Imago

by Celina Grace

  There was a moment’s silence, oddly loaded. Our gazes met in the mirror. After a few seconds, she dropped her eyes to look at what I’d been staring at.

  “Your father bought me that,” she said, indicating the brooch with a nod of her white head. “On the day I found out I was pregnant with you and your brother.”

  I didn’t say anything for a moment. John. It was the first time she’d ever acknowledged his existence to me. I was flummoxed, not only by the subject matter, but also by her tone. It was the first time in weeks she’d directed a normal, almost friendly word my way.

  She walked up behind me, growing larger in the reflection. Seen side by side, our faces looked very similar despite the difference in our age. I had the strangest impression that she knew that I knew about John, about how he’d died. That she knew that I’d found the story out long before but she’d never mentioned it because she wanted me kept in suspense, in horror at what I’d done. She wanted me to be punished.

  She leaned forward, smiling nastily.

  “The wrong twin died,” she said, almost whispering. I could feel her eyes on my face, greedy for my reaction to her words.

  My face reflected nothing. After a moment, bored, she turned away and walked out of the room.

  The strangest thing happened. It was as if someone else were standing behind me, as close as Mother had been. As if they stepped forward, into me. My vision blurred. All I could see before me was the hard, bright blue of the butterfly brooch. Rage flooded through me like a welcome fire.

  I turned quickly and followed Mother, who was just taking a step downwards at the top of the stairs. My hands went out, but were they my hands, or John’s hands? They connected with the small of Mother’s back and pushed, just a quick little shove. I can still remember the feel of her birdlike ribcage under my palms for the brief second before she fell. It was the first time I’d touched her in years. She tumbled down, giving one short, sharp cry before she hit the hallway floor in a tangle of withered limbs.

  I remained for a moment on the top step. Exhilaration swept through my bloodstream like a drug; I felt drunk with power. I had killed Mother.

  That wasn’t quite true. She was still alive when I reached the hallway floor and bent over her. Her face was twisted awkwardly, her mouth opening and shutting like a baby bird’s. One grey eye blinked at me.

  I leant over, watching her pupil contract. Then I smiled slowly. I backed away towards the front door, step by slow step. She made a small sound of protest, something that wasn’t quite a word. Was she trying to say my name? I hadn’t heard the word Margaret cross her lips in months. I smiled again, smiled and waved a casual goodbye. Then I went outside and locked the front door behind me.

  Walking away down the quiet street, I felt my soul grow wings. I knew then that I was able to transform, to become someone different. All it took was the courage to hold death in your hands and reach out and kill. I was trembling with the realisation that that was the secret I had looked for for so long.

  Chapter Eighteen

  There were voices right on the edge of hearing, but no discernible words. Just the hum and babble of human speech, heard from some distance away. Then other sounds became recognisable: the rattle of curtain rings, the clank of something metallic, the ringing of a telephone. Kate heard them all without being able to think much about them, and after a time, the noises faded and darkness came back.

  When she could hear the sounds again, they were louder and more intrusive. At the same time, she became aware of something else – a warm feeling of pressure on her right hand. She struggled for a moment to open her eyes, and after a few seconds, the blurry image of a ceiling and the top of a green curtain came into view. Kate blinked and her gaze dropped to see the welcome face of Olbeck smiling down at her. It was he who was holding her hand, she realised after another moment.

  “Hi,” croaked Kate.

  “Hello, you.” Olbeck leant forward a little, squeezing her hand. “How are you feeling?”

  Kate considered.

  “Crap.”

  Olbeck smiled.

  “Geez, Kate, I knew you wanted to get out of running the half marathon, but you didn’t have to go this far.”

  Kate laughed weakly and then gasped as pain shot through her. She looked down at herself, fearful of what she would see. A mass of bandages was just visible under the hospital gown she was wearing.

  “What happened?”

  “Don’t you remember?”

  Kate blinked and the face of Margaret Paling swam back into view. The gleam of the knife as it came down, the warmth of the blood as it gushed out of her. Kate swallowed.

  “I remember.”

  “That knife missed your lung by an inch, Kate. Someone was obviously looking out for you. You lost a lot of blood, but you’ll be okay. You just need to rest and get better.”

  Kate felt the sudden hot surge of tears underneath her eyelids and blinked them away.

  “I’ll be okay?” she managed.

  “You should be. You won’t be running any marathons, half or otherwise, for a while.”

  “Silver lining,” Kate said, trying to grin through her tears.

  “Jay and Courtney have been here, but they had to go. I thought I’d sit with you for a while.”

  “Glad – glad you did.” Kate was sorry she’d missed her brother and sister. She wanted to ask whether her mother had visited her but decided against it.

  “What happened – afterwards?” she asked.

  “After the attack?”

  “Yes.”

  “Well, I got your text. I was in the middle of interviewing poor Karen’s Brennan’s mother, so I couldn’t get back to you, and I couldn’t leave immediately. I stopped the interview as soon as I decently could, and Anderton and I headed on over to Jerry’s place. Of course, we couldn’t find you anywhere, and we were starting to get a bit worried when this bloody great shower of glass explodes just down the street.”

