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

by SE Moorhead

  The door to Tom’s office opened and suddenly he was there, his familiar scent of woody notes and spice – cedar and amber? After all this time, he still wore the same aftershave. It immediately took her back to late nights at the station, the horrific crime photographs, the determination – the desperation.

  He came up close and she wasn’t sure if he was going to shake her by the hand, but he pulled her to him for a brief embrace. ‘Good to see you.’

  She was embarrassed and pleased at the same time. Being so close to him brought back happier memories, too. She hadn’t exactly been fair to him when she had left. Was this his forgiveness?

  Standing back, they studied each other, assessing the changes. He appeared well; older, still attractive. She could see the kindness in his deep-set grey eyes, although they were more haunted than the last time they had met. The silver had travelled in his hair from the temples and now there was a peppering of grey throughout. Time had passed, but the scar on his temple was still visible.

  She wondered what changes Tom saw in her. No doubt she had put a little weight on, she wasn’t in her twenties anymore, but being above-average height she thought she got away with it. There would be more lines around her light brown eyes, no doubt. Her dark hair was shorter than it had ever been.

  ‘There’s only fifteen minutes to afternoon briefing, so this will have to be quick,’ he said, not unpleasantly, sitting down and pointing towards a chair on the other side of his grey desk which housed an integral screen, a stack of paper files next to it.

  She saw him tracing her eyeline. ‘Old habits. I prefer something I can hold.’

  She sat down, uncertain of how he was going to react to her theory.

  ‘You good?’ he asked, and it was as if she had only seen him yesterday, as though they were sitting in the squad car, about to go out on a job.

  ‘I’m good. I thought you’d be finished up by now, enjoying your retirement,’ she said. Fifty-five was the usual age. ‘I can’t imagine you gardening, somehow.’

  ‘Neither can I. I’ve got six months to go.’

  ‘You’d better take up a hobby. I bet your wife won’t want you under her feet all day.’

  ‘I’m still on my own.’

  She was taken aback and began to feel self-conscious standing in front of him, her body remembering. She didn’t want to think about how her life could have been different, what she had left behind, what might have been. It was too painful. She had shut that part of herself down a long time ago. But she felt a loss.

  ‘What about you?’

  ‘Look at the pair of us, no partners, no kids. Married to our jobs.’ She couldn’t bear to think about CarterTech right now. She took a deep breath. ‘Tom, I think there’s something sinister with the Lomax case.’

  ‘Such as?’ he asked steadily, his expression flinty.

  ‘I’m not one hundred per cent sure that Lomax did it.’

  He pursed his lips, his eyes narrowed. She knew him so well.

  ‘Look, I know it sounds … incredulous, but just hear me out.’ She held her hands out in front of her as if bracing herself against his response. ‘I know, it was a traumatic arrest, and you were hurt …’ She kept her eyes locked onto his, so she didn’t look at his scar. ‘And then the other DI took over the case while you were in hospital …’

  ‘Where’s this going?’ His voice was flat. ‘We haven’t even re-arrested him yet, but you’re saying … what are you saying?’

  ‘This morning, after you called and told me about the body, I went back into Lomax’s files to find out where he might be hiding, see if there was anyone he might have contacted … anyone who might help him hole up—’

  ‘We’re on it, Kyra.’ He glanced away, obviously irritated.

  ‘I know, I know, but I found something that might suggest he didn’t do it after all.’

  Tom rubbed his eyes. ‘Kyra, I don’t need this now. I’m in the middle of a major manhunt, the DCI is on my back, the press on our heels—’

  ‘Please, Tom.’

  He sat back in his chair, staring at her, his expression unreadable.

  ‘Look,’ she began, aware of the wobble in her voice, ‘there were doubts about Lomax, if he was the real killer.’

  He sat forward now and pointed at her. ‘No, you had doubts, Kyra. The evidence spoke for itself.’

  ‘Yes, but I was thinking about his arrest. I saw his face, Tom, when he saw that Mizpah necklace that we found in his flat and he genuinely didn’t recognise it.’

