Then, all of a sudden she realised that the picture wasn’t central. The family in the miniature portrait were all shunted to one side.
Pulling the photograph free from the album and feeling with her fingers, Christine discovered that the right-hand edge had been folded back behind the picture.
Drawing the previously hidden flap forwards, she looked up at Prior quizzically.
The family were now central in the picture and had been joined by a young couple. A pale-skinned, youthful girl with dark hair and light-blue eyes leaned into the suited chest of a tall, tanned and handsome figure who wrapped his arm around her, flashing a dazzling smile at the camera.
‘Turn it over.’ Prior said eagerly.
She did.
On the back, scribbled in a corresponding order to the image on the front were the forenames of every person on the photo, including the disgraced young couple; Stacey and Michael.
Christine sucked in a breath in open surprise as she turned the picture over once more to study the face she now knew to be Stacey’s.
‘No.’ she whispered, still unable to believe that the youthful, innocent-looking girl in the picture was the young woman she had seen so recently; firstly strung up in room fifteen-thirty-four, and then laid out on a cold, steel gurney. Her hair had changed, yes. And she was certainly older, but it was definitely her. ‘This is . . . it’s just so . . . how did you find this?’
‘I’m just good.’ said Prior, ‘This is what I used to do for a living. Remember?’
‘Yes, but . . .’
‘It’s a link, Christine. It’s a lead, something tangible that we can follow up on.’
‘But, it doesn’t make any sense.’ Christine said, handing the photograph back to him. ‘If this is revenge or a family feud or even some extreme reaction to getting cold feet . . . it still doesn’t account for Blakely, the engineering crew or Dr Cunningham.’
‘But it does.’ he smiled, ‘You said yourself that they seemed to be the unfortunate victims of circumstance. And Blakely was blatantly tortured and killed for the information he had. Information that would disconnect us from the outside world.’
She shook her head slowly. ‘I don’t know.’
‘Chris — ’
Before Prior could launch into the debate he had been mentally preparing for the past twenty minutes, the animated face of Adrian Kemp suddenly appeared on the opposite side of the bed.
He had apparently been couched between the bed and the wall for some time, searching around and underneath the king-sized sleeper.
And he seemed to have just hit the jackpot.
‘Jon-Boy,’ he shouted. Christine noticed the flicker of a cringe on Prior’s face as they both turned their attention to the excitable male nurse. ‘I think I’ve found something.’
Prior scooted around the eerie cadaver that had once been Fiona Jenkins and knelt down next to Kemp. Reaching under the bed with his left arm he seemed to be at full stretch even as his right hand dived into his trouser-leg pocket, tearing out a clear plastic bag.
‘Ha ha!’ he laughed triumphantly as his gloved fingers teased the object forward and into the bag. ‘Good work.’ He clapped Kemp on the shoulder and climbed to his feet, crossing swiftly back to Christine.
‘Still don’t think it’s possible?’ he said, holding up the evidence bag.
Taking it from him, Christine examined the contents without removing the object.
It was a pocket-knife.
About four inches in length when extended, the blood-stained blade was clearly sharp enough to have been responsible for the many cuts that now adorned Fiona Jenkins’ arms and body. It had an elaborately carved and decorated handle that was embedded with what looked to be enamel and semi-precious stones.
Stones that formed one, undeniable letter in the centre of the handle.
‘M’.
Chapter Six
11:30
Sunday 15th May, 2011
Kelly rested her head on her arm, which in turn was pressed against the white plastic tile-effect panel, steadying her as she finally began to relax, enjoying the rivulets of warm water that streamed over her hair and face.
She had turned the temperature of shower right up; she had felt so cold. She had been shaking. With anger. With horror, revulsion and fear. With the fever that Shona had told her she had suffered the previous night.
She had flushed red hot at first.
It had felt as though her skin would blister under the internal heat that had suddenly sprung into combustion. Then, as quickly as it had come upon her it had washed away, leaving her desperately cold and dithering.
