Chapter Twenty-Seven

I kissed her goodbye, said "All beauty must die"

And I leant down and planted a rose between her teeth

"Where the Wild Roses Grow" - Nick Cave & the Bad Seeds


"I won't hurt you, Inspector."

Rhees Carter had never intended to end up like this: lonely, overweight, balding, and miserable, helping a madman on his destructive path to freedom. Of course, he couldn't do much about being bald, but he certainly could have done something long ago about his remaining lot in life. It seemed to him that he had simply fallen into this way of life. It had started with taking a few quid from his mother's purse to pay for beer. That had turned into nicking cars to pay for drugs, which had led to time in prison, which had led to friendships and acquaintanceships with all sorts of unsavoury characters; which had led him, eventually, through many narrow, winding paths of general criminal behaviour, to the doorstep-figuratively speaking-of Julian Westward.

Westward was gone just now and Rhees was tending to Inspector Kenworthy. She looked to be at death's door; every breath she took was desperate and ragged, every exhalation a victory hard won. He had removed the kerchief around her eyes for a moment in order to replace it with a new one, and was shocked and sickened by the state of her eyes-puffy and faintly pink, swollen from her tears, the left eyelid battered by Julian's fist. Rhees carefully washed away the dirt and grime on her pale face and blindfolded her once more.

Trying his best to be gentle, Rhees lifted Nan from her position on the cold stone floor. Her arms hung limply before her, still bound by the cords. Her head lolled back from her neck, her hair hanging like a curtain behind her. He applied ointment to the cuts that ran along her cheeks, softly stroking the purple bruises on her face and neck. "Poor little girl," he murmured to himself.

He hated himself for his glaring inconsistencies-his willingness to go along with Julian's schemes, his passivity as Julian had beaten the girl, and yet this overwhelming pity he felt for those who got in Julian's way.

In between his ministrations, he thought of Westward. He had been involved with the man and his schemes for too long to back out now; he had not only aided and abetted in them, he had also profited from them. The £500,000 currently sitting in a London bank in an account under his name would see to it that not only was he comfortably settled for a few years, but also that he was quite uncomfortably linked with Westward in the eyes of the law. It seemed to Rhees that he had fallen into a pit that he was unlikely to find a way out of, no matter how much he might wish otherwise. And now an innocent young girl, a girl whose very life had been devoted to doing the right thing and helping others, had been dragged into this. He didn't dare make a move to double-cross Westward-he had lost his only brother that way-but Rhees' heart went out to Nan.

'But just look at her,' he thought, 'the poor little minx. All bunged up and barely breathing.' He knew several of her ribs were bruised, if not broken, and that she was dehydrated and half-starved. Blood had dried at the edges of her mouth, soiling the tape, and Rhees had removed it, despite what Julian had instructed. She was barely recognisable as the fresh-faced, bright-eyed beauty he and Nigel had followed for the past few weeks. He could still remember watching her as she walked down the steps of the tube station, with that purposeful, confident stride.

A soft moan escaped from Nan's cracked lips.

"There, there now," soothed Rhees. "It's all right. I've got you."

Stirring again, her mouth formed a word in a muted whisper.

"What's that, then?" He leaned closer. She whispered again. It sounded like 'Benny' or 'Jimmy.' Probably Jimmy. Wasn't her young American bloke called James?

Rhees remembered Julian's rage when he had shown him the photos of Nan leaving the pub that night with Lieutenant Hickok. The cruel eyes had darkened to black, his cheeks had flushed purplish-red. Rhees had been completely unprepared for this reaction. Even now he remembered Westward's voice trembling as he fought to gain some semblance of control. 'I want to know who he is,' he had said, 'and what he's got to do with Anna Kenworthy.'

Rhees heard footsteps. In his haste to re-tie the cloth once more around the Inspector's eyes, Rhees didn't realise Julian was in the room until it was too late.

"That won't be necessary," Julian said coolly.

Rhees turned around, guilt in his eyes. "Sorry, Julian, I was just-"

"Never mind. It doesn't matter."

"What do you mean it doesn't matter?" Rhees asked, coughing nervously.

"I mean it matters very little if Inspector Kenworthy sees our faces. She won't long be in a position to make much use of the information."

Fear coursed through Rhees's veins like icy water. There was a look in Julian's gaze that would have made a lesser man quake in frightened anticipation. He settled Nan back onto the floor and stood over her, facing Julian as firmly as he could. 'Steady on, Carter,' he instructed himself. 'Don't let him see you're frightened.'

