by J. S. Spicer
He tucked the album under his arm and went in search of Lorraine.
She was ransacking the kitchen drawers.
“Look what I’ve found.”
She took it from him and began hungrily scrutinizing each page, immediately spotting what he had. “All the dump sites are in here,” she muttered.
“Yep.”
“And in the right order,” she said.
“What? Let me see?”
Max didn’t try to take the album back, just hung over Lorraine’s shoulder, watching as she returned to the front then flipped each page in turn. She took her time, glancing at him a couple of times, then looking away quickly. He knew he was standing way too close, he could feel the warmth radiating from her body, could smell her perfume lingering in the air between them. It was distracting, but he was alert enough to see she was right. The places where they’d found each of the bodies appeared in the exact same order within the pages of the scrapbook. Was that intentional?
“I found something too,” Lorraine told him, finally stepping away, putting some distance back between them. He noticed she hung onto the album. She returned to the drawer she’d been rifling through when he’d entered the room. Peering past her he saw it was a typical junk drawer, full of takeaway menus and business card, pens and boxes of matches.
Lorraine lifted out one of the leaflets, but it wasn’t a takeaway menu.
“What is it?” He couldn’t quite make out the text.
“A programme for a support group,” she told him. “People who’ve experienced loss.”
“Grief therapy?”
She gave him one of her condescending looks. He hadn’t been on the receiving end of one of those for a while, hadn’t even merited mere condescension until now. “Something like that,” she sighed. “It’s local. They meet at Blackbridge library, and there’s a meeting today.” She waved it in his face.
CHAPTER THIRTY
He didn’t really like cigars, didn’t like the taste, and the smoke burned his throat. He’d never been a smoker, but, like all those years ago, he had to give it a try.
That first time he’d been just a boy. Jasmine had snuck three cigarettes from her father’s pack. It was Bryan who suggested the place. A gap in the fence and a steep bank led them to a shadowy place beneath the black bridge. No-one would catch them there.
So secluded a spot had also been perfect when he’d returned to the town; when he’d brought Andrew Trent to account. That’s when he’d known he’d found his true path, his true calling. For a while he’d considered the possibility that the enjoyment he’d felt from killing Karl Drummond was personal; the man was toxic and grating. But Andrew Trent, a total stranger until Felix cut his throat, had filled him with a righteous joy that settled things once and for all. Their time together, especially beneath the bridge, widened the crack in the door to Felix’s memories of that summer of 1989.
As he sucked the cigar with distaste he vividly recalled how that first cigarette had made him feel sick. The others seemed to enjoy it, despite the coughing fits. Jasmine had laughed at Felix’s efforts, but it wasn’t mean. She was always teasing him, poking fun. He’d blushed easily, especially around Jasmine, and she could make him glow like a beacon. But, despite the way she could make him squirm inside his own skin, he relished the attention. She always paid more attention to him than to Bryan. Those two had known each other for years, growing up next door to one another, but Bryan only tolerated Jasmine’s presence, and Jasmine treated him like an obnoxious older brother. With Felix it was different. That summer he’d known what love felt like. It made him weightless, floating around on waves of happiness. So he did anything she asked. His only concern was her happiness; he loved to hear her laughter. Jasmine was the kind of person who wore her heart on her sleeve, she didn’t filter her emotions, didn’t try to confuse you with deception or artistry or bluff. Not like most people. That’s how he’d known she hated her little brother, Justin. He would hang onto her like a bad smell. Felix saw the difference in her. Irritation would erupt and there was no more laughter. Justin was a drain on her natural vibrancy, her freedom of spirit. Felix had known she hated Justin. Or at least that’s what he’d thought, until the boy was found face down in the Doyles’ pond.
But that was all a long time ago. They’d all grown up, all moved on with their lives. Except Felix didn’t feel like he’d moved very far.
Bryan had though. Bryan had it all, including these expensive cigars.
