Requiem

by Celina Grace

  “Vertz and Elodie were drawn towards each other, as damaged people so often are. Vertz was a drug dealer, and Elodie was a drug user, so it could be that their relationship was pragmatic, one of convenience—but I’m not convinced. I think they had a genuine love affair. I think they loved each other as fully as two people who’d never been shown any real love could.”

  Kate remembered Jay saying much the same thing the other night. For a moment, she gave thanks. No matter what her mother’s failings had been, at least Kate had always had someone to love. She’d had people to love her back—her brother and sisters.

  Anderton was still speaking.

  “Thomas Duncan met Genevieve and Elodie when Elodie was eight years old, as we know. Hideous as it is to contemplate, it’s quite probable that he married the mother to enable him to abuse her daughter. He certainly wouldn’t be the first paedophile to actively target a single mother to gain her trust and have unfettered access to her children.”

  Kate thought of her own mother, of Jade and Peter Buckley, and felt sick again. At least she had the satisfaction of knowing he would almost certainly be going to prison, although she hated the idea of her sisters having to give evidence at his trial.

  “As you also know, the scale and extent of the abuse at Rawlwood College is still being uncovered. We have several teachers, as well as the headmaster himself, who regularly groomed and abused the children in their care. They targeted the vulnerable ones, the ones who wouldn’t speak out.”

  He pinned a third photograph up on the board, one of a girl with frizzy brown hair. Placed side by side, you could see the resemblance in all three photographs, something in the eyes. A hunted, anxious expression. Kate had seen it, momentarily, at Rawlwood College, before being distracted. It was impossible to see their haunted young faces without tears coming to your eyes.

  “Violet Sammidge,” said Anderton. He placed a tender finger on her photographed face. “She was one of Graham Lightbody’s victims. Possibly one of Duncan’s too. She was a young girl, deeply affected by her parents’ divorce. An easy target.” For a moment, anger vibrated in his voice.

  Jane raised her hand.

  “You don’t think she was murdered too, guv?”

  Anderton shook his head. “No, not at all. It was a clear case of suicide. Although…” He paused for a moment, rubbing his chin. “Although you could say she was driven to it by the dreadful actions of Lightbody. So in a sense, he is responsible for her death. Unfortunately, we can’t pin that on him.”

  “He’ll get his punishment,” said Olbeck, grimly.

  “Let’s hope so.”

  Anderton resumed his pacing.

  “On the night of the murder, we know Elodie went home after the gig at the Black Horse. We know that her stepfather went up to her room.” Kate could see the disgust on her own face mirrored in those of her colleagues. Anderton looked at her. “We have Kate to thank for highlighting the abuse.”

  Kate shrugged. “Once I’d realised, it just seemed so obvious. But I was wrong as well. I thought her stepfather had killed her.”

  Anderton tousled his hair and let his hand drop.

  “No, Genevieve was the person who strangled Elodie. It’s a horrible thought, a mother killing a daughter, but that’s what happened. I don’t think we’d have to dig too deeply into Genevieve’s background to find another story of abuse in her childhood. Not that that’s any excuse for what she did.”

  Kate waited until he paused and asked her question. “So Duncan knew Genevieve had killed Elodie?”

  “Knew? He almost certainly witnessed it. Why didn’t he stop her? Was it because he too thought he was the father of his stepdaughter’s baby? Was he in shock? Who knows? He can’t tell us.”

  “Did Nathan Vertz think Thomas Duncan had killed Elodie?” asked Olbeck.

  Anderton nodded. “I think so. It tipped him over the edge. He knew about the abuse, of course, but it was the revelation of the baby that drove him to kill. Perhaps all the rage and shame and anger at the abuse he’d suffered in childhood came flooding out. Thomas Duncan became the symbol for what had happened to him as a little boy.”

  “Poor man,” said Kate.

  “Yes,” said Anderton briefly. “So we have the Duncans colluding to dispose of Elodie’s body. You know, Kate, I think they did put her body in the river in the hope it would incriminate your brother.”

  “It nearly did,” said Kate, remembering Anderton’s rage at her seeming deception. Their eyes met for a moment, and she felt another surge of the attraction that she thought she’d nearly succeeded in tamping down. Did he feel it too? She dropped her gaze, willing herself not to blush.

  Anderton cleared his throat.

  “A sad case,” he said. He turned to the whiteboard and touched the picture of each child gently, just once. “A very sad case. Thank you all for bringing it to the only possible conclusion.”

  Later that afternoon, Kate signed the last report, capped her pen and pushed her chair away from her desk. She looked over at Olbeck.

  “I’m done for the day.”

  “Good for you. I’ve still got loads to do.”

  “Leave it for now, Mark. I’m going for a drive. Why don’t you come with me?”

  Olbeck considered. Then he stood up and took his coat from the back of his chair.

  As they walked towards Kate’s car, his phone chimed as a text message came through. “Another new date?” asked Kate, trying to keep the disapproval from her voice as they got into her car.

  “Same one, actually,” said Olbeck, clipping on his belt. “It’ll be our third date.”

