Heath shifted in his chair, leaned in again, his gaze intent. “You know my girlfriend was six months pregnant?” he said quietly.
Isla felt a rush of nausea that had nothing to do with morning sickness. Had she blown it? Had she pushed too hard? Gone too far? Betrayed Ramsey for nothing?
He looked down at his close-bitten fingernails. “Sometimes I wonder why it happened. With Lucy, you know? I mean, I loved her.” He stopped, considered. “At least, I think I did. I mean, she did things for me, had sex with me. But if I did—love her, that is—I wouldn’t have done what I did, would I?”
Isla didn’t answer, her senses drowned by the hammering of her heart.
“Maybe she was just a habit,” he said. “I mean, she was the first person, the only person, really, to treat me like a human. Maybe that’s why I think that I loved her, because I kept going back for her to be good to me. She made me . . . normal, I guess. And I needed that. But I sometimes think that if I had loved her, I mean really loved her, I would have felt it in here.” He tapped his fingers against his chest. “Wouldn’t you think so?”
Isla chose her words carefully. “It’s not uncommon for people who have your pattern of brain function to report the same thing.”
Heath stopped, thought for a moment. “Answer me something, Prof. This has been bothering me for a very long time.” He looked up at her. “Am I capable of love? I mean, really?”
Softly now. “I think that you are capable of forming attachments, with people that you like to be around. Whether that is the same thing as love, who can tell? It’s like someone who is color blind talking about the color blue. They can act like they know what blue looks like and even think that they do know what blue looks like, but their blue may be entirely different from everyone else’s. I certainly think you were attached to her. And based on the work we’ve done together, we know that you have some problems appreciating other people’s feelings, that you struggle to control your temper. I think perhaps those things together can explain what happened with Lucy.”
Heath sat, silent. Isla suddenly became aware of the unnatural heat in the room, the closeness of it. Or maybe that was just her?
Then, “Look, Prof . . . Isla. Can I call you Isla?”
She had started this. She was the one who had disturbed the dynamic of their interaction. Isla smiled. “Of course.”
“Look, Isla, I’m going to be honest with you. I like you. You come here. You talk to me as if I’m an actual person. That means something, especially in this place. And”—he let out a bark of a laugh—“you took me on a road trip. I got to see the sky because of you. So, I think you’re all right.” He leaned closer. “I want to help you. Because this guy, if he kills you, who the hell is going to visit me, hey?”
A sense of inevitability now, of rolling toward a preordained conclusion. She had done it. She was there. Isla could feel the guard, his attention straining, a dog on a leash, because he, too, knew that what had happened here was something special, that she had broken down a twenty-year wall. Without really meaning to, she splayed her hand out flat across her belly. It’s almost over. We’re almost done.
Heath fixed his gaze on hers. “This guy. The one who’s doing it. You need to find him. Because, believe me, I’ve seen some bad, bad men in here over the years. He ain’t stopping until you stop him.”
“Can you give me anything, Heath? Anything that can help me find him?” She was pleading now, but she no longer cared.
Heath sighed. “It’s been twenty years, Isla. Twenty years I’ve lived this life. Being the killer on the wall, it gives you something in a place like this. It means they’re careful about fucking with you. You get respect . . .” He snorted. “Never thought I’d end up having a conversation like this.”
It seemed to Isla that all the air had fled from the room, that time had suspended itself, that the universe had shrunk down into these four walls, this moment.
Heath reached out, took her hand in his. “Isla,” he said softly, “I didn’t do it. I’m not the killer on the wall.”
Buried treasure – Mina
Mina stared at the computer screen, watching as the lines danced and shimmied. It would be here somewhere, a single point of light in among a sea of stars. She scrolled the mouse, rolling the screen back up to where it began, sighed, and tried to focus. Where the hell are you?
