Last Kiss (12 page)

‘I’d planned to make a visit either way.’

‘Lori?’

‘What?’

‘Don’t be tempted to say anything to her.’

‘You’re not threatening me, are you?’

‘We both know what’s at stake here. We can’t leave anything to chance.’ He turned the keys in the ignition, ready to drive away. ‘You’ll need to find out what she’s writing in that notebook or diary, and where she’s keeping it. Knowing Sandra, she’s sure to be holding something back.’

Driving out of the side street, he remembered the darkened house from the night before. He had avoided his wife – he’d been too tired for an interrogation. When he had crept into the bedroom, the empty bed had surprised him. It was only when he went downstairs that he saw the light on at the back of the house, coming from under the studio door. Was that where she was writing things down? If she had a notebook, or a diary, knowing Sandra, she wouldn’t keep it anywhere as obvious.

Maybe it was best to leave it with Lori. He didn’t like being dependent on her, but there wasn’t a lot else he could do. Still, if anyone could find out what was going on inside Sandra’s head, it would be her. He had come to realise she wasn’t the shrinking violet he’d once thought she was.

KATE HAD BEEN awake since four that morning. Finding it impossible to go back to sleep, she took advantage of her temporary insomnia, and the peace of Charlie being out for the count, to once again review her file notes on the Shevlin case. It was now three hours later, and in many ways she still had more questions than answers. The two international investigations had broadened the frame of reference – they were all still male victims, all viciously stabbed, and with connections to the Tarot – but the focus of the killer now had a wider scope, including those close to the victims, or any future victim.

She was relieved that O’Connor was back on duty. It would take her a while to get used to thinking of him as Adam. When
her mobile rang, she answered it, even though it was Declan, whom she had been avoiding for days.

‘It’s seven a.m.’

‘Kate, you know why I’m calling.’

‘I have the papers, but work has been mental.’

‘Nothing ever changes with you, does it?’ His words were full of cynicism.

Maybe he was right, she thought, but she was damned if she was going to let him take the moral high ground. ‘I wasn’t the one looking for some personal space, was I?’ She had spoken louder than she’d intended.

‘You shut me out, Kate, not the other way around.’

‘That’s your excuse, is it, for having an affair?’ She turned to make sure Charlie’s bedroom door was still closed.

‘It’s not about excuses.’

‘Isn’t it, Declan? Explain it to me, then. I’m all ears.’

‘It didn’t happen the way you’re saying it. You and I drifted apart, that’s all.’

‘You said it was my fault, that I shut you out.’

‘I didn’t say that.’

‘You did. You said it. What about Charlie, then? Were you thinking about him when you were off having your extra-marital affair?’

‘Don’t bring Charlie into this.’

‘You’re not the one listening to him ask for his daddy every morning.’

‘That’s below the belt, Kate, and you know it.’

‘Maybe it is, but unlike you, I’m not the one wanting to railroad this separation.’

‘Kate, I’m not having this argument again. Sign the papers and get the two of us out of this misery.’

‘Mum.’ She turned. Charlie was rubbing his eyes in his Batman pyjamas. ‘I heard you shouting.’

‘Declan, I have to go. We can talk later.’

Picking up Charlie, she asked, ‘Are you okay, honey?’

‘Was that Dad? Why did you hang up? I wanted to talk to him.’

‘You can talk to him later.’

‘I wanted to talk to him now.’ A large pout on his face.

‘Let’s get breakfast first. Then you can call Dad back.’

‘Do you promise?’

‘I promise.’

Over breakfast, Kate thought about what Declan had said. She had shut him out, driven him away. She couldn’t wash her hands of responsibility. It was an easy route to fire blame at him. She hadn’t wanted it to come to this – mud-slinging and bitterness. She had tried to keep a brave face for Charlie’s sake, bottling it all up, not talking to anyone, exactly the opposite of what she would have advised clients.

It was impossible to deny the emotional upheaval she felt towards Declan, and this new woman in his life, but at least he had been honest with her. She hadn’t mentioned anything to him about Adam, or her feelings for him, which made her a coward, happy for her ex-husband to take all of the dirt.

As agreed, she allowed Charlie to phone Declan after breakfast, but by the time she had dropped him at school, and was on her
way to work, Kate already felt as if she had put in a full day, emotionally and every other way. She should have been pleased to get the phone call from Adam, but she wasn’t in a particularly talkative mood.

‘It looks like I’m off to Paris in a couple of days.’

‘Mark told me that might happen.’

‘What’s the story with your follow-up report?’

Business as usual, she thought. ‘I’ll be working on it this morning.’

‘Anything to add to what we’ve already discussed?’

‘For what it’s worth, I think our killer fantasises about her actions long before she carries them out.’

‘That’s never good. Anything more?’

If nothing else, she thought, this was taking her mind off Declan and Charlie. ‘I’ve looked at the file notes again, taking in the possible international connections, and there is something about the level of pride she’s applying to the images being created, both in the Dublin and Paris murders. The intricacy of detail, including shape, form and proportion, the framing of the crime scene, all require a level of intelligence and a form of creative genius.’

‘Creative genius – Kate, that’s a bit of a leap.’

‘I don’t think so, and remember, she also has the ability to keep a cool head. When most killers would be long gone, our killer stays.’

‘Sounds like a fanatical nutcase to me.’

‘She’s fanatical, all right, and someone with an underlying mental disorder. I keep wondering, how controlled is she and what are her pressure points? Something caused our killer to
snap, to take action against her victims. It tells us that, despite her ability to be in control, she can flip, becoming the very opposite. Two sides to her personality …’ Kate hesitated ‘… which probably explains her ability to seduce her victims into trusting her.’

‘They wouldn’t be the first males to believe something a woman said when she meant the very opposite.’

