Last Gasp (9 page)

Out in the smoking area at the back
of the restaurant, Carver waited with the whiskies as his father lit his
post-dinner cigar. He knew what was coming. Sure enough, as Peter Carver blew
smoke away over his shoulder, he fixed his son with the stare Carver imagined he
used to use on his old Command Team when he wanted them to think he knew
something they didn't. As Carver handed him his drink he said, ‘How’s Kerry
coming along?’

Carver was grateful. At least he’d waited until after
dinner. He’d sensed his father champing the moment they'd arrived. A
six-years-retired Chief Constable, he always asked after his son’s cases. It
wasn’t always professional curiosity. From the day Carver was appointed
constable, his father was settled in his view that his son should one day rise
to the same dizzy heights as himself. Not that he ever put it as openly as
that. Next to The Duke, Carver Senior was the slyest operator Carver knew.
Still unsure how much to share, Carver lifted his glass and checked the malt's
colouring. Eventually he said, ‘Slowly.’

His father nodded. ‘What’s it been? Four months since the
last one?’

Carver sipped his drink. ‘Three and a half.’

Another nod. ‘Remind me of the intervals?’

‘Four months. Roughly.’

 ‘Hmmm.’

Carver waited. It was like being tied to a railway track,
watching the train approaching.

‘Last time, you mentioned something about a possible lead?
Some photographer?’

Carver nodded. ‘We’re still looking at him. I’m not
convinced. I could be wrong.’

Carver senior pointed at him. ‘That’s good. Always keep an
open mind.’

‘Thanks, Dad. I’ll remember that.’

The flash in the older man’s eyes reminded Carver how his
father hated being patronised. Another reason why his ambitions would probably
never match his father’s.
What happens to their sense of humour?

'Any other developments?’

The question Carver had hoped wouldn’t come. His father was
the one person he could never lie to.

‘We’re looking at potential victims. Seeing if they can tell
us anything.’

The glass stopped halfway to his father’s mouth.

‘How are you identifying them?’

Knew it.
‘There’s a magazine. One of those contact
journals. We think they’re in it.’

‘You
think
they’re in it?’

‘They’re in it.’

‘So are you… Have you approached any of them?’

‘Actually, I met one yesterday.’

His father’s head lifted, slowly, as if he’d just been told
something significant. ‘And… how did it go?’

Carver met his gaze head on. ‘She wasn’t expecting us.’

‘I should bloody well hope not. How was she?’

‘Undecided. But I think she’ll come around, eventually.’

‘Is she one of these… dominatrices?’

Carver nodded.

They sipped their whiskeys

‘Everyman’s fantasy, I suppose?’

‘Not everyman's.’

‘Yours?’

Carver looked at his father over the rim of his glass. He
could barely believe he’d asked. ‘No.’

In the silence that followed, Carver thought about heading
back inside. Rosanna had met his mother and older sister once before, but this
was her first time with Sally – the family’s problem child. But he decided
against. Best deal with it now.

After a while his father said, ‘What makes you think she’ll
come round, ‘eventually’?’

‘Because she’ll realise it’s in her interests.’

‘How will that happen?’

‘I’ll convince her.’

‘
You’ll
convince her?’ His eyes bore into his son’s
face, searching for information.

Carver sighed. ‘Me. Or someone else. It doesn’t matter.’

‘Maybe someone else would be better.’

‘Stop it, Dad.’

‘Stop what?’

‘You know.’

‘I’m only thinking what’s best for you.’

‘I know you are, but-’

‘We don't want another episode like-’

‘DAD.’

The older man jumped so he almost spilt his drink.

‘What?’

‘Leave it. It’s nothing to do with you.’

Carver senior opened his mouth to say something, but saw the
look in his son's face and stopped. For long seconds the man for whom one
successful career would never be enough stared at his son. He changed the
subject. ‘Any news on your board date yet?’

Carver gave a wry smile before replying. Their team’s
biggest match in Europe in a decade was three days away, and still all he could
talk about was shop.

‘Next month. The twenty sixth.’

 ‘That’s a bit short notice.’

‘Tell me about it.’

