Dani looked back over to Bill. He’d finished on the phone and was now talking to someone else – a man in his sixties dressed in casual clothes. Bill looked confused and a little disgruntled, like the man was asking him to do something he couldn’t. Dani watched them for a few seconds, trying to figure out what they were talking about, trying to get her detective brain firing again. In the end, coming up with nothing much, she turned away and looked expectantly at the security gates and the corridor beyond.
Not long after, she saw a familiar face approaching from the other side. DI Susan Fletcher. At one time Dani would have gone so far as to say they were friends; they occasionally socialised outside of work, although Dani had sensed in the past that Fletcher had a bit of a bee in her bonnet about Dani being seemingly favoured by the top brass above the other DIs in the team. It was an unspoken angst, and one which had never resulted in any kind of open disagreement. That had been more than two years ago, though, and Dani hadn’t seen Fletcher at all for months now, once the initial well-wishes had dried up. Not that Dani had tried contacting Fletcher since then either.
As Dani watched her colleague she felt a pinch of grievance. Dani had taken the early morning call and hotfooted it out to the crime scene in Moseley, but Ledford’s throwaway comment about Fletcher being joint SIO on the murder case had rattled her, though if it was true, the decision would have been McNair’s not Fletcher’s. Either way, Dani was sure she would soon be brought fully into the loop.
Fletcher touched a small plastic card to the reader on one of the gates and the low glass doors slid open. She walked through and smiled when she saw Dani.
Dani got to her feet and smiled back, but that smile faltered when she noticed Fletcher’s hand smooth down the fabric of her dress around her waist. Fletcher had always been slim, like Dani was, but there was now a clear bump on her belly. She was pregnant. Maybe five, six months. Dani felt a lump in her throat. Dani had always seen Fletcher as a close peer. Career driven but grounded, they’d shared so many similarities. But just how far had their lives now drifted? Fletcher had the looks. The charm. The job. The husband. The home. And now a child.
What did Dani have?
Not that she was jealous. More disappointed in herself, and the way that her life had turned out so differently to how she’d expected it would.
As Fletcher came up to her and reached out to hug her long-time colleague, it was almost impossible for Dani to stop the welling tears from flowing.
Chapter Three
‘Murder. A simple word. A simple concept. Stop any passer-by in the street and they could tell you what it means. But you have to pay close attention to the definition to really understand the word.’
Professor Steven Grant paused for dramatic effect and looked around the grand lecture theatre. The room in the redbrick building on the University of Birmingham campus could hold close to two hundred people, but today there were barely forty. And half of those looked on the verge of sleep.
‘Murder,’ he said again. ‘Can anyone give me a definition?’
Many faces in the room remained blank. Just three hands went up. Grant chose the young man sitting on the back row.
‘The unlawful premeditated killing of one human being by another.’
Grant was actually impressed, even though it was a simple question.
‘Thank you,’ he said. ‘So let us think about that. Unlawful. Because there are circumstances where a human being can take the life of another lawfully. Which circumstances?’
‘War,’ someone shouted out.
‘Yes. And?’
‘Capital punishment,’ said a young woman on the front row. Grant held her eye for a second.
‘Yes. Anything else?’ No more volunteers this time. ‘In particular circumstances, self-defence might be lawful killing too.’
One or two nods.
‘Ok, and the next part of the definition: premeditated. Because killing someone accidentally or through negligence or otherwise unintentionally isn’t murder. Murder requires some level of intention and forethought, whether it’s days, weeks, months, or even just seconds.’
Another pause. No reaction from the room.
‘And the final part? The killing of one human being by another. An animal killing a human isn’t murder, just like a human being killing an animal isn’t. Cruel and unlawful, very possibly, but not murder.’
Grant stared out at the room, from student to student, assessing who was paying attention. Not many of them, it seemed. The first year undergraduates in front of him were a mishmash from the law, psychology and other social science degree programmes on offer at the university. The module Grant was leading was relevant for all of their studies, but he could count on his fingers the number of students who sat through his lectures with genuine interest.
What more did these overprivileged, self-important millennial brats want from him? Perhaps they’d spotted the criminology module (which, to be fair, was heavily weighted towards the macabre, given Grant’s area of expertise) in the university brochure and seen an opportunity for morbid voyeurism, a chance to learn about some of the most gruesome crimes in modern history so they could revel in the horrific potential of human beings while chatting away to their chums over a pint of beer or a glass of cheap wine in the pub, and were now disappointed that they were actually there to learn.
Grant would admit there was plenty of the gory side of criminality to come in his lectures, but he was there to do a job, not to provide social ammunition. He was there to teach these cretins something useful that they could take forwards to whatever jobs they thought they’d be getting at the end of their three years of mostly partying and lazing around watching daytime TV.
‘Murder,’ Grant said again. ‘It’s a simple word, with a seemingly straightforward definition. Yet a wide spectrum of circumstances and actions can lead to murder. The big question, the one we will be coming back to again and again here, is what makes a murderer?’
Grant took another pause as he began pacing. This time it was more to fill time than anything else. He still had two minutes on the clock.
