Last Gasp

by Robert F Barker

  Jess was wondering if Cleeves’s interest in the dominatrix was as academic as he was trying to make out, when the sound of the door opening behind made them all turn.

  Alec Duncan’s face was grave.

  Everyone stopped talking.

  'There’s been another one.'

  Chapter 20

  Even before Carver descended the steps leading to Corinne Anderson’s cellar, he knew they’d been wrong. Megan Crane had not been next on the Worshipper Killer’s list after all. His instinct was to thank God, but then realised what that meant for the poor woman who was, and felt awful. When he saw what awaited them, he felt even worse. About to give the scene his full attention, he paused to glance across at Jess. Her face was pale, a hand over her mouth.

  'Okay?' he said.

  She nodded, slowly.

  Carver knew what she was going through. A detective’s first murder scene is always the worst. You struggle to look like you’re in control, when what you really want to do is get the hell out. Everyone goes through it. He wasn’t worried. What he’d seen of her, she would handle it, though in this case it may take a while.

  Corinne Anderson’s body was as it had been found that morning, tied to the post, and posed in the manner now so familiar. Squatting next to her was a portly figure with thinning, silver hair and wearing thick-lensed glasses. Long past normal retiring age for those in his line of work, Howard Gladding, was the Senior Home Office Pathologist for the Northern Region. Assigned to the investigation following the second in the series, Jeanette Fairhaven, this was his fourth Kerry scene. In Carver’s book that made him, an Authority. And he was glad to see Howard wearing a paper suit. It wasn’t that long ago it had taken a telephone call and follow-up letter from the Home Office to get him to fall in line. Last in a long line of HO Pathologists who wear their eccentricities like a badge, Howard Gladding was definitely, ‘Old School’. He was also the best.

  Right now he was testing skin texture and tone, pressing a wooden spatula against the victim’s arm, and noting the result in a spiral-bound notebook. Earlier Carver had watched him examining the petechial-haemorrhaging around the eyes and lips that would inform his estimate of time of death. Every now and then Howard instructed the young woman who was today assisting Robin Knight, the Force’s Senior Crime Scene Manager - to take a photograph. Carver didn’t interrupt to ask what of. He’d get a full briefing after the PM, by which time Howard would have assembled all the pieces of the jigsaw that was Corinne Anderson’s murder - he hoped.

  The cellar was roughly twenty-foot square. Despite the makeover - carpeting, panelled walls, recessed lighting - traces of the dank smell that characterises cellars the world over still lingered. As in the other cases, it had been kitted out with the usual sex-dungeon paraphernalia. St Andrew’s cross; bench, frame, anchors, etc. Carver had already made a mental note to remind the search team to look for receipts. So far they’d found no link between those who supplied the victims with their equipment or fitted out their ‘Playrooms.’ But that didn’t mean there wasn’t one. As the pathologist continued working round the body, Carver thought on what they knew so far.

  Corinne’s body had been discovered by a neighbour who’d called around to see why Corinne hadn’t showed for a planned coffee morning. The Family Liaison team were with her now, scoping what they were facing. Corinne lived alone in the smart, Edwardian mews-terrace, close to Chester City Centre. There was an ex-husband over in Derbyshire somewhere, and two children who lived away, a boy in Liverpool and a girl in Telford. Carver didn’t look forward to the time when he, or someone, would have to explain to them how their wife/mother had met her death. The families of three of the four victim had been totally ignorant of their mother/sister/daughter’s involvement in SM. Given the shocked state of the neighbour who’d found Corinne, Carver suspected the same applied. As soon as Howard was finished, the Forensic Specialist Team would begin its painstaking examination of the scene. And though it had been videoed before Howard arrived, Carver was glad the Chester DI who was first on scene recognised the MO in time to make the call to the Kerry MIR before the scene got too-spoiled.

  Like all detectives, Carver knew there is something about being at a scene early, that video can never replicate. It allows an investigator to experience things as the killer left them. There is only ever one opportunity. Once the body has been found, things start to change. Doors that were shut are opened. Drawers that have been left open get closed. Lights are switched on, or off. Items of clothing or other articles are moved. He’d never forgotten the mantra from his early CID training. 'At a murder scene, stay HIP,' – ‘Hands In Pockets’. But no matter how experienced the investigators, how often people are reminded, ’Don’t touch anything', they do. In the case of Corinne Anderson, the process had already begun. Less than three hours had passed since she’d been found. By Carver’s count, ten people had been in the cellar since then. As well as the five now present, there were the two uniformed officers first on the scene and their Sergeant. They were followed by a local DC and her DI. He had no way of knowing what, if anything, they had picked up, fingered, put down again – in a changed position. He hoped it wasn’t much. Even Howard was doing it. He’d already seen him move some loose ropes lying next to the body - albeit he’d photographed them first. He’d also swept some of the victim’s hair off her face to examine her. Worst of all, he’d altered, slightly, the angle of her head when he examined the ribbon-ligature around her neck. Carver hoped it wouldn’t prove important. Which is always the trouble. There’s no way of telling which small changes may come to deceive the investigators, sending them off chasing red herrings. All because some ham-fisted busy-body couldn’t keep their hands in their pockets.

