The light did little to illuminate the rest of the room, but she could now see the wall, where she had touched, but there was nothing there, nothing to explain the deep crimson blotch now covering one hand, and smeared on the left leg of her jeans and one side of the lampshade.
Heading towards the basin to wash her hands, she took another glance back at the wall, this time seeing red splatters up the wallpaper.
That simply wouldn’t do! Rob was bringing his sister around later for dinner, and she’d promised to get the place spick and span. Sighing, she was suddenly in the kitchen and reaching for the bucket of cleaning products in the cupboard beneath the sink. Grabbing the sponge and the squirty cleaner, she proceeded back to the stained wall, sprayed some liquid on it and began to scrub.
The tiny red droplets seemed to come away quite easily, but as she moved to a second part of the wall, where the stain was larger, as she turned back to the original spot, the spatter had returned, meaning she had to start again.
This wouldn’t do! Rob and Wanda would be here soon.
And that’s when she noticed the red stain on the carpet too. Dropping to her knees she sprayed what was left in the bottle onto the fibres and began to scrub at the stain ferociously.
Who could have spilt so much red wine? What would she say to Rob and Wanda? What if they thought she’d been drinking and caused the mess?
Harder and harder she scrubbed at the stubborn stain, but there was no sign of it disappearing, and as her eyes did slowly adjust to the darkness around the area, she could see that the red stain extended far beyond the area she was working.
Wasn’t there some old wives’ tale about pouring white wine on red to get rid of it?
That wouldn’t help as she didn’t drink wine. But then a bottle was suddenly in her hand. The same bottle she’d purchased on Tuesday night and failed to drink. Unscrewing the cap she poured the sweet-smelling liquid onto the stain, but as soon as it touched the carpet, a large plume of smoke began to rise. Looking at the bottle again, she immediately saw the hazard symbol on the label.
Scrambling backwards as the acid began to disintegrate all it came into contact with, Megan’s retreat was stopped by something heavy on the floor behind her. Turning, the body lay motionless, on the carpet, the dead eyes glinting from the lamp’s light.
Megan’s pulse quickened. Who had left a body in the flat? Wait, why had someone left a body in the flat. Scrabbling for the victim’s hand, Megan searched for a pulse, but the skin was ice cold to the touch.
What would Wanda say if she saw what Megan had done?
She would have to hide the body, that was the first thought that came to Megan, but as she tried to heave the body from the ground, it wouldn’t budge, as if it was glued in place where the congealed blood had formed an impervious adhesive bond.
There was nothing else for it, coiling her fingers around the handle of the knife protruding from the victim’s chest, Megan had to jiggle it to free it from its bony prison, but as it came free, she felt a sense of power like she’d never experienced: in her hand she held a God-like weapon, something that could take life away.
But if it could take it away, could it bring it back too?
Raising the knife to eye level, she saw her own grinning face in the blade’s blood-covered blade. It was taunting her. Do it! Do it! Do it!
And turning the handle around in her hand, she suddenly drove it down and into the body with all her might. The blade oozed through the flesh like a hot knife through butter, and as she pulled it free again she saw the eruption of blood, like lava from a volcano, and the feeling of power tightened around her soul. Again she drove the blade in, pushing deeper, savouring the ooze as it tore through the tissue.
And again.
And again.
And again.
Each strike to the body loosening the tension in her shoulders and making her feel giddy with anticipation of the next drive.
It didn’t matter. Whoever this was couldn’t feel the pain, so where was the harm?
Again she thrust the knife into the flesh, this time at the side, hunting for untouched patches where she could feel the skin as it broke.
And as she did, she felt a tingling in her groin and breasts, as if Rob was there with her, his touch enveloping her body, urging her to continue.
Down again, and again, and again.
Oh it felt so good; the orgasm growing with each strike.
‘Do it! Do it! Do it!’ the voice in her head demanded. ‘Embrace the gift.’
