“Something called Scorching Desert,” I said. “Ever heard of it?”
He rolled the cigarillo to the centre of his mouth, inhaled hungrily, then rolled it back. “1981. Starring James Alvarez and Rachelle Lamarr. Directed by…” He looked up to the roof as if the answer was written there. “John Harper.”
“Very impressive. Have you got it?”
“Might have.”
I swallowed my impatience, and together we trawled the many boxes, he starting from one end and me the other. We were getting close when I saw his skinny hand pluck out a plastic case.
“Is that it?”
He turned the front towards me. Scorching Desert I read. Enter the Tent of Love But Be Prepared to Die for It. An olive-skinned beauty was bent in the arms of an Arab. He had the required black moustache, and her bodice was well and truly ripped. It looked like complete bilge.
“How much?”
“I’ll take a tenner.”
“Pull the other one. I’ll give you five.”
“Call it seven-fifty.”
I handed over my note and received my paltry change, feeling as ripped off as the heroine’s blouse.
“What’s it like?” I asked, as I turned to go.
The stall-holder chewed on his cigarillo in a passable imitation of Clint Eastwood in a spaghetti western. “It’s bloody awful.”
Twenty
He was right. And Lee Maddox hadn’t thought much of it either. He had fast-forwarded it to see if there was any sex. There wasn’t. Just a lot of smouldering between the Bedouin hero and the dusky Spanish girl who had ended up with him by unaccountably wandering into the desert and getting lost. Unfortunately I wasn’t able to use the remote to hasten each trite interminable scene. I was trawling it for any link with Lara’s death. I knew she had been watching it the night she died, possibly in the company of her murderer. It was a chilling thought, the only reason to keep going through each dull unconvincing second. There was plenty of the Arab music that Annie Molloy had heard, since the dialogue was woefully thin. There was a lot of riding about on camels in the desert, several episodes of pitching and dismantling tents, and a fair amount of staring into the fire.
After an hour or so of this trivial trash I was ready to chuck it in. Another five minutes, I kept telling myself. And another five. Surely it was nearly finished? A scene in the gloomy tent began. The man and the girl were pouting and heaving at each other, a bit cross because one of them had forgotten to wash the camels or something. No, wait — he was accusing her of getting the hots for the younger Arab who had been skulking about the camp, lusting after her.
He drew a curved knife from his belt. He heated it in the flame of the candle. She looked on, wide-eyed with horror.
“We Bedouins have a simple test for liars,” he sneered. “I will place this hot knife on your tongue. If it sizzles you are telling the truth and it won’t burn you. But if you are lying your tongue will be dry with guilt and it will blister. Open your mouth!”
He gripped her arm. She resisted, twisting this way and that. The knife flashed in the candlelight. She turned her head away. He grabbed her hair and tried again. But she kept her mouth shut, moaning behind her closed lips.
“Open your mouth!”
The knife touched skin with a hissing sound. She jerked away, her hand flying to the brand mark next to her full red lips.
I shot out of my chair and crouched on the floor, inches from the screen. There was a close-up of her blistered skin. I pressed rewind on the remote, watched the whole scene again, and the close-up several more times. Was this why Lara had blisters round her mouth? Had someone tortured her, to force her to spill some secret?
The phone rang. I pressed stop. Breathless with this revelation I hurried into the hall, ready to give the latest cold caller a right earful.
“Yes?”
“Is that Jude Baxendale?”
I ground my teeth. “So?”
“It’s Norman Foley.”
“Whatever you’re selling I’m not interested.” I was about to slam the phone down.
“We met in the park. We talked about the death of that poor young girl. Remember?”
I sighed. If there was anything worse than cold calling, I thought, it was being plagued by a psychic detective.
“I remember. What do you want?”
“I tried to ring you at work.”
“I’m not there anymore.”
“So I believe. But I talked to a very helpful young man called Matt Dryden and he’d like to interview me for the paper.”
How could Matt be so gullible? But as a professional journalist he didn’t have to believe Norman Foley to write a feature on him. What mattered was copy and sales. What better for both than a medium claiming to know about Lara through paranormal means? It was a gift for the Ravenbridge Evening Post and they were welcome to it.
Then again, Norman Foley had known about the connection with satanism before that was public knowledge.
“That’s great,” I said as sincerely as I could manage. “I suppose you want me to take your photo? I’m sorry, I can’t.”
“It’s not that. I feel I need to know more about the victim before I do the interview. Obviously the clearer my thoughts are, the more helpful they will be. It might even help to catch the killer.” He sounded very pleased with himself.
“I don’t see how I can help.”
“You said you knew Lara. I wondered if you have anything belonging to her?”
“Why?”
“I need to make contact with her, and handling one of her possessions is a very good way of doing that.”
“What sort of thing?” I asked, trying to keep the suspicion out of my voice. At the moment I couldn’t be sure if he was a genuine medium, a pervert or a killer. “Something she’d had for a long time and used regularly. Like a watch or a ring or a hair band.”
“There’s a bracelet she got for her birthday in December.”
“Too recent.”
“I don’t have anything else. But I could ask my son. He’s the one who knew her best.”
