Prior nodded slowly.
‘And,’ she continued, ‘if there are two of them the chains could also unite them symbolically as much as they literally bind them together. A totem that empowers them.’
Prior shook his head, wearily.
He liked Christine, enjoyed her company and her insights, but it had been so long since he had worked on a case with a psych. He had forgotten just how much hard work it could be . . . analysing every angle. Trying to understand the reasons and the motives of the monsters he just longed to put away and forget.
He pushed out a long breath, rubbing his eyes. ‘So, what is it that makes you think there could be two? I mean, I can’t just ask my men to start to cataloguing every piece of jewellery brought on by the passengers on board.’
‘Of course not.’ Christine snapped, ‘that would be absurd. And I never said I conclusively believed that there were two, but that we shouldn’t exclude the possibility.’ she paused, her voice softening once more, ‘The good news to take from this is that if there are two killers, they will be working together; rather than non-conjunctive individuals taking out random targets. They’ll discuss their marks, choose them for specific reasons — ’
‘Such as?’ Prior asked.
‘Sexual desire and gratification,’ she said, with a shrug, ‘the need to assert power . . . a power they feel they don’t necessarily possess at other times. Don’t forget, in most successful killing partnerships there is a dominant and a submissive. One egging the other on until the need to increase the brutality of the fantasy emerges so strong that it is too much for the sub. The sub feels the guilt for both parties; they bear the weight of the crimes and when that happens — as much as it may drive a wedge between them in terms of emotion — they will find that they become more and more dependent on one another. And that may be the key to their undoing. That is, unless, the dominant chooses to dispose of the submissive to cover his tracks.’
Christine opened another window containing a stream of images from room fifteen-thirty-four; the room of Stacey Atkins. ‘Putting aside those that died en-masse in engineering, there are similarities and differences in the manner, style and cause of death of the three individual cases we have.’
‘Blakely, Atkins and . . .’
‘Dr Cunningham.’
‘I wouldn’t have thought the little details we know of Dr Cunningham’s death had much in common with the other two.’ Prior said, drinking a gulp of hot coffee from his mug.
‘Why?’ Christine asked, ‘In all three cases the perpetrator seems to have used whatever was to hand. With Blakely it was electrical cable or something similar and — if I’m right — the crow bar too. With Stacey Atkins it looks like he used her broken cardkey to inflict some of the injuries; to slice and carve the words on her body. He used her stockings to tie her up for display.’
‘And Dr Cunningham?’
‘I think he used a scalpel. The dimensions seem to match those used on board.’ Christine said, zooming in on the open wound, ‘I heard one of the nurses talking about finding traces of blood on one such implement and in the area around the large cabinet; though our killer did seem to do his best to mop up after himself.’
‘Why didn’t Matthews say anything?’ Prior said, agitated.
‘I think she’s been a little distracted. And, to be honest, I don’t know that the nurse had even got round to telling her yet. She’s not exactly the most approachable person, is she?’
Prior flicked his eyebrows, agreeing with her.
‘My point is that he’s taking advantage of whatever is there.’
‘He? As in one guy. Not two?
Christine sighed.
She could see that Prior was a man who liked to keep things simple. Good and bad, black and white. No grey. A give me a gun and point me in the right direction kind of guy.
For her, it was never that simple.
‘This sort of consistency is indicative of a personality trait; one person actively thinking on their feet because they are used to doing so. No matter how much you might plan as a team, you cannot plan spontaneity. You can’t plan adaptability. So, I don’t know . . .’ she said, sipping at her coffee and watching as Prior sifted through the images. ‘And then, there’s the differences in . . . style. There’s cruelty; the enjoyment in the torture being inflicted here. And then there’s necessity. There are some incredibly bold statements that are a complete counterpoint with the shrinking and swift dispatching of Dr Cunningham. There’s — I don’t know — a plan . . . a desire. An overall driving force. The need to gain the information from Blakely that would disable the ship, for example.’
