by Ed O'Connor
‘What now, then?’ His voice had quietened.
Julia was fired with confidence, as if a vast weight had been lifted. She was not going to hide any more. She took pride in her new-found self-belief. ‘Paul and I are going away for a week. Your bonfire last night made my mind up. Neither of us can cope with New Bolden or you any more.’
‘Ah, diddums.’
‘Paul is furious. He wants to report you, John. Report you to the Police Complaints Commission. I stopped him.’
‘Am I supposed to be grateful?’
‘No. You’re supposed to leave me alone. Why is that so difficult? You never usually have a problem with it.’
Silence.
‘Where are you going with him?’ asked Underwood eventually, as though the thought had finally hit home.
‘That’s none of your business, John.’
‘Of course not. Why should I care? You’re only my wife.’
‘I’m surprised you remember.’
‘Do you read the papers? Do you know what we’re going through? Some maniac is ripping women’s eyes out, smashing their skulls open. He nearly killed my sergeant this morning. Don’t you think I deserve some respect, a bit of fucking slack?’
‘That’s not my problem any more, John,’ said Julia.
‘Maybe I’ll send you the pictures. Tell you what, we’ll do swapsies: you send me your holiday snaps, and I’ll send you some tasteful shots of Lucy Harrington’s bathroom. That’ll give you and your boyfriend some food for thought.’ He hung up.
Julia dropped the phone and flopped back on the bed, exhausted. How many more phone calls like that would it take before this was over? The cottage in Norfolk suddenly seemed like the best idea in the world. Paul was right. ‘Bugger John’. Bugger his madness and his selfishness. The guilt was ebbing out of her. The phone call had reminded her of why she was leaving him. She was determined now, more than ever. When she next made love to Paul she would enjoy it all the more now, would give him more than she ever had before. She would scream her enjoyment into the night and hope that John Underwood heard every last gasping syllable.
39
Underwood smashed down his office phone. Fury burned within him, twisting and contorting his thoughts. He would show that polluted bitch and her ponce boyfriend, the poisonous little shit. He reached inside his drawer and withdrew his near-empty bottle of whisky. A large, hard gulp stopped his hand shaking.
The Earth depends on the gravity of the moon. Without it, the planet would topple, its axial tilt dangerously exaggerated. Wobbling like a spinning top, plunged into eternal winter.
Dexter appeared at the door, her head heavily bandaged. Heather Stussman was with her. Underwood slipped the bottle back into its hidey-hole and looked up. He even managed a half-smile as he gestured at them both to come in.
‘Hello, Heather.’ He hoped she couldn’t smell his breath.
‘John. How are you?’ She could.
‘You were right about the names, then,’ said Underwood. ‘Dexter almost got to Elizabeth Drury in time.’
‘In time to get beaten up,’ said Dexter unhappily.
‘I don’t feel very good about being right.’ Stussman seemed downbeat.
‘We’ve got a crime-team meeting in half an hour. It would be helpful if you attended,’ Underwood continued. ‘I should warn you, though, it won’t be pleasant. There’ll be the post-mortem report on the Drury woman and some nasty photographs, among other things.’
‘Not squeamish, are you, Doc?’ asked Dexter.
‘I’m not sure.’
‘I’d like you to be there,’ said Underwood. ‘I might get you to say a few words about Donne. Now this is clearly a serial-killer investigation, we are going to get much more press attention. Be warned, the papers will find out about you and they will pester you. Try not to tell them anything.’
‘I understand.’
Dexter took over. She had found the crime scene and was not in the mood to stand on ceremony. ‘I found two separate pieces of poetry in the room where Elizabeth Drury was killed. The first was written on the ceiling: “For in a common bath of teares it bled, which drew the strongest vitall spirits out.”’ Dexter looked up at Stussman. ‘What’s all that about, then?’
