My Little Eye

by Stephanie Marland

  But he doesn’t forget. He couldn’t forget her. She’d had prawns as her starter, pulled off their heads and tails with a smile on her face, licked their juice from her fingers afterwards, savouring their taste, just as he would savour hers.

  While he ate his goat’s cheese salad, she had steak for her main, cooked pink. He watched the blood spill as she sank her knife into the flesh. A fine spray misted across her wrist and he felt himself harden. Shuddered. Knew he wouldn’t be able to hold back for long.

  She didn’t have dessert. Instead the scruffy man paid the bill and they walked the eleven minutes back to her apartment. At 11.32 they both went inside. He didn’t like that. He curled his fists round the napkin he’d taken from the restaurant, her napkin. Put it to his face and inhaled the scent of her. Breathed her in until the anger started to dissolve. Kept watching.

  From the shadow of the neighbouring building he watched the light go on three storeys above in the apartment he knows to be hers. Moments later she appeared, just briefly, at the French doors onto the Juliet balcony. Like a tease, she paused, looking out into the night as if she knew he was there, watching. Then she pulled the curtains closed, and was gone.

  He groans. He has had enough of watching.

  TUESDAY

  23

  CLEMENTINE

  I dreamt of death again. As I hovered in the dark place between sleep and consciousness, the day I last saw Father began to replay in my mind.

  I’m fifteen years old and it’s my first time playing truant from school. I got a postcard from Mother yesterday, our first contact in months, telling me she’s just got married for the fourth time. This husband is Denny Lyle, an American, a realtor she calls him; he has a yacht. She gives no phone number, no reply address. I read it twice before tearing it into tiny shreds.

  So I decide to visit Father. I call his work, but they say he’s taking some time away, so I call his flat in London but get no answer. I guess he must have gone to the cottage; an old thatched place in rural Oxfordshire, less than an hour from school. I can hitch my way there without too many problems, so I do.

  But there’s no one home when I arrive. Figuring I’ll wait, I fetch the spare key from beneath the fungus-riddled log to the right of the back door, and let myself in.

  That’s when I find the letter. Father has been suspended from duty pending investigation into misconduct. He’s been off the job for almost a month. It makes no sense. My Father is a hero. He’s been awarded the Queen’s Police Medal for bravery. He’s devoted his life to the force, the job. He’s police through and through – one of the good guys – it’s all he knows.

  The letter implies otherwise.

  My breath comes in gasps. Tears stream down my face.

  Both my parents are AWOL. I feel even more alone.

  Next to the sink is a half-drunk bottle of whisky. Picking it up, I collapse onto the battered leather chair beside the Aga and take a swig from the bottle. I grimace at the sour taste and burn in my throat.

  After a few more mouthfuls I start to quite like it.

  The memory jumps to later that evening.

  The stench of petrol is acrid in my nostrils.

  I grip the matches tighter.

  The memory shifts forward again.

  Father is back and he’s shouting but I don’t want to hear what he has to say. The fury within me is as hot as the fire leaping higher between us. The lights shut off as the electrics blow.

  The flames chase along the timber beams, the embers glow orange like captive fireflies. Father lunges for me. I jump back out of reach towards the door. He loses his balance, staggers. A beam above him cracks and pops, buckling from the heat. There’s a deep groan as the beam crashes down.

  That’s when I wake. Inferno hot. Heart racing.

  I throw back the duvet. Shivering as goosebumps rise along the grafted skin that covers the scarring on my arms. The room is dark. I fancy there are human shapes in the shadows. As I watch they morph from crouching to standing, from the chair to the bed, surrounding me.

  Murderer. They chant. You should be dead. Murderer.

  I close my eyes. Shut them out. Breathe slowly, as I’ve been taught to when I feel a panic attack coming on. In through the nose for eight beats, then out through the mouth for eight. Repeat. Repeat. Repeat.

  By the eleventh repetition I’m feeling more in control. The shaking has subsided. I tell myself that I’m OK, try to convince myself by saying the word out loud over and again. Pretend that I believe it.

