by Susan Moody
‘Are you sure?’ He told me the price.
‘On second thoughts …’ I said.
We exchanged chit-chat about Christmas and how we had occupied the holidays. Edward had passed five days with his mother, former model and gifted narcissist. ‘It was even more ghastly than I’d feared,’ he said. ‘Talk about Sunset Boulevard. And eating overdone turkey with four of her former lovers, dentally challenged to a man. I could scarcely hear myself think for the clattering of ill-fitting false teeth.’
‘We had roast beef,’ I said.
‘Oh please. Don’t make me weep.’ Edward lifted his glass and then looked across at me. ‘Do you know, I absolutely hate turkey. With or without cranberry sauce. I swear my old bat of a mother buys it especially because she knows I loathe it.’
‘And home-made Yorkshire pud,’ I continued meanly. I knew Edward’s views on Yorkshire pudding.
‘Stop at once or I shall have to kill you.’ Edward laughed and then looked stricken. ‘What a very ill-judged joke,’ he said. ‘I apologize.’
‘Don’t worry about it. I have to go on without Helena. I still have a living to earn. And there are several commissions in the offing.’
‘Still no idea who … um … who was responsible for the … uh … the demise of Doctor Drummond?’
I’m always amazed by the way even highly intelligent people like Edward tend to sidle up to and edge around the fact of death rather than facing it directly and going straight ahead, ‘None at all. Just one or two theories,’ I said. ‘We’ll see how they develop. Meanwhile, I’ll have one of your burgundies, please. You choose.’
I took the wrapped bottle next door to the bookshop where Sam was selling a box of Cluedo, two packs of cards, Scrabble and Pictionary to a harassed woman who was crossing things off a long list. ‘At least that’s my sisters’ children done,’ she said thankfully, as I walked behind her to the crime fiction shelves, always my favourite section. Did she not realize that Christmas was over? She saw the look that passed between Sam and me and laughed. ‘Believe it or not, my sisters have four children between them, all with birthdays in the middle of January. It’s a nightmare, coming so soon after Christmas.’
‘Let me offer you a glass of wine as partial compensation,’ said Sam.
‘I’d love to, but I’m driving. Thanks anyway, dear Sam.’ She blew him a kiss and went out.
‘Dear Sam, eh?’ I raised my eyebrows at him, ignoring the tiny flame of pique which spurted inside me. After all, he wasn’t my type. And I had already rebuffed several of his tentative efforts to move our friendship on to something warmer. ‘And a kiss, too. Well, well, well …’
‘We were an item for about five minutes,’ he said coolly. ‘And then she met my best friend. They’ve been married for ten years. I’m godfather to their eldest boy.’
‘Right,’ I said. ‘Fine. Excellent.’ I felt like a fool, letting him get the impression that I gave a toss. Because I didn’t. Really.
‘So,’ he said, and to my annoyance, I could see he was repressing a smirky grin. ‘What can I do for you?’
‘I wanted to run some things by you, when you’ve finished for the day. But if you’re too busy flirting with former girlfriends and the like …’ Hell and damnation! Why did I say that? I mean, as if I cared.
He looked at his watch. ‘Give me ten. Alison isn’t in today so I’ll have to do the cashing up and general bookkeeping and so on. After that, Alexandra, I’m all yours.’
He gave me a meaningful look. I realized that in some indefinable way, our positions had been reversed. I had lost whatever advantage I might once have had, though it seemed an odd way to look at our relationship, whatever that was.
Twelve minutes later, he came over to where I was leafing through the latest Pierre Lemaitre. ‘I’d like to buy this,’ I said. ‘The first two of the trilogy were brilliant.’
‘I’ll give it to you,’ he said. ‘I’ve closed the till for tonight.’
‘I’ll give you this in exchange.’ I handed him the bottle I had just bought next door.
He went over and turned the OPEN sign to SORRY WE’RE CLOSED. He took two glasses from underneath his desk. Came over and put them on one of the four tiny café tables squeezed into a corner.
‘Sit down and tell me what’s on your mind.’ He removed the cork and poured a little wine into each glass.