‘It’s from “The First Anniversary”, Donne’s poem that commemorates the death of a girl called Elizabeth Drury. As I told John yesterday, she was the daughter of a rich landowner, Robert Drury, who was acquainted with Donne’s sister. Elizabeth died, aged fifteen, of some disease or other and Donne wrote “The Anniversaries” to celebrate Elizabeth’s life and thereby to ingratiate himself with Sir Robert.’
‘What else?’ Dexter was terse. Her head was killing her.
‘“The First Anniversary” is really over the top, linguistically. Donne exalts Drury to the status of some quasi-celestial power. He depicts her as the essence of all that was good about humanity and maintains that only the presence of her spirit prevented the total corruption of the Universe. By her death, Donne said that the world had become a “carcass” devoid of hope and form. “Shee, shee is dead; shee’s dead: when thou know’st this, Thou know’st how ugly a monster this world is.”’
‘When your killer called me today,’ Stussman continued, ‘he asked me when is the world a carcass? Twice, come to think of it.’
‘I don’t get it,’ said Dexter. ‘“When is the world a carcass?” Dead, you mean?’
‘Yes. You see, Donne argues in the poem that the world ceased to retain its goodness following the death of Drury. Remember, he is trying to exalt her: “And, oh, it can no more be questioned that beautie’s best Proportion is dead,”’ Stussman continued.
‘You mean because of the death of this woman, everything else in Donne’s world has lost its value?’ asked Dexter.
‘Be careful,’ said Stussman. ‘Remember that Donne never knew Elizabeth Drury personally. There is no real emotional engagement with this dead girl. In a way, she’s a means to an end. He is celebrating her in grandiose language, attaching a metaphysical significance to her death that he supposes will have repercussions for all humanity. The objective is to impress the dead girl’s father with Donne’s wit and magniloquence.’
‘Gotcha.’ Dexter’s mind was firing despite her headache; like a car engine racing and leaking oil at the same time. Perhaps the pain helped. The image of Dr Elizabeth Drury half-submerged in a bath of her own blood kept drifting across her consciousness. A means to an end. No real emotional attachment to this girl, Dexter mused. To whom, then?
‘What was the other piece of text that you found?’ Stussman asked.
Dexter read aloud from her notebook. ‘Or if, when thou, the …’
‘… World’s soule goest, / It stay, ’tis but thy carkasse then, / The fairest woman but thy ghost / But corrupt wormes, the worthiest men.’ Stussman finished the extract for her.
‘How did you know that?’ Dexter asked.
‘Your killer read it out to me over the phone this morning,’ said Stussman, shivering at the memory. ‘It’s from a poem called “A Feaver”. I brought it with me. It’s similar in its content to “The First Anniversary”: again, it refers to a sick woman and suggests that her death will rid the world of its last vestige of value.’ Stussman handed over the pages and read aloud:
‘Oh do not die, for I shall hate
All women so when thou art gone
That thee I shall not celebrate
When I remember thou was one.
But yet thou canst not die I know:
To leave this world behinde is death
But when thou from this world wilt goe
The whole world vapors with thy breath.
Or if when thou the world’s soule goest,
It stay, ’tis but thy carkasse then
The fairest woman but thy ghost
But corrupt wormes, the worthiest men.
O wrangling schooles, that search what fire
Shall burne this world had none the wit
Unto this knowledge to aspire
That this her feaver might be it?
And yet she cannot wast by this,
Nor long beare this torturing wrong
For much corruption needful is
To fuell such a Feaver long.
These burning fits but meteors be
Whose matter in thee is soone spent
Thy beauty and all parts which are thee
Are unchangeable firmament.
Yet ’twas of my minde seising thee
Though it in thee cannot persever
For I had rather owner bee
Of thee one houre, then else forever.’
‘It’s the same as “The First Anniversary”,’ said Dexter. ‘The world is a carcass because this girl is dead.’
From his crazy toppling orbit, Underwood watched her in amazement.
‘That knock on the head must have done you some good,’ he said.
