The Lover's Children

Chapter 93 – Summer’s Inferno – Part 3

KLEMPNER

The drive to the City Hospital gives me time to consider my options. Pulling into the rear parking lot,

some smart-ass tries to tell me I can’t park there, but waving my police pass at him gets me a scribbled

visitor permit.

In the morgue, Borje’s mood hasn’t improved. As he sees me, he straightens up from where he’s

delving into the body cavity of the murdered woman, at least, what’s left of it. “C.o.D. confirmed as

asphyxiation…” he says. “…as per the earlier cases. I can give you all the details if you want it…?”

“Does the detail change any of what you said at the crime scene?”

“No. I’ve sent the strands from inside her throat to the lab, but I’ll be surprised if they don’t confirm that

they’re taken from the wig.” He shoves hands in pockets, stares down at the butchered corpse.

“Although the killer broke pattern with that, in other ways, she was much like the previous victims.

Young. Fit and healthy. No damage from, or evidence of, smoking, or of drug or alcohol abuse.”

“Do you have photos of the wig as it comes from the manufacturer? Or another of the same model? For

comparison.”

He raises a finger. “In fact, I do. Just came in five minutes ago.” Rummaging through a stack of in-trays,

he passes me a plastic-wrapped object, complete with manufacturer’s label. “Feel free to open and

handle it. I have another one.”

As I extract the hairpiece, something rattles behind us. “Doc?”

I glance up to see an orderly in the ubiquitous green overalls, pushing a trolley. “They sent me down for

a pick-up. Name of Carter. Which one is it?”NôvelDrama.Org owns this.

Borje pauses, forehead creasing. “Carter? Oh, yes. The coroner cleared that one last week. The family

can have him back.” He aims a forefinger at a bank of cold-storage cabinets. “Number fourteen. Give

me a second, Ricky. I’ll just get the release papers for you.”

He shuffles through another of the in-trays. “Excuse me a moment, Larry. I’ll just deal with this.” He

points me to a computer screen. “Take a look. You can see my findings so far.”

Spreading my fingers into the wig, I dangle it mid-air, trying for a feel of how it might look when worn;

long, chestnut hair, glinting red under the lights, swishes. It’s quite attractive, and right on target for the

Surgeon’s taste in victims. Barring the detail that it’s not the girl’s own hair.

Borje signs off some papers and sends the orderly on his way, this time with a green-draped hump

loaded onto the trolley. He returns his attention to me.

“Do we have a name for her yet?” I ask.

“Hanna Novak. They tell me her flatmate reported her missing.”

“And she’s come in? To ID the body?”

“No.” Borje traces an outline in the air over what remains of the face. “With the remains in that

condition, all apart from the distress caused to a friend, it wouldn’t have been reliable. But dental

records confirm it’s her.”

“How about DNA evidence from the killer?”

“Not so far.” He arches brows, blows air. “As with the others, he’s used the obvious precautions:

condom, gloves and so on. With modern analysis techniques, it’s difficult not to leave something of

yourself behind, but he’s been very careful.”

“Careful in a way that suggests he understands what’s involved? Specialist knowledge?”

“Could be.” Borje face is bleak. “Why do something like this? I see all kinds in here, but this…” His

words fail.

And there’s the crux of course, our killer’s motive.

Borje is still speaking. “Find this bastard, Larry. He’s not going to stop. And if I can do anything to help,

call me. Any time, just call me.”

“I’ll do that.”

He surveys the cadaver, his breathing shallow.

“Borje?”

He doesn’t look up. “Hmmm?”

“You okay?”

He blinks up at me. “What do you think?

“Perhaps when you’ve done your work here, you should take some time for yourself?”

“Couldn’t agree more.” The corpse of a smile tugs at his mouth. “Just what I was planning, in fact. I’m

seeing Georgie later… Um…” He hesitates, clears his throat.

“Um? Is there something else?”

“Yes… There is… Listen, I had a conversation with James. He told me about Georgie's abduction last

year. I understand you were the reason she was taken…”

His eyes narrow… “…Although he wasn’t clear about the reason for that. Nonetheless, my thanks for

your part in her rescue. And my apologies. I understand now why you would feel protective towards

her. Why you treated me with suspicion at first.”

“You do?”

“I do.” He rocks his hand back and forth. “It’s not always easy to sort out our emotions, but sometimes

in life, you pick up the baton, and then you run with it.”

*****

GEORGIE

My arm hooked through his, Borje and I stroll through the City centre. He’s strangely quiet.

People are out and about: window-shoppers, loafers and strollers, but the weather is sizzling, and the

heat is slowing everyone down, turning the buzz of walker, runner and talker alike to a slow, easy

rhythm.

At first, I put Borje’s silence down to the heat.

“You seem tired?”

“No, I’m fine.”

Fine?

Empathy’s not my strong suit, but…

“Don’t know about you, but I could use a drink.”

“Absolutely.” He puffs out his cheeks, blowing air. He flashes brows, looking more his usual self.

“Something cold where I have to blow the froth from the top.” He aims a finger to half a dozen tables

outside a kiosk. “How about there? We’ll be under the shade of trees.”

A waiter spots us, leaping into action. Whisking a cloth over the top of a small table, he pulls out a seat

then offers it to me, brows raised, palm outstretched.

I have to laugh at his efficient opportunism. “Sounds good.”

Five minutes and two tall, chilled glasses later, Borje wipes froth from his mouth. “This was a good

idea.”

