Witness X: ‘Silence of the Lambs meets Blade Runner’ Stephen Baxter

by SE Moorhead

  From this proximity, Kyra caught the reek of death. She brought her mind into focus, looking for patterns, anything to help her build on her profile notes. As she stepped closer she could see that the head had been wrapped tightly in silver duct tape, mousey hair sprouting from the top. She was naked, apart from a black biodegradable bin liner which had been wrapped around her waist and lower torso. A fine sheen of frost swirled in fern-shaped patterns across the black plastic shroud, like lace, glistening in the artificial light. Her knees were bent and her tiny feet crossed at the ankle, the soles heartbreakingly dirty like a child’s called in from play.

  The shell-pink painted toenails gave Kyra a pang of sorrow.

  She forced her eyes to look further. The woman had her arms raised in front of her like a boxer. Part of the bin liner had been torn away – by a fox perhaps? She shuddered. A long winding tattoo of a snake began at the woman’s shoulder, curled around her bicep, past her elbows and down to her wrist – where the snake abruptly ended, decapitated. No serpent eyes or baring of fangs. Nothing but bloody stumps.

  The woman’s hands had been amputated at the wrists.

  Kyra gagged, stomach roiling, and she tore her gaze away. She took deep breaths, waiting for her body to calm. But she was compelled to look again. White shards of bone jutted out from blood that had turned black and viscous like tar.

  Turning to Helen, Kyra asked, ‘Do we know cause of death yet?’

  Helen leaned over the body and pointed a purple plastic-gloved finger. ‘Likely it was asphyxiation and, if it’s anything like last year, she would have been dosed up first with a strong opiate. Should show up on the toxicology report.’

  Kyra tapped her chest with a finger. ‘Is it the same as last time?’

  Helen brushed back a lock of auburn hair from her forehead with the back of her hand. ‘See for yourself.’

  Kyra leaned over the corpse, forcing her eyes to look at the ribcage to where Helen indicated. There was a gaping hole between the small white breasts which was ringed with dried, blackened blood and greying skin.

  Kyra retched.

  Some things could never be unseen.

  Helen didn’t look at her, but said, ‘You feeling okay?’

  Kyra grunted, her hand over her mouth.

  ‘Sternum’s been removed but put back into the body after the heart was taken out.’

  Helen probed the chest cavity with her fingers. ‘We’ll know more once I’ve completed the autopsy.’

  Kyra swallowed hard.

  Tom asked, ‘Hands removed post mortem?’

  Helen picked up the lower arm, brought it close to her face and studied the stump, the jagged bone protruding from the brown mess of dried blood.

  Kyra saw Tom wince.

  ‘No, looks like prior to death judging by coagulation. If he had wanted to remove evidence that might have been caught under the fingernails, it would have been easier to do after death. Could be torture.’

  ‘Or to make her more powerless,’ suggested Kyra. Her anger rose as she imagined the small woman trying to defend herself.

  ‘She died elsewhere and then she was dumped here. There would have been a lot of blood otherwise.’

  ‘He chooses small women,’ Kyra said. ‘I don’t think he’s a big man. He wants the upper hand physically – wants to make sure he can control them. The plastic wrapped around the torso … I don’t think this is a sexually motivated murder. In fact, he’s covered her up, deliberately.’

  Tom regarded her.

  ‘This looks exactly like the woman we found last February, the unknown woman, the prostitute we found at the sewage treatment works.’ She took a step back, away from the body. ‘Same time of year, same type of injuries, similar deposition site. It’s him.’

  ‘Looks that way,’ Tom agreed.

  ‘The peri-med was the first on the scene, but it was obvious that she was already dead.’ Tom looked at her, his eyes glittering amongst the shadows. ‘We don’t know who called it in.’

  This is what Kyra was trained for, to profile criminals so that they could be caught, and then studied; she could scan the perpetrator’s brain and analyse his psychology to try to find the root cause of this behaviour. The focus was so much on prevention these days, and how could they prevent, if they didn’t understand?

