by Matt Brolly
‘Oh, Sarah. That was years ago. We were kids.’
‘That’s not the point, Sean, and you know it.’ She looked about her, embarrassed that she’d raised her voice.
‘Have a coffee with me.’
‘No,’ she said, through gritted teeth.
‘I’ve grown up, Sarah. That was all years ago. I admit I was foolish, and I guess reckless. But you had… Well, that’s not important. I wanted to see you. To make amends. To move forward. To start again.’
She shook her head in disbelief. She turned away from him, and began walking up the hill. Sean followed close behind. May kept her gaze straight ahead, hoping he would stop following. Approaching the coffee shop on The Triangle, she stopped and rounded on him. She took a deep breath. ‘Listen to me, Sean. I don’t need you to make amends. I understand that you were hurt.’ She tried to placate him, to sound sympathetic. ‘But you know it didn’t give you the right to do what you did. Yes you were young, we both were.’ She lowered her voice. ‘But you need to take this on board. It is the last time I am going to tell you. There will never be a time when we start again. Is that clear?’
‘Please, just five minutes,’ he said.
‘If you are ever within five hundred metres of me again, I will arrest you, understand?’
For the first time his smile faltered, a coldness spreading to the man’s eyes, like an actor coming out of character. ‘You’d do that, and let all your colleagues know what you did?’
‘There we go, the real Sean at last. You’re good. You almost had even me convinced.’ He flinched as she moved towards him. ‘I’ve told you what will happen.’
‘I would tell them everything,’ he said, stepping back.
‘Everything? There’s nothing to tell. I had an abortion and you went crazy. Do you think they would care?’
‘They’ll hold it against you.’
‘They won’t care. If anything they’ll think you’re unbalanced and would arrest you. Stalking is a criminal offence. Stop bothering me. If I see you again, I promise you’ll be arrested.’ She walked across the road to the coffee shop.
This time he didn’t follow.
Chapter 24
May composed herself, waited for her breathing to return to normal and entered the coffee shop. She ordered a latte and waited for the academic to arrive. Sean was the last thing she needed now. Maybe she should have given him the time to talk, to get it over with, but she was in no mood to allow anyone to dictate to her, especially him. She focused on the case, banished Sean to the back of her thoughts.
Dr Atwal arrived twenty minutes later. In her early thirties, she had light brown skin and large, green eyes. ‘Thank you for seeing me on such short notice,’ said May.
‘My pleasure. I hope I can help. It’s not often I’m called in by the police for my expertise,’ a lilt of excitement in her broad Bristolian accent.
‘The Latin phrase I sent you. I imagine you understand our interest.’
‘Yes, that poor man who was killed the other week. Horrible. My colleagues and I thought there may have been another University victim years ago. Is that right?’
‘That’s correct. I can’t go into specifics with you, but can talk about anything that is public record.’ May gave the academic a file with pictures of the Latin inscription. ‘So what can you tell me?’
Atwal produced a small pair of reading glasses and studied the papers. Her face changed as she began to read. Her brow furrowed in concentration, and she winced on more than one occasion. ‘I’m sure you don’t need me to tell you that In oculis animus habitat translates as The Soul Dwells in the Eyes. I believe the killer derived his nickname from the translation. I did a little research for you. The first recorded instance of the phrase occurs in a book called Naturalis Historia, an encyclopaedia of ancient knowledge written around the first century AD. It was a common belief at the time that the eyes revealed the inner soul. There are echoes of the belief in modern parlance as well. I’m sure you’ve heard phrases such as the eyes see into the soul and evil eye?’
May nodded. She wasn’t hearing anything new.
‘You might be interested to know that the modern word envy comes from the Latin invidia, which literally means to see into.’
The possibility that the killer was envious of his victims was not an avenue they had yet explored. ‘Is there something more specific about the phrase? Something which would give us an indication of why the killer would use it and not some other phrase or saying? Something religious perhaps?’
‘Not that I can ascertain. The author of Naturalis Historia, Pliny the Elder, was a noted natural history philosopher. I can’t see any further significance. Certainly nothing religious.’
‘I see. Where would someone pick up the phrase?’
‘How do you mean?’
‘It seems quite an obscure saying. Would someone who uses it have a strong knowledge of Latin?’
Atwal pursed her lips as she considered the question, pushing her glasses up the bridge of her nose. ‘Not really. On the internet you’ll see hundreds of sites dedicated to Latin. Although it’s rarely studied in school any more, there’s still a lot of interest out there. You could do a search for Latin phrases matching the soul and eyes, and I’m sure this phrase would appear.’
‘It does,’ said May. ‘How about twenty-three years ago?’
‘It might well have been different then. I don’t believe the phrase appears in any religious texts. However, it would take only a little research to unearth a list of Latin phrases. Anyone could have accessed the information from the Central Library for instance.’
May had already done that, the day after Terrence Haydon’s body was discovered.
‘You look disappointed,’ said Atwal.
‘Sorry, no, you’ve been very helpful.’
Atwal hesitated. Her expressive eyes lent credence to the phrase they had come to discuss. ‘Is it true about what they say? That he keeps them alive when he does…’
‘It’s not worth thinking about, Dr Atwal.’
