The Deepest Cut

by Conor Corderoy

  “He wants me to find who did it.”

  Her face went rigid. She picked up her cup, stopped with it halfway to her mouth, then put it down again. “That’s what the cops are there for. You promised me. You promised me that you were not going to get involved in this kind of thing anymore. It was a condition of our living together, Liam.”

  “I know.”

  “So? What are you saying to me?”

  “Maria, will you please stop talking and listen to me for a moment?”

  She was staring at me. Her eyes appeared black.

  “I’m doing it, okay? I’m changing. Between you, you and Russell are dragging me onto the straight and narrow.” I gave her my lopsided smile, but she just kept staring at me, waiting. I sighed. “I’m making it happen, baby. But you have to understand that you can’t just walk away from a guy like Pete.”

  “So what are you saying? If I live with you, if I make a life together with you, I’m making a life with Russian Pete, too? Like some kind of mad Russian mother-in-law?”

  “No…”

  “That’s the word, Liam. Only instead of saying it to me, you should be saying it to Pete.”

  “You don’t want me to do that.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Stop provoking me, Maria, and simmer down. I’m going to do this my way and I’m going to do it right. That way it stays done. If I do what you’re asking me to do, all I get—all we get—is a lot of trouble and grief. I do it my way and it stays done and everybody’s happy. And besides… I want the bastard who killed Eva.”

  She was silent for a moment. Then she said, “So what are you going to do?”

  “I won’t take payment for finding him. I’ll tell him my payment is that he doesn’t use me anymore.”

  She nodded. “But it has to be for real, Liam. I don’t want to spend the rest of my life with gangsters breathing down my neck.”

  We didn’t say anything for a long while, just watched each other.

  Then, I said, “Everything I do is for real. You know that. Now take that damned kimono off.”

  * * * *

  An hour later, I lay listening to the rain outside. It had slowed to a damp patter. Her head was on my shoulder and her breath gentle on my chest. Her breasts were cool on my skin, and where she had her leg over my thigh, I could feel the soft brush of her hair. I let my hand explore the curve of her back and her hip, but my mind was drifting. All I could see was Eva, staring with dead eyes into the rain.

  My thoughts followed the beam of my pen torch. The red rose against the pale gray of her skin. The gray-purple of her parted lips and the stem of the rose with its cruel thorns inside her mouth. It was a strange echo of the kitchen knife plunged into her heart, the beautiful, rich red flower in her mouth. Maybe it symbolized the loving words the killer had never heard from a mouth that was full of thorns—sharp, cutting, cruel words.

  And the knife. The big, cold-steel blade of a kitchen knife, plunged deeply into her heart. Again, that curious juxtaposition of symbols—the heart, the universal symbol of love. The kitchen, the hub of any loving family, the smell of baking, Mom’s apple pie, Mom smiling in her apron, giving food, giving love. All brutally killed with a single plunge of that large blade.

  But the knife and the rose were almost surgical in their precision, as though the rage and hatred behind them were somehow controlled by grief, by a secret, enduring hope for love, as though somehow he didn’t really want to do what he was doing—as though he didn’t want to kill her. He only wanted to silence her and change her heart.

  Maria stirred in her sleep, squeezed me and pressed her belly close against my side. Her belly. I reached for my Camels, fished one out single-handed and lit up, blowing smoke at the ceiling. The belly was all wrong. It was almost like it had been done by somebody else. There was no symbolism here, no surgical precision, no grief or restraint. Her entire abdomen had simply been ripped out, torn away from her body. And there was no trace of her organs—no gore, no blood, no spatter.

  So maybe she had been killed somewhere else and taken to the park. The forensics team would establish that. But even if she’d been killed elsewhere, that didn’t explain the radical difference between the placing of the rose and the knife and the savage, bestial attack on her abdomen. I lay and smoked and wondered why it mattered.

  I carefully removed Maria’s head from my shoulder, slipped my arm out and swung my legs off the bed. Then I made my way to the kitchen and brewed some coffee. As I sat naked, smoking and drinking, I thought that it mattered because it showed two completely different motivations. One was tortured but craving redemption. The other was uninhibited, bestial and destructive.

