by Joan Smith
“I’ll go first.”
“It’s my house,” she whispered.
“For Christ’s sake—this may be a burglar we’re arguing about.” He yanked the doors open, stepped out onto the paved area and ran lightly up the steps. Loretta saw him silhouetted against the limpid night sky for a few seconds, then he strode forward and said in a loud voice: “OK, who’s there?”
Loretta crept out behind him, unsure whether she most dreaded hearing a stranger’s voice or—and this was her other reason for not calling the police—that of John Tracey in a drunken rage. Instead she stopped dead on the bottom step, hardly aware of the cold paving stones under her feet, and listened in astonishment to a woman’s voice saying the same thing over and over again.
“You bastard” it howled and sometimes, by way of variation, “you fucking, fucking bastard.” Loretta unfroze and ran up the steps, fearing that Christopher was being attacked, and saw him struggling with a figure in a billowing white dress who appeared intent on throwing herself into the oily water of the canal.
“Loretta,” he appealed, turning his head, “can you help here? I can’t do anything for this goddam dress—”
Loretta ran the length of the garden, slipping and sliding on the wet grass, and skidded to a halt on the edge of the small landing stage. The intruder broke free from Christopher, screamed one final obscenity and collapsed on the water’s edge, transforming herself at once into an exhausted ballerina. Pale skirts settled around her and she bowed her head in a gesture of despair reminiscent of Giselle—although, as one corner of Loretta’s brain admitted, she knew little about ballet and was probably thinking of an imperfectly remembered photograph. The recumbent figure began to shake with sobs and Loretta exchanged a glance with Christopher, saw that he was as much at a loss as herself, and bent to touch the stranger’s bare arm.
“Are you all right? Are you hurt?”
The fragile beauty lifted her head, revealing an unexpectedly plump décolletage. “Of course I’m not all right. Someone’s just tried to fucking rape me.”
Loretta jerked back. “Rape you? Who did?”
The girl—close up, she looked no more than sixteen—smoothed her lustrous dark hair, sniffed vigorously and dabbed at her eyes, leaving trails of mascara on each cheek. A faint splash, like an oar in water, alerted Loretta and she went to the water’s edge, straining to make out any sign of movement between the tree-hung banks.
“See anything?” Christopher joined her, resting a hand briefly on her shoulder.
“N-no. I thought I heard something but . . .” Loretta was trying to work out how far the girl’s assailant might have traveled by now—how soon he could leave the boat without being stranded, like his victim, in a garden without access to the road. Presumably he would get off at Aristotle Lane, by the bridge, and disappear along Polstead Road. “I am going to call the police,” she told Christopher in a low voice, thinking there was at least a chance of apprehending the would-be rapist, and was astonished when the girl let out an angry wail. “Christ,” she exclaimed, “are you trying to make things worse! You can’t call the police”
Loretta glanced at Christopher for reassurance. His eyes narrowed and he tapped his right nostril, a gesture she did not immediately comprehend. “But you said someone tried to rape you,” she began, turning back to the girl, “and the obvious thing . . . I mean, they may be able to catch him.” She stopped in confusion as Christopher’s meaning—nose candy, cocaine—dawned on her.
“Only Adam bloody Hall,” the girl said, leaping to her feet. “I’ll deal with him tomorrow.” She gazed down at the quivering layers of silk chiffon and began to make violent but ineffective brushing motions. “Shit, there’s grass stains all over my dress, that’s thirteen hundred quid up the spout.”
Loretta gasped. “Thirteen hundred pounds?” She had seen similar dresses in a shop window in Oxford, ball gowns with velvet bodices and flounced skirts, but had no idea that they cost so much—or that anyone could afford them in the middle of a recession.
“Mummy bought it for my twenty-first,” the girl continued, scratching at the fragile fabric with her fingernails. “She’ll be furious when she finds out.” She gave the material one final swipe, as though showing it who was boss, and turned crossly to Loretta. “Are we going to stand here all night? I mean, Adam’s gone off with my bag and stuff and I have no idea how I’m supposed to get home.” She jerked her head towards the house. “This your place?”