  “Oh, right,” said Kate, eyebrows raised. She turned on the engine. “Is it serious?”

  Olbeck scoffed. Then he reconsidered.

  “Don’t know, actually,” he said, sounding surprised. “It might be. I like him.”

  “Good.”

  Olbeck smiled slyly.

  “What about you?”

  “What do you mean, ‘what about me?’”

  “When are we going to get you fixed up?”

  “Oh, Mark.” For a moment, Anderton’s face came into Kate’s mind. She dismissed the jump in her lower belly. “I’m all right on my own.”

  “Sure?”

  “Sure,” said Kate, trying to sound firm.

  They found a parking space not too far away and got out. It was one of those beautiful winter days with pale sunlight and high, wispy white clouds, the leafless trees like living sculptures. Kate and Olbeck walked along beside the river, their feet scuffing over frost-hardened ridges of mud. As they got closer, Kate could see all the flowers, laid out like a colourful carpet along the riverbank. She and Olbeck stopped a little way away and regarded the heaped blooms. She thought again of the painting with Elodie on the riverbank, pale and blue-lipped, entwined with flowers.

  Something caught her eye, a tiny gleam of pale yellow, right at the water’s edge. She looked harder and then nudged Olbeck.

  “Look.”

  Olbeck followed her pointing finger past all the gaudy, plastic-wrapped hothouse flowers to the little blossom growing through the frozen mud.

  “A primrose?” he said. “Growing in November?”

  “Yes.”

  “That’s weird. It’s been so cold, you wouldn’t have thought it would live.”

  They regarded the flower for a moment, its delicate yellow petals trembling in the cold wind.

  “It’s for Elodie,” said Kate softly.

  Olbeck looked at her quizzically. “It’s not like you to be sentimental.”

  Kate thought of something else Jay had said, that Vertz had said, that even her stepfather had said.

  “Elodie was different,” she said.

  Olbeck was silent. Kate took one last look at the primrose and turned away.

  “Come on, time to go home.”

  They walked back along the riverbank, quietly, shielding their eyes against the sunlight that gleamed from the surface of the glittering rive
r.

  THE END

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  Want more Kate Redman? The third novel in the series, Imago (A Kate Redman Mystery: Book 3), is now available on Amazon Kindle.

  IMAGO

  (A KATE REDMAN MYSTERY: BOOK 3)

  “They don’t fear me, quite the opposite. It makes it twice as fun… I know the next time will be soon, I’ve learnt to recognise the signs. I think I even know who it will be. She’s oblivious of course, just as she should be. All the time, I watch and wait and she has no idea, none at all. And why would she? I’m disguised as myself, the very best disguise there is.”

  A known prostitute is found stabbed to death in a shabby corner of Abbeyford. Detective Sergeant Kate Redman and her partner Detective Sergeant Olbeck take on the case, expecting to have it wrapped up in a matter of days. Kate finds herself distracted by her growing attraction to her boss, Detective Chief Inspector Anderton – until another woman’s body is found, with similar knife wounds. And then another one after that, in a matter of days.

  Forced to confront the horrifying realisation that a serial killer may be preying on the vulnerable women of Abbeyford, Kate, Olbeck and the team find themselves in a race against time to unmask a terrifying murderer, who just might be hiding in plain sight…

  Read the first two chapters of Imago (A Kate Redman Mystery: Book 3) below…

  IMAGO

  (A KATE REDMAN MYSTERY: BOOK 3)

  CELINA GRACE

  © Celina Grace 2013

  J’s Diary

  The first girl’s death was an accident.

  I lifted my pen off of the paper and thought for a bit. My pen was poised to cross it out – the impulse trembled up my arm – but in the end, I left the sentence as it was.

  I don’t really know why I started writing this diary, account, whatever you’d call it. I suppose I wanted a record of what’s happened in my life since the first one. Ever since I realised what I had to do to become complete – to unfold into a whole person rather than inhabit the empty shell of one – there’s been another urge, almost as strong: the need to write down why I do the things I do. I’m not trying to justify anything to anyone, in the unlikely event that someone reads these diaries. The key thing, I suppose, is to be true to myself, to be truthful when I’m talking to myself as I am here, setting down these words. That’s the only meaningful thing to do. If I’d only been true to myself from an early age, none of the bad things would have happened. Or maybe they would. Who knows?

  So, in the interest of truth, the first death wasn’t really an accident. I’ve just checked my dictionary and the definition of “accident” is something like an unfortunate event that happens unintentionally. Her death was certainly unfortunate – for her – and it was, at the time, unintentional. I didn’t plan it; I didn’t spends hours and days fantasising about bringing it about as I have done with the other ones. So you could say it was accidental, I suppose, although I’d have a hard time convincing a jury.

  It won’t come to that, though. Now I’m getting good at this. It’s a new skill, as well as a calling, and I’ve always been a fast learner. It makes me shiver in anticipation when I think that I could go on like this, year after year, getting better each time. Each time more perfect and more fulfilling than the last one. All those girls out there, for me. None of them have any idea that I am watching and waiting, waiting for the next time…the next death. None of them have any idea because I am in disguise. They don’t fear me. Quite the opposite. It makes it twice as fun. Fun. That’s certainly a surprising choice of words, especially for me, but that’s what it is. It is fun – as well as the greatest pleasure I’ve ever known. Why don’t they tell you this? Why do they lie? I feel like I’m the keeper of a secret only a few have discovered.

