The Deepest Cut

by Conor Corderoy

  She licked her lips. “Perfect. You make the best Martini in the world—after Noddy.”

  I smiled. “Thanks.”

  She placed her palm on my chest. “And, Liam, thanks for the lovely rose. Such a sweet thought.”

  I frowned. “What?”

  “The rose, on my pillow. It’s beautiful, though you might have taken the thorns off!”

  My heart was pounding and I was shaking my head.

  She was still talking. “I’m joking. It was such a sweet thing to do.”

  I said, “No, Maria.”

  “Especially after I’ve been such a dork—”

  “No, listen—”

  “Reds are my favorite.”

  I took hold of her shoulders. “Maria, honey, listen to me.”

  She stopped, staring at me curiously.

  “Maria, I didn’t put a rose on your pillow.” I watched her face drain to a pallid white.

  “What do you mean?”

  “It wasn’t me. Somebody was here.”

  Chapter Six

  My phone was ringing. Maria was staring at me. I was struggling to keep a grip on reality. Too many memories were flashing back. I forced myself to snap out of it and grabbed my cell.

  “Murdoch!”

  “This is Detective Inspector Grant of Scotland Yard’s West London Murder Investigation Team, Mr. Murdoch. Detective Chief Inspector Morgan has asked me to call you.”

  I frowned. “What about?”

  There was a moment’s silence, then a sigh, as if he really didn’t like saying what he was going to say. “He has asked me to liaise with you.”

  I took the phone away from my ear and stared at it, like I might be able to see his face in it. I put it back to my ear and said, “Liaise with me? What are you talking about?”

  “That was my reaction exactly, sir. There has been another murder, with the same MO as Eva Rusakov’s. I understand this is a courtesy we are extending to Mr. Rusakov. I have sent a car to pick you up, Mr. Murdoch.”

  I was silent a moment, struggling to gather my thoughts into some kind of rational sequence. Finally, I said, “Have your driver pick me up at Noddy’s Diner on Portobello Road. It’s at the top, on the corner of Oxford Gardens.”

  There was a little pause. Then he said, like it meant more than just the words, “I know where it is, Mr. Murdoch.”

  I hung up then turned to Maria. She was still staring at me, chewing her lip. She drew breath but I cut across her.

  “Get your toothbrush, any essentials. You have two minutes. We’re going to Noddy’s. Now!”

  While she was getting her things, I went to my bedside table and pulled out my Smith & Wesson 29. The one Dirty Harry made famous. I slipped it in my waistband under my jacket then stood. Maria was watching me. She had a small toilet bag in her hand.

  She said, “What’s going on, Liam?”

  “I don’t know yet.”

  “Is it…?”

  “I don’t know. I want you safe for tonight. Tomorrow…” I hesitated. “Tomorrow, we’ll see what we do.”

  I called Noddy as we stepped into the elevator. It rang a long while, but nobody answered. In the street the rain had settled into a dark drizzle that twisted the traffic lights into thin trickles of blood across the black tarmac. We climbed into the TVR and slammed the doors.

  I handed Maria the phone. “Try him again.”

  We moved up Church Street and into Notting Hill Gate. The lights were red again, pulsing in the puddles on the blacktop to the rhythm of the rain. When they turned green, we surged forward and made a right at Ladbroke Grove. The cop shop was a black monolith on the corner. I hit the gas and we passed it with the needle touching seventy miles per hour.

  Maria said, “There’s no answer. Slow down.”

  The flyover and the railway bridge were like a black tunnel that yawned and swallowed us. I made a right at Cambridge Gardens, left into Portobello and skidded to a halt outside the diner. I could see the lights still on through the plate glass that was spilling amber light onto the wet pavement. There were a couple of customers at the bar and I could see Noddy, talking to them and laughing.

  I said to Maria, “Come on.”

  I got out and crossed to her side as she opened the door. I scanned the street, squinting into the drizzle. I couldn’t see anyone except a tramp huddled into his shoulders making his way toward the covered market.

  I took hold of Maria and moved her toward the diner. “Let’s go.”

  I pushed open the door to a warm smell of tobacco and damp coats. The sound of conversation and laughter muffled the wet sound of the rain as the door swung closed behind us.

