by Kit Tinsley
Of course, he kicked himself for not noticing the shoes himself when he was packing. If he had, then he would have simply thrown them away and Julia would have been none the wiser. It was simply that his wife had so many pairs of shoes that he had just been grabbing them and boxing them up.
He walked to the front door. His chest still felt a little tight, an aftereffect of the asthma attack no doubt, but on the whole he felt well. As he reached for the doorknob his mind flashed back to the night before. The memories stopped him in his tracks.
She had been there in his hospital room, Helen Swanson. She had sent that message to his phone, the one he had not been able to find this morning. He knew he had been awake, and yet there was no evidence of the phantom text message.
Steven pushed the memory to the back of his mind, where it belonged. He didn't believe in ghosts, so it must have been a dream. Or perhaps a hallucination caused by the stress of the move and the events afterwards.
He stepped into the house and closed the door behind him. The house seemed quiet. Julia was usually unable to sit in silence. She had to have the television or radio on regardless of whether she was watching or listening respectively. Today there was nothing. He strolled through the hallway, peering into the living room, dining room, study and kitchen as he went. All was still and there was no sign of his wife.
Perhaps she had gone out, but both cars had been outside, so if this was the case she must have gone on foot. This didn't seem like something his wife would do. Being blessed with a naturally slim frame and a high metabolism, Julia ate whatever she wanted and was completely against exercise of any form.
He wandered to the staircase and peered up.
'Julia?' he called out. 'Where are you?'
'Bedroom,' she called. There was something in her voice that didn't seem right, an unnatural level of excitement. He climbed the stairs.
The bedroom door was shut. As he opened it there was a loud clicking noise and a bright flash. Panic grabbed hold of him and his heart skipped a beat. He clutched at his chest. It all seemed incredibly reminiscent of the previous night. Had there been a flash then?
As his vision began to clear, he saw Julia in front of him carrying a camera. She was grinning from ear to ear.
'Jesus,' he said, catching his breath. 'What the bloody hell are you doing?'
Julia skipped over to him and threw her arms around him. She pulled him towards her and kissed him as though they had been apart for weeks, not hours.
'I'm so glad you're back,' she said, pulling away from him slightly. 'Sorry I didn't come and get you. Did you get a taxi?'
He stared at her, he felt a little shell shocked from the speed of her questioning.
'Yeah, Doctor Williams called one for me when we couldn't get hold of you,' he said. 'What's happening? Why are you so excited? And, what's with the camera?'
She let go of him and grinned.
'It's probably easier if I show you,' she grabbed his hand and led him out of the room.
'Why is it so cold in here?' Steven asked, aware of the chill permeating the air.
Julia didn't answer. Instead she led him along the landing towards the staircase up to the attic. At the bottom, she motioned for him to go up. He looked at her, raising his eyebrow. He wondered what she was up to. He climbed the stairs and entered the attic.
He looked around and saw the two canvases propped up against the wall. Their wooden frames faced him, meaning that the painting surfaces were against the wall.
'Have you started painting again?' he asked.
She nodded with eagerness. He was just about to congratulate her, and tell her how proud he was of her when he noticed that the centre window was wide open.
'No wonder I'm cold,' he said, walking over to the window. 'Did you open this?'
Julia, still with her beaming grin, shook her head.
'No, actually I shut it. Five times since last night.'
What the hell was she talking about? Steven began to worry, her cheerfulness and confusion seemed to be like some sort of manic episode. Not wanting to agitate her he let the window comment go, and changed the subject.
'All right, let's see those paintings,' he said, starting to move over to where the canvases were resting.
Julia stepped in front of him and put a hand on his chest, still smiling.
'No. Not yet.’
Something was wrong with her. That was becoming ever clearer by the second.
'When?' he asked.
'Soon,' she replied. 'I have to tell you something first.'
'Okay.’
She went on to explain the events of the previous evening, how she had returned home from the hospital to find the house was cold, that she had discovered the open window, and assumed that he had not shut it, so she didn't think any more about it. Then she told him how she had unpacked all of her supplies and set up her easel, in preparation to start working again soon. Then she couldn’t remember a thing.
'Next thing I knew it's morning, and I'm in bed. When I got up, the house was warm. I saw that I was covered in paint. So I was confused. I came up here and saw this.'
She turned the first canvas around. Steven was shocked to see a very clear rendition of their new house. Definitely in his wife's style, but nothing like any of her other work. He peered at the painting. It was good, excellent in fact. Julia had lost none of her talent. His eyes were attracted by a purple, see-through cloud across the line of attic windows. At the centre window he noticed a face. It couldn't be. How would Julia know? He felt cold again.
'Who is this woman?' he asked, although he already knew the answer.
Julia rummaged in her pocket.
'I didn't know at first, but I had my suspicions,' she said. 'So I went to the library and found this.'
She handed him a piece of paper. He unfolded it and saw that it was a photocopy of the front page of the Lincolnshire Echo from six years ago.
Local Photographer Butchered the headline screamed in bold type. Below was a photograph of a smiling, beautiful woman. A face from his past, one that Steven had not set eyes on for a long time. Sadness and dread filled his heart.
