Page 65 of Watching You
Baarda created a new image with the four faces in a square.
‘Now we can see our killer more clearly, it’s so obvious that I can’t believe we missed it.’
‘It was literally staring us in the face,’ Baarda said. ‘I get the connection. Tell me what you know about him now that we didn’t before.’
She rubbed her hands together and gave a tiny bounce on the sofa before she spoke. ‘He’s someone who’s been self-conscious his entire life. Moles anywhere else on your body can be covered up, but facial moles are unusual. They make people stare. Kids especially, who have no filter and often no socially aware conscience, are cruel and fast to create nicknames. I’m guessing the moles were the first thing anyone ever saw when they met him. The first name calling probably started when he was no more than five years old. Lucy Ogunode mentioned it to Christie Salter in relation to Dale Abnay who had eczema, talked about him being bullied by other kids.’
Baarda switched the lights back on in the room and turned his attention to Connie instead of the images. ‘So they all have some form of facial marking. Abnay’s eczema, Divya Singh’s hyperpigmentation which also resembles tiny moles, Archie Bass has a lot of facial scarring from various wounds and exposure over the years and Vic Campbell has excessive tattooing on his face which has also messed with the texture of his skin. But why choose them as victims? Most people developempathy from bullying, surely, at least towards people with similar issues.’
‘That only works if your psychological set-up allows for empathy. Step into his world for a second. As a baby and a toddler, you’re blissfully unaware that you look a bit different. Maybe you notice it in the mirror but not in a way that sets you apart. It’s just your face, and that’s great. Then you start school and people point at you and talk about it, and make you feel like an outsider. Skip ahead a few years and those kids are a bit older and bigger, and now they’re really laying into him, because nothing makes kids feel powerful like excluding someone who’s a bit different. Those days you come home and look in the mirror and yeah, you hate those kids, but you also hate the moles. After a while you start hating your whole face. And you’re powerless to change it. You can’t do anything about it. It never stops, it never gets better, and maybe there are even new moles appearing. Fuck me, you’re pissed now. You’re enraged. Girls are giggling at you, boys are shitty. It’s hard to make friends, and your parents just tell you to ignore the bullying which is bullshit. How much hate are you feeling now? That’s got to go somewhere, Brodie, because if it just stays inside it’s gonna break you.’
‘He’s killing people whose faces remind him of himself?’ Baarda asked.
‘I think maybe he’s killing a representation of himself. Perhaps he’s someone who’s thought endlessly about suicide but who can’t do that, hence the lack of torture or the lack of a standard pattern in choosing victims – different genders, different races – and in his head he’s killing himself over and over again.’
‘I get it. And I need a drink. You?’ Connie shook her head as Baarda picked up a glass. ‘What’s the link to the hospital?’
‘I don’t know yet. Maybe he’s hanging around the dermatologyunit? Possibly it’s just somewhere with a huge amount of people passing through so there’s every chance he’ll identify a victim. It might equally well be something personal to him that we haven’t figured out yet. But it’s the only link between the victims, Brodie, and I can feel it in my bones. This is why they were all chosen.’
He knocked back a whisky and began putting on his shoes.
‘We’d better get back to the station then,’ he said. ‘You ready?’
Connie was already at the door.
Chapter 43
Ten Months Earlier
Driving was both painful and against doctor’s orders, but Beth couldn’t stay home any longer. All she did was wander around finding cupboards to tidy, drawers to sort and things to throw away. The result had been an ever-growing pile of rubbish in her front garden that would never fit in the bin, and that needed taking to the household waste recycling centre.
It had taken a while packing it into her car with the sling on, but it was faster after she’d thrown her sling onto the top of the rubbish stack and used both arms. It had been a little over two weeks, and she was doing all the physiotherapy exercises she’d been set, so there wasn’t much point keeping the sling on anyway. That was bad advice, of course, but she couldn’t stand the restriction for one more day. The sling made her feel vulnerable and old. Worse, it was a reminder of … things she wasn’t prepared to think about.
The recycling centre was quiet, unusually so, but that suited her. It was going to take a few trips from the boot of her car to each different container to get rid of all the bits and pieces,especially with only one good arm, and she didn’t want people staring. She was still worried about being recognised from the damned deep-fake video.
Reversing her car into a bay, she caught a glimpse of a man leaning against a wall and reading a newspaper. He was wearing a cap and the shadow was falling across his face, but there was something so familiar about him. Something that made her shoulder and head ache anew.
In an instant, Beth was falling again. She was back on the endless slope she’d been so certain would finish her. In the front seat of her car, she folded her arms in front of her face to avoid the trees, branches, brambles and rocks she was hurtling towards.
‘Oh fuck. It’s him,’ she muttered. ‘It’s him, it’s him, it’s him.’
She ducked down before he could see her and started her car again, shooting forward then having to slam on the brakes as a van did its best to avoid her. The man was looking up at her now, checking out her car, walking towards her. He’d dropped the newspaper on the ground, no longer walking but striding in her direction as she slammed her right foot to the floor and sped away.
He was yelling now, waving his arms at her, shouting at her to stop. She went faster, taking the tiny roads of the recycling centre like a rally circuit.
Karl Smith was fucking alive. She hadn’t killed him. Now he’d come for her again. God only knew how he’d managed to get there ahead of her. She hadn’t noticed any suspicious cars or motorbikes following her. Perhaps he’d simply seen her loading up and gone on ahead.
She raced away, checking her mirror every few seconds to make sure no one was coming after her. A few miles later, she pulled onto the forecourt of a small garage she used for MOTs and repairs, and rushed into the tiny office.
‘I need you to check my car, Bill. It’s urgent.’
‘Not a problem, let me see when we’ve next got a slot,’ the mechanic said.
‘That won’t work. I need help now!’ Beth blurted.
Bill raised his eyebrows and nodded. ‘I see,’ he said slowly and loudly, as if he was talking to someone either very disturbed or a child he needed to humour. ‘And can you tell me what you believe the problem to be?’
‘Yes,’ Beth said, aware that she was almost panting and doing her best to slow her breathing. ‘I know how this will sound, but I think there might be a device on my car that, um, you know, would enable someone to track my movements.’ Her face reddened as she said it, and she found she could no longer meet Bill’s gaze. Still, she held her ground.
