Page 10 of The Serial Killer's Sister
‘A newspaper page,’ he says, without taking his eyes from it.
‘Well, yes, I can see that.’
‘With something written over it.’ He looks up at me now, with an intensity that makes my breath come in shallow bursts. He leans forward and places it on the coffee table, flattening it with his gloved hand. My heart hammers against my ribs as I stare. My eyes aren’t focusing; I have to blink several times before the words, written in red ink across the newspaper print, become clear.
Each one has been different but part of a whole.
Each one I take is a window to your soul.
Each one tells a story but hides within it a clue.
Each one has been bringing me closer to you.
Middle for diddle, that’s your lot.
Choose wisely, now off you trot.
I feel winded, like I’ve been punched in the stomach.
‘Mean anything to you, Mrs Price?’
‘I don’t do riddles, DI Walker,’ I say, not meeting his eyes. ‘And just Anna is fine by the way.’
‘Okay. Well, I guess we’ll be spending some time together over the coming days, Anna.’
There’s a weird moment of silence as this statement settles. I haven’t even had the opportunity to tell him what happened to make me call him yet, but he’s already assumed I’m involved now this envelope has turned up. Henry has found out where I live, has come here and left this bizarre, and freaky, message that heavily implies that everything he’s done up until now – every murder – has brought him a step closer to his end game. To me.
Is his end game tokillme?
I baulk at my own suggestion, my head shaking involuntarily. This whole situation is utter madness – the Henry they’re searching for must be someone different. They’ve got it all wrong.
But the riddle …
‘Hang on, there’s something else.’ DI Walker has turned the paper over. I sit down beside him, not trusting my leg muscles to hold me up. Fainting for the second time in front of the detective would be embarrassing.
I frown as I realise what I’m seeing. Stuck under some Sellotape is a needle.
‘What on Earth?’ I mumble.
DI Walker sits back, his hands in his lap. He’s got a faraway look on his face, and I imagine a thought bubble containing an ellipsis in the air beside his head as his mind ticks over. I don’t speak, allowing his process to continue as he tries to work out what the riddle and the needle might mean.
‘The first victim was left in … well, let’s just say, a particular way.’ He turns and leans in, so our faces are close. His eyes stare into mine, unblinking. It’s as though he’s testing me; deciding if he should share information. I suppose it’s against police rules, or policy, or whatever, to divulge details of an ongoing case with a civilian. But then he’s already hinted that we’ll be working together – because let’s face it, time is running out and I might well be the police’s best source – so he might have to tell me certain things in order that I can properly assist the investigation. He takes a deep breath, and, seeming to have made his decision, begins to speak.
‘She was posed.’
I suck in a sharp intake of air and DI Walker pauses, a worried look passing over his face. ‘Sorry,’ I say, giving my head a shake. ‘It’s okay. Go on.’
His jaw contracts – the skin taut along the bone. His hand goes to it, two fingertips massaging the muscle in a circular motion. ‘The most noteworthy thing was her mouth,’ he says. ‘Her lips were sewn shut.’
‘Oh, my God.’
‘It was a statement.’
It doesn’t take a psychologist to decipher that much. Or maybe the meaning is obvious to me because I’m suddenly certain that it’s directedatme.
‘He’s silencing the victim,’ DI Walker says. ‘Like I suspect he wants to silence you.’
My lips stick to my teeth. I run my tongue between to moisten them, but don’t say what I’m thinking: that the sewn lips have a slightly different meaning. It is about not speaking, but it’s not about silencing me.
