The Memory of Trees (Kate Gardener mysteries Book 1)

by Gabriella Messina

  “Murder Squad, please?” Kate tapped impatiently on the table, a steady melodic drumming, as she waited for a response on the other end. She hoped it would be –

  “Murder Squad.” The “R’s” were tinged with that growly sound so familiar to anyone that has heard a Scottish burr.

  Kate smiled to herself and pushed the chair into a spin again.

  “Detective Constable Owens. You’re just the man I need to talk to.”

  12

  Residence of Dr. Thomas Flynn, Lewisham

  “We shouldn’t be here.”

  Owens was tapping his fingers, the right hand on the steering wheel, and the left hand on the gearshift in the center console. He shifted nervously in his seat, and the drumming grew louder, and more rapid, his fingertips pounding out a regular rhythm.

  Kate threw a sidelong glance at the driver’s seat. “Owens, do you play the bongos or something?”

  Owens fingers slowed slightly, and he frowned. “No, why?”

  Kate didn’t reply, but she looked down pointedly at Owens’ fingers on the gearshift, then up to his fingers on the steering wheel.

  Owens followed her gaze, and quickly stopped.

  The silence that descended in the vehicle was deafening, and Kate wondered if she should have just requested “Baba-Lu” instead of making him stop.

  “We shouldn’t be here.”

  Kate sighed again. “Then I’ll get out, and you can go. I can find my way home.”

  Owens fidgeted with the edge of his yellow-and-black checked police constable’s vest. “You do know what today is right?”

  Kate focused her gaze on the block of row houses across the street. “Yes, I do.”

  “Then you understand why he won’t want anything to do with the police, today of all days?”

  “Yes, I do.” Kate quickly opened the passenger door and hopped out of the vehicle. She leaned in the window and smiled at Owens. “Maybe you should stay here, Constable.” Kate walked around the front of the vehicle and started to cross the street.

  “Fuck,” Owens muttered. He gripped the steering wheel tightly, watching as the young American woman crossed the street and headed for a brown row house with blue shutters.

  Owens shook the steering wheel in frustration, then jumped out of the car. He quickly grabbed his hat from the back seat and jogged after Kate, reaching her just as she reached the brown home’s front gate.

  Kate reached for the front gate, then stopped. The home’s front door was opening.

  Moments later, the slightly stooped form of a grey-haired man stepped out and descended the few stairs leading to the walk. His movements were slow, measured, as if he was saving his energy for some reason. His worn brown sweater hung loosely on his bony shoulders and his pants had a noticeable patched area on the knee.

  Kate glanced at the property, the outside of the house, and noted the same slightly worn and weathered look. Doctor Thomas Flynn was living rough, to say the least.

  Halfway down the walk, presumably on his way to the mailbox, Doctor Flynn looked up. His eyes were kind, a distance in them as if his mind was mostly elsewhere. Until he looked at Owens, and at Owens’ police-wear.

  “Today! You come here today!” The weariness had drained from his face as the anger flowed in. “Leave me alone! Let my daughter rest in peace!” He turned, moving much more quickly up the stairs than he had come down only moments before.

  Owens winced as the door slammed.

  “I told —”

  Kate quickly held up a hand, silencing him.

  “Don’t. Say. It.” Kate stared at the front door of the house. She suddenly pushed open the front gate and closed the distance between the gate and front door in seconds, taking the front steps two at a time.

  Kate stopped at the front door, her hand hovering over the door in preparation for knocking. She swallowed hard, then knocked firmly, confidently, on the door.

  “Doctor Flynn? My name is Kate Gardener. I’m a photographer with Forensic Services. I’d like to talk to you about your daughter, about what happened to her.” Silence followed, not surprisingly. Kate swallowed hard again before she continued.

  “I understand what you’re going through. I know people say that so often, hoping to give comfort, or understanding, or… Something.” Kate glanced back at Owens, suddenly feeling self-conscious. She wasn’t sure just how much of this he could hear, or would hear. But…

  “Today is a bad day for you. A day you would rather forget, a day you wish had never happened. I had a day like that once. People I loved died. Some of them are still dying in a lot of ways. I know what it’s like to feel… so helpless. To wish you’d said or done something... more.”

