Nicci French - Until it's Over

‘What about?’

‘Everything. Leave nothing out. Spare me nothing.’

I thought for a moment. ‘Kamsky said that you do profiles for them,’ I said. ‘Wouldn’t it be a good idea if you told me the sort of person you have in mind? Then if I know someone like that, I could tell you.’

Bradshaw stood up and a smile spread slowly across his face.

‘A white man,’ he said. ‘Early thirties. Over six feet tall, strongly built. Lives alone. Sexually isolated. Possibly with some sort of disfigurement. He works with tools: a carpenter or a plumber or a leather worker.’

‘Why a leather worker?’

‘Someone who works with incising tools – it was his natural way of expressing himself.’

‘How do you know the rest of it?’

He gave a shrug. ‘It’s just a hypothesis,’ he said. ‘Serial killers choose victims of the same racial group as themselves. I suspect that Margaret Farrell was opportunistic, but he chose Ingrid de Soto. She was his age but otherwise everything that he wasn’t: rich, beautiful, married. He was able to overpower Margaret Farrell and kill her in a matter of seconds in the street. That suggests a degree of physical strength.’

‘And the disfigurement?’

‘The way he cut Ingrid de Soto. That represented both his sexual frustration and, I suspect, his own sense of being mutilated. He wanted to make her like himself.’ Dr Bradshaw folded his arms with obvious satisfaction. ‘Even when they think they’re concealing themselves, they’re leaving traces, signatures, clues.’

‘Well, I don’t know any disfigured leather workers,’ I said.

‘I don’t want you to be a detective,’ said Dr Bradshaw. ‘I just want you to talk. I don’t want your theories. I want to know everything you know.’

I couldn’t stop myself sighing. It was clear that another Saturday was going to be wasted.

‘I’ve got something for you,’ said Davy. ‘I thought it might cheer you up.’

We were sitting in his room, which was on the floor above mine, overlooking the street. It was one of the few bedrooms in the house that felt restful to be in. When Davy moved in, he had painted it a grey-green colour, sanded the boards and put up shelves, though there weren’t many books on them. He had a futon, a large chest of drawers, which he had painted white, the swivel chair I was sitting on, and a square blue rug on the floor. The room felt light and airy. Since Mel had arrived on the scene, there was also a large wooden wind chime hanging from the ceiling, which gave out a liquid booming if you knocked into it, and flowers on the mantelpiece above the fireplace that was never used. Today, a giant red peony was wilting in its vase. It seemed a shame he’d put so much effort into making it so nice only to be moved on.

‘Do I seem like I need cheering up?’

‘If it was me, I’d need cheering up,’ he replied. ‘Anyway, it’s for me as well. I thought it would be a treat. These people I was putting a staircase in for – illegally, I might add, I’m sure it breaks safety regulations and they’re probably giving me this as a bribe – they had a pair of tickets going spare. For the Chelsea Flower Show. I thought we could go together. You like gardens.’

He beamed at me, pleased with himself.

‘Oh?’ I felt a bit taken aback. ‘Wow! Do I have to wear a hat?’

‘It’s not Ascot.’

‘That’s really lovely,’ I said, making myself smile hugely. ‘Thanks, Davy.’

On an impulse I kissed his cheek and saw him flush up to the roots of his wavy brown hair.

‘You’re welcome,’ he said.

‘When is it?’

‘About ten day’s time. Is that OK?’

‘Great,’ I said, though my heart was sinking at the thought. A day of having to spend time with someone I didn’t especially want to spend time with. A day of being on my best behaviour. It was like being a child again, visiting an unfavourite aunt.

‘Can you get time off work?’

‘If I warn Campbell.’

‘We can have a picnic first.’

‘Lovely. I really appreciate it, Davy.’

‘Well.’ He shrugged. ‘You’ve been having a tough time.’

‘Yeah,’ I said. ‘It’ll pass, I guess. I don’t want to think about it right now, though. I’ve had enough for one day.’

I picked up a beautiful glass paperweight that was on the mantelpiece, and passed it from hand to hand, looking at how the light caught in it. ‘Paperweights never have paper underneath them, do they?’

‘Oh,’ he said, apparently disconcerted. ‘I’ve never thought about it.’

‘Sorry, I’m changing the subject. The thing I really need, Davy, is to find somewhere else to live.’

‘No luck?’

‘No – which isn’t surprising, really, since I haven’t started looking. I keep putting it off. What about you?’

‘I’ve put out a few feelers.’

There was a silence, and I put the paperweight carefully back in its place. ‘I should be on my way, I guess. I’m going dancing.’

‘Nice,’ he said, a bit wistfully.

I considered inviting him along too, but then dismissed the idea. I wanted to get away from the household, rather than take it with me.

I came home very late that night, with music still pounding in my ears. The house was dark, and I fumbled with my key in the lock. Then I heard a tiny whimper, coming from one side of the steps, and froze. What was it? A cat? I peered down and saw a huddled shape, a patch of pale flesh. For a moment I couldn’t breathe or move. My keys clattered to the ground and bounced down the steps to lie by the shape. The whimper came again; not a cat but a human voice.

‘Who is it?’ I asked, my voice dry with fear.

‘Help.’

‘Dario?’

I ran down the steps, half tripping, and crouched beside the figure on the ground. He was lying curled up tightly, like a foetus, with his arms protectively round his head. When I touched him my hands came away sticky with blood.

‘Christ, Dario, what’s happened? Hang on, I’m going to call an ambulance. Don’t move. Just stay there.’

‘No ambulance. No police. Don’t!’

He moved an arm from his head and clutched at me with his fingers.

‘Hang on, I’m going to call the others at least. One second, Dario. It’s all right.’

I picked up my keys and bounded back up the steps, opened the door and bellowed into the darkness: ‘Help! Pippa! Miles! Mick! Davy!’

I thought I heard someone groan, but that was it.

I hammered on Miles’s bedroom door and pushed it open, turning on the light and seeing Leah emerge from the covers like a mermaid coming out of the waves.

‘What -’ she began.

‘Miles!’

‘What’s up? Astrid? Astrid!’

‘Come and help now. It’s urgent. Dario’s hurt. Leah, get the others. We’re outside the front door. Come on!’

I left them, hammered at Pippa’s door and yelled her name again, then ran out of the front door, leaving it open so that the light fell on where Dario lay.

He’d moved now, and was sitting huddled on the bottom step, his face in his lap and his arms wrapped round his body. I sat beside him and put an arm around his shoulder. ‘If you can move, let’s get you inside.’

He muttered something unintelligible into his knees.

‘I really think I ought to call an ambulance.’

‘No!’

He half sat up as he said this and I gasped as I saw his face. One eye was closed, his nose was swollen and shapeless, and blood smeared his chin and ran in gobbets from his mouth. ‘Can’t see properly.’

‘Here, take my arm.’

‘Dario.’

It was Miles, and behind him I saw Davy, then Mel, in bright pink pyjamas, her hair in plaits.

‘Help me get him inside.’

Davy took one arm and Miles the other. Mel cooed and tutted beside them. Pippa appeared in boxer shorts and an old T-shirt.