Page 32 of The Serial Killer’s Sister (The Serial Killer’s Daughter #3)
‘This is the last,’ DI Walker says, lifting the photo.
‘Hang on,’ I say. I don’t know why, but I have a sudden urge to tell him about my own photos first. I get up and pull the envelope from the kitchen drawer.
I’m reluctant to look at the detective; I don’t want to see his annoyance, so I hand it over without making eye contact.
His deep sigh about covers it. I stand back, holding my breath as he flicks through them, and listen to his steady respiration.
He’s good at keeping calm – a useful skill for his job, no doubt.
In my own line of work I’m usually able to remain calm, too.
But as the past few days have demonstrated, the same cannot be said for my private life.
‘This is how you found out,’ he says. ‘I assume these were found at the location the riddle directed you to?’
I nod.
‘You’re playing a dangerous game here.’
‘Well that’s not news, is it?’ I lean against the kitchen wall, my hands behind my back, palms flat against the smooth finish. I push myself off then fall against it, repeating this motion, bouncing like a nervous child.
‘Seriously, Anna.’ DI Walker glares at me, and I stop.
‘I can’t have you running around the countryside trying to get to the evidence before us.
And removing it? Christ, you could be charged with obstruction, or worse, tampering.
You could be handed down a prison sentence – don’t you get it?
This is the second time you’ve crossed the line.
You promised you’d inform me if you worked it out. ’
His expression is no longer a picture of serenity. I’ve really rattled his cage and his angry words hit me like arrows. I’ve been so focused on protecting myself from past mistakes, I hadn’t given much thought to the new ones I was making.
‘I was going to hand it over. I’m sorry. I wasn’t in my right mind, Detective Walker. I panicked.’ I sit back down opposite him. ‘This isn’t your usual family drama. I’m not accustomed to dealing with family members at all, let alone when they’re psychopaths.’
‘Not all killers are psychopaths.’
I’m not sure I agree with his view. ‘Isn’t it more like they can pretend to be normal? Conceal their psychopathy behind a mask?’
‘Professionals are more often than not divided about what makes a serial killer. The usual questions are bandied about: are they born, are they made, et cetera. But certainly most have been shown to have had difficult, often abusive, childhoods.’
‘By that standard, I should be a serial killer too, then.’
We both fall silent, holding each other’s gazes. The silence stretches and I don’t feel the need to fill the gap, for a change.
DI Walker breaks first. ‘What was the location?’ he says, his voice softer.
‘It was right there, in the last line of the riddle. Dogs In Town – it’s a café in Torquay.
Buried beside the bench under a pretty rose bush.
’ Anger reignites within me as I explain about the significance of the place, about how Ross had known it was all about him and had even gone to try and find what Henry had left before me.
DI Walker doesn’t appear surprised to hear this – I can’t help wonder if it’s the type of thing he’d do, too.
‘When we’re done here,’ he says when I finish, ‘I’m taking you to the station so you can give me the full details – every single one – in a written statement.’
I lower my gaze, embarrassed at being chastised. ‘Of course,’ I mumble.
He gathers the photos of Ross and Yasmin and puts them back in the envelope. ‘I’ll take these, thanks.’
‘Fine,’ I say, looking up. ‘I really don’t want to look at them again anyway.’
‘Okay.’ He straightens, jiggles his shoulders and draws a breath.
‘Back to the murder cases.’ DI Walker puts the final photo on the bar in front of me.
‘Every murder has a similar pattern, in that his victims have all been female, and apart from the first, each subsequent killing involved removing a body part.’ He gets back into his rhythm as though he hadn’t been interrupted.
‘The final scene – well, Henry took the heart of his previous victim and put it beside the part he removed from this one.’ He taps the image with his index finger.
I lean over and look down to see a heart and an eyeball.
The heart has something protruding from it – I move my face closer and see it’s a gold cross necklace.
My stomach turns to liquid. I’ve seen it before.
Mother’s? But it’s the needle sticking out of the eye that causes my blood to course through my veins; the adrenaline makes my head woozy.
‘I didn’t bring the photos depicting the same thing in the other cases for security reasons, but the needle in the eye has been the one constant in every one and we’ve concluded that’s why one was attached to the first riddle. It’s his calling card. But we’re not sure what it means.’
‘I think I know.’ I push back from the breakfast bar and on shaky legs, stumble towards the stairs.
I make it to the bathroom and throw up – hot, brown liquid splattering the white bowl.
When I’ve expelled the coffee, I continue dry-retching, my eyes streaming, nose running.
I go to tear toilet roll off, but there’s none left.
Probably used that up earlier. I’m about to use my sleeve when a hand comes around me and I jump.
‘Here,’ DI Walker says, handing me a block of tissue. ‘I hate being sick. It’s like your throat is being dissolved by the acid, isn’t it?’
‘Helpful.’ I think my stomach has stopped contracting now, and I lean back against the bathroom wall, my knees bent up in front of me. I dab the tissue against my lips. The detective looks at me expectantly.
‘Your theory?’ He sits down opposite me, mirroring my position.
‘Cross my heart, hope to die. Stick a needle in my eye,’ I say.
Those words haven’t been spoken in seventeen years and they feel odd on my tongue; sound even stranger to my ears.
It’s as though by speaking them, I’ll summon a supernatural force, or the bogeyman – like how in The Candyman film if you say his name five times he’ll kill you.
‘What does that mean?’
‘You never heard that before?’ I say, shocked, as I assumed everyone had heard of it, particularly our age group.
But DI Walker shakes his head. ‘It’s the promise rhyme,’ I explain.
‘I thought all kids used it to swear they’d keep their promise.
No doubt things have progressed – I don’t hear the children at Seabrook using it now.
But I remember it well. Henry said it whenever he needed to feel secure.
’ Whenever he needed his big sister to offer comfort or have his back.
‘Can’t say I have, no. I always swear on someone’s life.
’ He lifts an eyebrow. He says it in a light-hearted way, but tendrils of ice climb my back and twine around my neck.
He doesn’t appear to notice my discomfort, his mind clearly drifting as he looks towards the ceiling.
‘So it was all for you, then.’ DI Walker seems to be saying this more to himself, like he’s confirming his own suspicions.
‘I gave up my old life a long time ago, detective. And I tried to put everything behind me. Including my own brother. But some things, however well you suppress them – compartmentalise them – stay with you. Haunt you.’
‘You think Henry is haunting you because you abandoned him?’
‘Yes. Maybe something has happened in his life more recently that has brought everything back to him. My life was going so well, I hadn’t thought about the past for such a long time.
But, if Henry hit a low in his own life, he might well have been bitter enough to want to wreak havoc with mine, so he wasn’t alone in his pain. ’
‘Like experiencing a shock, or something? That could trigger his behaviour?’
‘Yes, exactly. He always craved stability. If he managed to gain that, but then lose it, I imagine that would set him off on the wrong track. Like it did back at Finley Hall.’
‘And his focus would go straight to you. You are the person he blames.’
‘Which means,’ I say, my voice curiously calm, ‘I think you were right from the beginning. I’m his target. I’m the one destined to be his sixth victim. Tomorrow.’