‘So she must’ve had a boyfriend.’
‘Yes, I would say so, at some time or other.’
‘If only we knew who, it might help us. I wonder…’ Mac rubbed his hand over his chin, his eyes turning thoughtful as he looked at Allegra. ‘Perhaps the perp was her boyfriend…and he got nasty?’
‘Maybe.’ Allegra pursed her lips, frowning. ‘What I do know is that there was considerable trauma and bruising to the vaginal area. He was rough with her. It was a forced entry, broken blood vessels present, even a slight tearing of the vaginal tissue. I told you last night, I thought it had been a violent rape. Let me clarify that, Mac…I believe it was fiendish. He attacked her in the most horrendous way, and that girl wasn’t willing, not at all. She fought him.’
‘Oh my God, the poor girl…’ Mac began to pace up and down for a few seconds, and then he came to a sudden standstill in front of Allegra. ‘Mike Byrne told me Denise didn’t have a boyfriend, and that nor did Katie or Carly. He explained they were all dedicated to their acting. I trust Mike, I’ve known him most of my life. That guy’s as straight as a die.’
‘I’m sure what he says is true. He has no reason to lie to you, Mac. But I’m pretty certain Denise was intimate with a man, at some time in the last couple of years.’
‘Mike’s son, Niall, dated Denise last year. He says it never blossomed into anything romantic. A couple of dates and then a fast fizzle. I believe him. Like his father, the kid’s honest, and I doubt he was the one who deflowered Denise.’
Allegra nodded her agreement, and said, ‘You may turn up something important when you interview her friends and acquaintances at her school.’
‘I have my guys over at the school right now, and when I leave here that’s where I’m heading.’
‘What about Denise Matthews’s parents? I guess they couldn’t help you in any way…What did they say?’
‘Not very much, Allegra. They’re shattered, griefstricken. They’re staying with her sister in Litchfield, for privacy. And they more or less reiterated what Mike said. Denise had no boyfriends, she was devoted to her acting and looking forward to going to New York to study next year.’
‘So you’ve no leads at all?’
‘Not a damned thing.’ Mac slouched against the counter top, looking despondent. He sighed heavily, and added, ‘It’s frustrating. You have all these DNA samples, but as you said, they’re useless to me until I have a suspect, somebody to match them to.’
‘I can sort of…well, I might be able to pinpoint a type for you, from what I’ve found,’ she ventured.
Mac stared at her, his expression suddenly eager, and he straightened up. ‘Shoot,’ he said. ‘I’m all ears.’
‘As I told you, he must have bruised her through her clothes. She has bruises on her arms, breasts, and on her back. That is indicative of great strength, to me. So the perp must be very strong, with a tremendous, and powerful, grip. I found pubic hair on her body, other than hers. Brown pubic hair. Also, several strands of brown hair. No doubt from the perp’s head, since she was a blonde. The wool fibres are cashmere, according to the crime lab. So what I’m envisioning is a tall, probably heavy-set and very strong man, with brownish hair. One who favours cashmere sweaters. It’s not very much, I know, Mac.’
‘But it’s something, Allegra. I’m still convinced we’re looking for a local. It’s gut instinct, but gut instinct’s always served me well in the past. Also, no strangers have been spotted around the area in the past forty-eight hours, to the best of our knowledge.’
‘Can you give me a quick scenario, off the top of your head, like you’ve done in the past, Mac?’
‘I don’t know. But something tells me that it’s someone local. A stalker. Perhaps watching them constantly, possibly for weeks, without their knowledge. He zeroes in on one of them, or maybe all three of them. He finally makes his move, when he observes them walking to the barn again. He knows it’s the one place they’re vulnerable, because they’re always there alone, and it’s in a pretty isolated spot. But this is just speculation.’
‘A psychopath?’
‘Possibly…’ Mac paused. ‘Yeah. I’d say that’s more than likely. But it could be someone who’s leading what appears to be a very normal life, as far as the rest of the world is concerned. He may not have killed before, but this might not be the last time he’ll kill.’
