Black Heart

by Anna-Lou Weatherley

  She made an appreciative noise as his picture enlarged on her computer screen. Not bad, not bad at all. Definitely a contender. She smiled as she lit a cigarette, putting her feet up onto the desk and leaning back in the swivel chair. Florence’s profile was proving popular. But then that was only to be expected. This guy was quite attractive though: thick, dark hair with the lightest first smatterings of salt-and-pepper grey around his hairline, good teeth, neat and straight – a must for boyfriend/potential baby-father material – and icy marine eyes, neither blue nor green but somewhere in-between. He was smiling, looking relaxed in a V-neck white T-shirt which showed off a light tan; it was probably a holiday snap, she decided. The ease of his smile and the hint of sexuality behind his eyes suggested that a woman had taken it…

  His profile said he was forty-one, slightly older. She was looking for someone with a bit of experience, someone who knew his way round a relationship with a woman, someone with marriage and fatherhood credentials. The various dating and hook-up sites that she’d been using were the perfect hunting ground – such fun getting to be whoever you decided, so… liberating. She had procured Daddy Bear on Sugarpop.com, a site solely dedicated to older men looking for younger women to fuck and spoil – no harm in that, at least not for her. It was mutually beneficial as far as she could see. It had been fun phishing for victims, creating a new and different persona for each one of them. It had proved quite lucrative too, both sexually and fiscally. The men she’d come into contact with had been carefully selected for their usability, whether for sex, dining out, receiving gifts and trips, or in Daddy Bear’s case – committing murder. She marvelled at how easy it was to have her every desire and whim fulfilled simply by using a few choice words and a decent profile shot. These internet dating sites were a veritable smorgasbord, a chocolate-box selection in which she’d taken her pick. She was careful not to stay on any of them for too long however; as soon as she’d ensnared her chosen victim, rinsed them of whatever particular need she required at that time, she would delete her profile and join another, careful not to leave a trail. But now she wanted an actual boyfriend, a much more discerning task. He had to be loyal, clean-cut, a nine-to-fiver; the type of guy who was as happy with a pizza on the couch on a Saturday night as he was in a crowded trendy bar… someone to go on weekend breaks with, date nights to the cinema and trips to the supermarket with. A regular guy, the perfect ruse. And this dude, forty-one, from London, certainly seemed to fit the bill. She composed a short message:

  ‘Hi there, thanks for the wink, I’m flattered to receive attention from such a good-looking guy – few and far between on this site, that’s for sure, lol! I’m Florence, I’m thirty-two and single, obviously (!) and I’m training to be an actress (Theatre Studies, mainly) for my sins, though I assure you I’m no drama queen. I don’t get much free time but what little I do have, I’d like to spend getting to know someone. Could that be you? If you’d like to meet for coffee sometime then message me back. Flo x’

  She re-read it quickly and feeling that it struck the balance between friendly, funny and complimentary, she fired it off.

  ‘Florence’ lit another cigarette. She was bored and restless and decided to knock Kizzy up. Their relationship had been developing rapidly. Kizzy had even given her a key to her apartment, entrusting her with it should she ever lock herself out again. Poor old damaged, downtrodden Kizzy, so trusting. Her caring, nurturing nature made her so gullible, she was looking forward to killing her and putting her out of her misery. She rang the bell. There was no answer and she felt a little deflated – she must be at work. She heard Kizzy’s cat, Esmerelda, meowing behind the door. It was a whiny, mangy old thing with sticky eyes and bad breath, but Kizzy adored it. ‘He got the house, I got the cat!’ she’d laughed as she’d said it, like she was somehow resigned to having been so royally fucked over. Loser. She decided to let herself in anyway. It was cold inside Kizzy’s flat and there was a warm biscuity smell of cat’s piss lingering in the air. Esmerelda seemed pleased to see her, winding herself around her legs and purring. She roughly pushed the hapless animal away with her foot. She hated cats, this one in particular. It was just like its owner: needy and overly affectionate. Wretched thing was probably hungry.

