Profile k, p.13
Profile K, page 13
‘Lie on your stomach,’ he told her. That was met by a furious growl but the knife tip in her shoulder blade was persuasive enough.
He tied the loose end of the noose rope around one leg of the bed, threw the pillows across the room to make sure nothing got in his way, then began cutting off her clothing. Mae didn’t move, wriggle or kick. She just lay there, so still that at one point he checked to make sure she hadn’t passed out again, but when he pulled back her hair from her face, her eyes were open. It scared him a little. Not enough for him to stop. Enough to put her hair back across her face so he didn’t have to see that expression.
Then someone knocked on the door. Three times, not too loudly. Friendly, familiar.
Mae’s body tensed, and in spite of the gloves and the tape and being face down, she put every bit of life force she had into producing a growl-scream-shriek that might – just might – have been audible from the corridor.
He crept out of the bedroom, quietly pulled the door until it was almost shut, then moved along the hallway to stand with his ear pressed against Mae’s front door. Whoever was there knocked again.
Fuck it! They hadn’t gone.
‘Mae?’ a man called. Then words he couldn’t understand, too foreign and too fast, but the voice was scratchy and shaky. Unmistakably that of someone elderly.
The applicant rubbed his hands over his face.
Stay calm, he’ll go. Stay calm, he’ll go. Stay calm, he’ll go.
Then the sound of keys jangling.
‘No,’ he muttered. ‘This isn’t what happens.’
More calling to Mae from the corridor. He should have known, because the buzzer didn’t go to be let in from outside, so the man must have had keys all along.
Instinctively, he reached out and pushed his hands against the door to prevent entry, but that was wrong too, because the man would know straight away that something was wrong.
Deep breath, step away. Hide in the bathroom, behind the door.
Now he could hear Mae again as the key grated in the lock – it needed some WD-40, he thought – but perhaps it was a good thing that she was making a noise because the man, whoever he was, would go to her.
There were footsteps inside the flat, the first two slow and hesitant, then a desperate shuffling no more than four feet from where he was hiding, and the sound of the bedroom door being pushed fully open.
The applicant stepped out and, unheard, covered the ground to where an older man was tripping over his own feet to get to Mae and free her from the ropes. Mae’s bulging eyes fixed on the blade diving gracefully through the air towards the man’s neck. It sliced so cleanly that he couldn’t have felt a thing until he was already collapsing.
The applicant raced back to shut the front door, kicking aside a bag that must have been dropped on the way in.
Don’t slam it! he ordered himself. No more noise. Or should he leave, now, while he still could? What if someone was expecting the old man home? What if other people were about to arrive? He thought about that for a moment, then returned to the bag and looked through it. In it was food that barely constituted enough for a meal for two. They weren’t expecting anyone else. It had been a care visit, not the start of a party.
Still, the applicant cursed his shoddy preparation. He hadn’t watched her for long enough. Due diligence was a real thing.
What he’d had planned for Mae wasn’t going to be fulfilling now, anyway. He’d thought he’d have the whole night.
‘Just fucking calm down,’ he said. ‘You have time.’
He hauled the man into the bathroom and pushed his body into the shower, allowing himself only a minute to admire the picture. On any other day, that wouldn’t have been enough for him, but now he was out of time.
Rolling Mae over, keeping three fingers inside the noose so it didn’t tighten and hurt her, he looked for that furious stare, now the ruse was up. She would know she wasn’t getting out alive.
Her eyes were closed. Not squeezed tightly shut, just resting lightly, eyelashes shimmering on her cheeks. He looked more closely. Tears hung from the ends of her lashes. She had loved the man whose life he’d taken, and now Mae was hiding in the comforting dark of unconsciousness until it was over. Not so brave any more.
He retrieved the duct tape, layering it over her mouth to stop the screams that would come. It wouldn’t be like his time with Chloe. There would be no artistry or slow burn. He took supplies from his backpack – workman’s goggles, his parents’ kitchen gadget, and a stack of brand new tea-towels for wiping the blade – and turned up the radio.
