Saving Grace, page 6
A quiet Sunday morning turned into a TV crime show like the ones you see on those documentaries. Police swarming the area, cameras clicking, forensics gathering evidence, and sealed plastic bags being carried away, the contents later to be analysed in a lab. Gwen thought of the victim’s final moments; a woman lying face down with an ugly scrawl on her back: the words flashed in her mind on repeat. She would never forget the gruesome text, never forget how the blood drained from Rocco’s face. Gwen thought of Bea and how the victim in the storage room could only have been a few years older than her. Sadness swept over her like a storm. She needed to get home to Bea, hold her close, hold her and never let her go. The police wanted to talk to her and Rocco sat at the bar, head in his hands, the shock vibrating through his trembling shoulders. What would she tell the police? She was down there training for a new job, a job she wasn’t supposed to have. She couldn’t lie, it would make her look like a suspect. She wished she could get Rocco to work something out, cover her tracks. How the hell did this happen?
Right now, Gwen was part of a major murder enquiry. The press sniffing around like flies on shit, the photos… it was only a matter of time before her name would be leaked to the press. What would the parents at the school think? She always lived a quiet life, keeping to herself and now that was all going to change.
A tall man walked towards her. He wasn’t in uniform, but it was clear by the way he held himself upright with an air of authority he was a cop. He didn’t smile but he wasn’t stern either. Meanwhile, Gwen could feel her body start to shake. She was fifteen years old again, about to tell her parents she was pregnant and suffer the glare of judgement and disappointment.
‘Gwen Foster?’ the officer said.
‘Yes?’ she replied in a shaky breath, picking her fingernails.
‘I’m Detective Matt Burns, we are here to investigate a potential homicide.’
There was nothing ‘potential’ about it. It was crystal-clear murder. No one body can carve the words Grace #3 into their own back.
CHAPTER TWELVE
JENNIFER MACK
My dreams are violent lately.
I hear cries, but they’re not my own. They belong to the Graces.
I toss and turn, but sleep is out of reach. I blame it on the research. Since digging deeper into the complex minds of murderers and studying the detailed accounts of how the crimes were committed, I’ve become unsettled. Every time I slot the key in the door and turn it, I have the unnerving sensation the killer will lie in wait. My imagination runs wild: I think a lot about the act itself, the blade pressing into the skin on the victim’s back. He walks among us. If I pass him in the street, will I know?
I think about last night. I got a takeaway and watched re-runs of Friends to lighten my mood. I enjoyed the taste of a long overdue chicken korma and the sound of Janice’s woodpecker laugh filling the room. I did these normal Saturday night things all while, just a few miles away, a young woman went to a club in search of a good time but met her end. As soon as I heard about the body, I rushed to Newquay. The Earth Rabbit was off the beaten track, set away from the hustle of the busy bars on the main drag. It is true that you shouldn’t judge a book by its cover; the outside appeared small and could be confused with a house or a boutique shop. On the inside, however, it was a different story. The inside was a labyrinth of open spaces leading into narrow, darkened corridors. The main bar, being the centre stage, was lit with an array of multicoloured fairy lights that twinkled against the bottles of spirits. The corridors didn’t interlink, making it difficult for a drunken person to find their way round. The killer had to know the club, had to have been familiar with the place to know where the storage was kept. The police were interviewing everybody connected with the club, including the staff who weren’t even on duty at the time. They asked the police to help them look for a person of interest, a barman called Mike Lane who left his job and hadn’t been heard from since. I interviewed the owner, a real character by the name of Rocco, with a heavy Scottish accent and features so close together that I wanted to pull at his cheeks to widen his face.
‘I’ll never get that fuckin’ image out of my head… that poor lass… dead. In my place o’ all places. What sick bastard did this?’
