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  It started with the little finger on her right hand. She snapped it with the left. Out of curiosity, she said. It didn’t hurt. She smiled. It was somehow pleasurable. It went on for years, over which period of time, as a result of jumping from trees, stumbling down river banks, cycling into walls, and playing with the vice bolted to the workbench in her father’s shed, she’d managed to successfully break six of her eight fingers, both wrists, her left leg, her collar bone and an ankle. She was young, she healed quickly. Her mother put her boisterous behaviour down to her exuberant nature and a surplus of sugar in her diet. It never occurred to her that the problem might be more deep-rooted than that. She stopped snapping her appendages in her late teens when she discovered something else, quite by chance. She’d been darning a jumper. Sitting on her bed, darning her favourite jumper, when she accidentally pricked herself with the needle. On the inside of her thigh. If it had been me, I would probably have sworn. Most people would’ve yelped. She did not. She grinned as she told me how aroused she became when she pushed the needle in again, and again, using her forefinger to demonstrate the action.

  Although it never disappeared completely, her penchant for sticking sharp objects into her leg waned when she started university. She couldn’t say why. I’m guessing it was the distraction, though I find it hard to believe Staffordshire could have that effect. It was her enthusiasm for bugs and small, flying insects which dine on human flesh that had led her there, convinced that her future lay buried in the world of entomology. By the end of the first term, she’d realised she’d made a mistake. Insects were ridiculously small and impossible to dissect. She switched courses and moved to Nottingham where she studied biology and became somewhat skilled in the use of a scalpel, slicing open anything to hand – rats, frogs, rabbits, hearts, livers. Anyway, she went on to gain a first and graduated with honours. I asked her why she didn’t take it further, you know, take up a career in medicine, or pharmacology, perhaps. Actually, pathology would have been more appropriate. She admitted that, during her final year, that seemed like the logical thing to do, but something unexpected occurred, something which put her off studying for good. The senior lecturer. He was about twenty years older than her, not bad looking by all accounts, married with a nice wife, a nice house and nice kids. He took her under his wing, coached her, encouraged her, preyed on her all too obvious vulnerability. It was only a matter of time. They had a fling, what she described as a ‘five-night stand’. When she realised her mistake, that the relationship was foolish and destined to failure, she told him it was over. He, however, thought otherwise. He’d become infatuated, obsessed almost, and, despite her protestations, took to following her around campus, even turning up unexpectedly on her doorstep late at night, to deliver an ultimatum: either they continued seeing each other or he would make sure she failed her degree. She relented, and agreed to see him one last time. She didn’t go into detail, didn’t tell me exactly what happened, she just smiled and asked if I knew what it was like to be circumcised whilst ‘in flagrante’. That’s when the tables turned. In return for not telling his wife of the affair, nor the board of governors, she gained her degree and took great delight in reading her bank statement a few weeks later where the balance was shown to be in credit by a staggeringly large amount. Enough for a deposit on a quaint, terraced cottage, no doubt.

  I think that’s what made her so, so charismatic. That’s what intrigued me about her. The fact that, on the outside, she was sugar and spice and all things nice, but on the inside, she was snips and snails and puppy dogs’ tails, with an appetite for, well, anything not quite normal. And for someone so small, she had one hell of an appetite.

  She was a die-hard carnivore and there was nothing she liked more than devouring a decent steak, the size of the plate, swimming in blood. Oh, apart from steak tartare, that is. She called it steak tartare, I called it raw mince with an egg on top. For some reason, she enjoyed eating it with her bare hands. It wasn’t a dish we shared. Like me, she balked at the idea of consuming anything green, anything called ‘cereal’, or anything labelled ‘healthy’ or ‘low fat’. She was, what those who were jealous of her petite physique called, ‘lucky’, lucky to have a high metabolism. I told her it had nothing to do with metabolism, more the fact that her diet was almost exclusively protein, and for breakfast, that meant eggs. Poached. On toast. Eggs Benedict if we went out. Scrambled, on a Sunday. With bacon. Dry-cured. Streaky.