“I would appreciate that.”
“Hold on.”
I ran upstairs and looked in Daniel’s room. He was yawning and stretching, no doubt woken by the phone.
“Daniel, do you have anything belonging to Lara — apart from the bracelet, I mean? Something she’s had for a long time?”
He shook his head slowly. “No, nothing.” I saw that the realisation made him sad. “Why?”
“I’ll explain later.”
He reared up from the pillow. “Mum, don’t tell me you’re going on with this?”
“Of course not.”
I ran back downstairs and told Norman Foley the bad news.
“That’s a shame. I don’t suppose you have access to Lara’s flat?”
“No.” I didn’t have a key, but I knew someone who had. I counted on my fingers. It was four days since Lara’s body was found in the park. Surely the police had completed their examination of the murder scene by now? Suddenly I wanted to see it very badly. “Actually, there might be a way.”
“Really? That’s excellent. If you manage to get in and find a suitable possession, give me a call. You’ve got my number.”
I hunted in the pocket of my jacket hanging by the door and found his card. “Yes, I’ve got it.”
I rang off and called Annie Molloy. Her answer phone clicked on. “I can’t take your call right now, but if you want to leave a message, please do so after the tone.” This was followed by a snatch of k.d. lang singing a soulful ballad and a high-pitched bleep.
“Annie, it’s Jude Baxendale. I was wondering if you still had the key to Lara’s flat.”
There was a click and Annie’s non-recorded voice came through loud and clear. “Hi, Jude. Sorry about the answer phone. I’ve been plagued by reporters ringing me up. It’s freaking me out. What do they think I’ve got to say? I’ve spoken to the local paper and that’s it. I feel invaded. It’
s like your life’s not your own. What it must be like for film stars and footballers I just can’t imagine. Anyway, what’s this about a key?”
“You still have it?”
“No one’s asked for it back.”
“Is there a chance you could let me into Lara’s flat?”
“You don’t want to go in there!”
“No, I don’t want to,” I lied. “But I’ve got a possible lead.” My guess was that Annie would be into anything a bit off the wall. “It’s a bit bizarre, but there’s this psychic detective who wants to handle something Lara owned. He reckons he might be able to pick up vibes from it. I’ve spoken to him before, and he’s quite impressive.”
“That sounds amazing. I’d like to help, but I don’t think I can go into Lara’s place.”
“That’s OK, if I could just collect the key I’ll take it from there.”
“But what about the police? Forensic evidence and all that?”
“Haven’t they finished their search by now?”
“I guess so. It’s all gone quiet. And the tape across the gate has gone too.”
“That proves it.”
“All right. Are you coming over now?”
“If that’s OK.”
“Ring my bell at the front. I’ll come down and let you in. I’ll give you the key to Lara’s flat, but from then on, you’re on your own.”
*
I stood in the hallway with the key clutched in my hand, staring at the door. I didn’t know how it would feel to be in a place where someone had been murdered. How would I deal with the sight of bloodstains? Had Lara fought back against her attacker? Would there be torn curtains or broken furniture? I hoped she had resisted, but I dreaded seeing the evidence of her struggle.
With a sense of foreboding I unlocked the door, hesitating on the threshold. The air smelt used up, as if all the oxygen had been sucked out of it. I stepped inside, leaving the door slightly open behind me from some primitive instinct. I didn’t believe in ghosts, but so many of my certainties had been challenged lately I wasn’t sure of anything anymore.
The door led straight into the living room, which had the shabby look typical of rented flats — mismatched furniture and a swirly brown carpet. With a pang I saw that Lara had brightened the walls with Daniel’s work, not just nudes but drawings of strange quirky objects and a large abstract oil done in searingly bright colours.
I glanced around nervously. No sign of a struggle. I wasn’t sure if I was glad or sorry. I couldn’t see any blood either. If it was there, it had blended into the brown blotches on the carpet, and I was relieved about that.
I circled the small room, glancing at books and ornaments and photos, not knowing what I was looking for. Trying to find evidence of the real Lara, perhaps, just like the psychic detective. That reminded me — I had to search for something to give Norman Foley, even though I was still unsure about his motives.
The most likely place to find her personal possessions was in the bedroom, but hadn’t Annie said Lara always kept it locked? I went through to the kitchen. The cupboards were a hideous shade of bile green, but Lara had customised them with stickers and posters, and arty-looking flyers for local bands. Everything was tidy, but looking closer I could see the silvery grey dust that the SOCO team had used to trawl for fingerprints. The fridge was empty. Either Lara never ate here, or the police had cleared it out.
I heard a noise like someone opening and shutting drawers. Was it Annie moving about upstairs? No, it sounded nearer than that. I hurried back into the living room. It was empty. Had Annie and I left the front door unlocked? I couldn’t remember. I’d definitely left the door of the flat ajar.
I walked softly towards the bedroom. The keyhole had been bashed in with some sort of blunt implement, revealing splinters of fresh wood. I peeped in. Norman Foley was searching Lara’s chest of drawers, pulling out tights, scarves, underwear. I drew back, my heart hammering with shock. Would Annie hear me if I screamed? It took several seconds to get my breathing under control. Then I stepped forward.
