‘They might . . . They might be ok. I’m no expert, but . . .’
Andrews shook his head, silencing Davies. ‘The heat out here, even in that room — that freezer — after three or four hours . . . it won’t be nice. After twelve . . .’ he pushed out another long breath, ‘I don’t want to make things worse than they already are. No. I don’t see another option.’
Davies agreed; the last thing they needed now was some plague-like epidemic breaking out across the ship. After a moment, he placed his hand on Andrews’ shoulder. ‘I’ll be reporting my findings to Prior in a while. Would you like me to . . .’
He didn’t finish the sentence. He didn’t have to, Andrews was already nodding; the appreciation clear on his emotionally weathered face. ‘Yes. Please.’ he said, a thankful half-smile flickering across his lips. ‘What have you found so far?’
‘Nothing really.’ Davies began, unconsciously drawing himself to attention as he reported his findings. Or lack thereof. ‘Turns out Gary Blakely could be a bit of a nutter, but that hardly helps us and it seems a bit tight bringing it up as the man’s now dead, but . . .’
‘What do you mean by nutter?’
‘That he could be a bit of a psycho, sir. I found evidence of repeated reprimands and disciplinaries from the Captain and the Security Chief of the ship he’d worked on a few years back.’
‘How come I didn’t know about this?’
‘I don’t think anyone did, sir. The hard-copy file was amongst a load that had been archived. My guess is he just slipped through the net.’
Andrews turned to face Davies, ‘But I know Prior wouldn’t let something like that slip past him. He’s so . . . thorough.’
‘That he is,’ Davies said, smiling, ‘But he’s also human. I think maybe Blakely got a recommendation off somebody that — I don’t know — put him at the top of the pile for candidates. And the man was good at his job. That much is bloody clear.’
Andrews laughed. It was short, but it was the first time Davies had seen any real light in the man’s eyes since they had begun talking. ‘Yes, too bloody good.’ he sighed, ‘Anything else?’
Davies shook his head, ‘Surname wise, I’m up to the J’s now. I think. And I’ve got a small team helping me out, who — shit!’ he said, checking his watch, ‘They’ll be waiting to get back in the office now! I’d better — ’ he took a step back from the bleary-eyed Andrews, who caught hold of his arm for a moment.
‘Get back to them.’ he said.
Davies nodded, but Andrews held on to him still. ‘Thanks Marc.’ he said, eventually, ‘Keep me informed.’
Releasing Davies, he turned on his heel and made his way up the nearby steps.
Davies smiled, feeling rightly pleased with himself at being able to help ease the man’s conscience a little.
He began retracing his steps, returning to the security office the way he had come.
But so much had changed now.
In the last few minutes the whole world seemed to have been completely shaken up and back down again.
And he still hadn’t had any bloody coffee!
10:40
Sunday 15th May, 2011
They had established that the suite had been booked in the name of a Mrs Fiona Jenkins and there were more than a few pieces of evidence within the room that identified this latest female body as being the woman herself.
Christine had felt conflictingly both more and less shocked when finally viewing the scene that the killer had created for them this time.
But then, if you removed the creeping odour of the early stages of decomposition, the battered corpse of the short, unknown man with the obliterated face and the fact that Fiona Jenkins had been murdered and was now, in fact, little more than a cooling cadaver, the room actually had quite a peaceful air about it.
The suite appeared to be of a similar lay-out to Christine’s, making it easier for her to navigate and to try and build up a chronological picture of events. She knew, for example, that the room situated opposite the massive king-sized bed was the bathroom.
Her own featured a large, corner, hydro-spa bath and had been the reason for her choosing that particular type of suite, despite the price. She knew how much she would appreciate the warm water-therapy on her aching knee joint of an evening.
Not that that particular feature was working at the moment.
