Vanessa observed the climate-controlled chambers in her lab the next morning. The larvae she’d collected the day before from Cordelia’s crime scene were already visibly larger, inching closer to the next phase of their life cycle. There had been several colonisation periods at the scene, with the possibility that different species of fly had slipped through that open window each day to lay their eggs.
She had a sudden flashback to those plants Nils had sent her again. He was like a fly, slipping into her home, feeding on her fears. She’d messaged Bronagh who had done her usual, overreacting and insisting Vanessa stay at hers. Vanessa had managed to talk her down, appeasing her with promises to go for dinner the next day, and convince her it was enough to just let the police know. Vanessa felt silly. It was just a plant delivery … right?
She turned her attention back to the larvae, which she’d already examined. She was now waiting for the reared flies to emerge to confirm species identification. They were each at varying sizes, from first instar stage that may have hatched the same day Cordelia’s body had been discovered to third instar, which would have been feeding off her for several days until they were ready to pupate and turn into flies. Different factors, like the room temperatures, would have determined the rate at which they would have developed. It had been reasonably mild a week ago before the cold snap that brought the snow. By matching the temperatures in these chambers with what she’d recorded at the crime scene the day before, and weather reports, she could try to recreate that growth. Eventually, when these larvae metamorphosed, she’d know what species they were and get a better understanding of when Cordelia’s body may have first been colonised. All useful for determining minimum time since death. Since different species matured at varying rates, pinpointing the precise timeline of their development – and thus the time elapsed since the body was colonised – hinged on accurate species identification. However, based on the distinctive morphology of the mouth parts, she hypothesised that these specimens likely belonged to the Sarcophagidae family, colloquially referred to as flesh flies, which lay hatched larvae on bodies, rather than eggs. And that meant it was possible Cordelia’s body was colonised on the same day she last had contact with the world: Valentine’s Day. But she’d need to check temperature data logs from the scene to confirm this.
As Vanessa examined each chamber, she jotted down notes on growth, movement, coloration and feeding. Larvae were simple creatures, with a simple aim: to eat and store energy for their upcoming pupation. Vanessa had seen it as a child when she’d observed the maggots that had spilled out from the rubbish bin in their kitchen. She’d been fascinated as she’d watched the creatures wriggle towards the only food source left behind, a few grains of soggy porridge oats. It wasn’t bad, really, as far as ambitions went: to sustain one’s genealogy, to continue the chain.
She thought of her own ambitions. She’d be lying if she said she didn’t want to be the world’s foremost forensic entomologist. She’d already been labelled the best in the UK by New Scientist. If she could conquer America, then she’d be getting close to that ‘best in the world’ goal. Did that seem arrogant? Shallow? She’d learned at a young age how ambition and motivation helped distract from the pain. First, simple ambitions. Good school reports. Win the heart of the richest, cutest boy in her village. Then more complex: leave that boy. Leave that village. Studying hard was less about impressing her dad, or her teachers, and more about being able to get into a university that would take her away from Greensands and the memories of her mother leaving; her brother going missing. By the time she achieved that, she’d learned the distracting nature of having ambitions. It just became a natural part of her world.
What about now? Was she like a maggot, squirming towards those porridge oats with no real thought about the whys and the hows? She certainly wasn’t squirming towards continuing the chain. No children. No plans to have any. What about if she gained that ‘Best Forensic Entomologist in the World’ title?
What then?
‘Wow, Vanessa,’ she whispered to herself, ‘deep thoughts for first thing in the morning.’
She walked over to another chamber, this one containing the beetle rescued from the hair clip. Vanessa watched the beetle as it sat hunched among some debris in the chamber’s corner. The jewels remained. Removing them would cause more harm than good.
‘You’re a survivor,’ Vanessa whispered to it.
‘Why, thank you,’ a voice said from behind her. It was Bronagh, her unruly red hair pulled back into a messy bun, her lab coat looking even more stained than usual. She leaned down and looked at the beetle with Vanessa. ‘Poor thing.’
‘It’ll be fine. Ironclad beetles are tanks. So strong, they can survive being run over.’
‘Must make it difficult for entomologists to pin them down?’
‘Very. But then they’re not meant to be displayed.’
‘Or decorated and embellished.’
‘Exactly.’
Bronagh paused. ‘Have you caught up on any news from home yet?’
‘Home? As in the UK?’ Bronagh nodded. ‘No. Why?’
Bronagh handed her phone to Vanessa. ‘I thought you’d want to see this. Joe sent it to me just now,’ she said, referring to her husband.
It was a headline from a UK tabloid that read: COBWEB KILLER CAUGHT IN TRAP: PRISON BEATING FOR VINCENT MARWOOD.
