The Safe Word

by Karen Long

  Manny pulled back his white hood and began to unzip his bio suit. “Not much I’m afraid. The car was taken in a couple of hours ago and although it’s prioritised it’s gonna take a couple more to get tyre prints, mud and pollen samples and any tissues from either victim. I’m gonna say at least twenty-four to forty-eight.”

  Eleanor sighed.

  “Hey, it’s on the ramp. Thirty-five vehicles aint,” said Manny turning to leave. “By the way,” he said walking back to them. “What am I up for tomorrow night? Sue Cheung says I’m to keep schtum about some secret mission in a graveyard. That right?”

  Eleanor smiled. “You could say that. I’m mocking up an exhumation on Carin Hughes.”

  Manny raised his eyebrows, “Well I’m glad the word ‘mock’ entered the conversation as it’s heading for five below tonight and I don’t dig through frozen ground for anything less than a holiday bonus.”

  “You’re safe buddy. No digging required,” said Laurence.

  “Excellent, well back to the fray. I’ll bell you if anything turns up, ok?”

  “Thanks Manny,” said Eleanor.

  “We going in?” asked Laurence, curious as to why Eleanor hadn’t moved.

  “There’s something we’re missing.” she ruminated.

  “Like?” said Laurence tightening his coat against the cold.

  “Why Hughes does this.”

  Laurence scowled. “Because he likes it presumably. Gives him power, a high. Usual psycho thrill seeking.”

  “I think that’s a little over simplified. He is creating something important. He lives frugally, the life of an artist. But why now and why here?” she mused.

  “Here because this is home and now because… opportunity?” he offered.

  “Why more opportunity than at any other time? Something happened that changed the nature of his artistic vision. But what?” she looked directly at Laurence. “All ideas gratefully received.”

  “I’ve got one,” he said following her into the building. “How about a coffee?”

  “That’s the best you can offer?” she replied.

  “Until I get a caffeine fix it surely is.”

  Eleanor and Laurence had been in the building for less than a minute when her phone rang. She listened to Johnson carefully, a small smile playing across her lips. “Ok… that’s great. Text me the address and cell number. We’ll head there now. Excellent work.” She ended the call. “Johnson got a contact from a gallery owner over on Lakeside. He says he bought a piece of art from a guy who looked suspiciously like the sketch of Lee Hughes. He paid eighteen hundred bucks for it and when he described it to Johnson it sounded like his work. Maybe this is what we’re looking for?”

  Lee had started the fire just before sundown. He used an old oil drum that he’d dragged from the edge of the marl pit that his warehouse backed onto. The base of the drum had a gash in it and when balanced on bricks provided an acceptable draw in which his paperwork, clothing and used tools could be destroyed. He stared mesmerised as his sketches began to glow and blacken as the flame caught the pages. He inhaled the acrid fumes given off by the paints and burning clothing, his eyes watering. There was so much to do in these final hours. The ghost train had to be dressed and his studio prepped for the arrival of his canvas. Every conceivable problem had been covered and alternatives put in place. He’d spent considerable effort in positioning the hook and chain that would display Eleanor Raven to the world. He could not risk any damage to vertebrae; a decapitation for a second time would make him look like an amateur so he had decided on a new method of display. She would be held aloft by two large hooks that would be inserted into each shoulder blade and linked by a chain to the cross beam. Her head would be raised by pinning it to the chain using a carabiner, which would be attached to the back of her skull. He’d studied anatomy guides, which implied that the cranial bone would be sufficiently dense to withhold the insertion of a bolt. He sighed and left the fire to work its destruction on months of painstaking visionary planning. He would take a cold bath next and prepare himself physically for the next twenty-four hours.