I give up on my bed and head to the kitchen, the tiles cool against my bare feet. The kitchen window faces the road, a streetlamp flickers, soon ready to give up the last of its light and allow darkness to flood the street. I feel a sense of unease; he could be with his next victim right now, at this very moment. I let the tap run and fill the glass with water and take a long desperate gulp, it does little to calm my nerves. Here is what we know about the killer so far: the key fact is that the victims are all named Grace and all have blonde hair, each in their twenties. Serial killers often have a specific type of victim, a very particular taste they crave and need to satisfy.
Jeffrey Dahmer killed men and boys.
Ted Bundy kidnapped and raped young women.
Peter Sutcliffe murdered women.
Steve Wright strangled sex workers.
The police haven’t found any DNA linking the killer with anybody on their database; no CCTV images have caught any activity of interest. The puzzle is only in its early stages, building the edges, tiny pieces which are not forming anything close to a clear picture. The movements of the killer are unpredictable, he chooses unseeing places. I wonder if Andrea Matthews is awake, mulling round her big house with big thoughts, and how the latest Newquay club murder will bring back fresh emotions and the strange cruelty of guilt for naming her daughter Grace. I glance at the cooker clock. It’s a little after midnight and my report will be going to print, my name now officially affiliated with the murders. I think about the fragile woman I briefly interviewed, how she looked so oddly out of place at the club. She answered questions with one-word answers and avoided my gaze, her unease growing stronger as she began to stutter, her eyes pooling with tears. She was too thin, too pale, and looked as though she needed rescuing in so many ways. Yet, she was being smart not saying too much because, whether I like it or not, a reporter’s job is to get the story, no matter the cost. I suppose I can be a bit gentle on those I interview. I try to separate my emotions from doing the job. I need to wise up and be a little more forthcoming. There are reporters (Hayley) who throw anybody they need to under the bus to get ahead. When I was younger, I behaved in the way I was expected to, but slowly as this story takes hold of me, I know I must change. I take a deep breath. Remind myself I am a great journalist and I will be the Saving Grace.
Summer has not yet given way to autumn, and the two seasons collide today with warm sunshine and newly fallen golden-brown leaves. September is closing in thick and fast. Three lives taken, three stories, and zero leads. The office is busy, there is a buzz in the air and a hunger for gory details. Nobody likes to admit it, but the dark world fascinates us all. Sure, we show disgust and repel the evil wrongdoings of the killer, but we all want to know, the how, what, and why of it all. It’s like seeing a horrific car accident; you can’t just drive on by or turn a blind eye – no, we need to stop and absorb every little detail. We need to witness their misery first-hand. It’s just after lunch and the team is called in for a meeting. Jacob is the last to come into the meeting room and everybody huddles together to make room for him. He stands, claps his hands firmly and rubs them together.
‘Right, kids… we are covering the biggest story this paper has ever seen. We can’t afford to fuck it up.’ Jacob’s face is flushed red from his heavy boozing and it’s all too obvious today. He pulls a tissue from his pocket to blot the beads of sweat on his forehead. I wonder how much he has been drinking.
‘I interviewed Gwen Foster. She was there when the owner of the club found the body,’ I say, my voice sounding too high-pitched, not my own.
‘What did she say, I want you to get an exclusive with her and the owner… Rocky?’
‘Rocco,’ I correct him, unable to shake the image in my head of Sylvester Stallone.
When I jot some notes down, there is an annoying sound that is coming from Hayley tapping her fingernails on the desk. Nobody else seems to notice but I feel the taps are like jabs directed at me. I shouldn’t let her get to me. I’m half tempted to call her out, to ask her why she’s trying to derail the meeting. Her actions seem harmless, but she gets under my skin and she is trying to pull away my train of thought. I’ve beaten her to it; she may have gotten the first write-up to first print, but I am determined to be the one to put this together. Till the bitter end.
‘Have you connected with the police in London, Jen?’ Jacob asks.
There is a whispering in the background. It’s Hayley’s voice. I don’t look up to see who she’s speaking to. I know jealousy is stirring like the beginnings of a storm.