Julia did not even know his connection to Helen Swanson. It was a part of their agreement never to talk about their pasts, an agreement he was glad to keep when it came to Helen. How could he tell Julia what he had done? She would hate him for it, and he would deserve that hate.
'When I came home from the library, the window was wide open again. I kept shutting it, and as soon as my back was turned it was open. Then I had another blackout,' she said. 'When I came to, I'd done this.'
Julia turned the second painting around. From the shine, Steven knew it was still drying. However, this one was even more different from her usual work. The painting showed a close up of an SLR camera, much like the one hanging from the strap round her neck. The main focus of the painting was the lens. Reflected in this was more of the swirling, purple smoke. It appeared to be trying to form the semblance of a figure.
He let out a sigh. It was happening again.
'You're trying too hard,' he said, attempting to sound caring. 'Wanting to get back to work so soon. Can't you remember what happened last time you put this much pressure on yourself?'
She stared at him, her smile fading for the first time since he had arrived home. Her lips trembled and he could see her eyes were welling up.
'I'm not making this up,' There was not any hint of anger in her voice, just disappointment.
'I didn't say you were,' he said, trying to be reassuring. 'But, perhaps you're getting confused about the times.'
She narrowed her eyes and gave a slight shrug.
'What do you mean?'
'Perhaps you opened the window again before you went out,' he said. 'And perhaps you saw this article before you did the painting.'
The colour rose in her cheeks, and her eyes bored into him.
'I'm not fucking crazy,'
'Of course not,' Steven replied, not wanting to a
rgue again. He had to stay calm, even if Julia didn't. 'It's just that, after the last time, perhaps you should ease yourself back into work. Pace yourself, not go at it all guns blazing or you might burn out again.'
She turned around and kicked the folding table next to her easel, sending the items on top of it crashing around the room. The jars of water and white spirit shattered upon hitting the floor. She turned back to Steven.
'It was so hard for you, wasn't it?' she screamed at him. 'Poor Doctor Draper, his wife's in the nut house. What about me, Steven? Do you have any idea what it was like for me? They locked me up. They drugged me. They got inside my head and messed around with it. Sure it cured my depression, but it left me unable to put a brush to a canvas for six fucking months.'
She stopped and took a deep breath. She wiped the tears from her cheeks then looked back at him.
'It's not happening again. I wouldn't let it. I know exactly what I saw, and what I did last night. If you don't believe me, get the fuck out of my studio.'
She fell to her knees and began to cry, gentle weeping, that broke his heart. Steven felt the same urge he had so many times since he had met her. He just wanted to wrap her in cotton wool and protect her from the world, and herself. He knew he couldn't though. She was too strong, and too independent for that. All he could do was comfort her. He took a place on the floor next to her and put his arm around her, feeling the gentle sway of her body from crying.
His eyes, though, stayed fixed on the face of the woman in the window. The face of Helen Swanson.
Strange, alcohol inspired dreams haunted Sam Fluting as he slept in his car. Though the dreams made little sense to him, each one woke him with a start. Then it would take him time to go back to sleep, trying to get comfortable in the back seat of his car.
It was a knock on his window that woke him that morning. Through the haze of his hangover he looked up to Sid Graves smiling down at him through the car window.
'Get up, sir,' Graves said. 'I'll buy you a coffee.'
The sergeant took him to a small, quiet cafe in the small shopping arcade in Darton. Sam went to the toilet and washed his face with cold water, trying to wake himself up.
When he returned, Graves was sitting at a table with two steaming mugs of coffee.
'What are you doing here, Sid?' Sam asked, realising he had not even questioned his colleague's presence yet.
'I wasn't the first person to bang on your car window this morning,' he said with a knowing grin.
'What?' Sam asked.
'Apparently a young constable spotted you and tapped on the window to ask you to move along,' Graves said. 'You promptly showed him your warrant card and told him to fuck off.'
Sam cringed. Somewhere in his memory was a vague recollection of this, but he had thought it was one of the vivid dreams that had troubled his sleep. He put his head in his hands on the table.
'Oh God.’
Graves laughed.
'The young lad took note of your name and looked you up,' he said. 'I got the call an hour ago to come and collect you.'
Sam shook his head.
'Sorry, Sid, it was a rough night.'
Graves took a long sip of his coffee and then looked at Sam. Partly because of his hangover, but mainly due to Graves’s ability to hide his emotions, Sam couldn't tell what the look meant, but he suspected it was pity.
'What happened?'
The sergeant asked the question Sam had expected. Sam shook his head.
'Reed tried to reassign me yesterday,' he said. 'He thinks the case could use some new blood.'
Graves sighed.
'Perhaps he's right, you've given everything to this case, and it's starting to take its toll.'
Sam, who had still been slouching forward, straightened himself up.
'That's true,' he said. 'On the other hand, I've lost so much for this case I deserve to be the one who catches him.'
Graves nodded. It was something they both understood; when you have put so much blood, sweat and tears into a case it's hard to watch someone else come along and take the glory.
