A Little Death

by A. J. Cross

  She saw a small bird swoop down onto the lawn. In a split-second Mugger’s chest hit the grass, his forelegs splayed, tail high and wafting, eyes drilling. Within another two seconds he had the bird. It hadn’t stood a chance.

  Leaning her forehead against the glass, she felt the slight headache which had begun earlier that afternoon roll like thunder inside her head. She closed her eyes.

  TWENTY-FIVE

  Crystal’s voice came from the adjoining room as Hanson walked inside her office the following morning.

  ‘Got a message for you, Kate. Can you ring Lieutenant Corrigan as soon as you can? He called fifteen minutes ago. I told him you had a lecture until eleven.’

  ‘Doing it now.’

  Hanson listened to her call ring out then Corrigan’s voice in her ear. ‘Hi, Red. Sean Gill has been remanded to Birmingham prison. We wanted you to know that he’s out of circulation for now.’ He paused. ‘We got a call earlier from the hospital. According to Amy Bennett’s medics, she’s fretting about the EFIT-V. She wants to give it another shot. They’re OK with us going back so I guess I am too. What do you think?’

  ‘Having seen how upset she was before, I’m not sure it’s such a good idea.’

  ‘Know how you feel, but we’re between a rock and something as hard. If we don’t offer her the opportunity, she’ll still be upset and we could be passing up a chance to get some idea of what the guy who attacked her looks like. I think we should give it a try. The tech and I are on our way in half an hour. I think Amy would appreciate you being there and so would I. What do you say?’

  As the call ended, Hanson saw a mug of coffee being placed in front of her. She hadn’t slept much, her mind racing after formless shapes, and half-understood ideas, her headache of the previous evening still flexing its muscles.

  She stood, grabbed her belongings and headed for the door. ‘I’m going out, Crystal.’

  They walked the hospital corridor, the technician following with his laptop, a large flat bag slung across his chest. The constable guarding the door acknowledged them with a nod, tapped the door, then opened it. Inside they found Amy sitting on a chair beside the bed. She was wearing a robe and looking frail. A man in his early thirties paused in the act of taking a plastic cup from her to look at them.

  ‘These are the people I told you about, Eddie.’

  Hanson watched him go to the cot and carefully lift the small infant from it, then sit with him against his bare chest where his shirt was open, its tiny back covered with a soft piece of cloth.

  ‘How’s baby?’ Hanson asked Amy.

  ‘He’s doing really well. He’s out of the incubator and in the heated cot all the time now and we’ve been shown how to hold him, skin-to-skin, see?’ Corrigan looked across the room to Eddie and the baby.

  ‘Shall we give you a few minutes?’ asked Hanson

  Amy shook her head. ‘It’s the baby’s cuddle time and Eddie can do that as well as I can.’ She hesitated. ‘Thanks for coming back. Eddie finds it hard to listen to what happened but I’ve told him I have to do it. This probably sounds mad but I’m remembering small things all the time.’

  ‘It’s not mad,’ said Hanson. ‘It’s often like that after trauma.’

  ‘What I’m remembering is a bit like what I already told you but I think there’s more detail. I can see it in my head now without getting too upset. He was so insistent I look at him. He made me face him. I couldn’t look into his eyes even though he kept saying, “Look at me, look at me. Keep your eyes on mine.” And it sounded … stupid. I mean, why would he want me to do that?’ She stroked one of her temples, distracted.

  ‘I think there’s a lot I can’t remember still. He hit me on the side of my head so I probably didn’t take everything in.’

  Hanson followed her glance to her partner who was gently rocking the baby. She could tell he didn’t like what he was hearing.

  ‘When I came to, he was stroking my face then my neck, up and down. Pressing it but not hard.’ She looked across the room again. ‘I have to tell them, Eddie. The police have to know.’ She looked back at Hanson and Corrigan.

  ‘He wasn’t a big man but he was strong. Wiry.’

  ‘What about his hands?’ asked Hanson. ‘What were they like?’

  She thought about it. ‘They were clean. He wasn’t wearing a ring.’

  Hanson recalled Sean Gill inside the site hut. He hadn’t been wearing a ring either but his were the hands of someone used to regular manual work.