  She padded into the kitchen and opened the fridge, helping herself to a glass of rosé from an open bottle. She turned the radio on. It was playing The Verve’s ‘Bitter Sweet Symphony’ and she cranked up the volume – she liked this tune and began to sing along ‘it’s a bitter sweet symphony this liiiife…’. She rifled through Kizzy’s mail; it was boring, nothing but bills, oh but hang on, there was a letter from her GP. It was an appointment to see her therapist. There was a prescription slip next to it for Diazepam.

  Sipping on her wine she walked into Kizzy’s bedroom, all pink floral curtains, a matching duvet and valance, stupid wooden signs that spelt out pathetic affirmations like ‘sweet dreams’ and ‘home sweet home’ – as ‘girlie’ as it gets. It looked like the bedroom of a love-struck teenager. But then she knew Kizzy believed in love, really believed in it. They’d discussed it a few times.

  ‘I’ve always only ever wanted that kind of love where, you know, you meet that one special person and they just know, you know? They know that it’s just you and them against the world… together… A soulmate, unconditional love, where you don’t know where you end and they begin… invisible threads that bind you… two minds and hearts intertwined… Love that knows no boundaries… the kind of love where that other person walks into a room and your heart skips a beat, even thirty years after you first met, one heart, one mind… Do you know what I mean, Danni-Jo?’

  She’d nodded as she inwardly sneered. Poor, deluded old Kizzy. No wonder she’d been abused all her life; she had co-dependency written through her like a stick of rock. She had no idea this ‘kind of love’ did not and never would exist in hers or anyone else’s lifetime and that her beliefs belonged only to the abused, the used and the hoodwinked. Such beliefs were pathetic, futile and idealistic. People lied about love; society lied, your parents lied, the films and songs and poems in birthday cards… lies, lies, lies. Love was simply a concept to hurt and manipulate people with. But the heart will swallow anything when it’s hungry, will tolerate such treachery and pain just for this so-called emotion. But why should it? Love is not supposed to hurt. Real love doesn’t, or so Kizzy thinks.

  This was simply not a truth that Danni-Jo believed in. For some people ‘love’ manifested itself through pain and murder and hate. She hated Kizzy for having all these honest, positive, clean beliefs. Even after the atrocities this woman had endured at the hands of ‘love’, she still believed in it. How could she? Kizzy was insane. She was ill. She must be if she believed anyone would ever love her in that way. She was nothing more than a fantasist; eternally let down by her unrealistic beliefs. She needed to be put out of her misery, she really did. It had been and it would always be a lifetime of disappointment for Kizzy, despite her eternal optimism. Optimism. It could only lead to no good. Kizzy had not yet reached her own depths of despair; of that she was sure. And she didn’t want Kizzy to: she would die with the idea of a forever love. A beautiful love that lasts forever. She deserved that. It was better that way for Mummy Bear.

  But first, Esmerelda.

  There was nothing of note in the bedroom, so she left it with a bad taste in her mouth. Taking the arsenic from the vial, she walked through to the living room, where the small kitchen area was, and opened the fridge. There was a tin of Whiskas cat food in the inside draw, half-full. She screwed her nose up as she took it out, the fishy stench turning her stomach as she sliced a quarter of it into the cat bowl, adding the arsenic and mixing it up with her own hands before replacing it. Esmerelda purred gratefully around her calves as she went to work on the cat bowl. She really was hungry, poor thing.

  ‘Bon appétit, Esmerelda,’ she said, as the cat’s wet nose poked through her legs.

  Chapter Twelve

  So,
I’m looking at the CCTV, standing over DS Davis’ shoulder. The overriding smell inside the incident room is of testosterone and the overheating plastic of computers, with overtones of stale coffee and sweat. It’s a unique scent; the smell of hard work and dedication, not altogether pleasant, but I still can’t say I don’t like it.

  However, as I lean over Davis I get a waft of her perfume. She’s been going through CCTV from the hotel lobby on the day of Baxter’s death, and from the twenty-four hours before and afterwards. This girl has been on it for almost three days now. I want and need these kinds of people on the force, the job, or whatever you want to call it, because her tenacity has paid off: she’s found something.

