by Liz Mistry
The first featured a group of children, skilfully drawn, although clearly by a more childlike hand than the other images. Initially, Gus saw a sea of faces and then one stood out to him. Set a little to the side, not quite part of the group was a small girl, head bowed, scruffy shoes topped by socks, one pulled up to her knee the other furled around her ankle. Gus was fascinated by her – drawn to her. The slump of her shoulders spoke of heavy sadness and when his gaze moved to the other children he saw why. Boys and girls alike, so vividly drawn that their sneering faces pierced Gus’s heart. Hatred towards the little girl rolled off the page and there could only be one reason for that hatred – the colour of her skin. Gus’s hands fisted, as he absorbed the little girl’s pain. He wanted nothing more than to whisk her away from the ignorance that made her a target – that made her the enemy of these children, who, judging by their rag tag clothes were underprivileged in so many ways, yet, even so young they were able to extend their privilege to hurting someone different to them.
He took a step closer to the image and noticed that although the children in the forefront were clearly taunting the girl, a few of the faces at the back looked uncomfortable – ill at ease. One girl standing nearby was extending her hand, with a shy smile on her face, but the other girl didn’t see it.
Wishing he could make the girl lift her head so she too could see the offer of friendship, wishing he could meet her eyes and tell her that things would get better, that only some of these kids were nasty, Gus jumped when he felt an arm on his shoulder. Alice!
‘She looks so sad … so scared, doesn’t she?’ Her voice was tinged with emotion.
Gus still couldn’t drag his eyes away from the image. ‘Despite the artist being so young, he encapsulated her pain so well. I wonder who she is.’
‘Em…’
Something in Alice’s tone made him turn to look at her. Over her shoulder Carlton watched them, a strange expression on his face. Sensing he was missing something important; Gus raked his eyes over Alice’s face, trying to read her expression. Was that pity? He shook his head as if to dispel the thought and splayed his hands before him, in an ‘out with it’ sort of gesture. ‘What?’
Before either Alice or Carlton had the chance to reply, Compo approached the group from behind, loudly chomping his lips together as he munched a Snickers bar. He waved the hand containing the half-wrapped chocolate in the vague direction of the sketch, sending a trail of peanut crumbs onto the floor. ‘Wow, that’s a brilliant drawing of your mum as a little girl, Gus.’
Gus started, his gaze drawn back to the tiny girl standing among a wave of hostility, the lifeline of friendship unseen. Heart contracting, his breath hitched as he saw what the other three had seen instantly. Berating himself for being so stupid, he allowed the pain emanating from the image to possess him. This was a side to his mother he’d never witnessed before. To him she’d always been larger than life, ultra-confident, slightly batty, and ferocious when it came to fighting for her own children or those she cared for in her job.
Only then as he saw her, skinny and downtrodden, did he realise that behind the mask of his own happy, supported childhood, his mother hid a far different one of her own. The silence following Compo’s words was palpable and yet Gus couldn’t think of a way to dispel it. Finally, Alice squeezed his arm and Carlton, wiping his glasses with a raggedy tissue, cleared his throat mumbling something about ‘cracking on’.
Despite wanting to be alone – needing the time to process what he’d just seen, Gus with a last glance at the image of his mum, forced himself to move onto the second sketch his mum had been sent – the one that had prompted her to reach out to some source in Scotland. This one was of a hanging woman. The artist had focussed on the woman’s feet and legs – the liquid rolling down her legs until it dripped onto the puddle beneath her. So observant was the artist that ripples grew in ever widening circles from the centre of the puddle giving the impression of constant movement.
The woman’s toes were painted red, yet the polish was cracked and spoiled as if it had been on her feet for a while. As Gus’s gaze moved up from her feet, he noticed that the liquid rolling down her legs was now tinged in pink pencil crayon. Had this woman been bleeding? The rest of the body was unfinished except for her eyes, which bulged from her face, wide and terrified, boring into the observer like a laser.
