The Evil Beneath

by A J Waines

  He turned the first one round. I recognised the background as being one of the dark, unsettling paintings I’d found with disturbing titles. But there was something different about it, now. Andrew had added detail at the front; reeds and trees and the light had been changed. He’d lifted the colours at the back and added a sunrise. There was a water-vole tucked behind a log. It was an entirely new picture. Nothing sinister about it at all.

  ‘It’s…lovely,’ I said. ‘It’s very different from your usual style.’

  ‘Grant, you know, my mate at the gallery, said there might be some scenic work going in the West End. They’re doing Wind in the Willows. I wanted to see what I could do.’

  ‘Did you give it a title?’ I asked, knowing the title I’d seen had nothing remotely pastoral about it.

  He flipped it over. ‘I originally called it “Stranger on the riverbed”,’ he said, ‘but now it’s “All along the Backwater”.’ He laughed. ‘I hate compromising my style, but I need the work, Jules.’

  ‘The original title is a bit gruesome,’ I said, tentatively.

  ‘I was drunk when I did the first version. I was feeling pretty shitty after we’d broken up.’ He stared at the coffee in his mug. ‘To tell you the truth, I was a tad on the suicidal side.’

  ‘Oh, God,’ I said.

  He ran a finger along my thigh. ‘It’s okay. I’m all right now. I’m off the booze, for a start.’

  I didn’t want to turn this into a counselling session. ‘What about the others?’

  He pulled out the remaining canvases from the stack. They’d all been transformed into idyllic waterside scenes with titles to match.

  ‘The painting, the nude that won the award…’ I said, trying to shift the mood. ‘It was a terrific painting. I’m very flattered, but you should have asked my permission…and you should have warned me.’

  He picked at a shred of paint under his thumbnail.

  ‘Is that why you’ve come? To give me a bollocking?’

  I shrugged. I couldn’t tell him I’d come to check out his reaction about the sinister paintings; to run my own ‘tests’ about whether I thought he was lying about the murders.

  As I finished my coffee, I weighed up what I knew. He’d altered the paintings, but had he done so because he knew they might incriminate him? Except, why tell me the original title? He didn’t need to do that. He didn’t know I’d seen the earlier versions; he could have claimed they’d never been anything other than picturesque tableaux.

  Ultimately, however, one fundamental factor swung it for me. If I was a murderer and the police were closing their net around me, I wouldn’t be on the wagon. I’d be even more dependent on alcohol to stave off the fear of being found out. I could tell from his skin and his eyes that Andrew had been off the drink for days. That didn’t ring true for someone with a string of killings to hide.

  ‘The portrait wasn’t designed to win you back, if that’s what you’re thinking,’ he said. I wasn’t sure if he was joking or not. ‘Listen, I’ve got work to do.’ It didn’t sound like an apology was forthcoming. He stood and picked up my mug.

  ‘I know it isn’t you,’ I said.

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘Who attacked those women and —’

  ‘Thanks for the vote of confidence.’ His flat tone wasn’t without irony.

  ‘I’m really glad you’re not drinking. It makes a big difference.’

  ‘I’m doing it for me,’ he said, as he held open the front door.

  ‘That’s brilliant. That’s the very best reason.’ I swiftly planted a kiss on his cheek and left.

  When my phone rang the next evening, I recognised the number as my parents’ in Spain. My mother’s voice was aiming for bright and breezy but didn’t quite make it.

  ‘What’s wrong?’ I asked.

  ‘Tony was speaking to his friend, Ricardo, today. He’d seen an English newspaper report about some awful…murders in London.’

  ‘I wondered if you might hear about it.’ I couldn’t believe it had taken them this long.

  ‘Why didn’t you tell us? You know we don’t often look at the English papers over here.’

  ‘There’s not much to tell.’ I didn’t want to worry them. They’d been through so much with Luke, I didn’t want them to be fearful about their one remaining child.

  ‘The papers said the murders were by the Thames, not so far from where you live.’

  ‘Yes, but, the police think the murders were linked to abortions, Mum. The women had been in the early stages of pregnancy. They’re not just random killings. You mustn’t tell anyone that.’

