by A J Waines
A knot tightened in my stomach. How much detail had I inadvertently blurted out to Miranda about the case? Had I mentioned the tooth? How much had Miranda passed on to him? Most of what I’d said wasn’t common knowledge and should not have been divulged to anyone, least of all someone who already had a veil of suspicion cast over them. I knew for certain that I’d let it slip that Aiden was starting to piece Kora’s murder together in his mind. Had Miranda told Simon? Was it Simon who had poisoned the cheese?
I wanted to ask about the kiln… about how a tooth could possibly have shown up where it did, but I managed to keep my mouth shut, supped my tea instead.
‘I’ll leave you to it, then,’ said Simon. ‘I just popped over to see how Miranda was coping… you know, with…’ He tailed off. The implication that he had merely ‘popped over’ was somewhat belied by his retreat up the spiral staircase to fetch his rucksack. One of the drawbacks of having an open-plan living space.
Miranda went to the door to see him out and spent too long for it to be a straightforward goodbye. I wondered how long their relationship had been going on. Surely a fling between Simon and Pippa now seemed less likely.
Miranda came back, her hair ruffled.
‘He’s nice,’ I said innocently. ‘You been seeing him long?’
‘Oh, no, I’m not… we’re not, you know. He’s just been very supportive.’
Miranda made a habit of never revealing anything about her love life to me and I imagined, given he was her tutor, that made her more reluctant than normal.
‘It’s a little bit obvious,’ I said.
She scrunched up her nose. ‘It’s okay, he’s not married.’ She toyed with the skin on the edge of her thumbnail. ‘You mustn’t say anything, though.’
‘Why would I?’
‘It’s against the CCAP rules.’
‘You’re both consenting adults,’ I said, knowing full well why such a policy would exist. There were vulnerable individuals at CCAP.
‘What did you want to see me about?’ she said. ‘Has that art student remembered something else about Kora’s attack?’
‘No, it’s not about that.’ I finished the tea and put the chipped mug on the floor beside my foot.
‘Aiden Blake, the art student, how well do you know him?’
‘I don’t know him at all.’
‘Have you met him at the project or at an exhibition, maybe?’
‘No. I told you, I don’t know him. Never met him.’
I took my phone out and showed her a photo of him from a recent feature on the Chelsea College of Art & Design blog. She shook her head and reached down for my empty mug.
I decided to cut to the chase. ‘How did you know Aiden loves halloumi cheese, that he’s vegetarian, for that matter?’
I tried to stay focused on her face, to be ready for any sign of discomfort, but she took the mug and turned away. ‘I don’t know. You must have told me.’
I knew I hadn’t.
‘Listen,’ she said, changing the subject in a flash. ‘I’ve made a decision.’ She’d been heading for the kitchen, but she turned around, tossing the mug from one hand to the other. ‘Now we’re not going, I actually think the holiday in Greece was a bad idea.’
‘Okay, well, we can think about going somewhere else. Where did–?’
‘No. What I mean is, let’s not… let’s scrap the whole holiday idea, shall we? It might be better if I go away with someone else.’
‘Oh, Simon, you mean?’
‘Not necessarily.’
‘Right. So when did you decide this?’
‘Recently, but it was always a bad idea, don’t you think?’ She huffed with impatience as if we were going over old ground.
‘No, not really. I thought it was a good idea.’ My words were coming out clipped with hurt. ‘We’ve never been away, just the two of us. I thought it would be... fun.’
She laughed.
‘I was never allowed to be different growing up, was I?’ she said. ‘I was never allowed to do things my way or have my own ideas about things. I’ve always been watched.’
I was searching for an explanation in her face, but she was on the move again, heading towards the front door this time, keen to show me out.
‘What? I don’t understand,’ I said. My words broke off, but I stayed where I was.
She put the mug on the ledge by the front door and stabbed her hands into her hips. ‘That’s the problem.’
‘Did you think I suggested going on holiday with you, just so I could keep an eye on you?’ Inwardly I cringed. It wasn’t that far from the truth. I had intended the break as a way of finding out how well she’d been doing after the hit and run.
