Splinter in the Blood

by Ashley Dyer

  The city’s two universities, a further education college, and the Institute of the Performing Arts all had buildings in this square mile of the city, and the streets were thronged with students making their way to early-morning lectures. Ruth dodged past the slow-moving groups, cutting right at the corner of Abercromby Gardens, arriving just a few minutes late.

  The receptionist buzzed her in and pointed her toward the east staircase. “All the way to the top,” she said, handing Ruth a visitor pass.

  The hallway and stairs were covered with utilitarian gray vinyl, but the cornices and mahogany stair rail were still in place. The museum was housed on the ground and first floors, the offices on the second floor. Dr. Gaines’s office was tucked away through a fire door at the end of a narrow, creaking landing.

  She knocked and felt the floorboards under her feet vibrate as he crossed to open the door.

  Dr. Gaines was probably in his late forties, but dressed much younger in khaki combat trousers and a sweatshirt hoodie. He wore the sleeves pushed up to reveal a collection of bracelets on both wrists: silicone bands, stone beaded, leather and fiber braids, and one that looked disturbingly like plaited human hair. His own hair was collar length and shaggy, graying in streaks that looked suspiciously even in color.

  He smiled, swinging the door wide. “Welcome to my domain.”

  The room was large by modern academic standards, and Gaines had hung it with African and South American masks. On his desk were piles of exam papers and essays.

  “Marking,” Gaines said with a grimace.

  “It’s good of you to take the time to look at this,” she said.

  “Not at all. This”—he waved dismissively at the papers on his desk—“is merely how I earn a living.” He lifted a pile of photographs from the chair in front of his desk, and Ruth caught a glimpse of a postmortem image of Kara Grogan; he had requested the images prior to their meeting. “This is why I come to work every day,” he finished.

  He moved to a sofa that was shoved against a bookcase on one side of the room. “Come. Sit.”

  On a low table set in front of the sofa, Ruth saw four more piles of photographs, one for each of the Thorn Killer’s victims. She glanced up and caught him watching her with his pale blue eyes.

  She sat at the far end and he took the center, closer than was strictly necessary, or polite.

  “Beautiful, aren’t they?” he said, staring at the tattoo markings on the victims.

  “You think they’re beautiful?” she said, keeping her tone neutral.

  “Primitive, admittedly. But beautiful nevertheless.”

  He looked away, then quickly toward her again, his hard, blue eyes sharp, alert, as if trying to catch her in an unguarded moment.

  “Tattoos are a rite of passage in many cultures.” He thrust an e-tablet into her hand. He had compiled a set of photographs, all women, mainly of African origin, their faces scarified or inked. “They can be a mark of status and of beauty, drawing attention to a person’s best features. Eyes, teeth, labia, cheekbones, all enhanced or highlighted by the markings.”

  He swiped left and a new set appeared. These showed girls and women in the process of being inked or cut, their faces bloody and swollen.

  “They’re fully conscious,” he said. “It’s a test of their bravery and fortitude that they can endure the pain.”

  Ruth felt his close scrutiny. She turned her eyes on him and handed the device back with a cool, level gaze.

  “Our man doesn’t mark their faces,” she said.

  “Hm . . . that is interesting, isn’t it? Probably something you will want to put to your tame forensic psychologist.”

  Interesting that he knew this, yet saw fit to show her these images. Interesting, too, that although their “tame forensic psychologist” had recommended Gaines for this job, Gaines didn’t have the courtesy to name him.

  “I’ll certainly mention it to Dr. Yi,” she said, maintaining a neutral tone. “He said you might know something about the killer’s use of thorns.”

  “Mm,” Gaines said. “It’s odd. Thorns are most commonly used for scarification, these days, but your chap seems to be hand-tapping—and with a single thorn. It’s the oldest method, very slow, and extremely painful.”

  “If it’s old, is it possible our man is from a particular ethnic group?”