  Like two different people.

  Chapter Two

  In the late afternoon, I climbed into my TVR Daemon and headed down the Cromwell Road to the A316 then to the M3 highway out to Walton on Thames. That was where Russian Pete had his country house and where he had retreated to grieve Eva’s death.

  I pulled into his gravel drive at a quarter after six and killed the V12. The rain had paused, but the sky was watercolor wet, with heavy patches of gunmetal gray. It was muggy and damp and my shirt was sticking to my back as I crossed to the big oak door.

  The house was thirties mock Tudor. Back then, it was probably considered in bad taste. Anyone who was anyone back in the thirties had a real Tudor manor. But now that it was almost a hundred years old, it had acquired a kind of legitimacy. Whether it was in bad taste or not, it was huge and expensive with its own pool and tennis court. I pressed a button in a brass disk and heard a bell chime far away. After long enough to show that they really didn’t care if I stayed or left but not quite long enough to make me leave, the door was opened by a very sad man in a white jacket and white gloves. His skin was olive and sallow and his eyes had dark brown bags under them. He looked at me without speaking, as though it was the sight of me that was making him sad.

  “I’m Liam Murdoch. Pete is expecting me.”

  He nodded then turned away. Under his breath, he said, “Pliss…” which I supposed meant he wanted me to follow him. He led me down a dogleg passage to a large walnut door. He tapped softly with his knuckles, waited for a beat then pushed the door open. There was some murmuring. He faced me and in a voice full of the deepest regret, he said, “Pliss…” then stood back to let me in.

  Pete was wrecked. He was the kind of man who couldn’t grieve sitting down. He couldn’t grieve in silence and he couldn’t grieve sober. He grieved on his feet, noisily and drunk. He was standing by the fireplace with his huge back to me, holding a glass of what I assumed was vodka. From where I stood at the doorway, I could hear him sobbing.

  I said, “Are you up to this, Pete?”

  He nodded without looking at me, waving me in and spilling some of his drink as he did it. There was a drinks trolley. I closed the door, chose an Old Bushmills and poured myself a generous measure. Then I sat and peeled a pack of Camels. He was standing with his left hand covering his face and his shoulders jerking.

  I lit up and, as I put my Zippo away, I said, “You should be sedated, Pete. You need to rest. It’s too raw.”

  He turned and leveled eyes on me that had lost all their humanity. All I could see there was pain beyond understanding and an insatiable hunger for cruel revenge.

  “We don’t waste time. We hunt while trail is hot. Ask me.” His voice was slurred.

  I sucked on my cigarette and watched him through the smoke. Finally, I sighed and said, “What was she doing in the park at that time?”

  He shook his head. “I don’t know…” He went to drink but his glass was empty, most of it spilled on the carpet. He lumbered to the trolley and refilled it. “She tell me she want go out. Is late. I tell her no. She go to her room, angry with bad Papa.” His face twisted into an ugly mask and he howled at the ceiling, beating his chest with his left fist and spilling most of the vodka he’d just poured into his glass. It was going to be a long evening.

 
He slumped into a chair, wiping the tears from his face with his huge palms. “Last thing she remember of Papa is she hate him because he say ‘No’! All I want is to protect her.”

  “You didn’t know she was out?” He shook his head miserably. “So, she snuck out somehow. Any idea where she wanted to go?”

  He scowled at me under his large eyebrows. “She had boyfriend from college. I think he is nice boy. Educated. Psychologist, like her.” He pronounced the ‘p’ in psychologist, and a drop of spit fell from his big lower lip. “She is going with him for two months and I say ‘Eva, I want meet boyfriend. Bring him for dinner,’ and ‘No, Papa, no!’ Always she is making excuses. Then she tell me boyfriend is black!”

  I sighed. “So, you stopped her seeing him because he was black?”

  He stared at me a long time, swaying. Then, “Black boy!”

  I took a pull and repeated, “Did you stop her seeing him because he was black?”