  Eleanor and Laurence stared with disbelief at Roger and Abigail Roodt’s art collection. The couple were in their late fifties judging by their physical appearance but mentally still in their late teens according to their clothing. Each wore tight faded jeans, and t-shirts proclaiming a belief in anarchy in Mr Roodt’s case and the legendary status of Andy Warhol in his wife’s. Neither wore footwear but Abigail had compensated by having large and intricate henna tattoos on both feet. Eleanor assumed that they lacked children or pets, as the large apartment was painted white from floor to ceiling. White fur rugs enabled the Roodts to maintain their barefoot habit in a country whose average temperature hovered generally in single digits. Colour was provided by the extensive art collection, which covered every available inch of wall and floor. The Roodt’s taste tended towards the macabre. A guillotine made of transparent Perspex was surrounded by at least thirty ‘Barbie’ dolls, each missing its head and dressed in red splattered bridal costume. The heads, Mr Roodt had pointed out, were neatly arranged in a sand tray.

  “It’s an unfinished Henry Fuseli,” stated Mrs Roodt enthusiastically, as she saw Eleanor squint at a small dun coloured canvas sporting three or four brush strokes.

  “It is?” replied Eleanor.

  “Oh I knew you’d love it,” Abigail replied clapping her hands. “Everyone who comes to visit falls in love with it.”

  “You described a painting to my colleague Detective Johnson. Could we see it?” Eleanor asked quickly.

  “No no, it’s not a painting at all. It’s an installation!” Abigail replied. “It’s in the guest room.”

  The Roodts trotted happily through the lounge, along a narrow corridor sporting a series of lithographic prints entitled ‘A Day In The Bastille’, and proudly opened a door to reveal the body of a naked woman, her face covered by long blonde hair, lying on a tatty, bloodstained chaise longue.

  “What the fuck!” spurted out Laurence.

  This caused both Roodts to clap enthusiastically. “Everyone always reacts the same way. It’s so… vibrant! Don’t you think?”

  “I’m not sure that I would describe it as that Mrs Roodt,” said Eleanor quietly.

  “It’s so very lifelike isn’t it?” thrilled Mr Roodt. “Go on touch it, it’s the only way to believe.”

  Laurence put out a hand and touched the smooth plastic skin of the mannequin.

  Eleanor studied the creation while Laurence spoke.

  “Why did you assume this was work of Lee Hughes sir?”

  “Oh, I can’t be a hundred percent,” he answered. “Detective Johnson was given our name by Agathe; she thought we might be able to help.”

  “The guy we met looked very similar to the image printed in the paper. He didn’t give us his name but we were shown some photographs of his recent work and chose this one.”

  “Who showed you the photographs and where?” asked Laurence curiously.

  “We’d gone to ‘The Charcoal Gallery’ that’s where Agathe works; it’s next to the University and sells student pieces. We like it there because you have a chance to pick up cutting-edge material.”

  “At pretty rock bottom prices,” giggled Abigail.

  “So had Lee Hughes got any other pieces on display there?”

  “Don’t think so. He was looking at some of the pieces and we got into a conversation about the merits of some local sculptor and then he showed us a series of Polaroids of his installations. Hell some of them were so good they looked real!”

  Eleanor and Laurence looked at one another nervously.

  “Where were these photographs taken?” asked Eleanor.

  “I’m not really sure,” Mr Roodt replied. “I think a studio or maybe a warehouse.”

  “How was this delivered and how did you pay for it?” asked Laurence.

  “He wouldn’t let us be in the apartment when he delivered. He said that the presentati
on was an integral part of the whole experience. So we left and when we came back it was here.”

  “It was so exciting!” said Abigail enthusiastically.

  “How did you pay?”

  “Cash. A snip at eighteen hundred. He asked us to name a price and if he approved he’d sell it to us. So we had a little conflab and suggested it. He thought for a moment or two and then said, ‘Done’. He left a message on my phone telling us to have a lunch date between eleven and two and delivered it three days later. That was just before Christmas,” said Mr Roodt. “My parents arrived a couple of days later and you can just imagine…”

  “Have you, or any of your acquaintances had any contact or seen Lee Hughes since then?” interrupted Laurence. They both shook their heads.

  “You are going to receive a visit from our forensics team at some point over the next seventy-two hours. Please do not interfere with the ‘art’ in any way. It is unlikely that it will have to be removed from your premises,” said Eleanor briskly and handed them her card.

