Forrest began to see the way Lewisham worked. He entered the ‘surgeon’s’ evil mind, and from that viewpoint he scanned the possibilities and probabilities. Forrest looked into Lewisham’s strange, marmalade-coloured eyes and was fascinated. ‘Anything else?’
Lewisham leant forward. ‘Did you find any hair on Wilson’s body that was not his?’
Forrest shook his head. ‘Regretfully, no.’
‘Good. That means he did wear a hat.’
Forrest had visions of a fashion item. ‘A hat?’
‘A theatre hat,’ Lewisham rubbed his hands together. ‘One of those disposable paper things. They use them in theatre. Covers the hair. Excellent. You see it means my instinct that our friend has to have these touches of authenticity is correct.’
The man’s enthusiasm was infectious. Forrest smiled. ‘Is that good?’
‘Oh yes,’ Lewisham said. ‘It’s how we will eventually trap him, through his desire to be recognized as a fellow professional.’
‘You’re taking this too far.’
‘You think so?’ Lewisham stood up. ‘Have you never understood that when a mind is psychotic it is also logical? It may not be my logic. It may not be your logic. But once you understand the extent and reality of delusion everything is clearly spread out.’
‘You’ve lost me!
Lewisham stepped closer. ‘That’s the problem,’ he said softly. ‘One has to be prepared to deviate, to follow the strange mind along the maze. Only then can you understand. I have found this already. Policemen are far too bound up with the pedantic, the literal and the logical. Don’t even try, Inspector Forrest. Let me wrestle with our killer. When I have him by the throat, then I shall consult you. Well,’ he said in a sudden turn-about. ‘If I don’t see you again, have a nice Christmas.’
Forrest returned the greeting with a sinking feeling at the bottom of his stomach.
Christmas.
• • • •
By sheer coincidence it was that same night that the ‘surgeon’ felt fully prepared for his next case. He had watched Rosemary for a couple of weeks now and he knew her routine as well as his own. Earlies at the Cater Clinic meant she caught the bus for a couple of stops to the flat she shared with another girl. Once, he had caught a glimpse of her flatmate, a short, neat woman with dark hair.
But if Rosemary worked the late shift, she finished at ten p.m. and usually went for a drink. Tonight she would finish at ten.
He sat in his car and waited.
At five minutes past ten she swung through the doors, her head down against the world, the weather and the flying snowflakes, her coat wrapped tightly around her. Just outside she fumbled in her pocket for a cigarette, lit it, and took a couple of deep drags before hurrying along Pritchard’s Drive to the pub at the top.
Regular habits have their advantage. He knew what she would do next.
He kerb-crawled behind her. She never even looked back but hurried inside the pub.
He did too.
She ordered a drink, a half of lager.
He did too. From the other side of the bar.
It was early, but because Christmas was approaching and exams had finished the bar was closely packed with celebrating students. She was not part of them. She drank up quickly, hardly looking around. Certainly not at him. He wondered whether she would have a second drink. Sometimes she did. Tonight she did not and left the pub.
So did he.
She walked through the door. He smiled. She thought she was going home, to the dark, rough area to the north of Edgbaston. She approached a square, derelict block of 1960s flats awaiting demolition before redevelopment. Ideal for him. Already encased in corrugated sheeting and adorned with ‘Keep Out’ signs.
Rosemary glanced round uneasily, aware of the desertion of the streets, of the darkness, the lateness, the isolation of her route. Less than three hundred yards to the busy, Hagley Road. She hurried.
He could read her mind.
He pulled the car up — just in front of her, got out and approached her. Spoke. ‘Excuse me, aren’t you Rosemary Shearer, that was?’ When she nodded and explained that Shearer had been her maiden name, he went on, ‘Didn’t you once work in the operating theatre?’ Her expression was at first, startled.
‘Yes.’ She laughed. ‘I did.’
He was friendly. ‘I thought so. I used to work with you.’
‘Oh.’ She didn’t remember.
She wouldn’t remember.
‘Well, goodbye.’
