A Woman Worth Waiting For

by Meredith Webber

You—me—tonight…

  Dozens of words threw themselves up as possibilities but none would form into sentences, especially since a shuffle of movement had brought Paul Markham into view.

  Perhaps realising that her latest visitor had been struck dumb, Ginny spoke again.

  ‘Paul and I are about to go out to dinner,’ she said, poleaxing Max yet again. ‘Perhaps we could discuss whatever it was tomorrow.’

  Wondering if he looked as flummoxed as he felt, Max made his way along the veranda to his flat. He unlocked the door, walked in, closed it behind him, then leant against it.

  Any minute now, Ginny would arrive, tap on the door and, when he opened it, whisper that it was all a mistake— a ploy, a ruse, more play-acting.

  But to what end?

  He replayed her conversation and realised the ice he’d heard hadn’t been put on—it had been real.

  He thought back. Their last meeting had been the stolen embrace in the patient cubicle earlier in the day, and Ginny had been as hot as he had been.

  Had it been the nurse arriving? Something someone had said to Ginny afterwards?

  No solutions appeared with light-bulb brilliance in his head, and he groaned quietly.

  Neither was Ginny going to come tapping on his door with explanations. As sure as he was standing here groaning, those were her footsteps—that her voice. She was, indubitably, going out to dinner with Paul Markham.

  Max left the security of the door and tottered towards a chair, grabbed a bottle of whisky from the divider on his way and poured himself a shot into the empty water glass which had been sitting on the coffee-table.

  He smelt the alcohol and knew immediately it wasn’t what he wanted.

  But what did he want—apart from Ginny?

  Explanations.

  Well, he was unlikely to get them tonight.

  He stood up, poured the whisky down the sink then, after checking he had his flat keys, he went out to his car to get the power connection cable for his laptop.

  He’d spend the evening correlating the information he’d collected from A and E then he’d retrieve his emails, maybe draw up a victim profile. Brent had emailed the information on the fourth victim earlier in the week. He was here to work after all. Not to seduce one of his subjects.

  CHAPTER NINE

  THE work depressed Max, and not having anyone with whom to discuss it frustrated him. It was impossible to look at the victims without considering the perpetrator, and the more Max noted down the facts they’d collected on him, the weirder the profile looked.

  A phone call to Brent’s home went unanswered, and the time difference was all wrong for him to phone a colleague in the States.

  So, he’s a disorganised organised type, or an organised disorganised, he told himself. It’s been known before. The Hillside Stranglers in Los Angeles were organised, but they didn’t hide the bodies—a disorganised trait. They revealed them because they wanted to taunt the police with their cleverness.

  Maybe our boy wanted the bodies found.

  Why?

  And if that’s the case, why pretend to hide them?

  Because he knows that’s what organised killers do?

  The questions nagged at him, keeping him awake until long after he heard Ginny and Paul return, heard her say goodnight and go into her flat, and Paul’s steps echo on the timber floor as he made his way to his temporary home.

  Max pressed his hand against the adjoining wall, and felt the stupidity of the gesture even as he did it. As if Ginny would be pressing hers to the same spot—to any spot, the way she was feeling about him right now!

  He listened, hoping to hear movement, but apart from the light which had shone out onto the veranda disappearing there was no indication she was at home.

  Or any in the morning when he knocked.

  ‘She was leaving early,’ a voice behind him said, and Max turned to see Paul standing there. ‘She swapped her shift with whoever was supposed to work on Monday and Tuesday, and was going to visit her parents. That’s why she wanted an early night, so she could get away before the traffic. You staying here over the weekend?’

  Max nodded. The information about Ginny had been a bodyblow but he hoped his reaction wasn’t obvious.

  ‘You’re off somewhere yourself?’ he asked, indicating the small overnight bag dangling from Paul’s elegantly manicured hand.

  ‘Going back to the house to do some much-needed tidying up,’ he said heavily. ‘One of Isobel’s brothers and his family are coming this afternoon. I’ve a feeling they might be on a mission to cheer me up and her family will keep finding excuses for one or other of them to fly down each weekend. This weekend it’s a child in need of an orthodontist.’