‘I want to branch out on my own and not feel…’ She cleared her throat and started again. ‘I want to do my own thing a bit more and feel like you trust me.’
‘I do trust you.’
She made a funny clucking sound with her tongue to indicate she didn’t believe me.
‘I don’t know why you’re pushing me away like this,’ I said, as tiny shards splintered the back of my eyes. ‘It’s very… hurtful.’
‘I’m sorry. I’m trying to be honest. You always say that’s the best way to do things.’
She moved towards the front door, looking purposeful.
‘I need to break free, that’s all. Anyway, Simon’s coming back any minute. I think it might be best if...’
The ensuing silence was hollow and unforgiving. She doesn’t want me in her life! Our family was damaged enough without this. Now it felt ripped to shreds. I got my things and left without another word.
On the way back to the underground station, I called Terry. His was the only voice I could think of that could possibly make me feel better.
‘Miranda hates me,’ I said. ‘She’s basically told me to fuck off out of her life.’
‘What? What’s happened?’
‘Nothing, really. That’s why it’s so awful. We didn’t have a fight or anything. She’s got a new boyfriend and she doesn’t want to go on holiday with me and she wants me to back off and stop…’ My voice cracked. Shapes of the shop fronts were swimming through my tears.
‘Oh, Sam, it’s not you. Miranda’s always been a bit…’
‘Messed up?’
‘Well, yeah.’ He was still at work; I could hear the thrum of activity around him.
I growled into the phone. ‘I can’t believe it – my own sister. She doesn’t want me anywhere near her.’
I’d been holding it together pretty well until that point and then the waters broke. I stepped into an alleyway between shops and blubbed something about love, ending up wailing incoherently.
‘Families are the worst, Sam. You’re a psychotherapist – you should know that by now.’
I could hear him batting away demands at his end with quiet grunts, but he let me blather on, as I repeated over and over the whole I can’t believe it thing that people do when they’ve had a nasty shock.
‘You sound like you need a… full debriefing,’ he said. ‘How about dinner tonight?’
‘I’d love to, but I can’t leave Aiden. He’s just come back from hospital. Someone tried to poison him.’ My professional side kicked in at the mention of Aiden’s name. I got a grip on the situation and swiftly dried my tears.
‘I heard.’ There was a lengthy pause. ‘In fact, are you sure you should be there with him?’
‘I can’t leave him.’
‘I’m worried about you,’ he said. ‘There’s a maniac out there.’
‘I know,’ I conceded, ‘but it’s not Aiden.’
A threat hung over the boat now, like a dense fog. Whoever the killer was, he – or she – was still free, desperate for Aiden not to reveal their identity. Weren’t they likely to try again?
‘Can I suggest something?’ He faltered. ‘You can say no.’
‘What?’
‘I’ll come and join you both, just for tonight. I’ll sleep in the saloon of course, bring
a sleeping bag. I know I’ve got a gammy leg, but it would make three of us, if anything happened.’
‘Terry, I can’t ask–’
‘You didn’t.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘Absolutely. I’ll eat before I get to you so I won’t be in the way and I’ll need to get away early in the morning. It won’t be a particularly sociable event – but it might mean you get some sleep.’
I was hit with a surge of sheer relief. For the last few nights, decent sleep had become a precious gift given only to other people. ‘Thank you. That would be brilliant.’
‘Anytime.’
Chapter 43
I could tell from the lack of dishes that Aiden hadn’t eaten anything, but he looked marginally better. He was drinking a mug of plain hot water, leaning against the kitchen sink in his towelling bathrobe.
I thanked Didier for looking after him and he discreetly disappeared.
‘You’re still feeling rough, aren’t you?’ I said to Aiden.
He was struggling to hold his head up, his eyelids puffy, his silky hair hanging in rats’ tails over his eyes. He managed a white-lipped smile.