  A rapid burst of flashes shattered the darkness temporarily. The CSI photographer was already packing her equipment away in a case.

  ‘Bloody journalists!’ Tom barked at two nearby officers and pointed in the direction of a man who had somehow managed to get into the compound.

  Kyra took off her coat and held it over the body, trying to shield it, until the intruder was rugby-tackled to the ground and finally manhandled away. The last thing the victim’s family needed was to see an image of the gruesome damage that had been inflicted on her that could show up any time on the hypernet.

  ‘We’re ready to move her now, sir,’ Tony Rowson, the crime scene manager, informed Tom. Kyra put her coat back on. Rowson’s large, angular frame pushed against the shoulders of his overall as he stretched to unzip a body bag on a gurney. Four of the team moved around the body, like pall-bearers. There was a hushed, reverential moment of stillness before Rowson counted down and they lifted her.

  She seemed so small as they laid her out on the white polyethylene bag. Kyra estimated a little over a metre and a half.

  ‘They haven’t found the hands?’ she asked Tom.

  ‘Not yet.’

  The poor family – having to bury their loved one, knowing that parts of her were still missing.

  Or else they would find the rest of her, but that would mean …

  The snap as Helen pulled off one of her gloves brought Kyra back. ‘Estimated time of death?’

  ‘Judging by body temperature, and lividity, I’d say two days. Probably died sometime on Thursday night.’

  ‘It’s a pattern,’ Kyra said.

  Tom bobbed his head, tight-lipped.

  ‘And that means only one thing,’ she said, not even wanting to say the words.

  He looked at her, his eyes merely shadows in the darkness, and finished the sentence for her.

  ‘That another woman will be dead within the week.’

  Chapter Five

  THURSDAY 1 FEBRUARY 2035

  7.44 p.m.

  It was dark when Kyra drove up to her mother’s house along the wide, curved road between the green lawns and mature trees that had already begun to thrive, even though it was only February. The 1930s semi-detached houses were mainly owned by retirees. They were considered unaffordable to the young, and enviable for their amount of space. The majority of workers, even those with families, had moved into apartments exactly like her own in the ever-expanding city, which had gradually oozed into the suburbs.

  ‘Is Molly in her room?’ Kyra asked, as she burst through the front door and into the living room. Her mother stood frozen in the centre of the floor, a blue-checked tea towel clenched in her hands, staring at David Lomax’s image, which filled the screen. Her face was pale and strained. Kyra moved over to her, and she turned her head slightly towards her daughter and nodded but her eyes were still glued to the news.

  Emma’s face appeared briefly on the screen – her public status in death reduced to that of being one of Lomax’s victims – a news item.

  Her mother let out a moan and Kyra saw her eyes, light brown like Emma’s, were glassy with unshed tears. Underneath the shock, Kyra knew there were fourteen years of pain and anger that simmered, that took energy and courage to contain. Her mother was petite, as Emma had been, but somehow her grief made her seem smaller.

  ‘He was allowed out to go to his mother’s funeral. Emma won’t get to go to mine.’ Her head dropped for a moment.

  Kyra didn’t reply but swallowed hard.

  ‘Instead, I had to go to the funeral of my own child. Because of him.’

  ‘I’m going to stay here tonight,’ Kyra said, putting her arm briefly around her mother’s
shoulders. ‘I’ll speak to Molly first and then I’ll come and look after you.’ Kyra took one last look at the screen, remembering Emma at seven years old lying on the carpet watching cartoons.

  Her mum nodded sadly and reluctantly. Kyra turned away. She could see the dent in the door where Emma, at fourteen, had thrown a cup at her when they argued over a jumper.

  At twenty-one Emma was dead.

  Her baby sister, seven years younger than her, would have been thirty-five now had she lived. Kyra could see her dad, sitting in his armchair, lowering his newspaper in shock as Emma told him that she was pregnant at just seventeen, his face falling, probably afraid at what his daughter’s future held.

  He could never have possibly imagined.

  A swelling rise of guilt that she usually kept so well contained overwhelmed her.

