‘For example, Dr Cunningham, Blakely and the engineering team all appear to have been killed out of necessity. Whilst, whoever killed Stacey took their time. Enjoyed themselves, walking a fine line between planning and experimenting and — as with Blakely — torture played an all too obvious part in Stacey’s final hours of life.’ Christine paused, turning to Prior who gave an approving nod. ‘However, Dr Matthews has said that there’s no evidence of Stacey being sexually assaulted either pre or post mortem. Which is good.’
‘Why is that good?’ asked an unknown voice.
‘Why is that not good?’ came an unseen reply.
There was a subdued roll of nervous laughter.
Christine smiled. ‘It’s good because rape is very rarely about sex. It’s about control. It’s about violence and humiliation. Often the attacker is only able to complete the sex act part of their attack due to the sense of dominance they feel they gain over their victim during the attack. However, this said; Stacey’s body did show signs of sexual trauma. Not to mention the many sexually explicit injuries that were inflicted on her, both before and after death.’
‘So what does that mean?’ Prior asked quietly.
‘It means that this attack was very much about sex.’ Christine said, ‘Yet, our killer didn’t feel the need, or — rather — was unable to bring this to fruition. He couldn’t carry out the act itself. He didn’t try to conventionally enter her and neither did he use an object to achieve this. Not even after death. Now, whether that’s because she held no further sexual interest for him once the life had left her, I can’t say for sure. But, there didn’t appear to be any traces of semen present inside Stacey or anywhere in the room. Not on the bed or in the bath, nor on the clothes she had been wearing.’
Christine moved back towards the evidence board, pointing to the photo of Stacey’s ribs. ‘And this,’ she said, ‘is the really interesting part, because these words — Not My Type — were carved after death. Now, is that frustration? Is it mocking? Is it a message for us?’
‘How should we know?’ someone shouted.
Prior’s eyes searched for the owner of the voice, angry at the outburst and the blatant disrespect. He felt Christine’s hand on his forearm and exhaled slowly, his eyes flicking to her determined face as she continued to address the crowd. ‘That is my point.’ she said, ‘You have to question everything. You cannot assume anything at all. You need to know this evidence board and the information contained therein like the back of your hand. It’s like a giant jigsaw puzzle and at the moment there are pieces missing . . . there are pieces that don’t seem to fit because the picture is so distorted, but so too are there sections that seem to fit even when they don’t.’
Christine paused looking around the room at the countless pairs of eyes that seemed to have clouded over like the evening sky in the previous night’s storm.
‘I think what Dr Kane is trying to say is that everything is important.’ Prior said, stepping in, ‘and the better you know these details here, the easier you’ll make connections with any new evidence we discover and the quicker we can catch the perp.’
Christine nodded as a rustle of murmuring swept through the room.
‘Now listen,’ she said, awkwardly manoeuvring herself to the next board and pointing out several pictures, ‘identical ligature marks were found around the necks of Gary Blakely and Stacey Atkins, categorically linking the two murders via the use of the same weapon.’
‘Couldn’t it just be coincidence?’ asked Dave Graham, regaining some of his former confidence.
‘If we were in a big city or something there might be a chance that this was coincidence. But, I think we’re far too contained here for that to be the case.’ Christine looked to Prior who nodded in agreement once more. ‘So, I want you all out there talking to people. Asking questions. See if anyone noticed anything odd, heard anything, saw anything. Particularly in the area surrounding engineering between four and five pm yesterday.’
‘Before you go,’ Prior interjected, ‘I want you all to take a look at this picture.’ He held up a magazine opened at a page displaying a nice colour head-shot of a Caucasian woman in her late twenties. Her blue eyes sparkled — though she did not smile in the picture — and picked up the tints of blue in her otherwise jet-black hair, which was then swept into a scruffy bob. ‘Her name is Kelly Livingstone. She’s currently missing and wanted for questioning.’ he said, feeling Christine’s cold stare hit him and hold him like ice. ‘Her hair’s slightly different now, shorter at the back. And she may be confused. She was possibly attacked yesterday and has stitches in her right thigh.’
