by Will Carver
Initially I thought that these arrows were deliberately aimed at these spots for dramatic effect. I thought that perhaps he wanted to keep her alive a little longer, to torture her. But he didn’t, he just missed.
In my mind, the picture is clear.
He picked up an impressionable young girl, went back to her modest, rented flat, had sexual intercourse with her, tied her to a pole in the kitchen and sadistically attempted to shoot an apple off the top of her head with a bow and arrow.
The how is simple. The why is puzzling.
It isn’t the same as Dorothy Penn, apart from its elaborate concept. I almost want him to kill again so that I have more information. I’m astonished at this thought, realising my obsession is growing stronger, that my motivation runs deeper, that my desperation can be consuming.
I think about The Smiling Man. His almost-closed eyelids, his arrows, the ‘William Tell Overture’ and that smile, that constant smile.
I think about the first time he visited me, and, for the first time in a long while, I think about my mother and tell myself I’m nothing like her.
Subconsciously I start to open my top drawer and reach for the Scotch. It’s only 10 a.m. Murphy slithers into the office and his presence pulls me back to reality.
‘Morning, Jan.’ He sighs in my direction.
‘Morning, Murph. Anything?’ I ask, hoping he can shed even a glint of light on the case, pushing the drawer closed softly as I speak.
He perches himself on the corner of my desk as though the eight-foot walk from the doorway was a half-marathon. ‘Nothing on the speed-dating. This girl …’ I see his mind ticking over.
‘Carla.’
‘Yes, Carla. Carla Moretti,’ he clarifies. ‘She wasn’t a member of any of these dating websites. She didn’t even have an Internet connection. That isn’t the link between these girls.’
‘Then what is?’ I ask almost rhetorically, knowing what the answer will be.
‘That, we don’t know.’
‘Yet.’
‘Yet. What we do know is that she was an average worker at a call centre. Nothing special. Nothing memorable. Except for the fact that she broke the call record the day she died.’
‘That could be significant,’ I say out loud, thinking I’d said it in my head. I tend to do this when I have had little sleep. Sometimes it’s the other way round: I think I have said something out loud, but it only echoes as inner monologue.
‘Yeah maybe,’ he adds, unenthused at a possible break-through. ‘She lived alone, she was taking a night course in business studies at the Embassy Theatre in Swiss Cottage and was a regular at the library nearby. She was in there all the time, apparently.’
‘This is all good, Murph. Useful groundwork to dig into. Anything else I should know?’ I ask, aware of the likely response.
‘Not really.’ He closes his notebook and lethargically slots it back into his pocket.
‘Where is Paulson?’
‘He’s looking into any possible links between the two girls, too. Whether their paths have crossed. You know? He thinks it’s a maths problem.’ He smiles. I don’t.
‘OK. Good.’ I switch my computer screen off and straighten my shirt out. ‘You take the theatre. Find out who was in her class, what they thought of her, get Paulson on it with you, maybe her peers or mates or whatever can give more insight. I’m going to the library.’ I exhale heavily, preparing myself for the long day ahead. ‘We’ve gotta catch this fucker, Murph.’ I’m not sure if I sound determined or desperate; I’m not even sure what I feel. I’m frustrated with the case, exasperated by the lack of evidence, tired of achieving nothing.
I’m also somewhat perturbed by Murphy’s lack of urgency. He just stands there satisfied that his pathetic debrief is adequate. It’s like he is going through the motions. Like it’s just another case for him; that it carries the same weight as a domestic violence incident. He’s waiting for me to tell him how to investigate the case, whereas Paulson takes it upon himself to develop his own leads and strategies. I almost have to usher Murphy out the door.
One of the new police constables almost collides with us in the hallway. He stands before me, slightly out of breath, his forehead caked in tiny globules of sweat. He hands me an envelope and says that he has been asked to run this up to me urgently. I thank him impatiently and send him brusquely on his way, dismissing him, my gaze already boring into the packet now clutched in my hand.
Nervously I lift the flap. It has already been opened and read by someone before being sent up to me. The envelope is A5 sized and manilla. In block capital letters on the front it says DETECTIVES RE: CARLA. I look at Murphy, wide-eyed, but he just peers over my shoulder at the envelope, waiting for me to take out whatever is inside. I can smell the coffee on his breath.
Carefully I lift out the piece of plain white card from the envelope. It’s like a cue card or one of those cards you see students using to aid with their revision. It is blank on one side. I turn it over and handwritten on the other side is a short message.
B4 to C3.
I copy the message shakily into my notebook, my hand quivering, my thoughts already racing. Concealing my agitation, I hand the envelope and card to Murphy to take for analysis to look at under their microscopes. I’m sure they will confirm that the slant of the writing and the pressure on the descenders will indicate a left-hander. That, despite the capital E looking like a capital C with a line through the middle, and even though the curvature would normally indicate a female, this is in fact a male and he is the actual perpetrator of these atrocities. I feel the evil emanate from the page, like I’ve made contact with malevolence. My body goes cold, but is soon thawed by the adrenalin that courses through me as I transform this incident into a renewed sense of verve.
