by Nick Hollin
‘We need to read it,’ says Nathan.
‘We need to do this right.’
‘I don’t have time,’ he says in a monotone, glancing up at the clock, a way to remind her there’s just two days more.
‘There could be fibres on here, some tiny clue.’
‘That is the clue,’ he says, gesturing at the paper. ‘And it’s far from tiny.’
Once more she senses this could all be part of his game: bring her back here to the scene of his crime and find a clue that nobody else has been able to, then push her into breaking the rules. ‘You know who left it?’
‘No,’ he says, lowering his head. ‘But it seems he knows me. Beans and sausage on toast is my favourite… I’ve been eating it up there.’ Nathan points to the ceiling to signify the long journey north.
‘So, he’s been watching you in Scotland?’
He quickly shakes his head, and she can see what she takes to be a flash of frustration, annoyance that he might have just slipped up. ‘I told you, nobody has been there other than you. Even if they had, they couldn’t have seen what I was doing. I’ve never opened the shutters.’
‘And you haven’t been outside?’ she says tentatively, thinking of the tracks around the house.
‘Not to eat.’
He lifts his hands to cover his face, fingertips digging into his skin. Instinct is telling her he’s holding back, pretending to be lost and confused. She finds herself looking across at the toaster, retracing the connection he had somehow made. ‘How did you keep the bread fresh? Did you have a freezer up there?’
‘I-I meant from before. I used to eat it before.’
‘I don’t remember that,’ she says. She’d always been very careful about what she was eating: plenty of greens, plenty of raw, anything to try and gain an advantage in her work. Nathan had eaten whatever and whenever he’d liked, always ravenous after they’d visited a crime scene.
Their diet might have been different, but their commitment to the work had been the same. Late nights, weekends – it seemed to be all they were living for. Katie had even stopped visiting her dad regularly, choosing instead to go through old case notes with Nathan, searching for clues. As a result, she’d missed the clues with her dad, and the very first signs of his decline.
Perhaps it’s remembering this that causes her to push on, to touch upon a subject that she knows will upset him. ‘Do you mean you ate them when you were a child?’
The look he gives her is one of shock. She’d agreed from the very start of their partnership that she wouldn’t pry into the upbringing that had obviously troubled him. Even after he’d gone she’d resisted her natural urge to go digging around behind his back; wanting to forget him, scared she might find further evidence of how damaged he really was.
‘You used to be good at keeping promises,’ he snaps.
‘And you used to be good at playing a part. Perhaps you still are.’
‘I want what we’ve always wanted,’ he says. ‘What you’ve always craved.’ He draws out that final word until she shifts her attention elsewhere. ‘And if you want a win here then that should be our focus.’ He jabs a finger at the paper she’s still holding between the tongs. ‘Not me.’
She pulls it back, hearing it crumple against her side, a sound that seems to have the same effect on her insides. ‘I won’t risk this sicko getting away on a technicality.’
‘If we catch him in the next two days, then—’ He cuts himself off, but she’s seen enough already, seen that excitement sparkle in his eyes, certain that remarkable imagination of his is currently not being used to recreate a past crime, but a future one.
His gaze narrows the way hers had just a second before. ‘You know it too. The rules don’t count anymore, do they? It ends the way it has to end for us.’
Her thoughts turn to her dad again, picturing his face as it used to be, and as it is now. The difference is remarkable, shattering. As is the view she has of him as a person on those days when she believes what he said, when she accepts his confession. Might those three words he whispered to her have said something about her own potential to step over the line?
‘No,’ she says firmly. ‘That’s not me. Nor is contaminating evidence any more than I have to. You’ve heard me tearing into my guys at the slightest mistake.’ She adds the last bit less for Nathan’s benefit than her own. She opens the evidence bag and lays it on the work surface, before using the tongs to place the paper inside. It’s a small piece with pale blue lines that run both vertically and horizontally. Leaning over and using the tip of the tongs she then carefully prizes the fold open. Nathan appears alongside her, bending over. He’s standing close, and she can’t help but notice the block of knives within his reach. But she finds her focus again, keeping her hand from shaking as she pushes open the paper and the words appear.
