Last Gasp (10 page)

Jess took out her notepad and sat, poised, like a secretary
at a board meeting.

Megan Crane talked, guardedly at first, but then more
freely. For the most part, the detectives listened in silence, interrupting
only where some detail needed clarifying. Jess noted names, places, details.
Occasionally, Megan referred to the papers in her lap, but mostly spoke from
memory. Jess scribbled to keep up. They had been talking for close to thirty
minutes when Megan gave a name that struck Carver like a thunderbolt. He didn’t
flinch and Jess managed to keep writing without pausing.

The light dimmed as the afternoon gave way to early evening,
then a grey dusk. Jess switched on the table lamp next to her so she could see.
For a long time it was the only light in the house.

Carver never gave the view from the sofa another thought.

By the time Alec Duncan poked his
head round The Duke’s door, the fireworks had died down and the meeting was in
the throes of breaking up. The six participants had already split into pairs,
discussing what had emerged.

Carver was talking to Mike Frayne, the Surveillance Unit DI,
about requirements for the meetings that were to be set up between Megan Crane
and her would-be ‘companions’

Shepherd, still agitated over Carver’s startling revelation
concerning William Cosworth had gone straight for The Duke, though the big man
was having none of it. He’d agreed with Carver’s assertion that arresting
Cosworth just because he’d contacted Megan Crane through the pages of ‘DOM!’
would be premature, and, most probably, counter-productive. As Carver had
argued, 'Evidence-wise it doesn’t mean anything and unless we know we can get
something on him when we arrest him, we would simply be letting him know we are
looking at him. If he’s our man, then it’ll only make him harder to catch in
the future.' Despite Shepherd’s offer to, 'Bring him in and bleed him,' The
Duke had agreed with Carver. Letting him meet with Megan, like the others,
offered the best chance he might show his hand – assuming he had one to show. Frustrated,
Shepherd had spent the rest of the meeting twiddling a pencil around his
fingers like some practising cheerleader, and drumming them on the table.

Jess had been cornered by the team’s sometime ‘Profiler’,
Doctor Ewan Cleeves. The visiting Professor in Forensic Psychology at Salford
University, had seemed particularly interested in Megan Crane and was eager to
hear more. Cleeves showed up now and again to offer what ‘insights’ he could
into those the enquiry considered, ‘of interest’. Like The Duke, Carver’s
expectations of what Cleeves could bring to the team weren’t high. So far he
hadn’t disappointed. He’d judged Cleeves’s analysis of Cosworth as particularly
bland, with nothing in it he couldn’t have come up with himself. To Carver it
was just another nail in the coffin of the much-hyped role of the criminal
profiler people read about in books or see on TV. That said, Carver never ruled
anything out. If Cleeves came up with something that sounded in any way
promising, he’d be more than happy to run with it. He’d just be surprised was
all.

Jess was wondering if Cleeves’s interest in the dominatrix
was as academic as he was trying to make out, when the sound of the door
opening behind made them all turn.

Alec Duncan’s face was grave.

Everyone stopped talking.

'There’s been another one.'

Even before Carver descended the
steps leading to Corinne Anderson’s cellar, he knew they’d been wrong. Megan
Crane had not been next on the Worshipper Killer’s list after all. His instinct
was to thank God, but then realised what that meant for the poor woman who was,
and felt awful. When he saw what awaited them, he felt even worse. About to
give the scene his full attention, he paused to glance across at Jess. Her face
was pale, a hand over her mouth.

'Okay?' he said.

She nodded, slowly.

Carver knew what she was going through. A detective’s first
murder scene is always the worst. You struggle to look like you’re in control,
when what you really want to do is get the hell out. Everyone goes through it.
He wasn’t worried. What he’d seen of her, she would handle it, though in this
case it may take a while.