B4 to C3?
I send Murphy on his way for the second time and head back to my desk. Taking a sheet of paper from the printer, I quickly use my biro to draw an 8 × 8 grid. On the x axis I write a letter to correspond with each square, A to H; on the y axis I label each square with a number from one to eight. It’s a standard chessboard. I’ve seen this tactic before. A killer wants to enter into combat with his eventual captor and chess is an expression of his apparent intellectual superiority. But he’s never played me before.
B4 to C3. I look down at my roughly drawn grid and try to visualise this game plan. The only pieces that can make that move are a bishop, the queen, the king or a pawn when it takes another pawn. What is he trying to say? That these women are pawns? That he is the king? This message itself gives me very little, apart from confirming that the killer has a certain amount of showmanship. Perhaps he wants to be caught. Maybe this is all part of the process. Or it may have been sent to misdirect us.
But this is his second letter.
I still haven’t seen his first.
The one that says C7 to B4. The one that is filed away somewhere.
Of course, it’s not chess. For the same reason that he isn’t preying on speed-daters. For the same reason that each murder scene is vastly different.
The Smiling Man is telling me how and when.
The killer is telling me where.
In my experience, when solving a crime, the solution is often the simplest possible interpretation. The answer is staring at you. But I can’t believe that’s true this time. Just as I feel I am getting into his head, he throws something new into the mix.
I decide to continue with my plan and head to the library. In my haste I forget to call Audrey to let her know that I am all right.
Girl 2
I’VE NEVER DONE anything like this before. My innate misanthropy has always been a stumbling block, if I’m honest. Today is different. A new day. A new me. So, when a charming, attractive stranger offers to take me for a quick coffee and discuss my business plan, of course I accept. It’s not like he is a photographer and I am trying to make it as a model. It doesn’t feel like he wants me to take my clothes off.
It’s innocent. A
n act of philanthropy.
‘Coffee?’ I pause slightly as if I am considering it. ‘Yeah, OK. Sounds like a plan. Now?’ I ask.
‘Now is as good a time as any,’ he responds. ‘Have you checked your books out?’
‘No. Not yet.’ I look over my shoulder at the counter; there are only two people in the queue.
‘I’ll wait outside for you. I just need to make a quick call.’ He smiles and heads outside, while I queue up to grab the two books I am looking to read over the next couple of days to help me with this new enterprise. I think about the extra £20 I earned today making all those extra calls. Two weeks of that will get me my very own laptop. I can order it online at work; it’s cheaper and more convenient than hitting the high street.
I glance back outside through the glass door and see Eames pacing back and forth, absorbed in conversation on his mobile phone. He catches me staring at him and throws a smile at me and waves.
It feels like a good idea. It’s broad daylight. What could possibly happen to me in broad daylight?
He doesn’t want to get on the Underground; something about terrorism and no escape. We walk. We walk until we hit a Starbucks. It’s a fairly safe bet that you’ll hit one at some point if you keep going in a straight line. He says he likes to support local businesses when possible, family-run cafés, that sort of thing. I’m a businesswoman, nearly, and I support capitalist takeover. It’s what I expect to do. When people complain about capitalism I just like to think of it as successful business. Besides, who doesn’t love Starbucks? Comfortable chairs, high-quality food and beverages, well-trained staff. Even when there is a procession of twenty people before you all waiting for a cappuccino and a panini, you know that the turnaround is efficient and the quality never diminishes.
People pay for quality. They pay for the lifestyle.
This is where I always go anyway. But, of course, he knows this. He’s seen me in here sucking on biscotti and licking my lips at espresso chocolate brownies. He already knows everything I have been twittering on about as we walk down the Finchley Road. He’s bored. I just think he is a great listener; that we are connecting on more than just an academic level.
I’ve really fucked up this time.
Eames
CARLA WAS NOTHING compared to Dorothy. Not in the bedroom, not as a person. Part of the thrill of killing is the remorse that you should feel for taking a life. But Carla wasn’t worth a second thought.
She almost wasn’t worth the effort. And now she will be recorded for eternity as a composite piece of my installation, my art.
And I feel sick about it.
We walk and walk until we finally come across her favourite coffee chain. I’ve done the route before, several times, while researching the area and how she lives her life, her routine, but this feels longer than usual. She isn’t talking to me, she is talking at me.
I feign interest, pretending I know the names and theories she is referencing, looking her straight in the eyes. I imagine the arrow slicing through her thick skull and I’m overcome with a comforting sense of warmth, the peace that comes with knowing you have rid the world of something worthless.
But this isn’t what I want.
This is much bigger than just one person, bigger than Carla Moretti, bigger than me.
I leave the scene of the crime in a state of ambivalence. Everything went according to plan. I took the correct girl on the night I was supposed to and disposed of her in the way I had imagined, but something is niggling me. I feel that people will view her as the weakest part, that there is a flaw. But I can’t do anything about it now, because I have already posted the letter to the police station to arrive in the morning.