"What are you planning on doing with her?"

Julian snorted. "What difference does it make to you?"

"She's only a girl!" Despite his intentions, panic had crept into Rhees's voice. He gestured to the gaunt figure between them. "Just let her go, Julian. You've got money-you've got contacts! Just leave the country and let her go!"

Julian regarded his employee with contempt. Rhees had long since outlived his usefulness, but it would be rather messy dealing with two bodies at this point. "If I didn't know better, Carter, I'd say you'd got positively fond of the girl."

Rhees flushed scarlet. He knew Westward was only trying to get his goat, but he had succeeded. "I just...I feel badly for her, that's all."

"How very sweet," Julian clucked insincerely.

Trying another tactic, Rhees said, "But I thought you fancied her, Julian! You wouldn't want to hurt her, would you?" The moment the words died on his lips Rhees realised the ridiculousness of this statement. Julian had no qualms when it came to hurting the girl-wasn't her face black and blue at this very moment? "We don't have to hurt her," he protested weakly.

Julian stood and began to pace the length of the room, pausing periodically to glance down at Nan's limp, unconscious form. "She's of no use to me, really. I was naïve to think taking her would get the coppers off my back. I underestimated her importance to them."

"But we don't have to...hurt her."

The bark of laughter that issued from Westward after Rhees's statement made the Welshman flinch.

"Now who's being naïve? My intentions toward Inspector Kenworthy are far less altruistic than merely hurting her, Rhees, surely you've realised that."

"I just don't see why-"

"Of course you don't. There's no need for you to," Julian replied sharply. "None of this is anything to do with you, Rhees, you're merely here to do a job. It should matter very little-very little indeed-what happens to Inspector Kenworthy."

It was amazing; Rhees was open-mouthed at this change in Westward. The consuming passion the man had shown for Nan was gone. In its place was cold, calculating indifference. It really shouldn't have been a surprise to see; more than once he had borne witness to Westward's abrupt change of emotion, but Rhees was nonetheless startled. It was as if the preceding weeks of careful planning and strategising had never happened, as if he had never lusted after the young inspector, never ignited in rage over the thought of her with another man. She had become merely a liability to him, and Rhees feared for Anna Kenworthy's life.

"She knows who we are," Julian was saying. "Do you doubt that she would use it against us? All she has to do is identify me, my friend, and it's curtains for you. The police pull up a record of my past associates, Nan points out your accent and remembers your name, and before you know it you're sporting a lovely pair of handcuffs and making friends with your new cellmate."

Rhees shuddered at the picture Westward was painting and pulled nervously at the collar of his shirt. He didn't fancy the idea of prison, not even for a nice young girl like Inspector Kenworthy.

Sensing the man's internal dilemma, Julian immediately acted on it. He went to Rhees and put a condescendingly sympathetic hand on his shoulder. "It won't be the first time, will it?" he reminded him. "Look at it as a necessary evil, a minor drawback to the job." Rhees's shoulders relaxed slightly and Julian sensed this as well. He let a smile creep into his voice, a comfortable, nonchalant smile. "Once we're rid of the Inspector, you and I can go on our merry ways. We each take a share of the cash-a slightly larger share for me, of course-and we leave the country. You once told me you've been longing to see Hawaii; well by all means, seize the moment, Rhees. As the Americans say, let's get the hell out of Dodge."

The reference was completely lost on Rhees but he nodded as if mesmerised. "Hawaii," he murmured, thinking of a life on his own, with some cash set aside, free from Julian and his demands. It was a tremendously appealing thought and Rhees could not deny its attraction. Then some internal moral switch clicked on just as quickly and the clouded look in his eyes was gone. He shook his head. "No, I can't agree with this, Julian. I just can't."

Julian backed away and thrust a hand deep in the pocket of his overcoat. He shook his head. "What a shame. Yes indeed, what a shame."

He waited until Rhees's back was turned before withdrawing the gun and firing. The stocky Welshman crumpled to the ground, and he lay there, his blood seeping from his head, trickling down the slightly inclined floor to weave in Nan's hair.

Julian looked at the body in disgust. "You and your noble ideas," he grumbled. "You know, I really hated to do that, Carter. You really are a soft-hearted bastard, aren't you?" He paused to chuckle. "Well, not any longer. More soft-headed, really."