And as she withdrew the blade this time, some of the victim’s blood splashed up, the icy chill of it catching her cheek. But rather than immediately brushing it away, she allowed it to stay, knowing that it was wrong, but wanting to break the rules for once.
Her breathlessness was almost palpable as her body gave in to the carnal desire.
The blood slowly dripped down her cheek, a drop catching on her lower lip, and knowing it was wrong, knowing that people would label her sick, she delicately poked out her tongue, and licked the droplet away, almost climaxing as the metallic flavour filled her mouth, tantalising her taste buds.
Staring down at the pool of red encasing her hand and the knife, she wanted that feeling again.
Oh it would be bad. It would be so bad, so wrong. So carnal.
But that didn’t stop her. Opening her lips a fraction, willing herself to go through with it, begging her body not to fail her, she pressed the cold metal blade onto her tongue and tightened her lips around it, erupting with desire as she swallowed the red nectar.
She allowed the knife to drop, closing her eyes to savour the moment for as long as possible; knowing that no man’s touch could ever stimulate her in the same way ever again. And knowing she would give anything to feel it again.
But opening her eyes, she found the room now so much brighter, the darkness gone, light permeating through the flat’s windows, and the bloody mess still lying at her knees.
She would definitely need to get the place cleaned up before they arrived, but secretly wondering whether she could hide the body somewhere so she could relive the moment once Rob and his irritating sister had left.
And that’s when her gaze finally fell on the victim’s face.
Recoiling in terror, Megan tried to push herself away from the dawning realisation of what she had just done, but her legs wouldn’t budge.
Where was the wheelchair? Wait, what wheelchair? She hadn’t used one to enter the flat.
And as she looked around the flat that had felt so familiar when she’d entered, she realised she was back in the maisonette, and what was worse, there was thick grey smoke escaping from beneath the kitchen’s closed door.
No, not again!
And then there was banging. A loud banging.
Megan covered her ears, trying to drown it out, but the banging only grew louder.
It was coming from the front door. Someone was outside. Someone demanding to come in. Someone who would see Janice’s mutilated corpse on the disintegrating carpet. Someone who would see Megan’s blood-stained clothes and skin.
‘Megan Hopkirk?’ a man’s voice shouted from the other side of the door. ‘This is the police. Open up, please.’
And in the blinding panic, Megan’s eyes flew open, her heart ready to burst from her chest at the prospect of being arrested for murder. But the room was suddenly different. The maisonette was gone and the studio flat’s faded ceiling stared back at her from the safety of the sofa.
But was this a dream?
Pinching the skin on her arm, she winced as the very real pain told her she was awake. And scanning the floor and walls for any trace of Janice’s blood, she didn’t know whether to be relieved or horrified by the heinous dream that had felt so real. And as she tried to sit up, she could feel the wet patch in her knickers, and blushed in shame.
But then the door banged again. ‘Miss Hopkirk? Are you home? My name’s DS Jake Knight. I really need to speak to you.’
&nbs
p; THIRTY-SEVEN
Jake was sure he’d heard movement on the other side of the door, but it had only be faint. He banged his fist against the panel again, straining to hear. ‘Miss Hopkirk? You’re not in any trouble. It’s about the statement you made at the station this morning. I just have a few follow-up questions. It won’t take long.’
This time there was definitely the sound of movement, and as he sensed someone drawing closer to the door, he heard the clank of a metal door chain being slid into place. But when the door opened, he didn’t see her at first. But gradually his eyes lowered and fell upon the woman in the wheelchair, her dark hair in a tight weave.
Jake showed her his identification through the gap in the doorway. ‘Would it be okay if I come in?’
She closed the door enough to allow her to unfasten the chain, before pulling it open wider, and wheeling away, allowing him to enter.
The flat was barely big enough for one, and he almost felt claustrophobic as he saw the kitchen only separated from the lounge space by a low breakfast bar counter. Doors off to the left had to lead to a bathroom and bedroom he assumed. A pile of plates and cups stood beside the stained kitchen sink, and the pedal bin’s lid wouldn’t close for the volume of cardboard packets sticking out of the top.