  ‘Talk me through it, Davis,’ I say, though my causal tone belies the flurry of adrenaline that’s clawing its way through my veins liked barbed wire. I’ve been in this game long enough to know how it often works; once you get that first break in the case the rest starts to roll. It’s like a chain reaction, one lead leads to another and then another, and then… gotcha! But it’s getting that first break that can be a real pisser. And you need it quick on homicide. It’s human to have momentum at the start of a murder case, and it’s also human to gradually grow despondent and weary when you don’t catch a break. I’ve worked on cases that have gone cold, though admittedly, luckily, only a few, and while momentum wanes, the team doesn’t want to give up. Giving up is the worst feeling in the world. It’s failure. You failed to do your job, you failed to catch the bad guy, but most of all you failed the victim, their family and their need for justice. And I’m not about to fail poor old Nigel Baxter, or Janet and her kids for that matter. I’m not in the habit of failing.

  ‘Well, boss,’ Davis says, starting to run the video, and I can hear the triumph in her voice already, which sends my adrenaline further into overdrive. I have to grip the back of her seat, my face almost touching her hair. It smells nice, kind of herbal. ‘I’m cross-eyed with this after going through it over and over again… At first look, I saw nothing of note, like twenty-four hours of nothing of note…’ She clears her throat in preparation, ‘The lobby was busy that day… really busy… but I couldn’t put my finger on something—’

  She’s dragging it out and I let her because she’s earned it. It’s only fair. To deny her her build-up to the moment would be like sex without foreplay, and I’m not a one-way street kind of bloke, at least I hope not. Rach never complained anyhow and I’m sure she would have. She wasn’t the type to hold back.

  ‘Go on,’ I say coaxing her gently.

  ‘There were so many people coming and going…’ she sounds retrospectively weary. ‘But I’ve studied them all… every single person who entered that lobby that day and the following day… I know who came into that building and who left… and given the time line…’

  Her hair is reacting to the static from the computer and the cheap plod carpet, and it’s beginning to fly up a little in my face. I want to brush it away, but it seems too personal so I let it stick to my chin. I miss being personal with a woman… Maybe I will reply to that woman, Florence, on SadSingles.com when I get home and agree to coffee. Nothing to lose when you’ve already lost it all.

  I swallow back the desire to spin Davis around in her chair so that she quickly gets to the point but like I said, she deserves this moment: she’s worked for it.

  ‘So, I think there’s no one of note… at first,’ she says, briefly looking back at me, her tired eyes shining. ‘Baxter arrives,’ she continues, ‘there he is…’

  She plays the video and I’m glued to it, the image burning through my retinas. I see his large bulk enter the lobby and I feel a pang in my chest because he looks happy, you know, it’s in his step and demeanour, silly, fat sod. And that poor man, he has no idea he’s about to meet his end.

  ‘So,’ Davis says, efficiently, ‘he checks in around oneish… all good.’

  The CCTV captures him heading to the lifts on the left-hand side. Then he disappears out of view.

  ‘We lose him here.’

  ‘Okay… ’ I say with an intake of breath. I’m about to combust. Davis runs the tape forwards.

  ‘And then this…’

  I’m up closer to the screen now, nose almost touching it, like I don’t trust my own eyes.

  ‘It’s 3.36 p.m. The blonde there, see her? She doesn’t check in… goes straight into the lift… look… she’s seen again on CCTV going up to room 106… the camera gets her, Gov.’ Davis looks me fully in the eye then, grinning. This is ambrosia and we both know it.

  ‘She knocks on the door and goes into the room…’

  My heart is galloping like a bunch of wild horses and I’m pretty convinced Davis can hear it, even above her own heartbeat.

  ‘And there’s no CCTV of her leaving…?’

  ‘Nope…’

  I implode. ‘Fuck me…’ I swear. I actually swear.

  ‘Or so I thought at first…’ She’s teasing me now; the performance isn’t over yet, there’s more. ‘But then I kept running and re-running the tape because I figured, what goes in must come out.’

  Logical thinking. I like it.

  She rolls the CCTV forward and the whirring sound of the machine grinds on me. ‘It’s almost 4 pm… three quarters of an hour later. Look…’ She points to the screen ‘… see the girl here…?’

  I stare at the image: a dark brunette with a beanie hat on, dressed in dark jeans and a bomber jacket. She’s wearing glasses.

  ‘An accomplice?’ I’m speculating now, because I don’t know what she’s getting at.

