Erin told Carla she was going to look for Ethan, who wasn’t answering his phone. She gave Carla strict instructions not to answer the door to anyone, even if she knew them. Especially if she recognised the caller. Carla rested on the living room sofa, sketching hexafoils on a piece of paper as the killer had drawn or appropriated at each killing. The final image had been a rough chalk mark hidden amongst the other graffiti at Tiffany Stoker’s death scene, according to Perez. Carla was pretty sure the colour wasn’t accidental. Red ochre or oxblood was a popular colour in ritual protection, signifying blood and sacrifice. In Wales, where Carla had completed her undergraduate degree, some rural houses had been painted with red-coloured limewash, which had served the same protective function as a witch bottle.
Carla was still no clearer in shaping in her head the identity of the killer. Here was the biggest gap between her knowledge as an archaeologist and her unofficial role as an amateur investigator. She had no experience of perpetrators of crime and the killer would not come into focus for her. With the sixth point of the hexafoil, the deaths must surely be complete. She still couldn’t guess at a reason for the pattern and, in this, she suspected the police were right. There was no connection between the women chosen. The pattern was in the setting, and it had taken two archaeologists – first Lauren who had got part of the way there and then herself – to discern, however faint, an ancient design.
Despite this, she was sure she was close to the truth. The attack this evening had felt personal and, despite Baros’s assurances, Carla was pretty sure she’d met the person responsible. The three male colleagues she’d talked about the witch bottles and daisy wheels with were Albert, Jack and Max. All in their own way were highly unlikely to attack her outside Erin’s. She often worked late on campus. The walk back to the car park was brightly lit but often deserted. It would be easy for them to strike there. The problem was, she supposed, that an attack on campus would result in questions and staff and students under the spotlight. Far better to try to halt her progress elsewhere. No, she would not rule out her three colleagues. Then there was Franklin. When he’d reached in to kiss her cheek, she’d inhaled his scent. Was this the same as that of her attacker, who had also smelled of fear, the chemical pheromone released in their sweat? Franklin, after all, owned the land that housed the mall and the flower beds. He had also dated Lauren.
Carla looked down at the doodles she’d completed. The problem with drawing the daisy wheels freehand was her circles were wonky and the petals misshapen. Original marks would have been made with a mason’s compass or even a stick with a piece of string and pencil attached. Something to keep the lines steady. Carla’s lines often missed the centre, making the shape lopsided.
The centre was the graveyard at Lawrence Hill. She’d gone there and found the Miller graves but had not had a chance to look into this further. On her phone, she typed in the surname and Jericho. As Patricia had predicted, it was a common last name. The graves had been unkempt, which suggested a living descendant might be excited enough to use the design in their killings but had no real connection to their ancestors. It would also account for the fact that there was no cohesion to the objects and markings placed at the murder scenes. Someone was playing with the imagery and nothing else.
Carla continued to flick through the images when she paused, scrolling back to an image where she had recognised a figure. A press photo showed the Miller graves; standing next to them were Albert and Viv Kantz. Carla opened up the news report. The article reported unusual stops on the tourist trail and the Miller graves had been singled out as a site to visit if you fancied something a little more unusual. What were the Kantzs doing there? Carla was in such a hurry to get to the bottom of the piece that she missed the important sentence twice. ‘Standing next to the grave of her ancestors is Lieutenant Vivian Kantz.’
Shit. Viv clearly knew about the Miller graves and here was photographic proof. When Carla had mentioned witch bottles, Viv had barely reacted, simply mentioning a German grandmother. It was Carla’s daisy wheel theory that had seriously upset the lieutenant. Carla rubbed her aching head, trying to make sense of it. Surely Viv wasn’t the killer. A trained cop might be able to overpower a sleeping Madison but surely not Lauren with her muscled limbs. Plus, the person walking into the woods with Iris had been a male, taller than Viv’s tiny stature. Either she had got everything wrong or Viv had an accomplice. Unless—
She needed to speak to Albert and Viv as soon as possible. Carla tried Albert’s phone, but it was engaged. There was no point ringing the station as Viv would have made sure she was uncontactable for Carla. She would need to head out to talk to the pair in person, but Albert hadn’t said where in Jericho he lived. She rang Erin, her hands still shaking as she tapped the phone.
‘Where are you?’
‘Still looking for Ethan. Everything OK?’
‘I need to speak to Viv and Albert as soon as possible.’
There were whoops of excitement in the background. ‘What? I can’t hear you. Who do you want to talk to?’
‘Viv Kantz,’ shouted Carla.
‘I thought you two weren’t friends.’
‘Can you just give me their address? This is important.’
‘They live on Thaxted Street on the edge of town. Don’t ask me for the number because I can’t remember it. It’s a square brick house, newly built by your friend Franklin. What’s going on?’
‘I’ll tell you later.’
Carla left the house and jumped into a cab, which she managed to hail amongst the throng of people. She needed to get home to pick up her car. Tonight, more than ever with an aching head and shredded nerves, she needed to be mobile and safe. The younger children had left the street and the noise had grown more raucous. Somewhere amongst that noise, Erin was trying to track down Ethan. She didn’t much fancy his chances once his mother had got hold of him.
Patricia had left the light on, illuminating the doorway. Carla already had the keys in her hand before the taxi drew up outside the garden. She thrust twenty dollars into the driver’s hand and rushed up the steps. Making sure the door was secured, she ran up to her room, pulling out the map Ethan had printed for her and the rest of her notes. This was the moment to insist Viv and Albert listened to her. It was All Hallow’s Eve, a night with its origins in the Celtic festival of Samhain when the souls of the dead were considered to return to their homes. It was a day too full of meaning to pass unrecorded and there was the terrible possibility that the killer would be making their way this evening to the centre of the circle. To Viv Kantz.