Sharp scratch, p.15
Sharp Scratch, page 15
‘Were you ever nervous around him?’ Diaz asked.
‘Of Victor? Not likely. Now my fella’s due home any second so do me a favour, will you, and don’t bother me again.’
Giving up on that line of enquiry, he next decided to take a quiet look at the flu clinic.
‘I’m just going to take a dekko,’ he told the bobby keeping guard at the top of the admin corridor. He’d brought along a photostat of one of his prized FBI Bulletins to try to get this ultra-modern approach right. The paper was written by two special agents – and boy, didn’t that sound cool – at the FBI Academy, Quantico. It talked about the psychological profiles they created to catch suspects in homicide cases. A key part was to get access to the crime scene and try to reconstruct the crime. There were clues, the paper said, that were not physical. Traces of rage, fear, love and hatred. That was the profiler’s job, to learn to read the pattern of personality invisibly etched on the walls of the crime scene.
Standing inside the cool, pale room, he felt its ordinariness, its weight of routine. Feeling a bit of a twit, he closed his eyes. He tried to conjure an image, a feeling, a portrait, anything at all. Around him the room felt cold and distinctly whiffy with disinfectant. Yet he thought he could feel something. An alien consciousness focused on the task of murder.
He cast his mind back to that first Monday and imagined the killer’s movements: walking silently down the corridor, entering the room, closing the door quietly behind him. It probably only took a few furtive moments. With surgical gloves stretched tight he’d taken the top off the flu ampoule, discarded the vaccine and refilled it with propofol.
Opening his eyes, he got out his notebook to make a first attempt at a profile. At the top of the page, he wrote:
1. Male/Female
He hesitated. Almost all the FBI suspects he’d read about were male because chiefly young men committed violent murders. He tapped his biro impatiently against his notepad. He wasn’t sure if the killer was a man or a woman, so he left the question blank.
2. Occupation
That was easier. The killer was practised in giving injections. And patently knew about anaesthetics and the means to acquire them. So, medically trained. Or possibly, a junkie.
3. Crime scene emotions
He jotted down, ‘Organised’. He had been fast, efficient and cunning. Diaz had seen only a few violent murder scenes and this room was the opposite of those messy car parks and doss houses. He wrote down: ‘Clinical’.
Doubtless the perpetrator had mirrored this emotion with a cool exterior as he executed his plan. Only Sister Ince had shown extreme anxiety, which was unsurprising given that she was the apparent stooge, the unwitting wielder of the murder weapon itself. Lorraine Quick had also been fretful, hanging around the crime scene. Brunt had wondered if Lorraine had been present to watch the progress of her murder plan. Diaz thought that was bullshit.
No, he was wasting time considering the women. In the pathologist’s opinion Rose Cavanagh had enjoyed sexual activity within the twelve hours prior to her death. Something to do with a stain on her underwear. Unluckily, so far they had no semen to test. According to Brunt, Phil Cavanagh had admitted the couple’s sex life had dwindled to nothing over the last year. It looked pretty certain that Mrs Cavanagh had been playing away from home. Returning to question 1, he pencilled in ‘Male’.
He puzzled over the crime scene again. He imagined the emotions that having a bit on the side would stir up in most men. A secret thrill, passion, jealousy, fear of public exposure, possibly of being exposed as impotent. Diaz played around with a few scenarios in his head. Then he wrote down the names of his two prime suspects:
Doctor Strang
Mike McClung
Strang. He fitted every aspect of the profile, a divorced man, a belligerent surgeon with professionally chilly detachment. As for opportunity, he had tried to save Rose’s life by resuscitating her – or had he? The victim’s life had been in his hands and yet still she had died. When waiting in Strang’s office his eyes had been drawn to the doctor’s ghastly model of a plastic brain. A pair of psychedelic sunglasses had been propped on its gruesome half-flayed face. A sign of free-loving, pot-toking hippy values, perhaps? Diaz had inspected his impressively framed certificates, and shelves crammed with books about drugs, not just medical ones but street stuff: amphetamine, heroin, even marijuana.
