by Tana Collins
Carruthers nodded. ‘Whatever the reason, he’s got to be caught, and soon. We’ll also have to handle the press very carefully. I don’t want them to cause widescale panic.’
Fletcher put the photograph down carefully. ‘Do we have a potential serial killer on our hands, Jim?’
‘I don’t know, but two similar attacks on two girls in five days doesn’t look good. One of the first things we need to do is to find out whether the two girls knew each other.’
‘I wonder if these attacks have been committed by a student?’ Fletcher mused. ‘I mean, assault on female students is rife.’
Carruthers looked at his watch. ‘Yes, but those sorts of assaults are usually of a sexual nature, aren’t they, including inappropriate touching or groping. This appears to be something very different.’
Fletcher nodded her agreement, but she wondered about the number of attacks on female students. She knew there was an epidemic of sexual violence at British universities, which she found really depressing. The police statistics were only the tip of the iceberg; most attacks still went unreported. She couldn’t imagine being the mother of a teenage girl nowadays. There were just so many perils.
Carruthers jumped up. He grabbed his jacket and mobile. ‘I want a quick word with our new DCI, then let’s head to the hospital. I want to go over Serena Davis’s statement again.’
‘Jim, there’s something you need to know about Rachel Abbie’s supervisor…’ She really did have to tell him before he found out from someone else that Rachel Abbie’s supervisor was his ex-wife. But typically, Carruthers had already left.
Carruthers felt himself tensing as he approached his old office. He lifted his hand to knock on the door, hesitating only for a fraction of a moment, before giving a sharp rap.
‘Come.’
The voice was curt. And female. He opened the door and walked in, closing it softly behind him. An unfamiliar smell greeted him, something vaguely flowery. The figure sitting behind his old desk stood up and smoothed her navy skirt before sitting down again. Carruthers didn’t kid himself that she was standing for him. Why would she be? Since his demotion he was just a DI now. She was wearing a long-sleeved cream blouse. It looked like silk. Her navy blue jacket had been neatly placed over the back of the chair. A lock of hair fell over her face. She swept it back with an impatient air, looking harassed. Carruthers couldn’t help but feel a small sense of satisfaction as he looked at his new boss, DCI Sandra McTavish.
She glanced up at him, a frown settling on her attractive face, making her look older than she actually was. ‘What is it Jim? You can see I’m busy.’
He looked into the brown eyes of the woman who was barely older than him, before glancing at the files laid out neatly on her desk. It had never looked like that in his day. He thought of the midden that was his own desk – the empty polystyrene cups and messy piles of paperwork. He and Harris always vied for the title of untidiest cop. He ventured forward, standing closer to her desk. He felt a moment not just of resentment but also of jealousy before he forced those unwanted feelings to the back of his mind.
‘I want to interview Serena Davis again.’ He avoided looking at the framed photograph of her husband and kids on the desk.
McTavish’s frown deepened. ‘For what purpose?’
‘Victims can remember important details of their attack or attacker days later once the shock wears off, and to be honest, she wasn’t up to much during her first interview.’
‘I need you here. Send someone else.’
Carruthers bristled but remained calm. ‘We’ve not got much to go on, Sandra. We’ve barely got a description of her attacker. I’m happy for Fletcher to go but I’d like to go with her. I’m pretty sure I could get more from Serena about the attack.’
Sandra McTavish appeared to be thinking it over, steepling her hands in front of her face. Finally, she nodded. ‘Okay. Stay close to your mobile. I’m waiting to hear back from the Procurator Fiscal. I’ll ring you when I get word from them. I want the PM done as quickly as possible. We need to know what we’re dealing with which means we need to contact next of kin urgently.’
‘Understood. I’ll head to the hospital in the next few minutes.’
She adjusted her glasses as she spoke. ‘Jim, we need to catch this person and quickly. I don’t need to tell you how serious these attacks are–’
‘I know.’