Home is where the heart is.
It’s written in thick, hesitant strokes, as if by someone young, or very old. She glances across at Nathan and finds his eyes are wide and his face is white, just as when he’d heard about the caravan park, or seen the swirling cuts on the stomach of Sarah Cleve, or when he’d first spotted the beans on the floor behind them.
‘You recognise the writing?’
Nathan stands straight and moves away, shaking his head several times, holding his cuffed hands down at his waist and avoiding her gaze. She’s about to put the question to him again, once more convinced he’s holding back valuable information, when she hears footsteps in the corridor behind, accompanied by a voice calling out: ‘Please, sir, please, you really can’t go in there!’
Katie moves quickly to the door and sees a tall man pushing past the duty PC and walking towards her. She instantly recognises him as the husband of Sally Brooks, having held him as he’d cried on her shoulder last week.
‘My daughter needs her doll,’ he snaps. ‘And nothing is going to stop me getting it for her.’ He’s searching the floor and then looks up, finally noticing Katie.
‘What are you doing here?’
‘Just following a line of investigation, Mr Brooks.’ She tries to make herself wider, turning to block his view through to the kitchen. As with the second killing, he’d been away with the children at his parents’ house when the murder took place, and she remembers how, between sobs, he’d told her again and again that he should have been there to protect his wife. She’d wanted to assure him the man who committed the crime was both sick and ruthless and would not have thought twice about taking his and his children’s lives too, but to provide evidence of this she would have had to have given him details of the crime, something she knew he wasn’t ready to hear.
‘How do I ever explain this?’ he says, reaching down to pick up the doll he had come for, the same headless doll that Katie had spotted on the way in. ‘How do I explain any of it to my daughters?’ He reaches out and touches the wall, his hand falling between the two school photos. Tears fill his eyes, and when he speaks his words are so thick they barely leave his mouth. ‘How are they ever going to cope?’ And then, without waiting for the response that Katie is desperately trying to shape in her head, he switches back to anger. ‘I need to see in there,’ he says, pointing to the kitchen without looking across. ‘I need to know.’
Mark Brooks is a big man, over six foot. If he wanted to barge past her there’d be nothing she could do, but she will do something if she has to. He shouldn’t have to see even a trace of what she has seen.
The silent stand-off is interrupted by the sound of movement in the kitchen; the squeak of a shoe on the cheap vinyl floor. She hopes desperately that Nathan will stay out of sight and that Mr Brooks will simply assume it’s another police officer, but she can see from the man’s face, from the way it drops in shock, then tightens in horror, that Nathan has come into view. She turns to look for herself and finds Nathan standing there, head down, handcuffed hands held out in front like the accused standing in the dock at court.
Mark Brooks has clearly made a similar
connection and charges forward, seeming not to see or care about Katie blocking his path. The impact knocks her off her feet before she can tell him he’s making a mistake, sending her flying backwards into the kitchen door. Mark stumbles and falls partly on top of her, and they slide across the floor, coming to a stop close to the outline of the body and the word GUTTED spelt out in now heavily congealed beans. Mark stares for a second, unable to take it all in, then he returns his attention to Nathan, pushing down on Katie’s face in his desperation to get to his feet. Straining to get a look, Katie can see Nathan hasn’t moved, nor has he said a word.
When the first punch is thrown she could swear that he moves his head into it, taking the full force of the blow. He drops in an instant, slamming into the sideboard and slumping to the floor. Mark follows him, then reaches across the sideboard and draws a kitchen knife – the second to be taken from that block with intent.