‘You must try and eat something,’ I said. ‘Something really light. A boiled egg? Marmite on toast?’ I glanced at the fruit bowl. ‘A kiwi?’
He nodded and reached out for it before I could. Seconds later, he’d managed to cut his finger while slicing it. I found the first aid kit again and brought him a plaster.
‘No knives for the time being,’ I suggested.
He put on his sunglasses, even though I’d drawn the curtains to keep out the late shafts of sunlight, and he sat to eat, labouring over the fruit as though it was a three-course meal. I told him that Terry, a friend who worked in the Met was going to stay the night with us for extra security. I didn’t see any reaction, either way.
My phone rang, so I left him stretched out on the banquette.
‘We’ve completely wiped out the forensic budget for this year in order to fast track that sample of halloumi through the labs,’ Fenway said, as if I was to blame. I waited. ‘It was poisoned with a substance containing formalin. That’s a watered-down version of formaldehyde, capable of causing sudden death if consumed. One more slice and Aiden could be dead by now.’
‘Bloody hell,’ I whispered, walking further away from Aiden’s earshot.
‘We’re treating it as attempted murder.’
‘But, formaldehyde? Why couldn’t he smell it?’
‘It was in an odour-reduced solution – clever. We reckon it was used by someone who knows this substance inside out.’
‘Formaldehyde again. That has to be significant, doesn’t it? You said it was found on Katarina’s clothes.’
‘We’ve traced those samples to the same type used in Henry Dodd’s mortuary, but it’s a common brand. It’s used in a number of funeral parlours in London. Also used in certain types of paint.’ He cleared his throat. ‘This is strictly confidential, by the way – the earring we found at Dodd’s – guess who it belongs to?’
I was hardly in the mood for games.
‘Kora? Katarina?’ I said flatly.
‘Pippa French.’
‘Pippa?! Jeez, that’s a huge breakthrough isn’t it? What was she doing there?’
‘Who knows? The woman you met at The Bulletin confirmed it, Naomi Norton. Pippa was wearing the same distinctive earrings in her staff photograph, pinned to their noticeboard.’
Ah – that’s why it looked vaguely familiar. I recalled seeing the same headshot.
‘Dodd still has two solid alibis for the times of the towpath deaths,’ he continued talking. ‘He was at his mother’s eightieth birthday for the first, and for the second he was caught on CCTV at a late-night supermarket. The evening Pippa French went missing, he wasn’t even in the country.’
‘Damn…’
‘He’s been in and out of our interview rooms like a yo-yo – we’ve just got him back in again. We’re waiting for his solicitor. He definitely knows something.’ I heard a siren wail in the distance. ‘I’m only telling you this in case any of Mr Blake’s sketches shows a connection.’
‘Of course. As far as I know Aiden hasn’t touched a sketch pad since he was poisoned.’
Fenway ended the call.
I made a mug of calming chamomile tea for Aiden and as I placed it in front of him he stood up. I waited, expecting him to move past me or reach for something.
‘Do you want to show me something? Do you want the sand tray? A sketch pad?’ I craned my neck trying to locate them.
He stood there, unmoving, but not at ease. He took another step towards me until his toes touched my slippers. His eyebrows drew together slightly, his eyes questioning and searching. Then, before I knew what was happening, his face drifted towards mine and he was kissing me on the lips. A delicate, testing kiss. I drew back, but my reaction should have been quicker. He was my patient and he was vulnerable; he wasn’t thinking straight… and for a snap second, neither was I. Fortunately, I came to my senses.
‘Aiden,’ I whispered, taking a step back from him. ‘We can’t… this is…’
He put his hand on his heart and gave me an imploring look.
I needed to be coherent and clear about this. ‘Aiden, I’m so sorry, but this can’t happen. I am a professional trying to treat you. That’s the extent of our relationship. I’m in your personal space on the boat and that is very strange – no doubt for both of us.’ I sighed. ‘However, our boundaries must be very clear. That must never happen again.’
His eyes fell away and he backed down the corridor. The next sound I heard was the faint click of his cabin door.
