by P. D. Viner
‘Nothing yet. No bag, no coat. No phone,’ someone answers, Tom doesn’t know who. His eyes are still latched onto the girl’s.
She is naked. He would describe her skin as alabaster. There is no bruising and only one wound. It killed her, Tom knows that, even without a coroner’s report. She has been cut. An incredibly sharp blade, possibly a scalpel, has sliced her belly – Davy Jones’ locker deep – and she has bled dry. But none of the blood is on her skin – he doesn’t understand. The blood has pooled around her, beneath her, but Sergeant Patterson was right. It is weird. He looks lower. She is shaved between her legs and … Tom moves his eyes back up her body. He hopes she can be covered soon. It is unbearably undignified.
‘Sir.’ Patterson stands beside him.
‘I see what you mean.’
‘Wait … you need to go up the stairs.’
Tom follows Patterson’s finger and sees a wooden staircase that leads to a loft-area that covers approximately half of the total room. He nods and follows the SOCO labyrinth back out to the main part of the room and he heads to the staircase. Without looking back he climbs to the top, then swings around and—
‘Christ.’
The blood is not merely a pool around the body – it makes a shape.
‘Are they wings?’ Dani-in-his-head asks.
‘I don’t know, but …’ It is not a natural pattern, it’s clearly a man-made construct. All acting DI Tom Bevans can do is stand there and feel very very scared.
He walks to the thin rail that runs around the edge of the loft. He calls out to the entire room: ‘Listen to me. I don’t want to read about any weirdness in the newspapers tomorrow. No butterfly wing killer, no platinum-blonde killed. We answer any question like we would normally: the bare minimum. If I see crucial facts leaked I will call in internal affairs and they will find who did it and make an example of them. Don’t think because this is my first case you can push me. Okay. Patterson get up here.’
He slowly climbs the stairs. Tom can’t tell if he is tired or already fed-up with his new boss.
‘We need to know who this girl is, we need a name quickly. We also need to check with every other force – have they seen anything like this before. Check with Interpol too, and the FBI. Ask them to look for silver- or platinum-blondes, the belly sliced open and—’
‘The wings?’
Tom nods. ‘Wings.’
Around him there are five or six of the SOCO team, looking like spacemen in their non-contamination suits. They gather evidence, bag and tag any hair, fabric, dust – anything they find. That is police work: collecting and analysing. The more anal you are, the better you were at a crime scene. Then, around the edges of the room, there are another seven or eight uniformed men and women – all on phones – calling other units and other police forces; checking and cross-checking for any similar crimes or reports of violence. Outside the crime scene, another six officers are going door to door, taking statements and ascertaining alibis. All of this is to be recorded, all tested to see if it holds water. Any slight crack will be stretched and pulled apart. This is modern policing. And at the top of the pyramid is Tom. The thought makes him a little light-headed and he has thought he should just shout stop! This must be a joke – this isn’t a case, it’s an episode of The X Files. It isn’t real life.
It is five hours before the SOCOs are ready to remove the body. 10 a.m. All that time Tom waits, watching her eyes and tracing the pattern of blood that emanates from her belly. He takes a sketch pad from someone and draws the pattern – but he hasn’t quite got it until the body is removed. The girl was placed on fibreglass rests to raise her from the floor. They fit perfectly and must have been made for the purpose. That allowed the blood to drain from the body and accounts for why there is none on her. The SOCO team had to bring in a small crane to lift the body and leave the fibreglass in place. Once she was gone they could see how the killer had created a pattern in the floor.
‘I think it’s a lark’s head knot,’ the SOCO team leader tells Tom.
‘How do you know?’
‘Cubs, scouts and sea cadets. I had two badges for knots.’
‘How did he do it?’
‘The shape was carved into the wooden floor. He – assuming it was a he – was very careful and incredibly precise. This isn’t some weekend DIY guy; he must have had a specialist tool, probably a rounded sculpting knife, and a steady and practised hand. It’s a tongue-and-groove floor but whenever he crosses a board he has used some sort of sealant to make sure the groove doesn’t bleed …’ He stops, realising how inappropriate that word is.
