‘It might help the next one.’
‘What the fuck?’ Adam says. ‘We’ve got to-’
‘Just shut up for a minute,’ Margot interrupts, and picks up her phone.
‘Shut up yourself,’ Adam says, raising his voice. ‘I’ve got every right to say what I think. Haven’t I? I think we should get the papers to publish this woman’s picture on their websites.’
‘Adam, listen… much as we’d like to be able to identify her, we’ve got nothing to go on,’ Margot says. ‘I’ll talk to Forensics, but I doubt they’re going to find anything more than they did last time.’
‘But if we circulate her picture to-’
‘I haven’t got time for your nonsense now,’ she snaps. ‘Think for a minute… Everything suggests he’s uploaded the clip directly from her garden, so of course there’s a theoretical chance of saving her.’
‘That’s exactly what I’m saying!’
‘But five minutes have already passed, and that’s a long time to be standing outside a window.’
Adam leans forward and stares at her. His tired eyes are bloodshot and his hair is on end.
‘Are we just going to give up, then?’
‘This is a matter of urgency, but we have to think clearly,’ she replies.
‘Good,’ he says, still sounding annoyed.
‘The perpetrator is brimming with confidence, he knows he’s way ahead of us,’ Margot explains quickly as she picks up the last slice of pizza. ‘But the better we get to know him…’
‘Get to know him? Fine, but that’s not really what I’m thinking right now,’ Adam says, wiping sweat from under his nose. ‘We couldn’t trace the previous film, we didn’t find anything at the scene, and we won’t be able to trace this film either.’
‘We’re unlikely to get any forensic evidence, but we can try to pin him down by analysing the films and the brutality of his MO,’ Margot replies, as she feels the baby move inside her. ‘What have we really seen so far, what has he shown us, and what’s he seeing?’
‘A woman who’s been for a run, and is now eating ice cream and watching television,’ Adam says tentatively.
‘What does that tell us about the murderer?’
‘That he likes women who eat ice cream… I don’t know,’ Adam sighs, and hides his face in his hands.
‘Come on, now.’
‘Sorry, but-’
‘I’m thinking about the fact that the murderer uploads a film showing the period leading up to the murder,’ Margot says. ‘He takes his time, enjoys the moment, and… he wants to show us the women alive, wants to preserve them alive on film. Maybe it’s the living he’s interested in.’
‘A voyeur,’ Adam says, feeling his arms prick with discomfort.
‘A stalker,’ she whispers.
‘Tell me how to filter the list of creeps who’ve been let out of prison or psychiatric care,’ Adam says, as he logs into the intranet.
‘A rapist, violent rape, someone with obsessive fixation disorder.’
He types quickly, clicks the mouse, types some more.
‘Too many results,’ he says. ‘Time’s running out.’
‘Try the first victim’s name.’
‘No results,’ he sighs, tearing his hair.
‘A serial rapist who’s been treated, possibly chemically castrated,’ Margot says, thinking out loud.
‘We need to check the databases against each other, but that will take too long,’ he says, getting up from his chair. ‘This isn’t working. What the hell are we going to do?’
‘She’s dead,’ Margot sighs, then leans back. ‘She might have a few minutes left, but…’
‘I don’t know if I can handle this,’ Adam says. ‘We can see her, we can see her face, her home… Christ, we can see right into her life, but we can’t find out who she is until she’s dead and someone finds her body.’
3
Susanna Kern can feel her thighs tingling from her run as she pulls her sweaty jogging pants down and kicks them towards the chair.
Since she turned thirty she has run five kilometres three evenings each week. After her Friday run she usually eats ice cream and watches television, seeing as Björn doesn’t get home until ten o’clock.
When Björn landed the job in London she thought it would feel lonely, but fairly quickly she came to appreciate the hours she had to herself in the weeks when Morgan was with his dad.
She needs this downtime more than ever since she embarked upon a demanding course in advanced neurology at the Karolinska Institute.
She undoes her sweaty sports bra, thinking that she can use it again on Sunday before she has to wash it.
She can’t remember a summer as hot as this before.
A scratching sound makes her turn towards the window.
The back garden is so dark that all she can see is the reflection of the bedroom. It looks like a theatre set, a television studio.
She has just made her entrance, and is standing under the floodlights.
Only I’ve forgotten to put any clothes on, she thinks wryly to herself.
She stands for a moment, looking at her naked body. The lighting is dramatic, and makes her reflection look thinner than she actually is.
The scraping noise is repeated, as if someone were running their nails across the windowsill. It’s too dark to see if there’s a bird sitting out there.
Susanna stares at the window and walks cautiously towards it, trying to see through the reflections, and grabs the dark blue bedspread and holds it up to cover herself. She shivers.
Fighting an instinctive reluctance she goes over to the window, moves her face closer to the glass and the garden becomes visible, like a dark grey world, like the underworld in a Gustav Doré engraving.
The black grass, tall shrubs, Morgan’s swing moving in the wind, and the panes of glass behind the playhouse for the garden room that they never got round to building.
Her breath mists the window as she straightens up and pulls the curtains. She lets the thick bedspread fall to the floor and walks naked towards the door. A shiver runs down her spine and she turns back towards the window again. A strip of black glass is shimmering in the gap between the dark-pink curtains.
She picks up her phone from the bedside table and calls Björn, and as she listens to the call being put through she can’t help staring at the window.
‘Hello, darling,’ he answers, far too loudly.
‘Are you at the airport?’
‘What?’
‘Are you at…’
‘I’m at the airport, I’m just having a burger at O’Learys, and-’
His voice vanishes as a group of male voices in the background shout and cheer.
‘Liverpool just scored again,’ he explains.
‘Hooray,’ she says, without enthusiasm.
‘Your mum called me to ask what you want for your birthday.’
‘That’s sweet,’ she says.
‘I said you’d like some see-through underwear,’ he jokes.
‘Perfect.’
She stares at the shimmering glass between the curtains as the phone-line crackles.
‘Is everything OK at home?’ Björn’s voice says in her ear.
‘I was just feeling a bit scared of the dark.’
‘Isn’t Ben there?’
‘In front of the television,’ she replies.
‘And Jerry?’
‘They’re both waiting for me,’ she smiles.
‘I miss you,’ he says.
‘Make sure you don’t miss the plane,’ she whispers.
They talk some more, then say goodbye and blow kisses to each other, then the line goes dead and she finds herself thinking about a patient who was brought in the previous night. A young man who had crashed his motorbike when he wasn’t wearing a helmet, resulting in severe head injuries. His father had come straight to the hospital from his nightshift. He was still wearing his dirty overalls, and had a breathing mask dangling round his neck.
Holding her pink kimono in front of her, she walks back to the living room and closes the heavy curtains.
The room feels suddenly blind, as if a silence had settled on it.