Page 30 of The Serial Killer’s Sister (The Serial Killer’s Daughter #3)
DI Walker’s horrified look as I fling the door open suggests he wasn’t expecting a knife-wielding maniac.
‘I tried calling,’ he says quickly, one hand up in defence. ‘I was worried when you didn’t answer.’
‘The front door might’ve made a more sensible entry point,’ I say, lowering the knife, my whole body trembling with the adrenaline. ‘You’d better come in.’ It’s as he’s stepping inside that I notice the envelope in his other hand. I frown. ‘What, now he’s leaving them on the back step?’
‘This?’ he holds up the thick envelope. ‘No, sorry. I thought going through some evidence might be useful.’
I chew on the inside of my cheek. ‘Time is running out, I suppose.’
‘We are up against it,’ he says. ‘May I?’ He indicates the stool at the breakfast bar.
‘Sure.’ I push the knife back into its slot in the block and take the stool opposite the detective.
‘How are you doing?’ he says, his expression etched with an empathy that immediately makes me want to cry.
‘Well, let’s see. I’m embroiled in some whacko game with a serial killer, I’ve been suspended from the job I love, and …
’ I suck in air, blowing it out slowly to ease a pang of nausea.
‘I’ve found out that my husband has been shagging his employee.
’ DI Walker raises one eyebrow and grimaces.
To add to his discomfort, I add: ‘Oh, and she’s pregnant with his baby.
’ I’d yet to vocalise the words and now I’ve uttered them, it’s become real.
Fact. I didn’t think your heart could hurt – like proper physical pain – unless you were having a heart attack.
I was wrong. Tears blur my vision; I blink rapidly. ‘All in all, it’s been a great week.’
DI Walker nods like none of this is news. Which mostly, it isn’t. He can’t know about Ross and Yasmin or the baby, though, surely? Please tell me I’m not the last to know . Maybe his interrogation training just means that he is good at masking his reactions.
‘I’m sorry you’re having such a tough time of it, Anna.
’ He seems genuine, his eyes sorrowful as they look into mine, and I almost lose myself in the sharp blue irises – they always look so bright, unlike mine, which today I know are dulled by my hangover.
I wonder if he sees that now, or whether there’s something else he notices, because they narrow ever so slightly.
I drop my gaze, worried that he might read what’s behind them.
In need of a change of subject, I point to the envelope.
‘What delights are in there, then?’ My voice is monotone, weary.
‘How about we discuss it over coffee?’
‘Sure you don’t want anything stronger?’
‘It’s nine-thirty a.m., Anna. There’s one day to go, so we need clear heads.’ I smart at his judgemental tone. But making a jokey comment to a detective working a murder case was probably not the best idea.
‘Sorry. I tend to use humour as a coping mechanism.’ I smile thinly before getting up. I make coffee on autopilot, my attention on DI Walker as he sifts through the contents of the envelope. There’s a lot in it, from what I can tell.
‘Do you have family, Detective?’ I’m not sure why I ask this – maybe to talk about something more normal before the inevitable discussion about Henry and his victims, or to somehow find a connection, something relatable between us.
DI Walker looks thoughtful but doesn’t answer.
‘Or are you told not to share personal information with sisters of serial killers?’
Now he laughs.
‘Boundaries are there for everyone’s protection, Anna.’
As I place his coffee down in front of him, I catch sight of what he’s been looking at. They appear to be crime scene photographs, if the yellow tape cordoning off the entrance to a house is anything to go by. My stomach lurches.
‘Do you think you’d be willing to go through these with me?
’ He taps the top photo, but I don’t look down at it again.
I want to say ‘in a minute’ but I’m very aware that every minute counts.
‘I know it won’t be easy,’ he says. ‘I’m sorry to even ask, but because of your connection to Henry, you might see something in them that we’ve overlooked. It’s not exactly usual practice …’
‘I need to know everything, DI Walker. If you want my help finding Henry, I should probably know all the details.’ I feel myself blushing. He also needs to know all the details, including the fact I went to the riddle’s location yesterday without telling him.
‘Yes, agreed; but this isn’t some cosy murder mystery on the telly, Anna. What I’m going to show you, tell you, is gruesome; it will play on your mind.’
‘My mind is a mess already. It can’t get much worse.’
Miss Graves had a saying that used to annoy the hell out of me, and it comes to mind now: ‘famous last words’.
The queasy feeling returns after I’ve seen the first four crime scene photos, and he’s only shown me the scenes so far, not the actual women Henry killed.
The lifeless bodies, the violated corpses are still to come.
DI Walker lays a reassuring hand on my forearm.
‘If you want a break …’
I glance at the kitchen clock. It’s ten a.m. and we’re wasting time. ‘No. Keep going.’
‘You’re a brave woman, Anna. We do appreciate what you’re doing.’
A shiver tracks up my spine. Am I brave? Or stupid? Either way, hearing a detective saying that gives me pause. The way he spoke those words was like he knows what’s coming – that I’m putting myself in the direct line of fire. I lick my lips, my tongue catching on the dried lipstick.
‘Are you going to show me the women now?’ There’s a quiver to my voice – a response I’ve little control over. I don’t want to see, yet I think I need to.
‘Yes, selected ones. Not every detail, but enough to give you the idea.’ He closes his eyes, taking a deep breath, like he’s preparing himself. But he’s seen them before, has just been looking through them, so he must actually be preparing himself for my reaction.
My pulse races as he places the first one in front of me.
Then the next. After about ten seconds, he lays the next on top.
I’m reminded how I did this to Ross last night, only I was slamming them down one by one, not gently placing them like DI Walker is doing.
He watches for my reaction to each one, seemingly judging whether it’s safe to continue.
I say nothing as the images are laid out: a close-up of the victim’s lips – sewn shut with hideous large, roughly made stitches that look like black wire; a gaping, bloody mouth, the tongue removed; a tongue sandwiched between two slices of mouldy bread; a chest cracked open, ribs spread.
I press my hand to my own chest, rubbing the pain away with circular motions.
Another photo is a wide-angle shot, taken from further away – hacked-off limbs surround a torso.
I snap my eyelids closed. The thought of how these women suffered crushes me.
I can’t speak. My vocal cords are paralysed, and my throat is so tight I can’t swallow.
I’m aware of my breathing; how rapid and shallow it is.
‘Slow breaths, Anna. You’re hyperventilating and you’ll faint.’
I do as he says. It takes a few minutes for my breathing to steady. I can see there’s another photo and I reach across to take it. DI Walker puts his hand over mine, stopping me.
‘You don’t have to. I shouldn’t have asked you to look. None of this is your fault, Anna.’ His eyes bore into mine and I have to look away.
Despite the evidence, it still doesn’t seem possible that Henry is a sadistic killer, and my brain struggles to link the two.
I couldn’t have known he would do such terrible things.
Could I? I would’ve done something – told the authorities, reported his behaviour, had I believed for one moment that after I last saw him he’d go on to murder five women.
You’ve let people get away with things before.
It’s as though the devil is on my shoulder, reminding me of my past mistakes. I close my mind to the voice, push the demons back into their boxes again and concentrate on the here and now. I can’t fix the past. But I can affect the present, and hopefully create a better future.
‘I’m fine. Show me the next one.’ I brace myself.