The Lover's Children

Chapter 95 – Summer’s Inferno – Part 5

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. Têxt belongs to NôvelDrama.Org.

“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.

The bed is pushed into a corner, sheeted over, scattered with stacks of documents. An armchair sits in

one corner, a side-table with laptop and jotted notes beside it. Facing outward, anyone using the seat

would have a wide view over the walls.

But the walls themselves…

As he said, Klempner has mounted a series of corkboards, edge-to-edge, five displays lapping around

two walls. Each is centred by the image of a woman and topped by a name, written large, in thick felt-

tip. The photos must have been taken in earlier times, family photographs perhaps. The central photos

are flanked by an array of satellite images, newspaper cuttings, documents and scribbled notes pinned

to the frames. The bottom edge of each board is lined with images of the dead woman, what’s left of

her, sickening scene shots taken, I assume, by the police photographer.

My gorge rises and my skin chills. Beside me, James’ breathing is rapid, almost staccato.

I stare around my walls and the horror show they portray. “Sweet Jesus. Are these the victims?” Then, I

recover my sense. “Sorry…” I hold up a palm… “Belay that. Idiotic question.”

Klempner seems unoffended. “I’ll answer anyway…” He sets the new board on the floor at the

rightmost end of the display, propping it upright against the wall. “…Yes, these are the victims of the so-

called ‘Surgeon’. Each board represents an individual woman…” He points to the leftmost board, then

swings around… “…left to right, in chronological order of the murders. I asked you for another board for

the most recent victim.” Riffling through a file, he produces half a dozen photos, thumbtacking one to

the centre of the board, then the others, circling it.

My mouth is dry, and I take a moment to work up enough saliva to speak. “I’ll get that lock installed for

you. Better still, I’ll do it myself. No one else should be seeing this. Least of all any of my staff.” Tapping

into my phone, I call Francis, ordering a lock, drill and joiner’s tools. “Tell Maintenance I want all the

keys handed across. The same applies to the apartment keys. You can keep a spare in the office

keypress, but none are to be in the hands of the cleaning or maintenance staff.”

“Yes, Mr Haswell. What about the cleaning? Doesn’t Mr Waterman want…?

“This apartment is not to go on the normal duty roster. Any work needed in here is to be special

arrangement only until further notice.”

In the background, another voice... “What are they doing up there?”

… and Francis’ crisp reply. “Get back to your work, Lydia.”

As I snap my mobile closed, Klempner pushes a tumbler into my hand. The warm kiss of whiskey

fumes curls up from the tawny contents. “Thanks.” I gulp it back. James has already started on his.

Klempner waits a moment then, “You want me to talk you through this? If you prefer to leave, I quite…”

“I do. Take me through what you’ve done.” Suppressing the urge to heave, I make myself look at the

boards, the horrifying images. “This board on the left… She was the first?”

Klempner nods. “So Stanton and Borje tell me.” He sweeps a hand. “I’ve set it up this way, from left to

right in order of the murders, to give me a feel for the sequence of events, the developing pattern.”

James, a hand covering his mouth, moves from one board to another, his words muffled. “Yes, I can

see that.” He peers at some detail, stands back, breathes, then shudders. “A developing trend of

intensifying violence.” He glances to Klempner. “Is that right? That’s what I’m seeing?”

“That’s right.”

I make myself look again. The first victim…

Remember she has a name…

Had a name…

I lean in closer to read…

… Olivia Wilson…

… 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.”