‘The question is too wide and vague for us to possibly give a sensible answer. Nonetheless, we all think we understand murder. We know what a murderer is, don’t we? We are not murderers. We are normal human beings. Murderers are something quite different.’
Grant stopped moving and stood and glared out at the students.
‘Aren’t they? Would you know a murderer if you saw one?’
A few twitches from the crowd. Grant locked eyes with a male student on the second front row who had neatly coiffed hair and thick-rimmed glasses. He at least looked like a classic studious type. He was twitchy, as though he wanted to say something but was too shy to speak up in front of the others.
Grant scanned over the rest of the rabble, the mostly blank faces. No one was going to enter the debate now, not when it was so close to the end of the lecture.
‘Ok, that’s all for today,’ Grant said.
The shuffling of bums and the slamming of folding seats was instantaneous and echoed through the large room barely a second after the words had passed Grant’s lips. The lecture theatre would be deserted before he could even say ‘suggested reading material for next week’.
Grant shook his head. When had he become so cynical anyway?
He detached his laptop from the wires on the podium then moved behind and over to his brown leather satchel and shoved the computer in. He picked the satchel up and turned, then jumped when he saw one of the students standing right there in front of him. Grant quickly realised he recognised this girl. She’d been sitting on the front row, one of the few who seemed enthralled by Grant’s words. For three weeks now she’d sat on the same seat, keenly scribbling in her notebook in between long bouts of staring at him. Not the distant and uninterested stare that many of the other students gave, either. A stare which, as flattering as it was, terrified him.
‘That was fascinating,’ she said, and
stuck out her hand. ‘I’m Jessica Bradford.’
‘Thanks,’ Grant said, giving her hand a brief shake.
Grant looked across the room. It was now empty except for him, Jessica and another female student who was at the far end, at the top of the stairs, propping open the exit door and looking down at Jessica impatiently. Her friend, he realised.
‘Criminology is a subject that’s always interested me,’ Jessica said. ‘Though I guess it’s not an easy subject to get into.’
She said it almost apologetically, as though it was her fault that most of her fellow students were idiots.
‘I think a lot of your friends are going to find that out the hard way.’
‘I don’t think it helps that the class is so early on a Monday morning. I think you drew the short straw there.’
‘I’ve been doing this for a few years,’ Grant said. ‘Believe me, when you’re lecturing first year undergraduates there’s never really a good time. At least half of the students are always asleep or deeply distracted, picking their noses. I count myself lucky to be teaching something that’s at least vaguely interesting and accessible. I pity the maths tutors.’
Jessica gave a little laugh and looked coyly down at her feet. Grant smiled and looked back up to Jessica’s friend who rolled her eyes at her friend’s awkward performance. Grant felt like he was about to be asked to dinner or something. In fact, he was terrified of being put in a compromising situation, or even an innocent situation which could be even remotely construed as compromising.
Why was that his immediate thought?
‘I was hoping you could sign this for me,’ Jessica said, taking a paperback from her book bag.
Grant looked at the book. The edges were frayed, the front cover bent, the pages yellowed. The book was not just a few years old but well used. Grant smiled again, with genuine surprise and warmth, when he realised what it was.
He looked at his own name, then at the title; The Essence of Evil.
‘Where on earth did you find that?’ he asked.
‘I’ve had it for years. I told you, I’ve always had an interest in the subject. I don’t know why.’
Grant took the book from her hands and quickly leafed through it. He’d not had one of his students bring him a copy in years. He noticed that she’d used pencil to underline sentences and circle whole sections on many of the pages. This wasn’t just an interesting read for her, but a learning tool. Grant was impressed. Perhaps there was hope after all.
He took a pen from his shirt pocket and went to the title page. He scribbled his signature in big letters and made a brief dedication in her name. When he handed the book back Jessica beamed from ear to ear.
‘Thank you so much!’ she said. ‘My mum will be so jealous. She knew you, back in the day.’
‘Really? Where from?’
‘From Durham uni, when you were first studying. Before… you know.’
‘Wow. A long time ago then.’
‘Her name was Elizabeth Fonte then.’
The name meant nothing to Grant so he just smiled and nodded.
‘Say hi to her from me,’ he said.
Grant checked the clock on the wall. A nervous reaction. He didn’t have anything to get to but he was now feeling increasingly uncomfortable by her fan-girling. The last thing he needed in life right now was the affection of a teenage girl and all the risks that could bring.
Jessica looked over her shoulder at her friend, who gave a clear ‘come on’ look.
‘I really appreciate it,’ Jessica said, clutching the signed book to her chest. ‘And I was wondering… I’d like to come and see you in your office when you’re free.’
Grant frowned. ‘How do you mean?’
‘I had an idea for a thesis subject that I wanted to talk to you about.’
‘Thesis? You don’t need to be thinking about that just yet.’
Jessica looked thrown by that.
‘But I do admire your eagerness. Come over after noon today, if you like. Otherwise it would have to be tomorrow.’
‘No, that’s great! I’ll see you then.’
Grant watched Jessica turn and tootle off up the stairs and out of the lecture theatre with her stroppy friend.