The older man hesitated, as if sensing his son’s mood. ‘If I
can help with anything, just let me know.’

‘I will. Thanks.’

Carver Senior stubbed out his cigar and drained the last of
his whisky before turning to his son.

‘All I’m saying is, be careful.’

‘I intend to be.’

They headed back inside.

Later, back at the converted
farmhouse his parents had bought following his father’s retirement, Carver
looked up from his undressing to find Rosanna sitting up in bed, giving him,
The Stare. They were in the room his mother called, ‘Jamie’s Room’, though he’d
never lived there.

‘What?’

She swept her hair back off her face. In the low light he
could see why his father said she reminded him of the old Italian actress, Gina
Lollobrigida.

'What did you and your father talk about?’

Carver hesitated. ‘Guess.’

‘The case?’

He nodded, then shook his head. ‘He never changes.’ He
stepped out of his trousers.

‘He worries about you.’

‘I know.’

‘I worry about you.’

He sat next to her, took her face in his hands. ‘I know.’ He
kissed her on the lips, lightly.

She searched his face for signs. ‘Remember, Jamie Carver.
You are a good man.’

‘You think?’

‘I think.’

‘Tell him that.’

‘He doesn’t need me to tell him. He knows already.’

As Carver drank in her beauty, the feelings that were never
far when they were together stirred. Shifting position, he buried his fingers
in her hair, luxuriating in its thickness. He kissed her, again, deeper. As she
responded, he threw back the duvet, and they fell back onto the bed. Suddenly
she stopped, pulled her mouth from his.

‘They will hear,’ she whispered.

Carver stopped, listening to the silence. His parents’ room
was down the corridor, a bathroom between them.

‘Fuck ’em.’

About to start again, his mobile beeped a message alert. He
stopped.
Fuck
. He leaned over to the bedside table, checked the screen.

It was from Jess.
Can you speak?

Turning to the woman still half under him, he made a,
‘sorry’ face. She rolled her eyes, dramatically. He slipped off her, sat on the
edge of the bed.

He had Jess on speed dial. As soon as she answered he said,
‘What’s up?’ Hearing her take a deep breath, his thought was she was about to
tell him there’d been another murder. He was wrong.

'Sorry to disturb you so late, Jamie, but I went to see Meg-
the Crane woman again this afternoon. We talked. She’s prepared to come on board.
But she wants to see you, asap. Like in, tomorrow?'

Carver stared at the floor. Behind him, Rosanna lay,
waiting. But the only thing registering in his brain at that moment was the
echo of the words,
she wants to see you
.

'Jamie? Did you get that? I said I went to-'

'I heard. What happened? You two have a girly chat?'

'Something like that. What do you want to do?'

He checked the time. Just gone midnight. He turned to
Rosanna. She was already reading him. His heart sank at the thought of yet another
weekend cut short. But he couldn’t risk a change of heart.

'I’ll see you at the nick at eight.' He checked back with
Rosanna. Read her face. 'Make that nine. You can tell me about it on the way.'

'Right.' There was a pause, then, 'You don’t mind I went to
see her do you?'

He hoped the hesitation before he answered was brief enough
she didn’t notice. 'No, I’d probably have suggested it anyway.' And he couldn’t
tell if the noise he heard was a relieved sigh or just static on the line.
'I'll see you tomorrow. And Jess?'

'Yes?'

'Well done.'

She hung up.

Carver stared at his phone. For twenty-four hours, he’d
managed to keep all thoughts of Megan Crane at bay. Now her face hovered before
his eyes, mocking, alluring. Inviting.

Jess had said she was willing to cooperate, which meant the
door to her world was about to open for them. Where would it lead, he wondered?
Deep down, another memory stirred. Despite his efforts, he couldn't stop it
breaking through.

A crowded court room. In the dock a tall figure, resisting
the flanking security officers trying to drag him down to the cells. A look of
hate, aimed squarely at Carver. The shouted words that reflected that hate in
every syllable. 'YOU'RE DEAD, CARVER. YOU AND THAT OTHER BITCH. WHATEVER
HAPPENS TO ME, YOU'RE BOTH DEAD.'