The gun swinging in the loop of his forefinger and thumb, Julian went over to inspect Nan's limp form. Crouching down beside her, he swept a hand over her face, brushing dirty, matted hair away. Her eyes flitted softly beneath translucent lids. Her full lips parted to breathe a name. Staring at her, Julian was struck at the strange complexities of his own heart. It wasn't two days ago that he had been completely enamoured by this woman, ready to fight for her, ready to kill for her. The very sight of her dark blue eyes had caused his stomach to constrict painfully; her nearness had excited him to a frenzy.

And now...now he felt nothing. Nothing but a bit of contempt and irritation at his previous infatuation with her. "Ah well," he murmured to himself. "We all make mistakes."

It had been much the same with his previous wives, and more so with Rachel than with any of them. From the moment he had seen her tousled blond waves and curvaceous figure, heard her smoky laughter in his ears, he had been consumed by the need to possess her. The infatuation had actually lasted a considerable length of time, but had dissipated eventually. As it had now, with Anna Kenworthy. He could no longer summon even the faintest traces of longing for her. The curve of her full, soft pink lips no longer moved him in the slightest. He could not pinpoint the exact moment this transformation had taken place in his heart, but she was merely excess baggage now, and excess baggage was to be disposed of as quickly as possible.

He had to hand it to her, she had been clever; as had her lover, the increasingly irritating James Hickok. They had simply not been clever enough.

Julian rose again, stretching out his tense limbs. He watched the slow, painstaking rise and fall of Nan's chest, took in her bare white arms and tattered clothes, her dark hair snarled and filthy, the bruises colouring her otherwise pale skin.

"Look at it this way," he said to her as if in reply, "in this state you probably wouldn't make it much longer, anyway."

And then he lifted the gun once more and pointed it down at the body of Anna Kenworthy.


Johan Skarsgård was exploring the London nightlife. He had been in the city for three weeks now and no matter how many times he ventured out in the evening he always found something new and exciting each time. Pretty girls, great night-clubs, good food. His Swedish accent was intriguing here, not merely commonplace. For the first time in his life Johan felt different, exotic, interesting.

The vodka here was terrible, never Russian, but they had good gin. Johan had drunk rather a lot of it by the time he stumbled his way home after a night of clubbing. The cold air hit his face sharply and his eyes swam a bit from the alcohol, and so he would have missed the body if he had not tripped over it.

He hit the ground with a loud thud, face first, feeling the pavement against his nose immediately. He swore loudly in Swedish and crawled unsteadily to his feet, swaying where he stood. The fall had cleared his vision somewhat and he whirled around angrily, looking for the cause of his accident. He saw a figure half-concealed in the shadows.

"What do you think you are doing?" he yelled fiercely. "You crazy English idiot! You do not lay on ground in person's way! I nearly killed myself!"

There was no response from the figure. Johan gave one leg a swift kick.

"You should be answering me, you fool!" he cried.

There was still no response and Johan's anger subsided. His brain was clearing too and he was beginning to realise that there could very well be something wrong with this person. "Hello? Are you all right?" He crept closer toward the figure. It had a woman's shape. "Ma'am? Are you all right? I am not going to hurt you; I can be helping you. Ma'am?"

His fingers closed around a bare arm. It was cold, not pulsing with life. His skin crawled but the rapidly sobering Johan continued with steely resolve. He put his free hand on the figure's waist and tried to drag it out. It was a woman; she was tall, but built slightly and despite her thin frame seemed to weigh a ton. When Johan had pulled her out under the glare of the street lamp, he knew immediately that she was dead.

Someone had beaten this woman within an inch of her life; she was virtually covered in cuts and bruises. Her clothes were torn and dirty. Johan physically recoiled as he looked at her, but even he could see that she had once been lovely. Tears filled his eyes and his words poured forth in Swedish. "Arma människa," he wept. Poor wretch! He took one slender wrist in his hand and checked its pulse to no avail.

Suddenly nausea swept over Johan and he dropped the woman's body back on to the pavement, bowing his head over the grass to vomit again and again. Finally able to contain himself, he swiped at his mouth and assessed the situation as best he could. He had to look for the woman's identification. Not that the bastard who had done this would have left her with anything.

To his surprise Johan found a wallet in the woman's pocket. It was empty save a badge that identified her as a member of the London Metropolitan Police Force. He stared at the picture of the woman on the badge: vivid blue eyes, a hint of humour around her soft mouth, though her expression was serious. She had been young and vibrant once, and someone had taken that from her.

It was only then that Johan noticed where he was. In his earlier, inebriated state it had not even registered that he was in front of the Uxbridge Police Station. He was in fact not more than fifty yards away. 'What a sick bastard,' he thought. This was no coincidence.