‘So he carves the shape of a knot into the floor?’ Tom asks. ‘That must have taken bloody ages?’
‘No idea.’
‘Then he places fibreglass …what – legs, rests – some kind of support under her body to hold it off the floor?’
‘Pretty much. Again, it looks like they were made for the purpose. There are six in all. One is moulded to hold the head, another to the lower back, then both arms and legs. The killer screwed them into the floor and then coated them in sealan—’
‘What, hang on. He must have set this up a long time before he killed her. How long would that sealant take to dry?’
‘Not sure, at least a couple of hours. Maybe a lot longer.’
‘So the killer knew her, prepared for her specifically – knew how tall she was and her body shape. He had the fibreglass made to her dimensions – this was planned at least days in advance and possibly longer.’
‘Probably.’
‘Thanks. Good work.’
Tom strides away from the SOCO leader and finds Patterson.
‘It’s likely the killer knew her. We need a name so we can check to see if she’d reported anything – a stalker, being followed, anything like that. Also to see if she had disgruntled boyfriends, or had separated from someone recently.’
‘Sorry, no name yet.’
‘Push harder. Get photos out there, every force here and in Europe. If nothing comes in the next two hours I want her picture released to the press.’
‘Guv, you can’t.’
‘I can and will.’
Tom walks away. He is almost back at the body before he realises Patterson called him Guv. It makes him want to cry – he is so happy.
‘Get a grip, Sad Boy,’ Danni whispers.
A SOCO photographer is capturing images of the lark’s knot from every angle. With the body gone to the morgue, Tom can see the intricacy of the work, the beauty of the interlacing strands. He forgets for a moment it is blood – it is so artistic.
‘Excuse me.’ The photographer breaks the moment and Tom is back in the land of the living. He steps away and lets the team do their jobs. He watches them and lets his mind float – time seems to slow around him. Did the killer break into the gallery and prepare the scene – or was she held while he carved the floor? If so, where did he put her while he did this? What triggered this? Was it a need to kill, or was it a desire to kill her specifically? If so, how did he select her, or was she chosen because of this place, this gallery? A showplace for his craft?
Just then he hears a raised voice at the doorway. Someone demanding to know what is going on – the owner of the gallery has arrived. Tom walks over to the door to the street and dips under the curtain the SOCO team have put up. Outside the air is chill. Tom picks out the gallery owner immediately: Valerie Brindley-Black. She is tall, in her mid-fifties, elegant and beautiful. Tom doesn’t need to show her the picture – he knows the dead girl is her daughter. A tear slips from his eye as he walks to her.
‘I am in charge here. Detective Inspector Tom Bevans.’
She stretches out her hand to him – efficient and businesslike. He takes it and covers it with his other hand. He holds on tight for a bumpy ride.
He still holds her hand. It is an hour since he first took it and he has not let go. He held it while he asked if she had a daughter. He held it while he explained a murder had been committed in
her gallery and he held it while she began to panic about Charlie, who had been meeting a client there yesterday morning. He held her hand while she described Charlie and he held it while they walked to the police car. He let go just for a moment, and she almost fell. They both climbed into the car and she grabbed it once more – needing the contact, needing the calm this man generated as her heart rate spiked and …
…they walk into the morgue. Holding hands like young lovers. He feels the vibration in her body – she fizzes with nervous energy. Fear. As they are led into the room, the room with a body covered by a sheet, he feels the nails of her hand bite. Hard and deep. The sheet is gripped and … he feels something in his chest shift. A vibration – a song. Dani sings to him. The sheet pulls away and …
… time folds as she folds, he slips his arm around her, she twists and he takes the weight – a tango of love and loss as he catches her and pulls her to him. She moans, low and guttural. It is a song of grief. He knows it well. He lifts her, she weighs nothing, and carries her away from the room, out into a hallway and others take her. She will help later, answer questions later, but for now she just sings a love song for her poor pale daughter. Charlie …
… he has a coffee and a bacon sandwich. He tastes nothing: his stomach god needs appeasing but his taste buds have deserted him. There are reports, paperwork to sign and overtime to agree. He looks at his watch: 2.27 p.m. Back to the unit, regroup and be briefed and …
‘FUCK! Bevans, you are off this case. You are too inexperienced for this.’
