Splinter in the Blood

by Ashley Dyer

  “This is what you call devotion to the art,” she murmured, picking up one of the books to sift through it. The text was heavily marked, too: passages pencil-underlined or highlighted in bright colors; marginal notes in a tiny, neat hand. Questions, observations, exclamations.

  Kara was, focused, obsessed, even—but she had a friend who would give up Christmas Day to support her through a crisis, peers who described her as a genius, and teachers who spoke of her as though she were already on her way to becoming a great actor. Ruth picked up the next book, and the next, and discovered an additional row of books behind them. Texts on mediums and cold reading, one entitled, How to Become a Psychic.

  “Did you know she was into all this?” she asked.

  Helen frowned. “She didn’t seem the type. Maybe it was research for a role?”

  “Maybe.”

  Ruth skimmed through a couple of the biographies. Kara’s notes and jottings—even the sections she had highlighted—emanated a warmth of spirit. Here was a way into Kara’s true character.

  Her excitement must have showed, because Helen said, “Have you found something?”

  Ruth slipped her phone from her pocket. “Not yet, but I think this may be exactly what I was looking for.”

  She fast-dialed John Hughes.

  “John, could you arrange to have some books from Kara’s place logged in to evidence and delivered to my desk?”

  “Which ones?” he said. “The guys I sent round there said the place was better stocked than the British Library.”

  She smiled. “I’ll send you a list.”

  Half an hour later, she paused on the steps of the Georgian terrace and took a breath of clean, fresh air. She felt for Kara even more, having heard what her housemates had to say. Kara must have felt terribly isolated in that place—admired and resented in equal measure.

  As a female detective in what was still, despite all protestations to the contrary, very much a man’s world, Ruth knew what it was like to be an outsider. Over the years, she had managed by creating an aura of mystery about herself; was that what Kara had tried to do? If so, she had miscalculated: in her world, expressiveness and emotional intensity were tools of the trade, and Kara’s quiet reserve had made her somewhat suspect—at least among her peers. Ruth had learned precious little from them, but one thing was certain: Kara’s housemates were definitely holding back.

  Chapter 13

  Ruth Lake approached her car, keys at the ready. Her mobile rang, and she checked the screen: it was Emma.

  “Ruth?” She sounded choked.

  “Emma, is everything okay?”

  “I thought you’d want to know.”

  He’s dead. A suffocating tightness gripped Ruth’s chest. “Is he—?”

  “He’s awake.”

  The pressure eased. “So soon?” It was only five days since he’d been shot.

  “I know—I never thought . . .”

  The critical care team at the hospital had reduced the level of anesthesia as the swelling in Carver’s brain had subsided, but they said it could be weeks before he came round.

  “He’s responsive?”

  “Not just responsive—he’s properly awake.”

  Ruth felt a cold sharp pain just below her breastbone. She flashed to the moment she had crouched in front of Carver with the gun still in her hand, and the horror she’d felt seeing that flicker of movement in his eyelid. What does he know? His eyes were open, he must have seen all of it.

  “They’ve removed the breathing tube,” Emma was saying. “He spoke to me, Ruth.” Emma gave a gasp of laughter that ended in a sob.

  Oh, God. “What did he say?”

  “He said he was sorry. He said he loved me.”

  “That’s . . . that’s good, Emma,” she managed, hearing the strain in her voice, cursing herself for her wooden response. “Good”? You should be ecstatic he hasn’t pointed the finger at you.

  “I—I’m coming in.”

  “Good. He said he wanted to see you.”

  Another thud of dread. Ruth leaned on the car bonnet, trying to catch her breath. After a second or two, she managed to say, “Why?”

  Stupid, stupid question.

  “I told him it was you that found him, got him to the hospital,” Emma said. “God, Ruth. If you hadn’t been there . . .”

  Ruth felt sick with guilt. You don’t know what I did. “I really need to get going,” she said.

