Grave Doubts.

Elizabeth Corley.

For Kathleen and Robert.

With love.

FEBRUARY.

He watched the woman from his hiding place deep in the bushes. It would be dark soon and the remaining occupants of the park would leave. The chill evening and threat of rain had driven most away already but he knew that she would wait because she had an appointment, with him.

It pleased him that he had this power over her. The first time he'd suggested that they meet she'd been eager. She had lingered in the rain for nearly an hour while he waited in the warmth of his car. When she finally gave up he'd followed her home, delighting in the glimpse of her long calves as they flashed from the confines of her winter coat. He should have taken her soon afterwards, that had been the dare. Instead he'd hesitated. Hours of delay had turned into days, days into a week. He let opportunities pa.s.s, happy enough with his fantasies and the pleasure of anonymous proximity. He had brushed by her in the street, smelt her perfume and pondered over her solitary, idle existence. She never went to work.

After a week his points were forfeit. He should have abandoned her and moved on to someone else. Instead he'd asked her out for a second time, something he had never done before but she was special. He knew that she'd be better than all the rest, worth the danger, and the punishment he was risking because of his disobedience. It was forbidden to go back for the same woman twice, completely against the rules.

He glanced at his watch, pulling down the cuff of new leather gloves to study its luminous dial. Not long now. Slowly colour drained from the sky leaving it ashy and featureless, like the underbelly of a great bird of prey that was circling the earth, waiting. The woman was pacing now, stamping her feet to keep warm in the chill winter evening. He studied her clothes: the long black coat concealed her figure but he knew what she looked like. With the aid of binoculars he had penetrated the privacy of her bedroom. Stupid woman, to imagine that because she lived on the top floor it was all right to leave her curtains askew. He'd seen glimpses of pale skin, the pink of a nipple and once perhaps the dark suspicion of pubic hair. In her rubbish he'd found discarded underwear and kept it, breaking another rule. 'No traces.' If his souvenir were discovered he would be in serious trouble.

He was only a pupil, learning from a master who was uncompromising about the rules of the game he had invented. Normally he obeyed them but with her the temptation had been too strong. Otherwise he was an adept pupil, becoming more skilled every time. This one would be his best, he was certain. Perhaps tonight he might...even...kill her.

Just thinking the words made him shake. He knew that it was what was expected of him and that, until he had proved himself, there would be secrets unshared. He wanted those secrets badly. Once he had them he would truly belong.

The young man shuddered in antic.i.p.atory pleasure. His breathing grew faster, the excitement bringing an uncontrollable flutter to his throat. He imagined closing his hands about her neck and heat spread through him.

'No!' It was a hiss through clenched teeth. He despised his lack of self-control. It was always over too quickly, not like... He stopped the thought. Once he began making comparisons his confidence would evaporate, like before.

At last. The courting couple on the bench at the far side of the rose garden stood up to go, glancing at the solitary woman as they pa.s.sed. She was worth a second look. Pale, perfect skin, full lips that would burst in his mouth like ripe fruit as he bit into them, and hair so black it would bury his darkest thoughts.

He started to flex, stretching to ease his muscles so that he would be fast and strong. Streetlights came on beyond the stone wall, spilling deeper shadows in pools across the gardens and into the park. His hiding place in the leaves grew darker. When she finally gave up she would have to walk along the flagstones towards him and his ready hands. He stepped a few inches closer to the path and waited.

She looked at her watch again. He wasn't coming. Relief and disappointment battled within her and relief won. Accepting this blind date had not been her idea. Others had put her up to it and she'd fallen victim to their persuasion. When he stood her up the previous week she'd hoped that it would mark the end of her being the b.u.t.t of other people's bright ideas. Then he had emailed her again with a new time and place and here she was, feeling a fool.

An easterly wind whipped across the gra.s.s throwing sc.r.a.ps of dead rose petals against her legs. She'd waited long enough. It was time to admit that he wasn't coming and go home. As she turned to retrace her steps the young woman looked around her, hoping to find others still in the park, but she was alone. She pulled her thick woollen coat tighter and wrapped her arms across her chest against the encroaching night. Her shadow walked before her along the flags, a comforting companion that promised lights and safety in the darkening night. It disappeared as she turned onto a path where tall bushes flanked a tunnel through shrubbery.

