Deadly Admirer

by Christine Green

  When Ray Potten answered the door and asked me in it was not merely a question of opening the door; he had to lift the door with both hands. A naked light bulb lit the dark hall and in that light his sallow complexion seemed almost mask-like. He wore his straight dark hair in a pony-tail and he was dressed in black paint-spattered jeans and a plain black sweatshirt holed in places. Dangling from his right ear was a silver skull. I guessed he was about forty.

  ‘It's warped with age like me, dear,’ he said in a high, playfully camp voice as he lifted and then managed to push the door shut. ‘Come on through to the studio.’

  The ‘studio' was the front room and just about everything an artist could need was crammed in there. The table, covered with newspaper, was home to a metal structure that resembled a fourlegged insect with three antennae.

  ‘I call that the state of the world,’ he said, ‘but you can call it what you like.’

  Propped against the walls were various canvases, mostly depicting nightmarish scenes of the Vietnam War. As I stared at them he said, ‘Have you any idea of the hell of the Vietnam War? Look at my sculpture.’

  I looked at the ‘insect'.

  ‘See, see. That's what Agent Orange did – mutation. That's what all wars do. Mutate us. War diminishes us all. Do we care, though? Do we hell!’

  ‘I haven't got much time, Mr Potten. I did explain I wanted just a few minutes with you to talk about Vanessa Wootten.’

  ‘Sit down, dear. Do sit down.’

  I looked around for a chair. There wasn't one.

  ‘On the floor. Kate, isn't it?’

  I nodded and found a space on a sheet of newspaper that seemed marginally cleaner than bare floorboards. He sat beside me but I got the impression sitting down wasn't something he did much of.

  ‘Fire away then, Kate,’ he said once we were both cross-legged on the floor. ‘What little gems can I offer about feminine psychology?’

  ‘I believe you knew Vanessa and did in fact go out with her for a few months.’

  ‘That is correct. Only we didn't go out often. Vanessa liked to come here to chat.’

  ‘Was she interested in art?’ I asked.

  Ray Potten smiled sardonically. ‘You don't think she could have been interested in my body, then.’

  ‘I didn't say that.’

  ‘No, dear, you didn't have to,’ he said, showing me a limp wrist.

  ‘You're gay?’ I said, which seemed stupidly obvious.

  ‘No. Actually I'm straight, I'm just very good at pretending and I do have a lot of gay friends. It rubs off and I like to shock people. Also, there is a prejudice that somehow homosexuals are more artistic, more sensitive. It's good for business anyway.’

  ‘I see. So you did have a sexual relationship with Vanessa.’

  ‘No, I didn't say that. Vanessa thought I was gay too. And as I liked her very much, I let her go on thinking so. I told you just now that I was straight, but to be strictly accurate I suppose I'm really just a neutral. A nothing, no real sex drive at all.’

  He fell silent for a moment, as if this revelation had cost him dear. Then he continued, ‘We met at a small exhibition I had at the public library. I fell a little in love then, she's so beautiful. And her eyes so childlike but without the innocence, so haunted. I wanted to capture them on canvas. She's like a war victim herself; there's a lot of suffering in those eyes.’

  ‘And did you capture them?’

  ‘Yes, certainly. Once I'd finished the picture she never came here again. That was the end. I don't think she liked what she saw.’

  ‘May I see it?’

  ‘You may.’

  From behind a pile of canvases he found a small framed picture.

  ‘I keep it hidden. I don't plan to sell it,’ he said as he handed it to me.

  I held the picture at arm's length. It was of an oval face shape on a greenish background. A thin red line depicted a slit for a mouth. The only other feature was one blue eye, bloody and gouged out, hanging by a stalk.

  Shuddering, I quickly handed it back to him. ‘I'm not surprised she didn't come back,’ I said. ‘It's horrific.’

  ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘It shows how blind she is. Poor Vanessa. She cannot verbalise her problems, you see. Can't share. I tried to get her to talk about her childhood but she wouldn't have it. Once she said, “My childhood was wiped away, it never existed.” I thought as she couldn't talk about it I'd encourage her to paint. She just painted the one, finished before I painted the one of her. Would you like to see it?’