  “I know—you’ll want to see him as soon as possible. I told them you’d be in. I’m going home to shower and change, catch a few hours of sleep,” Emma said. “It’ll be good for him to see a familiar face—they’re only allowing family, and he doesn’t really have any, as you know. Apart from me, I suppose. And you.”

  Ruth experienced a second wave of nausea. “Emma—”

  “I know,” Emma said, with another shaky laugh. “I’m babbling—I can’t help it. Ruth, he’s awake. A few days ago, the neurosurgeon told me not to give up hope. How could I give up, when I’d never dared hope? I’d prepared myself for . . . for something far worse. Now they’re saying he could make a full recovery.”

  Ruth concentrated on her breathing, letting the other woman’s words wash over her, and slowly she became more calm.

  When she tuned in again, Emma was saying, “I’ll be back this afternoon.”

  “I’m on my way right now,” Ruth said. “I’ll be there in half an hour.”

  DS Ruth Lake is watched from a parked car as she leaves Kara’s place. She stands in the cold air as if it is a welcome respite from the atmosphere inside the house.

  She doesn’t give much away—after all, she’s had years of police work to polish that outer shell of hers, to make it hard and reflective. But trotting down the steps, she does seem to be more buoyant than when she went in. What does she think she’s discovered in that cuckoo’s nest of petty privilege and small-minded jealousy?

  The detective carries on down the street, and as she passes the open window of the car, her phone rings. She is close enough to touch, and it takes an effort of will not to call out, to ask her something, pass a comment that will make her turn and look.

  “Emma,” Ruth says, “is everything okay?”

  The urgency in her voice arrests any further urge to make direct contact. This is far more entertaining. Greg Carver’s wife must be delivering the good news that DCI Carver has regained consciousness. In the last fifteen minutes, it has been broadcast on local and national radio and shared and tweeted so many times on social media that it’s become a trending topic. But standing there, keys in hand, it seems that Ruth is only hearing it now, for the first time.

  Strange that she looks so distressed.

  She moves on to her car. Much of her one-sided conversation is carried away on the wind, or drowned out by traffic noise, but then she says, “He’s responsive?” Sharply, almost in the tone of command—which is odd.

  A few more exchanges, then she crumples suddenly.

  Now, why is that? I seem to be taking the news rather better than you, Sergeant.

  She really is very striking—light brown hair, thirtyish, attractive. Perhaps a little more athletic than the ideal, but there are compensatory factors. Chief among these is the simple fact that she is continuing the investigation. For now, she is a more than satisfactory surrogate for Chief Inspector Carver.

  For the last five days, at a discreet distance, the Thorn Killer has been watching Ruth Lake travel from her home to Carver’s bedside, from there to the police HQ; calling in at academic offices; bouncing back and forth to student flats, onward to performances, trying to catch the more elusive of Kara’s peers. Throughout this time, the sergeant has looked purposeful, in control, despite the additional burden Carver’s shooting has placed on her. Yet now, in the face of the excellent news that Carver is much improved, she seems . . . what does she seem? Anxious? Possibly. Certainly wounded in some way.

  Women who harbor secrets are peculiarly thrilling.

  Ah, she
’s on the move.

  Ruth Lake slides behind the wheel of her car. It is parked parallel to the curb, two cars away, facing the killer’s own. The distance and the obscuring effect of the two car windscreens and rear windows mean she’s hard to make out. For a few moments she sits there. Her hands show white through the gloom of the car interior; she is gripping the steering wheel. Finally, she starts the engine and she’s off.

  Knowing where she is headed, the killer waits until Ruth is a block away before performing a leisurely U-turn and, seeing no reason to stay close, keeps a distance of two or three cars between them.

