Текст книги "The Gift of Death"

Автор книги: Sam Ripley

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Текущая страница: 10 (всего у книги 21 страниц)

22

Kate noticed her hand trembled ever so slightly as she turned the pages of the newspaper. She had a right to be nervous. After all, how did she know that she could trust Cynthia Ross? Would the reporter have broken her side of the deal and splashed the news of her pregnancy across the pages? Would she even go so far as to reveal the identity of the father? After all, her relationship with Josh had hardly been a secret. All she would have to do was make a few calls, talk to a few sources. Yet instinctively, she felt as though Ross – for all her ruthlessness, her burning ambition – would not betray her.

Partly it was something to do with the way Cynthia had looked at her during the interview, as if she really did understand how awful it had been for her to have found that dead child. But that could easily have been a trick, a technique Ross had perfected over the years to encourage her subjects to drop their guard. Also, at the end of the interview, when the tape recorder had been turned off, Cynthia had told her that she was afraid of having children. Not only because she was scared of the effect motherhood would have on her career, but also because she was not certain whether she was capable of devoting herself utterly to another person, even a baby. Kate had responded with a well-worn platitude, that she was sure she would change her mind once she had carried and nurtured her own child. But then Cynthia went on to tell her about her own mother – a highly intelligent woman plagued by manic depression, who had never showed her any love as a baby and young girl. Surely it was better, she said, to have no child at all than one you hated and resented? Kate was about to ask another question about her mother when Cynthia’s cell rang. She had to get back to the office. The news editor was waiting for the story. She thanked Kate for her time, promised her that she would quote her accurately and fairly, and asked whether she could ring her later that day to check the occasional fact. Kate had waited for a call, but there had been no contact, apart from a short email to tell her that the piece would be in the next day’s edition.

The first thing she noticed was the headline – ‘KATE CRAMER, FORMER FORENSIC ARTIST, WHO FOUND DEAD BABY IN SEA, IS PREGNANT’. She blinked a couple of times, feeling the bile rising inside her. She was so angry she could hardly bear to read the article, but her eyes fixed on a couple of paragraphs near the top of the story.

‘Kate Cramer, the forensic artist who worked with Cassie Veringer to create an accurate portrait of Bobby Gleason, the serial killer who targeted young women of college age, is pregnant, sources close to the investigation can reveal. A police source, who wanted to remain anonymous commented: “One of the theories we are investigating is whether there is a link between Ms Cramer’s pregnancy and the fact that she discovered the body of a young baby girl floating in the sea outside her beachside home.”

‘Kate Cramer, in an exclusive interview with the Times, called the late Bobby Gleason a “serial killer with a taste for the perverse and the sadistic”. Yet in many ways he was a coward, she added. “What he did to those young women was beyond belief,” she said. “He tortured, raped, sodomised and finally murdered them. Ultimately, he couldn’t face up to the reality of his own punishment and, in a final cowardly act, ended his own life.”

The article then went into more detail about the grotesque gifts received by Cassie Veringer and Jordan Weislander. Kate scanned the rest of the piece, which covered the background of the Gleason case, interwoven with some of the quotes she had given Ross the previous day. It ended with the words of the unnamed police source, who said:

‘It’s safe to assume that the macabre presents received by Kate Cramer, Cassie Veringer and Jordan Weislander are sinister omens. In each case, a person involved in bringing Gleason to justice has been sent a warning. What the future holds we do not know, but we are preparing for the worst.’

Kate threw the paper across the room. What the fuck was going on? Why had Cynthia betrayed her like this? And who was this source close to the investigation? She grabbed her cell phone and, in a blind rage, called Ross. She was so angry her fingers hit a couple of wrong digits. Incorrect number. Fuck. She tried to take a deep breath, and dialled again. She started to shout as soon as she heard Cynthia’s voice, but realised she had been forwarded to voice mail.

‘This is Kate Cramer. Can you tell me what the fuck is going on? Or do you want me to call your editor?’

She cut the line and then called Josh. Before she had chance to speak he asked her if she was okay. She was too angry to respond. He had seen the piece, he told her. He was on his way over. He’d be with her in fifteen minutes.

