by Karen Long
“How do you mean polythene?” asked Laurence confused.
“The painting had a three dimensional quality. Food wrap was used to represent the water and her shroud. It was excellent, very modern and evocative but after learning about the death of Carin and how her body was similarly presented it made the painting seem too macabre. So I disposed of it.”
Laurence nodded his appreciation of this dilemma. “Was he ever in any trouble at school?”
She shook her head and then paused and thought carefully. “Yes there was an incident. He was accused of inappropriate behaviour with a younger female student. But there were no disciplinary actions as the girl withdrew the accusation and moved to another school.”
“Why wasn’t there any follow up?” asked Eleanor curiously.
“The girl was a little…” Miss Guthrie sought for the correct phrase. “…prone to exaggeration. So when she and her parents refused to press any charges the matter was dropped.”
“Would you be surprised if we told you that Lee was suspected of having abused his younger sister sexually?” asked Laurence carefully.
Miss Guthrie looked at him for a moment, placing her cup and saucer on the coffee table. “No I would not be surprised.”
“What about his relationship with Tracy Earnshaw? Were they close?” asked Laurence.
“I recall that they were in the same class but that’s about it. Some students form close bonds in school that seem to define them as a pair. But I wouldn’t have said that about either Lee or Tracy. She was a rather timid creature and lacking in any sort of academic skill.”
Laurence nodded and thought for a moment. “Miss Guthrie you haven’t told me yet what your impressions of Lee Hughes were. You’ve described him as quiet and having problems with communication with fellow students but I want to know what your real thoughts are?”
She paused, considering her response. “I thought he was the closest example to a psychopath that Greenslade had ever seen,” she answered slowly.
“What are you eating?” asked Timms sidling over to Wadesky’s desk.
“This–” replied Wadesky barely managing to make any cogent sound through the enormous mouthful of cake, “–is a gift from Minnie for taking Mo home.”
“Share!” said Timms maneuvering his large meaty fingers towards the slab of cake. Wadesky snatched the staple gun that Johnson had left on the edge of her desk and slammed it on top of his hand.
“You have two seconds to take back the hand or it stays here forever!” she spat.
“Oh maaan! I’m dying of hunger here! And you’re my goddamn partner! I risk my life every fucking day for you,” he groaned slumping into Mo’s chair. Monster sensing distress began to whine and placed a comforting paw on Timms knee. “You fed the dog though?”
“Yes, I fed the dog,” she replied slowly placing the last piece of cake into her mouth and savouring it for Timms’ benefit.
“What the fuck’s Whitefoot’s plan? He gonna leave this puppy here for the night. Let him starve?” asked Timms, outraged.
Wadesky shrugged and stood up rubbing her lower back. “He’ll show,” she said grabbing her bag and jacket. “I’m going home as I’ve been here for fourteen hours and Jo says if I don’t haul ass before nine he’s coming to get me.”
“Right! Pup comes with me. Fuck Whitefoot!” he said loudly.
“What if Whitefoot comes in and can’t find him?” Wadesky asked. “It aint your dog.”
“He’s a detective let him work it out,” he replied.
“Hey partner,” said Wadesky holding out a bulging paper bag. “Got a slice for you off Minnie.”
“Awwww,” said Timms happily.
