by Amy Cross
“And the rest he just threw away,” I point out.
“God knows what selection criteria he was using,” Maitland continues. “You'll notice that we have a number of different skin tones here, no two quite alike, almost as if the killer specifically sought a variety of ethnic samples. Maybe he was trying to make a statement about the state of multi-cultural Britain, eh?”
“Maybe,” I mutter, looking down at the surreal sight of a pile of hands. It's hard to believe that they're real; they look more like dirty porcelain doll parts, but they have ragged cuts around the wrists, with pieces of bone sticking out from the decaying meat.
“They're like pieces from a doll, aren't they?” Maitland adds.
“Just what I was thinking,” I tell him.
“It's quite strange to think of this chap sitting in the hut over there, trying out different bits from each body until he finally managed to create something he was happy with. I dare say there must be some kind of pattern, or at least a system that seemed logical to the killer at the time, although I'm not quite sure how we can go about figuring that system out. Still, that's your job, isn't it?”
“And your job is to find something here we can use,” I tell him. “With all these parts, there has to be something that can tie the killer to the scene. I don't care how long it takes you, but coming away from here empty-handed is not an option.” I stare at the pile of hands. “You know what I mean.”
“I'll do my best.”
“This person's smart,” I continue, “but they only buried the body parts a few feet deep, and they left all their equipment in the hut where they knew it'd be found eventually.” I pause for a moment, running through the options. “The killer wants to be caught,” I add finally, starting to get an idea of what must be happening, “but at the same time, he wants to control the way that it happens. He knows it's inevitable, but he wants to be in charge.”
“You got all that just from some bin bags?” Maitland asks.
“It's a working theory,” I reply, reaching into my pocket to pull out my vibrating phone. As I do so, however, I dislodge half a dozen chocolate bars, sending them falling to the forest floor.
“Snack?” Maitland says with a smile.
“Yeah,” I mutter, feeling intensely embarrassed as I pick the bars up and stuff them back into my pocket. Checking my phone, I see that I've got a message from Ophelia:
Ready to be picked up. No hurry, though. Having fun on the ward. Nurses hate me.
My first reaction is to be relieved that I now have a chance to sit Ophelia down and pick her brain regarding this case. My second reaction is to be annoyed by my first reaction. I shouldn't need to bring Ophelia in to help out, but at the same time I can't deny that she might be useful. I just don't want anyone else to know that I'm getting her involved.
Glancing across the clearing, I spot a building in the distance.
“What's that?” I ask.
“The local art college,” Maitland replies. “Beacon Court. My son went to an open day there once. It's the kind of place where a bunch of spotty no-hopers hang out and get pointless qualifications while wasting a few years of their lives. You know the kind of thing. Someone paints a twig purple, sticks it in an orange, and claims it's an exploration of the human psyche. Complete bollocks, most of it. Give me a proper painting any day, something that requires real skill and talent, like a Rembrandt or a Vermeer.” He pauses. “Maybe I'm just a bit of a traditionalist, but modern art just seems to me to be a load of bull, designed to entertain vacuous minds.”
“So this land belongs to the college?” I reply.
“Why?” he asks after a moment. “Do you think the killer is trying to implicate someone who works or studies there?”
“Or the killer works or studies there himself,” I point out.
“Why would he be so stupid as to leave all this evidence in his own back yard?” Maitland replies. “He might as well draw a big red arrow pointing at the damn place. It's not subtle at all.”
“You saw the stunt with the plinth in Trafalgar Square,” I point out. “That wasn't the work of someone lacking in confidence. It was someone who wants to be seen, someone who does these things because he wants to get people's attention.”
“You mean... an artist?”
“It's one possibility,” I continue, “and that level of confidence probably extends to the way he covers up his tracks. He could have left these remains somewhere far away, but he chose to leave them here and he deliberately left them in a manner that meant they'd be found pretty quickly.”
“So we're talking about an attention-seeking killer?”
“Like I said,” I continue, “maybe the killer fully expects to be caught and just wants to control the process we use to get to him. He must know that our next step is going to be to visit the college and ask if anyone saw anything. He thinks we'll get to that stage eventually anyway, so he figures he might as well hurry us up. He's too impatient to sit around waiting for us to get to him using the normal methods.”
“That's quite a leap,” Maitland points out. “I heard you were good at this sort of thing.”
“But it makes sense,” I reply, still staring at the distant building, “and it's not like we won't still have work to do. If he wants to push us in a certain direction, subtlety isn't too important. How many people use that college on a daily basis?”
“Too many,” he mutters.
“Then that settles it,” I continue. “The killer's funneling us, trying to define the steps in our investigation. He absolutely wants us to go and start sniffing around at the college, but he's being completely unsubtle about it, and he must know that we'll wonder why he didn't hide the body parts better. He's probably also considered the possibility that we're noticing this about him.” My phone vibrates, and I look down to see another message from Ophelia:
Actually I'm quite bored now. Nurses blanking me. What time are you coming?
I turn and look at the SOCA crew, just as they start removing severed arms from another bag. Each arm, locked into the stiffness of rigor mortis, looks almost as if it's waiting to be snapped.
