Splintered

by Laura J Harris

  Stratton nodded.

  Digging down into the knee pocket of his black trousers he produced a small, silver digital camera. ‘I took the pictures myself. There wasn’t much evidence to be collected. Nothing at all in the lock down area itself, aside from a match; burnt out in the sensor housing near the main console. I don’t think the crew even knew what was happening until it was too late.’

  ‘Good work.’ Prior said, taking the camera from Stratton. ‘Davies, will you take this and the other evidence — ’

  ‘Can I see the pictures?’ Christine cut in, pushing herself forward amongst the men.

  Stratton looked at her, momentarily horrified, then hurt and swiftly after; angry. ‘They’re not happy holiday snaps you know.’

  Christine contained her initial response, pressing her lips together for a moment. It wasn’t Stratton’s fault; he didn’t know her from Adam. Or Eve. He was struggling to come to terms with the horrors he had seen and she knew that — in his own young, sweet way — he was actually trying to protect her.

  A quality she seemed to be inspiring in her newly acquired male colleagues of late.

  ‘I know Mr . . . Stratton, is it?’ she said flatly, ‘I’ve worked alongside various police departments on more than a few crime scenes in the past. It’s sweet of you to be concerned, but if we’re going to catch the person that did this I need to see the way they work. I need to try and understand them, or at the very least try and understand why they are doing the things they are doing and see if I can find some sort of pattern to work from. Anything that might help us to identify them.’

  ‘Stratton, this is Dr Christine Kane.’ Prior said, opening his palm towards her, ‘She’s a Criminal Psychologist.’

  The tall, dark-haired Stratton eyed Christine for another moment. She cocked her head slightly, trying to read him even as he tried to read her.

  ‘So, I guess you see stuff like this all the time.’ he huffed, finally.

  She shook her head and managed a small, friendly smile. ‘Fortunately not.’

  Stratton snorted a short laugh before Prior took him and Davies to one side.

  Though she couldn’t hear their conversation, Christine could see that Prior was — once more — taking control of the situation; giving orders, making plans. They were fortunate to have a man of his experience on board, especially considering the average age of most of the crew and their inexperience in dealing with anything like this.

  Then again, how exactly would you go about training people — training young, happy-go-lucky, see the world, cruise-liner crew type people — to deal with a situation like this?

  ‘Oh, your friend; Kelly.’ Dr Matthews’ clipped voice sliced neatly through her thoughts, ‘I had someone take her back to her room. There was no a need for her to remain here. And to be honest there simply wasn’t the space to keep her.’

  Christine restrained the urge to scream into the miserable doctor’s severe, angular face She’s not a fucking puppy!

  Though only just.

  Matthews had covered Cunningham back over and was now busy scribbling short-hand notes into a pocket-sized pad, unwilling to offer any further information on the subject of Kelly Livingstone. As though her previous statement should have been enough to satisfy the psychologist.

  ‘So, she’s stable then?’

  ‘I’m sure she’ll be fine.’ Matthews said, looking up at Christine, ‘With rest, she’ll be just fine. She needed a few stitches. There was a lot of superficial bruising, some smaller cuts.’

  ‘Did she mention anything?’

  Dr Matthews shook her head. ‘She barely came round.’

  ‘And you sent her back to her room?’ Christine blasted, angrily, ‘What if she has a head injury? She already suffers with severe migraines.’

  If it was possible, Dr Matthews’ face became momentarily tighter, her nostrils flaring in annoyance. ‘I am confident that she has not suffered any great head injury and that she will recover in her own time with rest and painkillers. You are welcome to check on her yourself. I’m sure you won’t find it too much of a hardship.’

  Matthews had snapped off the final sentence and spun on her heel, marching swiftly towards the newly arrived trolley that contained the remains of Gary Blakely, before Christine could even muster a reply.

  ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’ she called after her.

  Matthews didn’t answer.

