Fade to Black (14 page)

She checked her watch; there were just ten minutes till the briefing. Her first run through the photos revealed nothing, but she was certain she was missing something. She had previously made notes about the crime scene she would run through with her team, but that was not what was bothering her. On photo six, she felt herself tense again at the persistent memory of the girl lurching off the wall at her and realized with a jolt that it was a message. The photo was important—this she grasped. It was almost as if the girl was trying to tell her that. The photo–why was it important? What was it showing her? What was
Georgie
trying to show her?

She shivered, clasping her hand to her mouth in an involuntary effort to hold herself still. She cast her mind back to King’s Lane. She saw again the cold, hard rain, the hopelessly inadequate blue tarp the uniformed officers had erected, the huge frame of George Houghton standing against the lights, the rubbish strewn across the laneway and the stinking drums of used cooking oil. Her mind walked her up to the dead-end and she saw herself standing, flashlight in hand, staring up at the eviscerated girl spiked to the wall.
The wall
.
That was it!
She had it now. She distinctly remembered big circles or sweeps of blood on the old red bricks behind the girl, but the photos did not show them. She pored through them quickly again, just to make sure, but there was nothing–just red-brown bricks.

She hadn’t imagined the blood, of that she was certain.
Georgie
knew too; she
felt
that. She looked for the photographer’s contact details on the bottom of the report and scribbled down his phone number. She’d ring him after the briefing. It was showtime in the green room and she quickly stood to gather her files. She froze as she put her hand on the door handle to swing it open. Who the hell was Georgie?

*****

The morning galloped in an adrenalin-fuelled rush for Arthur. Paula Armstrong’s sinewy, athletic legs filled his thoughts to the extent that he abandoned his regular work. Profit and loss statements, balance sheets, and tax returns could not compete for his headspace. At 10:50 a.m., he locked his office door and set off for the tube station. There was still plenty of time to prepare for today’s ‘lunch.’

He already knew exactly where he’d take her—in every sense. But he needed some tools to make the occasion the special one he imagined for both of them. Paula was smart and attractive, so the lunch should be structured appropriately. His inner ‘friend’ suggested an army surplus store in Soho—Manny’s near Greek Street—as the one that might carry just the implements he needed.

He bounded effortlessly down the time-blackened steps of the Earl’s Court Tube Station, not bothering to scan the signs for the line that would take him to Tottenham Court Road, a stone’s throw from Greek Street and the meeting point with Paula. He already knew he’d have to backtrack to his home station at Nottinghill Gate, then change to the central line for the trip through Marble Arch, Bond Street and Oxford Circus. He knew this part of the Monopoly board very well. This was his territory. It was important to organize things with certain symmetry—a congruence of time and purpose to achieve the desired outcome efficiently. Everything should line up, just like numbers. Nothing should stray from a column or appear twice or be added more than once. There was an order to be observed and accounting provided the perfect metaphor for his life.

His friend was organized, too, he was pleased to note. Suggesting Manny’s was a masterstroke. They were becoming a great team and they would be remembered, like Batman and Robin, Bonnie and Clyde—or maybe even Posh and Becks! He nearly fell over laughing at his own joke.

“Steady there, Artie,”
the voice cautioned.
“Don’t draw attention to yourself.”

Suitably chastised, Arthur shuffled on to the train with a dozen others and found a seat opposite a teenage boy. The boy was staring at him, mocking. He didn’t like it.

“What’s up, pimples?” Arthur said recklessly.

The boy hurriedly returned his gaze to his Nintendo game.

That’s better
, Arthur thought,
a little respect—maybe a little fear thrown in, as well.
Fucking teenagers these days—rude little self-centered pricks and all with the latest gizmos and baggy-assed jeans hanging down past their knees. Who the hell was going to run the country in twenty years—these pasty-faced little faggots?
Hardly. Calming himself, he sat and let the rhythm of the train work its magic. His friend was quiet. The idea of a partnership kept popping into his head. He started running through great duos of the past to whom he and his friend would one day be compared. He realized that his friend hadn’t given him his name. Should he ask him, he wondered?