Vanessa felt a sudden tightening of her heart as she clicked on it. It was a breaking news item about her brother. ‘Shit,’ she whispered as she looked at the arrest photo of her brother they often reran.
‘Have you heard anything from your brother’s prison?’ Bronagh asked.
‘No, nothing.’ Vanessa could hardly hear her own voice as the buzzing in her head grew louder.
‘That’s good news, I suppose,’ Bronagh said. ‘If he was seriously hurt, the prison would need to inform you.’
Vanessa nodded, massaging her temple as though to massage that buzzing away. ‘Yes, you’re right. They have my number.’
But the rest of the morning, she couldn’t stop picturing her brother, injured. It was ridiculous. He’d done far worse to others. Left their relatives with far more horrendous images to contend with.
And yet … he was her brother.
At lunch, she decided to call someone who might be able to help her wrap her head around it all: Detective Paul Truss.
‘Bugs!’ Paul’s voice crackled with the same robust cheer she remembered, instantly bridging the miles between New York and the UK.
‘All right. How’s life treating you on the other side of the pond?’ Vanessa asked, a smile in her voice despite the gnawing concern for her brother.
‘Oh, you know, the usual. Chasing down garden gnome thieves in the village. The adrenaline is just non-stop over here.’
‘I can only imagine.’
They both paused and Vanessa knew what was in that pause. The unspoken memories of the adrenaline and horror-fuelled case they’d worked on together before she left for New York. A case that had ended in her brother being exposed as a serial murderer.
‘I bet you miss old Blighty?’ Paul asked.
‘Oh yes, how I miss the great British … rain. Every. Single. Day.’
Paul laughed. ‘Isn’t some snowpocalypse about to land in the Big Apple?’
Vanessa peered out of the window at the snow, which was back to being in full flow. ‘The view from my window suggests that might be true,’ she said.
‘Working on any cases?’
Vanessa smoothed her palm over the brand-new wood of her desk. ‘I’m actually working the Cordelia Montgomery case, the actress?’
‘Shit, really? It’s all over the news.’
‘Ah-huh. But I’m not calling about that.’ Her eyes drifted towards her toddler brother in the photo on her desk. ‘I’m calling about Vincent.’
‘Yeah. I heard what happened.’ His voice was strained, no surprise considering Vincent had nearly killed Paul.
‘I’ll be honest,’ she admitted, ‘I have this irrational need to check in on him. Is that crazy?’ She realised the reason for her call when she asked that: she needed Paul to talk her out of getting in touch with her brother.
She heard Paul sigh. ‘He’s still your brother,’ he said. ‘I mean, it’s hard for me to understand but family is family. Look, I’m not even sure what’s possessing me to say this. But maybe you should speak to him, get it out of the way? Remind yourself what he is. You haven’t talked to him since he was arrested, right?’
‘Right.’
‘Then maybe this is an itch you need to scratch to be able to get on with things. It’s less about him and more about yourself, you know? You might not have been as physically hurt as others, but the mental scars …’ His voice trailed off.
‘Don’t start insisting I see a therapist like everyone does over here.’
Paul laughed. ‘Not a chance.’
‘So you won’t hate me if I call him?’
‘I could never hate you, you idiot!’
‘He did try to kill you.’
‘He didn’t, though, did he? Someone happened to save me … and that someone is more important to me than some petty sense of vengeance. You do what feels right, Vanessa. Right for you.’
Vanessa nodded. ‘Thanks, Paul. And … thank you for being there.’
‘Always, Bugs. Always.’
As she hung up, Vanessa let out a slow breath.
It was time to speak to her brother.
After most people had left the NovaScope offices later for lunch, Vanessa sat alone in her office, staring at the waiting room screen on her laptop. In two minutes, Vincent would appear on that screen.
She looked at the countdown. One minute to go.
She took in a deep breath, telling herself all it took was one click of her mouse to remove herself from the conversation.
Thirty seconds.
She took a quick sip of her water, smoothing her hair back.
Twenty seconds. Ten seconds.
‘Oh God,’ she whispered to herself.
Nine … eight … seven … six … five … four … three … two … one.
The screen wobbled. Vanessa held her breath.
Then suddenly, there he was. Vincent Marwood. Her brother. The Cobweb Killer.
His dark hair had been shaved. Circles the colour of violets shaded his eyes. He was pale, skinny. And yes, there, a gauze across his neck.
He leaned forward, blinking. ‘Nessy, is it really you?’
Christ. That voice. It made Vanessa’s heart contract.
‘Yes,’ she said, trying to keep her voice professional. ‘I heard you might have been hurt.’
His brown eyes softened. ‘You’re calling because of that? Nessy, you don’t know how much that means. It was just some doofus thought he could rough me up with a knife to the throat. How he got the knife, who knows? You’d be surprised at what people can get their hands on in here.’