  If only she had known what she knew now, she would never have let those have been the last words she had said to her sister before she had left the cafe. She would have apologised, said she was wrong, she hadn’t meant it. She would have pulled at her sister’s sleeves, offered little Molly another cake – any cake you want, sweetheart – so that they’d stay.

  Walking through the hall and up the stairs, Kyra followed a trail of photographs; her mum and dad – a young married couple, new parents, older then – her and Emma growing up, Kyra in her graduation gown, and then Molly making the transition from a rosy-faced baby to a beautiful young woman.

  There was no reply when she knocked so she pushed the door open. Molly lay on the bed, facing away from her, not moving, hidden by her lilac bedcover.

  Kyra had once shared this bedroom with Emma and even though her mother had redecorated in pastels, with white furniture and a double bed, the ghosts were always present, like a bittersweet aroma that lingered: their old twin beds, the late-night conversations, Dad telling them off for giggling in the dark.

  She sat on the bed and tentatively put her hand on her niece’s back.

  ‘Molly, love, I need to tell—’

  ‘I know. I saw the newspops,’ came her muffled reply.

  Had she been crying?

  ‘Do you want to talk?’

  ‘No.’

  Kyra wanted to comfort her, but there was no point in pushing it. It had to be in Molly’s time and in Molly’s way. Sometimes she was childlike and needy, at other times she held herself back, self-contained. Kyra would just have to bide her time.

  ‘I’ll be next door. Anytime during the night, come and get me … if you need me …’

  Kyra sat comforting her mother for some time before retiring to the box room where she kept some of the things she needed when she slept over, the room that her dad had painted in shades of cream and pale yellow once he had come around to the idea of being a grandfather, the room that Molly had never slept in. By the time Molly had been born, Emma had already moved out into what her dad had referred to as a ‘communist cesspit’ with a bunch of other eco-warriors and the boyfriend she claimed was Molly’s father, but whom they never met.

  For all the conflict, her father had died not long after Emma, broken-hearted.

  As Kyra cleansed her face in the mirror she remembered the wine in the footwell of her car. Would it help to have a few glasses, get the thoughts of Lomax out of her mind before sleep? She decided against it. She was exhausted and not long after she had climbed into bed, the border between wakefulness and sleep had been crossed, and she had slipped into her dreams.

  She saw blue flashing lights, felt her arms wrapped around three-year-old Molly, pale and motionless, clinging a little too hard, eyes fixed on the place where she had last seen her mother.

  The scene began to change, the surrounding buildings shrinking and turning into shades of beige and brown, the Tarmac and concrete disappearing to be replaced by sand. Kyra gazed at Molly, still holding her tightly, as the child began to vaporise into a cloud that was made up of her colours – her brown hair, her black coat, her golden eyes, her pale skin – all in streaked smudges that rose into the air as her niece disappeared in front of her like smoke from a votive candle, and her arms were left empty.

  The clouds of colour swarmed above her for a moment and then dropped lower and began changing form. They swirled before finally solidifying into the shapes of three soldiers, one ahead of the others, their guns pointing forwards. They stopped dead as the leader raised his fist. Kyra immediately recognised him as Brownrigg. He jabbed a finger and they continued to move again.

  The temperature rose rapidly. Kyra opened her eyes, lying on her bed, on her side, one hand under the pillow. The hairs on the back of her neck stood up as she heard a noise behind her, a soft shuffling, the creak of a floorboard.

  Heart pounding, she slowly lifted her head and turned to face the shapes of the three soldiers moving slowly, deliberately, across her bedroom floor. Even in the darkness the muzzles of their guns were visible – pointing towards her. The smell of sweat and desert dust filled her nose and mouth.

  Closing her eyes, she held her breath momentarily, not daring to move a muscle.

  It was a dream, wasn’t it? A residual memory?

  She waited a few seconds, heart beating loudly in her ears, and then reopened her eyes, breathless.

  She was alone.

  1.07 a.m.

  My agitation always quietens after the first one dies.

