Her touch, along with the words, were lost on the girl. Vicky was in shock, and after what she had been told on route about the murder, she was not surprised.
Jessop looked up from Vicky to see Brooke approaching from the dining room. She slipped her arm from Vicky and squatted down before her. ‘Sweetheart, listen to me. I’m going to leave you here with Brooke for a second, okay?’ She motioned to Brooke, who slid gently onto the sofa beside the girl with whom thirty-six hours ago she was downing tequila shots at Jessop’s hen night.
Jessop met Mason in the adjoining dining room, where sat a beach-wood dinner table and four chairs on which Samantha liked to host poker evenings. She recalled a time not so long ago when she’d been invited to sit in on a game. She’d declined politely, saying she was useless at cards. However, the truth was socializing with her fiancée’s ex-wife just felt too weird. She’d met Sam twice, and on both brief occasions when she’d dropped Vicky off at the house, the woman had been charming and gracious. Now, on seeing the table, she was overcome with regret for not accepting the mature invite.
‘CSI are on route,’ Mason said. ‘Five minutes.’
‘Good for them.’ She stepped passed Mason and pushed open the kitchen door.
Bloodbath. That was the first word to come to mind as she entered the kitchen. The room was narrow, white and clinical, enhancing the volume and colour of the blood that was pooled beneath the body and streaked across the appliances. Behind her she heard Mason suck up a breath and curse to himself.
Samantha lay with her head against the washing machine. A natural redhead, her flesh had always been pale, but now it was almost translucent. She wore a blue vest top beneath a belted white cotton dressing gown open at the waist to reveal black panties that on first impressions had not been tampered with. Her hips were slender as were her thighs and calves, tapering down to bare feet with toes painted blood red. At least that was the colour she thought they were painted. Such was the amount of blood that had escaped from the lacerations in her upper thighs it was difficult to say for sure.
She stepped closer to the body, zeroing in on the only signs of violence Samantha appeared to have endured. The cuts along her inner thighs were roughly eight inches long and drawn at an angle toward her knee with force and without precision.
Mason crouched down and leant closer to Samantha’s splayed, bloodied legs. ‘He cut the femoral arteries.’
‘Yep.’ The femoral arteries are among the body’s biggest veins. They ran down both legs supplying blood and oxygen to the lower half of the body. If opened, and without very urgent medical attention, the blood loss can be fatal. And the killer knew it.
‘How long you figure?’
‘She can’t weigh any more than hundred-twenty pounds. Ten, maybe fifteen minutes.’
Mason exhaled and stood back up. ‘Vicky say anything to you?’
Jessop shook her head.
‘CSI are here,’ came Brooke’s voice from the dining room.
‘They’re gonna be pissed we entered the scene without suiting up,’ Mason said.
Jessop peered down at the blood on her shoes. ‘Fuck ’em.’
Back in the living room Vicky was still perched on the sofa. Her face was blank as she stared unblinking at the Vegas photograph. She and her mother shared a strong bond where not only were they mother and daughter, but also best friends. They would share secrets and paint each others’ nails; talk boys and share a bottle of wine in front of the TV of an evening without pretence or wanting to be anywhere else or with anyone else. Jessop had always envied their relationship, and had secretly wished she and Chloe were as tight.
Just as the man she needed to call wished he’d been as tight with his daughter before she’d been taken from him.’
‘You got this one?’ she asked Mason.
Mason nodded. ‘Call him.’
Chapter Fifty-four
Ray sat beside the bed, his hand firmly in Vicky’s as it had been for the last four hours since bringing her back to the house after Knowles had confiscated her clothes for examination. The conversation between him and his daughter had been one way, with Ray pledging reassurances and promises to look after her, and that the monster who did this to her mother was going to pay. Even if he had to catch the bastard himself.
Vicky’s expression had not changed. It was as if she was still staring at the Vegas photo instead of the spare room’s pastel green wall. Maybe she still saw the picture, Jessop thought, looking on from the doorway. Maybe that was her brain’s way of combating the horrific experience of being forced to watch her mother and best friend bleed to death.