  “The method is still practiced by the Kalinga in the Philippines . . .” He played with the bands around his wrist as he thought. “But there are very few practitioners still living, and Kalinga tattoos are sophisticated, intricate, highly stylized. Comparing your Thorn Killer’s efforts with Kalinga tattoos is like setting a child’s crayon drawing next to a Rembrandt and calling it art.”

  She nodded. “Is there anything you can tell us about the symbolism in the tattoos?”

  He nodded slowly. “Early days, but the eyes tattooed on victim one’s body are reminiscent of early representations of the Eye of Providence.”

  “Tali Tredwin,” Ruth supplied automatically.

  He blinked at the interruption.

  “The first victim—that’s her name—Tali.”

  He quirked an eyebrow. “The Eye of Providence is a symbol of God’s watchfulness over the faithful,” he said, as though she hadn’t spoken. “But they also bear some resemblance to the Eye of Horus. In ancient Egyptian culture, the Eye of Horus is a symbol of protection and healing.”

  “Didn’t do much for Tali, did they?” Ruth observed.

  He chuckled as though she’d made a joke. “You’re right. With each new embellishment of her skin, the symbols of healing brought Tali closer and closer to death.” Again, Gaines let his gaze drop, then glanced quickly up.

  Those quick, sharp, piercing looks had an almost percussive effect on Ruth as he switched his attention from her eyes, to her forehead, to her mouth, sweeping down to check what her hands were doing, then back up to her face. His obvious attempt to read her was apparently supposed to make her self-conscious, put her off her stride.

  “The tattoos on Kara’s body are black,” she said, sticking to the case, refusing to be provoked. “The forensic chemists think he’s changed to a different dye. Any thoughts on why he might do that?”

  “Do they know what the new stuff is?”

  Ruth shook her head. “We’re waiting on the biochemical analysis.”

  “You already know that the indigo he used on victims one to four is not ideal. Woad is corrosive; skin reactions can get messy—it’s in your report. So perhaps he changed to something less likely to cause tissue damage? Victim five is much better executed.” His eyes gleamed.

  “Kara,” she said, thinking, Don’t let him get to you. “The fifth victim is Kara.”

  Chapter 22

  Emma was sitting in the chair next to Carver’s bed, staring at the honeymoon photograph when Carver opened his eyes. Morning sunshine lit her hair a lemon yellow and softened her features.

  “Hey,” he said, smiling, feeling warm and soft with sleep. He checked the time; it was ten forty-five. “You should have woken me.”

  “The doctors say you need your rest,” she said.

  “I’m fine,” he said. “The physio was brutal this morning, that’s all.”

  “Your balance is improving, they say.”

  He’d had some problems with weakness and uneven gait at the start of the rehab sessions.

  “Yeah. The concussion knocked me about a bit, but I’m . . .” He trailed off, distracted by the muddy brown aura around her. “Emma, are you all right?”

  She turned her gaze on him and he saw such pain and confusion that he couldn’t bear to look at her and, instead, stared at his hands. They felt slightly numb, and sometimes, when he saw them lying inert on the white bedsheets, he had the surreal feeling that they did not belong to him. The knuckles seemed too bony, the fingers too long. At first, the medics were concerned that the bullet might have moved, might be pressing on his spine, causing more damage, but a scan proved that it had stayed put. It
could be a hangover from the concussion, they told him; it would likely disappear with time. But he hadn’t told them that he’d had the numbness before he’d ended up in hospital. He’d looked it up when the symptoms first appeared, so he knew that tingling and numbness in the hands was one of the signs of alcoholism—a hangover that might never go away. He’d kept it to himself because they would tell Emma, and he was shamed enough in her eyes.

  “I’m sorry, Emma,” he said.

  “What?” She cocked her head as if she hadn’t heard him right.

  “I’m sorry—for everything that happened. For everything I’ve done.”

  Her face seemed to darken—not figuratively, but in a real, tangible way—as though a deep shadow had fallen across it, making it impossible to see her eyes, her mouth, her expression.

