Warhol's Prophecy (45 page)

‘But the fact that you knew her so intimately just made it worse,’ Hailey said, her voice heavy with scorn. ‘And she’d even kept some of your letters – how touching. And gift tags? What kind of presents did you buy her, Rob? How much money did you waste on that fucking slag?’

‘You’re glad she’s dead, aren’t you?’

‘I won’t shed any tears over her.’

Rob shook his head. ‘I don’t expect you to.’

‘She had it coming,’ Hailey said flatly.

‘You’re a cold bitch sometimes.’

‘Perhaps it was someone else whose marriage she’d ruined. She seemed to make a habit of that. Who else had she fucked other than you, Rob? How many other married men had she used?’

‘Give it a fucking rest, will you?’

‘Why? Is the memory painful?’

‘It was over between us, Hailey – you know that. How would you feel if some copper walked in here and told you that your friend Adam Walker had been murdered?’

‘There was nothing between us.’

‘I’ve only got your word for that.’

They regarded each other angrily for long moments.

‘I’d have thought
you’d
have been pleased, too,’ Hailey exclaimed. ‘I mean, if she thought that much of you, why did she get her brother to beat you up and nearly kill you?’

‘You heard what Tate said. He didn’t think she knew anything about that business.’

‘He didn’t
think
she knew.’

‘Perhaps he was the one who tried to run me off the road that night.’

‘And the one who pushed dog shit through the letterbox? And slashed your tyres? And broke into the house?’

Rob shot her an angry glance.

‘What are you talking about? What break-in?’ he demanded.

She told him about the dolls.

‘Why the fuck didn’t you tell me about that?’ he rasped. ‘Why didn’t you tell the police?’

Go on: tell him the truth. At the time you thought it was Walker. You were protecting him, weren’t you?

‘It doesn’t matter now,’ Hailey said. ‘
He’s
gone too. They’re both out of our lives. That’s all
I
wanted.’

‘Well, you got your wish, didn’t you? I hope you’re happy.’

‘You don’t know what he might have done next, Rob. What if he’d attacked Becky? Or me?’

Rob exhaled wearily. ‘Well, we won’t know now, will we?’

He glanced at his watch.

‘You’d better go,’ he said. ‘You’re going to be late. You don’t want that, do you?’

She put a hand on his shoulder.

‘What happened to her, and to her brother,’ she said quietly, ‘it’s for the best. You’ll see.’

‘Are we sending flowers to the funeral?’ he said flatly.

Hailey smiled humourlessly.

‘That isn’t funny, Rob,’ she told him.

She left him sitting alone.

I
N THE MORTUARY
the smell was always the same.

The pungent odour of chemicals, mingled with the more caustic aroma of antiseptic.

And the heavy, cloying stench of death.

It was a smell that DC Tate had come to know well, but one that he’d never got used to. Never would get used to either, he told himself.

He closed the door behind him and walked slowly into the large, high-ceilinged room. It was painted a uniformly dull green: the same colour as the smocks of those who worked within. There were two or three smocks also hanging on pegs on the far wall.

Four mortuary slabs.

Tables, the staff liked to call them, but to Tate they were slabs, pure and simple. Stainless steel with a gutter and a number of strategically placed holes, for drainage.

Beyond them were the lockers where bodies were stored for various reasons.

Some corpses were awaiting examination. Some were waiting to be removed – perhaps for burial. Others would remain there for months. Unclaimed. Unwanted.

It was a storehouse for sightless eyes.

There was a small office just beyond, its door firmly closed. It bore a sign saying
PRIVATE
.

A small trolley stood beside one of the slabs, a linen cloth hiding the gleaming instruments it carried.

Tate wondered if another body was about to be brought in. No one had mentioned it to him.

He crossed to the closest slab and leant against it, feeling how cold the metal was beneath his palms. The temperature was kept at a constant fifty degrees, which chilled the metal even more.

It chilled his blood too.

He crossed to the lockers and ran his gaze over them.

The contents of numbers four and five concerned him.

They concerned him greatly.

He reached out to touch the handle of number five.

‘We can’t keep you away, can we?’

The voice startled him and he spun round, his heart thudding a little quicker in his chest.

Bernard Swain, the chief pathologist, was in his thirty-ninth year, four years older than Tate. A tall, wiry man with thinning hair swept back severely from his forehead, he sported a goatee beard which, despite his belief that it made him look trendy, actually looked to Tate as if someone had glued a dead mouse to his chin.

‘They’re still in there, Matt, if that’s what you’re worried about,’ Swain said to him, nodding towards the lockers. ‘Brother and sister.’

Swain passed through into the office and slid open a drawer in his desk, rummaging around for some papers he wanted.

‘Someone really didn’t like
that
family, did they?’ the pathologist observed. ‘Layton would have been better off staying inside.’

‘You’re sure the same person killed them both?’ asked Tate.

‘You read my report.’

‘Yes, I did.’

‘Then what’s the problem? The same knife was used in both murders.’

‘A blade approximately twelve inches long, serrated on one edge.’

‘Exactly. The angle of the cuts was the same in both cases. So was their nature. There were approximately fifteen stab wounds to the upper part of Sandra Bennett. Another six to the vagina, probably inflicted
after
she was dead.’

‘Thank Christ for that,’ Tate breathed.

