Only as she yawned and turned over did she realise — to her own horror and immediate fury — that she had actually fallen asleep.
Feeling groggy and exhausted — and now also irritated with herself — she fought the urge to simply roll over and return to the seductive waters of the deep and all-consuming slumber that had apparently gripped her so forcefully.
Leaving Davies to continue the interview with Mike, she had returned to her own suite without detour. But she had felt drained and had made the decision to sit out on the balcony, hoping that the soft breeze and sea air would soon blast off the lethargy.
Outside, the warm afternoon sun had pushed through the few small, wispy strands of cloud, bathing the psychologist’s tired body as she had struggled to wrap her thoughts around this case.
Case.
It was so easy to slip into old habits; old phrases and patterns of thought. But perhaps that simply meant that she wasn’t quite ready to be put out to the post-career pasture just yet, after all.
And yet, she had honestly thought they had had him; she had truly believed that Mike Jones was their guy. That he was — at the very least — partly responsible for the mounting body count and the sabotage to the ship.
He seemed to have fit her rough and ever-evolving profile perfectly. And the more they had discovered about him, the more it had all seemed to link together.
But that was just it. That was the danger and the lure of patterns.
They weren’t always real.
Christine knew that the human brain was notorious for wanting to rationalise and to organise; to box things off and make sense of the random.
But just because you saw a face, or a castle or even a dancing elephant in the vast formations of an expanding cloud, it didn’t mean that they
were actually there. Or that they had ever been there.
No. No pattern was ever a certainty in itself. No matter how much the ‘evidence’ seemed to suggest otherwise.
And yet, her instinct had never let her down before. It had been her gift, her talent; her unique selling point in this new, market-driven world of professionalism and crime.
It had been that same instinct and wit — her ability to see the patterns and appreciate them without jumping to any too-soon conclusions — that had led to the eventual apprehension of Thomas Butler.
Or Tom the Butcher as he had come to be known.
In her testimony, Christine had recommended that he be remanded into the custody of a psychiatric hospital rather than swelling the ranks of the traditional criminal justice system. She had also made herself crystal clear in her submissions to the court — both verbal and written — that Butler should be entered into the care system at the maximum level of security.
It was obvious to Christine that the man suffered with several acute personality disorders and in the time she had spent with him since the arrest, she had come to realise that he was also plagued with a number of other mental disturbances formed over a lifetime of neglect and abuse. It was — in her opinion — this systematic mistreatment of Butler as a child that had resulted in such a disturbing penchant for cruelty.
Speaking with him then, within the confines of a secure interview room, she had easily traced and connected his own youthful experiences to the mechanisms of violence and humiliation that he had later administered without remorse to the nineteen victims they knew of at the time.
In actual fact there had been twenty-two.
And that was before the names of both Janet and herself were added to that list. Though, Christine knew that — as victims went — she had been one of the lucky ones.
Both Ashworth and Rampton Secure Hospitals had the facilities to accommodate his needs, though Ashworth also had two specialist wards dedicated to patients with similar conditions.
She knew that in prison Butler would not have access to the full spectrum of medication and treatments he desperately needed to bring his conditions in line. And therefore to place him in a prison setting would be to place the staff who worked there — to say nothing of the other inmates — in very real danger.
So she had made her recommendation.
But, maximum security had always been Christine’s gospel when it came to dealing with Thomas Butler.
Always.
She had sighed as she sat on the balcony, attempting to ward off the exhaustion and painful memories. She had thrown a longing glance over to the unopened bottle of Shiraz that seemed to tempt her with a siren’s call from the dresser across the room. But she had resisted.
And she had done well to resist.
Though, she couldn’t say the same for the lure of the soft, warm, inviting king-size bed on which she now lay.
What time was it anyway?
She checked the small travel clock on the bedside table next to her, which revealed that it was nearly ten past six.
‘Jesus!’ she cried, checking once more in the hopes that her tired eyes had somehow deceived her. But they hadn’t. ‘Christine, you dozy woman!’
She manoeuvred herself around the room as quickly as she could; reaching for the radio that Prior had given to her to keep in touch.
Not exactly certain of correct maritime radio etiquette, she picked up the two-way handset, turned it on and held down the call button.
‘This is . . . Dr Kane.’ she said, groggily. ‘If Security Chief Prior can hear me, please respond.’
No answer.
She worried for a moment before remembering the lack of signal down in the corridors surrounding the brig. It was possible, she thought, that he might still be down there.
Moving to take a seat at the vanity desk that had now become her office, Christine placed the radio down besides her and drew open her journal, running her finger over the soft material of the gold page-finder almost ritualistically.
She looked over the notes she had been making out on the balcony earlier, re-reading over her thoughts on the individual murders — the mechanism, the style, the display — and how they each seemed to indicate this personality type or that. She contemplated the profile that she had been building before they had apprehended Mike and found that, despite his obvious lack of involvement, it still seemed to point an extra-large, unwavering and guilty finger at the complex and aggressive male dancer who had the knife and the past and animal-torturing hobbies!
