Mary watched Mrs Harris leave, then went into the vicarage, fully intending to read for a while until her father returned from the Dean’s, but then she noticed his study door was ajar. Reverend Riley never left his study door open. It was his private space where he composed his sermons and attended to the business of the parish, a serious room whose threshold Mary had never been allowed to cross. Perhaps it was the forbidden nature that prompted Mary to push open the door and step inside.
Mary entered her father’s study quietly so she could listen for any sound of a premature return, from him or Mrs Harris but once inside, she revelled in the intrusion. The room smelt of pipe smoke and old leather from bookcases filled with heavy, bound tomes on religious reading and ancient history but no novels, for they were frivolous and could not lead to self-improvement. There was a gramophone so that music could be played while her father wrote his sermons and an old, ornately carved desk with a wooden chair, which had a dark red, cushioned seat that matched the inlay of the desk. Mary touched the chair but did not sit in it. She noticed her father’s drawer was not flush with the desk and it protruded slightly. She knew her father always kept his desk drawer locked. When she came to summon him to dinner it was the last thing he did after placing his papers in order and he kept the key on his person. She took hold of the small, wooden handle and gently pulled. The drawer slid open.
The contents were a disappointment at first; some official-looking papers that appeared to relate to their occupancy of the vicarage, a pocket watch and two old fountain pens but precious little else of note apart from a metal strong box. Mary made a mental picture of the contents of the drawer and the manner in which they were arranged, so she could restore them to their exact position. She carefully lifted the box onto the desk then opened it.
Inside were a substantial number of gold coins of a type Mary had never seen before but each had a portrait of the king on one side. She realised they must be sovereigns and that each one was valuable. No wonder her father was normally so careful to lock the drawer. The Reverend Riley did not trust banks and Mary deduced that this was her father’s life savings from his church salary and parents’ legacies plus her late mother’s estate.
She was about to close the lid and return the box to the drawer when she noticed a small brown envelope that was half hidden by the coins towards the back of the box. She removed it carefully and opened the envelope with a premonition of excitement, instinctively knowing that something forbidden was housed here. At first she thought they were simple postcards but Mary soon realised they could never have been purchased in any normal shop.
In the first postcard, a young Japanese woman was lying on her side being tightly embraced by a man. Both figures were still wearing kimonos but they had been allowed to slip loosely open and the woman’s had been pulled up to show her bare legs and a full view of the area between them, including a thick, downy triangle of pubic hair. The man was forcing a hand beneath her kimono to grasp at her breast while pushing a huge penis inside her. Mary was both shocked and intrigued by the sight, particularly when she realised that what she first took to be a rape scene was contradicted by the look of contentment on the woman’s face. But was she concubine or whore, wife or slave girl – and what was she doing in her father’s locked, desk drawer?
Mary slid the card to one side, to reveal a different one, which showed another man about to take a second girl, her clothes hoisted conveniently around her upper body, leaving the lower part bare. He was thrusting forward towards her and she seemed quite content to accommodate him.
Mary looked at each of the cards in turn, a dozen oriental scenes of copulation with nothing hidden from view, and somehow knew her father had not merely confiscated these banned images from a parishioner. They were his secret, guilty pleasure, something he had to keep hidden and locked away, her discovery of them revealing something new to Mary about him and men in general.
She carefully slid the cards back into the envelope and put it in the box, covering it with the right number of gold sovereigns, then she put the box back in the drawer and slid it into its original position, before quietly leaving the room.
Mary liked to think that she and Henry had no secrets and later she would tell him about the gold sovereigns she had discovered in her father’s strong box, but she neglected to mention the postcards.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
Tom did not linger in the bar once Bradshaw had departed. Instead he went up to his room, removed his shoes, socks and shirt and lay down heavily on the bed, hoping to sleep for an hour. He was dozing fitfully when he was awoken by a loud knock on the bedroom door. The sound made him sit up sharply and groggily take in his surroundings. Disoriented, he realised he was still in Great Middleton. Then there was a second knock. What the hell did Colin want?