“Feeling better?”

He slants me a look. “I am, yes. My apologies. It was a rough morning.”

“Want to talk about it?”

“No.” Behind his eyes, shutters drop, then he brightens. “Hey, after we’ve finished our drinks, how

about we look around in there?”

I follow his pointing finger to a storefront. Wicked Whispers - 18 Only Behind an acre of glass, female

marionettes model French maid outfits, fake nurse’s uniforms, teddies and corsets. Their male

equivalents wear backless tuxedos of the kind that get yanked off in those stage shows where men

parade themselves. I laugh. “Yeah, right.”

His smile wavers. “I’m serious.”

“You have got to be kidding.”

Borje blinks. “I’m not kidding at all. I’d like to buy you something.”

“Buy? From a place like that? When did you join the dirty-raincoat brigade?”

The smile vanishes entirely. With exaggerated care, Borje sets his glass down on the table. “Dirty-

raincoat? What century are you living in, Georgie? And when did old men in dirty raincoats ever

frequent town centre stores painted up with pink hearts?”

Feeling the ground shift below me, “Borje, I don’t want to go into a shop like that… Just because the

marketing’s better than it used to be doesn’t change what it’s selling.”

Picking up his beer again, Borje sips, then speaks again, his tone much calmer. “Georgie, it’s selling

sex-wear and toys for women and couples. Look at the people going in. Not a dirty raincoat among

them.”

A group of girls in their early twenties enter, the door bing-bonging. All wear sparkly antennae in the

hair and matching tee-shirts. One has ‘Bride’ printed on the back.

“They’re just kids. In there to buy cheap rubbish.”

“You’re hardly ancient yourself, Georgie…” Irritation crackles under the calm tone. Borje gestures with

his glass… “And what about these two?”

“What about them?”

“Certainly not kids. Not cheap either.”

It’s a couple going in, perhaps in their forties. Sporting designer stubble, he wears jeans and trainers

with a denim jacket, of the kind designed to look as though it was dragged in off the street, but actually

a brand where if you have to ask the price, you can’t afford it. She wears the female version of the

same outfit, although the stubble is replaced by a long mop of corkscrew curls that must take her hours

to get right.

And I don’t know what to say. My eyes are getting hot and it’s nothing to do with the weather.

“Georgie, why are you so hung up about this?”

“Borje, someone might see me in there.”

Slapping down a handful of coins on the table, Borje stands, grabs my hand, towing me toward the

door. “If you meet them in there, it’s because they’re shopping there too.”

*****

A bell on one of those curly metal springs jangles, bobbing up and down as we enter. Borje strolls in. I

scuttle behind him. From behind the counter, a girl smiles across, her eyes flicking between me and

Borje together. “Can I help with anything?”

Borje tone is airy. “Just looking for now.”

“No problem,” she says. “Just call if you need any help.”

Help?

I mutter without thinking, meaning to keep my words to myself. “What on earth would anyone want to

ask help for in a place like this?”

Borje glances at me askance, the airiness gone from his tone. “She’s being paid to do a job. There’s no

need for you to be rude about it. As for what… Asking where to find a particular item? Trying on some

of the outfits… Help and advice with what some of the equipment does. In fact, most of what you might

request assistance for in any store.”

A brief scan around and I discover that the contents of the window display are minor compared with the

store itself. Shelves are stacked with books on jokes about sex, the history of sex, suggested games

for sex, advice about sex.

I pluck one out at random, open it at random then quickly slot it back onto its shelf. “Who needs sex

advice? I mean, we’re all adults. We all know what to do, don’t we?”

Borje slow-blinks, head canting. “You think?”

A side room is stacked floor to ceiling with DVDs. Another with magazines. A rack is stacked with gift

cards for ‘Experience’ weekends and holidays in ‘romantic’ spots. I flick open a brochure then shove it

back on the rack.

“What is it?” asks Borje.

“They call it romance, but it’s all…”

“All what?”

“There’s… equipment.”

He plucks the leaflet back off the display, then chuckles as he opens it. “Looks like fun.”

“Fun? I mean… What is that?”

He traces a finger over a photo of a strappy contraption dangling from a ceiling hook. “Sex-swing. A lot

of fun…” He draws out the word… “…for most adults. A couple can try different positions without the

strain that goes with some of them. Especially so for the elderly or disabled. Often those who simply

can’t manage sex because of back injuries or arthritis say, can enjoy their love life again using one of

these.”

“That’s right…” A voice chips in from the counter: the assistant. “We sell a lot of them to people who

aren’t what they once were physically. And more to the young ‘uns too…” She grins, jerking a thumb at

the bridal party… “Like you say, it is just a bit of fun for them. But for some, it makes all the difference

to having a sex life at all.”

My cheeks flame, but curiosity wins. “What do you mean? If someone’s disabled…”

Borje’s words are dry. “Just because your body lets you down, doesn’t mean your libido’s vanished.”

The girl smiles brightly. “That’s right.” She takes a card off a pinboard behind the counter, waving it at

me. “One guy sent us a message only yesterday, saying thank you. He was in an industrial accident

some years ago. Damaged his spine. He said he’d thought he’d never have sex again. It was killing his

marriage. But he booked one of our romance breaks. He says it had made all the difference. He and

his wife have almost a normal love life again.”

“Because of a dirty weekend in some hotel?” The words are barely out of my mouth before I wish I

could have swallowed them, but they’re out.