  My heartbeat flits, skittish and unsettled. Switching on the lamp, I snatch a cigarette from the pack on my nightstand, light up and take a couple of quick drags. I check my phone; it’s almost six. There’s no way I’ll get back to sleep.

  Taking another drag on my cigarette, I get out of bed and pad barefoot to the kitchen. I make coffee, then root about in the cupboard and find a dusty bottle of whisky with a few measures left. I pour a double into the coffee and take a gulp.

  Clutching the mug in both hands, I cross the living space to my desk. I need a distraction, something to chase the memory away with.

  There’s a new post in Case Files: The Lover.

  Justice League shared an article with Case Files: The Lover

  Justice League Found this online about the DI. Useful bit of background …

  I click the link. It takes me out to an online news website – News Byte. The article is headed Investigation called into Bungled Raid. I scan the text. It talks about a sting operation that went wrong and hints at police negligence. It says one of the team was shot and is in a coma. I check the date of the article; it was written almost a month ago. At the end it states the incident is being investigated by Professional Standards. I wonder how far they’ve got.

  The photo accompanying the article is a close-up of DI Dominic Bell. He’s looking past the camera, his jaw set firm, his mouth a thin line, his expression one that would be easy to read as anger. It’s not, though, I can tell. The upper half of his face gives him away in the dip of his eyebrows, the haunted look behind his gaze. Guilt.

  Another bent copper.

  This flat belonged to my father. I inherited it on my eighteenth birthday. Before I moved in I had everything put into storage and redecorated. I couldn’t bear to be reminded of him, and how he let me down. I erased him, all except for one thing.

  I glance at the mantel. On it is a wooden box that belonged to my father. A thick layer of dust mutes its royal-blue colour, but it’s what’s on the inside that Dominic Bell has reminded me of.

  I move across to the fireplace. Press my toes against the edge of the hearth and feel the cool smoothness of the ceramic tiles. Breathe in deep, and lift the box from the mantel. It’s a long time since I last held it, and it feels lighter than I remember.

  I twist the gold clasp and lift the lid. Father smiles up at me. He’s young in the photo, no more than my age now. He’s with his colleagues, they’re getting some award, all are in uniform. He looked so happy, carefree, back in the days before he was selected for undercover work and taken deep UC. His face doesn’t have the hard lines, the tense edge, I remember. His eyes don’t have the haunted look.

  I put the photo to one side. Underneath is a jumble of medals and awards, their ribbons faded from age, and a smashed-up memory stick, black, with the word COBALT printed along the side. Scooping them aside, I pull the folded letter from beneath them, open it out and read the text. The key words leap out at me: findings of our investigation … dishonourable conduct … fraud … criminal charges. He was dead before they charged him, but they found him guilty just the same. My father, the decorated hero, the man I’d looked up to for my whole life, was just another bent copper.

  I never got the chance to ask him why.

  Shoving the letter back into the box, I push it back onto the mantel and return to my laptop. DI Bell’s picture is still on the screen. I stare at him. His sadness draws me in; the overwhelming strength of it is the very opposite of the no
thingness I feel.

  What did you do?

  Why did you do it?

  Are you guilty?

  I sit, transfixed, gazing into his pixelated stare and, for a fleeting moment, I imagine I feel a twinge in the place where my heart ought to be.

  24

  DOM

  Something lumpy is sticking into his cheek. His neck aches, the muscle across his left shoulder is stretched tight, pins and needles prickle at his fingers.

  ‘You slept here?’ Abbott’s voice booms from above.

  What the …?

  Dom opens his eyes. He’s at his desk, his head resting on the edge of the keyboard. There’s a half-eaten cheese toastie on a paper plate in front of him. He sits up, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. ‘What time is it?’

  ‘Just gone seven-thirty.’ Abbott says between mouthfuls of breakfast. He’s holding a bag of muffins. ‘You look like crap. Why didn’t you get a room at the section house? It’s only—’

  ‘Did a long session in the gym before coming back here. I must have fallen asleep while I was working.’

  Abbott looks concerned.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Look, I know it’s none of my business, guv, but are you all right?’

  ‘Like you said, it’s none of your business.’

