Trick or Treat

by Jackson Sharp

  ‘You were right, Matilda,’ she said. ‘I’ll make this okay. I’ll – I’ll finish this.’

  Matilda slowly lifted her head. Replaced her spectacles. Looked up at Rose.

  ‘I’m always right, my love,’ she said.

  Her warm, dry hand rested on Lauren’s for just a moment.

  In a way it was a relief. The missing bone: it was something real, something concrete. Weird, for sure – but a hard fact, too, something she could hold on to, hang an investigation on. Too much of this case had felt unreal, hallucinatory, played out in flickering scenes from a nightmare. This was as real as a scalpel-edge and a surgeon’s textbook; this was the work of a man, not a monster.

  Rose dialled the MCU office as she crossed the morgue car park to her car. A surly DS took her orders: an urgent query to Interpol, Europe-wide, Russia, Middle East, the Balkans – anything like this in the records, anything with surgery, bones removed, oil smeared on the body, the weird handmade clothes – anything, from any time, anywhere –

  Just give me a lead, she thought. Just give me a way in.

  As she was fastening her seatbelt, her phone buzzed back at her. A result? Quick work. She checked the message – it was from Hume.

  Just a hyperlink. Nothing more. Not that she expected a kiss or a smiley face from the brusque DCI.

  She hit the link.

  Oh God.

  HALLOWEEN COMES EARLY TO OXFORD. The banner headline filled the screen of her phone. She scrolled, stopped – oh Christ.

  Katerina. Katerina’s face – Katerina’s head, dangling from Katerina’s crooked dead hand.

  It was a grainy shot, bad lighting, an awkward angle, but there was no mistaking it; this was no fake. Rose scrolled to the byline, already knowing full well what she’d see.

  There it was: Exclusive report and picture by OLIVER STEVENAGE.

  She closed the browser. Swore viciously.

  How could she have been so bloody sloppy? And just after the bollocking she’d given Ganley, too. Stevenage, the slippery little bastard, must have taken the picture on his smartphone. What had she been thinking, to confiscate the camera and not frisk him for a phone? Made her feel old as well as stupid. Spotting a pap by his camera was as outdated as spotting a journo by the press pass tucked in the band of his trilby.

  The flash that set her running after Stevenage had surely been from the camera, but he must have chanced a shot with his phone first. Then it struck her, painfully, humiliatingly, that there’d been no other light at the scene – except the narrow beam of her torch. So she’d not only let him photograph the scene with his phone … she’d bloody well lit it for him too.

  She looked at her phone and waited.

  It buzzed. Incoming call: DCI Hume. Here we go. With a tightening stomach, she hit the button to connect.

  ‘Sir.’

  ‘You’ve seen it?’

  ‘Yes, and I –’

  ‘Then can you explain to me, Rose, what the fuck you think you were doing inviting a cunt of a student journalist to take fucking photographs at my fucking crime scene?’

  She closed her eyes, settled in for an old-fashioned bollocking.

  ‘You can’t be any madder about it than I am, guv,’ she said resignedly.

  She thought she could feel the phone vibrate with fury.

  ‘Can’t I? Can’t I? You’ve no fucking idea how fucking angry I can be when some fucker makes a fuck-up of my fucking murder inquiry.’

  ‘No, sir.’

  ‘Jesus fucking Christ, Rose.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  It took Hume maybe five more expletive-strewn minutes to regain his temper. The last tirade ended with a long, shuddering, sulphurous sigh down the line, and a drawn-out ‘Fu-u-uck’. A silence. Then:

  ‘We’ve told the university to make them take that shit down pronto. They’re on it right now, or they’d better be.’

  ‘Stevenage’ll love that, sir. A chance to start crying about the freedom of the press.’

  A renewed flash of temper.

  ‘Oh, I’m sorry, Rose, what would you rather we did, give him a fucking Pulitzer prize? Jesus.’ A snort. ‘Pull yourself together, Inspector. There’s going to be an unholy shit-storm over this and I don’t intend to take it alone. The press office has already gone into meltdown. Nationals have picked up on it.’

  ‘I’m sorry, guv.’

  ‘You will be. Oh, and they’ve given him a name, too, did you know that?’

