“We’ve known from the start that there are three possibilities,”Sam says. “Either Denver is a serial killer and he murdered Charlotte; or Denver is a real killer but a copycat murdered Charlotte; or, finally—and it’s the option I’m most confident about ruling out—Denver is an innocent fantasist who made the whole book up. The copycat carved Denver’s initials in the tree and left his book there to misdirect the investigation.”
“Two killers,” Chloe breathes. “The copycat who killed Charlotte and—”
“Denver himself. And he’s the one who killed Betty.”
“DI Hansen?” A civilian colleague stands in the doorway. “We’ve got a woman downstairs. Apparently, she’s met Denver.”
It’s a Love Story
I met herat Venice Beach, next to the skatepark near the Muscle Beach gym. I’d spent a sunny morning watching the skateboarders fly around the kidney-shaped bowl while tourists milled about and locals in Lycra jogged or roller-bladed by. Gaggles of nomads with van-life or similarly incomprehensible aspirations lingered beneath the palms and entertainers of various types performed mini “shows”—“entertainers” being a stretch here; they were vagrants with juggling pins and the like.
I digress. Back to Amy. I’ve never seen a dirtier woman in all my days. Hair in black-and-pink clumps that weren’t far from dreadlocks. Long fingernails rimmed with grime. Brown teeth and a scrawny frame that spoke of years of poor choices. A single gold front tooth—an incisor, I believe—that reminded me of Joe Pesci’s burglar character inHome Alone.
One of the “shows” on offer was a hanging-bar competition. Quite simply, two pull-up bars were positioned side by side and people took turns to dangle in pairs for as long as they could. Passersby placed wagers on their favorite. A pot of dollars went to whoever hung on the longest.
Amy’s hustle was simple. Working with the guy running the show,Amy would pose as a passerby. They’d drum up as much interest as they could by selecting a burly man from the crowd to compete with her. Everyone laughing, cheering and filling the pot with green. Once she’d squeezed them dry, Amy would dangle next to the sweating beast until he inevitably let go of the bar before she did. Amy made it look like a close contest. Her sinewy arms looked the part and her short shorts kept everyone’s attention as she wiggled around, supposedly trying to hold on. No one ever suspected the little cuff around her wrist that hooked over the bar. Amy and the man who owned the pull-up bars would split the winnings, then she’d come back a few hours later and do it all over again.
I winked at Amy as she panted beneath a palm tree after her last performance. She got up and followed me along the sidewalk a short way. The stench of the woman was overpowering. It was enough to dissuade me and I was about to walk away when she said:
“Ain’t nothing you wanna do that I ain’t done before, mister. You ain’t gonna surprise ol’ Amy.”
She wasn’t old, of course—my late mother would have said that Amy had just had rough life. Perhaps she was twenty-five, but her own bad choices made her look almost double that. I slipped her a hundred-dollar bill, and told her to clean up and meet me on Santa Monica Pier that evening.
She wore baggy hippy pants and a bikini top, and was much more fragrant after her shower. We rode the roller coasters and played in the arcade. I wore shades and a baseball cap at all times. Is there a more distressing sight than an Englishman in a baseball cap? I digress.
Afterwards, we took a stroll down the beach. We walked a long way. When we hit a secluded stretch, Amy stopped and tried to kiss me in the moonlight, but I could still see the brown of her teeth. I feigned shyness and she called me “sugar,” and started telling me about her older brother who fucked her in her granddaddy’s barn. She said the old man had thrown her out when she told him what the boy had done. Called her a cock tease. Perhaps one day, a pathetic police profiler will speculate that I, too, am impotent or was myself fucked in a barn as a child. Profilers are oxygen thieves.
It was Amy who decided to strip naked and run into the sea. Her body was youthful, firm and strong. She whooped as the cold waves hit her. After much cajoling, I agreed to join her and we frolicked together in the salty water. Amy hung her arms around my neck and tried to kiss me again. I was becoming annoyed, so I held her underwater for a while to drown her lust. When she resurfaced, instead of being angry, she was more aroused than before.
“Do it again,” she spluttered, “but put your hands around my neck this time.”
Only too happy to play whatever game this was turning into, I obliged. This time, I kept her below for a little longer and when I let her up she was desperate. Rubbing at my cock and thrusting her buttocks into me.
“Fuck me,” she begged. I realized then that this was one seriously unhinged woman. I dunked her again—longer this time. She took a while to catch her breath, but when she did, she said the strangest thing. “You want to kill me, don’t you?” she said. I couldn’t believe my ears but I’ve always found dishonesty distasteful, so I nodded.
“Mmm, yes,” she moaned. “How do you want this to go?”
“Well,” I said, a little off guard and needing to think fast, “I’m going to nick your arm. Then you’ll bleed out—the salt water will make sure of that…”
“Mmm,” she said, rubbing my chest with her tiny breasts.
“Then you’ll fuck me as I’m bleeding?” she asked.
“Sure, you’ll be well and truly fucked,” I said, honestly.
“What’s the safe word?” she asked, and I thought about it.
“Let’s keep it simple,” I said. “The safe word is ‘Stop.’”
She nodded and held out her arm. I took off my glasses, popped a lens and with some considerable force managed to crack it in two. I cut deep, long and vertically right up the forearm. It was far more than the “nick” I’d promised her. She bit into my shoulder, which was not entirely a turnoff, but not something I could ever get into. She wanted to beginimmediately of course, but my ardor was slight, so I let her fondle me but avoided her kisses. I’ve always found kissing to be the most distasteful element of human copulation.
It didn’t take as long as I’d expected for her to start to shiver and weaken. In the moonlight, her tanned skin had a graying pallor and I held her in my arms as she no longer wanted to tread water. I took a few steps deeper. Being significantly taller than her, the water barely lapped my shoulders.
“Gee, I’m feeling a little woozy here,” she said. “I think you cut a little deep. We should stop.” She pushed back from me slightly and made to swim to shore. Not realizing how weak she was, she floundered and turned back to cling on to my neck.
“Take me in,” she slurred. “Stop.”
I stepped a little deeper. I was up to my chin in the water, balancing on my toes.
