by P. R. Black
She thought about the people who had had to take these photos. Nothing new under the sun, they said, which was fair enough, until you had to look at a woman who had been trussed up like deli counter poultry, with her head removed just as obscenely. Then she considered those who had found the bodies in the first place – the long-distance partner, who had driven thousands of miles in the hope of surprising one woman with an engagement ring, only to find the front door ajar and blood seeping out beneath the crack of the kitchen door. Or the elderly widowed housekeeper who was struck absolutely dumb with shock, after letting herself into her glamorous wealthy client’s house, only to see… to see…
She’d needed her parish priest with her, twenty-four hours a day, in the immediate aftermath.
People came back from these things, Becky knew. She was proof of that, of a sort. ‘Recovery’ was the wrong word to use, but you could come back, put one foot before the other, and start to move again. You could laugh, you could drink a glass of wine, you might even eat. You could have lovers. But nothing would be the same inside.
One typewritten note had been underlined, in the case of the woman found butchered in a holiday home in Auvergne.
Check out links to Krnczr family.
Becky searched the files for the term, and found nothing apart from the initial reference. A prompt at the bottom of the screen asked if she meant ‘Kranczr’. This pathway led to one folder under ‘Possible Correlations’. When Becky clicked on it, the file was empty.
Frowning, she made a note of the name, and underlined it: Kranczr? Then she added: Everything removed? Deliberate?
The ‘Known Associates’ file interested her, but they were mostly oblivious friends, relatives and business colleagues of the victims. One of them, a married man with children, had accompanied the thrill killer Miles Crandley to brothels, but he had admitted as much when he spoke to police, and had also been completely forthcoming in his evidence at the trial.
Faces of sex offenders drifted by. A couple she ruled out by sight alone, but she pledged to go back and systematically look through the files.
Are you here? Have I already seen your face?
Leif’s face was visible in a thumbnail attached to the ‘suspects’ folder. A record of his seized correspondence was also inside.
It seemed the American girl ‘Theresa’ was not the only girl Leif had written to.
‘Pants on fire,’ she said, tapping his mugshot with a fingernail.
Theresa’s signature lurked at the bottom of several of Leif’s love letters. She zoomed in and took in the final letter ‘A’ in the name, fashioned into a love-heart, the kisses at the bottom.
Becky covered her face for a moment, eyes blurred with tears.
Then there was the letter he had in his pocket on the day he saw Becky running through the trees. It was from a ‘Theresa’ – the handwriting different, the letters squeezed close together.
The language and tone of the letters was silly. There were references to his body, a hint that they might make love, although shaded in crude innuendo. There was no longing in the note, nothing she might have associated with teenage crushes and flirtations. The closest it came was a reference to farming by Theresa, followed by: ‘I would like to know what your prize coque tastes like.’
This was not Clara’s style.
Becky read it over again, dispassionately. The letter had the instructions, details about where and when they would meet. This was the letter police had found on him.
‘Something wrong here,’ she muttered. ‘The coincidence… it doesn’t fit. At all.’
Leif’s file had been recently updated, she saw. Then she saw a file marked ‘convictions’.
Becky clicked on it and read over a few lines.
‘Leif… Oh dear god, Leif,’ she whispered.
23
Bills awaited Becky upon her return to the flat, sober white slips in between the gaudy fast food advertisements and other folderol. How could pizza shops afford better junk mail than payday loan firms?
Once she’d sorted through the mess beneath her letterbox, she turned on her work phone, bracing herself for the tickertape parade of missed calls and messages on the touchscreen.
One or two of the voicemail messages from Devin McCance were particularly amusing; Becky wondered if there was a way she could transfer it to an audio file. Hers to keep forever. She might ask Rupert about that.
She knelt down by her bedroom door and checked the hair she had glued across the crack. She’s seen this done on James Bond and had read it in comics as a girl, but had never done it until now.
The thin strand was in place, of course, but she still checked the tiny security cameras she had fitted in both her bedroom and front room to be sure.
After moving some files from memory sticks onto a laptop computer, she had some black coffee in the kitchen. This followed a brief consideration of a four-fifths finished vodka bottle which was the only major inhabitant of her fridge – discounting some desiccated onion skin, tear-shaped garlic cloves and a tetrahedral butter escarpment brocaded with toast crumbs.
The kitchen window faced onto another block of flats similar to hers – high-maintenance for now, probably gone to seed within twenty years. High windows granted an excellent view of the main road below, and the cars which were parked in it. One of these she hadn’t seen before; as well as this, a figure could be seen inside.
Becky noted the make and colour, but before she could get any further details the car started and turned up the street.
‘Could be nothin’,’ she muttered.
Sitting in a shaft of sunlight, she took a deep breath, then cracked open yesterday’s edition of The Salvo, which the concierge had fetched with a dipped gaze which led Becky to believe that he had read it and knew all.
As promised, Rosie Banning had published the picture and the quotes which Becky had sanctioned, though she noticed that one or two unauthorised ones had been sneaked in. In one of the shots, Becky saw a face she did not recognise; her own, lost in thought, and looking so sad that her instinctive response was to think it had been posed. She had no recollection of this being taken. Rosie Banning’s photo byline was bigger than before, she noted.