  ‘The murderer? What –’

  ‘ “The Trick or Treat Killer”. Snappy, isn’t it? Clever. Likely to catch on, I reckon.’ She heard him grind his teeth. ‘Fucking hell, Rose. You’d better put this right.’

  ‘I will, sir.’ She swallowed, nodded. ‘You’ll see. I will.’

  But the phone was already dead.

  The priest told him not to be afraid. And yet Little Mouse was afraid.

  Little Mouse understood that suffering was necessary for martyrdom. And yet in the silence of his heart he prayed for it to end.

  He prayed for his hunger to be sated, if only by a crumb of dry bread or a mouthful of fatty broth. He prayed for the chafing manacles to be taken from his wrists. He prayed for release. For freedom.

  ‘With your deliverance into Christ,’ the priest said, ‘the heathen will be banished from our good land. All that we have lost shall be restored.’ Little Mouse wondered how a creature as lowly as he could bring about such great events. But lessons had always come slowly to him. Perhaps it was not his role to understand. Perhaps God had another plan for him.

  ‘Your soul is pure, child,’ the priest said. ‘Few indeed in this foul world are worthy of sacrifice. Few deserve the martyrdom of the fathers of the True Church.’ He smiled. The priest smiled at him. Despite the cold, a part of Little Mouse warmed at the sight.

  ‘Yours will be a glorious death, child,’ he said. ‘A glorious death.’

  Chapter Eight

  6 October

  It wasn’t right – morally, professionally, legally – to vent your frustrations on a suspect. But, sooner or later, every copper found themselves doing it. Rose drove into Oxford with Professor Matthew Brask squarely in her crosshairs.

  This isn’t about your fucking feelings, Hume had said. Rose swung her car into a space, jerking the handbrake sharply. Bloody right it isn’t, she thought.

  It’s about lying to the police.

  It’s about the death of Katerina Zrinski.

  It’s about the truth.

  Oxford was quiet, sunk deep in October grey. A few tourists hung around outside the Radcliffe Camera. Two students in scarves and skinny jeans hurried across the square.

  She was nearly too late – she saw Brask climbing on to his bike outside the gate of All Souls. He looked sullen, preoccupied.

  No time for tact.

  ‘Professor!’ she yelled. A flock of pigeons, startled into flight, rose in a clatter from the flagstones. For a second they obscured her view across the square – for a second she wondered if Brask might take the opportunity to run.

  A part of her wished he would. There’d be a certain clarity in that. Things were simpler when a case came down to hunter versus prey.

  But when the birds were gone Brask was still there, leaning on his bike. His hair was unkempt, his eyes weary. A weight of guilt in his face.

  As Rose approached, he stood his bike against the college railings and turned to her with an imploring look.

  Yesterday Rose might have taken it to be sincere. Not today.

  ‘Inspector Rose –’ he began.

  ‘I could nick you right now,’ she snapped. ‘Have you chucked into the cells at St Aldate’s, how would that be? I could have you booted out of your cushy job. I could have you sent back to the States like that.’ She snapped her fingers sharply in front of his face. ‘You lied to me, Professor Brask.’

  He nodded, his face pale.

  ‘I didn’t tell you the whole truth. And I want you to know, Inspector, I’m sorry.’<
br />
  ‘Sorry you lied to me, or sorry you got caught?’

  ‘Listen, Inspector Rose, I –’

  ‘Call after call, text after text, from your phone to hers, from hers to yours.’ She chopped the edge of her hand into her palm as she spoke. ‘Voicemails, seventeen bloody voicemails over three months. But you say you weren’t in a relationship?’ She felt her heart racing, bit down hard on her anger. ‘I think we need to have another talk, Professor.’

  Brask nodded dumbly.

  As they walked back through the porter’s lodge and up the stairs of All Souls to Brask’s office, Rose took careful note of the way the professor carried himself. His shoulders were hunched, his head lowered. He looked defeated – hopeless and helpless.

  Grief could do that to a person, Rose knew. So could guilt.

  In Brask’s office she took a seat uninvited and as Brask took off his jacket she quickly took in her surroundings: what had changed since her last visit – and what hadn’t.