  Carver concentrated. He’d already had a good look around the room, but seen nothing that told him anything new. As Howard moved round to the other side, he stepped forward and squatted in the space just vacated. Starting with her ankles, he examined the way she had been posed, casting his eyes over the ropes, the bindings, the positioning of her limbs. After a couple of minutes, he checked back over his shoulder to see how Jess was holding up. She was scribbling in her notebook. He was impressed. It had taken him a long time to get to the point where he could make notes at a murder scene. He resumed his examination.

  As far as he could tell, Corinne Anderson’s death-pose mirrored the others, the rope-work exactly the same. He checked the tying-off at the wrists. As always, the ends of the rope had been tucked down, neatly, out of sight. The resinous smell of the superglue was strong this close and he saw the hardened, glossy film between her palms. He looked at her fingers, noticed something, moved closer.

  'What do you make of this Howard?'

  The pathologist stopped his note-taking to peer round at where Carver was pointing. He came round to squat next to him. The little fingers of both of Corinne Anderson’s hands were bent under on themselves, so that only three fingers of each and the thumbs were straight. Carver joined his hands in like fashion. It felt awkward.

  ’Interesting,' the pathologist said. He probed at the fingers with the end of a spatula. 'I’ve not seen that before.'

  'Did the killer leave them like that do you think?' Carver said. 'Or did she do it herself for some reason?'

  The pathologist probed again. 'All I can say is they’re not glued. But given how the palms and fingers are fixed, they wouldn’t need to be to stay in that position. They don’t look broken either, though I can’t be sure until I get back to the mortuary and separate the hands. If they’re not broken, then it’s unlikely to have been done post-mortem.'

  'In which case the question is, why?' Carver said.

  For the first time since she’d entered the cellar, Jess spoke up.

  'If I’m not mistaken, one of the Buddhist religions pray like that.'

  Carver looked across at her and noticed she looked flushed, breathing heavily. It was warm in the cramped conditions and he remembered how he’d felt at his first murder sc
ene.

  'If it has any religious significance, it could be she was trying to tell us something. We need to find out if she had any religious leanings.' He gave Jess a look so she would know he was offering her an excuse. To his surprise, she took it.

  'I’ll get on it,' she said. Taking one last look at Corinne Anderson’s lifeless body, she turned and headed back up the stairs.

  As he heard her gain the floor above, Carver set himself a reminder to give her some positive feedback. She had done well for her first time.

  Chapter 21

  As Jess burst out into the hallway, she had to swerve to avoid colliding with the slightly built young woman wearing a paper suit who was coming through the front door. She was carrying a chrome-steel examination box. Jess recognised her as Claire Trevor, the head of the Forensic Team assigned to the Kerry cases.

  Seeing Jess, Claire began, ‘Hi Jess, I-’

  Jess didn’t stop but went straight out into the street.

  At the front, black metal railings surrounded the cellar bay. Leaning over, Jess gulped fresh air. Conscious she was in view of those who had already started to gather – a couple of reporters, some neighbours, other gawpers - she fought not to throw up.

  Even as she’d followed Carver down the steps, Jess had felt her heart pounding. She’d seen plenty of bodies in her time but this was her first Worshipper scene. As she stepped around her boss’s sturdy frame and saw Corinne Anderson, the pounding increased. Her breathing soon quickened to the point where she was in danger of hyper-ventilating and she had to consciously work at slowing it down. The urge to turn and run back up the steps was so strong it surprised her. She had to work on it for a good few minutes before it went away. During that time she hoped she’d managed to give the impression she was coping, conscious that Carver would be noting her reaction. After a while and in order to distract herself from the dark thoughts running through her head, she took out her pocket book and pretended to take notes. She hoped Carver would never ask to see the meaningless scribbles.

  Next to her father’s funeral, Jess’s first Worshipper scene had been one of the worst experiences of her life. She already knew it would take some getting over. It wasn’t so much the body. She’d witnessed death enough times it no longer bothered her. It was coming face-to-face with the tableaux she’d only seen before in photographs and on video that got to her. She’d always known the first time was going to be difficult. Her early reactions to the photos had told her that. Even so, she wasn’t prepared for the assault on her senses that hit when she saw Corinne Anderson’s lifeless face, her bulging eyes, the swollen tongue, the ribbon wound tight round her throat.

  Things started to go wrong almost immediately. Though she knew she shouldn’t, she couldn’t stop thinking about how Corinne had died. She began to mentally reconstruct the scene, letting it play over in her mind like a video-loop. Time and again she imagined a dark figure, indistinct but menacing, standing behind Corinne, pulling the ribbon tight. And she had imagined the woman’s terror, tied helpless to the post, as the life was wrung out of her. To begin with it was like watching some by-the-numbers TV drama. Chilling, but not particularly involving. But after replaying the scene several times, and without any warning, her perspective suddenly switched. Suddenly she was the woman bound to the post. She actually found herself holding her breath as she imagined her air being cut off. She had to force herself to start breathing when she realised she was becoming light-headed. It was then she started scribbling, desperate to divert her over-active imagination away from the awful facts of Corinne’s death. It hadn’t worked. The harrowing scene continued to play. She’d begun to panic, thinking there must be something wrong with her, that perhaps she wasn’t cut out for this sort of work after all. She’d been on the point of turning to flee back up the steps, when Carver mentioned the fingers. It was then - God knows how - she remembered her trip to India.