Felix, having tried it, and hated it, stubbed the cigar out in a heavy glass ashtray. He was sitting on soft leather, hugged by the high wings of the armchair. The room was small but elegant. A study, he was sure that’s what it was called. Wood panelling and bookshelves and deep cabinets. Tasteful, expensive, just like the rest of the house. Felix had visited each room, haunted every corner of the place. He smoothed the front of his shirt, well, Bryan Doyle’s shirt. Whilst the Doyles roasted their flesh beneath a Spanish sun, Felix was living in Bryan’s skin. The night before he’d had the best sleep, better than for years, curled beneath the plump duvet in the enormous bed. That morning he’d showered, washing with Bryan’s shower gel, using his shampoo. He’d found bread in the freezer, made himself toast for breakfast, eating at the bright breakfast bar in the vast kitchen.
Now, dressed in one of Bryan’s crisp shirts and linen trousers, Felix was relaxing in the study, planning his next move.
On the desk in front of him he laid a hand lovingly on the cover of the small photo album. There had been three albums. His had a black cover, Jasmine’s blue, and Bryan’s had been brown. Felix had searched the house, but there was no sign of Bryan’s brown album. No sign of any of the photos they’d taken. Their absence angered Felix more than he’d expected, a quiet rage he recognised. That rage, supressed for now, would grow in the darkness of his soul, waiting to be unleashed.
Closing his eyes he willed it into the background. For now, at least. He needed to focus. There was much to do, and the police were never many steps behind. Felix found his calm; slowly, steadily, it cooled the fires of wrath, smothered them into simmering coals.
By the time Felix opened his eyes a cloak of serenity had descended. His hand still rested on the scrapbook before him. He stroked the cheap plastic cover, then slowly opened it to the first page. He looked at the first photograph, ran one finger around its edges, savoured every detail. Felix took a long time over his scrapbook, he always did. He poured himself into its pages, immersed his whole being in the memories captured amongst its pages. It had sustained him for many years, and now, with recent changes, updates, it had taken on a new lease of life. Reaching the end he smiled to himself, content and relaxed. Tucked into a flap of the back cover was a piece of paper. Felix extracted it. His list. Names were crossed off, but others remained. Felix’s smile widened with deep satisfaction as he traced his thumb over the names.
Time to select his next victim.
**
Jasmine hadn’t attended a meeting for a while. She thought she’d finally learnt to cope, to manage her grief when it swept over her. She knew the danger signs, knew the times of year, or places, or even people, who might set it off, tear open those eternal wounds. So the meetings became as and when absolutely necessary.
But now Felix Vine, a boy from her past, a childhood playmate, was wanted for murder. She didn’t see what it had to do with her, how she could help the police. It was so long ago. They’d just been kids, for heaven’s sake. She could have no idea what kind of man he’d grow up to be. Anything could have happened to him in all those intervening years. He was no longer the boy she’d briefly known that summer so many years back. But talking about Felix and Bryan, remembering those times, brought so much flooding back, a tsunami of memories and emotions she didn’t even know existed. Chief amongst these was Justin. His pixie-like face kept materialising in her mind, in such vivid detail it shocked her. The scattering of freckles across his nose and forehead, the mop of fair hair, his piping voic
e. Most of all her brother’s eyes; big, blue, bright. So full of life, sparks flew from those eyes. His vibrancy was almost tangible. How could he ever have died? Losing Justin had taken a heavy toll, it had stolen a part of Jasmine too. Worst still, their mother, battered by sorrow and guilt, had withdrawn, withered. It took five years for her to die after losing her youngest child. Jasmine watched her fade away. At first she tried to cling on, to pull her mother back into the light. But she seemed not to notice her daughter any more. The loss had been crushing. Then Jasmine, feeling abandoned, began to resent her parents, then to blame them for what had happened to Justin. Finally she hated them. She didn’t cry at her mother’s funeral.
As a young woman she did a lot of really stupid things. In her mid-twenties, after waking up in a pool of her own piss and vomit in a stranger’s flat, she decided enough was enough. Self-pity and self-destruction weren’t the answer. So, she cleaned up her act, literally and figuratively.