‘Hold on.’ Prior pressed, sitting forward, ‘What if that is it? What if he — they, whatever — what if the torture is an aspect they enjoy, but the necessity has forced their hand. You know; I want to have a little fun, enjoy myself, but time is of the essence. That kind of thing?’
Christine nodded.
‘We need to find out how he heated the crow bar.’ he continued, ‘And whether he did just take advantage of what was lying around or if he had truly planned the torture aspect. See just how much of this whole thing was planning and how much was thinking on your feet.’
‘That would help.’ said Christine. ‘That would help us a lot. I mean, timescale-wise we’ve got these three individual murders occurring within a window of about twelve hours. That’s vast for one or even two killers. And that’s not including those who died in engineering, even if they were merely a necessity to the plan. That in itself — in some ways — is so much colder than the rest. It’s more of an indicator of true psychopathy even than the specific cruelties inflicted upon Stacey Atkins and Gary Blakely.’ Christine shook her head, ‘We’ve got Dr Cunningham who died almost instantly through sharp-force trauma resulting in a suspected epidural bleed; then there’s Gary Blakely, who is hog-tied and tortured for around an hour before some sort of struggle ensues and he ends up as a permanent fixture of the engineering CPU; and finally, Stacey Atkins . . .’
‘There was no sign of forced-entry into her room.’ said Prior, even as the thought occurred, ‘So, it would seem that she knew her killer. Maybe even let him in. She was wearing an engagement ring, but her fiancée’s not come forward as of yet.’
‘He might not be on board. It was her sister that was kind enough to throw-up all over you earlier. She seemed dressed to party and had already been drinking. It could be a hen do.’
Prior nodded in agreement, flicking to the next photograph. It was a close up of the flesh that covered Stacey’s bruised and battered ribs; that bore the scratched-out words Not My Type.
Christine shook her head again, involuntarily. Her hand covering her mouth as she mentally sorted through the catalogue of injuries that accompanied that stark message. ‘We need to know whether or not she was sexually assaulted; pre or post mortem. And if so, we need to know whether that was conventional or object rape. This is clearly a sexual attack, despite the words he chose to carve.
‘Everything about it is sexual. He was facing her when smashed her face into the side of the bath,’ Christine said, pulling up the photo of the blood-spattered tub besides the first picture. ‘and looking at the angle of it, he must have been in the bath with her when he did it, which also indicates that he’s left handed. Afterwards he polishes her up like a trophy, he displays her with pride, takes time to create a whole scene . . . but carves Not My Type into her flesh?’ she sighed, ‘I don’t get it.’
‘Could it be mockery?’ Prior ventured, ‘Imagine that all the violence that took place here was energy geared towards sexual conquest. Then, at the last moment he chooses not to rape her. That could be a way of showing us that he’s in control. Even in the heat of the moment. Right? A way of proving that he’s in charge. Like you said before.’
‘Perhaps.’ Christine said, thinking, ‘Or maybe he simply can’t do it. Maybe he can’t perform sexually, despite his fantasy. So after getting in this deep he can’t simply back
out, he has to try and take back the control. Maybe that’s why he wrote it. Suggesting that she wasn’t his type is an excuse for his lack of sexual performance. He’s putting the blame on her to try and protect his shattered ego.’
‘Maybe she insulted him.’ Prior said. Christine cocked her head, her eyebrows flicking up as she thought it over. She looked at him with interest. ‘You suggested that she might have known him. Well, maybe she did. But maybe she insulted him in some way. Turned him down. Rejected him.’
‘It’s a thought.’
‘What I don’t get,’ Prior started, before finishing the last mouthful of coffee that remained in his mug. He swallowed. ‘Is why there would be surgical instruments sitting around sterilising overnight anyway. Going back to Dr Cunningham. It might sound stupid, but there’s not — usually — a great demand for emergency medical attention on a ship like this. Certainly not something that’s likely to pre-emptively require a scalpel!’