The pizza beside her had begun to congeal, a single sad slice of pepperoni. It had slid its way down onto the plastic plate, and then a puddle of grease had blossomed out beneath it. She should eat. She glanced at it, felt her lip tug into a grimace. Never mind. Mina tucked her chin into the dense wool of her roll-neck sweater and tried to ignore the acerbic whistle of the wind that had begun to creep its way around the office windows.
“Anything?” Owen leaned over from the seat beside hers, stared at the screen.
“Nothing.” Mina rolled the screen down. “I’m on my fourth pass through. It’s not there.”
Owen studied her, frowning. “You mean . . .”
“I mean Superintendent Bell never entered into evidence the photograph sent to Rachel Flowers.” Mina shoved the mouse away from her, the early blossom of anger building in her.
“Well . . .” He was about to argue with her, was lining his words up to be as reasonable as he could while still informing her that she was wrong.
The anger solidified, tightening her chest.
“Perhaps the logging team just missed it.” He stood up and said, “Come on. We can go through the evidence boxes.”
Mina watched him and sighed. But she pushed herself up, nonetheless, the thought of Rachel Flowers, with her smooth scalp, her calm, graceful air of endurance, propelling her forward. She followed him out of the bustling room, into the corridor, down a flight of stairs and then another. The evidence room was in the basement, a corner room that seemed to contain more space than was possible. They walked the length of it, until they reached the boxes linked to the Heath McGowan series, a wall made out of memorabilia of murder. Two dozen boxes, perhaps more.
“Jesus,” muttered Mina. She followed Owen to the farthest end of this wall and shook her head. “Jesus,” she said again. “Okay.” A deep breath. “Owen, do you want to start at that end, and I’ll start at this?” She glanced at him, generating a smile that felt somewhat alien. “And . . . go.”
Mina knelt on the chill floor, pulled the first box toward her. It would be here somewhere. It was the only thing that made sense. That it had been missed, had never been logged. She flipped through package after package. One box and then another and then another.
“Did Zoe find anything on the broom handle? The one from Victoria Prew’s house?” asked Owen, his voice muffled by the shush, shush, shush of flicking paper.
Mina pulled a face. “I rang down this morning. Kind of got the feeling that they’re at breaking point down there. When I asked about the broom, she yelled at me. Said it’s on the list.”
“Well . . . they’ve got a lot to process, I suppose.”
The floorboards above them creaked, moaning through the basement office, and after a while the sound began to take on the tone of a lullaby, soporific and soothing. Finally, Mina reached the middle. The last box. Owen finished searching the box adjacent to hers, looked up, shook his head. Her belly flipped, the anger morphing into something else. Fear.
She eased the lid off the final box, scanned the gathering of plastic bags inside. She worked her way slowly, methodically. It would be in here. It had to be in here.
It was not.
As she ran her fingers across the bottom of the box, her gaze moved up to Owen.
“It’s not here, is it?”
She shook her head. “No, it’s not.”
He sat there on the thin carpet for a moment, biting his lip. “So . . . what are we thinking?”
The fear growled. “Well,” she said, “the way I see it, there are two options. Either he actioned it, without keeping any written evidence of having done so, investigated it, and
forgot to report back to Rachel . . .”
“Okay . . . His case notes were pretty comprehensive, though. From what I’ve seen so far, he wrote down everything, right up to what time he took a dump.”
“Agreed. Also, thanks for that mental image. And Rachel said that she tried ringing him repeatedly, only he never got back to her. Which suggests avoidance rather than forgetting.”
“Which leaves us with . . .”
“Which leaves us with option B. That he buried it.”
Owen whistled. “That’s a big accusation.”
“What, bigger than ‘We think you did a shit investigation, so we’re going to reinvestigate behind your back’?”
He grinned. “Okay, maybe it’s not that big. So, come on, explain your reasoning. Why would Superintendent Bell bury this?”
“Look . . .” Mina suddenly became aware that they were whispering. “This case, it made him. The media coverage, the reputation. All of it came from the fact that he pretty much single-handedly investigated and solved the killer on the wall murders. I mean, think about it. If you wanted a case, a big case, that got tied up in a pretty pink bow, this would be that case. The evidence was inescapable. The conclusions unavoidable.”
