by SE Moorhead
FRIDAY 2 FEBRUARY
10.36 p.m.
Kyra marched straight up to Molly’s room when she arrived at her mother’s house, prompted by a phone call that her niece had returned. Her frustration was brimming, exacerbated by a fruitless search through the case files on the Mizpah Murderer.
‘Kyra,’ her mother called after her, ‘don’t be too tough on her.’
She stood outside Molly’s door for a moment and took a deep breath.
How was she supposed to comfort someone whose mother’s killer, or alleged killer at least, had escaped from prison?
The streetlight seeped through the long, pale lilac curtains in a gentle glow. All the doors on the two double wardrobes hung open, clothes spilling out. Old teddies sat on a top shelf and stared idly at the multitude of printed-out photographs of Molly and her friends in a collage on the wall opposite.
‘You’re back.’ Kyra sat tentatively next to her on the double bed and flicked on a small lamp. Molly winced against the light.
Without her make-up she looked so young.
‘Where’ve you been, Mols?’ Kyra sounded disappointed although she had meant to go for sympathetic.
‘With friends.’ Molly did not look at her.
An old-fashioned framed photograph sat at the side of the bed, next to the lamp, which showed Emma, the same age as her daughter was now, looking adoringly at Molly, a toddler with chocolate smeared on her face staring right at the camera, dark curls like her mother, huge golden-brown eyes.
‘Molly, you have to let us know where you are going, try not to worry your nan—’
‘I can’t help it if I’m upset! I’m fed up with you two always telling me what to do. I’m nearly eighteen!’
‘I know, I know … but you can’t run away whenever you feel like it! We’ve been worried about you.’
‘I’m practically an adult and all I get is Molly do this, Molly do that!’ She pummelled a pillow.
‘What would Grandad say about this sort of behaviour?’ Kyra asked gently, trying to reason with her. ‘About running off and upsetting Nan?’
‘Nothing! Grandad’s dead! Like Mum!’
Molly flung herself back down on the bed and started to howl, like a toddler.
Kyra sat and stroked her long dark hair as she sobbed. Molly didn’t push her away. Instead, they stayed like that, until she had cried herself out and lay with her face half smothered by the lilac pillow, her eyes swollen and sleepy.
‘No one gets it,’ she murmured.
‘Gets what, love?’
‘What it’s like to have a mum who was murdered. My mates, they’re lovely to me when I talk about it, but they don’t get it.’
How could they?
Kyra smiled at her. ‘I used to stroke your mum’s hair like this when she was little and couldn’t sleep. I used to put her to bed every night, when your nan was working late. She always insisted I got into her small bed which was a squash for the both of us. Sometimes we even put a sheet over the top and pretended we were camping.’
Molly gave a teary smile. ‘You used to do that with me!’
‘That’s right. Your mum loved stories and I would read to her until she was tired, and then I would lie next to her in bed and stroke her hair as she drifted off, like I used to do with you too. That’s my favourite memory of your mum.’
Molly’s face fell again. ‘Ky, I don’t even remember her. I don’t remember what her voice was like or what she smelled of or … anything. I only know her face because of the photos. I keep thinking I have real memories of her, but then I realise that I only saw a photograph and my mind is pretending that I remember the real thing. It’s like she never existed …’ Her voice was snuffly. ‘There’s a big hole in my life.’ She put her hand on her stomach. ‘Here. Or it feels like … I don’t know … a heaviness squashing me down all the time.’ Her eyes closed. ‘And he … him … that bastard! He’s out and free and doing it again! I wish he could be punished, the way I feel punished … all my life nearly … such a big part of me is missing.’ She began to sob again.
How could Kyra explain to Molly that it was partly her own fault – Kyra’s fault – that Emma had been out in the street when she had been taken? That she could have, should have, prevented her mum running out of that cafe if she had only thought about what she was going to say before she said it, if she hadn’t said cruel things. Then this lovely girl, the daughter Kyra never had, wouldn’t be suffering like this.
Guilt washed over her.
