by Lauren White
Good move on Cheryl's part, Bim comments. Security is a priority for a woman living alone.
I nod and smile. She is preaching to the cremated.
Gordon searches the tiny patio which surrounds the door, lifting pot plants and the door mat, before sliding his hand along the top of a half porch, but there is no hidden key.
Kerry watches him, perplexed. Why does he want to get inside the flat when we're still months away from June?
He is checking out her candidature, I imagine.
That can’t be right, Bim says.
Why can’t it?
Well, he has never done it before.
How do you know he hasn’t?
Not, with me, anyway.
Why not? It seems pretty obvious Jackie was randomly selected. It was simply her misfortune to cross his path on her way to Sheffield that day and he seized the opportunity. Kerry too was probably randomly selected, although he must have gone out with the intention of abducting someone, otherwise he wouldn’t have been able to drug her. But, what if things took a new turn with Gerte, and you, Bim? It is possible one or both of you could have been selected in advance.
You mean he was stalking me!
His approach may have been changing all along as he perfected his technique. But, choosing the women he is going to murder in advance may also indicate the arrival of Dead-gorgeous as his accomplice. There would be more need to plan in advance, if there were two of them.
But, selecting his victims randomly has been the Weasel's strength up until now, Kerry says. It has helped him to go undetected. If he and this accomplice are putting more forethought into who they kill, they're far more exposed, aren't they? The chances of something connecting them to their victims, or of connecting their victims, one to another, must increase.
Bim looks from her to me. Do you have any idea what she is going on about?
Yes, and she’s right. We are going to have to investigate Cheryl, and everyone who comes within her orbit, very carefully indeed to see if we can find a link between her and you.
Why only me?
You and Gerte then; the London victims.
Kerry starts to look around us, agitatedly. Where has the Weasel gone?
We've been so absorbed in our conversation, we've managed to lose him. He has given up on his search and left. We dash up the basement stairs after him, only to find him sitting in his van, already, gunning the engine. He is about to drive away without us. We only just make it inside in time as he pulls away from the kerb.
The next day, he misses the Skylink bus to the airport, on his way back to Spain. There is time to kill before another one arrives and apparently he already knows how he wants to spend it. He doesn't hesitate. He sets off walking purposefully until he reaches an internet café. It is a dingy student hangout, not the kind of place I'd have expected him to frequent, but he greets the manager as though he is familiar to him so he must have been here before. I bet he always uses the same computer. That would be typical of his type. He goes to an internet café to make sure there is no evidence against him, on his own computer, and then establishes the comforting, and potentially incriminating, routine of using the same internet café and the same booth. It is good to realise the man isn't as smart as he likes to think he is.
We watch him set up a new email account, this one in the name of Peterpiperpip. The message he sends, reads: It is early yet. There may be others. The recipient is Dead-gorgeous.
Bim is frowning. So why is he so lukewarm about Cheryl? Is it just because he couldn't gain access to her flat? Did that give him a psychopathic bad vibe or something?
Maybe the impetus to plan their next victim so far in advance comes from Dead-gorgeous, not the Weasel, Kerry suggests.
I did a three-day course on psychopaths once. I wish I could remember more about it but I think you might be right. There are sometimes differences between the ones who kill in pairs. Their fantasies overlap sufficiently for them to cooperate, but they're not identical.
So Gordon has found another twin, who wears the same clothes, but who prefers them in a different colour.
Bim rolls her eyes and mouths: Triffid.
But, Kerry just laughs at her. She is completely mud free these days and she has ditched the wedding dress. Her new eternity clothes are a pair of faded sky-blue jeans and a blue t-shirt, with the slogan - THE MEEK DON’T WANT IT - emblazoned across the chest in sapphire-coloured diamante.
I wonder how he found Dead-gorgeous, she says. I mean how does a man find out whether some else enjoys killing women as much as he does?
The dark side of the internet, where else, I reply. There are probably thousands of websites there where perverts swop fantasies.
Please don’t tell us we are going to have to monitor any of them, Bim says. There must be another way to find out who Dead-gorgeous is.
