by Ali Carter
Charlotte sniggered. “I made it my business to find out where you worked.” She sneered. “A very co-operative little junior gave it to me when I explained our computer system was down. Told her I needed to contact you urgently regarding some test results. She was most obliging. I now also have your home address Jenny – so I’m warning you, don’t – cross – me.” The line went dead.
Jason had paced the lounge throughout. Jenny now sat with the phone in her lap; she stared blankly down at it then looked slowly back up at him.
“That was –”
“I guessed…” scowled Jason; “What did she say?”
“She said she could get you sent to prison for stealing drugs Jason – what the hell is that all about?” Jason winced. Time to come clean… but only about the surgery break-in…
Charlotte flipped the cover of her mobile shut. Sat with her left leg outstretched in the hay, and the other peaked, she wondered just how much she’d frightened her, how much she could count on Jenny Flood not to squeal her adulterous little head off to the police – or anyone else for that matter.
Apart from the horses, the stables had remained exactly as they were that terrible night, Charlotte couldn’t bear to change anything. Not the halters, the grooming equipment, saddles, boots, rugs or nosebags. None of it… She could still smell them; Greta and Gizmo, her babies, her only real friends.
As she sat there facing their stalls, their blankets thrown over the partitions, she fiddled with bits of hay and felt a tear well up, sting and escape down her cheek. It was as if it could dissolve all her callous thoughts, as if the salt could cleanse her destructive madness. For that one fragile moment she was almost human…
With her head hung low and her right leg now slid down and along the stable floor to relax with the other one, she realised just how very, very tired she was as she reflected on the whole hideous nightmare. The sliding action caused her shoe to scrape through the dried-out grass and create a metal clinking sound, then she felt something beneath the sole of her flats. Puzzled, she wiped the tear away, sat up straight and felt through the matted floor covering. When her fingers found it, they lifted it out slowly. She sat back against the stable wall holding it in her lap.
Charlotte turned the silver bracelet over and over looking incredulously at what she’d just found. When the ‘J’ fell right side up across her left palm she pushed at the skull and cross bone with her right index finger and straightened all the links into a neat line. The ‘F’ was clear to see at the other end. She brought the broken clasp and eye together – to create the Gothic silver circlet.
Realisation of who was to blame for the murder of her beloved horses hit like a taser. Her fingers closed over the garish carved letters and squeezed until she felt them cut into her flesh. Her eyes narrowed and she spat his name out between tightly clenched teeth. Out loud – and with venom.
TWENTY-NINE
Harry Longbridge rubbed the strong menthol stick on his upper lip in preparation. Josie Kinkade’s cadaver lay on the mortuary slab in front of him, and although he’d served nearly thirty years in the service and attended many autopsies, he’d never got used to the unpalatable aromas of ‘dice and slice’.
He tried his hardest not to grin as young Joe Walker looked as if he was about to pass out despite the mortuary’s ‘best pocket buddy’, and had to respect Suzanne Moorcroft’s steel resolve not to follow suit. For both recruits it was their first autopsy and they were doing their level best to remain in situ for the duration.
“O – kayy… are we ready folks?” asked the forensic pathologist, eyes bright, smile wide and tools held mid-air. The pose made her look as if she were about to serve Sunday lunch.
One of Kirkdale General’s finest, buxom American expat Kay Winford was known for her dry sense of humour and no-nonsense execution. She never meant to be disrespectful to the deceased, just simply felt it helped to lift the atmosphere a little if she viewed death as acutely interesting, rather than deeply depressing – from a forensics point of view of course. To avoid morbid thoughts most of the time made for an easier ride all round.
Harry and his two charges swapped raised brows as Kay made the first incision. The previous three victims had all turned up very little in the way of real evidence, no more than the content of their stomachs, and the fact that Rachel Dern’s lungs were none too clever after fifteen years of nicotine. He sincerely hoped Josie Kinkade’s body might offer up something a good deal more informative than the early stages of lung cancer, or the fact that her last meal was a pepperoni pizza.
