by J. S. Spicer
“Eat up, sweetie. You don’t want to be late for work,” said her mother, and went back to humming softly to herself as she scoured the frying pan. Dina Winters was never happier than in her kitchen. Modest as it was, it was her realm and she ruled it and tended it with a kind of joyful vigour. She filled this small space with comforting aromas reminiscent of her Caribbean heritage, a little slice of sunshine tucked away amongst the backstreets of Blackbridge. Carrie watched her mother for a moment; the kind of woman who still wore a housecoat, and didn’t leave the house without thick hosiery and a rain hat. Carrie sometimes wished she could be more like her. Instead she always felt she wasn’t achieving enough, believing there had to be more to life than the mundane dollops doled out to her each day. All she’d inherited from her mother though was her doughy figure, and even that Dina seemed to carry with an ease and dignity Carrie had yet to master.
She felt her father’s eyes on her, peering shrewdly over his spectacles across the top of the morning paper. She offered him a small smile and attempted another bite of breakfast, but the eggs were getting cold and gluey.
“Everything OK?” He lowered the paper, showing she had his attention if she needed it.
“Yes, just not that hungry.”
In a second her mother was across the kitchen, snapping off one of her rubber gloves and planting a rough palm against Carrie’s brow.
“Not coming down with something are you?”
Carrie batted her away. “I’m fine, mum.” She escaped from the table before her mother could subject her to a barrage of health related queries. Her mother’s mind always jumped to illness to explain any out of the ordinary behaviour. If Carrie so much as sighed too loudly she could expect to be grilled about her physical wellbeing, usually centred on her latest bowel movement.
She headed for the door. “I need to finish getting ready.”
If it had just been Carrie and her father she might have told him about the problem at work. He would understand. A deeper thinker than her mother, he was a good sounding board, a steady man who didn’t overreact to the small stuff.
Up in her room she pulled on her shoes and thought about how to handle things. It wasn’t really much of a problem, more of a nuisance. When Max and Lorraine had returned to the station the previous afternoon there’d been a briefing about the murder case. After that they’d all returned to their desks. Max and Lorraine kept to their own corners mostly, but both had spent time with her too. They needed her, she got that. Usually she relished it. Her job might involve a desk and a computer but it was important. She provided information, sometimes vital to a case, and she thrived on the pressure and basked in the triumph when she uncovered something no-one else had. They appreciated her, Max especially. Even though it was her job, he was still always grateful, always quick to offer praise. Lorraine was a cooler customer, not one to bother much with charm. But she’d always treated Carrie with respect.
In all the time she’d worked with them there’d never been any discontent. She wanted to keep it that way. The problem here was that both, quietly, secretly, had asked her a favour, and they both wanted the same thing.
The initial investigation had provided no motive for the murder of Andrew Trent. All the surface stuff was clean and therefore unhelpful. So they needed to dig deeper, delving into his life, into his past, and looking more closely at those around him. This was Carrie’s forte. For now, unless something else broke, the onus was on her to sift through the dead man’s former life, poke and prod at the information until something shook loose.
Max had asked first. If Carrie uncovered anything fishy in her research into Andrew Trent’s past, could she let him know first, give him the heads up before she said anything to Lorraine or the rest of the team? She’d agreed. Happily. She was always eager to please Max. She knew she was biased, secretly bubbled with happiness at any attention he gave her, even though she knew he’d never see her the way she wanted him to.
The problem here was that half an hour after Max’s request, Lorraine had asked the very same thing of her. What could she say? She couldn’t refuse. How would she explain that? So she’d promised both they’d be the first to know if she found out anything of note.
A glance at the clock interrupted her thoughts. She was never late, not for anything. It really was time to get a move on. One last look in the mirror, she tugged her t-shirt down, hating the way it was tightening daily across her ample chest. Carrie grabbed her jacket and handbag and hurried downstairs.
“See you later.”
Her mother called something after her, but Carrie had slammed the front door behind her before she could hear what it was. She didn’t dare delay any longer. She hurried down the street; her car was parked further away, her usual space taken the night before. As she started the engine she glanced back at home. For a while now she’d dreamed of getting her own place, but she couldn’t really afford it, not yet. She knew she ought to put more money away each month. She always found excuses not to though. She liked to dream of her independence, but she would miss living with her parents. That was Carrie’s problem, she was spineless; afraid to move out on her own, afraid to stand up to her colleagues when they put her in an impossible position. She just had to toughen up, that was all there was to it.
**
She hit her desk with a minute to spare and quickly fired up the computer. She logged in, checked her voicemail and opened up her emails. Never had she been so pleased to find there was nothing interesting waiting in her inbox. But, if the information wasn’t winging its way to her, then she would have to go in search of data.
She spent longer getting coffee than usual, engaging in painful small talk with anyone willing to stand still long enough to listen. She got a couple of quizzical looks. Carrie was usually the most dedicated member of the team. Always friendly, but head down, brain engaged, fully focussed on her work. She generally only popped up, meerkat-like from her hunt through the information highway, when Max was around, his scent on the air swivelling her chair around before she was even aware what was happening.