  She was beginning to wonder whether Dr Matthews had known all along just how much that hideous metal and grey rubber walking stick would injure her pride, after all. That she felt somehow threatened by Christine and wanted to put her down in any way she could. That she had purposely gone out of her way to rile her up and embarrass her.

  The one thing she could be certain of was that — though she had no idea how or why — she appeared to have found herself on the wrong side of the friend-or-foe fence when it came to dealing with the fierce-faced doctor.

  What was her problem?

  Was she threatened professionally? Maybe.

  Christine ran her tongue over her teeth, feeling the little nick of the small chip at the front. She watched Matthews as she busied about the medical bay; as she flitted here and there working her way towards the group of security officers.

  Towards Prior.

  Christine smiled, noticing that Matthews’ eyes rarely left the tall and attractive Security Chief for more than a moment. Suddenly, she understood.

  Seeming to sense her, Prior looked up at Christine. He began moving back towards her and she instantly felt the envious stare of Dr Matthews cutting through her like a Martian beam. She shook her head softly.

  ‘What?’ he asked.

  ‘Nothing.’ she returned, ‘I’ll tell you later.’

  He shrugged, a little confused and held up the digital camera along with several evidence bags and an SD card. ‘I think it’s time we grabbed a coffee. I don’t suppose you’d happen to have a laptop with you, do you?’

  Christine nodded, drawing an instant smile from the ruggedly handsome, emerald-eyed ex-copper. She could understand why Matthews found him attractive.

  It was an easy thing to do.

  ‘I didn’t have you down as the leave your work at home type.’

  ‘Got me in one.’ she said, ‘Can I ask a favour though?’

  ‘Of course.’ Prior said, stuffing the camera into his pocket.

  Christine leaned the metal walking stick against the table, taking a moment to steady herself. ‘Might I lend an arm?’

  Much to her surprise, Prior appeared to blush as he nodded and extended his arm for her. She took hold, feeling the taut and powerful muscles of his solid bicep.

  It was a little childish she knew, but she would not be the slave to another woman’s jealousy. And, after all, it was Dr Matthews who had thrown down the gauntlet, not she.

  ‘So,’ she said loudly enough for Matthews to hear, ‘back to mine, then?’

  Prior nodded.

  ‘Although, I think I could do with a shower.’ he said, unaware of the jealous doctor as they made their way towards the doors, ‘I don’t know how much longer I can stand the stench or the sensation of someone else’s vomit on me!’

  ‘I’m sure I can spare a towel.’

  Christine laughed as Prior coloured slightly for the second time and they moved through the doors of the medical bay, leaving a seething and almost steaming Dr Matthews behind them.

  19:42

  Saturday 14th May, 2011

  He had been at the table for only a few minutes. Rotating a cold and bubbling pint of golden lager between his cupped hands he savoured the thrill of the icy wet glass on his palms. It seemed a small slice of something divine in the close humidity of the dark and crowded bar.

  Drinking deeply and savouring every delightful mouthful he scanned the dim room that seemed so much smaller now as it swarmed with people eager to take their minds off the situation he had created.

  Though they, of course, had no idea of the pa
rt he had played so well.

  Passengers, punters and potential pickings pressed against one another, clawing their way towards the bar, to a chair, a table or even a spare patch of wall; theirs to lean against.

  All ripe to be plucked, he thought. Each of them puckering up, opening themselves to him and the twisted new appetite he seemed unable to satisfy.

  Over in the corner sat a girl with brown hair; frightened and looking to make a friend. And then here, opposite him, was a lonely string-bean of a boy intently focused on completing the next level of some idle game offered up to him by the harsh light of his phone.

  Either would have been an easy target.

  But, he hadn’t yet decided upon his next masterpiece.

  Should he be making vast sweeping statements? Should he simply let his art take him wherever it might? Become lost in that dark creativity he was only just discovering he possessed.

  Or rather, was possessed of.

  He chuckled quietly to himself, drawing a look from the gangly gamer.