“What the hell are you doing?”
He straightened up without a trace of guilt or surprise. “I need to find the right thing.”
“Who let you in?”
“You did. I assume it was you who left both doors unlocked?”
“How did you get into this room?” I pointed at the damaged door.
“It was like that already.”
The police must have done it, too impatient to look through Lara’s things for the key. I glanced curiously around the room. So this was her bedroom, her most private space.
I didn’t know what I was expecting but it wasn’t this.
The walls were papered with pictures torn from magazines. They made a kind of timeline, starting with the earliest stages of the human embryo, then the developing foetus. There were graphic scenes of childbirth, and newborn infants still sticky with blood. Then babies in all their stages — asleep in prams, sucking their thumbs, sitting up, smiling and showing off two isolated teeth in their lower gums. Toddlers crawling, then pulling themselves upright, taking their first steps. It was a photographic record of the baby that never was, Lara’s aborted child. It made me want to cry, especially when I saw that towards the end the line divided into two — small boys playing with cars, holding sticks like guns, and little girls absorbed in water play, digging in sand, making their earliest artworks with stubby paint brushes. Lara hadn’t known if her child was male or female, so she had faithfully honoured both genders. The latest pictures were of children of around five, then the line stopped.
Reeling with shock, I took it out on Norman Foley. I demanded to know what right he had to waltz in here blah blah blah. He looked at me steadily as I blustered.
“When you said a personal possession I didn’t know you wanted a pair of her knickers!” I snatched the panties from his hand, stuffed them and the others back in the drawer and slammed it shut. “What are you, some sort of perv?”
“No,” he said patiently. “I have an unusual gift, but I’m not a sexual deviant. When I knew you were coming here I couldn’t wait any longer. I have a strong feeling that we must act with the utmost urgency.” He turned back to the chest. “Do you know if Lara kept a diary? It’s something I forgot to mention to you.”
“I’ve no idea. If she did, the police would have taken it away for close examination.”
His face fell slightly. “You’re right. Have you found her watch?”
“No. I’ve just been looking round, trying to capture the essence of Lara, but as usual she’s proving elusive.” I felt a sense of despair wash over me. “Have you picked up any vibes or whatever it is you do?”
“It’s difficult…”
“You’ve no more idea than the police, then?”
“The problem is that anyone could become a murderer. In the right circumstances you might kill someone.”
“No way!”
“It’s true. What we need to discover is what the circumstances were that drove this person.”
Kneeling down, Norman opened the bottom drawer. He looked through the contents briefly, then drew out a pair of gloves, woollen ones, each finger a different bright colour. He went very still.
“She wore these a lot.”
“Yes, I’ve seen them before,” I said, before I realised it hadn’t been a question.
He closed his eyes. I kept quiet for once. What if he really could detect something?
“She was capable of great love, and fierce hatred,” he said quietly. “The person she loved is associated with the letter… D… or B.”
Or both, I thought.
“What about the person she hated?”
“That’s the trouble. I can’t see the name, or even a letter. It’s as though she erased it.”
“Did the person she hated murder her?”
“The hatred is trapped here, so yes, I think it’s likely. She may not always have loathed him or her, but I feel an aura of intense dislike.”<
br />
“You would feel that way if someone was trying to kill you.”
“This wasn’t an instant dislike. It had been there for a while.”
“You’re saying that Lara knew her killer?”
“Almost certainly.” He stood up. “Is it all right if I take these gloves with me? Sometimes it takes time for the right message to come through.”
“I guess so. Bring them back to the woman who lives upstairs when you’ve finished with them.” I followed him out of the room. It struck me there was something I didn’t know. “Where was Lara killed, in the bedroom, or in here?”
He looked around at the sad-looking furniture. “Neither.”
“Then where?”
He turned abruptly, the way a robot might, and walked in a straight line towards the back of the flat. He stood in the doorway, breathing hard.
“It was here. She was murdered in the kitchen.”
*
“Was it that bad?”
“Pretty awful.”
I was sitting on Annie’s leather sofa, the cat curled up on my knee. Annie had insisted I come in and have a coffee. It was only when I took my first sip that I remembered Annie’s low standards of hygiene and the spiders’ lair. But fear of a few bacteria was nothing compared to the chill that had made the hairs on the back of my neck bristle when staring into Lara’s kitchen. It was Norman Foley’s certainty that had unnerved me. How had he been so sure?
I explained to Annie about the psychic detective and the gloves he had borrowed.
“He was here? How amazing is that? I’m really sorry I missed him. There should be someone like him on every police force, I reckon. That would improve the clear-up rate, I’m convinced of it. ‘There are more things on heaven and earth, Horatio, than are dreamt of in our philosophy’. Not that I’ve got any idea who Horatio was.”
“I think he was Hamlet’s mate.”
“Hamlet? The gloomy Dane. I saw it once. It all ends in a bloodbath.” Her face became haggard. “It still haunts me, thinking about what happened downstairs.”
“I didn’t see any blood, if it’s any consolation. Lara was strangled and the cuts were made later.”
If It Bleeds Page 18