  ‘You were the only person who saw his reaction. I can’t put any weight on—’

  ‘I know,’ she interrupted, ‘but I’ve been over the records, the interview I did with Lomax … before …’ She stumbled on her words.

  ‘Before we found Emma,’ he finished for her.

  That painful, brief window of time when she hoped Emma might have still been found alive.

  ‘Kyra,’ he said, his voice lowered, ‘You shouldn’t even have been allowed to interview him. I should have sent you home.’

  ‘Yes, but we didn’t know for sure at that point what had happened to her.’

  Tom put his head in his hands, his elbows on the desk.

  She stood uneasily.

  Finally his eyes met hers again.

  ‘It’s not your fault. It was all against my better judgement. I was in charge and I had …’ Was he blushing? ‘… feelings for you, and I should have been more professional.’ He cleared his throat. ‘I shouldn’t have let you. You were too fragile. You weren’t thinking straight. There’s no way that you could have made a professional judgement with what you were going through. Christ, if the DCI had known you were so close to the victim—’

  She cut him off. ‘Today I read the case files of the other psychologist, Dr Marie Taylor, the one who took over the case after me. Lomax told her that he didn’t do it and at the first available opportunity he would get out and find the person that did. He’s been waiting all this time to get revenge on the person who set him up.’

  ‘He was manipulating you and Marie. Don’t you see? That’s what these people do. You of all people should know that.’

  ‘Marie’s one of the best we have. There’s no way he’d pull the wool over her eyes. If you think that Lomax is some smooth-talking sociopath, Tom, then you’re very much mistaken. He’s not that sophisticated. During his interviews he was angry and he lost control. Even the screw at the prison reported him ranting about getting revenge on whoever got him banged up.’ She could tell by his face that she wasn’t getting through to him. ‘I heard him too, but I didn’t want to believe it because I wanted someone to be punished. I didn’t realise back then that’s not the same thing as justice. Don’t make the same mistake that I did.’

  His eyes searched her face, as if trying to make sense of what she was saying.

  She couldn’t bear his expression and turned away, back to the window over the Hub. She watched as more officers came in and stood staring at the screens, talking to the computers, and to each other, in a constant relay of information – CCTV, photographs, diagrams and information popped up around them as though they were visible thought bubbles. One or two officers held their hands out, swiping and enlarging, even at a distance, to make the information more accessible.

  Two of the images showed live webcam footage at the crime scene, police tape flapping in the breeze as a police officer stood guard.

  ‘Look at the evidence. This latest body,’ his voice was calmer now, ‘it has all the hallmarks of Lomax’s signature. See for yourself.’ He looked up to the three large screens on his office walls to the left of his desk and said, ‘Case 370928, Carmichael, Caylee. The computer swiftly complied and the centre screen displayed the image of a petite woman with long brown hair, brown eyes and fine features. The other two screens in the harrowing triptych showed a map of the body deposition site and a crime scene photograph of Caylee’s body, discarded in black plastic, head wrapped in silver duct tape, hardly distinguishable
from the refuse surrounding her. Her image filled the screen – her pure white skin, her arms ending in bony stumps, the coagulated blood capping the wrists where the hands should have been. The photograph had been taken from above and showed Caylee’s body lying on its side, the cavity of her missing heart hidden by broken bottles and what appeared to be a smashed screen.

  Tom pointed up at the screen. ‘Naked apart from bio-deg plastic, no sign of sexual assault, duct tape around head, the hands and the heart gone. No blood at the site, so mutilation has been carried out elsewhere and she’s been dumped here just like Madelyn and—’ he stopped. ‘Like all the Type A victims.’

  Kyra couldn’t stop a little gasp escaping her lips.

  He turned to look at her.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he said, and then softer, ‘but this is the work of the same man. It’s too similar. All the hallmarks. I don’t know if I should be showing you this. You’re not with the police now.’ He shrugged in resignation, ‘but you know all this anyway.’