Corinne Anderson’s body was as it had been found that
morning, tied to the post, and posed in the manner now so familiar. Squatting
next to her was a portly figure with thinning, silver hair and wearing
thick-lensed glasses. Long past normal retiring age for those in his line of
work, Howard Gladding, was the Senior Home Office Pathologist for the Northern
Region. Assigned to the investigation following the second in the series,
Jeanette Fairhaven, this was his fourth Kerry scene. In Carver’s book that made
him, an Authority. And he was glad to see Howard wearing a paper suit. It
wasn’t that long ago it had taken a telephone call and follow-up letter from
the Home Office to get him to fall in line. Last in a long line of HO
Pathologists who wear their eccentricities like a badge, Howard Gladding was
definitely, ‘Old School’. He was also the best.

Right now he was testing skin texture and tone, pressing a
wooden spatula against the victim’s arm, and noting the result in a
spiral-bound notebook. Earlier Carver had watched him examining the
petechial-haemorrhaging around the eyes and lips that would inform his estimate
of time of death. Every now and then Howard instructed the young woman who was
today assisting Robin Knight, the Force’s Senior Crime Scene Manager - to take
a photograph. Carver didn’t interrupt to ask what of. He’d get a full briefing
after the PM, by which time Howard would have assembled all the pieces of the
jigsaw that was Corinne Anderson’s murder - he hoped.

The cellar was roughly twenty-foot square. Despite the makeover
- carpeting, panelled walls, recessed lighting - traces of the dank smell that
characterises cellars the world over still lingered. As in the other cases, it
had been kitted out with the usual sex-dungeon paraphernalia. St Andrew’s
cross; bench, frame, anchors, etc. Carver had already made a mental note to
remind the search team to look for receipts. So far they’d found no link
between those who supplied the victims with their equipment or fitted out their
‘Playrooms.’ But that didn’t mean there wasn’t one. As the pathologist
continued working round the body, Carver thought on what they knew so far.

Corinne’s body had been discovered by a neighbour who’d
called around to see why Corinne hadn’t showed for a planned coffee morning.
The Family Liaison team were with her now, scoping what they were facing.
Corinne lived alone in the smart, Edwardian mews-terrace, close to Chester City
Centre. There was an ex-husband over in Derbyshire somewhere, and two children
who lived away, a boy in Liverpool and a girl in Telford. Carver didn’t look
forward to the time when he, or someone, would have to explain to them how
their wife/mother had met her death. The families of three of the four victim
had been totally ignorant of their mother/sister/daughter’s involvement in SM.
Given the shocked state of the neighbour who’d found Corinne, Carver suspected
the same applied. As soon as Howard was finished, the Forensic Specialist Team
would begin its painstaking examination of the scene. And though it had been videoed
before Howard arrived, Carver was glad the Chester DI who was first on scene
recognised the MO in time to make the call to the Kerry MIR before the scene
got too-spoiled.

Like all detectives, Carver knew there is something about
being at a scene early, that video can never replicate. It allows an
investigator to experience things as the killer left them. There is only ever
one opportunity. Once the body has been found, things start to change. Doors
that were shut are opened. Drawers that have been left open get closed. Lights
are switched on, or off. Items of clothing or other articles are moved. He’d
never forgotten the mantra from his early CID training. 'At a murder scene,
stay HIP,' – ‘Hands In Pockets’. But no matter how experienced the investigators,
how often people are reminded, ’Don’t touch anything', they do. In the case of
Corinne Anderson, the process had already begun. Less than three hours had
passed since she’d been found. By Carver’s count, ten people had been in the
cellar since then. As well as the five now present, there were the two
uniformed officers first on the scene and their Sergeant. They were followed by
a local DC and her DI. He had no way of knowing what, if anything, they had
picked up, fingered, put down again – in a changed position. He hoped it wasn’t
much. Even Howard was doing it. He’d already seen him move some loose ropes
lying next to the body - albeit he’d photographed them first. He’d also swept
some of the victim’s hair off her face to examine her. Worst of all, he’d
altered, slightly, the angle of her head when he examined the ribbon-ligature
around her neck. Carver hoped it wouldn’t prove important. Which is always the
trouble. There’s no way of telling which small changes may come to deceive the
investigators, sending them off chasing red herrings. All because some
ham-fisted busy-body couldn’t keep their hands in their pockets.

