The Chemistry of Death (30 page)

'Everything.' The man's voice had thickened.

'What are you going to do?' Jenny whispered, despising herself for sounding weak.

'Just do it!'

Clumsy with fear, Jenny did as she was told. He bent down and swiftly slashed her shorts and pants, pulling them from her bound foot and impatiently casting them aside. She stifled a cry as he slowly stretched out his hand and, almost hesitantly, touched her breast. She bit her lip, turning her head away as she fought back tears. As she did she saw the bodies of the animals suspended from the ceiling.

Without thinking, she struck his hand away.

Her skin retained a tactile memory of the contact; a roughness of hair, the solidity of underlying bone. For a frozen moment nothing happened. Then his arm swung in a backhand blow to her face. Jenny crashed into the wall and slid to the floor.

She could hear him breathing as he stood over her. She cringed, waiting, but he didn't do anything else. With relief she heard him moving away. Her face ached where he'd hit her, but at least it was the other side to the cut.
Lucky,
she thought, numbly.
Lucky and stupid.

There was a click and she was blinded once again as she was fixed by a piercing light. Shielding her eyes, she saw that he'd turned on a desk lamp that stood on the workbench. Caught in its spotlight, Jenny heard the scrape of a chair, the creak of it taking his weight as he sat down in the shadows.

'Stand up.'

Painfully, she obeyed him. Somehow, though, her brief revolt had wrought a subtle change. The fear was still there, but so now was anger. She drew strength from it, enough to straighten with something like defiance. Whatever happened, she told herself, she was going to hold on to at least a semblance of dignity. Suddenly, that seemed hugely important.

All right, then. Do what you're going to do. Get it over with.

Naked and shivering, she waited for what would happen next. Nothing did. There were more sounds from the shadows.
What's he doing?
She dared a quick glance, enough to make out his indistinct figure just sitting there, big legs widely spread. And as the rhythmic, muted sounds continued, she finally understood.

He was masturbating.

The noises from beyond the pool of light became more urgent. She heard him give a choked cry. His boots scuffed against the floor, then fell still. Jenny stood unmoving, hardly breathing herself as she listened to his ragged breaths gradually quieten.

After a while he stood up. She could hear a rustling, then he was coming towards her. She kept her eyes on her feet as he stopped, so close she could smell him. He thrust something towards her.

'Put it on.'

She reached out to take it, but found herself staring at the knife.
Put it down,
she thought.
Put it down, just for a second. Then we'll see how brave you are.
But he didn't. The knife stayed in his hand as Jenny took the bundle from him. When she saw it was a dress she felt a faint flicker of hope, thinking he was going to let her go. But only until she recognized what she was holding.

It was a wedding dress. White satin and lace, yellowed with age. It was filthy and matted with dark, crusted stains, and Jenny gagged as she realized what they were.

Dried blood.

Jenny dropped it. The knife lashed out, neatly splitting the skin of her arm in a crimson line. It immediately began to well and run.

'Pick it up!'

Her limbs seemed to belong to someone else as she made herself bend down for the dress. She began to step into it before realizing that wouldn't work with the rope around her ankle. Hope flared briefly, but something made her stop before she could ask him to untie it.
That's what he wants.
She knew it, intuitively.
He wants me to give him an excuse.

The room swam around her, but the insight gave her strength. Clumsily, she pulled the dress over her head. It smelled foul, a clotted odour of mothballs, old sweat and a faint trace of perfume. As the folds of heavy cloth covered her face she felt suddenly claustrophobic, terrified that the knife would slash at her again while she was trapped. She scrambled free, gulping for air as her head emerged.

But the man was nowhere near. He was in the darkness behind the light, busy with something on the workbench. Jenny looked down at herself. The wedding dress was creased and stiff. The blood from her cuts had smeared onto it, adding new stains to the dried ones already present. But it was finely made, the satin heavy and thick, with an elaborate panel of lace fleur-de-lis on its front.
Some bride wore this once,
she thought, numbly.
The happiest day of her life.