Loretta nodded.
“Right then. If you take me to a phone I’ll call a cab.”
Loretta started across the grass, the whisper of silk behind her indicating that the girl was following. “Where do you live?” she called over her shoulder, wondering how easy it would be to get a taxi at one, perhaps even two o’clock in the morning.
“Dorset.”
“Dorset?” Loretta repeated, stopping in her tracks.
“I’m in Oxford for the weekend,” she added, bumping into Loretta and pushing her none too gently towards the back of the house. “Charles, he’s bloody Adam’s best friend, they used to live on the same staircase at St. John’s . . . Charles’s parents are away so he invited us all to a party. Oh, shit,” she added, as though it was only a minor hindrance, “I don’t know the address.”
Loretta turned on the light in the dining room. “You’re staying there and you don’t know the address?”
The girl snapped: “It’s a big house on the river. Charles picked me up at the station so I didn’t really take in where we were going. God, I could kill Adam.”
She followed Loretta into the kitchen, gazing about her without interest as Christopher locked the French windows. “How many bedrooms do you have?” she asked abruptly. “Since it looks as though I’ll have to stay the night.”
Loretta’s eyes opened wide. “Two, actually, and they’re both occupied. I suppose I could make you up a bed in my study. You haven’t told us your name, by the way.”
The girl’s eyes narrowed. “Why should I?”
Loretta said sarcastically: “Just a whim on my part. I like to know who people are before I offer them a bed.”
“Caroline,” her guest announced ungraciously.
Loretta gestured that she expected more.
“Caroline . . . Wilson.”
The surname was obviously an invention but Loretta was too tired to make anything of it. “I’m Loretta Lawson,” she said briskly, “And this is Christopher Cisar.”
Caroline glanced out of the window, peering up at the street. “Where are we? I mean, what road is this?”
“Southmoor Road.”
“Where’s that?”
This time Loretta rolled her eyes upwards. “Jericho. Don’t you know Oxford?”
“Yes, but not this bit. I lived in college for the first two years and last year I shared a house in Osney. Can I have a glass of water?”
“Help yourself, you’ll find a clean glass in the dishwasher. I’m going up to see about this bed.”
In the drawing room she pulled cushions off the sofa, carried them into her study and made a makeshift bed on the floor.
“Loretta? Need any help?” Christopher stood in the doorway.
She straightened up. “You could get a sheet and the spare duvet from the airing cupboard. In the bathroom.”
A moment later he was back with a bundle of bedding. “Will this do?”
“Mmm. Think I should put a pea under her mattress to see if she’s really a princess?” Before he could answer she slid past him and went to the top of the stairs. “Caroline, come up and I’ll show you where you’re sleeping.”
The girl appeared, yawning, viewed the sleeping arrangements without enthusiasm and asked Loretta for directions to the bathroom. She left the room in a swirl of chiffon, offering not a word of thanks, and they heard a door slam on the half-landing.
“I was wrong,” said Loretta, taking Christopher’s arm “she’s actually Prince Charming. Come on, let’s go back to be
d.” She shivered and Christopher put his arms around her.
“Cold?”
“A bit.” She allowed her head to fall against his chest.
“Tired?”
“Mmm.”
He put a hand under her chin and lifted her face to his. “But not too tired?”
“Certainly not.” They laughed, exchanged an increasingly passionate kiss and stumbled upstairs to Loretta’s bedroom.
Loretta lay in the bath next morning, idly attempting to turn on the hot tap with the toes of her right foot. Her feet were long and bony, the first two toes flexible enough to pick up a sheet of paper from the floor, but the tap dripped and she had turned it off with such force that it now refused to budge. Instead she pointed her toes and made circles in the air, humming a line from Ariadne auf Naxos and not really minding that the water was growing cold. Celibacy was overrated, she thought, pleasantly reminded of the night’s exertions by the mild soreness of her inner thighs. She sat up and reached for the soap, thinking she had been in the bath long enough; Christopher had gone off to play squash with a colleague at nine, she didn’t have to worry about him, but she still needed to find a set of clothes to fit Caroline Wilson and discuss how she was going to get back to her friend’s parents’ house. Perhaps she would be able to find it in daylight, although Loretta didn’t really want to waste a sunny morning driving her round the various streets which backed onto the river.