‘Twenty-two stab wounds to the body of David Layton, including four to the genitals. One of which, as you know, split his penis from top to bottom. He wasn’t so lucky: he was still alive when that was done. In addition, there were fractures to eight major bones, all inflicted with a heavy object made of metal. Probably an iron bar.’

‘The killer would have been covered in blood,’ mused Tate.

Swain nodded.

‘And yet we found no fingerprints or fibres at either scene,’ Tate muttered. ‘No clues, no motive, no suspects.’ He exhaled wearily. ‘What about the other business? You didn’t make any mention of it in your report.’

‘My job’s to examine the bodies they bring in here, Matt, not speculate on cases.’

‘But you must be curious. Why
did
he take their heads?’

C
AROLINE
H
ACKET SAT
back from the table, and patted her stomach appreciatively.

‘That was a beautiful meal, Adam,’ she said. ‘Thank you.’

‘My pleasure,’ said Walker, raising his wine glass. ‘It’s surprising how easy it gets when you’re cooking for yourself every day.’

‘Tell me about it. I’m just grateful for microwaves and frozen meals,’ Caroline chuckled.

She eyed him over the kitchen table, watching as he sipped at his wine.

‘Perhaps next time you’ll let me cook
you
a meal,’ she said.

He nodded almost imperceptibly.

‘There
is
going to be a next time, isn’t there?’ she persisted.

Walker met her gaze. ‘Of course,’ he told her.

‘You don’t sound too sure.’

He finished what was left in his glass and pushed it away empty.

‘It’s a nice house,’ Caroline said, aware that his mind was elsewhere. ‘It must get lonely here, though.’

‘Do
you
get lonely?’

‘Sometimes.’

‘I’ve been on my own for so long now, I prefer it that way. Did Hailey tell you about this house?’

Caroline looked puzzled.

‘She mentioned it briefly, but . . .’ She allowed the sentence to trail off.

‘You know what happened here, don’t you? You said that Hailey had told you.’

‘Yes, she did, and I know she’s treated you badly since.
She
knows that she was wrong.’

Caroline got to her feet and walked around the table towards him. She stood behind him, gently massaging his shoulders with her slender fingers.

‘Does her husband know?’ Walker asked.

‘Why don’t you forget about Hailey?’ Caroline said, a slight note of irritation in her voice.

Walker stood up suddenly, turning to face her.

‘Why?’ he said. ‘So I can concentrate on you?’

He pulled her face towards him and pressed his lips against hers, feeling them part, feeling her tongue anxiously seeking his.

He slid one hand between her legs, brushing the inside of her left thigh, allowing his fingers to climb higher until they touched the soft cotton of her panties.

Caroline pushed herself against him, surprised by the ferocity of his kiss.

When they finally parted, she was panting.

He kept his hand between her legs, fingers stroking softly, expertly.

‘Is this what you want?’ he said, looking into her eyes.

She nodded.

He slid two fingers beneath the gusset of her panties, stirred the moisture there, then lifted those same two digits to her mouth and touched them gently against her lips.

‘Taste yourself,’ he said softly, watching as she licked his outstretched fingers, her tongue flicking over his wet digits. Caroline closed her eyes, her breathing now ragged.

He held her face between his palms and kissed her lightly on the lips.

‘You should go,’ he whispered.

Her eyes jerked open. Walker was smiling.

‘
Now?
’ she said, almost incredulously. She opened her mouth to say something else, but he put a finger to her lips to silence her.

‘Now,’ he repeated.

She stepped back from him slightly, trying to control her breathing.

‘I can stay if you want me to,’ she told him.

‘Another time,’ he smiled.

She ran a hand through her hair.

‘You really are a puzzle, Adam,’ she told him, touching his cheek.

‘It’s not the right time,’ he explained. ‘I’ve got things on my mind. Besides, we’ll have plenty of other nights together.’

‘I’m sorry,’ she told him. ‘I should have realized. With what happened to your father and . . .’

‘It’s not
your
fault,’ he told her.

She managed a smile.

‘So, you’re throwing me out, are you?’ Caroline joked.

‘Yes, I am.’

He walked her through to the hall, helped her on with her coat, then pulled her to him again. Once more she was surprised at the passion of his kiss.

‘You’re a bastard,’ she told him, grinning.

He looked at her indignantly.

‘For sending me home like this,’ she continued.

‘I’ll pick you up at seven tomorrow,’ he said.

‘The gig doesn’t start until nine. Let me cook
you
a meal tomorrow, before we go.’

He kissed her lightly on the lips. ‘We’ll go in my car,’ he said.

‘No, let me drive. I—’

He cut her short. ‘
My
car,’ he insisted.

She nodded.

He watched as she turned and headed back to the waiting Saab.

Watched her slide behind the steering wheel and start the engine.

Watched her drive off.

He closed the front door and made his way back through the hall, but he bypassed the kitchen and made straight for his study.

The smell of paint was welcoming and he shut the door behind him.

His latest canvas was positioned in one corner of the room. It was already close to completion. Walker looked at it for long moments, taking in every detail, his face expressionless.

It was huge: fully fifteen feet across, and half that again in width.

But this was for no eyes but his.

Not yet.

It was almost complete.

Almost ready.

He studied it again and smiled.