  In the early days, learning that Carver had a reputation for clearing difficult cases was flattering. It was sometimes a challenge staying ahead of the game, and that gave the cat-and-mouse with the detective a frisson. He also came with a certain notoriety as a flouter of rules, and that is always worth closer examination: it suggests a possible narcissistic streak—even psychopathic leanings. Carver had fulfilled his promise, breaking a few of those rules in the course of the investigation into Tali Tredwin’s death. If anything, the pattern escalated with each of the women that followed, but he had stalled the game in the last week.

  Kara, so carefully crafted, entirely for Carver’s benefit, had been wasted. Carver has been silent for five days, and under those circumstances it’s difficult not to feel thwarted.

  This feeling is typical of the empty disappointment that follows in the weeks after a kill. But this time, the desire to find a new quarry has come sooner and with greater force. The instinct to hunt is urgent, compelling.

  And as if the gods have seen a need and made provision, here is Sergeant Lake. Watching her car dodge in and out of the traffic, the killer senses a shift; not the tectonic shift you might expect after an earthquake, when the rumbling has stopped and the ground that seemed to turn to liquid has solidified to rock and earth again. No—this shift is more subtle: Ruth Lake is cool, fragrant air after a rainstorm. She plays the role of serious investigator, friend, protector, but she is concealing something, and it weighs heavily on her conscience.

  The hysterical narcissism packaged as “honesty” in this new confessional age nauseates the killer. But those who lock their secrets within themselves, carrying them silently, thoughtfully, with discretion, are fascinating. Gaining such a woman’s confidence, discovering her secrets, is an intense and intimate privilege. Like prizing open an oyster shell and finding a pearl.

  Chapter 14

  Shadows. Shapes, like smoke. Like ghosts . . . pain. A flash of light.

  You’ve screwed up the timeline, pal. That’s not how it happened. The flash came before the shadows. Before the pain.

  Greg Carver opened his eyes.

  Ruth Lake was standing by his bedside.

  “Hey.” His voice came out as a croak.

  Startled, she turned to him, and he saw that she had the framed photograph of Emma in her hands. Their honeymoon photograph.

  “Greg, hi.” She placed the photo on the nightstand. “You were out of it when I came in.”

  “Did I oversleep?”

  “You need your rest, Greg,” she said.

  “What are you talking about? Ruth, what are you doing here?”

  She gazed at him, her brown eyes calm, unaffected by his own agitation. “Where do you think you are?”

  Trick question—he’d been asked this before—got it wrong last time, he seemed to remember. He looked around: four beds in open-fronted bays. Bodies, barely recognizable as people, all on drips, three on respirators; the astringent smell of antiseptic gel and a constant noise of electronic monitoring equipment.

  Not at home, that’s for sure.

  “Let me take a wild guess,” he said. “Hospital?” That must have been one hell of a bender you went on, old son. He started coughing and she handed him a cup—the type with a lid and a built-in straw. So it’s come to this—sucking from a granny cup.

  Humiliated, he took the cup but couldn’t hold it steady, and Ruth caught it and held it for him. He tapped her hand when he’d had enough.

  For once, he was grateful for the impenetrable calm of her poker face—at least he could be sure he wouldn’t read any pity in it.

  “Which hospital?” he asked.

  “The Aintree Neurosciences Centre.”

  The head injury unit.

  “Do you know what happened?” she asked.

  Another trick question. “Why does everyone keep asking me that?”

  “Do they?”

  “That, and the name of the current prime minister.”

  Her eyebrows twitched. “Which is?”

  “Google it,” he said. He couldn’t remember the PM, but the rest was coming back to him. Flashes of the last two days, as seen through a mist, fading in and out of focus. Voices, first—disembodied—like a conversation heard on a radio. Then faces—was Emma’s among them? And over and over, the questions: Can you grip my hand/open your eyes/feel this, Greg? Do you know where you are? Can you remember what happened?

  It all seemed like a recurring dream in which, half awake, he would be quizzed on a test he hadn’t prepared for.

  Ruth was still watching him, with that mildly curious, dispassionate expression, not wanting anything in particular, simply interested to hear what he would say next.