“Mr. Black,
” the voice intoned.

Mr. Black?
Arthur rolled that one around his head for a while, waiting for inspiration.
Black and Arthur? Nope, didn’t sound right. Wendell and Black? Hmm… not bad, but it sounded like a firm of solicitors.
Something was missing.
We need a memorable name, like Starsky and Hutch or Harley and Rose or Frankie Lee and Judas Priest. They were the best of friends too, of course.

“You’re losing focus, Arthur…”

He knew it, but a great name was
important,
damn it. He gazed out of the train window, thinking hard.
A name. Something to be known by… to stand for something.
In frustration, he turned away from the window, his eye catching the advertising banners that had been strategically placed above the seats to hook and persuade.

A
brand,
that’s what it was all about these days! Marketing and branding… like having to deliver a quality product at a competitive price, time after time, no matter where, no matter when. He and his friend needed a company name and a positioning statement that encapsulated the ethos of their company. That was it. They would brand their work, almost like an art gallery, for that is what he… A sharp pain shot through his brain. Ok,
they
, would create the art
,
but it had to be within defined limits. Like accounting, it had to add up to something and be whole, self-contained, and recognizable as quality work, time after time.

It came to him at last.
Paint it Black
. That is what they would call themselves. That is how the world would know them.
Paint it Black.

“Already copyrighted, Arthur—The Rolling Stones, remember?”

Shit, that’s right. Okay, okay… 'Painted Black’—past tense, already happened by the time the bodies were found. It was like ‘Design by Franco’ or ‘Lifestyle by Bernanchi.’

“I like it, Arthur. You’re on to something.”

Yes!
Arthur lurched in his seat. Just like the first one—
Georgie
—the message had been there for anyone who cared to see. Layering, messages. Messages to the people.

“Just for her, actually,”
Mr. Black interrupted.

Who?

“Never you mind, Arthur—just someone we’ll meet soon.”

“Wha’ever,” Arthur said loudly, rolling his eyes, feeling sixteen and full of pent-up energy.

He looked again at the boy across from him. His check shirt askew, silly black cap perched too far back on his head and faded black trousers all but covering his worn tennis shoes. The boy, sensing something, suddenly looked up at him, the Nintendo forgotten.

Arthur reached across the aisle and touched him lightly on the knee.

“Painted Black,” he said flatly. “What do you think… catchy?”

11:00 a.m.

The Green Room was occupied by three pink-faced and expectant detectives—those to whom DCI St. Clair had asked the full forensic and photographic reports to be sent. Jamaican-born DC Jacinta Wilkinson, whom Allie had decided should also be included, mainly because her predecessor had pointedly excluded her from such meetings in the past, was also in attendance. She was disappointed Strauss turned her head away as she entered the room.
The feud continues
, she noted with an inward sigh. The room was small, too brightly lit and sparsely furnished. The large whiteboard dominated the wall opposite the entrance, a desk with a projector immediately in front of it. Heavy, dark green curtains blocked light from the western window and a low wooden bench enlivened by a bright green Formica top ran full-length below it. The Green Room was aptly named.

Allie strode to the whiteboard and slipped six photos from the crime scene up under the catch-all clip at the top. Gasps preceded her move to face the four detectives.

“I know,” she said as she turned. “It’s—”She stopped speaking as she saw the ashen faces of her team. She paused for a moment longer, then pointed at their folders.

“Have you not already looked at these?”

All four shook their heads. “Dear me,” she said almost to herself. “I’m sorry, but we simply do not have time to catch our breath here. Presumably, none of you have read the forensic report, either?”

There was more shaking of heads. Allie looked at her watch and sighed loud enough for them to catch her slight frustration.

“Ok, please sit now and we’ll go through it. Henry Gladstone from Pathology and Profiler Jillian Groenewagen will be here shortly." She gestured towards Connors.

“Mathew will kick things off. I visited the scene also, and I’ll add anything I think is germane.” She saw Strauss look at Banks, her eyebrows theatrically raised.

