by Anne Randall
‘Money was important to her?’
‘Fame was most important but money she saw as security.’ His voice wavered. ‘I’m sorry, it’s just so shocking. You see, security was important because of her horrible childhood. You know that her father was murdered?’
‘Yes.’
‘Did you know about her home life? I gather her father was her hero and after his murder things were very difficult for her. The police found some rather incriminating porn. Underage. I wondered if he’d ever . . . if they’d ever . . . if he’d? You know?’
She heard a ribbon of excitement weave its way into his tone.
‘It’s just . . . it would have been terrible. I mean just the thought of it . . . the very thought.’
‘Did Karlie talk about her father’s murder?’
‘Not very often, just in vague terms. I often tried to get her to talk about their relationship but she just clammed up.’
‘But she mentioned the porn?’
‘Only because it was out there already, the papers had reported it. I was concerned. I felt that she had come through such a lot, at such a tender age. I just wanted to explore it fully with her. I was very sympathetic to her challenges.’
Wheeler heard how rushed the sentences were. There was barely a pause. Bellerose was talking a lot but telling them very little. Other than about himself. She wondered how professional his interest in Karlie had been. ‘Is there anything you can tell me about Karlie’s involvement in the BDSM scene or clubs she might have frequented?’
‘She wasn’t involved.’ A firm statement.
‘You’re certain?’
‘Positive. She would have told me. She told me absolutely everything.’
‘But not about her relationship with her father?’
Silence.
‘Was Karlie seeing anyone? Did she have a boyfriend?’
‘No.’
‘How can you be so sure?’
‘She’d never dated at all. Ever. She’d had sex obviously at work but no relationships outside of work. Karlie was firmly asexual.’
Which tied in with what the cousin had told them, thought Wheeler.
‘Wasn’t that unusual?’ asked Boyd. ‘A porn actress who doesn’t have sex?’
‘Some people don’t have a need for emotional intimacy. I thought, as a professional, you might be aware of that. Karlie saw sex as work. It’s what she did, the same way you come in here every day. Christ Almighty.’ He slammed his fist on to the table. ‘You people just don’t get it, do you?’
Wheeler watched as Bellerose paused, saw his fist retreat to the safety of his lap, watched while his composure was refitted over his countenance like a straitjacket. Saw the slick, professional smile being pasted on as he continued. ‘Sorry. It’s just that it’s a difficult time for me.’
Wheeler glanced at his motorcycle helmet. ‘Did she ever mention the Coach House?’
‘Karlie had never been there as far as I know. I’ve been in a few times.’
‘Did she ever mention the group, the Kill Kestrels? She tried to contact one of them.’
‘No.’
‘Do you have any idea where she might have been going the night she died? Anyone she could have been meeting?’
‘Sorry.’
‘And how did you feel about Karlie, Mr Bellerose?’
‘My work with her was intensely solution-focused. The main goal we set was for her to pull together a portfolio of images, and we made a list of the type of companies in the States that she wanted to target.’
Wheeler repeated herself. ‘I asked you how you felt about her, not what you did together.’
George Bellerose stared at the table, blinked hard.
Wheeler passed the box of tissues to him, saw his eyes flit to her and away again. Saw his expression harden.
‘This is very unprofessional.’
‘Everyone gets upset at some point,’ said Boyd.
‘I don’t mean the upset!’ snapped Bellerose. ‘I mean being attracted to a client. It’s so unprofessional to develop feelings, it shouldn’t have happened. We have a code of ethics in our profession. When I knew that I was developing feelings for her, I should have terminated the relationship. I am usually very in control of myself.’
Wheeler observed that Bellerose had moved from caregiver to rebel by breaking the rules and falling for the person he was meant to help. Had he crossed to his shadow side?
Bellerose repeated, ‘I am always in control of myself.’
Again the use of the word ‘control’. Did he like to control women? thought Wheeler. Did he try to control Karlie? ‘But in this case you weren’t and your feelings for Karlie, were they reciprocated?’
He took his time answering. ‘I don’t know. I never told her how I felt. I don’t know if she ever guessed.’ He sat back, steepled his fingers. ‘And now it’s too late. I had wondered, during our last session, whether or not to tell her, but I decided against it.’
‘Did she talk about her friends, what she did outside of work?’
‘No, she was there to focus on getting to the States. She sent some photographs to a half-dozen US studios, got a couple of lukewarm replies. They told her if she was ever over there to make an appointment but nothing that she felt was concrete enough to warrant the expense of the journey.’
He may have come in with the best of intentions but he had nothing specific for them. ‘Is there anything else you can remember, Mr Bellerose?’ said Wheeler.
‘She mentioned another place. Not by name. It was somewhere she said paid well for role play but she had to sign a confidentiality contract agreeing not to talk about it.’
Wheeler leaned forward. ‘A confidentiality contract? Because?’ Karlie’s flat had been well furnished and worth nearly two hundred thousand. Wherever she had made her money, it wasn’t through her arrangement with Gary Ashton. Then again, Beth Swinton had alluded to an inheritance.
‘I’ve no idea. She only mentioned it a couple of times. She was pretty reticent about it.’