  ‘Well, it will be company for you,’ Max said, aware of a lameness in the words but unable to offer more.

  They exchanged some weather talk then said goodbye. Max watched him walk away, replaying the conversation in his head. It was perfectly acceptable social chit-chat, so why couldn’t he accept it as such?

  Because the man knew more of Ginny’s plans than you did?

  Correct that! He knew more of her recent plans!

  Why swap days off? Hospitals hadn’t changed so much that a last-minute switch of duty to claim a Saturday and Sunday instead of Monday and Tuesday off didn’t involve some very heavy-duty wheeling and dealing with members of other teams.

  It was the kind of swap for which you usually mortgaged your days off for the next month.

  Why?

  Max sneaked a look over his shoulder. If Sarah had been there, she’d probably have accused him of growling!

  Which he did, on and off, until Sunday evening, when Ginny returned.

  Unfortunately, Sarah all but dead-heated with her so, although he gained admission to Ginny’s flat, he’d done little more than collect himself and subdue the automatic excitement in his body before Sarah wandered in, suntanned but depressed.

  ‘Come on, you two. Share a little joy. Take me out to dinner so I don’t miss my family quite so much.’

  She must have sensed something in the stillness of the air, for she glanced from one to the other and added, ‘There is still joy to share, isn’t there?’

  ‘Precious little,’ Max snapped. ‘But we all have to eat so we might as well do it together. Unless, of course, Ginny has a date with Paul.’

  ‘Oh!’ Sarah said, backing towards the door as if she’d rather be anywhere but where she was.

  ‘Don’t go!’ Ginny pleaded. She shot a baleful glare at Max. ‘He’s carrying on about nothing. Of course we’ll all go out to dinner. Or we could get a pizza and a video delivered and veg out in front of the TV.’

  ‘Let’s go out,’ Sarah said. ‘How about the place on the river where we went with Paul? There were a couple of very enticing dishes on the menu, and as I’m working late most days this week I mightn’t have another chance to sample them.’

  Max looked at Ginny. She was pale, and couldn’t have been sleeping too well at her parents’ place because the skin beneath her eyes carried the blue-grey shadows of exhaustion. His arms ached to hold her, but he couldn’t move, the wall she’d erected around herself very apparent to him.

  ‘Maybe you’d prefer not to go out,’ he said, as the unhappiness lurking beneath her coolly formal manner seemed to seep into his skin.

  ‘No, I think going out is an excellent idea,’ she said. She turned to Sarah. ‘You want some time to freshen up?’

  Sarah shook her head.

  ‘This is as fresh as you’ll get me tonight. Let’s go eat then we can have an early night.’

  Max said nothing. What was there to say? He excused himself to go back to his flat and collect his wallet then, totally bemused by what was happening but determined not to miss any opportunity to find out, he returned in time to fall in behind the two women, both gabbing on about what they’d done over the weekend.

  He studied Ginny’s back and read defiance in the way she held her shoulders but no clue as t
o what had changed her from a warm, excited and exciting almost-lover to this cool, detached Max-loathing colleague.

  Was it a woman thing?

  Something to do with the tides or moon?

  It wasn’t until they were settled at the restaurant, glasses of water in front of them and their meals ordered, that they seemed to notice he was with them.

  ‘What did you get up to over the weekend?’ It was Sarah who asked. Ginny, quite obviously, couldn’t care less.

  ‘Worked,’ Max said, then decided two could play Ginny’s game. He wouldn’t let her see just how put out he was.

  Put out? More like furious by now!

  But he could play Mr Cool to her Mrs, if that’s what she wanted.

  ‘I correlated a lot of the information I’ve collected, drew a few conclusions.’

  He waved his hand airily in front of him as if such conclusions were too weighty to be shared with mere women. But Ginny was having none of his play-acting.

  ‘I bet you have,’ she sniped, then she frowned. ‘Actually,’ she began, her voice soft, bruised, ‘I’ve been thinking about the women—can’t stop thinking about them, but specifically about the lack of violence. I can understand a lack of violence with the actual killing, if drugs have been put into the meal, but why go off with a stranger in the first place? Particularly in the case of the last victim after three women who looked like her had been killed.’