She blew out a long, exasperated breath, puffing her cheeks as she scrolled back a few pages.
KELLY LIVINGSTONE.
Those two words seemed to lift from the page and a soft smile danced across the psychologist’s face as she read them; as she fell into re-reading the entire entry that she had inscribed following her first encounter with the artist who had, somehow — and without any real effort on her part — managed to captivate her completely.
She turned the pages, examining the notes she had made on some of Kelly’s darker works; those which seemed to be desperately searching for something. Approval. Identity. Forgiveness.
The colourful and disturbing Girl With Two Faces still unnerved her, though she didn’t quite know why. She shivered.
And all the while she read, she found herself lost in tactile imaginings. She gave herself over to the desire of wanting to hold Kelly, to embrace her as she had in the medical bay earlier that morning. Before she had been introduced to Shona.
But, even as she continued to read, her thoughts drifted slowly back towards their killer — or killers — and soon enough she began systematically rebuilding her original profile. Pulling it apart and relaying it, brick by brick.
What did they know for certain?
Twenty-three engineers had been trapped in a section of the ship that was then depleted of oxygen. All had died of anoxic asphyxiation. And Gary Blakely had been tortured for the information on how this might be achieved, as well as his knowledge and ability to temporarily disable the ship.
Once he had outlived his usefulness he too had then been killed.
Stacey Atkins and Fiona Jenkins wer
e the only individual female victims. And there was certainly an undeniably sexual aspect to their murders or at least to the presentation of their bodies after death. From the stripping and the changing of the women to the oddly religious evocation and manner in which they had each been displayed.
There was clearly something about them physically that intrigued their killer, a physicality that he seemed to crave with them, which wasn’t present in the murders of individual males including Blakely, Merko Solich and Dr Cunningham.
There was a clear pattern of necessity vs. enjoyment; of experimentation and exhibition vs. cold, meticulous killing as a means to an end.
It didn’t make sense.
Unless there were two killers working together. But even Christine had to admit that she had her doubts.
Statistically, the likelihood of there being more than one killer present in such a contained and isolated situation was virtually none existent.
She knew that a pair of murderers working together would nearly always display a dominant/submissive relationship. But she was also certain that the nature of their confinement onboard a vessel like this would drive the submissive partner further and further from wanting to engage. The fear of being caught, of nowhere to run and nowhere to hide, would simply be too much for them.
That, in turn, would drive a wedge between the pair almost immediately and the partnership would have already broken down.
And yet there were two distinct methods — two distinct personalities — at work here.
Christine looked up from her journal, staring into the nothingness before her.
Then, as though a long, fluorescent tube-light had just been switched on inside her brain, her brown eyes sparkled. She began scribbling furiously, before the raw power of the realisation left her. Like a dream.
She needed to speak to Prior.
Not quite knowing where she should start in trying to locate the handsome Security Chief, but knowing — for certain — that she did not want to return to the many dark and winding corridors that made up the network of lower decks of the ship, Christine made her way towards the security office.
She was hoping to find the ever-cheerful Marc Davies lurking about somewhere nearby, or even Collins or one of the other junior officers; anyone who might then point her in the direction of Jonathan Prior.
It seemed, however, that luck was not on her side and she sucked in a breath, mentally preparing herself; resolving herself to the fact that she might yet have to face the dark and dismal depths of the lightless, winding passageways after all.
As she turned back onto the main corridor, Christine was almost bowled over by a short, fuzzy blur that she soon recognised as Adrian Kemp. Coming up just short of knocking her over, he held on to her for a moment, speaking in a hurried succession of breathless apologies.
‘Are you alright?’ she asked.
‘Yes.’ he said, nodding emphatically and finally releasing his grip on her arms. ‘I’m on my way to the remembrance thing . . . the ceremony.’
‘What ceremony?’
He seemed unable to stand still, hopping from one foot to the other until Christine finally turned herself in the same direction as the man and they began making their way along the corridor. She struggled, but eventually fell in step with the hyperactive medic, huffing and puffing a little as they went.
‘Captain Andrews has invited all free crew — and anyone else who wishes to attend — to remember all those we’ve lost on this hell trip.’ he said, ‘The total shutdown procedure took out all remaining power. Even the emergency power. Hence there being no-lighting in here now.’
Christine nodded.
‘It’s taken out the freezers where we were storing . . . the bodies . . .’ He stopped. Physically and completely; staring into the ever-darkening corridor ahead of them. ‘Captain Andrews was going to commit their bodies to the sea.’
Christine felt herself gasp, though Kemp didn’t seem to notice.
‘Prior was furious. And he told the Captain so.’ Kemp said, absently rubbing his eye with the back of his hand in a very childlike fashion. Christine could just imagine the scene. ‘Everyone was shouting and lots more of the crew objected . . . but, Captain Andrews, he’s just trying to do what he thinks is best . . .’
