Warhol's Prophecy

The voice startled him and he spun round, his heart thudding a little quicker in his chest.

Bernard Swain, the chief pathologist, was in his thirty-ninth year, four years older than Tate. A tall, wiry man with thinning hair swept back severely from his forehead, he sported a goatee beard which, despite his belief that it made him look trendy, actually looked to Tate as if someone had glued a dead mouse to his chin.

‘They’re still in there, Matt, if that’s what you’re worried about,’ Swain said to him, nodding towards the lockers. ‘Brother and sister.’

Swain passed through into the office and slid open a drawer in his desk, rummaging around for some papers he wanted.

‘Someone really didn’t like that family, did they?’ the pathologist observed. ‘Layton would have been better off staying inside.’

‘You’re sure the same person killed them both?’ asked Tate.

‘You read my report.’

‘Yes, I did.’

‘Then what’s the problem? The same knife was used in both murders.’

‘A blade approximately twelve inches long, serrated on one edge.’

‘Exactly. The angle of the cuts was the same in both cases. So was their nature. There were approximately fifteen stab wounds to the upper part of Sandra Bennett. Another six to the vagina, probably inflicted after she was dead.’

‘Thank Christ for that,’ Tate breathed.

‘Twenty-two stab wounds to the body of David Layton, including four to the genitals. One of which, as you know, split his penis from top to bottom. He wasn’t so lucky: he was still alive when that was done. In addition, there were fractures to eight major bones, all inflicted with a heavy object made of metal. Probably an iron bar.’

‘The killer would have been covered in blood,’ mused Tate.

Swain nodded.

‘And yet we found no fingerprints or fibres at either scene,’ Tate muttered. ‘No clues, no motive, no suspects.’ He exhaled wearily. ‘What about the other business? You didn’t make any mention of it in your report.’

‘My job’s to examine the bodies they bring in here, Matt, not speculate on cases.’

‘But you must be curious. Why did he take their heads?’

101

CAROLINE HACKET SAT back from the table, and patted her stomach appreciatively.

‘That was a beautiful meal, Adam,’ she said. ‘Thank you.’

‘My pleasure,’ said Walker, raising his wine glass. ‘It’s surprising how easy it gets when you’re cooking for yourself every day.’

‘Tell me about it. I’m just grateful for microwaves and frozen meals,’ Caroline chuckled.

She eyed him over the kitchen table, watching as he sipped at his wine.

‘Perhaps next time you’ll let me cook you a meal,’ she said.

He nodded almost imperceptibly.

‘There is going to be a next time, isn’t there?’ she persisted.

Walker met her gaze. ‘Of course,’ he told her.

‘You don’t sound too sure.’

He finished what was left in his glass and pushed it away empty.

‘It’s a nice house,’ Caroline said, aware that his mind was elsewhere. ‘It must get lonely here, though.’

‘Do you get lonely?’

‘Sometimes.’

‘I’ve been on my own for so long now, I prefer it that way. Did Hailey tell you about this house?’

Caroline looked puzzled.

‘She mentioned it briefly, but . . .’ She allowed the sentence to trail off.

‘You know what happened here, don’t you? You said that Hailey had told you.’

‘Yes, she did, and I know she’s treated you badly since. She knows that she was wrong.’

Caroline got to her feet and walked around the table towards him. She stood behind him, gently massaging his shoulders with her slender fingers.

‘Does her husband know?’ Walker asked.

‘Why don’t you forget about Hailey?’ Caroline said, a slight note of irritation in her voice.

Walker stood up suddenly, turning to face her.

‘Why?’ he said. ‘So I can concentrate on you?’

He pulled her face towards him and pressed his lips against hers, feeling them part, feeling her tongue anxiously seeking his.

He slid one hand between her legs, brushing the inside of her left thigh, allowing his fingers to climb higher until they touched the soft cotton of her panties.

Caroline pushed herself against him, surprised by the ferocity of his kiss.

When they finally parted, she was panting.

He kept his hand between her legs, fingers stroking softly, expertly.

‘Is this what you want?’ he said, looking into her eyes.

She nodded.

He slid two fingers beneath the gusset of her panties, stirred the moisture there, then lifted those same two digits to her mouth and touched them gently against her lips.

‘Taste yourself,’ he said softly, watching as she licked his outstretched fingers, her tongue flicking over his wet digits. Caroline closed her eyes, her breathing now ragged.

He held her face between his palms and kissed her lightly on the lips.

‘You should go,’ he whispered.

Her eyes jerked open. Walker was smiling.

‘Now?’ she said, almost incredulously. She opened her mouth to say something else, but he put a finger to her lips to silence her.

‘Now,’ he repeated.

She stepped back from him slightly, trying to control her breathing.

‘I can stay if you want me to,’ she told him.

‘Another time,’ he smiled.

She ran a hand through her hair.

‘You really are a puzzle, Adam,’ she told him, touching his cheek.

‘It’s not the right time,’ he explained. ‘I’ve got things on my mind. Besides, we’ll have plenty of other nights together.’

‘I’m sorry,’ she told him. ‘I should have realized. With what happened to your father and . . .’

‘It’s not your fault,’ he told her.

She managed a smile.

‘So, you’re throwing me out, are you?’ Caroline joked.

‘Yes, I am.’

He walked her through to the hall, helped her on with her coat, then pulled her to him again. Once more she was surprised at the passion of his kiss.

‘You’re a bastard,’ she told him, grinning.

He looked at her indignantly.

‘For sending me home like this,’ she continued.

‘I’ll pick you up at seven tomorrow,’ he said.

‘The gig doesn’t start until nine. Let me cook you a meal tomorrow, before we go.’