Within her pocket Jessop felt her mobile vibrate. She checked the caller ID and saw Chloe’s name. ‘Back in a sec,’ she said softly. Ray neither looked up nor acknowledged her. Since she had broken the devastating news to him he had said only three words to her: ‘Where is she?’ She understood his concern, but his behaviour toward her was if he blamed her for his ex’s death and for putting Vicky in this catatonic state. If she had done her job properly and caught the bastard then none of this would have happened. Christ, what the hell had she been doing all this time, pulling all the late nights and early mornings? She was head of The Murder Investigation Team, for Christ’s sake. It was her job to catch killers, wasn’t it?
Out on the landing, Jessop answered her phone and was greeted with a ‘Wassup?’
She clenched her jaw, trying to find the right words. Death affected the young harder than the old. They were still discovering the world, making plans and looking ahead to a happy and prosperous future where they will live forever. News of death arrested that, spilling poison on the seeds of optimism they’d been cultivating, and hardening them too soon. In some, this poison would grow, spawning cynicism and bitterness. For they knew death was very real and very close, and that the world they had embraced thus far did not care if they had been good or bad, and would keep on turning whether they were alive or dead.
‘Mum?’
‘Something’s happened.’
She kept it short and to the point, not indulging in the manner in which Sam was killed. Chloe knew better than to push the issue, instead turning her concerns to Vicky’s wellbeing.
‘She’s still in shock,’ Jessop said, ‘but we’re at home. Familiar and comfortable surroundings will do her better than a hospital ward.’
‘I’m on my way.’
The line disconnected.
She pocketed the phone just as Ray stepped from the room scratching his beard. He leant against the wall beside her and sighed. She wanted to hold him and whisper words of reassurance in his ear, just as he had been doing to Vicky. But there was a dark aura around him that warned“ don’t touch”, and so she kept her distance and waited for him to break the awkward silence. When finally he did speak, she was surprised at the calmness within his voice.
‘You know, I spent a long, long time hating Sam. Years. Not that she had ever done me wrong, but because she got Vicky.’
Jessop knew their history. Sam was one of Ray’s groupies when he was in the band. They’d married on impulse because she fell pregnant with Vicky, and in those days it was the right thing to do. However, by then, what with the alcoholism and drugs, the band’s future was already looking bleak. Ray quit first. He was a father now, and taking the role seriously. Little Vicky soon became his muse for a different artistic outlet, writing. He would write stories to tell her at bedtime, and was surprised at how easily the words flowed onto the page. Meanwhile, Sam was beginning to regret marrying on such an impulse and for the wrong reason. Pregnancy was no substitute for love, an emotion she had confused with adulation for Love Rocket’s wild guitarist. She was not a shallow person but she could not help her feelings. Neither could she live a lie. Ray was a good man and didn’t deserve a woman who didn’t love him back. Telling him this was the hardest thing she had ever had to do. A week after Vicky’s fifth birthday, Ray moved out.
It was an amicable split with Ray apprecia
ting Samantha’s honesty. They remained friends, with Sam putting no restrictions on Ray seeing their daughter. However, visits were not enough for the doting dad. Jessop remembered Ray telling her about the day he had left his precious little girl after his first visit. That night he went out and bought a bottle of Jack Daniels and a hundred cigarettes with the intention of consuming his purchases before sunrise. He poured his first shot and placed the first cigarette between his lips, lay back on his sofa and picked up the latest story he had penned for Vicky. An hour later, the story had changed somewhat, with the main character turning from heroic frog to embittered ex-rock star/vigilante. Seven hours later, the word count had grown from a thousand words to seven thousand words, giving birth to Rob “Rowdy” Bowman and cementing a career.
The cigarettes remained un-smoked, and the Jack Daniels un-touched.
Six years later Ray had published four novels and was doing very well for himself. However, he would have given it all up in a heartbeat to get back those years with Vicky.
‘So many nights I wished something bad would happen to Sam so I would get Vicky for myself,’ he whispered. ‘Guess I got my wish, huh?’
