Ophelia (Ophelia book 1) Read online

  Once she's left the room, I figure it's only a matter of time.

  There are probably cameras in here, watching my every move. Hidden in the walls, in the light fittings, even in the door handle; cameras all over the place, and microphones too. I wouldn't be surprised if they're recording my pulse in an attempt to work out if I'm stressed or lying. They're like ravenous information vampires, trying to suck me dry, but I won't give them what they want. The last thing I want to do is to give them anything they might be able to use against me, so I just stay right where I am, staring at the door, focusing on keeping my heart-rate down.

  Denmark.

  I shouldn't have said that. I should have maintained my silence, instead of offering her a sliver of hope that maybe I'd start to open up. She probably said it wrong on purpose, just to get me to correct her. Still, I hate it when people display open ignorance and don't get corrected. The rest of that little encounter was made up of nothing but lies and cliche. She thinks I'm some damaged little girl who ran away from home, someone who can be helped by a nice counselor and a friendly police officer. That way, she can fit me into a nice, neat little slot and consults a load of rules and books about how to handle me.

  I can imagine the conversations they're probably already having. Discussing me, worrying, arguing about whether to hand me off to some kind of specialist team or just take me out back and put a bullet in my head. I'm sure they're not averse to a spot of summary justice. Sure, there are laws in this country, but they don't apply to everyone. People disappear from time to time, and I doubt anyone would care. Still, Laura seems to think I can be useful to her, so I'll probably be kept around for a while. I guess she thinks she can get through to me and make me talk to her.

  She has no idea who or what I am.

  Chapter Three

  Laura

  "We've got her with the hook in a public place," the custody sergeant says, keeping his voice down a little as a couple of other prisoners are led past the desk. "That's a pretty big mark against her name. I mean, what kind of person carries a fuck-off giant hook around? It's not exactly standard-issue, is it, even for someone who lives on the streets."

  "She's not a killer," I point out.

  "Says who?"

  "Have you seen her?"

  "Of course I've seen her. She looks like she just crawled out of an asylum via the sewers. Doesn't smell much better, either."

  "That doesn't make her a killer," I point out.

  "You can't be sure of that," he replies. "All types of people kill, if they're pushed. Big people, little people, fat people, thin people... Black, white, male, female, young old... You can't just look at someone and decide they didn't do something. That's a form of prejudice, if you don't mind me saying so."

  "And you can't just look at them and decide that they did kill either," I reply, bristling at his attempt to take the high road. "I'm just telling you, this doesn't feel right."

  "It doesn't feel right? What are you, a cop or a clairvoyant?"

  "I'm a detective," I point out. "There's nothing wrong with a little gut instinct."

  "You still have to go where the evidence takes you, though," he continues. "Don't turn her into a cliche or try to romanticize her. She's a scrap of shit from the streets and she was caught red-handed with a murder weapon. We've got no information about her past, so for all we know she might have killed scores of people. She might be a fucking serial killer." He pauses for a moment, as if he expects me to suddenly capitulate and admit that he's right. "We have to go on what we've got in front of us," he continues eventually, "which is the fact that she was in possession of that hook, and she wasn't shy about swinging it around in public."

  "Which is hardly the behavior of a serial killer," I point out.

  "Maybe she finally snapped," he replies. "All those years of living on the streets finally made her go a bit mental. The girl's trouble, Laura, you can see it in her eyes, you can smell it on her... I don't know if you got close enough just now, but there's a whiff of piss about her. Not exactly unusual with her type, but still, it makes you think, doesn't it?"

  "It does?"

  "What kind of person lets themselves get into such a fucking state?" he asks. "She's obviously got a few screws loose. There's a psychiatrist on the way right now to assess her, but there's something about that girl... I mean, you don't really think Ophelia's her name, do you? It's all bollocks. She's just taking the piss. I'll bet you any money in the world that it's all just part of this parade of bullshit she's trying to make us buy, just so she can laugh at us. No-one calls their kid fucking Ophelia unless they want to really fuck them up for life. Then again, maybe her parents were as fucked in the head as she is."