When Strang finally breezed in he dismissed Diaz with a curt, ‘Monday morning is my ward round day. If you need witnesses to my whereabouts just ask any of my juniors. Now get out of my office. I was due at a case conference ten minutes ago.’
Well, playing the big consultant act would only get him so far against the law.
What was Strang’s motive? Maybe Rose had threatened to expose their affair or some other secret? He smiled slowly. It felt so right.
Nevertheless, he’d written down a second suspect: McClung.
In McClung’s role as advisor on medical electronics it turned out he knew all about operating theatre equipment and the use of anaesthetics. He was the only member of the team with a proven sexual interest in Rose. And the engineer’s personality, so flat and emotionless, could well have carried out the machine-like substitution of two drugs in the cold pursuit of murder.
Diaz gave him a hypothetical motive: fear of the victim exposing his sexual inadequacy. Or perhaps there had been humiliating letters, or something along those lines, that Rose had threatened to make public.
Funny really, but McClung felt right as well.
When Lorraine arrived in the afternoon, he brightened up. He noticed she’d got some nice glossy stuff on her lips and wondered if it was for his benefit. Still, they hadn’t met for a date exactly, though if he had the chance he wouldn’t say no. He cautioned himself not to be stupid and ploughed into his interview, probing deeper into Lorraine’s recall of events. What was Rose’s reputation like? Did she ever seem excited, secretive or frightened? Had she changed her habits over the previous few weeks? Lorraine answered carefully, doing her best to summon the tiniest facts. The trouble was, she told him, since Christmas she’d been distracted, busy preparing for the Oxford course and the essays for her postgrad diploma.
By the time he reached the morning of Rose’s death, it was all feeling like a let-down.
Lorraine recounted it all again: Rose saying she couldn’t stand her job any more, and Lorraine’s advice that she signed off sick.
‘That was when she started crying,’ she said.
‘What exactly prompted that?’
‘Saying she wanted to resign. That’s when I gave her the hanky back.’
‘Hold on. Gave it back? A paper tissue?’
‘No. She lent me a proper cloth one the week before. I had it in my bag already washed.’
Diaz bit his bottom lip, thinking. ‘A cloth one? What was it like?’
‘Fancy. With a curly R. Very pretty, embroidered in pink chain stitch.’
‘What did she do with it afterwards?’
Lorraine looked up to the ceiling, accessing her visual memory. ‘She was wearing a cardigan and she pushed it into her cuff. She still had it with her when we were waiting for our flu jabs. She blew her nose on it. Like lots of people, just before public speaking she had nervous rhinitis. A runny nose.’
He watched her fixedly. ‘Look for it, will you. However unlikely, check the car and anywhere else you can think of.’
‘I know it isn’t there,’ she insisted.
Yes, he thought, his excitement growing. She knew it with the same conviction as he knew that a cloth hanky had not been entered in the evidence book.
‘Does it matter that much?’
Suddenly he gave way to the urge to share what he’d just worked out.
‘A particular type of killer takes souvenirs from the scene of the crime. Things like jewellery, a lock of hair, clothing or a handkerchief.’
He didn’t mention the more macabre examples he’d found listed in the FBI Bulletin: the severed fingers and sexual body parts.
Lorraine leant forward, curious. ‘But why would anyone risk getting caught just to take a souvenir away?’
‘Remember how I told you about different types of killers? The FBI have interviewed loads of these guys in prison and got deep inside their minds. Fantasy is a big thing with them – anticipating the acts they daydream about, imagining a bizarre fantasy world. And then, when they can’t resist their compulsion any more, they act. After the act they recreate it in private. That’s where these souvenirs, or mementos, come in. When the cops catch these men they often discover a secret trove, like a trophy box. Apparently, they handle these objects to relive the moment more intensely.’
Again, he restrained himself from describing the solitary sexual acts many of these killers indulged in with the souvenirs they stole – or dissected – from their victims.