Jessop opened her mouth to rebut, but Ray disappeared back into the room.
Fishing her phone back out, she dialled Mason. Greeted him with a sharp, ‘Anything?’
‘Two eye witnesses who say they saw a man dressed in jeans, dark zipped jacket, baseball cap and sunglasses leaving the street around eight o’clock.’
‘And no one saw him arriving, right?’
‘Sorry, boss. How’s Vicky?’
Jessop rubbed her eyes, behind which a gnawing headache festered. ’The same. You checked the garden?’
‘It’s a small courtyard boxed in by a six foot fence. No cover to hide and reccy. Beyond that, we’re back onto the main road. Thing is, both Vicky and Sam’s bedrooms are at the front of the house, so I reckon he hid somewhere opposite.
‘Any neighbouring houses vacant?’
‘Nope, but there’s an old camper van parked in the drive of a neighbour across the street two doors up. No signs of it being broken into, so I crawled beneath. Got a pretty good view of Sam’s house from there.’
‘Any indication he was there?’
‘Found an oil stained ball of kitchen towel.’
‘The van leaking?’
‘Yeah, all over my goddamn suit.’
‘Get the tissue to Knowles, anyway.’
‘He’s got it.’
‘And keep combing that fucking house. Every damn room.’ She hung up, took several measured breaths. Stepped back into the room, where Ray was knelt beside the bed, head bowed and hands clasped back around his little angel’s hand. Samantha had robbed him of the chance to be there for her through adolescence, and now he was not going to let her go.
‘I’m putting the kettle on,’ she whispered. ‘You want a tea?’
Ray shook his head. ‘No. Thank you.’
She turned to leave. Stopped cold as a small, hoarse voice asked, ‘Could I have some water, please?’
Chapter Fifty-five
Along with the glass of water Vicky had requested, Jessop made her a sweet tea, which, when combined with the massive hug Chloe had greeted her with, had put a tint of colour back into Vicky’s cheeks.
She sat on the bed and sidled up to the girl. Snaked an arm around her narrow shoulders and pulled her close. ‘I want you to listen to me, sweetie. You are under no pressure to talk about any of this until you are absolutely ready. Do you understand?’
Vicky nodded, releasing a strand of her red hair that stuck to her damp cheek. Jessop brushed it away with a mother’s seasoned touch. ‘Good.’
‘But I want to talk about it now,’ Vicky whispered.
‘You really don’t have to, sweetie. You’re still - ’
‘I know, Cathy. But I need to.’
Ray looked to her with eyes heavy with regret. The look told her the blame was gone, and that he was sorry for treating her with such contempt. She understood and nodded so.
‘I’ll get my camcorder camera,’ he said.
The first noise to disturb Vicky from her sleep came at 6.43am according to her alarm clock. Assuming it was her mum fixing breakfast, and with another seventeen minutes before her alarm was set to go off, she closed her heavy eyes again. A moment later she was awakened again by a loud thump and what sounded like muffled screams.
Fear gripped her at the thought of her mum hurting herself, and so she’d leapt out of bed and raced from her room, calling for her mum. She was half way down the stairs when the piercing scream from the kitchen froze her nerves to the point of paralysis. But instinct took over, and a second later she was barrelling into the kitchen.
What she saw next would be seared into her memory for the rest of her life.
Her mother, writhing on the floor, her bare legs kicking and slipping in a pool of crimson. Vicky could not establish the liquid’s source, and in a surreal moment wondered if maybe her mother had dropped a jar of pasta sauce and was playing some sort of sick joke on her. But that’s when she saw her face and the twisted expression on it, and heard her yell for Vicky to get out of the house. She was going to do no such thing, though. The cold blade against her throat and the arm tight around her neck made sure of that.
She thought she was going to die, right there, right then. She thought the last thing she would ever see would be her beloved mum flapping around on the kitchen floor in a pool of bolognaise sauce. These were the things that ran through her confused and terrified mind until the voice in her ear whispered, ‘Watch.’
