The Doll's House (46 page)

A special thanks to the many other groups I’ve had the pleasure to be part of, Lucan Writers’ Group, Platform One, especially Eileen Casey, Irish Crime Writers’ Group, the amazing people at the Tyrone Guthrie Artist Retreat, The People’s College, with Valerie Sirr, Carousel Creates, with Carolann Copeland, and Seven Towers writing group.

I would also like to thank Gerry Gilvary of ITT, media students, Luke Ryan, Clark Wickstone, Elizabeth Wilson, Dave Barnaville, Colm O Searcoid, Sinead Kelly, Martin Kennedy, Shauna Ryan, and Gemma Butterly for their help during the year. A special thanks to Danka Lochowicz, for her absolutely brilliant web design, and to my daughter Jennifer Phillips for her wonderful photography over the last twelve months.

Finally, I would like to thank you, my friends, family, colleagues, and readers, who are not mentioned here individually, but who are
of the upmost importance to me. I feel privileged to have been gifted with so many wonderful people in my life, and I have been especially moved by the amount of readers making contact to tell me how much they enjoyed
Red Ribbons
. I hope you enjoy this story too.

Read an exclusive extract from the thrilling new novel from award-winning crime writer

Louise Phillips

Featuring Dr Kate Pearson and D.I. O’Connor Out August 2014

LAST KISS …

Her husband is having an affair with a woman who wants her life. How far will she go to take back control?

When psychologist Dr Kate Pearson is brought in to investigate a murder, she finds herself plunged into an investigation which brings her face-to-face with to a vicious female killer and reveals trails of sexual power and evil.

Featuring criminal psychologist Dr Kate Pearson and Detective Inspector O’Connor, Last Kiss is the chilling new psychological thriller from award-winning crime writer Louise Phillips.

The young girl walked towards the forest dressed in an oversized grey coat and black wellington boots that belonged to her father. Her head was bent beneath a raised collar and her long black hair shrouded her strained face. To a stranger, Ellen could have been taken for someone older than her fifteen years, hunched over like an aged soul.

As she reached the outskirts of the woodland, the ground underfoot became slimy, laden with fallen twigs and leaves. Early light sprinkled between the overhead branches, but she didn’t look up, not once. When the first droplet slid down her inner thigh, it touched her kneecap with the gentleness of a moth. She had felt the back pains a few hours earlier, and even though they had eased, she knew it was her time.

Amid the creaking and rustling of the trees, she heard something move in the undergrowth. For a brief moment she stood still, a cold chill spreading through her body as another bead of the amniotic fluid reached her swollen ankle. She swallowed hard, looking all around her, knowing she needed to find somewhere safe, and that the life she had hidden inside her for so long would soon have to leave. Placing a hand beneath her coat, she held the underside of her engorged belly. A sharp breeze from the valley tossed her hair rebelliously in the wind, as if it was the only part of her still free to choose.

She had left the house when all inside were sleeping, sneaking around, no longer feeling she was part of it. The village, too, looked strange with its empty streets, and the moon still visible, hanging low in the early-morning sky. When she passed her old school, she imagined the sound of young voices in the yard, and felt utterly alone.

Now deeper into the forest, again she heard something move behind her, but when she turned, she saw nothing. A surge of amniotic fluid flooded between her legs, drenching her undergarments, the veil of liquid glistening in the flickering sunlight, before it soaked into the earth.

A sharp pain, like an iron rod, shot through her. She held her belly, more fearful than she had ever been. She wanted to cry out, but stopped herself. With her wet garments stuck to her skin, she continued walking once the pain had passed, faster than before, like a scared animal scurrying further into the dark.

The next contraction grabbed her insides like a twisted fist, shooting through her lower abdomen, before ramming her spine with the might of an iron bar.She placed both arms around her swollen belly, her stomach heaving,her dry retches fighting hard against the nothingness inside. For months she had barely eaten, needing to keep her secret safe, but now she knew that the child inside, briefly quiet, would not remain so for long.

It was with her back to a fallen tree trunk that she laboured alone for hours, before the pain became so strong that the urge to push defied everything else. Her screams came back at her through the forest walls, long piercing wails, until finally she heard the cries of another. She stared at the baby girl lying between her legs, covered with blood and mucus, relieved that that part at least was over.

Placing the baby in the large grey coat, she cut the cord with the carving knife she had taken from the house, then wiped the tiny face, clearing the mucus from its nostrils.

After delivering the child, she felt so cold, her eyelids barely able to stay open as the blood leaving her body formed a black circle around her. Ellen didn’t know she would die that day, nobody knew, but when she closed her eyes for the last time, she could still hear the baby crying, a shrill sound, calling for a mother unable to answer, almost as if she knew that part of her had been taken.

If there had been an inquest into her death, it would have found she died because of irreversible shock, brought on by haemorrhage and exposure during childbirth. The woman who burned her body didn’t care about that, taking the baby into her arms as if it were her own. It was a miracle the child survived. Questions would be asked, but none that she couldn’t answer. Everyone knew Ellen was never quite right, soft in the head, a creature more to be pitied than scorned. Her disappearance, the women knew, like her life, would soon be forgotten.

