by Arlene Hunt
She pinched the bridge of her nose.
‘No, I can see how that would be difficult … Male, that’s good. Try to concentrate, Rowena. Was he tall, short, fat, thin? Young or old? Did he have a beard? Did he have an accent?’
There was another long pause.
‘You think he was tall, wearing a hat. That’s great … No, that’s okay, that’s good. What about clothes … No? Okay, Rowena, could you come down to the station on South Circular Road and work with a sketch artist?’
She gave the girl her details, then hung up and looked at Gavin.
‘What?’
‘How often would someone order yellow roses?’
‘Not often. Red are pretty popular, and white, but not yellow.’
‘Once a month, once every two months, what?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘Well can you check?’
This time he knew better than to sigh. He tapped the screen, leaned his chin on his hand and scrolled.
‘Last order we got was in September of last year.’
‘Cash?’
‘Nah, ordered by a Mrs Margaret Pierce, note says it was for a funeral.’
‘Nothing around December?’ Miranda was thinking of the Dell and Kilbride murder.
‘Nope.’
Fletcher reappeared, looking thoughtful. He opened his EN and went to the crime-scene photos taken at Hugh Bannon’s house. He found a close-up of the rose petals, and one of the stems found in the bin.
‘Can you take a look at these?’
He showed Gavin the photos. Gavin studied them, tapping his tongue piercing against his lower teeth as he did.
‘Okay,’ he said eventually. ‘So, like, I can’t help you here.’
‘Why?’ Miranda asked.
‘Because these are, like, garden roses.’
‘Aren’t all roses garden roses?’
‘Well yeah, I guess, but we don’t order these: too thorny.’
Fletcher took the EN back and brought up the roses found at the Dell/Kilbride scene.
‘What about these?’
Gavin looked.
‘That’s the same variety. Like I said, too thorny.’
Fletcher looked at Lynn, who grinned.
‘Gavin?’
‘Yeah?’
‘Believe it or not, you’ve been very helpful.’
‘Well yeah,’ he said, rolling his eyes.
Chapter Forty
For Falstaff, the journey home was almost as terrifying as being in custody. His usual self-medication had long worn off so by the time he got back to Dundrum, he was frightened and angry.
Very angry.
He let himself into his apartment, then slammed the door shut and leaned against it, practically hyperventilating with the stress of it all. He ran to check his computer and swore. The photos were gone, wiped. He had nothing.
Edgar danced around, going bananas with joy, but the apartment reeked of shit from his deposits all over the manky living room floor.
After opening a few windows, Falstaff grabbed some paper towels and cleaned up as best he could. When he was done, he poured a glass of gin and drank it straight down, thinking about his situation.
The nasty dark-haired sergeant had been correct. Without the photos of Andrea to sell he was in dire straits. Somewhere in the mess were letters from the bank, polite at first, increasingly threatening thereafter. The last one he’d dared open had been downright terrifying.
He had less than eight weeks to clear his arrears or they’d put him out on the street.
He drank some more gin and did some thinking.
They didn’t know everything, of course; he wasn’t that stupid.
They didn’t know he had witnessed Andrea’s other visitor on the day she was killed, he wasn’t about to toss away that kind of ammunition. It was time to get busy. A single payment to clear his arrears was all he wanted to keep quiet, and maybe put a little spending money in his pocket.
He wasn’t greedy, he explained to Edgar, who was licking his face enthusiastically. This wasn’t greed; it was forward planning, yes, that’s what it was.
After a third glass of gin, he set to work, scouring the newspaper for the right letters, the right words. Tongue out, he used the kitchen scissors to snip and cut, then glued the words to a sheet of blank paper. When he was finished, he stepped back to admire his handiwork.
‘Look at this, Edgar,’ he said, lifting the little dog up to show him. ‘Isn’t that glorious?’
Of course he’d have to send it, and that would necessitate another trip outdoors. But needs must.
He poured the last of the gin over a cube of ice, tossed it back and smacked his lips with satisfaction.
‘Edgar, my lad,’ he said squeezing the little dog. ‘Everything is going to be fine.’
Chapter Forty-One
The last patient of the day was often a difficult session. Dr Simon Fitzpatrick tried to keep an interested expression and forced his body to remain poised and attentive. His mind, however, had left the office twenty minutes before and was now in his favourite restaurant, Baroque, ordering duck rillette and a bottle of Pinot Noir.
He licked his lips and shifted his weight from one buttock to the other. His client blew her nose noisily, and glared at him as if she sensed his boredom.
‘You probably think I’m exaggerating, don’t you?’
‘Exaggerating, no, of course not. Your emotions are yours, Emily. They are not open to denial or scrutiny. It is your responses we are here to discuss.’
‘I told you,’ she cried, waving her hands in the air. ‘I can’t help how they make me feel.’
‘But you can help how you respond. Emotions, Emily, are not facts. Situational anxiety is real based on how you perceive reality, but it is not fact.’
She didn’t like this; she never did.
He risked a glance at his watch and was relieved to see their time was almost up.
‘Will you work on some of the exercises I gave you?’
She looked at him from under her brow, pouting, her bottom lip quivering.