  She didn’t own a television. Four million channels from around the world and not a single thing worth watching, unless, as she said, you were as vacuous and banal as the meaningless tripe that appeared on the screen. She listened to music instead, mainly John Denver, Willie Nelson or Andy Williams, stuff with a gentle refrain, played on an old stereo system bought for her on her 21st birthday. At night, she listened to the radio. ‘Book at Bedtime’. It sent her to sleep.

  She enjoyed reading. I thought she may have liked Salinger or Heller. Salinger would have suited her. Instead, I underestimated her level of intelligence and realised her masochistic tendencies stretched to literature when I perused the shelves. They were lined with the kind of volumes often seen on the returns desk at Waterstones or used to hold doors open. Solzhenitsyn, Tolstoy, Borges, Cervantes, Chekhov, Homer, Dostoyevsky and Flaubert, scattered in between medical journals and books on biology, immortality and Buddhism. Buddhism? That explained the meditation. Every evening, for an hour. I never had her down as the religious type but then, as she delighted in telling me, Buddhism was not a religion for there was no God, no redemption and no heaven. Buddhism is a moral, philosophical and ethical way to live in the here and now in the hope of escaping the cycle of Samsara and attaining the ultimate state of Nirvana.

  I wittily pointed out that she was she still in the cycle of Samsara, proof of which was the birthmark, shaped like Denmark, on the small of her back. Nothing large or obtrusive, not that it troubled her. She said ‘why should I be bothered about something I can’t even see?’. Her back was her soft spot, the vulnerable area where she liked to realise those mild, masochistic tendencies which were, no doubt, a legacy of her youth. She enjoyed having her back scratched. Hard. And that was a revelation. I mean, not wholly unexpected, but for someone who looked so ‘innocent’, it was like finding out that Mary Poppins was in to bondage. She’d lie there, face down, sweating and groaning while I clawed it to pieces. The more it bled, the more she groaned. Looked like she’d been lashed with a cat o’nine tails. She asked if I’d ever dripped hot wax on anyone before. That smile. A tingle. She kept the candles in the cutlery drawer.

  CHAPTER 4

  VICTORY ROAD, WANSTEAD. 8.47am

  Apart from the colossal, stained glass windows and the terracotta brickwork, the most noticeable feature of the old orphanage, an imposing, Venetian-style building, was the clock tower.

  ‘Are you sure this is it, Sir?’ said West, as they strolled through the landscaped gardens, oblivious to the squad car parked by the communal entrance. ‘I was told the address was Clock Court.’

  Munro stopped in his tracks.

  ‘Charlie,’ he said. ‘I know it’s not a name that fires the imagination, but, unfortunately, it was the best those clever, wee, marketing men could do when they hacked this magnificent building to pieces. Just look up there, look and tell me, what do you see?’

  West, befuddled, ignored the morning sun bouncing off the glowing brickwork and regarded the building with an air of indifference.

  ‘Well,’ she said, hesitantly. ‘It looks like an old hospital, and, a bit like a church, I suppose. Just an old building, really. It’s alright. Bit old.’

  Munro heaved a sigh and gazed up at the tower.

  ‘A bit old? I despair. What we have here, Charlie, is a unique example of Gothic-influenced, eighteenth century architecture, two hundred years of history, magnificent enough to inspire poets and artists, and all those philistines could do was look no farther than that wee clock up there, hence the name. Incidentally, it do
esnae work.’

  ‘Oh,’ said West, unimpressed. ‘Shall we? Second floor, flat C.’

  Munro shook his head and glanced around the rows of parked cars.

  ‘Hold on,’ he said. ‘Does he have a motor car?’

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘This Farnsworth-Brown fellow, does he have a motor car? Could he have driven off somewhere?’

  ‘I…’

  ‘You’ve not checked, have you?’

  West cursed under her breath, snatched a notebook from her jacket pocket and scribbled furiously on a blank page.

  ‘I’ll do it as soon as we…’

  ‘That you will, Charlie. That you will.’

  Two officers stepped from the car. One, a Police Community Support Officer, looked on as his superior, Sergeant Tommy Cole, wearing a helmet and body armour, retrieved the ‘enforcer’ from the boot. They climbed the hollow stairwell to the second floor in silence and hovered outside the apartment. Munro glanced down the corridor. Stud walls, a tired carpet and four anonymous-looking doors. He nodded. West knocked the door. No answer. She knocked again. They waited.