  Kate paused for a moment, listening for any sign of movement or response from inside the home. There was only silence.

  “All right,” Kate murmured and began to step away from the door. Then she stopped, turning back quickly and raising her voice.

  “Not everyone gets a chance to make things right. I believe… I know… That you have an opportunity to do just that.” She paused, searching for the words to say, the words that would work a miracle and open that door.

  Kate heard herself speaking, heard the words coming out of her mouth and was startled that she even remembered them.

  “It’s your responsibility to do what’s right, to prove your love by doing her a justice.”

  There was a long pause, and Kate began to think that Owens had been right and that this trip had been a complete waste of time.

  The front door opened just a crack, and Doctor Flynn peeked out.

  ***

  Kate glanced around the living room of the Flynn residence – the simple warm décor, the variety of medical books, a selection of poetry including Byron, Keats, and Shelley.

  Kate slid one of the Shelley volumes from the shelf and carefully leafed through it.

  “I never really cared for Shelley. Percy, that is. Mary was my girl,” Kate murmured as she closed the volume and returned it to the shelf. “Your daughter was a bit of a fan, Doctor Flynn?”

  “Yes. My daughter’s a romantic at heart.” Flynn visibly winced as he misspoke. “She… was…was a romantic.”

  Kate noted the pale cast to the older man’s face, the slight sway in his stance. Owens had noticed as well, and before Kate could say, “Constable”, Owens had crossed the space between himself and Doctor Flynn and was easing the stricken man into a comfortable chair.

  Kate quickly joined them, crouching down by the side of the chair and laying a gentle hand on Doctor Flynn’s forearm.

  “Doctor, can I get you something? Water? A drink? Chocolate? Chocolate always makes me feel better.”

  The older man smiled wanly and shook his head.

  “No, Miss Gardener, I’ll be all right. Thank you.” Doctor Flynn paused, glancing at Owens. “Both of you.” He leaned back in the chair quietly and sat still for several seconds.

  Kate threw a questioning glance at Owens, and the young constable shrugged his shoulders and shook his head.

  “I’m quite all right. Truly.” Doctor Flynn opened his eyes again and smiled at the pair in front of him. “What would you like to know?”

  Kate pulled over a small footstool and sat down beside the doctor.

  “Your daughter had a relationship with Daniel Norton?” Kate asked.

  Doctor Flynn nodded slowly as he answered. “Yes. They dated for about nine months. Helen was… over the moon for him at first. Then it seemed to cool, and by that summer…” Doctor Flynn trailed off, a frown creasing his forehead.

  “It was over,” Kate finished.

  Doctor Flynn nodded. “Yes. Helen would not accept his phone calls, would not see him when he came to the door. She started to go out by herself, going for walks that lasted for, oh, hours sometimes.”

  “There was someone new,” stated Owens.

  Doctor Flynn nodded. “She never would say, but yes, I believe there was someone new in her life. She was very happy
that summer, and when the leaves began to change, to fall…” Doctor Flynn swallowed hard, trying to clear the tension that had built up in his throat. “She loved this time of year. Even as a child, she looked forward to autumn.”

  Doctor Flynn leaned forward, reaching down to the lower shelf of the end table beside him. He sat back, a photo album in his hands. He leafed through it, stopping about halfway through and turned the album so that Kate and Owens could see the photograph of his daughter, Helen.

  Kate and Owens shared a subtle look. It was the same photo that had been pulled from the glove box of Henry Bell’s van.

  “Your daughter was a lovely girl,” Kate said sincerely. She paused for a moment before continuing. “Can you tell me about… that day?”

  Doctor Flynn shifted uncomfortably, his eyes tearing as he spoke.

  “Helen… enjoyed walking in the park, Regent’s Park. She left early that Sunday, shortly after breakfast.” He frowned as he continued. “I remember… there was a phone call, perhaps an hour after Helen left. It was a man, and he asked if Helen was there. I told him she was not, that she had gone out for a walk. I was about to ask if he wanted to leave her a message when he hung up.”