Pinning the magazine to the board, Prior concluded the brief. Then, he signalled to a handful of milling bodies, taking them to one side as the rest of the team began to filter out.
‘Officer Marc Davies is up in the Security Office trawling through the limited crew files that we have on board the ship. Now, while I say limited there’s still a lot of boxes up there and many of the files will be out-dated since the transference to digital so he’s going to need a hand in sifting through what’s useful and what’s not.’
The small group nodded — some of them reluctantly — and made their way out of the canteen. Now there was nothing to keep him from ignoring the icy cold stare that Christine had still pinned him with.
‘There was no call for that.’ she said.
‘For what?’
‘You know what. You’re making it sound like she’s part of this.’
‘Well, she is part of this. Isn’t she?’ Prior said, walking away from Christine and trying to make it appear as casual as possible. He reached a long table laid out with four immense, industrial-catering, push-top tea and coffee pots; a mass of take-away cups; sugar and milk. He set about fixing himself a coffee, holding the cup under the nozzle as he pressed down.
‘It’s possible she was attacked?’ Christine continued, ‘Possible! We know she was. Jon, I was there for Christ’s sake!’
‘Christine,’ he said, shovelling three sugars into the coffee along with a dribble of milk, ‘I know you feel a . . . closeness to Miss Livingstone — ’
‘What do you mean by that?’
‘I know you want to protect her.’ He began stirring, a maelstrom of coffee almost spilling over the lip of the white cup with every rotation. ‘But, I think your feelings may be clouding your judgement. I’m just not convinced that things are as simple as you’d have them seem.’
‘What exactly are you suggesting?’ Christine said, leaning against the table and flexing her hand, aching already from a busy morning on her stick.
‘Can you be certain that there was someone in the room with her?’
Christine opened her mouth to answer; to shout ‘Yes! Of course I’m sure!’ right in Prior’s infuriatingly handsome face, but, found herself clamping her jaws shut once more. She shook her head in annoyance; gnawing her lip and feeling the chip in her tooth nick the fleshy inside.
She tasted blood.
‘I don’t want to hurt you, Christine. I don’t mean to question your judgement, but you’ve suffered a lot lately. I can understand you wanting to save her.’
‘This isn’t a replacement thing, Jon.’
Prior held up his hands, ‘If you say so. But, besides that, I know that Miss Livingstone brought a set of artist knives on board with her. She could have caught her own leg during some sort of artistic frenzy and not realised. Passed out from the blood-loss.’
‘Is that what you really think?’ she asked, trying desperately to hide the pain in her voice, ‘Or rather is it that you think she took those knives and went on a merry little butchering spree about the ship last night?’
Prior didn’t answer immediately. When finally he did it was with a soft and measured tone. ‘Either way I want to recover the knives. And Kelly. Andrews never should have — ’
‘I didn’t expect this of you, Jon. How can you think . . .’
‘I’m just doing my job.’
‘This isn’t your job.’ he said, instantly regretting the statement, ‘That’s not what I meant. And you know how highly I respect your judgements.’
‘Aye. Enough to tear them apart in front of a crowd of strangers and amateurs.’ she said angrily.
‘Now that’s not fair.’
‘Not fair? Why did you even ask for my help if you don’t think I’m up to the task?’
‘I don’t think that.’ Prior said, ‘Not at all.’
‘Well, you could have fooled me.’
Christine turned from Prior, making her way painfully towards the door she had passed through not-so-long ago.
‘Christine.’ he called.
She didn’t stop. She didn’t look back.
Prior’s two-way radio bleeped as he watched her struggle through the remaining crowd. ‘Go ahead.’ he said, rubbing his eyes wearily.
The static crackled for a moment before he heard a familiar feminine bark.
‘Prior? It’s Dr Matthews here.’
‘Doctor. What can I do for you?’
‘It’s more what I can do for you.’ she said, cheerfully, ‘You’ll never guess who just walked in — or rather, hobbled in — through my door.’
