The Smoke In The Photograph (2 page)

Julia looked around their bedroom, the one they had shared since she had moved up from London five years ago. She had always liked the room, especially once she had got Steven to agree to let her redecorate. Steven was a wonderful and intelligent man, but he knew nothing about interior design. Once she had made the house feel more like hers, rather than just his house that she had moved into, she had loved the room. Now though, as she lay in the bed, reading her magazine, she could only see it for the pokey little box it was, that the whole house was.

The house in Lincoln had stuck in her brain. All night she had been sneaking looks at the leaflet whenever Steven left the room. She didn't understand why, but she knew she was destined to live in that house. After all, they had only gone into the estate agents on a whim, after months of idle conversation about moving into the city. There were so many other estate agents they could have picked, but fate had led them to Criar, and the house.

Steven was standing next to his wardrobe, undressing and putting his clothes neatly away. She laughed at the way he did this, especially as she would just throw her clothes on the floor when undressing. She also enjoyed watching him as he revealed his toned body. At thirty-seven he was in good shape, better than she was and she was six years younger than him.

She had loved him from the moment she had met him. That night had also been fated. By rights, they should never have met. Steven had been attending a medical conference in the capital, and she had been on her way to the Tate gallery for a party her agent, Fran, had insisted she attended.

It had been raining, and she had been standing in the street, soaking wet in an evening dress, trying to hail a taxi. Every taxi that went by seemed to already have a fare. She considered going back home, getting changed into a jumper and sweat pants and telling Fran to go fuck herself, when a cab pulled up beside her.

The rear door opened and the man in the back with dark blonde hair and twinkling blue eyes, asked if she would like to share his cab.

Julia never made it to the gallery, and Steven never made it to the lecture he was supposed to attend at the conference. Instead they had dined together. Laughing all night. By the end of that weekend, when Steven had to return to Lincolnshire, they were a couple. Within a month they were engaged, and within a year they were married.

Four years of marriage, and some very tough times, later she loved him more than ever.

'I liked it,' she said.

Steven turned to her, his eyebrow raised.

'Liked what?' he asked.

She held up the brochure for the house.

Steven sighed as he got into bed.

'I'm feeling much better now,' she said. 'I'm going to start working again soon, then we could easily afford it.'

Steven shook his head. His stony face had obviously not been just for Criar's benefit earlier.

'Why not?' she asked.

'Could you really live there, knowing about the murder?' he asked.

This question surprised her.

'Yes,' she answered matter-of-factly. 'Why? Couldn't you?'

Steven shrugged.

'I don't know to be honest.'

Julia giggled. She couldn't believe that her super-rational doctor of a husband was acting so nervous about living in a house with a bloody history.

'Ooooh,' Julia waved her arms above her head. 'Scared of ghosts are we?'

Steven looked at her with a cold gaze; she thought she saw a hint of anger behind his eyes. The look that let her know he thought she was being childish.

'No, of course not,' he said. 'I just don't know if I could happily live in the shadow of such a grisly death. What with your problems, I don't think it's such a good idea.'

She threw her magazine on the floor and turned to face him fully. She felt the heat of her anger flush her cheeks. There it was, his excuse for everything these days: her problems.

'First, as I said, I'm feeling much better, and second, you're a fucking doctor for Christ's sake. You see death every day of the week nearly.'

He looked away from her, his bottom lip protruding a bit too much, as it always did when he sulked. It made him look like a petulant child.

'I know that, so I don't want to have to deal with it when I come home.'

If she kept going along this path it would end up in an argument, and that was the last thing she wanted to be doing right now. She took a few deep breaths to calm herself and then smiled at him. She picked up the information leaflet from her bedside cabinet and handed it to Steven. He shook his head in defeat and took it from her and began to read out loud.

'A lovely, large, detached Victorian property in the most sought-after area of the city of Lincoln,' putting on his best salesman voice. 'Comprises five bedrooms, two bathrooms, two reception rooms, dining room, large kitchen with all mod cons, conservatory, and very large attic studio with dark room.'

She nestled against his chest.

'It would be perfect for us,' she said, looking up at him with doleful eyes. 'You could have one of the reception rooms as a study, and I could have the attic studio to paint properly again. It even has a dark room.'

Steven laughed.

'But you don't know the first thing about photography. Don't you remember the mess you made of our holiday snaps last year?'

Julia slapped his naked chest, then laughed.