There was a ratcheting sound, like a clock being wound up. Still hidden by shadows, the man set a small wooden box next to the lamp. It was only when he lifted its lid that she realized what it was.

It was a music box. There was a tiny ballerina on a plinth in its centre. Jenny stared as the figure began to revolve, and a delicate chime tinkled crookedly into the fetid air. The mechanism was damaged, but the broken tune was still recognizable.
Clair de Lune.

'Dance.'

Jenny was jerked out of her trance. 'What?'

'Dance.'

The instruction was so surreal it could have been another language. Only when the knife was raised was she shocked into motion. She began swaying from one foot to another in a drunken, tethered parody of dancing.
Don't cry, don't let him see you cry,
she told herself. But the tears still ran unchecked down her face.

She was conscious of the man watching her, half-hidden in the shadows. And then he was moving towards the steps. Jenny stopped dancing in bewilderment as he disappeared up them. For a moment she thought he was going to leave without walling her behind the wooden planks. But after only a few seconds footsteps started back down again. They were slow and measured, much more sluggish than when he'd gone up. There was something dreadfully ominous about their deliberate tread.
He's trying to scare you,
she told herself.
It's just another game, like the dress.

She jerked her eyes away when the figure materialized at the bottom of the steps, and started to shuffle in time to the music once more. Keeping her head down, she heard him move slowly across the cellar. There was a scrape of wood and then the chair creaked again. She knew she was being watched, and her movements became stiff and uncoordinated under the physical pressure of his gaze.
Are you enjoying this?
she thought, fiercely, trying to fan her anger. It was the only way she could make the fear manageable.

The music was slowing, growing even more discordant as the mechanism wound down. As it died there was the scratch and flare of a match. For a moment the shadows jerked away from its yellow flame, and then darkness flooded back. But not before Jenny caught a glimpse of the face above it.

And all at once she understood.

The music had stopped without her noticing. She heard the box being rewound as the mingled smell of sulphur and tobacco smoke drifted across to her.

Crushed under a new weight of shock and despair, she continued her broken shuffle as the music chimed back into life.

The police released Ben Anders later that same day. Mackenzie phoned to tell me.

'I thought you'd want to know,' he said. He sounded tired and flat, as if he'd been up most of the night. He probably had.

I was in my office at the surgery, retreating from the emptiness of my house. I didn't know how I felt at the news. Pleased for Ben, yes. Yet there was also an unexpected sense of disappointment. I'd never really believed Ben was the killer, but on some level there must have been an element of doubt. Or perhaps it was just that as long as the police were questioning a suspect, regardless of who it was, there was a small hope of finding Jenny. Now even that had gone.

'What happened?' I asked.

'Nothing happened. We're satisfied he couldn't have been at her house on the afternoon she went missing, that's all.'

'That's not what you thought earlier.'

'We didn't know earlier,' he said, tersely. 'He wouldn't tell us where he was at first. Now he has, and it checks out.'

'I don't understand,' I said. 'If he'd got an alibi, why didn't he tell you straight away?'

'You can ask him that yourself.' He sounded irritable. 'If he wants to tell you, he will. As far as we're concerned, though, he's in the clear.'

I rubbed my eyes. 'So where does that leave us?'

'We'll carry on pursuing other leads, obviously. We're still looking at forensic evidence from the house, and--'

'Forget the official bullshit, just tell me!' Silence came down the line. I took a deep breath. 'Sorry.'

Mackenzie sighed. 'We're doing everything we can. I can't tell you any more than that.'

'Are there any other suspects?'

'Not yet.'

'What about Brenner?' At the last moment I decided not to mention seeing him that morning. 'I'm still certain he was the one who tipped you off about Ben Anders. Isn't it worth talking to him again?'

Mackenzie failed to conceal his impatience. 'I've already told you, Carl Brenner's got a alibi. If he was responsible for the false lead then we'll tackle him about it later. Right now I've got more important things to do.'

The despair I'd been trying to hold at bay was in danger of swamping me. 'Can I help?' I asked, knowing what his answer would be but hoping anyway.

