by SE Moorhead
‘I couldn’t save her, Jimmy. I couldn’t save Jennifer.’
‘You should be thinking about saving yourself. If the real killer was here – and he might have been – then he could have killed you.’
She stopped crying then and looked at him.
‘Why didn’t he kill me?’ she asked, her face streaked with tears, turning the question over in her mind. ‘Why didn’t he kill me? He had the chance, but he didn’t …’
Somehow she didn’t fit the profile.
He went for young, petite innocent girls – Type B. They already knew that.
And … who else? What did the Type A all have in common?
Something that she wasn’t. Something she didn’t have or didn’t do.
She thought back to what Rosetta had told her.
A good girl deserves her mother’s heart.
Mothers.
That was it.
He was killing mothers.
8.43 p.m.
I need to clear my mind. I want to forget about mothers, those who are supposed to protect you, take care of you. I wouldn’t be in this position now if she had done what she was supposed to do. But I have never been able to get my mother out of my mind.
Even after she took her own life, unable to live without Elise, unable to live with the guilt of the fact that she had let the bastard into our lives, that she had brought the Devil to our door.
She hadn’t been able to cope and so my little sister had drowned, but it was his fault, even though she should have protected us, protected Elise.
I wasn’t there that day. I wasn’t there to save my little sister.
I remember coming home from school. It was a freezing cold February day and the sky was already darkening. One of the mechanics, Martin, asked me what I’d learned about, if I liked my teacher. But then the bastard roared at me to get in the house – I wasn’t to cause trouble in the yard. I remember clearly Martin frowned and when the bastard had faced the other way, he winked at me.
It wasn’t until later that I heard that the bastard should have been in the house, looking after Elise. He was meant to be taking care of her but, instead, he was out in the yard, with the other men, playing with his cars, bantering with the lads.
He cared so little about us that he forgot.
Forgot about the little girl that he should have been keeping safe.
I shouted for Elise as I went through the door, she always used to come running to see me. One time, because my mother had been so out of it for the day, and mustn’t have fed her, I found her eating the dog’s food from the bowl on the floor of the kitchen. That man always treated his dogs better than us.
But this day, there was silence.
I looked around the door of the room my mother shared with him. That day, she was flat out on the bed, the doctor had given her some tablets to take to help her cope. Sometimes she took too many. Or she drank too much. Stuck her head in the sand. She should have been on her guard, but instead, she spent days in bed. All because of the way he treated her. I think she wanted to escape from him, any way she could. Some days, she would sleep for hours on end and Elise would curl up next to her while she was out of it. My little sister would sing or chat to herself, lying against my mother’s semi-conscious body. Other days, Elise and I would hide from him, afraid that without anyone to witness he would do what he liked to us.
I checked my mother was breathing.
Elise wasn’t there.
I went into my room and searched in the wardrobe, under the bed, anywhere a small child might hide from an angry, violent man. She liked to wrap herself up in a blanket, to feel comfort, I suppose.
But when I approached the bathroom, a growing dread began to fill me.
The door squeaked on its hinge and then stopped as it banged softly on the radiator behind it. The house was silent except for a rhythmic drip, drip, drip that seemed to grow louder and fill my skull. I remember looking down at my feet as I slowly placed one in front of the other on the black and white tiles. I had to force my eyes to travel up the bath panel, over the rim.
Elise’s tiny body lay suspended in the water, her pale, flawless skin whiter than ever, her blue eyes open. The surface was smooth like glass. Her hair floated outwards like rays of light from the sun.
At first, I didn’t understand what I was seeing.
I said, Elise! Elise stop messing! Get up now! You can’t hold your breath like that for much longer. But when she didn’t respond, I climbed into the bath with her. I remember the splashing and struggling as I tried to grasp hold of her, so difficult as the water made her slippy and she was heavier than I realised.
