Page 72 of Guilty Mothers
‘Two,’ Keats offered. ‘In the back.’
He pointed to one between the shoulder blades and one lower, around the right kidney.
She surveyed the body again, taking a good look round. Nothing under the fingernails, clothing not in disarray. This was definitely a stealth attack from behind.
She looked closer at the face and frowned.
Unlike in the movies, dead people rarely maintained their last expressions on their faces; fear, horror, joy were all erased as the facial muscles relaxed for the final time. And yet there was something about this attack that had lingered.
‘Her eyes are red,’ Kim said, realising what looked out of place.
‘Well spotted, Inspector. Neither of the stab wounds killed her. She choked to death.’
‘Wh-What?’
‘Given long enough without medical attention, she likely would have bled out from the knife wounds, but she didn’t get the chance.’
‘Foreign object?’ she asked, remembering the flipper and the eyelashes.
‘Yes, but I can’t tell what yet. It’s been pushed pretty far down.’
Kim was pondering whether she’d prefer the choking or bleeding-out option. Both probably brought unconsciousness first. At least for this woman’s sake she hoped so.
‘Guy on the bike found her. Sees her most mornings on his way to work,’ Bryant offered, appearing beside her.
‘Anything Keats hasn’t already told me?’
‘The dog’s name is Banger.’
‘I’ll rephrase. Anything useful?’
‘Nope.’
‘Got an address for me?’
‘Already on Bryant’s phone,’ Keats said.
Kim turned to leave the scene but paused to reflect. The first murder had been more brutal, the rage fully expended in multiple stab wounds. The killer had taken their time in the privacy of Sheryl’s home. The second had taken place in Andrea’s home. More violent stab wounds.
The third victim was out in the open and exposed. It was more risky, and yet the killer hadn’t used the reduced time available to stab the woman to death. They’d used it to make sure they forced something down the victim’s throat. What the hell was that about? And who was it for? Was the killer trying to tell the victim something, or the police? Was it a literal representation of forcing something down someone’s throat, or was it more subtle? Did it mean anything if this particular victim had still been alive when it had been inserted?
Kim didn’t yet know its purpose, but she was starting to wonder if the message was more important than the crime.
FORTY-SIX
My eyes open and the delicious aroma from downstairs finds me. My pleasure is short-lived as I realise what this means.
Mom is cooking.
I will get downstairs and the kitchen counter will be filling up with plates piled high with savoury snacks; little pizzas, mini burgers, sausage rolls, pork pies, Scotch eggs, all the things I love that make my mouth water. But I won’t be allowed to touch them.
My weight has been stable since my last diet. I breathe a sigh of relief every week at the weigh-in when a smile lights up her face. I get to eat, but I don’t get to eat food like this.
That’s not even the reason for my misery. The food preparation means we’re expecting company. It will most likely be Mrs Rushton, who lives in the next street with her three sons, all named after royalty. The eldest, Henry, has a permanent sneer; the middle one, Louis, loves to rile his older brother; and baby William just follows the pack. They will instantly dive into the goodies, will be allowed to eat whatever they want, gobbling and gorging.
A portioned plate will be put aside for me before they arrive. I will nibble my meagre ration to make it last while Mom and Mrs Rushton ask questions about each other’s lives.
‘Rise and shine,’ Mom calls out, bursting into my room. She bustles across the floor and throws open the curtains. ‘Our visitors will be here soon and I want you to show off your new walk.’ She claps her hands in delight.