A Fatal Cut

by Priscilla Masters

  ‘They didn’t get on,’ he said sullenly, convinced now that Brenda was trying to trap him.

  From outside came a blast from a car horn.

  Brenda tired of the game. She fumbled through her bag. ‘Here you are.’ She dumped the box on the table. ‘Merry Christmas. In fact a Happy New Year too. I’ll see you around, Malcolm.’

  As she clattered down the stairs Malcolm heard a second blast from the horn. He could kill that Terry.

  • • • •

  The ‘surgeon’ was right. It did take them a little longer to find this body. All through the day he had listened to the news, waiting for the story to break, imagining the headlines. He wanted them to know it was him again. For Christmas. He would enjoy this little game of hide and seek much better when the police knew what they were participating in.

  In fact it took them more than twenty-four hours to find Rosemary Baring. Her body had been a little too well concealed on a building site, behind a high fence, beneath a huge, bright sign that announced a building firm would soon be commencing work on a brand new multi-million-pound maternity block. Being Christmas Eve the site was deserted.

  • • • •

  David Forrest spent an uncomfortable Christmas Eve, working late at the Incident Room, watching the junior officers eye the clock muttering about children and Santa Claus. He spared a couple. The rest, including DS Fielding and DS Shaw he ruthlessly forced to work until nine o’clock. After all, neither of them had kids. He tried to convince himself that it was an ordinary working day but people kept shouting out greetings, making jokes about the turkey, forgotten presents for the wife. He sat, quietly reflective, in his office, remembering Christmases past. He had always loved the festive season: until his father’s accident; until Maggie had left him. Now for the first time ever Forrest had no one special to buy for. His father had had the obligatory bottle of Scotch, hastily wrapped, his mother a cardigan he couldn’t even remember choosing from M&S. He’d made a vague commitment to visit them sometime during Christmas Day and knew, with irritation, that they would hold back the festive meal, watching out for him as though he were the Blessed Child. With a wry smile he acknowledged the fact that, to them, he still was. At five minutes to eleven he switched the computer off. Less than an hour to go. Then twenty-four, no, forty-eight more hours and it would all be over for another year. As he left his office he wondered what Karys was doing tonight.

  • • • •

  Karys was toasting her feet in front of a fake-log gas fire and sipping mulled wine. ‘You know,’ she said to Tonya, ‘I feel one hundred per cent happy. Utterly contented.’

  Tonya leant back in her chair. ‘Maybe,’ she said, ‘Christmas is the time to forget family, and to close the doors against work.’ She gave a deep sigh. ‘So what shall we do tomorrow?’

  ‘I’m on call,’ Karys reminded her.

  ‘Surely you won’t get bothered?’

  ‘No,’ Karys fell in with her. ‘No one would commit murder over Christmas.’

  But statistically she knew this was not true.

  • • • •

  Forrest tried to inject himself with Christmas cheer as he turned into the drive of the neat semi. He even practised his smile, tilting the car mirror down to reflect his mouth. It worked. Smiling actually made him feel happier. He parked the car and rang the doorbell, watching the blinking fairy lights draped across the front window. His mother opened the door with a small shriek of pleasure and threw her arms around him.

  ‘A Merry Christmas, love.’

  He kissed her cheek and breathed in the scent of the house — floral disinfectant that his mother used to douse the commode. The atmosphere was so different from the place it had been before his father’s accident. His father had once been an outdoors man, a man who had preferred to be at the top of a mountain than at the foot, someone who would rather run than walk, a man who had once burst with energy and vitality. Now he felt the cold, hated the breeze on his face, frequently kept the curtains closed all day to ‘keep out that blinding sun’. The accident, and its aftermath, had been a cruel blow to such a man. It had destroyed and changed him beyond recognition, both physically and mentally. Forrest had to fight to remember the father he had once had.

  He caught sight of him, red paper cracker hat askew and felt a lump of affection well up.

  ‘Hi, Dad. Happy Christmas.’ His father gave a tight smile. That at least had not changed. He still fought shy of open displays of affection. But it was Christmas. So the son patted his father on the shoulder and sat opposite him, across the dining table. They would have Christmas dinner now he had arrived.

  His mother bustled between kitchen and dining table. ‘A beer, David?’

  ‘Better not,’ he said. ‘On duty.’

  ‘You’re always on duty.’