“But . . .”
“But then, a year after Heath’s conviction, a letter arrives at the house of a victim’s widow, containing a photograph of the victim’s body. I mean, that, it muddies the waters, don’t you think? Your nice clean case is suddenly a lot messier. And . . .” Mina rocked back on her heels, warming to her subject. “What makes it worse, I don’t see how one can avoid the conclusion that Heath McGowan had help. No matter which way you slice it, someone else was involved. Someone that the great Eric Bell never caught.” She shook her head. “I can see plenty of motive for making this letter disappear.”
Owen watched her carefully and then, finally, nodded slowly. “It’s a big accusation.” No judgment, merely a statement of fact.
“Yes,” agreed Mina.
They tucked the boxes away in silence, both of them soaking in the implications. Then Owen stood and looked down at her. “What are we going to do with this?”
Mina pushed herself to her feet and shook her head. “I . . . I just don’t know.”
They walked slowly up one flight of stairs, two.
“Look,” said Mina, “if you want to back off a bit, I’ll understand. This . . . it was my idea. You shouldn’t have to deal with this.”
Owen walked beside her, his shoulders up high, hands tucked into his trouser pockets. “Ah well. I’m in it now.” He grinned briefly. “Let’s just say you owe me a pint when all this is done.”
Mina felt a brief flutter in her insides.
Then there came the sound of heavy footsteps down the corridor. Superintendent Eric Bell walked slowly toward them. He looked weary, his face ashen, and it was long moments before he raised his head and noticed them standing there.
“Well?” he said, voice ragged. “Inside, if you don’t mind.”
He looked, Mina thought, like he was about to cry. The future pulled itself into sharp focus. Another body. Another death. She moved through the door without realizing what she was doing.
The super followed her in, gestured her to the conference table. “Everyone.” His voice came out as a thin approximation of itself, and he coughed, tried it again. “Ladies and gentlemen, your attention, please.” The susurration of voices stopped as heads turned to him. “Can I have you all gathered around the conference table? Quick as you can.”
The scrape of chairs, the floor shifting under the weight of moving feet, and then they were all sitting, waiting for what now seemed inevitable. Mina took a seat beside Owen, shared a quick frown with him before turning her attention back to Eric Bell. He had elected to remain standing, was bouncing on the balls of his feet with nerves or simply excess energy. His gaze swiveled around the crowd. His eyes pausing briefly on Mina, he gave a quick nod.
“Right. I know you’ve been working hard. I know these conditions”—he waved about the ungainly room—“are not ideal. Now, to keep you informed . . . there has been a development.”
Who would it be this time? Someone she knew? Someone she passed in the street every day?
“Following on from the murder of Maggie Heron, I ordered that any forensic evidence found in the original murder series be resubmitted for examination.”
Mina watched him. He? He had ordered?
“Twenty years ago there was nothing that could be done with what we had, but given the developments in DNA testing, I thought it was worth a shot now.”
Mina folded her arms, a bubble of irritation forming.
“We are still waiting for most of it, but they have finished looking at the fingernail clippings that were taken from the original victims. The new tests have revealed DNA underneath the fingernails of both Zachary Aiken and Amelia West.”
A low murmur filled the room.
“The lab has been able to establish a DNA profile.”
The murmur became a rumble.
“Just a second, please, people. You need to hear this.” The super looked down, appeared to be steadying himself, then up again. “The lab has determined beyond all reasonable doubt that the DNA found under the fingernails of Zachary Aiken and Amelia West does not match that of Heath McGowan—”
“Wait,” interrupted Owen. “So, what does that mean?”
Mina spoke softly. “It means that Heath McGowan wasn’t the one who killed them.”