At the foot of the immense bed stood a deep-fill, russet-coloured travelling chest, the old-fashioned kind that you would have expected to find in an expensive suite on board the Lusitania or the Titanic, not a city-sized ocean-liner of the twenty-first century. It was a glaring anachronism in the ultra-chic modernism that engulfed the rest of the room.
Christine shuddered as it suddenly dawned on her that neither of the two ships with which she had drawn a visual comparison in her mind’s eye had survived to enjoy the honour of an official decommissioning.
The first had been torpedoed by a German U-Boat, with devastating effect. The latter — rather more famously — had not even completed its maiden voyage; the drastically damned and fated fictional romance of Jack and Rose that ended in short, sharp whistle blows and the ironic words ‘I’ll never let go’, suddenly assaulting the cinematic screen inside her mind. The warbled whir of Celine Dion’s most recognisable verse infested her brain before she could prevent it nesting.
Great. I’ll have that stuck in my head all day now.
The room had been immaculately well-kept before the top two shelves of a speciality sex shop had apparently rained down upon it. The luxurious — if not a little blood-stained — white satin sheets had been straightened, the quilt meticulously folded back to the foot of the large bed and the pillows neatly plumped. It almost felt like a particularly diligent member of housekeeping had called round in the early hours, but had somehow failed to notice the anathema of the two corpses degrading inside the suite.
The travelling chest had been furnished with a line of purple tea-lights, all of which had long since burned away their small wicks. Christine suspected them to be responsible for the heavy lace-scent of lavender that hung in the air above the unmistakeable slow stink of decay.
Beyond this, elbows resting on the chest and kneeling upright as if in prayer, was the carefully moulded corpse of Fiona Jenkins.
Dressed in a thigh-length nightgown of fine silver silk, she appeared almost animate in the strange, other-worldly ambience of the room.
There were various marks running up her arms and over her shoulders; bruising, bite-marks, slices, blood-spots. Winding around her throat and neck was a ligature pattern that appeared — visually — to match those found on both Stacey Atkins and Gary Blakely. Christine suspected that there would be a whole host of other injuries beneath that nightgown for Dr Matthews to explore once they finally moved Mrs Jenkins up to medical.
It was going to be no easy feat moving her discreetly in the daylight, especially now that the whole ship was buzzing with rumour, intrigue and conspiracy theories. But then, moving her at night would pose its own problems; the darkness being one major issue, the fact that she would then have been dead for a further ten hours being another.
And that wouldn’t do at all.
No, moving her at night was not an option.
Struggling, and with an awkward and almost clumsy progression of movements, Christine lowered herself to her knees before the rigid cadaver.
Fiona Jenkins’ eyes were closed, while her mouth fell open to form a soundless scream. Her long, white hair spilled over her shoulders, straight as a pin; a healthy shine and lustre still present in the colourless fibres. Had it been brushed after death?
Christine inspected the lengthy locks, reaching out with a gloved hand, feeling the weight of it as she took a closer look. She might even go so far as to suggest that the hair had been washed and brushed, then left to dry post mortem.
She raised an eyebrow, releasing the hair as she pondered.
She found herself thinking about how — for hundreds of years — rel
igious images bearing saints and persons of Christian canon importance had been painted, drawn and carved by artists. The saints were ritually depicted kneeling with their hands clasped in prayer and bound by the beads of the rosary. In the same manner and style of such religious works, their artistically twisted assassin had created yet another icon; binding the hands of the late Mrs Jenkins.
Only, hers were not rosary, but florescent pink anal beads.
Christine didn’t quite know what to make of it all. Clearly there was a certain amount of mockery in the scene; an ironic undertone that was completely wasted on her and Prior and their small team, if not also on the cooling and inanimate Fiona Jenkins.
But what disturbed her most was the amount of care and almost tender attention that had been paid to this poor, deceased sculpture of a woman, while across the room — no more than ten feet away — an unknown male had had his brains smashed in; his face battered to a bloody pulp.
And yet, he too bore the same ligature marks around his neck.
