by Celina Grace
“A few times a week. Sometimes on weekends. It depended on whether she could get anyone to look after her daughter.”
“Anyone?”
“Well, her mother. She would only let her mother look after Madison. She was very protective of her.”
His voice shook, and he looked down at his hidden hands. Despite herself, Kate was wrenched momentarily with pity. She tried not to think of Madison and her solemn little face, her big dark eyes. What would they have told her? How do you break something like that to a little child?
Anderton began the questioning again but Kate, drifting off a little, found herself picturing Father Michael and Claudia. Actually picturing them in bed together. Thirty years or more between them: education, class, even intelligence perhaps a chasm between them. Why had he pursued her? Or had it been the other way around? Had he been kind to her, poor Claudia, who had been so dreadfully treated by another man? Now Kate remembered going to interview her about Mandy Renkin, the way that Claudia had flung her bedroom door open in happy anticipation. She must have thought it was Father Michael who’d knocked.
What a risk he had taken, though, this priest who was supposed to be celibate, above the temptations of the flesh. No such thing, as Kate had good reason to know.
Her colleagues would be crawling all over the Mission now, checking computers and laptops and offices, digging into everything to try and prove a connection with the killings. Kate turned her attention back to Anderton, who was wrapping up this session of questioning.
“I think we’ll take a break, there,” he said, shuffling his papers into a rough stack. Father Michael sat back in his chair, raising his hands to his eyes. His solicitor bent forward and picked up her briefcase.
Kate was the first out in the corridor. She stood aside as Father Michael was escorted back to the cells; they would hold him for another twenty-four hours and then either charge him with the murders of Claudia Smith and Mandy Renkin or release him. She watched his thin figure disappear as the heavy door to the cells closed behind him. Was it possible that this stooped, bearded man was actually a serial killer?
“Got a minute?” asked Anderton, directly behind her, and Kate jumped.
They went to Anderton’s office, but this time, he didn’t close the door. Obviously there were to be no illicit kisses this time. Kate sat down at his desk, feeling a slow droop of her spirits.
Anderton flung himself into the opposite chair and began to flick through the paperwork.
“Can you get over to Brannigan’s house tomorrow and start going through it?” he asked, his eyes scanning the papers before him. “Take Theo – oh wait, of course you can’t. Take Rav and Jane and make a start.”
Kate waited to see if he’d say anything else, something personal, something intimate. He didn’t. He didn’t even look at her.
“Yes, sir,” she said, numbly, and got up to go. Unable to help herself, she looked back as she reached the doorway. Anderton still had his head down, intent on his work. Kate hesitated and then left, swallowing hard against the thickening in her throat.
Chapter Twelve
The good weather turned the next day; June’s blue skies were obscured with thick grey clouds and spitting rain. Kate dug her summer raincoat out from beneath the pile of jackets and scarves that hung on the back of the downstairs toilet door and put it on. She sat on the bottom step of the staircase to lace up her trainers, caught sight of the time on her wristwatch and cursed. She was supposed to be picking Rav up at nine and he lived a good twenty minutes’ drive from her place. It was already eight forty-five.
She sent him a quick text telling him she was running late, grabbed her car keys and locked up the house. She knew why she was late, which was most unlike her. She’d spent the night rolling from one side of the bed to another, trying to get comfortable, trying to ignore the gnawing in the pit of her stomach.
This is what happens when you get involved, Kate, she told herself. Months, no, years of happy equilibrium and celibacy and then one night of passion and it all goes to pot…
As was usual when one was in a hurry, the traffic was heavy, and every traffic light disobligingly went red as Kate approached it. She tapped her fingers on the steering wheel, gritting her teeth. Eventually, she drew into the driveway of the block of flats, drove into a parking space and beeped the horn. Kate raised her hand as Rav’s flatmate, whom she knew very slightly, passed the car, obviously on his way to work. Then Rav knocked on her window, making her jump.
“Morning!”