Before the coffee was finished, the buzzer sounded.
‘Hello?’ she said into the intercom.
She’d been prepared for press, or even a frontal assault by some of her editors, but not for Aaron Stilwell.
‘We need to talk,’ he said.
*
They had more coffee, and even pastries, sitting outdoors on a sunny but breezy day. The café was in a part of town that was unrecognisable compared to even five years previously. Apart from a break to allow for the height of the financial crisis, steel and glass monsters had blossomed in this district – hotels mainly, with the odd bar and restaurant lodged on the ground floors. The planners had cultivated a continental atmosphere, and on a day like today, they largely got away with it.
‘Don’t you have work to go to?’ Becky asked. ‘And how did you know I was back?’
Aaron was dressed in a white-and-blue-banded polo shirt over jeans. He might have looked like a football hooligan, except he still had most of his hair. ‘Number one, it’s my day off. Number two, you answered the buzzer.’
‘Odd coincidence, you just happening to pop by like that.’
He leaned forward. ‘Look, I was worried about you. All right? I’ve been calling, dropping by. I saw the papers. Becky… I don’t know what to say. I had no idea.’
She smiled warmly. ‘You don’t have to say anything.’
‘It’s horrifying. I remember the case. If I’d known… You never said a word. Not a damned word.’
‘I never wanted you to know.’ A gust of wind ruffled her hair, and she fought to keep it from scrabbling at her face. ‘I always needed you as a mate.’
‘But Becky… it all fits in. It’s classic. The destructive behaviour, the drinking… You need more help than I thought. AA isn’
t quite enough. The stress you’ve been through…’
‘It’s all in hand. I told you – I’m in control.’
‘Going through all that stuff again is bound to have had an effect on you. You should be in therapy, some kind of counselling.’
‘Aaron, stick any kind of therapeutic label on it, I’ve done it. I’m fine, I promise you.’
He sipped at his coffee. ‘Do you ever think he might come after you?’
‘Why would he? He’s mad. But he’s not stupid. If he wanted to, he would have done it long before now.’
‘Bastard. Hopefully he’s rotting in jail for something else. They might get him yet, you know. You hear about cold cases being solved all the time now. They’ve got the science to get these creeps, years later.’
‘They will. Don’t doubt it. Some DNA breakthrough, maybe after his son gets caught shoplifting. Or loyalties change, and someone who knows about him comes forward. Or he tries to do it again but gets caught this time. I don’t know. I want to see his face in open court. I want to look into his eyes when they jail him.’
Aaron shook his head. ‘And some people think they’ve got it rough. I dunno how you manage, I really don’t. Carrying that.’
She caught the tone in his voice. ‘Carrying what?’
He grinned. ‘That false name you gave me, when we first met. The one I’ve got saved in my phone. The name I thought you actually had. Becky Roman? Of all the false names you could have picked, you went for Becky Roman?’
She laughed. ‘It was a book on your shelf. Rise and Fall of an Empire. There was a spear on the spine. It might not even have been about Romans. If I’d thought harder about it, I might have chosen a really silly name. Becky Bungle. Becky Stigmata. Something like that.’
‘Becky Thump?’
She ruffled his hair. ‘Silly boy.’
‘I’ll be back with more after this short commercial break. You know where the dunnies are in here?’
24
Becky sighed and rubbed her eyes as she was rudely awakened by her phone. She’d needed a nap – a new development of her thirties.
Seeing the name, she clicked answer, switched the mobile phone to her other ear and kicked her shoes off.
‘Let’s hear it Rosie,’ Becky said.
‘In a word… assassins.’
‘Assassins? Sorry?’
‘Organised crime. Your parents were murdered to order.’ After a pause, she said, uncertainly, ‘That’s the theory.’
‘That’s what your big development was?’ Becky asked. ‘That’s what you phoned to tell me?’
On the other end of the line, Rosie Banning paused for a second or two. ‘It sounds silly. But every theory has to be entertained. And I know that’s what you’re doing, trying to find out what happened. Don’t even try to deny it. One of them could hold the key – you know this.’
‘I’m thinking you’re going to tell me it was aliens soon.’ After another pause, Becky added, ‘And this is the part where you tell me there is an alien theory.’
Rosie giggled. ‘Of course there’s an alien theory. It was one of the first ones posted on the site.’
‘Which planet are they from, out of curiosity? I want to rule out every alien species systematically.’
‘This new theory isn’t on the same scale of nuttiness.’
‘I’ll need convincing.’ Becky drew her legs up and lay back on her bed. A breeze from an open window ruffled the net curtains. ‘But it’s a little far-fetched to me. Why would my parents be the target of international assassins? Never mind my brother and sister?’
‘Well, wasn’t your father involved in property?’
‘That’s true, but it was all legit – he wasn’t mixed up in anything criminal. Unless you’re referring to the property market as a whole.’
Rosie’s voice grew higher the more she warmed to her topic, reminding Becky of a primary-school-age girl imparting gossip in class.