Private tutoring to a keen nineteen-year-old? What could possibly go wrong?
Chapter Four
Day 71
The snarl on his face is pure rage. Animalistic and sinister. He bares his teeth like a rabid dog. This is a man I’ve known my whole life, but I don’t recognise him at all right now. And I’m terrified. Terrified of what he’s going to do. Terrified of what he’s already done. Terrified that I shared a womb with this person. My twin brother, Ben. Terrified that I grew up with him, that I’ve known him for more than thirty years and have never understood or suspected what lay beneath.
The phone is in my hand. I need to call for help, but I’m too scared to move. Not just scared for myself but for Gemma, upstairs. For the kids. At least they aren’t here tonight.
I can’t even look at the phone properly to make the call as I can’t take my eyes off him.
Then he lunges forwards. My defence is pathetic. It happens too quickly and I’m too shocked. I try to outmanoeuvre him; to get him into an arm bar and subdue him. I’m trained for this shit. But I can’t stop this man. This animal. He grabs my head and slams it against the doorframe. The next second I’m on the ground. My head throbs with pain and confusion. Blood clouds my vision.
I realise he’s standing over me but I’m too dazed to do anything other than stare into his cold and heartless eyes.
I see the stone ornament in his hand. I see it hurtling towards my head. The heavy object smashes into my skull with a horrific crack and squelch…
* * *
My head shoots up from the pillow. I’m panting. Sweating. It takes barely a second for me to figure out where I am. The hospital. Where else?
The memory, the daily nightmare, still flickers away even though I’m now awake. The look on his face. The sound of the impact. The feel of it… so strange because it wasn’t pain, but almost a warm, wet feeling, like someone was enveloping my brain with a cosy towel.
Slowly I manage to push the thoughts, the memories of Ben and what he’s done, away.
I’ve been in here for ten weeks now, and every day starts with this same routine, the same nightmare for me. But today is going to be different as it’s the first day I’m making an entry in this diary. Just another of the many elements in my seemingly endless road to recovery.
Seventy-one days. That’s how long I’ve been in this damn hospital already. Just over ten weeks ago, at the hands of my twin brother, I suffered a traumatic brain injury. TBI for short. A cerebral contusion that caused severe damage – bruising – to the frontal lobes of my brain. That’s the area of the brain that governs my speech, personality, movement and memory. The doctors say what comes next is unpredictable, though it’s likely I’ll never fully recover.
Short and long term memory loss. Short attention span. Mood swings. Depression. Confusion. Restlessness. These are just a few of the symptoms that will pervade my rehabilitation, possibly the rest of my life.
I’ll never be the same as I was and nor will my life, even though the doctors say I’ve made incredible progress already. In the last few weeks I’ve already had to relearn how to breathe on my own without a ventilator, to eat and drink without pipes, to walk, to talk again. I’m officially a TBI survivor now.
Often my body still feels next to useless, as though it doesn’t really belong to me, and even now as I write here, the pain in my fingers and my hand and my arm and my head is immense. I’m concentrating so hard on such a seemingly simple task.
Yet the biggest hurdle that remains in my bid for recovery isn’t physical, but mental – I need to learn how to be me again. That will be my hardest task. Perhaps an impossible one.
I’m lucky to be alive. Or so I’m told. I don’t feel lucky…
I remember those moments when
Ben tried to kill me with absolute horrific clarity, yet memories of the events leading up to then, and the weeks that have followed in this place, are so much more patchy. Non-existent in places, though things are coming back to me all the time.
The best way that I can describe it is that my memories of the last few weeks are like rivers and streams. The smaller, more distant streams are just snippets. Someone’s voice, calling my name, but no image to go with it. A vision of a recognisable face, without any sounds or context.
The streams sometimes connect, sometimes become longer and clearer; eventually the streams in my mind form rivers that are longer still and flow more naturally. I remember conversations, I remember moving, I remember doing things. But how much of it is real and how much is my mashed-up brain playing tricks on me I just can’t be sure. And it scares me.
I’m told that much of what I said and did in the first few weeks after I woke from my induced coma was incoherent. I talked nonsense. I had no idea where I was or what had happened. Frequently I thought I was still in the middle of a murder investigation. That the culprit was hiding in the hospital and I was undercover and had to go from room to room looking for him. Other times I was at the police station. I’d been knocked down by a madman trying to escape. I had to get back up, to run after him before he got away.
I guess that’s not too far from the truth really.
Any time I got over-excited, or refused to return to my room, I’d get more and more angry, more and more uncontrollable. I’m told several doctors and nurses were needed to physically restrain me, such was the power and focus in my body and my demented mind. Frequently I was strapped to my bed so that I couldn’t hurt others, or myself.
I can’t pinpoint where my memories, those rivers, actually tell the truth of what I’ve been through over the last ten weeks. My thoughts now, my actions, feel lucid and rational. At least to me. Yet that doesn’t make this experience any less frightening.
Above everything I feel isolated here. Alone. I don’t want to be in this place, physically or mentally, anymore.
The Essence of Evil Page 3