Bolton, J. - Now You See Me

‘It’s that easy to break in?’ said Tulloch.

‘Well, sooner or later, anyone wandering around at night will be picked up on camera, trip an alarm or bump into one of the security staff,’ said Stenning. ‘But if the guv’nor’s right, she had hardly any distance to go before she got to the gorillas. I’ll bet she was in and out in ten minutes.’

‘Why, though?’ asked Tulloch. ‘What is she playing at?’

‘That’s exactly what she’s doing,’ I said. ‘She’s playing.’

Joesbury leaned back in his chair and gave me the full benefit of his ‘nasty’ smile. ‘And she’s really starting to enjoy herself,’ he said.

By the end of the day we knew that the wax head had been liberally smeared in human blood, which is why the gorillas had reacted to it. Whether it was Karen’s blood we’d find out in time, but none of us had any doubts. Tulloch had assigned two detective constables to try and track down where the head had come from. They’d started with Madame Tussauds, who couldn’t report any missing exhibits, either from the main collection or the warehouses. Staff there had been happy to hand over a list of other possible suppliers. Searches through eBay and other internet sites were proving surprisingly fruitful. Likenesses of severed human heads really weren’t that hard to find.

‘The world’s gone fucking nuts,’ was Anderson’s reaction to that, when he got back from the zoo. Stepping into the incident room, he had a moment of unprecedented popularity. In response to numerous questions, he said that the gorillas were fine, none the worse for their upset of the morning, that the keepers were watching the pregnant female closely but weren’t unduly concerned, and, just so he knew where he stood, was anybody in the room still interested in the ongoing murder investigation?

When he’d got over his huff, he told us that the zoo had been opened again, with only the Gorilla Kingdom still out of bounds. None of the morning’s visitors that Mizon had talked to had seen anything out of the ordinary, but we hadn’t expected them to.

The figure in the black skateboarding clothes had come and gone by moonlight. I sat and watched the few seconds of film showing her cross the main avenue over and over again.

‘She’s five eight, possibly five nine,’ said Stenning, who had come up behind me without my hearing him. ‘And those clothes look loose to me. I’d say she was quite thin.’

‘Karen Curtis’s mother described the nurse as a little thing,’ I said. ‘Five nine isn’t little.’

‘Perhaps she just meant skinny,’ said Mizon. I hadn’t realized she was there either. ‘And she said black hair. In the photograph we have, Victoria had black hair. Impossible to see under that cap though.’

‘Some women change their hair colour more than I change my socks,’ said Joesbury. I must have been really engrossed not to see him coming. ‘And clothes make a huge difference to body shape. What do you think, Flint?’

‘About what?’ I said, without taking my eyes off the screen. ‘Your chances of pursuing a second career as a personal stylist?’

He leaned against the back of my chair. I could feel his knuckles against my shoulders. ‘Do you think she’s wearing heels?’ he said. ‘Wind it back a bit.’

Mizon leaned over and clicked the recording back to the beginning.

‘Look at that,’ said Joesbury. ‘Look at the way she’s walking.’

We watched the black figure keep her head down as she crossed the main avenue and disappeared into the gorilla enclosure.

‘Gayle, are you wearing heels?’ asked Joesbury. Mizon raised her right foot to give us the benefit of her two-inch court shoes. It was a modest heel by most women’s standards but about the maximum a serving police officer could get away with.

‘Can you walk over to the far wall?’ asked Joesbury. ‘If anyone wolf whistles, I’ll clobber ’em.’

Mizon made a face that was somewhere between a simper and a silent giggle and set off.

‘Flint, are you in your usual Doc Martens?’ said Joesbury. ‘Why don’t you do the same?’

Reminding myself that telling a senior officer to eff off wasn’t the way to keep a low profile, I got up and walked to the wall. I didn’t even own a pair of Doc Martens. When I reached Mizon I turned round. Joesbury was an asshole.

‘OK, both of you, come back. Slowly.’

We did what we were told. Only one of us was smiling.

‘I hope there’s a point to this,’ said Tulloch from the doorway.

‘I’d say what we can see on screen is a woman trying to make out she’s bigger than she is,’ said Joesbury. ‘She wears baggy clothing and heels.’ He pointed to the screen. ‘Look,’ he said. ‘She’s walking like Gayle. Heels throw a woman’s hips forward. And I’d say she’s being careful, like she’s worried about stumbling. Flint, on the other hand, is stomping around like a man.’

A couple of people in the room sniggered. I wasn’t one of them.

‘I’d say Mrs Richardson got it right,’ said Joesbury. ‘She is quite small. How tall are you, Flint?’

‘Five six,’ I said, through gritted teeth.

‘Really?’ He walked over and lifted my jacket from the back of my chair. ‘This is a size twelve,’ he said. ‘And it drowns you. So you’re an eight? Ten on a fat day?’

‘Thank you, Mark, we get the point,’ said Tulloch. ‘She’s a small to average-sized woman who tries to disguise it when she knows she’s likely to be filmed. Now, before I forget, are you free to go to Cardiff over the weekend? You can take Gayle to keep you in order.’

I excused myself and left the room. I needed to find something to break.

73

Saturday 6 October

I WAS WALTZING. SO I KNEW IMMEDIATELY IT WAS A DREAM. I’ve never waltzed in my life. But in my dream I was whirling, Viennese style, spinning like a top, round and round as the music grew louder, and everywhere I turned there were red balloons and streamers and bright-scarlet confetti falling like petals from the ceiling.

I spun faster, and the music in my head started to hurt. Then suddenly the balloons and the streamers and the petals were changing, taking on odd shapes, gleaming wet. The streamers weren’t paper any more, they were entrails. The petals were blood spatters and the balloons – oh Christ – the balloons were severed human heads, staring at me with milky eyes everywhere I turned.

With something between a gasp and a scream I was awake. I was out of bed, standing at its foot, shaking. The room was dark and for a second I could see nothing but the lights of Joesbury’s alarm system. Tiny red lights.

I’d had no idea how disorientating it would be to wake suddenly in the middle of the night and not be in bed. How vulnerable it would make me feel. I stumbled across the room and switched on the light.

As soon as I could see, the first thing I did was to check my body, my arms, legs, torso. The dream had been so vivid that even now I was convinced I was covered in blood. There was nothing, of course. The sticky dampness I’d felt on waking was just sweat. Harder to explain away, though – in fact, impossible – was the music.

The music hadn’t been part of the dream. The music was still playing. At first I thought it was in the room with me, but I knew I’d checked all the locks and alarms before going to sleep. It was coming from outside. I was wearing a running vest and loose shorts. I don’t own nightclothes. I found a sweatshirt on the chair and pulled it on.

Outside, the music was louder. I was surprised other people in the house hadn’t woken and heard it. It was an instrumental version, but of course I knew the lyrics off by heart. Raindrops, roses, copper kettles and wild geese . All the best things in the world. Favourite things.