by Will Carver
I show her a picture of Carla Moretti and ask whether she recognises her at all.
‘I was told that she comes in here quite a bit,’ I encourage her.
‘Well, we have a lot of people come through the door each day, Detective David,’ she states obviously, emphasising my name as though I am an intolerable schoolchild, clearly trying to regain the authority that I never tried to take from her in the first place. ‘But yes, I recognise her. She is often in here, taking books out, going online, but I couldn’t tell you her name.’
‘Carla Moretti. Her name was Carla Moretti,’ I jump in, trying to elicit a response, hoping she hasn’t picked up on the fact that I referred to her in the past tense. My brain is tired. I wouldn’t normally make a slip like that.
She starts tapping away at the keyboard in front of her, phonetically spelling the name out loud as she types. ‘Car-La Mo … is that one r or two?’ she asks.
‘One r, two ts.’
‘Ah-ha.’ She beams shortly after pressing ENTER. ‘Here it is. Carla Moretti. Two books taken out yesterday at 15.28. The Best Small Business Accounts Book (Blue Version) for Non-VAT Registered Businesses and, let me see …’ She scrolls down the page a little. ‘Right, yes, Cyber Gold: A Guidebook on How to Start Your Own Home-Based Internet Business, build an E-Commerce website, blah blah blah. Does that help at all? Does it mean anything?’ She seems suddenly eager to please.
I already knew which books Carla had taken out, because they were in her apartment. The dates that they were due back were stamped in the front, so I also knew they were recently borrowed. I’m not really sure what I hoped to glean from this visit. It might be another dead end. My instincts are telling me something different, though.
‘What about Dorothy Penn?’ I ask. A shot in the dark really, but I’ll try almost anything at the moment.
‘Two ns?’
‘Yes,’ I answer shortly.
She types in the name. I wait, expecting yet another dead end.
‘Here we go …’ Her voice trails off a little as she taps a few more keys. ‘Dorothy Penn. She hasn’t been in for a few weeks. Do you want to know which books she took out?’
‘No, thank you. I need an address. Would you print off her details for me, please?’ My tone is deliberately brazen. I know that she won’t; that I can’t really ask for her to do this.
‘Well … I’m not really sure that I should be giving out personal information.’ She winces, suddenly retreating behind library policy. But I can tell that she wants to help if she can.
‘I could come back in an hour and have your computer confiscated as part of an official investigation, but that would really be wasting time in an important case where time is a luxury we simply don’t have,’ I lie. I couldn’t do this. But I adopt my most self-important tone, hoping I can scare her enough into just giving up the information.
‘I don’t know … maybe you should …’ Her indecisiveness is irritating. I cut her short.
‘Look, I don’t need her full address, I just need to know which borough she lives in.’
She clicks the mouse twice.
‘Camden,’ she says briskly.
‘Camden?’
‘Yes. That’s where you are right now, Detective David. Most of our patrons are from this area.’
I’m getting sick of her constantly repeating my name. I’m trying to keep a low profile and she is alerting people within a twenty-foot radius that I work for the police.
‘How old is she?’ I snap back, losing patience now.
A couple of clicks later, ‘She is sixty-four years old.’
‘FUCK!’ I exclaim, slamming my fist down on her desk. Somehow, the library seems to become quieter when I do this. It must be the lack of sleep; it’s making me sloppy.
‘Detective David,’ she trills in apparent disgust. Now she feels she has the right to talk to me like I am an insolent teenager. As she says my name out loud for the umpteenth time, I instantly goose-pimple. Partly through sudden embarrassment, partly through the inexplicable sensation of being in this building.
I don’t know why I am finding being in here so unsettling.
I don’t know that one of the patrons in the library, one of the plethora of people who can hear my conversation, is Eames.
And now he knows who I am.
What I look like.
He can make this personal.
And I don’t have a clue who, why or when he will strike next.
‘Please keep your voice down,’ the librarian tells me, ever so slightly raising her own, all helpfulness now dissolved.
Her manner has ceased to irritate me, though. I just feel deflated. If I don’t come up with something concrete soon I could be pulled on to another case, because this one is a little too resource-heavy. I have Paulson and Murphy devoting their time to it, both experienced investigators, and I won’t get away with that for much longer unless we start producing results. My Chief Inspector is already on my back for a progress report and I can’t afford an unsolved case on my record.
Everything seems to lead me to a dead end.
I let my gaze wander unfocused around the room, trying to dredge up fresh ideas. Suddenly I register strategically positioned cameras and something clicks in my brain. Noticing the direction of my stare the librarian informs me almost proudly that the CCTV cameras inside are a deterrent. To put off prospective book thieves in the aisles. They are actually only operational in the evenings when the library is closed, she adds prissily after I probe further.
I feel like someone has kicked me between the legs.
All of a sudden, I shudder and go cold. The hair on my arms stands to attention. I inhale deeply and it’s as if I am sucking icicles into my lungs. I cough heavily as if I am choking, as if my head has been held under water. I splutter for twenty seconds, bending at my waist, grabbing at my throat.