  ‘I keep thinking about what he said, about being “safe”. Where was the sense in that? When he said, “You need somebody like me to keep you safe.” I remember thinking, That’s rich, coming from you! How dare you say that to me? Then he was back to the “look at me” business. “I want to see your eyes blaze.” I wanted to shout at him, “Take a look and you’ll see it all right!” but I couldn’t. I was too frightened.’

  Hanson felt a quick rush of admiration for this spirited young woman who’d been through such a terrible ordeal.

  Amy bit her lip. ‘What he said, it doesn’t make sense.’

  She looked beyond them to where the technician was patiently waiting with Corrigan. ‘I want to try again. Now.’

  At a signal from Corrigan, the technician approached. Hanson watched him open the laptop and caught Amy’s wary look as he started up the programme. When the initial screen display for the EFIT-V appeared her face filled with apprehension. The technician quietly reminded her of the procedure and she nodded. They were two minutes into it when the technician paused then turned to look at Corrigan. Hanson caught the almost indiscernible headshake.

  A series of small bleats and snuffles drifted across the room. Corrigan came to Amy. ‘How about we take a break while you enjoy your baby for a while?’

  They stood together outside the room.

  ‘It’s not going to work,’ said the technician. ‘She’s too tense. I’m worried that if I carry on with it, it’ll be like the last time. She’ll get upset.’

  Arms folded high at his chest, Corrigan glanced inside the room then at Hanson. ‘How about we call it a day?’

  Hanson turned to the technician. ‘I’m wondering if she’s afraid that if she continues her attacker’s face will suddenly rise up from the screen.’

  ‘I was thinking the same. Which is why I brought these with me.’

  They watched as he reached for the large, flat bag. They looked at the box of fine pencils and the sketch pad he was lifting out.

  ‘There’s always a place for old technology. What do you think?’

  The baby was back inside the Perspex cot, the room quiet.

  ‘Can you describe the shape of his face?’ asked the technician, his voice low.

  Amy gave a slow headshake. ‘I’m not sure. It wasn’t round. More oval I’d say.’

  ‘What’s your best memory of him?’

  She thought for a few seconds. Her face changed. ‘There was one look on his face I won’t forget.’

  ‘Describe it to me.’

  ‘His face was above mine.’ She put her hand to her forehead, swallowed. ‘Maybe he was shouting but I couldn’t hear him. He had his mouth open really wide and he was … just glaring down at me, his mouth stretched and his lips sort of disappearing. I remember his teeth.’ She looked up at the busily sketching technician.

  ‘Tell me about his teeth,’ he said.

  ‘White. Even. Looked after.’

  ‘What about his mouth?’

  Amy paused. ‘I’m not sure. Whatever his lips were like, ordinary, thin, thick, I can’t say. I didn’t notice. But when he shouted that time and his mouth stretched open like I said, he looked like … an animal. He raised his arm, his hand up here, the fingers like this.’ She spread her own fingers, her voice barely a whisper.

  ‘That was the worst part of all. The most frightening. Funny, how I hadn’t thought about it until now.’

  ‘What about his eyes?’

  Amy’s forehead creased. ‘I’
m not sure of the colour. Possibly blue. They went really narrow when he got angry like that.’ She bowed her head. ‘He was so angry.’

  There wasn’t a sound in the room other than the technician’s pencil whispering across the paper as he constructed Amy’s words into a visual representation with quick, deft strokes.

  Hanson asked, ‘Can you remember anything which might have led him to look like that?’

  ‘I think it was after I pushed my knee into him. Up until then he hadn’t been like that. He’d said what he wanted, what was going to happen. He was calm. Like he was in charge.’ She looked down at her hands. ‘Which he was. But after I did that to him he was raging.’

  ‘I think I’m getting a general idea of him,’ said the technician.

  After a couple of minutes or so of silence, of feathering lines and shading, he took out his phone, photographed the sketch then gently removed the sheet from the pad and placed it face down near Amy on the bedside table.

  ‘I’ll leave it with you for a day or so until you feel ready to look at it.’

  ‘I’m ready now,’ she said.

