by Amy Cross
“Taking photos of everyone who came through the door?” I ask.
She nods.
“I saw him too,” I tell her. “I think he was trying to be subtle, but he had a kind of scared look in his eyes.”
“I'll find out what he's up to,” she says, making her way along the corridor toward the double doors at the end. Seconds later I hear her calling out to someone, followed by the sound of footsteps racing down the stairs.
I pause for a moment to compose myself, before taking a sip of scalding hot, foul coffee and then heading to Ophelia's room. This is the fourth time I've been here in as many days, but now that Ophelia's been brought out of her medically-induced coma I'm starting to feel angry that she pulled this stunt. As I reach the door and look into the room, I see that she's sitting up and fiddling with the drip that feeds into her left arm.
“Busy?” I ask.
“There's no Smarties,” she replies, her voice sounding slightly slurred.
I make my way over to the side of the bed and watch as she moves the slider back and forth on the drip. Grabbing her chart, I sigh as I see the name she must have given the doctors: Gertrude Featherstone. Looking back over at her, I watch for a moment as she continues to fiddle with the slider.
“That's not doing anything, you know,” I point out. “It's empty.”
“Are you sure?” she asks, looking up at the bag. “Oh. Crap, maybe you're right. I feel...” She turns to me, and her pupils are scarily large. “I'm still drugged up to the eyeballs, aren't I?”
I can't help but smile. After all, it's quite refreshing to see the great Ophelia in such a state.
“Have you seen Dave?” she asks suddenly.
“Who's Dave?”
“Dave's Dave.”
“I have no idea who Dave is.”
“Oh.” She pauses. “Doesn't everyone know someone named Dave? It's like the most common name ever. You go up to any random person in the street and ask if they've seen Dave, and they'll know a Dave. Of course, that's not much use if you're looking for a particular Dave, but if you just want a Dave in general...”
I wait for her to explain a little further, but she simply turns and looks at the bare bedside table. She blinks a couple of times, as if she's having trouble focusing.
“No Smarties,” she says again, frowning slightly. “That's a disappointment. My calculations indicated that there'd be Smarties. I asked the nurses if anyone had been to visit me, but they weren't very helpful. They said you'd been a few times, but I'd already assumed that. Did you read to me? Did you sing? That'd be kinda cheesy, but I'd understand. I like Mariah Carey and Britpop.”
“Do you realize you could have died?” I ask.
She shakes her head.
“Or you could have broken your neck,” I continue, “or you could have ended up paralyzed or -”
“There was a 0.5% chance of death,” she replies, “and a 0.05% chance of paralysis.”
“You calculated that, did you?”
She nods and smiles.
“One day you're going get something wrong,” I tell her. “You're going to realize that you're not as smart as you think you are.”
“No-one's as smart as I think I am,” she replies. “I know you're right, and I know I'm heading for a fall, but...” Suddenly she spots the chocolate bar in my hand. “Is that for me?”
Without saying anything, I place it on the bedside table.
“So tell me about the case,” she continues. “I don't really remember much of what you said the other day, but I remember it sounded interesting.”
“That wouldn't be appropriate.”
“I want to help.”
“I don't need your help.”
“Since when?”
Sighing, I realize that nothing much seems to have changed in the year since we first met. Ophelia's still maddeningly vague and self-satisfied, but also extremely smart. I can feel her running rings around me already, and that's not a sensation that I enjoy very much.
“You helped me one time,” I point out, “and that was only because the case required someone with your specific expertize. No offense, but the case I'm working at the moment has nothing to do with London's homeless community.”
“My expertize isn't limited to one field,” she replies. “It's limited only to the universe.” She pauses. “I think the drugs are affecting me quite a lot still. What the hell have they got me on, anyway?” Again, she starts fiddling with the slider.
“I can't get you involved in another case,” I tell her, “especially when the only reason would be to ease your boredom and provide some -”
“Can I stay with you?” sh e asks suddenly.
I stare at her, trying to work out if she really said what I think she said.
“If I have an address,” she continues, “they'll discharge me today, on account of the swelling having gone down and them being pressed for beds and all. If I don't have an address, they're gonna have to keep me for a week, which would suck big hairy balls. Also, the whole head injury thing means that it probably would be smart if I wasn't alone for the next few days, so...” She pauses, and for the first time she actually seems a little nervous. “So can I stay with you or not? It's just for a week at most, and it's not like I'll cause any trouble. The people at the library already think I live with you.”
“I...”
“How's your mother?”
“Fine,” I lie.
“I can keep an eye on her while you're at work,” she suggests. “I swear to God, I'll help out around the place, and it's only for a few days. I'm mostly quite house-trained. I'm not asking to move in permanently, I just need to stay somewhere while I make sure I'm okay. You wouldn't turn someone away when they've just been in a coma, would you?”
“You can stay on one condition,” I tell her. “You have to tell me your real name.”
“No.”
“Well that's the deal on the table.”
“I'm not taking it.”
“Then you can't stay.”
“Fine.”