  “It won’t be damaged will it?” said Mr Roodt nervously.

  “The forensics team has a reputation for being considerate and careful. Thank you for your time,” said Eleanor.

  They both sat in the car and sipped coffee. “You think that was the trigger? Really?” asked Laurence sceptically.

  Eleanor shrugged, “I don’t know but this may have been the first time that someone really valued his work. It’s notable that he didn’t have a price in mind and wanted them to suggest one. Hughes wants people to give his work value. That’s how people express their appreciation for something, by placing a material value on it. Though I could be over thinking this. I’ll run it past Ruby tomorrow.”

  Laurence yawned.

  “It’s late and it’s been a long day. Go home and sleep,” she said gently.

  Laurence looked surprised, “Sure you don’t want me come up and check the board?”

  “No, Johnson says there’s nothing else and if something happens the night crew will call us.”

  Laurence opened the door and stepped out. “Hey, you wanna eat? It’s my turn?”

  Surprisingly Eleanor smiled and nodded. “It’s always going to be your turn, Whitefoot.”

  “Then it’s going to be cheap,” he replied, pleased that she’d accepted. “Shit,” he groaned. “I’ve got to collect the fucking dog from k9.”

  Eleanor smiled again. “Listen I’m beat and need a bath. Catch you tomorrow.” She started the engine.

  “That’s a date,” said Laurence tapping on the window before she pulled away.

  “That would be contrary to department policy Detective Whitefoot,” she replied lightly.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Eleanor shoved her hands into her pockets and hoped that she’d left her gloves in the car. It was bitterly cold, several degrees below freezing point and the clouds threatened snow and lots of it. She sighed and quickened her pace. It was six thirty am and she was hoping that the three terse and uninformative messages left on her cell phone from Marty Samuelson were not regarding her plans to mock an exhumation of Carin Hughes. The likelihood of this not being the cause was slim, particularly as the Toronto Sun had run the story in their morning edition. She noted unhappily that the side windows of her car were coated in a thick layer of frost that would require manual attention rather than a quick blast from the interior heater. The door handle was frozen and Eleanor was obliged to pull her jumper sleeves over her palm to protect it as she worked the handle. With one last vigorous pull the door opened but she didn’t climb in as her attention was grabbed by a strange anomaly. Slowly she walked round to the front of the car where the windscreen had been scraped clean of frost. As she puzzled over this she caught the reflection of a woman in the glass. Turning swiftly, Eleanor’s eyes met those of Cindy and she suddenly understood how Lee Hughes had managed to evade detection for so long.

  The surge of adrenaline should have given Eleanor a split second’s advantage but her hands were too cold to manipulate her weapon successfully and as she reached behind her back to pull the gun from its holster she felt her fingers fumble uselessly. Cindy’s fist hit her squarely in the solar plexus. The pain surged across her chest and stomach paralyzing her breathing and forcing her to double over. Desperately trying to suck in air Eleanor saw the fist pull back again. Knowing she couldn’t take another blow she flung herself backwards onto the bonnet of her car and, pulling back her legs, kicked them as hard as she could at the figure. One foot struck home producing a bone crunch and a yelp of pain. Blood began to spray from Cindy’s outraged face and lip. Before Eleanor could propel herself forward and out of danger she saw the bloodied face lunge towards her and felt a sharp needle pain in her throat accompanied by an icy sensation and the full weight of another being lying on her. Eleanor Raven descended into darkness.

  Laurence had been delighted by the progress Monster had made in such a short amount of time. He’d collected him from the kennels and although it was after office hours he’d been treated politely and with consideration by Officer Emily Hunt. Emily ran through Monster’s new vocabulary of commands, which he tried himself with astonishment. Monster sat, stayed and lay down to the corresponding commands and looked extremely attentive as he waited for his treat. Laurence was even able to bring himself to pat the creature’s huge furry head as he sat obediently in the front seat on the way back to his apartment. There was hope for the dog yet and a warm sense of satisfaction thrilled through him as he imagined Meg’s face when she finally deigned to return and collect him. Unfortunately, all these good thoughts dissipated on his return to the kennels the following morning.

