If It Bleeds

by Bernie Crosthwaite

  “Hard to describe… the sort that goes with belly dancing.”

  “Arab music?” I asked.

  “Yeah, that’s right. Of course it was. I went to Morocco once. I heard the same kind of stuff there.”

  “Was she interested in belly dancing?”

  “She never mentioned it. But then…” Annie blew her nose on the grubby tissue. “I’d hardly seen her for weeks.” She lay back limply, her eyes shiny with tears. “I just keep hoping it’s all been a terrible mistake, a practical joke that’s gone too far. I keep expecting her to come running up those stairs, knock on my door and say Gotcha!” Annie stretched down to pick up the cat, clutching it to her chest. “But she won’t, will she?”

  I shook my head. “I’m afraid not.”

  She buried her face in the cat’s fur. That’s when I decided I couldn’t tell her about Adam Keele. She’d had enough for now, and she would find out tomorrow in any case. Whether it was the Evening Post, local radio or the TV news, the relentless media would reach her somehow.

  Matt stood up. “We really appreciate you talking to us.”

  “When will it be in the paper?”

  I looked furiously at Matt. “Actually, I came to see you for purely personal reasons.”

  “But if it’s all right with you, we could include a couple of paragraphs about your friendship with Lara,” said Matt smoothly.

  “It’s fine by me.” She smiled up at him.

  I had to marvel at the man. First the scary Mrs Ramsey, now Annie Molloy, they were like putty in his hands.

  “And we’d like a photo, too. Do you mind?”

  “Of course I don’t mind.” Annie dropped the cat on to the floor. It yowled and slunk off into the kitchen. “Do you want me to take my clothes off?”

  Nine

  We ducked under the tape on to the frosty pavement.

  “Did you believe her?” asked Matt, his arm locked in mine.

  “I think so. In fact she seemed a lot more upset than Lara’s own mother.”

  “That’s what I mean. All those waterworks. Don’t you think it was a bit over the top?”

  “You reckon she was pretending?”

  Matt skidded on the ice. I yanked him upright.

  “Thanks, Jude.”

  “Now we’re quits. Where was I? Oh yeah — if Annie was putting on a show of grief, then all I can say is, she’s a bloody good actress.”

  “I detected a definite whiff of bitterness about her. You know, jealous of the younger, prettier girl.”

  “Who she fancied.”

  “You think so?”

  “Definitely.”

  “So there’s sexual jealousy too, as well as the fact that Lara was taking a lot of her modelling work.”

  “What are you saying — you think she killed Lara?” I asked.

  “We can’t rule anything out.”

  “I suppose not. But the overwhelming feeling I got from Annie was that she was just plain sad. Lara might have made her feel old and washed up, and when she started going out with Daniel that may have made her jealous — this one wasn’t a one-night stand after all — but mostly I think she missed her company, her friendship.”

  “I’m not convinced, but I’ll bow to your feminine intuition on this one.”

  I dug him in the ribs. “Patronising git.”

  We reached the end of the lane and headed for the main road where our cars were parked. The pavements had been gritted here, but though there was no danger of falling any more, Matt still held on to my arm, his grip looser now, more companionable.

  “There’s something I haven’t told you,” I said. “Apparently Lara had marks around her mouth and wait, you won’t believe this, some sort of black-magic symbol on her chest.”

  “What, painted on?”

  “No. Carved with a knife.”

  “Christ.” He was lost in thought for a moment, then shook himself. “How do you know all this?”

  “DC Naylor told me that much, but then she clammed up.”

  We stopped beside my Triumph Herald.

  Matt sighed. “We really could do with some good inside information. You don’t know anyone on the SOCO team or CID, do you?”

  “Actually…”

  “Who?”

  “One of the police photographers, Ben Greenwood. He was there in the park, so he must be involved in the case.”

  “Is he a friend of yours?”

  I hesitated. “Yes and no.”

  “Will he talk to you?”

  “Yes… and no.”

  “For god’s sake, Jude. Stop being so enigmatic. Who do you think you are, the Mona Lisa?”