  “Da.”

  “So, you think maybe last night she snuck out to go see him?”

  His glass dropped to the floor and he curled up and buried his face in his hands, sobbing convulsively.

  I gave him a minute, then said, “Pete, you are no use to me like this. You need to go to bed. Get the doctor to give you a sedative and let me talk to somebody who can actually help me.”

  After a time, he raised his huge head. His face was wet and shiny. “All the time, I am thinking she will open door, come in… I will hear her voice…” He looked away at the cold fireplace. “All time, I am imagine what she was feeling when he was doing that to her.”

  “Pete…”

  After a long moment, he said, “Da.”

  He forced himself to his feet and trudged unsteadily to the door. He opened it and staggered out, leaving it open behind him. Then I heard him bellowing, “Melanie! Melanie!” There was some muttering and, after a moment, a young woman stood in the doorway looking at me. She was probably in her late twenties, but she had a sixty-year-old soul. She had on sensible brown shoes and a tweed skirt, a white blouse and a small silver cross around her neck. Dark blue eyes and soft blonde hair pulled back in a low bun made her almost pretty.

  “Mr. Murdoch.”

  I said, “Melanie.”

  “Mr. Rusakov…”

  “Pete thinks you can help me?”

  She didn’t answer. Instead, she walked into the room and sat in a large burgundy Chesterfield by the fireplace, keeping her knees together and her hands on her lap, the way well-brought-up girls used to do sixty years ago. She looked at me in a way that seemed to say, ‘Well?’

  I crushed out my cigarette and said, “How do you know Eva?”

  “I’m the nanny to the two youngest children. Eva is…was, a lovely person. We became friends.”

  “Did she tell you where she was going last night?”

  She drew breath and held it while she studied the backs of her fingers in her lap. Whatever else she was, she was going to be a bad liar.

  Before she could answer, I asked, “What time did you get off work?”

  She raised her eyes, feeling safer. “At eight o’clock.”

  “So, you smuggled Eva out and drove her to her boyfriend’s?”

  She flushed and went from being almost pretty to seriously attractive.

  I smiled. “Don’t sweat it. He doesn’t need to know, but I do. Is that what happened?”

  She stared down at the backs of her hands again. “It seemed harmless at the time. Mr. Rusakov is so unreasonable—and racist.” She caught herself and looked at me—worried I might tell and worried about the consequences if I did?

  I let the smile go up the side of my face. “Don’t worry. I know what he’s like. And there was no way you could have known what would happen. But I do need to know where you took her.”

  She gave a small sigh. “Mr. Rusakov had recently discovered that her boyfriend Mark was black. He is a deeply prejudiced man and he immediately forbade her ever to see him again.”

  “When was this?”

  “About a week ago. She had not gone out since then. She had been working hard, studying. Then last night…” There was a catch in her voice and she bit back a sob that sounded genuine. “Last night, she said she wanted to go out. Mr. Rusakov blew his top. He said he knew where she wanted to go, that he would not have her going out with—”

  “I get the idea.”

  “Anyway, she went to her room and after a while I went in to see if she was all right. That was when she told me she was planning to sneak out while he was watching TV, having his nightly half-bottle of vodka, and she begged me to drive her to Mark’s house.”

  “Where is that?”

  She hesitated. “In Hammersmith, on the river. It was a fairly simple drive, down Kensington High Street from Knightsbridge.”

  She wouldn’t meet my eyes. I fished another Camel out of the pack and lit it. I took my time inhaling then sipped my whiskey. I said, “What is it you’re not telling me?”

  She was quick to answer, “Nothing!”

  “Tell me about Mark.”

  Again, she hesitated, shook her head, as though gathering her thoughts. “Um… He’s a very nice young man. He’s a year behind Eva on the psychology degree—very well-mannered, articulate…as you’d expect.”

  “He lives alone?”

  She shook her head. “No. He’s still at home. He lives with his mother.”

  Somewhere in my mind an alarm bell rang. I said, “No dad?”