“Hi,” said Kate, smiling in spite of herself. Rav was the youngest member of the team, barely into his twenties. He’d joined the police force straight after sixth form college and barely looked any older than he had when he’d left school. Kate didn’t have much in common with him, but they worked together well. She liked his energy and enthusiasm.
Whilst Rav strapped himself in, Kate tapped the postcode to Father Michael’s house into the sat nav.
“Jane’s meeting us there,” she said. “Mind if we stop on the way and grab a coffee?”
“Nope, no problem.” Rav looked slyly across at her and grinned. “As long as you don’t throw it in my face.”
Kate thought she’d misheard him for a moment. She looked over, eyebrows raised – and then she got it.
“Oh, ha bloody ha. Oh, my aching sides.”
She snorted and put her foot down harder on the accelerator.
“What happened with you and Jerry?” asked Rav, clearly burning with curiosity, which Kate was not about to satisfy. She waved a hand in a dismissive manner.
“Not much,” she said. “Storm in a tea-cup. Or a wine glass.”
Rav giggled. “It was just so totally not like you. We couldn’t believe it.”
“Oh well,” said Kate, uncomfortably. “Did you guys stay on much longer?”
“Yeah, ‘til closing time. And then we went clubbing.”
“Jerry went clubbing?”
“Yeah, I know, not like him, is it?” Rav pushed a hand through his thick, black hair. “Seriously, it was daylight by the time we all rolled out of the club. I’m still hungover now.”
“Mmm-hmm,” said Kate, having heard enough about Jerry. She wanted to forget that part of the night altogether if she could.
Rav checked his phone.
“We’re still holding this priest, yeah?”
“That’s right,” said Kate. “Anderton wants us to go through this house with a fine-tooth comb.”
They drove in silence for a minute. Then Rav spoke up.
“This is pretty bad, isn’t it, Kate? This case, I mean.”
Kate glanced over.
“Yes, it’s bad. It’s the worst I’ve dealt with since I started here.”
Rav was looking out the window at the streets of Abbeyford as they rolled by.
“We don’t get cases like this here,” he said. “I mean, do we? Serial killings…that’s something that happens to other towns, not here.”
“Well,” said Kate. “I suppose it doesn’t happen here…until it happens here.”
“What if—” said Rav, and then he hesitated. Kate looked at him enquiringly.
“What?”
“What if it’s not a serial killing?”
Kate was drawing onto the street on which Michael Brannigan lived. She parked the car, switched off the engine and turned to face Rav more fully.
“What do you mean?”
“Well, it’s only an idea,” said Rav nervously. “And I’m not saying the murders aren’t related, I mean, they are – they clearly are. But what if the girls died for some other reason? Something we haven’t found yet.”
Kate thought it through. It was an intriguing idea, and she said as much to Rav, earning a pleased smile.
“Maybe we’ll have a clearer picture once we’ve done the search,” she said. “But it’s certainly an idea. We should bear it in mind.”
“Will you tell the boss?”
“Me?” said Kate sharply.
“Why would I need to tell him? Why me?”
Rav looked surprised at her tone, as well he might.
“Oh, no reason,” he said, climbing out of the car. “I just thought you might mention it. It might sound better coming from you.”
That remark followed Kate into the house. Why had Rav said that? Kate snapped on her gloves on auto-pilot. The forensic team would have already been over the house, taking their samples and fingerprints and photographs. Looking closely, Kate could see the faint dusting of fingerprint powder, the odd smear and scuff on the walls and windows. The room had that slightly ruffled look of a place that had been thoroughly searched by experts.
Kate moved carefully through the hallway and into the front room. Rav stayed by the front door, running his practised eyes over the hallway furniture, the pile of worn shoes and scuffed boots by the coat stand. Kate stood for a moment in the centre of the living room, trying to concentrate. It might sound better coming from you. What did Rav mean? Surely nobody could know. Could they? She felt suddenly feverish with anxiety. Surely Anderton wouldn’t have told anyone? Would he?