‘Lilith Grain is on board.’ As soon as the words spill out of my mouth, I feel my cheeks burn and the room closes in on me – voices in the room filter out, becoming more distant.
‘Jen… Jennifer!’ Jacob’s voice snaps me back in the moment.
‘Set up a call with Lilith. We can really use her expertise.’
Later, I sit at my desk and continue my research. I look at images of where each body was found, looking for something each place has in common. The two murders in Cornwall suggest this is where the killer resides, but why London? The middle of the sea, an old video store and the back of the club. None of it makes any sense. Whoever the killer is, there is a dark history with a person named Grace, maybe even a scorned lover? If only Lilith Grain would return my phone calls!
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
THEN
A scream startles me out of a deep sleep. Glass shatters. A car alarm shrills. I lie in bed, frozen. The neighbourhood is like a predator lurking on every corner, waiting for prey to sink its blood-hungry fangs into. Drug dealers, domestic violence, gangs, robbery, it’s all here in Grahame Warner Park. There’s another scream, one that’s feral, desperate. It’s a piercing sound that rings in the air even after it’s finished. I stumble around in the darkness, tripping over my own feet. My hands grip the sofa and I steady myself. I hide behind a curtain, careful not to make any movement; the orange glow of the streetlamps faintly illuminate the grainy pavement. The estate is flanked in a sea of grey and miserable high-rise tower blocks, tall and ugly, reeking of poverty and struggle. The screaming finally stops, and I cast my eyes over the pathway below where I see a thin woman in a short skirt and thigh-high boots. Even from this high up I see her clearly, her eyes wide, mouth twisted downward. Her arms are flailing as a man stalks her.
‘Get back here right fucking now, you stupid bitch!’ The male voice echoes, bouncing off the walls of crumbling concrete.
The man grabs the woman’s arm and yanks her towards him. After a moment he spits on her and pushes her small frame to the ground.
He’s a monster, wild, unhinged, and even if I did intervene, I’d only be putting myself in danger. And was it even worth it saving a bag bitch? Maybe the world would be a better place once both freaks dropped dead.
When the couple disappear out of my view, I go back to bed, a knot forming in my gut. I don’t want to be here anymore. How it is some people are born into luxury and some – like me – are just not. I am tired of walking through the estate with a quickened pace. I don’t want Grahame Warner Park to become a part of me, contaminating who I am. I never wanted to be seen or heard. Lately, when I go out, I’ve been brandishing a kitchen knife in my belt. I’ve practised on melons to try and imitate how deep I’d need to penetrate through the skin to cause actual harm; not the superficial kind, but the kind that would leave a person withering in agony, unable to fight back, unable to get back up. I’ve leaned forward to stab and twist, destroy tissue, and maybe sever arteries. My thoughts slowly flutter away to the back of my head and my body gives in to sleep once again until, for the second time, I am awoken. This time the noise is coming from the front door. Rattle, rattle! The door shakes, somebody is trying to break in. My breath pauses.
I swing my legs out of bed. I glance at my rucksack flung open on the sofa, its contents spilling out, including the kitchen knife. I dash across the room and grab hold of my weapon. My grip tightens around the handle and my legs go near limp from fear. In slow, methodical movements I approach the door – a slight movement from my fingertips causes me to drop the knife, the blade clipping the edge of my foot – a small droplet of blood begins to well.
The door is being pushed now, with force. Bang! Bang!
I shiver. There’s fuck all here to take; nothing of financial value anyway.
I take a deep breath and shout, ‘Who the fuck are you?’
It’s a bold move.
‘Open the fecking door! The key your mum gave me ain’t bloody working.’
I’d know that raspy voice anywhere. Aunt Lizzy.
I sigh and slide across the lock and open the door.
‘You could have just rung the buzzer, you know?’ I say.
‘Would you have let me in if I did?’ Aunt Lizzy is taller than my mother, heavier. Her red hair is dry and faded with greying roots. She’s not just rough round the edges, she’s rough inside and out.