It was well past ten o’clock when Laurence dropped Eleanor off at her apartment and at least two hours after that when he realised he’d forgotten to collect Monster from the squad room. His initial instinct had been to leave the dog there but he couldn’t face the probability Monster would have trashed the room and shat on any and every available surface. So yanking on jeans and a jumper and grabbing some necessary cleaning implements from the kitchen, he made his way back to the precinct. He took the back stairs avoiding the mayhem that surrounded the admissions atrium and heading past the night staff entered the squad room. Flicking on the main lights he made a low whistle but he knew Monster wasn’t there. He sighed, where the hell was he? Just his luck they’d have sent the bloody thing to the pound so he could be further embarrassed. He thought maybe there was a small chance that a note had been left on his desk so he opened the door, flicked on the light and noted with surprise and some pleasure that Mo’s desk had been moved out. Maybe he was making some progress with Eleanor after all? But then realised it had just been moved next to Wadesky’s so Mo could work more comfortably there. He picked up the phone and started to dial enquiries when his attention was drawn to the board. Johnson had pinned the school photograph of Lee and Tracy above that of the dead Tracy with her face blown away. There was something about the whole relationship between Lee and Tracy that didn’t make sense. If, as everyone supposed, Tracy didn’t kill herself but was murdered by Lee Hughes why didn’t he display her as he had done every other body? The information provided by Tracy’s mother indicated that the body in the house was that of her daughter but could Tracy have been Cindy as well and how did the relationship between Lee and her develop if there was little to indicate their friendship when they were at school?
Laurence slumped into the easy chair that had been carried in for Mo and began to think. It was well into the early hours before his ideas began to form into something plausible. As he left the squad room he sent a text to Timms, ‘Thanks for taking Monster home’.
Chapter Twenty-One
Lee Hughes had slept for over twenty-four hours and was still exhausted when he finally awoke. He stretched then leaned forward and switched on the television in the corner of his small room. He’d set the news to record over night and was hoping that his work had been reviewed, if not generously, then at least with a sense that people had understood what he was trying to achieve and saw his potential. But twenty minutes into his viewing and he’d not managed to locate any emotional response other than repulsion and confusion. He really hadn’t expected the police to be sympathetic, after all even he recognised that the two dead cops would be irritating and a challenge to them. But the language that was being used by the anchorman and bitch detective was very negative. Not one so called ‘expert’ had ventured any thoughts as to what his actions were meant to communicate.
He was finding it difficult to think under the pressure of such overwhelming stupidity and ignorance so he closed his eyes and listened to the cacophony of voices all overlapping one another expressing their disgust at the murders. There was no point in looking at the screen anymore because there were no images of his work. At least show the viewer and let them make their own mind up about the work; not everyone would miss the subtleties and beauty! He breathed deeply and switched off the set. It was time to move on; to take a break from his creativity for a while and wait till his beloved muse spoke again. Carin’s voice had been silent over the past few days, which he was finding slightly worrying. Without her guidance, his work was shallow and ill formed but she’d left him before. He always put it down to her being young and temperamental. But he was strong and patient and would wait. He would always wait for her.
He looked around the room, taking account of the tools that he was loathe to dispose of and the preliminary sketches he’d made before executing the final pieces. The ones Carin hadn’t approved of had been filtered out and disposed of leaving three scenarios, including the Westex study and the second more elaborate installation in the park. He smiled; she had an excellent eye for form and detail. He had been working on the third for the past few weeks but had yet to present it to Carin. He felt a little shy about it because it was very different in tone to his earlier works. He felt it captured the mischievous side of his nature; it was nothing tasteless or rather he
hoped Carin wouldn’t think that.
A few weeks ago he’d walked around an old amusement park on the edge of the city. It had been derelict for several years and, according to the billpostings, was due for demolition in the spring when it would be cleared for a new low-cost housing development. Squeezing through a gap in the fencing he discovered a magical and macabre world of rusted fairground rides. Some of the structures had already been dismantled but several were still standing, in various stages of decay. Of particular interest to him were the battered remains of a Ghost Train. It had taken several years of abuse from the local gangs who had spray painted every available surface in crude visuals of a sexual and territorial nature. The local hoodlums appeared to have lost interest in its kitsch value when a large section of the side wall collapsed in on itself negating the snug and mysterious privacy it had offered. When he looked carefully Lee could make out the images that had once advertised the terrifying experience that awaited the punter. Swirls of white symbolised the ghostly presences contained within and skeletons and witches on broomsticks lunged towards the viewer with huge gaping maws.