It seemed to have taken an age to warm all the way through; for the heat to penetrate that icy core. She must have been stood in the shower for forty minutes now.
Opening her eyes, Kelly blinked through the pressured droplets that continued to spill onto her face. The room was wall to wall steam. It looked as though an unruly smoke machine had made its way into the bathroom and flooded the place for dramatic effect.
As if she didn’t feel disturbed and nervous enough already!
Turning the handle on the shower, Kelly stopped the water and reached for the white, fluffy towel that hung on the chrome rack besides the bath, the gold-threaded letters GS garishly intertwined near the hemmed edge.
She stepped out of the bath cautiously, still aching; still battered, bruised, cut and all too aware of every single, painful injury. The healing scar on her leg looked red-raw and seemed to throb visibly as she took a moment to catch her breath, perching her naked backside on the edge of the bath as she had done earlier.
When Shona had helped her to dress.
She rubbed her hair with the towel, her scar still pulsing as her head too began to bang.
I need some air.
She stood gingerly, feeling a little light-headed from the heat and the steam.
Suddenly something caught her eye.
There in the mist.
Near the sink.
Something — no, someone — was watching her.
She didn’t want to look, but neither could she look away. She could see it. See him. Moving in her periphery. He was staring right at her, watching her. Laughing at her. His cold eyes staring through the fog; callous blue eyes.
He pounced.
A noise that Kelly couldn’t even have imagined trying to make — something that sounded completely non-human — escaped her throat as she leaped out of his way.
Losing her balance, she slipped back into the tub; her head crashing to meet the enamel corner with a brutal force.
She couldn’t move.
She blinked. And blinked again. But still could not move.
She blinked. She saw only light.
Then. Darkness.
11:30
Sunday 15th May, 2011
In the overly-harsh white light of the medical bay backroom, Dr Matthews stared at the yawning great linen trolley that now held a prominent position amongst the disarray of metal gurneys and tables.
Parked next to this was the body of a short, tanned man whose face was noticeably absent. The faceless man and the contents of the linen trolley were the latest additions to ever-increasing roll-call of victims taken by the Cruise-Ship Killer. As he had now been dubbed.
Matthews tutted in annoyance at the absurdly obvious epithet even as she contemplated the others currently doing the rounds.
There were more than a few passengers and members of the crew placing their money — so to speak — on there being a murderous dynamic duo in their midst. Amongst the most popular of the colloquial titles for the pair was the unimaginative Gruesome Twosome, the slightly higher-browed Ianus Asphyxiators and of course, Jekyll and Heidi.
She had to admit she rather like the last one.
Pulling back the long, white linen sheet that had been draped over the trolley, Dr Matthews made a conscious effort not to breathe in. Still, it did not stop the waft of urine, faeces and general organic decay from a
ssaulting her olfactory senses. She wrinkled her nose.
Matthews didn’t mind admitting that she had no idea where to begin with this one. The woman in question was knelt in a prayer position, elbows raised, clutching a set of bright pink, oval-shaped anal beads.
What the hell would they bring in next!
‘Right, I need her up on that table.’ she barked, thrusting a pair of latex gloves into the hands of the two security officers that had rolled the trolley through the doors only minutes earlier. They stared at one another, a silent scream of horror and revulsion passing between them. ‘It’s ok, she’s in the rigid stage; that means she shouldn’t turn to jelly in your hands anytime soon . . . although,’ Matthews said, taking hold of the woman’s jaw and manipulating it gently, ‘some of the muscles are beginning to look a little flaccid. So you might want to hurry.’
A brief smile flashed, like a shadow, across Matthews’ stern face as she watched the pair attempting to lift this latest cadaver. They struggled and heaved, trying desperately to avoid coming into contact with the late Mrs Jenkins as best they could.
It certainly wasn’t an easy task, but was oddly amusing to watch as Dr Matthews began setting up for the latest post-mortem.