Allegra said nothing, merely shook her head, sorrow etched on her face as she walked over to a metal table. It was hard not to feel emotional when a beautiful young girl of seventeen had been murdered and raped so violently, and in such cold blood. Putting her feelings aside, she picked up several brown envelopes and looking over at Mac said, ‘These are photographs of the body my team took last night, at the crime scene. And more, which they shot this morning, before and during the autopsy. Whenever you feel up to taking a look at them, they’re here.’
Mac hesitated, then said quickly, ‘Let’s take a look now. Get it over with. Then I’ve got to be on my way. I’m anxious to get down to Malvern.’
Chapter Thirteen
The wintery sun had long since sunk below the distant horizon, and dusk was beginning to fall, cloaking the lawn and the garden with long shadows.
Katie sat at her small desk in her bedroom, staring out of the window at the darkening sky, thinking about the events of the day. Downstairs, the whole family was assembled in the big kitchen, drinking coffee or tea. They had all come here for an early supper after the funeral, and although she and her mother had set the table in the dining room, before leaving for the church service, they had not eaten in there in the end. ‘It’s much cosier in the kitchen, Maureen,’ Grandma Catriona had said, and everyone had agreed, and so that is where they had eaten supper. Aunt Bridget had arrived from New York last night and was staying with them; and both sets of grandparents had come to the funeral as well, Sean and Catriona O’Keefe, and Patrick and Geraldine Byrne, her father’s parents, and his sister, Mairead, a favourite of everyone’s, and her husband Paddy Macklin. Aunt Moura was sick and unable to attend, and Aunt Eileen was in Los Angeles on business.
A small sigh escaped Katie’s lips, and she leaned forward, put both elbows on the desk, and held her head between her hands. She had a terrible headache; her mind was buzzing with so many disparate thoughts, she wasn’t sure if she’d ever sort them out. But as she sat there ruminating, she remembered her diary. Her mother had given it to her only very recently; it was bound in dark-green leather and on the front, embossed in gold, were the words Five Year Diary. So far, she had enjoyed writing in it, had taken great pleasure in expressing herself. Perhaps that’s what she should do tonight…put down her private thoughts. That was one way of making sense of things, and so she opened the centre drawer of the desk and took the diary out. Once she found the first blank page, after her last entry, she picked up her pen and wrote:
November 1st, 1989
The Day of Denise’s Funeral
When I got up this morning, I felt very sad, and I couldn’t think why. And then I suddenly remembered. It was the day Denise was going to be buried.
Most of my family went to the funeral. All the men wore their dark suits, and the women were in black. My mother wore her best black coat and dress that she got eight years ago. My Aunt Bridget was also in black.
The weather was so beautiful this afternoon it brought a lump to my throat, because Denise would never see such beautiful days ever again. There was bright sunshine, and the sky was without a cloud. It was a crisp clear blue, and so smooth it looked as if it had been freshly painted. And against that unblemished blue splashed the vermilion and gold, russet, yellow, copper and pink of the fall trees. Everything was so vivid, so sharply defined it was heart-stopping.
After the service in the church, we went to the cemetery for the burial. So many people were there. Everyone in our class came, and some of our teachers. And Mrs Cooke, who taught drama, was present, too, with Jeff, her husband. Carly’s Mom came, and she stood with us,
next to Denise’s parents and her older brother, Jim, who’d come up from Hartford with his wife, Sandy. Jim and his father had to support Denise’s mother, who was near collapse, and sobbing with grief.
I kept thinking of Denise, seeing her face, and worrying about the last hour of her life. It haunted me. I couldn’t get it out of my mind. She must have been so frightened when the man attacked her. Lieutenant MacDonald told my father she fought for her life. I can’t bear it. Carly prostrate on the ground, unable to help her. Yes, Denise must have been terrified. And the assailant hitting Denise, and raping her, then strangling her. It hurts. How it hurts me just to think of it. I don’t believe I’ll ever get it out of my mind.
