by A J Waines
‘Of course,’ I said, my jaw rigid.
‘We’ll keep an eye on CCAP,’ he said. ‘There are all kinds of police operations going on you know nothing about, so don’t interfere. In the meantime, let us know if Mr Blake comes up with anything.’
‘On that subject,’ I snapped at him. ‘I want to put in a formal complaint about the way Aiden’s arrest was handled. I don’t know what they did to him after he was carted off, but he’s come back looking like he’s spent time at Guantanamo Bay.’
‘Fine. I’ll email you the forms.’
I was waiting for him to put up a fight. ‘You’re not surprised?’
‘I agree, actually. It was handled very badly. I’m sorry.’
I opened my mouth, but nothing came out.
‘Let’s keep each other posted,’ he said before hanging up.
When I crept back into the saloon Aiden was gone. A flutter of panic gripped my chest until a movement caught my eye from the rear of the boat. He was carrying the sand tray towards me. I went over to the sink and filled a kettle as he set the tray down on the table in the galley. I turned and watched as he took the wire bird he’d made a few days ago from one of the tubs and put it in the sand. He drew an oval shape around it and stared at the completed design.
The bird again. Was Aiden trying to communicate an aspect of Kora’s killing? Or was he trying to express how he was feeling? That, was, after all, what the sand tray was originally designed for – to help patients express feelings they found too hard to put into words.
‘Is this how you’re feeling, Aiden?’ I said gently. ‘Like a caged bird?’
What happened next took me by surprise. Aiden grabbed the tray and with one violent action catapulted it into the air. The sand went all over the table and poured onto the carpet.
I got Aiden’s message loud and clear; I’d got it badly wrong.
‘I’m sorry,’ I said.
I turned to the cupboards to look for a dustpan and brush. He rushed out of the stern door, but within seconds he returned holding a long-armed brush. He huffed and puffed, gathering the grains into one big pile, throwing his hair around, his limbs jerking this way and that, refusing to let me help.
Although breathing heavily and distraught, he didn’t retreat to his cabin once he’d finished. Instead, he flung off his trainers and began doing stretching exercises. Fuelled by pent-up rage, he launched into a routine of athletic kicks, springing from one foot to the other, his extended leg reaching high as he kept his balance.
I’d seen a karate DVD in Aiden’s rack by the TV, as well as various books around the boat about taekwondo, but didn’t know how far his interest lay. Not a beginner, for sure.
After he’d finished, he sat in a yoga lotus position, his spine tall.
I’d been sitting with a book, barely reading a word, keeping out of his way. As he got to his feet, an idea occurred to me; something positive we could share.
‘This might be unnecessary, Aiden, but if you ever needed to communicate with me, privately, there’s something we could try.’
He drew his chin back gingerly.
‘Nothing complicated. Let’s say if you needed to get my attention or you had something to communicate, then you could put your hands together in a prayer position, just like you did in the yoga pose.’
He shrugged and gave me a slight nod. Shortly afterwards he padded towards his cabin and quietly shut the door. I went to mine and laid flat out on the bunk.
It was starting to look like four women were in the picture now; two dead and two missing. Kora, Honoré and Pippa appeared to have links to the art world, but Katarina was the odd one out. She worked in a bank. Then again, she was linked, because she’d been found at almost the exact same spot as Kora.
Pippa had been dating Aiden and Kora had been wearing one of his scarves. Furthermore, someone matching Aiden’s description had been identified at Katarina’s murder scene. How could that be? With his long blond hair and balletic frame, Aiden was distinctive – there was no mistaking him. Still – it can’t have been him. I hadn’t been on the boat that entire evening, that’s true, but there was no way Aiden could have taken off and made his own way back to Camden. He was – still is – too traumatised to leave the boat.