He had loved it. It needed some considerable restructuring if it were to act as a backdrop to one of his installations and he’d spent a happy couple of hours wandering the site looking for any materials that could be utilised. He’d almost yelled out loud when he discovered that the kids had torn out the old trolley seats from the ride and used them for al fresco meetings. They were heavy and filled with used condoms, needles and fast food wrappers but the potential was there. He could do something with this.
He’d begun developing his ideas on the walk back to his studio. In his mind he saw the ride reconstructed and fully working. Eerie piped music would startle and then amuse his audience when they entered the ride. The ticket booth would be open and a request for donations would be painted on a board next to a bowl containing tickets. As the ride jolted uncertainly into action, the individual would pass through skeins of shredded silk that mimicked cobwebs and then with a sudden shriek the train would enter the installation proper. It would grind to a halt and lights would slowly rise to reveal the centrepiece: a woman so perfectly destroyed, yet terrifying and inspiring in death.
Just as his muse Carin was created for him, so he would encourage others. He was sure that Lydia and Cassandra had already begun to inspire writers, musicians and artists like himself.
The room was freezing and his skin burned as he walked around it naked. He didn’t mind the discomfort at all. It had a cleansing quality and if he was to fully understand his chosen medium he had to be able to empathise with his subject’s experience. He absent-mindedly reached for a carton of milk, which was sitting on his desk, its contents brittle with ice crystals and drank and chewed on the contents dispassionately. As he began to pull together his papers and form a portable bundle he noticed that there was still one phone left that hadn’t been destroyed after its use. He knew there were four messages left in the voice mail box and that he had to delete them and destroy the phone but he felt the hunger stir deep inside himself and wanted to recapture the moments of pride and empowerment that he’d felt over the past few weeks. He allowed himself a frisson of pleasure as he listened to the call from Tracy for the second time. The tremor in her voice had all the pathos and desperation it had possessed when she was a teenager.
“Lee? I’m not sure I can be ready by then. I will try though.” her voice tapered off as the discomfort of making the call curtailed further comment.
The killer deleted the message and listened to the second message.
“Hey is this for real? If it is then consider me in man. I’ve got this sick fucking bastard giving me all kinds of shit and if you could…” But he’d heard enough and disposed of that one.
He listened carefully to the final two messages and sighed. He would, under more favourable circumstances, have fulfilled the man’s desires. He had even called him back and played the taped response, which explained that he should deposit five thousand dollars behind the bar of the As You Like It club and leave the woman’s name and address on this number. Lee had especially liked the sound of the woman’s name and rolled its rhythms around his mouth… El… ea… nor Ra… ven. It was whilst he was savouring the name that he realised he’d heard it before.
He pressed the video rewind.
Lee knew now why Carin had been silent for so long. She’d been putting her energies into creating this perfect serendipitous climax to his work. He’d suspected, or rather hoped, that she’d been planning something wonderful but to have achieved such a coup, presenting him with the very detective that had been so contemptuous of his work. He took a deep breath and looked around his room. There were stacks of papers that had to be kept as they documented the planning and preparation of the installations and would be extremely important when his work was finally recognised and written about. He’d begun to separate his tools into two piles: those for destruction, which included knives, clamps, electrodes and needles, everything that could have blood residue on it, and his standard kit which contained anaesthetic drugs, hypodermic syringes, art papers and pencils and several lengths of hand-made silk rope. His own clothing was functional and dark toned, consisting only of a wearable set and a spare. As for the costumes they would all be left to be consumed by the fire that he would set before leaving. But all that had been put on hold as he worked feverishly at his final piece. He bent over the artwork and began to visualise how he could put together such an advanced concept in such a narrow margin of time. He had to clear and prep the site and plan how he was going to secure his centrepiece, Detective Eleanor Raven, all within the next twenty-four hours. He needed to execute this before public apathy set in. As his fingers worked the charcoal into the sheet he felt the warmth of Carin’s voice as she whispered her ideas into his head.