Prior stood and crossed the suite to return the mug. When he turned to face Christine once more he gave a brief, nervous smile that seemed completely at odds with the confidence he had exuded moments before. Christine watched as he rested his back against the edge of the side unit, folding his arms across his still bare chest.
The psychologist returned his smile, instantly realising the source of his discomfort.
Even in the dim light of the room, she had found her eyes drawn over and over to the scar that snaked across his shoulder. As he had moved away from her, she had managed to glimpse the damage that extended across his back to form a physical atlas of memories that were clearly too painful to discuss for such a private man.
She mentally rebuked herself for making him feel so self-conscious, knowing all too well the pain and the humiliation of bearing a physical scar; something that turned heads, drew whispers and reminded you — everyday — of how you had failed those that had put their trust in you. Those you were supposed to protect.
‘Well, maybe that’s just it.’ she said, returning to his comment as she began closing down the images on her laptop, ‘You mentioned that Golden Star liked to keep their costs down as much as possible. I suppose if there’s not a great demand then it makes sense to have the instruments and the sterilising fluid rather than single-use, disposable packs that have to be replaced by a certain date, regardless of whether they’ve been used or not.’
Prior nodded. ‘I suppose. But, why were they being sterilised last night? It doesn’t make sense. Unless they’d been used in the evening — and as far as I know there were no emergencies — the only other reason I can think of for them being there is that someone was anticipating needing them.’
‘What do you mean by that?’ Christine said, frowning.
‘I don’t know.’ Prior said, rubbing his eyes groggily as he crossed to check the progress of his drying t-shirt and jumper. They were still damp, but they would do. ‘I don’t know, I’m sorry. I’m tired and I’m hungry . . . I can’t concentrate when I get like this.’
‘That’s ok.’ said Christine, shutting the laptop and returning the SD card and camera to their respective evidence bags, ‘I’m the same.’
She struggled to stand, using the chair-back to help her, rubbing her false, aching knee even as she stretched it out and manoeuvred it painfully round.
‘It still hurts quite badly, doesn’t it?’
Christine felt the heat rising through her chest and flushing her face bright red in response to the attention. ‘It’s not so bad.’ she lied.
Prior flicked a sincere half-smile at her as he pulled on his t-shirt, wriggling as the cold patches of damp material clung to him. ‘How long has it been?’
‘Eight months since the pins. Nearly nine since . . . the event.’
He nodded. And didn’t push.
‘I was wondering,’ she said with a small cough, a typical sign that she was changing the subject, ‘I know you don’t have the greatest CS equipment onboard, but did anyone manage to find any fingerprints? Any at all? Only I haven’t come across any pictures or any other evidence bearing a single print so far. Not even half a print.’
‘No. Me neither.’ said Prior, ‘which ticks more boxes in the meticulous and calculated category.’
Christine found her herself forced to agree. None of this was half-hearted or spur of the moment; the perp knew what they were doing. What they wanted to achieve.
‘He or they must have come into contact with at least ten different surfaces in engineering alone.’ she said, ‘I mean operating the keyboard for crying out loud!’
‘Yeah, but, along with about a hundred other people in engineering . . .’ Prior shook his head, ‘Trying to isolate one print from that jumble would be . . . well it would be exhausting if nothing else. And certainly not conclusive or even reliable.’
‘Ok, so what about in Stacey’s room? The bathtub, surely that might offer something?’
Prior exhaled, pulling his jumper over his head. He knew what she was doing, she just wanted some sort of a lead, something that might stand and stick if — no, when — they caught this guy.
He admired her persistence, but the truth was that whoever was responsible for the murders of Stacey Atkins, Gary Blakely, Dr Stuart Cunningham, Rachel Adams — his Rachel — and the majority of engineers on board the ship had gone to great lengths to remain anonymous, leaving them — quite literally — in the dark. Still, what could he do? Give up?
Taking the two-way radio from the deep pocket on his thigh, Prior pushed the button on the side, ‘Prior to Davies.’