  The technician slowly turned the sheet over. Amy’s partner came and laid his hands on her shoulders. They looked at the sketch and her eyes filled.

  ‘It’s him,’ she whispered.

  Hanson was in her kitchen, feeling the warmth of the late afternoon, her thoughts on Amy Bennett’s words. Watts was right. The man who’d attacked her was angry. They couldn’t discount Gill.

  ‘Let me have another look at it.’

  She took the sheet from Corrigan and looked at the face the technician had created. The skin on her shoulders crept and something squeezed at her diaphragm as she stared at Amy Bennett’s attacker, the man they believed also killed Elizabeth Williams. His hand was raised above his head, fingers splayed, face distorted, mouth stretched into an elongated hole from which she could almost hear his rage. Eyes fixed, his hand raised he was a slasher-movie madman, a silverback asserting his dominance, a child-man tantrumming his demands for a look or a word. A feral killer whose face in repose probably looked like that of any other man. Husband. Father. Brother. Friend.

  She saw some echo in it, perhaps a semblance of the angry, violent, incarcerated individuals she’d met in the course of her work. Could Sean Gill be the doer in both their cases? She stared down at the pencilled face. She couldn’t see a resemblance. She placed it on the table.

  Please. Don’t let that be the last face that Elizabeth saw.

  The front door banged shut and Corrigan slid the sketch into its envelope.

  ‘Hi, Mum!’

  ‘In here.’

  Maisie came into the kitchen, looking overheated, hair a mass of springs. ‘Hi, Joe.’

  He grinned at her. ‘Hey, Catswhiskers. How’s it going?’

  ‘Really well. I’ve got the hang of that chord you showed me. Don’t move. Wait there.’

  ‘Sorry,’ said Hanson as Maisie rushed for the stairs. ‘She doesn’t have the concept of a hard day.’

  ‘And neither should she. It’s not a problem.’

  Maisie returned, guitar in hand and settled onto a chair. ‘Watch and listen.’

  She played, her small fingers nimble, stretching to make the chords, face intent. Hanson glanced at Corrigan. He was listening, absorbed. As Maisie finished, he applauded. ‘That was first-rate.’

  Flushed, she stood and headed for the door. ‘I have to Skype Chel before Daddy gets here.’

  ‘There’s not much I can teach her about the guitar,’ he said as she went. ‘In fact, how do I book a lesson?’ He stood and they went to the hall.

  ‘Tell me what you think of the sketch, Corrigan. What does it convey to you?’

  He thought about it. ‘It’s the essence of evil.’

  The Volvo pulled away, Hanson returned to the kitchen. Evil. She couldn’t agree with Corrigan’s choice of word although she understood it. He was Boston Irish Catholic. It was part of the vocabulary of his faith. But a word like ‘evil’ didn’t work for her. How could it? It implied a belief in the existence of holiness. She shook her head. She preferred theoretical concepts: ‘aggressive ideation’, ‘chronic hostility’ and others relating to the developmental process and early influences. Concepts which could be measured: low-medium-high. She thought of Watts. Over the two-plus years they’d worked together his knee-jerk negativity to the theory she brought to UCU had lessened. Still not keen on it, he now accepted that it offered explanation. ‘Evil’ didn’t attempt to explain. As a concept it just … was.

  Listening to thumps and squeals from the first floor she stared out of the tall windows. Twice as many men died through violence than did females but the nature of the violence perpetrated against females was different. Often fantasy-driven. In consequence, much of it was gratuitous and shocking.

  And we’re right back to early experiences. Add some societal attitudes into the mix and we get Sean Gill. Had the man who killed Elizabeth Williams wanted to do the same to Amy Bennett and her unborn child?

  She had no answer.

  TWENTY-SIX

  After seeing Maisie leave with Kevin, Hanson also left the house. By seven fifteen she was inside headquarters, picking up the steady hum of work continuing well into the evening.

  Switching on just a couple of lights inside UCU she went to the board and drew her hand across its cool smooth surface to reveal information. Tapping and sliding a finger, she circled words and phrases as she went, searching for a theme. When she could find no more words she tapped again. The words morphed into a list.