  He hadn’t moved the picture.

  Rose had assumed he would have, after she’d left. She’d pictured him hurriedly snatching it from the shelf, cramming it into a drawer or file, thanking providence that the pushy detective hadn’t spotted it.

  Instead, as he sank back into his office chair, he reached for it, took it down, considered it sadly – then passed it to Rose.

  ‘You can take this,’ he said. ‘It’s me and Katerina, with a group from the church. Five, six months ago.’

  She took it from him, turned it over in her hands. Scrawled loopily on the back, Cardiff, 5/13. Again she looked at the image: the smiles, the sunshine.

  When she glanced up at Brask his face seemed desolate, blasted by the weight of emotion. Again she wondered whether it was grief or guilt.

  She didn’t see any need for kid gloves.

  ‘You look very happy together,’ she said.

  Brask’s mouth tightened. He looked down at the floor.

  ‘We – weren’t.’

  ‘Weren’t happy?’

  He looked up.

  ‘Weren’t together, Inspector.’ Brask ran a hand through his unkempt hair. ‘You asked me if we were in a relationship – and I promise you, we weren’t.’

  Rose snorted impatiently.

  ‘Semantics, Professor. Twist it how you like, there was something between the two of you. You were close – closer than you let on.’ She crossed her legs, tilted her head. ‘Why did you lie to me, Professor Brask?’

  He shook his head, grimacing as though struck by nausea.

  ‘I – I didn’t.’ He met her gaze. She saw in his expression how much that took – how much it cost him. ‘I loved Katerina,’ he said. ‘I loved her, and she loved me, but a relationship? No.’

  ‘Explain the difference.’

  ‘She was –’ Again the sickened expression. He wiped his thumb across his lips. ‘She was with that animal Rakić. She took that commitment seriously.’

  ‘Was that a sexual relationship?’

  ‘I don’t know – didn’t want to know. I never asked.’

  ‘You’d agree it seems likely, though.’

  ‘I – I guess.’

  ‘And how did that make you feel?’

  Brask sighed.

  ‘It drove me crazy,’ he said. He leaned forwards in his chair, pressing his hands together between his knees. ‘Listen, I’m not going to lie to you –’

  ‘Again.’

  ‘– and I know what you’re asking me and what you want me to say. Did it make me mad that she was with Rakić, that she put him first? Yes. Of course it did.’

  ‘At Katerina?’

  ‘No. You didn’t know her or you’d understand. I couldn’t be mad at Katerina, not really. She was – she was wonderful. She only wanted what was best. What was right.’

  ‘Mad at Rakić, then.’

  Brask’s eyes flashed momentarily.

  ‘My God, yes. I’m a man, after all. And that animal …’ He paused. ‘Sure, I was mad. But mad enough to kill? No. No.’ He shook his head firmly, said again: ‘No.’

  And I’m supposed to nod my head and smile and simply take your word for it, Rose thought with a flicker of anger. I’m supposed to take you for a stand-up Honest Joe because you speak my language and you once wore a priest’s collar.

  They always said on TV cop shows that a killer never looks like a killer – it’s never the guy you expect. That was bullshit, Rose knew. Most of the time the killer looks exactly like a killer, and it’s the guy you think it is nine times out of ten.

  Dmitry Rakić looked like a killer. He had the profile, of course he did.

  That was what Brask was banking on.

  But it was a mistake to forget about that one time out of ten. That time the ‘normal’ guy was pushed too far. That time the ‘mild-mannered’ guy lost control for an instant. That time when someone – anyone – found something deep inside them that no one had ever dreamed was there. The time when an Everyman became a killer.

  She looked at the professor, took in his long, firm jaw, his untidy dark hair, his downcast grey eyes. His jaw was shaded with patchy stubble – he’d shaved hurriedly that morning. The fine lines of his face bunched at the corners of his eyes and thickened where they creased his high brow. A smiler, then – and a worrier.

  Killers nearly always looked like killers. Nearly always.

  Rose stood up, pulled on her coat.

  ‘There’s no harm in telling you you’re no longer “helping us with our enquiries”, Professor Brask,’ she said shortly. ‘You’re a suspect.’