Winded by her fall and unable to speak, Katie manages to get to her feet and fling herself forward, crashing into Mark’s hip just as he’s about to bring the knife down into Nathan’s chest. The big man slams into the cupboards and lets out a groan that grows into a roar of rage. Katie knows he’s about to try and sink the knife in again and that this time, even if she’s in the way, he won’t stop. He’s blind to everything other than the need to inflict as much pain as he is feeling. She makes one last attempt to call out and fend him off with her arm. She can take a knife wound – she’s done so before – but her lungs are still empty and her arm is twisted awkwardly under her. A quick look at Nathan tells her he’s still not moving, he’s not even trying to put up any kind of defence. The punch he took would have knocked many out, but his eyes are open, unblinkingly staring up at the man with the knife. And at the corner of his mouth, where she can see a thin streak of blood, she can also make out the tiniest trace of another smile. Is it madness? Is it guilt? She waits for the blur of movement, for a grunt of effort and the flash of the blade, for the warm spray of blood. But it never comes. Instead she hears a cry from behind her and looks up to see that the young PC who had been stationed outside the house has wrestled the knife away and subdued Mr Brooks.
With everything suddenly remarkably still, she untangles herself and rises to her feet, brushing the front of her top where she finds a streak of red marking the path of a single squashed bean.
‘I’m sorry,’ she says, fighting for breath as she moves to crouch down by Mr Brooks. ‘This should never have been allowed to happen. But I swear this is not the man who killed Sally.’ As she says the words she once again feels the doubt, but there’s also her instinct, reassuring her that she’s right. She’s always been right, with every criminal she’s put away, even with the ones the court has allowed to walk.
‘What about the cuffs?’ Mark Brooks spits back, a string of drool hanging from the corner of his mouth. ‘Why is he wearing fucking cuffs?’
She already has her explanation prepared; it’s the same one she’s been using with her colleagues since Nathan’s return, to keep them quiet, to keep them away. ‘He’s a profiler,’ she says. ‘The best in the business. What he does is put himself in the heads of those responsible. To do so, he has to be them. That’s why he needs to be restrained, because he’s scared he might lash out, act out the sick fantasies he’s living. That’s why he did nothing when you attacked him. You saw for yourself he didn’t fight back.’
Mark blinks for the first time, and it’s quickly followed by a swell of tears. Rather than holding him back, the PC is now holding him up, and Katie reaches out to help.
‘Let’s go through to the living room,’ she says, cursing her unfortunate choice of words, as they both rise unsteadily. Her whole body aches from the fall, but she tries not to show any discomfort and gestures towards the door, letting go of Mark and turning back towards Nathan. She reaches down, holding out a hand for him, but he doesn’t move, or even look at her. Not willing to leave him alone in the kitchen, she drags him up and stumbles towards where Mark is waiting, with Nathan leaning on her like a dead weight.
Moving down the hall she glances up again at the two school photos, hoping for strength but discovering something else. ‘You find a way to fucking do this,’ she whispers into Nathan’s ear, before grabbing him by the chin and slowly turning his head towards the two smiling children. ‘I don’t care how, but you do it!’
* * *
‘How?’ asks Mark the moment they enter the room. Nathan is standing on his own now, as is Mark, pointing towards the kitchen, but looking at them. ‘How could anyone…?’ His arm and tear-filled gaze swings towards Nathan. ‘Can you explain it to me?’
‘I can’t.’ Nathan’s voice is as small as the gap it emerges from. He falls heavily into a seat, then removes a small toy ambulance from under his thigh. He stares at the toy for a moment, then carefully places it on the cushion next to him. Katie can see he’s avoiding eye contact, that his breathing is short and his throat constricted. His hands locked together, one kneading the other’s palm, then scratching at it as if trying to remove a stain.
‘Isn’t that your job, to explain that sickness?’ snaps Mark, taking a small step forward, closely shadowed by the PC.
‘It was,’ Nathan mumbles into his chest. He’s almost folded over on the sofa, his head drooping towards his knees. ‘But things just don’t make sense to me anymore. I’m so sorry about your wife. She was a good woman.’
Both Mark and Katie’s heads shoot across to look at Nathan at the same time.
‘You knew her?’ asks Mark.
‘In a way,’ says Nathan, without looking up. ‘I’ve seen your home and I’ve…’ He taps the side of his head. ‘It’s not just the bad minds I get inside. She loved you very much. And your children.’
