The Lover's Children

Chapter 96 – Summer’s Inferno – Part 6

RICHARD

Klempner sucks at his teeth. “It could be argued that it’s not so much a break in pattern as another

escalation in the violence.”

“Or,” I suggest, “that she was being punished. He’s so far always targeted long-haired women. He

might not have been pleased that this woman didn’t fit the mould.”

James says, “Klempner, when we were talking with Michael, you mentioned a ticking clock. The killer

was running late to his schedule. Perhaps you were right? He couldn’t find what he was looking for and

so settled for less?”

Klempner gazes at the sixth board. “But when the girl didn’t meet his standards, it was reflected in his

attack on her?”

“It’s a working theory.”

“It is, yes. I’ll give you that one.” Klempner Hmmms, resting a fingertip on a close-up image of the

strands tight around the woman’s neck. “I’ll think on it.”

He turns to James. “Do you think that he…?” But his words are cut short by knocking… His head

swivels toward the door. “Who the hell…?” Then he strides through to the lounge following the noise.

James shoves hands in his pockets, frowning. “Who else knows about this place?”

“No idea. I didn’t think he’d told anyone…” Then I too, am cut short.

“Haswell!” Klempner’s voice, bristling with irritation. “You got a minute?” James arches brows and

together we follow him through.

Klempner stands by the door, held open, but blocking the view of some figure beyond, and clearly not

allowing entry to whoever’s on the other side. Rolling eyes toward me, his expression is martyred. “I

think you need to deal with this.”

As he stands aside, I see…

“Lydia!” I snap the word without intending so much heat, then moderate my tone. “This is a private

area. What are you doing here?”

The hang-dog teenager, her eyes swimming with guilt, darting to me, stands outside, a round tin held in

both hands. She almost whispers the words. “I made you a cake.” Lifting off the lid, she offers the tin to

Klempner.

He doesn’t move to take it. Lydia blinks, ducking her head. “I only wanted to say thank you...” She risks

another look at me… “… for helping me. I… I didn’t mean anything by it.”

“I’m pleased to hear it,” says Klempner, his voice crisp.

I step in. “Lydia, aside from the detail that this is a private area and you…” I level a finger at her chest,

and she retreats a step… “… should not be here, Mr Waterman is, as you know, a married man.” I

follow her backwards, deliberately looming… “What do you think Mrs Waterman would have to say if

she knew a young woman was calling on her husband?”

She droops further. “I’m sorry, Mr Haswell. I didn’t mean to…”

I back off, letting my tone soften a little. “You’re here now, so you can give your cake to Mr Waterman

here. After that, you go straight back where you belong…” She nods vigorously… “…and I’ll be

checking up that you do.”

Cringing, she thrusts the tin at Klempner, who takes it seemingly by reflex. Then turning tail, she bolts

back out and the sound of her fleeing footsteps is all that remains.

“Haswell, I know the girl means no harm…” Klempner picks his way through the words with the care of

one testing for mines, and at the end of a long pole… “… but I can’t…”

“And you won’t,” I say. “I’ll see Francis keeps a closer eye on her. As for meaning no harm, she might

not think so, but a teenage girl’s infatuation can get out of hand. We certainly don’t want Mitch thinking

you’ve developed a taste for young girls.”

“I’m glad you see it that way. As for Mitch…” Klempner blows air… “… She knows perfectly well which

way my tastes run. But I’m keen not to develop any misunderstandings with your pal Stanton.” He

palms the back of his neck. “Speaking of Mitch, could you let her know I’ll not be back this evening.”

“You’re not coming back with us?”

“No, I want to work through the files in privacy. I’d like you…” He levels a finger at James… “…to

ensure that Jenny stays at home…”

“… and doesn’t decide to go-adventuring?”

“Exactly.” James leans, peering into the tin. “Smells rather good, actually. What kind of cake is it?”

Klempner looks in at Thank You Mr Waterman piped across the top in trickly pink icing and pain flits

across his features. “I trust I can rely on the pair of you not to mention this to Mitch?”

James’ mouth quirks. “My lips are sealed.”

*****

KLEMPNER

After James and Haswell leave, I set myself up to work. Despite the nature of the task in hand, it feels

good. This the first time I’ve been able to devote myself to a project in…

How long?

It feels like years.

Something solid to do. © NôvelDrama.Org - All rights reserved.

Work that’s mine…

Comfortable in my armchair, I sling my feet up, ankles crossed, using a small coffee table as a

footstool.

Cutting into the cake, already missing two slices, I bite in…

Hmmm…

… chew, swallow, then bite again…

Some sort of candied peel dots vanilla-scented sponge. It’s soft and moist, and ever so slightly crusted

at the edges and base. In fact…

Not bad at all…

Topped with marzipan and finished with a hint of lemon in the icing, the cake wouldn’t win any prizes for

subtlety of flavour, but

Girl meant no harm…

Went to some trouble over it…

Another bite slips down well with my coffee.