She slid under the water to rinse off the soap, holding her head clear, and climbed out of the bath. A blue bath sheet hung on the towel horse and she dried herself vigorously, belatedly noticing a faint pong which suggested the towel had been used once too often. She tossed it into a corner and pulled on the clothes she’d brought down from her bedroom: fake Pucci leggings and a thin cotton top. A pair of earrings lay on the lid of the laundry basket and she threaded them through the lobes of her ears, let down her hair and ran her fingers through it. Then she scooped up the damp bath sheet, unlocked the bathroom door and sauntered down the stairs to the ground floor.
The door to her study was firmly shut. Loretta raised her free hand to knock, hesitated, and decided to put off the encounter until she had drunk a cup of coffee. Her post was lying on the hall table and she glanced through it, putting to one side a couple of early birthday cards and tearing open a Jiffy bag with an address label announcing it had been sent by the Literary Review. It contained the first volume of Antonia White’s diaries, which Loretta had agreed to review for the magazine, and she opened the book and read a postcard from Lola, the deputy editor, as she went downstairs. The door to the downstairs bathroom was ajar and she elbowed it open, hurling the dirty towel inside as she passed.
“Hello?” she called on entering the kitchen, just in case Bridget or Caroline were already up. There was no reply but someone had been in the room recently: newspapers littered the kitchen table and a half-full pot of coffee stood on the draining board. Loretta felt the side of the cafetiere, found it was still hot and poured herself a mug of coffee, leaning back against the sink with her arms folded and her thoughts drifting agreeably. She had arranged to meet Christopher tomorrow night, at the Phoenix cinema, and Bridget was supposed to be returning home today, as soon as her cleaner had finished clearing up the mess, muddy footprints and turned-out cupboards, left by the police. Looking forward to an evening alone, Loretta lifted her mug and tasted her coffee, which was tepid and stale. She was about to throw it away when an upside-down headline caught her eye: WHY WEREN’T WE TOLD?
It triggered an old memory, John Tracey delivering a lecture on newspaper style over breakfast at their flat in south London and explaining in boring detail his objection to questions in headlines. His training as a journalist had been sporadic and on the job, handed down by an elderly chief sub in the weekly newspaper office in Chiswick where he had been office junior, and consisted of a series of inflexible injunctions which interested Loretta not one jot. It had pained him, on arriving at the Sunday Herald, to discover that house style required him to use single rather than double quotation marks, and when he wrote at home their living room was littered with sheets of paper angrily torn from the typewriter when he realized his mistake. The memory of Tracey bent over his old Remington at their dining table prompted another image, wholly imaginary this time but no less vivid, in which Loretta saw him hunched miserably over his Tandy at the Randolph Hotel, struggling to meet a deadline while she pottered about her kitchen and indulged in some mildly erotic fantasies. His illusory presence rapidly became so dejected and accusing that it was almost a relief to lean forward and seize the newspaper which had prompted this melancholy train of thought, even though a picture below the headline confirmed Loretta’s assumption that it referred to the Thebes Farm murder. A middle-aged man glared at her from the paper as he got into a parked car, as if she had called out his name; Loretta dumped her coffee, pulled out a chair and began to read:
Angry women’s groups and student representatives rounded on police in Oxford last night, demanding: WHY WEREN’T WE TOLD?
They were reacting to the shock revelation at yesterday’s inquest on a murdered 21-year-old that a sex beast has been preying on local women for three years—and no warnings were ever given.