Doofus. It used to be their favourite insult to each other.
On the screen, Vincent smiled. ‘He really looks like a doofus, too. Just how you’d imagine, with a bowl haircut and everything.’
Her heart ached. If she just closed her eyes, she could be talking to the old Vincent. Her kid brother.
‘I’m fine, though, just a scratch,’ he said. Then his eyes travelled to her cheeks. ‘How’s your … scratch?’
Vanessa didn’t answer.
‘I didn’t mean it,’ he said. ‘I wasn’t thinking properly. My therapist says I have these psychotic breaks and—’
‘There’s no excuse for what you did. You know that, right?’
Vincent hung his head, rubbing at his neck. ‘I know. All I’m saying is, abandonment does things to a child.’ He peered up at Vanessa. ‘I’ve been doing this Open University course, you know, on psychology and neuroscience.’ Vanessa raised an eyebrow. He’d always been a clever kid. It was probably good he was distracting himself. ‘It’s fascinating, really. They explore how early experiences, especially abandonment, affect the neural pathways in our brains. There’s this concept of—’
‘Brain plasticity,’ Vanessa finished for him. He looked slightly disappointed she knew.
‘That’s right,’ Vincent said. ‘It’s all about how experiences can physically shape the brain. For children, especially, who experience neglect or abandonment like I did … Like you did, too,’ he added. ‘Those experiences can alter the development of certain areas of the brain, like the prefrontal cortex, which is responsible for decision-making and emotional regulation. Oh, and the amygdala, too. That deals with fear and stress responses. It can also lead to difficulties in forming attachments,’ he added meaningfully.
Vanessa frowned.
‘Basically, Mum walking out on us rewired our brains,’ Vincent stated.
‘We weren’t neglected, Vincent. Dad was there,’ Vanessa quickly said. ‘He provided us with everything we needed. Love. Care. We’re not like the kids that feature in those studies.’
‘Oh, come on, Nessy, he wasn’t that great. Let me guess, I bet he blamed you when I ran off.’
He was right. He had. When he was twelve and Vanessa was fifteen, Vincent ran away, not to be seen again until over twenty-five years later: the year before. As he was so young, the assumption was he’d been abducted, was maybe dead. Instead, he’d been living on the streets of Brighton. As Vanessa was supposed to have been looking after him at the time, her dad always blamed her. It was one of the reasons she’d been so keen to leave her childhood village and go to university in London: to escape the guilt.
‘I think you’re in denial that Mum did this to us,’ Vincent said now, teeth clenching as he tapped the side of his head. His eyes began to water. ‘She’s not even attempted to contact me, you know. I presume she hasn’t contacted you, either.’ He paused. ‘Maybe she’s dead.’
‘Don’t be silly.’
‘I’m serious!’ He scratched at his face. ‘I think I see her sometimes, just wandering by my cell, like a ghost.’
Vanessa thought of that fleeting glimpse of a woman she’d seen at the nightclub.
‘We’d know,’ she said. ‘Plus, she had a new art piece up on the gallery earlier this month.’
‘So you check?’
‘Yes. She’s not dead, Vincent,’ Vanessa repeated.
‘She’ll die one day, though, won’t she? Do you think we’ll see her before she does?’
Vanessa couldn’t deny it, she’d thought the same.
That bee in her head had started buzzing, her temples throbbing painfully. ‘I have to go,’ she said.
‘But Nessy! We haven’t talked about the dead actress.’
Vanessa went very still.
Vincent leaned forward, brown eyes ablaze. ‘My God, you really are working on it, aren’t you? It was on the lunchtime news just now. They said she’d been lying in her room for days. The insect evidence must have been a real bonanza for you. I bet you’re loving it.’
‘No, Vincent,’ Vanessa snapped back. ‘I am not loving it. A woman died.’ Was killed, she wanted to add, like all those people you killed.
He put his hands up in a conciliatory gesture. She noticed his right hand was wrapped in a gauze. ‘I purely mean from a forensic entomological standpoint. Reading between the lines they’re suggesting an overdose, but something doesn’t seem right to me. And one of the other prisoners is a big fan and said she was teetotal. Is it murder? And what about that fashion designer? This is giving off serial killer vibes, Nessy.’
A cold whisper trailed down Vanessa’s spine.
‘I have to go,’ she said again. ‘Take care of yourself, Vincent.’
‘But Nessy, you—’
She slammed her laptop shut, cutting him off mid-sentence. The conversation had served as a chilling reminder that her brother was a predator fascinated by the macabre. Even worse was the cold insight in his words. The absence of their mother, the abandonment, probably had fractured something within him. Maybe her, too.
But what chilled her to the core was his dissection of the case, and her growing fear that he could be right.