by Tania Carver
Phil, getting up and heading for the door, wasn’t sure which was better and which was worse. Which he wanted and which he didn’t.
Just a post-mortem report, he told himself. That’s all.
He left the office.
‘It’s only preliminary,’ Esme Russell said once Phil had arrived at the mortuary, deep in the bowels of Birmingham’s Selly Oak Hospital. ‘But it seems quite comprehensive.’
The air in the mortuary was chill, but still carried on it the ghosts of spoiled meat with an underscore of preserving chemicals and a faint dirty copper tang of blood. The smell always reminded Phil of what a butcher’s shop would be like if it set up in a hospital. Which, he thought wryly, was exactly what it was.
The body was no longer in sight. He knew its fate. It would have been rendered down to its base components, organs removed and weighed, measurements and samples taken. Gemma Adderley’s death reduced to a series of chemical and biological puzzles to be answered.
Music was playing. Something Phil didn’t know. Something classical. A bottle of chilled white wine was open on Esme’s desk. Two glasses. One almost full, sipped from.
Esme saw him looking. ‘I always do this at the end of the day. Little ritual. Care to join me?’
Phil looked at the bottle of wine, condensation running down the glass. He didn’t want to think about what had been in the fridge with it.
‘No thanks,’ he said.
‘Still on duty?’
‘Not much of a white wine drinker, that’s all.’
‘Right.’ Esme smiled, took a sip.
Phil looked at the report she handed him. ‘Talk me through it,’ he said. He had seen enough reports to know what they meant, but he always asked for a description too. His eyes weren’t as well trained as those of a pathologist. He couldn’t pick up what was important as well as she could.
‘Well,’ she said, putting her glass down, moving close to him and looking at the report he held in his hand, ‘it’s pretty much as we surmised. Tortured: burnt with cigarettes, as far as I can make out, cut. The knife was sharp. Kitchen knife, medical blade, perhaps, although the size of the cuts would suggest something large.’
‘Any degree of medical accuracy?’ asked Phil.
‘Not really. Just random cuts, it seems. Deep, though. Lot of weight behind them.’
‘Man or woman?’
‘If it was a woman she would have to be huge. No, the angle and weight of the blade suggests a man. Left-handed, too, I think.’
Phil wrote that down. ‘Pre or post?’
‘Pre. She was very much alive when this was happening.’
‘Jesus. Raped?’
‘No evidence of semen or DNA but some degree of vaginal tearing. Either he was very careful or he used substitutes. Large ones.’
‘Punishment? Humiliation?’
Esme smiled. ‘Your department, I think. Ligature marks on the wrists and ankles. Had her tied up somewhere for quite some time.’
‘Right. Did he know the woman?’
‘Your department again.’
‘No, I meant are there any signs of what you could infer to be intimacy? Would a stranger have done this, or would it be someone she knew? Like I said earlier, it’s clearly someone who hates women. I’m just wondering if he hates all women, or just this one.’
‘I don’t know. Good question, but I really couldn’t say.’ She pointed at something in the report. Phil noticed that she was wearing perfume. And make-up. ‘She wasn’t killed at the scene. And she’d been in the water for some time.’
‘Time of death?’
‘Can’t say. She’d been in there long enough to have attracted rats but not long enough to have any flora growing inside her. Lividity and decomposition suggest she was dead for a while before he put her in the water. Stomach contents back that up. I don’t yet know what kind of place she was kept in.’
‘She’d been missing a month, how does that sound?’
‘About right.’
‘The hole in her chest,’ asked Phil. ‘Pre or post?’
‘Post.’
‘And no sign of the heart?’
She shook her head. Phil was aware of her perfume once more. He was getting used to it now, even quite liked it. ‘None. I checked the area. Jo and her team did likewise. But we didn’t really expect to find it there.’ She looked at the report once more. ‘The injuries, the torture, although they’re extreme, I can’t find any evidence of one fatal blow. Maybe she just died of shock. Or of the cumulative effects, even.’
‘He still killed her, though.’
‘Undoubtedly. Any suspects?’ she asked.
‘At the moment, the husband. History of spousal abuse. Got a new girlfriend. Ran when I tried to question him. Won’t talk to us without a lawyer.’
Esme took the report from his hands, put it down on her desk, turned to him. Faced him. ‘Quite a day.’
‘You’re not wrong.’
Another silence fell between them. Of awkwardness or anticipation, Phil didn’t know. He couldn’t read his own emotions at the moment , never mind anyone else’s.
‘Look, erm…’
Phil waited.
‘I’m sorry about what I said this morning. About… I didn’t want you to get the wrong… Oh, you know what I mean.’
‘I know,’ said Phil, not altogether sure if he did.
‘But…’ Esme shrugged. ‘I know you’ve not had a good time of it lately. With everything that’s happened. I just thought… Are you free tonight? A drink? Dinner? Just a chat.’
He looked at her. Thought of all the times he’d done the right thing for the wrong reasons. And the wrong thing for the right reasons. And sometimes just the wrong thing for reasons he couldn’t even explain to himself. Or didn’t want to explain to himself.
‘Okay,’ he said. ‘Where did you have in mind?’