  It was years ago, before University. She and her mother had joined her father on one of his work-trips and he’d taken them to some temple outside Delhi. She remembered the priest showing them the ‘correct’ way to pray, with their little fingers bent under, pressing against each other. The memory had come like a lifeline to a drowning woman. It probably gave Carver the impression that her mind was functioning rationally. She wondered if she would ever be able to tell him the truth.

  Revived, a little, by the fresh air, Jess forced herself back to the present. Looking round she saw the young PC by the front door whose job it was to log everyone in and out. He was watching her, a sympathetic look on his face.

  'Bad in there, is it?' he said.

  She shook her head, shuddered. 'Not good.'

  On shaking legs, she walked down to where her car was parked. Thank God they’d travelled separately. She needed some space. But as she reached it, her stomach spasmed. Leaning over the wheel arch, she heaved the remains of her lunch into the gutter.

  Several pairs of eyes, peering out from behind lace curtains and slatted blinds, witnessed Jess’s distress. It would give rise to a rumour - which would persist for weeks - that the scene of Corinne Anderson’s murder was as gory and blood-spattered as they come.

  At that moment, Jess couldn’t have cared less.

  The Pathologist’s examination complete - Howard had found nothing that signalled anything significant - Carver craved fresh air himself. So far he’d managed to keep other distracting thoughts at bay. But now other memories, Megan Crane amongst them, were starting to intrude.

  It was clear now she hadn’t been the killer’s next planned target after all. Corinne Anderson had already been cast in that role. How long ago, he wondered? And what did that say about the stars against the entries in the magazine? What did it say about Megan Crane? Did it mean anything, or was someone playing games, in which case, who, and why? He didn’t let himself dwell on it. Okay, they were too late to prevent Corinne Anderson’s death, but Megan Crane might still point them in the right direction. This latest killing meant that whatever urges were driving the killer, they were likely to have been sated – at least for the time being. In most series, the intervals grow shorter as the killings continue. Even so, it was a reasonable bet it would now be several weeks before they needed to start worrying again about who may be next. It meant they had time to dig deeper, to get to know more about Megan Crane, and the strange world she inhabited.

  As he mounted the steps taking him out of the fantasy world where Corinne Anderson had played and died, Carver felt the familiar, conflicting emotions – eager anticipation and a dread foreboding - taking root once more.

  Chapter 22

  The Duke sat at his desk, Carver facing. ‘DOM!’ magazine lay between them, open at the page showing Megan Crane’s listing. The Duke’s face was grave.

  ‘So do these bloody stars mean anything, or is someone fucking with us?’

  Carver hesitated. He’d been asking himself the same question all the way back. ‘There’s no way of knowing. It could be whoever sent it, simply got things wrong-’

  ‘Or?’

  ‘Or like you say. Someone’s fucking with us.’

  ‘The killer?’

  Carver shrugged. ‘Right now, your guess is as good as mine.’

  ‘For fuck’s sake, Jamie. It was you said we needed to focus on the magazine in the first place. What are you saying now? It may be a load of bollocks?’

  Carver ignored the accusatory tone, shook his head. ‘I’m saying, on what we’ve got, we can’t say one way or another. We need to keep an open mind.’

  ‘An open mind,’ The Duke repeated, more evenly. Carver sensed his frustration. ‘Great.’

  Still, Carver waited. The Duke was playing catch-up. In reality nothing had changed, apart from someone else had died.

  ‘Was she listed?' The Duke said.

  ‘Just a photograph and a reference, but she was there. Some of the longer standing subscribers don’t always put a full entry in every reprint. Just enough to show they are still active.’r />
  The Duke mused on it. 'That might cause us a problem.’

  Carver nodded. The thought had occurred as he’d watched Howard Gladding going about his business.

  After discovering the link with ‘DOM’ they’d met with the ACC overseeing the enquiry. They’d talked about whether to contact all of DOM’s two hundred-plus entrants, or just those starred. He’d argued that contacting them all risked alerting the killer. They might lose their only advantage, and there may not be another. Eventually he’d got his way. The decision to contact only the starred entry - Megan Crane - was recorded in the enquiry Policy Book under The Duke’s signature, and ratified by the ACC. It was a calculated risk. The sort SIOs often have to take. On this occasion it hadn’t paid off, and Corinne Anderson had died. Of course, if and when the next Six-Week Review fell due, it would find that the decision had been taken only after all possible consequences had been properly weighed. No blame would attach to Carver, or any of them, over Corinne’s death, though he could already hear the words, ‘with hindsight’, ringing in his ears.

  But Carver’s mind was still clear. 'We’ve got to stick with it John. ‘DOM’ is still the only thing we’ve got.'