‘Well, nothing criminal… so far as you know. A lot of people lost out in property a few years before. Your father was known to have liquidised a lot of assets not long before the market dropped. It’s not out of the question he could have fallen foul of people who lost out not long after buying property from him.’
‘And you have examples, I’m guessing?’
‘Of course. Your father sold several flats in a new development to Patrick McGlinchey in 1990 – he’s a well-known Irish Republican with links to the underworld in Dublin. That’s just a start. Some of the London property went to some very nasty types from the East End. The sort of builders who use skeletons for the foundations.’
Becky yawned. ‘It’s interesting, I guess. But trust me – my father was straight as a die. He was lucky in property speculation in the eighties. If he’d been greedier at the time it might have gone badly for him, but he kept a lid on it and did all right. There’s no question of any bad deals or bad associates. What happened to my family was a lust murder, Rosie. I can tell you that for a fact. Any theory you’ve got, I’m happy to hear it, but – and this is my official line, if you’re quoting me – my family were murdered by a pervert. A thrill killer, someone who’d done it before, and most likely did it again, and might still be doing it, for all we know.’
‘Well. It’s a theory. It might be worth looking into. Look, here it is, all right? I want to catch him, same as you do.’
‘I understand.’
‘What’s your next step?’
‘I need to go back to France. There’s something that doesn’t add up. I want to speak to someone.’
‘Okay… you keeping that one close to your chest?’
‘Yeah.’
You’ll let me know if you get a tip?’
‘Of course. Take care, Rosie.’
Once she’d hung up, Becky turned to the whiteboard in her kitchen. It had started life as a kitsch equivalent to a noticeboard, and for the most part she had used it to write obscene messages to herself after drunken binges. Now, it had a practical purpose; it bore various notes about her case, with paperwork and printouts pinned to the surface by magnet. Uncapping a marker pen, she made a note on the board. Property deals? Hitman? She drew a sad face beside this, then laid the pen down as an alarm buzzed on her laptop.
It had powered down since she’d taken the call from Rosie Banning, but was primed to wake up when someone contacted her through the video messaging system.
And on this computer, there was only one person it could possibly be.
‘Rupert? I thought we agreed – telephone contact first, then a meeting?’
On-screen, Rupert sat in his cluttered room, the same as before. His face was uncovered, and he wore all black, the tips of his straggly ginger hair tickling his shoulders. He was sat a little further away from the camera than usual, and situated to the right of Becky’s screen. Quite apart from the unmasking, the break in the normally scrupulous composition of Rupert’s on-screen appearance was discordant.
He said nothing, his face pale but composed.
‘Hello? Rupert, can you hear me? How did the Leif stuff go?’
‘Hello, Becky.’ Rupert grinned. His eyes darted in the flickering light of a candle; the huge dark pupils caught the flame in stark white pinpricks. Her initial thought was that he was high.
‘You’ve got your real face out again, I see. Everything okay there?’
Rupert grinned and swallowed. His back was rigid, a markedly different posture to his usual slouch. Finally, he said: ‘I want to welcome you to what will hopefully be the first of many points of contact. I cannot tell you how wonderful it is to reacquaint myself with you. It has been a long journey for us both, but a worthwhile one. That, I can promise you.’
Becky sat upright. Fear clutched her stomach, chest and throat. ‘What is this? Are you reading this off a card?’
Rupert’s eyes watered. ‘I know that you are keen for us to have a meeting, and I can totally understand that.’
‘Rupert? Is someone in the room with yo
u?’ She leapt forward, covering the in-built camera with her thumb while she tore off a spare piece of notepad paper with her other hand. While she folded this into a crude covering for the lens, Rupert continued.
‘We will meet, Rebecca. But there must be some rules in place before we do. And also, I hope we might have a little fun.’
‘Rupert – I’m going to call the police, and I’m going to shut down this connection. Tell me where you are.’
‘Here is a quick reminder of how acquainted I was with your mother. It will hopefully help your memory, as I know it kindles happy ones for me.’
Rupert remained seated. Then a figure blocked out much of the light, obscuring him from view.
A gloved hand stabbed down towards the keyboard, before the figure withdrew.
Inset into the video window was an image of Becky’s mother. She was naked on all fours, looking back towards whoever was taking the photo, her face screwed up in pain and misery.
‘No.’
‘A blissful day for you and me both,’ Rupert said, in a choked voice.
‘Is he there? Rupert, is it him?’
Rupert spoke more quickly. ‘Just so that you understand exactly who you are dealing with, we will now have a short demonstration…’ He looked away from whatever he was reading, glancing upwards. ‘No,’ he said. ‘That’s it. I’ve done it. Come on, man.’
He crumbled, then, his face contorting into a babyish expression of misery that might have been funny in almost any other context. He wailed, ‘No, you promised, no!’
Becky clamped a hand over her mouth as the second figure came into view. Rupert must have been tied up tight to a chair, arms immobile; the dark figure disappeared behind him as he tried to twist his head round to get a better view, tears rolling down his cheeks.
A long, wicked-sharp hunting knife appeared in one of the intruder’s hands; the other caught Rupert by the chin, tugging it brutally upward.