13
He opened the box. Looked inside. Stepped back. Feeling pride, or something like pride. He wasn’t sure what the exact word was, the exact emotion. But pride would do until he could think of a better one.
He kept staring. At it. Beyond it. Back. Doing what it was supposed to do. What he had collected it for. His ritual. His exorcism. Cleansing the past. Enabling the present to become the future. A clean future.
Back. He kept staring. It started to work. He started to see. To hear.
I don’t know where you think this is going. There it was. Her voice, back again after all those years. Lorraine Russell. He’d never forgot her name. Never.
What d’you mean? But he knew what she meant. Had known she was going to say this all along. This or something like it. The end result would be the same.
You. Me. This. Looking around, gesturing, taking in the city. He had never understood that bit, when she did that. It hadn’t been about the city. Never about that. Only the two of them. Only ever the two of them. Down by the canal. The lock. Saturday Bridge. Before the gentrification, years ago, when it was still run-down, dangerous. The only ones who ever went there. I mean, it’s not like this is it, is it? Forever.
The words piercing like an arrow through his heart. It must have shown on his face. She responded with an expression that looked compassionate yet contained hints of a mocking smile. Yes, both. He had thought about that for years, gone over it in his head. Over and over it. And yes. Compassion, yet a mocking smile. He was right. Remembering it like it was yesterday.
The autumn air. Cold. Brown leaves blowing. Summer dying. She was wearing his denim jacket, the collar turned up. The room was cold but it was the memory that made him shiver.
What? she said next. You thought it was?
Yes. The only world he could think of. His words had dried up. Before that, before they had stopped, he had said plenty. Told her his plans for the future. Their future. He had thought of nothing else. Worked the whole thing out. And now this. Compassion, yet mocking.
Sorry. No.
Why not?
This was… never meant to
go anywhere. It just got out of hand, that’s all. I know what you want. Marriage and kids and that. But I’m still at university. I’ve got my third year coming up. I can’t do all that.
I’ll… I’ll wait.
That look again. Compassion, yet mockery. He tried once again to work out the percentages.
Look, I’ll… I’ll come with you. When you go back to Exeter. It’s not far.
I’m a student. What will you do while I’m at uni?
I’ll… I’ll get a job. Work. Find… find our home. You need never have to… I’ll take care of you. You… you won’t need to work or anything. I’ll do that. I’ll look after you.
A sigh then. A shake of her head. And in that one movement his heart split open once more. The pain that was always with him, buried somewhere, came bubbling to the surface like dark, black, bad blood from a fatal injury.
I don’t need looking after. I’m doing a law degree. It looks like I’ve got a job lined up at the end of it. A career. Why would I give that up? Especially for someone here, without a job. That’s what I’ve worked towards all these years, that’s what I want, more than anything.
Anything? Unable to keep the pain from his voice.
Anything.
He walked away then, three paces, three and a half, then turned back to face her.
And that’s… that’s it. We were just fun, were we? Something to fill the time before you went back to uni. Anger tingeing his voice now.
She shrugged. It was fun, though, wasn’t it? You have to admit that.
He waited a while until his words, his breath, were under control. Then spoke. So this is… it? The end?
She laughed. No need to be so melodramatic. God, it’s not like we’re the love of each other’s lives or anything. I’ll see you at Christmas. We can go for a drink, maybe.
And that was when the split happened.
The reality, remembered. He looked at her. Really looked at her. Saw her for the first time, what she really was. And there was no compassion. Only mockery. That was all there had ever been. Mockery. And pity. That was all he had been to her. A pity fuck. A common kid to occupy her time with until she went back to uni and surrounded herself with her posh friends. Something to tell the others about over drinks in the union bar: Well, I had a common kid this summer. That’s one thing ticked off the bucket list… Rage rose up inside him, threatened to spill out. He wanted to grab her, shake her, hurt her. He wanted her to love him. But he did nothing. Just accepted her words. He mumbled something and walked away. Left her there.
He never saw Lorraine Russell again. He spent years twisted up by the pain of her rejection. He attempted suicide, needed therapy to sort him out, just get him functioning again.
The reality of what happened.
But now, standing in front of the box, came the exorcism. The chance to make things right after all those years, those long, painful years. A time of atonement.
He closed his eyes.
In this version, Lorraine Russell never sees the knife. Neither does anyone else. It’s like they’re apart from everyone else. Alone. What few passers-by there are are just ghosts. They don’t stop to interfere.
Her eyes widen, her mouth falls into a rigid O. Like a long-haired Munch Scream. Then she goes to scream herself. No one hears her. Nothing comes out, like a dream scream. He grabs her. Pushes her against the heavy wooden lock gate, holding her by the throat, bending her over backwards. Smiling all the time. Knife glinting.
You know what you’ve done? he screams at her. You know?
She tries to shake her head. She’s about to speak. He stops her.
Shut up. Listen. I’ll tell you. You’ve taken my heart. That’s what you’ve done. My heart. I gave it to you. You’ve got it. And you’ve fucking killed it…
She just stares at him. He’s aware of her breathing becoming restricted. His hand on her throat, her body bent backwards.
