Chapter Seven
It was midmorning on a hazy yet cold Saturday, the sun was stretched lazily across my flat, giving me a dull, frustrated headache. It was that part of year when it hasn’t decided if it’s winter or spring, and London is unbearable both above and below ground.
I had just spent an awkward week at work where half the employees had found out that I had been questioned over a murder and the other half were being told by that first half. It had been on the news, and even though my name hadn’t been mentioned, most of the gory details had. All the people who didn’t know me, despite the fact I had been working there for two years, soon learned my name and repeated it in the corridors.
My situation left me hungry and exhilarated, me and Lisa had just started out on our search for a killer. Who wouldn’t be excited by that? Staying up late into the night and reading over police files, discussing weapons and motives, making lists of suspects. It was like the sort of movie I used to watch with my dinner balanced on my knees. It sounds despicable I know, but I felt like when Angelica died, my life kick-started into action.
Lisa was sat cross-legged on the rug, she was still too afraid of what was living in my sofa to sit on it. She was surrounded by a wide circle of papers, files set out in neat piles all around her. She had personal statements, school grades, names and backgrounds of police officers and histories of local areas. Lisa had always told me that you could find anything if you looked hard enough, and I never questioned her methods, because it was something I really didn’t want to know.
Her hair was loose and falling over her face and the file she read, I couldn’t tell what expression she might have, but my eyes kept leaving my own crisp sheet of paper to watch her.
‘Heimlaug Gunderson,’ the mass of hair said, her hands hidden inside her oversized jumper. ‘What do we know?’
I cleared my throat dramatically, ‘twenty seven years old.’ I looked down at the picture and lost my pace, Heimlaug had reddish blonde hair cut into a short bob around a plump heart shaped face. It was her passport photo, so she wasn’t smiling, but she still looked like she might break into laughter, there was something playful about her pale eyes. I looked at her pretty face and words flashed through my mind, ‘eye to cheek.’ The words got a hold of my mind and would let go, horrible images flashed like subliminal messages. ‘Ripped eye to cheek.’
‘Norway,’ I said, pulling myself together. ‘Differs from other murders,’ I turned the picture over and tried to block out her face. ‘Police suspected a dog attack because of the torn and jagged nature of her wounds, and,’ I gulped down the bile, ‘because there wasn’t much left of her.’
Lisa nodded coldly, she took a sip of coffee. I stared at her, maybe she was tired, but I could see no compassion in her bloodshot eyes. ‘The words “in death we love,” were written on the sole of her foot,’ I paused again, ‘the foot found a metre away from the rest of the body.’
Lisa nodded again, but deeply this time, and she closed her eyes, was she afraid I would actually see her compassion? Her chin pushed into the scratchy material of her jumper, she pressed her fist into her forehead. ‘It’s those damn words,’ she said, ‘why aren’t the connections being made?’ Not looking at me she waved her hand out expectantly and I gave her the papers. ‘What have they missed?’
I stared blankly at her, not certain if I was supposed to answer or not. She was talking about the police of course, and I had to agree that it defied belief that these murders really weren’t being connected. This is why I always tried to push her to tell them.
‘Similarities between Norway and Scotland?’
‘The words, that’s all.’ I admitted
Lisa banged her fist on the stack of papers. ‘Tony Calister,’ she pointed to the paper she was holding. ‘What are you hiding,’ she asked his picture.
‘They were both dragged,’ I said, remembering, ‘all three victims were dragged.’ Her teeth curled over her lips at my use of the word ‘victim’ so describe her sister.
‘They were all dragged while alive,’ she said, ‘the only problem is Tony Calister.’ She held the page out to me.
It was the typical missing photo, he looked happy, an arm without an owner was around his shoulder and he had a drink in his hand. He had a thin face, high cheekbones and a devil may care grin. His face was surrounded by heavy black hair, two streaks of electric blue across the enormous fringe that covered one eye, the other eye rimmed in thick black make up. He had only been seventeen.
‘First assumption was suicide,’ I said.
‘Only the wrist slashed,’ Lisa said, frustrated, ‘but the same jagged cut. The line of blood suggested he crawled back into his bedroom to die.’ She smiled evilly at me, ‘the only problem with that theory is the lack of blood found.’
‘And there’s the problem with the words,’ I said. There was a big difference, Tony had them tattooed onto his skin, the tattoo was still scabbed and fresh.
‘So he did it himself?’ Lisa asked.
I looked at the picture again, ‘or he was influenced to,’ I said. ‘Tony was,’ I rapped by hand against the picture, trying to remember the word. ‘You know, he wore a lot of black, listened to angry music.’
‘That doesn’t make him suicidal,’ Lisa said. ‘The other scratches on his arms, they were shallow. He barely drew blood, it’s a cry for attention.’
‘Okay, so he didn’t kill himself,’ I said, ‘which means someone else did, but I can’t believe it was the same person.’
‘In death we love,’ Lisa said out of nowhere, ‘don’t you think it’s too much evidence, they were so clear, every time.’
‘Because the killer wanted them to be seen.’
Lisa banged her fist on the table again, ‘I just need to…’ She trailed off. ‘How much holiday do you have left?’ She asked me.
This jolted me out the murder investigation, it bought be crashing back into a world that didn’t include violent death. ‘About three weeks.’
Lisa started counting on her fingers, ‘I still have bereavement leave,’ she said, ‘and two weeks holiday, do you feel like taking a trip to Glasgow?
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