I should have been there at the barn, then it wouldn’t have happened. I’m sure the murderer wouldn’t have attempted to tackle the three of us. We could have fought him off, I’m very strong, and the three of us would have escaped.
We sent white lilies to the funeral, and they were laid on the coffin with red roses from her parents, and a wreath of pink and white carnations from Mrs Smith. When Denise’s coffin was lowered into the ground, I thought my heart was breaking. Never to see her again. I threw some lilies into the grave, and so did Niall, and then Denise’s sister-in-law Sandy threw in a red rose.
How final it was, the sound of the earth being shovelled in, falling on top of the coffin and the flowers. I began to weep and my father led us all away and drove us home. We’d given our condolences to the Matthewses at the church. But I knew they weren’t consoled. My mother said their sorrow was unendurable.
When we came back to the house, my father poured shots of whiskey for his father and Grandpa Sean and Uncle Tommy. Then my mother, who never drinks anything but sherry, asked for one, too. So Dad brought out the bottle again, and extra glasses, and poured for everyone, except Niall, Fin, and me. Even Aunt Bridget took one.
My mother had made her famous Poulet Grandmère, a chicken casserole, earlier in the day, and I went to help her reheat it. She wore a white apron over her black wool dress, and she looked so sorrowful and worried I choked up again. Several times, when we were working at the counter top, she put an arm around me and held me close to her. And when I looked at her I saw that her bright blue eyes were full of tears. I know she’s always thinking that I might have been a victim too, and that she’s thanking God I’m alive. Every day, she thanks God.
The ‘golden hours’, as Mac MacDonald calls them, have long since gone. Dad says Mac is angry and frustrated because his team have hit a blank wall, so far, at any rate.
I went back to school last week, but things are not the same any more. Not without Denise and Carly. She is still in a coma in the hospital, and they don’t say anything any more about when she’ll wake up. I go to see her all the time, but it’s like she’s lying there dead.
I’ve been feeling so depressed without them…almost all of my life it was the three of us. Now I’m just one. I’m all on my own, and nothing matters any more.
I don’t want to act now. I don’t even want to do the school concert. Acting has become tainted, clouded with pain and grief and sorrow. I’m giving it up. I’m not going to the academy in New York next year. It wouldn’t be the same without them. I should never have talked them into going to the barn that day…it’s my fault Denise is dead. And that Carly’s in a coma, and lies there like a vegetable.
I don’t know what I’ll do when I leave school. I told Mom I have to find something new. I might go to work with Aunt Bridget in real estate. In New York. My parents don’t seem to mind if I go. I think they’re scared the killer is lurking around, somewhere near Malvern, and that I could be a target. I think they’d be much happier if I left this area.
I know how they feel. Sometimes I’m frightened myself. I keep racking my brains, trying to imagine who could have raped and killed Denise, but I can’t come up with a name. I have no candidate for her murder.
When I told my father about seeing someone in the garden, on the night of the murder, he called the police immediately and they came over. There were some footprints near the stand of trees at the end of the garden, because the ground was wet after the storm. The police took measurements and made casts, but nothing’s happened since.
The same day, my father had an alarm system installed in our house, and now my Mom picks me up from school every day. Or Dad or Niall come to get me. They don’t want to take any chances on these dark winter afternoons. And I’m glad, because I don’t want to walk across the lonely fields.
At night I find it hard to fall asleep. I can’t get Denise’s face out of my mind. She was so lovely, so sweet, and I fill with tears constantly. My grief is never ending, very familiar to me these days. I know how her family must feel…to lose a beautiful daughter at seventeen must be heartbreaking.
When I go to see Carly, I hold her hand and talk to her and recite Shakespeare, because she loved his work so much, but there’s nothing, not a flicker…
‘Katie, Katie, come on down,’ Maureen called up the stairs.
Katie put down her pen, closed her diary and slipped it into the drawer. It was only then she realized her cheeks were wet with tears. She wiped her face with her fingertips and went out onto the landing.