The afternoon sky had clouded over. May thanked Dr Atwal and walked back to the station, scanning occasionally for Sean as she went. At the station she met with the senior members of the team and told them about her conversation with Atwal.
‘Obviously, if envy was a motive then the killer would have known each of the victims,’ said Welling.
‘Not necessarily. You can envy from afar,’ said May.
‘Thou should not covet thy neighbour’s wife,’ said Lana.
‘You haven’t seen my neighbour’s wife,’ said Welling.
‘I thought it was Ox,’ said Bradbury.
‘As I said, you haven’t seen my neighbour’s wife,’ said Welling.
‘If we can focus,’ said May.
‘What was there to be envious of? Most of the victims had little of material value, apart from Haydon and now this solicitor, Hopkins,’ said Bradbury.
‘It doesn’t have to be something material. He could envy their soul for example. We’re not dealing with someone playing with a full deck of cards here, Bradbury,’ said Welling. ‘It could explain why he’s active again. Something could have triggered his envy. Something different to before.’
May sighed. She didn’t like this idea. It threw up too many variables and different lines of investigation. ‘Let’s keep it as a background thought. I want more research on the former victims. We need a link between them and Haydon. Bradbury is going back to Haydon’s church. Welling, I want some more research on that place. How does it link with the churches of the other victims? How much influence did it have over Haydon’s life?’
May took one of the pool cars and made the journey to Backwell.
Iain Hill lived a in a detached house surrounded by a large of area of land. May sat out on the patio waiting for the retired policeman who was in the kitchen with his wife, making tea. Before her was a large expanse of lawn, freshly mowed, the smell of cut grass still in the air. She was wearing sunglas
ses and closed her eyes for a time, enjoying the relative silence of the place, the gentle hum of insects and bird calls. She listened harder, the distance sound of traffic ruining the illusion.
Hill returned with a tray. ‘I was wondering if someone would contact me,’ he said, placing the tray on the table. ‘All this nasty business again. I’d hoped that had all ended with the last one, the poor lad at the University.’
Hill poured tea for her. In his early seventies, he was in good shape, his figure lean. He had an air of authority about him, similar to Hastings. He’d made the rank of DCI before retiring.
‘Thank you for your time. You were SIO on the first Souljacker case, Clive Hale.’
Hill nodded, the loose skin on his neck dancing at the movement. ‘My last case, unfortunately. I was down for early retirement due to a dodgy ticker.’ He placed his hand on his heart. ‘I told them it was nothing but they wouldn’t listen. Anyway, you don’t want to hear about that. Clive Hale. Horrible scene. Bits of eye and God knows what.’
‘I’ve been reading the case files.’
Hill drank his tea. ‘I wasn’t that much involved to tell you the truth,’ he said.
‘Really, I thought…’
‘I signed everything off, naturally, but my mind was elsewhere by that point. It was a transitional time. I gave free rein to my junior.’
‘Julian Hastings?’
A look of suspicion crossed Hill’s face. ‘Do you have anything specific you wanted to discuss with me, Inspector?’
Out of nowhere, a cat jumped on her. The tabby curled up on her lap, May holding her hands in the air.
Hill laughed at her surprise. ‘Don’t mind Holmes,’ he said.
May relaxed and stroked the cat who’d started purring. ‘He’s friendly. Named after the detective, or the computer system?’
‘My wife calls him a tart. You’ll have to ask his brother, Sherlock, about the origin of the name. So, Julian Hastings…’
The cat shifted in her lap to find a more comfortable position. ‘I’ll come clean. I’m looking at a few lines of investigations that Hastings may have overlooked.’
‘Overlooked? On the Hale case, or the others?’
‘It’s a general thing, probably nothing. It’s just that I would have thought there would have been research conducted on the victims. The reports go into their background but…’
‘It could have gone further,’ interrupted Hill.
‘Possibly.’
‘You’ll have to speak to Julian about that. We all had our own way of doing things back then. I know it’s different now, more structured and reliance on teams and what have you. Is that what you’re really asking me, Inspector?’
May sensed Hill studying her. She could imagine him in his prime, a keen and intelligent interrogator. ‘Ticking the boxes, that’s all,’ said May.
Hill’s eyes widened but he didn’t question further.
‘Were you satisfied with Hastings’ work at the time?’
Hill paused, the sun highlighting the crisscross pattern of wrinkles on his face. ‘There it is,’ he said, nodding.
It was May’s turn to wait. She removed her sunglasses, noticed the slight tremor in Hill’s hands. It was possible it was a sign of age, but May thought she had struck a nerve.
The nodding increased in tempo as Hill considered the words. ‘I have to admit, I left him to it. I signed off the work without question. He was a very able policeman. He’d headed up a number of cases on his own, and had a very high success rate.’
‘What was he like?’
‘Like? What a strange question.’ Hill poured some more tea, his hand steadier. ‘What was he like? I’ve already told you he was a strong officer. Very methodical, quite relentless in his pursuit.’
‘And as a person?’ asked May, thinking about her torturous journey to London with Hastings as her companion. The monosyllabic answers to her questions about the case.