‘Okay.’ I took a sip. Took a breath. Began. ‘The more I examine it,’ I said, ‘and ruling out the legendary rapist and notional psychopath, the more obvious it seems to me who must have been responsible for killing Helena. And if he killed Helena, one must assume the same guy murdered Amy as well. He had motive, means and opportunity.’ I outlined the facts as I knew them. Helena’s role in getting him kicked out of art school. The motorbike which had been mentioned by several people as being at the scene or scenes of crime. His presence here in England at the relevant times – ‘I bet we find when we check, that Ainslie Gordon sent him over to England for fresh paint supplies or canvasses or whisky or something. And don’t forget the fact that he’s already proven to be a conscienceless killer.’
Sam’s eyebrows rose sharply as I expounded. ‘Specious,’ he said.
‘And I’m quite sure that if we look into it further, we’ll find that he had some kind of an affair or involvement with Amy Morrison when he was still at art college,’ I finished. ‘Maybe it was him who was having dinner with her at that restaurant after the cathedral concert.’
‘Very neat,’ Sam said judiciously. ‘Very clever. Very well-thought-out. Unfortunately, you don’t have a single scrap of evidence to support your thesis. So, I’m sorry, but I don’t buy it. At least, not without a great more solid fact. Just for a start, while I can see Doctor Drummond taking advantage of a spin on a fast bike, if one was offered, how come she didn’t go to the police as soon as Morrison’s body was found in her house?’
‘Because obviously she didn’t go home that night.’ I repeated the information I had received directly from the mouth of the car salesman, Peter Preston.
‘So how did she progress from the man in the restaurant onto the back of the murderer’s bike?’
‘That’s fairly clear, I’d have thought. Turnbull takes Amy back to Helena’s house, loves her up a bit, kills her, and races back to the restaurant, where Helena is still sitting, or just settling the bill or whatever. Follows her to the house of the guy she’s planning to spend the night with, waits until she eventually emerges in the morning. Possibly looking at her watch in a worried fashion, as one who is running late. Offers to run her home, takes her somewhere isolated instead, and tries to kill her too. She gets away, makes for my parents’ house, knowing that if she goes to her own home, he could easily try again. Wants to call the police to report the attack, not realizing that by now I’ve found the body of Amy and called the police, only to discover in the morning’s newspapers that she is their prime suspect for Amy’s murder.’
‘He’s a busy lad, this stalker-cum-murderer. And frankly, I don’t see Doctor Drummond as too chicken-livered to report the attack on her. And why didn’t she come to you, rather than your parents?’
‘Because knowing how close she and I were, it would be the logical place for him to look for her – if she’s not at her own home – in order to try again. Whereas nobody would immediately think of my parents.’
‘Sorry, Alex, but it’s very thin. And how did he eventually find out that she’d gone to your parents?’
‘He followed the taxi she took – or bus or train, whatever means she used to get to Edred and Mary’s place. Then he waited, knowing she’d have to emerge eventually – even though my parents then went on holiday, in the hope of putting anyone trying to find her off the scent.’
‘And how does the leather coat fit into this fairy tale?’
‘He brought it with him.’ Annoyed, I explained my reasoning on that point. ‘Then he waited some more … lurked would be more apt.’
‘He does an awful lot of wai
ting. And why didn’t she call you? You were the obvious person to tell.’
‘Then he abducted her, knocked her on the head with a stone and pushed her body into the river.’
‘It’s all suppositious, based on nothing more than wishful thinking.’
‘You’re not very supportive.’
‘I was asked for my opinion, Alexandra. And accordingly, I’m giving it.’
‘So you would say I don’t have anything like enough to go to the cops with?’
‘I would say that you have manufactured a case more or less out of thin air, combined with extreme prejudice against the party under discussion, and you are now desperately trying to make the very few facts at your disposal fit your theory. I would also say that in my opinion, were you to advance it to the police, you would become a laughing stock among your former colleagues.’
‘Well,’ I said, more than a little irritated. ‘You can’t say fairer than that.’
‘I would also say that I would love to take you out for dinner. Maybe ask Edward next door to join us.’
