The Girl Who Broke the Rules. Marnie Riches
physically but somehow clinging onto the intimacy he had implied was between them by winking and keeping his voice low. ‘I won the Evelyn Baker Medal from the Association of Anaesthetists, you know.’ Nodding. Matter of fact. Trying to impress.
The session was not progressing as she had hoped. George determined to get her study subject back on track. She tapped the pencil drawing that Silas had brought along to show her. It was the most recent work, contained within a sketch pad that was full of semi-pornographic images.
‘Tell me about this, Silas,’ she said, pointing to the perfectly executed illustration of a woman in a black gimp mask – only her heavily made-up eyes were visible. Startled, yet alluring. Her mouth was contained behind a brutal-looking zip. Her nose transformed into two miserly slits in the black leather. Oddly, she was hanging by her neck from a tree bough. Hanging as though dead, which made the focussed clarity in her eyes all the more alarming. Clad in what appeared to be a black rubber leotard with the breasts and vagina cut out. Two circles. One triangle. ‘Why have you drawn her with one leg?’
Her question was met with laughter. ‘Oh, come on! You know better than to ask that of me!’ Silas said, toying with a strand of his hair almost coquettishly. ‘Am I not famed for my specialist taste in erotica?’
His tone was so smug, so arrogant, that George could not stem her response. Neither could she keep the vitriol out of her voice.
‘Is she one of your victims, Silas? Is she the prostitute from Middlesbrough that you picked up, strangled, partially dismembered and then masturbated over? Oh no! Silly me. Perhaps she was the prostitute from Nottingham, whose arms were found in your freezer at home? Mother of four. First time on the streets because she owed a loan shark money from Christmas. Last time on the streets because you strung her up from the railings of a local school. Or maybe one of the four others that we know about.’
‘Ms McKenzie!’ Graham said, raising his eyebrows.
George’s red mist cleared and revealed a grinning Dr Silas Holm.
‘The trial was a shambles,’ Silas said, flicking his tongue over his narrow, discoloured incisors. ‘I’m putting together a case that I plan to take to the High Court. It was all circumstantial evidence and I intend to get out of this hellhole.’ He examined his fingernails again. Sighed. ‘Anyway, if you must know, that is a portrait of a famous Latvian beauty who stars in all the very best erotic horror films. Quality productions. I was quite a fan before coming in here. I think I got her eyes just right.’
Scratching away at her pad, noting down the salient detail of his response, George considered her next question.
‘Do you find your own artwork arousing?’
No response.
‘What is it about amputation that interests you sexually?’
No response. Silas was peering up at the bars on the windows. He seemed no longer to be listening.
‘Silas!’ George was careful to keep the impatience out of her voice this time. It was a difficult game of cat and mouse with Silas Holm. On the one hand, she found him repugnant, although he was always perfectly calm and charming when she visited, putting her in mind of a great white shark circling slowly, just beneath the surface of shallow waters. On the other, she needed his responses for her study. She knew how lucky she had been to gain access to this place and to secure the willing participation of men like him. Keep a lid on it, George. A psycho like him will never stay quiet for long.
‘In your opinion, Silas, did the pornography you used on the outside in any way influence the manner in which you killed your victims? The strangulation. The dismemberment.’
Seemingly bored now, Silas flung his arms behind his head and rolled his eyes. ‘Did you see that thing in the news about the eviscerated fishermen? That was quite a story. But Kenneth switched the television over to some tawdry soap. Most annoying.’
Dumbfounded. George stopped writing. Stared at him. ‘What has that got to do with your violent sexual proclivities and pornography?’
Silas stood and bowed with a flourish. ‘Always lovely to see you, Georgina.’ He picked up his sketchpad from the desk and nodded to Graham. ‘Lunchtime! I’m famished.’
The frustration of not having got what she needed abated incrementally, with each security door that clanged shut behind her, giving way finally to relief that she had completed another session with one of Broadmoor Hospital’s most infamous and dangerous residents, without sustaining any personal injury – physical, at least. Only once she had had her mobile phone returned to her at reception did she discover the text from van den Bergen. His words caught her breath.
Amsterdam, the set of a porn film, then, Sloterdijkermeer allotments, later
Watching the actress swig from her bottle of Evian was fascinating. She had such ridiculously full lips from too much collagen filler that merely drinking from a sports-cap looked like an obscene act. Her peroxide blonde hair hung in over-processed clumps down her back. Off camera, the cellulite on her thighs and backside was visible between the straps and buckles of the bondage gear. The inverted ‘T’ scarring beneath her bare breasts gave the augmentation away, of course, destroying the illusion of perfectly buoyant, round orbs. But despite the actress’ flaws, she was striking. Still young. The high cheekbones. The good skin. The bright eyes. Naturally white teeth and an otherwise perfectly worked-out body, with its sculpted obliques and defined triceps. This one was an ideal specimen. Healthy. And these porn actresses were such readily available raw material for a killer, whose job it was to hang out in a professional capacity on the sets of erotic film shoots. Easy pickings. Tarts with hearts of gold.
The actress approached, strutting in those ten-inch platforms. Smiling. Kisses on both cheeks, followed by something on the mouth that was overly familiar and tender.
‘Hey! How are you, darling? I didn’t see you there. Nice to have you on set.’
Her English was good for an Eastern European of humble origins. Though this woman was humble no longer. She was revered in her circle. Seemed almost a shame, but then, business was business.
‘We still going for that drink we talked about?’
Wide-eyes betraying excitement or was it the line of coke the actress had hoovered up as the director had shouted ‘Cut’ on the previous scene? She reached out with a manicured hand. Her caress was gentle. Flirtatious and promising.
‘Why not,’ she said. ‘When I finish here, right? Just you and me. I’d like that.’
She turned to walk away, poised to resume her position, artfully strung between two posts on some medieval-style wooden contraption that looked like the base of a trebuchet. Where did they get these ridiculous ideas from? The red stripes on her back looked livid.
‘Do those hurt?’
The actress looked back and smiled archly. Raised a plucked eyebrow. ‘Makeup, sweet thing. You should know that!’
No damage. That was good. And the space was prepared. Perfect.
Van den Bergen sat on a camping stool inside his gloomy cabin, which was situated on a prime plot in Sloterdijkermeer’s allotment complex. He had no intention of gardening, of course. Outside, the frozen ground was too unyielding to work, but the afternoon half-light and silence of a freezing cold super-shed was preferable to enduring another afternoon at the station, gawping into the existential void. Listening to that frog-eyed prick, Jaap Hasselblad, pontificate about the girl they had found.
‘This is a sex pervert. Mark my words!’ Hasselblad had announced. ‘Round up the nutters and serial jerk-offs. Bring them all in for questioning. We can’t have a dangerous woman-hating psycho on the loose.’