‘It would be very helpful if you could remember anything at all. It may help us get closer to the person who killed her.’ She watched him trawl through his memory.
‘She mentioned once that she had been driving home thinking that she’d made some decent money for a change. I asked why she was there and she laughed and said it involved soap.’
‘Soap?’
‘Yeah, I know. It sounded nuts but then she clammed up.’
‘Driving back home from where?’
‘She didn’t say.’
‘And you didn’t press it?’
‘Why would I? I would be prying.’
Again the quick look, the sharpness of expression. Whatever he was telling them it wasn’t the whole story.
‘If this one last thing helps in any way, then I will have been of assistance. I mean, she was the victim of such a sorry childhood trauma.’
The victim/hero, thought Wheeler. ‘Can you tell me where you were on Tuesday night?’
She saw him bristle, the mask slip again.
‘I was at home.’
‘Alone?’
‘Yes, I live alone and the last time I looked that wasn’t a crime. And no, no one can corroborate that. No friend called round. No neighbour popped in to borrow a cup of sugar. Nothing so convenient for your investigation, I’m afraid. I had a takeaway meal and was online for most of the evening, then I read until eleven – Carl Jung’s Psychology of the Unconscious, if you’re interested. I had an early night. I was booked on the 7.15 a.m. flight to London the following day and I don’t like the inference here.’
Wheeler kept her voice steady. ‘There’s been no inference, Mr Bellerose. I was only asking a question.’
‘Right, well, I think I’ve done my civic duty, now. May I leave?’
Wheeler stood. ‘Of course. Thank you for your time.’ Heard him grunt a goodbye.
Once he had gone, she turned to Boyd. ‘Your take on our Mr Bellerose? You think he planne
d to go to the US with her, like Gary Ashton did? And he was in love with her, as was Pierce.’
‘His attitude changed quickly from lovelorn therapist to snappy controlling type.’
‘And he said “civic duty”,’ said Wheeler. ‘Bellerose wants to be seen to do the right thing in the community. I’m not sure that I believe him that he didn’t tell Karlie about his feelings. All that code of ethics stuff was laid on a little too thick for me. And yes, the word “control” popped up regularly.’
‘You think he told her and she rejected him?’
‘I don’t know why he was lying, or what about, but I’m certain that he was. But yes, he could have told her about his feelings for her and been rejected. It wouldn’t be the first time someone’s had the red mist descend, especially if they’d built up a fantasy that it was all going to end well. Karlie went to him asking for his help and he wanted to rescue her.’
‘She was the victim?’ said Boyd.
‘Initially, until she no longer needed rescuing.’
‘It’s classic, isn’t it? Woman rejects man, man gets angry and takes revenge. What about the no sex other than at work? It chimes with what the cousin said.’
‘Yep, it’s unusual. I wonder if Bellerose fantasised about taking her away from the porn industry and having her settle down with him. I think we keep an eye on Bellerose. It might be nothing; maybe he was just in love and didn’t express it. Or maybe he did and there were consequences. But the reference to soap?’
‘You’ve lost me there,’ said Boyd.
Thirty minutes later, George Bellerose turned into Kersland Street in Hillhead and parked in front of his flat. The first-floor, three-bedroom flat was spacious. His home was also his clinic, but Bellerose passed through the waiting area quickly, ignored his treatment room and the living room and walked along the corridor to his bedroom. Closed the door behind him. He could feel the sweat on his back, and his hair was damp. It had been a mistake to go to the police – that fucking bitch Wheeler had twisted everything he said. He had wanted to tell her that Karlie had gone to him for help, that he had made her life better, but the policewoman had tainted his words. She had made him feel dirty and out of control. He took off his shirt, scrunched it into a ball, chucked it into the corner of the room. Fuck it. He had tried, as usual, to do the right thing and it had been misconstrued. His efforts had been entirely misinterpreted by that bitch. He was a professional, he rescued women and helped mould and bend them into being the best they could be. He never fished at the bottom of the pond with his patients. He was their hero, their fucking hero. His heartbeat thundered. He had been Karlie’s hero – why couldn’t that cunt Wheeler see that? And her lying about Karlie having contacted a member of the Kill Kestrels. Karlie would have told him. She told him everything. Wheeler was a bitch. He checked his watch; he had a couple of hours yet before he had to see clients. Only had two appointments. Emma Bailey would want to work on her plan to open a deli in the West End. Joyce Wilkie wanted to look at retraining as a consultant and working in Europe. Bellerose didn’t feel at all like working, but at £150 an hour he wasn’t about to turn them away. He felt his heartbeat calm, felt the tension abate. He had enough time. He grabbed his laptop and moved to the bed. Around the room, Karlie Merrick stared out from dozens of images. The stills from the video had been printed off on his top-of-the-range printer. She was naked in all of them. In some, she was kneeling in front of the camera. In others, she lay on her back. Behind her there was darkness. In the original videos, Will Reid had featured, but Bellerose had edited him out. It was to be just him and Karlie. Bellerose opened his laptop, saw that Angie was online. He ignored her; he didn’t need that amateur shit right now. He downloaded Karlie’s final video. Watched her walk into shot and felt his arousal begin. Felt himself get hard. It had been the same after every session with her, he’d been left wanting more. Always more of the patients he was drawn to, that had become his pattern over the years. And he’d had to satisfy it.