Eventually I manage to straighten my body. The coughing finishes, the tickle in my throat has disappeared and I am left staring at the perplexed librarian through watery eyes. The sensation that has enveloped me since I entered the library has now dissipated and my head has cleared.
Eames is gone. The darkness is gone. All that’s left is me.
Eames
I AM NOT a man of God. Neither do I subscribe to anything Satanic or occult. That would be far too obvious. When someone gets caught for doing the things I do, the things I love to do, I find it irritating that they blame some higher power. When they say they could feel Satan working within them or the voice of God was trying to speak through them it makes me sick. If there is a God why would he try to speak through someone who takes a ten-year-old girl from the front of her house, crushes her skull by beating down on her with a brick, leaves her for a couple of days and then returns to rape her? Why would ‘God’ do that?
Why would God allow me to be born, yet kill off my innocent mother for doing something so natural?
Why would Satan want me as competition?
If something on high is watching down over us, then why would they allow me to be standing at the opposite side of the counter to the detective who is working on my case? How is it fair that I know exactly what he looks like and that his name was revealed to me over and over and over again?
Detective Inspector January David.
I repeat it several times out loud, slowly, each time emphasising a different word.
I can still see his face. He looked weathered and tired. What once may have been a defined chin is starting to sag. Groomed stubble has turned to a neglected fuzz. Hair greying prematurely. His shirt was creased and his top button undone, so that his tie could hang low so as not to constrict his neck. He looked so like a fucking detective I don’t understand why he bothered to try and hide it. A scruffy, unshaven, haggard man, fishing around the library, looking for clues that will help him locate a killer. A killer that is stood only ten feet away from him as he persists with routine questioning that will only lead him to yet another dead end. Another bowl o
f nothing.
Is this really the man that will eventually catch me and stop me from doing the things I do, the things I love to do?
He still has no idea who I am or why I am doing this. But I know him now. I know more than him.
Inspector David.
Detective Inspector January David.
How much do you really care?
Girl 2
I ORDER A grande, dry cappuccino with an extra shot of espresso. Dry means that it is mostly foam. A regular cappuccino would have half-warm milk and half-foam added to the single shot of espresso, but this is almost entirely fluffy, bubbly milk scooped on top of my coffee. I enjoy sprinkling it with chocolate and eating it with one of the environmentally friendly, and cost effective, wooden stirrers that they so thoughtfully provide. When the chocolate sprinkles have been eaten, I can top them up, because I still have plenty of foam left. It’s a real guilty pleasure. I take a chocolate brownie to nibble on afterwards too.
Eames orders his own and pays for both. He opts for an Americano, black, Espresso Roast, and goes with the barista’s suggestion for something sweet, taking a section of the apple and cinnamon slice. Then we sit down at a table for two. I take the comfortable purple bucket sofa, while he sits the other side on the wooden chair.
‘That looks pretty extravagant,’ he says to me, pointing his stirrer at the perfect dome of foam rising out of the mug.
‘It’s just a cappuccino,’ I say. ‘Having it this way is a bit of an indulgence for me. A pat on the back for a good day.’ I dip my splint of wood into the drink, slicing off a section that is covered in chocolate, and slowly lick it. Eames watches as I do this, as if it is something rather suggestive, sexual even. I use the tip of my finger to wipe at the corners of my mouth, unconsciously teasing his fantasies a little more.
I’m waiting for him to bring up the business discussion. It feels rude to instigate it; after all, he is giving me his time and expertise for free. So I waffle on about nothing, about work and how I would like to work for myself one day and, eventually, he gets it.
‘I mean, I really hate the call centre, but it is a means to an end. You know?’
He nods, swigging at his cheap coffee and eyeing up his food.
‘I just need to get enough together for my own laptop and things can get under way. Sure, at first I’ll still have to keep the call centre thing going, but by next year I might only need a part-time job or a temp thing. You never really know, though, do you? Sometimes these things work and sometimes they fall flat on their face.’ It feels like I am putting most of the work into the conversation, while he just scoffs and agrees with me, but if he is agreeing then maybe I am on the right track.
I stop talking and take another couple of swipes at my drink. Perhaps I can force him into talking through my silence.
‘So, what is this idea of yours, then?’ he asks, after watching my tongue work its way a few inches up the stirrer.
‘Well …’ I sit up straight on my chair. It’s so comfortable that I tend to slouch, and his posture, on the less comfortable wooden equivalent, is making me feel smaller than I actually am. I straighten my skirt out with both hands and start to deliver my pitch.
I explain iRaffle from the beginning. How I intend to start with smaller items and work my way up to the kind of gadgets and luxury products that people only dream about. I say that people could end up winning a car or a house for only £1; that the odds would be better than the lottery and the initial lay-down wouldn’t be high, but marketing could cost money; relying on word of mouth is not always the quickest and most efficient way of getting a message out to the masses.
He looks interested. Like he is mulling over the finer details in his mind.
He isn’t.
He is picturing what I might look like naked. What expressions I might have while grinding away on top of him, while he lies on his back, his hands on my thighs, helping me to crash down harder with every thrusting motion.
