She could still remember meeting Barney’s eyes, coolly friendly, half formal, appraising. That first morning, suddenly hit with all that studying medicine would mean, she had been reluctant to remove the winding sheet. She had glanced up to see him watching her, challenging her to do it. She had gripped the cloth with both hands as she was gripping this cloth now, and had calmly pulled it back. When she had looked at him again his expression had not changed. He was still mocking her squeamishness.
He knew she was apprehensive. She knew he was not. He was eager.
It might have been easier if she had lived in the rough and tumble of the halls of residence and got to know some of the other students, but her parents had been reluctant to let her go. They only lived four bus stops away from the medical school and so she had kept her pink and white bedroom at home. Not for her the posters and late-night drinking sessions at the medical society bar. Barney had been the only fellow student she knew well during her entire first year. She knew she had quickly been labelled a ‘weirdo’, someone who kept herself to herself. Distant.
On the second day he had asked her if he could take her out for dinner. She should have suspected something. The other students were rowdy, full of plans for an evening’s entertainment at the Freshers’ Ball, which she couldn’t face. Why would Barney want to take her out instead of going to the ball himself? Little, plump, plain Karys, with the shell she had crawled into. Puzzled, she had nodded. ‘At eight,’ he had repeated. ‘At eight. Dead — on — eight. I’ll pick you up.’ And he had taken detailed instructions as to how to find her parents’ house.
That night she had moved through the perceived motions of a date. She had had a bath and washed her hair, blow drying it carefully so it bobbed neatly to her shoulders. She had refused her mother’s carefully prepared supper and munched an apple instead. She had drunk camomile tea to calm her down. She had smeared pale foundation over her paler complexion, fiddled with a brown mascara wand and touched up her eyelids with beige eyeshadow speckled with gold flecks. She had thought she looked nice.
Then she had sat down in the lounge and waited, listening to the clock with its Westminster chime hammer out the hour of eight.
And waited. Until a quarter past.
Her father, embarrassed, had hidden behind his paper. Her mother had grown angry and said something about ‘being used’, ‘cheapening’ herself and being ‘worth far more than this’. Karys had sat, silently, through more than an hour of television soaps, feeling more and more emotionally frozen until she had finally returned to her room to hang up her dress and sit on the bed, stare at her reflection and wonder. What was wrong with her? Why was she so different? Abnormal? It had been then that she had first acquired the chocolate habit. Two bars, stolen from the fridge. Fruit and nut that night, later any chocolate would do for compensation.
The next morning she had once again faced Barney across the corpse and expected an apology. But Barney had said nothing. Neither did she but he had watched her with that same, mocking smile.
At the end of the day he had again asked her out to dinner without mentioning the previous night. When she had remonstrated Barney had looked puzzled. ‘But I asked you for tonight,’ he said, sounding genuinely hurt. ‘Surely you didn’t think...I was at the Freshers’ Ball last night. I couldn’t have gone anywhere with anyone last night.’ And then he had laughed that half crazy, loud laugh with his mouth forced open as wide as it could possibly go. ‘Well, you are a silly thing. You got it wrong. You were confused. I meant tonight.’
She had stared at him and wondered, made the assumption that she had been wrong. She must have got the night wrong. Barney couldn’t have done. Not with all the talk having centred around the Freshers’ Ball. Why would he have deliberately misled her? There could be no purpose. No logical purpose.
And so that night she went through the rigmarole again: the bath, the hair, the clothes, the make-up. Again Karys had heard the Westminster chime of the clock in the dining room strike eight and had felt sick and humiliated. At ten past she had been about to go upstairs when she heard a car screech to a halt outside. She’d run to the door and flung it open. And there he was, still wearing that same sardonic smile.
‘Hello, Karys,’ he’d said casually.
That night she’d confessed to him what had happened. He had seemed so nice, so friendly, so sympathetic. But it had been a mistake. A terrible mistake. Of all the people she might have told he had been the worst, prepared to use it against her.
Three nights later there had again been a mix-up over the night. But this time, having found some confidence, she had stuck to her guns.
‘I’m sorry, Barney,’ she’d said. ‘It was you who made a mistake. Let’s call it a day. I really don’t want to get in a tangle again. I’d rather not see you again — except in the Med School.’
His answer had seemed odd. ‘Don’t say that.’
‘I mean it. I know you said Saturday, not Sunday.’
‘OK. OK. So sometimes I’m wrong.’ He’d fixed his eyes on hers. ‘I’m sorry, but please. Please. Don’t say you don’t want to see me again.’
Reluctantly she had agreed to extend the relationship, and for a few weeks he had been a different Barney. Reliable, pleasant, reasonable. He did not stay that way.
The evenings gradually became strange again. Cinema tickets were produced to prove that she had got the night muddled up. Again she had remonstrated, made up her mind to stop seeing him. Again he had pleaded with her. Differently this time. With a threat. ‘If you don’t...’
She had challenged him. ‘If I do — then what?’
They had been standing in the huge hallway of the Medical School, arguing, students milling round them. It had been noisy, so noisy that she had wondered whether she had imagined his reply.