  ‘Well, there’s a major investigation going on. Might get called away at any time.’ He smiled at the pair of them.

  He had just carved the turkey when the phone call came.

  Rosemary’s body had been found by a group of boys anxious to test out their brand-new mountain bikes. The building site was perfect for them. It only took a push against the corrugated wall and they were through to a tailor-made course. A rough, untidy place which served the gang of youths well. It was lumpy, with steep drops and sharp curves; a loose, dangerous shale on which to practise their skids.

  And one did. Skidded round a berm to tumble against the yellow plastic bags taped together. Like the medical students before him he quickly identified the shape of a body and probed with curious fingers. Triumphant at being the one to make the discovery he called his mates over to take a look. Initially they were inclined to scoff and disbelieve.

  ‘You’re a damned liar, Jarrod.’ It was Cliff, his spotty best friend who spoke first.

  But it only took a fraction of a second for them all to realize he had been telling the truth. Then they were excited. This was drama. Real life drama.

  They quickly understood the implications. This body heralded fame. Their chance to be on the telly; to give their story. For the corpse they felt neither sympathy nor revulsion, only curiosity and pride at having been the ones to discover it.

  Luckily for Inspector David Forrest they knew just enough about police procedure from television soaps not to touch anything. So they didn’t. Jarrod and Cliff earned the dubious reward of mounting vigil while the other two sped off on their bikes, skidding round corners until they reached a telephone box, fulfilling a life-long ambition to dial 999.

  They were rewarded quickly by screaming police sirens.

  It was better than the telly.

  Whatever day of the year it was, Karys always visited the scene of a crime as soon as possible. So she was there within half an hour, pulling the Merc up behind the police incident van full of officers cursing the job that tore them away from their families today. Karys ignored them and slipped on overshoes and a paper suit before elbowing her way through the throng of voyeurs attracted by the police sirens and flashing lights, even on Christmas Day. Luckily the high fence ringing the building site made a good cover. She ducked beneath the fluttering blue and white ‘Do Not Cross. Police’ tape with a strong feeling of déjà vu.

  Forrest gave her a wry smile. ‘Sorry to drag you out on Christmas Day, Karys.’

  ‘It’s all right David.’ Normally she would have returned the commiseration but she knew more about him now, knew he did not have a family with which to share the festivities. She also knew he had been dreading this moment: the finding of another body.

  So had she.

  Forrest was looking drawn, as though he hadn’t slept much in the past few days. He made an attempt to be professional but friendly. ‘I thought I’d better hang on for you, Karys. It’s obviously the same guy.’

  Her eyes slipped past him to the yellow plastic bag.

  ‘I’m glad you did.’ She suddenly felt terribly sorry for him. Had they caught the killer of Colin Wilson they would not be standing h
ere, about to unwrap a second victim. He would see this as a personal failure. She resisted the temptation to put a friendly hand on his arm, but she longed to even though the two Detective Sergeants were both watching her. Instead she gave him a warm smile. ‘Come on, David,’ she said. ‘It’s damned cold out here. Let’s have a quick look and then move this to the morgue.’

  She had brought with her the hunting knife. She slit open the bags like the belly of a fish and watched an arm, a head and a leg, appear. Rigor mortis was beginning to wear off. There was some movement in the corpse. Karys watched, mesmerized. It was the body of a young woman, her upper half horribly naked, the mutilation this time the total removal of the left breast. The ‘surgeon’ had found it impossible to suture that wide, grotesque wound neatly. But he had tried, with huge, clumsy black silk sutures. Thick ones this time. Karys didn’t move for a few seconds. The chill threatened to fix her in the stiff pose. Only by drawing in a deep breath of pure cold air could she force her brain to function again and move her eyes away from the ugly wound to the rest of the body. The woman’s lower half was clothed in a short, grey skirt spattered with blood, below that she wore knee-length black leather boots. There was no coat. Closer scrutiny revealed partly congealed blood had pooled at the bottom of the sack.

  Even a pathologist can feel sick and faint sometimes.

  Her eyes finally found Forrest’s and all her emotions were mirrored there, horror, sympathy, revulsion. Fear.

  It was his fear that surprised her most. It was the fear of failure. Failure to catch the ‘surgeon’ before he worked yet again.

  Hers was a different fear altogether. It was fear of the killer himself.

