemnly, despite the hazards. Despite everything, despite the hundreds of photographs, despite the many pairs of eyes searching,
combing through, they miss a small tarnished object, under-trodden into the mud.

Fletcher and Bullface are on their way, despite their already full case load. Six months ago they were called to the scene of Fran Lizzie Taylor, a girl who grotesquely died with the number 22 carved in her hand. Now they have been called to the scene of Stella McQam, a contrived prostitute with a 28 hurriedly carved into her right hand.

“Victim’s name is Stella McQam, got an ID off her prints. She has been busted twice for prostitution.”

“There is a possibility we are looking at a copycat killer. Fran Lizzie’s number was carved on her left hand and her throat was cut. Stella’s number was carved into her right hand and she was stabbed, just a few inches above the heart.”

“I didn’t think the number on the previous Vic had made the news.”

“It didn’t.” If it was a copycat, then someone was betraying them.

“So where do you want to start?”

Fletcher doesn’t feel like starting, he feels like going back home. Not that he would admit this to anyone but he just wants to crawl away, hide under his duvet. Fran Lizzie had not been a lone death and now there were other issues he dared not voice. He feels disturbed, disturbed by the crowd who have gathered close by, held back by officers and tape. He catches glimpses of their conversations, their disdain for a bint, who probably deserved it. He feels disturbed by the noise of the traffic going past, as if this was just another day. His eyes are firmly stuck to the blood stain. His nose is even insisting it can still smell the coppery scent of blood, bile rises in his throat. He can hear Bullface giving orders, dispatching officers to seize camera phones, obtain warrants for any CCTV footage within a mile of the accident. The assailant was likely to be on foot, Stella’s blood anointing his clothes. He can hear all this but all he can think is that he wants to go home.

Fletcher doesn’t go home. He spends the day interviewing potential eyewitnesses who have seen nothing, but are still eager to talk. Eyewitnesses who in turn are trying
to discover more details from him. They are trying to find out everything he knows. “Was she, like, mutilated?” “Yeh, I heard ’bout her. Bloke kicked the shit outta her right?” Questions like that are asked to encourage Fletcher to reply, correcting their guesses, in a superior I know more than you sort of way. Fletcher isn’t that stupid but knows that replies like, “
I am not prepared to discuss that with you,
” are magically turned into “
Yes, that’s what happened.
” Denials are always taken as encouragements. Questions like, “Have you noticed anyone behaving suspiciously lately?” are always met with a flurry of answers,
this is the bad part of the city, almost every customer is suspicious.
Some customers were suspicious just because they acted polite or because they didn’t smoke. Fletcher had several pages of notes and reluctantly handed over video footage of the suspicious people, people he suspects are probably just eccentric rather than suspicious. Other interviewing teams will bring in similar characters; each one has to be checked thoroughly. Bullface has been shadowing him on these interviews and is equally depressed. They both sit, watching the video feed that caught Stella’s last smoke before disappearing down the dark alleyway. Over and over on a loop, she goes in and dies. The assailant had entered and left via another alleyway, into the maze of a city, avoiding the cameras. Their shift is nearly over but overtime is beckoning.

“He could be anyone. Stella was known to take on any …” Fletcher pauses while deciding on the best way to phrase this, “… client. No one saw anyone wearing blood-stained clothes, he could have dumped them.”

“I had a team collect all the bins within the mile radius. They are going through the contents at the moment. I am going over to supervise.”

Fletcher is hit by a tidal wave of stench as he follows Bullface into the room. The fumes of sickly sweet cans of fizzy drinks are battling against decomposing foods with just a few hints of cigarettes. One of the older officers looks up and grimly welcomes them to hell. They had collected twelve overflowing bags and two officers are still on the scene, going through a rotting skip. Afterwards, those two officers
will be met with sprays of air fresheners wherever they go. Each bag’s location and time of collection has been recorded and the unlucky officers pull evidence out of the Pandora’s Box of rubbish, while others record the contents. So far one bloody tissue has been recovered, four bloody needles and two suspiciously smelling packages. The officers’ jokes are best left unsaid, particularly the one about Constable Tichan’s mother.

Kain has just lit the fifth cigarette of the day. That’s how times passes, cigarettes and orc deaths. Kain hasn’t even moved for four hours, keeping eyes firmly fixed on the door. Waiting and watching.

The teenager just feels like walking, he has been walking for days now. Sure he feels a little thirsty, but there is bound to be water somewhere. Sure he feels a little hungry but it just doesn’t matter. He is outside! Outside where he belongs, out in the fields, in the woods and he can walk forever! Elation fills his every vein as he runs, hollering through an empty field. Laughing and shouting at the sky. It is only out here that he feels free; he thinks he should just quit, quit living with his mother, quit begging for work and just live out here. The Earth will take care of him. It will be all right, it will be. His eyes stray across the field, attracted to the dark mass that lies there. The Earth has decided to give him the girl of his dreams. He lets out a big cry of happiness and begins to run toward her. Here is another person, a girl, someone else who also likes being outside. Someone who feels the same way!

From a distance she looks pretty, just lying in the sun. He runs closer, intrigued, until he realises she isn’t moving. He can hear a peculiar sound, a sound which comes from thousands of maggots feasting as one, a mushy pit of rice munching swiftly at her face, arms and stomach. He stares frozen at the carnage. He wants to kick off every last one of those maggots but dares not touch, dares not move. Her mouth is frozen open in a death scream, choked back by squirming white grubs.

He had found his dream girl three days after she had
died. He will be with the police soon, still shaking. His mouth permanently fixed in a choke. He will cry all through the interviews, cry as they take his prints. Then it will really hit, and he will start screaming. Crying and screaming for days as he is signed in “for observation”. He will still be crying four months later.

Just hours after the body was abandoned, the insects multiply, encouraged by the beautiful warm day. Attracted by the aroma of blood they lay eggs into unprotesting festering wounds. These eggs take a day to hatch, then release squiggles of white flesh which start their migration into the decomposing body. As maggots cannot chew through skin and because the victim is found with a small colony feasting on her left hand, it suggests that she has another number. However, the cuts could have been inflicted by animals, they could be defensive wounds torn open by feasting flies. She had cuts across her stomach and arms, also filled with frenzied banqueting bugs, none of the other victims so far had shown such mutilations. She cannot be linked to the murders of Fran Lizzie Taylor or Stella McQam just yet. The victim’s small purse was found, carefully tucked into place underneath a red lacy bra. The purse is empty, except for one Polaroid. The victim’s money is currently being exchanged for a round at the local pub, as he treats several off-duty policemen to a pint of their choice. Her credit cards and driving licence are carefully locked in his safe.

The Polaroid is of a young woman, lying naked on the ground. The woman is covered in bruises and deep interlacing cuts, twisted jagged lines slashed across her throat. Her hands have been carefully placed across her chest, the palms face down so that the number two so cautiously carved, can be clearly seen. The young woman clearly isn’t the same victim. The image is why Fletcher and Bullface have been called.

“Right, what do we know?”

“No ID, the victim is still a Jane Doe. Michaels is going through the missing persons lists. The victim was most
likely killed here.”

Fletcher eyes up the landscape, it looks too beautiful here. The fields are beaming serenely as the August sun begins to set, casting a brilliant orange glare over the postcard image. Fletcher stands alert, his hairs on end as his ears tell him that this scene is too quiet, too eerie, it is as if the nearby forest is eavesdropping on their conversation.