  ‘You mentioned seeing a woman in the videos,’ Sarah said, ‘and I suppose it’s likely a young woman would trust another woman more than she’d trust a man she didn’t know, particularly if the woman maybe asked for help of some kind.’

  ‘What if it wasn’t help but an arranged meeting? Perhaps arranged some time earlier, before the first murder?’ Max asked.

  Both women looked at him as if it was the chair who’d suddenly joined the conversation.

  ‘I am part of this discussion, aren’t I?’ he said, then he smiled. Not a good smile, but an expression of amusement nonetheless. ‘I’ve just thought of something I read in Brent’s notes. A tenuous connection. Something about two of the women being interested in modelling. I guess that applies to thousands of attractive young women but apparently two of them had mentioned the possibility of getting a portfolio of photos to friends or family within recent months.’

  ‘If the woman in the suit met them at work, or even in the street, and introduced herself as a representative of a modelling agency—maybe weeks earlier—and said she’d be in touch to arrange a trial photo-shoot…’

  Ginny’s voice died away as if the enormity of the idea was too much to put into words.

  ‘I can picture that scenario,’ Sarah said. ‘A woman saying, “Don’t tell your friends or we’ll be swamped by hopefuls, and don’t let your parents get too excited about it in case nothing comes of it.” The young women would hint to friends or family, but keep it relatively quiet until the woman let them know a definite date and time.’

  ‘Which she wouldn’t do until the last possible moment. It would work, wouldn’t it?’ Ginny said, following through on Sarah’s suggestion. ‘A photo-shoot would get the young women to a specific destination at an appointed time.’

  ‘You worked on the fourth victim, Ginny,’ Max said. ‘Could a woman have done it?’

  ‘Physically? I imagine so. A soft ligature of some kind had been used, and I doubt that would need a lot of physical strength. The injury was extreme so there had to be a lot of force, but it could have been applied by twisting something in the knot. Psychologically, you’re the expert,’ Ginny reminded him.

  ‘I had a feeling that strangling wasn’t a woman’s crime,’ Sarah said, ‘although I know generalisations are made to be faulted.’

  ‘Manual strangling is unusual for a woman,’ Max admitted. ‘They lack the strength required to immobilise the victim while they strangle him or her, unless they’re excessively large and strong. But in these cases—with a ligature of some kind, say a scarf slipped over the woman’s head and around her neck—I imagine a woman could do it fairly easily.’

  ‘The victims didn’t struggle,’ Ginny reminded him.

  The waiter arrived with their meals and conversation ceased while plates were set down and the food sampled.

  ‘So we have to consider drugs.’ Sarah stabbed her fork into the air as she brought the conversation back to where they’d left it. ‘And if they were drugged, then I’d agree—a woman could have strangled them.’

  She looked at Max.

  ‘You must have seen the toxicology reports. Were drugs found?’

  ‘Slight traces, but not in the quantities you’d expect to knock out a full-grown woman.’

  ‘What about a mild sedative?’ Ginny suggested. ‘Something an anaesthetist might give to relax the patient prior to full-scale anaesthetic?’

  ‘Something with a short half-life.’ Sarah picked up on Ginny’s thoughts, using the term to signify the time taken for traces of a drug to leave the body. ‘Perhaps that’s why the fourth victim was still alive. Whoever kills them renders them unconscious through strangulation, but doesn’t finish the job until just before he, or she, hides them, hoping the drug will have passed out of their body by then. But what drugs like that would be readily available? Not sedatives for pre-anaesthesia, that’s for sure.’

  ‘Some antipsychotics have short half-lives,’ Ginny reminded her. ‘We use them in A and E from time to time when a patient needs fast sedation.’

  ‘And once knocked out, I imagine it would only take a minute or so to strangle someone, or injure them badly enough to render them unconscious, so you wouldn’t need anything long-lasting.’