Concentrate, Kate. She went to the bookcase, always a good place to start. There was a real jumble of books on the shelves, an assortment of classics, non-fiction and an unsurprising number of religious works. She ran her finger along the spines and then began to work methodically through the books, taking them out and shaking them. It was repetitive work, and her mind soon began to wander. To Anderton, inevitably. She took out her phone in the ridiculous hope that he had sent her a message. Of course he hadn’t, although there was a text from Olbeck, which said, training tonight ok? Pick u up @ 7pm x
For the first time, Kate found she was actually looking forward to going running later. She wanted to be out in the fresh air, moving from one foot to the other, eyes fixed on the horizon and not thinking about anything to do with her boss, or murdered girls, or how she seemed to have messed up her life yet again. She texted Olbeck back an affirmative with a kiss on the end and then turned her attention back to the search.
Jane had arrived by now, and she waved to Kate before heading upstairs to the bedrooms. Kate could hear her footsteps creaking the floorboards above her. This was an old house, Victorian in age, and chilly despite the time of year. The carpet was clean, but threadbare; the sofa was an old Ikea model with a checked Welsh blanket tucked over it. It was obviously the home of a man with limited spare cash – on the face of it, the home of a man who was cultured and intelligent and thrifty. Could it also be the home of a man who had murdered two – perhaps even three – women?
Kate’s phone rang, and when she saw Anderton’s name on the little screen, her heart gave a thump that was almost painful. She made herself wait for three rings before she answered it.
“Sir?”
“Anything?”
“Sorry?”
“Found anything?”
Kate clenched her teeth for a moment. So this was how he was going to play it, was he? Pretend the whole thing never happened. Was it because she’d walked out of his office when he wanted to talk to her? Was he really that petty?
“Not yet, sir,” she said.
“Okay, that’s fine. I need you to get over to the PM – Mark and I are tied up here with questioning. Can you do that?”
“Of course,” Kate said coldly.
“Good. See you later.”
The line went dead.
Kate put the phone back in her pocket. Her throat was aching and for a moment she stared at the opposite wall through a mist of tears that she blinked rapidly away. Just as well, as Rav came through from the kitchen moments later.
In the car on her way to to the pathology lab, Kate found herself grinding her teeth in rage, both at herself and at Anderton. You idiot, Kate. You know what happened in Bournemouth, you swore it wouldn’t happen again, and yet here you are, making the same stupid mistakes. Don’t you ever learn? She repeated the last sentence out loud and then she yelled it. Unfortunately the car was stationary at the time, and she caught the gaze of an astonished elderly gentlemen, who was crossing the road in front of her and clearly perplexed at the sight of a red-faced women shouting at herself in the rear view mirror. Kate forced a smile as he shuffled away, staring back over his shoulder until mercifully the lights changed and she was able to accelerate out of his sightline.
Unwelcome memories assailed her as she drew into the car park of her destination. For the first time in a few days, she remembered Jerry’s sneer and his accusatory words. “Why would I like, much less respect someone who gets ahead by getting on her back?” There’s no truth to that, Kate told herself stoutly as she locked the car door. No truth at all. But, thinking back, she had to admit that it was possible Jerry might have gotten hold of the wrong end of the stick. There had been enough innuendo and rumour flying around for a while, after all. And hadn’t he once been based in Brighton? It wasn’t beyond the realms of possibility that he’d heard what had happened.
Nothing much had happened. Kate, like so many people, had had a short affair with one of her colleagues in Bournemouth. A ridiculous, disastrous affair that lasted all of six weeks. And yes, she admitted to herself as she went into the reception area of the labs, she’d fallen into bed with someone who was technically her superior. And yes, she admitted to herself as she flashed her warrant card and was directed up to one of the theatres on the first floor, she’d obtained her transfer and promotion quite soon after that affair had ended. But, and she was absolutely clear on this, her promotion had been gained entirely on her own merit. The way the affair had ended, she’d been lucky to get any kind of reference at all.