  The boy raised an acidic eyebrow, but didn’t speak and swiftly returned his attention to the phone, lost once more in the two-dimensional world of the game. A slave to the screen.

  ‘Do you mind if I join you?’

  The sudden and sultry feminine voice slipped through his thoughts even as her warm, lithe body slid onto the padded bench-seat next to him, not waiting for a reply.

  She wore a slip of incredibly expensive-looking turquoise silk over her bare, pale skin. Even in the shadowed room the garment revealed the curve of her tight, unhindered breasts as she leaned across the table to pick up a worn beer mat. She set it down in front of her, then rested the large glass of white wine she had held in her slim, almost skeletal hands upon it.

  ‘Be my guest.’ he said ironically, as she made herself comfortable.

  She appeared tall for a woman, her height exaggerated by her slight frame. She was dripping in diamonds and white-gold, her fingers glorified with enough rocks to sustain a third-world country for at least half a century!

  His eyes traced over her bejewelled hands to her bangled arms and still further up her long body. At her throat was a large topaz stone surrounded (once again) by a multitude of smaller sparkling stones that he was certain could be nothing less than diamonds, set — as with the other pieces — in a rich bed of high-carat content white-gold. Teardrops matching the necklace centrepiece pulled at her earlobes, catching and reflecting the smallest amount of light and lengthening an already elongated face.

  She was not unattractive despite the odd angles of her slight and lengthy, bedazzled body, and although her face was surgically taut — thin in places with her natural age and needle-plumped in others — she appeared to be no older than forty. Still, he had the feeling that he should add an extra decade to that estimation.

  But, she was pleasant enough to look upon in the darkness.

  Her lips were botox-thick, her nails freshly manicured and her teeth —

  when she smiled — were unnaturally white and straight as a pin. The only natural asset visible to the naked eye appeared to be the shimmering lengths of silver-white hair that fell linearly down her back, spilling over her bony shoulders like the crest of a wave against the blue of her dress.

  ‘I’d offer you a drink,’ he continued eventually, ‘but you seem to have that covered.’

  ‘I do.’

  She sipped at the wine in her glass and smiled felinely.

  ‘So, how might I help you?’ he asked, partly intrigued and slightly bored with her obnoxiously rich facade. She seemed to be the animated juxtaposition of a Druid wise-woman and a character from Desperate Housewives.

  He stifled a smile.

  ‘I was thinking we might help one another.’ she breathed, her voice like treacle in the darkness; sweet, thick and bitter.

  ‘Oh?’ He turned his head from her, scanning the room for a worthy prize, but feeling the heavy gaze of the rich druidess pressing upon him. She continued sipping at her wine even as she drunk him in, in great gulps.

  The minutes came and went without a word passing between the pair. He half expected to see her gone as he turned back to his pint, but she was there — as before — sipping from the sweet glass; the intensity behind her pale blue eyes boring a hole in his skull.

  He shifted in his seat, manoeuvring to escape the weight of the glare, pressing the balls of his feet into the thick, carpeted floor as he made to stand. ‘Look, I — ’

  He felt the sudden pressure of her skeletal hand on his knee, her bony digits pressing into the flesh, holding him as she pounced.

  ‘I know.’ she hissed, her tongue licking at his ear with the sudden proximity, ‘I know who you are.’

  His heart pounded furiously while his stomach began doing back-flips just as it had in the theatre. He felt his temperature plummet and imagined the colour draining from his face, thankful for the darkness. He considered bolting from his seat, but knew it would draw too much attention, even in such a dimly-lit room.

  Quickly he considered his options and pressed his clawing hands into the brush of the harsh material beneath him, keeping himself in the seat; forcing himself to remain calm.

  This was why he needed Vince.

  Why he listened to him.

  Vince had always said not to kill on your own patch, not to cause havoc where you could be directly connected, where there was the smallest possibility that you might be identified.

  Shit!