While she was under no illusion that she would probably suffer some sort of psychological break-down when this ordeal was finally all behind her and — though she loathed to admit it — she had discovered to her astonishment that Marc Davies had, in fact, been correct in his earlier assumption. At least to a certain degree.
She was, no matter which way she looked at it, becoming more accustomed to death. To dealing with the dead.
To stripping down those pieces of meat that had once been human beings.
To cataloguing all the fine and tiny details that aided in revealing the mechanism, manner and cause of death.
Oddly enough, the thing that got to Matthews the most about the whole dissecting and recording routine was the preferred method of establishing a core temperature. It was one aspect that she hoped she would never become any more accustomed too or accepting of.
The idea of inserting a thermometer four or five inches into the rectum of the deceased just didn’t sit well with her. It simply wasn’t right!
She hadn’t been able to bring herself to use that particular method on any of the bodies to pass through her somewhat trembling hands thus far. And she certainly wasn’t about to start now.
Not with this one!
Her own feelings aside, it would look positively indecent!
As she was lining up her equipment Matthews realised that she wouldn’t be able to open the woman up properly until she returned to a flaccid state, anyway. And that could be anything up to another twenty-four hours.
Changing tactics, she picked up a slim, silver digital voice-recorder and began reporting her first visual observations. ‘Fiona Jenkins.’ she said, examining a brown file that contained little of any other useful information besides the woman’s name. ‘Caucasian female. Early to mid fifties.’ She paused the recording so as to better hiss at the still-struggling security officers without receiving an earful of feedback later, ‘You’ll have to lay her on her left!’
Taking up a scalpel, Dr Matthews sliced a neat incision above the liver and thrust a lengthy thermometer into the cooling organ.
She pressed record once more.
‘Hair; white. Eyes,’ pausing once more, she peeled back the left lid, ‘Blue. No clouding, suggesting victim died within the last twenty-four as suspected. The cadaver is currently in a state of rigor and is set in a kneeling position; arms raised in a prayer-like posture; elbows out and away from the body. Hands are clenching a chain of pink . . .’ she swallowed and sighed before turning suddenly on the two, wide-eyed security officers, barking at them once more. ‘You can go now, you know.’
They did not need a second invitation. Nor did they hang about to wait and see if the temperamental doctor would change her mind.
Matthews set the recorder down on the metal table, rubbing her brow and the bridge of her nose. This was too bizarre. It wasn’t anything like the voyage she had thought she would be experiencing.
It was mostly minor injuries on a ship like this. Six to eight major incidents per year.
Per year!
In the last three, in fact, the most flexing emergency she had had to deal with had been an older gentleman of a somewhat larger build who had suddenly collapsed in the gym. Poor guy had suffered a heart attack on the rowing machine.
Apparently he had just kicked a forty-a-day smoking habit and a lifetime of fried breakfasts. He had even given up cream cakes and real butter.
And that’s what you get for trying to make a sudden healthy change to your big, fat, unhealthy lifestyle! A big, fat heart attack.
But, at least he had tried.
And at least he had survived!
Matthews leaned on her elbow and pushed of a long sigh, her eyes coming level with the hands of the late Mrs Jenkins.
She cocked her head noticing for the first time a rather sickening anomaly. The woman’s right index finger was bent sideways. From above the knuckle.
Matthews picked up the silver box and began recording once more. ‘Right hand; middle phalange of the index finger appears to have been dislocated. Lack of contusion or any pooling of blood suggests injury occurred post mortem.’ She pressed paused. ‘You weren’t holding these when you died, were you? And he . . . struggled . . . to mould you. Didn’t he?’
The thermometer jutting out of Mrs Jenkins’ liver bleeped quietly, as though it too was slightly afraid of Matthews; afraid to break her concentration.
She pulled it out and looked at the reading.
79.2.
That meant that the body had cooled around nineteen point four degrees, which in turn indicated that she had been dead for around thirteen hours only.