  She touched the frame of the photograph lightly with the tips of her fingers. “Did you ever think we would end up like this?”

  “None of it was your fault,” he said.

  “It takes two to make a marriage, Greg,” she said, and it sounded like the kind of answer a counselor would give—logical, sensible, but lacking the emotion that went with actually having lived through that marriage.

  “Only one to break it,” he said, recognizing the scrabbling flutter in his chest as panic. “And I am sorry.”

  “I know,” she said, barely audibly.

  “Emma, I . . . I want to try again.” She didn’t answer, and he said, “Can we do that?”

  Her face emerged from the shadows for an instant, and he was sure she would say no. Then the muddy aura swirled around her again, shot through with inky blue, now; like petrol on water, it shifted and reflected the light, so that he could not read her.

  “Now isn’t the time,” she said. “You need to focus on getting better.”

  “Is that a no?” he asked, his heart thudding hard in his chest. He hardly dared look at her for fear of what he would see. But she waited, and he did look, and he saw that same confused swirl of color and darkness, but with one or two bright spots of light.

  “It’s not a no,” she said. “But it’s too soon to think about the future, Greg. My feelings are mixed up in the . . .” He thought she was going to say “the shooting,” but she changed course, avoiding any direct reference to it. “In what happened to you,” she said. “You were in such a terrible state when they brought you here. For days, we didn’t know—”

  She broke off, and he saw a shaft of sharp blue light, and he knew he was seeing her pain, a manifestation of it, and he realized for the first time just how hard all of this must have been for Emma.

  He wanted to apologize again, but she seemed to anticipate it and raised a hand as if to forestall him.

  “You can ask me again, when you’re up and about,” she said.

  “I was up. I just needed—”

  Again, she stopped him. “You were having a midmorning nap when I got here,” she said, softening the blow a little with a rueful quirk of her lips.

  He gave a half smile and sank back on the pillows.

  “I won’t come back to you because I feel sorry for you, Greg. If I do come back, it won’t be as your nurse, and I will not go back to the way we were.” She spoke quietly, and without anger. “You need to take control of your life: the drinking, the obsession with this horrible case. Then we can talk.”

  She kissed him on the forehead and he almost reached to grasp her hand as she straightened up. But he knew that if he tried she would pull away, disengage, and he was afraid it would only deepen the distance between them.

  She turned at the door and gave him a small wave before leaving.

  His legs felt heavy as he swung them over the side of the bed, and the room tilted so steeply that the pull of gravity felt like he was in free fall. When the room settled to a slow spin, he reached gingerly for the photograph, trying to keep his head steady. She did look happy, then, certain of a good life with him. Had things changed so very much in the years since?

  It hurt too much to look at her trusting expression, knowing how much it had hardened in the years that followed, because Carver knew that he was the cause. So he placed the picture facedown on the cabinet and asked a health care assistant for a phone trolley. He dialed the mobile number on the slip of paper Ruth had given him—the number for the pay-as-you-go phone he had rung so many times in the month before he was shot. He had hidden the scrunched-up scrap of paper in the drawer of his bedside cabinet, but he didn’t need to look at it: he knew it by heart.

  As the phone rang out, the sounds around him faded, and the light dimmed. He heard raised voices—his and a woman’s. Then, breaking glass. A scream.

  Darkness. The taste of whisky in his mouth, the stench of it on his skin and clothes. He felt a rush of violent nausea and hung up before the line connected.

  For a half minute, he sat at the edge of the bed, his hand clamped over the phone receiver, holding it down, holding down the roiling sickness in his stomach, huffing air out of his nostrils to purge the stench of whisky.

  Then breathing. Just breathing.

