Last Kiss (2 page)

Placing the baby in the large grey coat, she cut the cord with the carving knife she had taken from the house, then wiped the tiny face, clearing the mucus from its nostrils.

After delivering the child, she felt so cold, her eyelids barely able to stay open as the blood leaving her body formed a black circle around her. Ellen didn’t know she would die that day, nobody knew, but when she closed her eyes for the last time, she could still hear the baby crying, a shrill sound, calling for a mother unable to answer, almost as if she knew that part of her had been taken.

If there had been an inquest into her death, it would have found she died because of irreversible shock, brought on by haemorrhage and exposure during childbirth. The woman who burned her body didn’t care about that, taking the baby into her arms as if it were her own. It was a miracle the child survived. Questions would be asked, but none that she couldn’t answer. Everyone knew Ellen was never quite right, soft in the head, a creature more to be pitied than scorned. Her disappearance, like her life, would soon be forgotten.

Walking back towards the village, she kissed the baby’s forehead. The child wailed, scrunching its face like a piece of shrivelled rotten fruit, a primal instinct kicking in, telling it that something wasn’t right.

The woman thought about killing the infant then, but decided against it. Instead, she held her hand tight over the baby’s face while
she smiled down at it. When she finally released her grip, the infant spluttered, then wailed even louder than before.

‘Now,’ the woman said to the child, ‘I’ve given you something to cry about.’

2014

I HAVE REASONS for doing what I do. You may not know them yet, because I haven’t told you, but that doesn’t mean they don’t exist. It’s too early for judgement calls, far too early for that.

I’m considered attractive. I was described by an ex-lover as having an elegant face. Like everyone else, I have minor aesthetic flaws, which I’m keenly aware of. They are rarely commented upon; usually only the good bits are. I’m thirty-two. Not too young and not too old – but for what? I kill people. I could dress
it up, say all kinds of stuff about it, but for now, all you need to know is that I do.

I stabbed a man recently, slit his throat and left him dead in a hotel bedroom. I tied his body up with ropes. If I told you I positioned him picture perfect, you wouldn’t understand what I mean, but soon you will.

My online tag name is Cassie4Casanova. The first time I used it was nine years ago in Paris. I was twenty-three then. I thought I knew things about the world. I guess we’re all guilty of that kind of stupidity. The man I was with had a darker side, but his badness was far easier to manage than the rest. That last afternoon, I met him at the Hôtel du Maurier. I took a photograph of myself beforehand. I was standing at a bookstore window. I gave the glass a sideways glance, checking out my appearance. It was a clear reflection. I could see the shine at the end of my nose. I thought it made the image more realistic. I often do that sideways-glance thing. Sometimes my face looks questioning; other times the glance is accompanied by a smirk. That day, I seemed bemused. The reason is unimportant.

In the photograph you can see the reflection of the flowers from the florist opposite, and a partial window display of Les Belles Boulangerie Pâtisserie. They both added a nice balance. I was wearing a cream raincoat. The collar was up, as if I had walked out of a
Dick Tracy
comic strip. I can see all of this as if it happened yesterday. I remember slowing the exposure on the camera lens to catch the movement of people walking by, each of them unaware of my thoughts. I take a lot of photographs, self-portraits. The camera is the eye. See how the picture is building up?

Less than an hour after I left the bookstore window, I stood outside the hotel. It was on a narrow street, set between the Latin Quarter and Saint-Germain-des-Prés. The small wrought-iron balconies were charming, with their fleur-de-lis design, the red and pink geraniums plummeting through the bars. Inside, the hotel was very different. It had more grandeur, with greater sex appeal.

On the top floor, the glimmer of an overhead chandelier shone down the gold and ruby hallway that led me to him. After I’d tapped on the door, I heard his footsteps. Opening the door, he looked angry. He liked to drink mid-afternoon. But that day, his eyes seemed sharper than normal, piercing, the whites of them almost dazzling. He had wickedness on his mind.