  While Ray was upstairs I thought about the old saying of a picture being worth a thousand words. And hoped it was true. When he came down carrying a framed canvas he was also smoking. I recognised the smell and it wasn't tobacco.

  ‘I think it's quite good,’ he said. ‘Stark in its simplicity but striking.’

  He held it up a few feet from me. It was of a mirror. Reflected in the glass was a golden-headed child and behind her, tall and menacing, two headless black shapes.

  ‘Who are they?’ I asked.

  Ray shook his head. ‘I asked the same question of course. She clammed up. I've studied it long and hard since. One of the figures is female, I think, but other than that, no clues.’

  ‘Did Vanessa ever mention being followed?’

  ‘Often,’ Ray answered with a shrug. ‘She believed she was being pursued, of course, and I did warn her about crying wolf.’

  ‘You didn't believe her, then.’

  ‘I didn't say that, Kate. It was her reality not mine. I never actually saw anyone but she saw him, just as surely as she sees those shapes in the mirror.’

  ‘Did you ever try to get in contact with Vanessa again?’

  Ray Potten stared at me for a moment. Then he said, ‘She'll come back when she's ready. She likes me, she'd like to be as unconventional as me. When you sort out her problems she'll be back.’

  That seemed like an unfair burden to place on me but I smiled and said, ‘I'll do my best.’

  It was time to leave but I had one last question. ‘Ray, what sort of car do you own?’

  He laughed. ‘Well, bless you, dear, for thinking I'm talented enough to be able to afford one. Wouldn't do me much good anyway.’

  ‘Why's that?’

  ‘Simple. I can't drive.’

  As I left Station Lane I glanced at my watch. It was nearly four. I decided to spend some time outside Vanessa's house.

  I parked a little way from number thirty-six Percival Road. I wasn't prepared for a long stay. One bar of chocolate and a half packet of Polos wouldn't keep me going for long. I sucked the mints slowly and watched as the residents came home from work. Very soon daylight began to fade and lights went on and curtains were drawn. And I suddenly felt so lonely I could have cried.

  Just keep your mind on the job, I told myself; it's no use getting maudlin because it's dusk and your mother's in Australia and there's no man in your life. And that thought cheered me up. Because I did have a man of sorts and he was no bother: he was safe, reliable, bought me chips and didn't expect anything of me. So far he hadn't even put up my rent. And quite often he made me laugh.

  My reverie was interrupted by the arrival of a car that parked outside thirty-six. I knew immediately who it was. He sat for a short time in his car and then slowly got out and walked to the front door of thirty-six. Both upstairs and downstairs lights were on but at first there was no response to Christopher Collicot's brisk knocking. Then I saw Vanessa peer from behind a curtain downstairs and moments later she opened the door slightly so that I could see just the side of her face until, that is, Christopher moved in front of her.

  I couldn't hear what was being said but from Christopher's body language it looked as if he'd been invited in and had refused. Today he wore a white baseball cap, some sort of bomber jacket and jeans. The conversation was short, but judging by Christopher's wave and the quickness of his steps back to the car he seemed more cheerful and confident. I watched as he drove away and decided t
hat I would be her next visitor.

  I waited until six o'clock. That meant I'd done more than two hours of solid surveillance and I felt that was long enough. My feet were numb, my hands were cold and I was thirsty. Inside was warmth and with any luck hot coffee.

  Vanessa answered my knocking quickly. I heard her run down the stairs and rush along the hall. It was as she threw open the door I realised why – she was expecting someone else. She was expecting a man, that was obvious. She wore a black shiny blouse with blue silk culottes, a double gold chain round her neck and those hoops of gold dangled from her ears. Her hair seemed softer and more fluffy and her eyes sparkled. At least they did until she saw me.

  ‘Oh, it's you,’ she said.

  ‘May I come in?’

  ‘Yes, of course, Kate, I'm sorry. It's just that I'm expecting someone. Come on through, I'll make you some coffee – you look perished.’

  She ushered me to the kitchen and began making real coffee. I sat at the table and watched her.

  ‘You're looking much better,’ I said.