  Her regular nightmares held testimony to this, her sister crying through the silver duct tape, begging her for help.

  When she didn’t reply, he stood up and came over to her. ‘I’m trying to reassure you.’ His voice was gentle as he leaned over her. She wanted to curl up in his arms, listen to his heartbeat, like the old times, forget all this horror.

  ‘But all this … it made you ill back then. It forced you to give up everything, leave your job, us …’

  She bristled.

  ‘Lomax did it,’ he continued, ‘and that’s all there is to it. I’m sorry to say this, but your judgement is clouded because of what happened to Emma. Lomax convinced you that he didn’t do it. That’s what psychopaths do. They mess with people’s heads. They are so credulous. It’s nothing to be ashamed of, falling for it … we’ll never be able to know the truth of what is in such a mind as his …’

  Never be able to know the truth . . . what’s in his mind …

  Her thoughts briefly flipped back to CASNDRA.

  Kyra stood up straight and moved towards the door. ‘Regardless of whether he is guilty or not,’ she said in a cool tone, ‘Lomax is still a risk to me and my family.’ She turned around to face him. ‘Either he’s guilty and he killed my sister and he knows that I was on the team that arrested him or,’ she paused, ‘he isn’t guilty and he knows I had doubts and I didn’t stand up for him.’

  ‘What do you want me to say?’ Tom asked.

  I want you to say you believe me! I want you to say you’ll find the truth and stop the doubts and torment. I want to know my sister got justice!

  Instead, she stood at the threshold of the door and said, ‘If the real killer is out there, there will be another murder in the next few days – he won’t be able to help himself, the pattern has to be fulfilled. It’s what he has to do. We’ll soon know if Lomax is the killer or not, because another woman will die.’

  And with that, she let the door close on Tom Morgan.

  Chapter Ten

  FRIDAY 2 FEBRUARY

  6.45 p.m.

  ISABEL

  She frowns at her reflection in the mirror. Why can’t she be as tall as Liv or curvy like Ruby? She dresses quickly, having set out her clothes before her shower on her bedroom chair – a soft pale pink shirt, black skirt, faux-leather boots. It’s only a drink in the pub with the girls, but she takes her time at the dresser over her make-up. Andrew doesn’t like it when she wears too much make-up and she isn’t allowed to wear any at all in the hospital – Health and Safety, apparently – so she makes the most of it in the evenings.

  She’s going to have to revise over the weekend so she decides she won’t drink to excess. She thinks back over her tiring day – Bio-Mechanical Surgery Management at 8.30am, followed by another lecture at 10.30 a.m. in Psychology of Patient Care. Then ward rounds in the afternoon. Meeting Andrew for lunch in the canteen. It was cloying sometimes, working together, even if he was out and about in the ambulance most of the day. She wishes he wasn’t so full-on sometimes.

  Her dad will be back from work soon. He’ll be tired from his shift at the power station. Good money but long hours – longer than hers. His tea is in the oven – his favourite, steak pie and she’s made mash too. Since she can remember it’s only been the two of them, but they’re happy. How can she leave Dad living here on his own? But Andrew is pressing her for an answer.

  ‘Offer’ was the word he had used – more like ultimatum. Andrew would expect her to take over where his still-not-ex-wife had left off. She’s not even sure if she loves him. She feels too young for that sort of commitment. If she agrees to moving in with him, it will mean the end of her Friday nights with her friends and what else, besides? Work together, live together, would it be too much? There would be no chance of her going on holiday in the summer with the girls then. They’re her best friends – she needs them.

  Her dad would be mad if he knew how old Andrew is. Although if he finds out Andrew is divorced, well, nearly divorced, he’ll be furious. Not good enough, he would say. What about her gran – what will she say?

  She looks around for her Commswatch and remembers she left it on her dresser before her shower. It lies next to her gran’s ancient fob watch, a present for her twenty-first birthday just two months ago. What would she have done without her gran after her mum had gone? With no siblings it’s a small family, intense sometimes, only her and her dad, as much as she loves him. That’s another reason she needs the girls. They are her family too.