  I cringed at slightly bending the truth, but my heart was in the right place.

  ‘Your father wants us to come over.’

  ‘What for?’

  ‘Just to make sure everything is all right.’

  I knew this meant she would want to check up on my life-style; who I was hanging out with and whether I had a boyfriend. She’d want to make sure I had better locks everywhere. Probably even suggest a burglar alarm. I’d end up having to make promises, like never going out on my own after dark, always catching a taxi instead of waiting at bus-stops, making sure someone always knew where I was. That sort of thing. There was so much about my life she didn’t know about. Like Andrew (and his criminal record) and Brad. Like my work at Fairways.

  Like my personal connection with each of the murders.

  ‘There really is no need,’ I said. ‘Let me speak to Dad.’

  As soon as she passed over the phone, I knew she, not Dad, was the one with the idea about coming over. Dad and I agreed that he should spend the next few days trying to convince Mum that travelling half-way across Europe wasn’t going to help protect their daughter any better than she could protect herself.

  As soon as I put down the phone, the mobile on loan from Brad broke into a rendition of Cagney and Lacey. It was the first time it had rung and took me by surprise.

  ‘Hi,’ said Brad.

  ‘Did you choose the ring-tone on this phone?’ I said, laughing.

  ‘Is that a crime?’

  ‘It’s superb. I like it.’

  ‘You okay?’

  ‘I’m really sorry I was rude - the other night when you rang. I think I’d reached tipping point.’

  ‘No problem. It can’t be easy when someone you know is a suspect,’ he said. ‘Any chance we could get together?’

  ‘To talk about Andrew?’ My stomach reacted as if I was in a lift and it had suddenly dropped a couple of floors.

  ‘Not really - for an up-date.’

  For one second I thought he said date, instead of up-date.

  ‘Have you got any news about the fire?’

  ‘Not much. A few things to tell you about the case, too.’

  ‘Okay. When and where?’

  ‘I thought a takeaway pizza…tonight, your place, if that’s not too presumptuous.’

  ‘I’ll need to ring and cancel Orlando Bloom,’ I said, ‘but I’m sure he’ll be fine about it.’

  ‘Who?’

  I didn’t bother to answer.

  ‘See you later.’

  Chapter Eighteen

  ‘How did you know gerbera were my favourites?’ I said.

  ‘I’m a detective.’

  I went into the kitchen for a vase. Brad had brought the pizzas with him that Sunday evening, together with a bottle of wine and a bunch of flowers. That’s what I call pushing the boat out.

  I brought the orange flowers through and put them on the table. ‘Seriously. They’re lovely, but not an obvious choice.’

  He walked to the wall and pointed to a photograph. It was taken on my twenty-first birthday and in the background was a vase with the very same flowers.

  ‘Observant, or what?’ I said.

  ‘When was this?’ he said, pointing to a photograph of Oxford winning the boat race.

  ‘That’s Chiswick Bridge - 2008.’

  ‘Ever done any rowing?’

  ‘Not really.
Went to the Lake District once, down some rapids. Bad experience, actually.’

  ‘That will need to go in my notebook. Tell me about it later.’ He was staring at the pizza boxes.

  ‘What about you?’ I said.

  ‘Nah. Can’t swim. Never been tempted, but my brother used to row at University.’

  It was nice to hear Brad wasn’t good at something for a change. Not that he was arrogant, just that he had air of all-round competence about him that was a tad unnerving. Failings brought him down to my level.

  We opened up the pizzas. Brad tucked straight in. Probably his first proper meal of the day. When he stopped for a breather, I asked him about the news he had for me.

  ‘It’s not great,’ he said. ‘I got the fire reports sent through from 1990 and frankly, they’re messy and incomplete.’

  ‘What does that mean?’

  ‘Shortly after the fire at your house, a large warehouse went up on the outskirts of Norwich. All resources were temporarily diverted to that and it looks like your fire got sidelined due to lack of fresh evidence. There were gaps left in the report. It’s inconclusive. I’m really sorry.’

  I felt my body sink. I’d had a lot of hope pinned on this. I wasn’t sure there was anywhere else to look to get to the truth.