She decided to try and help people less fortunate, and she didn’t have to look too far to find many such souls. Helping out at homeless shelters and hospices she finally began to find her feet again, to find some strength and meaning. Instead of turning in on herself, wallowing in her own misfortune, she reached out to others. Jasmine was a good listener, and, unlike some, she could empathise with the hopelessness reflected back in the eyes of others.
Soon after she heard about the support group, people who’d experienced loss, people like her. Finally she found a place where she could let her guard down, let others inside.
She’d needed that afternoon’s session. It came as no surprise to find a handful of familiar faces. There were those who relished coming to these meetings. They didn’t want their grief to diminish, it was a shrine they worshiped at, and it defined them.
Still, today’s meeting had helped. As Jasmine trotted down the library steps towards the carpark she felt several pounds lighter, her head clearer. What was happening now had nothing to do with her, nothing to do with Justin, or any of her family, dead or alive. She’d visited her brother’s grave that morning, and now, once again, she’d battled her own demons. It was a familiar fight, she just had to keep coming out on top.
Jasmine fished her iPod from her bag and, unravelling the wires, slotted the earphones into her ears. Listening to Bowie she wove her way through the busy carpark, heading for the far corner where she’d been forced to park. Her thoughts were all of the future, moving forward, putting the past behind her. She’d take a break, have a few days away. She had some vacation days left to take from work. In the autumn she’d enrol in a class at the local college, something she’d been meaning to do for quite some time. Broaden her horizons, expand her mind, that kind of thing. Maybe she’d learn a new language, travel even.
Jasmine was so wrapped up in her plans and her music she didn’t hear the man approaching her swiftly from behind, not until a strong hand wrapped around her upper arm, bringing her up short.
CHAPTER THIRTY ONE
It was good to be back at her desk. Good to be useful again. It was scary, she couldn’t deny it, knowing Felix Vine was out there somewhere. Knowing he might be after her, or her parents, but they were safe for now, and there was work to be done.
Lorraine had dropped by and given her the scrapbook they’d found at Jasmine Burke’s house. It wasn’t inspiring. The album wasn’t large, and less than half its pages had been used. But though the photographs were few, they did show Felix and his friends in various locations, including those that had been used as dump sites for the bodies.
Carrie’s job was to examine the album, the photos, and glean anything she could. Especially about the locations. Not just the ones where victims had been found, but also, perhaps especially, the other pictured venues that might be where he was planning to go next.
She was a methodical soul. She liked order, detail, and above all thoroughness. Carrie opened a new spreadsheet on her computer, saved it with the name F V Locations. She headed up the columns; ‘Picture No’, ‘Date’, ‘Names’, ‘Location’, ‘Observations’.
The first three columns were easy to fill in. Felix Vine had helpfully dated each photograph, and Lorraine had confirmed who each of the children were. Three of the children appeared in every picture; Felix, Jasmine and Bryan. Jasmine’s little brother, Justin, only appeared in three photographs. No-one else was visible in the pictures, not even in the background.
She filled in each column, numbering the photos in sequential order. She noticed two things right away. The first was the pictures were ordered chronologically, which made sense of course, but no detail was overlooked. The second, and more disturbing, thing she noticed, was that there were exactly eleven photographs.
Eleven.
The same as the number of stab wounds inflicted on each of the victims.
The same as the house number where each of those victims had lived.
Eleven.
Was that how many people he planned to kill?
She tried to quell the cold fear surging inside. She had to detach if she was to be effective, to do her job properly. She took a deep breath, then another. Fetched coffee. Checked emails. Checked her phone; no missed calls or messages from her parents. Then, finally feeling like her head was on straight, she got down to business.
She let her newly created spreadsheet be her guide. The next column to fill in was ‘location’. This was trickier. It was tempting to assume she knew half the locations, those in the first pictures, those that matched the crime scenes. But Carrie wouldn’t fall into the trap of assumption. She would deal only in hard facts. She would take these photographs one by one, confirm every aspect, double-check every element, and build a solid and true representation of the facts.
