‘I know it doesn’t help,’ she said, ‘Believe me, I do. But there truly is no way that you ever could have known. If you had had the slightest inkling of an idea that something like this was going to happen, you’d have never let her out of your sight. But you can’t know. You couldn’t know. You would never even imagine something like this happening. How could you?’
Prior nodded slowly, bringing his hands up to cover his face. Seeming to finally accept this as a kind of truth.
A harsh and unwanted truth; but, a truth none-the-less.
‘I’m just so . . . angry.’ he whispered.
‘I understand.’
‘I’d give all I have and more to trade places with her.’
‘I know.’
‘I can’t stand this . . . this feeling of complete and utter . . . helplessness. Of being unable to do anything.’
‘But you can do something.’ Christine said.
‘But it’s not going to bring her back, is it?’
Prior pushed out a long breath as he wiped his glistening face.
He shook his head absently, the tangle of self-blaming thoughts still clearly weaving their web around his weary mind. He took up the wine glass and downed the contents, returning it to the table before crossing the balcony to lean his arms against the rail, staring — as before — out across the vast and open ocean. He seemed to be avoiding Christine’s eye.
He was ashamed.
‘We can catch whoever’s responsible. We can make sure they pay for what they’ve done.’
Prior shook his head, though not in answer to her statement. Christine could see that he was trapped, battling against himself; the personal vs. the professional; the grieving lover vs. the rational detective.
‘I feel lost, Christine. It’s got me questioning everything.’
‘I know.’ she said, manoeuvring herself to stand beside him. She reached out, placing her hand on his arm. ‘And you won’t feel any better until it’s been put to bed once and for all. You know I’m right. And you know that we can bring this person to some sort of justice.’
He nodded. Slowly. But this time it was a sure nod of agreement.
‘Then you can mourn her. Properly.’
He turned to face her, his emerald eyes still shining with the rawest of emotions. ‘So, where do we begin?’
Christine let out a slow breath.
For a brief moment she had been convinced that he would refuse. That he would simply want to continue drinking until his brain was numb and the pain had stopped. Even for a little while. But he was suddenly quite focused.
Appearing sober, even.
Like he had been slapped in the face, dunked in cold water and left out in the snow kind of sober.
The change in him was physical and instantaneous.
Christine smiled, thinking, You’re so much stronger than I was.
She coughed and collected her thoughts. ‘When we were talking earlier, you mentioned some criminal family that had helped you — in your mind — to connect the Copina’s to these murders somehow.’
‘Yes,’ Prior said, his voice low, his sorrow still clear, ‘but, I don’t think there’s any real connection there. It just jogged my memory that’s all. I mean, yeah, Mike Jones worked for the Copina’s on and off, Stacey was marrying into the family, apparently her fidelity was going to be tested, but . . .’
‘Do you think it was tested in the end?’
‘Someone else on board, also working for Michael Copina?
Christine shrugged, ‘It’s possible.’
‘But it’s also highly unlikely. And the way in which she was killed and displayed was so brutal. No, I think that was definitely personal.’
‘I agree.’ Christine said, finishing the wine in her glass as she thought, ‘You said it was the murders themselves that had jogged your memory concerning the name Copina. What did you mean by that?’
‘The ligature marks around the neck. The violence . . . the sexual aspects and the brutality, they reminded of the case I was working on in ninety-nine. Vincent Keating and the Simmons brothers had a hand in almost every case that landed on our desk back then.’
‘Brothers?’
‘Yeah. Jacob Matthew Simmons. He was the elder brother and in charge of running the family estate. With some help from Keating.’
‘And the younger brother?’
‘Isaac, I think. Isaac Simmons.’
‘Biblical.’
‘Indeed.’ Prior said, his eyebrow arching.
‘And was Mrs Simmons proud of the men her boys became? Was she even aware?’