All he wore was a pair of faded jeans, and I could see the tightening of his chest muscles, the curled blond hair on his chest, his tanned feet. He was quite extraordinary in his way, that dangerous mix of fulfilment and disaster, beauty and ugliness so close they almost sparkled. ‘You’re late, slut,’ were his first endearing words, as he held the door ajar, waiting for me to go inside. I walked past him. I heard the click, click, click of my red stilettos, his favourite, on the shiny marble floor as he locked the door.

Even with my back to him I knew his eyes were on me, taking without touching. It wasn’t long before he yanked my hair, kissing me feverishly, as if his life depended on it. My lipstick smeared his face and mine, like a stamp of ownership. I usually wear Carmine, a purplish red.

I saw the champagne cooling on a side table. He popped the cork, then handed me a glass. I swallowed fast. The bubbles felt cold, the tiny droplets teasing my face, mixing with the smudged lipstick.

I had a role to play. I looked chastised, the way he sometimes liked it. I was still standing in my raincoat as he talked about one of his favourite artists, Degas, and all his many masks. I balanced on my red high heels, him pretending a lack of interest, engrossed in his own clever conversation. I reached out, opened the top button of his jeans.

‘My little whore.’ He smiled.

I’m not a whore. If men pay, they believe they own more than your sexual favours, they think they own YOU. It’s not money I seek. It’s not that simple.

I removed my coat, slipping out of my dress. His right hand yanked my hair again. ‘I want you,’ he whispered, his tongue swirling in my ear as he pulled off my underwear. I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror, and thought of the woman in the bookstore window. My nakedness changed me, but like Degas, I still wore my mask, one embroiled with lies and deceit. He groped me, as if I was some fiendish plaything, and again I stared at my reflection, seeing a stranger looking back.

He often took me from behind. I played my role with well-rehearsed modesty, pleading with him to stop. Afterwards he asked if I despised him. He was gentle then, crying big boyish tears, which I relished.

It was only in the tears that he was of any consequence. The
killing didn’t come easy – endings are like beginnings: they change things. I DO CARE.

I’ve told you about this man because I need you to know something else about me. I will put myself in danger for what I want. Killing Pierre was risky. Others knew of my connection to him. But the truth isn’t always simple. It has its own concealments, and I have plenty of those.

KATE PEARSON TAPPED her fingers on the steering wheel, lost in thought, the sight and sound of the windscreen wipers swishing back and forth her only distraction. It was one of those damp mornings in the city when the relentless rain caused everything to look grey and dirty. She wore a small silver locket around her neck. In it were photographs of her late mother, and her son, six-year-old Charlie. Without thinking, she reached up to stroke it between her index finger and thumb.

Ahead of her, Christchurch Cathedral stood witness over the lanes of bumper-to-bumper traffic. She had already planned her day: she would review last month’s case files. Other psychologists at Ocean House teased her about having obsessive-compulsive
disorder, but she knew the more times she examined something, the more she usually saw. It was her tried and tested method, and had stood her well, the forensic examination, raising fresh questions, leading to a greater understanding of a client and their mental well-being.

When her mobile phone rang, she cursed herself for leaving it in her handbag rather than putting it in the hands-free set. She rummaged through the bag, with an eye on the stationary traffic in case it decided to move. The caller hung up as she grabbed the phone, but she recognised the number: the Special Detective Unit at Harcourt Street. Pulling the car into a side street, she pressed speed dial, and within moments she was talking to Mark Lynch, a detective who delivered information with equal efficiency and brevity. ‘Mark, I assume this isn’t a social call.’ She took a pen and notebook out of her bag. ‘What do we have?’

‘Murdered male, Rick Shevlin, married, mid-forties. He worked as an art dealer in the city.’

‘How was he killed?’

‘Multiple stab wounds – frenzied attack. The body was discovered by Housekeeping this morning.’

‘Housekeeping?’

‘He booked into the Earlbrook Hotel last night. According to his wife, he had a late meeting in town, but I can fill you in when you get here.’

His last comment sounded at worst like an order and at best an irritant. ‘I’m sure I don’t need to remind you, Mark, that I work
with
you, not
for
you. But it’s not far. I can take a short detour.’ She emphasised ‘short’.