  Pausing for a moment, I can't help but feel that I'm heading up a blind alley and I'll slam into a wall at any moment.

  "Show me the charge sheet again," I say eventually, figuring there has to be something I'm missing.

  Sighing, he grabs the clipboard and passes it to me.

  "There's nothing to link her to the murders," I tell him after a moment.

  "Apart from the murder weapon."

  "Which she could have found somewhere."

  He sighs.

  "We've got her for attempted assault," I continue.

  "Attempted? She was swinging it at some guy."

  "And where's the guy now?" I ask. "Is he here to give evidence?"

  "He ran off."

  "Then we've got her for attempted assault," I say firmly, "against an individual who ran from the police and who might well have been attacking her. She can claim self-defense, and it probably wouldn't be worth trying to build up any kind of case. The woman who was knocked over was clearly just collateral damage, so we can forget about her, and as for the hook itself..."

  I pause for a moment as I realize that this is a judgment call that could come back to haunt me further down the road. Still, I have to go with my gut feeling here, which is that Ophelia - or whatever her real name might be - isn't responsible for the two dead bodies in the morgue. She just happens to have become mixed up in this whole mess.

  "It's not illegal to have a hook," I point out after a moment. "There's CCTV all over the area around the bridge. We can requisition the tapes if necessary and maybe try to trace the girl's movements in the hours leading up to the arrest. Whatever's going on with her, I'm pretty sure she just found the hook somewhere. The killer probably discarded it."

  "Good point," he replies. "We should just let her go, then. The sun obviously shines out of her arse."

  "She still knows things," I point out.

  "Like what?"

  "She got the damn thing from somewhere," I continue. "That's all that matters. I need to know how and when she acquired it, and then there's no need to hold onto her. She's just a distraction in this case. There are plenty of other people who can give her what she needs. Social workers, psychiatrists... I'll just make sure she gets referred to some kind of crisis prevention service. There's not much else I can do."

  "I've seen this kind of thing before, you know," he says suddenly.

  I look up at him.

  "You want to save her," he continues.

  "Save her?"

  "You think you can be the one who turns her life around for her." He smiles, as if he thinks he's got it all worked out. "You think she's had a tough life and all she needs is someone kind and understanding who'll put an arm around her and steer her in the right direction. What do you see when you look at her?"

  "I see a scared young woman who's suspicious of any attempt to help her."

  "Huh," he says with a self-satisfied smile. "Do you know what I see? I see trouble. I see someone who's already fucked up her life, probably with drink or drugs. I see someone who might have had a tough background or might not, but either way, she made some bad decisions. There's a safety net for kids from bad homes, but she obviously breezed right through it and ended up on the streets. Now she thinks she's the bee's knees, smarter than everyone else and all tha
t bollocks. She's fucked in the head, probably beyond help, and she's going to do nothing but cause trouble for anyone who comes into contact with her. The system'll spend money trying to sort her out, she'll chuck it all back in our faces, and then one day she'll end up dead. Overdose, suicide, murder, whatever... She'll die, and at least then she won't be a drain on resources." He sniffs. "Of course, it'll still be the fucking taxpayers who have to pay for her funeral. She's just a fucking parasite, like all the rest of them."

  "You really think that?" I ask.

  "I know it," he says matter-of-factly. "With one or two exceptions, they're basically all the same. The worst part is, people like you are gonna waste even more time and money trying to help her." Reaching into a nearby drawer, he pulls out a plastic bag containing what looks like a notebook. "This was in her pocket when she was brought in," he continues, opening the bag and taking out the notebook. "Tell me that's the product of a mind that can be saved. She's a fucking lunatic."