After a while, Molly settled and then her face became like a little girl’s again. Moody Molly, Huggy Molly, Tidy Molly, Headstrong Molly, Untidy Molly – there were a whole load of Mollies at the moment.
‘What was she like, Kyra? Tell me again.’
‘She was very independent. She wanted to save the planet,’ Kyra said with a sad smile. ‘She always stuck to her guns. Headstrong, like you. Terrible dress sense, she clashed those colours!’
Molly’s eyebrows were raised as she took in every word. ‘And she lived in a commune?’
‘That’s a posh word for it. It was more like a squat really. I went there a couple of times – they had batik sheets with elephants on the walls and mattresses on the floor for beds. They didn’t even have electricity or running water … buckets for toilets, that kind of thing.’ She saw Molly’s face. ‘But they made the best of it. It was kind of … cool, I suppose. She was a free spirit.’
Free spirit, as though it was a good thing. She had to be loyal to Emma’s memory, show her good side, her passion, her determination for the environment. There was no point in sullying Molly’s ideal. ‘When she was sixteen and supposed to be doing her exams she ran away and took part in a protest outside the Houses of Parliament about what was happening to the environment.’
‘Was Grandad annoyed?’
‘Yes,’ Kyra said seriously, then smiling, ‘but Nan and I were secretly proud of her. She was brave, your mum.’
‘I looked her up on the hypernet. She was arrested once, wasn’t she?’
So Molly did know about that side of Emma.
‘Once or twice.’ Kyra smiled. ‘The government were trying to play down the eco-threat at first. They didn’t want people panicking.’
‘And they didn’t want to stop making money from dodgy deals that affected the environment.’
‘Correct.’ Wow, it could have been Emma sitting there right in front of her. An immense surge of love flowed through Kyra that somehow seemed to heal the difficult day she’d had. ‘They tried to hush it up, give the protestors a bad name, but then it all came out that Emma and people like her were right. But I’ve told you all this before!’
‘I know, I just like hearing it.’ Molly snuggled down. At least she seemed calmer now, less upset.
‘Did she never tell you who my dad was? Do you think I could ever find out?’ Molly didn’t make eye contact.
She could ask all she liked, but Kyra only knew his first name, Trent. Once Molly was born, Emma had never spoken of him again.
‘The most important thing is that your mum loved you, from the moment she found out she was having you.’ She remembered a tiny Molly in a see-through hospital cot, her sister’s tired face and radiant smile.
‘She loved me, didn’t she?’
‘Of course she did. Always.’
Molly suddenly sat up and wrapped her arms around Kyra. ‘I love you, Ky.’
‘I love you too, Mols.’
Molly lay back down. Kyra flicked off the bedside lamp casting the room back into semi-darkness and sat stroking Molly’s hair until she was sure her niece was fast asleep. On her way out, she caught her own reflection in the mirror. Her skin was dry and taut, her eyes more dull than usual. From this angle shadows pooled around the base of her throat and Kyra reached up to check it wasn’t blood. God, she needed some sleep. Something in the corner of the room caught her eye. She swung round, thinking there was someone standing there.
But it was only a heap of clo
thes on a chair.
Untidy like Emma too.
She went back down to the kitchen, her mother sat at the table, a milky film across the top of her long-cold tea. ‘Shouldn’t you be in bed by now?’
‘I won’t be able to sleep,’ her mum replied.
‘That poor kid, she’s grieving for a mother she never really knew,’ Kyra sighed, overwhelmed by a terrible sadness. She walked over to her mum, put her arms around her and kissed her gently on the forehead. ‘At least we have our memories, Mum.’
‘What can we do to make things better for her?’
‘It’s grief. There’s not much we can do, except be there to pick up the pieces.’ Kyra’s heart ached for her niece. ‘Whatever we do, there’ll always be a mum-shaped hole in her life.’
Kyra’s Commset rang. Her mother glanced at her anxiously as she answered it.
TOM MORGAN.
‘What’s happened?’ she asked Tom, keeping her voice steady for her mother’s sake.
‘Nothing … nothing bad. I wanted to tell you myself, we’ve got him.’