The two rookies watched with advanced apprehension as the pathologist’s scalpel slid silently between small neat breasts down the torso to the top of the pubic bone; it’s like she’s unzipping a banana, thought Joe Walker irreverently. An immediate guilty flush followed, his conscience pricked at what his devoutly religious father would have made of that idea.
The nasal rub did little to help reduce the shock of the odour emitted, it was barely tolerable. As she noticed her colleague’s plight, Suzanne offered Joe a handkerchief. He took it and threw her a grateful wince in thanks, held it to his face and prayed he wouldn’t introduce it to his breakfast.
Kay Winford first parted and then peeled back the pale chilled flesh and thin layers of subcutaneous fat to expose the rib cage. Josie Kinkade had been a slim woman, not much work was involved there. Heart side, it revealed several already broken ribs from whatever had been used to create the hole in her chest after the initial chloroform attack. It was this that Harry was most interested in, to see if there were any buried splinters from some form of stake, or if the end of the weapon had made any chip marks to the bone which would imply some sort of metal chisel. It would have to have been bloody big though, he reminded himself.
The heart, Kay could see, was a splattered mess. She reached for the bolt cutters to prize back each of the intact ribs after a tweezers job on the bits of broken bone. Suzanne visibly flinched at each loud crack but managed to stand firm. Kay then lifted the mangled organ into a Petri dish just as Joe’s drained face sailed past the head end of the slab. Harry stifled a grin, left him to a male assistant who’d just entered the room, and imparted a rare wink of respect to Suzanne who remained on her feet. She smiled – weakly.
The cavity organs were next: stomach, large and small bowel, liver and intestines; all plopped redundantly one after the other into a deeper larger bowl; all glistened slickly, eel-like under the brightness of the lab’s overhead lamps.
“Anything?” asked Harry hopefully.
“Well – at first inspection there’s no trace of wood splintering in the heart or surrounding tissue, just like the other three,” replied Kay.
“I’ll run a more detailed surgical check after you’ve gone, and let you know if there’s any change on that, but I don’t think there will be. If a wooden stake or similar weapon had been hammered into the chest and then pulled back out, at least some visual splintering would have been left behind.”
“What about a metal stake – or a chisel or something?” Suzanne suggested.
“Hmmm… it’s possible, the edges would be smoother, there would be no material to be caught up in the tissue, but there’s no chip from a chisel end on any of the ribs. Breakage yes, but no chisel-type marks, either of those would have left indented lines on the bones and there aren’t any. Here, do you see?” Suzanne leant forward and examined each of the snapped-out ribs more closely now that Kay had laid them individually on a separate tray. Harry also looked more closely whilst he tried not to breathe in – it didn’t really help much. He acknowledged he understood, covered his mouth and stepped back smartly again. Joe remained seated by the far wall, head between his legs. Of the two, it was Suzanne who was destined for bigger things thought Harry.
“What about if the stake or… whatever it was, had been made of something else?” pursued Suzanne.
“How do you mean?” asked Kay, �
��like plastic or rubber or something?”
“No… more like… I dunno, stone or –”
“Or ice?!” shouted Joe excitedly, he’d jumped away from the wall now and quickly re-joined the group – albeit behind Suzanne. Harry’s mouth dropped about a foot in surprise as he turned around to his young constable.
“Well where the hell did that come from?” he asked, eyes wide. Joe gave a modest smile.
“Just a mixture of what was being said I guess,” he replied. “Is it possible though Dr. Winford?” The stout pathologist leant back on her heels and re-studied the open cadaver, then the wasted heart in the Petri dish. Josie Kinkade had been naked when she was murdered; there were no clothing particles in her body tissue; no wood splinters and no evidence to suggest a knife; the hole was the wrong shape for a blade anyway, nor a poker or any chisel-type of metal implement. More importantly, nothing had been found at the scene or in the vicinity… of any of the murders. Kay was quiet for quite some time before she looked up…
“Young man… I think you may just have something.”