‘My God,’ she said. ‘But hold on. It’s not like Rose was – you know, raped or – I don’t know, assaulted. What’s this moment they want to relive?’
‘Some damaged people,’ he said, aware he was probably saying too much, ‘get turned on most by complete possession of their victim. And the ultimate power comes at the moment of death itself. That’s why I think if we find this handkerchief, we might find the murderer.’
Lorraine pressed her lips tightly together. ‘That must mean the murderer was present at Rose’s death. The hanky must have been taken after she went in for the jab but before you collected evidence.’
Diaz didn’t reply. He didn’t need to spell out that it pointed to Doctor Strang. Yet there was another possibility. He needed to check which of the porters had moved the body to the mortuary. A porter. Or it could have been any imposter in a dark blue jacket.
‘You said Eric Fryer was in the hospital that day?’
Lorraine nodded. ‘And now all the professional certificates for the general manager job have gone missing. Eric Fryer is top of my list for nicking them. He worries me.’
He worried Diaz, too. He’d taken a look at the porter’s criminal record and the guy was what he classified as a scumbag. The trouble was, officially Eric Fryer was having a couple of days off after doing some long shifts. But each time the uniforms had called at his bedsit to bring him in for questioning, no one had been at home.
‘Well, let me know how you get on,’ she said, but didn’t move from her chair. She was watching him, waiting.
‘Going to any gigs this weekend?’ His attempt to sound airy came out a bit too interested.
‘You could say that.’ She was grinning, getting up, then carefully pushing her chair back neatly.
‘What’s the big secret?’ he asked. She was openly laughing at him now.
‘I’ll tell you on Monday. Have a great weekend.’ Then she was gone.
Alone again, Diaz whistled softly and allowed himself a few seconds to think about her. He wondered which gig she was going to. In a luckier world they might have got together when they both saw Echo and the Bunnymen. He felt his mood sink. Thank Christ for the distraction of work. He began to concentrate hard on what she’d said. The fact that the killer might be a souvenir-taker changed the whole profile. If he was right, the handkerchief was emotional evidence, a clue to the hidden personality of the murderer. He could recall the descriptions of this type of killer with ease. They were intelligent and yet indifferent to society, all the while faking an amiable facade in order to manipulate and use the people around them.
Unexpectedly, the door swung open. Diaz jumped in his seat as guiltily as if he’d been caught committing the sort of unspeakable act he was contemplating.
Brunt was crimson with excitement. ‘Get this, lad, a new lab report just landed on me desk. That injection pen, ’ippy-pen or whatever, it didn’t have any adrenaline in it. Our super-duper Doctor Strang never even gave her a shot of adrenaline. It were probably just water.’
‘Ruddy hell,’ Diaz replied admiringly. ‘So we might be able to detain him?’
Brunt grimaced. ‘He’s a right prickly bugger. He won’t come voluntary. And if a magistrate don’t sign every jot and tittle he’ll probably get some barrister mate to challenge it. You got anything else on him?’
Nothing you’d take seriously, he thought bitterly. Instead he asked, ‘Could we get a warrant to search his house?’
Brunt jutted out his flabby lower lip. ‘We’d be pushing it. Course his prints are all over the pen thing. But he’ll just say it’s the fault of Sister Ince, or whichever minion stocked up the clinic.’
‘Do you know if the adrenaline would’ve saved her?’
‘Seems not. But it might’ve woken her up for a few seconds. She might have pointed the finger at someone.’
Diaz could see it all as clear as day. The killer was the organised non-social type. Fundamentally cruel but highly intelligent. The type for whom the perfect job might very well be cutting people’s bodies open with a scalpel.
‘Boss, I just found out the victim was in possession of a handkerchief when she went in for her jab. I think the murderer took it. It’s the sort of souvenir—’
Brunt glared at him. ‘We need watertight evidence against this Doctor Death fella. A lost hanky?’ He shook his head sourly. ‘Even if Strang picked it up I can’t see that sticking. Move up a gear, lad. We’re not the lost property department.’