‘He wasn’t the easiest to be around, that I would concede. Not the most charismatic man, but he did install a sense of respect in the team. He was a good leader. Very good, actually. His, how shall I put it, sense of detachment probably made him more suitable for a place higher up the ranks. He was less strong being part of a team. I guess it would be different now but it worked for him.’
May could see Hastings in a position of authority. Like in any other profession, she’d seen different types of management styles in the force. Each came with its own set of pros and cons. ‘Could you see him missing anything?’
Hill shielded his eyes from the glare of the sun. ‘You know how the job is. As I said, things were different then. We didn’t have all those checks and controls in place. Things could go awry, but I would say in Hastings’ case it would be highly unlikely. He was very strong on these things. What’s this really about, Inspector?’
‘As I said, just some background. You’ve been very helpful.’
Back at the station, she was pleased to see the team still busy in the incident room. She called DCI Nielson in London, leaving a message when he didn’t answer. She ran home, pushing herself through the steep inclines. She remembered what Hill had told her about Hastings. What a great leader he was, and how methodical. Why, then, had he not focused more on the links between the victims?
Her heart raged as she sprinted the last three hundred metres to the front door. Her father looked shocked as he opened the door for her. ‘You’ll do yourself some mischief. You can barely breathe.’
‘I’m fine, Dad,’ she said.
It took a few minutes for her heart rate to return to its normal rhythm. She peeled off her running clothes and switched on her computer. She checked her email, a part of her daring Sean to have sent an email. He hadn’t. Neither had Michael Lambert. She considered calling him. It had been an awkward way to leave things. With Hastings there, she’d been unable to properly apologise for effectively making a pass at him the night before. Not that she fully regretted that. She liked him but it was unprofessional. She already knew the complications which arose from having a relationship with someone she worked with.
She stayed under the shower for ten minutes until her skin reddened from the heat. She thought about what Dr Atwal had asked her, about the victims being alive when the Souljacker performed on them. It was something she’d learnt to ignore early on in her career. It was impossible to fully empathise with the victims she came across without going mad. If she thought about the pain and fear the Souljacker victims endured as he removed their eyes, and carved the words viciously into their bodies, then she would never be able to function.
The smell of fried meat and spices drifted up from the kitchen. Her father cooked every evening. It was his way of contributing.
‘Tea’s up, Sarah,’ he called, for some reason in a northern accent.
She pulled on a dressing gown and went downstairs, grateful for his presence. He had set out two places on the dining table. ‘For your delectation,’ he said, pointing to plate of lamb chops and couscous. ‘Wine?’
‘Yes, please.’
He poured her a glass, emptying the bottle he’d obviously started earlier. ‘So tell me about it,’ he said.
‘What.’
‘Whatever’s bothering you. Why you went to London.’
‘You know I can’t talk about the case, Dad.’
‘No, but you can talk about how you feel.’
Her father had become more open in the last few years, as if he felt obliged to compensate for her mother’s absence. ‘I’m tired, Dad. This is the first major case I’ve headed, and it doesn’t seem to be progressing the way I’d envisaged.’
She took a bite of the lamb, the meat flaking off the bone. She wanted to tell him about her encounter with Sean but didn’t want to upset him. She remembered the day she’d told both her parents that she was pregnant. She’d put off telling them for as long as possible. She’d recently turned seventeen and had only been sleeping with Sean for a month. Compared to everyone else in the s
chool, she was practically a nun. She told them during a meal such as this. She would remember the silence following her announcement until the day she died, the pause as the words filtered into her parents’ reality. She would remember their response more. The way they both left their seats and moved towards her, how they wrapped their arms around her, without words; without judgment.
They let her decide. As a family they’d been active parishioners of the local Catholic church and May attended the adjoining Catholic school. News of her planned abortion reached the parish priest who visited their house one night. The priest sat down with them as a family, and warned her against having an abortion.
May had never seen her Dad angrier, before or since. He practically manhandled the priest out of the house. None of them ever went to church again.
As her father went to open a second bottle of wine, the doorbell rang. ‘I’ll get it,’ he said. ‘You’re not decent.’
May pulled the belt on her dressing gown.
Her father returned a few seconds later, DS Bradbury in tow. ‘Sorry, ma’am,’ said Bradbury, noticing May’s horrified look. ‘I did try to call.’
‘This better be important,’ said May.
‘I’ll leave you to it,’ said her father.
‘What the hell, Jack?’ said May, once he was gone.
‘I told you. Check your phone. I’ve called ten times.’
Her phone was still upstairs. ‘Okay. What is it?’
‘There’s been an incident. Possible suicide. You need to come to the scene.’
‘Who?’ said May.
Bradbury glanced at his shoes. ‘Roger Haydon.’
Chapter 25
Bradbury was right. Her phone had been switched to silent, and there were ten missed calls from him. She dressed as quick as possible, glad she hadn’t started the glass of wine her father had poured.
‘I’ll leave your dinner in the fridge,’ said her father, as she went to leave.
‘Sorry, Dad, it’s an emergency.’
He kissed her on the cheek. ‘There’s no need to explain. You be careful.’