Tom is back inside the chief superintendent’s office. The older man stands at the window watching the world pass by. It is 6 p.m. and the sun is a burning red ball: red sky at night, copper’s delight. Drake’s face is cut into strips by the last of the day’s light that swims through the venetian blinds. Soon it will fall away and be gone.
‘This case is toxic. No one is coming out of this looking good. If I leave you in place the press will hack you to pieces.’
‘Don’t take me off it.’ Tom asks, his voice strong.
Drake shakes his head. Tom can see the tension in his jaw and a wildness in his eye he had not seen before.
‘I can’t afford an inexperienced man at the helm, this could turn into a circus very quickly. We either solve it double quick or we bury it.’
‘I gave the mother my word—’
‘This is not a normal case. Whoever did this wants the press. He’s some clever clever fuck who wants to show us how big his dick is. We do not give it the oxygen of publicity. We’ve got twenty-four hours and then we close it.’
‘And wait for the next woman to die?’
‘And maybe we make him so pissed off that he makes a mistake next time.’
‘I can’t believe th—’
‘Button it, Bevans. This is fucked up and we need to play it smart. We’re used to people knocking off their relatives for an inheritance, or a lover beating their partner to death because they fucked them over. This killer gave us a knot made of blood.’
‘Let me keep the case.’
‘No. I am going to withdraw your status as acting DI. We are going to allocate the case to DI Ashe—’
‘But Ashe isn’t here.’
‘And we still give it to him. That way we can fudge responsibility later, if we get crucified in the newspapers or shat on from above.’
‘Sir, with respect—’ Tom starts but Drake cuts him dead.
‘If a reporter gets hold of this…’
‘My head can roll. I mean it.’
‘You’re a fucking idiot, Bevans. I’m giving you a way out. Take it.’
Tom cannot see himself going back to being a FLO. After one day he knows this is what he was meant to do. ‘Please, leave me on the case.’ Tom pauses, he rolls the dice. ‘I may have something.’
‘On the case?’
‘A line of enquiry.’
‘Well what is it? Out with it, man.’
‘Charlotte Brindley-Black was a brunette who dyed her hair silver. She did it for the first time just days before she was killed.’
Drake stares at him for a few seconds. ‘Are you fucking me?’
‘I think she did it for the killer.’
‘That’s it?’ Chief Superintendent Drake sighs, he looks exasperated. ‘I said no fucking hunches.’
‘Instinct.’
Tom looks into the chief’s eyes and holds his gaze. It has withered many DIs in the past but Tom feels strong. In Drake’s eyes he thinks he sees something akin to loathing – but there is also a glint there, deep in his eye.
The chief superintendent finally nods. ‘Three days. You have three days and then we put this in a landfill.’
‘That’s all I ask.’
‘Okay, Bevans.’
Drake turns back to the window. The red sky has fallen away and man-made light illuminates the city now. Tom watches him staring out at the city, there is no goodbye. He is merely meant to melt away from his senior officer’s presence. He turns to leave and slips out of the door. He imagines Chief Superintendent Drake will heave a huge sigh of relief now. If the case falls apart he will have a fall guy. He can feed Tom Bevans to the wolves.