I tried to receive this invitation with hostility, but couldn’t quite manage it. ‘All right,’ I said, sounding sulky. ‘Why not. Could be fun, I suppose.’
And it was.
I slept well, despite previous apprehensions about a possible intruder. By now, the locks on my doors had been strengthened and underpinned with secondary locks, loose windows had been reinforced and an alarm system installed. All at vast expense, paid for by my insurance company.
The next morning, I lay snugly in bed and watched snow swirling outside my window. Even with the double glazing, I could hear the waves crashing on to the shingle. Do it, Alex, I told myself. Just do it. But I couldn’t bring myself to get out of bed and go jogging. ‘I’ll work hard all day and go this evening,’ I said out loud. ‘I absolutely will.’
I turned over and went back to sleep.
Although the sea was calmer by the evening, the wind was blowing more strongly now than earlier. I shut down my computer and considered my options. To thine own self be true … I’d said I would go for a jog, ergo I must. I put on my warmest layers, zipped my wind-proof jacket tightly closed, laced up my running shoes. Stepped out through the doors to the outside. Turned inland away from the sea.
Was this really wise? The sky was already darkening. As I reached the small wood which marked the edge of town, the air movement grew stronger, full of noise and debris: broken twigs, dead leaves swirling in the gutters, a creak of tree branches, and the piercing squeal of air rushing through overhead telegraph wires. I decided I would go to the top of the hill where the bridge went over the railway line, then turn back towards home, down the track, into the wood and out again, along the road, hang a left towards the sea and thus into The Strand, my own road. Rain spat at my face as, head down, I jogged up the hill. At the top I paused, bent over for a moment to ease my muscles. The world seemed empty of people, apart from a lone figure flogging along the wet track towards me. I promised myself a nice hot bath when I got in, scented candles in the bathroom, a slug of brandy for inner warmth, maybe a triangle of eighty-five per cent chocolate, followed by a slather of the expensive French body cream Herry and Lana had given me for my last birthday. I might even go to bed early with a tray of something light and a book. Sometimes there are compensations to living alone.
I leaned for a moment on the flat pimpled top of the bridge, its grey paint gleaming dully in the fading light. As a child I had loved to come up here with Edred to wait for the train to pass beneath us, rushing onwards like a glossy steel caterpillar towards London or the West. I had been small enough then to peer between the criss-crossed girders (‘hold tight, darling, don’t want you to fall through’) at the rails below, gleaming into the far distance. I still remembered that delicious frisson of fear – despite the firm grip of my father’s hand on the collar of my coat – as the train thundered below and I imagined my body cartwheeling down to thud onto the rushing roof beneath me.
The storm was building in intensity. The ends of my scarf had come loose and were flailing manically in the wind, snapping at the edge of my jaw. The air vibrated. I lifted my face to the lowering clouds above me, the shouting trees: this was definitely as far as I was going tonight. The oncoming jogger had his head bent against the wind, going more slowly now. I turned and ran down the hill towards the tossing branches of the little wood; beyond them, I could see the street lamps along The Strand, parked cars, the lights of the little corner shop, people carrying paper-wrapped parcels from the chippy next door to it.
The air was less turbulent under the trees, though wind filled my mouth and my eyes streamed with cold-induced tears. Suddenly, out of the windy darkness, without the slightest warning, an arm wrapped itself round my throat. The attack was so swift and sudden that I didn’t even have time to scream. I felt the warmth of another body, heard the faint squeak of leather gloves, my frantic fingers clutching ineffectually at the constriction round my throat. A fist slammed into my face, once and then again.
How many seconds were there before I fell? Two, maybe, possibly three, before the massive terror dissolved into mercifully cut-short agony. My head hit the ground with the force of a sledgehammer. Lights wheeled and circled behind my eyelids. I knew I was on the edge of death. There was no time to wonder, to protest that it shouldn’t end like this, alone in a dark wood. No time for regrets or thanks. Maybe a fleeting image of Jack Martin flashed through my terrified brain, maybe I saw the navy-blue PVC raincoat I had worn aged four, with its matching sou’wester, maybe I remembered a pink rose from my mother’s garden, or Sam Willoughby’s smile. Then nothing.