“
Relevant
, then, Rachel,” Allie added flatly. Strauss squirmed in her seat, but sat up as Connors cleared his throat.

During the next fifteen minutes, Connors ran through his observations, the interview with Mr. Lin from the Golden Bamboo, comments from the uniformed officers who attended the scene, and what steps he was taking to follow up on the previous night’s customers from the restaurant. Banks asked a couple of questions and Jacinta Wilkinson queried whether residents in the area had already been interviewed.

“No,” Allie interrupted with a thin smile. “That’s going to be your job, Jacinta.” Wilkinson smiled back and nodded. “Also,” Allie added, “check with anybody at the Earl’s Court Tube station who might have been about late last night. It’s right across the road. You might also start the ball rolling on getting some posters up on the platforms as well. We’ll work on the wording after this briefing.”

Allie looked at the four members of her team and took a deep breath. “There’s no getting around it any longer, I’m afraid. I’m going to have to throw these photos up on the screen. She looked out the door toward the common area.

“I see Gladstone and Groenewagen have arrived.” Waving them in, she completed quick introductions and asked Gladstone to address her detectives.

Allie had worked with Forensic Pathologist Henry Gladstone before, as had all but Connors from her team. Henry was experienced, thorough, and, mercifully, to the point. He was conspicuously tired from what had turned into an all-night examination and autopsy, and it showed. His skin was pasty and his normally flashing eyes were dull and hooded. Allie suspected that the nature of the wounds inflicted on the girl had also shocked and saddened him.

In a more-resigned-than-normal fashion, he postulated that the woman was about thirty-three years old and confirmed she had very poor dental hygiene, a general rash over her upper body and slightly deformed feet–possibly from wearing ill-fitting shoes from a very early age. There was deathly silence in the room as he detailed her injuries. He described her evisceration, the way in which he believed the eyeballs had been levered from the sockets and the gaping gouge at the very back of the girl’s throat where her tongue had been torn straight out.

Gladstone spoke about the sharp, narrow wound in the girl’s left side and the torn fingernails and bloodied fingers on both hands. The girl’s thin, dyed-black hair had been ripped out in clumps from the nape of the neck and her kneecaps were severely grazed. She had, of course, been roughly sexually assaulted anally, but the mutilation to her pelvic region precluded any thorough vaginal examination. Allie saw Rachel Strauss’ hand fly to her mouth at this point, and Jacinta Wilkinson squirmed uncomfortably.

Gladstone went on to note the unusual finding that the tendons at the back of the girl’s knees had been severed, as had those at her wrists. Gladstone completed his report by advising that analysis of her hair dye, make-up,
etc.
would not be available till after lunch. Allie doubted lunch would be on anyone’s agenda today.

She took a very deep breath, smiled almost apologetically at Henry Gladstone, thanked him, and invited questions about his report. There were none. He smiled at Allie, then left the room without a backwards glance.

With mounting concern, Allie immediately brought Dr. Jillian Groenewagen to the front of the room. She hoped the psychological profile would prove insightful and stimulate her team to engage more fully, but wondered whether it might not be totally off-beam, given Michael’s claims. She ticked herself off as soon as the thought had crossed her mind. They were not
claims
; she would have to accept Michael without question, including the situation he had presented to her. She shrugged her shoulders and Groenewagen noticed.

“Are you ready for me to begin, DCI?”

Allie waved her hand as a go-ahead.

Jillian Groenewagen was almost embarrassingly long-faced and thin. She had fuse-wire hair and ridiculous—at least in Allie’s view—speckled horn-rimmed glasses that even Elton John would reject. If Groenewagen was shooting for a look that was equine, eccentric, academic, and more than a little scary, she was grouping her shots nicely. In her high, toneless voice, she outlined the type of person she felt they should be looking for. Ten minutes later, Allie privately decided that, despite her annoying mannerisms, Jill Groenewagen had run a reasonable ‘by the book’ argument. She also knew, however, that in all probability ‘Groener’ was completely wrong. She threw open the discussion.