Watch what? she’d thought. And then the voice spoke again.
‘Love your suffering. Do not resist it. It’s your aversion to it that hurts, nothing else.’
The words carried no emotion, spoken almost lethargically. It was at that point she’d closed her eyes and prayed whoever held her from behind could not see her do so. She could not watch. She did not want to love her suffering, because doing so would mean her mum bleeding to death before her meant nothing, and that was not true. Her mum meant everything to her.
Vicky’s final thought before her sanity snapped was: I wish it were me lying there instead of mum.
Jessop hated herself for pushing Vicky, but time was their worst enemy when it came to interviewing witnesses. Time devoured memory, and with it, crucial details. ‘Did you see him?’ she asked, passing Vicky a fresh glass of water. ‘Maybe when he was leaving?’
Vicky took the glass and rested it in her lap. ‘No. I had my eyes closed.’
‘Did you recognise the voice?’
‘No.’
‘Did you or your mum lose your house keys recently?’
Vicky’s knuckles turned white around the glass. ‘I didn’t. Not sure about mum.’ Jessop sensed she hadn’t much time with the girl, and also sensed Ray’s unease from behind her. ‘Were you in last night?’
Vicky shook her head. ‘Thursday nights is quiz night down the Rose. I got in around eleven as usual.’
‘What about your mum?’
‘Plays cards at Kate’s house Thursday nights.’
‘Is Kate a neighbour?’
‘No. A friend.’
Jessop asked for Kate’s full name and address then asked, ‘What time did your mum normally go out and get back?’
Vicky continued to stare into the rippling water. ‘She’d leave around six and would normally get in about midnight.’
This gave the killer roughly the same time window to sneak into the house under the cover of darkness he’d had with Paul and Stewart, Jessop thought. She asked Vicky if she’d noticed any strangers or unfamiliar cars in her neighbourhood recently, and received a negative answer. She was about to ask about her and her mother’s lives and daily routines when she felt a hand on her shoulder and turned to see Ray shaking his head. When she turned back to Vicky, the water from her glass was slopping over the rim onto her lap. Vicky didn’t appear to notice, and Jessop conceded they
were done for now.
‘You did good,’ she said to the exhausted looking girl. Jessop moved to her and kissed her gently on the head. ‘I’ve got a team bringing your stuff over tomorrow.’
‘Cathy?’
‘Yes, sweetie?’
‘I want you to catch him. That’s all I ask.’
‘We will,’ she said as her mobile rang. ‘I promise.’
She met Vicky’s eyes and shivered from what she saw haunting the darkness behind the moist, green irises.
‘Yeah, and mum made me a promise we’ll go back to Vegas next year.’
With a lump in her throat, Jessop excused herself and left the room. Answered her phone and was pleased to hear Knowles’ kindly voice.
‘How’s Vicky?’
‘Better. She’s just given a statement.’
‘That’s good. Want to hear something else that’s good?’
‘Always.’
‘Found a print on that sheet of kitchen towel Scott found.’
Her skin prickled ‘And?’
‘Stewart Nichols sound familiar?’
Chapter Fifty-six
‘Stewart hasn’t left his sister’s house since the attack,’ Mason said.
‘She can vouch for that?’ Jessop asked into the phone.
‘Yep. She hasn’t let him out of her sight.’
Of course, she hadn’t for one minute thought Stewart Nichols was their man, but she couldn’t ignore the possibility.
She glanced to the ceiling of her home office as from above she heard the familiar creak of the floorboards in the bathroom, followed by the toilet flush. A shiver ran up her spine as she pictured Ray leant over the toilet pissing blood before wiping the bowl clean of all evidence of his illness.
The image brought a tear to her eye and made her both nauseous and angry. Yet simmering behind these emotions something sparked in her recollect.
Clicking on the Paul Bromley file, she asked Mason, ‘Why do you think he broke the toilet roll seal at Paul and Stewart’s house? I mean, why not just bring a piece of tissue with him?’
Hurt (The Hurt Series) Page 17