Craning his neck, he was able to identify the name at the top of the scan – Miranda Brookes. It was dated three days previously. ‘Has anyone ID’d the house owner yet?’
The same officer he’d spoken to earlier yelled up the stairs. ‘Yes, the house is let to a Miranda —’
‘Brookes,’ ended Gus. So, they had an initial ID on their body. Not having anything else to see, he turned and began walking back downstairs to allow Alice to look. ‘Any luck with Carlton or Dr McGuire?’ he asked the officer as he allowed Alice to pass him.
The officer stood to attention. ‘Both on their way, sir. A car went to collect Professor Carlton. According to DCI Chalmers, he couldn’t miss out on the chance to ride sirens blaring from Leeds to Bradford.’
That sounded just like Carlton, but Gus’s thoughts were too full of the scene behind him to bother about the professor’s idiosyncrasies right now. As far as he was concerned, the quicker Carlton got here and looked at the clues the killer had left behind, the quicker they could get on. While Alice studied how the scene had been posed, Gus got on the phone to instruct Compo and Taffy. ‘Compo, need you to find whatever you can on the woman we think is our victim, a Miranda Brookes – looks to be mid-twenties at most. Address Princeville Terrace. There was a foetal ultrasound scan, so maybe BRI will be able to provide details. Also can you input these details into HOLMES and that program you developed – ritual, lavender, candle, pregnant, strangling and/or hanging, chocolate biscuit, sketch, painted toenails – I’ve not heard of anything similar locally, but who knows, we might strike gold if this killer started elsewhere and moved to Bradford.’
When Alice joined him once more downstairs, he raised an eyebrow. ‘What do you reckon?’
With a slight shake of her head, she grimaced. ‘Apart from that, he’s a sick fucker?’
‘Yep, apart from that.’
‘Well, my guess is this killer’s only just getting started, and he’s not your common-or-garden kind of killer. Carlton will need to pull it out of the bag this time.’
Chapter 3
Bellbrax Psychiatric Facility, Scotland
She’s watching me; the girl with the dark hair and brown eyes. I don’t like it. It’s putting me off my stride. I want to draw her, but then I’d have to look at her and, if I do that, she’ll ask me again. I don’t want to answer. I just want to draw. Want to be left alone. Why is she still here, looking at me? Her eyes see right into my heart and it’s not nice. She’s poking about in there. Making it go all fast and bumpy; thurrump, thurrump, thurrumpity, thrump. I feel all sick. Wish she’d go … wish she’d just leave me alone. I like being alone.
I glance at her – just a quick one – but she notices and smiles. Her teeth are straight and very white, her eyes crinkle up when she smiles, but I still don’t like it. She could be a bad person – she probably is. Most girls are bad. Except maybe Coco. Yes, Coco wasn’t bad. I liked her.
Now they’re in my head again. They start off quiet, then they get louder till they’re shouting at me.
‘Don’t trust her!’
I must have said it out loud because she frowns and leans closer to me. ‘Did you say something? You know you can speak to me. I’m your friend.’
‘Don’t trust her.’ This time I don’t say it out loud. But it’s still banging inside … on my brain. It’s banging on my brain.
I can smell her perfume. Not lavender, something else, but it’s nice, I suppose. I shake my head and try to draw. If I ignore her, she’ll go. Yes, that’s what to do, I’ll ignore her. But she doesn’t go. She stays there looking at me, staring at me, making me feel sick. This isn’t good.
The girl’s asking me a question again. I don’t like it. ‘Can you remember what happened to your wife, Rory? Helen, can you tell me about her?’
Stop it, stop it. I want to yell them words at her, but she might get cross and I don’t like it when people get cross. I bend my head lower so she can’t see my face. I remember Helen. I’ll never forget her. Why would I? She was my world and she was going to have my baby. I turn to a blank page and I can’t stop myself. I choose charcoal because I can smudge it. I don’t want to draw her. Don’t want to see her like that. I press my hands to my temples and try to squeeze the memory away, but it won’t go. It won’t go – not till I’ve finished the drawing.
My beautiful Helen, hanging from the ceiling, smelling of lavender, my baby a puddle on the floor beneath her. The charcoal flies across the page and there she is – Helen. We had everything and now nothing. I smudge out her private parts, her eyes, her tortured face. My Helen, how did this happen to you too? First my mother and then you. At least now I’m in here it won’t happen again.
‘Oh yes it will. You know it will. Of course it will.You can’t stop it!’
Stop it,