Walking back towards the village, she kissed the baby’s forehead. The child wailed, scrunching its face like a piece of shrivelled rotten fruit, a primal instinct kicking in, telling it that something wasn’t right.

The woman thought about killing the infant then, but decided against it. Instead, she held her hand tight over the baby’s face while she smiled down at it. When she finally released her grip, the infant spluttered, then wailed even louder than before.

‘Now,’ the woman said to the child, ‘I’ve given you something to cry about.’

I have reasons for doing what I do. You may not know them yet, because I haven’t told you, but that doesn’t mean they don’t exist. It’s too early for judgement calls, far too early for that.

I’m considered attractive. I was described by an ex-lover as having an elegant face. Like everyone else, I have minor aesthetic flaws, which I’m keenly aware of. They are rarely commented upon; usually only the good bits are. I’m thirty-two. Not too young and not too old – but for what? I kill people. I could dress it up, say all kinds of stuff about it, but for now, all you need to know is that I do.

I stabbed a man recently, slit his throat and left him dead in a hotel bedroom. I tied his body up with ropes. If I told you I positioned him picture perfect, you wouldn’t understand what I mean, but soon you will.

My online tag name is Cassie4Casanova. The first time I used it was nine years ago in Paris. I was twenty-three then. I thought I knew things about the world. I guess we’re all guilty of that kind of stupidity. The man I was with had a darker side, but his badness was far easier to manage than the rest. That last afternoon, I met him at the Hôtel de Maurier. I took a photograph of myself beforehand. I was standing at a bookstore window. I gave the glass a sideways glance, checking out my appearance. It was a clear reflection. I could see the shine at the end of my nose. I thought it made the image more realistic. I often do that sideways-glance thing. Sometimes my face looks questioning; other times the glance is accompanied with a smirk. That day, I seemed bemused. The reason is unimportant.

In the photograph you can see the reflection of the flowers from the florist opposite, and a partial window display of Les Belles Boulangerie Pâtisserie. They both added a nice balance. I was wearing a cream raincoat. The collar was up, as if I had walked out of a Dick Tracy comic strip. I can see all of this as if it happened yesterday. I remember slowing the exposure on the camera lens to catch the movement of people walking by, each of them unaware of my thoughts. I take a lot of photographs, self-portraits. The camera is the eye. See how the picture is building up?

Less than an hour after I left the bookstore window, I stood outside the hotel. It was on a narrow street, set between the Latin Quarter and Saint-Germain-des-Prés. The small wrought-iron balconies were charming, with their fleur-de-lis design, the red and pink geraniums plummeting through the bars. Inside, the hotel was very different. It had more grandeur, with greater sex appeal.

On the top floor, the glimmer of an overhead chandelier shone down the gold and ruby hallway that led me to him. After I’d tapped on the door, I heard his footsteps. Opening the door, he looked angry. He liked to drink mid-afternoon. But that day, his eyes seemed sharper than normal, piercing, the whites of them almost dazzling. He had wickedness on his mind.

All he wore was a pair of faded jeans, and I could see the tightening of his chest muscles, the curled blond hair on his chest, his tanned feet. He was quite extraordinary in his way, that dangerous mix of fulfilment and disaster, beauty and ugliness so close they almost sparkled. ‘You’re late, slut,’ were his first endearing words, as he held the door ajar, waiting for me to go inside. I walked past him. I heard the click, click, click of my red stilettos, his favourite, on the shiny marble floor as he locked the door.

Even with my back to him I knew his eyes were on me, taking without touching. It wasn’t long before he yanked my hair, kissing me feverishly, as if his life depended on it. My lipstick smeared his face and mine, like a stamp of ownership. I usually wear Carmine.

We had champagne cooling on a side table. He popped the cork, then handed me a glass. I swallowed fast. The bubbles felt cold, the tiny droplets teasing my face, mixing with the smudged lipstick.

I had a role to play. I looked chastised, the way he liked it. I was still standing in my raincoat as he talked about one of his favourite artist, Degas, and all his many masks. I balanced on my red high heels, him pretending a lack of interest, engrossed in his own clever conversation. I reached out, opened the top button of his jeans.

‘My little whore.’ He smiled.

I’m not a whore. If men pay, they believe they own more than your sexual favours, they think they own YOU. It’s not money I seek. It’s not that simple.

I removed my coat, slipping out of my dress. His right hand yanked my hair again. ‘I want you,’ he whispered, his tongue swirling in my ear as he pulled off my underwear. I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror, and thought of the woman in the bookstore window. My nakedness changed me but, like Degas, I still wore my mask, one embroiled with lies and deceit. He groped me, as if I was some fiendish plaything, and again I stared at my reflection, seeing a stranger looking back.

He always took me from behind. I played my role with well-rehearsed modesty, pleading with him to stop. Afterwards he asked if I despised him. He was gentle then, crying big boyish tears, which I relished.

It was only in the tears that he was of any consequence. The killing didn’t come easy – endings are like beginnings: they change things. I DO CARE.

I’ve told you about this man because I need you to know something else about me. I will put myself in danger for what I want. Killing Pierre was risky. Others knew of my connection to him. But the truth isn’t always simple. It has its own concealments, and I have plenty of those.