  ‘Thanks for trying,’ I said. ‘Am I allowed to see what you’ve got?’

  ‘No,’ he said, with his mouth full. ‘I shouldn’t even have got hold of the report.’

  ‘There must be something in the files that can shed light on the cause of the fire; to indicate whether it was deliberate or not?’

  He reluctantly pulled out a manila file from his rucksack.

  ‘Can I accidentally photocopy that?’ I said.

  ‘No way.’ He held it behind his chair out of arms reach. ‘There’s no mention of windows been open, but there is reference to the fire spreading quicker than expected. It says there were signs of flammable substances in the kitchen.’

  I was on my feet. ‘Like petrol, you mean?’

  ‘Hang on a minute,’ he said, flapping his hands to get me to sit down.

  ‘It doesn’t mean it was arson. There are lots of everyday substances kept in the home that could accelerate a fire or explode. Camping gas and fire-starters for barbeques…butane, propane…even aerosols, paint-thinners, nail-varnish…’

  ‘I see what you mean.’ I was trying to picture our old kitchen, travelling with my minds-eye along the shelves and inside cupboards, to get a feel for what we used to keep there. I could see boxes of washing powder under the sink, bleach, fabric softener and a cupboard where Dad kept the odd can of paint, brushes, cloths, perhaps a bottle of white spirit. Not much that would accelerate a fire, in my view.

  ‘Two cooker rings had been left on,’ he said. ‘Looks like a tea-towel may have been left on the rings.’

  ‘What?’

  I leant over and this time he let me see the typed report. I read the section he was referring to.

  ‘That doesn’t sound like my mother at all. I can’t imagine her ever leaving a tea-towel on top of the cooker.’

  ‘It might not have been her.’

  ‘I can’t see any of us doing it, either. Mum was really strict about that sort of thing. I grew up being overly cautious about dangers in the kitchen, switching things off…electricity…’

  He squeezed his lips together in an expression that said: people make mistakes.

  ‘The report mentions a power-cut,’ he said.

  ‘Yes - that rings true with other people I’ve spoken to. It’s why we left the house and went to the cinema.’

  ‘It’s easy when there’s a power-cut to forget that appliances have been left in the “on” position. Maybe your mother had been cooking before the electricity went off and in the confusion, forgot to switch off the rings.’

  He was right, of course. Maybe, for once, my mother hadn’t been so careful. There was also another explanation.

  ‘It might have been someone else,’ I said. Air made a hissing sound against my teeth, as I drew a breath. ‘The same person who left the windows open…to fan the flames…’

  ‘Deliberate, you mean?’

  I nodded.

  ‘It’s a possibility.’ He tapped the pages. ‘No more information was added to the report. No more details about the flammable substances or the cause of the power-cut.’

  ‘Can the investigation be re-opened?’

  ‘Not without some concrete new evidence. It’s nearly twenty years ago.’

  ‘My Aunt Libby said it started with the toaster,’ I muttered, mostly to myself.

  He closed the file. ‘I’m sorry. I feel responsible, somehow. We’ve let you down. The investigation should never have been left like that.’

  I poured another glass of wine and I tried to put my niggling concerns about the fire out of my head. After all, Luke was gone. Nothing we discovered now would bring him back. We moved in the sitting room and I put on a CD of film music by Ennio Morricone.

  This is snazzy,’ he said, twisting his mouth to one side. His tone was seductive; deliberately so, I thought. This man was teasing me. I leant over the back of the sofa.

  ‘I’ve got a blow-up mattress,’ I said. ‘You can stay, if you like.’ I knew he’d already drunk too much wine to drive himself home and he knew it too.

  He yawned loudly. ‘Sounds dangerous.’

  ‘It’s more comfortable than the sofa - trust me.’

  He stretched and slid to the front of the seat. ‘That would be great - sure you don’t mind?’ he said.

  I switched up the lighting and rubbed my hands together.

