by A. J. Cross
Closing the summer house door she continued on to where thick fingers of old wood jabbed the sky. She’d seen them when Malahide showed them the rear grounds an eternity ago. It wasn’t a random wood store but a careful construction assembled from dead wood, stumps, trunks, old floorboards, the dark, strong lines of railway sleepers mixed with old grey-brown arthritic tree limbs, all united in a fantastical shape. She’d seen one once before. She knew what it was. A stumpery.
Standing among the vigorous ferns around its base she leant forward and looked down into its heart, bright sun on a flash of red, large webs festooning interior angles, stretched taut between pieces of bark. She recoiled. Dead wood. Bark. A specially crafted home for all manner of species.
Hanson felt an insistent tug of something almost forgotten, dismissed as irrelevant. Pulse rate soaring, she seized a branch lying on the ground, lifted it, carried it to the stumpery, leant forward, mind closed to what lurked there and thrust the branch down into its heart. It caught on something, lost it. She tried again, caught it again, soft and yielding. She raised it slowly from within the dead limbs then lowered it to the ground. Stained, ragged, in bad shape, a sweatshirt, its red colour still bright in places.
Listening for sounds of vehicles, hearing nothing she turned towards the house.
Hugh Downey was standing at the rear door of the house. He raised his hand to her. Seeing him she felt a rush of relief. She watched his slow approach. He looked drawn.
‘I was resting. I didn’t hear you come. Has Gill confessed?’
‘I don’t think so. I think it’s unlikely. I’m glad you haven’t left. I need your help.’
He gave a faint smile. ‘I’ve got time. It would be good to do something useful with it.’
‘Where is Aiden?’ she asked.
‘I don’t know. I’ve been avoiding him to be honest. Yesterday, he told me I’ll “get over” Nan. I don’t think he understands relationships. I feel I no longer know him. Maybe I never did.’
‘What do you think you’ll do?’
‘I’d thought of staying here but I’m exhausted. I just need to get away. I don’t want to see Aiden so I think I will go to that relative I told you about in Malvern. It’s not that long a drive.’
She’d come to like this intelligent, sensitive man who’d created the grounds here into a habitat for life to thrive. She looked at his pleasant, open face, seeing the shadow of grief on it.
‘You’re right, Hugh. It isn’t. Not nearly as far as the drive from Edinburgh to Birmingham and back in a single night.’
He stared at her. ‘I’m sorry?’
‘The long drive you made from your Edinburgh conference back to Birmingham to kill Nan.’
He looked stricken. ‘What are you saying to me?’ he whispered.
She recalled his arrival at headquarters, direct from the airport, already knowing that Nan was dead. That knowledge had stopped him making the immediate, most logical assumption an innocent man whose wife had been disabled by a stroke would have made: that she’d been taken ill. He’d gone straight to murder. Because he knew what he’d done.
She shook her head. ‘It’s no use. I know. I know about Elizabeth Williams. I know about Amy Bennett.’ She took a breath. ‘And I know about the ritualistic words. I should have been quicker to see it.’
She saw the stark shock her words had caused. If she wasn’t so confident in what she knew, the look on his face might have made her doubt herself.
‘Dr Hanson, Kate? What are you saying to me? I’ve not harmed anyone.’
‘You have, Hugh, and we both know how. Talk to me. Tell me about erotic asphyxiation.’
Despite the heat his face drained of colour. She saw the struggle behind his eyes. Would he deny it? He wasn’t looking at her. After several seconds he spoke.
‘I don’t know how you know but that … thing which happened between Nan and me was a private, mutual expression of affection.’ He looked at her. ‘I didn’t harm Elizabeth Williams. Aiden saw her here and you know he has some problems. You should be questioning him.’ He stopped, frowned. ‘Who is this other woman you just mentioned?’
She stood her ground. ‘It isn’t only Aiden who has problems is it? I heard what you just said about the private aspect of yours and Nan’s relationship but you know that there is no “safe” with erotic asphyxiation. It disabled her. It killed Elizabeth Williams. It could have done the same to Amy Bennett and her unborn child.’
He looked at her, saying nothing. She had to get him talking.
‘How did it start, Hugh? When did you first have that intensely erotic experience? I’m guessing you were young.’
He looked at her, his face ashen now. ‘You are wrong. I care for life. I loved Nan. I do what’s right.’
Denial and self-protection. She pushed on. ‘Lie to yourself, Hugh but not to me. You saw Elizabeth when she came here that Wednesday afternoon. It would have been easy to persuade her to return on that Sunday because she believed she’d found the perfect work experience. Until you had her on the floor, the rug gripped in her hand as she fought for her breath and her life.’ Hanson slowly shook her head.