Some vandal had smashed the bulbs in the ornamental lamps that were supposed to light her way. Her boots crunched on newly broken gla.s.s as she walked, more quickly now. The wind was tormenting the shrubs that enclosed her, mimicking the rustle of predators in the night. Her shoulder blades twitched and she started a funny half-trot, eager to reach the safety of her car.

He was on her without warning. A dark shape leaping out and covering her mouth before she could scream. They went down together, his weight on top of her driving the air from her lungs and with it any ability to cry for help. The back of her head struck the ground and she blacked out for a second. When she forced her eyes open his masked face was inches from hers, a black leather horror that showed only his eyes and mouth. He was biting at her shoulders that were somehow bare. Her coat had been ripped open and the neck of her jumper torn.

'No!' She yelled as loud as she could, disappointed that the sound was so pathetic. 'Get off me, you b.a.s.t.a.r.d!'

She aimed a punch at his head but he slapped her hand away and brought up a knife from nowhere. He wasn't meant to have a knife, no one had warned her about that.

'Shut up, b.i.t.c.h. Stay quiet and you might live.'

She tried to concentrate on his voice, to memorise the accent and cadence so that she would make a good witness, but fear dominated her mind making it hard to concentrate.

'Get off!' She cried out again, appalled at the tears on her face. When his hands went for her bra she fought like a wild thing, terrified of what he would do when he found what was hidden beneath. She managed to scratch his face near the eye and felt skin beneath her nails. DNA, but that would be a hollow victory if they sc.r.a.ped it from her corpse.

He gave up on her b.r.e.a.s.t.s and ripped open her jeans, using the knife to slice through the fabric in his hurry. Somehow his trousers were already undone and he rubbed himself against her. At the touch of his flesh she screamed loudly, a sound of terror, despite the threat of the knife at her throat. Surely someone must come soon. Her thighs were locked tight against his groping fingers and the beating of his fist. He jabbed the blade against her neck.

'Stop fighting me or you die. Open your legs!'

She ignored him, clamping her knees together as he punched her thighs. The pounding grew harder and seemed to radiate up from the stones beneath her. Then there were other noises, shouts, bright lights and his weight was lifted away. She kept on shouting, unable to comprehend that the threat was over.

Her shaking body was wrapped in a plastic sheet and bags were placed over her fingers routinely, as if she were already dead. Hands reached for her out of the lights.

'No.' She shook them away. People stood back.

'Was there any penetration, Nightingale?'

'What?' She stared at the familiar face in disbelief.

'Was there any penetration? It's just that if there was we'll need a urine sample. It's routine procedure, Sergeant.'

She heard a voice mutter 'for G.o.d's sake,' as she brought up her fist in a swing that connected with a satisfying crack on the side of Detective Inspector Blite's jaw.

'You b.a.s.t.a.r.d!'

Somewhere, somebody laughed.

'Wayne Griffiths you are under arrest...'

The words reached him from across the gra.s.s as he watched them take his friend away. He'd been in hiding for hours, long before Wayne and the woman arrived. His plan had been simple: to observe and critique Wayne's latest efforts to graduate into his world. But now the boy was gone and there was nothing he could do to save him. He was angry and confused. The capture had reversed his sense of world order. How had this happened? How had the police traced Wayne? That woman, who was she? They'd called her 'Sergeant' was she police? How could the boy have been so stupid?

He'd succ.u.mbed to the oldest trick in the book, to grow so fixated on a woman that he'd fallen into her trap. Admittedly she was almost perfect but part of the testing was to build up immunity to their enchantments and his pupil had disappointed him. If it hadn't been for her...he stopped the thought. There wasn't time for regrets.