  “I fell and banged my head.”

  “What?” Ruth said.

  “That’s what happened.” A reasonable assumption, given he was in a specialist head injuries unit—and he hated to appear incompetent—especially to Ruth.

  She drew up a chair and sat, looking straight into his eyes.

  He saw a shadow, a figure flitting about his apartment. Ruth, peering into his face, her eyes dark.

  “Were you there?” he asked.

  “When?”

  “When it happened.”

  She withdrew slightly, but held his gaze.

  “I called it in.” She searched his face. “You don’t remember?”

  Jesus, why does everything feel like a test? He closed his eyes and sank back into the pillows. “No, Ruth, I don’t.”

  “You were shot, Greg.”

  His eyes flew open. He lifted a hand to his head, tested for signs of tenderness, and found a dressing. “In the head?”

  She was watching him closely. “In the chest.”

  “Then, what’s this?” He fingered the dressing.

  “You also had a concussion.” She jerked her chin. “That was to remove the fluid buildup. The doctors say your head injury may have happened hours before you were shot. So, you remember falling?”

  He shook his head. “I don’t even know that I fell,” he admitted.

  She waited.

  He took a breath and exhaled slowly. “I was working on the files. I cracked open a bottle of malt—must’ve got completely tanked.” She didn’t comment, and he went on: “Then . . . nothing.”

  “You really don’t remember anything after that?”

  She doesn’t believe me. “No, Ruth, I really don’t. Did you catch the shooter?”

  “No.”

  “D’you have a suspect?”

  “DCI Jansen is looking into the possibility it was the Thorn Killer.”

  She seemed to be waiting for him to say something. “What do you think?” he said.

  “TK didn’t shoot you.”

  “How can you be so sure?”

  “You know why, Greg.”

  “Ruth, I’ve got a bullet in my chest; I’ve been knocked on the head and shot full of drugs. Humor me.”

  She lifted one shoulder, let it fall. “Because our guy takes his time,” Ruth said. “He considers himself an artist. He put Kara in a grotto and sprinkled fairy dust on her eyelashes. The Thorn Killer would never do something like this. It’s too . . . ugly.”

  “So tell me what did happen.”

  “I can’t do that,” Ruth said. “I can only tell you what happened after.”

  “Then that’ll have to do,” Carver said, thinking tha
t was an odd response.

  Ruth took him through finding him in his sitting room, shot, calling emergency services.

  “My files?”

  “Gone.”

  Why had she left that part out till he’d asked?

  “Forensic evidence?”

  “The only fingerprints in your flat are mine, and yours.”

  “No fibers, footwear marks, signs of forced entry?”

  “A footwear mark.”

  Ruth was never apt to give more information than necessary, but this was as painful as pulling teeth.

  “What about the gun?”

  She hesitated. “A small-caliber pistol—.22 maybe.”

  “Don’t they know?”

  “The bullet is still inside you, Greg,” she said.

  His hand went to his chest. “And they didn’t find the gun?”

  “No.”

  “Look, what is this, Ruth?”

  “I don’t know what you mean.”

  “That mask of yours—I can’t read it any better than the rest, but I do know when you’re being evasive.”

  “I’m being as honest as I can be, Greg.”

  “Did you mess up at the scene—is that it? Jeez, Ruth, you’d just found me shot; I don’t give a shit if you messed it up.”

  “I was a CSI for five years, Greg, a CSM for two. I know how to manage a scene.”

  “There you go again. It’s like you’re talking in code, and I’m just not getting it.”

  “Who did you meet at the Old Bank Hotel?” she asked.

  “What?” His heart began to thud.

  “You spent two hours there the night you were shot.”

  The air around her seemed to darken and for a moment he thought he might pass out. Then the darkness lifted and he saw an orange glow around her.

  “I told you, I don’t remember what happened that night.”

  “That’s understandable. But you’re known there, Greg—the staff recognized you. So why were you there on those other occasions?”