‘I’ll shoot myself.’
She had felt the ice-cold wind of fear. He was going to use the knowledge she had confided to him. Use it to gain ascendance over her, to tie her hands.
‘You wouldn’t really do it.’
‘Oh but, Karys,’ he had said, his strange, marmalade-coloured eyes gleaming, ‘you don’t know that I wouldn’t.’
And she didn’t.
That was when she had begun to lose concentration and fail exams. Her tutors had commented on her lack of commitment. She was confused, terribly, blindingly confused. Even her mother and father began to tell her she should not be trusted with human lives. She would be a danger to patients. Maybe that was why she had finally elected to abandon the living and work instead with the dead, choosing pathology for her career. Maybe that was why she had never had any sort of relationship with a man, after Barney.
After the terrible climax of their relationship Karys had snapped and taken an overdose of aspirin. Hospital discharge had swiftly been followed by an attempt to resign from the medical school, a visit from the Dean which had led, in turn, to an astute psychiatrist who had finally told her what no one else had perceived — least of all she — that it was not her but Barney who was most disturbed.
It had taken her a further year to blot out enough of his influence to return to her medical studies. By then she could see it all, the evil, the spite, the danger of a pathologically dominant personality, the deliberate manipulation of her mind. When she had returned to Medical School she had slipped a year behind Barney and had seen little of him — the psychiatrist had warned her to give him a wide berth. When Barney had qualified and had moved away she had made no attempt to make contact.
She came to with a shock and found herself staring down at Rosemary Baring’s pale face. Keys were being inserted in the mortuary door, but her own were still in the lock. Paget wouldn’t be able to get in. She hurried to open the door. Even as he entered she could see a white car pull to a halt outside. Forrest was here, probably with the girl’s next of kin and a WPC. She waited in the doorway.
Rosemary Baring’s father was a man in his forties, tight-lipped, dark-haired. He looked irritated, not shoc
ked, not in a state of inconsolable grief. Just irritated. In silence she led the three of them along the corridor.
She was a little surprised that Forrest didn’t waste much time on preambles. No ‘regrets at this terrible tragedy’, no empathizing with the father’s grief. Perhaps he thought the man would want to get this trauma over with as quickly as possible.
Rosemary’s father said little as they walked towards the tiny ‘recognition’ room. Just before she pulled the cloth away she risked a swift glance at the man’s face. It was wooden. Completely devoid of any emotion. Karys was suddenly curious. This man didn’t feel any grief. He gave a curt nod. ‘That’s her all right.’
It wasn’t until the WPC had driven him away that Forrest offered an explanation. ‘Mum and Dad divorced years ago, with some acrimony. Father hadn’t seen his daughter for a few years. Bit of an argument about who was actually coming down here.’ He looked distressed. ‘Neither wanted to.’
It wasn’t much of an epitaph for a murdered young woman, she was thinking.
The post-mortem on Rosemary Baring was horribly familiar. Again Karys found herself pondering from the foot of the slab, pushing her glasses on so hard she felt an ache in the bridge of her nose. Again there was the same, embarrassed silence as the others, police, attendants and Scene of Crime Officers, waited for her to begin. Even a cursory examination showed Karys similarities with the murder of Colin Wilson: the same blow to the back of the head; the same ligature tied around the neck. Not a tie this time, but a ladies’ stocking, a fine, pale filmy affair but tied just as tightly. As she bagged it, Karys reflected it was almost certainly not Rosemary Baring’s.
The real difference this time was in the ‘surgeon’s’ handiwork. And it was a terrible difference. Not a neat, straight superficial cut, not a pretend hernia but something else — a full mastectomy, a ragged wound with ugly black sutures. The ‘surgeon’ was getting more adventurous.
Something occurred to Karys as she worked. ‘What sort of a place is the Cater Clinic?’
‘Private nursing home. Cosmetic stuff.’
Forrest was struggling with his emotions, his eyes focused on Karys’s face rather than her butchering hands.
‘Expensive?’
‘I expect so.’
‘I see.’ She heaved a deep sigh and continued in silence.
She completed the examination before turning back to him and relating her findings in a calm, factual tone.
While Paget was slotting the body back into the mortuary fridge and the SOCOs were busying themselves with their samples and they were finally alone, Forrest allowed some emotion to leak out. He rubbed his palm across the thinning patch on his head. ‘Karys,’ he said, ‘how the hell do we stop him?’
‘By finding him.’
‘So where do I start looking?’
She caught the despair in his tone. ‘Haven’t you turned anything up?’
‘Not a thing.’ He gave a rueful grin. ‘In fact I’ve even sunk low enough to trust the forensic psychiatrist. I mean, what else do I have?’
‘I think you have little option, David, but to trust Lewisham.’ She was glad to stop staring at the mortuary table with its recent staining. ‘Whoever is doing this is a complete nutcase. As I said before, Barney may be a conceited prick but he is clever, if anyone can help point the finger it’ll be him.’ She started rinsing her hands under the tap. ‘Has he ever come across anything like this before?’