  Noddy glanced over and smiled. “Baht time you brought your bird in, you old sod. Awright, Maria, why don’ he ever bring you dahrn here?”

  Maria drew breath to answer but I cut across her. “Not now, Noddy. Can we talk?”

  He could tell by my voice and the look on my face that I meant it. He gave a small frown. “Yeah, sure.” He turned to the three guys at the bar who were regarding us curiously and he pointed a huge finger at them. “Watch the place, will ya? And no fahkin’ free drinks! All right?”

  There was some uneasy laughter. He led us into the kitchen he had at the back of the bar then turned. “What’s this about, Liam? You look sick, man.”

  I reached in my waistband and pulled out the .44. I handed it to him. “It’s loaded. I can’t explain now. I have to go out for a few hours. I’m leaving Maria with you. Don’t let her out of your sight. When you lock up, take her upstairs to your apartment. Keep her with you at all times. Don’t sleep until I get back. You understand me? While she sleeps, you sit by her side. Anybody comes near her, you blow their head off.”

  He stared at me. “What the fuck, man?”

  “Don’t ask questions. Just do it, Noddy. I’ll explain later. Do not let her out of your sight. Tell me you’ll do it!”

  He shook his head, shrugged and spread his hands, all at the same time. His mouth worked and finally he said, “Yeah, man. Okay.”

  That relieved me a little, so I kissed Maria then left.

  I walked out of the diner and into the silver rain. It had stopped drizzling and was now coming down harder, with a damp hiss on the tarmac. I scoured the black mouths of the alleyways for anyone who might be watching or waiting for me to leave. I didn’t see anybody. I felt sick with apprehension. Whoever it was, let them come for me, not for Maria.

  I stayed in the doorway for maybe five minutes before the Jaguar J-Type pulled in from Cambridge Gardens.

  The window slid down then a police officer called over to me, “Mr. Murdoch?”

  I stepped over and told him I was as I climbed in the back.

  The late-night traffic was sparse, and while we moved through the city, back toward Notting Hill Gate, the rain turned suddenly torrential, like the clouds had overflowed. The streets were pretty much empty, but occasionally a car would pass and its lamps would be like red and amber amoebas of light—swelling, contracting, swimming toward each other and consuming each other, then scattering among raindrops behind the relentless rhythm of the wipers.

  We didn’t turn down Church Street. We moved east along Bayswater. Up ahead, I saw the flashing red and blue lights of police cars, luminous yellow jackets, an ambulance, police tape. We pulled over at the first gate into Hyde Park.

  The driver leaned back and said, “Detective Inspector Grant is in the park, sir. The constables will point you in the right direction.”

  I pulled up my collar, hunched into my shoulders then pushed through the confusion of cars and vans, flashing lights and milling cops in yellow jackets. The gate to the park had been cordoned off with yellow tape. A sergeant stopped me and I told him Grant had asked me to meet him there.

  He summoned a constable. “Tell the inspector Mr. Murdoch is here, will you?”

  He watched me as the constable disappeared into the dark, toward a group of arc lights that glimmered through the downpour.
<
br />   After a moment, he said, “Should have brought a brolly, sir.”

  “Yeah. Story of my life.”

  The constable was trudging back through the mud. The sergeant lifted the tape for me.

  The constable turned on his heel and said, “Follow me, sir.”

  Grant was younger than I’d expected, probably college educated and built like a brick khazi. He was wearing a black plastic raincoat that shone in wild, luminous rivers as he moved. He approached through the trees, frowning and reaching out his hand.

  “You Murdoch?”

  I said I was. We shook and started moving toward an improvised marquee strung with the arc lamps I’d seen earlier. As we drew nearer, I realized it was outside the kids’ playground.

  Grant said, “Mind me asking why I’m showing you my crime scene, Murdoch?”

  I wiped the rain from my face and said, “I don’t mind you asking, Grant, but if you want an answer, you should ask DCI Morgan. He’s the one getting leaned on from on high.”

  He pulled the flap of the marquee aside and I ducked in. I was soaked to the skin, but it was good to be out of the rain. That was, until I saw her.