  “All right. I’ll give him a try.”

  “Great.” He kissed me lightly on the cheek. “See you tomorrow.”

  “Maybe. I’ve got stuff to do.”

  “What?”

  “Something Annie said. I need to think it through.”

  “Don’t tell me then, Mona Lisa. Just be careful.” He started to walk away. “And don’t forget to ring that photographer as soon as you get home.”

  I nodded, but I was in two minds about that. Ben Greenwood used to work at the Ravenbridge Evening Post and we’d been good friends. For some mad reason I’d been drawn to his gloomy nature and deadpan sense of humour. Then we became more than friends. In fact, we’d lived together for a while. But one New Year’s Eve, two or three years back, we broke up. I hadn’t spoken to him since.

  *

  “Ben? It’s Jude.”

  There was a long lugubrious silence on the other end of the line before I got a response.

  “I bet I know what this is about. Climbing over the park fence on to a crime scene. What kind of stunt was that?”

  I counted to three. “How are you?”

  “Not bad. Apart from the fact my haemorrhoids are giving me hell and I’m going bald.”

  Four, five, six. Had I really loved this man?

  “Listen, Ben, are you still working on the Lara Ramsey story?”

  I heard a deep disapproving rumble. “I knew it. Thanks for reminding me why I got out of press photography. This isn’t a story. A girl’s dead. Just back off, will you?”

  “You don’t understand. This isn’t for the paper. Lara was Daniel’s girlfriend.”

  “Shit. I heard you’d ID’d the body but I didn’t realise… How’s he taking it?”

  “Badly. He had a serious asthma attack. He’s still in hospital.”

  “Is he OK?”

  “He’ll be fine.”

  I had a sudden image of Ben and Daniel one cold day playing with a rugby ball in the back garden. Daniel had kicked it too far and it had got lost in the unkempt tangle of bushes down the end. They were laughing as they searched for the ball, their breath pouring out like smoke. It had lodged in my mind because it was so rare to see Ben in a cheerful mood. When I threw him out it had taken Daniel a long time to get over it. Even a pessimistic male role model was better than none.

  “Tell him I’m sorry.”

  “I will. The thing is, he’s desperate to know what happened. The police investigation is so damn slow.”

  “Give us a break, Jude. It’s only been a couple of days.”

  “It feels like years.” I swapped the phone to my other ear. “I’m not asking you to steal confidential files or anything.”

  “Good.”

  “But any detail would help.”

  “Such as?” he said cagily.

  “Have the police got Lara’s car?”

  “I don’t think so. I certainly haven’t been asked to take any photos of a car. What else?”

  “I believe Lara had marks around her mouth?”

  “Yeah. She had this perfect flawless skin except for those spots.”

  “Spots? You mean ordinary zits?” I tried to remember if Lara had ever had an attack of acne.

  “No. More like blisters.”

  “That’s weird.”

  “True. Is that it?”

  “Hold on.
The wound on her chest. What was it exactly?”

  “I don’t know if I should — ”

  “It’s OK – the police told me it was some sort of black-magic symbol. What sort? I’m just curious.”

  “It was a pentagram. You know, a five-pointed star?”

  “Yeah, I know what a pentagram is, but why…?”

  “Can’t answer that one.”

  “Fair enough. You’ve been a great help. Just one other thing — have they done the post-mortem yet?”

  “They’re doing it tonight. What with the holidays they’ve had problems finding a pathologist.”

  “Will you be there?”

  “Yes. But you’ll have to wait for the official report like everyone else.”

  There was silence. Another image flashed up. Ben and a girl called Kirsty from telesales having sex in the bathroom of a friend’s house at a New Year’s Eve party. The latch was loose, or maybe they were too excited to bolt the door properly. It was just my bad luck — or good fortune — that that was the very moment I needed a pee. I found Kirsty in the sink, her knees gripping Ben’s sides while he thrust at her, making the toothbrushes on the shelf rattle in their holder.

