The Smoke In The Photograph (8 page)

When Sam returned from the bar, the young woman had taken off her jacket and made herself comfortable. He wasn't sure what he was doing. This was the first time he had flirted with a woman since the breakdown of his marriage. After his wife had left, he had thrown himself even deeper into his work. Even deeper into the Ripper.

She took the drink from him.

'Thank you.'

Sam tried to place her accent. She was English, of that he was certain, but there was a hint of something else, German perhaps, as though she had spent a long time living abroad. This wasn't uncommon in Lincolnshire. All of the air bases meant there was a plethora of RAF brats in the county, people who had spent their lives moving around due to having a parent in the forces.

'So, what do you do, Miss?' he said, sitting down.

'Ariel.'

'Like the little mermaid?'

She laughed and nodded.

'I didn't take you for a Disney fan, Inspector.'

'Please, call me Sam,' he said, removing his own jacket. 'My daughter is a big fan.'

The woman looked at him and sighed.

'Typical,' she said. 'Another married man.'

'Actually, we're separated,' Sam said, taking a sip of his drink.

'Sorry,' she said. 'It's just I only ever seem to attract married men.'

So he was right? There was a kind of attraction, and she felt it just as much as he did. He didn't know where it would lead. He was unsure if he wanted it to lead anywhere, but it was nice to know that he still had the ability to attract a woman.

'You didn't tell me what you do.’

She laughed.

'No, I got distracted. I work for the bank in town. Lloyds. I'm a cashier.'

They talked a little about her job, apparently just a stop gap, then about her childhood. Sam had been right, daughter of an airman, many years spent in Germany. Fairly happy, but never found it easy to make friends.

'Do you have any siblings?' Sam asked, thinking of his own experience as an only child.

Ariel looked sad.

'I had an older sister, but she passed away a few years ago.'

'I'm sorry,' Sam said.

'It's alright,' Ariel said. 'It was a blessing in the end.'

Sam nodded. He understood this feeling. His mother had suffered for years with cancer, getting smaller and weaker with each passing day. Watching her deterioration had been like watching her fade, slowly, from existence. When she had finally passed away, despite his grief, he had felt a sense of relief.

'I guess you deal with death all the time in your job?' she asked.

'More than I'd like,' he answered honestly.

'Do you get used to it?'

He shook his head.

'No, it gets easier to learn to cope with it, to distance yourself from it, but you never get used to it.'

She looked at him inquisitively.

'Does it hurt you when he kills?' she asked.

'What?' Sam was unsure of her meaning.

'I mean the Ripper,' she said. 'When you find a new victim, does it hurt you?'

It was a line of questioning that Sam neither understood, nor felt comfortable with. He had come to Darton to drink himself stupid, and try to forget all about the Ripper, just for tonight. He had struck up a conversation with a beautiful young woman, thinking she would be a welcome distraction. Now, though, she was asking such personal questions. Not about the case per se, but about his feelings about it.

'I die a little inside,' he said, his voice low. 'Every time that monster takes another life, he kills a little bit of me.'

Ariel looked engrossed.

'Because you feel you've failed them?'

Sam nodded.

She leant over and took his hand in hers. He looked into her eyes and saw a strength he hadn't noticed before.

'I believe you're doing everything you can, Sam,' she said, sounding genuine. 'The fact you haven't caught the Ripper isn't a reflection on you. I don't care what the papers say.'

Sam wanted to believe her words. He had done everything he could, but still he felt responsible.

'If it doesn't reflect on me, what does it mean?'

She shook her head.

'Maybe no one can catch the Ripper.'

It was like she had just spoken his greatest fear out loud. He was reminded of the original Ripper, the one who had stalked the streets of Whitechapel in London so many years ago. He had never been caught, his identity never revealed. Jack the Ripper had taken on mythic status all over the world. He was the ultimate example of a serial killer.

Sam shuddered to think of the Lincoln Ripper taking the same level of infamy. Was that what the killer wanted all along? To become a legend in his field?

'I will catch him,' Sam said.

She leant forward and kissed him, slowly, yet with a deep passion.

'I'm sure you will'

She grabbed her jacket and got to her feet to put it on.

'You're leaving?' he asked.

'Yes, sorry,' she said. 'I have to meet a friend. Thank you for the drink.'

Sam nodded. It was likely for the best. Though he was attracted to her, he was in no state to start any sort of romantic attachment. There was too much to be done. Far too much.

