Simon Beckett - The Chemistry of Death

'Fair point.' I appreciated her tact. She knew as well as I did that my appointment list was shrinking. 'Where's Henry?'

'Having a doze. I think surgery this morning took it out of him a bit. And don't look like that. It's not your fault.'

Janice knew I was doing something for the police, if not exactly what. There was no way I could have kept it from her, and no real reason to. She might have liked to gossip, but she knew where to draw the line.

'Is he OK?' I asked, concerned.

'Just tired. Besides, it's not just the work.' She gave me a meaningful look. 'It would have been his anniversary this week.'

I'd forgotten. There had been too much else going on for me to keep track of dates, but Henry always became subdued around this time of year. He never spoke about it, any more than I did when mine came round. But it was there, all the same.

'It would have been their thirtieth,' Janice went on, keeping her voice down. 'Makes it even worse, I suppose. So in a way it's good that he's working more. Helps him keep his mind off it.' Her expression hardened. 'It's just a shame that-'

'Janice,' I said, warningly.

'Well, it is. She didn't deserve him. And he deserved better.'

The words came out in a rush. She seemed close to tears.

'Are you all right?' I asked.

She nodded, smiling tremulously. 'Sorry. But I just hate seeing him get upset over…' She broke off. 'And all this other business. It just wears everybody down.'

She started bustling over the magazines again. I went over and took them off her.

'Tell you what, why don't you go home early for once?'

'But I was going to vac up…'

'I'm sure we can stand to be a health hazard for another day.'

She laughed, more herself again. 'If you're sure…'

'Certain. Do you want a lift?'

'No! It's too nice an evening to be sitting in a car.'

I didn't insist. She only lived a few hundred yards away, and most of that was on the main road. There was a point where being safety conscious became paranoia. Still, I watched through the window as she went down the drive.

When she'd gone I went back to the magazines she'd left and made a token attempt to finish straightening them. A few old copies of the local parish newsletter had found their way into the pile, left by patients too idle to throw them away. I dropped them into the bin, but as I did something on one of their pages caught my eye.

I retrieved it from the waste bin. Sally Palmer's face smiled brightly out at me. Below her photograph was a small piece about Manham's 'celebrity author', printed a few weeks before she'd been murdered. I hadn't seen it before, and it was unsettling to find it now, after her death. I started to read it and felt as if the air had been driven from my lungs. I sat down, read it again.

Then I went to phone Mackenzie.

He read the article in silence. He'd been at the mobile incident room when I'd phoned, and when I told him about the newsletter he'd come straight over. The back of his neck and hands were livid with sunburn as he read the story. When he'd finished he closed the paper without expression.

'So, what do you think?' I asked.

He rubbed at the peeling and reddened skin on his nose. 'It could be just coincidence.'

He was being the policeman now, professionally uncommunicative. And he might be right. But I doubted it. I picked up the newsletter and looked at the story again. It was only short, little more than a filler on a quiet news day. The caption read 'Country life gives wing to local author's imagination'. The quote that had inspired it was at the end:

Sally Palmer says living in Manham helps her to write her novels. 'I love being this close to nature. It helps my imagination take flight. It's the next best thing to having wings,' says the critically acclaimed writer.

I put the newsletter down. 'You think it's a coincidence that someone stuck a pair of swan wings into her back a couple of weeks after she said this?'

Mackenzie showed signs of exasperation. 'I said it could be. I'm not prepared to say one way or the other just off the back of a flimsy item in a newsletter.'

'So how else do you explain the mutilation?'

He looked uncomfortable, like a man forced to recite a party line he wasn't convinced by himself. 'The psychologists think it might be a suppressed desire for transformation. Giving her angel wings after he'd killed her. They say he could be some religious nut who's obsessed with a higher state.'

'What do the psychologists say about the other dead animals? Or what he did to Lyn Metcalf?'

'They're not sure about that yet. But even if you're right, that' – he gestured at the newsletter – 'doesn't explain it either.'

I chose my words carefully. 'Actually, that was something else I wanted to talk to you about.'

He regarded me cautiously. 'Go on.'

'After I called you I looked through Lyn Metcalf's medical notes. And her husband's. Did you know they were trying to start a family? They were considering fertility treatments.'

It only took him a second to get it. 'Baby rabbits. Jesus,' he breathed.

'But how would the killer know about that?'

Mackenzie looked at me, debating something. 'We found a pregnancy testing kit hidden in a drawer in the Metcalfs' bedroom,' he said, slowly. 'There was a receipt in the bag, from the day before she went missing.'

I remembered bumping into her as she came out of the chemist's. How happy she'd looked. 'Had it been used?'

'No. And her husband claimed he didn't know it was there.'

'But you don't buy something like that unless you're planning to use it. So she must have thought she could be pregnant.'

Mackenzie nodded, his expression grim. 'And what would a pregnant woman say to someone who'd kidnapped her? "Don't hurt me, I'm having a baby."' He passed a hand over his face. 'Christ. I suppose there's no way of knowing now if she was or not?'

'Not a chance. Not so early in the term and with the condition the body was in.'

He nodded, unsurprised. 'If she was, though – or if she only thought she was – then catching this bastard's going to be even harder than we expected.'

'Why?'

'Because it means the mutilations aren't planned in advance. He's making it up as he goes along.' Mackenzie rose to his feet, looking tired. 'And if he doesn't know what he's going to do next, what chance have we got?'

After he'd gone I drove out into the country. I didn't have any destination in mind, just wanted to get away from Manham for an hour or two. I wasn't seeing Jenny that evening. We were both surprised by how suddenly things had developed between us, and after the intensity of the last two days we needed some time apart. I think we both wanted breathing space to stand back and consider this unexpected sea change in our lives, and where it might take us. There was an unspoken sense that neither of us wanted to spoil things by going too fast. After all, if this was what we both felt it to be, what was the hurry?

I should have known better than to risk tempting fate.

Before long I found myself on top of a low rise, offering views of the spreading landscape around me. I stopped the car and got out. I sat on a hummock of grass, watching the sun sink towards the waiting marshes. Light blazed golden from the pools and creeks that formed abstract patterns in the reeds. For a while I tried to concentrate on the murders. But it all seemed too far removed from me now. The colours of sky and land slowly deepened towards night, but I felt no compulsion to move.

For the first time since the accident I felt as if the future had opened up for me. I was finally able to look ahead rather than to the past. I thought about Jenny, and about Kara and Alice, searching myself for any trace of guilt, any sense of betrayal. There was none. Only anticipation. The pain of absence was still there, and always would be. But now there was also an acceptance. My wife and daughter were dead, and I couldn't bring them back. For a long time I'd been dead as well. Now, unexpectedly, I'd come alive again.