Downing his coffee, Prior jogged out of the canteen, following the path Christine had taken. He caught her as she struggled up the last step in a flight that led to the next deck.
‘Christine,’ he said, catching a gentle hold of her arm, ‘Christine, I’m sorry. Please. Listen to me. I know where she is.’
09:17
Sunday 15th May, 2011
The medical waiting room was so much brighter today, if not a little overcrowded. The cloudless blue skies — such a blessing after the dark and ominous, torrential brooding storm of the night before — allowed for plenty of sunlight to penetrate the stuffy, open-plan room.
On her previous visit, Christine hadn’t really had a chance to notice the large rectangular windows that punctuated the length of the hull along this deck creating a corridor of natural light on a day like today. Overhead a series of sun-trap window lights added to the illuminating effect, bathing the deck with a warm and much appreciated glow.
Rounding the frosted glass divider that separated the waiting area from the general corridor, Christine felt her heart skip a little as she caught sight of Kelly sitting awkwardly in a blue plastic chair.
She felt Prior draw up besides her, spotting Kelly too, though she doubted his reaction would have been anywhere near as joyful as her own. He didn’t move a muscle and after a moment she took her cue, realising that he was holding back to allow her a moment alone with Kelly.
She leaned gently on her white marble stick, crossing with purpose and delight towards the sable-haired artist who had somehow managed to capture her absolute attention with such ease.
As she drew closer, Kelly looked up, noticing her for the first time. A moment of doubt seemed to cloud her eyes, then it was gone and her face radiated only her joy at seeing Christine. She scrambled awkwardly to stand and greet her.
‘Christine.’ she said, embracing the psychologist who, without thinking about it, pressed her lips against her cheek.
Realising the forwardness of her actions and becoming suddenly aware of their physicality, Christine stiffened, cutting short the embrace. She felt her face begin to flush and smiled a small girlish smile at Kelly, who continued to hold on to her arm.
‘Kelly,’ she smiled softly, ‘You’re ok. I was beginning to fear that . . .’ She couldn’t bring herself to finish the sentence. She knew what she feared; there was no need to air the nightmarish thoughts that had plagued her as she had tried to sleep.
‘Hey,’ Kelly said, ‘Don’t worry about me. I — ’
‘Am I interrupting?’ A soft and sultry voice danced near to them, her joking words loaded with just enough venom to serve as a quiet warning.
‘Not at all.’ Christine replied. A little quicker and a little louder than intended.
Leaning on her stick she took a heavy step backwards, allowing the tanned and tight-bodied beauty to move in close to Kelly, passing her a cardboard cup that smelt of strong, delicious coffee.
The attractive, dark-haired, young woman eyed Christine suspiciously and locked her in her sights though she appeared to speak to Kelly. ‘You like black, right?’
‘Thanks.’ Kelly said, taking in the aroma of the cup, seemingly oblivious to the sudden awkward tension, ‘Shona, this is Christine Kane. A friend of mine. A bloody saviour in fact.’ Christine beamed inwardly. ‘She’s agreed to help me out with a publication the University’s forcing me into.’ The beam faded. ‘Christine, this is Shona. She was in the show. She helped me out last night.’
Christine felt a strange mixture of jealousy, disappointment and disbelief twist in the pit of her stomach, making her want to throw up the handful of cornflakes she had managed to force herself into eating at around six that morning. ‘Really?’ she managed through a clenched smile.
‘Oh, I wouldn’t say that.’ Shona said, holding Kelly’s gaze for some time before turning to Christine so as to clearly articulate her position and intent. ‘I mostly just put her to bed and kept an eye on her throughout the night.’
‘You don’t remember anything from before that?’ Christine asked, trying to keep the desperation from her voice.
Kelly shook her head.
‘She was in a pretty bad way.’ Shona intoned, ‘As you can see.’
Christine nodded a short, sharp nod and became suddenly aware of Prior — once more — standing beside her.
How long had he been there?