She went over and retrieved the crumpled newspaper from the floor. She felt her face burning as she read the article again. How could Ross be so irresponsible as to compromise the safety of her unborn child? It seemed likely that the person who killed Sara-Jane already knew about her desire to have a child. Would the news of her pregnancy change things? Would it make her even more of a target? As she ran a protective hand over her stomach, the direction of her anger changed, the focus shifting from Ross to herself. Fundamentally it was her own stupid fault. How could she have been so naïve as to trust her? And so much for her instincts. They had been way off mark.

She heard her mother walking through the hallway towards the kitchen. She quickly pushed the newspaper into the trash and took a couple of deep breaths. She didn’t want her to see her like this. She composed her face, tried to force a smile, but she knew that her mother would realise there was something wrong almost immediately.

‘Darling, I’m just going upstairs for my bath,’ she called out. ‘Won’t be long.’

‘Okay, mom,’ she said, suddenly consumed by relief. ‘Sure you don’t need anything?’

‘No, I’m fine. But I think there’s someone coming towards the house.’

‘It’ll be for me. Thanks.’

Kate listened as her mother ascended the stairs. She walked outside and saw Josh’s car by the gates. She buzzed him in. Just as she was walking down to meet the car her cell rang. Cynthia Ross’s name flashed up on the screen.

‘Sorry,’ she said to Josh as opened the window of the car. ‘I better take this. It’s her.’

‘Okay,’ he said, turning to the cop next to him. ‘I’ll just wait in the car with Peterson.’

‘Thanks.’

Kate lent against the trunk of the car as she answered the phone.

‘I’m so so sorry, I know you won’t – ’

‘Won’t believe what you say? Too right I won’t.’

‘But when I got back to the newsroom one of the other junior reporters had already heard that you were pregnant. I tried to tell them about our agreement, but the news editor said -’

‘What? It was just too much of a juicy titbit to ignore?’

‘No. That the news of your pregnancy could have some bearing on the nature of the crime. And that –‘

‘So you just ignored our agreement?’

‘I tried to explain, but it was a case of –‘

‘Letting another reporter get the story?’

‘Well – yes, and it was considered in the public interest to –‘

‘Bullshit. And who was the source from inside the investigation you conveniently didn’t name?’

‘You know as well as I do that I can’t give away the identity of sources.’

‘You’re full of crap, do you know that?

There was silence on the line. Kate took a deep breath, but anger still boiled inside her. She swallowed hard. Then she deliberately changed the tone of her voice so it would sound gentler, softer.

‘You know, I may have another story for you,’ said Kate.

‘Really?’

Jesus. Did this woman have no shame?

‘Yeah. When that sick fuck out there kills my baby you’ll be the first to know about it. How does that sound?’ She gave full vent to her rage now. ‘Would that make your career? Get you a good splash? Put you on the front page?’

‘I know that you must be feeling –‘

‘You don’t the first thing about it. And if that story you fed me about your mother never loving you was true, which I sincerely doubt, I reckon she was right.’ She was trembling now, consumed by anger. She could feel her face burning. ‘Who could ever love someone as despicable as you? I hope you rot in hell.’

She cut the line, feeling purged of her anger, elated almost, but then she felt immediately ashamed. Her last comments were too harsh. Yes, she hated Ross for what she had done, but she didn’t wish that on her. She almost felt like calling her back to apologise, but she realised that that would be just too ridiculous.

‘I’m sorry,’ she said, as Josh got out of the car and walked towards her.

‘What’s to be sorry for?’ he said. ‘Look at you – you’re trembling. Let’s go inside.’ He banged on the side of the car. ‘Peterson, I’ll be back in a few minutes.’ He put his arm around Kate.

‘You don’t think I was too hard on her?’

‘Christ, no. I reckon hell is just the place for her.’

23

He took hold of the scissors and held them up to his face. Such beautiful things. He’d always thought so, ever since he was a child. He remembered his mother holding a pair of scissors up to the light as she sat at her sewing table. There was a roll of blue gingham spread out before her. And then she started to cut the fabric in neat, perfect lines. He adored watching her work, but finally it had been time for him to go to bed. ‘Do I have to, mom?’ he had asked. In the morning he had been amazed to find a new pair of curtains, all finished and ready, hanging above the yard door. Creation was such a wonderful thing, he thought. But destruction had its appeal, too.