He moved past her. Then struck. From behind. So practised she dropped like a stone, her body thumping onto the pavement, then lying still. He dragged her behind the corrugated tin screen. He pulled a stocking from his pocket. So quick. So easy. And so, so effective. When he was sure she was dead he moved his car in close.
To work.
• • • •
It was perfect textbook stuff. Mask on. Hat on. Gloves on. Gown on. He ran through the checklist, speaking as he worked, both to himself and to his patient. She lay obediently still. He removed her mac then her sweater, dropped both to the floor and kicked them out of the way. It would not do to contaminate his gloves. The bra, though, he had no option but to unhook. Then his patient was ready.
He stood for a moment, staring down at her, his mind working out the correct incision. Approach, they called it. Correct approach. Then he draped her entirely with green theatre towels.
‘Scalpel.’
He liked to speak out loud. It gave him the illusion that he had a full team of staff watching him, admiring his skill with the blade, giving him the accolade he deserved. Then the first cut. Always the most exciting part, watching the skin part for him, revealing its secret underlying tissues. Though she hardly bled, only the tiniest of oozes. Shame that.
Different from last time, he used his hands to separate Rosemary from her breast, peeling back the tissues, exposing bone, mopping rapidly congealing blood from now obsolete blood vessels.
She had not needed a breast reduction at all. She was not a big girl.
The stitches gave him a bit of a problem. Not a nice, neat cut this time but a great big, untidy, jagged wound, inches wide. Difficult to suture. He wondered how other surgeons coped, but then their patients would heal, his would not. Shame that.
The entire procedure took well over an hour and he was tired by the end. Tired, yet exhilarated. This had been major surgery. Not some poxy little cut. Major surgery. It felt good.
Over his mask his eyes searched out the bright colour of yellow bags in the corner, and he smiled. Life had never felt so fine. Slowly he was feeling calmed by his work. He would return his patient to the hospital tonight. While it was still dark. He knew another place. Maybe it would take them a little longer to find this one.
It was so easy to drive her to the hospital site, pull up by the planned development, lift her body and dump it among the rubble.
Chapter Seven
24 December 1999
A blanket of cloud had descended over the city bringing with it a dull sheet of wet snow, unusual for Christmas Eve. Malcolm had pinned back the net curtain and was watching for Brenda, trying to ignore the sleet which tumbled from the sky lying for a moment on the pavement before melting into patchy blobs. He was worried that the weather would put her off and that she wouldn’t come. Besides, people with families were often busy on Christmas Eve. There was a lot to do: turkey to stuff, presents to wrap. Too much work to spare the time to call on...Malcolm sat and fretted all morning.
In the afternoon he laid out his blades. He must have some pleasures. Carefully he lined them up. So many of them now. He must have at least forty. He counted them. Forty-one. He wondered if he had a full set. If Brenda did come he would ask her. Desperately he glanced across the room at the window. She would not come. He would be forced to wait until well after Christmas to add even one blade to his collection.
He was seized with a sudden fear. Were there any missing? Long ones, pointed ones, baby ones o
r big blunt ones?
Malcolm had a love of order and he loved to count.
Altogether there were twenty-three different shapes. Some curved, some straight. He put all the curved ones together, in order of size. Then all the straight ones, in order of size. His hand hovered over the lines. Which one would he concentrate on this afternoon? As it was almost Christmas he chose the largest and laid it out carefully, away from the others, on a piece of dark cloth that showed up the silvery stainless steel to perfection. He clipped the blade to one of his handles and held it, as Brenda had showed him, almost like a pencil, between the forefinger and thumb. Then with a delicate, practised manoeuvre he stroked the air, hardly hesitating, before closing his eyes. Whatever this one had been used for could be done again. To cut out a cancer? An appendix? A diseased length of bowel? And had the patient lived or died? That must make a difference to the vibes given off. Malcolm’s pale eyes flipped open. Had this very object, in his hand, been responsible for someone’s death?