  Kate smiled faintly, remembering hurling the photograph with all the remaining strength that she had. Thank God she had.

  “What about Margaret?”

  Olbeck looked serious.

  “She’s dead, Kate.”

  “I remember,” whispered Kate. “She hit her head on the wall, on the fireplace, didn’t she?”

  “Well, yes. But she also fell on the knife. Talk about hoist by your own petard.”

  “It was – her though? The killings? She – she did them all?”

  Olbeck squeezed her hand again.

  “Oh, yes. We’ve found – well, I won’t go into that now. Anderton will come and give you the run down when you’re feeling a bit stronger.”

  “Okay.” Kate could feel a heaviness dragging down her eyelids. She forced them open, fighting against a sudden great weariness.

  “You’re knackered,” said Olbeck. “Get some rest. Me and Jeff will be back later.”

  He kissed her on the forehead, and Kate smiled weakly. She could still feel the warmth of his hand as she fell into unconsciousness.

  Some time passed before she became aware of reality again. Like the last time, she heard the sounds of the ward before she opened her eyes, although there was no warmth of another human hand holding hers. Instead she heard her name, quite clearly.

  “Kate. Kate.”

  Kate opened her eyes. Anderton was sitting where Olbeck had sat before.

  “Welcome back,” he said, smiling.

  Kate tried to smile back. In truth, seeing him sat there without touching her, without holding her hand, hurt her almost as much as the healing knife wound.

  “How are you feeling?”

  “I’ve been better,” said Kate, not wanting his pity.

  “You did well.”

  “I’m just glad we caught hi—” She caught herself. “I mean, I’m glad we caught her. God, that sounds so weird, given the context.”

  “You’re not wrong. The press are having a field day. Britain’s first female serial killer and
all that.”

  Kate rolled her eyes.

  “What about Rose West? Myra Hindley?”

  Anderton nodded.

  “Well, there is a precedent, I suppose. But Margaret was killing on her own. Although—” He looked thoughtful. “We found her diaries. You’ll have to read them when you’re stronger. There’s material in there that would keep a team of psychiatrists busy for decades.”

  He hesitated for moment.

  “We found another body in the house. Searched the whole building – took it apart at the seams, obviously, after what happened. The body of a young girl, thin, dark-haired.”

  “Stabbed with the same knife?”

  “That’s right. Clearly her first victim. We know from reading her diaries that she killed her mother too. That’s what started all this off.”

  Kate cleared her throat.

  “Why did she do it?”

  Anderton shrugged.

  “Again, Kate, that’s one for the psychiatrists. Repressed sexuality? Self-hate? Self-loathing so extreme she created a whole new persona for herself, someone who could kill women and in killing women, act out the rage and shame she had for herself? I don’t know. I think it’s fitting she went for victims who resembled her mother when she was young.”

  “Did they also resemble Margaret when she was young?”

  Anderton looked startled.

  “Now you mention it, that’s true. Perhaps that was an element as well.”

  Kate was thinking.

  “Why – why put the bags in Jerry’s house?”

  Anderton shrugged.

  “She did a lot of things to throw us off the scent. Remember the condom lubricant found on Mandy’s body? Nice little trick there to make us think it was a man. Well, of course we thought that anyway. Why wouldn’t we?”

  Kate closed her eyes momentarily. She remembered her frantic speculation on the identity of the killer after she’d found those bags. Jerry – and then Anderton. How could she have thought that? That’s something I’ll never tell him, she thought.

  “How is Jerry?” she asked out loud.

  “Better,” said Anderton. Then he hesitated. “A bit better. They think he’s going to pull through but...well, I don’t think he’ll be back at work again. But he is getting better.”

  “Good,” said Kate and was glad she actually meant it. She wondered whether she and Jerry had been in Intensive Care together. Perhaps lying next to one another in beds side by side. What a thought...

  “Their mothers were friends,” Anderton was saying. “Margaret Paling’s mother and Jerry’s mother. That’s his mother’s house of course – he inherited it when she died, he’s only been living there for a few months. Margaret had a key to his house which he probably didn’t know about. She must have thought he’d make a good scapegoat.”

  Kate nodded, feeling the pillow rustle against her ears.

  “She looked so harmless,” she said. “I can’t believe I sat across the table from her drinking tea and I had no idea. Not then. She just looked so ordinary.”

  “Well, that made it so easy for her, didn’t it?” said Anderton. “Who on Earth would suspect a respectable elderly woman of these terrible crimes?”

  “That’s why it was easy for her to get her victims to the canal ground,” Kate said, considering. “They trusted her. They wouldn’t have been afraid of her.”

  “Exactly. We can’t know what she told them, but I’d imagine it was quite convincing. They wouldn’t have suspected her for a moment.”

  “Perfect disguise,” said Kate.

  “Exactly.”

  Kate sighed, thinking of the girls who had died. Could they have been saved? Could the team have done anything different? She had no doubt that there had been mistakes made that had possibly cost lives. She’d have to live with that. I’m sorry, she said to Mandy and Claudia and Karen inside her head.