The radio crackled static for a moment.
‘Davies here, Guv’.’
‘Anything to report?’ Prior asked.
Christine listened as the sound of a chair scraping and then a door clicking shut accompanied the now familiar and friendly Scouse husk of Marc Davies’ voice, ‘I’ve just finished taking a statement from Stacey’s sister, Lauren Atkins. She’s still quite distressed. But, then again, who wouldn’t be?’
The two-way bleeped the automated over sound and Prior nodded.
The image of Stacey hanging there, framed by the open door washed over Christine with a suddenly painful and personal twinge. She felt for the drunken sister. She knew how she would blame herself now and for the rest of her life; that she would tell herself she should have been there to stop it. That she should have known.
It was all futile, of course.
‘Right.’ Prior continued, ‘What has she said?’
‘She doesn’t seem to know why anyone would want to hurt her sister. From what Lauren says, Stacey was a pretty likable girl . . . always surrounded by friends and admirers. There’s a party of girls come away together. Seems Stacey was due to marry . . . two weeks after we dock back home.’
Prior looked at Christine who returned his thoughtful gaze, spying a stifled sadness behind those shining, spring eyes.
She reached out, touching his arm, though the action felt immediately alien and electric all at once. She felt herself swallow hard as she continued to watch him, feeling strangely conflicted by this man — this strong and handsome man — who worked so hard to bury the feelings that danced plainly before her well-trained eye.
You might fool others . . . She thought, sadly.
‘Do you have the name of her fiancée?’
‘Michael Copina.’ Davies replied, his voice crackling through the radio’s speaker, ‘Investment banker, mortgage broker . . . business entrepreneur by the sounds of things. He’s American. Lauren says his granddad’s Argentinean, but that he moved the family north as soon as possible. They settled in New York . . . made their money. The American fucking dream, eh?’
‘Davies.’ Prior cut in, chiding him.
‘Sorry, Guv. According to Lauren, most of his family live in L.A. now. But he’s been in the U.K. for about six years.’
‘And were they happy?’
‘Sir?’
‘Were they happy? Michael and Stacey? What did the family think about the
marriage?’
‘You think this could have been a set up? Think he might have wanted her dead?’
Prior shrugged involuntarily, ‘I don’t know. But I think we’ve got to look at every angle.’
‘Pretty expensive set up, though. The bride-to-be and nine members of the hen party on an all-inclusive cruise?’
‘Which shows that he has the money to organise a hit. If that’s what this was. And — if it was Michael Copina that planned all this — he would have the perfect alibi and could appear as the devastated and doting husband-to-be upon hearing the news; a man who spared no expense on the woman he loved. I want you to find out all you can about their relationship.’
‘Yes, Guv’.’
‘And Marc, have a team go back over the scenes as best they can. See if Dr Matthews can spare anyone. We could do with some forensic evidence if we’re to stand a chance of positively tying these murders to somebody. DNA, fingerprints, anything.’
‘Guv’.’
With that the automated over signal bleeped a final time and as he clipped the radio onto his belt, Prior found Christine’s eyes locked on him once more. She raised a questioning eyebrow.
‘You really think that Mr Copina had Stacey Atkins murdered?’
‘To be honest,’ he replied, ‘probably not. But, the name rings a bell. And, I don’t know, there’s something familiar about all this.’ he looked at Christine, who waited patiently for him to continue, ‘I know that sounds bizarre and I don’t want to be so cliché as to say I have a feeling, but . . .’
‘You have a feeling about this.’ Christine smiled, handing over the evidence bags for Prior to deposit them once more in the deep, side-pockets of his black combat pants.
He returned her smile, even as he shook his head, ‘You already know me far too well.’
With that he moved to the dresser, next to which he had spotted an ornate cane that appeared to be cut from a single piece of white marble. The neck was marked with a double ring of gold, while the handle was carved with a colourful scene; a girl sat beneath a willow.
‘That’s my . . . spare.’ Christine blushed.
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