  Taking the notebook, I open it and find that it's filled with scrawled, jagged writing. It takes a moment before I can even make out any of the letters, and even then I realize that none of the words make any sense. It's as if the whole thing is written in code, and as I flick through the page, I find diagrams and maps and drawings. I have to admit, there's something very strange about the things she's been writing down, and I can't make sense of it at all. It's almost like looking at a book from many years ago, written in a script that no-one from the modern day can hope to understand.

  "She's fucked in the head," the custody sergeant continues. "Not just a bit. A lot. You can't save her, Laura. You can't even try. The only reason to waste time on her is to make yourself feel better. With people like her, it's best to just let them sink without a trace."

  "It's a code," I reply, staring at one of the pages. Ophelia has clearly tried to keep all her notes as small as possible, but it's the drawings that really interest me. She's sketched people and buildings, and there are even a few diagrams that seem to show at least a basic understanding of geometry and mathematics. I guess it's possible that I'm on a hiding to nothing here, but one thing's absolutely clear: whoever the hell Ophelia is, she sure as hell isn't stupid.

  "She's a fucking nutter," the custody sergeant says after a moment.

  "I'm keeping this notebook," I tell him. "I need to see if I can work out what it says. It might be garbage, but I should at least try. There has to be something useful in here."

  "You'll have to sign for it," he replies, passing me a form. It's clear that he's not very impressed, and that he thinks I'm wasting his time. As a lowly custody sergeant, however, he can't exactly stop me. All he can do is huff and puff and sigh, and make sarcastic comments while I get on with my job.

  "How much longer have we got her before I need to think about a custody extension?" I ask.

  "Assuming the psychiatrist does her job properly," he replies, "I'm pretty sure we can get a custodial hold based on mental health criteria. Hopefully we can shift her to a hospital by the morning. I don't much fancy having her around too long. She's just taking up space. Do you wanna know what I think? I think -"

  "No," I say firmly, "actually I don't want to know what you think. I'm the senior detective on this case, and you're the guy who sits on a desk and does what people like me want. So do me a favor and keep your opinions to yourself. And when the psychiatrist gets here, tell her to come and see me."

  "You're already caring about her too much," he replies. "Big mistake."

  After signing the requisition form for the notebook, I wander away while still flicking through the pages. I guess it's possible that this is just a waste of time, but I'm not ready to write Ophelia off just yet. Besides, she's the closest thing I've got to a lead so far in this case, so I don't really have much of a choice. I need to find out where she got that hook, which means I need to get her to open up to me. If I can work out what the hell she's been writing in this notebook, I might be able to get through to her.

  Chapter Four

  Ophelia

  The notebook.

  I shouldn't have been carrying it when I was arrested. Now they'll be looking through it, getting their dirty fingermarks all over my pages. There's no way they can ever work out what I was writing, of course; I developed my own special code that means it only makes sense to me. Still, I hate the idea of them even having it in the first place. It's my book and no-one else's, and I'd rather let it burn than allow them to even know it exists.

  I should have thought about it sooner.

  "You want anything to drink?" asks a police officer.

  Looking up, I see that he's opened the door and leaned in. I don't know how he managed that without making a noise.

  "No?" he asks.

  I stare at him.

  "Okay," he mutters, "suit yourself."

  He pulls the door shut and I'm left alone again. They're playing tricks on me. I don't know why he offered me some tea, but I'm damn sure it wasn't just come casual question. There's some kind of theory behind everything that happens here. Either that, or they want to put drugs in the tea and make me talk that way. I'm thirsty, sure, but I won't let them get me.

  I have to focus and stay strong.

  I have to work out how to get my notebook back.

  That bitch is probably looking at it right now. With nothing else to go on, she'll be going through the pages, probably convincing herself that all she needs to do is look at my writing for a few minutes and finally she'll understand everything. I swear to God, people can be so stupid sometimes. They slip into cliche so easily and then they run along on rails, barely even questioning what they're doing. When that woman was talking to me a few minutes ago, I could see in her eyes that she's dumb.