This was again in a childlike hand, but perhaps slightly more developed than the previous image had been. Had Rory been older when he drew this? Carlton had posted that very question on a Post-it, along with others asking, What is this child’s relation to the woman? Where had they seen this image? Real or imagined?
However old Rory had been then Gus was amazed by his skill. No wonder he’d become such a lauded artist.
The third image was a repeat of the first, but in an older more developed hand, with more detail. Beneath the woman, as well as the puddle was a sprig of lavender, so vibrantly drawn that Gus could almost smell it. It was the same scent as the candle at the crime scene.
One that Gus associated with old folk. And the nursery rhyme that had been left there resonated in his head again. ‘Lavender’s blue dilly dilly, Lavender’s green.’
The other item wasn’t quite so clearly drawn but on close inspection, it became clear it was a half-eaten chocolate covered digestive biscuit, complete with a sprinkle of crumbs around it. Again, Carlton had sprinkled his own Post-it crumbs around the image. Memory? Age of artist? Connection to woman? Same woman as before.? Psycho-sexual? Copycat? Misogyny? Oedipus Complex? Malicious Mother Syndrome? Parental Alienation Syndrome?
However, it was the image left at the scene that intrigued Gus the most. While being of the same basic scene as the last two sent to his mother, this had one big difference. The hanging woman was not the one from the previous images. Nor was she Miranda Brookes. Gus had been unable to view the face of the naked woman on the image clearly at the crime scene, but the thought had occurred that perhaps their killer had taken the time to draw the image in situ.
Of course, now that they’d identified the first three images as being drawn by Rory Robertson, and were as nearly positive as they could be that the one left at the scene was also drawn by him, Gus had dismissed that thought. Rory Robertson may be their artist, but there was no way he could be their killer.
Chapter 17
Bradford
The dead of the night. Silence, except for the erratic snoring from Fergus, that sounded like a malfunctioning pneumatic drill filled the house. In the dimly lit kitchen, Corrine McGuire cinched the ties of her silk dressing gown tighter round her waist, then picked up her mug once more, cradling it in both hands. In the time she’d been sitting here, with only the light from the hallway and her dogs to keep her company, the drink had gone cold. Still she held it. It comforted her to smell its chocolatey aroma. Reminded her of when Angus and Katie had been children. When they’d been happy.
Sighing, she considered how easy everything had been then. Their little family of four cocooned in love and happiness, her secrets not allowed to taint their lives at all. Had she been wrong? Should she have spoken to her children about her past? She lowered her hand and patted Heather on the head. His soulful brown eyes looked up at her, offering solace from her pain. She smiled. ‘Mama’s OK, Heather, Mama’s OK.’
She brushed away the tear that rolled down her cheek and plopped on the table where a small pool of earlier tears still remained. Heather whined and nuzzled her leg. If only people were as easy to deal with as dogs. There had never been a good time to tell her children. When they were little, they were too young to understand racism and killing and why anyone would ever want to discard their mother like a piece of rubbish. Then, when they were older, they had exams and pressures of their own … then they were adults … and still she’d baulked at raking it all up again. The most traumatic experiences of her life happened before she met Fergus – before she became a happy, successful woman with her own beautiful family. That dark part
of her life, she kept locked up in a dark closet at the back of her mind and, the truth was, she didn’t want to ever have to open it up.
Although the sweat that had covered her body when she awakened from the dream had long since dried to a salty slick, the hazy memory of it still plagued her. It had been years since she’d had that dream – or any of the multitude of variations of it, but the arrival of those sketches had put paid to that. She remembered Rory, her foster brother. She’d been so enthralled with his skill. The way, in a few pencil strokes, he could transform a blank page to something living. The way he could capture the essence of everything around him.
Although she remembered him, there were many things, before and after they were separated, that she couldn’t remember. Not clearly. She didn’t need to be a genius to realise her mind had closed down, had thrust traumatic experiences to the back of her mind. That was why, so the social workers from her youth said, she didn’t talk for years. But Corrine knew that the reason she remained silent was because she couldn’t remember and the reason she couldn’t remember was because the things she’d experienced were too awful to relive.