He pictures me bleeding from my forehead. The blood trickling down my nose and on to my naked breasts. He thinks about gripping my wrists and pinning me to my bed, sweating as he moves in and out of me, waiting for the drugs to kick in and knock me out.
And then he says, ‘Wow. That sounds like a fabulous idea. You have clearly thought it through. I’m very impressed.’ He’s placating me. He only really caught enough information to get him through in between thoughts of my upcoming demise.
He smiles at me and I feel myself go weak.
He’s an older, attractive man who, on the surface, appears to have genuine interest in me and my ideas. It’s days like this that I wonder whether there is someone looking down on me from above. Perhaps fate and faith have collided.
‘Do you want to …?’ I pause. I feel a little invincible today, like everything is going according to a preordained plan, that everything I do, every decision I make is the right one.
What an idiot.
‘Want to …?’
‘Er, go for a drink, some dinner or something. We can talk some more.’ Asking the question takes me back to feeling like a child. Innocent, unaware, unafraid of rejection.
It’s not Eames’ fault. I pursued him. I voluntarily drank the wine and flirted. I asked him back to my flat knowing that I could get him into bed if I offered myself to him. I wanted to seduce an older, more experienced man. In a way I wanted to thank him for all his advice and companionship, the way he listened to me, and it felt like the right thing to do the whole time.
After the sex, when I wake up in the kitchen, this is the first time I know anything is wrong.
January
THE LIBRARY HAS given me nothing. I step outside through the glass door and get slapped in the face by the cold breeze of the polluted city air. Looking back over my shoulder I see the spectre-like figure of the unhelpful librarian as she stamps another book, living her life as though her most reliable patron dying will mean nothing to how the place will operate.
I call Paulson and tell him that I want him to meet me back at the station in an hour with Murphy. I don’t ask him how investigations are going at Carla’s workplace, because I don’t think I can take it if he tells me that they are turning up nothing. I can’t hear that there is no suspect or that nothing is suggesting any correlation between Dorothy and Carla.
Did these girls know each other?
How are they linked and who links them?
‘OK, Jan, we’ll be done and back in an hour,’ Paulson says and I almost detect a hint of enthusiasm in his voice, like he has uncovered something pertinent to the case, but still I refrain from allowing myself to believe.
‘That’s great. I’ll grab the coffees and some lunch. We can talk it through when you and Murph get back.’ I force myself to sound more relaxed than I feel. I think it’s good to keep it informal on occasions; if you think about the job constantly it can get to you.
I can’t switch off, but I need my team to be operating to the best of their ability if we are going to solve this. Even if I can’t let myself kick back, I need them to a little.
‘How was it at the library?’
I dismiss him straight away. ‘We’ll chat in an hour. See you then.’ And I press the red button to hang up.
It’s grey out, the grey that is almost blindingly white. I squint, sigh and rub my eyes. I need to sleep. I need a drink.
The journey back is fraught with the usual endless stream of incompetent drivers and overcrowding of public transport blocking my view. I start to empathise with Audrey about her commute every morning. And I realise that I haven’t spoken to Audrey, again. I don’t need the hassle of her being upset with me like before. I can’t keep coming home from work, exhausted, and cook her dinner, while listening to more drivel about the wedding preparations.
I take my mobile out and quick-dial Audrey. At the speed I’m travelling through the centre of London, you could hardly class it as driving, so I ignore the law about not using a mobile phone while in control of a vehicle.
She lets it ring seven times before she picks up.
‘Hello?’ she says coldly. She knows it’s me: my name flashes up on her screen.
‘Hi. It’s me.’ Sheepishly, I wait for her to respond to this, but the pause turns uncomfortable and I am forced to continue my grovelling. ‘Have you seen the papers this morning?’ Still no answer. ‘Another girl … look … I was working all night … another girl was killed.’ I wait. ‘I’m sorry, I should have called, I know.’ I don’t know how she manages to reduce me to such a quivering, passive, embryonic version of myself sometimes, but I just can’t bear to hurt her, to hurt any woman.
I think about Cathy. I hear her voice calling for me to play with her that last time. I relive the moment I stepped outside to find she was gone.
There is another short pause, then the sound of a car horn behind me startles me back to reality. ‘Audrey, I’m sorry. OK?’ I raise my voice a little as the adrenalin starts to propel through my veins as a result of the car behind scaring me into motion. I tuck the headset under my cheek with my shoulder, freeing my left hand to change into second gear.
Finally she speaks.
‘It’s fine, Jan.’ I’m relieved that this is now a two-way conversation and that she is calling me Jan rather than January. I know her guard is down now. ‘I just want to know that you are safe. What would I do if you didn’t call one night and everything wasn’t all right?’
‘I know. I know.’ I look in my rear-view mirror and the driver behind is shaking his head in my direction to show his disgust that I am not paying full attention, because I am on the phone. Luckily I am in an unmarked car.
‘Will you be home for dinner tonight?’ she asks, knowing that I have to say yes. ‘It’s OK if you’re not, I just need to know either way.’ Now I have to. When she says that it’s OK or that she doesn’t mind, that means that it definitely isn’t OK and she certainly does mind.