  Forrest had waited in dread for this moment. And now the dread was compounding. There would be a third, and a fourth. He felt his resolve strengthen. There would be no more. He gave Karys a strained smile.

  ‘Do you know who she is?’ she asked.

  ‘Not yet, at least, not for sure, but we’ve had a call from a frantic flatmate saying her friend hasn’t come home for two nights.’ He looked depressed. ‘She’s a nurse.’

  ‘From the hospital?’

  ‘No. From the Cater Clinic.’

  The name meant little to her apart from being a private institution rather than NHS. ‘The nurse’s name?’

  ‘Rosemary. Rosemary Baring.’

  She touched his arm then. ‘David,’ she said urgently. ‘You must go back. These aren’t random killings. They’re planned. I’m sure. There’s some reason behind them. I don’t know what it is but it has a connection with the Health Service, doctors, nurses, something.’ Her eyes were drawn back through the entrance of the building site, towards the police tape, fluttering in an unkind breeze. Through the gap she could see the angular grey shapes of the hospital, beyond that the tall clock that marked the university buildings and, the entrance to the Medical School, deserted for the Christmas vac. For the first time ever the sight made her apprehensive.

  She licked dry lips and listened to David Forrest’s reply. ‘We’ve already worked on that theory,’ he protested. ‘We’ve spent hours, days, weeks shadowing the place. Officers have been round most of the theatre suites, interviewed I don’t know how many doctors, nurses, technicians. You name them.’ His eyes too trawled the skyline. ‘There’s nothing there.’

  ‘There has to be.’

  She did the necessaries quickly. It was too cold out here to work efficiently. Besides, Karys liked the privacy and the frosted windows of the mortuary, she felt safe behind them. Despite the festive season it wouldn’t take long for the vultures to circle. She had a horror of a photographer getting a picture of this...her eyes focused on the raw, ugly wound.

  Forrest followed her to the car. ‘The post-mortem?’ he asked awkwardly.

  ‘How about tomorrow morning? Nine o’clock?’

  ‘Thanks. The sooner we —’

  She unlocked her car. ‘That’s all right, David,’ she said. ‘It does happen to be my job, Christmas or not. See if you can get the next of kin in for eight thirty, will you? I prefer to get the identification over with before I start work.’

  • • • •

  Malcolm was enjoying his Christmas dinner. He’d treated himself to a chicken Kiev from the supermarket. They’d had a special offer on and it had only cost 99p. For a treat he had even allowed himself to slice through the chicken using one of his precious blades. After all. It was Christmas.

  He revelled in the way it cut so cleanly, even coping with a nasty tough bit. There shouldn’t be a tough bit in a chicken Kiev. Perhaps that was why the shop had sold them off cheaply, not as a Christmas present at all. The thought threatened to cloud his day. He shut it out.

  It was tricky, but he managed to pull the cracker on his own, congratulating himself on winning the prize, the hat and the joke. The Women’s Institute had put the cracker in with the Christmas hamper. Well, he called it a hamper. But really it was just a carrier bag with a robin cut from an old Christmas card stuck on the side. In the bag they had put a tiny Christmas pudding which was bubbling away on the stove, a packet of tea, some Rich Tea biscuits and the cracker. The woman who had dropped it off had had two rosy cheeked toddlers with her and had thrust the bag into his hand, refusing his invitation to come in. ‘Can’t,’ she said; sharply he’d thought. ‘Happy Christmas,’ she’d added as an after-thought. And then the excuse. ‘Have to get the other kids from school.’

  They always made excuses not to come in. Malcolm didn’t think the woman was frightened, she was just in a rush. Everyone was in a rush.

  Except him.

  • • • •

  Brenda had drunk four schooners of Sherry before she even attempted to slop the dinner onto the plates. It was always like this, Christmas dinner. A haphazard affair. But Shani didn’t mind, as long as she didn’t have to do the cooking, and there was plenty of it. She sat, like Mrs Blobby, knees a foot apart, smiling and watching the telly. Shani was always smiling. Even as a big, fat baby she had always smiled.

  ‘Not one of those skinny miserable things,’ Brenda had boasted, then.

  She was going to ask Terry to carve the turkey. That would fetch him into the kitchen. She would tease him as he sharpened the knife. Brenda loved to see a man carve the turkey. Looked so macho.