  She straps the watch onto her wrist, and the black shiny square face lights up as soon as it feels her pulse. She’ll be meeting the girls in just over an hour. She places her Commset in her ear and puts her mini-screen in her bag with a few bits of make-up. Lipgloss, a foundation compact. Almost immediately a message pings on her Commswatch, alongside a few photographs from the pub from last Friday night – Liv, her eyes crossed and tongue out, and one of Ruby pulling a duck face.

  Looking forward to tonight!

  And another one of her and Ruby chatting to a group of lads they used to go to school with. She deletes it, just in case.

  She picks up the fob watch and puts it to her ear to hear its faint mechanical heartbeat, feeling its comforting tick against her cheek. ‘It never loses a second,’ her gran had said. She’d worn it on the wards in the 1960s and 70s when she’d made her rounds as a young nurse. ‘I’m so proud of you,’ she’d told Isabel, her eyes gleaming. ‘Another nurse in the family.’ Her dad had rolled his eyes, but then he’d smiled.

  She thinks about Gran, with the watch pinned to her skirted uniform throughout her working day. These days they wear zip-up anti-bacs and there is no need for the three reasons her gran had given her for wearing a watch; recording patients’ vitals, giving medicine at the correct intervals and recording accurate times of treatments on documentation. All of these details are taken care of electronically now by scanning devices.

  She puts the fob back in pride of place next to her little glass angel. It was her mother’s, one of the few things she had left behind, probably by mistake. Isabel can’t part with it. She notices that there is something wrapped around the neck of the angel … a small silver pendant.

  She doesn’t recognise it.

  She unwinds the chain from the angel’s neck and looks closer – it is a half of a heart with words inscribed – the Lord between while one from – what does it mean? What does the other half of the message say? It must be from Dad, an odd sort of present, she thinks, if she can’t understand what it means. She doesn’t want to hurt his feelings and so she puts it around her neck and then looks at herself in the mirror.

  ‘In my day,’ her gran had said, ‘unless you were a nurse, watches were only for telling the time, for counting down to the next time we were off shift and could have some fun.’

  At least the weekend is here. There is always something to look forward to, she tells herself. Soon she’ll be out with the girls.

  She can’t wait.
<
br />   7.15 p.m.

  ‘I’m only going to the pub, Dad.’ Her smile radiates love, concern, gentleness, all the things I have seen shine from her in the last few weeks, all the things I need for Elise.

  He stands at the door in his black and yellow power station overalls. I am so close that, from my vantage point, I can almost see the letters on the insignia on his chest. His shoulders slope, one hand on the doorframe.

  ‘Stay safe. Home by twelve. I can pick you up if you like.’

  For a moment, I think my plans are in tatters and I feel a mixture of irritation and anxiety.

  ‘Dad, you’ve had a long day,’ her voice is high-pitched, teasing. It breaks my heart. ‘You need a good sleep. Your dinner’s in the oven, your favourite. Go on!’ She points him back indoors, and they both smile.

  I feel my adrenaline rush.

  This is it.

  From the shadows, I watch as Isabel moves off down the road, her father waving at the door. This will be the last time he ever sees his daughter alive.

  He turns to go back inside but stops and looks around. He stands there for two minutes or so. I wonder can he sense me out there, waiting, watching.

  I can’t risk being seen now. I feel a rising heat – I need to move and move fast if I am going to get her by the bus stop.

  Why doesn’t he just go in?

  Eventually, he shakes his head and turns around, closes the door behind him.

  But by the time I get to the bus stop she has already gone.

  I stand for a moment in the street, recalibrating.

  I stay calm, not letting the anger escape. I’m going to need it to guide me. I keep it inside, letting it implode within me, turning the energy back into the driving force that will propel me.

  I go to my vehicle, parked nearby. I start the engine, knowing exactly where she’s going.

  I adapt.

  That is what I have always had to do.

  It’s what I am built for.

  Chapter Eleven