  ‘Guess I asked for that.’ Abbott gives a rueful smile and offers Dom a muffin.

  Dom shakes his head. He’s not usually one to spill his guts, but he trusts Abbott. Maybe it would be helpful to talk about some of the crap flying around in his head. ‘Sorry for being off. It’s this case, you know, all the dead ends and the media bitching. And having the IPCC thing hanging around at the same time, well, it’s pretty shit.’

  ‘Sounds it.’ Abbott nods. He starts eating a second muffin. ‘Mind you, some days I’d happily swap with you. After a while the novelty of dirty nappies wears a little thin.’

  Dom smiles. ‘I bet.’

  ‘Sometimes I wish I was single,’ Abbott says.

  I wish I wasn’t.

  Dom doesn’t want to talk about relationships. He shoves the cold remains of the toastie into his mouth, then picks up the photocopy of the note they’d found in Kate Adams’s hand from beside his keyboard. ‘I started working on this last night.’

  ‘Get anywhere?’

  Dom nods. He taps the mouse to wake his computer and enters his password. The screen unlocks, revealing a Google results page, the first link taking him to Amazon. ‘It’s from a book called Black Rose Chronicles. It’s out of print, has been for a few years, but you can get used copies on Amazon.’

  ‘Black Rose Chronicles?’ Abbott says, peering at the screen. ‘Guess that’s why he left the rose.’

  Dom turns, scanning the office. Parekh and Biggs aren’t in yet, but this book needs further investigation. The note isn’t the killer’s words, but text from a book. That has to mean something; this book could detail the scene – the woman – that the killer is trying to recreate.

  He sends Parekh a brief email asking her to check out the book as a priority, then glances back at Abbott. ‘Any luck with HOLMES?’

  ‘What, on other cases matching the MO? No, not yet.’

  ‘Reassign it to Biggs.’ They need to get going to make the PM on time. Dom stands up. He stretches, trying to ease the tension. Feels a muscle in his lower back start to spasm. ‘Be ready to go in ten.’

  In the Gents’, Dom splashes water on his face and peers into the mirror. Abbott’s right, he does look like crap; his eyes are bloodshot, his stubble heavier than it should be, his hair’s bushing out like a wild man.

  Pulling off his t-shirt, he swaps it for the spare from his locker. Rinsing his hands under the tap, he runs his fingers through his hair, smoothing it into some semblance of order. He tries to smile but thoughts of the three victims mingle with the image of Therese lying in her hospital bed, and the effort seems too great.

  She wants to see you.

  Fuck.

  If she wants to see him, why didn’t she call him herself? He knows Lindsay has been visiting her in hospital, the nursing staff told him, but why did Therese ask Lindsay to call him?

  He needs answers, but he can’t see her, not yet, not until he’s worked out what happened during the raid; he has to know who’s responsible and who he can trust. Until then he needs to avoid them all – even if the urge to visit Therese feels like it’s tearing him apart.

  He glares at the mirror, at the grumpy-looking sod reflected back at him, and wonders when the hell he got so old. Maybe Therese was right to be keeping her options open.

  25

  DOM

  He’s always hated this part. Having toughed it out for the best part of three hours, Dom’s relieved it’s almost over. He looks at Abbott. He’s staring at Emily as she finishes up, eyes on her face rather than on what she’s doing. Dom understands that. However you try to rationalise things, the mechanics of a post-mortem are brutal.

  Kate Adams lies on the gurney. Naked, again – there’s no dignity for the dead, not in a murder case. Logically Dom knows why post-mortems are important, that they can provide vital clues to help break a case, but he’s never been able to reconcile the clinical violence they inflict on the deceased’s body. It got harder when he read the PM report on his mum.

  Emily is sewing up the chest cavity, working head to toe and back again as usual, her pattern the same with every body. As she ties off the sutures, she glances at Dom. ‘Shall we run through the key points, to be clear?’

  Dom knows Abbott’s been scribbling notes but he prefers to wait until the end, then talk out the anomalies. The debate helps his thinking. ‘I’d appreciate that.’