Forrest shook his head. ‘No he hasn’t. But then I haven’t told him about...’ he jerked his head towards the operating table. ‘The man’s a ghoul with a perverted sense of pleasure. He’s getting quite excited about the case.’ He hesitated. ‘I suppose I’d better ring him.’
‘Not today, surely?’
They both realized at the same time that it was Boxing Day.
Forrest voiced his thoughts first. ‘Look,’ he said awkwardly. ‘I expect this is the worst time for you — you’ve just done a PM — and I’ve got loads to do, but it is Boxing Day. The pubs are all open,’ he gave a swift, embarrassed glance at his watch, ‘and it’s almost lunchtime. I don’t suppose you’d have something to eat with me?’
‘I’d love to,’ she said firmly.
She might be risking dry turkey, frozen roast potatoes, shop-bought Christmas pudding. But perhaps it was time for her to start living again.
Chapter Nine
She had been right about the dry turkey, the frozen roast potatoes and the shop-bought Christmas pudding tasting of synthetic brandy essence. But worse, away from the mortuary and their work she and DI Forrest had nothing to talk about. Her diffidence came to the fore and he didn’t help. She couldn’t know he had steeled himself not to ask her personal questions, the things he longed to ask: was she married, engaged, in a long-term relationship, did she live alone, have children? Avoiding these normal everyday topics gave them little to discuss and the case hardly seemed an appropriate subject for the noisy, jolly pub festooned with reminders of the festive season — tinsel, balloons, a Christmas tree in the corner. After four false starts Forrest began to tell Karys about his father. It seemed a safe subject.
‘He had an accident,’ he said.
‘Oh?’ Karys wished she could think of something more intelligent to say.
‘He’s in a wheelchair.’
‘How awful.’ She listened to her own voice. Banal, silly. She bent her head over her glass.
‘I don’t know how he copes.’ Forrest blinked quickly, as though something had lodged in his eye.
‘What kind of accident?’
‘Driving. He was a lorry driver. He ran head on into a BMW and got stuck in the cab. Someone pulled him out. The accident wasn’t his fault though, a car had broken down.’
Karys looked up. ‘And?’
Forrest felt defensive. ‘And what?’
The trouble was she didn’t know except that there was anger in both his voice and face where there had been none before. Maybe it had been the rescue, not the accident, that had made him angry. Curiosity overcame her reticence. ‘What happened then?’
Forrest touched his mouth with the serviette as though he was editing his words. ‘They told us afterwards if he hadn’t been pulled out of the cab so roughly he might not have been paralysed.’
Karys winced. ‘He might have been in more danger, if he’d been left.’
Forrest raised his eyebrows at her. ‘How?’
‘If the cab had burst into flames. If he’d been bleeding.’
Forrest shook his head.
‘Well the cab might have been hit by other traffic.’
‘He should have been left there.’
‘The rescuer might not have known that.’
‘That’s what was said at the inquiry. But, he should have known, he was a doctor.’
She felt bound to defend this unknown colleague. ‘He still might not have known. I’m sure he chose what he believed to be the best option.’
Bitterness flashed through Forrest’s eyes. ‘That’s the trouble with you lot, you all stick together. Outsiders never really find out the truth.’
The truth of this made Karys avoid his eyes. He was right. More right than he could possibly know. Feeling forced to say something, she asked lightly, ‘So did you sue?’
‘We took advice,’ Forrest said gruffly. ‘A solicitor advised us.’
‘And?’ Her embarrassment was fading, replaced by the aggression most of the medical profession feel for plaintiffs who dog their every wrong step.
Forrest squirmed. ‘He said if the guy hadn’t pulled Dad away there was a chance the vehicle could have exploded. He was carrying corrosives. The tank had burst.’
‘So you understood he had no choice?’
Forrest countered angrily, ‘He could have done it more gently. My dad needn’t have been paralysed.’
‘I expect he was in a panic in the heat of the situation, David.’
He watched her with suspicion.
‘You can’t blame him.�
�
There was another long silence before Forrest finally lowered his eyes. ‘But I do.’
Karys shrugged. ‘It’s the anger we carry with us that weighs us down, that becomes the impossible burden.’
‘Says who?’
She gave a ghost of a smile. ‘Says me.’
‘Oh.’ Forrest looked surprised. ‘I thought it was a quote. Some poet.’
Again she shrugged. ‘I’m always making up “profound” statements, David.’ She smiled across at him, warmth pervading the space between them. ‘I’m sorry about your dad. It must be a burden on your mother.’
He gave her a puzzled look. ‘It’s really strange,’ he said, ‘but she doesn’t seem to mind. Sometimes I almost think she —’
‘Likes it?’
He felt relieved she’d said it. ‘Yes.’
‘Maybe it’s like having a replacement child.’ A fleeting glimpse of her mother’s swamping concern when she had been sick reminded Karys she, too, had been pleased at the return of her dependent child.
‘But that’s...’
‘Natural.’ Karys gazed far into the distance. ‘Women naturally feel they have a role as a mother.’
Something lost and sad about her face made him long to ask her whether she had children and if not whether she would like some. But it seemed an intrusion. Instead he turned the conversation back to himself. ‘My wife never wanted children.’
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