‘Keep me informed, will you?’ She picked up a pen and bent over her paperwork once more. Carruthers took the hint that he had been dismissed. Briefly, he congratulated himself on keeping his superiors better informed of his actions, and his temper in check. If he’d done this a couple of years ago, perhaps he’d still be a DCI with his own office. He retreated to gather his car keys and collect Fletcher.
Chapter 3
Fletcher hated hospitals and this one in particular. It was where she had lost her daughter, Lara. She tensed as she stepped through the door Carruthers opened for her, averting her eyes from the maternity unit as she walked straight to the lift.
‘Are you okay, Andie?’ She could see that Carruthers was looking at her and wondered if he knew what she was thinking.
‘Yes, I’m fine, Jim. Don’t worry about me.’ She was still going to counselling. It was helping, and she was learning to be more open about her feelings, but she wondered if she would ever get over her late miscarriage. At least it wasn’t a problem to talk about it now, but she still had one painful secret that hadn’t been shared with anyone and she knew that at some point she would need to talk about that. She pushed those unwelcome thoughts out of her head and replaced them with concern for her DI. Not only had he a new boss to contend with, but his ex-wife was now back working in her old department. She glanced at him, wondering how he would feel about that.
Carruthers pressed the button for the lift.
‘Jim,’ said Fletcher, ‘I need to tell you something a bit awkward.’
He looked at her. ‘Spit it out. You know you can tell me anything. I knew there was something wrong. You haven’t been yourself.’
‘It’s not about me. It’s about you.’ She pushed the words out. ‘The thing is…when I spoke to the secretary of the philosophy department, she suggested I talk to Rachel Abbie’s supervisor…’
She saw Carruthers stiffen. Perhaps he’s already worked out what I’m going to say.
‘The girl’s supervisor is your ex-wife, Mairi. She must be back working at the university.’
‘I know what my ex-wife’s name is, Andie.’
‘Of course you do,’ Fletcher said quickly. She stole a glance at her boss. It hadn’t been her imagination that she had seen him wince. It was almost imperceptible, but it had been there. As far as she knew, Carruthers hadn’t seen his ex-wife since she’d walked out on him. Would he have told her if he had, though? He was an extremely private person but the two of them had become close and she liked to think they were friends as well as colleagues. Yes, Fletcher decided that he would have told her. So he hadn’t seen her. But then he must have known he would run into Mairi at some stage. Fife could be so small and there weren’t many places you could teach philosophy. And his first response and the fact he nearly bit her head off frankly spoke volumes.
Being naturally inquisitive, she wondered just how much she could push with the personal questions before he snapped at her. She decided to push her luck as her burning curiosity overcame both her politeness and sensitivity. ‘Your wife? Didn’t she leave academia to write a book?’
His Adam’s apple bobbled and she watched him swallow. She felt momentarily bad that she was asking these personal questions but she really wanted to know the answer.
‘Yes, she wanted to write a book on how to make philosophy accessible to the masses.’
‘Did she manage to write it?’
He shrugged. ‘No idea. As you know, she didn’t keep in touch.’
Did he really have no idea or had he said that for her benefit? If your ex had written a book would you
go to the bother of finding out? Granted it was an academic tome and not a work of fiction, but still… Fletcher looked up at her boss, watching, imagining a myriad of fleeting thoughts going through his head. He certainly seemed lost in thought. And for a moment he looked wistful. Despite his nonchalant response to her question she realised he must still care for his ex-wife. And it was obvious to her that he wasn’t happy Mairi hadn’t kept in touch. Once again she wondered why they’d split up. She struggled with her conscience, finally deciding she didn’t want to be the one to make him remember sad thoughts, so she put the conversation on more of a professional footing. ‘Jim, how do you want to play it? Do I go ahead with the interview or do you want to do it?’
The lift arrived and Carruthers let Fletcher go first before he joined her. She pressed the button for the fourth floor. ‘Jim?’ He hadn’t answered.
‘Happy for you to interview her,’ he said casually. A bit too casually for Fletcher’s liking, but if she was honest, she was dying to meet the woman who had so obviously broken her boss’s heart. ‘Take Gayle with you.’