“Once the scene has been documented,” Maitland continues, “I'm going to get all the pieces taken back to the lab, and then I'm going to have this entire area scoured. If the killer so much as dropped a hair or a flake of dandruff, we'll find it.”
“There'll definitely be something,” I reply, looking down at the tarpaulin again. “It'll be something he left on purpose, though. Something he wants us to find.”
“Where are you off to?” he asks as I turn to walk away.
“I have to pick up a friend,” I reply. “Well, not a friend, exactly. Just someone I know.”
Chapter Eleven
Ophelia
“Before you leave,” the nurse says, as I finish getting dressed, “there's one small detail we need to go over. I'm afraid we don't actually have your full, legal name on file.”
“I know,” I tell her, turning and heading to the door.
“Well, actually, we need it,” she continues, hurrying after me with a clipboard in her hands. “All patients must -”
“I'm not a patient,” I point out, walking quickly toward the exit.
“Um, well, you are -”
“No, I was discharged a few minutes ago.”
“But you were a patient, so -”
“So you should have got my name then, shouldn't you?”
“You were in a coma.”
“I know.”
“So I couldn't get your name then, could I?” she points out. “The one you gave us was obviously fake, and I'll get in trouble if I don't -”
“Sucks to be you, then,” I reply. “By the way, did anyone come and read to me? Sing me a song, maybe, or tickle my feet?”
“I'm going to have to insist that you give me your name, your date of birth and – if you know it – your NHS patient number.”
“The answers are no, no, and are you kidding?”
“This isn't opt
ional. All patients -”
“I'm not a patient,” I tell her again as I reach the door and turn to her. “I'm an ex-patient, and as far as I'm aware there's no rule about ex-patients having to give you their names.”
“Well, no, but that's because we'd already -”
“Brenda,” I say suddenly.
She stares at me.
“That's your name,” I continue. “It says so right there, on your name badge. Too easy. You're very bad at this game.”
“It's not a game,” she replies tersely, “and regarding your name -”
“This conversation is going nowhere,” I say firmly. “Let me be totally clear. I will never, ever give you my real name, do you understand? Not even if you strap me down and threaten me with electrodes. It's just not going to happen, so why don't you stop wasting your breath and my time, and go get on with some work that actually matters.”
She stares at me, clearly shocked by my attitude.
“I have my reasons,” I add, before turning and pushing the door open.
By the time I get out to the front of the building, I'm finally able to relax and accept that no-one's going to send a security team after me. Stopping, I look over my shoulder but all I see are a bunch of staff members and visitors milling about. Taking a deep breath, I try to force myself to relax, but it's not easy. I hate it when people ask me for my real name. I hate anything that reminds me of my old life.
And I might be wrong, but I swear the scar on my left arm itches every time the past is brought up. That right there has to be some screwed-up psychological shit.
Chapter Twelve
Laura
“I keep... dreaming about him. I can barely sleep, and when I do, the same thing happens every time. I see that boy's face staring back out at me from behind the ribs, and I wake up and then...”
Sitting on the park bench with Tim, I wait for him to finish.
“Sometimes I actually cry out,” he continues. “It's almost like someone in a movie. I literally sit up in bed and cry out in shock, or fear. And when I open my eyes, I can still see the images from my dreams, like they're hanging in the darkness right in front of me. It's...”
Another pause. He's been explaining how he feels for a few minutes now, and I'm loathe to interrupt him since he seems to be so completely lost in his own thoughts. I can only hope that it's helping him to talk about his feelings, even though the look in his eyes hints at some deeper horror. I never thought anyone could be so heavily traumatized by a single incident, but right now I'm struggling to see whether Tim can ever fully recover. It's as if the man's spirit has been broken.
“I've seen so many things over the years,” he says, finally turning to me. “The people who've ended up on my table. You've been there for some of them, Laura. Decayed bodies. Children. Pregnant women. Wives, mothers, fathers, husbands, sisters, brothers... I thought I'd become desensitized. I mean, I really thought that the job had numbed me. And then that kid's dead face, and the way his eyes were staring straight at me through the gap between the ribs...”
He falls silent again, and this time I feel as if I should say something to comfort him. The problem is, I'm really bad at this kind of thing. I'll probably just make it all worse.
“I'm sure it'll get better,” I say feebly.
He shakes his head.
“It'll just take time.”
“Didn't it affect you?” he asks, as if he's desperate to understand why this is happening to him. “I mean, I don't exactly have a weak stomach, but it still got to me. You saw it too, so how come I'm damn near falling apart and you're still fine?”
“I don't know,” I reply with a shrug. “I guess I'm just... lucky.”
“But seriously,” he continues, turning to me. “How do you do it? How do you manage to keep going? Please, Laura, if you've got a secret to coping... I could really use it.”
***
“Have you got a club-card?”
I shake my head as I slip my credit card into the reader. Once I've typed in my code, I wait for the transaction to go through and then I take the receipt and start bagging my shopping. It's insanely busy in the supermarket this afternoon, but I figured I should get some food in before I go to pick up Ophelia. Besides, I quite like the idea of keeping her waiting for a few minutes.