Christine shook her head; what did it all mean? She pressed one palm down onto the bed and the other on the ornate cane that she feared so much might break. As she tried to gain the leverage she needed to winch herself up onto her feet once more she was suddenly aware of Prior standing beside her. Feeling his strong hand take hold of her arm, supporting her, she stiffened.
She was still angry with him, even as he helped her to her feet.
Especially because he was helping her.
‘Look, are you going to stay mad at me all day?’ he whispered close to her ear. She stared at him. ‘I’ve apologised once already, Christine. And I meant it.’
He had apologised and they had moved on, but that didn’t mean she had to stop being mad at him. Still, the handsome, green-eyed Security Chief did seem to have a way of getting under her skin and really there were more pressing matters at hand.
She knew what the problem was. It was simple. She had allowed herself to trust someone for the first time in a long time. She had allowed herself to become close to this man and then . . .
She knew she was making far more of this than she really should, but still. After everything, beginning to trust Prior even a little, opening up in the slightest . . . it was all a major step forward for her. It was a big deal. So much so that it made the smallest of disagreements or confrontations feel like betrayal.
A huge betrayal!
She knew it was ridiculous to react the way she had; to feel the way she now felt. She could reason it logically; she was — after all — more than accustomed to the intricate and irrational workings of the human mind.
But that didn’t stop her from feeling rejected, undervalued and betrayed.
Forcing herself to smile up at Prior she stretched out her leg, rubbing the knee joint that was cold and metal and alien to her body. ‘You did apologise.’
‘So?’ he said, ‘Are we ok? I want us to be ok.’
‘We’re ok.’ she replied weakly, watching him watching her. ‘I only have guesses so far. What I can see. But, the state of rigidity suggests she that was killed within the last twenty-four hours, at the most thirty-six, but I’d say much less than that. Her body shows signs of both blunt and sharp-force trauma; there’s a chain pattern of bruising around the neck and throat, indicating that she was strangled with a similar — if not the same — instrument that was used on the others. Though her tongue is not protruding, so I doubt she died of asphyxiation. Whereas he,’ she said, nodding towards the second body, ‘his tongue — or at least what’s left of it — is. His eyes also show evidence of petechial haemorrhages, and — while I realise that could be a result of the battering he received post mortem — taken with the chain marks that appear around his neck and his protruding tongue, I’d say cause of death was ligature strangulation. With a splash of gleeful over-kill afterwards. What did you find?’
He gave a nod even as the brief flick of a smile played on his lips. ‘You’re good at this.’
‘Oh, aye. It’s a wonderful talent to have!’ she said, ironically. ‘My favourite party trick.’
He chuckled and it was only in that moment that she realised just how greatly important it was to him to have received her forgiveness.
Though she knew it wasn’t her forgiveness in particular that he sought and in his own way — though completely without his realising — he was simply using her to ease his battered conscience. To patch up his damaged sense of self-worth.
But she understood.
‘Right, well the fella over there is one Merko Solich. Croatian. Mid-to-late twenties. Kemp discovered a photo album in the bottom of one of the cases. I tell you, this Mrs Jenkins didn’t believe in travelling light!’ he paused a moment and Christine couldn’t help but smile as Prior scratched his now lightly-stubbled chin, ‘Anyway, he’s in loads of pictures with her. Though I can’t really say whether he was her toy-boy or if she was his fag-hag. It’s all a bit . . . confusing.’
This time Christine laughed out loud causing Adrian Kemp and the other two security officers currently sweeping the room for evidence to pause in their quest to look up at the psychologist.
‘Well, with all the gear strewn around here I think it’s safe to say that Mrs Jenkins was not only clearly sexually active, but also more than a little open. I’d even go so far as to say extrovert when it came down to the physical, so I don’t think we can rule anything out on that front.’
Prior nodded, a look of bewildered terror plastered across his face as he scanned the room once more. ‘I’d have to agree.’
Christine stifled a second giggle.
‘What?’ he asked.