  She shrugged. “There was a stepfather, I think. But he doesn’t seem to be on the scene anymore.”

  I nodded. “I’m going to need a photograph of Eva, and I’ll need Mark’s address.”

  Her face went rigid. She said, “Of course.” She stood then hesitated again. “Mr. Murdoch, I am absolutely certain that Mark was not responsible for—”

  I cut across her. “Take it easy, Melanie. I’m not jumping to any conclusions. I just need to know her movements last night.”

  She was still hesitating. “It’s just that whomever you bring before Peter as a suspect will be tried and sentenced without a jury or due process of law.”

  I watched her through the smoke. I said, “I know. That’s why I’m going to make sure I get the right guy.”

  She nodded then left the room on quick, efficient feet.

  * * * *

  I phoned Mrs. Edwards, Mark’s mother, from the car. I apologized that it was late and told her I had something urgent I needed to discuss with her about Eva Rusakov. She agreed to see me and said Mark would be there. From her voice, I figured she didn’t know Eva was dead. I told her half nine. She said that was okay.

  I hung up and sat in the closing dusk, tapping an unlit Camel on the steering wheel. I was wondering how Mark would react when I told him Eva had been murdered. My brain was telling me he was going to put on an act. My gut was telling me something else, but I didn’t know what. I finished my smoke and made the short drive over.

  Martha Edwards and Mark lived on Mall Close, a quiet, leafy cul-de-sac by the river. Dusk had turned to dark and I could see light spilling from their bow window into the small front garden. I rang and it was Mark who opened the door. He was tall and lean and athletic. He was very dark, maybe Sudanese. He stood watching me with no expression on his face.

  I asked, “Are you Mark?”

  His English was perfect. “Who are you?”

  “My name’s Liam Murdoch. I’m a friend of Eva’s.”

  “She never mentioned you.”

  He wasn’t exactly hostile, but he wasn’t exactly warm, either.

  I said, “Can I come in? I need to talk to you. It’s important.”

  He raised an eyebrow and almost smiled. “Important to whom, Mr. Murdoch? Are you a friend of Eva’s or a friend of her father’s?”

  I studied his face, wondering where the hostility was coming from. “I’m a friend of the family, Mark. I’m not here to bring you a message from Pete, if that’s what you’re wondering. I nee
d to tell you something, and I need to ask you some questions. This is important to you.”

  Something in my voice, in my face, or maybe in what I’d said, got through to him.

  He frowned and, after a second, he stood back. “Come in.”

  The drawing room was at the rear of the house on the right of a short hallway that was carpeted in gray with cream walls and a couple of prints. Mrs. Edwards was sitting on a large, cream sofa with her hands clasped between her knees and her eyes fixed on her shoes. She was an attractive woman in her late forties. The furniture was comfortable, lived in and in good taste. She didn’t greet me when I went in, but Mark gestured to one of the big chairs and said, “Please sit down, Mr. Murdoch.” He sat opposite me, watching me and waiting for me to talk.

  Before I could, Mrs. Edwards suddenly spoke up, raising her chin, turning her head toward me but looking away with her eyes, as though she were scared of what she was about to say. “Mr. Murdoch, if Mr. Rusakov has sent you—”

  Before she could get any further, Mark held out a hand to her, as though he were stopping traffic. “Mum…please. Let Mr. Murdoch tell us why he is here. Let’s not jump to any conclusions.”

  I watched them both a moment, then said, “Whatever you may think I’m here for, I’m not. I’m not Pete’s hired muscle and I’m not here to deliver a message for him. I know he didn’t like Eva hanging out with you, Mark, and I know why, but frankly, I don’t give a damn about that. All I need is to ask you a few questions.”

  Mark frowned while his mother resumed her study of her shoes.

  He said, “Questions?”

  I nodded. “Eva was here last night, right?”

  “What of it?”

  I knew what I wanted to ask—just one question—but I was going to stalk him for a while, to get the feel of him. I said, “What time did she get here?”

  His eyes shifted to his left and up. He was remembering. “About half past eight.”

  “And what time did she leave?”