Chapter Thirty-Four
The Grieving Son
Ross drove into Pittenweem. The dog lay on the back seat of the car – he hadn’t bothered to ask his neighbour Mary to look after her, nor had he taken Wheeler up on her offer. He was glad of the company. He’d spoken to Francesca Miller again before setting off, and she’d told him his dad’s body had been taken to the mortuary and there may have to be a post-mortem. Ross thought of Karlie Merrick’s post-mortem and how ill he’d felt, of the times he’d joked about the noise from the Stryker saw to Wheeler. He thought about the work Callum Fraser did, weighing corpses, measuring them, recording every detail before slicing into them to extract organs. He thought of his father’s heart giving out and how a post-mortem was suddenly different. Double standards.
He parked up, looked out to the water. No matter what the season, the view was always stunning. He grabbed the lead and got out of the car. ‘Come on, you.’
The sun was warm on his face, the breeze gentle. The area was busy; tourists passed him clutching maps and taking photographs. Incongruous. The beautiful day, the sun-dappled water and the happiness on the faces of the holidaymakers, juxtaposed with the death of his father. Ross felt weary as grief hit him. He walked towards the High Street. A poster told him the arts festival ran from the second to the tenth of August. He recognised one of the names – the late Steven Campbell; his father had been a fan. Ross tugged gently at the dog’s lead and they trudged through the crowd. His father had been a part of this community, had made friends, built a life here. Ross remembered him talking about a proposed memorial to the women historically accused of being witches, which had divided the town. The eventual vote was split and the council had decided not to go ahead, but his father had disagreed with the decision. ‘Torturing twenty-odd women and killing a good many of them, surely should be remembered in some way, Steven?’
Ahead, two tourists. As he passed, one asked, ‘Can you tell me the way to St Fillan’s cave?’ An American accent, maybe New York. ‘Is it true that he was the patron saint of the mentally ill and that people were locked in the cave overnight to be cured?’
‘So I’ve heard,’ said Ross.
‘Are you from around here?’
‘Glasgow.’
‘Oh, we’re visiting Glasgow tomorrow.’ She smiled up at him. ‘Is it as violent as they say?’
Ross thought of the women of Pittenweem who had been killed in the witch hunts, of the mentally ill people who’d been abandoned in a dark cave. He thought of Karlie Merrick’s murdered body on a slab at the post-mortem. Of Davie Ward and Chris Wood, the two dead gang members. Of his dad. Every place had its darkness. ‘Glasgow’s a great city. You’ll love it.’ He pointed them in the direction of the cave. Walked on. Above him, gulls rose and swooped while the dog trotted obediently beside him. At this stage, she was the closest thing to family he had. Or at least family he got on with.
His father had a three-bedroom detached house on the High Street. Inside, the dog’s nails clicked on the oak floor. The room was filled with light; the furniture had been kept to a minimum, allowing plenty of space for paintings, prints and small sculptures. Ross crossed to the kitchen, put on the kettle. Saw the glass in the sink, the almost empty bottle on the worktop. He hoped his father had had a peaceful night, that he’d sat contentedly with his whisky, his art and his view.
Ross made coffee, forced himself to focus. Knew it was time. Made the call. It rang for several seconds before it was answered. ‘It’s me.’ He paused. ‘I’ve got some bad news.’ He gave her the brief details, thought that it was unlikely that she’d want to attend the funeral, heard himself ask anyway.
‘I don’t think so, Steven, it’s been too long.’
His mother, ever the sentimental one. ‘Thought you might want to pay your respects.’
‘I do, honestly I do, and, of course, it’s terribly sad, but we need to be realistic.’
‘Is it unrealistic to think that maybe you’d want to come over for his funeral?
You were married to the man for years.’ They were getting into their old pattern.
Her voice sharp. ‘I’m well aware of that, Steven. However, Frank and I have our business here in Galway and summer is our busiest time. There are a number of high-profile weddings coming up, one or two of which may be prominently featured in the press.’
’Sorry, is this inconvenient? You reckon maybe he died now out of spite?’ Old patterns.
Her tone hostile. ‘Don’t you dare try the guilt trip again. Your father and I have lived separate lives for years and it’s worked out perfectly well.’
‘Apart from the alcoholism.’
‘That was his choice and he was drinking before I left. In fact, his drinking was a major contributing factor to my leaving, as you bloody well know.’
‘Maybe it was his way of coping?’
‘Steven, you are doing what you always do, taking your father’s side. I have done nothing wrong and I refuse to listen to you demonise me.’
He heard her trying to justify her position, knew that she was right, that she had every right to leave his father. On the one hand, but on the other? ‘All I’m saying is—’
She cut across him. ‘Hold on one second, my other mobile’s ringing. I’ll pass you over to Frank.’
He heard a muffled explanation and then Frank Brogan came on the line. ‘Steven, your mother just told me about your dad. It must have come as a hell of a shock for you?’