Tarot card:
I look at the two final portraits, thinking maybe I can figure out which tarot cards they depict, when something dawns on me.
If thereisa copycat killer in Blackwood, he’s got two more victims lined up.
THIRTY-THREE
I raid the drying rackfor something resembling an outfit and throw on leggings and a black T-shirt before writing a quick note to Izzy. I decide I should just say I couldn’t sleep and promise breakfast on my return. I’ll worry about the details later.
I go back to the living room to gather up my “evidence.” I make sure I’ve not left anything too conspicuous lying around, but I do leave my coffee cup and banana peel on the table as evidence of my early morning. I slip my feet into a pair of flip-flops by the door, shrug into my denim jacket and grab the key, gently closing the door behind me. I hold my breath until I reach the corner at the end of the street and head toward the center of campus.
A quick Google search showed me that as well as the Blackwood Police Station, there is a small police unit at the Clarendon Building, though there are only two officers for the whole campus. I know I should go to Detective Romig, but she hasn’t filled me with confidence so far, and if nothing else, maybe someone who is patrolling an empty university will be bored enough to take me seriously.
I arrive at the quad breathless and flushed. I head for theClarendon Building, tilting my head to look up at the soaring Gothic structure, all dark and brooding against the bright summer sky. It partly dates back to the thirteenth century, though I think most of it is Victorian. Gentle morning sunlight illuminates the arches, painting the details on the stonework in high relief. A trio of gargoyles leer down at me as I approach the main entrance, and I ignore them as I pause to read the directory, finding the listing for the Blackwood University Police Hub.
The building appears deserted, though when I try the main door, it opens easily. The distant tinkling of keys down the corridor indicates that the custodians are already at work, opening up for anyone who might be in over the summer break. I follow the signs bearing the police logo, winding down several corridors before landing outside a nondescript door with a small window. A small, dark window. Nobody’s here yet. I sit in one of the plastic chairs that are bolted to the wall and smooth out the pile of documents I’ve been clutching since I left the house. The listing on the university website said the hub opens at half past seven, and that’s only twenty minutes away. I’m prepared to wait.
I look around the gloomy corridor. The office is buried in the bowels of the Clarendon Building, and the sad decor has more than a whiff of hospital waiting area about it. I can tell they don’t bring the tour groups down here, because the crumbling plaster and peeling paintwork suggest this is not where the conservation money is spent. It’s cold in comparison to outside, and I huddle further into my chair, wishing I’d thought to wear something cozier than this jacket. I close my eyes to rehearse what I’m goingto say when a wave of tiredness washes over me and I succumb to it, just for a second.
“You all right there?”
My entire body snaps to attention, drool trying to escape from the corner of my mouth before my eyes fully open. A short, stocky man in a police uniform stands in front of me, a heavy backpack dangling from one hand and a reusable coffee cup in the other. My luck seems to be in, because it’s the officer who initially attended Helen’s crime scene.
“You haven’t been here all night, have you?”
“Erm, no.” I wipe my mouth with the back of my hand and check my phone—twenty-five past seven. “Micronap,” I murmur, getting to my feet. “I wanted to talk to someone, but I was early.”
“Well, give me a minute and I’m all yours.” He juggles the coffee cup into the hand holding his bag and digs a set of keys from his trouser pocket as I study him. He’s roughly mid-thirties, clean shaven and solemn-looking. Tired, too, judging by the yawn he stifles as he unlocks the office. He turns a key in the lock and pushes open the door. “Let me put this stuff down…” He pauses, looking at me until I realize he’s waiting for me to tell him my name.
“Oh! Fliss, Felicity, I mean. Felicity Keller. We met the other night.”
“Okay, Felicity Keller,” he says with no hint of recognition. He must see students all week long. “I’ll be with you in a jiffy.”
I watch the door close behind him and weigh up my chances.His uniform is neatly ironed, even though I doubt anyone will see it, so he probably takes his job seriously. He’ll appreciate details. Maybe he will listen to me after all. I ignore the voice in the back of my head that’s wondering why he’s been stationed here and why Detective Romig was so dismissive of him on Monday. Being a university officer in this sad part of the building seems like it could be penance.
“Okay, Felicity.” He holds open the door and beckons me inside. “I’m Officer Shaw. Take a seat.”
I enter the tiny room and do as he says, sitting across the desk from him. It’s overflowing with paperwork and reminds me more of Dad’s office than a police station. I place my own stack of documents on the desk and smooth it out for the hundredth time as Officer Shaw unscrews the lid from his travel mug. The scent of strong coffee fills the room. “Do you mind if I drink this? I’ve hardly slept. New baby,” he explains.
“I don’t mind,” I say, my voice hoarse. I clear my throat.
“Thanks. Now, what can I do for you, Felicity?” He leans back in his chair and blows on his drink as I take a deep breath. Start at the beginning, Fliss.
“I want to talk to you about the murders.” I blurt it out so matter-of-factly that I’m not surprised when Officer Shaw freezes and puts his cup back on the desk.
“You do.” It’s not a question. He doesn’t take his eyes off me as he screws the lid back on his coffee and puts it to one side. Good, he is taking this seriously. “Do you have information you want to share with me?”
“Yes. I mean, maybe.” I watch him pull a notepad and pencloser and start to scribble on it. “I was there, at the first one. That’s where I met you.”
“Stop.” He looks at me wide-eyed and pulls open a desk drawer, scrabbling around in it before producing a small silver tape recorder.
“I’m not making a confession!” I counter, trying to recall my rights, but my mind draws a blank, which is infuriating. I should know this stuff. “Or a statement, for that matter. For one thing, I’m a minor.”
“You are?” He mumbles something that sounds suspiciously like a string of swear words under his breath before he pulls himself together. “Then I can’t talk to you alone. I’m not on that case, as it happens, but I can get Detective Romig from the main station to see you.” My hopes sink. “With an adult,” he adds.
“Just listen to me, will you?” I spread out the pages, knowing we’ve started on the wrong foot, but I need him to give me a chance. “I think the two murders that happened this week are connected. Look.” I turn the portraits of The Four to face him and point at the first two. “These are paintings on show in the Heywood Gallery. Helen, the first victim, was found there last Monday. Byme.” I stress the last word as Shaw pushes his chair back. “Please! Helen had a blindfold on, just like the woman in the first painting.”
“I can’t talk to you.” Officer Shaw opens the door and peers out into the corridor, as though he’s waiting for someone.