'You said he tried to reassign you,' Graves said. 'How was it left?'
'He's given me two weeks,' Sam said, shaking his head. 'Two weeks to crack a case that's had me beat for six years.'
'Well then, perhaps you need to focus, not spend your nights getting drunk in little towns and sleeping in your car.'
Sam laughed. Graves was right. Last night had been foolish, but it had also been essential. Sam had felt like he was going to explode from all of the pressure. He had to vent somehow, even if it wasn't a particularly productive way of doing it.
That happened last night, though. Today he had to get down to business. Reed could have forced him off the case last night. He should thank the superintendent for at least giving him a chance, not be bitter about it.
'Okay,' Sam said. 'Let's look at what we know. What do the victims have in common?'
'Very little,' Graves replied. 'There seems to be no pattern in terms of age, hair colour, race or appearance.'
'That's right,' Sam said. 'In fact, the only thing they all have in common is they were married women. The fact that is the only connection must be significant in some way. It's not like he just picked ten random women who were all married by accident.'
'He could have,' Graves said. 'Highly unlikely. So what's the significance of their marital status?'
'I don't know,' Sam said.
'Maybe he just wanted them but couldn't have them as they were married.'
Sam shook his head.
'No, there is no sexual element to the murders,' he said. 'If that was the case, we'd see some evidence of rape or something, even in the bloody mess he leaves behind. In some ways, he's desexualising these women. Removing everything that makes them women.'
Graves closed his eyes and rubbed the bridge of his nose for a few seconds, then looked at Sam once more.
'Maybe he's a jilted lover,' he said. 'These women were having an affair with him, they ended it and he made it so their husbands wouldn't want them.'
Sam thought about this. It was a possibility, he supposed. It would certainly make sense of the nature of the crimes.
'The only problem is that, as far as we can tell, only two of the women had been unfaithful to their husbands, and we have questioned their lovers.'
Graves put his hands in the air in a gesture of surrender.
'I'm out of ideas then.’
'Me too,' Sam admitted. 'So let's leave that for a moment. What about the changes with the last murder, the fact that she was murdered and left out in the open?'
'It seems likely that was only because the dead woman's husband was at home ill,' Graves said.
'That means he's watching them for some time before he kills them,' Sam said. 'It also means he couldn't wait any longer to kill her. He had to do it that night.'
Graves nodded.
'Also, it means he's starting to lose control.’
'Maybe. That would also account for the sighting of him at the scene, when the body was found.'
Graves shook his head.
'We don't know that.'
Sam glared across the table at him.
'I know it was him,' Sam said. 'I think he is either losing control or getting too confident. Either way, that's when mistakes happen.'
'Like leaving the murder weapon behind,' Graves said.
Sam shrugged. He had considered that himself at first, but the more he thought about it he doubted it.
'I don't think that was a mistake,' Sam said. 'He wanted us to find it. He wanted to prove he was better than our forensics team.'
Graves nodded, then smiled.
'My gran always used to say that pride came just before the fall.'
Sam had heard that expression himself, and he hoped that it was true. The increase in confidence and arrogance of the killer suggested he was taking great pride in what he did. If he did fall, Sam was going to be there to catch him.
After
a long time, Steven had managed to coax Julia, who was still crying, out of the attic and down to the bedroom. She had fallen asleep in his arms. He had lain there holding her for several hours. It was clear that she had worked too hard the previous night. She was exhausted.
Those paintings she had done disturbed him. They were good of course, but then everything she painted was excellent in his eyes. But these two were so different from all of her previous work, and so specifically of this house.
Why had she become so obsessed with the murder of Helen Swanson all of a sudden? It had been he that had initially not wanted the house for that reason, not that he could let her know the truth about why. She had been desperate to live here, and had acted as though he was being stupid worrying about the murder.
The phone rang and Julia stirred and then rolled over away from him. Steven got up and answered the phone. It was his boss, Mr Walden, the consultant surgeon who one day he hoped to be able to replace.
After he had finished the call, Steven put the phone back down on the cradle. When he turned around to the bed, Julia was looking at him, her eyes puffy and red from all of the crying.
'I have to go into work,' he said, guilt evident in his voice.
She looked straight at him, her eyes full of concern.
'Why? You've only just come out of the hospital yourself.'
He went over to the bed and sat next to her. He stroked her forehead.
'I know, but I'm fine. Mr Walden needs me. It's an emergency hemorrhage case. He needs me to assist.'
Julia looked unsure.
'Can't he find anyone else?' she asked.
'Not as good as me,' he said with a cheesy grin.
Julia erupted into laughter and slapped his chest.
'You're so modest.’
'Besides, it is my night on call, and there's no one who can cover me.'
She sat up and tied her hair into a loose ponytail.
'All right, what time are you going?'
'Pretty soon. They're already prepping the guy,' he said. 'Are you going to be all right?'
'I'll be fine. I feel much better for the sleep,' she said. 'I'll ask Wendy or Paula to come round and keep me company if it makes you feel better.'