  Grant came in after me and stood by my side. We both stared at what was left of a young black girl. She was maybe twenty, a little taller than Eva. She was lying on her back, with her arms and legs symmetrical, like Eva’s had been. Her eyes were open and, when she’d been alive, she had been pretty. She had been well-dressed. She had a red rose in her mouth and a Sabatier knife in her heart. Her abdomen had been ripped out, like Eva’s. But in this case, the ferocity had been such that her spine had been severed, and she was cut in two.

  Grant said, “We’ve been ordered to assist you in every way we can. The body hasn’t been touched. So far, all we’ve done is preserve the scene and take photographs.”

  I said, “Who is she?”

  “According to her student card, she is Sally Brown, twenty-two years old, of 78B Highlever Road, W3.”

  For a moment, the name sounded familiar, but it was a common name. I dismissed it and said, “Student? Psychology?”

  He frowned, surprised. “Yes, first year.”

  I nodded. “UCL or Birkbeck?”

  He stared. I could tell from his face that I had gone to number one on his suspect list. He said, “Part-time at Birkbeck.”

  I sank down to look at the rose.

  He said, “Feel like sharing?”

  “It was a lucky guess. The other victim was a psychology student at UCL.”

  He didn’t believe me. His eyes told me that. He persisted, “How did you know it was Birkbeck?”

  I shrugged. “Most first-years are eighteen. She’s twenty. She’s well-dressed, her clothes aren’t cheap. Suggests she’s working as well as studying. Birkbeck is the extramural college of UCL.” I pointed at the rose. “There are a couple of differences between this victim and the last. There‘s something on the stem of the rose.”

  He pulled on some latex gloves and crouched opposite me, with Sally Brown’s dead head between us. He gently eased her lips apart and took out the rose. There was a roll of paper wrapped around it. He unrolled the paper and studied it for a moment.

  Then he read, “To silence the mocking mouth, to still the arrogant heart, to rip out and steal excitement, hope and regeneration.” He raised his eyes to meet mine. “Does this mean anything to you?”

  I shook my head and got to my feet. “Not a thing…” I stared at her a moment longer. Sally Brown. Why was the name familiar?

  Grant broke into my thoughts. “Do you know her?”

  I shook my head again. “I knew the first victim.”

  He was peeling off his gloves. “I know. I know who you are, Mr. Murdoch. I did some background reading.”

  “Be prepared, huh? Were you a Boy Scout?”

  “You’re an associate of the first victim’s father, Peter Rusakov, otherwise known as Russian Pete.”

  “‘Associate’ is putting it a little strong. I know him.”

  “But you don’t know this victim?”

  “No.”

  “Know anyone called Brown, Mr. Murdoch?”

  I scowled at him. The name was familiar, but I couldn’t think…

  He went on, watching me. “Where do you like to do a bit of R & R, Mr. Murdoch? Where do you like to unwind?”

  “Noddy’s Diner—” The blood drained from my face and I felt a hot twist of fear in my belly. I stared at Grant. “Edward Brown, Noddy’s real name, and his sister’s daughter was Sally.”

  Grant stepped up real close to me. “So, it seems the victims have two things in common, Mr. Murdoch. They both studied psychology at UCL, and both of them were known to you.”

  I nodded. He was right. I could see Russell staring at me with his huge black sunglasses. ‘If I wanted you, Liam Murdoch, to investigate a murder…of all the people you know, whom would I kill?’ I said, “You’re right. Thanks for the hospitality.”

  I was about to ask for a lift back to Noddy’s when my cell rang.

  “Murdoch…”

  “Mr. Murdoch, it’s Juliet Loss.”

  “Dr. Loss…”

  I saw Grant glance at me.

  She was saying, “I’ve seen your missed call and I’ve read the report. We need to talk. Soon. Can you make it now?”

  “I’ll come right over. Where are you?”

  “I’m at home.”

  “Where’s home?”

  Grant was watching me like a cat watching a mouse hole.

  Loss paused, then said, “Colville Gardens, number twenty-six. It’s in Notting Hill Gate.”

  “I know where it is. I’ll be there in ten minutes.”

  As I was turning to go, Grant said, “Need a lift?”

  I let the smile crawl up the left side of my face. That’s the side I use for irony. “I’m good. Thanks. You got an umbrella?”

  He didn’t.