Carver concentrated. He’d already had a good look around the
room, but seen nothing that told him anything new. As Howard moved round to the
other side, he stepped forward and squatted in the space just vacated. Starting
with her ankles, he examined the way she had been posed, casting his eyes over
the ropes, the bindings, the positioning of her limbs. After a couple of minutes,
he checked back over his shoulder to see how Jess was holding up. She was
scribbling in her notebook. He was impressed. It had taken him a long time to
get to the point where he could make notes at a murder scene. He resumed his
examination.

As far as he could tell, Corinne Anderson’s death-pose
mirrored the others, the rope-work exactly the same. He checked the tying-off
at the wrists. As always, the ends of the rope had been tucked down, neatly,
out of sight. The resinous smell of the superglue was strong this close and he
saw the hardened, glossy film between her palms. He looked at her fingers,
noticed something, moved closer.

'What do you make of this Howard?'

The pathologist stopped his note-taking to peer round at
where Carver was pointing. He came round to squat next to him. The little
fingers of both of Corinne Anderson’s hands were bent under on themselves, so
that only three fingers of each and the thumbs were straight. Carver joined his
hands in like fashion. It felt awkward.

’Interesting,' the pathologist said. He probed at the
fingers with the end of a spatula. 'I’ve not seen that before.'

'Did the killer leave them like that do you think?' Carver
said. 'Or did she do it herself for some reason?'

The pathologist probed again. 'All I can say is they’re not glued.
But given how the palms and fingers are fixed, they wouldn’t need to be to stay
in that position. They don’t look broken either, though I can’t be sure until I
get back to the mortuary and separate the hands. If they’re not broken, then
it’s unlikely to have been done post-mortem.'

'In which case the question is, why?' Carver said.

For the first time since she’d entered the cellar, Jess
spoke up.

'If I’m not mistaken, one of the Buddhist religions pray
like that.'

Carver looked across at her and noticed she looked flushed,
breathing heavily. It was warm in the cramped conditions and he remembered how
he’d felt at his first murder scene.

'If it has any religious significance, it could be she was
trying to tell us something. We need to find out if she had any religious
leanings.' He gave Jess a look so she would know he was offering her an excuse.
To his surprise, she took it.

'I’ll get on it,' she said. Taking one last look at Corinne
Anderson’s lifeless body, she turned and headed back up the stairs.

As he heard her gain the floor above, Carver set himself a
reminder to give her some positive feedback. She had done well for her first
time.

As Jess burst out into the hallway,
she had to swerve to avoid colliding with the slightly built young woman
wearing a paper suit who was coming through the front door. She was carrying a
chrome-steel examination box. Jess recognised her as Claire Trevor, the head of
the Forensic Team assigned to the Kerry cases.

Seeing Jess, Claire began, ‘Hi Jess, I-’

Jess didn’t stop but went straight out into the street.

At the front, black metal railings surrounded the cellar
bay. Leaning over, Jess gulped fresh air. Conscious she was in view of those
who had already started to gather – a couple of reporters, some neighbours,
other gawpers - she fought not to throw up.

Even as she’d followed Carver down the steps, Jess had felt
her heart pounding. She’d seen plenty of bodies in her time but this was her
first Worshipper scene. As she stepped around her boss’s sturdy frame and saw
Corinne Anderson, the pounding increased. Her breathing soon quickened to the
point where she was in danger of hyper-ventilating and she had to consciously
work at slowing it down. The urge to turn and run back up the steps was so
strong it surprised her. She had to work on it for a good few minutes before it
went away. During that time she hoped she’d managed to give the impression she
was coping, conscious that Carver would be noting her reaction. After a while
and in order to distract herself from the dark thoughts running through her
head, she took out her pocket book and pretended to take notes. She hoped
Carver would never ask to see the meaningless scribbles.