Tom answered the door, but it was not Colin. Instead Helen was standing there on the landing. Because he was shirtless, they both apologised at the same time. ‘Wait a sec,’ he said and he retreated to pull on a T shirt then returned to let her in.
Helen walked into the room and stood awkwardly for a moment. ‘I didn’t realise you were sleeping,’ she said.
‘Just dozing, sit down,’ he told her but there was no chair so she perched on the edge of the bed.
‘Are you okay?’ he asked.
She nodded unconvincingly. ‘I got the files,’ and he realised she was carrying a large shopping bag.
‘Great,’ he said, ‘so why do you look like somebody just died?’
‘Something weird happened,’ she told him, ‘at the office. Everyone was gone. I was the only one left in the building …’ she began, ‘… I was just about to lift the files out when I heard voices and then the door went. I made it back to my desk but only just.’
‘Who was it?’
‘That’s the weird part.’
‘Go on.’
‘Malcolm,’ she said.
‘Right.’
‘But he wasn’t on his own,’ she told him, ‘there was this woman.’
Tom grinned, ‘Malcolm? Coming back to his office after hours with a woman? Oh that’s priceless.’
‘Not for me,’ she assured him. ‘When he saw me he did not look happy.’
‘Well, he wouldn’t be. What did he say?’
‘He didn’t say anything.’
‘What did you say?’
‘ “Hi Malcolm, just finishing off, got a good piece on council cutbacks for you,” ’ she parroted cheerfully, ‘as if I was a simpleton who hadn’t noticed the woman he was with.’
Tom laughed. ‘What did he say to that?’
‘He just nodded but he looked like someone had slapped him across the face,’ she said, ‘and that’s not all. The really weird bit was that they weren’t alone. I mean I can sort of understand it if Malcolm has somehow managed to persuade a poor woman to be his bit-on-the-side but …’
‘Who was with them?’ And there was something in his tone that made Helen wonder if Tom already understood the situation.
‘Jim.’
‘Jim the photographer?’ she nodded. ‘Where did they go Helen?’
‘Into the dark room.’
Tom looked distinctly amused now. ‘Was this woman in her late-thirties with dyed red hair and, shall we say, a fuller figure, by any chance?’
‘Yes, how did you know?’
‘That’s Rita-the-man-eater,’ he told her then he chuckled in disbelief. ‘I can’t believe they are still doing it.’
‘Doing what?’
‘Back when Malcolm was a reporter he met Rita. She is a … model … of sorts, an amateur who does glamour photography.’
‘Oh,’ said Helen, cottoning on.
‘Malcolm and Jim used to make a few bob on the side taking photos of Rita of an artistic nature then selling them to low-end men’s magazines. Somehow word got out that they were doing this and we all knew about it but I thought he’d stopped years ago. However, on the evidence of tonight, I’d say you just caught your
editor in the middle of one of his porn shoots.’
‘Oh dear God,’ she groaned.
He laughed then, ‘You know, it took a few years before Malcolm absolutely hated me,’ he said. ‘Looks like you’ve achieved the same status in less than three months,’ he nodded towards her bag. ‘Come on. Let’s see what you got and whether it was worth it.’
She took out the files and Tom sat next to her, leaving a gap so she could place the first file on the bed.
‘Susan Freeman,’ she said. She removed a photograph of a smiling young girl from the file and placed it face up on the bed. She was dressed in what was possibly her first school uniform and it was hard not to be touched by such a natural, unforced smile, knowing that it would never be seen by anyone again.
Helen continued to remove the photographs from each file, placing the images of each young girl on top of the relevant folder so they could view all four of them together. ‘Katie Sykes.’ Another girl in school uniform, this one was dark haired and her smile more of a reluctant grimace, an unsuccessful attempt to hide the metal braces on her teeth.