She shook her head, smiling softly. ‘You do make it hard to stay mad at you.’
‘Good.’ he said, grinning with a renewed enthusiasm as he led Christine around the side of the bed and held up a small black-light torch, ‘Now, it’s plain to see that there’s blood on the sheets, which — by the way — are not standard sheets for this type of suite. In fact, I doubt there’s a room on this ship that has silk bed-linen as standard! These obviously belong — or rather belonged — to Mrs Jenkins herself.’
‘The lady certainly liked her home comforts. And had a high standard of living, by the looks of things.’
Prior nodded, ‘But, look here,’ he said, clicking the switch of the torch so that the odd-coloured light beamed brightly across the bed; highlighting luminous pools that spanned the sheets and pillows ‘there’s traces of other bodily fluids here.’
‘Well, I’d have been surprised to find there weren’t!’
Prior gave her a mock-withering look and continued, ‘I was thinking we might finally have some DNA evidence. And, if it matches that of the hair that Kemp found in room fifteen-thirty-four, we might have a good chance of positively identifying the killer and tying them to these two murders at least. Makes it easier to build a multiple-homicide case, you know. Evidence.’
‘Yes, sir.’ Christine said with a sarcastic grin as she pulled a small salute.
‘And,’ Prior continued, striding across the room and stepping carefully over the late Merko Solich, ‘look at this.’ He point his gloved finger at a nice, thick pile of crisp twenty and fifty pound notes neatly stacked on top of a set of drawers. ‘Now, there’s a few grand sat there. In plain sight. And he didn’t take it. Why didn’t he take it?’
‘It could be a statement. I mean, look at what he’s done with Mrs Jenkins. Religious overtone isn’t in it. And, if we take that in conjunction with the painting of Stacey, that’s two separate scenes flooded with obvious religious connotations.’
‘That’s true. But, does that necessarily mean that this has anything to do with religion? Or is it more to do with the fact that these are simply powerful, recognisable images. Images that conjure different emotions and meanings for each individual person that encounters them?’
‘The way art evokes different emotions in each admirer, you mean? Allowing them to draw their own conclusions whilst still making a b
old and powerful statement?’ Christine said, thinking.
Prior nodded.
‘You’re right.’ she continued, ‘This might have nothing whatsoever to do with religion. It might be that some aspect of some organised religion played a major part in our killer’s childhood. But, then again, it may have absolutely nothing at all to do with the religion or religious aspect itself. It may or may not be specifically related to Christianity, despite the image being heavily Christianised.’
‘Either way, that still doesn’t account for why he left the money.’
‘Perhaps money’s just not important to him.’
‘You think he might be well-off? Like Michael Copina well-off. Or at least somebody being paid by the man?’
‘Michael Copina?’ Christine shook her head, ‘We have nothing to connect Copina to this, or even to Stacey’s murder if we’re honest. But let’s say — hypothetically — that Michael Copina was involved in and perhaps even behind Stacey’s murder, why would he want Fiona Jenkins out of the picture? Do we have any evidence to suggest that they even know each other? Or rather, knew each other.’
Prior smiled.
It was a wide, boyish grin that flashed a perfect set of pristine, white teeth.
‘Well,’ he said, ‘I’m glad you asked that.’
Making his way back to Christine, he picked up the photograph album that Kemp had discovered and opened it in reverse; handing it to her. There in the back, tucked into the transparent sleeve that wrapped itself around the album was a single, oddly sized picture.
The photograph appeared to show a large, multi-racial family celebrating Christmas. It looked as though it had been taken a few years previous.
Glancing at the picture, Christine spotted Fiona easily. She was stood to the left of a tall man with olive skin and grey hair, her own long, white hair was plaited to the side and sat over the shoulder of a royal blue gown like a thick length of rope. She looked entirely respectable in a subdued and repressed kind of way. Merko Solich was nowhere to be seen.
She scanned the picture further, but didn’t recognise anyone else.
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