by Vanda Symon
‘And?’
‘Two bits really. Firstly, our victim had a Facebook page, Instagram and was on Snapchat. But it was just full of the usual – her friends were all students and kids of her age, or so they claimed. She avoided all that sweary, American gangsta crap-talk the kids seem to like, and the pics she posted were all rather tame and chaste. Nothing in her undies. She loved God and her mum and dad, boyfriend, cat, that kind of thing. There are a few more local names for us to follow up, but nothing spectacular. Friends have also set up a couple of tribute pages for her, which are very moving.’
‘And?’
It had to be bad, judging by the expression on his face.
‘Sorry, Sam. You’re a star on YouTube.’
57
It was a sheer delight to slouch back into one of the low black sofas at the café and jump off the treadmill of life. My brain was on overload and my nerves wound tight, like a too-sharp guitar string. I bumphed up a bit as Maggie landed next to me.
‘Jolly decent of you to admit defeat and settle your score so promptly,’ she said.
‘He called again today, to see if I wanted to go for lunch, but I said I was meeting you instead.’
‘You dope, you know I’d have been happy to be bumped to another day. You should have gone out with Paul.’
‘Actually, you were a convenient excuse.’
‘Lovely, I’m just an excuse. An excuse for what? I thought you liked Paul.’
‘I do, but—’
‘But what Sam? Stop being so stupid. He’s a really nice guy, and he’s clearly absolutely mad about you. Most girls would be delirious to have that kind of attention.’
‘I know, and well, that’s just a bit too much to deal with right now.’
‘Being adored?’
‘Yes. I don’t want anything that intense.’
‘And has he been too intense? Is he stalking you?’ I cringed at her choice of words, but didn’t elaborate on my other little problem.
‘No, in fact he’s been really good-humoured and doesn’t seem to get offended at my evasion tactics. Which, I might add, is annoying too. It’s like he’s just waiting for me to come round to the fact we’re perfect for each other. And that’s his thoughts not mine,’ I added, before she made a rude comment.
Maggie just sat and smiled at me with that knowing look.
58
My head felt like a spaghetti junction of intersecting, over- and underpassing streams of information, swirling like some rush-hour maelstrom. What I needed was to get out on the road, and pace it out, let the drum of my feet and the thrum of my heart pumping get some sense of rhythm, some order to it, get the streams of data moving in parallel, so I could see where they nudged up against each other, where the connections were. Overlay the emotional toll of the last week and it was like a fog had descended on the network and I was feeling my way on my hands and knees. No wonder frustration was eating away at me. I needed to run and as soon as I got home, I was going to indulge.
Running for me was a magic elixir that tuned out my conscious thoughts, but let the subconscious work in time with my footfalls. Rhythm, order, time. But I had to get home first. I wandered back to where my car was parked the long way around, seeing as a freight train had been so kind as to accidentally remove the pedestrian footbridge that everyone used to cross the shunting yards. I wasn’t stupid enough to play chicken with the trains to avoid a longer walk, unlike some idiots. I meandered along the path behind our gorgeous old railway station, reminiscent of a gigantic gingerbread house. It was frivolous and completely over the top and the thought of a city of dour Scottish Presbyterians creating a building of such frippery always made me smile. No wonder the tourists flocked to it. I strolled around, while having wistful dreams of a work parking space – like that would ever happen.
As I approached the car, I could see something stuck under the windscreen wiper. No one else had one, so I wondered how the hell I could get a parking ticket here. It was all-day, no time restrictions. I was pretty sure my warrant of fitness and registration were up to date, so surely it couldn’t be an instant fine for something as dumb as that.
I tugged the paper out and opened it up, wondering how much money I was going to get stung for this time.
You can’t hide from me you murdering bitch.
I swung around, my eyes rapid-fire jumping from car to car, across the railway lines, scanning the area for any sign of an observer. There was no one except a parcel-laden woman, ten cars down. My hands shook with the same rapidity as my heart and that swirling bilious feeling churned in my stomach. Jesus, this was too much. It was beyond someone’s stupid idea of a joke now. Had they followed me here? Or had they chanced across my car and decided to put the wind up me? Whatever way, it was working.