He couldn’t remember when he had first thought of the idea, to use the blades as a medium uses a crystal ball. But instead of peering into the future he looked into the past. And saw what they had done, the wonderful, wonderful work. Saving lives. Or not. It didn’t always work. Today there was nothing. Maybe this blade hadn’t been used before being discarded. He knew that the theatre sisters laid out many instruments on the operating trolley that were not needed. He closed his eyes again.
A little thought pushed into his mind, stopping him concentrating properly. Last week he’d said something to Brenda about cleaning them properly. Half as a joke he’d asked her if he could catch AIDS from them. She’d been really angry with him and her voice had been sharp and very unfriendly.
‘What do you take me for, Malcolm?’ She’d looked disgusted with him. ‘You are such a fool,’ she’d said unkindly. ‘I’m sure you weren’t this peculiar when you worked at the hospital.’ She’d glared at him. ‘It must be living on your own. Why don’t you get a job? Do some work for a living. I can’t understand you just sitting here day after day, doing nothing. The AIDS virus can’t live outside the body, any old muggins knows that. And anyway, common or garden soap and water or bleach would kill it, let alone the stuff I’ve had it soaking in. And I’ve sterilized them in the bloody autoclave.’ Her face had looked hard and nasty. A bit podgy. A bit piggy. ‘I don’t have to bring you the blades, Malcolm, you know. It’s quite a nuisance collecting them up and cleaning them and then trailing all the way out here with them. Besides...’ Her expression was hostile. ‘What do you want them all for?’ She’d glanced suspiciously round the little flat.
‘I told you,’ he’d answered grumpily. ‘I do marquetry. You need sharp blades for that, so as not to split the veneers. You can never have enough of them. They go blunt.’
‘I’ve never seen you doing any marquetry, I’ve never seen so much as a sliver of wood round this place.’ Brenda’s eyes had narrowed suspiciously. ‘You’re not having me on, are you?’
Malcolm squirmed. He didn’t want Brenda to know. ‘I, umm, tidy it all away before you come. It makes a mess.’
Remembering all this and watching the miserable weather, Malcolm was sure she would not come.
But she did.
She came at three, the cold seeping from her clothes making the small flat cold too. ‘You’re lucky,’ she said, flinging her arms around herself, stamping her feet and shivering. ‘I finished early and thought I’d bring you your Christmas present.’
Malcolm was in a fret. What had she brought him? A present? A blade he didn’t have?
Like a child he fidgetted while she rooted through her huge handbag. Then he remembered, he hadn’t bought her anything.
Brenda fished something out of her bag. ‘There,’ she said proudly.
Malcolm stared in disappointment. Even wrapped he knew it wasn’t the right shape for a box of blades, and he wanted nothing else. He tried to stammer out some thanks but Brenda wasn’t even listening.
‘Now don’t go opening it before the great day.’ He could have sworn her button-black eyes were scanning the room for her present. He felt a swift flush of anger. It wasn’t right for her to expect things from him. He didn’t have much money.
She stopped looking around the room and gazed at him. ‘Promise me you won’t,’ she said.
‘What?’
‘Open it before Christmas.’
‘No.’
She brushed his arm with her hand. ‘No what?’ she said, giggling.
Giggling! Malcolm stepped back. She’d been drinking. He could smell it on her. See it on her, cheeks flushed, eyes slightly bloodshot.
‘No you won’t promise, or no you won’t open it?’ she teased.
‘No I won’t open it,’ he said sullenly. And now he had a dilemma. He did not want to appear ungrateful but he must ask. Did she have any blades for him? Maybe she had some in her bag and with the distraction of the Christmas present she would forget to give them to him. He almost wet himself in anticipation. She was getting ready to go, already pulling aside the net curtain he’d nailed across the window to stop people peering in. It tore a little. She waved to a man in a van. Peering over her shoulder Malcolm saw him wave back. A black-haired man with big shoulders.