I wasn’t strong enough to pull you out of the water, Elise, even though you were so small. Instead, I climbed into the bath with you and held your little body until the water was freezing. One last embrace before they took you from me for ever.
I tried, Elise, I tried to come with you that day, but somehow I couldn’t stay beneath the surface.
My mother woke eventually.
The look in her eyes when she realised you were dead …
She blamed me.
She thought that I had drowned my own sister, my own beloved Elise.
But it was only because she couldn’t bear to recognise the truth.
But I wasn’t a killer.
Not back then.
He wasn’t even in the house the day that Elise died. But he caused it.
He made my mother’s life so bad that she put her own feelings above ours and zoned out. She never hurt us, but she left us. Maybe not physically, but she was absent. She wasn’t there when it mattered.
A good girl should have her mother’s heart, have all the love that a mother can give. A child should be loved, shouldn’t they? A mother’s hands should be used for the good. For protecting a child, holding them, brushing their hair, picking them up when they fall, lifting them from the bath, wrapping a big towel around them and hugging them. That’s what a mother’s hands should do.
I am going to give Isabel the box now.
It is time she took it to Elise.
Chapter Thirty-Six
WEDNESDAY 7 FEBRUARY
9.45 p.m.
Kyra burst into Tom’s office. He was studying his screen and rolled his eyes when he saw her. She didn’t care. Her priority was Isabel.
She had convinced Jimmy that she was fine by the time they had arrived at her apartment block, and even gone inside and waited until he had driven away. But then she had got back into her car and driven straight to the station.
‘Tom, I’ve got information,’ Kyra began, excited and breathless.
He didn’t move for a moment. His hair was ruffled and he had a five o’clock shadow. When had he last slept? He got up slowly and closed the door behind her.
‘I think I know …’ she began.
‘Kyra, sit down,’ he ordered. She did as she was told. There was no time to argue.
‘You look exhausted.’ He perched on the edge of his desk in front of her. She put her hand to her hair self-consciously. ‘You should go home and get some rest.’
‘We’re getting too close to the deadline – if he hasn’t killed her already.’ She checked her Commswatch. ‘It isn’t ten o’clock yet. There’s still two hours …’
He blew out a lungful of air.
‘Listen to me,’ she stood up and he leaned back away from her slightly. ‘I think the murderer … he’s killing women he perceives to be good girls, but also, he’s killing mothers.’
What was his expression? Sadness? Pity?
‘Most of the victims didn’t have children.’ He moved back behind his desk and slumped into his chair.
‘No, I mean the first set of victims. Type A. The unknown woman, Madelyn, Amelia, Caylee … Emma.’
Tiredness washed over his face. ‘Madelyn Cooper didn’t have any children.’ His voice was flat. Had he given up already?
Kyra placed two hands flat on his desk and leaned over towards him. ‘Her
mother told us back at the time that Madelyn had had a child when she was young and given it up for adoption at six weeks’ old. Madelyn had a serious addiction and didn’t feel as though she could parent a child. Her mother said in hindsight she was devastated that she hadn’t adopted the baby herself because she had nothing left of her daughter once she was dead. It’s on the files.’
‘Kyra, this is desperation talking. What about the first victim, the unknown one?’ Why wasn’t he looking at her?
‘The post mortem report says she showed signs of having given birth. We don’t know what happened to that child. Caylee Carmichael had a young son, Riley.’
‘So what? they’re all mothers …’ Tom said, hands out in front of him. ‘Plenty of the female adult population of their age are likely to be mothers …’
‘Why are you being like this? Why aren’t you listening to me?’
‘Look,’ he snapped, leaning forwards over his desk pointing a finger towards her, ‘I am in the middle of an investigation. I don’t need you coming in and …’ He stopped, his expression now confused, or irritated, she couldn’t decide. ‘Anyway, where the hell are you getting all this information from?’