‘Appreciated.’

Duly clipped, she thought. A male-dominated environment presented its challenges, but she was up to them, and at the back of Lynch’s minor power struggle, a man had lost his life.

Twenty minutes later, she was in the car park at the Earlbrook. If Mark Lynch was there, the technical squad would be in situ and, most probably, Ian Morrison, the state pathologist. Seeing the crime scene first hand was crucial, an opportunity she couldn’t afford to miss.

It had been two years since she had begun profiling killers for the Irish police. The first case had brought her into contact with Detective Inspector O’Connor, the investigation of the murdered schoolgirl, Caroline Devine. The last time she and O’Connor had crossed paths was six months earlier, during the canal-murder inquiry, prior to his suspension. She had heard he was due back within weeks, but that didn’t necessarily mean he would pick up where he had left off – covering up evidence wasn’t something easily brushed aside. She had felt guilty about not being in touch, especially as she had played her own part in him coming clean, but she’d had her reasons for keeping her distance, complicated ones.

On entering the lobby of the Earlbrook Hotel, the first thing that struck her was its opulence. Large crystal chandeliers hung from beautifully carved ceilings and Romanesque archways. Two stone pillars led the eye directly towards the marbled staircase where a uniformed officer was stationed either side at the top. Management wouldn’t be happy with police activity interfering with daily procedure, but a dead man took precedence, especially a murdered one.

After one of the techies had helped her into a white body
suit, Kate braced herself, then walked into Room 122. Despite the police activity in the room, as at any other crime scene, time was somehow standing still. Every contact leaves a trace: a statement drummed into every police officer during training. In the preservation of the crime scene, they were all attempting to stop time, gathering information that would hopefully lead them to the killer.

The bulky, bullish frame of Ian Morrison stood on the opposite side of the four-poster bed to the lanky Mark Lynch. Between them on the blood-stained white sheets lay the naked corpse. Not for the first time Kate thought there was little dignity in death. Neither man turned to acknowledge her, giving her the opportunity to take in as much about the scene as she could before she was briefed.

The murdered man lay face up with his feet at the top of the bed, his right ankle tied to the brass bedpost with what looked like a one-inch double-knotted rope. The left leg was bent at the knee, set at a perfect ninety-degree angle to the one opposite. Lynch had been correct when he described the attack as frenzied. Even without Morrison’s autopsy report the body was a mess. The victim’s throat had been slit, a hideous gaping wound with blood coagulating down his neck. The multiple stab wounds formed gorges of congealed blood across his chest. There was so much blood on the bed it looked weighted down by it. Slash wounds to the face, legs and arms were too numerous to quantify. The victim’s eyes were wide open, his head turned in the direction of the two windows opposite, as if they had seen Hell in all its anguish.

She moved closer to Morrison and Lynch, remaining fixated
on the dead man’s eyes. What had they seen before death? She swallowed hard, working to maintain her composure. She imagined the killer in the room – what were his or her last movements? Had guilt, ecstasy or both run through their mind during the attack? Had they felt fear? How well had they known the victim? What role had Shevlin played in his own demise?

As she stared at the dead man, another image was forming in her mind, that of a crucifixion. The room, suddenly, felt clammy. She could smell the Luminol kit that the techies were using on the blood spatters, and in her mind, it was as if everything was overlapping, different images criss-crossing with endless possibilities.

It was the tying of the ankle that had first made her think of a crucifixion, but if it had been a crucifixion, the ankles would have been tied together; the left leg had been left free. The positioning of the arms was important too, both bent at the elbow joints, each hand under the body at the midpoint of the back.

‘Are the hands tied behind his back?’ she asked Morrison, keeping her voice even.

‘Yes. The same as the ankle, a double overhand knot.’

‘It’s certainly frenzied,’ she said, moving even closer, her eyes studying the wounds on the dead man’s torso.

‘We always seem to get the cut-and-slash ones, don’t we, Kate?’ Lynch smiled.