When she considered explaining this to Jerry, however, she was forced to give herself a mental slap in the face. You made a mistake then, you made one now. Learn from it and move on, Kate. When you next see Anderton, be professional, be courteous and be distant. She arrived outside the door she was seeking and smoothed back her hair.
The pathologist conducting the autopsy of Claudia Smith was Andrew Stanton, and if Kate hadn’t been in such a neurotic and anxious state, the pleased expression when he saw who had come to act as a police presence might have both amused and irritated her. As it was, she barely noticed, automatically returning his greeting. Her gaze was drawn, inevitably, to the small body of Claudia Smith, which lay supine on the hard metal surface of the table.
For the first time in an hour, all thoughts of Kate’s romantic troubles fled. She was struck, as she so often was at post mortems, by the intense vulnerability of the corpse. Claudia looked so young; of course, she had been young, but her body looked tiny, diminished in death. She had given birth to a child, but her shallow-breasted, narrow-hipped body looked too young and undeveloped to have done so. Stripped of that awful makeup, the fake tan washed away, her body had achieved a kind of morbid beauty; the purity of her profile suggested the blanched, sculpted face of a marble statue.
Andrew Stanton had a brusque, no-nonsense method of working; his hands were less gentle than the delicate fingers of Doctor Telling. Kate waited and watched, listening to the doctor commenting on his findings, trying not to wince. Occasionally she asked a question.
“When was she killed?”
Doctor Stanton was rinsing a scalpel and the knife clattered against the tap with a ringing metallic sound.
“Between 2:00 a.m. and 3:30 a.m., the night before last. I can’t narrow it down much further than that, I’m afraid.”
“That’s fine,” said Kate. “So she was killed in the hours of darkness? It starts to get light about four thirty at the moment, doesn’t it?”
“Yep,” said Stanton. “Summer solstice has just passed, I think.”
Kate nodded.
“Any sign of sexual assault?”
“Not that I could find. She’d had a child, as I expect you know.”
Kate nodded, thrusting the thought of Madison’s lost little face away with an effort. Stanton, having finished the autopsy, pulled the green sheet up over
the body, hiding Claudia’s face away.
Kate rubbed her finger over her top lip, thinking.
“No sign of sexual assault at all?” she asked.
Stanton looked at her with surprise.
“No. Didn’t I just say?”
“Yes. Yes, you did, sorry. I was just thinking…” She trailed off. No sign of sexual assault on Mandy’s body either, although hadn’t Doctor Telling found traces of lubricant? What did that mean? Had the killer raped or had sex with Mandy? Why not with Claudia? Was that significant?
It’s probably nothing, thought Kate. Mandy was a prostitute. She’d probably had sex with another punter before she met the one who killed her.
She came to with a start, realising Doctor Stanton was speaking to her.
“So that’s all sorted, right?”
“Sorry?” asked Kate.
“My report. I’ll have it to you in the next couple of days, okay?”
“Right. Great,” said Kate, still thinking.
Andrew Stanton took off his lab coat and threw it into the laundry basket by the sink. He switched from his professional manner to his usual semi-jokey, flirtatious banter.
“So,” he said, “It’s dinner on Friday, right?”
He always said that, and Kate normally treated it like a little joke they shared, refusing him in the same joshing manner. She opened her mouth to give her usual, humorous refusal. She suddenly thought of her last, clipped conversation with Anderton, felt a rush of misery and found her mouth saying to the good doctor, “Why not? I’d like to.”
The look on Andrew Stanton’s face made Kate wish she’d agreed before. He goggled for a moment before rallying quite magnificently.
“Seriously? I mean, great. Great! Seriously?” He looked at Kate’s face. “Well, that’s great. When shall I pick you up?”
Back in her car and driving back towards her house, Kate found herself giggling despite herself. Then she took herself in hand. You shouldn’t have done that, Kate. You don’t feel like that about him, you’re giving him false hope. She slowed down for a junction, caught her own gaze in the mirror and found herself saying out loud, “Oh fuck off. I’m entitled to think of myself for once. It could be a nice evening.”
