The Two

by Will Carver

  Paulson breaks the silence.

  ‘Jan, if we have less than twenty-four hours, we could use all the help we can get, and Murphy knows you’re marginalising him.’

  I give him a look of resignation.

  ‘We should put him to work before he does something stupid.’

  He’s right, of course. If there’s one thing I know about Murphy it’s that his ambition far exceeds his actual ability, but you don’t always have to be the best at something to achieve the greatest amount. I recognise wearily that it’s highly likely that, one day, I will be answering to him as my superior.

  ‘OK, call him in. But not here. I’m not having him here,’ I bark reluctantly. ‘We’ve got all this at the station, tell him to meet you there, I’ll follow shortly.’

  Paulson edges forward on his chair, looking at me for confirmation that I mean now, right this second. I widen my eyes and raise my head a little as if holding my breath for him to get up and spring into action.

  And he does. Because this is my investigation. I’m accountable. It will be done my way.

  As he leaves the room to call Murphy, Alison speaks.

  ‘I have an idea.’

  ‘Wait until he leaves,’ I instruct. I force a smile to make the sentence softer than it was meant. Paulson returns and tells me that Murphy is already at the station.

  ‘Get there. Get there now. Find out what he is doing and I’ll be just behind you.’

  He leaves without a word, pulling up the back of his trousers as he exits down the hallway and out through the front door.

  I stand in front of the warm dented sofa cushion that Paulson has vacated, my eyes moving between the scrawled-on map and my handwriting on the wall to the left.

  I almost knew where Totty would die. The Two were trying to tell me it was Trafalgar Square. Why are they now holding back? Why did they take this sensation from me?

  There is no pattern. The pins, the blotches, the cemeteries and parks. They mean nothing.

  Not every serial killer wants to be caught.

  I say the words out loud to myself.

  ‘Not every serial killer wants to be caught.’

  I speak to myself.

  ‘Not all vampires suck blood.’

  ‘You want to hear my idea?’ Alison asks sheepishly from somewhere behind me.

  ‘Sure. As long as you don’t mind talking to my back. There’s something in here that I’m not seeing yet.’ My gaze remains on the crime-scene photography pinned to my lounge wall.

  She wants to recreate the Beltane ceremony. She knows it. She wants it to be used for good rather than the way the killer continues to abuse her traditions. I listen to what she has to say while observing the surrounding buildings at Parsons Green.

  On a tall, oak block, stained with red wine circles, there sits a glass bowl full of polished onyx rounded stones. I’m not sure why Audrey bought this, perhaps to cover up the stains. I dip my hand inside and grab five of the tiny jewels.

  The distance between Alison and the map on the wall is almost the length of the room; she doesn’t want to influence it in any way.

  She grips the first pebble in her hand and holds it to her mouth saying the words bulbs in his eyes quietly against it. Then she hurls it at the map as hard as she can. It tears the map slightly on Lancresse Road in De Beauvoir Town.

  Useless.

  I circle the church in Lily’s and Totty’s pictures with a red marker.

  Alison repeats her process with the second stone, this time muttering burnt wood softly into the creases of her fingers. This misses the map completely, almost hitting me on the shoulder. So it repeats with the third stone. It hits a patch of water in Victoria Park and rips the map again.

  I draw a red ring around the picture of St George’s Cathedral for Graham White and another at the hospital he never returned to.

  With the fourth pebble she mutters scent of fornication and launches it forwards. It cracks against some red lettering saying SW9. Not what she wanted at all.

  I spot the health centre in the background of one shot taken where Lily Kane perished and mark it with my ink.

  Alison closes her eyes with the final stone and just thinks to herself five pebbles.

  Five pebbles.

  It hits the map but I don’t know where. She scours it for marks; the pebble now lies on the floor catching the light of a lamp. She runs her finger across the map, manically trying to locate the smallest of pockmarks.

  ‘What if it hit the exact location the murder will take place in? What if it tells us where the killer hides? What if there is another message?’ she mutters. What if there isn’t an answer there?

  What if you don’t know what you’re doing?

  I think of Cathy and how ashamed she would be of her older brother if she were here.

  It turns me cold.

  But I need the guilt.

  Help me, Cathy.

  ‘Maybe it would work better if you threw the stones; you are directly connected to this.’ She offers this so innocently. Perhaps three murders ago, maybe even two, I would have entertained this idea but I can’t seriously pin my hopes of solving this case on the catapult of glass beads into a replica of the map in my office at the station.

  And, more insensitively than I mean to, I respond, ‘I’ll stick to the actual clues if that’s OK.’

  She sits back down, hurt.

  I stare at the photographs of Talitha Palladino, thinking something is going to jump out at me. My eyes flit across to the map. I have forgotten that Alison is even here.

  I take a step back in order to view all the information we have gleaned. The wall of death. The letters and images dancing around kaleidoscopically.

  I make out a question mark.

  Then another.

  I see the word Beltane.

  I think of burnt wood.

  I see 1 May.

  I smell the grass.

  The stench of fornication.

