Page 39 of The Serial Killer's Sister
As I place his coffee down in front of him, I catch sight of what he’s been looking at. They appear to be crime scene photographs, if the yellow tape cordoning off the entrance to a house is anything to go by. My stomach lurches.
‘Do you think you’d be willing to go through these with me?’ He taps the top photo, but I don’t look down at it again. I want to say ‘in a minute’ but I’m very aware that every minute counts. ‘I know it won’t be easy,’ he says. ‘I’m sorry to even ask, but because of your connection to Henry, you might see something in them that we’ve overlooked. It’s not exactly usual practice …’
‘I need to know everything, DI Walker. If you want my help finding Henry, I should probably know all the details.’ I feel myself blushing.Healso needs to know all thedetails, including the fact I went to the riddle’s location yesterday without telling him.
‘Yes, agreed; but this isn’t some cosy murder mystery on the telly, Anna. What I’m going to show you, tell you, is gruesome; itwillplay on your mind.’
‘My mind is a mess already. It can’t get much worse.’
Miss Graves had a saying that used to annoy the hell out of me, and it comes to mind now: ‘famous last words’. The queasy feeling returns after I’ve seen the first four crime scene photos, and he’s only shown me the scenes so far, not the actual women Henry killed. The lifeless bodies, the violated corpses are still to come. DI Walker lays a reassuring hand on my forearm.
‘If you want a break …’
I glance at the kitchen clock. It’s ten a.m. and we’re wasting time. ‘No. Keep going.’
‘You’re a brave woman, Anna. We do appreciate what you’re doing.’
A shiver tracks up my spine. Am I brave? Or stupid? Either way, hearing a detective saying that gives me pause. The way he spoke those words was like he knows what’s coming – that I’m putting myself in the direct line of fire. I lick my lips, my tongue catching on the dried lipstick.
‘Are you going to show me the women now?’ There’s a quiver to my voice – a response I’ve little control over. I don’t want to see, yet I think I need to.
‘Yes, selected ones. Not every detail, but enough to give you the idea.’ He closes his eyes, taking a deep breath, like he’s preparing himself. But he’s seen them before, has just been looking through them, so he must actually be preparing himself formyreaction.
My pulse races as he places the first one in front of me. Then the next. After about ten seconds, he lays the next on top. I’m reminded how I did this to Ross last night, only I was slamming them down one by one, not gently placing them like DI Walker is doing. He watches for my reaction to each one, seemingly judging whether it’s safe to continue. I say nothing as the images are laid out: a close-up of the victim’s lips – sewn shut with hideous large, roughly made stitches that look like black wire; a gaping, bloody mouth, the tongue removed; a tongue sandwiched between two slices of mouldy bread; a chest cracked open, ribs spread. I press my hand to my own chest, rubbing the pain away with circular motions. Another photo is a wide-angle shot, taken from further away – hacked-off limbs surround a torso. I snap my eyelids closed. The thought of how these women suffered crushes me. I can’t speak. My vocal cords are paralysed, and my throat is so tight I can’t swallow. I’m aware of my breathing; how rapid and shallow it is.
‘Slow breaths, Anna. You’re hyperventilating and you’ll faint.’
I do as he says. It takes a few minutes for my breathing to steady. I can see there’s another photo and I reach across to take it. DI Walker puts his hand over mine, stopping me.
‘You don’t have to. I shouldn’t have asked you to look. None of this is your fault, Anna.’ His eyes bore into mine and I have to look away.
Despite the evidence, it still doesn’t seem possible that Henry is a sadistic killer, and my brain struggles to link the two. I couldn’t have known he would do such terrible things. Could I? I would’ve done something – told theauthorities, reported his behaviour, had I believed for one moment that after I last saw him he’d go on to murder five women.
You’ve let people get away with things before.
It’s as though the devil is on my shoulder, reminding me of my past mistakes. I close my mind to the voice, push the demons back into their boxes again and concentrate on the here and now. I can’t fix the past. But I can affect the present, and hopefully create a better future.
‘I’m fine. Show me the next one.’ I brace myself.
Chapter 26
Cross my heart and hope to die,
Stick a needle in my eye.
FEBRUARY
This year
He dragged the body to the doorway and let go, her arms slamming to the floor with a thud. Standing back, he looked around at the penultimate murder scene. Adrenaline shot through his veins. One more after this and he’d be done. How would he feel once it was over? A little lost, he imagined. Bored, even. The planning, the execution, the end goal; they’d taken over his life for such a long time, driven his existence, given it meaning. He wasn’t sure he’d ever feel as though justice had been done, that his job was truly over. He picked at the tip of his gloved index finger and found a tiny hole.Dammit.He went to his kit bag and pulled out another, swapping it and pocketing the damaged one. He couldn’t slip up now – he was almost at the final hurdle.
He’d dreamed, fantasised, about finally havingherin front of him. She’d been the focus of all his hurt and pain, his inability to move on; he could barely wait to punish her. But he had to be patient. Not only in getting to her and ensuring everything was in place, but when he had her, too. Killing her would be pointless before he got what he wanted.
Shaking himself awake from the fantasies of what was to come, he took the Tupperware box from his bag and returned to the dead woman. For the first time since his debut, he kneeled down beside the body and touched it. Took in the details. He hadn’t allowed himself to do that for the last three murders. He’d tried to keep any private thoughts, sentiment, out of the process. It was never about them; it was always about her.
The woman was about fifty years old, he guessed. Obviously she looked after herself; she was fit – a sporty type if the photos on her dresser were anything to go by, but not too muscular. Still had feminine curves. She wasn’t like those body-building women who were all sinewy and shiny. He appreciated women who made an effort. He also appreciated clever women – a hangover from living at Finley Hall. Miss Graves had drummed it into everyone, sometimes literally, that intelligence mattered. Girls in particular had to be clever, she’d said, to make sure they could fight for equality, like she’d had to do to become manager of the home: because ultimately, it was a man’s world. He huffed. Such bullshit. In his experience, women fought for equality, then when they had a sniff of it, they scuttled back into the safety of their stereotypes and let the men do the hard stuff. They picked and chose and that really got his goat. If it was a promotion, more moneythey wanted, then they would shout from the rooftops, but when it came to security, they weren’t so vocal. Who did they turn to when they were frightened, concerned for their safety? Men. Men were the protectors. Men had the real power. He was proof of that.
As he positioned the heart from the last victim next to the freshly murdered woman, he laughed.Joke’s on them, he thought. He stuck the cross of the necklace into the cold, dead muscle – it protruded from the heart like a tiny headstone. Then, he scooped the woman’s left eye out, jammed the needle into it and lay that beside the heart.
