*
Cooper’s mood had improved, probably because this case was off the far end of the fucked-up scale. He rang me from the hospital once he had had a look at Jenny Spain. By that time Richie and I had moved on to the Spains’ wardrobe, which was more of the same: mostly not designer stuff, but top-of-the-trend, and plenty of it—Jenny had three pairs of Uggs; no drugs, no cash, no dark side. In an old biscuit tin on Patrick’s top shelf were a handful of withered stalks, a sea-worn piece of wood patchy with flaking green paint, a scattering of pebbles, bleached seashells: gifts from the children, collected on beach walks to welcome Daddy home.
“Detective Kennedy,” Cooper said. “You will be pleased to know that the remaining victim still remains.”
“Dr. Cooper,” I said. I hit speakerphone and held out the BlackBerry between me and Richie, who lowered a handful of ties—lots of Hugo Boss—to listen. “Thanks for getting in touch. How’s she doing?”
“Her condition is still critical, but her doctor feels she has an excellent chance of survival.” I mouthed Yes! at Richie, who did a noncommittal grimace: Jenny Spain surviving would be nice for us, not so much for her. “I may say that I agree, although living patients are hardly my specialty.”
“Can you tell us about her injuries?”
There was a pause while Cooper considered making me wait for his official report, but the good mood held. “She suffered a number of wounds, of which several are significant. A slash wound running from the right cheekbone to the right corner of the mouth. A stab wound beginning at the sternum and glancing off sideways into the right breast. A stab wound just below the bottom of the right shoulder blade. And a stab wound to the abdomen, just to the right of the navel. There are also a number of smaller cuts to the face, throat, chest and arms—these will be detailed and diagrammed in my report. The weapon was a single-edged blade or blades, consistent with the one used to stab Patrick Spain.”
When someone wrecks a woman’s face, specially a woman who’s young and pretty, it’s almost always personal. I caught that smile and those pink roses out of the corner of my eye again, turned my shoulder to them.
“She was also struck on the back of the head, just to the left of the midline, with a heavy object whose striking surface was approximately the shape and size of a golf ball. There are fresh bruises to both wrists and forearms; the shapes and positions are consistent with manual restraint during a struggle. There is no sign of any sexual assault, and she has not had recent intercourse.”
Someone had gone to town on Jenny Spain. I said, “How strong would the attacker or attackers have needed to be?”
“Judging by the edges of the wounds, the bladed weapon appears to have been extremely sharp, which means that no particular strength would have been required to inflict the stab and slash wounds. The blunt trauma injury to the head would depend on the nature of the weapon: if it was inflicted with an actual golf ball held in the attacker’s hand, for example, it would have required a considerable amount of strength, whereas if it was inflicted by, let us say, a golf ball placed in the toe of a long sock, momentum would substitute for force, meaning that a child could have done it. The bruises to the wrists imply that a child did not, in fact, do it: the attacker’s fingers slipped during the struggle, making it impossible for me to gauge the size of the hands that restrained Mrs. Spain, but I can say that they did not belong to a small child.”
“Is there any way the injuries could have been self-inflicted?” Double-check everything, even the stuff that seems obvious, or some defense lawyer will do it for you.
“It would require a supremely talented would-be suicide,” Cooper said, using his Moron Whisperer voice again, “to stab herself below the shoulder blade, hit herself on the back of the head and then, in the fraction of an instant before unconsciousness supervened, hide both weapons so thoroughly that they escaped discovery for at least a few hours. In the absence of proof that Mrs. Spain is a trained contortionist and magician, I think we can probably exclude self-infliction.”
“Probably? Or definitely?”
“If you doubt me, Detective Kennedy,” Cooper said sweetly, “do feel free to attempt the feat yourself,” and he hung up.
Richie was rubbing behind his ear like a dog scratching, thinking hard. He said, “And that’s Jenny out of the picture.”
I slid the phone back into my jacket pocket. “But not Fiona. And if she was going after Jenny, for whatever reason, she might well have gone for the face. Being the plain one could’ve worn very thin after a lifetime. Bye-bye big sister, no open casket, no more being the family babe.”
He considered the wedding shot. “Jenny’s not actually prettier. Better groomed, just.”
“It works out to the same thing. If the two of them went clubbing together, I bet I can tell you who got all the male attention and who was the consolation prize.”
“That there was Jenny’s wedding, but. She mightn’t be that done up normally.”
“I’ll bet you anything she is. There’s more makeup in that drawer than Fiona’s used in her lifetime, and just about every piece of clothing here is worth more than Fiona’s whole outfit put together—and she knew it: remember that comment about Jenny’s expensive gear? Jenny’s a looker, Fiona’s not; simple as that. And while we’re on male attention, think about this: Fiona got very, very protective about Patrick. She said the three of them go way back; I’d like to know a little more about the history there. I’ve seen stranger love triangles in my time.”
Richie nodded, still examining the photo. “Fiona’s only small. You think she could’ve taken out a big fella like Patrick?”
“With a sharp blade, and the element of surprise? Yeah, I think she probably could have. I’m not saying she’s top of the list, but we can’t cross her off it quite yet.”
Fiona moved another notch or two up the list when we got back to searching. Tucked away at the bottom of Patrick’s wardrobe, behind the shoe rack, was the jackpot: a stocky gray filing box. Out of sight—it didn’t go with the decor—but not out of mind: they had kept three years’ worth of just about everything, all filed away in perfect order. I could have kissed the box. If I had to pick just one angle on a victim’s life, give me financials any day. People wrap their e-mails and their friendships and even their diaries in multiple layers of bullshit, but their credit-card statements never lie.
All this stuff would be coming back to headquarters so we could get a lot better acquainted, but I wanted an overview straightaway. We sat on the bed—Richie hesitated for a second, like he might contaminate it, or maybe vice versa—and spread out paper.
The big documents came first: four birth certs, four passports, marriage cert. They had a life insurance policy, up-to-date, that paid off the mortgage if either of them died. There had been another policy, two hundred grand on Patrick and a hundred on Jenny, but that had lapsed over the summer. Their will left everything to each other; if they both died, everything including custody of the kids went to Fiona. There are plenty of people out there who would love a few hundred grand and a new house, and who would love it even more if it didn’t come with a couple of kids attached.
And then we hit the financials, and Fiona Rafferty plummeted so far down the list I could barely see her. The Spains had kept things simple, everything into and out of one joint account, which was a bonus for us. And just like we had expected, they were flat broke. Patrick’s old job had given him a nice little lump of redundancy money, but since then the only cash coming in had been the dole. And they had kept spending. February, March, April, the money had kept coming out of the account at the same rate as ever. May, they had started cutting back. By August, the whole family had been living on less than I do.
Too little too late. The mortgage was three months in arrears and there were two letters from the lender—some cowboy-sounding outfit called HomeTime—the second one a lot nastier than the first. In June the Spains had swapped their bill-pay mobiles for pay-as-you-go, and both of them had more or less stopped calling people—four months’ worth of phone-credit receipts were paper-clipped together, barely enough to keep a teenage girl going for a week. The SUV had gone back where it came from at the end of July; they were a month behind on the Volvo, four months behind on the credit card and fifty quid behind on the electricity. As of their last statement, there had been three hundred and fourteen euros and fifty-seven cents in the current account. If the Spains had been into anything dodgy, they were either very bad at it or very, very good.