  ‘I'm feeling much better, I feel great. I'm even going back to work next week.’

  I looked at her warily. Was she manic? I wondered. She seemed suddenly cheerful given the circumstances. But would a psychiatrist call it the manic phase of a paranoid manic depressive or was she merely on a high?

  ‘Will you be able to cope with work?’ I asked.

  She smiled. ‘Frederic is going to let someone accompany me on my rounds.’

  ‘Has he anyone in mind?’

  ‘Yes, you, Kate!’

  I laughed. ‘I expect I'm the cheaper option.’

  As Vanessa handed me a cup of coffee I told her I'd had no joy with her sister's number. I noticed she trembled slightly as she sat down.

  ‘But I have met Ray Potten,’ I said. ‘Seems a nice enough person and fond of you. He thinks you'll resume your relationship with him.’

  Vanessa smiled in a non-committal way. ‘I was fond of him too. He wanted to sort me out, though, to talk about my past. I don't want to rake things up. I want to live for now and the future, not in the past.’

  ‘But will your past let you do that?’ I asked.

  ‘Please, Kate, I know I haven't told you much but you will find out in the end, I know you will. And I have told you who I think he is. If you knew how hard I try to keep myself on an even keel you'd understand. Sometimes, just sometimes, I can forget he's out there. But that's usually when I'm with another man. Someone who will protect me. That's why I went out with Paul Oakby. He was big and strong, I thought, and he was a policeman.’

  ‘But then you said he raped you.’

  Vanessa slumped forward slightly on the table and cradled her face in her hands. ‘I've spoken about that to my psychiatrist. He suggests I try hypnosis. He seems to think that I may have been … mistaken. He says I have severe sexual problems and until they are sorted out I shouldn't have any more serious relationships.’

  ‘I see,’ I said, but I wasn't sure that I did. I finished my coffee and asked casually, ‘Was there any special reason that Christopher Collicot called this evening?’

  She smiled. ‘Oh, he's sweet. He only called to see how I was and to ask if I was up to helping out with Farley Wood's spring fête cum jumble sale. I said I'd think about it.’

  As I stood up to go I said, ‘One last question, Vanessa, something that's puzzling me …’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Exactly how long have you suspected you are being followed?’

  She paused and paled a little. ‘Three years,’ she said after a long pause. ‘Not all the time of course. But on and off. So that sometimes I've doubted my own sanity. Now he's closing in on me, isn't he? Coming in for the kill.’

  ‘You mean Colin Tiffield?’

  ‘Yes,’ she said firmly.

  Vanessa was silent as she led me through to the hall. I was just about to say good-bye when there was a knock at the door. We were both startled and Vanessa's earrings swung a little and sparkled and just for a moment I stood mesmerised. Then the knocking become more insistent and she abruptly opened the door.

  It was Frederic Tissot. They didn't have to say anything for me to realise that they were, or had just become, more than colleagues. The eye contact was sustained just a fraction too long.

  ‘I'll ring you,’ I called out as I left, but there was no reply.

  So much for the happy family photograph.

  Chapter Thirteen

  As I walked to the car I tried to work out why I hadn't guessed about their relationship. I decided I wasn't being particularly dimwitted. That I had been right to be a tinge suspicious of any man who keeps a photo of his wife and child on display and that judging by Vanessa's mood, the carefully chosen clothes and the glow of fresh make-up, Frederic was still in the embryonic lover stage. And therefore not a suspect in pathological pursuing games.

  Hubert was in his flat upstairs when I arrived back at Humberstones. His curtains were drawn but a friendly glow surrounded the top half of the building. It was as I drove round to the parking area that I saw the police car. By the time I'd switched off the ignition and momentarily listened with disgust as the engine ran on, Paul Oakby was opening my car door. This was the first time I had seen him in uniform and it improved him. Somehow he seemed less menacing; no doubt in a crisis he could have even looked quite reassuring.

  ‘You left a message, Miss Kinsella,’ he said coldly.

  ‘I did indeed, Officer. Thanks for coming. You were lucky to find me.’

  ‘I saw your car outside Vanessa's place. I thought you'd be back.’