But that was before those damn drawings started arriving. She’d kept the arrival of the first drawing, the one of her classmates, to herself. She’d almost managed to convince herself that it was innocent – nonthreatening. That Rory was reaching out to her. Yet, she knew he couldn’t be. She’d seen the lurid headlines in the Daily Record fifteen years ago. She’d read them, followed the case closely, Fergus her only confidante to her mixed emotions, when he’d been found guilty through insanity of killing his beautiful wife.
So, when the second picture arrived, she had no choice but to tell her husband. How could she not? They shared everything. He was her rock and this second sketch had rattled her. So, similar in skill to the ones she’d seen him draw as a child after that event. For hours she’d watched him draw the same image again and again as if it was ingrained on his mind, neither of them speaking. Neither of them able to make sense of what had happened and then the final hurt – she’d been taken away – back into foster care, because Rory’s family were too grief-stricken to look after her … an outsider in their small community – a little darkie girl who never spoke and peed the bed.
She and Fergus had debated what to do. Of course, they’d considered telling Angus, but had decided to do a little investigating on their own. That, in hindsight, had been their mistake. She should have told Angus then … it wouldn’t have appeared so threatening … and he’d have had a chance to do his own investigation, before that poor woman had been killed. It was her fault that girl was dead … and her unborn baby. If she’d just spoken out earlier. Instead she and Fergus had done what they thought at the time was best. They’d consulted the only person they knew who was in the police force in Scotland and that person had agreed to look into it for them.
Standing up and tipping her undrunk cocoa into the sink, Corrine acknowledged that that might have been a move too far for Angus to ever understand. Especially when he found out about Billy – especially then.
Chapter 18
Bradford
He doesn’t mind the darkness. It’s not too dark anyway – the moon is his friend, offering just enough light to see without needing the torch he carries in his backpack. Dressed all in black, the Man in Black merges with the shadows, the thought of his invisibility makes him feel like a super hero as he skulks around the back of Erica Smedley’s bungalow. A warrior for truth – a warrior who holds people’s lives in his hands.
It’s a quaint area. Well-tended gardens both front and rear, within a stone’s throw of Keighley, good schools in the neighbourhood. Not that Erica Smedley will ever have need of a school – not after he’s done with her. He hasn’t planned this in any great detail. Was surprised by the degree of anger her careless words at Miranda Brookes’ home had elicited. Not a pleasant woman and now after spending the day finding out all about Erica Smedley, he realises he’ll be doing the world a favour.
A string of affairs with married men, uncountable broken hearts, innumerable fatherless children – all at her hands. No, he is happy with his decision. For one, it will confuse his three worthy opponents. Make them wonder what is going on in Bradford and that suits him. He is eager to exert pressure. Eager to see how they react to being subjected to tension.
He’d spent the rest of the day at Shipley library, again availing himself of their facilities. He’d wanted to spread around his illicit online trawling, so in Shipley, he’d facilitated an online search of Erica Smedley’s social media accounts. The more he scrolled down her narcissistic posts, the more his dislike of his prey grew. Unlike his other targets, whom he had no personal quibble with, Erica Smedley is everything he hates in a woman.
Although he hated trawling through the endless Facebook and Twitter posts that showed her as the vacuous, nasty person she is, he got enough information to realise that she lived alone. Nobody would want to live with her. He grins. Nobody would mourn her death. She’d slip off into oblivion unloved, ungrieved for, and unlamented.
A mewing cat at his heels reminds him that she doesn’t live entirely alone. She shares her one bed bungalow with a cat. He likes cats, so he leans down and strokes it. It arches its back, happy with the attention. From his position next to her wheelie bins, he sees her bedroom light go out. She’s on early shift tomorrow so no doubt she’s getting her beauty sleep. He’ll give it ten minutes, then he’ll creep over to her window. He’s already targeted the kitchen window as the easiest to break in through and sure enough, when he studies it close up, he sees that she’s left it an inch open, secured on a flip hinge to prevent an intruder gaining access.
