‘Yeah. He’s had it my entire life. Is it weird that I can’t remember if he had it when he was buried?’
I run some names past her but she doesn’t recognise any of them. Then I thank her for her time. The Tag Heuer didn’t belong to Henry Martins, because it is ten years old at the most.
I switch my computer on and go through the file I was creating yesterday, tapping at the keyboard tentatively and barely touching the mouse because they have blood splatter on them. I head back into the Missing Persons website and look for young women who went missing two years ago. Rachel Tyler’s name comes up again, and so do four others. I read the files. One of them was found two months later. The others have never shown up. I look at the photos. One of the girls was seventeen, another was thirty-two.
Could be both are in the ground in the cemetery. The seventeenyear-old, Julie Thomas, definitely shares some characteristics with Rachel Tyler. Similar height, similar age, long blonde hair, both good-looking. Most serial killers have a type. Looks like I’ve found it, but to make sure I check for the reports of women who went missing six days earlier. There is only one. Jessica Shanks was twenty-four years old and was reported missing by her husband the day she didn’t come home from work. I read through the details. The file hasn’t been reported as being closed, but I imagine sometime within the next twenty-four hours the update will have been made.
I print out the photos, one for each of the girls. I sit them side by side on the floor since I can’t use my desk. Rachel Tyler, Julie Thomas and Jessica Shanks. Without a doubt, the killer had a type. Somewhere in this database is another young woman to complete the set.
I print out the files, and then I power down my computer and unplug it all. I remove the tissue from my nose, then carry the computer down to my car: I don’t want it to get damaged by the cleaning crew, and I’m not sure when I’ll be back. Until all the blood is gone I’ll work out of my house.
When all the gear is loaded into my car, I return for the whiteboard, which I wipe down with more wet tissues. I also grab my cellphone. It has one bar showing on the power scale — I should’ve bought a car charger too. I leave the easel behind and carry the whiteboard to my car, nodding at the people who ask me questions on the way and ignoring their requests to stay and hang out a while to catch them up on all the gory details.
chapter fifteen
David the boyfriend lives in a house that is almost as run down as Sidney the retired caretaker’s. The place hasn’t seen as much in the way of paint over the last few years as it has rust and spiders.
The guttering has corroded away, the windows are covered in grime, the weatherboards warped and unwelcoming. It’s in the middle of dozens of others, each one in need of a handyman’s touch or a wrecking ball. I can’t figure out how David still lives here. I can’t figure out how anybody could live here longer than a week. But maybe he likes it and it’s a simple case of me not getting it. Perhaps this is the stereotypical pop-culture way to live.
Derelict is the new black. Grunge is in, being broke is in, making sure the house you live in looks like crap is in. He doesn’t own the place, but rents it, like all the other students in this area, which means he slips easily into the day-to-day routine of not giving a damn about the condition of the property, and the owners know one day they’re going to bulldoze or burn it down anyway and don’t care as long as the rent is paid. This isn’t suburbia; most of the people living around here are university students struggling to survive. Rachel Tyler was a student. I can’t imagine her staying here for more than a few days before returning home to grab a
few things or a good night’s sleep or the chance to step out of a shower cleaner than when she stepped in.
A young guy with studs in his ears and lips and nose opens the door. He must have real fun going through the security foreplay before boarding a plane. He’s squinting because the cloudy glare is too bright for him. His T-shirt reads The truth is down there with an arrow pointed to his crotch. All of a sudden, the last thing I want to know is the truth.
‘David Harding?’
“No, dude, he’s not here.’
‘Where is he?’
The guy shrugs. ‘Studying, I think. Or sleeping.’
‘Sleeping?’
‘Yeah, man, you know, that thing you do in the morning after being out all night.’
“I thought people slept in the night.’
‘What planet are you from?’
‘An older one. Does he sleep here?’
‘Yeah, man.’
‘So if he’s sleeping, could it be that he’s sleeping here right now?’
He seems to think about it. ‘It could do, I suppose.’
‘Then how about you put that university education of yours to some good use and figure it out for me.’