The Infirmary (DCI Ryan Mysteries prequel)(50)

*

There was an army of police surrounding Nicola Cassidy’s garden flat by the time they made the short, five-minute journey from the hospital on foot. They took the route they thought it most likely she would have taken each day from her current placement, which was on the paediatric wards in the main hospital building and the university dental and medical faculties. Small footpaths connected the main roads to the hospital from either side and it would have been an easy commute each day for the woman who wanted to work with children.

“Her supervisor says she wanted to qualify into paediatrics,” Phillips said, as they passed by the dental and medical faculty buildings. “Says she was a solid student, popular with the patients and staff. They all seemed pretty cut up about it.”

“We’ll look at all of them,” Ryan said shortly. “Anyone who ever knew her or worked with her.”

“Already got Lowerson on the case,” Phillips said, reaching for a cigarette. “But we’re snowed under as it is. It’ll take weeks.”

“Everybody works overtime,” Ryan said. “We can’t afford to ease off, Frank. He’s still escalating.”

Phillips gave him a questioning look.

“With the first, he had his fun, but it was still a quick kill. Maybe a part of him was still worried about getting caught. But then, there was Sharon. With her, he hit out at the police, at justice. He was less cautious, but he was still in and out of her house in a few hours.” Ryan paused as they stepped around a group of students. “With Nicola Cassidy, he didn’t just spend hours, he devoted days. That’s the next level.”

Ryan slipped inside the mind of a killer, braving the darkness once more.

“He must be furious,” he murmured. “She deprived him of the final kill.”

“We got to her house pretty sharpish,” Phillips said. “If he left anything behind, Faulkner’ll find it. He didn’t have time to clean up after himself, this time.”

Ryan nodded.

“Here’s hoping.”

*

His body trembled, both in anger and ecstasy.

The police had been so close. He’d thought about striking out, about surprising them all and watching them goggle as he offloaded the shackles he wore each day and showed them the man beneath. How he would have laughed to see their astonished faces. It would have been interesting to see how many he could get through before he was overpowered. It might have been worth it, if only to be recognised, for once.

Above all else, he longed to be recognised.

It was exhausting, the skin he wore each day to blend in with the rest of them. Even more exhausting was the effort he made to socialise, to remember the right faces to make at the right time, and the right words to say at the appropriate moment.

It had been a shock when he’d seen Ryan at the hospital with his little sidekick in tow. Of course, he had expected them to turn up at some stage, but he’d still experienced a little jitter of excitement. It had been a supreme test, talking to them, playing the part, pretending to care whether the woman lived or died.

And that had been another shock, he admitted. He’d worried for a split-second whether it had shown on his face as they’d wheeled her in. Had anyone noticed?

They’d been too busy trying to save her and, ironically, so had he.

Of course, he’d have made sure something happened. It wouldn’t have taken much to orchestrate an overdose or threaten to kill her mother if she talked before he could finish the job.

He’d have thought of something.

As it turned out, the mere sight of him had been enough to finish her off. That brought a smile to his face, followed swiftly by a snarl of anger.

How dare she leave?

How dare she leave him?

True, he’d known the risks of leaving her unattended for too long. The sedative was bound to wear off and with every passing hour he’d worried about the dosage. All the same, he’d never dreamed she would escape. That was a lesson, he supposed, to be tougher in future.

He’d know better, next time.





CHAPTER 21


When Ryan stepped inside Nicola Cassidy’s garden flat, he could still sense her killer’s presence. Beneath the human faeces and infected flesh, beneath the rotting food in her tiny kitchen, he could smell his essence following them from room to room like a spectre.

They found Tom Faulkner standing in the doorway of her bedroom holding a sketchbook and pencil in his gloved hand.

“No camera?”

His pencil stilled, then continued to fly across the page.

“Sometimes it helps to visualise what happened,” Faulkner explained. “I’ve taken photographs, too.”

He didn’t bother to add that the process of drawing was cathartic. He was as human as the next man, and some days were harder than others.

Besides, there was the small matter of his wife leaving him. She had upped and left, clearing out her things sometime while he’d been at the lab helping to find a serial killer.

But they didn’t want to know about that.

“Can you tell us anything yet?” Phillips asked, peering at the man’s sketch with admiration. “Hey, Tom, you’ve got a good hand there, mind.”

“I do a bit in my spare time,” Faulkner said, tucking the sketchbook under his arm. “Usually more attractive scenes than this.”