Like all hospital rooms, this one had the aroma of disinfectant and air fresheners, there to try to mask the ever-lingering scents of despair, pain and death. Julia looked at her husband lying on the bed. He looked frailer than she had ever seen him. He had an oxygen mask over his face and a series of wires were hooked up to him from a machine emitting occasional beeps.

Looking at him it was not difficult to forgive him for everything that had happened earlier. There was a possibility that the shoes had belonged to Wendy. They were her size, and although not a style she would wear in her day to day life, she could have been wearing them for a job.

Julia had overreacted. She guessed the stress of the move had flared up some of her old insecurities. She had always had a jealous streak, and she hated it. So many of her previous relationships had broken down because of her jealousy. That was why Steven and she had come to the agreement that they had no past before each other. The slate had been wiped clean. They had never had any conversations detailing their past partners and relationships. They did not see the point.

He had slapped her because she had been getting hysterical, and probably he was right. She had cut his head, after all, by throwing the offending shoe at his head.

She walked across the room to where her husband lay sleeping. His slow, rhythmic breathing was accentuated by the oxygen mask. When he had collapsed clutching his chest she had been terrified that she was about to lose him. Now she thought it best to forget the stupid argument and be thankful that her husband was still with her. She knew he wasn't perfect, but then again, who was? Not her, that was for sure. Steven was a very good man though; he treated her better than anyone had ever treated her in her life. He deserved for her to believe him after everything she had put him through with her breakdown.

She gently stroked his forehead, trailing her hand up his brow to his hair. His eyes fluttered a few times then opened fully. He looked at her, and she knew he loved her more than anything.

'Hi,' she said, smiling. Her eyes were starting to water.

He took hold of her hand and pulled the oxygen mask down.

'Hi,' his voice was more rasping than usual. 'Have you heard the news?'

'That you're asthmatic now?' she asked.

Steven nodded.

'Yeah. Weird isn't it?'

Julia looked puzzled.

'I didn't know you could just develop it at your age,' she said. 'I thought it was one of those things you grow out of, not grow into.'

He shrugged

'You can,' he said. 'It's pretty rare though.'

It still did not make any sense at all to her. So much of what had happened didn't make sense. She thought of the clicking sound in the bedroom and the flash of white light just before he collapsed. She pushed this to the back of her mind.

'Just like you then,' she said.

Leaning forward she placed a gentle kiss on her husband's forehead.

'I'm sorry I hit you,' he said.

She put her finger on his lips.

'You only slapped me because I was hysterical,' she said, then ran her finger up his face to the cut on his forehead. 'I did that to you first.'

He looked at her.

'I don't know where those shoes came from.'

'You were probably right,' she said. 'They might have been Wendy's. You know how she has a habit of leaving her shit everywhere.'

Steven laughed, though the effort of laughing clearly caused him pain in his chest.

'So when do we go home?' he asked.

It was a stupid question. He was a doctor and knew that more than likely they would want to keep him in for observation. Yet, like she was aware, doctors made terrible patients. It was the same whenever he was unwell at home. She would have to run round after him.

'I'm going now,' she said, stroking his head once more. 'You have to wait until tomorrow.'

He pouted, his bottom lip protruding like he was a sulking child. She laughed and shook her head.

'You would have kept you in,' she said. 'Don't deny it.'

He shrugged.

'Maybe, maybe not. We surgeons aren't renowned for our bedside manner.'

She laughed. This was true. He was useless whenever she was ill. She bent down to kiss his forehead again, but he put his hands on either side of her face and looked into her eyes.

'I love you Julia.'

She smiled and moved forward, kissing him softly on the lips.

'I know,' she said, pulling back away. 'I love you too.'

They kissed again, and then she stood up straight.

'I best get going, you need to get some rest.'

'What are you planning to do for the rest of the evening?' he asked.

'I thought I might get the stuff for the studio unpacked,' she said, 'so I can be ready to start work again.'

Steven beamed with pride. He had never pretended to understand all of her work, especially in her darker periods, but he always appreciated their beauty. He would show them off to anyone who visited the house, as though he was extremely proud to be married to someone he saw as so talented.

'Don't work too hard,' he said.

'I won't,' she said, and then kissed him a final time.

After the kiss, she pulled his oxygen mask back into place and headed to leave the room. At the door, she turned around for one last look at her husband. He was already asleep.

Julia locked the car and walked along the path to the front porch. The argument with Steven earlier, and the strange events that followed, seemed more distant in her memory than they should have. It felt as though it had all happened days ago, not a few hours. She supposed that it was caused by her concern for Steven, and confusion at his sudden onset of asthma. These shocks had made it a very long evening. She opened the door, and instantly felt the chill inside the house. The heating was on so the hallway should have felt warm and inviting.