Brunt grumbled off, on his way to HQ to have a word with the super about a magistrate’s order. Diaz glowered after him, feeling like he was knocking his head against the wall. They had to search Strang’s house, for starters. He would go on his own, he decided. It wouldn’t be the first time he’d bent the rule book. He would find this killer on his own and make it clear to the chief super he’d had no help from Brunt.
The thing was, he wasn’t quite the good little Catholic boy most people reckoned him to be. When he and his pals seized a load of gear, he was one of that inner circle of lads who took dibs of white powder and bags of strong sweet weed. More than once he’d kept his trap shut to protect a mate whose fists had got carried away when persuading some toerag to confess. He knew he’d taken a few small steps towards what coppers joked was the dark side. But now it was all getting mad, totally off the scale. All this overtime was the perfect excuse for getting home way past midnight and creeping out again before dawn. He didn’t want to think about what would happen when the case ended.
He eased his thoughts into more pleasurable channels. Lorraine totally got what he was saying. She was up to speed on psychology and soon she’d be testing Doctor Strang along with all the rest. He leant back and stretched his aching neck. He had to persuade her to share those test results. He pictured a scenario in his mind and found that he liked it a lot. He was reminded of a phrase in the FBI Bulletins. Killers fantasised until they lost contact with reality. And then they pulled their real-life victims onto the stage of their fictional dramas.
For a split second, he understood how all that fantasy shit worked. He liked Lorraine but he still wanted her to play a part for him. And the sense of power that he glimpsed – he grasped that too, how that seductive path could pull even a good man into the badlands of obsession.
Magical Thinking
Question 30: I have sometimes thought that objects have special, almost magical powers.
A. True
B. Uncertain
C. False
High score description (option A.): Unusual experiences, visions, belief one can read and control minds or one’s own mind is being read, sense that objects contain a living force.
I still couldn’t find the key to Room 7. It was driving me mad. I couldn’t break the lock and leave a room like that open. I couldn’t invite a locksmith into the house because of what he’d see. I searched for the master keys in each room, one by one. Last night the kitchen, then the Treatment Room. Christie was in a state, too. She has such particular habits and can’t bear any disturbance. We both like to see things done properly. We both like everything safe in its place. In the end I headed upstairs, not having checked the room for months. I turned the door handle, bracing myself. The handle resisted. Thank God. It was locked up tight.
For a long time, I leant my forehead against the solid door, picturing what was waiting behind it, like an ocean behind a frail dam. Back in Mrs Wilkins’ day she used to say she liked having lodgers from the hospital because it made her feel safe from the worst that could happen. What incredibly stupid things people say. Once the worst had actually happened to her, Christie moved out of Room 7 but kept that room for her special things. She said it felt safe and secret because the tree branches crowded so close across the window. It was the one place she could entirely be herself.
A soft footfall. Christie had come up behind me, still horribly agitated. She thrust something small and soft into my hand. I watched, baffled, as it unfurled in my palm like crushed petals unfolding. I didn’t ask how she retrieved it but let her know how proud I am of her deftness and cunning. A relic is what it is, like a saint’s holy knucklebone or papery skin rescued from a torturer’s flaying knife. It still smells of her when I bury my face deep into it. It exudes her essence, mascara-tinted from weeping, and when held to the light it bears a watermark of tears.
The handkerchief is so pathetic. And that’s what’s exciting. The souvenir should have been added to the collection in Room 7 as soon as possible. But till we find the key I’m keeping it on my person. A risk, I know, but I need my small pleasures. I wash my hands before I touch it. I touch myself with it. I picture her sobbing, her begging, her anguish. I plunge my tongue into the thin fabric. It tastes of salt and the insides of pockets. It tastes of wet tears and power.
Parasitic Lifestyle
Question 31: I don’t see the point of hard work, as I can always borrow or steal from other people.