‘After the transference with Ray Clarke … it led me to another witness, Rosetta Maguire …’ She remembered her promise. ‘But, Tom, you can’t use her name. She’ll have to be a witness X. We need to keep her identity—’
‘Jesus Christ, Kyra! You’re not a police officer! It’s not your job to solve crimes! Have you not had enough side effects to tell you that enough is enough! What are you doing to yourself?’
‘Alex came with me … to see Rosetta. She’s a police officer.’
‘What?’ He remained still for a moment and she wondered if he’d heard what she had said. But then he spoke into his Commset. ‘Alex, get up here now.’
‘I’ve got to get to the truth, Tom!’
‘And you call this the truth? You think rummaging around in someone’s brain for memories – which might, or might not, be real – is going to help to find out the truth?’ He was shouting at her now. ‘Let me tell you, Kyra, no one person holds the truth! We all see things differently, from our own perspective, for our own ends. We convince ourselves of what we see to back up what we believe. Even if this technology that you designed worked, we could never trust it! Even if we could access people’s memories accurately, how do I know that the brain hasn’t misinterpreted it? How do I know that you’re not just telling me what you want to tell me, what you want to see? There is no objective truth, Kyra!’ He collapsed back into his seat. ‘I’m sorry I ever called you – I feel responsible that you’re in the state you’re in now—’
‘This tech works, Tom! Rosetta doesn’t want to be identified. Promise me you’ll keep her identity secret.’
‘This is bullshit, Kyra!’
Her Commswatch beeped.
Please, love, will you try Molly again? Have a look for her. I’m really worried now.’
Kyra felt a rush of anxiety for her niece, but she had two hours left to try to save Isabel. After that, she would find Molly and try to make things right, once she had a chance to rid her system of all the alien thoughts and feelings that were invading her from the transferences.
Alex appeared, pink in the face, and Tom stood up and squared up to her.
‘What the hell do you think you’re doing? Going behind my back? Taking orders from someone else?’ Alex looked like a child being told off by the headteacher, hands joined together, head down. ‘Going to some woman’s house without my say-so? I told you yesterday you were in trouble. What the hell is the DCI going to say?’
Alex turned to Kyra, furious, ‘Are you trying to ruin my career? You said to keep this to ourselves, and now you’re telling my boss?’
‘The pair of you should have told me if there was another witness,’ Tom snapped.
‘You invited me into this, Tom,’ Kyra retaliated. ‘You asked me, remember! If you feel guilty because you missed a crucial witness …’
‘Don’t try to …’ but he stopped. Her comment had hit home.
‘How many women could we have saved if someone had taken Rosetta seriously fifteen years ago?’
‘And this Maguire woman?’ Tom barked at Alex. ‘Did she seem like a viable witness?’
Kyra held her breath. Was he going to take the lead and run with it? Was he going to interview Rosetta and use all the information that she had to catch him? Would they be able to find Isabel in time?
‘She had absolutely no idea what Kyra was talking about.’ Alex shot her a glance.
‘No, but her husband was there, she didn’t want to speak.’ Kyra told Tom, desperately. ‘She doesn’t want anyone to know that she was there. I told you, she contacted me today and told me the whole story.’
‘I don’t want to hear any more!’ Tom sat back in his seat.
‘If he sticks to the pattern then tonight is the night she dies!’ Kyra said. ‘You’ve got nothing! Nothing besides what I’m telling you!’
‘Yes, we have.’ He spoke calmly now. ‘We’re investigating a man called Martin Coombes, who worked as an apprentice for Lomax back in the early noughties. The DCI is on to the fact that you might be related to one of the victims and there’s no money left now in the pot for your fee …’ He paused. ‘We don’t need you anymore.’
Don’t need you anymore …
‘I don’t care about the money! We need to find Isabel and now!’ Kyra cried. ‘We’ve got until midnight and then it will be too late! He’ll kill her!’