‘She wasn’t “trained” like Nan, was she? She didn’t understand your fixation, your need to see that transition between life and death within her eyes as you pressed her neck. She didn’t understand that a word you’d given her might save her life.’
His face looked anguished. His legs had begun to shake. She watched him slump against the wall and slide slowly to the ground.
‘No. I never saw her. You’ve got this so wrong but I’m not a vindictive person. I’m prepared to forget your accusations if you admit how wrong you are.’
His level of denial was immense, more than she’d anticipated. She looked at the verdant space around them. At the stumpery. Home for a murdered woman’s sweatshirt. Her backpack was probably still inside it. As Elizabeth Williams’ body had been. He would have looked out from Renfrew’s rear windows and known she was there. But it was a risk. She had to be moved. Despite his conservationist’s knowledge, he’d taken her to a place where the flora and fauna did not match the trace evidence already accumulated on her body. A field he knew of but had never seen.
Time had worked in his favour. Erotic asphyxia leaves temporary traces in the eyes, transient signs on the neck which fade or are easy to conceal with a scarf, a roll-neck sweater. A doorstop. She looked to the stumpery bathed in bright sun. They now had all the evidence needed to charge him. He needed to begin the journey of accepting what he’d done. His hands were clamped against his head. He had to talk to her.
‘Where is Jean Phillips?’
He didn’t respond, his hands still covering his head.
‘Where is she, Hugh? You owe her that.’
His voice drifted to her, slow and muffled. ‘It wasn’t planned. I noticed her because of her red sweatshirt. I got into conversation with her, told her I had an ankle bandage in my car. I walked her along a narrow path then forced her into a copse.’ He brought his hands together at his face.
‘She was so strong. God, how she fought.’ He paused. ‘There are some really large stones near that copse. A natural feature. After … a while, I pushed her under the lowest stone. A long way back. Then I saw her sweatshirt and backpack still lying on the grass. Someone was coming so I picked them up and brought them back here with me. I thought that if I hid them here, I could dispose of them any time.’
She gazed at the lush grounds heaving with life, listening for sounds beyond the birdsong and the buzzing. They’d be coming for him. They’d put him away and those compartmental walls he’d constructed inside his head to protect himself would fall. Was he a monster? Were his actions evil, like Corrigan had said? She looked at Downey as he got to his feet, saw the guilt etched into his face. She knew he wasn’t hobbled by a lack of conscience, nor crippled by an absence of empathy. She knew he was capable of genuine love and sensitivity. She’d seen it.
Their cases had been full
of words uttered by different players. Hanson recalled another of them.
‘I asked you how it started for you. Were you young at the time?’
He hung his head, all energy gone. His response was a long time coming.
‘When I came home from school my father would ask me to read to my mother. It was summer. Hot. There was always a facecloth in cold water by the side of the bed. She was drifting most of the time, but if I saw she was uncomfortable I’d wring out the facecloth and wipe her face, her neck …’ Hanson caught the convulsive sob before his hands reached his mouth to stifle it.
Hanson saw the scene inside his mother’s bedroom as it ran, frame by frame, through her head. He’d probably been around twelve or thirteen when he pressed the cold facecloth to his mother’s neck and experienced a sexual high he’d been driven to recreate for the rest of his life with his wife, then with women who were strangers to him. She recalled her visit to his house, her first meeting with Nan and Nan’s words: ‘Sometimes, he’s naughty because he won’t slow down, won’t stop … I’m grateful to him every day …’
It had all been said but she hadn’t understood. He had to tell her now.
‘Why Jean Phillips, why Elizabeth Williams and Amy Bennett?’ He wouldn’t look at her. ‘Did Nan refuse to participate in breath play?’
‘She would only agree if I kept it totally safe.’
‘Which wasn’t enough for you,’ she said softly.
He looked away from her. ‘I had to see that transition. I had to see it happen.’
‘Is that what happened with your mother?’
His head came up. He stared at her. ‘I didn’t kill my mother! She died in hospital. I never hurt anybody.’ He was back to denial.
She shook her head. ‘You hurt Nan.’
‘That was an accident. It went too far.’
‘You killed her.’
‘No. I didn’t.’
She looked into his eyes. ‘I know why you did it. When I came to your house that day, Nan asked me about the person who we thought had come to Renfrew requesting an internship. I remember her surprise when she learned it was a female. That’s when she guessed that you might be going beyond your relationship with her to get what you wanted: breath play to the death.’
‘No. You’re wrong.’
‘Did she ask you about Elizabeth? Did you deny it?’ She stopped, her eyes on the ground between them. ‘Nan was a very gentle person. She probably accepted what you said. But I’m guessing that from that moment you saw her as a potential threat.’
‘I loved Nan. I loved my mother! I’ve hurt no one!’
He was on his feet, eyes ablaze. She stepped back at this sudden switch to total denial. He was coming towards her.