I was in no doubt, however, that when you added it all up, it didn’t look good for him. In one way or another, Aiden had links to three out of the four women. Jeremy had told me Honoré owned an art gallery in Chelsea. The police had been there and shown staff Aiden’s picture, but no one had recognised him. Nor was he on Honoré’s list of artists or clients. I rolled over onto my stomach. Aiden hadn’t reacted when I showed him her photograph, but it didn’t mean he didn’t know her. I didn’t like where my mind was taking me with this. Aiden was entirely innocent. I knew that.
I sat up. Did Aiden know Honoré, after all? If that was the case, it really would mean one coincidence too far.
Chapter 36
My phone saved me from further speculation.
‘Terry, lovely to hear from you.’ I wasn’t lying.
‘Thought I might risk asking if you might be free to meet up again?’
‘That would be great. Not tonight, though. Aiden has just been released from police custody and he’s in a bit of a state. I don’t want to leave him.’ A thought occurred to me. ‘As I’ve got you on the line, I couldn’t pick your brains about something, could I?’
‘I haven’t got long, I’m afraid,’ he cautioned.
‘Are you up to date with the two recent deaths in Camden; the women on the towpath?’
‘Only in general terms,’ he said.
‘Neither Kora nor Katarina were sexually assaulted, which is uncommon in traditional serial killings, isn’t it?’
‘Mmm…’
‘Both were well-to-do and would be immediately missed and Kora, certainly, wasn’t a random choice – she was targeted.’
‘That’s true. Serial murders usually involve strangers with no relationship between the offender and the victim, but remember, that’s a generalisation.’
‘These two murders seem totally different, aside from the location.’
‘Go on…’
‘From a psychological point of view, I get the feeling that Kora’s attack was carried out by someone who wanted to put on a show. It was audacious and almost theatrical, like a visual display.’
‘I’d agree,’ he affirmed.
‘Katarina is different. It looks like she was killed out of necessity. No weapon, no set up, just the killer’s own hands used to stop her from breathing – perhaps to shut her up.’
‘Because the killer was caught off guard and had to act quickly?’
‘Exactly – and perhaps he chose the same spot simply because it worked before. He knew the lighting wasn’t great, the gates would be locked, there wouldn’t be many people about and he knew how to get there.’
‘Well,’ he pondered, ‘you could be right.’
‘Everything comes down to motive,’ I concluded.
‘I can assure you,’ he said with conviction, ‘the Camden crew are nose to the grindstone on this. They’re all racking up overtime.’
I heard a loud rapping on the door of the boat and told him I had to go.
We were being invaded once again. Couldn’t Jeremy have warned me? DI Denton invited himself on-board, with Ndibi following on behind. He wore a permanently apologetic expression on his face. It would have been mildly endearing, if I hadn’t known it was only skin deep.
‘He’s asleep,’ I protested. ‘You’re not taking him anywhere.’
‘We just want him to look at some pictures,’ said Denton, sounding sincere. ‘That’s all.’
I heard a click and Aiden appeared barefoot and yawning in the saloon. As soon as he saw the officers, he tensed up and backed off.
‘We want to show you some photographs, Aiden,’ called out Denton. ‘We’re not taking you anywhere.’
Aiden stared at me as if to get my assurance that
they were telling the truth. I couldn’t blame him for being jumpy. I didn’t trust the officers either.
‘No photos of any crime scenes,’ I hissed.
‘Nothing gruesome, I promise,’ said Denton.
‘You’ll need to show them to me, first,’ I insisted, raising my voice so Aiden could hear.
‘Absolutely.’ Denton’s tone was strangely acquiescent.
Aiden disappeared for a while, then joined us in the galley, wearing a long baggy cardigan even though the thermometer by the window read twenty-eight degrees.
DI Denton invited him to sit in front of the series of photographs laid out on the table. They were headshots of tutors at CCAP; Kurtis Mills, Rachel Peel, Monica Tyler, Mark Ellerton and several others I hadn’t yet met.
I spoke first. ‘Aiden, if the pictures disturb you or these officers touch you, I’ll be straight on the phone to senior officers.’
Denton and Ndibi exchanged a glance. I had a feeling that since their last visit, there had been a long-overdue dressing down about Aiden’s ham-fisted arrest.