And as the memory of Edmund Hart’s cursings echoed in his
head - they'd been doing so more and more of late - the knot inside Carver's
stomach tightened another notch. Closing his eyes, he forced himself back to
the present. He turned to Rosanna. He opened his mouth to speak but she placed
a finger across them.

‘Don’t.’

Her eyes sent their message. Forcing his mind back to where
it was before Jess’s message, he slid his arms under and round her. She wrapped
her legs round him and their mouths melded, tongues, playing, probing. He felt
himself responding again.

Thank God.

He never gave a thought as to why Jess had left it so late
to call.

Thirty minutes in, Carver thought
his second meeting with Megan Crane was going a whole lot better than the
first. Conversation was cordial, if not exactly friendly, and she seemed better
disposed towards their mission than at the end of their last encounter. So far
everything seemed to bear out what Jess had told him on the way there. That
whatever the reason for Megan Crane’s turn-around – she’d given no clue - she
was now willing to help their cause as much as she could, within reason. There
was just one problem. Every time he looked at her.

By now, Carver was certain that her decision to take the
sofa directly opposite, rather than the chair where she’d sat last time, was a
calculated one. The same for the above-the-knee black skirt that went so well
with her blouse. Each time he looked up, he couldn’t help but notice what it
wasn’t covering. He suspected it was a test. So far, he thought he’d done a
fair job of not failing it. No wandering eyes. No knowing looks or half-smiles.
No jokey-allusions of the, 'view from here' variety. She would take any of
those as a sign of weakness. A susceptibility to being manipulated. And the
last thing he needed was her thinking she could manipulate him.

He focused again on the matter under discussion.

'This ‘wide circle of friends’, you mentioned?'

'What about it?'

'Can I ask, how many is 'wide'?'

There was a hint of a smile. 'You can ask, but I won’t say.'

Great
. But it was within the rules. At the beginning
he’d agreed they wouldn't press for details of what she referred to as her,
'circle,' unless there was good reason. That reason was yet to show itself.

'Fair enough, but we do need to know about any new or recent
contacts. One of them could be the killer.'

'Define ‘recent’'

He thought about it. 'The past twelve, maybe fifteen,
months.' He was tempted to say longer, but it would do for starters. She would
be more willing to reveal recent contacts.

Like him, she thought on it. 'There are a couple. I'm happy
to give you their details.'

'Good. What we need is-'

'Before we go further, can you explain something?'

'If I can.'

'Out of all the listings in the magazine, you seem to be
focusing on me. Why is that? Presumably the killer could choose anyone?'

Carver turned to Jess, nodded. Reaching down, she fished in
her case for the magazine, handed it to him. Carver sat forward, conscious that
by doing so, his view was considerably improved. He spread it open on the
coffee table between them. She leaned forward. He pointed at one of the
photographs. Next to it was a star, penned in red.

'Do you know her?'

'No.'

Flicking through the booklet he stopped at another photo,
also starred. 'This one?'

'No.'

A third. 'Her?'

'No.'

He nodded. 'They’re the last three victims. The first was in
an earlier edition.'

Megan Crane's hand went to her mouth. Some of her colour
drained.

'You saw the stars?'

She nodded. The 'Yes' was barely a whisper.

He turned to her picture again. This time he made sure she
saw the star next to it.

'The only photos that are starred, are the victims, and you.
This is a copy of the original magazine that came into our possession. It's now
with our forensic people. The stars were already there.’

Her eyes widened. 'Oh my God.'

He waited, letting it sink in. Then the questions began to
tumble out.

'How did you come by it? Did the killer send it to you? What
does it mean? Why me?'

He tried to reassure her, explaining how the magazine had
arrived through the post, addressed to him personally. 'We don't think it came
from the killer. Why tell us how he's choosing his victims, who he's thinking
of targeting next? More likely it was sent by someone who is close enough to
him or the circle he moves in to know, or at least suspect, something.'

'So whoever sent it could have got it off the killer?'

'Possibly. Or someone is trying to second-guess him and
wants to tip us off.'

'But why would the killer, or someone else, pick me out as a
possible victim?'