  Dumb and harmless.

  All that matters is that I get the hell out of here and take my notebook with me. All those years of work, invested in my projects...

  I can't lose it all now.

  I'm pretty sure they know I'm not actually the one who was using that hook to kill people. They'll fuck me around for a while and probably shunt me off to some kind of hostel, and then I'll walk out the door and go back to doing what I do best. Even if I told them the limited information I've managed to uncover about the killer, they wouldn't really care. They'd just file the details away, tick all the boxes that need to be ticked, and then move on to a more important case.

  In the big picture, I'm nothing. I just need to stay quiet, not play their game, and wait for them to give up.

  Still, I need to get my notebook back. It's got a year's worth of ideas and details, and I hate the idea of starting again. I know I can get out of here, but making sure I've got the notebook in my pocket is going to be trickier. I'm going to have to be smart, which means maybe I need to at least trick that dumb bitch into thinking I'm giving her what she wants. If I pretend to cooperate, she might be more helpful. She seems nice enough, and pretty harmless, but I can still find a way to use her.

  I sit in silence for a moment, and finally the slowest smile in the history of the world starts to spread across my lips.

  Chapter Five

  Laura

  "So we struck lucky," Tim says as he hands me a plastic bag containing what appears to be a small piece of metal. "Know what that is?"

  "Something from one of the bodies?" I ask.

  "Obviously, but what?"

  "Something that was implanted. Something medical?"

  "Bingo." He grabs a pile of papers from next to the computer in his office. "It's a small plate that was fixed to the wrist of our Jane Doe a few years ago. Evidently she suffered a nasty break and had to get medical attention. Probably happened back when she had a home and a family. I'm sure it wasn't too complicated and she probably had full movement of the wrist after a while, but the good thing about those particular plates is that they have unique serial numbers, which allows us to trace them in the system. You'd be surprised how often this kind of thing helps. Even breast implants can do the jo
b sometimes."

  "You've got a name?" I reply, turning the bag over to see the numbers filed into the side of the metal.

  "Elizabeth Mary Read," he says, with a hint of triumph. "Twenty-one years old, although by some macabre coincidence it happens to be her twenty-second birthday tomorrow. What do you think? Should we wheel her out of the fridge and have a party? I could rustle up some bunting from somewhere."

  "So where's she from?" I ask.

  "I already took the liberty of running a check on her," he continues, passing me one of the print-outs. "She had quite a history. In and out of juvenile detention centers from the age of nine. Drugs, sex, vandalism, arson... You name it, she was involved in it, almost as soon as she learned to walk. Her parents seem to have pretty much given up on her, which is sad but not exactly hard to understand. She was a wild child, spending most of her time in squats near her family home in Norwich before, some time between 2009 and 2010, shifting down to London. God knows why, but there you do. After that, her history's a little more sketchy, so I'm thinking she lived in a series of squats before ending up on the streets. Given her background, it's a fair bet that she was willing to do just about anything to score money or drugs, and then somehow she ends up with her guts ripped out and a hook through her face."

  Reading through the girl's record for a moment, I can't help but feel that someone should have helped her. Sure, she was responsible for her own decisions once she became an adult, but it looks like she was more or less on her own before she even hit her teenage years. In many ways, she seems to have embraced the stereotype of the troubled young runaway with surprising enthusiasm, progressing step-by-step from alcohol to soft drugs, then on to hard drugs, then prostitution and a life on the streets.

  "I hate myself for thinking this," Tim continues eventually, "but a girl like that... There was nothing that could have been done for her. She was too far down the rabbit hole."

  "I need to find out everything I can about her life once she got to London," I say after a moment. "She was probably picked by the killer at random, but it's still worth making sure. Someone has to have known her. Even if she was living rough, there would have been people who recognized her and saw her around. If you're going to survive living rough, you need to know someone, right? You need to buy and sell drugs and services, so you need a kind of network. There are people out there who know something about her, people who miss her."