The tension that she had felt since she had found he had escaped suddenly broke and she let out a gasp. ‘Oh, thank God!’
She raised her eyebrows and nodded at her mum. ‘They got him.’ She pointed to her earpiece. ‘It’s my friend – she’s watching the news,’ she lied.
Someone was talking to Tom in the background. She waited until the muffled conversation stopped.
‘Look, I’ve got to go,’ he said. ‘Don’t worry. They’ve just arrested him. He’s in custody.’
‘Where was he?’
‘Some hovel down at the Scrambles.’
The muscles in her stomach relaxed a little.
Then something occurred to her. Why would Lomax hide right by where the body had been found? It didn’t make sense. It was another doubt, along with the case files and Lomax’s protests.
‘Are you sure—’ she began.
But his tone went cold. ‘We’ve got him, Kyra. Trust me. No one else is going to die now. It’s over.’
And the line went dead.
Chapter Twelve
SATURDAY 3 FEBRUARY
9.01 a.m.
Kyra was lying in bed half-asleep when her Commswatch lit up on the bedside table next to her. The tiny wrist screen showed Tom’s face via the camera at her front door.
She jumped up and pulled on her jeans and a sweater. A quick look in the mirror to smooth her hair and wipe away any residue of make-up and she let him in. He stood in the living room, shifting from one foot to the
other.
‘I’m sorry to call by so early. I hope you don’t mind.’
She could smell his scent, mingled with the leather of his old messenger bag slung across his body.
‘How did you know where I live?’
‘Your ID reading when you came into the station. It’s on the records. I hope you don’t mind.’
Of course, when Alex had scanned her. She shrugged and showed him to the small wooden table. He pulled a chair out and sat down, leaving on his navy coat but taking his bag from his shoulder.
She made her way over to the small kitchenette, painfully aware of him watching her.
‘Coffee? It’s only synthetic, I’m afraid.’
He nodded and she spooned it into two mugs and poured water from the thermal tap.
She sat back down and passed him the coffee as he tugged at his earlobe. She could always tell when he was preoccupied.
‘A personal visit? Is there something I need to know?’ Her anxiety was reflecting his serious expression. ‘You have got him, haven’t you? He hasn’t hurt anyone else, has he? I mean, we weren’t too late?’
The ‘we’ again.
‘No … no, he hasn’t hurt anyone.’
She exhaled but when he continued to look pensive, she asked, ‘So, what is it?’
‘I need your help.’ He paused and sipped his coffee, which was clearly too hot. He winced. ‘We removed Lomax’s bio-tracker and analysed it. It was still working. He had tried to remove it but failed. In the end, his only option was to use a blocker. Anyway, we could see the routes he has taken over the last two days.’ He tugged at his earlobe again. ‘Lomax wasn’t anywhere near where the body was found. In fact, he wasn’t anywhere near that part of the Scrambles.’
Kyra took a moment for this to sink in. She thought back to her doubts the previous night. Killers didn’t usually hide so close to the deposition site.
‘So, you’re saying?’
‘I’m saying that either Lomax had an accomplice, someone who dumped the body for him … or he didn’t do it.’
A creeping coldness enveloped her.
‘Tom, yesterday I told you there was something weird going on and now you’re telling me what? That I was right?’
‘We can’t jump to conclusions.’
She folded her arms across her chest. ‘I don’t see why you’re telling me—’
‘We want to interview Lomax, to get to the truth of the matter.’
She shrugged again. Why should she make things easy for him?
‘What’s that got to do with me?’
She reached out, took her coffee mug with both hands and looked at him over the rim, taking a sip. She put the mug back down on the table slowly.
‘I want you to interview him.’ His eyes bored into her. ‘Analyse him, find out whether he’s telling the truth.’
Her chest became a beehive again, her stomach prickling with tiny stings.
‘You’re joking, right?’ How could he ask this of her? After everything that had happened? After the fact that she had told him what a threat Lomax was to her?
He shook his head, unblinking. ‘You’ve done it before.’