And so it goes – Ramsey
Ramsey walked the university corridors, a careful, measured pace, heel, toe, heel, toe. He walked calmly, because then he was merely walking, not pacing. That the route he had chosen took him along Isla’s corridor and past her locked door, well, that was merely a happy coincidence. Ramsey’s head swam. He had spent the day interviewing students, trying to get the perspective of those who had not been around for the original murders, for whom it was a story, nothing more. These new killings, did they change things at the university? Or did the students remain within that permanent bubble?
“Thing is,” a boy, maybe eighteen, maybe a little older, had said, “we’re okay here. It’s only Briganton, isn’t it? And I mean, I’m not worried for me. Although maybe if I was a girl, I’d be a little more concerned.”
“Are you taking precautions?” Ramsey had asked. “Walking in pairs, avoiding isolated spots, that kind of thing?”
The kid had laughed. “Nah, mate.” Then, sensing that perhaps he had crossed some kind of line, he had assumed a thoughtful expression. “We’re watching out for the girls, though. You know, walking them home, that kind of thing.”
Ramsey had nodded and scribbled in his cryptic shorthand, and had wondered what it must be like to be young and bulletproof.
Then, after an interview or twelve, he had set himself up in the library. The librarian, recognizing him, taking pity on Professor Bell’s abandoned husband, had installed him at a desk, pointed out the power outlet for his laptop, left him to it. He’d finished the article—“Inside a Village under Siege”—had sent it to the editor of the Journal. Then he had walked slowly through the university grounds, back down Isla’s corridor, back past her closed door.
Now he moved on toward Connor’s office, where a layer of light seeped out from beneath the door. He gave two sharp taps and let himself in without waiting for acknowledgment.
At first, Ramsey could not identify what he was seeing. Then his eyes adjusted to the dim lamplight, and his brain sorted through the chaos of papers and debris to pick out Connor, sitting on the floor, knees pulled up to his chest, back resting against the desk.
“Connor? What the hell are you doing?”
In his hand, the other man held a sheaf of papers. He looked up at Ramsey, waved it at him. “Join me. I’m journeying to hell.” His voice was rasping, as if he had just been awoken from a deep sleep; his expression, flat.
“Well, with an offer like that . . .” Ramsey closed the door behind
him and picked his way through the detritus. “What is that?” He took the proffered papers and flicked through them.
dear conor Im fucking coming for u don’t sleep coz then u wont see me your going to die.
“That’s . . . charming.”
“You want more? I’ve got tons,” Connor said flatly. “Gummy bear?”
Ramsey frowned, shook his head. “No, thanks. Why are you going through these?”
“I don’t know.” Connor carefully placed a gummy bear in his mouth, rolled it around. “I just thought . . . maybe whoever’s sending the threats to your house . . . I thought maybe something I had might link up with it. Give us some connection.”
“Anything hopeful?”
Connor snorted. “Not unless you call threatening to cut my penis off and feed it to me anything hopeful.”
Ramsey lifted a pile of papers from a chair and sat down. “Christ. And I complain about having to write about county fairs for the thousandth time.”
“Yeah, well”—Connor’s voice was thick with the candy—“let me tell you, this is no county fair.”
Ramsey looked down at his hands. “You heard from Isla?” There was probably a subtler way he could have eased the conversation around to its real point, but he was tired and his patience was limited.
Connor studied him from beneath a chaotic crown of hair. “No. I’m assuming she’s still out at the prison. Did you call her? Maybe she’s stuck in traffic?”
“Phone’s off.”
“Well, she’d have had to leave the phone in a locker. Probably she’s forgotten to turn it back on.” Connor glanced at the clock on the back wall, which had, predictably, run out of batteries, then down at his watch. He frowned briefly. “She’ll be back soon.” He glanced about the room, striving for a subject change. “Want to go for a pint?”
“Nah. Not really in the mood.” It was a lie. A pint sounded like an extremely good idea. And yet Ramsey didn’t want to leave the building or the hallway. He was, he reflected, like a Labrador retriever that sat inside the front door and waited for its master to return from work, afraid to leave in case somehow it missed the moment of reunion.
I Am Watching Page 20
