Shaping the Ripples (6 page)

My feelings of bewilderment and slight annoyance increased. I knew that Jennifer’s husband’s work often meant that he was away at weekends, but Jennifer’s note had promised that she would be in all day. If something was so vital as to get her to deliver a note to my home, surely she would have stayed in to wait for my arrival?

Looking at the front of the house, I could see that a couple of the upstairs windows were ajar. I couldn’t see that Jennifer would leave the house so unsecured if she had gone out. Perhaps she just hadn’t heard the bell. I marched back up to the front door and decided that this time I would try using the door-knocker.

I used as much force as I could on the knocker and, on my third knock, the door moved slightly inwards. I pushed gently on the frame of the door, and it swung open. Clearly, the lock had been left on the latch so that the door was unsecured. My sense of unease increased.

I put my head around the door and called inside,

“Jennifer! It’s Jack. Are you alright?”

The house remained completely silent in reply. I debated what to do next, and then stepped into the hall. I called her name again, but again got no response. The hallway was dark, with all the doors off it being closed tightly. I opened the first of them to look into Jennifer’s kitchen. It was a large room, with fitted units and electrical appliances all around the walls, and a large pine table in the middle of the room. On the table were what looked like the remains of the previous night’s meal – a wine glass with a drop of red wine still in it, and a dinner plate stained with what appeared to be an unfinished lasagne. There was no sign of Jennifer.

The next three rooms off the hall – a bathroom, living room, and very ornate dining room – were all similarly empty. All three rooms were exceptionally tidy, the only thing out of place was in the living room where a TV listings magazine opened on the page for Friday evening lay in the middle of the floor.

The story of the Marie Celeste came to mind as I headed for the last of the downstairs doors – the one that opened onto Jennifer’s consulting room. I turned the handle and pushed the door open. As I looked into the room I breathed a sigh of great relief.

The room itself was not as tidy as usual, with quite a number of brown files spread across the floor. In the armchair facing away from the door, the back of Jennifer’s head was clearly visible. Her head was lolling back in the chair, supported by the leather wing at the side. She had obviously fallen into a deep sleep, which explained why she hadn’t answered the door or my calls.

I moved into the room, stepping carefully around the files which littered my way to get to the front of the chair, and registering the unusual sweet, sickly odour in the room. When I got to the front of the chair, I stopped abruptly, bile rising into my mouth.

It was going to be way beyond my powers, or anyone else’s, to wake Jennifer up. The reason her head was back at such an angle was explained not by deep sleep, but by the enormous gash that ran all the way along the middle of her neck. The wound looked so deep, it was hard to see what was keeping the head still attached. The front of her blouse and skirt, along with most of the fabric of what had been a dark green chair, were soaked through with crimson. Worst of all, though, was the expression upon Jennifer’s face. At first glance, it looked as though she had died with an enormous grin on her face. A second glance soon revealed that the reality was far more horrific. Both her lips had been sliced off from her nose to her jaw, leaving her blood-red teeth exposed in a macabre smile. Her eyes, however, wore a fixed expression of pure terror.

I just about managed to swallow down the urge to vomit, and made it out of the room and into the living room. I telephoned the emergency services and, shaking uncontrollably, sat down and waited for them to arrive.

I wasn’t really aware of the time passing, but the sound of the doorbell roused me from my trance. I opened the door to a slightly familiar looking tall man, and a dark haired woman. They introduced themselves as Detective Inspectors Michael Palmer and Laura Smith.

“Perhaps you’d like to start by showing us the body,” DI Palmer suggested.

I led them both down the hallway, and motioned them into the consulting room ahead of me. There was a muted gasp from DI Smith, and Michael Palmer turned back to me, his expression now extremely grim.

“Perhaps you’d like to explain how you came to be here this morning,” he said with a slight challenge in his voice.

I explained that I was a regular client of Jennifer, and about the note which had brought me there. I took it out of my pocket and handed it over. They both read the note in silence, and then DI Palmer spoke again,

“Was this a normal thing, her sending notes to ask you to visit?”