I wait for her to give in and tell me her name, but even in her drugged state she seems defiant. I could, maybe should, be more stubborn and dig my heels in, but right now I don't feel as if I'm up for another fight. Besides, there's a part of me that thinks maybe it'd be good to discuss elements of the case with Ophelia, albeit strictly on an informal basis. She helped me once before and if nothing else, she's got a great mind that could spot a few things that I've missed. In other words, I could use her. I just can't afford to have her directly involved with the case.
“Okay,” I continue, “you can stay if you promise that you'll tell me your real name one day in the future.”
She shakes her head.
“Why not?”
She shrugs.
“Call me when they're ready to release you,” I say finally, “and I'll come and pick you up.”
“Deal,” she replies with a broad grin.
Smiling faintly, I turn and walk out of the room. I have a million things to get done today, and the results of the latest lab work are already late. The worst thing is, I can feel myself starting to crack. This really could be like the Daniel Gregory case all over again.
Feeling my phone vibrate in my pocket, I pull it out and see that someone from the station is trying to reach me.
“Foster,” I say as I answer. “What's -”
“Good news,” Tricia says on the other end of the line. “Uniform just called. They think they've found the rest of the bodies.”
Ophelia
“Dave?”
No reply.
“Dave, where are you?”
Still wearing my hospital gown, and still feeling a little woozy from all the drugs they pumped into my body over the past few days, I wander out into the waiting area at the end of the ward. I was expecting to find Dave sitting here, but there's no sign of him. With a sinking feeling, I start to realize that maybe I was wrong to trust him. I thought he was -
“Over here!” he hisses.
Turning, I spot him leaning out from around the corner.
“Why are you hiding?” I ask.
“This woman tried to chase me away,” he replies, hurrying over to join me. He's wearing a cheap suit, which I guess was his haul from the charity shop, and he sure as hell doesn't look comfortable. In fact, he sticks out like a sore thumb. “I think she noticed the camera,” he adds, glancing along the corridor as if he's worried that someone might overhear us. “God knows how. I was subtle as an eagle.”
“Eagles aren't subtle,” I point out, taking the camera and switching it to display mode. “Rookie mistake right there, Dave.”
“Anyway, she called out to me and then when I ran, she came after me for a bit.”
“Are you sure she was chasing you away?” I ask. “Maybe she just wanted to ask you a few questions. Either way, running was probably the best option. And coming back was good too.”
“I took ninety-seven photos,” he replies eagerly. “I was here every morning, just like you told me, and I stayed until the evening each time. No-one visited this ward without me getting a photo of them. I was like a proper spy.”
Flicking through the images, I see a succession of rather blurry pictures, most of them showing people who have clearly noticed that they're being photographed. I'd hoped that Dave would be able to get the job done without being noticed, but now it's clear that he's basically been sitting here looking weird for several days. Still, he's managed to get the photos, which would be useful if it wasn't for the fact that I don't think my mystery visitor showed up this time. So far, I don't recognize any of the faces from my past.
“Did I do a good job?” he asks.
“You did a great job,” I reply, turning the camera off. “I'll review the images later.”
“So how are you feeling?” he continues. “I thought about coming in to ask one of the nurses about you, but then I thought that might blow my cover and you wouldn't like it.”
“Smart thinking,” I tell him. “And I'm fine, thanks. Just a little sore in the head, but nothing that I can't wait out. They're gonna let me out later today. I think it's kinda early, personally, but whatever. For some reason the nurses don't seem to like me very much.” I pause for a moment, waiting for him to leave. “So, yeah, thanks for helping out. You can keep the suit. I guess I'll see you around.” With that, I turn to go back to my room.
“Wait,” he replies, reaching out and grabbing my arm.
I immediately pull free, flinching at the touch.
“Sorry,” he continues, “it's just... You said that maybe we could...”
I wait for him to finish the sentence.
“Maybe we could what?” I ask after a few seconds.
“You know... Coffee. Cafe. That sort of thing. You said before that... maybe...”
“I did?” It takes me a moment to realize that he's right. “Oh. Yeah, I did, didn't I? Sorry, I don't think I've got time right now, but maybe we can do it some time next week. There's a place on Rigmore Street that does decent tea for fifty pence, plus you get one of those little biscuits and they're not picky about who they let inside, so we can go there if you really want to get a drink. It's a bit cold sometimes, but that's okay, we'll just make sure we don't sit by the door.”
“Okay,” he replies, looking a little shocked. “That sounds... great. What day and -”
“We'll work it out some other time,” I tell him. “I don't know my schedule for the next few weeks, 'cause I might be helping out with a friend's stuff. Well, not friend. Well, maybe friend. She's someone I know, and I don't think she realizes that we're friends yet. Anyway, I'm gonna be really busy, so I'd rather not get myself pinned down to a specific time.”
“Sure,” he replies, “so maybe one evening we could -”
“Daytime's better,” I add, interrupting him. “In the evening, there's always the risk of people being there on dates, which'd make me want to hurl.”
“Right,” he says, nodding a little too keenly. “Totally. Wouldn't... Wouldn't want that...”