  I know the next time will be soon; I’ve learnt to recognise the signs. I think I even know who it will be. She’s oblivious, of course, just as she should be. All the time, I watch and wait, and she has no idea, none at all. And why would she? I’m disguised as myself, the very best disguise there is.

  Chapter One

  Kate ran.

  Her breath rasped in and out of her lungs; her leg muscles burned. A drop of sweat rolled into the corner of her dry mouth. It felt as if she’d been running forever, weaving among the people on the pavements, the shock of her feet hitting the concrete reverberating through her muscles. Every fibre of her being cried out for her to stop, but she couldn’t – she was afraid. The man was a sadist, a brutal sadist. She struggled on up a slight incline, her face burning, her lungs crying out for air. At the top of the hill, she had to stop, bent double, gasping for breath. The man following her at an effortless, loping run drew up alongside her.

  “Come on, Kate. We’ve still got two miles to go.”

  “I can’t,” gasped Kate, when she had enough oxygen in her lungs to speak. “I’ll be sick.”

  “You won’t.”

  “Will.”

  The man appeared to relent. “All right. Take a two-minute breather.”

  Kate staggered over to a convenient bench and fell onto it. She put her roasting face down between her knees.

  “Can’t – do – this,” she said, between gasps.

  Detective Sergeant Mark Olbeck sat down beside her and stretched his legs out in front of him.

  “It’s only a bloody half marathon, for God’s sake,” he said. “Thirteen miles. It’s nothing.”

  Kate sat back up again, marginally more comfortable, although still breathing hard.

  “I’m too – unfit. Someone else will have to – do it.”

  “You’ll get fit. That’s the whole point of us going out running. Come on, you said you’d do it. It’s for charity, remember.”

  “I can’t get fit enough in three weeks.”

  “Well that’s all the time you’ve got. You’ve got to be part of the team. If you pull out now, we won’t have enough people.”

  Kate knew this was right. The Abbeyford Charity Half Marathon team from the police station had consisted of Olbeck, Detective Constable Theo Marsh and Detective Constable Ravinder Cheetam until Theo had broken his ankle playing football and had to drop out.

  “There’s Jerry. And Jane.”

  “You know as well as I do that Jane’s got two small children and no partner. She can’t go out in the evenings at the drop of a hat. And Jerry would probably have a coronary or something if we made him run, the poor old bugger.”

  Kate leant back against the back of the bench and closed her eyes. She knew all this already, which made her feel even worse about her lack of enthusiasm.

  “Don’t get comfortable,” warned Olbeck. “Come on. On we go.”

  Kate heaved the deepest sigh her abused lungs could muster. Then she lurched to her feet, and they jogged on through the streets of Abbeyford.

  They stopped at the bridge that spanned the river Avon, leaning against the stone parapet and watching the glittering waters slide beneath them. It was a beautiful summer’s day, the sky blue but wisped with a filmy curtain of white cloud, the sun gaining in strength by the hour.

  “You know, Mark, I’m really not sure I can do this,” puffed Kate. She leant her head on her
folded arms for a moment and then raised it, looking out at the sparkling water.

  “You’ll be fine,” said Olbeck. “And you’ll feel very proud of yourself when you finish.”

  “I’ve done plenty of things I’m already proud of,” said Kate. “I don’t feel that putting one foot in front of the other very quickly qualifies as any kind of great achievement.”

  Mark grinned. “God, you’re narky today.”

  “It’s the unaccustomed blood rushing to my head.”

  There was a muffled buzzing from Mark’s back pocket. He fished his phone out, frowned and answered the call.

  “Hello sir. No, we’re not doing anything.”

  Kate waited, knowing it was something serious. She had that familiar feeling she got every time a new case began: tension, anxiety and yes, shamefully, a little bit of excitement, which was tempered with relief – at least she wouldn’t have to do any more running that day.

  Olbeck said goodbye and put the phone back in his pocket. His partner raised her eyebrows.

  “That was Anderton.”

  “So I gathered. What is it?”

  “Dead woman, down by the canal. We’ve been called in.”

  “Let’s go, then.”

  Abbeyford was a large market town in the southwest of England. In addition to the river Avon, one of several so named in the country, the town also had a canal running through it. In earlier times, goods had been brought to the town from neighbouring cities, and canal boats pulled by horses moved slowly along the paths by the water to be unloaded at the tiny docks. The canal freight trade had long since gone, and the canal docks in Abbeyford had gradually fallen into disrepair and, eventually, disrepute. The warehouse windows were all broken, the glass in the few remaining panes dulled with dirt and moss. A long-ago fire had gutted one of the buildings, leaving its blackened girders exposed like the charred bones of an animal. Rubbish, dead leaves and dirt were heaped in every corner.