Charlotte (9 page)

Amy folded the corner of her page over and placed it on the pillow beside her. She slipped off her parents' bed, hitting the laminate flooring with a gentle thud, and scooped the phone off the cradle. She placed it to her ear, the receiver bigger than her head. "Hello?"

"Hi, honey, it's Mummy."

"Hi, Mum."

"How are you doing?"

"I'm okay. Mike is here, looking after me. We stayed up all night playing games."

"That’s good, honey. Listen, I was just calling to see if you're okay. Tell Mike you can have the day off. No school, okay? I'll pay him more if he stays with you."

"It's okay, Mummy, I'll go to school. I don’t want to miss anything. I can get the bus on my own; I'm a big girl now."

"You're such a good girl. In Mummy's special drawer, there's some money. Take some for your lunch, okay?"

"Okay, Mummy."

"Can I speak to Mike?"

Amy turned around and looked at the bed. She grinned. "He's in the toilet. He might be a while. Like when Daddy does."

"Oh, okay. Sure thing. Don't worry; I'll see him when I get back. I don’t know how much longer I'll be here but I will be coming home this afternoon anyway, okay? I need to check on you and get some fresh clothes. I'll see you after school, okay?"

"Yep. Love you, Mummy."

"Love you too, darling."

The phone went dead. Amy held the receiver to her head a little longer, listening to the dead tone. She dropped the receiver back in the cradle with a clunk. As she removed her fingers, they peeled away to reveal long, bloody fingerprints on the white plastic.

Amy smiled.

She picked up Mike's bloody, severed hand from the various, mutilated body parts on the bed, and started straightening the fingers out. "This little piggy went to market, this little piggy
should
have stayed at home."

Amy rinsed her dirty hands in the sink, scrubbing methodically and slowly, making sure not to miss any. The scourer grazed against her soft skin, scraping the dried, congealed blood from every crevice and from beneath her fingernails. The water slowly turned a dark pink as her skin became clean.

Once done, she wiped her hands on a dishcloth and placed it in the open bin bag beside her. It dropped in with a small rustle. Amy tied the bag in a loose knot and walked back into the living room.

She smiled at her work. Her parents would be proud.

Good job. I don’t know if proud is the word. They'll definitely be surprised.

"We did this. A team effort. Best of friends."

Indeed. This is only the beginning. You ready for more?

"Yes."

Amy scooped her school bag off the floor and opened her front door. Taking one final look at the artwork in the living room, she stepped out into the cold, morning air. She breathed in a deep mouthful and sighed.

Today is going to be a good day
, she thought.

Ted placed the blade on his tongue and closed his mouth.
Don’t swallow; it'll rip your guts up, just like one of those horror movies on Cinemax
. Not swallowing was the most important thing in Ted's life right now. He focused on it like a tricky maths question in a test. He leaned forward, leaning on his hands, letting gravity help him push the blade away from his throat, just in case.

Amy laughed. The sound sent ripples of terror up Ted's yellow spine. "Not like that."

"Huh?"

"Sideways."

Ted frowned, confused.

"Take it out, place the blade between your front teeth and bite down." Ted's eyes widened and he felt his entire body freeze, then shake, at the prospect of Amy's request. More urine splashed his leg. She gazed at him, blankly and vehemently. She tilted her head again.

"Do it.
Now
."

Ted whimpered, terrified at the thought of his dental torture. He slipped the wet blade from his tongue, between his fingers, and held it inches from his mouth. He glanced at Amy. She said nothing as she stared right through him. Her eyes were black and emotionless.

He could swear her skin was shimmering slightly.

Then, his hand moved. The blade inched towards his mouth. His fingers turned sideways, twisting the blade upright and Ted could only scream as the blade pushed between his teeth and sliced into his gums, spraying blood all over his chubby fingers. He tried to resist, but he couldn't—his hand was being forced, pushed, and willed. The blade ripped deeper, slicing straight between his front teeth and the razor split the top of his mouth. Ted screamed, the sound muffled and gargled by the blood sluicing down his throat. It dribbled from his mouth, down his chin, spattering the cold snow and concrete below.

Amy smiled as Charlotte stepped forward.

Kick him.

"Huh?"

Kick him. In the chin. Make the blade do its work.

"No. That would hurt."

That's the point.

Amy hesitated.

If you don’t, I will. And you saw what I did to that other boy.

Amy nodded. She ambled forward, loosening her feet, readying her right foot for a kick. On the count of…

Ted's mouth slammed shut, sending a squeal of absolute terror and pain into the frosty, morning air. Blood sprayed from his mouth and nose as his overweight body toppled forwards, first onto his knees, and then face first into the vast whiteness on the ground. The snow around him turned bright scarlet as the boy choked and died before her. His body rolled on the slight incline, forcing his face upwards. 

"Why did you do that? I was going to kick him."

You hesitated. You can't afford to hesitate. Do you think he hesitated when he took your money and pushed you over all those times?

"I had this. I wanted to do it."

Tough. You'll learn from this.

Amy looked down and saw Ted's eyes flutter than die. The life evaporated from them and his body became limp. Blood was pouring into the snow, melting it into a pink slush. A small jet of crimson shot from his nose, spraying his coat and chin.

Amy stepped forward and kicked the body. Her shoe thudded against his overweight frame. The body rocked slightly with the impact. "I thought it would be…better. More fun."

The more you do it, the more fun it becomes.

"I suppose."