‘It can be difficult being the one in charge sometimes.’
Kemp nodded distantly.
Then they were on the move again.
‘Someone suggested packing them with ice, you know, like those long-haul fishermen do. But those boats have massive machines churning out ice all the time and Andrews was worried that we wouldn’t have enough to make a difference. But Prior said we should try and everyone agreed.’
‘And is that what you’ve been doing? Fetching ice and packing the freezer?’
The wild-eyed hobbit nodded, solemnly.
‘Why do you volunteer for these things?’ Christine asked, a small grin on her lips.
For a brief moment Kemp looked hurt and confused; stopping, just as they emerged on the lower open deck and turning to face her.
‘I just want to be helpful.’ he said, ‘I like to hear that I’ve done a good job; I like to see people smile when they see me. I like the way it feels to think that they know they can trust me and count on me. My father never trusted me to get anything done on my own. He was always checking up on me. Phoning to remind me of my own schedule! It was so annoying and used to drive me mad!’ He looked up at Christine, ‘But, now that he’s gone . . . I really miss it.’
Christine nodded, understanding completely.
Janet had had her own fair share of annoying habits and unfounded insecurities that would drive Christine round the bend at times. But now — she thought — she would give anything to mockingly scold her sister for arriving late — as she always did to every occasion — just one last time.
‘Everyone’s up here.’ Kemp said, leading her over to the metal steps of the upper deck.
Quite a crowd had already gathered and as she scanned across them, searching for Prior, she began to pick out the faces of those crew members she had briefed so many hours earlier.
She sighed, still searching, before she felt a small, soft hand slip into her own.
It was Shona.
The dancer flashed a brief, sad smile at her, releasing her hand once more and nodding her head for her to follow. ‘We’re over here.’ she whispered.
Christine followed Shona, glancing back to find that Adrian Kemp had already merged into the crowd; mingling silently with his friends and colleagues. She couldn’t help but feel for the emotional young nurse, whose face was already slick with tears.
Poor lad.
As they approached the spot that Prior and Davies were currently holding, each of the men took a step to the side, allowing enough room for both Christine and Shona to stand snugly in between them; unconsciously protecting them and buffering them from the world.
In the distance someone began to sing.
It was a soft, sad song that Christine recognised as being from some musical or another. She looked up at Prior, who was staring — bleary-eyed — straight ahead, trying his best not to blink.
Trying desperately not to push out those tears already pooling in his bottle-green eyes.
Feeling, rather and thinking, Christine reached out, taking hold of his large, rough hand, much as Shona had taken hold of hers only minutes earlier. She squeezed it briefly then let go. But instead of releasing her as she had expected, Prior responded by holding on to her. Apparently comfortable with their new-found closeness.
Needing her to remain close to him.
And so they stood. Hand in hand, silently, amongst the crowd.
Listening.
Remembering.
Breathing in the salty sea air and drifting in the evening light under an already starring sky. Breathing. And living.
And bidding a final farewell to all of those — to every single person — they had each loved and lost in their own lives.
19:17
Sunday 15th May, 2011
Left alone in the dark, he had been contemplating the ‘who’ and the ‘how’ of his final kill for some time. He knew — instinctively — that this one would be the final kill on board this ship.
Perhaps even the last in his short-lived, but no less illustrious career.
There would, undoubtedly, be some small casualties along the last leg of this little journey. Those that would die simply for their being in the wrong place at the wrong time; and those that would die for foolishly trying to stop him.
He had contemplated the options available to him in the form of those he had been watching most recently and, though she was not connected to his brother in any way, he had come to the conclusion that it was the artist, Kelly Livingstone, who should feature in his final masterpiece.
She was, after all, the one who had inspired him in the first place.
It was she who had unknowingly set him on this strange and artistic path of self-discovery; she who had created such vibrant and haunting works that had reached out and connected with that subtle part of him that was hidden from Vince and Matty and all of those uncultured, crony meatheads in their service.
It was she that had come to mean the most to him. The only living person he now felt any kind of a connection to. Though, she was entirely unaware.
And so it was to be Kelly Livingstone who would be the ultimate sacrifice in memory of his brother. In honour of him. Dedicated to him.
And the bastard better fucking appreciate it!
He felt a pang of unknown terror and something like a great sadness settle on him as he made his final decision and prepared to leap from the shadows one last time.
19:17
Sunday 15th May, 2011
‘Thank you.’ Prior said, finally releasing his gentle grip on Christine’s small hand.
She smiled at him, then watched as Shona intertwined her arm with Davies’ and the pair moved through the crowd, looking like a Hollywood couple. Prior followed her gaze.
‘She’s so comfortable with herself.’ Christine said, ‘And she projects this massive confidence, even though she doesn’t possess it.’
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