The unexpected chill reminded her of the flashing lights and clicking sounds she had seen earlier. Then there was the whisper, the voice she had heard just before leaving the house, the one that had told her that Steven had deserved what had happened. She tried to push the memory out of her mind, by telling herself that the voice had been her own, from inside her head. It didn't completely work and she felt goose bumps rising on her arms.

She rubbed her arms and went over to the radiator. Bending down, she turned it up fully. The house was old and had been standing empty for a long time. It was liable to take a while to successfully warm up.

Walking in to the kitchen she saw the tiny light blinking on the answerphone. She pressed the button and heard Wendy's voice fill the vacant room.

'Hi, guys,' she said on the message. 'Just checking to see how moving day is going for you.'

Julia shook her head. It was a perfectly natural question, but considering all that had happened it was the worst question. She switched on the kettle and started making herself a coffee as the message continued.

'Obviously you're too busy to answer the phone, but give me a call back if you get the chance. Can't wait to see the house. Well, speak to you later. Bye for now.'

As she poured the water into the cup, Julia considered phoning Wendy. She changed her mind though. If she told her that Steven was in hospital, she would be around in a shot. Julia couldn't face the company though; she just wanted to get on with unpacking. She decided she would go to the attic and start there.

Taking the steaming cup of coffee with her, she headed up the two staircases that led up to the studio. As she wandered through the house, the chill persisted. She would have to tell Steven to check the radiators when he was well. She grabbed a cardigan from the bedroom as she passed, on the way to the second staircase.

Once in the attic, she noticed that the window was open. It was the middle window, the one that she had seen the flash in earlier, and also the one that Steven had opened to let the pigeon out.

Had he closed it afterwards? She felt quite sure he had, but the evidence was to the contrary. At least that helped to explain the cold in the air. If the window had been open since this afternoon, it was possible that it could have caused a draught, especially with all of the rain. Damp, cool wire could have permeated through the house, chilling the whole place.

Walking over, she closed the window, and pulled the latch that locked it into place. Perhaps Steven had forgotten to do this. It was possible that the wind could have caught the window, if it was not shut properly, and opened it again.

As soon as the window was shut, she began to feel warmer, though she supposed this was more of a psychological response than anything else.

The boxes containing all of her art supplies were stacked up against the far wall, near the door to the darkroom. As she looked at them, she started to feel light headed. At first she thought it was a combination of tiredness and not eating.

She attempted to shake off the feeling, and took a sip of her coffee, hoping this would help to liven herself up. She went over and started dragging the boxes across to the centre of the room. This would be the best place for light during the day with the sky lights above. At night, it was as good as any spot in the studio.

Her easel was the first thing she unpacked. It was a big studio easel made by Jullian. Steven had bought it for her for their first anniversary. It was top of the range and must have set him back at least two hundred pounds. It was so much better than the previous one she had, that had been purchased from Argos and had cost her about thirty pounds.

She put the easel together and put it in pride of place in the centre of the studio. She stood a little way from it, admiring it. It was the first time that the easel had been set up since her breakdown. Julia felt a sudden wave of optimism. Things were about to get better.  Looking at the easel standing in the middle of the room, it felt like an old friend.  A friend she had neglected for far too long. It was high time the two of them got reacquainted.

It looked wrong though. There was no sight more depressing to her than an empty easel. She opened up a box containing a few new canvasses and placed a mid-sized one onto the easel. That was so much better, no longer depressing, but a thing of beauty and endless possibilities.

Next she unpacked her brushes, and oil paints, pallets, rags and pallet knives. She set these up on a folding table next to the easel. Then she just needed to fill a jar with water and one with white spirits. She wondered how much all of this had cost her over the years. More than she cared to confess, even to herself. Her brushes were all the best synthetic brushes that money could buy. A lot of other artists she knew swore by badger hair brushes, but Julia had never been able to bring herself to use them.

She felt the dizziness return. It felt as though she was slipping away from her own body.    The brushes she held fell to the floor, scattering as they did. Julia turned and considered trying to make it down the stairs to her bedroom. However, she didn’t think she would make it. The room had begun to spin like she was drunk. She felt unsteady and dropped to her knees. She saw the flashing light once more, like a gliding white ball of light just before her eyes. It slowly danced across her field of vision. It headed towards her. Then nothing. Blackness enveloped her and she slipped into unconsciousness.