'We can’t answer that. All we know is that on the face of
it, your entry is similar to the others. It’s one of the things we hope you
might be able to help us with. You may even know or be connected with the victims
in some way.’

She shook her head, slowly, staring down at the booklet,
mind working. 'If I am, I’m not aware of it. I certainly don't know any of
them.’ She looked up, caught Carver's eye. 'I'm sorry,' she said.

Carver squashed his disappointment. But there were still other
ways she could help.

'If you can take it, I'd like to show you how the victims
died. It may mean something to you.'

Her eyes widened again. She swallowed, gave a cautious nod.
'Okay.'

'I have to warn you. It's not pretty.'

She gave him a square look. 'I've seen plenty of things most
people might find hard to stomach.'

'Violent death?'

'Staged, yes. But not real.'

'What I'm about to show you is very real.'

She took a deep breath followed by a good slug of whiskey.
'I'm ready.'

Carver opened the folder on the table so she could see.
Amongst the papers was a booklet of photographs. He picked it up and was about
to pass it across when he hesitated. Showing photos like these to someone
outside the investigation was normally a no-no, for all sorts of reasons. He'd
done it only once before, during the Hart case - another parallel. To his
right, he could sense Jess's breathless stare. They both knew it was a risk.
But they’d agreed. He handed the booklet across.

'These show the victims as the killer left them. As you'll
see, it's all very 'staged'. Tell us if any of it means anything to you.'

As Megan Crane opened the booklet and her eyes lit on the
first picture, she didn't so much react as simply freeze, to the point where it
was hard to tell if she was even breathing. As Carver watched her staring down
at what, for all he knew, might be the first dead body she'd ever seen, he
found it impossible to gauge what was going through her mind. Her face was a
blank mask, lips slightly parted. There were none of the facial reactions -
anguish, horror, fear - most people exposed to such images for the first time
might register. But then Megan Crane wasn’t ‘most people’. Nevertheless, he
noted the tiny movements above her jaw. She was grinding her teeth the way some
do when they are trying to mask emotion. Slowly, she turned to the next
picture. There was one sharp intake of breath, then she resumed her almost
detached, perusal. For a full ten minutes there was only silence. As Megan
Crane studied the photographs, Carver and Jess watched for signs of recognition
or insight. None came. After giving the last picture the same lengthy study as
the rest, Megan Crane closed the booklet and placed it back on the coffee
table. Lifting her head, she closed her eyes and took several long breaths, as
if purging herself of contamination from looking at the booklet’s repellent
contents. Eventually, she returned her gaze to Carver.

'The way- The way they are posed-' Carver waited.
Anything
would be good.
'It's not dissimilar to the sort of thing you find in fetish
magazines, or thousands of web sites.'

Carver's heart sank. Her words were no surprise. Like
others, he'd done the research. But he'd hoped that being an, ‘expert’, she
might offer
something
.

'That said-'

'Yes?'

'The way they are posed, as if they're praying. I assume
that’s where this ‘Worshipping’ thing comes from?'

Carver read her face. 'You've seen it before?'

'I'm not certain. It
feels
familiar, but I'm not sure
why, or where from.' She looked at them, both. 'Tell me about the hands.'

They said it together. 'Superglued.'

She nodded, as if confirming something in her mind. 'I seem
to remember either hearing or reading something. It would be a few years ago
now. It was about using glue as a restraint, in place of rope. And how it could
be dangerous because it can cause burns. I think someone had tried it and were
talking about how long it took to un-stick themselves. It wasn’t recommended.'

'I can imagine. Can you remember who you heard it from,
where you read it?'

She closed her eyes, searching for it. 'It's not there. But
give me time. I'll probably remember the moment you leave.'

Carver gave her a cautious look. So far she'd managed to
avoid naming any of her 'circle'.

'I swear, I'm not holding back. Believe me, if I can
remember who it was, I'll tell you.'

He nodded. 'It could be important.'

She pinned him with a look. 'If I promise to do something,
Jamie, you can count on me doing it.'

He returned her gaze.
Message received
. But he
noted one thing. For the first time, she'd called him by name.