‘Well,’ Brenda said, turning round to face him. ‘I really ought to be going. I’ve got loads to do with it being Christmas. Terry, that’s my son-in-law, and Shani, my daughter, are coming for the day.’ She mock-sighed. ‘She’s a lazy girl, Malcolm. Lazy and very fat. Unlike her mother.’ She chuckled and put her hand over her mouth but Malcolm knew she did not really regret having insulted her daughter. Just pretended to. ‘I’m doing the cooking,’ she winked at him. ‘But they’ll have to do the washing up.’ She winked again. ‘I just might have had a drop or two of the sherry and break the glasses.’ Malcolm watched her curiously. It was funny. She, a grown woman, was excited over Christmas. He puzzled over it for no more than a second before he continued in his agony of indecision. She’d given him a present. He couldn’t ask for something else.
But she might forget them.
He gave her a desperate look but she had moved back to the window, and was smiling down again at the bloke in the small, white van. Malcolm added curly hair to the description.
Brenda giggled. ‘Good-looking guy isn’t he, Malcolm?’
Should he ask her?
Indecision was giving way to crossness as Brenda gave the man in the van another wave and the one-minute sign with her forefinger before she dropped the curtain. Malcolm stiffened. Not only had she torn it, she hadn’t even bothered to rearrange it. There was a corner still tucked up, quite a big corner, leaving a triangular gap where anyone could stare in, and see quite a lot. Anything. It bothered him so much he was finding it hard to concentrate on what she was saying with that silly wet smile all over her face. His fingers wove in and out of each other as though they had a life of their own.
Perhaps Brenda sensed his antagonism towards her hero. Maybe that was why she continued her teasing. ‘My son-in-law, Terry, who drives me,’ she said, ‘thinks you’re a strange sort of bloke, Malcolm. And you should remember you’re relying on his good nature to bring me here.’ Instinct made her tack the phrase on the end of the sentence. ‘And the blades.’ It was a sudden revelation. It was not her visit that Malcolm appreciated, but the second-hand surgical blades she brought in her bag.
Resentment as sharp as a current of electricity shot through Malcolm towards this man who thought he was strange. There was nothing strange about him. He just liked privacy. And certain things. His eyes want to the turned up corner of the net curtains. He didn’t want people looking into his flat. He might be on the first floor, but people might still look, mightn’t they? He eyed Brenda suspiciously. Maybe she had left the peep-hole on purpose. Deliberately and very slowly he moved past her and pulled the curtain down — hard. Then he replied to Terry’s jibe about him, but he watched her very carefully as he answered quite casu
ally because she could, of course, be making the whole thing up — just to tease him. Brenda liked a joke. ‘Thinks I’m strange, does he?’ He failed to sound nonchalant, he knew he sounded anxious and pathetic.
‘And I’m not sure I don’t agree with him,’ Brenda continued, with that mocking, laughing expression still on her face. She picked up the net curtain again and suddenly Malcolm knew she had left herself visible on purpose. Almost as though she didn’t quite trust him. The thought still occupied him as Brenda picked up her white plastic handbag without even promising she would ever be coming again.
She was halfway to the door when he managed to stutter. ‘The b-b-b-blades?’
Brenda gave him a searching look. ‘They mean a lot to you, don’t they?’
He nodded, feeling as trapped as a bird caught in a net.
She gave him a cruel, teasing glance. ‘But it’s Christmas, Malcolm. I’ve already brought you a present.’ Her eyes fell on the small, wrapped gift. ‘You can’t want another one, surely? And you didn’t get me anything? Her mouth drooped slackly in a red, lipsticked pout.
He closed his eyes. She hadn’t brought him any blades today.
‘Besides, over Christmas, we don’t do any operations.’
That seemed to confirm it.
‘What are you doing for Christmas, Malcolm?’ Without knowing why he made up a sister.
‘Going to my sister’s.’ He was pleased with that. It sounded so normal.
But Brenda gave him a suspicious look. ‘I didn’t know you had a sister.’
‘She lives in...’ He cast right through his mind — ‘Erdington.’
‘That’s where that man came from — the one who was killed.’
The lie was tripping him up. ‘He was from a different part.’
She didn’t believe him, he could tell that.
‘But when your mother was ill — and died — you said you were the only one who could look after her.’
The trouble with lies was they got longer and longer, like the nose on Pinnochio’s face.
A Fatal Cut Page 10