'Not right now.' He hesitated. 'Look, there's still time. The other women were kept alive for three days. There's every reason to think he'll follow the same pattern now.'

Is that supposed to make me feel better
? I wanted to shout. Even if Jenny were still alive, we both knew she wouldn't be for much longer. And the thought of what she might be going through in the meantime was unbearable.

After Mackenzie rang off I sat with my head in my hands. There was a knock on the door. I straightened as Henry came in.

'Any news?' he wanted to know.

I shook my head. I couldn't help but notice how tired he looked. Which wasn't surprising, really. Since Jenny had disappeared I'd given up any pretence of seeing patients.

'Are you OK?' I asked.

'Fine!' But he couldn't sustain the show of energy. He gave a wan smile and shrugged. 'Don't worry about me. I'm managing. Really.'

I wasn't convinced. There was a gauntness about him he couldn't conceal. But as bad as I felt about leaving him to run things by himself, right now all I could think about was Jenny, and what might happen in the next twenty-four hours. Anything else seemed too distant to contemplate.

Seeing that I was in no mood for company, Henry left me alone. I tried to go through my forensic reports on Sally Palmer and Lyn Metcalf, on the off-chance that I'd find something I'd missed. But that simply led my imagination in a direction I was trying hard to avoid. I turned my computer off in frustration. As I stared at the darkened screen I was struck with a conviction that there was something important I was overlooking. Something that was staring me in the face. For a moment it felt tantalizingly close, but even as I clutched for it I could feel it slipping away.

The need to do something pulled me to my feet. I grabbed my mobile phone and hurried out to the car. There was only one place I could think of to go.

But even as I set off the feeling that I was missing something obvious refused to die away.

Ben Anders lived in a large brick cottage on the edge of the village. It used to belong to his parents, and after they'd died he'd lived there with his sister until she'd married and moved away. He'd often said the place was too big for him, that he should sell up and buy somewhere smaller, but had shown no inclination to do so. When all was said and done, it was his home, too big or not.

I'd only been there a couple of times before, for an after-hours drink after the Lamb had shut, and as I parked outside the heavy wooden gate closing off the high stone wall, I thought it said a lot for the depth of our friendship that I'd never visited the place before in daylight.

I didn't even know if he'd be home. And, now I'd arrived, I half-hoped he wouldn't be. I'd come out here wanting to hear his version of why he'd been arrested, but I hadn't actually thought about what I was going to say to him.

But I put any doubts out of my mind as I knocked on the door. The house was built from pale brick, not pretty but with an attractive solidity to it. A big garden, tidy without being fussy. White windows, a dark green door. I waited, then knocked again. When there was no sign of life after a third attempt I started to turn away. I didn't leave, though. I don't know if it was just reluctance to go back to waiting or something more, but somehow the house didn't seem empty.

There was a path running around the side to the back. I followed it. Part way along there was a dark splash of something on the ground. Blood. I stepped over it. The back garden was like a well-kept field. At the bottom of it was a cluster of fruit trees. A figure was sitting in the shade underneath them.

Ben didn't seem surprised to see me. There was a bottle of whisky on the table next to him, a rough-hewn affair of unplaned timber. A cigarette burned itself to ash on the edge of it. Judging by the level in the bottle and the flush on his face, he'd been here for some time. He continued pouring himself another drink as I approached.

'There's a glass in the house if you want to join me.'

'No thanks.'

'I'd offer you a coffee. But, frankly, I can't be arsed to get up.' He picked the cigarette up, looked at it and stubbed it out. 'First one in four years. Tastes like shit.'

'I knocked.'

'I heard. Thought it might be the fucking press again. Had two reporters round here already. Some loudmouthed copper gave them the wink, I expect.' He gave a lopsided grin. 'They took some convincing that I'd rather be left alone, but they got the hint eventually.'

'Is that where the blood on the path came from?'

'There was some spillage involved before they accepted my "no comment", yes.' Apart from his careful enunciation he didn't sound drunk. 'Bastards,' he added, his expression darkening.