Last Kiss (18 page)

• Slash and puncture wounds found on both victims

• Cause of death: Dublin murder, exsanguination; Paris murder, asphyxiation

• Slash markings on face of Dublin victim v. untouched face on Paris victim

• Lipstick residue found on lips of Rick Shevlin v. no record of same at Paris killing

• Time span 2014 v. 2005/2006

Conclusions

• Killer: female

• Known to victims; possible previous relationships

• Psychopathic/sociopathic inferences

• Ability to detach, possible childhood or early trauma (see below)

• Interval between murders: indicative of emotional stressors prior to attack

• Killer: creative; will have link with visual art world – photography, sculpture, painting and or design

• Age: thirty–forty

• Attractive

• Ability to deceive and gain trust

• Capable of social integration

• A planner and a dreamer – will fantasise about murders in advance

• Manipulative/charming

• Capable of delusional thinking and distortion of information

• Seeks emotional fulfilment

• Attention-seeker

• Dangerous and volatile when provoked

• Uses sexual attraction to meet victims/partners

• Has the ability to compartmentalise killings

• Early trauma – damage during development of relationship between the id, the ego and the super-ego

• Ability to adjust to preferred sexual fetish – prior sexual grooming

• Will operate solely, or within a small group

• Lacks trust

• High level of hatred

• Emotionally damaged

• Violent attacks possible pleasure/release for the killer

• Creation of crime scene: reflective of visual awareness

• Takes pride in the end result

• Level of intelligence: HIGH

• Ability to avoid detection: HIGH

• Victims are chosen, and are potentially groomed

• Calmness of killer during aftermath of attack v. frenzied assault – further analysis required

• Risk of repeat killing: HIGH

• Time frame: subject to stressor/stressors

• Identification of stressor: unknown

THERE ARE TIMES when I feel lonely. People who keep secrets are often that way. Like others, I like to be held, to be kissed, and there are elements of previous love affairs from which I have taken pleasure.

Sex is different from kissing. My new lover is a good kisser. He says he loves my lips. I like the way he runs his long fingers through my hair, cupping the back of my head when he kisses me, before lowering his hands to my breasts, his fingertips warm to the touch, caressing each nipple, soft and teasing, and pleased when they become hard. Clawing at his skin with my nails, I can tell he enjoys the pain, feeling his arousal. Lately, he has started to cover my mouth with his hand when he is
pushing in hard, my legs spread apart, as he shadows me like some beast. Afterwards, like the others, he tells me how much he needs me.

The last time we had sex, we didn’t speak, not a word. We sat side by side in the car as he drove home. Once inside the house, he opened the top button of my skirt, then tugged the zip down. The skirt fell to the floor. I stepped back, kicking it to the side, and stripped in front of him like a burlesque performer. He looked on, obviously pleased. His kisses were more violent then, biting hard. ‘Slow down,’ I murmured, not wanting it to end too soon. He liked my suggestion of the ropes. I knew he would.

He tied my hands one at a time to each of the bedposts, nice and tight. Opening my legs, he tied the ankles too, kissing my inner thighs. I pretended an effort to escape, and felt the ropes tear into my skin, the pain wolfing me, him wanting me more than ever. His pathetic wife would never let him do anything like this. She can’t or won’t give him the sense of power he desires. I understand power: you need to be deprived of it to grasp its full appeal.

The tightened ropes, like his hands, felt rough to the touch, and when his fingernails cut my skin, I longed for him to use the knife, even the smallest tear. He enjoyed mixing my pain with his pleasure. Afterwards, I mentioned the blade. He didn’t respond, but when he came inside me again, I arched my back, then turned to look at the gleam of the knife, and we both knew what would happen next.

