Free Last Kiss by Louise Phillips

sympathy for the corpse than the killer.’ He stood up from the table and went to the window. ‘Christ, I’m looking forward to getting back to work.’
    ‘How do you feel about working under Mark Lynch?’
    ‘Probably as happy as he feels about working with me.’
    ‘Will he look on you as a threat, do you think?’
    ‘The force is full of egos, Kate. Now, tell me more about this killer.’
    ‘Whoever she is, she’s particular. The way she sets the scene is almost as if she is creating a piece of artwork. It tells us she takes pride in what she does. She has an ego. All of this is important to her. She is precise in her goal and her disposition of it, but the attack and the aftermath must be viewed as two separate components. There was a stressor of some kind, but she has an ability to detach. Once she’d slit the victim’s throat, and released her rage, there was no remorse shown. Most likely she enjoyedthe aftermath. Rick Shevlin was no longer a person to her. He became part of the image she desired.’
    ‘Not someone you’d want to get friendly with, then?’
    ‘As I said in my report, with that level of detachment, whoever did this is capable of giving the illusion that they live a normal life, meaning they will be able to integrate socially. We’re looking at someone with intelligence in the higher percentile, ninety-five per cent or more, who has the presence of mind to calculate, to prepare, to keep her head level and be emotionally controlled when required. She is patient in completing her tasks, no matter how long that takes. As I said to Mark at the start of all this, the killer won’t be easy to find.’ She paused.
    ‘And he’s got nothing from any of the ex-girlfriends either?’ His response sounded like a judgement.
    ‘No, but now we have a new development. He thinks he’s found another victim, an old case.’
    ‘When did you hear that?’
    ‘About an hour ago, before I phoned you.’
    ‘Go on.’
    ‘The case is outside the jurisdiction.’
    ‘Where?’
    ‘Paris, nine years ago.’

I
    I’M SURE I have her rattled now, the little wife. She’s like his face of respectability, his security, a form of adult comfort blanket. Deep down he, too, is insecure. That is why most men like to have their cake and eat it – sexual satisfaction aligned with emotional stability, but not always with the same person or at the same time.
    I enjoy the feeling that we share something she doesn’t know about. It’s more intimate – being a secret. She doesn’t bring excitement into his life any more, not the way I do. I’ve learned over time to be a good receptor, knowing exactly what I want. I don’t meander.
    I made another self-portrait today. I hadn’t planned to, butI found myself in a small grocery shop close to their house and caught sight of my reflection in one of those round security mirrors at the top of the store, the kind that obscures your shape, taking in as much floor space as possible. There was a man beside me reading the ingredients on a cereal box. I usually take my images in black-and-white. Colour is a distraction. The eye, the human eye, sees the world predominately in black-and-white, with endless grey scales. You think when you take a photograph you’re capturing everything, but you’re not. Parts go missing. With the human eye, our mind fills in the gaps. I like that the camera cuts to a kind of truth, the obscurities you create when you look in the mirror exposed. Yet no camera has the capabilities of the human brain: each has its own imperfections and deceptions.
    In the self-portrait, I look small in the space, the image bringing me to an old memory, a photograph taken on a trip to Dublin, another reflection in a shop window. It was in O’Connell Street. I was seventeen. When I studied the image afterwards, I was surprised because I looked happy – my cheeks glowing, my pupils alert, my lips stretching to the point of a smile. The more I stared at the photograph,