heavy because the killer had beaten and tortured his victim before her death. Her face was puffy and bruised, one eye nearly swollen over. Victoria had suffered numerous superficial cuts and the loss of an entire toe, which was not consistent with the defensive wounds on her hands and feet. At some point she had broken free of her killer, but she hadn’t got away. He’d hit her repeatedly with some blunt object and got her back down.
And she did not get to her feet again.
There had been no forced entry to the terrace. It was possible Victoria knew her killer.
Andy stood quietly, watching as Mahoney fast-forwarded again, stopping at various points of interest in the crime-scene video. Harrison asked her to stop and rewind a few times, taking notes. Once they’d covered the entire scene and the body of the deceased was being bagged — paper bags and rolls of tape wrapped around her hands and head to preserve any evidence — he’d had enough, though that final disturbing visual stayed in his mind. Her vulnerable body, faceless.
Harrison had her arms tightly crossed, he noticed.
Andy left the two women to make his way back to the courtyard, pushing the door open and squinting at the sunlight. This time the humid air felt like a relief. Felt necessary. After some time Agent Harrison joined him.
‘Do you think the killer wanted to be discovered? Got a thrill from the risk?’ Harrison suggested, gazing back through the glass at the bloody floor inside.
Andy shook his head. ‘He didn’t want to be caught. He wanted his work to be seen . He may have even pulled the curtains back before he departed, to show off.’
She frowned, her brow pinching.
No, Victoria Hempsey’s killer was not in the least bit ashamed of what he’d done. He didn’t want to be caught. He didn’t want to be stopped. And given the opportunity, he would do it again. Andy turned from the bloodstains visible through the glass and peered up at the windows behind them, pointing with one finger. ‘I want to speak with every one of those neighbours. Today.’
CHAPTER 7
Fausto Martinez Villanueva took a seat at the Café de l’Opera at a small round table near the window. The old establishment was a showcase of neo-classical architecture and 1920s art nouveau. The glass-and-wood exterior was formed of soft curves, and the interior featured swirling motifs and the figures of elegant nineteenth-century women with long dresses and parasols etched into decorative mirrors surrounded by star-shaped studs.
A waiter approached his table, wearing a formal black bow tie, vest and pants, and crisp white shirt.
‘ Café solo ,’ he said.
‘ Si, senyor ,’ the waiter replied and disappeared.
Fausto looked at his watch. It was still a little under one hour before Javier Rafel was due to arrive at his shop on nearby Carrer de l’Hospital. There was still time. He sipped his coffee slowly, watching the crowds pass on La Rambla. The shops were closed for the public holiday, but the tourists were out in full force, with their backpacks and cameras and bad T-shirts,the street vendors selling them expensive sodas and Gaudí postcards. The McDonald’s was overflowing, he noticed.
Discreetly, Fausto popped two Adderall with the final sip of his coffee, and then ordered a second café solo from the waiter. The hit of adrenaline pulsed through him, wiring him for the work ahead. This familiar habit gave him the necessary edge, and he needed the energy after making the drive from Seville to Barcelona in just under ten hours. Flying in would have incurred certain risks. It was better that no one could confirm he was in town. He did not wish to be traced by tickets or credit cards or anything else that would place him in Barcelona on this day. Not with his business here.
His business was a woman.
Though still young, Fausto had ended twenty-one lives. But he had not killed a woman before. The traditionalist in him resisted the idea — or perhaps it was the
And she did not get to her feet again.
There had been no forced entry to the terrace. It was possible Victoria knew her killer.
Andy stood quietly, watching as Mahoney fast-forwarded again, stopping at various points of interest in the crime-scene video. Harrison asked her to stop and rewind a few times, taking notes. Once they’d covered the entire scene and the body of the deceased was being bagged — paper bags and rolls of tape wrapped around her hands and head to preserve any evidence — he’d had enough, though that final disturbing visual stayed in his mind. Her vulnerable body, faceless.
Harrison had her arms tightly crossed, he noticed.
Andy left the two women to make his way back to the courtyard, pushing the door open and squinting at the sunlight. This time the humid air felt like a relief. Felt necessary. After some time Agent Harrison joined him.
‘Do you think the killer wanted to be discovered? Got a thrill from the risk?’ Harrison suggested, gazing back through the glass at the bloody floor inside.
Andy shook his head. ‘He didn’t want to be caught. He wanted his work to be seen . He may have even pulled the curtains back before he departed, to show off.’
She frowned, her brow pinching.
No, Victoria Hempsey’s killer was not in the least bit ashamed of what he’d done. He didn’t want to be caught. He didn’t want to be stopped. And given the opportunity, he would do it again. Andy turned from the bloodstains visible through the glass and peered up at the windows behind them, pointing with one finger. ‘I want to speak with every one of those neighbours. Today.’
CHAPTER 7
Fausto Martinez Villanueva took a seat at the Café de l’Opera at a small round table near the window. The old establishment was a showcase of neo-classical architecture and 1920s art nouveau. The glass-and-wood exterior was formed of soft curves, and the interior featured swirling motifs and the figures of elegant nineteenth-century women with long dresses and parasols etched into decorative mirrors surrounded by star-shaped studs.
A waiter approached his table, wearing a formal black bow tie, vest and pants, and crisp white shirt.
‘ Café solo ,’ he said.
‘ Si, senyor ,’ the waiter replied and disappeared.
Fausto looked at his watch. It was still a little under one hour before Javier Rafel was due to arrive at his shop on nearby Carrer de l’Hospital. There was still time. He sipped his coffee slowly, watching the crowds pass on La Rambla. The shops were closed for the public holiday, but the tourists were out in full force, with their backpacks and cameras and bad T-shirts,the street vendors selling them expensive sodas and Gaudí postcards. The McDonald’s was overflowing, he noticed.
Discreetly, Fausto popped two Adderall with the final sip of his coffee, and then ordered a second café solo from the waiter. The hit of adrenaline pulsed through him, wiring him for the work ahead. This familiar habit gave him the necessary edge, and he needed the energy after making the drive from Seville to Barcelona in just under ten hours. Flying in would have incurred certain risks. It was better that no one could confirm he was in town. He did not wish to be traced by tickets or credit cards or anything else that would place him in Barcelona on this day. Not with his business here.
His business was a woman.
Though still young, Fausto had ended twenty-one lives. But he had not killed a woman before. The traditionalist in him resisted the idea — or perhaps it was the
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