Leaving the studio, I lock the door behind me, then hide the key. I listen for any movement other than my own, but I hear nothing. I look into the small study where his computer is, and I’m relieved it’s switched off. I remember turning it off last night after the girls had left, but this morning it was on again. I asked Edgar about it, and he said he didn’t remember.
It was Lori who asked me if I’d checked out the Cassie4Casanova link. I had, but all I managed was an error code. Alice wanted to know if I’d erased the link. I hadn’t. ‘Let’s all look,’ she had said, as if we were on some stupid adventure. It didn’t take long to crank up the computer, all four of us huddled in the study, wine glasses forgotten.
I was certain the link would be there. I never thought of it being wiped, but there wasn’t a trace, not a single reference to Cassie4Casanova. They all went through the motions, making suggestions as to how to restore it, but the longer it went on, the more convinced I became that none of them believed me. He has wiped it, I wanted to say, he has deleted the evidence, but I knew I was on shaky ground. The same way I knew they would all speak to one another about me afterwards.
I walk into the study, half expecting the computer to switch itself on without me touching it. My ear is on fire again, as another panic strikes me – what if one of them talks to Edgar? Would they? Alice would.
I pick up the phone on the desk. She answers on the first ring. ‘Hello,’ I say calmly, and surprise myself.
‘What’s up?’ she asks.
‘I want to make sure you don’t say anything to Edgar about my suspicions.’
‘Why would I do that?’ Her words sound like a test.
‘I don’t know, but you need to promise me.’
‘For Christ’s sake, Sandra.’
I can hear her annoyance. ‘Just promise me,’ I repeat.
‘I bloody promise.’
‘Fine.’ Before I can think of anything else to say, I hear the phone go dead. I tell myself we go back a long way – she wouldn’t betray me.
HARCOURT STREET STATION, SPECIAL DETECTIVE UNIT
RIGHT ON CUE, half an hour after his last conversation with Kate, she arrived. Mark Lynch had already given his instructions to detectives Martin Lennon and Paul Fitzsimons to re-interview all of Rick Shevlin’s ex-girlfriends, including any paid escorts. The fresh information from Anita Shevlin didn’t only put a new spin on the international wing of the investigation: it meant all females connected to Shevlin had to be asked about a potential stalker. The staff at the hotel would be his next target. With the number of statements taken, more information should be forthcoming. If necessary, he’d get the chief super to agree to extra resources.
Having dismissed both detectives, he took a final look at the Parisian images before he gave the okay for Kate to come in. He had a nagging feeling he had missed something. The creepy monk outfit worn by the dead Pierre Laurent, coupled with the candlelit lantern, certainly added a freakish element to the scene, making it more like an image of a wake than a crime scene.
Unlike Shevlin’s, this victim’s eyes were closed, and although the visual Lynch focused on looked like a corpse at peace, underneath the dark monk’s habit there was a bloodied mess, puncture and slash wounds everywhere except for the face. Why not the face? The victim had been handsome – even in death Lynch could see that. He flicked to a later image from the morgue. He’d had a good physique too, quite the artist’s model, he thought. He would have to talk to Morrison. It would be a nice twist if the state pathologist found a similarity of pattern in each of the attacks, even if the ultimate cause of death differed. He already knew in Pierre Laurent’s case that it had been asphyxiation. The police report mentioned a couple of ex-lovers confirming that he had liked physical punishment during sex, including being brought to the edge with a rope around his neck. Had it not been for the knife attack, it might have been dismissed as a sexual act gone awry, one of the participating parties going a step too far. The police had also found friction burns on the victim’s wrists and ankles, consistent with bondage, only this time they had occurred prior to death. Pierre Laurent might have been little more than a lowly art student, but if it was the same killer, he had attracted their interest, just as Rick Shevlin had. What else, other than the obvious, had the two men had in common?
He couldn’t delay talking to Kate any longer, but he was still staring at the screen as she walked in.
‘You wanted to see the images from Paris, Kate. Here they are.’ He barely turned towards her.
‘First tell me why you’re so engrossed.’
‘There’s something about them,’ he pointed to the screen, ‘that’s bothering me.’
‘I’m listening.’ She sat on the chair opposite, folding her legs, causing her skirt to rise above her knees. As he turned to face her, she caught him eyeing her legs, and pulled the lower part of her trench coat over them.
‘Feeling the cold, are we?’ he asked.