Stussman ignored the joke. ‘There are two other things. First, Donne again compares the woman with celestial forces like he did with Elizabeth Drury in “The First Anniversary”. In the penultimate verse, he says her fevers are “but meteors”: transitory, inconsequential things in comparison with her beauty which is an “unchangeable firmament”. The woman is a timeless wonder, like the universe itself. I think your killer is a bit of an amateur astronomer.’
‘What makes you think that?’ Underwood asked. This was a specific. Specifics got people caught. Like Julia.
‘A number of Renaissance writers tried to incorporate scientific ideas of the time in their works. Developments in astronomy and other sciences had significant religious repercussions and, as such, contributed to the uncertainties of the time. The man who called me this morning asked me if I could hear the music of the spheres.’
‘The what?’ This was a new one on Underwood. The last week had been full of surprises.
‘Ancient philosophers believed that the planets each made a different noise depending on their relative distance from the Earth. Just like the length of a string on a guitar determines its pitch. They believed that the music of the spheres was the most beautiful sound in the universe. Your killer thinks he can hear music from the planets. He asked me if I could too.’
‘Can you?’ asked Underwood.
‘Of course not.’
‘What was the other thing?’ Dexter asked.
‘The other thing?’ Stussman frowned.
‘You said there were two other things. Celestial forces was one. What was the other?’
‘Ah, yes.’ Stussman looked back at the page. ‘You notice the last verse: Yet ’twas of my minde seising thee / Though it in thee cannot persever / For I had rather owner bee / Of thee one home, then else forever. Does that remind you of anything?’
‘Not really.’ Underwood suddenly found himself wandering blindly in fields of broken glass. He saw his own reflection smashed and contorted everywhere. Voices shouted back at him from every angle:
Julia’s screwing another man, Julia’s screwing another man. Little Johnny limp-dick. Little Johnny Lonesome.
She was unworthy of him. Or were they unworthy of each other?
‘After the Harrington girl was killed we talked about the other poem: “A Valediction: of Weeping”. Remember?’ Stussman asked.
‘I do,’ said Dexter, conscious that Underwood seemed to be drifting out of the conversation.
‘We talked about the power of the rational mind. That the human will was capable of anything, even metaphysical accomplishments. Well, it’s the same idea again: he’s saying that he would rather seize her soul for an hour than possess everything else in the universe for ever.’
Underwood heard that. The idea was compelling.
‘So what are we saying here, in summary?’ Dexter asked.
‘The names of the victims are drawn from known members of John Donne’s creative and personal circles. The killer is focused on the idea of a coterie: an audience of like-minded intellectuals,’ said Stussman. ‘The poems address certain common issues. The power of the rational will, the exaltation of dead or sick women, the importance of celestial forces and the notion of microcosms: shrinking concepts or physical entities of giant proportions into something that is tiny by comparison.’
‘Like an eye,’ said Dexter quietly.
40
Underwood stayed behind as Dexter and Stussman made their way through to the Incident Room. He could hear the other detectives gathering and picked out Leach’s stentorian tones booming above the mêlée.
He had to clear his head. Julia is screwing Paul Heyer. They are going away together. How could he sleep for the next week knowing that his wife was getting fucked by another man? He had to do something. Jealous, impotent rage was eating at his every waking moment. He was going mad. Got to do something; use the power of the rational will. Gain control.
‘We’re ready in here, guv,’ called Harrison from the Incident Room.
‘On my way.’ Underwood gathered his papers and walked across the corridor. Perhaps he could make something happen. He had to seize the initiative.
Part III
The Leaning Compass
41
The atmosphere was tense. The room had filled quickly and the new photographs on Dexter’s board reminded everyone of the consequences of failure. Even Jensen had lost some of her natural ebullience after seeing the images. First Lucy Harrington and now Elizabeth Drury: the newspapers would tear the police apart. There would be massive pressure from above and shit invariably flows downhill. Underwood, coughing and pale, came into the room and nodded at Leach who gathered his notes and came to the front of the room. Heather Stussman stood with Dexter against the back wall: a number of male eyes watched her. She ignored them.