There would be some noise, not nice noise. In a couple of hours, the smell would have permeated the corridor. By the next afternoon, it might have been reported to building maintenance. Come the evening, someone would have attempted entry. That was okay. He was going to work fast, then exit through Mae’s bedroom window into the night. But he had to see it through, no matter the risk. Stopping was simply not an option.
Chapter 18
It was Tuesday lunchtime, and Midnight found herself standing at police crime scene tape that was both inconsequential and a chasm between her and the flat where another young woman had died.
She’d heard it from Amber, who had visited her that morning from data analysis, entering Midnight’s office with the words, ‘It’s not your guy. I know what you must be thinking but I’m here to tell you it’s not.’
Eli had stopped typing and was looking from Amber to Midnight and back.
‘Amber, I don’t know what you’re talking about. Do you want to start at the beginning, but this time in private?’
Eli busied himself. ‘Tea?’ he asked brightly. ‘Anyone? No? Okay then.’ He bustled out.
‘If you’re referring to what I think you’re referring to, please don’t talk about that in front of Eli. We’ve known him less than a week, so I don’t know if I can trust him yet. More importantly, who’s not my guy?’
‘I assumed you’d heard,’ Amber said. ‘Listen, I’m pushed for time. I had no idea how busy it was heading up a team—’
‘Amber. What’s happened?’
‘Where have you been for the last day?’ Amber snapped. Midnight took a deep breath, assessing her best friend. Amber never snapped. If she was stressed, she made a joke. This was new. ‘Sorry. I know you have a lot going on.’ She sat down in Eli’s chair. ‘Two people were found dead. I didn’t want you overreacting, especially now everything’s going so well for us.’
Going well was an understatement. Midnight’s pay had increased by a full third from her data analysis position, and that had been remunerated far beyond comparable positions in other companies.
‘Where?’ Midnight asked.
Amber twisted one hand in the other and looked like she wanted to bolt. ‘Clapham. That estate they’ve been talking about bulldozing and redeveloping.’
‘Do the police think it’s the same attacker?’
‘That’s my point. It can’t be. This is two victims, different sexes, so nothing like last time. I just figured your imagination would be working overtime,’ she said. ‘I should go, but let’s get coffee after work. I’m worried about you.’
‘Coffee? I think that’s the first time you’ve suggested we go anywhere other than to a bar. You really must be worried.’
‘That’s kind of mean,’ Amber muttered, frowning.
It was unlike her not to be able to take something Midnight said as a joke, but then they’d been separated for the first time. It was a big change for them both, and all Midnight had been thinking about was herself. Amber had been there for the fun times, but more importantly, she got her through the tough days and the boring days, always with a smile. She made Midnight look forward to going into the office. Now all that had changed, and there was a hole in Midnight’s working world.
‘I’m sorry. Coffee would be good,’ Midnight said. ‘I appreciate you looking out for me.’
Thirty minutes later, she put on her coat, left the office without a word to anyone, and hopped on a bus. Amber’s protestations that it wasn’t the same killer felt hollow, and Midnight’s gut was far more persuasive. Something was wrong. People didn’t just randomly start dying like that in one small area of a city.
It had taken Midnight just a few minutes to get the details. The woman’s name was Mae. She was in her twenties, had both lived and worked in Clapham, and had died in her own home. The dead man was a relative of Mae’s but it wasn’t clear if he’d lived there too. It was amazing what people put on social media. Nothing was taboo any more. Some neighbour had revealed the road, block and apartment number of Mae’s flat.
Midnight wasn’t even sure why she was going there. Guilt, she answered her own question. You’re going because you think that maybe you could have stopped it, and now you need to face up to what you’ve done.