Fletcher thought of Gayle Watson, the no-nonsense woman, who had stood in for her when she’d been off during her miscarriage. When she had come back there’d been a fair amount of friction between the two of them, mostly from Fletcher’s side to be honest, but they’d got over it after she’d apologised and they’d gone on to form an unlikely friendship. Fletcher was relieved. Life was hard as it was. She didn’t want any tension at work.
She glanced up at Carruthers again and this time he smiled down at her. ‘Don’t worry about me,’ he said. ‘The marriage has been over a long time now. Water under the bridge – but I don’t feel a particular need to see her or conduct the interview myself.’
Fletcher nodded, not entirely convinced. She wondered when his divorce had come through. He had never said, despite her probing. Best left alone, she thought. Don’t poke the bear.
‘Just do me one favour,’ he said, looking up. ‘Don’t mention my ex-wife to Sandra or anyone else at the station. They don’t need to know my personal business.’
Fletcher pictured tall, black-haired DCI Sandra McTavish and wondered how Jim really felt about her appointment. She then thought of the rest of the team and the likelihood that a gossip like Detective Constable Willie Brown had already filled McTavish in on Jim’s private business.
The lift doors opened and the two officers got out. They made their way down the sterile corridor to the private room housing Serena Davis. Fletcher knew, in all likelihood, Serena would be on her own. Her parents, who were trekking in Borneo, still hadn’t been located. She had no siblings or extended family as far as they were aware.
Fletcher’s shoes made a squeaking noise on the linoleum floor. She wrinkled up her nose, smelling disinfectant. Fletcher tapped on the door and opened it. Serena Davis was lying in bed, eyes closed, her pale face turned towards them. Her blonde hair fanned out around her. She snapped her eyes open as they entered the room. Fletcher put her handbag on the floor by a chair. It made a scraping noise as the bag fell against the floor. Serena Davis started. Fletcher noticed that there was a polystyrene cup containing coffee dregs on the table beside Serena’s jug of water. And next to that, a book by Ayn Rand. It looked like she’d had at least one visitor, after all.
‘Sorry,’ said Fletcher, smiling, only half meaning it. After all, they were here to interview the student and gain more information about her attacker, but still, she didn’t want to scare her. The poor lassie had been through more than enough. Fletcher took a seat and moved the chair closer to the girl. The legs of the chair once again made a scraping noise on the floor. Fletcher tried not to stare at the dressing over the girl’s cheek. Bastard, she thought. Who would want to slash this beautiful young woman?
Carruthers remained standing.
‘Do you feel up to answering some questions, Serena?’ asked Fletcher. ‘I hope you don’t mind that I’ve brought along Detective Inspector Jim Carruthers.’ She nodded in his direction.
Fletcher saw Serena glance warily at Carruthers. The student addressed her answer to Fletcher. ‘Why are you back?’ Her voice came out in a rasp. ‘I’ve already answered your questions. I didn’t see anything. He was wearing a mask.’
Fletcher thought of the clown mask Serena had said her assailant had been wearing and the killer clown craze that had been sweeping the UK the year before. She knew that creepy clown costumes had been blamed on Stephen King’s horror novel It which had been released in the mid-1980s. Unfortunately for the police there’d been a recent film adaptation of the book with the consequence that criminals and pranksters were using the disguise. She wondered what, if any, connection there was between the two attacks and the recent terrifying craze.
‘But you said in your last interview you had managed to pull the mask partially off the face.’ They had taken swabs underneath Serena’s fingernails in the hope they might get some DNA from the forensics. Fletcher made a mental note to chase the results up.
‘I hardly saw anything. Just the bottom of the chin really. He managed to get the mask back on.’
‘And we have it in your notes that the man was wearing a clown mask?’
‘That’s right.’
But you’re sure it was a man?’ Carruthers joined the conversation.