‘Yesterday you thought I was a crackpot, and today you want me to do your dirty work? What’s your DCI going to say? Surely she won’t let me on the case, too involved?’
‘There’s no way she’d let anyone on the case if they were this close. I’ve told her you’re a freelance consultant profiler and that you worked on the original case – she doesn’t know the connection. You’ll be paid.’
‘So just throw money at me and I’ll do whatever—’
‘Look, I know how difficult this must be for you—’
‘Do you?’ she asked, eyebrows raised.
‘And I wouldn’t put you in this position if I really didn’t have to. I wouldn’t want you to be upset. Whatever happened between us in the past, you’re still my friend.’
She remembered him holding her back when they found Emma’s body, his strong arms around her, preventing her from seeing her beloved sister broken and dead.
He wasn’t holding her back anymore.
‘Please, think about it. Who would be better than you to talk to him? You were there on the original Mizpah Murder case, someone who got the whole picture. Someone who understands how he works.’
She pushed her coffee mug away. ‘Tom, I’m not a criminal profiler anymore. I’m not sure I can—’
‘Please, Kyra.’ He reached out to touch her hand, but she withdrew it.
‘Jesus, Tom! Yesterday you practically threw me out of your office because I said I doubted he even did it! And now you’re asking me to, what? Sit in a room with a man who might, or might not, have butchered my sister? Or who is at the least furious with me because I didn’t stand up for him when he knew that I had my doubts? Do you know what he might do to me?’
‘There’s no one else on the team now who was on the original case. You were there; you saw it all, and you were the only person who questioned the conviction.’
Yes, and look where that had got her – ridiculed by the whole of the department back then, rejected by Tom just yesterday. It had been another reason she had left that life behind.
‘You were never one hundred per cent convinced. I couldn’t understand why as the evidence seemed clear-cut. But now … with the findings today, there might be some substance to your doubts.’
&nb
sp; She sat in silence, watching him.
‘But maybe …’ He leaned forward, elbows on the table, and made a steeple of his fingers, ‘Maybe you saw something that I didn’t. I wanted the case to be over, boxed off and the evidence seemed so strong – Lomax had a violent history, witnesses placed him near the scene of the crime, his DNA on some of the bodies—’
‘It seemed like he did it,’ she agreed finally.
But still, she had checked the news every February for years afterwards.
Just in case.
They sat in uneasy silence for a while.
‘Why did you call me? I don’t see what I can do,’ she protested. ‘I left all that behind, Tom. The case, my sister … the other things.’ She saw a hint of recognition in his eyes. ‘It was overwhelming. I’m not sure I want to be reminded of all that.’
He ran his fingers along the edge of the table and then their eyes met. She could see the desperation.
‘I need someone to help me find the truth.’
The truth. He knew that would tantalise her. He knew that was what drove her.
But she knew him too. She knew there was more to it than that.
‘You’re not telling me everything.’ She was afraid of what was coming.
Tom leaned forward. ‘Please, Kyra, I need to get to the bottom of this and Lomax says he’ll only talk to you.’ He sat forward. ‘No one else.’
So this was Lomax’s request.
Kyra felt her chest tightening, the blood rushing to her head, her saliva honey-thick. Images flashed before her: the grimy flat, the metal stairs, a Mizpah necklace, Tom lying on the ground, the blood.
‘No way, Tom.’ Her breathing became ragged. ‘I don’t work with the police now. I’m a neuropsychologist. I look at people’s brains to see if I can fix them, make them better. I’m right at the end of the queue when it comes to talking to criminals, and whatever you say about Lomax being wrongly convicted, whether or not he’s a serial killer, he’s still a vicious, violent bastard. Look what he did to you!’
Tom stood up, and she was surprised at a sudden feeling that she didn’t want him to go. He checked his Commswatch. It must have been on silent as she hadn’t heard anything.
‘I have to take this. I’ll right be outside.’ He reached into his bag and took out a police-issue mini-screen. ‘I am sorry.’ He looked genuinely remorseful, but then his face hardened. ‘I have no other option.’