‘You make judgements yet you know nothing. That transition is a privilege. To make it happen during breath play, to see it, is the ultimate control. The ultimate power over life. That’s all I did. I never killed anyone. Never.’
His weight striking her with unexpected force, he grabbed her arms, pushing her backwards, his build belying the strength he’d acquired from physical work. Hanson was transfixed by his face, his mouth stretching on the last word, saliva flying. This was the face Amy Bennett had seen, the last face Elizabeth Williams had looked into.
Her back struck the stumpery hard, knocking the breath out of her. He pushed against her, forcing her upper body backwards, his hands fastening on her throat. There was no ‘play’ now.
Her heart hammered her chest and pulsed inside her head as the big, yellow-red sun grew and filled the sky, turning slowly dark to black. Through the darkness she heard a voice she knew.
‘Stop!’
Released from Downey’s grip, Hanson hit the ground, a puppet with her strings cut. Gasping, coughing, her hands at her throat, she heard feet coming towards her, felt hands at her waist, half-carrying her away.
Julian lowered her onto the grass. Breath labouring, eyes burning she looked up to see Corrigan, legs flexed, the yellow and black taser gripped in both hands, his eyes fixed on Hugh Downey. Behind him were Watts and four other officers. They’d heard it all.
‘Do not move.’
Downey stood, head bowed as armed response officers came for him. Julian helped Hanson to her feet and they listened as Watts arrested Downey for the murders of Jean Phillips, Elizabeth Williams and Nan Downey and the attempted murder of Amy Bennett and her unborn child.
They watched as he was led away. His professional expertise had enabled him to give life a chance. He’d also destroyed it. She couldn’t characterise him as evil simply because it made it easier to understand him and what he’d done. He was now on his way to his own hell once his psychological defences shattered and fell.
She watched Corrigan working calmly with his team. She’d started to heal her rift with Charlie Hanson. Most of us are part of a family. We go beyond it to create our own lives. And if we’re like Hugh Downey, we construct our own personal hells.
She looked at Julian. ‘I’m glad you’re so smart,’ she whispered, her hand still on her neck.
He shook his head. ‘It didn’t take smarts. As soon as I saw what you’d written on the board I got onto Armed Response. It reminded me of one of your first lectures I attended around four years ago. The one on sexual fetishes. That was the first time I heard of breath play.’
‘In that case, I’m truly grateful for your recall ability. I would be heartened to know that all my students gave that much attention.’
He glanced down at her. ‘With your subject matter, Kate, you can rely on it.’
THIRTY-EIGHT
The doors were pushed wide, opening the kitchen to the garden. Hanson in a sleeveless blue linen dress looked at the table laid under a wide parasol. Maisie had picked the tiny buttercups in their blue jug early that morning and had laid out every item of china and cutlery needed. She turned back to the kitchen where Mugger was circling one of the counters, sniffing the air. Hanson counted the little multi-coloured cupcakes and neat sandwiches, turning at a soft sound.
‘What do you think?’ asked Maisie, her hair in two thick plaits secured on top of her head.
Hanson surveyed the outfit: mint green short-sleeved playsuit patterned with roses, dark green tights and brown lace-up boots.
She put her arms around her. ‘You look great and your grandpa will think you look wonderful.’
Maisie’s pleased look was replaced by a frown. ‘Do you think there’s enough food?’
‘Twenty cupcakes and almost as many sandwiches? I think so.’
‘Will you make the tea or coffee, Mum?’
‘I thought you wanted to do that?’
‘No, I’ve changed my mind. I don’t want to mess it up.’
‘You won’t.’ The sound of the doorbell drifted to them.
‘He’s here,’ squeaked Maisie.’
Smoothing her dress, running her hands through her hair, Hanson went to the door and was back almost immediately, Charlie Hanson following, his arms full of flowers.
‘Maisie, this is your grandpa. Charlie, this is Maisie.’
Acknowledgements
My grateful thanks go to all at Severn House Publishers. I also wish to thank Camilla Wray, my agent at Darley Anderson for her belief and Naomi Perry for her early, positive editorial advice.
Appreciation is due to two specialists in their respective fields who have yet again given generously of their time and professional advice, without which I would be ‘winging-it’: Chief Inspector Keith Fackrell, West Midlands Police (Retired) and Dr Adrian Yoong, Consultant Pathologist, Birmingham. My thanks and deep appreciation also go to Dr Geoff Oxford of the Department of Biology, University of York who shared with me a small part of his extensive professional expertise, including some glorious pictures which for many are the stuff of nightmare - many thanks, Geoff! These three experts gave freely of their time and knowledge. Any errors in transmission are, of course, entirely mine.
Finally, to my family and friends, all of them
great supporters and true ‘radiators’ - thank you.