The Lover's Children novel Chapter 95

RICHARD

Klempner, face masked neutral, enunciates his words. “I’m using office facilities as provided by your employer.” He eye-points Lydia to me.

As if a man like him would be interested in some kid barely out of pigtails.

“Oh! That sounds exciting.” Her eyes light up. “What is it you do?

Francis delivers another scathing look. “Lydia… Whatever Mr Waterman does is none of your business. Now concentrate on your own work. Don’t you have that filing still to do?”

“Yes, Mrs Colby.”

Klempner, his expression still a crafted blank, returns his attention to me. “As I was saying, do you need me to check in?”

Francis shuffles papers, cocking a brow at me but I give her a micro-shake of my head. “No, not at all. I gave you the use of that apartment for a purpose. It’s 24/7 access and your swipe card will handle anything that building security needs. Use the space as works best for you.”

He inclines his head. “Thank you. I’m heading there now.”

“Do you have everything you need?”

Klempner pauses, sucking air between his teeth as he stares into space for a moment. “Another corkboard would be useful. As large as you have available.”

“Francis, could you arrange that, please.”

My trusty PA is already tapping into her phone. “I’ll get Maintenance right onto it for you, Mr Waterman. Where would you like it mounted?”

Klempner havers. “Just send up the board. And some wall fixings. I’ll mount it myself.” Briefly, his eyes meet mine…

Doesn’t want anyone else seeing what’s in that room…

… then with a cursory nod, he turns back into the elevator. Green lights blink upward.

“How’s he getting on up there?” It’s James, framed by his office door, and obviously switched to Was-Listening-In mode.

“No idea. Shall we find out?”

*****

I tap at the door of the apartment I’ve assigned to Klempner while he’s working on his case with the police…

And perhaps on others to come…

Another knock: “Larry? It’s Richard and James.”

A few seconds, the clip of footsteps and the door opens. Klempner’s brows rise as he stands back to admit us. “You hardly have to knock. It’s your building.”

“And your private space.”

James offers the corkboard tucked under his arm. “Brought this up for you.”

Klempner’s lips twitch. “Needed two of you for that, did it?” Taking the board from James, he jerks his head inside. “You’d better come in.”

Klempner’s private space is bland enough. The apartment is designed as guest accommodation for visitors. Small, but well fitted out, the living area looks over the City. Doors lead to a kitchenette and the bathroom from one side, to the pair of bedrooms from the other.

The door to one of the bedrooms stands ajar. So does the door to the kitchenette, billowing the scent of brewing coffee, not quite masked by the fragrance of a display of lilies by the window.

The settee and coffee table look untouched. Footprints overlie the vacuumed stripes of the carpet, leading to and from the open bedroom door and drag marks from where a small desk, normally placed under the window, has been moved into the bedroom.

Klempner follows my eye. “I set up in there rather than here. I don’t know your cleaning schedules here, but I thought it better that none of your staff saw what’s in there. Which reminds me, is it okay if I fit a lock to that door? I’d prefer not to have anyone wandering in when I’m not here.”

“What’s in there?” queries James.

“Police files... Photos…” He hesitates… “Murder boards.”

“Boards? Boards plural?”

“One for each victim.”

“Mind if we see?”

Klempner cants his head, his voice is mild. “I don’t mind, no. But you might. It’s not good.”

James’ jaw sets. “I’d like to see.”

Klempner shrugs, holds his palm toward the door. “Don’t say you weren’t warned.”

James enters ahead of me. I all but walk into the back of him as he halts mid-stride. “Jesus Christ!”

“James?”

His shoulders rise and fall with the draw of a breath, then he swipes a hand through his hair. “As you said, I was warned.” He steps forward once more and I follow, Klempner close behind me.

… underwent a horrifying attack. Nonetheless, the increasing degree of savagery is clear. Culminating in the assault on the latest woman…

Stooping to see clearly, I tap the photo at the centre of the final board. “Do we have a name for her yet?”

Klempner takes a card label from his desk, writing on it in thick felt tip before displaying it to me… Hannah Novak… before pinning it to the top of the sixth board. He surveys James’ face, shiny and pale. Then mine. “You want another drink?”

“Yes, but make it coffee.”

*****

In the five minutes it takes James to produce coffee, Klempner mounts his murder board on the wall. I’m half-way down my cup as he finishes pinning up the information he has - limited so far. Despite the reduced information available for the latest victim, some differences are immediately visible.

James holds his breath as his eyes scrape over the central image, briefly flick over the other boards, then back again. “He mutilated her face. He’d not done that with the others.”

“That’s right,” says Klempner. “Also, he strangled her using the hairpiece before completing the act using strands from the wig and his trademark banknotes.”

My stomach roils. I gulp at my coffee, more for something to do than because I want it. “How are you feeling? Dealing with… with this?”

“It doesn’t do the women any good to get emotional about it.” Klempner’s voice remains steady, but he doesn’t make eye contact, instead pinning a newspaper cutting by the central image.

The coffee helps, settling me inside. Pacing, I take another sip… “What starts a man doing something like this? Surely it doesn't come out of the blue? Fully formed?”

“It’s not fully formed,” says Klempner. “His modus operandi is still evolving.”

“Perhaps…” Resisting the churning in my stomach, I look over the first board… “…but it occurs to me that, in this pattern of increasing… savagery… committed against these women, even for the first victim, Olivia, the attack is already horrifically intense. How sure are the police that she was the first?”

Klempner jerks a look at me. “I don’t know. It hadn’t occurred to me to ask that, although I’m sure Stanton and his crew of experts and shrinks must have done so…” His gaze goes distant… “But yes, it’s a fair point. Any individual with a growing penchant for this kind of behaviour would surely have started lower down the scale.”

“And perhaps not with women,” adds James.

Klempner frowns. “Sorry?”

“Classic pattern. Psychotics who enjoy torture for its own sake often start small, and with different victims.”

“Children, you mean?”

“Or animals. There are several child and animal protection agencies who work together these days, raising red flags on the kind of low lives who start by pulling the wings off flies, move on to torturing pets, before graduating…” James’ throat works as he gestures vaguely around the walls… “…to full-blown murder.”

“And the other obvious question is,” I add, “why the break in pattern? The fibres of the wig down her throat. The damage to her face.”