Wouldn’t hurt me to thank her next time I’m down there…

I polish off the slice, sucking fingers and thumb clean of sugar and almond paste, then return my

attention to my murder boards.

Borje of course, asked the important question: why do something like this?

Why do men murder women?

More to the point, why does this man murder women?

Misogyny? Simple hatred?

Inadequacy? Can't pull a woman without paying or forcing her?

Sheer sexual thrill?

Revenge?

Revenge… The sheer fury of this last attack… Coupled with the change in the method…

Broken his pattern...

Why?

Six women.

All healthy.

Good looking. Even athletic. Different physical types. Different ethnicities.

All hookers.

All with long straight hair. Except the last. Short haired, but wearing a wig…

Working theory - it’s about the hair…

Why the fixation?

A fetish?

Maybe some religious statement?

Women should wear their hair long?

Something niggles at me. Some half-remembered quote. Something religious…

Not that religion has been any part of my life, but in fact, I’ve found that I’ve read more of the ‘Holy

Books’ than most. All that time in airports and hotels needed filling…

Tapping into my phone, it only takes a minute or so to locate the nagging reference…

But if a woman have long hair, it is a glory to her: for her hair is given her for a covering. 1 Corinthians

11:15, KJV:

And yet, most of the fundamentalist religious groups I can think of, require women to have their hair

tied up, bound back or covered. How do they reconcile that?

Or am I barking up the wrong tree entirely?

If the killer has any religious fixations, I see no way of pinning them down. More than that, I don’t have

the mental makeup to put myself inside the head of someone who thinks like that.

Occam’s Razor…

Keep it simple…

… for now, anyway…

In the absence of evidence, back to basics…

We have a maniac that gets off on torturing prostitutes…

But why hookers?

Easy pickings?

?

No...

Not with the murder method…

Banknotes blocking the airway…

It’s about the money too.

But the sheer viciousness of the attacks, way beyond plain murder…

?

Revenge?

Even if it’s vicarious revenge?

This feels like payback.

But for what?

?

Maybe his mother was a pro?

Or a sister?

Revenging himself against a poor childhood?

?

Women for sale…

?

Suppose there was some woman who wasn’t for sale?

My mind tumbles back over the years…

A woman who will sell everything…

Except herself…

Mitch…

My glorious Mitch.

Everything was negotiable except her soul.

But that was the part of her I wanted.

And when I lost her, I spent more than twenty years spilling my rage and my hate against the world,

making everything and everyone around me pay for what I couldn’t have.

Is that what I’m dealing with?

A revenge-obsessed psychotic trying to fill the hole in his ego?

It feels right.

Or am I just reverse-engineering my own experiences to concoct a theory?

My phone pings: Lorelei

Think we might have something.

What u got?

Got someone for you to meet.

On my way. Where?

Ruby’s Roadside Canteen. 20 min.

*****

At the cafe, I find Lorelei waiting, James, Michael and Jenny gathered with her.

“So, what do you have for me?”

Lorelei talks sidelong to me, eyes scanning the street and the passing traffic. “I spread the word for

you, asked around, firstly for just, y’know, weirdos in general.”

“And?”

“I can give you a list that…” She stretches her arms wide… “…that long, of weirdos, kooks, loonies,

freaks and nutters. Some of them are harmless. Some of them aren’t. If you want to go through the list,

we can…”

“Will it take us anywhere?”

“Don’t think so. However, I also asked about this schmuck in your photo to see if he rings a bell with

anyone.”

“And?”

“It seems that while there’s a thousand guys in grey hoodies and jeans wandering the City, there’s one

in particular that’s ruffled a few feathers.”

“Ruffled how? Scaring hookers?”

“Not just hookers. You mentioned your guy had a sort of petty spitefulness about him. There’s someone

I know runs a burger bar, one of those mobile street-carts. He’s a bit of an old timer, but he’s nice.”

“Client of yours?”

“Ah-Ah.” She shakes her head. “Just a nice guy. Sometimes, if it’s been a bad night, business-wise, he

gives me a burger or a dog. Y’know, like on the house. Anyway, I was telling him about what you said.

He remembers someone matching your description that spat on his hot plate and over the cooked food.

He had to throw the lot away. That sound about right?”

“I’d say that qualifies as cheap spite, yes. You’ve had other possible sightings?”

“Yup. Possible. If you’re good to go, I’ll take you around some of the girls I know.”

“I’m good to go, yes.”

She scans our group. “You can’t all come. That’d freak out a lot of them. That many of you ganging up

on them.” She angles a nail at me. “Just you.”

James nods agreement. Jenny scowls.

“I’d agree with that,” I say. “Jenny, I think you should go home. You can’t leave your mother looking

after Cara indefinitely. She already has her hands full with Vicky.”

She opens her mouth to protest, but Michael lays his hand over hers. “He’s right, you know. And Cara

needs her mom as well as her Granny.” Jenny’s scowl fades, replaced by…

Anxiety?

Depression?

Michael and James see it too, exchanging glances.

I push my chair back. “I’ll be in touch; let you know what we learn.”

*****