Cheryl is our only lead. If he still likes her as a candidate, he might go on stalking her. We have to immerse ourselves in every aspect of her life, in the hope that sooner or later, we’ll get lucky, and stumble across him, before your powder blue satin high heels turn up on another corpse.
Kerry is looking anxious. How can we do all that and keep Gordon under surveillance too?
We’ll have to ask Gerte and Jackie to help out.
Jackie is a nutcase, Bim exclaims. What can she do?
She has a point. Okay why don’t you two stay with Gordon? Kerry groans. You already know his little routines so you'll spot anything different happening more quickly than the others would. Gerte and I can shadow Cheryl.
And, Jackie?
Well, she can fill in for anyone who needs time away.
Bim and Kerry glance at each other. From their expressions, I anticipate that they will not be spending any time away from each other, for the foreseeable future.
And, there is our financial controller too, I suddenly remember.
What financial controller?
Denise Boulay. She can act as the link between us all.
Cheryl Tinsdell is the outdoors type. She rides a horse at weekends and, on three evenings a week, she practices hockey with a local women's team. She is petite but athletic. She won't be a push over for anyone trying to abduct her. By profession, she is a food photographer, with her own tiny studio around the corner from where she lives. She works mainly for a string of high profile women's magazines, aimed at the more mature end of the market but, recently, she has been approached by a publishing company about managing the photography for a cookbook they're intending to commission. Her flat reflects her skill in dressing a scene to be seen. It is very stylish. The interior is straight from Marrakesh. The floors are covered with hand painted tiles. The furniture is heavy, ornate, low, and sparse. There are opulent floor cushions scattered around to break up the space and entertain the eye, and on the white walls, vibrantly coloured rugs and tapestries, are hung. Only the kitchen is situated in different continent. It is high-tech American; a stainless steel laboratory - the antithesis to the relaxed exoticism of the rest of her home. Her preoccupation with the visual extends to her appearance, naturally. Her hair is sculpted into a short sleek bob. Her makeup is expensive and discreet and she dresses like a model from an old Biba catalogue. Gamine is the word which comes to mind as I watch her. I like her. She is a woman's woman, the kind of mate to be counted upon in a crisis. She'd actually make an excellent addition to the team; although, since we're supposed to be doing everything we can to prevent this from happening, I keep this opinion to myself. There are men in her life but nobody special. She has frequent dates with three regulars, a dentist, an architect, and a journalist. They're all tall, with dark hair, which assuming the fair-haired man, recorded driving Bim's car, is Dead-gorgeous, does rather rule them out as suspects. They are courting her in a warm, friendly, but dispassionate manner. All three are of an age when they're ready to settle down and they're engaged in the serious business of evaluating her potential as a life partner. (Not good, at this moment, I would have
thought.) I believe they've misjudged her. She is not waiting for a merger proposal. She wants to be swept of her feet.
She has so much going for her, this woman, Gerte comments to me one night. How can those bastards take it away from her?
She doesn't have to marry any one of them, if she doesn't want to, Gerte.
She examines me, quizzically. Not the boyfriends, Kate, the killers!
Oh, the killers.
You don’t think your sister’s experience of men has soured you against them a little, do you? Or did that happen before. Your dad died when you were ten years old, didn’t he? Maybe that is why you took against, my Karl.
Another possibility is that I have been a murder detective for too long, Gerte. Statistically, young men are far more likely to be murdered than women, but the sickest psychopathic killers always seem to be men who prey upon women. It’s probably because Cheryl's life is so full that Dead-gorgeous wants to snuff it out. Him, not the Weasel - I doubt Gordon cares how his victims' lives are, as long as they have the right physical characteristics and a pulse. Well, initially, at least.
Tell me we are going to stop them from harming her.
Well, it won't be for the want of trying, if we don't, I reassure her.