‘Yes, Mom? What is it?’
‘Your grandparents are leaving, come down and say goodnight.’
‘Yes, Mom.’
Dutifully, she ran downstairs, and when she reached the bottom, Grandma Catriona hugged her tightly, and so did Grandpa Sean. And when it was their turn, Grandfather Patrick and Grandmother Geraldine were as affectionate as they embraced their only granddaughter and said goodnight. Aunt Mairead and Uncle Tommy came forward and kissed her several times, and then Mairead squeezed her arm and gave her a loving smile.
And Katie knew what they were all thinking…they were thanking God she was alive.
PART TWO
Gift of Friendship
London – Yorkshire, 1999
‘Friendship is Love without his wings.’
LORD BYRON
‘…the most essential thing for happiness is the gift of friendship.’
SIR WILLIAM OSLER
Chapter Fourteen
The young woman who hurried down the Haymarket on a cool Wednesday evening in October had no idea of the swathe she cut as she glided along. But more than one head, male and female, turned to look at her as she headed towards the Theatre Royal.
She was tall, lithe, very slender, and striking in her long, black wool cape worn over a tailored black trouser suit. The only touches of colour were her startlingly blue eyes in her pale, finely-boned face, and her mass of fiery auburn hair that framed that face in an aureole.
Once she reached the theatre, she went straight up to the box office and stood in line. ‘Katie Byrne,’ she said to the man behind the window, when it was her turn, and after a shuffle of envelopes he passed over her ticket.
A moment later she was being ushered down the aisle to a seat in the centre of the theatre, eight rows up from the stage. It was one of the best seats in the house, as she was well aware.
As always when she entered a theatre, Katie found herself filling with excitement, experiencing a sense of great expectation. Every nerve in her body seemed to tingle as she sat there gazing at the red velvet curtain, eager for the moment when it would rise and she would be captured by the unfolding drama, swept away into another world.
But quite aside from her own feelings, there was an undercurrent of anticipation in the theatre tonight, and Katie picked up on it at once. The play was called Charlotte and Her Sisters, and it had opened two months ago to rave reviews. It was an immediate sell-out, a huge hit, one guaranteed to run for months, indeed years.
Much had been written about the play and the playwright, a young woman no one had ever heard of before, who had penned the play in her spare time. Her name was Jenny Hargreaves, and she came from Harrogate, where she worked as a feature writer on a local county magazine.
The play she
had written was about the Brontë sisters, the nineteenth-century novelists and poets, who had lived in Haworth, a village on the windswept Yorkshire moors, and had produced such extraordinary works as Jane Eyre, Wuthering Heights, and The Tenant of Wildfell Hall.
Opening the programme she was holding, Katie scanned the details of the different acts, and then the cast list. Three very famous and talented British actresses were playing the roles of Charlotte, Emily, and Anne Brontë, and she could hardly wait to see their performances. She was fully ready and willing to experience the ‘suspension of disbelief’. I will believe every word, Katie said to herself, as she inevitably did when she came to see a play. I will believe that it’s really happening, that I’m witnessing real life being played out before my eyes.
Suddenly, the flurry of movement, of people edging along rows of seats already filled, and finally settling in their own seats, came to a stop. Silence filled the theatre. The lights dimmed. The curtain went up. And Katie, her hands clasped together, focused all of her attention on the stage.
Instantly, she was pulled into the drama, caught up in the lives of the three sisters, their talented yet decadent brother, Branwell, and their pious father, the Reverend Patrick Brontë, vicar of Haworth Parish in the West Riding of Yorkshire.
And there she sat, witnessing life in the parsonage on the bleak moors, where the cemetery edged up to the windows, and all the trees leaned the same way because the wind never stopped blowing in one direction. The acting was superb. The three women gave of themselves unstintingly, and they convinced her that they were the Brontë sisters. Katie was mesmerized by their performances, in awe.
The Triumph of Katie Byrne Page 9