  Emily peels off her gloves. Once white, now the latex is stained dark with blood and other bodily fluids. She puts them in the clinical waste bin. Taking the notes her assistant, Ted, has been making as she works, Emily walks round the gurney to where Dom and Abbott are perched. ‘OK then, so how was the view from the cheap seats?’

  Abbott smiles, as always. Dom doesn’t. He knows Emily’s trying to make the situation more bearable with humour. He’s heard about her infamous turns at Comedy Crossroads on amateur night, and that she writes material for her wife, Jacquie, who’s semi-professional now, but comedy around dead bodies, dead people, doesn’t work for him; it never has. Death is not a joke.

  He looks past Emily to the body on the gurney; cold and exposed in this room furnished with stainless steel and easy-wipe surfaces. It’s a clinical space, purpose-built and hygienic, but the last place a young woman like Kate Adams should be.

  Abbott’s scanning through his notes, asterisking some of the points and underlining others. ‘You said the tox screen was similar to the other vics?’

  Emily clears her throat. ‘It’s my show, if you don’t mind, DS Abbott. How about I do my solo first before you jump in for the singalong?’

  Abbott blushes. ‘Sorry, of course.’

  ‘Excellent. So, the headlines then: as we saw at the crime scene, the victim has localised contusions and minor skin abrasions on her ankles and wrists. The angle and depth of the marks are consistent with restraint in a seated position from a narrow shackle, approximately one centimetre diameter. Traces found in the wounds indicate a nylon paracrystalline carbon mix.’ Emily glances at Abbott, flicks her gaze to his notebook and gives a little smile. ‘Cable ties, most likely, same as with Jenna Malik and Zara Bretton.’

  Abbott makes a note.

  ‘The contusions are recent. Their presence indicates the abrasions were incurred pre-mortem. She also has superficial contusions on her upper arms, shoulders and neck. The severity is consistent with physical compression, and the placement and shape leads me to conclude they were made by human fingers. Not her own, and not enough to kill her. Those marks were concealed by make-up.’

  Dom frowns. ‘But not the bruises on her wrists and ankles?’

  ‘No, but that could be because of the abrasions.’

  Perhaps, Dom thinks; although some
thing tells him that’s not the case. ‘Seems strange, though, don’t you reckon? Whoever did this went to a lot of trouble to cover up her skin blemishes, but left the marks from tying her up. Why?’

  ‘Practicality?’ Abbott says. ‘If he’d got her tied he might not have been able to conceal the restraint marks, the make-up would’ve got rubbed off.’

  ‘That’s possible,’ Emily says. ‘But he could have concealed them when he transferred her to the bed.’

  ‘He might not have wanted to,’ Dom says.

  Emily shakes her head. ‘I can’t comment on motivation, only the facts.’

  Dom looks again at Kate’s body, at the purple bruising circling her wrists and ankles, and the lacerations caused by the ties. She must have struggled hard. He clenches his fists. What kind of person would conceal a spot on her neck, but leave the cuts exposed? ‘All right, go on.’

  ‘You were keen to get to the tox screen, DS Abbott. Let’s do that next. Generally, her blood work is as I’d expect in a well-nourished twenty-six-year-old female, but there are two interesting facts. Firstly, the toxicology shows a blood alcohol level of 0.08, consistent with a couple of glasses of wine at dinner, and confirmed by the contents of her stomach.’

  Abbott clears his throat. ‘Well, a twenty-six-year-old having a few drinks, that’s not really unusual, is—’

  ‘Again, Sergeant, you’re coming in too early. That in itself isn’t surprising. The standout thing is the high level of Alfetanil present.’

  Abbott frowns. ‘What’s—’

  ‘Alfetanil is a synthetic opioid analgesic,’ Emily says. ‘An anaesthetic, if you’d like it in plain English. It’s fast-acting, and in the quantity found in this young woman’s blood, fatal.’

  Abbott doesn’t look up from his scratchpad, still writing as he says, ‘So the cause of death is an overdose of anaesthetic, same as the first two victims?’

  Dom shakes his head. ‘Not the same. Zara Bretton had Levorphanol in her system – so did Jenna Malik.’