‘Are you ready now?’ he asked, as if I had delayed the cutting, although he was the one who had needed convincing.
He made tiny slits on my thighs, the blood staining the bed, like some virginal bride’s. At first, the sight of blood made his face contort, but then his desire swelled. The last few moments are always vital, and as a well-trained seductress, I knew how to perform, every movement, touch, expertly delivered. Despite being in control, I called out for ‘help’, knowing it would increase his want. He slapped me across the face, before covering my mouth again, his grip hard and desperate, as his body pushed in further and I no longer existed as a person. I felt myself disappear, but I could hear my laughter. He liked the sound, groaning like some wild boar, consumed with his own pleasure. I made sure his enjoyment was long and satisfying, timing my response to his thrust, teasing him at just the right moments. Then his release, stretched, prolonged, and fraught with yearning. Afterwards he was like a limp flower, wasted and fulfilled.

When he untied me, I was tempted to cut him unexpectedly, to see if he would flinch. I decided against it, asking him to lick my wounds, the way a lapdog would lick the wounds of a master. It was only then that I saw the shadow of the witch, fleeting from one side of the room to the other. She had seen the two of us together, and I despised the pleasure it gave her.

‘Are you okay?’ he asked, and I sensed his need to be assured.

‘Yes, sleep now, my lovely.’

He closed his eyes as I lay silent, still looking around the room, hoping the witch would leave me in peace. I couldn’t see her any more, but I know she likes to hide, waiting for her time to pounce.

The witch told me never to take pleasure from sex, that the
pain was my punishment for being a bad girl. What I know about badness, I learned from her. Like my mother, I became the object of another’s desire. I haven’t told you very much about my mother, but I do imagine myself as her babe in arms – Hush, little baby, please don’t cry.

CHECKING INTO THE hotel room last night had been easier than I’d thought. I had an unsettled night, and each time I awoke, I felt the very same, as if a madwoman had taken over my mind.

With morning light flooding the room, I can’t stay in bed any longer. I get up, walk over to the dressing table and pick up the leather-bound booklet on the top. Opening it, I read about the hotel’s history, what number I need to call for laundry or to make a hairdressing appointment. I check the breakfast, lunch and dinner times, as if I’m a regular guest staying there for a couple of days’ relaxation. That’s what I said to the girl at Reception, that I was staying for two nights, maybe a little longer.

I slam the leather-bound booklet shut and go into the bathroom to brush my teeth before showering. The power of the water is strong, the warmth on my body a relief, a distraction from thoughts of Edgar and everything else. When I step out of the shower, the towel feels soft against my skin. I wrap it tight around me and brush my hair, untangling the knots with long, sweeping movements. Outside I can hear the clatter of bins, the hum of voices, cars driving past on the main road. Lifting the stray hairs from the bathroom basin, I chuck them into the bin, then wash my hands again, focusing on the water gurgling down the plughole. I hear other sounds too, the creaking of floorboards, like someone’s footsteps. I look up, thinking the sounds are coming from above, but they’re not: they’re coming from the other side of the bathroom door.
Did I lock it?

I bite my lip. If someone is out there, they know I’m here. They would have heard the shower. What if it’s her? I hear more sounds from outside the bathroom window. I try to block them out, then hear a loud bang.
Was it a door closing?
It could have been from down the landing. I can’t stay locked in a bathroom. I think about calling out.
Where’s your mobile?
I already know it’s in the other room. There’s that sound again, the sound of someone walking around a room, but this time it is coming from above.

I unlock the bathroom door, turning the handle slowly, pulling the door back a couple of inches and peering into the room. I can’t see anyone. I tell myself I’m being stupid. I pick up my mobile phone from the bedside table. I remember putting it on top of my diary last night, but the diary isn’t there. Did I put it somewhere else? No, I wouldn’t have. I look under the pillows,
on the floor by the bed. I check my bag, and my overnight case, rummaging through each of the sections, knowing all the time I won’t find it. I pull back the bedcovers. Still nothing. I retrace my steps, going over to the dressing table, picking up the leather-bound hotel booklet, as if it might give me a clue. I scan the room, looking at the bed again, the bedside locker, the dressing table, the chair tucked underneath.