‘It would be easier if you just wrote me another prescription for those tablets. They helped.’
‘Elimination therapy is merely one part of the process. We need to restructure your mind, Emily, not tamp your reactions down with beta blockers.’
‘But they helped!’
‘I’m sure they did and will again.’ He smiled as though humouring a child. ‘But this week we need to feel some of the stress, if only to recognise …’ He waved his hand at her.
She scowled, refusing to play her part.
‘… that emotions are not facts,’ he finished for her. ‘And on that note, let us finish.’
‘Sometimes I think you enjoy knowing that I suffer,’ she snapped, reaching for her handbag. She pulled out her purse, counted out his money with insulting deliberation and flung it on the low table between them. Fitzpatrick left it there, got up and went to his desk in the corner of the room. He wrote a receipt and brought it to her.
‘Same time next week?’
Without replying, she snatched the receipt from his hand and stuffed it into her bag.
Proving he could be petty when he wanted to, he didn’t offer to help her into her coat as he usually did, and to his internalised shame, he enjoyed watching her struggle with it.
When she was finally gone, he sighed, loosened his tie and poured himself a very large whisky over a single ice cube.
Maybe it was his age, or maybe it was this wretched society; whatever the reason, lately he had grown increasingly tired of dealing with people and their never-ending complaints. When he was a younger man – a much younger man – he’d believed in what he was doing, he’d felt his profession was an opportunity to do good in the world, make a difference, write a book that millions would clutch to their chests and feel salvation.
What a simple-minded idiot he had been back then. He should have listened to his father and learned a trade of some
kind. Actually, now that he thought about it, he rarely got carpenters, plumbers or builders as clients. Now why was that? Were they dissatisfied with their lot in life? Did they spend their evenings wondering where the hell they’d gone wrong?
Somehow he doubted it.
He tossed the last of his drink back, put his coat on and switched off the lights.
Downstairs, he put his briefcase down on the ground next to him and locked the door. The bottom lock was stiff and it took quite a bit of twisting and twiddling, but he got it at last.
When he reached for his briefcase, it was gone.
‘What the …’
He turned around and found himself looking up into the unsmiling face of a large man with eyes the colour of a lake in winter.
‘This must be yours,’ the man said. He was holding the briefcase in a huge hand.
‘Oh, I … yes, thank you.’
He reached for the case, but the man tucked it under his arm. Fitzpatrick dropped his hand to his side. He felt ridiculously stupid.
‘Do you know who I am?’
Tired as he was of this life, Fitzpatrick realised his ennui was fading fast in the face of real and present danger. He looked about. But it was late and the street was empty. He could run, he supposed, but he doubted that would be very sensible.
To make matter worse, the man seemed to have the ability to read minds.
‘If you shout or try to call for help, this situation will turn ugly, needlessly so. Do you understand?’
What kind of question was that? Did he say yes, or did he say no?
In the end he settled for nodding; it seemed the most prudent choice.
‘Good, now do you know who I am?’
He squinted at the man’s face. It was familiar, but he couldn’t quite place him.
‘Should I know you?’ he asked.
The man smiled. It was a terrible smile and nothing in it suggested amusement or kindness or humanity.
‘You should, you were treating my daughter. She was killed, murdered.’
The realisation hit Fitzpatrick like a sledgehammer. Now he recognised the face, but not from his memory; from the newspapers.
‘You’re Andrea’s father.’
‘That’s right.’
Fitzpatrick grimaced. ‘Look, um … Mr Travers, is it? Firstly I’d like to say how sorry I am for your loss, I was horrified to read about what happened to Andrea—’
‘She was seeing you, wasn’t she? I want to know why.’
‘Oh, I don’t think … I’m afraid I can’t discuss that with you.’
‘You can,’ Dominic Travers said, and though his voice remained exactly the same, something shifted in his tone. ‘And you will.’
A slight tremor rippled through Fitzpatrick’s body. He recognised it for what it was: epinephrine and norepinephrine were being released into his bloodstream, his fight-or-flight response kicking into action. Funny, knowing the terminology and understanding the physiology didn’t do a damn thing to help him.
He was still scared silly.
Oh yes, a brave man, an indignant man even, would refuse on principle, professional principle at least. But as he looked at Dominic Travers, Fitzpatrick knew he would capitulate, so why pretend? Why bother with the sham in the first place?
‘Um, would you like to come upstairs?’
Dominic handed him his briefcase. Fitzpatrick took it, turned around and promptly dropped his keys. Before he could retrieve them, the big man had scooped them up.
‘Which ones?’
‘The long one is for the bottom, the short one for the top.’
The scarred hands did not shake and the lock did not stick. Within seconds, the door swung open.
‘After you,’ Dominic said.
Simon Fitzpatrick gave one last forlorn look to the empty street and went back inside, the duck and the wine completely forgotten.
Chapter Forty-Two
Lizzie Brennan worked fast, and as promised, the next day she asked to see the squad in the incident room.
When they got there, the big screen was down, displaying a photograph of a bouquet of yellow roses. Roxy thought Lizzie looked a little tired, but no less beautiful. Her hair was tied in a loose bun at the nape of her neck and her black suit was sharply tailored.