  It rids something in me – anger, resentment, fear? It’s taken me hours to come down from the rush – the release is so intense.

  But now I need to clear my mind. I need to prepare myself for the next part.

  The second one is always so different, not messy and cathartic, but a sacrament almost.

  This one will belong solely to you, Elise.

  I made a promise to you that, even though I couldn’t be there, I wouldn’t leave you on your own in the darkness, that I would send someone to look after you.

  I will keep sending them until one day when I will be there myself and we will never be apart, one from another, again.

  The next part is always more difficult.

  I have to prepare. I am still too dirty, too soiled. I am glad that you are not here, so that you cannot see what I have become, that you have not become corrupted like me. You will always remain pure, unsullied, innocent.

  There is work to be done, the procedure to be followed.

  Everything needs to be just right.

  I make my way slowly through the house, turning the mirrors to the wall, moving photographs, closing doors and locking them.

  My hands reek of the other one, the one I left at the dump. I can still smell her sticky blood on my hands, even though there is not a mark on them.

  I go into the kitchen and pull the bleach from the cupboard under the sink.

  I unscrew the lid and pour the thick yellow liquid over my fingers and palms, then I swap the bottle for the scrubbing brush and scour until my hands are red raw.

  It’s not enough.

  I pull a packet of salt from the cupboard above the cooker, tear it open with my teeth and pour it over my hands, rubbing them together, grinding in the grains until they burn and I can feel tears stinging my eyes.

  ‘Elise! Elise!’ I cry over and over again.

  I can never be clean enough.

  I’ll run a bath, that’s what I will do. I will fill it as high as it will go and submerge myself completely. Then, when the water is still, I will lie beneath its glassy surface and open my eyes, to see what you saw, to feel what you felt, and maybe, somehow, you will know that I am ready to send you another angel.

  Chapter Six

  FOURTEEN YEARS AGO

  The armoured police response van doors flew open and six men in riot gear and helmets and holding snub-nosed semi-automatic machine guns leaped out and charged around to the back of the row of shops. Four more men had been stationed at the front, crouched ready to pounce. The sun was still an hour or so from rising. The freezing rain fell in sheets, bouncing off the Kevlar and running in rivulets down the wa
terproof material of the officers’ uniforms.

  Tom went to the bottom of the rusty metal steps that led to the flats above the shops. Next to him, Pete Donovan, the head of Armed Response, a silver-grey flat top, fierce ice-blue eyes, and a weather-beaten face that gave nothing away, stood waiting for everyone to be in place. A split second of stillness and then his hand-signal, prompting his officers to move swiftly and quietly up the steps.

  The doorframe splintered as the lock shattered against the battering ram. There was an excited surge forward, gruff shouts of ‘Police!’ as the team diverged into the four rooms of the tiny, dank flat. Tom casually followed in their wake, hands in his coat pocket. How could he be so calm? Kyra followed him up the steps, her heart hammering furiously.

  There was more shouting: ‘Here! Here!’

  They’d found their quarry.

  They had finally caught the Mizpah Murderer, the monster who might know where her sister was.

  Roused by the brutal alarm of the officers’ shouts, Lomax was cuffed and contained. Donovan ordered the officers to stand down and they moved away from the hub of action, job done. There was a lull as the adrenaline fizzled out. Kyra followed Tom into the dark bedroom. Two armed officers stood in the far corners, hands on their weapons, muzzles trained on their target. Tom indicated the curtains and one of the officers ripped them open.

  David Lomax was a few years older than Tom, but not as in good shape. He looked shorter from this angle, but he was much broader, his belly bulging out from between his greying vest and boxer shorts. He sat on a grimy sheet, the duvet in a twist on the floor, his hands cuffed behind his back. His brown hair stuck to his pallid face. The room reeked of sweat.

  ‘What the fuck?’ he growled, as Tom stood in front of him, eyeing him calmly.

  ‘David Lomax?

  ‘Who else?’ scowled the man. ‘Who the fuck are you, and who’s this bitch?’ he eyeballed Kyra and she had to force herself to stand her ground.