  ‘Inspector, I –’

  ‘The prime suspect, in fact, in the murder of Katerina Zrinski.’ She looked down at him coldly. Maybe he’s still lying, maybe he’s not. Only one way to find out. Rattle him, she thought. Keep up the pressure. Don’t give him an inch – don’t give him space to breathe. ‘You lied to me, Professor. I’m going to find out what else you’re not telling me. I’m going to dig out every dirty secret you have.’ With her hand on the door handle, she added: ‘I’m going to blow your life wide open.’

  Didn’t wait for him to reply. Back out into the hall – back out into the square, the city, the teeming grey rain.

  Chapter Nine

  Brask pressed the heels of his hands into his closed eyes until dizzying patterns swelled behind his eyelids. Dig all you want, Inspector Rose, he thought. Find all the secrets you can, broadcast them as far and wide as you please.

  I don’t give a damn, he thought. I just don’t give a damn.

  He straightened, rubbed at his aching neck. Hadn’t slept. Hadn’t eaten. That morning, in meetings, he’d been barely coherent – his colleagues must’ve picked up on it, if any of them had been listening.

  It was how the old saints lived, he thought. Starving themselves, beating themselves, always searching for new ways to make life harder, new ways to suffer.

  And why did they do this?

  He bent stiffly, picked up the photograph Rose had left on the bench. When he did, he saw again Katerina’s smile. Felt her warmth.

  To atone for their sins.

  Some of the details of Katerina’s death had filtered through to him – from contacts in the community, from colleagues who’d read that goddamn rag of a student paper. The thought of her suffering bit deeply, and left him aching inside. He’d found himself asking all those desperate, uncomprehending questions – How? Why? Who? What kind of monster could do a thing like this?

  The answer had been right there. Rakić.

  Brask knew it had been crazy to hold out on DI Rose. He stood and shook himself. He’d thought, like a goddamn fool, that to tell the whole truth about Katerina: about how she’d longed to leave Rakić, about how she’d loved Brask, about all the conversations they’d had, and all the promises they’d made …

  At the time, he’d thought that telling DI Rose all those personal things about Katerina would have been a betrayal.

  He knew better now. He knew it more clearly, more
sharply and certainly the more he thought about it.

  The only way he could betray Katerina now was to stand in the way of the hunt for her killer. The only way he could help her was to do all he could to make sure that the man who took her life paid, and paid hard, for what he’d done.

  DI Rose, Brask realized with a lurch of self-reproach, understood that. He cursed himself fiercely for not seeing it sooner.

  The sound of approaching footsteps in the hall outside made him start. DI Rose again, he guessed – must’ve forgotten something. Come back to give him a little more hell.

  It’d be no less than he deserved, he thought grimly.

  He reached for the door handle, ready for the knock.

  There was no knock.

  The door crashed open, the jamb splintering free, the heavy edge of the door slamming into Brask’s knuckles. He grunted and stumbled back, clutching at his desk for support.

  The outline of a man blocked the open doorway. The strip light behind his shaven head reduced him to a black silhouette, impossibly tall, impossibly broad. As a reflex, Brask shrank back as the man moved purposefully forwards.

  The door behind him banged closed, sagged on its hinges. The light through the blind at the window painted stripes across the man’s impassive face.

  ‘Brask.’

  But it wasn’t the giant who had spoken. A second man, a man the professor hadn’t seen until now, who’d come into the room in the shadow of his taller companion, took a step sideways and then a step forwards. This second man braced himself springily, as though for a leap, or a fight.

  Dmitry Rakić. White-faced with fury. Pulsing with intent.

  When Rakić spoke again he did not scream or spit but quite calmly and levelly said her name, said, ‘Katerina.’ The name of the woman they’d both loved.

  He forced himself to look Rakić in the eye.

  ‘They know,’ he said. Fear tautened his voice. ‘There’s no point in this. They know it was you.’

  Perhaps Rakić did not believe the lie. Perhaps he did not understand. Perhaps he did not care. He stepped forwards. Brask took another step backwards. It wasn’t the threat of violence that caused him to back away: it was Rakić’s eyes. They were wild and senseless. They were the eyes of a madman.