‘We just want to know if you recognise anyone,’ explained the DI. ‘Just point to any you recognise.’
Aiden didn’t move.
‘How about this man?’ It was Simon Schiffer. Aiden didn’t react.
‘How about these?’ It was Sue Reed, the cleaner, and Lou Tennison, the caretaker on duty the night Kora was killed. I’d seen all these pictures before from previous visits to the police station. A picture of Sponge, Kora’s partner followed, then Murray Kent.
‘Didn’t you show him these photos when you took him away, before?’ I asked.
‘Yes, but we’re hoping he might be in a more receptive mood this time.’
‘What about this one?’ It was an image of Henry Dodd from the funeral home.
Aiden lowered his head and turned away.
‘Does that mean something?’ Denton said, addressing me.
‘I’ve no idea. It might mean Aiden has closed down and is unable to help you.’ Aiden curled into a ball and hid his head under his arms. ‘Because of what you’ve put him through, you won’t know whether he’s reacting because he recognises someone or because he’s upset about this whole procedure.’
Denton had walked into his very own catch-22. ‘Perhaps you can get some sense out of him,’ he said. He got to his feet, leaving the pictures behind to see if I could do any better.
‘Aiden is making perfect sense,’ I insisted, herding them towards the door. ‘He’s telling you he can’t cope with this, not after his recent ordeal in your cell. I thought that would have been obvious to anyone.’
Aiden and I shared a silent supper together. We’d had a delivery of fresh rocket, tomatoes and hummus earlier in the day, so salad was the obvious choice. The boat was so quiet that when I crunched a crispbread it seemed to fill the entire space around me with a sound resembling a threshing machine.
Beside our plates, several pages were scattered on the table. Drawings. It was the same design on each page. Variations on a theme of a bird inside an oval frame. I knew, therapeutically, that repetition was important. Aiden was trying to get something right, he was bugged by this image and was trying to get it clear in his memory. I took a quick glance at them without showing an obvious interest. I didn’t want to push him, he’d had quite enough of questioning and probing for the time being.
At bedtime, I poured us each a glass of water and checked the doors were locked. When I turned round I found him standing right behind me. He placed his hand on my shoulder, offered a little squeeze. It was a simple and heart-breaking gesture. I mouthed a silent thank you and he padded away.
I went to my cabin to read more of the book on modern art I’d started. I left my phone on the bedside cabinet, then realised there was a text waiting for me. It was from Terry, inviting me for lunch the next day. I texted back to say I could make it.
I began a chapter on how surrealism shifted towards abstract expressionism, but I couldn’t concentrate. I closed the book and sighed. Too many uncertainties were cluttering up my head. I had a niggling feeling that I was missing something. It wasn’t only Aiden’s bird image I couldn’t grasp; there was something else hovering around the fringes of my comprehension. I just couldn’t make out what it was.
Chapter 37
Aiden was looking calmer the next morning; his face softer with warmer tones than the day before. He gave a slight nod and poured me an orange juice. It was stuffy on the boat, early sun had already strewn shards of sunlight over the rugs and chair arms. I thought he was going to head for the roof, but he went straight to the sand tray.
He worked quickly, scooping the sand aside to create a bare strip and standing a model of a boat in the middle to indicate it was a stretch of water. He drew a line alongside the length of the river and stood sections of a fence parallel to it, from a model horse paddock. He added a little toy bicycle on its side. I didn’t dare move, swallowing hard. It was a replica of the crime scene.
He took one of his model birds, wrapped around with wire to create the oval shape and stood it the other side of the fence. At that point, he appeared to get stuck. He couldn’t bring himself to put in a figure to depict Kora, nor the tripwire, nor himself. More to the point, neither could he portray the attacker.
He stood up and looked at it from different positions. He hovered over the plastic tubs, but didn’t pluck out any more items. He kept smashing one fist into the other hand, frustrated, at an impasse.
I decided to get involved. To take a risk.
‘Your boat?’ I said, pointing. ‘And Kora’s bike?’