‘Miss Livingstone.’ he said evenly, ‘I’m very glad to see you. We were worried.’
‘You were?’
Prior nodded.
‘Am I missing something?’ Kelly asked.
‘I – or rather, we – have some questions we’d like to ask you.’ he paused a moment as Kelly looked between him and Christine anxiously. ‘If you wouldn’t mind coming with us.’
‘Jon?’ Shona questioned, but he simply shook his head.
Kelly handed her coffee back to Shona, turning to follow Prior. As Christine hobbled passed the dancer, she couldn’t help but feel a small twinge of satisfaction.
He hung back, beyond the frosted glass divider. Watching them.
His heart seemed to pound in his ears as he forced himself to slow his breathing.
You must stay calm. You must stay calm . . . or they will find you.
He nodded to himself. Sweating profusely.
Cautiously, he peered around the frosted glass one more time. He cursed as his gaze found Shona leaning in to kiss the dark-haired one on the cheek. The older woman — the one with the stick — stiffened, unable to tear her eyes from the bitch.
Then he watched as the trio stepped into the adjoining room, leaving Shona behind.
She took a seat, leaning back against the wall and stretching out her legs.
You’re not supposed to sit down!
She was supposed to leave. Alone.
He cursed under his breath and turned. Seething, he quickly retraced his steps along the corridor he had followed them through.
Feeling a sudden cold shudder, Shona glanced up. She leaned forward, craning her neck to look around the glass divider. There was no one there.
The elderly gentleman in the seat next to her raised his heavy, grey wiry eyebrows questioningly.
‘D’you ever get the feeling that someone’s just walked over your grave?’ Shona asked.
He smiled, ‘More often than not when you get to my age, lovely.’
He laughed a rasping, happy laugh; which in turn led to a spluttering, wheezing cough.
Shona couldn’t help but think Please don’t die on me!
‘And that’s when you found the paintings?’ Kelly asked, dismayed and clearly upset, ‘In my room?’
‘Yes.’ said Prior, matter-of-factly.
They
had excused their way through the first GP-style office, settling into a smaller room located just behind it.
In truth, it was little more than a converted broom cupboard; a desk — a quarter of the size of its companion in the adjacent room — took up most of the floor space. There was one high-back, leather-look swivel chair that Kelly herself now occupied and an outdated computer; the tower whirring noisily, eating up the medical bay’s emergency power, as it struggled to load the images from Prior’s SD card.
‘Where are they now?’
‘They’ve been removed.’ said Prior, ‘As evidence.’
Christine shot him a cautionary look.
‘Evidence? Evidence of what?’
Prior didn’t answer.
‘And you think I painted them?’
‘Wait ‘til you see them. Then tell me what you’d think if you were in my shoes.’
Kelly looked at Prior in disbelief. ‘And just when am I supposed to have done this? I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but I’m a little worse for wear. How many did you say there were?’
‘Three.’ said Christine, seeming to study every movement Kelly made as she squirmed uncomfortably in her chair.
‘Somehow, I don’t think I was in much of a mood for painting last night, judging by the way I feel today. Besides, whatever else might have happened to me, I obviously made my way here at some point.’
‘You made — ’ Prior began.
Christine shook her head in a small, but determined motion.
‘Yeah. I mean, I’ve got eleven stitches in my thigh, for fucks sake!’ Kelly said, indicating with her hand, ignoring fact that her dark jeans currently masked that detail. ‘Surely the doctors keep a record. They’ll be able confirm that I was here and give you a time. Give me an alibi.’
Christine stepped forward, ‘Kelly, no one is accusing you — ’
‘Really?’ she retorted angrily. ‘I don’t know what it is you’re accusing me of doing, but I know what an accusation sounds like, Christine. And even if — by some bizarre streak of chance — I did happen to paint last night — which, I seriously doubt I could have done in this state — that is what I do. I’m a fucking artist. And as far as I’m aware there’s no law against art!’ she shot Prior a withering look, ‘Unless it’s another of your maritime security issues.’
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