Sex Beast
Police believe that the man, who drives a blue van, killed for the first time three weeks ago after earlier attacks on at least four women. All the attacks have taken place on the A34 trunk road—the main route from Oxford to Newbury, Southampton and the southwest.
The body of the dead woman, an American tourist, was discovered in a barn at the isolated home of an Oxford don on Sunday afternoon. The cause of death was a severe head injury and police now believe she was picked up by her attacker while hitchhiking.
The inquest on Paula Wolf, from Oak Falls, Ohio, was adjourned after the detective leading the murder investigation, Superintendent Eddie Dibden (left), told the court he had reason to link her death with the other attacks (turn to column two, page five).
There was uproar as he admitted that another incident took place a week ago, 15 days after a witness saw Miss Wolf getting into a van at the junction between the A34 and the M4. The victim, aged 24, was beaten about the head and left for dead after her car broke down near Didcot.
Jane Hilton, a 24-year-old postgraduate at women-only Somerville College, said at a hastily arranged meeting in the city last night: “A car is the one place a woman on her own feels safe. Now it appears we can’t even drive without putting ourselves at risk—and the police have said nothing.”
Escape
Another woman, who wanted to remain anonymous, said she believed she had a lucky escape nine months ago, when a man approached her as she changed a wheel on the hard shoulder south of Abingdon after a tire blew out. When he saw her 12-year-old daughter in the passenger seat, the man ran back to his own vehicle and drove off.
The woman, a 36-year-old nurse, claimed she reported the incident to the police but they showed no interest because she was unable to give them the registration number of the other driver.
Last night Supt. Dibden tried to defuse the row. “Our decision not to publicly link the attacks was taken after careful consideration and to avoid the possibility of copycat crimes,” he said in a statement. “Many women have heeded our warnings about the dangers of hitchhiking and, regrettably, we are now dealing with a new type of opportunist crime in which offenders actively seek female victims in a vulnerable position after their vehicles have broken down.
“My officers have been involved in a painstaking attempt to amass evidence which might lead to an arrest and two considerations were uppermost in our minds. We did not wish to unduly alarm women about a type of crime which is thankfully still rare, and we were anxious not to stimulate further attacks by this man or anybody else.
“We naturally regret the distress that this decision may have caused but I would like to say on behalf of all my officers, whom I know to be a dedicated and hard working bunch of men, that the
criticism we now face is ill-informed and shows that, in the current adverse climate, the police simply cannot win.”
Labor MP Avril Duncan denounced Supt. Dibden’s remarks as a “smoke-screen” and said she would raise the matter in Parliament after the summer recess. A spokeswoman for a London-based group, Women Against Sexual Terrorism (WASTE), added: “When are the police going to stop defending themselves and start defending women?”
Drivers’ organizations, including the AA and RAC, said they are looking into the possibility of offering cheap car phones to their members so that stranded women would not have to leave their cars—
“Hi, Loretta.” Bridget walked into the room, looking relaxed and rested and carrying one of the bags in which Loretta had packed her clothes on Sunday evening. “I didn’t hear you get out of the bath. Are my clean things still on top of the washing machine?” She nodded in the direction of the downstairs bathroom.
“Mmm. I was just reading this.” Loretta held up the paper.
Bridget blinked, as though it was an effort to transfer her thoughts from packing, then sat down opposite Loretta. “They really have cocked up, haven’t they?” she said with some satisfaction. “To think they spent all that time persecuting me about that stupid diary when they knew perfectly well . . . Give it here a minute.” She reached across, took the paper from Loretta’s hand and read in a mock-pompous voice: “‘The criticism we now face is ill-informed and shows that, in the current adverse climate, the police simply cannot win.’ Bloody cheek,” she said, throwing the paper down. “I don’t know how he’s got the nerve. Funny, I was just wondering the other day whether I should get a car phone now that we live out in the country. I mean, say the car did break down on the way home?”
“Don’t they cost a fortune?”
“Oh, the call rate’s ridiculous but you’d only use it in an emergency. Want some coffee?”