He bit his lip.
‘The bird is… behind the fence… in the car park.’ My eyes were glued to his face, looking for any twitch, flinch, any sign at all.
He kept staring at the scene, his expression unchanged. I should carry on.
‘The bird is… made of wire – and wire was the… the way Kora was hurt… is that significant?’ I hoped desperately that I wasn’t getting it all wrong.
He shut his eyes, flexed both hands, looking like he was about to step off a building.
‘The bird is… connected to the assailant, is that it?’
Air rushed in and out through his flared nostrils. He banged his palms against his thighs and a tear bubbled at the corner of his eye. I reached over and squeezed his shoulder.
‘You’re doing really well, Aiden.’ He opened his eyes and dropped his head, sinking into the seat as if he’d let me down. ‘Is that it for now?’
To the untrained eye what he’d done might not have seemed of any value, but to me it felt like we’d reached a major milestone. Aiden was able to tolerate a direct reference to the killer. He had been able to replicate the crime scene. He was trying to tell me about something significant, something the other side of the fence, in the car park. But I wasn’t getting it.
I forced myself to keep quiet. To stay calm and not pressurise him. It was my fault. I just wasn’t grasping it. A bird in an oval, connected to the killer. It wasn’t lighting up any circuits inside my brain.
I tapped on Natalie and Didier’s boat a couple of hours later. It was one of those dry, dusty days when heat barges through every nook and cranny on your body. It sent droplets down my back, oozed between my bare toes, and kept forcing my sunglasses down the bridge of my nose.
There was a clunk and click, then Natalie opened up, wearing only a bikini top and denim shorts frayed at the edges. Her legs were tanned and shapely, revealing the curves of different muscle groups with every tiny movement she made. Dancer’s legs.
‘Sorry to bother you,’ I said. A radio was blaring and Didier was singing along in a gravelly voice. ‘I need to go out over lunch – any chance you could keep an eye on Aiden?’
‘No problem,’ she said with a sympathetic smile.
Lunch with Terry came as a welcome break. More than that – it felt like a lifeline. We’d arranged to meet outside the police station in Camden and as soon as I saw his smoo
th, boyish face I felt uplifted and liberated. I felt like I’d made an escape; like a third-former who’d managed to bunk off school for an hour.
‘What do you fancy eating?’ he asked, after an awkward hug that was too prolonged for friends, too clumsy for lovers.
In line with the spirit of truancy I suggested burger and chips, but in a smart pub, not a high street café. We found a place on a corner, five minutes away, but it was packed with family bookings. A note on the bar stated there was a forty minute wait for food. He pulled me out of the queue.
‘I haven’t got time,’ he said. ‘Sorry.’ Terry was working even though it was Sunday.
‘There’s The George,’ he pointed down the next side road, then came to a halt, ‘but that’s always busy.’
‘How about the café at CCAP?’ I suggested.
‘I’d forgotten that place had a café.’
‘Let’s hope everyone else has too. We might get a seat.’
As soon as I mentioned CCAP, I realised our get-together wasn’t going to be about a cosy relaxing lunch any more. It was going to be about getting more information. After all, why take time off, when I could be working? Story of my life.
Just like the art studio, the cafe was bright and airy and bubbling with chatter when we arrived. We clambered over two kids’ buggies and a suitcase before gathering speed to skirt the children’s play area in order to grab the only free table. Terry sat down, then stood up again, removing the bundle of keys from his pocket and dropping them on the table.
‘Kora waited on tables here,’ I said, keeping my voice down.
He gave me a strained look that said we shouldn’t be discussing it. My line of thought carried on regardless, speculating on whether that’s how Kora met Murray Kent, although according to the police none of the regulars had recognised him.
Our order for burger and chips came surprisingly quickly – bun a little soggy, chips spongy rather than crisp – but it filled a gap.
‘I need to get back into exercise,’ I told him as I held up a fat chip. ‘I used to do a spinning class, but I missed a few sessions and got out of the habit.’