  * * * *

  Twelve minutes later, I pushed through the gate into Juliet Loss’ front garden. A flagged path led through rose bushes and cypress trees to a broad flight of stairs up to a big, cobalt blue door. Warm light spilled from a bay window into the garden, making the black silhouettes of the trees even blacker in the rain. She’d left the porch light on. Somewhere, water was spilling from a roof or some guttering. The spattering noise somehow made the dull light of the porch look desolate. I climbed the stairs, wiping water from my eyes, then rang the bell.

  When she opened the door, she gave a small gasp. “Good Lord, Mr. Murdoch! What have you been doing? Did you walk? Come in, for goodness sake, and get out of those wet clothes. You’ll catch your death,” she spoke, stepping backward, pulling the door open onto a broad, well-lit hall.

  I went in, saying, “Yeah, I walked. I’m going to soak your carpet.”

  “From Church Street? Never mind that. Take your shoes off and come dry yourself in the bathroom. I’ll get you some of my husband’s clothes.” She was climbing the stairs, speaking over her shoulder as I followed her. “You don’t mind that he’s dead, do you?”

  I glanced at her. She was smiling with what you could only describe as a twinkle in her eye.

  I gave her my right-hand lopsided smile and said, “You’re still trying to shock me.”

  We’d reached the landing and she propelled me into a large bathroom. It was IKEA-land, only expensive. A stripped pine set of shelves was piled high with fluffy towels. I dried myself off and, after a couple of minutes, she handed in a pair of jeans, a sweatshirt and a pair of socks. They fit, and two minutes later I joined her in the drawing room. It was what you’d expect, understated, very expensive elegance—old world, new technology. Lots of books and original paintings, two big armchairs and a sofa the size of the battleship Tirpitz. It wasn’t cold, but she had a fire going in the grate. She was sitting on the giant sofa and smiled up at me as I came in.

  “Before you sit down, why don’t you help us to a whiskey each?” She glanced at a tray of decanters on a bookcase a
nd I moved over to it. She added, “Be generous,” and something in her voice made me look at her. She was gazing into the flames and seemed drawn.

  I handed her a generous tumbler and she took it without saying anything. I sat in a chair opposite her and sipped while I waited for her to speak. I realized I was exhausted. The glowing warmth of the fire and the whiskey were making me drowsy. I wished she’d say something.

  Finally, when she spoke, she seemed to be speaking to the hot coals and the wavering flames. “The man you are looking for, Mr. Murdoch, is small, maybe five foot four or five. He is not physically very strong. He is timid and self-effacing, with very low self-esteem. He has above-average intelligence, but his low self-esteem does not allow him to put it to any creative or productive use because he is certain he will be ridiculed and put down by people who believe themselves better than him.”

  She sighed and sipped, licked her lips then took a moment to think. “He was probably mentally tortured by his mother. He probably endured a childhood of constant criticism, humiliation and put-downs. His response was to withdraw into a world of fantasy. In his fantasy world, he is a genius. He overrates his own intelligence. Here is a profound paradox. He has no confidence in himself, but he has infinite faith in himself. He hates himself, and yet he is a profound narcissist.

  “His mother instilled in him what Freud called a ‘cruel and punishing superego’. This is the immortal ghost of his mother, haunting his psyche, eternally attacking and humiliating him. And as his self-loathing builds to a crescendo, so he flees into his fantasy world, where he is supreme. He detests authority, because authority represents his mother, and so he defies and humiliates the police by showing them up as stupid and incompetent, and, at the same time, he destroys his mother by killing women.”

  Now she turned to me. “And here he creates a ritual. You know we all have a reptilian brain within our human one. Reptiles are very ritualistic, like birds. In his ritual, he unconsciously tries to exorcize the ghost of that woman. He places a rose in her mouth to turn the thorns of her words into delicate petals—the symbol of love. You may even find his mother’s name is Rose. He places a kitchen knife in her heart, to cut through her dishonesty and lies—the betrayed promise of motherhood—and find the essential, true ‘Mother’, with a capital M. The womb is about the egg—the kitchen, the warm smell of baking, the offering of food as love. And, finally, he rips out her womb, to attempt—unconsciously—to stop her recreating herself as a monster and so stop recreating him as an emotionally crippled, worthless, loathsome lizard he sees himself to be.”