  ‘No boss,’ Davis says with an air of confidence that suggests she already knows something I don’t. ‘It’s the same girl. It’s the blonde.’

  I stoop down and she freezes the frame, but I’m still not seeing it; she’s nothing like Blondie, the hair, the get-up, it’s all different.

  ‘A disguise you think?’

  Davis nods profusely.

  ‘Exactly.’

  I feel a bit deflated because, well, it’s an assumption rather than fact, and in all honesty it’s not even a very clear assumption if my eyes are anything to go by.

  Davis senses this and says, ‘It’s her, boss, I’m telling you. This is the blonde who went up to Baxter’s suite an hour earlier… and this is her leaving.’

  I nod. I don’t want to discredit what she’s saying, rain on her parade, but I’m not entirely convinced. ‘I suppose it’s conceivable,’ I say, ‘she could’ve gone incognito.’

  ‘She did,’ Davis says quickly with a conviction I admire, even if I don’t actually share it. We might have to get the experts in on this one; the facial recognition people. And

  that means more time and money spent.

  ‘What makes you sure it’s the same woman? Am I missing something?’ I keep the disappointment from my voice, or at least I try to.

  Davis beams at me triumphantly, infectiously. I find myself smiling back at her. ‘Yes Gov, you are.’

  I shrug my shoulders and open up my palms.

  ‘Enlighten me.’

  ‘See that?’ she says, rolling the tape on a bit and freezing it on a full frontal of the brunette as she exits the lift.

  ‘See what?’

  She places a neat short fingernail on the screen. ‘The handbag,’ she says. ‘The tote she’s carrying… it’s exactly the same one as the blonde’s.’

  Chapter Thirteen

  There’s a knock at the door and Danni-Jo gives a small smile as she wraps the towel around her damp hair. She’s been expecting it.

  ‘Coming…’ she sings, pausing for a few seconds before opening the door. ‘Hey Kizzy, I was just wash—’ She stops mid-sentence, ‘Jesus, what’s up… are you okay?’

  Kizzy’s swollen red eyes meet her own. She’s whimpering slightly, emitting a primeval kind of mewing, much like her dead cat once used to, and her unruly ginger hair is even more dishevelled than usual. She’s wearing a T-shirt with a photograph of Esmerelda on it, one of those cheap, nasty re
pro jobs you get done on the high street.

  ‘What on earth’s happened?’ Danni-Jo ushers her neighbour inside with concern. ‘You look terrible.’

  Kizzy starts crying.

  ‘Oh God, Danni-Jo, it’s just too awful, just… just so awful.’ She’s inconsolable, almost unable to speak through her anguish.

  ‘Let me make you some tea,’ she replies, ‘then you can tell me what’s happened.’

  Kizzy appears to relax a little bit, nodding as she loudly blows her nose into a tissue.

  ‘I haven’t caught you at a bad time, have I?’ Even now, in her depths of despair, Kizzy is being considerate. ‘I thought you might be at school… at your classes.’

  ‘No, I have a few free periods this week,’ Danni-Jo calls back, busying herself with the tea. ‘We’re doing Shakespeare at the moment… Taming of the Shrew. Rehearsals don’t start until next week.’ She marvels at how easily the lies fall from her lips, at how she is able to conjure them up without much effort or thought. She really should’ve been an actress; she is such an accomplished liar. Maybe after this, after she’s completed her mission, she’ll put this skill to good use, go into politics perhaps. She looks at Kizzy with pity, such sentimentality over a mangy old moggie. She needs to toughen up. Killing her cat was really an act of kindness towards her friend. A lesson she needed to learn. Kizzy would never have gone far in life because of her wretched sentimentality and her belief in love and inherent goodness. She’s been setting herself up for a fall her whole miserable life. It’s not the way it works.

  ‘I was colouring my hair… I’ve got a date later,’ Danni-Jo continues, pouring boiling water into the teapot. Tea tasted so much better from a pot. Her father had her make it this way. He would only drink tea made this way. Once she had cheated and used a teabag and he’d known instantly, though how he realised, she still did not know to this day. He’d punished her severely for that, in the worst way imaginable. She still had faint scars – they’d faded with time, but her invisible scars were as raw and fresh as if they had been inflicted yesterday.