by Amy Cross
“Still looking,” I reply as I stare at Mike Wallace's face, and in particular at his half-open eyes.
“You've noticed,” Maitland continues, reaching down and lifting one of the corpse's eyelids to reveal a thin metal pin. “The killer posed the corpse before mounting it on the ceiling. Obviously there are angelic elements to the scene, which in my opinion indicates a rather limited imagination on the part of the killer, but the detail is quite exquisite. These pins were used to keep the eyes partially open, as if the killer was making a particular statement. It's also not something that could really be achieved on the fly, so I think this was very much a premeditated murder.”
“And the time of death?” I ask.
“Not so long ago,” he replies. “Some time between four and six this evening.”
“He finished work at five,” I point out.
“Then I think we know what happened. He went to his car, someone killed him there, and then his body was worked on for a short while before being taken to the church. At that point, it was only a matter of waiting for an opportunity to hang the art, so to speak. It wouldn't necessarily have taken very long, either, not if everything was planned in advance.”
“It was definitely planned,” I reply. “Whoever's behind these murders, they clearly go to a lot of trouble to make sure that nothing's left to chance.”
“So she knew roughly when the church hall would be empty,” he continues, “and she had a ladder already in place. I know it sounds rather complicated, but it's actually doable if you just set it out logically. You're dealing with someone who clearly doesn't get flustered very easily.”
“This shouldn't have happened,” I mutter, staring at the dead body. “I should have realized that he might be a target. I should have done something more proactive.”
“At least you've got the bastard,” Maitland points out. “What's her name? Hawthorne? I'll prepare the usual report, but I don't mind telling you that I have no wish to see anything like this again. Give me a good old-fashioned stabbing victim any day. I know some of my colleagues like a bit of a puzzle, but I just get irritated if I have to stay up late.”
Staring at Mike Wallace's body, I can't help thinking back to the fact that just twelve hours ago I was talking to him, and he was droning on and on about the lack of talent displayed by his students. I imagine that he was the kind of man who gave his opinion freely, in which case others probably knew of his disdain. It's almost as if he was killed to prove a point, but I'm still not convinced that Bryony Hawthorne is responsible. I just can't picture her doing something like this.
“Penny for them?” Maitland asks.
I turn to him.
“Shouldn't you be letting your hair down?” he continues. “Twenty-four-hours ago this case was looking like a real bugger, and now you've got it solved.”
“Maybe,” I mutter.
“You have doubts?”
“I'm not convinced that we've got the right person,” I tell him. “Everyone else thinks it's open and shut, but I don't think she's the killer.”
“And the fingerprint evidence doesn't sway you?”
“Fingerprint evidence can be faked,” I point out.
“Only by someone with great skill.”
“Exactly,” I reply. “I think we are dealing with someone who has great skill, and without wanting to sound mean, I don't think Bryony Hawthorne could pull it off. I'm pulling her phone and internet records, but I don't expect to find much. She couldn't have got the first body onto the plinth in Trafalgar Square, and she couldn't have got Mike Wallace up onto the ceiling of the church hall.”
“Or she could,” he continues, “and you're just underestimating her.”
“I've ordered some extra tests on the fingerprints,” I tell him. “The results'll be coming through overnight, so I need you to take a look first thing in the morning and let me know what you think. If I'm right, the fingerprints were somehow transferred from another surface onto Mike Wallace's body.”
“Seriously?”
“It's possible!” I point out.
“But unlikely.”
“But it's still possible,” I tell him again. “If someone worked hard enough at it, and practiced, they could do it, and that means we can't rule it out.”
“And if the fingerprints weren't transferred?” he asks.
Heading to the door, I pause for a moment before looking back at him.
“If they weren't transferred,” I continue, “then it's obvious, isn't it? I'd have no choice but to charge her. Either way, we'll know in the morning. Call me as soon as you know anything.”
“By the way,” he continues, grabbing an evidence back from the counter, “do you want to know the title of this particular piece?”
“Title?” I ask.
He holds the bag up to reveal a small white piece of card with some printed text.
“The killer left this next to the body. Apparently the title is 'The Man Who Knew Everything', which I think is rather inventive.”
“The first one was titled 'Modern Life',” I reply. “I guess they're part of a series.”
With that, I head out of the examination room. My heart is racing, and I'm very much aware that I'm in danger of spiking my own success here. I should be celebrating, but instead I've got this immovable gut feeling that Bryony's being framed. If the killer is skillful enough to pull off every other part of this crime, then why wouldn't he or she be able to transfer the fingerprints? If I'm right, the person behind these murders is still out there, and I can't shake the feeling that everything is going to come to a head at Friday's final show.
Grabbing my phone, I bring up Nick's number and wait for him to answer. I don't know why, but I'm feeling increasingly restless, as if with every passing second the pressure in my head is being ratcheted up another notch.
“Hey!” he shouts, with the sound of a bar in the background. “You coming down to the Crown?”