Five
Friday 15 October 1999
12.01 a.m. Tom has spread page after page of drawings across the dining table. Knots – specifically the lark’s head, otherwise known as the cow hitch. It is around two thousand years old. It is the perfect knot for attaching an article to a pole or tying down furniture to transport. He knows all this because he stopped in on a neighbour before coming home, a local bore who runs a second-hand bookshop. A man Tom would normally avoid, but who opened up the store for him and – bingo! He had two books on tying knots, hence all the history. For the last four hours Tom has been reading about the knot, tying them, sketching them and searching databases for any sexual meaning or reference. It has certainly passed the time, but he still has no idea why the killer carved a knot of blood into the floor.
‘Maybe it’s a red herring. A McGuffin,’ Dani-in-his-head suggests.
‘This is real life not the movies. No, it must mean something. It must give him something.’
‘You’re sure it’s a him?’
‘Oh yes. This is the work of a peacock. It’s showy.’
‘This is no peahen?’
‘No.’ He yawns.
‘You need some sleep,’ she says softly.
‘Probably.’
‘I could sing you a lullaby?’
‘I would like that.’
‘Good.’
He lies in bed and watches shadows slide and storm on the ceiling above him. He leaves his curtains open – has done for most of his adult life. He likes to be woken by the daylight and some mornings he wakes before dawn and walks into Greenwich Park to see the new day begin. On other occasions he has spent all night in the park, in a sleeping bag to wake with the dawn. It is a little rite he began many years ago, for Dani. And he still does it sometimes. To remember her.
‘You will never forget me,’ she whispers.
‘No. Never.’
He lies awake and thinks about the ride in the car to the morgue with Valerie Brindley-Black. He has arranged to see her tomorrow afternoon, to interview her formally but—
‘Her brain will be fried,’ Dani laughs. ‘They are gonna sedate her up the wazoo and back.’
He knows she’s right. Valerie Brindley-Black wasn’t going to be able to help now, not for days, maybe weeks. But in the car today, before she saw her daughter’s body and still held out hope, she said a number of things that Tom cannot forget. He keeps turning them over in his mind.
She looks as if she has aged a decade in ten minutes. Her hand in his feels like a small bird, heart racing and delicate bones that can fold and snap in an instant – just the lightest of pressure. She looks out through the side window as life whooshes by. Tom can see what she’s thinking, as if it’s written on the glass: Please let my daughter’s life not have rocketed to the end.
‘Tuesday afternoon – near the end of the day. I was away all yesterday seeing an artist – sound sculptures. He records elderly dentists. He lives in York, I took the train.’
‘Had you planned it a while in advance?’
‘Weeks ago.’
‘And what was Charlie doing?’
‘We’re between shows. The last pieces were removed at the weekend, so she was getting the room ready for the next show – they are due in … Christ, I need to cancel them.’
Tom sees the darkness wash over her.
‘Can you describe Charlie?’
She is mute for a second. Her eyes are unfocused, a little wild. She stares out of the window, watching a bakery open its doors and the owner fight with a stubborn awning. Tom watches her face as fear and anger brawl beneath her skin. He is reminded of a blind woman, the grandmother of a girl who was killed. He called on the family to give them the news that she had been found, and the old woman felt his face, demanding to discover who the man was that brought such dreadful news to her family. Tom allowed her. Part of him was interested in what she would find, if she could unravel the mystery of his soul. He sat on their sofa while the entire family pressed around them and this old woman who was blind from birth, ran her fingertips across the terrain of his face. As she did, her face clouded over. She did not understand, was lost in the lines of grief. What other people might call laugh lines, on Tom they were scream lines. She pulled her fingers away as if they burned. She said one word, Methuselah, then left. Tom thinks Valerie Brindley-Black’s face would elicit the same response.
‘She lights up the room, any room she enters,’ Valerie finally says of her daughter. She talks of her in the present tense. Tom can see how desperate she is to cling onto a daughter who still breathes. ‘She is graceful and … she makes people feel special.’
‘Are there siblings?’
For a second it looks as if she will break down – but she pulls herself back from the edge and regains control. ‘I … we lost three. Late miscarriages, all of them. Finally there was Charlotte.’ An unseen memory picks her up and tosses her around, she hums to herself. Tom waits again, for her to come back.