“She was. And you never told me her name.”
“Hanan Elserdi. Twenty-six years old. Home town: Cairo. Been in France for eight months — according to her passport, anyway.”
She’d been a healthy young girl this time yesterday. Now she lay on a metal tray, lifeless and stiff with rigor mortis, suffering the gaze of two complete strangers who stared at her naked form with the dispassionate eyes of scientists sizing up a new specimen. Hugo shook his head. “I assume you have people working on her background.”
“I expect a phone call any minute,” Tom said. His voice and tone were unusually gentle, respectful of the dead body in front of him, but without being sentimental. Gruff, foul-mouthed, and, Hugo suspected, often lethal, Tom was a much nicer person than he let on. And sometimes Hugo reminded him of that.
“Looks like she was shot five times,” Tom said. “Hand, shoulder, two in the chest, and one in the throat.”
“Maybe,” Hugo said. “And then again, maybe not.” He stooped over the wound in her shoulder, then straightened and moved to her side. “I’d say four times. Look.” He took her left arm and raised it, pressing against the rigor mortis to create a right angle with her body. “The wound in her shoulder isn’t as deep as the others because the bullet went through the flesh of her hand first. She put it out, an instinctual act, trying to stop him. Just a guess, of course.”
“Of course. What else?”
It was, in some ways, a game, a puzzle. A gruesome one, no doubt, and one tinged with tragedy because the essence of the puzzle was a once-live, now-dead human being. But the best way, usually the only way, to shine a light on the events that led to a death was to cast an unemotional and critical eye over the remains. To spot the pieces that fit together and to solve the puzzle that had put this young woman on a metal tray.
Hugo studied each wound, careful not to touch the entry points. Even though the evidence people had gotten all they needed from her, whoever did the autopsy should measure the bullet holes, their widths and depths, and he didn’t want to skew the results.
“Four shots, all close range,” Hugo said. “He’s not an experienced marksman because they are all over the place. No grouping, and no vital organs hit.”
“And no head shot or heart shot. So, not a pro.”
“Right.”
“You’re trying to tell me he’s not a terrorist,” Tom said. “But—”
“I know,” Hugo interrupted, “there’s no shortage of amateur radicals out there. You’re right, I don’t think we can rule that out, not just on the wounds.”
“Agreed,” Tom nodded. “Maybe she knew the killer, if he got this close to her.”
“Could be, although it was dark and a cemetery. Easy enough to lie in wait and pounce at the last moment.”
“Which begs a question.”
“Yes, it does. If the killer is neither experienced or a pro, why is he lurking in a graveyard waiting to kill people?”
“That’s the question, all right,” said Tom. “You have an answer, I assume?”
“Nope.” Hugo looked up. “All I can think is that he was there for some other reason. They stumbled across him, or vice versa, and he shot them.”
“Which means we have to figure out why they were there, as well as why he was.”
“Right. Could have been nothing more than a midnight jaunt to see Morrison’s grave; they certainly wouldn’t be the first. But to be sure, we need to know a lot more about our victims.” Hugo moved to the sheet covering Maxwell Holmes. He pulled it off and folded it like he had the one covering the girl, absentmindedly, as he studied the body.
“Same deal,” said Tom, looking over Hugo’s shoulder. “Shot twice. No kill shot to make sure, and two feet of skin between the hits.”
Hugo moved back to Elserdi’s table. “The only significant difference between the bodies is this.” He carefully rolled her onto her side to reveal her shoulder. Tom moved beside him and they stared at the ragged patch of obliterated skin. The area was roughly the size of a hockey puck, and the killer had gone after it with a vengeance. The skin had been shredded, and Hugo could see that cut after cut had been made until this patch of her shoulder was raw.
“What the fuck does it mean?” Tom said.
To Hugo, every mark on a dead body meant something. Every bruise, cut, scrape, and blemish told the story of either the victim’s death, or their life.
“They were both wearing T-shirts when they were shot, right?” Hugo asked.
“Yes. But both were topless when they were found. Tit fetish?”
“Didn’t see any tits on Maxwell,” Hugo said.
“Good point.”
“But we should check for one thing.” Hugo laid the girl back how he’d found her, and turned to the young man, looking over the front of his body before turning him on his side. Hugo looked him up and down, chewing his lip, inspecting the skin carefully. Satisfied, he laid him flat on his back again. Hugo went back to the girl, this time raising her shoulder to look at the mangled area of flesh over her clavicle.
“Interesting,” Hugo said, more to himself than to Tom.
“Interesting how? Hugo, come on, what are you seeing?”
“He’s gone after her here.”
“Like he’s angry?”
“No. Angry would be deeper. You’d see muscle, bone even. This is … not that.”
“Well, thanks for telling me what it’s not. Very helpful.”
“Welcome.” Hugo looked up at Tom. “You’re very welcome.” He winked at his friend, and they both knew Tom would have to wait to hear more.
Chapter Four
The gravel parking lot beside the lake was empty, but the Scarab watched it from the side of the road for twenty minutes, just to make sure.
The sun had set behind the Pyrénées mountains an hour ago, turning down the lights on the summer fishermen, letting them know it was time to grill their catch by the campfire, to wash down the trout with the beer they’d been chilling at water’s edge, or perhaps with some of the local Jurançon wine. He’d watched the last of them leave but there was always the possibility of a straggler, someone being where he shouldn’t. That was the lesson from Père Lachaise.
As he pulled into the little parking lot he leaned forward and looked through the windshield at the high ridges that loomed over him, watching over the lake and the village of Castet. These dark mountains seemed nearer at night than in the day, and the Scarab sensed something from them, as if they were fearsome watchdogs resentful of his presence. But he knew them well, these hills, and this village. He knew especially well the little church and its graveyard that sat atop a small knoll a hundred yards from him, across the water.
The graveyard. The highest point in the village, with a view of Castet’s half-dozen narrow streets on one side, and overlooking the lake on the other. Before, when he’d been young, he’d heard grumblings about the best view being afforded to the dead, but he knew better. He understood the importance of those people lying in repose under stone and marble. It wasn’t that they could see the view, that wasn’t the point. No, they were there because with open air on all sides, the power of the dead spread over the villagers like a protective blanket. In his mind’s eye he saw the village as a candle, its body changing form and shape over the years but with an invisible flame that grew only stronger.
The Scarab opened the back doors of his van and stepped out into the cool air, his eyes roaming the trees for signs of life, stray campers or lovers walking this lonely stretch of land. He saw no one, heard nothing.
Satisfied, he reached into the van and pulled out his dinghy, manhandling the light but awkward craft to the water’s edge, laying it gently on the surface, watching the ripples spread into the night.