It was obviously a struggle for Serena to speak. ‘I think so. He was big. Tall. Had the build of a man.’ She closed her eyes.
Fletcher wondered for a moment whether the assailant could be a woman. She would have to be a big woman. And strong. It was possible but, given the build and the fact most assailants who attacked women were men, unlikely.
‘Can you just go over what he was wearing again?’
Serena sighed. ‘I can’t remember much. I think he was dressed all in black.’
‘When you say black, was he wearing a black suit or was he more informal, like in black jeans and a black top?’ urged Fletcher. ‘Were his arms bare or was he wearing long sleeves? These details are really important. Please try your best to remember.’
Serena swallowed painfully. She shook her head. ‘No, he wasn’t wearing a suit. At least I don’t think he was. I think he was less formal.’ She shut her eyes.
Fletcher hoped this was a bid to try to recall the details of her attacker rather than switching off from the conversation. But who could blame her if she did want to switch off? The last thing this young girl, any young girl, would want to do would be to relive the moments she got attacked.
She opened her eyes. ‘But not black jeans either. I think they were a bit baggier.’
‘More like the trousers of a shell suit?’ Fletcher was a bit more hopeful. ‘Were they shiny?’
‘Oh, I can’t remember. I’ve got a headache.’ There were tears in Serena’s eyes.
Fletcher didn’t want to keep pushing but she knew she had to. ‘Perhaps more like black jogging bottoms then?’
‘Yes, that’s right. Jogging bottoms.’
This was hopeless, thought Fletcher, feeling frustrated. The poor girl is just saying what she thought they wanted to hear.
Chapter 4
Fletcher leant in closer to Serena before asking her next question. Her notebook was poised in her hand. ‘Last time we spoke you couldn’t remember how old you thought your attacker might be. Can you give us anything to go on? Anything at all?’
‘I don’t think he was old.’
Fairly young then, thought Fletcher. After all, pretty much anybody over the age of twenty-five would be considered old to an eighteen-year-old.
‘Do you think he might have been your age? A teenager?’
‘Might have been. I don’t know how old he was, except…’ She hesitated and looked intently at Carruthers before pointing at him. ‘I don’t think he was as old as him.’ Fletcher managed to resist a smile.
Carruthers pulled up a chair and sat down. ‘And you got attacked on Marshall Place?’
‘I already told you this. Why are you asking me a
gain?’ She swallowed. Even the attempt to swallow looked painful.
Fletcher referred to her notes. ‘We’re just trying to establish the facts. And sometimes mentioning place names jogs the memory. You said in your statement you’d been to the library and you were on your way home when you got attacked?’ Fletcher thought of the location of the attack. Marshall Place was about five minutes’ walk from the central library. And it was another quiet street often used as a short cut between the central library and Serena’s halls of residence. She thought of the dead girl, Rachel Abbie, if that’s who she was, and the fact she’d been found with a library book on her. No big deal in itself. After all, this was a university town, but still… She made a mental note to follow up the connection.
‘That’s right.’
‘And it was the university library rather than the departmental one? The one on King James’s Way.’
‘Yes. Do we have to go through this again?’
Fletcher leant into the patient’s bed. Before speaking, she glanced at Carruthers, who nodded for her to carry on. ‘Serena, do you know a student by the name of Rachel Abbie?’
The girl opened her eyes once again and lifted her head slightly. Fletcher tried not to recoil at the sight of the angry red marks across her throat. She was lucky to be alive. Fletcher knew Serena was eighteen, but she looked so young, and with no make-up on, she looked even younger. Of course, Fletcher reminded herself, they start university a year earlier in Scotland.
There was a flicker of her eyes before she answered. ‘No, I don’t think so. Who is she?’
There was something about her response that made Fletcher wonder if she was telling the truth. But then again why would she lie? Fletcher exchanged another quick glance with Carruthers before she broached her next question. She brought her voice down to little more than a whisper. ‘Can you remember anything else about the attack? Anything at all, however small? It mightn’t be significant to you, but it could help us find the person who did this before they–’