The Lord giveth and the Lord taketh away. It could almost stand as his motto.

He turned the page of the newspaper and ran the tip of the scissors over and around the story. She had such beautiful skin, a sure sign of clean living. He was sure her baby would inherit her goodness too. He traced the scissors around her face before beginning to cut the paper. The sound was satisfying somehow. It was something so definite and complete.

He didn’t make a habit of cutting items from newspapers. He didn’t want to create a mess. And he loathed most of what was supposed to constitute news these days. Yet he had a rule. The stories either had to provide him with a lead – which he might or might not act upon, depending on the circumstances – or they had to have a direct bearing on something he was working on. For instance, he had cut out the two or three paragraph reports about the deaths of Raymond Cutler and Philip Vine. Nobody had made a link between them yet. And he guessed they hadn’t received a huge amount of coverage because, in some respect, the general public assumed the men had deserved their deaths. And they would have been right.

A fucking internet pervert and a drop-out drug-dealer. They were scum. The world was a better place without them. The same with that wife-beating shit, Garrison. Good riddance to bad rubbish, his mother had always said. Now she was in a better place.

He looked at the cutting in his hand. At her photograph again. He delicately tacked the paper onto the corkboard above his desk. She had something of his mother about her. Perhaps it was the silver hair – almost like a halo.

24

Dale Hoban was beat. It was eight in the morning and he needed a drink. A strong one. Ten hours sitting behind the desk watching a bank of monitors, fed from a constant live stream of security cameras, had left him brain dead. A walking zombie. As he got out of his car and walked towards his apartment block in Korea Town, he spotted an LAPD vehicle drive by. At the time he’d thought being a traffic cop was dull – gee, it was nothing compared to work as a security guard at a downtown finance company. Hours staring at nothing but brick walls, locked doors and empty rooms. Sometimes, as he sat there at his desk, his ass aching from doing nothing, he willed for something exciting to happen – the appearance of a suspicious-looking character walking into reception, the return of a former employee hell-bent on revenge by introducing a virus into the computer system, even an illicit coupling in a store cupboard. Jeez, that would be something to spy on.

He’d thought about trying for another job. Reckoned he could turn his hand to a bit of light detective work – spying on cheating wives, tracking missing people, investigating the odd case of financial impropriety. But every time he thought about it seriously he pushed it to the back of his mind, and filed it away under things he might do at a later stage in life. The time wasn’t right, he would tell himself, as he reached for another drink.

A drink. Yep, that would make him feel better. He’d have a couple of half glasses of scotch and then he’d try and sleep. He usually managed three or four hours before he’d have to get up for some lunch of a burger and another shot or two of liquor. He’d spend the afternoons watching TV – football, basketball, soccer, the news, the weather channel. Sometimes when he was flicking between stations he’d catch a glimpse of women who reminded him of Anne – middle-aged blonde, fuller-figured women being interviewed on Oprah or Geraldo or one of those other shows that Anne used to like. He’d hit the remote pretty fast. Anne belonged to a life that didn’t exist any more.

He took out the key to the apartment block, but when he went to insert it into the lock the door swung open. He stepped inside the windowless hallway, dark even though it was morning. A whiff of ammonia stung his nostrils. Those fucking kids from the family on welfare had been pissing in the hall again. He swore under his breath. He’d have to go down and have a word with their mother. He suspected she was a user. If this carried on he’d have to call the welfare officer and inform on her. He was too old to have to put up with the smell of piss when ever he came in from a night shift.

Today, though, he was too tired to do anything about it. Today he was going to have a couple of drinks and then hit the sack.

He pressed the call button on the elevator before he noticed the piece of paper tacked to the wall saying it was out of order. He hauled himself up the stairs, puffing as he did so. One of these days, he told himself, he’d quit smoking and try and to get fit. Some day soon, but not yet. After stopping once or twice, by the time he had reached the third floor he was sweating and finding it hard to catch his breath. He let himself into his apartment, grateful to close the door on the world outside.

He went into the small kitchen and started to prepare himself a toasted bagel with peanut butter and jelly. As he waited for the bread to toast – he liked it to be really well done, almost burnt on the outside – he got out a glass. He filled it with ice and then poured himself a large measure of scotch. The anticipation of his first drink of the day always gave him pleasure. And today was no different. As he brought the glass up to his mouth he could almost feel the saliva flowing. He smacked his lips as the peatiness of the scotch burnt into his mouth. He took down a gulp, then another, before setting it aside to butter his bagel. He took his drink and his snack into the lounge and hit the remote. He let the images and words float over him until he had finished his drink.

