Lying Beside You (Cyrus Haven #3)(38)

‘The bindings you found on Maya Kirk’s ankles, what were they made of?’

‘Woven hemp. Why?’

‘She was bound in a particular way and the ropes formed a pattern on her chest. It’s called Shibari – a form of rope bondage that originated in ancient Japan. It began as a form of torture but has morphed into performance art; or a form of subjugation.’

‘Should I ask how you know this?’

‘I studied fetishes and paraphilias at university.’

‘And I wasted my time on medicine.’

Ignoring his chortle, I ask if he’s had any more results back on Maya.

‘We found traces of semen on her dress, which was highly degraded but gave us a partial DNA profile. There was also semen on the sofa in the living room, next to where we found Rohan Kirk.

‘We did an analysis on the dust and grit found beneath Maya’s fingernails and embedded in her knees. The samples contained traces of sand, lime and oyster shells, suggesting some sort of mortar, but nothing modern.’

‘How old?’

‘Nineteenth century, maybe earlier. And the paint chips had a lead carbonate pigment, which dates from the same period. She was held somewhere old.’

There are lots of historic buildings in Nottingham, which could narrow down the search.

‘What about the toxicology report?’ I ask.

‘Nothing in her bloodstream, but some drugs aren’t detectable after twenty-four hours. We’re testing her hair follicles, which should tell us more.’

Ness wishes me a goodnight, and I go back to studying the photographs, turning slowly clockwise and then anticlockwise on my chair. The ropes, the shaving of the head, the slow suffocation – all are indicators of someone using control to subjugate and humiliate. The question is why? Sexual gratification? Revenge? Jealousy?

During the Spanish Civil War and the Second World War, women were often punished by having their hair removed, particularly if accused of collaborating with the enemy. It is a gendered form of violence, targeting their identity and sexuality. Maybe we’re looking for an incel (involuntary celibate), who blames women for their failures. Someone who believes that feminism has gone too far and that men are owed sex and servitude and unquestioning respect from women.

If this were the case, drawing up a profile would be relatively straightforward. I would be looking at someone with a high sex drive, who has struggled to form intimate relationships – a man who falls in love easily, but who lacks the social skills to woo the women who attract him and, ultimately, begins to resent what he can’t have, and to fantasise about punishing those he believes are responsible.

But this is different, and I don’t know enough to understand why. The violence, the control, the elaborate bindings, the shaved head, all suggest a sexual psychopath, but it’s almost as though the killer has ticked off the relevant boxes.

I know what Lenny would say: ‘If it walks like a duck and quacks like a duck …’ But this little duck is trying so hard to be a duck, maybe it’s not a duck at all.





26


Evie


My feet are hurting. I wore flats but I’m not used to doing so much standing or weaving between tables. The bar is packed with people, who are getting drunker and louder. I’ve forgotten how much I dislike crowds and the possibility of strangers touching me.

Every table is taken and they’re standing two-deep at the bar. I recognise the different groups. The football fans who have been drinking since before the game and are celebrating a win or a loss with equal amounts of alcohol. By the early hours they’ll be eating doner kebabs or greasy food-truck burgers and picking fights with anyone wearing a different coloured shirt.

There are single guys on the pull, who act like roosters eyeing off the hens – young women in clingy dresses, sparkly tops and tight jeans. Some are here to flirt, or be seen, or find love, or to blag a free cocktail before they go dancing at one of the clubs, which aren’t worth visiting until after midnight.

There are other groups. Husbands and wives, boyfriends and girlfriends, first dates and last dates. Brando calls them ‘punters’ and acts like he owns the bar instead of managing the place. He’s working alongside two bartenders, Eric and Grady, who are bantering as they mix cocktails, pour wine and pull pints.

My job is to collect glasses, wipe tables and direct people to the loos. A trained monkey could do it. I’m also supposed to be on the look-out for pickpockets and bag snatchers.

Most of the people treat me like I’m invisible unless they want something.

‘We don’t do table service,’ I say for the umpteenth time.

A drunk guy in a red football shirt tries to hug me. I duck under his closing arms and navigate my way to the kitchen, carrying a tray of empty glasses. Backing through the swing doors, I enter an oasis of quiet, not calm. The chef is a big-bellied Geordie, who uses swear words like adjectives. Mostly, he yells at the small Filipino man who is packing and emptying the dishwasher.

I take a moment to catch my breath, slipping off my left shoe and massaging my toes. The chef yells across the kitchen. ‘Put yer fookin’ feet away. This is not a fookin’ foot spa.’

I give him the middle finger and smile, before pushing back through the doors. On the far side of the bar, I notice the bouncer signalling to Brando. Moments later, four police officers enter and move between tables. Three are in uniform. The fourth is in a rumpled suit. A detective.