I pace down the Finchley Road, my eyes wide and unblinking, the rage building inside me. I think about the jogger that acknowledged me yesterday and pray that he passes me tonight, so that I can drag him on to one of the nearby estates and beat him, maybe break his ankles, maybe stamp on his neck, collapsing his oesophagus and watching him as he chokes out. But that isn’t me any more. I’m better than that.
I need some release.
As I cross the road an ambulance speeds through the traffic lights, its lights revolving, the siren blaring. I wonder if this has been called out for Carla. They’re too late to do anything now. It gives me some respite to believe this is true.
Walking into the lobby of the hotel I steer my gaze away from the concierge, so as not to enter into a dialogue. I am meeting one of my women here tonight. I set something like this up after every murder. One of the women desperate to have an affair, to feel like she is getting one up on her husband for flying to Europe for a meeting or staying behind with his secretary. I didn’t feel the need to show up after Dorothy, but tonight is different.
She is already in the room when I get there, lying on the bed with a glass of red wine in her hand. I wonder whether she strategically laid herself in the position as she heard the key-card in the door.
I don’t speak to her. I don’t want to speak to her. She stands as I walk over to her. Knocking the wine glass out of her hand across the room, I pull her face into mine and kiss her aggressively. I want to put her feet on my shoulders and my hands around her throat, but I can’t because her husband would notice if I left bruising.
I grab a clump of hair on the back of her head and twist her face away from mine, and push her down on to the bed so that she is lying on her stomach. She pretends to fight against this movement, but I know it’s what she wants. Still holding the hair tightly in my fist I use my other hand to hitch up her skirt at the back. I rip her tights as I force them down and feel her underwear stretch as I do the same again.
She turns her head to the side, saying, ‘Yes. Yes. That’s it. Come on.’
I lean my weight slightly on her head, so that she can see my face as I enter her from behind. I pound her roughly and she makes almost a grunting noise as I do so. I yank her hair back as I get closer to finishing, arching her back, causing her some pain.
At the climax I fall on to her, lying on her back, my full weight crushing down on her. I keep her hair in my hand, but release the grip slightly as we both lie there breathing heavily.
It helped. This is how killing usually feels to me, but Carla let me down.
I roll over, gathering my thoughts. I have a job to get on with now. Carla is finished.
Amy is next.
B4 to C3.
January
I’M WORRIED. WHAT if the killer is smarter than the police, smarter than me? What if he is one step ahead right now? What if he is already planning his next victim, while we run around call centres and libraries trying to grab anything that can help us link these two girls together?
There is definitely something about this library, though. I feel it when I walk in.
It’s busy for an early morning weekday. There are several colleges and schools in the area and I can see a lot of the tables are filled with gaggles of twenty-somethings cramming for exams or researching for theses. There are elderly people in here, sifting through reference books on the local area and how it looked for previous generations. A bohemian male in his thirties is flicking through the CDs that are available to rent out.
I haven’t set foot in a library for years. I wasn’t really sure that many still existed with the ever-presence of information available on the Internet. They have that here too on 22” flat-screen monitors all along one wall. Available to the public for a small charge, so the sign informs me.
I see two younger children giggling at a page in one of the biology textbooks, then one of the librarians taking it out of their hands and shooing them on. Despite the gravity of my mission, I smile to myself at their innocence.
The whole scene appears to be nothing out of the ordinary, but I have a feeling of unease about this place. Like I am the only person in here who feels cold. I can’t place what’s giving me this sense of disquiet, but I can’t shake the sensation.
The woman in charge at the main desk
paradoxically looks approachable yet stern. Petite would probably be how I’d describe her, if I were taking notes. Mousey, perhaps. She has bright blonde hair that is verging on looking albino, especially with her pale face. She has an angular chin that finishes in an almost-point and pronounced cheekbones that would make her look more like an Eastern European model if she were taller, with darker hair and a tan. I can’t decide whether she is pretty or hideous. It’s an odd cusp to sit on.
‘Good morning, I was wondering whether you could help,’ I greet her in an almost whisper in an attempt to conform to what I remember as common library etiquette.
‘Yeeeees,’ she drawls, sounding like she is asking a question. ‘What can I help you with, sir?’ She looks up from her papers, eyeing me speculatively with her near-turquoise eyes.
I flick a hasty glance over my shoulder to see who might be watching me, then dip my left hand into the inside pocket of my suit jacket and produce my ID. I lean across the desk further so that I can speak even quieter, but she will still be able to hear me.
‘I’m Detective Inspector David and I need to ask you some questions.’ She looks instantly terrified. I watch her expression freeze. ‘You are not in trouble in any way,’ I add quickly. ‘I was just hoping that you could help me with some enquiries.’
I feel I’m choosing my words carefully today, being overly cautious. I haven’t slept for over thirty hours now and my paranoia about saying something out loud that I meant to keep in my head is overwhelming. The chill of this building is making me feel like I am being watched or somebody is listening in on what I say. Unconsciously I rub my arm, wondering if it’s just me who feels the coolness in the air.
‘OK, Detective …’ She pauses.
‘David. Detective David.’ I try to reassure her further with my tone.
‘Detective David, what would you like to know?’