Once I get out of the store, I head to my car, puts the bags on the back seat, and then get inside. Once the door is shut, I take a deep breath, feeling as if I'm finally managing to shut out the madness of the world. The store was so busy, it was as if all the other voices were crowding my thoughts. Still, I feel better than I felt before I went inside.
Much better.
With trembling hands I reach into my pocket and pull out the small bottle of whiskey that I managed to sneak out. It took a moment to get the security tag and the sticker off when I was in the store, and this is by far the riskiest thing I've ever shoplifted. The worst part is, I don't even like whiskey, so I guess I'll just stick it in a cabinet and bring it out one day if I have a visitor. My heart's racing, though, and as I turn the bottle over in my hands, I genuinely can't quite believe that I managed to pull this off.
Stuffing the bottle into one of the shopping bags, I lean back and close my eyes. Sometimes, I just need to reset myself for a moment. Finally, realizing that I've kept Ophelia waiting for long enough, I open my eyes again and start the car. All the worries of the day seem to have been lifted from my shoulders. It's only a temporary release, but it's better than nothing.
***
“You've gotta admit that it's kinda disappointing,” Ophelia says as she slams the car door shut. “I mean, it's like someone totally came to visit me the first time, but then this time... Nothing!”
“I wouldn't call that disappointing,” I reply, grabbing the shopping bags. “I'd call that a relief. You didn't want a mysterious visitor, did you?”
“No, but -”
“Then just be glad it didn't happen again. Maybe the first time was just some weird fluke. Mistaken identity, or any one of a hundred other mundane explanations. Can't you just put it out of your mind?”
“No way,” she replies as we make our way toward my front door. “Think about it. Someone absolutely, definitely came to see me the first time. And then I went to all the trouble of getting a proper head injury, and it turned out to be a waste of time.”
“Huh,” I reply. “It's almost as if the whole jumping from the bridge business was a really bad idea.”
“It was a good idea,” she continues, “and it should have worked. Maybe I didn't advertize it enough, though. Maybe I should try again but spend longer -”
“Please don't,” I tell her. “If someone's really out to get you or track you down or whatever, I'm sure they'll make their presence known soon enough.”
“That doesn't make me feel better,” she mutters. “I want to know now, damn it!”
“I need to tell you something,” I reply, stopping at the door and turning to her. “It's about my mother.”
“She's getting worse, isn't she?”
“How did you know?”
“For one thing, that's how Alzheimer's works. For another, I can see it in your eyes.” She pauses. “Remember when I asked back in the hospital how your mother was doing, and you said she was okay? I could see this look in your eyes that totally let me know that you were lying. I didn't want to push at the time, partly 'cause I was still whacked out of my head on medication. You'd be rubbish at poker, by the way. You've got this tell whenever you're lying.”
“I do not!” I reply. “What is it?”
“That's for me to know.”
“She's still able to get about,” I continue, determined not to get dragged into another of Ophelia's labyrinthine conversations. “It's not like she's completely off in another world, and I can still leave her home alone during the day. It's just that she's more forgetful lately, mainly about minor things. Don't be offended, for example, if she doesn't remember you.”
“She'll
remember me,” she replies. “Everyone always remembers me.”
“Good point,” I reply, “but seriously, it just requires a little more patience. She gets frustrated, too, so if that happens, the best thing is to stay calm and wait for her to snap out of it. She can be short with people sometimes.”
Once we're inside, I start unpacking the groceries while Ophelia goes through to talk to my mother. As soon as she walks into the room, I hear my mother greeting her like an old friend, and I realize with a sigh that she has no problem remembering Ophelia at all. In fact, I don't think I've heard my mother sound so animated and happy to see someone for months, and it's reassuring to hear that she can still have normal conversations with people other than just me. By the time I've got all the groceries away and slipped the unwanted bottle of whiskey into the drinks cabinet, I'm actually starting to feel as if it might be good to have Ophelia here for a few days, if only to improve the atmosphere. Hell, my mother has even started laughing, and that's not something I ever thought I'd hear again.
“I need to do some work tonight,” I tell them as I head through to the front room. “Just paperwork relating to the case, so I won't be much company.”
“We'll be fine,” Ophelia replies. “We'll watch a film or something, and I can take a look at your files as well!”
“That would be a breach of protocol and a serious lapse in judgment on my part,” I tell her.
“I know.”
“Maybe you can take a peek,” I add, even though I know damn well that in a few hours' time I'll have relented completely and Ophelia will be going through every piece of paper I've got.
“You work too hard,” my mother says, turning to me. “How do you think you'll ever get a husband if you spend every night at home with a bunch of papers?”
“It's not really by choice,” I reply.
“She never goes out,” she continues, turning to Ophelia. “She just comes home every night, makes dinner, and then she says she has to work. I hear her up until all hours, shuffling pieces of paper or clicking something on her computer. I honestly don't know how she expects to settle down with a nice man when the only people she ever meets are already dead! She's of prime child-bearing age and she's got the hips for it, but at this rate she'll end up old and alone. Either that or she'll have a baby too late and it'll end up disabled.”