‘We all want to find Isabel!’ Tom bellowed. ‘You can’t destroy yourself in the process! Get her out of my office,’ he commanded Alex, and then, ‘Kyra, you need to go home and have a rest or I’m going to call an ambulance for you and get them to deal with you.’ He spoke firmly, pointing at her. ‘I got you involved and I’m sorry. I really am. I didn’t realise it would have such an effect on you. But you have to leave it to us now.’
‘But, Tom, I—’
‘Or I can arrest you! Get her out!’ Tom told Alex. His eyes were fixed firmly back on his screen.
Exhausted, Kyra let herself be led.
When they got to the main entrance, Alex paused.
‘You don’t look well. Please don’t cause any more fuss. Go home.’
Another message came through on Kyra’s Commset.
I’m worried sick. Please call me as soon as you can.
Kyra groaned. There was nothing she could do to help Isabel now. She needed to focus on her family. She turned to Alex. ‘Please, do one last thing for me? My mum has messaged to say Molly’s run off again … please, trace her phone …’
Alex locked eyes with her for a moment.
‘I promise, if you do this for me I won’t call you again.’
There was a pause, and then Alex said, ‘I thought we had an understanding. I helped you, but you showed me up in front of the boss. I can’t trust you, Kyra.’ She looked down at Kyra’s Commswatch. ‘I’ll do it for your mum, not you. But after this, I don’t want to hear from you again.’ She turned and went back into the station.
Kyra waited, agitated, in the main entrance, on the other side of the security door.
After ten minutes, Alex returned.
‘I’ve found her phone. It’s on Byrom Street.’
That was where the lab was. What was Molly doing there? Had she gone to see if Kyra was working late? She didn’t know she had lost her job, so it was possible.
Kyra ran to her car after mumbling a thanks to Alex. Moments later, she was driving towards the lab, hoping Molly would still be there where she arrived. She would give her a good talking to on the way back home.
A group of armed police officers were rounding up the Lè addicts and the street supervisors were scrubbing up the refuse of the day as she turned off the main road and onto Byrom Street. Screeching to a halt outside the lab, Kyra felt herself gearing up to a confrontation with Molly.
But there was no one to be seen.
She got out of the car and checked the door to CarterTech, but it was locked. Graffiti on the walls opposite took on strange forms and shapes in the shadows and a creeping dread filled her.
‘Call Molly.’ Her Commset immediately lit up.
There was a brief moment of silence and out of the corner of her eye a small light appeared, partially hidden by a rubbish bag, a couple of metres away from where she was standing. A split second later came the buzz and ringing. She moved the bag out of the way with her boot and looked down to the bright screen displaying the word KY.
Her mouth dried up.
Molly had been here. Oh God, I told her I was going to do an experiment to find out who killed her mum! I led her here . . .
Her fingers fumbled as she scrabbled to pick it up, and her eyes caught a silver glint beneath it. Kyra knew immediately what it was.
A Mizpah.
The killer had taken Molly!
Hadn’t she seen someone in the street by the lab, watching her? But how had he known where she worked? How had he found Molly?
‘Call Alex.’
Alex answered after what seemed like ages, ‘What, Kyra?’ she said, her voice flat. ‘You weren’t going to call—’
‘Please, Alex, he’s got Molly.’
‘What?’ her reply was muffled . Kyra could hear the sound of Alex starting her car. ‘I don’t want to talk to you. You’ve got me into enough shit.’
Kyra’s throat was closing up. Her lungs were suddenly restricted, her voice small, she whispered, ‘The Mizpah Murderer. He’s got my niece.’
In Kyra’s eyeline Madelyn Cooper, wrapped in eco-plastic, a black wound where her heart should have been, stood against the graffitied wall, her snake tattoo uncoiling, slithering from her thigh, up her torso and through the hole in her chest. It squirmed out of her back across the bricks and blended in with the sprayed artwork.
Had Alex even heard what she had said?
‘He’s taken Molly. I found her Commset, with a Mizpah pendant.’