Aunt Lizzy steps in the flat like she owns the place and flicks a light on, her gaze transfixed on the surroundings. She takes notice of the fresh paint on the walls with a raise of her drawn-on eyebrows and takes a deep breath, which results in a cigarette-fumed cough. She makes no effort to cover her mouth and lets her splutter and spit escape freely.
‘What do you want?’ I ask.
‘You know what I want. Your mother owes me money.’
‘Good luck with that one. She’s dead. You were at her funeral!’
I shake my head and feel heat rise to my cheeks. My fists clench, and I begin to feel my temper boil despite a voice in my head telling me to calm the fuck down. But another voice, the less tolerant one, takes over.
You owe her nothing.
She’s vermin.
Make her go away.
Do what you have to do.
‘But she had life insurance and that means you get a pay-out and by the looks of this place, you already got it. I’ll stay here tonight and we can go cash a cheque tomorrow, only cash. If you’re anyfink like your old lady, the cheque will bounce to the bleedin’ moon.’
‘Go. Home. Lizzy.’
‘Beg your bloody pardon? What did you just say to me?’
‘You heard me. Go. The. Fuck. Home. Now.’
Tiredness has overwhelmed me and robbed me of my patience. Lizzy takes a step back, her expression, disbelieving. She lets out a loud sigh.
‘I’m not leaving until I get what I am owed,’ Lizzy says in that terrible rasping voice.
Get rid of her.
Take her out.
This is your kingdom now.
‘It was your fault.’ I end up standing right next to Lizzy, her breath stinks of old fags and cheap wine.
‘What are you on?’ For the first time, her chutzpah wavers. She stutters, her breathing becomes uneasy. She avoids eye contact, she’s breaking down. Inside my head, I hear the merry bells of victory, I am no longer that scared child Lizzy can intimidate.
‘Derek. You were the one who brought him into our lives.’
Lizzy shakes her head and takes a step back. But I take another step forward. I won’t let her get away from me. I never realised it until now, but if it hadn’t been for Lizzy, Mum would have never met Derek and he would have never…
‘Who your mother let into her bed ain’t naught to do with me.’
‘You set them up. You introduced them. It has everything to do with you. You did this… YOU!’
My hand searches for the knife again; it doesn’t take me long to find it. Lizzy’s head turns into a melon. Big, green, hard.
The knife feels light in my hands, it rests easy in my palm, and my fingers wrap around it and tingle with excitement.
‘I don’t know why you are blaming me for your mother’s old boyfriend, your mother had her own fecking life.’
‘I know you know…’ I say, she needs to be held accountable, admit the fucking truth.
‘Ah… not my fault you are such a freak, blame your mother for that one. You ain’t never been right in the head, can see it, see it right in your eyes. What is it they say, birds of a feather stick together. No wonder you two invited the devil right into your home.’
She holds my gaze for a moment and the corner of her lips curl into a smile revealing a mouth of decayed teeth.
There is nothing left to say.
So much blood.
And then, right before she collapses, another voice shouts, my voice.
What have you done?
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
THEN
You never know how heavy a person is until they’re a corpse. There’s no way I am going to be able to lug her into the stairwell by myself, and certainly not unnoticed. The kitchen bin is only big enough to put a part of her into, and I feel sick as I realise what I have to do. I throw a load of sheets over the body and take a long look in the mirror before I leave.
Bitch had it coming.
You killed her.
She deserved it.
You’ll never get away with this.
You will get away with this.
The voices argue with one another as I put my head in my hands and shake both of them out. This is no time for debate. I have to think practically. The knives in the kitchen aren’t enough to cut through flesh and bone. I need a saw. A chainsaw would be best, but I can’t afford that kind of noise. It’ll have to be a regular saw, the old-fashioned, hard-labour kind.
I take the number 17 bus to town. There is a shop which sells random items, bric-a-brac and kitchen appliances, tools, you name it. They’re bound to sell a sturdy saw, and I’m unlikely to be asked for ID.