  She stood in the doorway, glad of the saucy French maid’s apron Shani had presented her with that morning. Tassels on tits, a belly button and French knickers stamped on PVC.

  ‘Be a darlin’,’ she said to Terry, giggling and hanging onto the door frame. Lucky it was strong else she’d have toppled.

  Terry made a fine, showy job of sharpening the knife, rubbing it along the stone with a muscular vigour. Brenda sidled up behind him and wrapped her arms round him low down below his waist.

  He brandished the knife. ‘You want this bird carved, Ma?’

  She giggled again, pretended to fall against him. He took the knife along the sharpener.

  She pretended to be nervous now. ‘That knife’s sharp enough,’ she said. ‘For a turkey.’

  Terry turned suddenly, almost throwing her off balance. ‘Sharp as the surgeon’s blades?’

  She gave him a coquettish look. ‘Don’t know about that, our Terry.’

  He pretended to draw it along her throat. ‘Sharp enough for that?’

  ‘Don’t know about that either, our Terry.’

  She didn’t flinch but glanced upwards, towards the ceiling light. Yesterday she had positioned some mistletoe right up there. She put her arms around his neck. ‘How about a nice Christmas kiss for Ma?’

  • • • •

  For a treat on Christmas afternoon Malcolm had taken all his blades out of the box and was sitting down, polishing them. Carols were playing on the radio. Some of his old favourites. ‘Oh, Come All Ye Faithful’, ‘Once in Royal David’s City’, ‘Away in a Manger’. The traditional ones. He hummed along, contented.

  There was a knock on the door. He shrank against the table. He didn’t
want anyone around. Brenda wouldn’t be visiting today, she would be with her family: that horrible Terry and her daughter. Malcolm screwed up his face trying to remember her name.

  ‘Malcolm.’ It was the old bag from downstairs. Mrs Stanton, the landlady. He didn’t answer. ‘I know you’re in there. Malcolm. I can hear your radio.’ She sounded cross. ‘Why don’t you come down? Join me and a couple of others for a few drinks and a game of cards.’

  Malcolm swallowed. She was waiting on the other side of the door.

  ‘Come on, Malcolm. It’s Christmas. You don’t want to be on your own for Christmas.’

  But he did. He did.

  ‘I’ve a nice drop of sherry. Or a beer if you’d prefer.’

  Malcolm eyed the door, terrified he hadn’t locked it. He tried to see whether the key had been turned but he couldn’t tell. Not from here.

  Another knock. ‘Come on, Malcolm. We’re all downstairs, in the sitting room.’

  He must say something. And as usual he chose the wrong lie. ‘It’s all right, Mrs Stanton. I’ve got some company myself.’

  ‘I know you haven’t.’ She was a sharp-nosed bitch. ‘No one’s come up or down these stairs all day. I know you’re on your own.’

  Malcolm whimpered. He didn’t want to go downstairs, sit with the others, try to make conversation. He didn’t have any conversation and they didn’t like him anyway. He looked longingly at his neat row of surgical blades. Why couldn’t they leave him alone?

  Another knock. Angry now. ‘Malcolm.’

  ‘It’s all right, Mrs Stanton.’ He chose another lie. ‘I’ve got a headache.’

  ‘And I’ve got an aspirin.’

  A further long pause. She was still waiting, outside the door. Then an angry, ‘Oh, suit yourself,’ followed by high-heeled shoes tapping down the stairs.

  Malcolm heaved a sigh of relief.

  Chapter Eight

  26 December 1999

  The mortuary was eerily empty as Karys unlocked the door. Paget had yet to arrive so her only company was a few refrigerated corpses awaiting burial and the body of Rosemary Baring. Karys changed into her post-mortem gown then wandered along the corridor and pushed open the door to the viewing room. Paget had come in yesterday specially to lay the body out. He had covered her with a purple velvet and gold shroud that evoked the church, hope, immortality. But to Karys it was a vain hope. Death, to her, seemed all too final. She put two hands on the cover preparing to look at the girl’s face but it was a mistake. Like a witch’s magic sand on the fire, it evoked cabbalistic memories of the sheet shrouding her first body, the one designated to teach her anatomy. She and Barney had been assigned to the same corpse. That was how they had met. From that it had been a short step to him becoming her boyfriend, her second ever boyfriend. A sheltered and protected only child, the product of a convent, single-sex education, quiet and introverted by nature, university had been her chance at life.