Megan parked the wheelchair where the carpet looked thinner, presumably this was the regular spot where she sat and watched the small television set. The whole place reminded Jake of the first rented flat he’d lived in when he’d joined the force.
‘Would you like a cup of tea or something?’ she asked nervously.
Jake took a second glance at the pile of crockery by the sink and shook his head despite a growing thirst. ‘I’m fine, thank you. Can I get you anything?’
Her eyes seemed to scowl momentarily, before returning to normal, as if his question had somehow offended her. But she didn’t look comfortable. Her forehead wore a veil of sweat, and he couldn’t be sure if it was the general warmth of the airless flat or because his presence was making her nervous. Every now and again her eyes would drop to the carpet like she was looking for something on it.
‘Is everything okay, Miss Hopkirk?’ he asked, out of genuine concern for her health. She was holding her hands in her lap and he could see lighter patches of skin; burn scars he would guess.
‘I was asleep when you arrived,’ she said. ‘You’ll just have to give me a minute to get my head straight.’
Jake checked his watch. It wasn’t much after three, but that didn’t mean she was lying. Not necessarily.
‘You said something about my statement,’ she said, keen to move the meeting on.
‘That’s right,’ Jake smiled. ‘I understand you saw Rita Enfield at a bereavement support group yesterday. Is that correct?’
Megan nodded. ‘Have they confirmed if she was the woman who jumped yet?’
Jake shrugged. ‘I really don’t know. I’m not part of that investigation.’
Her brow furrowed with surprise. ‘Why are you here then?’
‘I was hoping you might be able to tell me about someone else who may have been a member of the support group. Does the name Charles Xavier mean anything to you?’
He studied her face for any kind of reaction to the name, but there was no tick or sudden movement. Her face remained blank until she shook her head. ‘Wasn’t he in a comic book?’
Jake chuckled. ‘Apparently so, but I have reason to believe the man I’m asking about wasn’t fictional. You don’t remember meeting a Charles Xavier at the group?’
Still her face remained blank. ‘I’m afraid not, but then yesterday was the first time I had attended the meeting.’
‘Can I ask why you chose to attend yesterday?’
‘My partner died earlier this year,’ she said, lowering her face to stare at her scarred hands.
‘I’m sorry to hear that,’ Jake offered sincerely. ‘How did you hear about the support group?’
‘My counsellor recommended I attend. He thought it might help to talk to a room full of strangers.’
‘And did it?’
She shook her head. ‘I hadn’t thought it would, and I was right. I wish I’d never gone.’
‘Why do you say that?’
‘Well then I wouldn’t have...’ she began to say, but stopped herself like she was about to reveal some big secret and had thought better of it.
‘Wouldn’t have what, Miss Hopkirk?’
‘It doesn’t matter. So, to answer your question, I don’t recall meeting anyone called Charles Xavier at the group yesterday. With a name like that I think I would have remembered.’
Jake knew she was keeping something from him, but he had no idea what it could be. Was it that she had known Charles and was covering?
‘So you wouldn’t be able to tell me whether Charles Xavier was depressed for example?’
She shrugged.
‘Or whether he was taking any kind of drugs?’
A second shrug, this time tempered with a gentle shake of the head.
‘Or whether he was suicidal?’
Her eyes suddenly met his. ‘Suicidal?’
Jake had to be careful about how much he said, but with little else to work with, this woman might be his best chance of learning more about why Charles had chosen to drive into the lake.
‘That’s right,’ he said quietly. ‘We retrieved his body this morning. And it just struck me as odd that now two members of this support group have committed suicide within a week. Are you sure the group was for bereavement, and not those contemplating suicide?’
Her eyes narrowed further.
What secret was she hiding? He needed her to open up, but he sensed she wasn’t going to without some gentle pressure.