She glanced at the people either side of her along the crime scene tape barrier. Could the murderer be there? His DNA could be on her now, rogue skin cells on her coat. She turned around, staring into the crowd and searching for a face that might fit the image she’d developed of the killer in her imagination. Possibly, terrifyingly, Midnight realised that perhaps he could even see her in the crowd. Was he looking for her as she looked for him?
‘Miss Jones?’ When she turned back, DI Ruskin was standing in front of her. ‘Were you looking for me?’
‘No. Maybe. I’m not sure,’ she blustered.
Ruskin frowned, then lifted the crime scene tape and ushered her in.
‘Come on,’ he said. ‘I have a flask of coffee in my car.’
The seen-better-days Toyota could have used a valet, but it shut out the wind and offered a little privacy. The passenger sun visor was down, and Midnight could see in the mirror that her mascara had run. She’d been crying. No wonder Ruskin had decided to be kind to her.
‘You okay?’ he asked.
Midnight nodded. ‘How do you do this job? There’s so much sadness.’
He took a deep breath in. ‘I suppose I’m trying to limit other people’s future sadness. All those potential victims who need protecting.’ He blew warm air onto his hands.
Midnight liked him. He was fatherly in a way she’d forgotten, and masculine without the bullshit. It was a good combination.
‘So is it?’ she whispered.
‘Chloe’s killer?’ he asked. Midnight nodded. ‘Maybe. We don’t have the forensic results from this scene to compare yet, but we do have a DNA source from Chloe’s flat. If there’s a match, we’ll call that positive for a triple murder. Watch this space.’
‘Who was the man that died?’
‘The second victim’s father. His son just released a statement to the press. It was bad timing. In an American thriller, they’d call it collateral damage, but here it’s just another old-fashioned murder.’
‘So what was the link between Chloe and this woman … Mae?’
‘Can I ask you a question first? What are you doing here? Last time you were passing by, but I know you work so don’t you have somewhere else to be?’
‘Is it suspicious, me coming here?’ she asked. ‘Because now I feel like I should have stayed away.’
‘Full disclosure, we checked you out after you were spotted near the last crime scene, so no, you’re not on my list of people I think might be involved. I’m just curious.’
Midnight gazed out of the window. She wanted to tell him everything, but she had a new contract, and she’d studied it carefully over the weekend. Not only would she get fired if she breached confidentiality, she could end up losing everything if she got sued, and without a reference there was no way she’d find another position in the industry.
‘I just felt I had a connection to it. And like I said before, it’s all so close. Too close. To where I live, I mean.’
He stared at her for a few seconds, then pulled a flask from the back seat and poured two plastic cups full of steaming coffee.
‘Hope you like it strong.’
It burned Midnight’s tongue a little, but the coffee was good.
‘Do you have a picture of Mae?’ she asked.
‘I can show you the one we’ve just released to the press. You sure you want to see?’ She nodded and he pulled out his mobile.
Mae was breathtaking. She was Asian, with hair that fell perfectly onto her shoulders, small, cupid’s bow lips and eyes the darkest shade of brown, set broadly across her face. The resemblance to Chloe’s eyes was notable.
‘Did he kill her the same way he killed Chloe?’ Midnight asked, handing the mobile back.
‘I can’t talk about that. Some details have to remain out of the public domain. Listen, Miss Jones—’
‘Midnight,’ she said. ‘As I’m in your car, drinking your coffee.’
‘Midnight. I get the feeling there’s something you want to tell me. Am I right?’
She shifted her eyes from his and lifted one shoulder noncommittally up and down.
‘You’d be amazed what people tell me. Sometimes it’s a hunch. Sometimes they suspect a loved one but have no idea how to get past the guilt of reporting them. The point is, if you know something, or suspect something, you can trust me with it.’
Midnight could hear Amber’s voice in her head, telling her not to freak out.
‘I think I just remembered what you said about killers coming back to the scene. I figured he might be here, and I thought … I thought I’d recognise him somehow. It was stupid.’
She finished her coffee and handed him the cup.