Today was back to front. It was Max’s arrival at the station that sent her scurrying back to her desk, ducking down in front of her screen, shoulders hunched, trying to hide in plain sight. She sensed his passage through the office, heard one or two exchanges, listened to the steady flow of his footsteps, but steadfastly avoided looking his way.
It didn’t do any good.
“Morning, Carrie.” He was smiling down on her, sipping from his Starbucks. The fresh smell of shower gel lingered beneath the coffee aroma.
“Hi.” A quick upturn of the mouth, then back to business.
He was still standing there.
She looked at him again. Same old Max, a study in self-confidence and negligent ease. She thought he looked tired though, and immediately started imagining him spending a late night filled with passion with the oh-so-perfect Jennifer Kim.
“Anything turned up yet?”
Carrie fought the competing feelings of irritation and self-pity. She picked up a pen for something to do.
“Give us a chance.” It came out harsher than she’d intended.
The sharpness of her tone and tensing of her body weren’t lost on the Detective Inspector.
“Everything OK?” Genuine compassion filled his eyes. Why did he have to be so sweet?
Carrie took a deep breath. She’d just tell him, all about Lorraine’s duplicate request, and the position she found herself in. Max would understand.
She opened her mouth to spill, but the words stalled at the sight of Lorraine Pope striding purposefully towards them. She repressed a flash of guilt that Lorraine knew exactly what she was about to say. How could she?
“Travers.” Lorraine addressed Max but managed to look everywhere but directly at him. “Chief wants us to go and interview some old lady at Magnolia Retirement Village.”
“Why?” The bluntness in Max’s voice caused a crease of annoyance around Lorraine’s mou
th. Carrie sank back into her computer screen, invisible again now they were occupied with each other.
“Reported an intruder, possibly with a knife.” She turned and stalked away. “He said we’re both to go.” She flung over her shoulder as she headed for the door.
Max’s shadow continued to hang across Carrie for a few seconds before finally he muttered ‘fuck’, and trailed off in Lorraine’s wake.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Felix had the dream again.
Bugs floated lazily in soft green light, hanging in the heavy air between leaves and water. He felt grass crushing damp against his knees, and water cooled his feverish fingers.
It had always been a silent dream.
There wasn’t a sound; not even the soft sigh of the breeze. It was so calm, like watching TV without the volume. It was perfect; a perfect moment in time.
For a long time he’d tried not to see, even though as a boy the dream would keep taking him back there. As an adolescent, confused, ashamed, he would wake, crying, sweating, often he would wet the bed. He’d felt judged, punished. All the fluids in his body leaking from him, they were the penalty for what had happened.
The water. The pond.
He no longer feared the dream. He welcomed it. Many years had passed. The dream had returned after Karl, like some sort of validation, and Felix embraced it with joy.
The dream was still silent, but that just helped somehow. Without the distraction of noise he could enjoy each detail; a small shoe lying in the grass, strands of blonde hair floating amongst the water lilies, the last ripples vanishing from the glassy surface.
Felix woke. For a moment consciousness still wrapped in a scent both fresh and earthy. Then he breathed deep, and was back in Mrs Jacobs’ musty spare room.
**
Chantelle Jacobs was well into her eighties. She kept herself busy with the house, but it was busyness executed at a snail’s pace, with frequent pauses to rest against furniture or lean into a wall. The house spoke quietly but poignantly of its increasing lack of care. She prided herself that she still ran the vacuum round once a week, though its range over the years had diminished; the edges of rooms a blurred testament to their neglect. Mrs Jacobs didn’t see it this way. Partly because, despite the bulk of the lenses in her salmon pink specs, her vision was spotty and dim. Also, Mrs Jacobs was just the right mix of ‘go get ‘em’ optimistic and dementia-laced baffled to make her both sad and delightful.
These were qualities that suited the current needs of Felix Vine very well. Whilst the mind of Mrs Jacobs was subject to unexpected detours, her memory was holding up relatively well. When he’d turned up on her doorstep last week, his name had barely tumbled from his lips when she threw her arms up in welcome and herded him across the threshold. Several carefully concocted stories had proved redundant. Felix was soon unpacking his few things and being plied with tea and stale biscuits.
It had been a risk, exposing himself like that. He’d considered a cheap hotel, or guesthouse, a false name and cash payments. But he no longer feared risk; he trusted his instincts and drew strength from the thrill of danger. Chantelle Jacobs, it turned out, was as safe as houses. He already knew she had no family, but with the passing years friends and acquaintances had dropped away one by one until she’d reached a point where bus drivers and shop assistants were her only company, until, that is, a man popped by whom she’d once known briefly as a boy.
“How about some bacon and eggs this morning.” Mrs Jacobs made the same offer each day. She knew he’d refuse. He knew she’d happily shuffle and limp to the corner shop if he agreed.
“Cereal is fine, Mrs Jacobs.”
She took his arm, a habit she’d formed, and led him to ‘his’ chair at the kitchen table.
As he listened to the rattle of dry flakes landing in the cereal bowl, snatches of his dream flared and faded in quick succession, the damp grass, the shade of the trees, the dark water cooling his hands and wrists. The memory was lingering today, tendrils of his childhood holding fast. It was like a warm embrace to Felix.