So now… He shows her the knife. Now I’m going to take yours…
He gets to work. Rips open her jacket – his jacket – then her blouse. Then snaps her bra in two with a swish of the blade. Her breasts are exposed. Her beautiful milky-white breasts. How he loves those breasts…
The knife goes in. Blood bubbling up and over the blade, covering those magnificent breasts. He pushes it in further. More blood.
The look of terror on her face is exquisite.
He gets to work. Hacking, cutting, sawing. The blade is sharp, never lets him down. And it’s easier than in real life. His hands, arms, body, are covered in her blood. He luxuriates in it. Imagines he is bathing in it. Eventually he throws the knife aside, plunges his hands in. Finds what he is looking for.
Her heart.
He pulls. It’s reluctant to leave her. But he is stronger than she is. And soon he stands over her, her heart in his hands. He smiles. But she is already gone.
He was back. In front of the box. Looking into it. Seeing his latest trophy. The heart.
He breathed deeply. In, out again. Smiled. Tried to place himself back in his room. Tried to work out how the exorcism had made him feel. Good, he decided. Centred. Calm. At peace.
The exorcism had worked. Lorraine Russell was gone. Forever. All he had to do was close the lid and that part of his life was over. All that hurt and pain, all those wasted years gone. Banished.
He closed the lid.
And felt a warmth spread throughout his body.
He looked at the other boxes. All empty. All soon to be full.
He pulled off his gloves. Heard voices calling.
‘Daddy… Daddy… dinner’s ready…’
‘Coming.’
He took one last look at the box. Smiled. Left the room.
14
He couldn’t protect us. He just couldn’t protect us.
The words ran laps round the inside of her head, over and over, again and again, a mantra to keep the rhythm going.
Josephina was in bed. Asleep, hopefully, but Marina knew from experience that wasn’t always the case. She was worried that taking Josephina away from her father might damage the child, but it was a risk she had had to take. She spent as much time as she could with her daughter, made her feel as loved and wanted as possible. Since Ellison’s phone call, she had done that even more, keeping busy, trying not to think about what she had just heard. Or anything else. And she had just about succeeded. She had become so lost in the world of her daughter that – just for a short while – she forgot why she was in that house and what she was supposed to be doing and allowed her guard to drop. Just for a while. But, like a terminal diagnosis or incessant pain, she could never relax for long.
Nights were the worst. That was why Marina was working out. The house belonged to a work colleague from the university. He had taken a year-long sabbatical accompanying his much better renumerated wife on a business venture abroad, and let her stay for as long as she liked. The house was beautiful; detached, so anyone approaching it could be seen, with alarms and security systems, in a discreet part of Edgbaston. But the thing she liked best about it was the home gym. Small, but useful. Very useful. Physical activity that would tire her out, make her able to sleep. But not only that: exercise that would build her muscle, sharpen her reflexes. Keep her prepared. Ready.
No matter what she did, though, she knew that as soon as she closed her eyes, that face would be there again. Those eyes. The smile. Those taunting words:
Goodbye. Although it isn’t really. I’ll be seeing you again very soon.
And when Marina had countered that:
You’re wrong, Marina. Very wrong.
And then the words that had chilled her then and still did so now:
Give Phil my love.
Fiona Welch. Or the woman who had called herself that. The woman who had split Marina and Phil up.
She had engineered the murders of several women in East Anglia and escaped from a high-security hospital for the criminally insane, killing one of Marina and Phil’s closest friends in the pro
cess. She wasn’t really Fiona Welch. The real Fiona Welch was a twisted, murderous, insane individual whom Phil had watched plummet to her death several years previously. They didn’t know who this woman really was. But she had behaved just like the real Fiona.
Then there was that night. Never far from Marina’s mind. The night she came home and found Phil unconscious on the floor, beaten. He had come round, in pain, and told her what had happened. The woman who called herself Fiona Welch had been there. Except she wasn’t calling herself that any more. She wanted to go by another name.
Marina’s.
She had been in their bedroom. That was bad enough. But she actually been in their bed, waiting for Phil to return home. And after the fight she had gone, taking some of Marina’s clothes with her. Leaving Marina feeling violated in so many ways. And leaving that final message relayed to Phil:
I’ll be seeing you again very soon.
A description of the woman had gone out to police forces all round the country. But any reported sightings of her had turned out to be false. They still didn’t know who she was or what her motivations were. And they were no nearer to finding her. It was like she had just vanished into thin air. All they had was the threat that she would return. And that had been more than enough.
In the aftermath, Marina and Phil had talked. Marina was terrified that the woman would return. Phil had to be too, but Marina decided he was better at keeping the fact hidden.
‘Look,’ he had said, ‘I’ll call in some favours. Get the house watched. Bodyguards for Josephina. I’m police. There’s things we can do.’
And she had to admit he had sounded convincing. But things still gnawed away at her. ‘You can’t keep that up. If she doesn’t show up any time soon, the threat’ll be downgraded. And Cotter has to balance the books. We won’t be guarded for ever. And when all that’s gone, when we’re alone and vulnerable, that’s when she’ll come back.’
‘And we’ll be waiting for her.’