“Are you...” I pause as I realize that he's out celebrating the fact that we've 'solved' the case. “No,” I tell him, “I just called to tell you that -”
“It's happy hour,” he continues, apparently oblivious to anything I'm trying to tell him. He sounds a little drunk, too, so I guess I'm not going to get much out of him tonight. “Come on, let your hair down for once! Everyone's here!”
“I can't,” I tell him. “I have to get home to my mother.”
“You can manage one drink, can't you?”
“No,” I reply, “really, I can't. Sorry. Another time.”
“Whatever,” he shouts back at me, “but you're gonna have to come out with us one night! Face it, Laura. We pulled an ace on this one and Bryony whatsername is gonna rot in prison for everything she did. She thought she was smarter than us, but we proved her wrong. Back of the net, eh? You're not gonna charge her tonight, are you? I wanna be there to see that obnoxious little cow's face when she realizes she's not wriggling out of it.”
“I'll talk to you tomorrow,” I tell him.
“Yeah, but Laura, are you -”
Cutting the call off, I can't help but shiver at the thought that Nick is so confident about this case. I hope he's right, and that we really have had a lucky break. At the same time, I feel as if there's still some work to do. Nick thinks I'm being too cautious because I'm scared of repeating the mistakes I made in the Daniel Gregory case, but in fact it's simply that I've learned my lesson. There's no way I'm going to screw up again, and the fingerprint analysis is going to prove that Bryony is innocent.
***
An hour later, I hurry out of the supermarket and make my way across the dark car park. My heart's racing as I open the back door and shove my bags inside, but at the last moment I pause. All my panic and fear has faded away, replaced by something else. I feel...
Good.
Taking a deep breath, I realize that my whole body feels completely alive, and all the tiredness and doubt is gone.
Finally, I reach into my coat pocket and pull out t
he small bottle of whiskey I stole. Glancing back at the supermarket, I see that there's a figure standing in the doorway. All I can make out is his silhouette, but I'm convinced it's the security guard. Did he suspect me? He wouldn't have stopped me unless he was absolutely certain, but it's possible that he's making a mental note of me, in which case there's no way I can come back to this supermarket ever again.
Hurrying to the nearby bin, I toss the bottle away before making my way back to the car. Once I'm in the driver's seat, I take a deep breath and stare at my eyes in the rear-view mirror. It'd be one thing if I was stealing things I actually wanted, but I've already got way too much whiskey sitting in the cabinet at home and I don't even like the stuff. I sit and stare at the supermarket door until finally the figure turns and heads back inside. I'm not certain, but I think I just came close to being spotted. Feeling an immense sense of relief rush through my body, I lean forward and rest my forehead against the steering wheel.
I can't keep doing this. I'm going to get caught. I need to find some other way to get the same rush.
Ophelia
It's almost 5am by the time I ease the front door shut. There's no way I want to wake anyone up, so I turn the latch slowly until the door is in place, and then I let the latch slip back across with just the faintest click.
Silence.
Everyone's in bed.
For a moment, I feel as if I should turn around and get the hell out of here. The idea of coming 'home' feels wrong somehow, and I'm worried that I'm allowing myself to become domesticated.
Taking a deep breath, I try to get rid of the sense of panic in my gut. Tonight I spent a couple of hours getting to know Victoria, and I came dangerously close to making a friend. I assumed when I went to the college that I'd just fake everything, but something about Victoria made me feel at ease. A shiver passes through me as I realize how close I came to telling her my whole life story: where I come from, what happened to me, why I ran, my name, every damn thing. If I'd done that, I don't even know how I'd begin to repair the damage. The problem is, I feel as if Victoria is the one person who might actually understand me.
Turning, I head to the foot of the stairs.
“Ophelia?”
I freeze as I realize that the voice came from the front room. For a moment, it occurs to me that maybe I could just go to bed and pretend that I was up there all along, but finally I realize that there's no point lying. Walking across the unlit hallway, I peer through into the next room and realize that Laura is sitting in the dark. Sure, she's always a little unsociable and weird, but even for her, this is kind of strange.
“I know it's late,” I tell her, “but -”
“It's okay,” she says, interrupting me. “I'm not your mother, for God's sake.”
I can't help but smile.
“What have you been up to?” she asks.
“Just hanging out,” I reply.
“Did you make friends?”
“Of course. You know me, I'm just about the most popular person on the planet. When I put my mind to it, anyway.”
I pause for a moment, waiting for her to say something, but it's starting to become clear that something's wrong. Reaching over, I turn on the light, and that's when I see that Laura is just sitting at the dining table as if she's completely lost in thought.
“I've been networking,” I add, hoping to cheer her up. “Spreading myself out across the campus, looking for information, trying to work out if anyone has seen or heard anything. I've had to limit myself to the students still, but I'll get there in the end. It's actually kinda tiring, really. I'm not used to being in a place like that and...”