  ‘You'd better come up to the office.’

  He smirked at me like a naughty schoolboy but the smirk didn't last. The experience of being in an undertaker's seemed to have a chastening effect.

  ‘How do you stick working here?’ he asked as he followed me up the stairs.

  ‘I'm warped,’ I said, turning in the half light and smiling so that he knew I was in no way worried by his presence.

  He raised an eyebrow as if to say that could explain it.

  Once in my office he sat down, without being asked, in a sprawl of heavy uniformed masculinity on one of my office swivel chairs. ‘Now then,’ he began, as if it was his office and not mine, ‘what's this all about? I thought we'd had our little chat and that was the end of it. Found you couldn't resist me, eh?’

  I didn't rise to the bait but I did want a little nibble. ‘Thank you for coming,’ I said, trying to sound gracious. ‘I'd like to ask you a couple more questions.’

  ‘I'm listening.’

  ‘Vanessa tells me you were … a bit jealous at times.’

  ‘I wouldn't deny that.’

  ‘And did that jealousy make you think Vanessa was two-timing you?’

  ‘Of course she was.’

  ‘And what did you do about it?’

  ‘Well, as I told you before, I didn't rape her. And I wasn't about to lose any sleep over the wallies she knows.’

  Momentarily I stared into his cold blue eyes. ‘Do you still have your key to Vanessa's house?’

  He nodded, still staring.

  ‘I'd like it back.’

  ‘I'll deliver it to her personally,’ he said.

  ‘No, don't do that she's …’

  ‘She's what?’

  ‘She's been burgled—’

  I didn't get a chance to finish. Paul Oakby suddenly got very angry, his face turned a nasty puce colour and his fist banged down on my desk as if I was personally responsible.

  ‘When did this happen? She hasn't reported it, you know. The stupid cow. Are you sure you know what you're doing?’

  ‘Constable Oakby, do you want to help Vanessa?’

  The tone of my voice seemed to calm him. ‘Yeah, yeah. What the hell is going on, though?’

  ‘I wish I knew. But now I do have a name.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘If I tell you will you promise to …’ I paused. What on earth did I want
him to do? ‘Would you be willing to help me? Through the proper channels, of course.’

  ‘What's the bastard's name?’

  ‘At the moment that is all I do have, just the name. But I think he may have a criminal record. Vanessa thinks he's evil and she's convinced it's him. And so far I haven't got any other real suspects.’

  Paul Oakby's colour still remained high and I hoped I was doing the right thing in even telling him about the burglary. For some reason I felt that he might prove useful. He was after all physically strong and although perhaps not CID material he was on the inside.

  ‘The only thing stolen from her house,’ I continued, ‘was her work diary and that means that if she goes back to work he'll know exactly where she is at any time of the day. Vanessa seems to think her sister may know where this man is but if you could trace his present address and check to see if he has a criminal record.’

  ‘It's as good as done,’ he said grimly. ‘I'll find out about the bastard.’

  ‘Let me know, won't you? And be discreet, because if CID find out you've been … unprofessional – the force might use it as an excuse to get rid of you.’

  He was silent for a moment. ‘I never was flavour of the month but I'm no hero. Anyway Vanessa and me are finished. I'll do this for old times' sake. Now what's his name?’

  I told him and he repeated it quietly, as if to himself.

  ‘As soon as I find out anything I'll be in touch,’ he said as he stood up to go.

  I heard him walk down the stairs and close the side door with a bang. And then the worry began. What had I done? If he did find out where Colin Tiffield lived would he go charging off flinging punches and accusations at a man who might be completely innocent of harassment and murder?

  I was sitting, head in hands, when Hubert walked in.

  ‘Who was that just leaving?’ he asked. ‘And what's wrong with you?’

  After a fairly long explanation he tutted a bit. ‘Well, there is only one thing you can do,’ he said.

  ‘What's that?’

  ‘Pray.’

  ‘That's very helpful, Hubert, thank you.’

  I must have looked miserable because he then said, ‘Cheer up, Kate. With any luck he won't find out anything and perhaps you can get to this Colin Tiffield first.’