‘Sarah Hutchison.’ The third victim was dressed in casual clothes in the photograph, which could have been taken by the kind of professional photographer you’d find on the high street of any small town. Sarah was dressed in a green T shirt and blue jeans; she might have been trying to look a little older than her years but she was still demonstrably a young girl.
‘Jenny Barber.’ The last girl had pale skin, ginger hair and freckles and her face held a startled expression, as if she was not expecting the picture even though she’d been posing for it.
Seeing actual photographs of the victims made the murders more real somehow. A picture in a newspaper keeps a distance, as if the tragedy of their death only occurred in newspaper-land, a fictional place far away, only glimpsed briefly during the snatched cup of coffee before the day’s commute, or the few rushed moments between stops on the morning train.
Tom stared at the photographs for a long time without saying anything.
‘What is it?’ she asked.
‘I dunno,’ he shook his head, but there was clearly something troubling him.
‘Why did you want to see their photos?’
He exhaled slowly. ‘It was just something …’ He stopped speaking and there was such a long pause she wondered if he was going to start again. Eventually he asked, ‘How old was Susan Freeman? Eleven?’
‘Yes.’
‘And Katie Sykes?’
‘Twelve.’
‘Sarah Hutchison? She looks about eleven.’
‘She was thirteen actually. I read the files.’ What was he getting at?
‘And the last one?’
‘Jenny Barber was thirteen too.’
‘Okay look at them all here,’ and he opened his palms towards the pictures beneath him, ‘what strikes you about them?’
Nothing struck her about them, apart from the obvious, ‘aside from the fact they are all girls?’
‘Yeah.’
Helen thought for a time and finally admitted, ‘Nothing.’
‘Okay, bear with me,’ he tapped the photo of Susan Freeman, ‘Susan here is eleven, we know that from the clippings but, if we didn’t know it, how old would you make her: old for her age or young for her age?’
‘About right,’ she said instinctively.
‘You sure?’ he asked. ‘She looks confident, a pretty girl, I’d maybe make her a year older, say twelve?’
‘She could be.’
‘What about the next one?’ he asked, ‘Katie Sykes? Older or younger?’
‘Well she was twelve and I would say she looks twelve.’
‘You sure?’ he asked.
‘Yes,’ she said confidently.
‘Good,’ he replied, ‘so would I.’
Helen was puzzled. What morbid game was he playing here?
He tapped the picture of the girl in jeans and T shirt, ‘Sarah was what? Thirteen? Older or younger.’
‘Mmm, I’d say she is a bit younger looking than her actual age, maybe a year or so.’
‘Again, I agree and I think Jenny also looks a bit younger than thirteen. So they were all different ages but one was older looking, one was about right for her age and two looked younger. If we add a year to Susan, keep Katie where she is and take a year off Sarah and Jenny that would make them all twelve years old.’
Helen let this sink in. ‘I suppose.’
‘And we knew their ages.’
‘Yeah,’ she said uncertainly.
‘And he didn’t. The killer, I mean. He just saw them standing there in the bus shelter or outside the chippy, from his car, across the street.’
‘What are you getting at?’
‘I’m saying he has a type. He wants girls who are about twelve years old. He wants them …’
‘What?’
‘On the cusp,’ and he actually looked a little embarrassed, ‘you know, of puberty. I mean they are demonstrably girls but they aren’t very young and they aren’t teenagers either. He gets them just before they reach that stage.’
Helen was silent for a while and then she admitted, ‘You could have something there,’ and she thought for a moment, ‘but I’m not sure how that helps necessarily. I mean what does it tell us about him, really?’
‘I don’t know,’ he admitted, ‘but it tells us one thing.’
‘What?’
‘Michelle Summers was different. From what we have read or heard about her and the pictures we’ve seen, she’s not the same.’