Something had to be done, but what? If I told Smithy or the guys, they’d be on at me for not reporting it earlier. Could I take care of it? I checked the ground, but there were no obvious footprints in the gravel and dust mix. I could fingerprint the wiper blades and maybe get lucky.
‘Jesus,’ I yelled out loud, as my cellphone rang and my heart rate jerked up even more. A searing pain shot through my head and throbbed in my temples, resonating with the heavy and rapid thuds of my heart. My chest constricted and, as I gasped for oxygen, I wondered if this was what it felt like if you were having a heart attack.
I fumbled the phone out of my pocket, flicked it open, saw who it was and managed a gulped ‘Paul?’ before shock and physiology caught up with me and I retched over the ground next to the tyre. I spat a few times before daring to turn my attention back to the call.
‘Sam? Sam? What’s going on? Are you alright? Sam? Answer me.’ I could hear Paul’s concerned voice well before I got my ear to the speaker.
‘Ugh, sorry, no, shit.’ Another spit. I leaned hard against the car, then changed my mind and crouched down on my haunches, head between my knees.
‘What’s happening? Where are you?’ he asked.
‘Sorry, I just got a fright, that’s all.’
‘That’s all? It sounded like you were throwing up. Are you okay?’
God, how much did I tell him? I didn’t want him charging in and trying to fix it all for me like some knight in shining armour, though part of me realised this had gotten way out of my control, and maybe it was time to call in some outside assistance. I took a shuddery breath and confessed.
‘I’ve had a little problem, and it just got beyond creepy.’
‘What do you mean?’
So I told him, about the first note I put under the windscreen of the crap-heap car, the response, the further notes and now this.
‘Sam, this is serious, someone is stalking you. Why didn’t you tell anyone earlier?’ Which was the question I knew everyone would ask. But how could I explain it? Initially, it seemed too silly to mention and, if I was really honest, perhaps I’d brought it upon myself, and therefore it was up to me to fix it.
‘I didn’t want to make a big deal out of it.’ My voice sounded as feeble as the excuse.
‘But it is a big deal. You of all people should know that. These sorts of people are unstable. It might have started with a few nasty notes, but now, they’re following you, and it could escalate to assault, or worse. It has to be stopped.’
Paul’s words seemed to hammer away any remaining shreds of resistance. What with the crap I’d had from the boss, my grief and guilt at killing Cassie, anger at the whole bloody mess of this case, worry about Dad, tiptoeing around Mum and the gnawing ache of fear, I was spent. I couldn’t even reply.
‘Look, Sam,’ he said, tender but firm. ‘Let me go into this for you. I know you probably don’t want your work colleagues to get involved, I can understand that. I’m independent and can check this guy out. Let me do this. I’m rather too fond of you to let some little arsehole stalker make your life a misery or put you in danger.’
The tears warmed their way down my cheeks and then dropped, making little circular splashes in
the dust at my feet. ‘Okay,’ I managed.
59
It seemed ridiculous for a grown woman to be wary of an inanimate object, but I gave the shit-heap a wide berth all the same as I made my way along the footpath and up to the house. The drive home had seemed surreal. I’d felt detached from reality and had driven like a drunk knowing they shouldn’t be behind the wheel of a car and therefore being exquisitely careful. My hands were still shaking as I battled the key into the front door and then stumbled into the entrance as Uncle Phil opened it on his way out.
‘Oh, sorry, Sam, I didn’t mean to surprise you.’ He steadied me to vertical, then looked at me with great concern. ‘Are you okay? What’s happened?’ It was one friendly person too many and I found the tears making a repeat appearance down my face. I hadn’t intended on telling anyone else my woes, but they came spilling out, all the same.