  “Thank God we caught her,” she said, aloud.

  “Indeed. Although, from the pace of the killings, it was likely we’d have caught her sooner rather than later anyway. She was becoming frantic.”

  “Right.”

  Anderton smiled faintly.

  “That’s not to do down your achievement, Kate.”

  “I didn’t do much.”

  “Nonsense.”

  Kate couldn’t be bothered to argue. She felt weak and ill. Talking about Margaret was bringing up memories of the attack.

  Anderton noted her pallor.

  “We’ll talk about it later, Kate. It’s all in hand.”

  “Thanks,” she said, with difficulty.

  “You just need to concentrate on getting better. It’s not the same without you.”

  “Isn’t it?” asked Kate. Their eyes met and for a second, she felt leap of something within her that lifted her temporarily out of her pain. It only lasted a moment before tiredness began to engulf her again.

  “Get some rest,” said Anderton, and the tone of his voice was such that Kate found herself smiling as she slid back into sleep. The last thing she was aware of as unconsciousness engulfed her was the warm faint pressure of his fingers as he took her hand.

  THE END

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  Want more Kate Redman? The new Kate Redman Mystery, Snarl will be released in February 2014…

  Snarl (A Kate Redman Mystery: Book 4)

  A research laboratory opens on the outskirts of Abbeyford, bringing with it new people, jobs, prosperity and publicity to the area – as well as a mob of protestors and animal rights activists. The team at Abbeyford police station take this new level of civil disorder in their stride – until a fatal car bombing of one of the laboratory’s head scientists means more drastic measures must be taken…

  Detective Sergeant Kate Redman is struggling to come to terms with being back at work after long period of absence on sick leave; not to mention the fact that her erstwhile partner Olbeck has now been promoted above her. The stakes get even higher as a multiple murder scene is uncovered and a violent activist is implicated in the crime. Kate and the team must put their lives on the line to expose the murderer and untangle the snarl of accusations, suspicions and motives.

  Snarl is the new Kate Redman Mystery from crime writer Celina Grace, author of Hushabye, Requiem and Imago. Released February 2014.

  Hushabye (A Kate Redman Mystery: Book 1) is the novel that introduces Detective Sergeant Kate Redman on her first case in Abbeyford. Read the first two chapters below…

  HUSHABYE

  (A KATE REDMAN MYSTERY)

  CELINA GRACE

  © Celina Grace 2013

  Prologue

  Casey Fullman opened her eyes and knew something was wrong.

  It was too bright. She was used to waking to grey dimness, the before-sunrise hours of a winter morning. Dita would stand by the bed with Charlie in one arm, a warmed bottle in the other. Casey would struggle up to a sitting position, trying to avoid the jab of pain from her healing Caesarean scar, and take the baby and the bottle.

  You’re mad to get up so early when you don’t have to, her mother had told her, more than once. It’s not like you’re breastfeeding. Let Dita do it. But Casey, smiling and shrugging, would never give up those first waking moments. She enjoyed the delicious warmth of the baby snuggled against her body, his dark eyes fixed upon hers as he sucked furiously at the bottle.

  She didn’t envy Dita, though, stumbling back to bed through the early morning dark to her bedroom next to the nursery. Casey would have gotten u
p herself to take Charlie from his cot when he cried for his food, but Nick needed his sleep, and it seemed to work out better all round for Dita, so close to the cot anyway, to bring him and the bottle into the bedroom instead. That’s what I pay her for, Nick had said, when she’d suggested getting up herself.

  But this morning there was no Dita, sleepy-eyed in rumpled pyjamas, standing by the bed. There was no Charlie. Casey sat up sharply, wincing as her stomach muscles pulled at the scar. She looked over at Nick, fast asleep next to her. Sleeping like a baby. But where was her baby, her Charlie?

  She got up and padded across the soft, expensive, sound-muffling carpet, not bothering with her dressing gown, too anxious now to delay. It was almost full daylight; she could see clearly. The bedroom door was shut, and she opened it to a silent corridor outside.

  The door to Dita’s room was standing open, but the door to Charlie’s nursery was closed. Casey looked in Dita’s room. Her nanny’s bed was empty, the room in its usual mess, clothes and toys all over the floor. She must have gone into Charlie’s room. They must both be in there. Why hadn’t Dita brought him through? He must be ill, thought Casey, and fear broke over her like a wave. Her palm slipped on the door handle to the nursery.

  She pushed the door. It stuck, halfway open. Casey shoved harder and it moved, opening wide enough for her to see an out-flung arm on the carpet, a hand half-curled. Her throat closed up. Frantically, she pushed at the door, and it opened far enough to enable her to squeeze inside.

  It was Dita she saw first, spread-eagled on the floor, face upwards. For a split second, Casey thought, crazily, that it was a model of her nanny, a waxwork, something that someone had left in the room for a joke. Dita’s face was pale as colourless candle wax, but that wasn’t the worst thing. There was something wrong with the structure of her face, her forehead dented, her nose pushed to one side. Her thick blonde hair was fanned out around her head like the stringy petals of a giant flower.