Simon Beckett - The Chemistry of Death

He was masturbating.

The noises from beyond the pool of light became more urgent. She heard him give a choked cry. His boots scuffed against the floor, then fell still. Jenny stood unmoving, hardly breathing herself as she listened to his ragged breaths gradually quieten.

After a while he stood up. She could hear a rustling, then he was coming towards her. She kept her eyes on her feet as he stopped, so close she could smell him. He thrust something towards her.

'Put it on.'

She reached out to take it, but found herself staring at the knife. Put it down, she thought. Put it down, just for a second. Then we'll see how brave you are. But he didn't. The knife stayed in his hand as Jenny took the bundle from him. When she saw it was a dress she felt a faint flicker of hope, thinking he was going to let her go. But only until she recognized what she was holding.

It was a wedding dress. White satin and lace, yellowed with age. It was filthy and matted with dark, crusted stains, and Jenny gagged as she realized what they were.

Dried blood.

Jenny dropped it. The knife lashed out, neatly splitting the skin of her arm in a crimson line. It immediately began to well and run.

'Pick it up!'

Her limbs seemed to belong to someone else as she made herself bend down for the dress. She began to step into it before realizing that wouldn't work with the rope around her ankle. Hope flared briefly, but something made her stop before she could ask him to untie it. That's what he wants. She knew it, intuitively. He wants me to give him an excuse.

The room swam around her, but the insight gave her strength. Clumsily, she pulled the dress over her head. It smelled foul, a clotted odour of mothballs, old sweat and a faint trace of perfume. As the folds of heavy cloth covered her face she felt suddenly claustrophobic, terrified that the knife would slash at her again while she was trapped. She scrambled free, gulping for air as her head emerged.

But the man was nowhere near. He was in the darkness behind the light, busy with something on the workbench. Jenny looked down at herself. The wedding dress was creased and stiff. The blood from her cuts had smeared onto it, adding new stains to the dried ones already present. But it was finely made, the satin heavy and thick, with an elaborate panel of lace fleur-de-lis on its front. Some bride wore this once, she thought, numbly. The happiest day of her life.

There was a ratcheting sound, like a clock being wound up. Still hidden by shadows, the man set a small wooden box next to the lamp. It was only when he lifted its lid that she realized what it was.

It was a music box. There was a tiny ballerina on a plinth in its centre. Jenny stared as the figure began to revolve, and a delicate chime tinkled crookedly into the fetid air. The mechanism was damaged, but the broken tune was still recognizable. Clair de Lune.

'Dance.'

Jenny was jerked out of her trance. 'What?'

'Dance.'

The instruction was so surreal it could have been another language. Only when the knife was raised was she shocked into motion. She began swaying from one foot to another in a drunken, tethered parody of dancing. Don't cry, don't let him see you cry, she told herself. But the tears still ran unchecked down her face.

She was conscious of the man watching her, half-hidden in the shadows. And then he was moving towards the steps. Jenny stopped dancing in bewilderment as he disappeared up them. For a moment she thought he was going to leave without walling her behind the wooden planks. But after only a few seconds footsteps started back down again. They were slow and measured, much more sluggish than when he'd gone up. There was something dreadfully ominous about their deliberate tread. He's trying to scare you, she told herself. It's just another game, like the dress.

She jerked her eyes away when the figure materialized at the bottom of the steps, and started to shuffle in time to the music once more. Keeping her head down, she heard him move slowly across the cellar. There was a scrape of wood and then the chair creaked again. She knew she was being watched, and her movements became stiff and uncoordinated under the physical pressure of his gaze. Are you enjoying this? she thought, fiercely, trying to fan her anger. It was the only way she could make the fear manageable.

The music was slowing, growing even more discordant as the mechanism wound down. As it died there was the scratch and flare of a match. For a moment the shadows jerked away from its yellow flame, and then darkness flooded back. But not before Jenny caught a glimpse of the face above it.

And all at once she understood.

The music had stopped without her noticing. She heard the box being rewound as the mingled smell of sulphur and tobacco smoke drifted across to her.

Crushed under a new weight of shock and despair, she continued her broken shuffle as the music chimed back into life.

The police released Ben Anders later that same day. Mackenzie phoned to tell me.

'I thought you'd want to know,' he said. He sounded tired and flat, as if he'd been up most of the night. He probably had.

I was in my office at the surgery, retreating from the emptiness of my house. I didn't know how I felt at the news. Pleased for Ben, yes. Yet there was also an unexpected sense of disappointment. I'd never really believed Ben was the killer, but on some level there must have been an element of doubt. Or perhaps it was just that as long as the police were questioning a suspect, regardless of who it was, there was a small hope of finding Jenny. Now even that had gone.

'What happened?' I asked.

'Nothing happened. We're satisfied he couldn't have been at her house on the afternoon she went missing, that's all.'

'That's not what you thought earlier.'

'We didn't know earlier,' he said, tersely. 'He wouldn't tell us where he was at first. Now he has, and it checks out.'

'I don't understand,' I said. 'If he'd got an alibi, why didn't he tell you straight away?'

'You can ask him that yourself.' He sounded irritable. 'If he wants to tell you, he will. As far as we're concerned, though, he's in the clear.'

I rubbed my eyes. 'So where does that leave us?'

'We'll carry on pursuing other leads, obviously. We're still looking at forensic evidence from the house, and-'

'Forget the official bullshit, just tell me!' Silence came down the line. I took a deep breath. 'Sorry.'

Mackenzie sighed. 'We're doing everything we can. I can't tell you any more than that.'

'Are there any other suspects?'

'Not yet.'

'What about Brenner?' At the last moment I decided not to mention seeing him that morning. 'I'm still certain he was the one who tipped you off about Ben Anders. Isn't it worth talking to him again?'

Mackenzie failed to conceal his impatience. 'I've already told you, Carl Brenner's got a alibi. If he was responsible for the false lead then we'll tackle him about it later. Right now I've got more important things to do.'

The despair I'd been trying to hold at bay was in danger of swamping me. 'Can I help?' I asked, knowing what his answer would be but hoping anyway.

'Not right now.' He hesitated. 'Look, there's still time. The other women were kept alive for three days. There's every reason to think he'll follow the same pattern now.'

Is that supposed to make me feel better? I wanted to shout. Even if Jenny were still alive, we both knew she wouldn't be for much longer. And the thought of what she might be going through in the meantime was unbearable.

After Mackenzie rang off I sat with my head in my hands. There was a knock on the door. I straightened as Henry came in.

'Any news?' he wanted to know.

I shook my head. I couldn't help but notice how tired he looked. Which wasn't surprising, really. Since Jenny had disappeared I'd given up any pretence of seeing patients.