  “You didn’t recognize the voice?” Owens asked.

  “No, I’m sorry.” Flynn responded. “I wish I did. I can’t help from thinking, all these years later, that the person calling me may have known something, may have even been the one who murdered my girl.”

  Kate looked down at the photo in the album, and frowned.

  “Sir, do you know who took this picture?”

  Doctor Flynn shook his head. “I don’t know. Helen gave it to me, but she never told me who took it.” He touched the photo, his fingers skimming the cheek and jawline of his daughter’s face. Then he abruptly closed the album and said, “Do the police think the man who killed Daniel and Henry Bell also killed my daughter?”

  Kate glanced at Owens before answering. “I can’t speak for the police, Doctor Flynn, I don’t know what they think or know.”

  Flynn nodded, then asked Kate, “What do you think, Miss Gardener?”

  Kate hesitated before answering him. “I think the person who killed Daniel Norton and Henry Bell loved your daughter very much. I think this person believes that this is a certain justice that he is meting out for her.” She nodded subtly. “Yes, definitely a he. And I have a bad feeling…” Kate shared a look with Owens, “that he isn’t finished yet.”

  ***

  Kate’s Flat, Dulwich (Southwark)

  Not finished yet.

  Kate could feel her head swaying in time to the rhythmic stirring of her spoon as it circled the inside of her coffee cup. She glanced down and watched the strands of cream blend into the dark coffee, turning into the ideal shade of medium beige. She shook the spoon ever so gently directly above the cup and set it down on the counter.

  Then, the sip. Coffee was an experience for everyone in Kate’s family, and she was no exception. She vividly recalled those first small samplings she received as a child, a taste of her grandfather’s coffee during dessert, or a small cup of her own for breakfast. Kate carefully sipped from the cup and couldn’t help but smile. Perfect.

  Kate carefully carried her cup out of the kitchen, her feet lightly padding on the wooden floorboards as she crossed through the dining area and into the living room. She set her cup down on the coffee table before plopping down on the sofa and turning on the television.

  The screen flickered to life and the local news quickly came into focus on screen. Kate quickly turned the volume up as a shot of Regent’s Park filled the screen; the news presenter was talking about the Norton/ Bell murders:

  “We learned this evening that West Ham midfielder John Dempsey was taken into police custody this morning following a foot-chase through his Marylebone neighborhood. Dempsey is rumored to be connected to the two victims in some way, though our source was quick to caution us that this in no way implied that Dempsey was suspected of these brutal killings. We contacted Crown Prosecution Service’s Complex Casework Unit, who would give us no comment at this time. Reporting live from Pimlico, this is Hermione Hart.”

  Kate quickly turned off the television, shaking her head. There was something about that reporter that just stuck in her craw, as her grandmother used to say. The woman was certainly attractive, but she had a pushy manner that was evident not only in her interviewing, but in her basic presentation. As Kate grabbed her coffee and strolled through the dining area towards the bedroom, she couldn’t help but wonder who Miss Hermione Hart’s source was… and if it was someone Kate knew.

  Kate could hear the soft tapping sound of the rain on the peaked glass roof above as she entered the loft-style bedroom area. It was early to be climbing into bed, barely nine o’clock, but the encounter with Doctor Flynn in the afternoon had been draining. Kate set the coffee cup on the bedside table and slowly climbed into the flannel-sheeted bed. Her joints ached, and she could feel the pressure in her chest returning. She sighed as she pulled the sheets and plush blanket up around her shoulders, settling into the warmth. It’s the damp weather, that’s all. Dampness always makes me congested and sore. Ever since… Kate shivered, reached for her coffee and wrapped her hands around the still-toasty cup. She took a long sip, feeling a smile cross her lips as she swallowed. Much better.

  The feeling of peace was short-lived, however. Kate returned the cup to the table and closed her eyes, sliding down further into the bed and snuggling up against the pillows. She prepared for sleep, thinking each part of her body into relaxation. The legs, the arms… everything slowly relaxing until…

  Fuck.