‘I’ve got this awful problem,’ sniff, ‘there’s this guy, and he’s stalking me and he,’ sniff, ‘even followed me to work and I’m scared and I feel stupid and that’s his stupid car out front and I stuck a note and he stuck a note, then it got worse and now I don’t know what to do…’ I was blathering and I don’t recall even drawing a breath as it all came stumbling out.
‘Hang on, hang on, slow down,’ he said and shut the door behind me. He pushed me in the direction of the kitchen and, when he’d got me ensconced in a chair, put the kettle on. ‘Now, start from the beginning. What’s been happening?’ So for the second time in an hour, I told my sorry story, and despite my initial reservations about telling anyone, I was starting to feel a smidgeon better about it all. Maybe the old adage of a problem shared had credence, after all. Uncle Phil was most taken aback by the situation. He seemed quite offended that anyone would do such a thing.
‘Do you want me to find this person and go have a talk with them?’ It was very gallant of him, but I couldn’t picture Uncle Phil even raising his voice, let alone giving someone a bollocking about stalking his house guest.
‘Thank you, I appreciate your offer, but I’ve got someone, Paul Frost, looking into it for me.’
‘Is that the young man you went out to dinner with the other night?’ he asked.
‘Yes.’ I could tell by the sparkle in his eye he knew the ructions that occurred because of that evening’s events, and we both smiled. ‘He’s a detective too, but from out of town and he said he’d look into it, so I don’t have to feel silly asking my colleagues.’
‘That’s good, because you must take this seriously, Sam. That could be a very sick person and you don’t know where it could lead. Just look at what happened to that young student, Rosie. It’s better to be safe and get this sorted out. I’d feel awful if something dreadful happened to you and I could have stopped it. And worse, I’d hate to have to deal with your mother’s wrath.’
Again, a smile.
‘It’s being taken care of. But thank you for looking after me and for being so sweet.’ Another male to add to my list of protectors.
‘What are you going to do now?’
‘I was thinking of going for a run, actually. I need to clear my head.’
‘But that’s not safe,’ he said, the concerned look back on his face. ‘What if this person’s watching you?’
Like that thought hadn’t occurred to me. But Shephards aren’t quitters, and I was damned if I was going to be cowed into hiding by some idiot. I might be tired and tearful, and even – if I admitted to the fluttery feeling in my tummy – mildly scared. But I wasn’t going to be defeatist. Still, it didn’t mean I was going to be dumb about it. There was no way in hell I’d be plugging music into my ears, so my iPod would be staying at home and my ears otherwise occupied, straining for the sound of approaching footsteps.
‘Shouldn’t you wait until Maggie gets home? She might go with you, keep you company.’
I laughed, for what felt the first time in ages. Maggie? Running? She who had an aversion to breaking a sweat other than for pleasurable reasons? I didn’t think so. Uncle must have realised the unlikeliness of his suggestion and joined me in a chuckle. ‘Well, maybe not,’ he said. ‘What was I thinking?’
‘Indeed. Anyway, I need the exercise. I’ll be fine, I’ll watch over my shoulder. Don’t worry, I can look after myself.’
I hoped.
60
The beat of feet meeting tarmac was working its magic and I could feel the tension that had muscled its way into my shoulders and neck retreating. I closed my mind to thoughts of work and home, and instead focused on the details before me: the crunch of gravel underfoot as I paced the roadside path, the mosses and grasses infiltrating its edges. The moist smell of lush bush mixed with the rich aroma of warm earth and the sweetness of rotting leaves. The native trees adding to the soothing hues of the green belt: five finger, pittosporum, kowhai, the large flat leaves of rangiora – or loo-paper tree, as we called it in my family – the lovely fringe of tatty bark draping the tree fuchsia. But what struck me the most was the bird call. It was gorgeous, and I found a spontaneous smile forming on my face with every warble. I could make out the call of a bellbird, and a couple of fantails or piwakawaka were making a happy racket while they performed their aerodynamics-defying flitting nearby. Maybe I should ditch the iPod more often, I thought. I’d had no idea what I was missing out on.