He looked down at the woman the badge had identified as Detective Inspector Anna Kenworthy. The cold wind stirred her hair. He had an insane urge to wrap his coat around her, to protect her from the elements, to do something for her. And then he reminded himself that the only thing he could do for her was give her family peace of mind. He had never believed that no news was better than good news. It was best to let her people know.

Leaving her behind, Johan crossed the street, wiping away the tears on his face. He darted inside and rang the bell at the front desk. A fresh-faced young PC came from the back room and smiled pleasantly at Johan.

"What can I help you with, sir?"

"Please, I find...I found..." Johan choked on the words, his English failing him momentarily.

The smile slipped from the PC's face. "Yes, sir?"

Johan's eyes watered again. "I found...kropp...that is, body...outside polisstation."

"A body?" echoed the PC.

"Yes, a body. Woman's body. Very badly hurt." No, that was wrong. He cursed himself. "Dead, sir. She is dead."

PC Briggs stared at Johan. "Dead? Are you sure?"

Johan nodded. "She has no…" he struggled for the word, then gave up and tapped his wrist to indicate what he meant. "Nothing there, you see."

"No pulse, do you mean?"

"Ja, pulse. She has no pulse."

"Was there any ID on her?"

"Please-what is 'ID'?"

"Identification, sir. Was there any identification on her?"

"You mean...photograph, something like that?"

"Yes, sir." By now two more officers had joined PC Briggs-one was a weathered-looking man, the other a sharp-eyed woman.

"Ja, she had this on her." Johan slipped the badge through the partition, belatedly realising that he should not have touched the object lest the real culprit's fingerprints be on it.

DI Flavin lifted the badge and looked at it. He let out a low curse. "Christ. It's Kenworthy."

Next to him Chief Inspector Burrows gasped and snatched the ID from the inspector's hand. She groaned. "It is," she said, as if she could not believe it until she had seen it for herself. She looked at Johan through subdued eyes. "And-you're sure, are you? You're certain this is the woman whose body you found?"

Understanding her desire for it not to be true, Johan nodded painfully. "I am certain."

DCI Burrows laid the badge down. She pinched the bridge of her nose between her fingers and closed her eyes. "I suppose I'll have to be the one to call Shannon's group."

Briggs was looking down in respectful silence. He had never met DI Kenworthy, but news of her abduction had spread quickly throughout the force. She had been a well-liked, well-respected officer, a part of the elite AMIT.

Flavin cleared his throat. "And where is she, Mister-?"

"Skarsgård. Johan Skarsgård."

"Where is the body, Mr Skarsgård?"

"Just over there." Johan indicated across the street.

"Well, we'll need to keep you here, Mr Skarsgård. For questioning, you understand."

"Of course."

"Will you come with us please, to show us where you found her?"

Irene Burrows watched as the three men exited the station, sinking down on the chair behind her, resting one hand on the phone, unwilling to pick up the receiver yet, unwilling to make that phone call. She was unable to reconcile herself to the fact that the search was over. The days of worry and fear over Anna Kenworthy could now be put to rest. Surely that could be some consolation.

And then Irene thought to her involvement with the AMIT, the close-knit, tight bonds amongst the detectives on the team, Emma Shannon's motherly ways. She thought of Hastings, Turner, Fields, and Lillard, who would get the news of their friend and fellow officer's death from thousands of miles away in New York City. She thought of McSwain and Kidwell and the close bond they had always shared with Kenworthy, and Dixon teasing her, Langley hugging her to bring a smile to her face. She remembered Anna Kenworthy's fierceness, her tenacity, the wisdom she possessed that was beyond her years, and the vulnerability she showed when she least intended it. Irene sighed deeply. Another bright light snuffed out before its time, another promising future gone.

Running a shaky hand through her hair, Irene at last picked up the phone and dialled the Ladbroke Grove incident room. After one ring it was picked up.

"Incident Room. McSwain."

"McSwain, it's DCI Burrows in Uxbridge. I need to speak to Superintendent Shannon. It's urgent."

"She's on the phone just now."

"Well, get her off."

"I think she's on with Superintendent Alcott, ma'am, so I don't know if I can-"

"I don't care if she's on with the Queen Mother herself, McSwain; get her off the phone."

"Yes, ma'am."

In other circumstances DCI Burrows would have been miffed at McSwain's attitude, to say the least. But now she could only pity him, imagining his reaction when he learned of the death of his friend.