‘Okay,’ he said. ‘I should be getting back inside, but promise me something: if you need to talk, call me. The Met police have been having a hard time with public trust lately, but most of us, nearly all of us, are here to do the best we can. Instincts are there for a reason, Midnight. What I’ve learned from a lifetime of policing, is that people are most likely to die when they ignore their gut.’
‘Sure,’ she said. ‘Thanks for the coffee. I feel better now. I’m sorry for what you have to see and do. I think you’re brave. And I believe that you’re the good guy.’ She left, knowing he was watching her, wishing he would come after her and force a confession from her.
But he didn’t.
Chapter 19
Ruskin watched Midnight Jones plod back towards the crime scene tape. She resembled a shadow more than a whole person, as if the substance of her had dropped out. He was always wary of spending too much time with witnesses. Sometimes they were just freaks who got off on the drama. For others, a crime offered a way to make a connection. Miss Jones, though, was an anomaly. She made Ruskin want to shake her to see what fell out. There was something she was holding back, but if he pushed her too hard, she’d retreat.
His mobile interrupted his musings, with a message to attend the mortuary for a debriefing. Picking up some chicken soup and dumplings from Donatella’s on the way, he drove across town to the place he liked least in the whole of London. This was where every sad story ended. All the good work done there was necessitated by the tears of loved ones. Ruskin was going to move back to Scotland some time soon. He’d wanted so much more for his family than living in a two-up-two-down on a crowded street. At least in Scotland, their money would go further, even if that meant leaving their friends behind. London had given him a great career, endless entertainment and some memorable times, but he’d dreamed of ending his days travelling the world, and if that couldn’t happen on a police pension then the next best thing was watching golden sunsets over the lochs and hiking the Highlands. More than anything, he didn’t want the last place his body lay before cremation to be that damned mortuary. Deep breath, do your job, be grateful it’s not you – his mantra before buzzing to be let in.
The pathologist met him with an outstretched hand to take the traditional offering. They sat together in the staffroom to eat, and Ruskin was grateful for the salty chicken soup softening the chemical air. While they ate, there was no mention of cases or bodies or death, by unspoken agreement. Family was a safe topic, as was sport. Books, at a push, because neither of them found much time for reading. Television was another taboo subject. Ruskin failed to understand why so many people wanted to watch programmes about true crime or fictional crime, unsolved murders, or just misery. If he had his way, all media would be required to be positive. There was enough horror in his world without sitting down to relax with more.
‘How’s your wife, Jock?’ the pathologist asked.
‘Fed up with me making promises I don’t keep. I’ll be home at ten p.m. I’m not working this weekend so I’ll have the time to fix that tap. I’d love to go to the cinema on Friday. I’ll definitely have Christmas off this year. We can afford that cruise she’s always fancied. That sort of thing. I’m carrying both too much weight around my middle and too much guilt on my shoulders in equal measure.’
‘I’m sure she understands.’ The pathologist smiled softly.
‘Aye, she does. But her understanding the demands of this job, and me wishing I had the time and money to treat her better, are two different things. And as for my kids … you think the hard bit’s when they’re wee things, falling over themselves and afraid of the dark. No one tells you it’s the pain they’ll experience as adults that really breaks you.’
The pathologist waited a beat.
‘Problems?’
‘Nothing a large amount of cash couldn’t fix.’ Ruskin issued an uncharacteristically bitter laugh. ‘My son and his wife can’t have kids. It’s driving her into depression and he’s become a shadow of the fun-loving boy he used to be. The NHS won’t fund any more attempts at IVF so it’s the private route only.’
‘I’m sorry. That really does cost a lot of money.’
‘Aye. Around fifteen thousand for every three rounds of IVF, and that’s without factoring in time off work and incidentals. We might have been able to help with a portion of it if my daughter hadn’t got herself mired into credit card debt throughout university and the years that followed, then lied to us about it until it was too late to bail her out. She owes money to a lot of people, not just the banks.’