  “How’s Kirsty?” I heard myself say.

  “Who?”

  “Kirsty. Don’t tell me you’ve forgotten?”

  “Oh, her. That didn’t last. We broke up soon after… you know… that party.”

  “Really?” I couldn’t stop myself smiling. “Didn’t she like the bathroom fittings at your new place?”

  “Don’t start, Jude.”

  “Don’t worry, I’ve finished.” I felt a small flutter of nostalgia. “We did have some good times, didn’t we? Remember that summer when Daniel was away on a school trip, when we camped on the beach at Whitby?”

  “How could I forget?”

  “That sunset — the way it was reflected in the windows of the church and they blazed red like the building was on fire from within. I’ve still got the picture I took.”

  “I remember you getting drunk and being sick. And I remember freezing my balls off in that sleeping bag. You were a lousy hot-water bottle.”

  The little surge of affection evaporated faster than mist on a summer morning. “Thanks, Ben. See you around.”

  When I put the phone down I realised I had never done a better thing than dump Ben Greenwood.

  Useful contact, though.

  *

  It was a long evening. The house felt empty. I even missed Daniel’s music, the kind Annie Molloy had so aptly described as making your head feel as if it was being drilled by a Black and Decker. I microwaved a pizza, cracked open a few nuts left over from Christmas and drained the remains of the brandy.

  The TV unravelled itself in front of me, an inane parade of quizzes and soaps and so-called reality shows. I let it occupy my eyes while my mind was elsewhere, thinking about what Annie had said, about Lara never bringing her boyfriends to the flat on Stonebeck Avenue. So where did she take them? I’d always encouraged Daniel to bring his friends home. That included the few tentative romantic relationships he’d had, and lately Lara had spent a lot of time here. Not that I saw much of them, apart from a few shared meals. The rest of the time the relentless synthetic beat coming from his room told me when they were in residence. To be honest, I was out a lot of the time, seeing friends, going to films, or holed up in my darkroom in the basement. Now I wish I’d taken more notice.

  The national news came on. I held my breath. Lara’s murder merited a brief mention well into the bulletin, with no footage. But on the local news that followed, it took top spot, complete with lengthy filming of the bench in Jubilee Park where the body was found. I knew it wouldn’t be long before the story became big national news, especially if the killer wasn’t found quickly. As a coda, the newsreader mentioned the death of art teacher Adam Keele, the unspoken implication being that he had something to do with Lara’s death. I was certain he hadn’t.

  Longing for some relief from the tragedy, I slumped in front of a documentary about a climber, a man with long hair and Native American features. I was transfixed by pictures of him climbing vertical rock faces without ropes or a safety harness, like some sort of human fly. After my recent experience struggling up a tree to rescue a ferret, I was bowled over by this man’s audacity and skill. The credits came up and as I reached for the remote a voiceover announced that the man had been killed in a climbing accident. Tears welled up and rolled down my cheeks in huge droplets. I didn’t know who I was crying for — the human fly, or Lara, or Adam Keele, or Daniel. Or me. In the end I decided I was weeping for the whole damn lot of us, for a world that had tilted on its axis and distorted everything I thought I knew.

  The night was even longer. It was so bitterly cold I kept waking up. I was aware of every discomfort — my numb toes, the renewed throbbing in my buttock where I’d had the injection, the scoured feeling in my eyes from crying too much. In the end I swore and got out of bed. I paced about the room, trying to get my blood flowing again, feeling wretched. Why had I lumbered myself with this impossible task? If the police hadn't found an obvious culprit by now my chances were zilch. And why was it so damn cold?

  Then I thought of a beautiful young woman lying in the morgue, the irreversible chill of death upon her.

  All my whinging slid from me like sand in an egg-timer. I was alive, which made me the most privileged person in the world. I went downstairs and made tea and toast. True, four-thirty in the morning was a touch early for breakfast, but I had thinking to do. I was slapping butter on my second round when it came to me.

  I knew where Lara must have taken her men.

