Page 146 of Making a Killing

He picks up his water glass. ‘To Daisy? Probably not. I doubt she would be unduly vulnerable. As for those she leaves in her wake, that, of course, is a different matter.’

Now ain’t that the truth; Ev is still fretting about the damage this has done to Gary and the Manns. That won’t be easily healed, if at all.

‘So Daisy’s immune because she’s clever enough to see the pitfalls?’

‘She’s certainly that. But that’s not the reason. This isn’t a “diagnosis” because I’ve never met her, never mind assessed her, but the Daisy Mason I see in that journal exhibits all the textbook signs of Anti-Social Personality Disorder. And I wouldn’t be at all surprised if there were serious narcissistic traits in play as well. Her ability to lie, to play roles, to deceive, the sheer pleasure she takes in manipulating and exploiting people. Even her facility with mimicry is suggestive – such “mirroring” is a common trait with this personality cluster. Not to mention the utter lack of either remorse or empathy. It’s terrifying. And that’s not a word I use lightly.’

He doesn’t need to spell it out. She’s sixteen and she’s a psychopath.

‘Do you think she could have killed Kate?’

He looks at me over his glasses. ‘Oh yes, I think she’d be perfectly capable of that. Especially in the service of a greater goal – if Kate was standing in the way of her achieving that.’

‘Despite everything Kate did for her all those years.’

He shrugs. ‘Daisy would have seen all of that as merely her due. As, in fact, muchlessthan she deserved. Classic entitlement.’

‘And if by some miracle Kate is still alive she’ll spend the rest of her days in the knowledge that she was betrayed by the child she gave up everything to save.’

He gives a wry smile. ‘Well, this rather qualifies as small mercies, but if it helps, she was spared the worst of it.’

I raise an eyebrow in question.

He puts down his cutlery. ‘At least she never had to read that journal.’

***

The rain has stopped by the time Margaret Collier gets to the woods. She doesn’t come here as often as she used to. And she never goes over to that side of the lake, not since she found the grave. People still ask her about it, agog for the details, as if it was something off the TV. She wants to tell them that it wasn’t some sort of reconstruction – it was real – someonedied, but she knows she just comes over as a silly old biddy.

Water is dripping down her neck now and she glances up at the branches and turns up her collar; it’s like her grandad always used to say: ‘One shower in the woods and you’re wet all day.’ She starts to head towards the Mere and it’s not until she breaks through the trees that she realizes she’s not alone. On the opposite side of the lake there’s a group of people on the shoreline, and further out towards the middle, two men in an inflatable. A police inflatable. She watches a moment as a diver comes to the surface and gives a thumbs-down to his colleagues in the boat. Whatever they’re looking for, they haven’t found it yet.

She hesitates a moment, wondering whether to go over and talk to them. But no, she tells herself, she spoke to that officer at the time, the one who took her statement. Holland, Holloway, something like that. She told him all about it. Not just the grave but the vile stinking thing Flynn dragged out of the water. The police keep proper records these days – she doesn’t need to trudge all the way over there to tell them about some rotting sneaker when they know already. They’ll just think she’s a silly old biddy.

She watches a few moments more, then turns and makes her way back through the trees.

***

‘We must stop meeting like this,’ says Triona Bradley.

Barbie Markey looks up at her, but there’s no grin in either woman’s eyes. At their feet, there’s something brokeback at the bottom of the ditch, the bright blue plastic around it dark with silt and grit. A screech of crows is circling and flapping above their heads.

‘Well, just by way of a change, it wasn’t a dog that found it this time,’ says Markey, following Bradley’s gaze up to the birds. ‘Farmer noticed that lot making a racket and thought he should check it out. Apparently he hasn’t been up to this field for weeks. Leaving it fallow for wildlife.’

‘That’s one way of putting it,’ says Bradley.

‘Right,’ says Markey, nodding towards the ragged rents and gashes in the plastic sheeting, the black and green brutality of what’s visible underneath. ‘I reckon most of the local fauna have had a go at this one. I suspect this ditch is usually a watercourse, but with the drought we’ve had –’

She doesn’t need to finish; as the current washed out, the predators cashed in.

‘How long?’

A shrug. ‘Weeks rather than days. There are three layers of plastic, each sealed with tape. That’s why it took the wildlife so long.’

‘And?’

They both know what Bradley’s getting at.

‘And probably female, judging by size, frame, and isn’t-it-always, but I can’t see enough yet.’ She hesitates. ‘That said, you should probably see this.’ She bends down and lifts part of the sheeting, and Bradley takes a step closer.

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