Effortless, she thought. How did people do it?
‘Why did the killer choose yellow roses?’ Lizzie asked, moving from one side of the podium to the other, her hands as expressive as her face.
‘Because they’re pretty?’ Cora said, and looked embarrassed when a number of officers laughed.
‘They are.’ Lizzie smiled at her. ‘But what do they signify?’
Nobody answered.
‘We think of roses as a romantic flower, even a Valentine’s gift if you will, but historically yellow roses have had a different meaning. They were often displayed by a jealous lover, or given passive-aggressively to denote a fading love; so for instance a man might give them to a woman he was about to leave for another.’ She looked back at the screen. ‘Our killer chose these flowers not to be romantic, but to tell us something, to warn us that romance is dead: he is literally delivering death to romance.’
She pressed the button, the screen split and a different bunch of roses appeared beside the first.
‘These are the roses sent to Andrea Colgan. Notice anything unusual about them?’
Again it was Cora who spoke up.
‘There are no thorns on those ones.’
‘That’s correct, Officer.’ Lizzie turned to the screen. ‘The flower on the right is a yellow banksia rose; the roses found at the first and third murder scenes are Friesia roses.’
‘So he shops around for his flowers,’ an officer said. ‘Probably to avoid being recognised.’
‘I don’t think he does. I think he is very singular in his methods. Think about this: what was taken from Lorraine Dell?’
‘An engagement ring.’
‘What was taken from Estelle Roberts?’
Quinn spoke. ‘According to her housemates, she wore a small silver necklace with an E on it, a gift from her grandmother. It was not recovered at the crime scene.’
‘Right. Now think about what was taken from Andrea Colgan. A phone. A laptop. There’s nothing personal in either item.’
She looked around.
‘Andrea Colgan’s killer left us a different message.’
‘What?’
‘He attacked her physically and obliterated her face. This was an extremely personal act; personal to him. She was a threat, she represented losing face, so she lost hers. Dell and Roberts were not a threat to their killer. They were prizes; in a way, he revered them.’
‘Prizes?’ Miranda asked.
‘Look at how he treated them after he raped them. Look at how he tended to their bodies: he brushed their hair, applied make-up, made sure they were not displayed in an obscene manner when he was done with them. He scattered petals around Estelle Roberts. He wanted something from them, something tender, something he felt he deserved.’
‘But he left a card with a broken heart.’ Cora looked confused.
‘Oh yes, there’s no doubt that these women angered him in some way.’
‘He’s angry with them, but harbouring romantic feelings towards them too?’ Roxy asked.
‘This isn’t romance, Sergeant, it’s conquest.’
Lizzie looked around at the squad. Some of the expressions were thoughtful, some a little sceptical.
‘You found ketamine in the women’s bloodstreams, but the men were slaughtered. Why is that, and why does he use ketamine specifically?’
‘To subdue them,’ Fletcher said.
‘There are many drugs you can use to knock a person out, Sergeant, but ketamine is different. It is a dissociative drug: it can alter a person’s perceptions; depending on the dosage, it can even produce vivid hallucinations.’
‘You think he drugged them to make them think they were in some kind of fantasy?’ Miranda as
ked.
‘Not some kind of fantasy, Sergeant; a very specific one, directed by him.’
‘To what end?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘Do we have anything on the make-up?’
‘The make-up is interesting. Forensics has identified the lipstick as Golden Rose Frosty Baby Pink.’
‘Roses again.’
‘Yes, they are a huge signifier for this man.’
‘So why did he change his MO with Colgan?’ someone asked from the back of the room.
‘I don’t believe he did.’
‘What do you mean?’ Fletcher was frowning.
‘I mean I don’t believe the person who killed Andrea Colgan is responsible for the deaths of the other victims.’
There were immediate murmurs and mutterings. Miranda cast a glance at Roxy, who was sitting rigid, her heart racing.
‘I believe that whoever killed Andrea wanted us to think it was the same killer.’
‘So you think it could be a copycat?’
‘No.’ Lizzie shook her head. ‘I think it’s someone who saw an opportunity and went with it.’
It was Miranda who spoke next.
‘So, just to be clear. We’re looking for two separate killers?’
‘Yes.’ Lizzie leaned her hands on the podium. ‘The first killer is a white male, in his twenties or very early thirties. He may have suffered a bad break-up recently, or been rejected by someone he viewed as a romantic mate. He has ready access to drugs and he works unusual hours.’
‘Wait, what makes you say that?’ Roxy asked.
‘Apart from Andrea Colgan, the victims worked nine-to-five jobs; this man was able to study them and monitor their routines. He has time on his hands.’
‘Maybe he’s unemployed.’
‘Maybe, but the champagne he chooses is not cheap.’ She looked around. ‘I don’t think the suspect is on the breadline.’
‘So, male, white, with disposable income.’ Fletcher shook his head. ‘No offence, but that hardly narrows it down.’
‘I believe he studied them, the women at least. The women are his prize; the men are collateral damage.’
‘And the second killer?’ Quinn spoke.