  I’m reminded of cuckoldry; I remember unfaithfulness.

  And, as the question marks begin to dissolve, pointing me in the direction of the heath that lies minutes from my house, I try to move my head closer to the picture of Talitha that is tacked up underneath her victim details.

  Oh, January. You idiot. Of course there’s a pattern. There’s always a pattern.

  The places of worship.

  The hospitals and health centres.

  The desperation.

  This is how the victims are chosen.

  V

  I AWAKE ON the floor alone. Gail is gone. The passion of the moment was not followed by the same level of afterglow. That’s not how it should have finished.

  The half-full bottle of Merlot still lies on its side next to me, but the room is awash with a brilliant white glow blocking out the constant change of the traffic lights on the crossroads that normally perpetuates against my back wall. I roll from my side to my back to see the chain is not fastened on the door like it usually is when I go to sleep.

  She let herself out.

  I debate missing my run so as to avoid my routine morning greeting on return to the building. But that will make things awkward and I do still need her.

  Things will be slightly different today, though. The newspaper headline will not be a shock. I was there, I know what happened. I witnessed the ritual.

  I saw her.

  She is Celeste Varrick.

  She offered you her sacrifice.

  She asked you for your blessing.

  Flashes of my coital spontaneity start to flicker in my mind, interspersed with images of my wife. The only release from disgust is through prayer.

  I roll over and get myself into a kneeling position, and I ask the Lord for guidance. I ask forgiveness of my actions, that only one woman occupies the space in my heart, that I crave only to be with her again and not with neighbouring temptresses. I say that I have realised my weaknesses and my full attention is on the task at hand.

  I ask the Lord what he wi
ll have me do next.

  I beg for more information so that I may fulfil the required preparations. I tell him I now know the face of the ritualist and implore that the time is near that I may stop her.

  When I finally open my eyes, my body remains rigid, my knees magnetised to the floor, a statue of reflective genuflection. My Lord has confirmed that it is time. I am to take Celeste Varrick when the Sun is at the height of its power, on the longest day of the year.

  She will call it Litha.

  I will call it retribution.

  The Lord extols my faith thus far but adds an exclamation.

  My Lord declares that the time nears to capture Celeste Varrick, and that I will be reunited with my wife.

  That there is still some work to do.

  He informs me that I am to make a monster of her and in order to do that, I must first make a monster of myself.

  On the summer solstice there will be a second victim, and this sacrifice will fall foul of the same ritualism that so disgusts me. He tells me that she will be another sufferer that is subjected to the ceremony of the previous victims.

  He advises me that I will detain Celeste Varrick on this night.

  He instructs me that, on this occasion, I am to perform her ritual.

  I must demonise her.

  Litha

  June 2009

  Annabel

  I‘LL TRY TO be quick because it seems obvious that nobody is remotely troubled by my death; they are far more concerned with Brooke Derry, who gets to sit up in a comfortable bed and tell her tale.

  And breathe.

  I’m the one that nobody remembers, even though I died.

  I was not ignored that day; people saw what was happening, they saw what happened.

  That, this time, the victim was not the desperate one; it was the killer.

  Look at me, Detective Inspector David.

  Look at Annabel.

  I’m supposed to be meeting a friend today, after my conference. But he will be late. Too late, as it turns out. I stop off at the Curzon Cinema in Soho for a healthy lunch of frosted carrot cake. The girl behind the counter asks if I would like a coffee but the sign over her right shoulder shows an enticing price for a glass of Prosecco Col di Luna. It’s cheaper than the carrot cake, but I manage to stop myself from going for the two-glasses-of-Prosecco option.

  Detective Paulson will question the two French ladies behind the counter, but they won’t remember specifics. I’m not the only person who likes a drink with their lunch. The place is filled with out-of-work creative types, tapping away at a laptop or catching up on the latest foreign cult movie, wearing their beards and their long hair and their homemade iconic T-shirts.

  This part is not important, detectives.

  Why are you looking here?

  I use the toilet, wash my hands, gargle some water and spray down my throat with a minty freshener before exiting onto Frith Street.

  I’m still fairly close to China Town so, as I start the journey towards my death, three or four oriental-looking people are travelling in the opposite direction. The third is a girl in a long thin jumper with a horrid picture of a panda on the front; she blows smoke into my face as we pass. She won’t remember me so it’s not worth asking her anything.

  The next six people I pass are all taking a call on their mobile phone or typing a text or browsing the Internet; they don’t see me; they have far less important things to be doing.

  I pass a plethora of independent coffee houses, all boasting the best espresso and cappuccino. When the BT tower comes into focus above the buildings ahead of me, I know I’m almost there.

  Halfway to dying.

  The blue sign says ‘Soho Centre for Health Care’.

  It says ‘Soho NHS Walk-In Centre’.

  Outside the door is a pushbike with the words ‘Ambulance Service, Cycle Response Unit’ blazoned upon it. Seems somewhat pathetic.

  Above the bike I read ‘Westminster Community Alcohol Centre’ and I know I’ve arrived.