  ‘One pillow or two?’ I’d also switched off the flirting and gone into practical mode. I wanted to make the boundaries clear. I didn’t want him to think there was any other offer tonight. Not because I didn’t want to invite him into my bed, but because I didn’t want to do anything we’d regret later. Especially after last time. Things were going too well for that. If the occasion eventually presented itself sometime, it would be when neither of us were too drunk or too tired to think straight.

  As I handed him a glass of water, I asked him what time he needed to be up in the morning.

  ‘I’ve got an eight o’clock briefing on the case. I’ll try not to wake you. Have you got a spare alarm clock? I’m not sure I can trust my watch.’

  I went to fetch a small spare clock from the kitchen. Once the bed was inflated, he sat on it, testing the tension with a couple of bounces.

  ‘I don’t want to find you using this as a trampoline in the early hours,’ I said, wagging my finger at him.

  ‘Spoil sport,’ he said, stroking the duvet. ‘I haven’t slept on one of these since Dave Rockman’s eighteenth birthday. We were stuck in a caravan in South Shields.’

  ‘A story for another time, perhaps,’ I said, heading for the bathroom.

  When I crossed back through the sitting room we both said a prim goodnight to each other, but I didn’t fail to see the knowing glint in his eye. It was as if we both knew things would change between us, soon enough, and tonight was a necessary part of the game we were playing. I closed the door of my bedroom with a sigh.

  I’d set my alarm early too, because I didn’t want to wake up with that empty deflated feeling knowing he’d gone. Besides, I wanted to know what he looked like over a bowl of cornflakes.

  At 6.45am, I pulled on a thick towelling dressing gown and crept into the darkened sitting room, edging past the crumpled mass on the floor, trying not to look too closely. What I really wanted to do was stand over him and watch him sleeping, see how his face fell when it was relaxed, hear the kinds of sounds he made when he was breathing deeply, but I didn’t want to risk being caught.

  All that was visible above the duvet was a bundle of dark hair, as if a small kitten was curled up on the pillow, but the room was thick with the woody, musky smell of him. I used the bathroom as quietly as I could and came back to find his bare arms outside the duvet and his eyes open.
/>   ‘Morning,’ I said, cheerily. ‘Coffee, tea?’

  He squinted. ‘Black coffee would be great,’ he said, his voice gravel-like with sleep.

  I opened the curtains a little and went into the kitchen. When I came back, he was already dressed and was folding away the bedding.

  ‘House-trained too,’ I said. ‘Very impressive.’

  ‘It’s all show, actually. My flat is in a terrible state.’

  He sat at the dining table and I brought out coffee, cereal and several slices of thick toast. He helped himself to lashings of marmalade on granary followed by a large bowl of cereal. Only then did he sit back and look at me. I felt self-conscious in my dressing gown when he was already fully dressed, but at least I’d brushed my hair.

  ‘Thank you,’ he said, rubbing his abdomen. ‘That was just right.’

  ‘You don’t normally have breakfast, do you?’

  ‘How did you work that one out?’

  I laughed. ‘I’m a psychotherapist, don’t forget.’

  ‘Now I feel like I’m under a microscope,’ he said. He suddenly got up and bobbed down to look in the mirror beside the kitchen door.

  ‘Sorry - I didn’t bring a comb,’ he said, trying to flatten his unruly hair with his hands. ‘I’d better get going.’

  I took the dishes into the kitchen as he gathered up his jacket and car-keys. When I returned, he was leaning against the back of the sofa with his legs crossed at the ankle.

  ‘Your clock’s fast,’ he said. ‘I’ve got a couple more minutes.’

  ‘What will the briefing be about?’

  ‘New evidence…didn’t I tell you?’

  ‘No…’

  ‘You remember we were getting a special team in to sift through every possible fibre caught up in the victims’ hair?’

  I nodded.

  ‘Most of it - and there was about five pounds worth of twigs, reeds, dead fish, shells, that kind of thing - belongs to the river,’ he said. ‘But, they’ve isolated some tiny fibres - PEVA - polyethylene vinyl acetate, to be precise, from Aysha’s hair. It’s found in lots of things - ski-boots, fishing rods, shower curtains. And, they’ve picked up something we’ve identified as a polymer wax with PTFE, from Lindsey’s.’

  ‘What’s that?’