‘Oh, Jacob could do no wrong in her eyes. But, Isaac . . . he was the one leading her good boy astray. How she came to that conclusion, I have no idea. It seems like the poor lad lived his life in the shadows of his elder brother and Keating. He wanted to be just like them. And they exploited the fact.’
‘Sounds like you tried to help him.’
Prior nodded. ‘I tried.’
Christine waited. She watched Prior shifting his weight from foot to foot, watched his grip tighten on the rail and relax once more. He sighed and shook his head.
‘What happened, Jon?’
He said nothing for a very long time, but, eventually — quietly — he began. ‘We’d planned to arrest Jacob Simmons and Vincent Keating. Thought that maybe young Isaac could be talked into testifying or something. We thought . . . I thought — foolishly — that we could save him. He was only a lad, you know? Young, vulnerable; absent father . . . so, naturally, he idolised Jacob and Keating.
‘Oh, but, he might have had a chance . . . then, that morning . . . that day . . . it was a set up. It had to be. They knew we were coming and they had men to spare. Must have called in every toe-rag and scumbag that could use a weapon. We were like fish in a barrel to them.
‘I spotted Keating and Simmons on the upper level. They had this junior officer, barely a cadet, this kid . . . and he was sobbing . . . begging them to stop . . .’
‘What did you do?’
‘He wouldn’t have survived his injuries . . . so, I made it quick for him.’
‘You shot him.’
Prior nodded.
‘And what happened to Simmons?’
‘He tried to run. And I shot him too.’ he said, ‘That’s when I was injured. Pipe burst behind me; steam under pressure. I was knocked unconscious. Pinned to the floor. I didn’t see what happened next, but I guessed that Keating took his body.’ he paused a moment, trying to find the right combination of words, ‘That was the day I made Isaac Simmons heir to the family business. I killed his brother. And so, Keating took him completely under his wing. He became his new project . . . his new protégée’
‘You were just doing your job.’
‘It was messed up, Christine. But, I couldn’t just let him go, could I?’ he asked, searching her eyes, ‘But then, maybe if I had . . . things could have been so different. Isaac might not have . . .’ he shook his head, ‘but, under the tuition of Keating he didn’t stand a chance. If I hadn’t have killed Jacob . . . he might not . . . they might not have taken the lives of so many . . .’
The words failed him.
His lips continued to move, though no further sound materialised.
Christine brushed her soft palm against his bristled face. ‘That’s a lot of ifs, Jon. And a great burden to be carrying around in your heart all these years. It’s not your fault. You can try and give a person all the guidance you think they need; try as hard as you can to save them. But, sometimes, they just don’t want to be saved. Sometimes nature topples nurture. And there’s nothing you can do to change a person’s nature.’
‘He was there.’ he whispered, ‘I didn’t know it at the time. But he was there, Christine.’
‘Who was there?’
‘Isaac. He opened the fire-door. Jacob ran towards it . . . I couldn’t let him go. I shot him twice. In front of that young, lost boy . . . I killed his brother . . . right before his eyes, Christine. I helped to create him.�
��
‘No.’ Christine said, firmly, ‘You didn’t teach that boy to hate the world. You didn’t teach him to steal or to launder, to hurt and kill and destroy people’s lives.’
‘But I did destroy his life.’
‘You can’t always be the hero.’
‘I never wanted to be a fucking hero!’ he growled, pulling away from her, ‘I just wanted to do some good.’
Christine nodded, understanding completely. Their past situations — their personal burdens — they weren’t so different when it came down to it.
‘So what happened to Isaac? And Keating?’
‘They disappeared.’ he said, plainly, ‘They just disappeared. They’d leave a bit of a trail every now and then. Enough for me to bite onto; enough to taunt me . . . let me know just who was behind it. But nothing that would ever stick. They were slippery as hell, surfacing for a month or so here and there, before evaporating again . . . into thin air.
‘When I discovered the truth about Isaac witnessing the shooting . . . I was so scared. Not for myself, but for my family. I had plain-clothed officers following them, watching them; checking they were safe. I think everyone just thought I was overly-obsessed, that I was losing it. And I think after a while, even I started to believe that too. But they went on following my orders. For so long.