Next to her father’s funeral, Jess’s first Worshipper scene
had been one of the worst experiences of her life. She already knew it would
take some getting over. It wasn’t so much the body. She’d witnessed death
enough times it no longer bothered her. It was coming face-to-face with the
tableaux she’d only seen before in photographs and on video that got to her.
She’d always known the first time was going to be difficult. Her early
reactions to the photos had told her that. Even so, she wasn’t prepared for the
assault on her senses that hit when she saw Corinne Anderson’s lifeless face, her
bulging eyes, the swollen tongue, the ribbon wound tight round her throat.

Things started to go wrong almost immediately. Though she
knew she shouldn’t, she couldn’t stop thinking about how Corinne had died. She
began to mentally reconstruct the scene, letting it play over in her mind like
a video-loop. Time and again she imagined a dark figure, indistinct but
menacing, standing behind Corinne, pulling the ribbon tight. And she had
imagined the woman’s terror, tied helpless to the post, as the life was wrung
out of her. To begin with it was like watching some by-the-numbers TV drama.
Chilling, but not particularly involving. But after replaying the scene several
times, and without any warning, her perspective suddenly switched. Suddenly
she
was the woman bound to the post. She actually found herself holding her breath
as she imagined her air being cut off. She had to force herself to start
breathing when she realised she was becoming light-headed. It was then she
started scribbling, desperate to divert her over-active imagination away from
the awful facts of Corinne’s death. It hadn’t worked. The harrowing scene
continued to play. She’d begun to panic, thinking there must be something wrong
with her, that perhaps she wasn’t cut out for this sort of work after all.
She’d been on the point of turning to flee back up the steps, when Carver
mentioned the fingers. It was then - God knows how - she remembered her trip to
India.

It was years ago, before University. She and her mother had
joined her father on one of his work-trips and he’d taken them to some temple
outside Delhi. She remembered the priest showing them the ‘correct’ way to
pray, with their little fingers bent under, pressing against each other. The
memory had come like a lifeline to a drowning woman. It probably gave Carver
the impression that her mind was functioning rationally. She wondered if she
would ever be able to tell him the truth.

Revived, a little, by the fresh air, Jess forced herself
back to the present. Looking round she saw the young PC by the front door whose
job it was to log everyone in and out. He was watching her, a sympathetic look
on his face.

'Bad in there, is it?' he said.

She shook her head, shuddered. 'Not good.'

On shaking legs, she walked down to where her car was
parked. Thank God they’d travelled separately. She needed some space. But as
she reached it, her stomach spasmed. Leaning over the wheel arch, she heaved
the remains of her lunch into the gutter.

Several pairs of eyes, peering out from behind lace curtains
and slatted blinds, witnessed Jess’s distress. It would give rise to a rumour -
which would persist for weeks - that the scene of Corinne Anderson’s murder was
as gory and blood-spattered as they come.

At that moment, Jess couldn’t
have cared less.

The Pathologist’s examination
complete - Howard had found nothing that signalled anything significant -
Carver craved fresh air himself. So far he’d managed to keep other distracting
thoughts at bay. But now other memories, Megan Crane amongst them, were
starting to intrude.

It was clear now she hadn’t been the killer’s next planned
target after all. Corinne Anderson had already been cast in that role. How long
ago, he wondered? And what did that say about the stars against the entries in
the magazine? What did it say about Megan Crane? Did it mean anything, or was
someone playing games, in which case, who, and why? He didn’t let himself dwell
on it. Okay, they were too late to prevent Corinne Anderson’s death, but Megan
Crane might still point them in the right direction. This latest killing meant
that whatever urges were driving the killer, they were likely to have been
sated – at least for the time being. In most series, the intervals grow shorter
as the killings continue. Even so, it was a reasonable bet it would now be several
weeks before they needed to start worrying again about who may be next. It
meant they had time to dig deeper, to get to know more about Megan Crane, and
the strange world she inhabited.

As he mounted the steps taking him out of the fantasy world
where Corinne Anderson had played and died, Carver felt the familiar,
conflicting emotions – eager anticipation and a dread foreboding - taking root
once more.