‘OK. You all know what happened this morning,’ said Underwood. ‘Elizabeth Drury, thirty-seven, a leading dietician, found murdered at nine a.m. Similar circumstances to Lucy Harrington – Doctor Leach will tell you more. There are three things for us to concentrate on: one, how did the murderer find her? We almost didn’t find her at all. Two, how did he gain access? The house has a brand-new alarm system, security lights, panic alarm and yet there are no signs of forced entry. Three, the names of the victims are connected. The killer seems to be obsessed with a poet called John Donne: four hundred years ago Donne knew an Elizabeth Drury and a Lucy Harrington. Dr Stussman at the back there has provided us with a list of Donne’s other associates. Dexter used it and almost caught the bloke this morning. Dr Stussman, do you want to add anything on the names?’
Heather Stussman’s heart jumped as the collective attention of the room turned back to her. ‘Erm. All I’d add is that the killer seems to be focused on the notion of having a coterie. When these poems were written four hundred or so years ago, they were written for, and read aloud to, a specific audience: an audience that would appreciate the wit and logic of the poetry.’ She noticed the blank looks and for a second thought she was lecturing in Wisconsin again. ‘I am no expert on crime but I think your murderer has chosen these women – and me, I suppose – as his coterie audience. He is performing for us; he wants us to appreciate his wit.’
‘Wit?’ said Harrison drily. ‘I don’t see anyone laughing.’
‘Wit doesn’t refer exclusively to humour,’ Stussman explained. ‘In Latin, for example, one word for wit is the same as the word for salt: “sal”. That’s because wit in ancient Rome was associated with intellectual sharpness – salt tastes sharp, right? Likewise, to the aristocratic coterie audience that Donne and the other metaphysical poets performed to, wit didn’t just mean being funny: it meant using bold, sometimes shocking images to get their points across.’
‘Can you give us an example?’ Harrison was beginning to get the point.
‘In a poem called “A Valediction: Forbidding Mourning” John Donne famously compares two lovers with mathematical compasses. As one foot of the compass moves away from the other, so the other leans after it. This in Donne’s mind
reflected the soul of a lover seeking out its partner when the two are separated.’ She looked around, gratified by the scratching pencils. ‘Wit, you see.’
There was a silence. Underwood tried to push Julia from his thoughts and turned to Leach. ‘Doctor, do you want to give us a preliminary report on the scene of crime and the victim?’
‘Of course.’ Leach flipped open his notepad. ‘Judging from the pattern of blood dispersal I would say the victim was killed downstairs in the hallway, then dragged up to the bathroom. Her left eye was removed post-mortem, just as Lucy Harrington’s was, only this time more successfully.’ Leach looked at Underwood. ‘He’s getting better at it.’ Dexter shivered. It could have been her picture up on the board. Leach continued, ‘Time of death would be early this morning, say eight o’clock. She called her office at 7.40 and there is undigested breakfast cereal in the woman’s stomach.’
‘That’s a different MO, sir,’ said Jensen to Underwood. ‘Harrington was killed late at night.’
‘The burglar alarm,’ said Dexter. ‘She would have turned it off in the morning before she left for work.’
‘Except she wasn’t going to work,’ Leach replied. ‘Both the tyres on the passenger side of her car had been deflated. Presumably by the killer.’
‘So he stopped her from leaving, then biffed her as she went back to the house?’ Harrison was working the scene in his head.
‘There are no signs of struggle outside the house. It looks like he attacked her inside,’ Leach added.
‘Why would she let a stranger into her house at eight in the morning?’ asked Jensen.
Leach considered. ‘Well, what would you have done in her shoes, Jensen? A woman living alone, you need to get to work early and you find your tyres are flat.’