‘Then, one day, my Super called me in to the office and we had a long chat about my conduct, my obsession . . . and my future on the team.’
Christine stared at Prior for some time. She didn’t quite know what to say.
The precautions he had taken sounded perfectly rational to her. Perfectly reasonable. But saying that, she supposed it would depend on the number of officers he had devoted to the task and for how long. She could imagine Prior’s faceless Superintendent discussing man-power and resources and budgets with him in a stuffy, little office somewhere in Liverpool. Weighing the unseen cash-sacks against the lives of those most loved and cared for by the then-DI Jonathan Prior.
Berating him for presuming to use their limited means in such a selfish fashion.
She shook her head absently, marvelling — and not for the first time — at how the understanding, friendly faces of concerned colleagues could swiftly turn to the cold, harsh judgemental stares of those trying to avoid a public flogging themselves.
‘Is that why you never mentioned that Shona was your sister?’ she asked.
He shrugged, ‘Force of habit, I suppose. I didn’t do to hurt you. Or confuse you.’
‘I know.’ she said.
Prior leaned in, planting an honest kiss on Christine’s cheek, ‘Thank you.’
Feeling herself flush ever so slightly, she nodded and smiled.
‘So, do you still think this has something to do with Michael Copina?’ he asked, changing gear ever so slightly with the tone of his voice. It wasn’t so marked a change as to be moving from intimate conversation to strictly business alone, but the deeply personal vulnerability he had revealed in the last ten minutes disappeared on the instant.
Christine stared at him, trying to read him.
But he was locked once more.
‘Well, I had been re-thinking our killer’s profile.’ she began, ‘And I’d been going over everything you’d said about it seeming familiar, which is why I’d asked about . . . everything. I needed to know the connection you’d thought you’d seen.’
‘Right.’ said Prior, clearly wanting to steer away from returning down that road.
‘Because it seemed to me that the conflicting styles of violence — not to mention the obvious differences in the treatment of the individual male victims to that of the individual female victims — could be one of several things. Either, our killer is trying to emulate someone or something — particularly when it comes to the women — ’
‘Like,’ Prior said, cautiously, ‘copying, in reality, the work that Kelly Livingstone has done in paint.’
‘Right. Exactly. Our killer does appear to have a passion and a flair for the artistic and dramatic. And, breaking into Kelly’s room, creating new pieces that imitate her style and the thematic basis of her work while she is there . . . I mean, that’s him acting out a fantasy in itself. The very fact that those paintings reveal the final moments of real murders adds an entirely new dimension to that. It’s like he’s saying ‘Look, this is what I really am. An artist. Just like you’. I think he wanted someone to understand him. I think he chose someone who he thought could understand him.’
‘Kelly?’
Christine nodded.
‘What makes you say that?’
‘Well the fact that he could have just killed her, but chose not to, for one.’
‘No, but she hardly escaped untouched. Did she?’
‘You’re right. But then, she doesn’t remember much — if anything — about that particular evening. I know that she’d ended up feeling rotten on the Friday; migraine, vomiting, general nausea, which couldn’t have helped. She might even have been given something to make her feel that way.’
Prior’s eyebrows arched. ‘Poisoning?’
‘I don’t know. Maybe. Maybe not. Hopefully, there’ll be something in the blood samples that Dr Matthews took for toxicology to pick up on. That is, if we manage to reach land before they degrade,’ she paused, waiting for Prior to nod; to indicate that he was back on board with wherever she might take this. ‘But, I do think she might have fought with him. We don’t know the exact time line and — so far — she hasn’t been able to confirm anything, but . . . maybe, she returned to her room to find him already at work; maybe, he was hiding at first. Maybe, he arrived after her, I don’t just know, but, I do think she probably had a good scrap with him — possibly gave as good as she got — I think that that’s how she suffered her injuries. And, more importantly, why she suffered them. I don’t think he was planning on carving her up like he did Stacey Atkins. It’s odd, but he seems to . . . respect her in some way.’