  Ten

  When the sun came up I opened the curtains and saw that a sprinkling of snow had dusted the garden. Across the road a few kids were already sledging on Weavers’ Field. Before I set off, I zipped my leather jacket up to my chin and twisted a scarf around my neck.

  I thought they might be closed, but the lights were blazing at Kerwin and Black. Pretty naïve of me to suppose that the brutal killing of a colleague would get in the way of making money. When I opened the door the two occupants, a middle-aged woman and a man in his thirties, looked up expectantly from their computers.

  The woman pasted on a professional smile. “Can I help you?”

  “I’d like to speak to the manager.”

  The man stood up and crossed the busy carpet towards me. I recognised him at once. In the flesh, his mottled complexion really did look as if he’d shaved with a lawn mower. It wasn’t Harrison’s fault after all.

  “That’ll be me.” He extended his hand. “Craig Gilmore. What can I do for you?”

  I showed him my business card. Matt had the right idea. Presenting yourself as a representative of the media seemed to open people up, even when it wasn’t a professional call.

  “From the Evening Post? Didn’t that picture of me come out? I have to say, that lad with the pierced tongue did seem a bit slack.”

  “The picture’s fine,” I said, not mentioning the fact that I’d enhanced it. “It’ll be in the business supplement tomorrow.” I unwound my scarf. “I’ve come about Lara Ramsey.”

  The woman’s smile slithered off her face. Craig Gilmore looked uncomfortable.

  “That’s all in the hands of the police. I wouldn’t want to talk to the media without their permission.”

  “I’m glad to hear it. I’m here for personal reasons. I knew Lara. So did my son. We’re desperately trying to understand what happened, and why.”

  “It’s not for the paper, then?”

  “No.”

  “All the same.” He spread his hands and shrugged. “I don’t think I can help you. I really didn’t know Lara that well.”

  “I did.” The woman swivelled on her chair, which badly needed oiling. At each swivel it screeched as if she was running over a cat.

  “Were you friends?”

  She stopped swivelling, picked up an emery board and started filing her nails. “
Not exactly.”

  I was mesmerised by her rosy-pink talons, which looked perfectly shaped already. “How do you mean?”

  The emery board was thrust into a drawer. “Lara was very good at her job, granted, but in other ways she wasn’t quite what she seemed.”

  “How did she seem?”

  “Susan…” Craig said quietly. It sounded like a warning.

  The woman ignored him. She picked up a copy of the Kerwin and Black in-house magazine. It was so fresh off the press I could still smell the printing ink. She turned the cover towards me - Lara’s face, her cloud of red-gold hair, her enigmatic smile. “Look at her. Butter wouldn’t melt.” She tossed the magazine on her desk. “Why was she on the cover, I’d like to know. Why not Mr Gilmore? Or one of the other agents? Or all of us? It was supposed to be an award for the whole branch. Why her? They make her look like an angel, don’t they? But she was nothing of the sort.”

  “You mean she had a lot of boyfriends?”

  Susan laughed. “You could say that. She never said much about them, but there’d be phone calls and meetings during working hours and long lunches and going home early. They often came here to pick her up. Young men, middle-aged, married ones, even clients — she wasn’t fussy.”

  Susan must be Annie Molloy’s friend, I realised, the one who told her all about Lara’s colourful love life.

  “None of this is relevant,” Craig Gilmore butted in. “So, if you don’t mind… we do have a lot of work to do.” He was twisting the wedding ring on his finger. I could sense his palpable eagerness to see the back of me.

  But his colleague was unstoppable. “She took keys from the safe,” she blurted out.

  “Susan!”

  “It’s true! I’ve never told you this, Craig, but I saw her. Several times.”

  “When was the last time?” I asked.

  “A couple of months back. She hasn’t done it lately. I think she knew I was keeping a close eye on her. She seemed calmer, more friendly, and the phone calls stopped, so I decided not to say anything.”

  “Of course she took keys from the safe,” Craig said smoothly. “How else could she show clients round properties?”

  “I think Susan means she took people there alone,” I said.