“No,” I replied, “This is the first time it’s ever happened.”

“And what was so urgent that she had to see you?”

“I have no idea.” I replied, feeling slightly foolish. “I was hoping that she was going to explain it to me when we met.”

DI Palmer’s voice was becoming much more businesslike and sceptical. “And you say that when you got here the door was pulled to, but someone had gone to the trouble of fixing the lock so the door would open.”

“Yes.” I answered, a little more tensly.

“Are you sure there isn’t something else you’d like to tell us?” He enquired, his voice now taking on the tone of a friendly confidante.

“I’ve told you everything that happened.” I said as firmly as I could.

He nodded, his lips pursed, and then went outside to use his radio. DI Smith came over and took down my name, address and telephone number.

“Don’t worry about him,” she murmured, “He’s not usually like this – cases like this don’t come along every day in York. But it is vital that you tell us absolutely everything you know.”

The doorbell rang again, and I went to open the door to an ambulance crew. “I’m afraid you’ll have to hang on until after the Crime Scene boys have got here. It’s far too late for you to be able to do anything to help her, anyhow.” said DI Palmer, coming back into the house behind them.

He looked back at me. “I think we can handle things from here, Mr. Bailey. I'm sure we'll be wanting to speak to you again, but for now you’re free to go.” He turned and then, almost as an afterthought, added, “Would you mind calling in at the police station before you go home. I’d like to get a record of your fingerprints so that we can tell them from any others we find here.”

“I’d be happy to.” I replied. “Is it the main station on the waterfront?”

“That’s the one,” DI Palmer confirmed. “I’ll give them a ring and let them know you’re coming so you shouldn’t have to hang around too long.”

I walked out of the house and back to the street. The sun was still shining, but to me it felt much colder than it had earlier. I checked my watch, and was amazed to discover that it was still morning. I’d probably only been in Jennifer’s house for about an hour.

I knew where the police station was because it was only about a hundred yards further up the waterfront from the Crisis Centre. The walk into the city took me through crowds of excited families, many already clutching bags full of shopping from the Christmas market. Given the events of the morning, it seemed somewhat horrific that life was just going on as normal.

I went into the police station, and walked up to the main desk. It was staffed by a policeman in uniform, whose badge identified him as PC Brian Taylor.

“I’ve come to be fingerprinted,” I began to explain.

“You must be Mr. Bailey.” He replied with a smile. “DI Palmer said you’d be calling in.”

He produced a blank fingerprint form and a pad of ink from underneath the desk. Within a few minutes, I had rolled my thumb and fingers in the ink and pressed them against the paper, leaving a pattern of lines and swirls. I signed the form to confirm that they were my fingerprints, and left.

Back at the flat, I gave up on any thoughts of shopping or the cinema. Instead, I washed my hands and then sat out on my balcony, staring blindly at the river.

Chapter Seven

Sunday Express Sunday, 25th November

BRUTAL MURDER OF

YORK THERAPIST

Police yesterday discovered the body of prominent York therapist Jennifer Carter. Mrs. Carter, 54 years old, was found murdered at her home near the centre of the city.

“This was a particularly savage and brutal crime,” said a police spokesman last night. “The person who did this is clearly very disturbed and extremely dangerous. We are appealing for anyone who noticed anything unusual or suspicious on Friday night or early Saturday morning to come forwards.”

Police refused to comment on the rumour that the body had been mutilated. Jennifer Carter specialised in treating patients with severe childhood traumas and suspicion will inevitably be focussed first upon her list of patients.

I put down the newspaper. Was it really possible that one of Jennifer’s clients had killed her so horrifically? I couldn’t see any way that she could have aroused the sort of hatred and fury that would cause someone to kill and disfigure her.

I decided that I needed to go to church, to try and make some kind of sense of things. The church that I go to is St. Thomas’s, about a mile and a half outside the city centre. The only disadvantage was that the route took me past the end of Jennifer’s road.

Once I got into the church, I settled myself into one of the pews at the very back. Since Christopher took over as vicar, the normal attendance on Sundays has grown from around fifty to nearly a hundred. Today, though, it was fairly quiet.