Prior looked uncertain.
‘We know he had a knife. Right?
He nodded.
‘Mike’s knife,’ she continued, ‘which Blakely had been carrying around all this time. The knife that was discovered in Fiona Jenkins room.’
‘Right. And?’
‘Well, Kelly was stabbed and slashed with a knife. Why don’t we have Dr Matthews check and compare her wound with the knife we now have? The knife that we know was used in at least one of the other crime scenes. I know you thought it was one of her own knives that might have been used, but none of them are missing and they certainly don’t appear to show any traces of blood on them. I don’t even think she’s had them out of their case since she’s been on board.’
Prior nodded, slowly. ‘I suppose it does make sense to compare them.’
‘Thank you.’ Christine said, a hint of sarcasm striking like iron under a hammer in her voice, ‘Glad you approve.’
‘So, what else?’ Prior said, unable to keep the small curling smile from his lips.
‘My other thoughts actually concerned approval. Particularly the seeking of approval from someone you idolise. Someone like a father. Or a brother.’
‘Is that why you asked about the Simmons’?
Christine nodded.
‘You think it could be Isaac? Tracking me down?’
‘I didn’t know your history with them then, or that one of them was now dead,’ Christine said, shaking her head. ‘But yes, I did wonder whether it could be the Simmons Brothers. It was the connection to the Copina family and the realisation that one personality seemed to be desperately trying to please the other that made me think along those lines. It was nothing personal.’
‘But now you know that Jacob Simmons is dead. And there’s no way Keating would have gotten on board — no matter what alias he might have booked in under — I’d have spotted him for sure.’
‘What about the younger brother. Isaac?’
Prior shook his head. ‘No one’s seen or heard from him properly for years now. As I
said before, he and Keating were slippery, but it seems Isaac was even more so. There was even a rumour — at one point — that Keating might actually have killed him.’
‘Why would he do that?’
‘It turned out that Jacob Simmons had been siphoning from their collective stock. Shifting certain assets; valuables, money and even bonds to somewhere out of Keating’s reach. He could have been looking to retire . . . who knows. I can’t say whether he told Isaac about it. Still, that wouldn’t have stopped Keating from digging around if he thought the lad knew something.’
‘That’s some twisted kind of family loyalty.’
‘Keating was a bastard when it came down to money.’ said Prior, his eyes apologising for the momentary lapse in his language even as he continued. ‘And if he felt he’d been double crossed by the elder Simmons, I doubt he’d have had any qualms about taking it out on the young’n.’
‘So, what if Isaac Simmons had come on board to evade Keating?’
Prior thought for a long time. ‘This is all very interesting, theoretically, but . . . I don’t know. This stretches way back, Christine. I mean, the last time Isaac Simmons was seen for sure . . . God, it must be nearly ten years ago now. Wow! That makes me feel old. I don’t know. Maybe there was more to the rumours than I was willing to give credit to at the time. Maybe I was too close; too blinded.’
As they stood in silence on the balcony, each of their addled brains working furiously to construct the next logical stepping stone on which to gain some footing, to seek out and to dust off the next crooked piece of this bloody and — seemingly senseless — jigsaw puzzle, they felt something.
It was something that disturbed the great silence they had finally adjusted to. Become accustomed to. Devoid of the hum of the engines and the whirring of the other processes and systems on the vast ship, the initial pressing silence, the eerie silence that had befallen them at that time, had become merely the silence.
But now it had been broken.
The something they had felt was the faintest of slow, humming rotations. A distant generator beginning whir.
It was the airflow system.
Prior looked at Christine, who regarded him with an equal expression of hope. They stood still. Neither one of them wished to burst the bubble of that moment; each waiting expectantly for the next chord in the sequence of this return-to-form, mechanical hallelujah.
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