  ‘Right, lad,’ Munro said, addressing the Support Officer, ‘try the other flats, see if anyone’s seen or heard anything of our friend.’ Stepping back, he winked at the other officer and grinned. ‘Okay, Tommy,’ he said, ‘let’s take a look inside.’

  The door flew open with a single strike, taking the architraving and deadbolts with it. They stood, stock still, holding their breath, waiting, listening, for any signs of life.

  ‘After you,’ said Munro.

  They filed in, Sergeant Cole first, followed by West. Munro gasped as he entered the apartment.

  ‘Holy Mother of God,’ he said, gazing skyward, ‘will you look at the height of that ceiling. How on earth is one expected to clean up there? It’s cavernous. Aye, that’s the word. Truly, cavernous.’

  The sparse furnishings made the entire apartment appear even larger than its 1500 square feet. The timber-clad, vaulted ceiling, two mezzanine levels and wrought iron staircases, held them in awe. Munro stood, speechless, bathed in a single shaft of sunlight that streamed, almost religiously, through a huge, arched window.

  ‘You could fit ten of my house in here,’ he said, turning slowly on his heels.

  ‘Probably twenty of mine,’ said West.

  ‘I’m saying nothing,’ said Cole.

  The PCSO, an ex-traffic warden, ex-reservist and volunteer steward at his local football club, shattered the reverential stillness with his brash, Bermondsey brogue.

  ‘Bloody Nora!’ he said, pushing his cap to the back of his head. ‘It’s like the bleedin’ Tardis.’

  Munro, taken aback by the rambunctious intrusion, regarded him contemptuously.

  ‘The Tardis? Perhaps you’d care to journey somewhere?’ he said, quietly. ‘It can be arranged.’

  ‘Sir.’

  ‘Well, what did you find?’

  ‘Not much luck, Sir,’ said the PCSO, straightening his cap. ‘Flat A, no answer. Flat B was answered by a Lithuanian gentleman whose grasp of the English language, I have to say, left a lot to be desired.’

  ‘I see,’ said Munro, rapidly tiring of the Officer’s monotonous delivery.

  ‘Incidentally, if you don’t mind, Sir, I’m going to request that we pay him another visit. There’s about eleven people living there, sure Immigration might have something to say about it.’

  ‘As you will,’ said Munro. ‘And the other…’

  ‘Just coming to that, Sir. The other flat, flat D, directly opposite, was occupied by a very helpful chap. Scottish. From Glasgow, he says.’

  ‘Glasgow, indeed?’ said Munro, with a wry grin. ‘Well, well, well, looks like the area’s on the up, at last.’

  ‘He said he last saw Mr. Farnsworth-Brown about a week ago. They passed on the stairwell, exchanged pleasantries. That was it. Oh, said he was with a young lady, on their way out, they were.’

  ‘Excellent,’ said Munro. ‘And do you not think it might be useful to have a description of this, young lady?’

  ‘Probably.’

  ‘Well?’ sighed Munro. ‘What are you waiting for, man? Go get it. Right, Charlie, Tommy, down to work. Gloves please, ladies and gentlemen.’

  West scurried up the stairs to the mezzanine level while Munro sauntered through to the small, almost afterthought of a bathroom. Arms folded, he leaned forward and scrutinised the tiles around the tub and the shower. Clean. Not even a watermark. A single toothbrush languished in a plastic beaker by the wash basin. Dry. He sniffed the air. The faintest of odours wafted up from a bale of towels piled high on a stool. Fabric conditioner. They had not been used. Next door was the kitchen. It too, was so disproportionately small it was suitable only for those who despised cooking and lacked the inclination to wash dishes. The worktop was spotless. No cups. No plates. No pans. The fridge, empty. Not even a pint of milk. The kettle, half full. Cold. Mr. Farnsworth-Brown, concluded Munro, was either on a diet or employed an impressively, meticulous cleaner. He winced at the sound of West screeching from above.

  ‘Sir!’ she wailed. ‘Got something!’

  Munro swore under his breath.

  ‘Leave it, lassie!’ he yelled back. ‘Don’t even breathe on it, do you hear?’