He took his glass into the kitchen and poured himself his second drink. He’d only have another one, maybe two. He didn’t have a problem, he told himself, despite what Anne and those meddlesome doctors had told him. What was it she had said? That she was having to share her husband with someone else. That he was having an affair with alcohol. Some crap like that. Jesus. He blamed it on all those moronic daytime shows she watched. The ones were people talked about their feelings – their emotions, for God’s sake – and seemed to analyse everything over and over again. In his job as a cop he hadn’t had the luxury to deal with that kind of bullshit. What a waste of fucking time.

He watched some more news – the usual trouble in the Middle East, the growing terrorist problem in Britain, a school massacre somewhere in the mid-West – before he felt his eyes closing. Nothing seemed to change from day to day. He finished his drink and stumbled to the bathroom. He took a piss, thought about cleaning his teeth, decided against it – he’d do that before going to work. He passed the bathroom mirror without looking – he knew he wasn’t a pretty sight at this time in the morning – and started to unbutton his shirt. By the time he reached the dark, airless bedroom the shirt was off.

He bent down to take off his shoes, and had to steady himself by the bed. He looked down at his distended stomach that hung over his pants like a slab of tripe. Had he really put on so much weight or was there something wrong with him? He’d have it checked out at some point.

He sat down on the bed to take off his socks. He undid his belt, felt his stomach sag even more and shifted position as he started to take off his pants. He reached out behind him to support himself, lifting himself off the bed as he pulled the pants down. Suddenly, he felt something cold, jellylike, on one of the pillows. He turned his head to look, but the blinds were down. He moved a little closer, blinked. He thought it was – but, no, it couldn’t be. It’s some kid playing some kind of joke. He stretched out his hand and turned on the bedside lamp. Tobacco yellow light illuminated the bed. On the pillow there were two eyes – brown in colour just like his. They were staring sightlessly up at him from a darkening pool of blood.

25

He’d been watching him for some time now, following his trail. After the first couple of incidents – the snatching and killing of that baby, the murder of that girl and the sick way he had cut off her fingertips and then sent them to that blind woman – he had become so angry that he wanted to finish him off just like the others. He planned how to do it too, even went so far as to get his tool bag out and look through it for the appropriate equipment. Seeing his array of instruments set out before him – a couple of scalpels, the knives, a few different sizes of hammers, a family of saws and a drill with assorted bits – gave him a thrill. He ran his hands up and down the cold metal, imagining the damage he could do with each of the tools.

But something wasn’t right. Finishing him off like this – ending his life so he couldn’t commit any more of his sick jokes – would be just too easy. Sure, he could chop off his fingers, make him suffer like that girl dumped in the dunes in Baja. He could cut out his tongue so that he would never be able to speak again, turning his cries of pain into unintelligible, muffled moans. But the equation – the subtle balance between crime and punishment – was slightly skewed somehow.

Of course, the other option was to turn him in. Ring up the cops from a phone box and tell them that he knew who was behind the series of attacks. Yes, the ultimate end would be achieved – the removal and imprisonment of a dangerous individual – but something wasn’t quite right with the plan. The psycho would be caught and locked up for the rest of his mortal life, but would he suffer? Hell, no. He’d get to enjoy the comforts of prison life like the rest of those lazy scumbags. And what would he personally get out of it? Nothing but the satisfaction that the sicko was off the streets.

So what to do? What would be the most appropriate way of getting rid of him?

He thought back to what that psycho had done, how he had toyed with his victims. The dead baby thrown into the sea outside the home of a woman whose wish it was to get pregnant. The fingertips sent to a blind woman whose greatest asset was her sense of touch. The tongue placed in the icebox of a lawyer, famous for his verbal brilliance. And now a pair of eyes left in the bedroom of a former cop who had first spotted Gleason.

The schizo was playing a game, that was for sure. But there was no reason why he couldn’t join in. He was, at heart, a serious person, but this could be an opportunity for him to show his lighter side. Yes, it was time for him to have some fun.