Thirteen hours. Yet the body was already showing signs of returning to a flaccid state. The general rule of 12:12:12 — being 12 hours to achieve maximum rigor; 12 hours remaining in that state; and 12 hours to for the muscles to relax, thus completing the cycle of rigor mortis — didn’t seem to apply here.
But why?
Snatching up a pair of scissors, Dr Matthews quickly cut open Mrs Jenkins’ nightdress, making a rag of the once-expensive silk garment without apology. She toured the body swiftly; uncertain of what she was looking for in particular. Apprehensive of what she might find.
‘Body shows signs of lividity under the arms, just behind the elbow,’ she said, noting the deep-purple pools beneath the skin, ‘and the same on the shins and the tops of the feet. This is consistent with the way the victim was found, though I do not believe she died in this position. There is some superficial bruising on the upper arms and legs. These bruises are small and round and are consistently spaced finger marks. This evidence, taken with the patterns of livor mortis and the rapid rate of rigor suggest that she would have had to have been moved and repositioned almost immediately after death.’ she paused the recording once more, ‘But, why the sudden rigor? What caused it?’ she asked of no one but herself.
Moving around the corpse, she noted the many shallow nicks and slices; the small, patterned bruises that looked as though the victim had been beaten with something studded. ‘Were you a party to this? Did you agree to it?’
Doctor Matthews pressed record once more and continued reciting her observations, noting the size and pattern of the speckled contusions and suggesting a studded paddle or something similar as the culprit. She recorded the lengths and depths of the superficial lacerations that littered Mrs Jenkins body; all similar in depth; all caused by the same instrument.
All but one.
The one anomaly to the lacerations ran lengthways along the forearm from the wrist. This cut was deep and jagged; the skin torn rather than sliced.
Matthews determined that the majority of lacerations had been carved with a small blade; most likely the pocket-knife that had been brought in along with the la
undry trolley and the additional male body.
She had forgotten about him — the faceless man — for a moment, but glanced up now to check on the unenthusiastic senior nurse who was currently taking his core temperature and preparing him to be opened.
At least he was in a fairly flat position. Only his arms were raised; his fists clenched near his throat. Though his body had not been ‘positioned’ in the same way that Mrs Jenkins’ had. Rather, he looked to be the victim of a cadaveric spasm.
Cadaveric spasm!
The recollection of the term jolted Dr Matthews, propelling her suddenly back into her student days; in particular to the study of death and dissection. She had done her best to bury these lessons in the back of her mind as they had made her feel queasy at the time and really quite anxious about the point of it all.
Life.
But now was not the time for a theological, philosophical or even existential meltdown.
She had already known the course of her professional life; the direction and route that she had wanted to take.
And pathology was absolutely not her north.
Neither was it her south, east or west.
In fact, it had no bearing on her compass what so ever!
But now, in the bright white glow of the medical bay, she was thankful that she had tucked away the knowledge she had gained in those horrid classes and not discarded the memories completely.
She moved her hands over Mrs Jenkins’ body, feeling along the taut muscle that was the Gluteus Maximus; the largest muscle in the human body. It was solid, the sinews tight with rigor; like a solid sculpture layered with cold clay to give only the impression of flesh.
Striding back to the far end the examination table, she reached out once more to test the pliability of the facial muscles; taking hold of her lower jaw and manipulating it with ease.
She picked up the recorder and mused for a moment. ‘Rigor may have set in so rapidly due to a lack of adenosine triphosphate in the muscles; particularly the larger muscle groups. This would most likely occur as a result of some excessive muscular activity prior to death. With so little ATP left, rigor would have set in very quickly indeed in the smaller muscle-groups and could also have taken anything from only a few short minutes to several hours to take hold of the larger muscles. All changes will be monitored and recorded, but — at this time — theory appears to be consistent with the current state of the muscular rigidity present in the cadaver.’
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