  He trudged up the spiral staircase and paused at the top to take in a bird’s eye view of the apartment.

  ‘Something wrong,’ asked West, with a frown.

  ‘Altitude sickness,’ said Munro, glancing towards the bed. ‘He’s not slept here, either.’

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘The bathroom’s not been touched and the kitchen’s bare, there’s not even a stale Garibaldi in the cupboard. And his bed, it’s all made up like they do in a hotel. The only thing that’s missing is a wee mint on the pillow. So, what have you got?’

  West pointed to a side table.

  ‘Phone,’ she said, as Munro dropped to his knees and squinted at the handset, ‘almost missed it, being white on white, it’s what they call a smartphone, not like the old...’

  ‘A smartphone?’ said Munro. ‘Is that so? And there was I thinking it was an iPhone, a 4s by the looks of it, you can tell by the size of the screen, you know. Now, come here and squat beside me, you might learn something.’

  West, feeling suitably belittled for her patronising comment, knelt silently beside him.

  ‘Now, Charlie,’ he said, almost whispering, ‘lower your head til you catch the light, take a good look and tell me what you see.’

  West bit her lip as she pondered her response.

  ‘Come on, lassie, we’ve not got all day.’

  ‘I give up,’ she said. ‘There’s nothing here. Nothing but the phone. And dust.’

  Munro broke a satisfied smile.

  ‘Hallelujah,’ he said. ‘Well done.’

  ‘Really? Are you being sarcastic?’ said West.

  ‘Look at the phone, again,’ said Munro. ‘Look closely. What do you see?’

  West hesitated.

  ‘No dust,’ she said, with a smug grin.

  ‘We’ll make a detective of you, yet,’ said Munro. ‘So, what does that tell us?’

  ‘That the phone hasn’t lain here for a week? That, that it was placed here recently?’

  ‘Exactly. And very carefully at that.’

  Munro pulled a small flashlight from his pocket.

  ‘Are you alright, Sir?’ said West. ‘Do you want the lights on? Glasses?’

  Shaking his head, Munro directed the pale blue beam at the phone.

  ‘It’s an FLS, lassie. A Forensic Light Source. Did they not teach you anything? The phone’s been cleaned, not even a smudge of a print. It’s spotless. Whoever placed it here, knew exactly what they were doing.’ He stood and stretched his back. ‘We need to know if anyone else has a key to this place, see what you can find out. I want forensics down here quick as you like, doors, floor, the lot, then get the phone away for analysis, see what you can get off it.’

  ‘
Sir.’

  Sergeant Cole was waiting by the door.

  ‘Been all over, Guv, nothing obvious, place has been cleaned by the looks of it. If he was here, he’s either been abducted by aliens or he’s spontaneously combusted.’

  Munro grinned.

  ‘Don’t talk daft, Tommy, there’s no scorch marks. Right, I’m away, I’m due in court in twenty minutes. I’ll see you back at the office. Just in time for lunch, I hope.’

  ‘I can get you something on the way back if you like,’ said West, keen to prolong her winning streak. ‘I see there’s a sushi place on the high street.’

  Munro, cringing at the suggestion, regarded her with a look normally reserved for Celtic losing a home game.

  ‘Sushi?’ he said. ‘Are you joking me?’

  ‘What’s wrong with Sushi?’ said West. ‘It’s healthy, fresh, and it’s good for you.’

  ‘You think so, Charlie? Are you not aware that that little piece of raw fish, wrapped in seaweed with a dollop of rice, is laced with MSG? And corn syrup, not to mention potassium sorbate and a handful of artificial colours which not only make the dish look pretty, but will also make you hyperactive and quite possibly cause a tumour or two?’

  ‘Oh, and I imagine you’d probably prefer a couple of steak pies, instead?’ said West, pushing her luck. ‘Or something deep-fried, perhaps?’

  Munro’s smile unnerved her.

  ‘Oh, aye, perfect, lassie,’ he said, quietly. ‘Tell you what, why not wait til I get back and we’ll visit The Duke instead, get blootered on a few pints of Deuchars, then head to the bookies for a wee bet before a haggis supper. What do you say?’

  ‘Sorry. I mean…’

  ‘Cheese and tomato, please. White bread. No butter.’