Voices swelled around me, though I couldn’t make out what they were saying. My body seemed completely constricted, as though I had been mummified, so that I was only able to move my fingers. I couldn’t shift my head to either side. When I tried to swallow, the pain was so intense that I started to choke, which was even more painful. Somebody held a glass of water to my lips. Above or to the side of me, voices heaved and retreated, hollow, like the sound of the ocean when you hold a seashell to your ear. I tried to work out why I was lying there, whether I was in a bed, where I was. Who I was. Whether I was in some kind of danger.
I remembered jogging through the woods. The grey-painted buttons on the iron railway bridge. The buffeting wind. In the distance, a lone figure battled on towards me, standing on the summit of the overpass, on and on, yet never coming any closer. I saw him there, clear as a signpost, but couldn’t remember any details about him. Was he the one who had flung an arm like a steel tendon around my neck? I tried to move an arm to ease the pain in my throat but couldn’t. Someone touched my shoulder briefly. Someone spoke, but I wasn’t able to make out what they were saying, or whether they were standing right beside me, or talking from the next room. My eyes would not open. I thought I was going to throw up. And still the black figure came pounding towards me, black feet on the black path, head down, elbows swinging, feet rhythmically hitting the cindered path, over and over.
There had been menace somewhere recently. The plots of a hundred crime thrillers flitted like wisps of fog through my incapacitated brain. Trussed up like this, was I in danger from some perverted thrill-seeking maniac? It was a coherent thought, the first since I had become aware of lying there on my back. Danger … why would I think I might be in danger?
‘Pulse …’ someone said, the voice swaying like a cobweb in a breeze. ‘… examined but there was …’ A conversation swinging above me. ‘Doctor Fitz …’ A hand was laid on my chest. Heavy, so heavy that I thought I might pass out. Then I managed another thought: I already was passed out, wasn’t I? It seemed amusing, so amusing that I would have laughed aloud, had I been capable of it. My eyelids seemed to have been glued shut; if I tried any harder to open them, I was afraid I would rip them apart.
‘Quick?’ someone said. ‘Alex?’
And I said ‘Yes?’
There was the sound of relieved laughte
r. ‘She’s there, she’s back,’ someone said, the words retreating into the almost-solid fog of conversation going on all around me.
There had been hands round my throat. Reflexively, I tried again to move my arm upwards, and this time was able to complete the movement. Under a layer of bandages, my neck felt tender and sore.
‘Alex?’ someone said again. Who was it … parent, friend, doctor, nurse?
‘What?’ I managed, then gave in to a sudden overwhelming desire to sleep.
When I woke up again, someone was holding my hand. It was a hard hand, a calloused one. A hand I recognized. ‘Mary?’ I said. I opened my eyes.
My mother bent over me. ‘Oh, Alex …’ I could hear her perfectly well. Plus the faint drip of a tap, footsteps heel-and-toeing along the polished composition floor outside the room, a man’s cheerful voice, the squeak of rubber wheels.
‘What happened?’ I asked, sounding like a rusty gate.
‘Someone attacked you while you were out jogging. I think they meant to kill you.’
My father’s voice. ‘God, Alex, what would we have done if he had succeeded?’
What do people do in those circumstances? They survive. ‘But he didn’t,’ I croaked.
‘It’s a miracle,’ Mary said. ‘Someone was walking their dog, saw you, and then some other guy came running up behind you, jumped on you. So this guy, the one with the dog, started shouting, and the guy – the one who attacked you – leaped to his feet and took off in the other direction. Luckily, the guy had his cell—’
‘I’m confused, Mary.’ Despite her analytical brain, my mother never could tell a coherent story. ‘Which guy had the phone?’
‘—and called the cops. You were brought in here, to the hospital. Someone got hold of us – not sure how – and we came racing over to be with you.’ Her grip on my hand tightened. ‘Oh, Alex …’
This was all wrong. My parents didn’t do emotion. They never betrayed distress, particularly where their children were concerned. Yet here they were, emoting. Perhaps they were mellowing at last.