Carefully, she liberated the first photograph from the album. She scanned it, saved it, then uploaded it to the larger of her screens. The quality was a little hazy. She could clean it up, but even without the benefit of high resolution the photo was clear.
Four children, carefree smiles, leaning against each other in a sun-drenched garden. In the background the surface of a pond glinted out from beneath the shadow of overhanging trees. Carrie began filling in her ‘observations’ column instead, noting it was probably the Doyle’s garden, but she would get Jasmine Burke or Bryan Doyle himself to clarify before committing anything to her ‘location’ column. She jotted down descriptions of the children, their clothing, expressions, even who stood next to whom. She briefly described their surroundings and copied down the date written in the scrapbook. There wasn’t much to write, but she was thorough anyway.
She was feeling flat after her analysis of the first photo, but wouldn’t let her resolve crumble as she scanned in the second picture.
This one was just the three kids, and it had been taken in a kitchen. Again, the location would have to be confirmed. She assumed it was Station Street, but it wasn’t recognisable as her own family kitchen. She quickly filled in all she could observe, eager to get on to the next photo, the one under the bridge. That one she’d be able to compare against the crime scene photos.
Then she remembered; there was an earlier crime scene. Karl Drummond may have been killed miles away from Blackbridge, but he was still the first victim. Within minutes she’d brought up the pictures from the Maidbury police files.
She’d only glanced at them before. Karl’s murder was like all those subsequent; stabbed eleven times. All the others had been left in a location which had meaning for Felix Vine, a location which they now knew corresponded with the scrapbook of memories. Carrie remembered what Max’s father had said, about Karl being the first, that murder unleashing something inside Felix which had led to the others. Had losing control with Karl Drummond opened the door to a serial killer? She switched files and skimmed the report on Karl’s body. The wounds inflicted on Karl matched the other victims; same number of stab wounds, same kind of spacing, and, crucially, the same kind of knife. This guy hadn’t just picked up a letter opener or kitchen
knife.
Carrie sat back for a moment, tapping her bottom lip. He’d had the knife with him, ready. It implied some degree of planning. If the killing wasn’t entirely spontaneous, then what about the location? How much planning did go into that first murder?
As with the garden picture, Carrie began jotting down details, looking at the area surrounding the body. What jumped out, naturally, was that both photos were taken in a kitchen. Not the same kitchen, not even similar, but kitchens nonetheless. As she continued making notes under the ‘observation’ heading she found more similarities. Both kitchens had a distinctive black and white hexagon tiled floor. There were two monitors in front of her; on one she filled the screen with Drummond’s murder scene, the other with the kitchen photo from the album. She took them segment by segment. She found a handful of similarities. Those floor tiles. The position of the clock on the wall, slightly above and to the left of the kettle. A coffee jar, about a foot to the right of the kettle in both shots. A tea towel, in each case folded neatly and lying in the centre of the work surface. The items themselves would have attracted no special notice. They were everyday objects, exactly where you’d expect them to be. But, seeing the comparison, the placing, the positioning, it matched too perfectly to be mere coincidence, especially given Felix Vine’s later actions.
Carrie doubted Max or Lorraine would want to be bothered with this right now. It wouldn’t get them closer to catching him. These details from the scene may not be top priority for them, but she remembered what Max’s father had said. He may have been right that killing Karl Drummond had unleashed something in Felix Vine, something that compelled him to move on and take further victims. But their killer hadn’t just snapped. This was premeditated. Even if it didn’t help the case, when it came to trial Karl Drummond’s family and friends deserved justice.
Carrie tapped the edged of her desk. Yes, she would be true to herself, do a thorough job. She had a contact at Maidbury station. If she could get testimony that Felix Vine was the one to arrange, or re-arrange, the items in the kitchen area at his office, that would fit more puzzle pieces into place. It also had her wondering about the first photograph in the album.