Pausing again, I realize that I'm starting to waffle. I always do this when I'm nervous, and right now I'm nervous as hell. After all, I accidentally let my defenses down tonight, and I'd always thought those defenses were much stronger.
“So what's wrong?” I ask as I head over and take a seat. “No glass of wine?”
She shakes her head.
“I didn't really come up with anything today,” I tell her. “I met a few of the students, but -”
“An innocent girl is sitting in a cell at the police station,” she says suddenly, interrupting me. “She's there because all the evidence points to her being the killer. There was another murder, by the way. A lecturer at the college named Mike Wallace was found dead, stuck to the ceiling in a church hall. He was killed just a few hours earlier and then he was attached to a few hooks and hung like he was supposed to be on display.”
“Another artistic murder?” I ask.
“There was some writing on his body and on the ceiling,” she replies, “but we can't make out what it says. I think maybe it's just nonsense, designed to lead us down a dead end.” She sighs. “How many dead ends are we going to have to deal with before we come up with something?”
“So what's the evidence against the girl you arrested?”
“Fingerprints,” she continues, “but I think they've been faked.”
“Totally possible,” I tell her.
“Do you know how to do it?”
“I read about it once,” I reply. “I don't remember the details, but I'm sure I could do it if necessary. Anyone with a few brain cells can find that kinda stuff on the net.”
“I'm having some tests run,” she tells me, “but the results won't be available for a few more hours.”
“Playing the waiting game, huh?”
“Bryony Hawthorne isn't the killer,” she continues. “I just know it, deep down.”
“Bryony?” I pause for a moment. “You're right. I met her today, and there's no way she did it. She's flaky and a bit weird, and kinda twisted, but she couldn't kill someone. I know that's a big assumption to make, but some people just haven't got it in them.”
“But the real killer wants us to think it's her.”
“Only to buy some time,” I reply. “Any artist wants to sign his or her work eventually. Framing Bryony is just a way for the killer to keep you busy until Friday. The final show is gonna be where it all goes down.”
“We can't let that happen,” she replies. “Are you sure you didn't come up with anything today?”
I shake my head.
“So what have you been doing?”
“Meeting people,” I reply, not wanting to mention the time that I spent with Victoria Middleton. Somehow that feels private, as if I don't want to share it with anyone. “I talked to a whole load of students, but so far none of them really stood out as being the killer. Tomorrow's another day, though, so I figure I'll manage to dig something up. By hook or by crook, I'll have a lead for you.”
I pause for a moment as I wait to see if she'll believe my excuse. Fortunately, she seems too wrapped up in her own worries to really pay attention to anything I tell her.
“You use unusual phrases,” she says suddenly.
“I do?”
“By hook or by crook,” she replies. “That's not something most people your age say. Sometimes I feel as if your reference points are a little off.” She pauses. “Where did you go to school?”
“Not telling.”
“Why not?”
“Because once I start down that road,” I point out, “I'll end up telling my whole life story.”
“Would that be such a bad thing?”
“It would.”
She smiles, as if she finds me amusing. I guess there's no way she could have known that tonight, of all nights, would be the absolute worst time to try to get me to open up. After what happened with Victoria, I feel more defensive and alert than ever.
“So if Bryony isn't the killer,” I continue, hoping to change the subject, “have you really got no more leads?”
She grabs a folder and opens it to show me a photo of a naked man stuck to a ceiling. It's a shocking image, and I stare for a moment as I try to take in the full extent of the killer's madness. Whoever's behind this, they're clearly acting out some kind of elaborate fantasy, and it's not hard to see how an unhing
ed mind could see these murders as components of some overarching masterpiece. Hell, there's no denying that this is some pretty shocking work.
“The final show is in two days,” she tells me. “That means I've got two choices. First, I can charge Bryony Hawthorne with murder and hope that she's the killer after all. Second, I can let her go and hope to hell that I can come up with a lead in the next twenty-four hours, because if nothing happens at that point, I'm going to have no choice but to get that final show canceled.”
“Maybe that's what the killer wants,” I point out.
“What else can I do?”
“Don't cancel the show.”
“But maybe that's what the killer wants.”
“Then you're screwed,” I tell her, “because at some point you're going to have to make a decision and stop second-guessing yourself.”
Staring at the photo of the man on the ceiling, I suddenly realize that it looks familiar. Earlier tonight, when I was with Victoria, I saw something very similar in one of her notebooks. I have a pretty damn good photographic memory, and I'm convinced that the sketch was almost exactly the same as the photo. Then again, it's not the most original pose in the world, so it's probably a coincidence. There's no way Victoria could be the killer. She and I are so alike, and I totally understand that she has her demons, but I refuse to believe that she'd go this far.
“What is it?” Laura asks eventually. “I've seen that look on your face before, Ophelia. Have you got a lead?”
“Me?”
“Tell me,” she continues, putting the folder down. “I'm getting desperate here. If you can think of anything, even if it's a long shot, it might help.”