“So I'll see you around,” I add, feeling as if I want to get back to my room before this conversation becomes weird. “Thanks again for the help.” As I make my way back into the ward, I can't shake the distinct feeling that Dave is watching me. When I reach the door to my room, I stop and look back, and sure enough he's still right where I left him, looking for all the world as if he was hoping to talk a little more. God knows why.
After an awkward moment, he waves.
I wave back.
People are weird.
Switching the camera back on, I go into my room and start checking the photos. It's pretty obvious that my mystery visitor didn't show up this time, which I guess is probably a good thing. Still, I can't quite believe that the first visit was just a coincidence. I know that I have a tendency to be a little paranoid from time to time, but I'm convinced that I'm right to be worried, even if I know deep down that there's no way anyone from home could ever track me down.
I shed my old life years ago, and I burned every bridge. I'm basically a completely different person, and I refuse to believe that anyone could ever track me down.
Laura
“A janitor found it,” explains the uniformed officer as he pushes open the door to the hut. “As soon as we saw inside, we realized we should probably get in touch with you. It just seemed like too much of a coincidence.”
Stepping into the dimly-lit, dank-smelling room, I'm immediately struck by the fact that this seems like some kind of workspace. From the outside, set in a small clearing at the edge of a park, the hut looked like nothing of any real interest, but now it's clear that someone has been using this place recently. There are benches along one wall, filled with various pieces of equipment: saws, hammers, blades, chisels... I can't help but notice that there's everything here that would be needed to cut up human bodies. It's like a rundown, dilapidated version of the coroner's lab back at the station.
“So what's this place supposed to be used for?” I ask.
“Until a couple of years ago,” the officer replies, “it was used to store gardening equipment for the local college. Then they moved all that stuff into the main building. Since then, it was supposed to be empty.”
Looking down at the floor, I spot a large, dark stain in the wood. I'll have to order a proper examination, but I imagine that it's blood.
“So where were the bodies?” I ask after a moment.
***
“It's really a bunch of body parts,” the officer explains as he leads me away from the hut, toward a nearby spot where several forensic examiners are already working. “They were buried in bin bags, but only a couple of feet deep. Wild animals, probably a fox, started digging them up.”
As we reach the scene, I spot a series of severed legs laid out on some tarpaulin, along with a set of hands. It's a horrific sight, and moments later one of the SOCO team members removes a severed human head from another bag.
“There's a bunch in here,” she says, holding the head for a moment before putting it back in the bag. “Five or six, or...” She pauses for a moment, before turning away. “Jesus,” she mutters from beneath her mask. “What the fuck is going on here?”
“Take a moment if you need one,” I tell her.
Clearly distressed, she heads away from the site.
“Leftovers,” I mutter, walking over to Dr. Maitland as he takes photos of the severed legs.
“Tim Marshall is taking a temporary leave of absence,” he explains, not looking up as he continues his work. “A psychologist spoke to him and diagnosed a panic disorder. It seems that the shock of finding that little boy's body has left a lasting impression on the poor chap.” He finally turns to me. “Strange how the pair of us seem to have come out of it unscathed, eh? Are we special?”
“What have we got here?” I ask, dodging the question.
“I haven't begun to mix and match yet,” he continues, “but I'm pretty sure these ar
e the other body parts that the killer didn't need once he was finished constructing his masterpiece.” He holds up one of the legs, showing me the ragged edge where it was separated from the rest of the body. “Some of them, such as this one, have been stapled and then had the staples removed. It's pretty clear that he had trouble deciding which parts to use, so he ended up adding parts, removing them, switching them around and so on, until he was happy.”
“And the rest he just threw away,” I point out.
“God knows what selection criteria he was using,” Maitland continues. “You'll notice that we have a number of different skin tones here, no two quite alike, almost as if the killer specifically sought a variety of ethnic samples. Maybe he was trying to make a statement about the state of multi-cultural Britain, eh?”
“Maybe,” I mutter, looking down at the surreal sight of a pile of hands. It's hard to believe that they're real; they look more like dirty porcelain doll parts, but they have ragged cuts around the wrists, with pieces of bone sticking out from the decaying meat.
“They're like pieces from a doll, aren't they?” Maitland adds.
“Just what I was thinking,” I tell him.
“It's quite strange to think of this chap sitting in the hut over there, trying out different bits from each body until he finally managed to create something he was happy with. I dare say there must be some kind of pattern, or at least a system that seemed logical to the killer at the time, although I'm not quite sure how we can go about figuring that system out. Still, that's your job, isn't it?”
“And your job is to find something here we can use,” I tell him. “With all these parts, there has to be something that can tie the killer to the scene. I don't care how long it takes you, but coming away from here empty-handed is not an option.” I stare at the pile of hands. “You know what I mean.”
“I'll do my best.”
“This person's smart,” I continue, “but they only buried the body parts a few feet deep, and they left all their equipment in the hut where they knew it'd be found eventually.” I pause for a moment, running through the options. “The killer wants to be caught,” I add finally, starting to get an idea of what must be happening, “but at the same time, he wants to control the way that it happens. He knows it's inevitable, but he wants to be in charge.”