‘We’d be foolish to underestimate her, and as for creative genius, only time will tell.’

‘You said mental disorder, Kate. Are we talking psychotic, psychopathic?’

‘I don’t know – at least, not yet. Many people with mental difficulties are highly intelligent. There are psychopathic inferences here, possibly even sociopathic.’

‘What’s the difference?’

‘There’s an extended school of thought on the difference between the two, but one obvious difference is that a psychopath lacks empathy …’

‘Sounds like half of the people I know.’

‘Statistically, about one per cent of the population have profound psychopathic tendencies; not quite half, admittedly, but it’s high. Sociopaths on the other hand can demonstrate the ability to empathise. They can feel regret, their actions can affect them emotionally, which is why they’re sometimes considered more volatile and less predictable.’

‘Meaning, Kate, it’s harder to work out their next move?’

‘Absolutely – and we’re only at the beginning. There’s history here, lots of it. What the crime-scene images are illustrating is simply the end result.’

‘Sociopaths can demonstrate empathy? What makes you think our killer has empathy?’

‘If it’s the same killer, she left Pierre Laurent’s face completely unmarked.’

‘So?’

‘She couldn’t bring herself to damage it. Something stopped her. For whatever reason, it was out of bounds. Our killer cares, all right. She cares enough to ensure she leaves the scene exactly as she wants it to be. It’s her anger that demonstrates her hurt.’

‘A
femme fatale
.’

‘Your words, not mine.’ He hadn’t mentioned their conversation of the previous day. She reminded herself that she had asked him to give her more time. ‘But there’s something else.’

‘There usually is with you, Kate.’

His voice sounds so upbeat, she thought. Maybe work does make the man. ‘It’s about her level of detachment. Our killer needs to be of a particular mind-set to do what she does. Think of it as a bit like the way a surgeon operates.’

‘I’d hardly put a clinical operation to save someone’s life on the same level as chopping a guy up, then playing creative with the props.’

‘You’re right, but surgeons have to detach at some level to do their job. They need to focus on the task in hand to bring it to a successful conclusion, and they do so in a clinical manner. There is no place for emotion and doubt when a surgeon is operating. In many ways our killer is the same. The planning of the killing is on one level. The act of killing is then charged with emotion,
but the aftermath is clinical, her mind switching from one mode to the next.’

‘You have to love the versatility of the female mind,’ he jested, again sounding far more energised than he had the day before.

‘It’s not a laughing matter.’ She heard the tetchiness in her voice.

‘No, it’s not, but it could be tricky down the line.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘A jury, despite their best intentions, tend to be biased, unwilling to believe a woman is capable of such things. I’ve been through enough cases to know how easily murder can become manslaughter, and a killer can walk.’

‘If this murder is linked conclusively to the European cases, I doubt self-defence or mental or physical abuse will sway anyone. Multiple killings rarely happen without premeditation.’

‘Maybe so. All I’m saying is that it can prove to be divisive when dealing with the fairer sex.’

‘Listen, I’ve got to go. I’m nearly at Ocean House.’

‘Before you hang up, there’s a couple of things you should know.’

‘What?’

‘Mark’s applied pressure to extend the size of the investigative team. He wants you at the midday incident-room briefing.’

‘And what if I’ve other plans?’

‘Kate, you know what the force is like. The case dictates everything. If you can’t make it, say so, but the chief super is expecting you.’

‘I’ll be there.’

‘Is your passport up to date?’

‘Why?’

‘He’s also talking about you going to Paris.’

‘For Christ’s sake …’

‘Don’t shoot me, I’m only the messenger.’

‘Well, tell Chief Superintendent Gary Egan and Mark Lynch I have a job and a life outside the force.’

‘They’ll be delighted to hear it.’

I WAS EIGHT years old when I first considered killing someone. Some years later, I confided this to a friend. She thought I was lying.

The desire to kill isn’t as strange as you might think. Circumstances may vary, but what matters is that, once you’ve reached that point, you’re aware of how easy it is. For me, it started with a need to rid the earth of a specific someone. I viewed my prospective victim, contemplating their death without one iota of guilt, and in some ways without anger. It wasn’t a cold feeling. Nor was it primed with passion. If anything, it was completely calm.

I had reached a decision, considered the means – it was that
simple. In the end, I didn’t do it. Why? It wasn’t the right time. I was still a child, and it had logistical difficulties I wasn’t in a position to overcome. My eight-year-old self wouldn’t have been able to get away with it. If she had been, I have no doubt she would have done it. People underestimate the power of children, perceiving their vulnerability as weakness. Never miscalculate the rat trapped in a corner, irrespective of age or experience. And, like the rat, we’re all born with the survival instinct. Children are no different from their adult selves in that regard and, at times, more resolute.

Do you remember the road, the one in the woods that people can no longer see? That road remains steadfast in my mind. It is with me when I close my eyes to sleep and I see the myriad of evil faces. Do you believe in ghosts? I do.

I met my first ghost back when I first thought about killing someone. Her face was kind, almost as if she knew me better than I knew myself. It was the middle of the night, and there was a cold wind wailing outside, yet when I awoke, I was covered with sweat. I saw her then, looking bright within the dark. I should have been frightened, but I wasn’t.

She was kneeling beside my bed, resting her head on the end, as if she was waiting for me to wake up. We were similar in age. She smiled, touched my cheek, her warm hand trailing down my arm. When she spoke, it wasn’t in a language I understood. It sounded like the tongue of the ancients, all-knowing. Settling back to sleep, I felt safe. It was within this oasis of calm that the first stabbing pain shot through me, first in my chest, then further down my body. Opening my eyes, I saw her. This time her face and arms were covered with blood, and when I screamed, she
backed away. Later, I could find no signs of her. The pain was gone and so, too, was the blood. But she had been real.