I wasn’t sure how I’d cope with having to sing a lot of joyful sounding hymns, so it was a relief to discover that it was Advent Sunday. The more sombre nature of the songs, and the familiar ritual of the communion service were just right for the mood I was in, and, to my surprise, I did feel rather better by the time the service had drawn to a close. Christopher had preached about the meaning of Advent, and the need to be constantly ready to meet with God; but he seemed to be short of his usual energy and humour. When I shook hands with him afterwards at the church doorway, I noticed how pale he looked, and the deep black shadows under his eyes.

“Are you alright, Christopher?” I asked in concern. “You look absolutely shattered.”

His eyes seemed slightly out of focus as he looked back at me. “Oh yes, I’m fine.” He replied unconvincingly, “Just didn’t sleep very well last night, that’s all.”

“Well, make sure you look after yourself.” I said, “things are only going to get busier over the next month. Try and find some time for yourself to rest.”

Christopher managed a half smile. “Thanks for your concern, Jack. But I’ll be fine, don’t worry.”

I left him, and began my journey home. It was lunchtime so, on a whim, I called into a pub and ordered myself roast beef and a pint of Guinness. When it arrived, it was surprisingly good; lots of tender beef with roast potatoes, Yorkshire pudding and vegetables. I was surprised by how hungry I actually was, until I remembered that I hadn’t eaten much the previous day. The Guinness was cold and creamy, and I couldn’t resist having a second pint. I left the pub, feeling as mellow as I had in the last two days.

There was a silver Mercedes parked right outside the entrance door to my apartment block. As I approached, the driver’s door opened, and a Michael Palmer got out of the car.

“Mr. Bailey at last,” he said in a voice rich with false bonhomie. “Not been out discovering any more bodies for us, I trust?”

I didn’t think the question merited an answer, so countered with “What can I do for you, Detective Inspector Palmer?”

“There’s a few questions I’d like to ask you. Perhaps we could go up to your flat to discuss things?”

I typed the code number into the keypad, with him standing right behind me and, as the door opened, motioned for him to go ahead of me into the building.

Up in the flat, DI Palmer ignored my offer of a seat, and prowled around the living room, examining the pictures and bookshelves. Finally he sat down, and spoke.

“Perhaps we could start by going over your statement from yesterday. Tell me again how you came to be in the home of Jennifer Carter to discover her body.”

I told him the same story as before; finding the note in the morning and trying to ring her to find out what the emergency was. Then I told the tale of arriving at the house and getting no answer, and of eventually finding that the door had been left unlocked. Finally, I described searching through the house, and initially believing that Jennifer was asleep before I realised the real situation and phoned the police.

“And you mentioned that the first thing that you noticed which was unusual in the counselling room were the files all over the floor.” DI Palmer probed.

“That’s right,” I confirmed. “Jennifer always kept the room incredibly tidy.”

“And did you look at or move any of the files which were on the floor?” he asked.

“No,” I replied, “I just stepped around them to try and wake her up. Then I saw what had happened to her.”

He nodded and then continued the interview. “Let’s backtrack for a moment. You’ve said that the reason you were at the house was because you had received an anonymous note asking you to do so. Was Mrs. Carter in the habit of sending you such notes?”

I felt slightly irritated by this question, but told myself that it was his job to go over things again and again. “As I told you yesterday, I had never received a letter from her before. I tried to telephone her to find out what was going on, but obviously there wasn’t any answer.”

His next question followed quickly, “Access to this building is only possible for those who know the entrance code. How do you explain the note having been put in your pigeon hole? Was Mrs. Carter a regular visitor to your flat when her husband was away?”

“Look, Detective Inspector Palmer,” I began angrily, “I don’t know what crazy theory you’re working on, but Jennifer Carter had never visited this flat. I’ve been seeing her at her house once a month for the last two and a half years, and our relationship was purely professional.” I paused and tried to calm down. “As for how she got the note into my mail slot, I’m not sure. The only theory I have is that she could have followed someone into the building.”