I hear someone walking down the landing. I lean against the door, straining to hear more. Their footsteps are slow. I think they’re going to knock or, even worse, open the door, but they keep on walking. I breathe a sigh of relief, and press my back against the wall, and it’s then I see the diary. It’s on the window seat. I don’t remember leaving it there. I check the door is locked before walking over to it. There’s something about the way the diary is positioned that bothers me. Then I realise it’s not the positioning: it’s because the clasp isn’t locked. It’s flipped open.

Picking it up, I sit on the window seat. I’m still wrapped in a towel, and my wet hair drips. I open the diary at my last entry. The one in which I wrote every detail I could remember about her house, including the key. It’s exactly as I had written it, but when I reach the end, instead of closing the diary, I turn the page, wanting to see a blank sheet. It’s the same handwriting, those large bold letters:
BE AFRAID
.

My hands shake again and I drop the diary. She must have been in the room. Perhaps she followed me last night. For all I know, she could have watched me while I slept, or maybe she came in while I was in the shower. I’m going to be sick – I run to the toilet and throw up until there is nothing left inside me, then curl up, like a scared animal, against the bathroom wall,
scrunching my knees to my chest, knowing I’m not safe there any more.

Maybe in the studio I’d be safe. Edgar doesn’t have a key. I try to remember if anything had been moved in there. I need to be sure. If she copied Edgar’s keys, she wouldn’t have been able to copy the studio key. I have the only one. I don’t need to go to Reception. I paid them last night in advance. I can ring once I’m home; tell them I won’t need the room for a second night. That something unexpected has come up. Or I could say nothing. I don’t need to give them a reason. I don’t need to explain myself to strangers.

In the studio I’ll be able to figure it all out. I need to be somewhere she can’t get to me. She could follow me once I’m outside, but I have to take that chance. I’m running out of choices.

Going down in the lift, I panic every time the door opens, scared that each woman stepping in might be her. I tell myself to get a grip, that maybe I’m imagining all this. These things don’t happen to normal people. You don’t wake up one morning and realise your life is in danger. Do you? But someone wrote that note, and they’ve told me to be afraid.

Once I reach the underground car park, the sound of moving cars, making screeching sounds, feels loud and threatening. I bite my lip again, and taste blood. I know I have to get to the car. I can see it from here. It’s no more than ten metres away. A man passes with a child in his arms, a girl. She has curly blonde hair. She looks about four. I think all this as I’m walking to the car, the sight of a stranger and his child giving me courage. Once inside it, I lock the doors, making sure the back seat is empty.

Exiting the underground car park, the daylight beams into my eyes, blinding me. I indicate to turn right, waiting for a break in the traffic. I’m driving too fast, but I don’t care. There are cars parked on either side, making the road narrow. A woman pushes out a baby in a buggy. I screech to a stop. The buggy is so close that I scream, then break out in a sweat. My ears are on fire. I roll down the window to say sorry, but she’s roaring at me, telling me I’m an idiot. It’s useless. I put my foot back on the accelerator. There are tears in my eyes. I can’t go on like this. I can’t do this on my own. I need to tell someone, someone who’ll believe me.

KATE WAITED WHILE Adam flicked back and forth through the contents of the report. She knew he would have questions.

‘What makes you think she’s between thirty and forty?’

‘Shevlin was in his mid-forties, the victim in Paris was twenty-three, but that was nine years ago. It makes sense. I doubt Rick would go for someone older.

‘Why not?’

‘Men, particularly older men in their forties, fifties and sixties, are in the main attracted to younger women. Some say it is part of the evolutionary process. Older men can still reproduce,
and the chances of conception are significantly higher with a younger model.’

‘That’s a bit harsh.’

‘Simply saying it as it is, but Pierre Laurent sets the marker.’

‘Because?’

‘He was younger than the other two. Pierre may have been attracted to someone older, although I’d wager not much older. It’s partly why I came to the age profile. If she was significantly older than Pierre, she wouldn’t have been attractive to either Rick Shevlin or Michele Pinzini, assuming we make a conclusive connection to the latter. Remember, Rick also used the services of an escort, and Annabel was barely twenty. It’s indicative of his preferences. None of this is absolute, you understand, merely a calculated analysis based on the facts.’