Silly, silly Erica. She clearly didn’t expect someone with his skills to come calling. In a matter of seconds, he slides a thin metal chisel into the space, flicks it a few times and on the third wrist movement, sends the hinge upwards. The pressure from his shoulder on the pane makes the window ease open another inch so that when the latch falls back down, it misses the space. He is in.
A glance round tells him he’s alone. Not that he expects anyone to join him. The garden’s fenced in, the neighbours all live in bungalows so nobody can see the dark figure pull himself onto the sill, swing his legs round, and disappear inside Erica Smedley’s home.
As he expects, she had a microwave meal for one and a glass of wine for her tea followed by a humungous bar of chocolate. He noticed, from her frequent social media posts, she’s been gaining weight over recent months. And true enough, her kitchen cupboards are full of chocolate biscuits and chocolate bars. Conveniently, there is a night light from the hallway to guide him as he explores the other two rooms. The living room sports a massive telly, scatter cushions, and a sprawling recliner sofa. The bathroom is tiny with only a shower, toilet, and hand basin.
His heart speeds up a little as he approaches the bedroom. The door is a little ajar, so he takes great care not to make any noise as he slides his backpack from his shoulders and onto the floor. He unbuckles the straps, his leather gloves make the job a little more difficult, but he’s used to it. Prowling round, he selects his weapon from the coffee table in the lounge – a laptop – and weighs it in his hand. Heavy enough to do the trick, but not so heavy to spoil the fun. With a smile, he creeps forward, modulating his breathing so there isn’t a sound as he edges closer to the sleeping lump sprawled over the middle of the huge double bed.
He pauses as she moves, rolling over onto her stomach. Great – makes it easier for him. Next to the bed, he looks down at the back of her head, illuminated by the moonlight, only a slither through the slightly ajar curtain. Her roots need touching up – he reaches out and with a gloved finger touches the greying inch that sprouts out from her scalp. She fidgets, not awake, yet not quite fully asleep either. He doesn’t care if he wakes her now. He leans toward her, tucks her hair behind her ear and whispers her name. ‘Erica.’
Only a slight shoulder movement, like a truculent teen sh
aking off their mum as she tries to wake them for school. He leans in again and a little louder this time – ‘Ericaaa.’
He senses the stillness as her body and mind try to make sense of what she’s just heard. He waits till her head begins to turn towards him. Allows the terror to appear on her face when she sees the masked figure beside her bed. As she opens her mouth, he raises the laptop and lowers it at half strength to her temple. He doesn’t want her unconscious. But he does want her compliant when he strangles her.
Afterwards, satisfied with his work, the Man in Black spoons cat food into the cat’s bowl, strokes it once more, smiling at the feline’s disloyal purrs and leaves the house the same way he entered.
Chapter 19
Bradford
There was no hint of a breeze, yet Corrine McGuire found herself pulling her shawl round her shoulders as she faced Alice and the quirky man that Alice had introduced as Professor Sebastian Carlton, a forensic psychologist, with expertise in profiling who was helping her son investigate the death of that poor woman. Never had she seen anyone less in tune with her concept of how a profiler would look. But Corrine was never one to judge a book by its cover. Ignoring his rather startlingly bright attire, careful to maintain social distance and enjoying the rather old-fashioned way he bowed at her, she smiled at the man. Sebastian Carlton was a dark horse, she was sure.
Despite realising that it would be prejudicial if Gus were to interview his own mother, she took his absence as a personal slight. The initial interview had been conducted by Alice and Taffy and this was a ‘follow-up one’, but she’d not seen her son since their argument the other night and she was anxious. She’d tried to phone him. Fergus had tried to phone him, but he’d sent the calls to voicemail. As it was, she wondered just how long Nancy would be able to keep him as Senior Investigating Officer. Impartiality dictated he would be taken off the case, and that would be one more mark against her. Besides, there was no way he would allow himself to be completely ousted and the last thing she wanted was for him to lose his job over this. If only he hadn’t inherited the stubborn gene from both his parents.