I’d had no set route in mind when I left home, but it soon become apparent I was heading to the Botanic Garden, to the path down which Rose-Marie Bateman walked those fateful steps. The more I thought about it, the more I was convinced the other four killings, the circus diversion, everything, was all about her. Her murder wasn’t an isolated event, as had been suggested by others, a coincidence of timing. I didn’t believe in coincidence. It made sense that she was the ultimate victim. There was no struggle, she followed the path with someone she knew, and now – I was absolutely certain – someone she cared for. Christ, what a price she’d paid for love. The man she’d fallen for had planned her demise with meticulous care. He’d engineered the perfect smokescreen with the circus itinerary to deflect attention from his practice killings. What kind of sick individual would take the lives of strangers to ensure they had the fortitude or technique to kill their main target? And what chilled me even more was the knowledge that the first killing had taken place months before Rose-Marie was murdered, so he’d been planning her death well in advance. Yet her behaviour suggested her love for him was growing. What deception. Did he see it as sport? Was that what turned him on? Being the Ringmaster in his own personal circus, timing the acts, building up to the grand finale to see how far could he bait her, until the night of the eleventh of April, when down at the riverbank, secluded and romantic, he said, shut your eyes and hold out your hands, leading her to believe her love was giving her the ultimate gift.
That was the scene as it played out in my mind, and as I shook my head to be rid of the taint of it, I threw myself off balance, veering onto the road. He’d also played the police. We’d jumped beautifully on to his decoy. And although he could not possibly have orchestrated the vigilantes – well, at least I didn’t think he could have – his diversion could not have worked out better. I wondered if he would have been disappointed if the police hadn’t stumbled upon the circus. Would he have tipped us off, to make sure we knew how clever he was?
Of course, I might have been totally wrong about all of this, but my heart said I wasn’t. Then another awful thought popped into my mind. Was part of his sport to seduce and deflower the good little Christian girl? See what kind of deceptions she’d pull to keep their secret, what lengths she’d go to come to him? She’d lied, she’d deceived and she’d gone against her own principles for him. Did he set out to steal her soul as well as her body? This train of thought was getting too depressing, so I blanked it all out again, by concentrating on the sound of my breathing, the feel of the air as it cooled my sweat-glistened skin.
I had reached the spidery tree on the path to destruction, and found myself checking both way
s for signs of life before getting up the gall to walk down its lonely sweep. I’d said hello to the constable stationed at the garden gates to question passers-by, but still, it felt creepier than ever to be there, as I sat down on a rock, not the rock, with my back to the bank and my eyes to the path. When my supersensitised ears finally stopped my supersensitised brain from thinking every creak of a branch and whisper of wind was a stalker or killer, I set my mind back to the who, not the how or why.
Who could manage such a thing? For it was truly an orchestration. I wasn’t a criminal psychologist, or profiler, but it didn’t take a flash qualification to figure out we were dealing with someone very clever, and very intelligent. This wasn’t some opportunistic thug; this was a rational, calculated act. What kind of sick individual could manage all that?
What I needed was a profiler. No doubt the best profiling minds in the country were already on the case, but I wasn’t privy to that information. Which meant the nearest I had to one was Maggie. I was sure a couple of semesters of psychology would qualify her to give me an insight into the killer’s mind. If anyone understood people, it was Maggie. Some people had that innate ability, and I’d swear that girl was one of them.
61
‘Hello, anyone home?’ I said, as I knocked on the door to Uncle Phil’s study.
‘Hang on, Sam, I’ll be there in a second.’ I heard his footsteps tread over, and he pulled the door open. ‘You survived your run okay? No problems?’
‘No creeps jumping out of the bushes or anything like that.’ I don’t know what I’d have done if they had, other than wet myself and run faster. ‘I was just letting you know I’m back safe. And I was also wanting to ask you a question about the university. Thought you might be able to help me out on the whole politics side of things.’