'You bastard. At least I never got my thumb in shot, unlike somebody.'

She snatched the leaflet back from him and held it up, tapping the strange, twirling mark on the photograph.

'I could do better than whoever took this.'

Steven looked at it, frowning.

'What do you think that is anyway?' he asked, peering at the shape.

She shook her head.

'I'm not sure,' she said. 'At first I thought it might be smoke from a nearby bonfire, but it seems too wispy for that kind of smoke. Then I thought Criar might be right that it was cigarette smoke, but the colour is all wrong and it's too disjointed.'

Steven frowned at her, his hatred of smoking rearing its head again.

'You're the expert of course.’

'Yes,' she said. 'Even though I've given up, I can still remember what cigarette smoke looks like.'

Steven rubbed his hands through his hair, and exhaled loudly.

'You really want it, don't you? he asked.

'Yes, I do,' she replied.

She knew it was difficult for him to understand. He had always had a stable home. His parents had been married for fifty years and seemed closer than a couple of newlyweds. For Julia things had never been that easy. Her father had left when she was still just a baby, and she had not seen him since. Her mother had liked to drink far too much, and Julia was forever being passed from pillar to post of relatives. She didn't want that life if they were to start a family. She wanted to give them a safe, stable home, in a beautiful and magical house.

'It's so much more than we were looking to spend though,'

This was true, but it was still within the realm of possibility. They could easily pay half of the house straight off with the money from this one.

'I know, but we can afford it. Once I start painting again it'll be fine. Plus you'd be able to walk to work. It would save a fortune on petrol.'

The current house was in the small town of Darton. It was a good eighteen miles from their house to the hospital. Plus, at busy times, traffic through Lincoln proceeded at crawling speed.

Steven was still shaking his head, but there was a chink in his armour. She could see it in the way he refused to make eye contact with her. She was winning.

'You're a surgeon. In two years you'll probably be a consultant,' she said, stroking his professional ego. 'With the money that Fran has been getting for my paintings we will be fine. We won't need to worry. A house this good is never going to come along at this price again. If we don't go for it, we could regret it forever.'

He threw his hands up in defeat.

'Okay. You win,' he said. 'We'll go back and see Criar again tomorrow.

She threw her arms around him and covered him in a rush of kisses all over his face.

'You won't regret this.’

'But you better start painting again in a hurry.'

Sam Fluting pulled his Audi A4 through the gates that led up to the common. He flashed his warrant card at the young constable manning the gate. He nodded and pointed Sam in the direction of the other parked cars. The young constable looked overwhelmed trying to keep at bay the throng of journalists and members of the public. All of them were baying for information and the Ripper's blood. Of course they had the right to feel angry. A brutal killer had been on the loose for too long, and there seemed no end to the carnage in sight.

Sam knew that a lot of them were after his own head as well. He was, after all, the man who had for the last six years failed to apprehend the county’s most prolific serial killer.

He parked the Audi and got out of the car. The major activity appeared to be taking place halfway up the hill. Forensics had already erected their little white tents, and he could see at least twenty uniformed officers combing the wider area.

He started walking that way, turning a blind eye to the shouts coming from the crowd beyond the gate. He had heard them all before, the taunts, the curses, the pleas. They seemed to have been getting worse with every life the Ripper took.

Detective Sergeant Graves was walking down the slope towards him. Sid Graves was a short stocky man, at least ten years older than Sam, but he never seemed bothered about climbing the ranks. Graves just wanted to get to retirement in one piece.

'Why am I here, Sid?' he asked.

'I was the first C.I.D. on the scene,' Grave said. 'It looks like one of his.'

Sam shook his head.

'No,' Sam said. 'My boy always leaves them in their own homes.'

This was true. This was one part of the Ripper's pattern that hadn't changed in the last six years. Six years, and nine victims. It was no wonder that the baying mob outside the common hated him. This monster had butchered nine women and as far as anyone could see the police were no closer to catching the bastard.

'I think you better take a look at this, Sam,' Graves said solemnly.

Sam followed Graves over to the first of the white crime scene tents. Inside were several officers, all of whom nodded at Sam upon his arrival. In the centre of the tent was a gurney, upon which lay the body, neatly hidden away in a black body bag.

As Graves walked over to it, the uniformed officers left the tent. They had evidently seen enough for one day. Having seen all nine of the Ripper's previous victims close up, Sam couldn't blame them.