He now understood the elation he could feel, but last night he’d been denied his chance.
Chantelle’s slippers tottered his way. She placed the bowl in front of him and poured on the milk. At least it was fresh today. He’d tackled the fridge the day before, swapping what was mouldy or beginning to turn with substitutes less likely to defeat his digestive system. Chantelle’s generosity, like her home, was tainted by unintentional negligence.
He looked around. He had all he needed for now. This place would serve him well until he’d finished what he came here to do.
“Thank you.” He dipped the spoon and scooped gnarled flakes into his mouth. As he crunched through breakfast he watched her. Slight, stooped, frail. So vulnerable it was almost laughable. He could feel the snake stirring again in its pit. It would be so easy. He could slip upstairs, grab his knife, and before his cereal was even soggy he could be wallowing in crimson bliss.
**
Twenty minutes later Felix left the house. It was time to ditch the Toyota. It had been reckless to hang on to it for so long; after following the policewoman, then being spotted at the retirement home. He smiled to himself. Reckless Felix! Who would ever have thought it? For so long he’d conformed, melted into the background, a feeble soul hiding in the shadows. Now he thrived on the very things he’d once feared. Now, he ran towards the light.
Still, he had resisted with Chantelle. It wasn’t time yet, so he’d have put some distance between them until the urges subsided.
He took a detour on the way. He was becoming familiar with the streets of Blackbridge, feeling his way through back roads and short cuts. His route wasn’t direct, partly to kill time, partly to investigate all the nooks and crannies of this part of town.
When he turned into Melissa Austen-Brown’s road he felt a quiver of excitement run up his spine. He recognised the car parked at the kerb; it belonged to the policewoman he’d tailed the day before.
He knew the old lady had seen him, knew she’d phoned the police. He’d backed off the night before, driven away, but not far. He’d returned on foot and seen the patrol car cruising the area. No surprise for the police to check out an intruder, but why was the detective here? He hadn’t expected them to link a simple intruder report with the body under the bridge.
Maybe she was smart. The possibility pleased him. It would make it all the more interesting.
Felix drove slowly down the street, passing the lady detective’s car at a leisurely pace, almost hoping someone would look out of a window and see him there.
But exposure wasn’t the point. Felix liked dancing with danger, but he had no desire to be caught. He could make things more stimulating though, toy with the police a little to spice things up in between kills.
No, Felix Vine didn’t want to get caught, but he did want to finish what he’d started. That meant getting close to the old lady shut away in her retirement apartment. The lady who right now was probably giving the police a detailed description of him. He caught himself in his own foolishness and, face now averted from the banks of threatening windows, he quietly slipped away. If the police took her seriously it might be a long time before he could get close to her again, and that was unacceptable.
Best to keep them busy elsewhere.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Max liked the mortuary. Not the bodies of course, just the quiet. It was an island of peace in a world of chaos, and on a day like today it was refreshingly cool. Stan Everson was in his office, a scruffy cubby-hole just down the corridor from the business end of the place. A man usually so immaculate in all things related to his job, Stan chose to keep this tiny room as a world apart; a haven of mess where he could just let go. The desk had all but disappeared beneath papers, files and text books. The shelf above buckled under the weight of yet more hefty volumes, interspersed with novelty coffee mugs sporting pithy motivational quotes.
Everson was sprawled in a thickly padded leath
er swivel chair that was too big for the small space it occupied. A napkin rested on his chest as he demolished a bacon sandwich.
Saliva formed under Max’s tongue as the warm scent of bacon hit him.
“Morning, Stan.”
Stan, mouth full, waved his breakfast at Max by way of greeting, mopping ketchup off his chin.
Propping himself on the only portion of visible desk Max got right down to business. “I know you haven’t had long, Stan, but…?”
He rolled his eyes, swallowed audibly and set aside his sandwich. He picked up a chart but didn’t look at it.
“Not much more to tell than I said yesterday, Detective. The victim was stabbed multiple times.” A quick glance now at the chart. “Eleven, to be exact. The knife used had a seven inch long blade.” He lifted his eyes to Max again, showing no signs of vacating his comfortable seat. “No prizes for guessing the cause of death.”
“Eleven stab wounds is quite a lot, Stan, but at the scene you didn’t think it looked frenzied.”
Everson dropped the chart into his lap and laced his fingers behind his head. Max recognised the man’s favoured pose when giving deeper consideration to a problem.
“I stand by what I said,” he said after a careful pause. “I can’t be absolutely certain which wound was inflicted first, but from the angle of the incision in the victim’s throat it looks like someone surprised him from behind, and reached round to drive the knife home. That alone would have done the job.”
Max kept quiet, waiting for Stan to go on.
“Of course, some of the other cuts were also deep enough to be fatal, but by no means all of them. Some were shallow, some aimed where minimum harm would have been caused. Altogether, obviously, the poor guy never stood a chance. But,” Everson rubbed his head vigorously with his hands still clasped. “I think the perpetrator was calm. As much as our boy in there was cut up, the incisions were clean, and where the knife had been moved around it didn’t look frantic, but controlled.”
