Again, Beatrice Flateau’s toenails had been painted in what seemed to be the same shade as Miranda Brookes’ toes. Of course they’d have to wait for forensic ratification on that one, but he was pretty sure that was safe to assume. He shuddered, the idea of their killer, painting the naked women’s toenails disgusted him. The knowledge that the women were probably conscious but unable to move during the entire event was appalling. Neither woman had been raped, which he was thankful for. One thing that puzzled him was that Miranda Brookes’ PM showed that she was manually strangled before being winched up on the pulley. The logistics of that puzzled Gus. Manipulating a dead person was difficult at the best of times, but to spend time drilling a secure hole with a plug in it to make sure the pulley held the victim’s body weight was strange enough. How did the killer hoist her up? Did it need two of them? He made a note to ask Compo to check out the logistics of an average male being able to do the hoisting with ease.
When he zoned back into Alice’s monologue on the evils of nursery rhymes, she’d moved onto The Old Woman in the Shoe. Raising his voice, Gus interrupted her flow. ‘Can we get Compo to work out the logistics of hoisting the woman up so her feet were off the ground – you know get him to do some sort of programme or whatever it is he does?’
Nursery rhymes forgotten, Alice nodded. ‘Good idea, Gus. If we know the how, it might give Prof Carlton more of an idea of the why.’
Chapter 35
Bellbrax Psychiatric Facility, Scotland
They’re watching me more closely now and it makes me nervous. I’ve got to look normal. Can’t draw their attention to me. She keeps asking me what brought on my ‘episode’. That’s what she calls it, ‘an episode’. Like I’m in some fucking soap or other. Bloody Take the High Road in a mental hospital. Aye, that’ll be right. Right barrel of laughs that would be – with all the dribblers, the moaners, the yellers, and the screamers.
Bernie’s on today and he’s not so bad. Respects my space, still, even he’s more watchful than ever. I need to act like I’m OK, like it was a blip.
It was good being knocked out though. Gave my body a chance to recuperate – the nightmares were bad though. Voices calling me a liar. ‘Liar, Liar,Liar!’
At least with the restraints on, I couldn’t punch myself. Got to be careful, though. The scabs itch on my knuckles and Bernie keeps looking at me. I want to scream. I want to scrape and scrape and scrape the scabs off till they’re raw and bloody and then I want to just tell them everything.
I thought he’d be back, but he’s not. Where the hell is he? What’s he doing? I don’t like that other woman either. Something is wrong, really wrong, and I feel sick. Shit, I’m scratching my scabs and they’re bleeding. I glance round and Bernie’s walking over – he’s got something in his hand. I shove my hands in my pockets and do my stretches – everyone knows I do my stretches – that’s normal, right. I’m normal. Not acting weird, not punching myself.
‘Here, got you this.’
Bernie’s holding out a new trowel. It’s thick plastic – for some reason they think it’s less dangerous than giving us metal ones. But I know the damage I could do with one of those. I could split Bernie’s head right open – all you need is strength. I smile. It’s Bernie’s way of saying he trusts me. That he knows that my violence is only ever directed at myself, but what he doesn’t know is that there’s one person – one person in the entire world who I’d love to slam that plastic trowel into right now. But what kind of a father does that make me? I’m evil and I deserve to be punished, to be locked up here. Coco always said, we look after our own.
If he were here, I’d do just that. It’d be done before anyone realised and then it would all be over, and I wouldn’t have to tell them the truth. They wouldn’t call me a liar and it’d all be done. Done and dusted.
I look at Bernie. He’s waiting, hand out, smile on his face. I don’t know what to do. If I take my hands out of my pockets, he’ll see the blood. He’ll know I’ve been scratching. He might think he’s wrong to trust me and his smile will go. I don’t want Bernie’s smile to disappear. I like it.
I shoogle my hand in my pocket, hoping it’ll wipe the blood away and when I take it out, I open it palm up towards Bernie. He places the trowel on my hand and slaps me once on the shoulder. ‘Good, lad. The weeds have been growing with the rain we’ve been having.’
As he walks away, I grasp the trowel and although Bernie’s grin didn’t disappear, I still feel weird. Like nothing is ever going to be right ever again. I look towards the doors. Maybe he’ll come today. Maybe I’m worrying about nothing. But, the photo of me and her together, with the eyes poked out comes to mind and I know I should be worried.
I open my mouth, swallow, and stop. Then, ‘Bernie?’
He turns, his smile still in place.
It’s now or never. I wave the trowel in the