He needed to reach the flat and clear up before the police found out the address. If he removed all traces there was still a chance that the evidence would be too weak to gain a conviction. There were ways to destabilise even a strong case, particularly if it depended on a sting by the police. Provided there was no other evidence a good defence should be able to plant sufficient seeds of doubt in a jury's mind.

He had the money and contacts to arrange the best legal advice available. It would be a show of support, not that he had any concerns about his partner's loyalty; it was absolute. But he wouldn't seek bail. Some punishment was appropriate for such stupidity and a long wait in prison might teach the boy a much-needed lesson.

Meanwhile he would disappear. He'd have to go away until the trial. If and when the prosecution collapsed, they could be reunited and resume elsewhere.

Satisfied that he was once more in control, the watcher sprinted away across the gra.s.s and disappeared into the night.

ONE YEAR LATER.

'Do you want to go alone? I think I should go with you, but...' He looked away, ashamed of his fear of what lay inside.

'No, I'll do it myself. Wait here though, for when I come out.'

She pushed open a heavy iron door painted an industrial red and walked past signs in a foreign language that meant nothing to her. An unpleasant chemical smell penetrated her clenched mouth and filled her throat with an acid-sweetness that made her want to retch. The air was cold, the corridor empty. A bare window at the far end let in harsh light that sent her shadow fleeing back towards the door.

A sign bearing the stylized outline of a chapel hung from steel chains in the middle of the ceiling with a black arrow pointing to a turning on her right. She followed its mute instruction and turned, losing the sunlight from the end window. Wall lights with bare bulbs now lit the way.

Another solid door stood closed ahead of her, the little chapel sign stuck to it on laminated plastic, peeling at one corner. She tried the handle, the door was locked. There were no signs of life but then she heard the sound of fingers dancing lightly on keys and she followed them to an office door. Tapping lightly to announce her arrival she pushed it open.

'Si?' A heavy-lidded, dark-eyed girl looked up at her, clearly annoyed at the interruption.

'Excuse me, I'm English. Louise Nightingale. I'm here to see my parents.'

At the mention of her name the girl's eyes softened and she stood up.

'Scusi.'

She left her standing alone in the office, staring out over a metal desk to the clear sky beyond. That's why her parents had come here after all, in search of late winter sunshine. She turned away feeling sick again.

A man came into the room wearing an immaculately tailored black suit, red tie and sungla.s.ses.

'Miss Nightingale, we expected you yesterday. If you would come this way.'

The man walked back to the chapel door swinging a key on a slender silver chain like a rosary.

'They are in here. I am so sorry. Perhaps you would like to be alone?'

'Yes please.'

She pushed the door open; it was heavy and seemingly resentful at the intrusion. A thick leather curtain hung as a second barrier behind it. Inside the air was even colder, the light dim. There was a smell of flowers and incense and she remembered belatedly that she was in a Catholic country. A crucifix, complete with the agony of Christ in painted plaster on wood, hung on the crimson far wall. Two coffins lay open before it. As she walked towards them she was overpowered by the smell from a vase of lilies. In the cool dark they seemed eternal, perfect ivory petals clutching at the sterile, recycled air.

The faint hum of air-conditioning was the only sound to break the silence. Behind her the door clicked shut and for a moment she fought an irrational impulse to rush back and beat against it and her imagined entombment. Instead, ever the controlled and collected Englishwoman, she walked forward and placed her hand on the oak of her mother's coffin.

Someone had clothed her in her best summer dress. A pure white sheet covered her body to her breast. Her hands were folded beneath it and she felt cheated of one last look at those long fingers and the narrow pink nails that had always been so clean.

A memory came back to her of the warning delivered by the British police on behalf of their Italian colleagues: 'They were both severely injured. Your father died at the scene, your mother two hours later.'

She wondered what carnage lay beneath the cotton shroud and swallowed hard to prepare herself for the sight of her mother's face.

It was beautiful. She always had been. Miraculously the wreck had left her face intact. Even more incredible, the undertaker had resisted the temptation to paint her in colours she would never have worn in life.