Back at the station later, Harry filed a report on the Kinkade autopsy. Joe’s ice stake theory was not one he wanted to go with, but with nothing else on the table, and Kay Winford having admitted the idea had legs, he couldn’t exactly rule it out. Hadn’t he seen some drama on TV where a large ice stalagmite or something had been used? Hardly realistic though surely, he thought; he ran his hand through his hair in frustration.
An hour later, Harry had found a reminder note scrunched up underneath half a corned beef sandwich and a cup of cold coffee. It was from his secretary, Denise. He groaned; checked his desk diary, then his watch, then rolled his eyes in irritated impatience. Mrs. Longbridge had made a doctor’s appointment for him, against his wishes, to sort out the hypoglycaemic/diabetic symptoms that had plagued him for so long. Just to make her happy, he’d promised to keep it – and now he was late. As if to make a point, a foggy head descended at that very moment. He snatched a barley sugar from the supply dish on top of the desk, grabbed his jacket and headed off for a consultation – with Dr. Miles Peterson.
It was two a.m., Jenny stood outside Jason’s bedroom door and strained to listen – his radio had finally gone off and she could hear faint muffled snores.
Things had gone too far, way too far she thought as she punched in Emily’s mobile number to tell her so. She stepped away from his room, heart pounding, and walked into the lounge. He mustn’t find out about her six-year transatlantic link with publishing giants McCarthy Stone. Nobody must find out.
Jenny repeated the number impatiently as the line kept connecting to voicemail. She needed to speak to her, and she needed to speak to her now. It was nine p.m. U.S. time. Her finger hesitated over the buttons; she’s got to be home she thought desperately – surely fancy New York publishers can’t be entertaining clients all the time!
The sound of the soft intermittent burr of the American landline continued on for much longer than she’d anticipated. She kept her eyes on the lounge door in case he woke. Jenny had never rung Emily at home before – it was expressly forbidden, but this was an emergency and she intended to tell her exactly what she wanted. The instigator of this crazy plot on the next plane out of JFK! The line kept on ringing.
“Come on, come on, come on,” she muttered under her breath, her eyes still on the door. Finally someone picked up.
“Yup?” it was a man’s voice. Jenny didn’t quite know why she was surprised but she had to think quickly;
“Oh hi – it’s – uh, Faithe, a friend of Emily’s. I was just ringing to check wheth –”
“Hold on I’ll call her. Emily! It’s Faithe !” A pause – then – “She’ll be with you in a sec.” Jenny heard the phone put down onto a hard surface, obviously the husband didn’t feel chatty, she thought relieved.
Her anxiety increased as she waited… Jenny hoped she’d remembered the friend’s name correctly from the other night. Emily had mentioned she was supposed to have been with Faithe whilst in fact she was on the phone to her when she’d called from the Tapas bar or Mexican bistro or whatever it was. More than that though, right now she hoped the older woman would be able to bluff her way through this conversation when she realised who it actually was.
Jenny heard footsteps in the background and the rustle of the phone as it was picked up…
“Faithe? You okay sweetie?”
“Emily – it’s me, Jenny,” she hissed. “I know I shouldn’t have rung you at home but I have to speak to you! Pretend I’m a friend who’s just been dumped – it shouldn’t be difficult.” Emily winced and turned away from the mouthpiece;
“Gareth… could you pop down to Larson’s and pick up another bottle of that nice sparkling wine sweetheart?” Jenny heard a male’s distant acknowledgement at the other end followed by a mumbled; “Every time a bloody interruption!” Then a door slammed. Once he’d gone Emily couldn’t hide her anger;
“What in God’s name are you doing?! Do you want everything to go tits up?”
“Too late for that,” Jenny replied. Emily felt an unwanted rush of adrenalin. The younger woman then spent the next ten minutes on speed talk as she brought her up to date with what she’d witnessed that afternoon, including Charlotte’s subsequent blackmail attempt. Emily listened in stunned silence, absolutely staggered at what she’d heard; then delivered a bombshell of her own. A very much wanted bombshell, however, as far as Jenny Flood was concerned.