  “Could you repeat that; I’m not sure I understand,” said Laurence weakly.

  Officer Emily Hunt tried again this time speaking more slowly, “Would you like to settle up at the end of the week or on a daily basis?”

  “Settle up what?” said Laurence.

  “It costs one hundred and eighty dollars per day for training, food and exercise,” said Emily, with a look that he imagined she used for those hard of hearing or short on IQ.

  “You are fucking kidding me aren’t you?” said Laurence, knowing from her blank stare that this seemed improbable. “I was told to leave him here by my boss Chief Samuelson. He didn’t mention that it was fee-paying!”

  “Uh-huh. It isn’t fee-paying for canines that are serving officers. Your canine isn’t serving is he detective?”

  Laurence glanced at Monster who was vigorously scratching an ear with his foot. He shook his head.

  “If he was then he would be trained by the state for free. We offer our department’s skills to fellow officers and their canine companions by popular request. This service is only offered to officers who serve our community. You cannot expect this to be a free service paid for by the state can you?” Emily looked at Laurence with some degree of astonishment.

  Laurence shook his head. “But what the fuck am I going to do with him all day?” he blurted.

  “You have two choices, either you pay for the service that we offer or you find him day care, which I suspect,” she hissed. “…costs roughly the same amount but without the training element.”

  Feeling aggrieved Laurence snatched Monster’s collar and yanked him in the direction of his car.

  Timms was just polishing off the last piece of breakfast pizza when Samuelson’s roar shook the squad room. “Where the hell is Raven?” he bellowed.

  Timms immediately performed a pantomime of looking intently round the workspace, whilst chewing enthusiastically. “I’ve not seen her boss but when I do…”

  “What do you know about this exhumation?” shouted Samuelson, cruising towards Timms with an outstretched finger.

  “Absolutely nothing,” said Timms adopting a mystified expression.

  Wadesky and Mo lumbered into the office, immediately on the alert.

  “What do you know about this exhumation?” asked Samuelson, turning his attention to the ne
w arrivals.

  Wadesky said nothing but Mo was unfazed by anything other than Minnie and his cardiologist. “Ellie is planning to set up a mock grave lift tonight in the hope that Hughes will be so outraged he’ll come and investigate,” he said, positioning his seat.

  “I told her that it had been absolutely rejected by the DA’s office,” said Samuelson throwing his arms up in despair.

  “You did,” replied Mo. “But she’s not going to dig up a body. This is theatre. We borrow a van, tape it off and set up a tent. Doc Hounslow has already agreed to the loan and the only law breaker is Hughes.”

  Samuelson opened his mouth but Mo was on a roll. “If she’s right then Hughes will show. His sister’s some kind of inspiration to him according to Doc Delaware and so far we’ve got shit in terms of a lead.”

  Samuelson worked his jaw, “Have you any idea how detrimental a stunt like this could be when we finally get this bastard into court?”

  “The DA is paid to sort that shit out when the time comes. We’ve got nothing and this guy aint gonna stop killing. You put Ellie in charge because she can think out of the box. No-one else is coming up with ideas so you need to support her.” Mo’s breathing was becoming more laboured. Wadesky moved over and put her hand on his arm, encouraging him to sit.

  Samuelson’s face was turning carmine red. Mo had just overstepped the mark big time by confronting a superior in the presence of other officers.

  “He’s right sir,” said Timms. It’s a dumb ass idea but it’s got more of a chance of getting him than us sitting on our asses waiting for him to hand himself in. Mo’s right, you put Raven in charge ’cos she thinks different to us grunts.”

  Samuelson was still boiling.

  “She’s your protégé and she needs your backing,” finished Timms on an ‘in for a penny’ approach.

  The squad room was silent. Samuelson’s reaction would decide not only the future of the case but of future careers too.

  He shook his head and sighed, “I’ve got her back.”

  There was an audible sigh of relief from the assembled Detectives.