The next one is all you, I promise.

"I thought you didn’t make promises?"

For my best friend, I would do anything. Remember that.

"Okay." Amy checked her watch. "It's nearly three. Mum will be home soon. Let's go."

Amy turned her back on Ted. The snow started to fall again, the snowflakes sticking to his dead body. Amy made her way out of the deep woods, back onto the lane that ran parallel to the nearby lakes, behind their school. She glanced around, seeing no one. In this weather, everyone was indoors instead of out in the snow.

Which is why her plan had worked. On the way out of school, she'd spotted Ted and taunted him, got him to chase her into the woods. She knew he would, his humiliation at her hands a few days before too huge for his ego.

Now, he was lying dead in the snow.

Gone, an afterthought.

Amy grinned and made tracks for her house.

"Mr. Brunswick, can you tell us what happened in the office after your wife left?"

"You don’t have to answer that." Jae Catchpool held a hand out in front of his client. Bruce nodded, smiling. "No comment."

D.S Moore sighed. "Okay. Between the time that your wife left the building and you left the building, we believe Dr. Barden was murdered. This was from 14:05 to 14:08, which is three minutes. The time of death is near exact, 14:13, which is enough time for the victim to die of blood loss from his neck wound. The wrist wounds were superficial, a majority of blood escaped through the gash in his throat. With the jugular slit, time of death would have occurred quickly.  The only person who was there, apart from Carol, who left soon after, was you."

"Maybe she did it. Maybe she wasn’t getting paid enough."

Catchpool shot his client an irritated look. He said nothing.

"Maybe. But security cameras have her leaving at about the same time as your wife and daughter. You let her pass you as you left; you waited for her to drive by. We ruled her out."

"Convenient."

"Detective Sergeant Moore, do you have any evidence to confirm my client was in the room at that time?" Catchpool leaned forward, clicking his pen against his fingernails.

"We have several bank notes bearing Mr. Brunswick's fingerprints."

"Inconclusive. How do you know they were dropped that day? My client could have paid in cash before. He did confirm he'd visited Dr. Barden for a pre-meeting. He could have paid upfront?"

"We have no record of that."

"Then it can't be used as evidence. No paper trail, it's meaningless."

"Why would Dr. Barden drop them in the reception?"

"Why would he suddenly die without a killer? Isn't that why we're here. Anyone could have dropped that money."

"Okay."

Silence filled the interview room. Bruce scratched his bandaged hand and flinched in pain. He lowered them below the table and looked on in silence.

Catchpool sat forward. "Okay, so if you don’t have evidence that he was there, apart from your witness statement, do you have evidence he was in the room when Dr. Barden died?"

"No."

Bruce smiled, smugly.

"No? Why are we even here?" Catchpool leaned back, crossing his legs.

"We’re here because a witness put him at the scene. The CCTV matches the times."

"Was there CCTV in the office?"

"In a psychologist’s office? Be reasonable, man. There could be all sorts of lawsuits for material like that. No, they were exterior only, which is enough to create the scene."

"A scene that is very biased against my client."

D.S Moore nodded.

"Did you check the cleaner?"

Catchpool and Moore both looked at Bruce as if he'd provided a cure for cancer. Bruce shot a glance at both men and smiled. He looked at Moore. "Tell me you interviewed the cleaner?"

Moore shook his head. "You think the
cleaner
did it?" Catchpool looked confused and placed a hand out again. "You don’t have to answer that, Bruce."

Bruce leaned forward. "It's okay…I just want this done. I know I didn’t do a goddamn thing, but there's no point sitting here with our thumbs up our arses when Moore here can be out chasing the real suspect. It's pissing into the wind."

"What about the cleaner?"

"Barden had a cleaner. Came around every day."

"So?"

"You cordoned the scene off, right?"

"Yes?"

"When?"

"We got there at about…four-ish?"

"Barden's normal hours are eight until six. The cleaner wouldn't have been in until seven, before you cordoned off the room."

"I don’t follow."

"Barden told us, me and Patricia, that he's a germaphobe. The cleaner comes around every day, after his shift, to clean the office. If you cordoned off the scene, then the evidence of a killer will still be in that room. Now, I didn’t do it, I would have got blood all over me. But someone did. They might have dropped something in the room."

"This is clutching at straws, Mr. Brunswick. We aren’t letting you go until we know for sure you didn’t do it."

"I didn’t. I know that. What have you got to lose by checking?"

"You think sending us off on a wild goose chase is going to help you?"

"Listen to me. Barden had his throat slit. That takes a strong man and, despite what the shitty movies say, you can't just slash and cut through muscle and sinew that thick. It takes power, holding the guy down, real leverage. Trust me, if someone did this to Barden, the evidence will be on his body. Or in the room."

"He didn’t struggle, didn’t fight back. We already checked and there was no trace under the fingernails."

"Check his clothes, his office. If I did it, I would have left traces in the room. A hair, skin, whatever you CSI guys relish nowadays."

D.S Moore said nothing. Catchpool sat back, smiling.

Moore knew his suspect was right.

It couldn’t do any harm to check.

"Alright, Mr. Brunswick. For now, you go back to your bed and stay there. We'll check this out."

"Sure. My wife just went home to fetch me some clothes anyway. I might give you guys a hard time and whatnot, but seriously, how did you not realise that?"

"We didn’t know about the cleaner," Moore said bluntly.

"I thought Carol would have told you that?"