Helen let her mind go back to the snapshots the police had issued to the media, hoping to jog the memory of potential witnesses who may have seen a runaway or an abduction; a girl well past the first onset of puberty, a girl nearer a woman than a child, a fifteen-year-old with a defined, womanly figure just waiting for the puppy fat to disappear before she would start to receive the unwelcome attention of every construction worker she had the misfortune to walk by.
‘She was older,’ said Helen, ‘two or three years older but,’ and she paused while she took in the true significance of what he was saying, ‘she looked much older, even in that photo the police blew up for the press conference.’
He nodded. ‘That’s what I can’t get my head round. If it’s the same guy, the same motive, the same warped and twisted logic then why has he suddenly gone from skinny, little pre-pubescent girls to curvy teenagers who could pass for seventeen with a bit of lippy on? It doesn’t ring true.’
Tom transferred his attention to the clippings files and they both began to silently read their contents.
‘There’s a fair bit of information here but does any of it actually help?’ Helen asked but he didn’t answer. He was too busy reading and she sat near him in silence for a time while he looked at the notes in the clippings files.
‘Well, let’s see,’ he finally answered, ‘are these cases all the same?’ he pondered. ‘From what we can see here, the victims are all young girls,’ and he held up a finger to denote this first similarity, ‘they were all taken out in the open, from bus shelters, roadsides and the like,’ his second finger went up, ‘and nobody saw or heard a thing,’ the third finger, ‘the first four girls were all killed in the same way, by strangulation,’ the fourth finger went up, ‘but there was no rape or sexual assault of any kind, all were found fully clothed.’ His thumb marked the fifth similarity then he put his hand down by his side. ‘If Michelle Summers fits the pattern then they should find her body soon, she will have been strangled but there won’t be anything sexual about it, which makes you wonder why he does it, what he gets out of this?’
‘You’re assuming he’s a frustrated guy who can’t get sex or only likes it when his victim struggles or is helpless,’ Helen said, ‘but this isn’t about sex at all. It’s about power. He gets his excitement from killing them. He must get off on that.’
‘Maybe,’ and he thought for a second. ‘So far the police and all of the papers have focused on the sim
ilarities between the Michelle Summers case and the other four victims of the Kiddy-Catcher – but what about the differences?’
‘Well, I’m not sure there are any, except the obvious fact that Michelle was older than the other girls,’ she said.
‘By at least three years,’ he reminded her. ‘Why was this girl older? She wasn’t his usual type,’ and when she looked uncomfortable he added, ‘of victim, I mean.’
‘The others were all aged between eleven and thirteen,’ she noted, ‘whereas Michelle was nearly sixteen. That could be important but …’
‘But … ?’
‘Maybe she was the only girl he could find. We haven’t considered that. He’s driving around looking for victims when everyone knows there’s a strange man out there abducting and murdering young girls, which makes parents more vigilant than normal. They won’t let their daughters go out on their own until he’s caught.’
‘They’d drive them around instead or make sure the girls travel in groups when they come home from school or to youth clubs and the cinema,’ said Tom.
‘But Michelle’s mother didn’t think to do that because she was older.’
‘She was fifteen,’ he said, ‘and she would know better than to step willingly into a car with a stranger. If it is the Kiddy-Catcher that’s taken her, it brings us back to the question of how he is convincing the girls to go with him.’
‘I’ve been thinking about that,’ Helen said. ‘Something happened a while back and it came back to me today.’
‘What?’
‘It’s probably nothing.’ She felt self-conscious now, as if her instincts couldn’t entirely be trusted.
‘Tell me,’ he urged.
Helen hesitated at first. ‘I stopped to grab a sandwich at the supermarket on the edge of town. I was in a hurry so I just ate it in my car. While I was parked there a little girl came running out on her own. She was only about three years old and I remember I was worried she’d get knocked down by a car. Then a woman came chasing after her. Everybody stopped for a moment to see what was wrong but then the woman caught up with the little girl, grabbed her and told her off. As soon as she did that everyone relaxed and carried on as if nothing had happened.’
No Name Lane (Howard Linskey) Page 19