Laurence flung his car into an available slot at the morgue and tried again to call Eleanor. It was seven am, a little too early for senior pathology staff to be on duty but knowing Matt was already in he’d have time to see whether his theory was correct. Why the hell wasn’t she picking up? He tried once more before entering the cold room and left his third frustrated message of the morning. “I’m in the morgue now, will call you when I’ve…” his voice trailed off as he entered the room.
“…When you’ve what Detective Whitefoot?” replied Eleanor. She was standing next to a gurney, a notebook and pen in hand. At the head of the gurney, her gloved hands on the zipper of the body bag stood Dr Hounslow.
“Am I losing my hearing Detective Raven?” piqued the pathologist.
“No Ma’am I doubt that,” said Eleanor.
Laurence realised his error, “ I should have knocked, sorry.”
Dr Hounslow raised an eyebrow and waited.
“I needed to see Tracy Earnshaw’s body,” he said quickly. “I don’t believe that’s who she is.”
The two women glanced at each other. “Mrs Earnshaw, Tracy’s mother came in last night and positively identified the birthmarks on her daughter’s shoulder. I am convinced that this is the body of Tracy Earnshaw, “replied Dr Hounslow.
“This is Tracy Earnshaw,” said Eleanor.
“No. I can prove it!” said Laurence quickly. “Is this her body?”
The pathologist nodded.
“May I?” Laurence asked. Eleanor nodded and waited for the pathologist to unzip the body bag and expose the remains. Pulling on a pair of latex gloves he gently opened the pyjama top exposing the naked torso.
“Tell me what you see,” said Eleanor.
“There’s no muscle tone. This woman didn’t work out, there’s no way she taught a gym class!”
“That doesn’t prove that this woman isn’t Tracy Earnshaw does it? It means that the woman you saw at the gym wasn’t Tracy but someone posing as her.”
“So Tracy and Cindy could be the same woman?”
Eleanor nodded.
“Good detecting work,” said Eleanor, passing him a coffee and a pastr
y twenty minutes later in D’Angelo’s. “I was so impressed I even paid!” she added.
“You’d worked it out already though. That’s why you were there wasn’t it?” he noted, shovelling in the food enthusiastically.
“I suspected as much so went to check it out. Just like you did,” she smiled and watched as his beard gathered a coating of icing sugar.
“But how are we any the wiser?” he complained.
“Every time a truth is revealed it pushes us a little closer to capturing him. You’re peeling back the deceptions he is creating. Look we know now that he must have been living round here for some time because he had tracked down Tracy and gauged her as a suitable candidate for identity theft. You live anywhere long enough and someone knows you,” she said.
“There has to be something about her that ensured that Tracy would never try to apply for a driving licence and would be unlikely to discover what was going on. Why not just apply for the death certificate of a dead child and steal her identity surely that would be simpler? More to the point who is the woman who’s pretended to be Tracy? If it’s Cindy then could the killer be a woman? After all there was no penetration of Lydia or Cassandra so we don’t know for sure that…”
“That would mean that Lee Hughes wasn’t the killer and Malcolm Stringer swears he had sex with Cindy, though I doubt that. So to all intents we’ve got a couple,” she said finishing her coffee. “I’ve got a meeting with Ruby Delaware at midday, which gives us plenty of time to go fish around Tracy Earnshaw’s place. She’s the closest link we’ve got so far.” Eleanor stood up and noticed Susan Cheung making her way over to them with a coffee.
“Hey guys heard you were here so I thought I’d combine document delivery with a coffee break.” She pulled up a chair and sat next to them. “This,” she waggled a manila envelope in front of them, “Is the pollen report from the forensic palynologist Andy Bateman. Nice guy, very thorough. Anyway, he’s picked up quite a few pollen and spore samples from both victims, the majority of which are cupressus sempervirens, common name is the Italian cypress. Kinda unusual here. My mother always calls them cemetery trees.”