  Vince would have disposed of this Makeover Misfit in one swift move and no one would have been the wiser. But he was not Vince. And Vince was not here.

  Shit! Shit! Shit!

  His head began pounding and he found himself struggling to contain the shake of his hands or the way his stomach seemed to beat violently, making him want to vomit. Discretely he began to search for the pocket knife he had acquired from Gary Blakely.

  ‘I don’t know what you mean.’ he said in a low voice, his eyes unable to meet hers.

  She seemed to smile at this, enjoying the obvious power she knew she held over him.

  ‘Is this your doing?’ she said, sweeping her arm up in a needlessly dramatic gesture that caused the game-boy to break his concentration once more and glance their way. ‘I’ve . . .’ she paused once more, whether simply for effect or specifically to choose her words he couldn’t tell, ‘I’ve seen your work before. Experienced it. Lived it, you might say. There was a time . . .’ she broke off suddenly, white-hot anger simmering to the surface even as she struggled to push it aside. ‘I lost everything. You took it from me. But, it would seem that Fortune has put you in my way for a reason.’

  ‘And what might that reason be?’ he asked, the slightest caress of curiosity prickling beneath his skin. He had no idea who this woman was or how he was supposed to have wronged her, but, then again, so much was done in his name — even when it had very little to do with him — that it was near impossible to keep a track.

  Whatever had been done to the gold-dripping druidess in the past, it clearly didn’t affect her current bank balance and the fire behind her eyes suggested that it was far more personal than money; more close to home.

  He racked his brain searching for any clue as to her true identity and more importantly the reasons for her knowing his. Nothing came to the surface and he was forced to wait at her pleasure.

  ‘You have particular skills that may be of use to me.’ she said eventually, pausing once again and taking a long, slow drink from the large glass before returning it to the table.

  He tilted his head, still waiting, his brain still working furiously beneath his skull when a thought suddenly struck him.

  It may have been the case that his brother was — in fact — wearing the crown at the time of this woman’s tragedy. People often tied his and Matty’s deeds and debts together. That would account for his not knowing her, while she appeared to know him so well.

  And it wouldn’t be the first time it had happened.

  �
��You have a job for me?’ he said finally, raising an eyebrow.

  ‘I would pay you. I have cash on board and if that isn’t enough I can have money wired to any account you like. That is, when we can once more communicate with the outside world.’

  She smiled at him, carnivorously, and he understood that she knew far more than she was letting on. At the very least, she had made her guesses so close to the truth regarding his involvement in disabling the ship, as to almost have witnessed it first-hand.

  But just how much did she know?

  Really.

  ‘I don’t think there’ll be any communication for a while.’ he said, returning her smile as he remembered all that Blakely had told him about the total shutdown procedure.

  However, this old druidess could have her uses and — with a little convincing — might even be willing to act as a decoy for him when the time came to depart; something he hadn’t really contemplated as of yet, but which would need to be executed with precision when they eventually neared a port.

  ‘Four-thousand in cash then.’ she said, ‘For the full works.’

  Keeping his face neutral he lifted the pint to his lips, drinking in the golden bubbles and enjoying the cold and bitter taste that washed over his palette.

  In his experience ‘the full works’ meant not only a hit, but disposal as well.

  The druidess seemed not only completely aware of this, but also almost uncontrollably eager to see it done. He stifled a laugh, thinking it over. It made sense — he supposed — that she should approach him concerning a hit when there was chaos all about and bodies piling up anyway.

  He supposed another one wouldn’t hurt. And she was offering a reasonable amount of money for it. In cash too! That would come in very handy when he finally landed.

  ‘You’re a very forward thinking woman,’ he said. ‘Considering everything.’

  ‘Considering my age you mean.’

  Though it had crossed his mind earlier, at that very moment there had been no ageist sting in his words. No. No thought of it at all.

  ‘No.’ he said, looking into her eyes for the first time since their conversation had begun, ‘I take it you want this done at sea.’