As they continued, Carver sensed things becoming more
relaxed, the bottle of single malt she'd opened soon after they arrived, also
playing its part. Over the next hour, he revealed more about the four murders
than he had to anyone outside the enquiry team. Personal information about the
victims, their habits and interests, details of the killer's MO. When he
mentioned the black-ribbon garrotte, she nodded again.

'It's another common motif in BDSM. I've seen it used many
times. Sometimes unwisely.’

'In what way?' Jess said.

Megan looked at them. 'I take it you know about erotic
asphyxiation?'

'We do now,' Jess said.

'To practice it safely, you've got to know what you're
doing. You also need to know your partner. I’ve met subs who like to be taken
right to the edge, to the point where they black out. To do that they need a
partner they can rely on to stop before damage occurs. I've known plenty who
would love to take things further, a lot further, if they were given half a chance.'
She gave Carver a direct look. 'They're the sort who end up killing someone.
You’ve probably met some.’

He nodded. 'A couple.'

There was another short silence. Jess broke it. 'So our
killer is likely to be someone like that? Someone who doesn’t know when to
stop?'

Megan held Carver's gaze another moment, before turning to
her. 'Possibly, but it doesn’t necessarily follow. I'm sure you must have
someone… one of those… What do you call them? They’re in all the TV crime
dramas...’

'Profiler?’ Jess said.

‘Forensic Psychologist,' Carver corrected.

'Them. What does your profiler say?'

Carver hummed, careful not to sound disparaging. 'He's
keeping his options open.'

'Can I ask if the killer ejaculates? That would give an
indication.'

'It would, and from a DNA point of view it would be a big
help if he did. But so far we’ve found no fresh traces of body fluids of any
sort. If the killer ejaculates then he does a good job of cleaning up after, or
he takes it away with him.'

They talked further about what, if anything Megan could draw
from the killer's method. But she was wary about speculating too far.

'It could just be a show. What if the killer is staging the
whole thing to cover up something else?'

'Like what?'

'I don't know. Maybe he just hates dominatrices and likes to
make them suffer.'

'We've considered that as well.'

'Of course you have. I'm sorry. I’m not being very helpful.'

'Don't worry,' Carver said. 'I'm sure you will be. In other
ways.'

They turned their attention to DOM magazine, its
contributors, subscribers, circulation. Jess had a question.

'I thought all this contact stuff is done online these days?
Why use a magazine that relies on snail-mail that can take weeks, when you can
make contact with someone right away?'

Megan gave a patient smile. 'People like me aren't
interested in casual, short term, relationships. Like I said, I'm not a
prostitute.' She said it so matter-of-factly, Carver was happy it wasn’t a dig.
'The internet is full of time-wasters. People who just want sex, or who’ve got
something to hide. That's why it's so dangerous. DOM is for those who genuinely
want to meet someone they can develop a relationship with. Someone you can get
to know, and trust. It requires openness and honesty. You’re more likely to
find that in someone who’s willing to write a letter and give a name and
address. No, the internet is too easy. Too anonymous.’

Jess nodded. ‘Sounds logical.’

'Some of the subscribers are professionals of course. You
are right about that.’ Carver made sure not to look smug. 'But most are simply
interested in finding like-minded individuals. Without having to stoop to
payment, or run the risk of being discovered in a place of ill-repute.'

Carver quashed the impulse to smile, saw Jess doing the
same. There were times when her phrasing was almost puritan.

As the afternoon drew out, Megan rustled up a platter of
sandwiches and they talked over it. Carver returned to the subject of her
recent contacts. 'I know you’re reluctant, but I am going to have to ask for
their details.'

For what seemed like minutes, Megan’s eyes bored into his.
He hardly blinked. She seemed to be going through the same decision-making
process as the day before. 'Wait a minute.'

Rising, she went through to the kitchen. A door opened, then
closed. Carver and Jess waited in silence. When she returned she was clutching
a handful of papers which she cradled in her lap, protectively. Carver
remembered her assertion of two days before.
I don't keep records.
Nice
bluff.

‘Let me be clear. I won’t give you copies of anything unless
you force me to. I mean, legally.' Carver nodded his agreement. She took a deep
breath. 'You might want to make notes?'