  Sitting on the table she read it. ‘Fury, rage in your eyes, look at me, into my eyes.’ On it went. She read them a second then a third time. These words were all they had to provide insight into the nature of the violence perpetrated against two young women. Hanson stared at them, seeing the control within them but foundering as she searched for anything more.

  She looked at the trace evidence list. Pale fibres. At some point in the progression of events leading to Elizabeth Williams’ death, she was in close proximity to a wool rug. Close enough to dig her fingers into it, grip its soft surface. In a paroxysm of fear? Hanson frowned.

  You don’t know that. What if this was prior to any violence? What if this was a situation which morphed into sex? What if Elizabeth Williams had gripped that rug during sexual ecstasy?

  Hanson closed her eyes, running her hands through her hair as Chong’s words resounded in her head: no evidence to support sexual activity.

  She went back to the emotions: fury, rage. Were her earlier ideas about loss and regret wrong? Was rage a truer reflection of what drove Elizabeth’s killer? Gill’s face came into her head. She got up from the table and closed down the board. The more they learned the less sense it made.

  She left headquarters and drove the short distance home through darkness, feeling itchy and on edge. She brushed at her hair and her neck. She’d take a quick bath, rather than a shower. She frowned, running a hand over her hair as she came onto her drive. Glad to be home, all she needed was that bath to dispel her tension.

  Almost an hour later she climbed out of the tepid water. She’d fallen asleep in it when it was hot. How do I manage that, yet wait for sleep when I’m in bed?

  Feeling chilled, Hanson tugged the soft blue towel from the heated rail, clutched it, warm and soft to her face, neck and chest. She was back thirteen years in a brightly lit hospital room, in the aftershock of giving birth, wrapped in a warm, soft blanket, her job done.

  Dried and in pyjamas she went to her bedroom. Within half an hour she was drifting. A series of taps on the side of the house brought her back. Damn branch. She sat up, staring at nothing. She didn’t know where she was going with these cases. Somewhere in the words and phrases she’d looked at earlier there had to be a theme, a motive. A man.

  She couldn’t see any of them.

  She was already inside headquarters when Julian arrived.

  ‘Hi, Kate.’

  She looke
d up at the wall clock: 8 a.m. ‘What’s brought you in so early?’

  ‘I wanted to check on any progress, see if there was a job for me before I go into uni to do some stuff of my own.’

  ‘I don’t have anything right now and there’s no request from Watts or Corrigan for you.’

  She told him what had happened at Sarehole Mill the previous day, reminding herself that she hadn’t yet thanked Downey for his timely arrival.

  ‘What do you think about this Gill for the murder and the attack?’ asked Julian.

  She smiled. ‘That depends on when you ask me. Right now, it’s a “don’t know”. I’m going into the university in a few minutes if you want a lift.’

  Hanson slid the key into the ignition as Julian squeezed into the passenger seat. Maisie wasn’t the only young person who was growing apace. The early-morning sun in her eyes, she started the car. Looking for sunglasses and not finding them she pulled down the sun visor and checked her mirror, ready to reverse.

  A quick movement very close to her head snagged her attention. Immobilised, she watched the steady, determined movement along the top edge of the visor. Halfway along, the steadiness faltered. One of its legs rose, as if testing the air. Julian was speaking but she couldn’t absorb what he was saying. Couldn’t breathe. Daren’t breathe. The slightest movement could dislodge it.

  Heart racing, she pressed against the seat. It had been in her car last night. It had been on her. The horror of that realisation made her skin prickle and crawl. She had an overwhelming need to thrash her arms, scream and throw herself from the car. She didn’t dare. It would bring it down on her.

  ‘Kate …?’

  Eyes fixed on it, dimly aware of Julian’s voice, she watched it, her lips curled in disgust. It was on the move again. Keeping her own movements minimal, she reached slowly for the door handle. She pulled at it, lips pressing together at the sharp ‘dnk!’ of the door’s mechanism. She pushed the door away from her, slid slowly across the driver’s seat then hurled herself out of the car.

  Pain shooting through her knee, she leapt up, brushing at her legs, her arms, her hair, breath coming in ragged gasps.