  Kate’s eyes snapped open, but the images of the crime scenes remained. The curse of having such a good memory. “Photographic”, her father used to call it, though eidetic was the official scientific term for it. Popular thought was that a photographic memory meant that you could “see words”, so to speak, but the truth was eidetic memory had very little to do with words and everything to do with images, the ability to remember what you see and recall it with crystal clarity at a later time.

  Total recall, thought Kate as she pushed herself up on the bed and took another long drink of the now-cool coffee. It was a gift, to be sure… and a curse. There were too many times throughout her life that Kate wished she couldn’t remember things so well. Remembering them meant experiencing them again, and the experience would bring the anxiety.

  It always started in her chest, like a weight slowly spreading into each part of her lungs, squeezing the air out bit by bit. The overwhelming feeling of pressure. Kate had experienced it since her teens, but in her early twenties it had gotten worse. So much worse that she had literally been crippled by it on several occasions. The embarrassment, the helplessness… Kate shivered at the memory, willing away the little fluttering of anxious pressure lurking at the edges of her mind, threatening to creep in and attack her body. Oh no you don’t, she thought as she took a deep breath and mentally went through her relaxation technique again. The legs, the arms, the neck…

  Those Regent’s Park crime scene photos still haunted her, pushing aside the anxious thoughts and filling those corners of her mind that had not relaxed. Something about them was simply not right, but she’d be damned if she could put her finger on what it was. Kate groaned and fell back on the pillows, sinking into the soft blankets and sheets. She needed to sleep. Sleep would bring clarity.

  ***

  Kate awoke with a start. It was still dark and, for a brief moment, she felt panic as she waited for her eyes to focus so that she could read the glowing numbers on the clock beside the bed. 6:20… obviously AM… She pushed herself up in bed, wincing as the pain shot through her shoulders and neck. She had slept at a weird angle, to be sure, and a hot shower and a dose of ibuprofen would most definitely be in order before anything constructive could happen. But first, coffee.

  Kate rubbed the right side of her neck and shoulder as she padded to the kitchen. She grabbe
d the coffee carafe and turned on the hot water, rinsing the pot thoroughly before switching the water to cold.

  Kate leaned against the counter as she filled the carafe with cold water. She glanced out the window above the sink, which offered a clear view of the street below and the handful of cars parked along it. She watched as a well-dressed man across the street exited his block quickly and hurried to his vehicle, a mid-size sedan, likely a Volkswagen. He got in quickly and, moments later, the car started and carefully pulled away.

  Kate stared at the space where the car had been parked. Though the surrounding street was still wet from an early morning rain, the space where the car had been parked was dry.

  Before the rain… Before the…

  The effect of realization dawning caused Kate to nearly drop the coffee carafe. She quickly set the pot down and looked out the window again as she tried to process the answer that had just come to her, the reason why those pictures just didn’t seem right.

  The first set of crime scene photos were taken before the scene was secured, before the police had arrived, probably before the body was even found by the jogger.

  Kate sat down and brought up the pictures in her mind, looking for the differences between them. It was a trick she had learned when they tested her for an eidetic memory. She had been shown pictures with patterns of white and black squares, and asked to find the one square that was the same in both pictures, the place where they matched up.

  Matching photographs of actually people and places was much more difficult and Kate wished that she had copies of the photos so that they could simply be superimposed one over the other. Kate thought hard, looking at each photograph in her mind, moving from point to point, trying to see where the difference was, to find that one thing that was different between the two. She needed to know what to look for when the photographs were in front of her and she was explaining this to those Murder Squad detectives.

  There it is, Kate thought, as she focused in on an area beside the body, near what would be the lumbar region of the back area. When she arrived at the crime scene, and in the photos that she had seen taken shortly before her arrival, as indicated by the time stamp on them, the area around this lumbar region was wet. Certainly not sloshy or muddy, but definitely damp from the rain. The level of wetness was consistent with the cloth draped over the buttocks, as well as the sheen of dampness on the entire body. Norton’s hair had also been dampened and was darker in color than it had appeared after autopsy.