  Sarah spelled out the possibility but Max was watching Ginny’s face and saw what little colour she’d had drain away, leaving her freckles standing out against her too-pale skin.

  ‘We’re back to people with medical knowledge and access to less common drugs, aren’t we? I hate to think it’s someone from the medical profession,’ she protested. ‘Having a woman suspect is bad enough, but a doctor or nurse— someone trained to save lives? I can’t believe it.’

  ‘There are any number of precedents,’ Max said. He pushed his half-finished meal away. Ginny’s patent unhappiness, and his inability to do anything about it, had stolen his appetite. ‘But don’t go leaping to conclusions about medical personnel. There are more sources of drugs, both legal and illegal, than a hospital.’

  ‘I suppose so,’ she agreed, then she, too, pushed her meal away.

  ‘Well, I’m really glad I chose you two to cheer me up,’ Sarah said, glancing from one to the other. ‘How about I get a cab back to the flats and you both stay here, maybe have a glass of wine and thrash out whatever’s bothering you?’

  ‘Why should anything be bothering us?’ Ginny demanded.

  Sarah chuckled.

  ‘Well, last week you had trouble keeping your hands off each other. I go away, thinking what a favour I’m doing you, leaving you all but alone in the flats, and come back to find a mile-high barrier erected between you in my absence.’

  ‘Which should have been erected earlier,’ Ginny snapped. ‘I should have learnt my lesson to steer clear of him six years ago, but at least back then I thought he was trustworthy.’

  ‘Trustworthy?’ Max found his repetition of the word was echoed by Sarah, which, under any other circumstance, he’d have found reassuring. But tonight he was too bewildered to make head or tail of it.

  ‘Yes, trustworthy!’ Ginny repeated, then, as if unable to hold in her indignation another second, she went on, ‘Did you or did you not mention Sally’s name to your policeman cousin? It had nothing whatsoever to do with the videos or what we were supposed to be watching on them, and it was only a glimpse. I wasn’t even sure it was her but, no, you open your mouth and suddenly I’m like suspect number one, being questioned, in work hours, in my workplace, about the glimpse of someone I might have seen on a tape.’

  Once again Max had a feeling of being mouth agape. H
e restrained himself from saying any of the stupid things that sprang to his lips and carefully sorted through Ginny’s words for some clue as to why she’d be so upset.

  Found nothing, so tried explanation.

  ‘When I told Brent you’d noticed nothing beyond the woman in the suit, he pressed for any reactions you might have had to any of the videos, at any time. He asked about chance remarks or gestures you might have made which had conveyed surprise or something out of the ordinary. Often we reveal more in what we don’t say—’

  ‘So you were spying on me for him!’ Ginny spat the words at Max. ‘All this pretended concern was an act.’

  He held out his hands in supplication.

  ‘What can I say?’ he demanded as his own ire built under the barrage of unjust accusation. ‘Whatever I tell you, you’ll take it the wrong way. Do you want this monster caught or not? Are you more interested in some imagined hurt I’d dealt you than in finding whoever it was who killed four women?’

  Ginny’s eyes flashed fire and he guessed the leash she had on her temper was about to snap.

  ‘Of course I want the person caught, but me imagining I saw someone who was ten thousand miles away isn’t going to help you catch your murderer. So why mention it to your cousin?’

  ‘You make it sound like a betrayal, Ginny,’ he said sadly, ‘when you must know I’d never betray you. But part of seeking out the truth is finding the bits that don’t fit. You saw something you believed didn’t fit. I mentioned it.’

  He should have been hoping she’d understand, that they could get over this once and for all, but instead his professional training and experience had taken precedence over emotion, and what didn’t fit now was Ginny’s reaction to this entire episode.

  Why was she so upset over this possible sighting of a woman who, she’d admitted, couldn’t have had anything to do with it?

  ‘Who’s this Sally anyway?’

  Sarah asked the million-dollar question.

  ‘She’s a friend—well, more an acquaintance,’ Ginny told her, the defiance in her voice repeated in her eyes as she glared at Max.

  ‘And she’s ten thousand miles away?’ Sarah persisted.