  Detective Inspector January David, this is where your attention should be, not with the living girl who feeds you anecdotes, but here, where I first met my killer.

  I leave after an hour of people sharing their feelings and showing off their achievements. I leave behind the tears and the excuses, the beatings and molested-as-a-childs, the bullyings and the addictive personalities. I walk out the door, leaving my executioner behind, for now, and turn right at the pharmacy towards Soho Square, where I never meet with my friend.

  The sign next to the gate says that the park shuts at 21.30. I’ll be dead by then; the detectives will have discovered Brooke Derry by this point.

  And they think she’s so important.

  Because she gives them her description.

  As I enter, I’m almost run down by a girl on a skateboard; her arm is already in a sling but she shows no fear as she attempts to hop her way up a kerb, unsuccessfully.

  A black man in a fluorescent waistcoat says something to her to make her stop. As he turns round I see ‘Park Service’ on his back.

  He sees me die.

  I perch myself on one of the wooden benches near the entrance; the park is full, the weather is hot. People are having lunch or outdoor meetings or feigning a sick day or bunking lectures; the mood is relaxed and the spirits high. The woman next to me stares out at the differing cliques; she holds an empty yoghurt pot between her knees, occasionally running her finger around the rim in an almost sexual manner.

  She is already gone when I die.

  Do not question her.

  Don’t waste any more time.

  Don’t interrogate the blonde eating the baguette on the bench opposite; she is busy reading her book. Everybody people-watching, nobody seeing anything.

  The weathervane points east but there is no wind blowing. My body points north.

  Like all the other victims.

  Make a note of that please, Mr David. Our bodies are the altar.

  I will be facing the statue of Charles II.

  While I wait for the friend who never comes, I wander around to the statue. It’s not particularly impressive. I read the placard that suggests it was restored by Lady Gilbert in 1938; she didn’t do the best job, it’s still broken at the knee.

  An elderly woman moves around the fractured stone until she is next to me. She looks me up and down and turns her top lip up at me as if to say, Why are you here?

  She will remember my face but will be of no help in the investigation.

  I look away from her but stand my ground. One section of the park is taped off while the sprinklers spray a patch of grass, wetting the outer path as it does so.

  The woman behind me begins to talk, loudly.

  ‘… used to be four, representing the four rivers. Water was brought down from Rathbone Place.’ This is the information that January David will use, to fuel the Pagan influence.

  Earth, fire, air, water, spirit.

  This is not just the story of Brooke Derry.

  It is the two of us.

  I turn back to her and fifteen to twenty more pensioners are crowded around listening to her. Some stare at me unwelcomingly, as if I have hitched a free ride on their tour of this part of London.

  ‘This hand used to hold a sword,’ she yaps to her followers. She makes a joke and they laugh. One of the old men rolls up a copy of the Independent and places it in the empty hand of the statue.

  They all laugh again.

  I don’t.

  They turn to leave and one old lady climbs up and takes the paper out of Charles II’s hand, tutting as she does so. She then moves on to the centre of the park where the guide squawks about the building that stands there.

  The Gilbert family: blah, blah, blah.

  Nineteenth-century hexagonal roof: yawn, snore, spit.

  Place where Annabel Wakeman was stabbed and set fire to: sigh, groan, murmur.

  In every direction I look, I can see a sign stuck to the side of a building saying ‘S
oho Square’. In one corner, outside the park, stands a Gothic-looking building, the Eglise Protestante Française de Londres. A nearby church is worth enquiring into on this case, but not with this murder. I am not the desperate one.

  January David will also examine St Patrick’s Catholic Church along the east side of the square, thinking it may be connected to the way Graham White was killed.

  But this is so much different.

  Unlike all the others, with the exception of Brooke Derry.

  On one side of the central building, a local vagabond leans against a wall, slurring, hugging his bike. I take my own place against the set of wooden doors behind the shabby statue, open my bag, take out my bottle of alcohol and wait for my friend not to come and save my life.

  January

  I KNOW THE killer.

  I understand her.

  I’m inside her mind now.

  She roams the hospitals and churches, stalking the desperate. She hunts them, picking the weakest, offering help, the false promise of salvation. She feels that she is rescuing them, delivering them from an evil only she perceives.

  And now, thanks to Brooke Derry, I know her face.

  But, until I have caught her, victims will continue to be taken.

  Chief Archer calls, telling me there is another body and he thinks it might be connected.

  I can’t handle everything myself so decide to take Paulson with me to Soho Square to see the body of Annabel Wakeman. Archer hints that the site is pretty disturbing so I opt to leave Alison out of this crime scene and will explain it to her later. I get Murphy to come down to the hospital to watch over Brooke Derry; not that I think she is in any danger now, but it keeps him busy and out of the way.

  Of course, when he arrives, we are not there to watch over him. The first thing he does is call his mysterious backer. Murphy tells him that we have a survivor, that she is conscious and has produced an accurate description of her assailant. He tells his handler that it is a woman.

  He is then told to leak it out to the press. To get everyone behind this case and unite the country and the people of London against a common enemy.