  Chapter 23

  Ruth Lake typed up her notes on her meeting with Dr. Gaines. She had dealt with enough forensic experts over the years to accept a level of arrogance from them. Many were too ready to assume ignorance in anyone who was not in their field; the narrower the field, the bigger the ego in her experience. It didn’t bother her particularly, and sometimes she had fun playing verbal tennis, allowing them a few easy lobs before smashing them out of court with some arcane scientific detail of her own. Gaines had the worst features of the worst of them, and he was sleazy with it. It was not the sort of thing she could put in her notes, but she had been with the police for long enough to trust her instincts.

  Job done, she called the forensic psychologist who had put Gaines’s name forward. He wasn’t picking up, so she left a message for him to call her when he had a moment. Then she set to work on a report detailing Jake’s confession, together with the new information from Kara’s agent.

  She sent it through to DCI Parsons, as well as printing a copy off to deliver personally. She thought of handing the thing off to one of the admin staff, but decided that would be pathetic, and went instead to his office. The place was empty and clean—tidier than she had ever seen it when Greg was the occupant. She added her report to one of the neat stacks on his desk, conveniently labeled “REPORTS,” with an orange stick-it note to help it stand out among all the other buff folders.

  Back at the incident room, she checked on her e-mails. John Hughes had sent a set of bookmarked links the IT techs had found on Kara Grogan’s computer, and she worked through them for a couple of hours, looking for patterns of use. As expected, there were a lot of links to mediums, clairvoyants, and the like, and a similar number to skeptics and myth-buster-type websites.

  Among the mediums was a set of UK-based psychics. Ruth grouped these in one file and discovered that there were a few duplicates—the same website listed twice, sometimes three times. A closer look told her that Kara had bookmarked the events pages of a few of the psychics as well as their homepages. Ruth printed these off and picked up a highlighter pen. Six of the psychics on the list had given “readings” in Liverpool in early November—around the time Kara had disappeared. Had Kara attended those events as part of her research for the audition?

  Ruth made a note of the psychics and their contact details, together with the dates and the venues where they had performed. Some “intuitive readers” even offered readings by phone or Skype. Ruth was no psychic, but she did consider herself an intuitive reader of people, and in her experience, it was always harder to hide a lie face-to-face. So she checked out their events pages for January and found that three of the six were returning to Liverpool in the next few days.

  The start of a new year must be a busy time: all those sad people desperate to get in touch with those they’d lost. Then there would be another fat wodge of overspent, turkey-stuffed folk with post-Christmas blues
, devastated that the turn of the year hadn’t turned their lives around.

  She tapped details into her mobile phone calendar, and as she finished, a group of officers in uniform trooped past the incident room door. A team had been sent out midmorning with photos of Kara. They were tasked with stopping and questioning motorists and joggers around Sefton Park, and had just finished a four-hour stint. House-to-house and this team were sharing one of the larger seminar rooms down the corridor. They still didn’t know exactly when Kara’s body had been left at the Fairy Glen, but after TV and media appeals, a couple had come forward. The guy had proposed to his girlfriend in the snow by the frozen waterfall; they had been there around midnight, and they had seen nothing untoward. Ruth hoped the macabre discovery a few hours later hadn’t made the young lovers feel jinxed.

  The clump of boots and murmur of conversation faded and the police sergeant leading the canvassers paused at the door of the incident room.

  “Anything?” Ruth asked.

  He grimaced, shaking his head.

  “Maybe the second shift’ll catch something.” A smaller team was scheduled to set up at midnight; they would stick at it until the early-morning joggers had come and gone.

  “Let’s hope,” he said, and trudged on.

  Ruth’s mobile phone rang.

  “Ruth, it’s Greg. I know you’re busy, but . . .” He broke off, sounding choked.

  “What’s happened?”

  “It’s Emma—I thought she was . . . I thought we had a chance, but . . . oh, shit, I’m sorry—I know I shouldn’t be bothering you with this.”

  She checked her watch; it was well past lunchtime, and she hadn’t even taken a coffee break, yet. She could zip over to the hospital, be back in time for the afternoon debrief.