Her light brown hair, no sign of grey nor need for unnatural colourings, fell soft and straight around her face. The small worry lines and the mark of a frown she'd always had when she concentrated had disappeared from her brow leaving her looking younger than she could remember. The cruel irony of seeing her so youthful in death made her choke.

Only her mother's lips showed death. Held closed tight despite redundant muscles they were pale, almost blue. The mortician should have coloured those, she thought, but perhaps he'd wanted the naturalness of her beauty untouched in the grave.

She bent and kissed her mother's forehead, both her eyes and lastly, delicately, her mouth in an unconscious sign of the cross. Then she stood and walked to her father.

The winding sheet was wrapped to his chin, impossible to tell what clothes he was wearing. His eyes were closed but she knew their colour, the harebell blue of a clear summer sky. There would be no danger of her ever forgetting what they looked like as she had only to look in the mirror to see them again. Pure white bandages bound his head from chin to crown and across his forehead, bordering his eyes, nose and mouth in a tight frame. Even so, they could not hide all his scars. One ran from the very centre of his bottom lip in a vivid diagonal into the lower bandages. Another, delicately st.i.tched and almost camouflaged, stretched from beneath the outer corner of his left eyebrow, across and up into the only wisp of hair that showed against his right temple.

It was a Frankenstein scar and the sight of it made her giggle in shock and suppressed hysteria until she had to press her mouth shut with both hands. Then the sounds dropped to whimpers as she stood looking at the corpse that had been her father. There was so little to see she wondered why they had left the coffin open but she was glad they had.

She reached out a hand and stroked the top of his bandaged head.

'Oh Dad,' she whispered, 'what b.l.o.o.d.y rotten luck.'

Then she kissed him lightly, as she had her mother, and turned to leave struggling to retain her self-control. There was no point in delaying her departure. What more could she do?

As she reached the leather curtain she felt the skin between her shoulder blades crawl. For one crazy second, she was sure that they were both sitting up, looking at her, willing her to turn around, bidding her goodbye. The sensation was so strong that she looked back. The only eyes on her were those of Christ, agonized, pitying and alone. She turned around, opened the door and walked away.

Outside in the sunshine of the car park her brother was waiting for her on a bench by the car, grey-faced, pink-eyed.

'You were a long time.' He sounded apologetic, ashamed that he had been unable to bring himself to view his parents' bodies.

'There were a lot of forms to sign but it's done now.'

'I just couldn't come with you. I'm sorry.'

'It's all right, really.'

'Were they, I mean, the coffins...?'

He had heard the police warning as well.

'They were open. They both looked very peaceful, at rest. There was no horror.'

He hugged her tightly and she felt her throat harden. She pulled away, unable to look at him, afraid of the weight of tears she felt inside her. If she once let them out, she was sure they would flow forever, like a dam breaking.

'Come on, let's go. I could do with a drink.'

Her brother kept his arm loosely around her shoulders and guided her towards the car. The sun burnt into her dark suit as they walked slowly away from the mortuary, their shadows sharp on the gravel.

Until today, their deaths had not been a reality. She had coped with the formalities, buying the air tickets, arranging for her parents' belongings to be packed and sent to her hotel. Even the insurance forms required for repatriation of the bodies had been a welcome distraction. There was the funeral still to organise, and the headstones. Then...

Her brother shut the car door firmly and she fastened her seatbelt. The sound of it slamming to had a finality that echoed her thoughts. Her parents were dead. She was an orphan. Whatever unfinished business had lain between them would forever be unresolved. Future possibilities had closed in the split second that an offside wheel punctured, sending their car spinning through the air and into the picturesque ravine she was sure they would have been admiring moments before. Regrets had replaced reconciliations in her future, guilt would have to fill a void where explanations and forgiveness might, eventually, have rebuilt their relationship. All the potential of what they might have been to each other expired with their last breaths.

The sense of lost opportunity was overwhelming. For so a.s.sured and self-possessed a person, the realism of powerlessness was suffocating. She felt damaged, detached, out of control. Her world would never be the same again. For the first time in her life she stared into an empty future and felt fear.

PART ONE.