Graves pulled down the zipper, and Sam saw the naked, mutilated woman. There was no denying it. The Ripper had done this. All of his trademarks were present. X carved into the forehead while the victim was still alive. The throat slit. Then after death the true horror began. Both breasts had been completely removed. No doubt left somewhere nearby. The bloody mess between her legs where her outer genitalia, along with her entire interior reproductive system, had been removed.

'It's him, all right,' Sam said with a rueful tone. 'Have they found the missing items yet?'

Graves pointed to the smaller bag on the floor behind him.

'Her breasts are in there,' Graves said. It was evident just how distasteful he found the whole thing. 'They're still checking the area for the rest.'

'They'll be there,' Sam said. 'They're always there.'

Graves shook his head.

'Why does he leave them behind?' he asked. 'I thought these sickos liked to keep them as souvenirs.'

Sam shrugged.

'According to the experts, only the ones who gain some sort of sexual thrill will take trophies,' he said, motioning for Graves to zip the poor woman back into her bag.

'I thought they all did it for those sort of kicks?' Graves said, while closing up the body bag.

'Not our boy,' Sam said. 'There's never any sign of sexual assault, other than the nature of the wounds, never found any bodily secretions to suggest he gets any kind of sexual pleasure from it. The psychiatrist I spoke to said it was probably some sort of deep seated hatred of women that led him to commit these crimes.'

Graves looked as though he wanted to say something, but could not find the words. Sam understood that feeling. It was not possible to comprehend how someone could harbour that much hate towards anyone to do these things. Every time another body was found, Sam was more sickened by the nature of the Ripper's crimes. It was as though he was not even human, but some kind of monster, dreamt up in the nightmares of mankind.

'Do we know when she was killed?' Sam asked.

'No,' Graves said. 'Only that she was discovered by a group of school kids this morning. They're all being treated for shock at the hospital. We'll send her over to the pathologist when we're done here.'

'Okay,' Sam said. He knew he was going to have to go and interview the kids at the hospital. Poor little buggers would probably never get over this.

'How many is that now?' Graves asked. 'Nine?'

'Ten,' Sam said. 'She's the tenth.'

Ten girls in six years, and not one single clue as to who the Ripper was, or what his motives were. The bodies kept piling up and Sam never appeared to catch a break. No wonder the press was calling for him to be removed from the case. It was not his fault though. The Ripper was too good at this. Despite the brutal, almost frenzied, nature of the murders, the killer was very organised.

'Why do you think he left her here?' Graves asked. 'You said he always leaves them at home.'

'I don't know,' Sam said. The break in the pattern was puzzling to say the least. 'Perhaps he killed her at home, then brought her here for some reason.'

Graves shook his head.

'The amount of blood over there, where the kids found her, he did it all here.'

Sam was shocked.

'Out in the open? ' he asked.

'There're a few trees for cover, but if anyone came by they would have seen, and certainly heard her screaming.'

This was true, but Sam knew that the common was pretty much deserted at night. After ten, the last of the dog walkers had turned in, and by midnight even the underage drinkers had gone home. The Ripper would have known that too, but it still seemed like a big risk to take.

'Perhaps when we find out why he did it here, we might finally have a shot at catching the bastard,' Sam said.

They were interrupted by a nervous cough. Sam turned to see a uniformed officer standing at the door of the tent.

'What is it, constable?' Graves said.

'Sorry sir,' the uniformed officer said, 'but they've found something at the top of the hill.'

'Is it the rest of her...' Graves paused, unsure at first how to end the sentence, before settling on, 'parts?'

The constable shook his head.

Sam looked to Graves, who shrugged. Sam set off running out of the tent and up the hillside, towards the group of officers waving their arms above their heads. Graves followed at a more sedate pace.

When Sam reached the top of the slope he slowed down and walked over to the officers.

'Well? What is it?'

One of the officers pointed to the undergrowth next to a line of trees.

'Over there, sir,'

Sam headed in the direction the officer was pointing. They had marked the spot with a few small yellow flags. At first, Sam struggled to see anything but a tangle of grass and weeds. Then he saw it.

'Oh, hello, beautiful,'  a thin smile creeped over his lips.

Graves caught up with him. He stood behind Sam. His shadow made the other detective turn around.

'What is it?' Graves asked, squinting into the grass.

Sam knelt down and pulled an evidence bag from his pocket. He used it to carefully pick up the object. He got up and turned back to Graves.

'This,' Sam said, holding up a blood-covered scalpel.