‘What were you doing down at the Nelson Gate complex last night?’ Jake asked, as casually as he could.
She scoffed. ‘I’m not sure you’d believe me if I told you. Your colleague – PC Durridge – he didn’t believe me.’
Buckley hadn’t mentioned the reason Megan had given, and he now wished he’d read the statement himself, or had waited to speak to Durridge before coming over.
‘Humour me,’ Jake said, as he sat down on the couch, opening his legs and arms, hoping she would mirror his body language and be less defensive.
She didn’t respond at first. Looking one way and then another, down at her hands, back up at him and to her hands again.
Jake stooped, so he could look into her eyes. ‘I promise I won’t judge. All I’m trying to do is discover why Charles Xavier decided to kill himself at the weekend. That’s all. And although you say you never met him, you did meet Rita Enfield and then you were also in the vicinity where she chose to end her life. My worry is that this support group is potentially masquerading as something else. As far as I’m aware, nobody in Rita’s personal life had passed away recently, so I’m curious to know why she would choose to attend a bereavement support group. I mean, you went because your partner died. But why was she there?’
‘I didn’t speak to her directly.’
‘But you heard her speak, right? I mean when you were at the meeting, was anything said by anyone to suggest suicidal thoughts? Can you tell me what Rita Enfield spoke about?’
Megan was grinding her teeth, maybe scared of betraying a confidence. ‘She spoke about her guilt at what had happened to her children. She said she hadn’t known about what her partner had been doing. She sounded very sad and maybe on some subconscious level that’s what triggered my dream.’
Jake straightened. ‘What dream?’
‘Didn’t PC Durridge tell you? That’s what I was doing at the complex last night. It was the strangest thing. I’d had this nightmare that I went to the roof of that building, climbed up on to the ledge and jumped. It felt so real, and while I was staring up at the building, she fell.’
‘You saw her fall?’
‘Not exactly, but I’ll never forget the sound when she landed on the van.’ Megan shuddered at the memory.
Ja
ke felt like he’d missed part of the conversation. ‘Sorry, so you dreamt that Rita jumped from the building?’
‘Yes, no, what I mean is, in the nightmare, I jumped from the building, but I now wonder whether subconsciously I somehow knew that Rita was going to do it, and that’s what the dream was trying to tell me.’
Jake suddenly didn’t feel comfortable remaining in the flat. Whatever this woman had been through was clearly affecting her more than she wanted to let on, but he was wasting his time listening to her attention-seeking nonsense. He stood to leave.
‘Wait,’ Megan said suddenly, as a moment of realisation dawned. ‘The man who killed himself, Charles Xavier, right? Did he go by any other names?’
Jake genuinely didn’t know, and could only shrug.
‘When yesterday’s session was starting,’ Megan continued, ‘someone asked whether they should wait for someone called Carlos. They didn’t mention a surname, but I got the impression that he was a regular attendee. Someone said they hadn’t heard from him in a few days, but Dr Patel suggested it was better just to make a start.’
Charles Xavier was born in Mexico according to his driving licence. Was it possible he would go by the name Carlos instead? It was a question worth following up on.
‘You should speak to Dr Patel,’ Megan added. ‘Give me a second and I’ll find his business card with his address on.’
Jake remained where he was while she wheeled off to the bedroom. Spotting a yellow exercise book on the table, Jake used his pen to lift the first page, seeing the words “DREAM JOURNAL” scrawled in ink. He was about to read the handwritten notes inside when the wheelchair bashed against the bedroom door and Megan rolled back into the room. He quickly pretended he was looking at something else.
‘Here you go,’ she said, offering him the card. ‘If your Charles Xavier was at the group, Dr Patel might know a little more about him.’
Jake thanked her for the card, and headed to the door. ‘Thank you for your time, Miss Hopkirk. I’ll be in touch if I need anything else.’
THIRTY-EIGHT
Déjà Vu Page 19