I sank to the sofa. I should have seen it coming. Pulled away sooner. Even though we’d scarcely touched – it should never have got that far.
I was already in my dressing gown when Terry arrived. I’d removed my make-up and been confronted by plum-coloured shadows hanging under my eyes that took me by surprise. My hair had gone flat and I felt nowhere near my best. He came through with his rolled up sleeping bag and rucksack, looking like a tourist passing through. We were ill at ease with each other, at that awkward stage of a relationship nobody can really define. As a result, I was finding it hard to make eye contact. Finding it hard, in fact, to keep my eyes open. I was exhausted.
‘Aiden’s already gone to bed,’ I whispered. ‘Fancy a hot drink?’
He shook his head. ‘No, I’m fine.’ I was actually glad he refused. Whilst overjoyed that he was there on one level, I was running on empty. The situation was not one in which anything could develop between us, anyway. I was ‘on duty’, with a patient in the next cabin and Terry was our bodyguard. There was no room for any overtones of romance. Furthermore, I was still reeling from the kiss Aiden had given me. He’d caught me entirely off-guard.
I handed Terry pillows and he rolled out his sleeping bag over a spongy layer of padded seats in the centre of the saloon floor.
He approached me as I was about to say goodnight and brushed a strand of hair out of my eyes.
‘You okay?’
‘Just tired. Thank you so much for this.’
‘Shush.’ He put a finger over my lips and let it stay there. I gave his arm a friendly squeeze and he took his finger away. ‘See you in the morning,’ I said. ‘I owe you a meal at The Dorchester now.’
He smiled and held the palm of his hand up for a high five.
I woke with a jolt during the night, not sure if the sound I heard was real or had seeped out of a dream. I grabbed my phone so I could call 999 in a hurry, then remembered Terry was in the saloon, keeping guard.
I zombie-walked towards him, yawning.
Terry was curled into a motionless bundle on the floor, his face hidden. A small table lamp had been left on giving the space a dim glow. I watched his shape rise and fall, hoping he wouldn’t stir, then tiptoed along the corridor to Aiden’s cabin door. It was closed, his light on as usual, given away by the thin slither of brightness unde
rneath. I stood still and listened. Not a sound, other than the familiar gentle knocking of the boat against the pontoon.
When I returned to the galley I noticed that the sand tray on the table had been disturbed. It looked as though Aiden had tried to recreate the crime scene as he had before. Something must have come to him during the night and he’d left it here for me. There was a tiny model bike on its side again, the sand scooped away to show the canal with a boat in it, and one of his wire birds in an oval shape depicting the Mazda insignia stood behind the fence. I got that much. Then things started to get more obscure.
There was a tiny glove, from a set of fashion items for dolls, laid between the boat and the fence. Resting on the glove, almost obliterating it, was a collection of animal’s teeth from one of the boxes. They had been carefully positioned, forming an interlocking pattern. I stared at it, had absolutely no idea what it meant. A glove and teeth.
Was this connected in some way with the dentures in the kiln? Was it a link to Simon? Something more symbolic?
Whatever the message, I wasn’t getting it.
The towpath, the fence, the wheels of the bicycle began to flood into a blur in front of my eyes. How did the glove fit in? What did the pattern of teeth mean? Had the killer been bitten? What on earth was Aiden getting at?
I was getting nowhere, my eyes finding it hard to fully focus – hardly surprising as it was just gone 4am.
As I crept back to my cabin, I came to the sure-fire conclusion that the killer had to be an attention-seeker. Kora hadn’t been attacked in some remote back alley, she’d almost been decapitated in a dramatic fashion right out in the open, as if her death was a performance.
Terry and I had both agreed that Katarina’s death seemed different; she’d been strangled, a method without gore or theatrics. The first was planned, the other was about expedience. While it was understated in comparison to Kora, nevertheless the body had been moved to almost the exact spot on the towpath, sending a message of sheer effrontery to the police. Put together, the deaths were the grotesque work of an exhibitionist – if not one killer, then two who were working closely together.