The Reckoning

“How can you tell that?”

The apothecary paused and then said, “Because it took thought to choose that particular word and it would have taken time to carve it into her flesh.”

Reaching for a pencil, Locke took a sheet of paper from the detritus on his desk and, employing a series of single strokes of the pencil, began to write. When he had finished, he held up the paper. Upon it was etched the word CARITAS.

“From your description of the wounds, he would have had to employ some eighteen separate cuts. Therefore he took his time. Ergo, he was not afraid of being interrupted.” Locke paused and then said, “As a matter of interest, were there any other similar cuts on the body, close to the same area?”

Hawkwood thought back. “One or two, yes, now you mention it.”

“More than likely they were practice cuts, to allow him to perfect his calligraphy.” The apothecary laid the paper on the desk and studied his penmanship. “One has to wonder who the message was for.”

“For?” Hawkwood said, still trying to come to terms with the fact that the killer had perfected his technique before committing himself to the final indignation.

“We must assume it was meant to be read. Otherwise, why take the trouble?” Locke looked up. “You are aware that caritas can have other meanings besides ‘charity’?”

“No,” Hawkwood said. “I wasn’t.”

“It can also mean ‘esteem’ or ‘virtue’. If she was a working girl, as you suspect, then the latter interpretation would be more apposite.”

“Because she’d be considered a woman without virtue? So this was what? Some kind of punishment?”

“Possibly, or a warning to those who would ply a similar trade. The killer is giving notice that this is the fate that will befall them if they do not change their immoral ways.”

“Well, if that’s his goal,” Hawkwood said, “he’ll have his work cut out, given the number of molls in this city.”

“So will you,” Locke observed. “Seeing as you’ll be the one trying to stop him.”

A faint, far-off scream made the apothecary cock his head. As he did so, a water droplet splashed on to his sleeve from the ceiling above. Cursing, he dabbed the offending spot with his handkerchief while a cacophony of hoarse cries began to spread through the building. It was as if the first scream had been a prompt. It sounded, Hawkwood thought, as though a pack of wolves had been loosed from a cage.

Taking the interruption as his cue, and struck by a sudden and overwhelming desire to escape the hospital’s oppressive atmosphere, Hawkwood got to his feet.

Locke rose with him. As he did so, the apothecary reached for the bell pull on the wall behind his desk and gave the cord a short tug. “I’m sorry I could not be of more help.”

Hawkwood shook his head. “On the contrary, you’ve confirmed what I’d already half suspected.”

Somewhere in the depths, he presumed a bell had rung and he wondered if the sound of it had been drowned by the noises that were beginning to echo through the corridors, among them the clatter of running feet.

At that moment, however, the door opened to admit the attendant who’d delivered him to Locke’s inner sanctum, causing Hawkwood to wonder if the man had been hovering outside throughout the entire course of his and Locke’s conversation.

“Second opinions are my speciality,” Locke said, smiling. “Should any further information come to light, my door will still be open.”

“If it hasn’t been consigned to the flames,” Hawkwood said.

Locke chuckled. “I’ll make sure it’s the last thing to go.” He held out his hand. “Mr O’Brien will show you out. It was a pleasure seeing you again … despite the circumstances.”

The smile was replaced suddenly by a more thoughtful expression. “I hope you catch him.” There was the merest pause then Locke said, “When you do run him down, it will be interesting to see if he also tries to resist arrest.”

Before Hawkwood could respond, the apothecary gave a quick, wry smile, nodded and turned for his desk, his hands clasped behind his back.

The attendant moved aside to allow Hawkwood to exit. It was as the door was closing behind him that the thought struck. Sticking out a hand to stop the door’s swing, he stepped back into the room. Locke was back behind his desk. He glanced up.

“There is one thing,” Hawkwood said.

Locke half rose.

“Something I forgot to ask.”

The apothecary nodded sombrely. “I know.”

“You know?”

Locke lowered himself into his chair. “It’s just occurred to you that the question you should have asked is not: will he kill again? The question is: has he killed before?”

“Yes.”

“Because if you are to prevent him from committing a similar crime, it is not the future you should concentrate upon, but the past. If you can establish a truth using that method, then you will have your point of reference from which everything else will stem.”

“So?” Hawkwood said. “In your opinion, could he have done this before?”

Gazing back at him, Locke removed his spectacles and the handkerchief from his sleeve and began to clean each lens with slow, circular motions. After several seconds of concentrated thought, he put away the handkerchief, placed the spectacles back on the bridge of his nose, and stared at Hawkwood.

“Oh, yes,” he said. “Almost certainly.”

6 (#u9bc2c893-a59f-50c2-9ea5-dc6435b02e3e)

“That’s it?” Jago said, unable to hide his disbelief. “You want to know if any working girls have gone missing? You’re bloody joking, right? Know how many there are in this city? Bloody ’undreds – hell, thousands, more like. And you want to track down one of them?”

“I don’t need to track her down. I know where she is. She’s on a slab in a dead house; what’s left of her. What I don’t know is her name. I’m hoping it’s Rose.”

“Because of a tattoo? Jesus, that’s a bloody long shot.”

“You may be right. Most likely you are right, but that doesn’t mean I have to send her to Cross Bones to be tipped into another bloody ditch.”

Jago frowned. “So, what the hell makes this one so special? Bawds and pimps beat their molls all the time. Kill ’em too, when they’re in the mood.”

“Not like this,” Hawkwood said.

Jago sat back. “That bad?”

“Worse.”

Hawkwood described the scene in Quill’s dead house.

Jago remained silent throughout the telling. He winced at the mention of the carved wounds. “Jesus,” he muttered finally.

“Quill asked me the same question,” Hawkwood said.

“What? Oh, you mean, why this one?”