Kill Who You Want

Chapter Nineteen

Plot reminder: It is still the morning following the second murder. Vince believes he saw the killer flee from the scene.

~~~~~

Kubič watched as Wye squeaked a marker to the CID room whiteboard. Marvelled for a moment at how she was able to keep such straight lines rather than flop into childlike downward curves as he did. Female brains, he decided, were just better with matters of balance somehow.

Right at that moment he would have had enough trouble just walking in a straight line. Eighteen hours had now passed since Sergeant Mullins' call as he'd floated around the supermarket aisles, of which only three had been spent in a horizontal position with eyes closed; the desperate search for a brief truce of unconsciousness had in any case proved a vain one. The rest of the period had been an unprecented and unsustainable frenzy of activity. Tiredness was no longer just a state of mind. It had become a way of life.

That he had so little to show for his efforts - that they all had so little to show for their efforts - was the most exhausting thing of all. The morning round of door-to-door inquiries in the Cresswell Road area had proven only marginally fruitful. A one Miss Florence Meekins of Derby Mews - a cul-de-sac lying at right angles behind the Underhill house - had as she'd closed the curtains the night before spied a pair of figures out in the street. At 83 years old, she'd been the first to admit that her vision was not what it had once been, however. It was a handicap which had been further hampered by the cloud-covered night, the thickening blizzard. There was nothing wrong with her hearing though, she'd proudly announced to PC Naylor on the doorstep. It had been just a minute or so after she'd heard the faint smash of glass somewhere out in the neighbouring streets; of this she was adamant. From what she could remember, the slightly shorter of the two dimly-lit figures had been just about to enter the alley which led towards Cresswell Road; a small, bobbing light had partially illuminated his midrift. The taller figure, meanwhile, had been just emerging from the alley. In his right hand,, she seemed to remember, had been some kind of long, thin case which she'd at the time assumed to be something similar to that which her son-in-law carried his pool cue around in, but she was quite prepared to be proven wrong on this. The figure had also seemed to be veering towards a nearby parked car, details of which however escaped her. Not exactly big but not exactly small: this was all she'd felt able to specify.

All of which was potentially very interesting of course, but without a decided sharpening of the focus lens - without facial descriptions, car make and colour - quite, quite useless. The morning's media dealings had included an impassioned plea for either of the figures to contact authorities.

Taking a sip of the coffee he'd had PC Borthwick bring up from the station canteen, Kubič expended what little mental energy remained to him in contemplation of the question Wye had put up on the board:

Connection Between Recipients?

Other than the obvious fact that Adam Butterfield and Nathan Edwardson were both male, the two inhabited different demographic universes. The former was more than twice the age of the latter. Middle class versus wrong side of the tracks. University graduate against special educational needs.

Maybe the problem wasn't the answer, but the question. Leaving a space underneath in case anyone came up with something later, Wye set to work with the marker once more.

Connection Between Victims?

"He couldn't have known for sure he'd need to kill Sophie of course," she commented, clicking the top back on the marker pen. "Very nearly didn't have to in fact."

Kubič nodded grimly. "Boy pulled himself back from the edge. More a cry for help than attempted patricide." He took another sip of his coffee. Wincing, he then pushed the mug away: far too weak. He needed something stronger, the kind of hit only vodka could provide...