“Look – I’m sorry I jumped down your throat Jen, I can hear how upset you are; it must’ve been truly… truly horrible, especially as you knew this girl. Listen, the reason my mobile was busy for so long was because I had another call from England earlier this evening. I’ve had some bad news, it’s my mother. The owner of the nursing home rang me herself and advised if I wanted to see her… before it’s too late… it’s got to be soon – very soon.” Jenny gave a sharp intake of breath;
“You’re coming over?” she whispered excitedly, then immediately re-analysed Emily’s news. “Oh… I’m sorry I didn’t mean to sound –”
“No – it’s okay. I know what you meant. Look – I’ve just booked on the 10.00 p.m. flight Tuesday evening, JFK to Newcastle. I’ll hire a car and drive down. Can you make me a reservation at the Kirkdale Grange? I assume it’s still there?”
“Yeah – yes of course – I’ll see to that, sure, no problem… Emily –I’m so glad we’re meeting up again after all this time, and that I won’t be alone with this any longer. I’ve lost an old friend, my brother’s in danger, my work colleagues are digging for answers – I’m scared Emily.”
“Don’t worry, I won’t let anything happen to you, I –”
Jenny heard the sound of an exterior door again and Emily’s voice suddenly altered to a hurried whisper. “– I have to go, Gareth’s back. I’ll see you Wednesday night – keep your head down now, no more till I get there.” The phone suddenly fell silent and Jenny was left alone in the dark again. Alone – but a little stronger. Emily Rowlands was finally coming home.
***
PRIVATE AIRFIELD OUTSIDE BROOKLYN – NEW YORK
THE FOLLOWING MORNING 9.00 HOURS
The package sat next to the pilot in the Cessna light aircraft as it tracked an arch and coasted towards the crude runway. He was unaware what he was carrying but a pretty good guess told him it was some form of illegal merchandise – he just hoped it wasn’t drugs.
The plane picked up speed as it thundered along the course ground, then lifted like an eagle to begin the five thousand foot climb into the blue. If the weather held it would hopefully be a routine and safe trip, apart from the extra delivery. If not, old Davey Jones had better have the pot on…
THIRTY
Monday morning at the Courier, Andrew noticed Jenny looked both paler and more frail than usual. In fact she looked pretty wrecked. Her eyes were sunken, her hair l
ank, she appeared utterly exhausted – and very very much on edge. She hadn’t even acknowledged him when he’d arrived for work, and had been pretty cagey ever since the day he’d discovered her affair with Miles.
“What is it Jenny?” he asked tightly. “Have you realised that a relationship with our Dr. Peterson isn’t the smartest move you could have made?” Andrew saw her wince and immediately felt bad. As soon as the words were out he’d wished he could’ve taken them back, it wasn’t his style and he knew it. He also knew that this constant riling wouldn’t get him anywhere. The theory proved right as she ignored him completely and continued typing up an article about a new restaurant launch to go with some pictures she’d taken.
He got up and went to the kitchen to make some coffee, brought back two mugs and set one down in front of her. The typing stopped.
“Here,” he gestured to the extra milky one, having learnt that was how she liked it – then leant against her desk. She traced her finger up and down the handle before she looked up at him – a ghost would’ve had more colour he thought.
“Thanks,” she said softly, all fire gone from her voice. Where was that bristling passionate woman who’d argued so strongly with him a few weeks back? He decided it was now or never, but spoke more gently this time.
“Is it Miles that’s upset you Jen? Or have the police hauled Jason in again? They haven’t actually found something to connect him to the murders have they?” The girl in front of him looked like she was having a really tough job not crying into her coffee. Or was it simply that she was trying desperately not to say something? Something she longed to get off her chest but couldn’t? “Jenny?” he prompted.
“I’m fine Andrew – really.” She smiled a broken smile and blinked back a tear, then closed both hands around her mug and blew lightly across the top before taking a sip. “My brother is innocent you know,” she continued shakily, “there’s no way he’ll be called back in for questioning. Not for any murders any –” She stopped short of finishing the sentence, stingingly aware of her implication that Jason could be guilty of something else. Andrew was about to press her about it when his mobile buzzed. He took it out of his pocket and read a brief text from Gina at the surgery;