Sam and Jess. Katie recalls the names. She can, in fact, summon up a hundred facts about Sally Brooks, seeing it not only important in her attempts to solve the case, but as her duty to the victim, to colour in and never forget the detail of a life that was so cruelly taken away. She looks across at the mantelpiece, at a wedding photo of Sally and Mark, both of them smiling broadly with the kind of love she has never felt. In a different life, in a different world, she could almost picture herself there on that day, as a friend of the woman who looks a little like her. But in this world, in this reality, it’s work that has brought the two women together. And it’s work she returns to now, searching for the strength to keep on hurting.
‘You will have heard there’s been another murder,’ she says, looking at Mark.
‘One of your colleagues informed me,’ he says, lowering his head. His hands are moving down by his waist, and Katie can see, in addition to the red marks on his knuckles from where he hit Nathan, that he’s found the headless doll again, the very reason for his visit, and is squeezing it tightly. ‘Was it the same?’
‘Similar,’ she says.
‘Will there be more?’ On many occasions Katie has sat with those who could not see beyond their own suffering, or some who took comfort in discovering they were not alone, but she can see that Mr Brooks wants this to stop as much as she does. ‘More children without a mother?’ he continues, tears now flowing freely. ‘More lives torn apart?’
‘No,’ says Nathan, standing suddenly, holding his cuffed hands in front of his chest. ‘No more. I won’t let that happen.’
‘You swear?’ says Mark, looking at him, childlike.
‘On my life,’ says Nathan.
Out of the corner of her eye Katie can see Nathan offer a clumsy bow, but her real focus remains on Mark’s hands. She’s sweating now, cursing her tiredness, cursing the madness that she’s now certain has caused her to make a terrible mistake. ‘Can I ask you to put that down, please?’ she says, nodding at the headless doll.
‘Why?’ Mark asks, lifting the toy and seeming to consider it for the first time, as if he too had been blind to its significance. ‘Christ, you don’t think…?’
‘I think it’s best to investigate every possibility.�
�� She reaches into her pocket, searching for a new pair of latex gloves, the others torn in the struggle, but all she finds is a condom wrapper and a crumpled cigarette.
‘But you couldn’t have missed this,’ says Mark, carefully placing the headless doll on the mantelpiece and taking a step back.
‘No,’ says Katie, with a surge of defensive pride. ‘We couldn’t.’
It takes a moment, but she can see Mark getting there, his eyes jolting across to the door.
‘So, you think he’s been back?’
‘I think we should leave,’ she says, as calmly as she can manage. ‘That way my colleagues can come in and check.’
* * *
Half an hour later, and she’s driving the car. Mark Brooks has been escorted away, seemingly more reassured by Nathan’s promise than anything she had said. Nathan, however, looks far from capable of solving any crime. He seems to have sunk back inside himself, as distant as he was on the journey down from Scotland. The only clue as to what he might be thinking about is in the anxious bending back of his fingers. Seeing this reminds her of her own increasing fear. Might the headless doll connect these murders to that same one last year? Or might that first murder simply have been the inspiration? She stares across at Nathan, knowing that whatever else he might be capable of, he is certainly capable of putting on an act. Had what she’d just seen been the big finale?
She’s remembering the way he’d been unable to look at Mark Brooks. The way he’d apologised and flinched at hearing the children’s names; the way he’d seemed happy to die in that kitchen, and the conviction with which he’d sworn to make it stop. She’s thinking of the way these murders feel like a horrible amalgamation of all the cases they’ve previously investigated. And she’s thinking of her dad, of those few words he’d said in a rare moment of clarity: words that have since forced her to question everything, including her instinct for identifying killers.
And what if her instinct is wrong? It was Nathan who had taught her to trust in it, to use her heart as well as her head, and convinced her to look beyond the evidence she’d so carefully collated. What if he knew the flaw all along, that she was blind to those she cared about? The world around her suddenly starts to spin, following the path of the wounds on the second victim. Fearing she’s about to crash the car, she slows rapidly, pulling into a space she can barely make out through the swirl. She opens the window and starts to suck in the air, fighting the tiredness, the nausea, the doubt. When it’s over, when the world has settled and clarity has returned, she turns to Nathan and finds him slumped against the door with his eyes closed.