We spend hours studying the people who weave in and out of her life hoping to discover someone else, who is doing the same as us. There is nobody. Or, nobody we notice; nobody as amateurish as the Weasel, sitting outside her house in his car, two hours at a time. The more familiar we become with the circles in which she moves, the harder it gets. Everyone starts off as a suspect, but then, as we get to recognise the neighbour going to the shop, at the end of the road, and the colleague walking his dog, morning, noon, and night in the park opposite from where she lives, the threat of them evaporates. We can't help dismissing them, despite our sworn intention not to. Oh, it is him, or her again, we say, uninterestedly. Yet, we also realise, it is precisely these people who are the most dangerous to her, because the skilled stalker would hide himself among them. The problem is that, over time, there are simply too many of them. The more people we recognise, the less effective we are. It is hopeless. We can identify so many opportunities to abduct her within her daily schedule, we would have to wall her up in a tower to protect her. Not least, because it turns out she isn't as security conscious as we would like. It is Gerte and I who lock the windows and slide the bolts across on the front door at night. If they want to get at her, they probably will. Our best hope of saving her is to stop them, first.
On one of our evenings in together - Cheryl, Gerte, and I, snuggled up together on the sofa, watching a film - Bim shows up, unexpectedly. She is in a state.
Reece is going skiing with a blonde bimbette he met at MY memorial service. Can you believe that! I used to go to school with the witch? How could they do this to me?
Bim, they're supposed to get on with their lives without us, Gerte attempts to reason with her.
Oh, is that right? So if Karl went off with someone else, that would be okay with you, would it?
Someone, like a prison warder, you mean? Karl is still in jail for a murder he didn't commit. She doesn't actually add, where Kate put him, but I hear it anyway.
It's only a question of time, Gerte, I reassure her, defensively. Now, they know they're looking for a serial killer, they'll let him go.
So you keep telling me. But, they don't seem to be in any great hurry, she replies, tartly. Anyway, to answer your question, Bim, if Karl was free and did find someone else, I'd be happy for him. After everything he has been through, I think he deserves someone to love, and maybe one day to have children with.
Bim examines her with scepticism. Well, I'm not the least bit happy for Reece and the bimbette. I'm going to make their lives a living hell. Jackie has been giving me lessons.
Jackie? When did she show up in Spain?
She ignores my question. This relationship is definitely not going to last.
Cheryl gets up from the sofa, startling us all. She goes into the kitchen and opens a bottle of Chardonnay.
She is probably sensing all this negative energy about Reece and the bimbette, I complain.
Are you accusing me of driving her to drink? Because, I'm not the one living with her, am I?
We were wondering whether there could be a professional link between the two of you, Gerte rushes in, before I have a chance to retaliate. You worked in PR and she’s in women's magazines. It is possible you knew some of the same people. Dead-gorgeous could be one of them. Maybe you could stick around to see if there is anyone in her life you recognise. It might help to spend a little time away from Gordon too.
And, Jackie, I put in.
Yes, they do seem to be stirring you up a little, Bim, Gerte adds, gently.
Okay, but I'm only free until the weekend, she informs us, airily. After that, I'm spending Christmas in a luxury ski lodge in the French Alps with my boyfriend.
What about the bimbette?
She is going to break both her legs on the first day and be flown home to Britain for emergency surgery.
I can’t gage whether she’s serious or not. Won't Reece want to go with her, if she’s injured?
Not if she’s unconscious until New Year. What would be the point?
On Christmas Eve, Carrie sets me the task of marshalling the boys to dress the tree for her, while she retreats to the kitchen to check on the sausage rolls and help herself to eggnog. I anticipate she will be gone for some time. In her wake, I am counting, silently, and slowly, in an attempt to keep control of my temper. I only arrived here a few hours ago, and my argumentative nephews have already exhausted my patience. Spat 999 has been caused because Sam wants to choose a colour scheme for the Christmas tree but Jethro and Caleb favour the dolly mixture approach to bauble decoration.
It will look like you've been sick all over it, Sam shouts, in disgust.
Sick isn’t colourful. Sick is brown or yellow, isn't it Auntie Kate?
I smile, wanly. What do I care? It is Christmas Eve, and I am not in a festive mood.
Not if you’re sick just after you've eaten, Caleb suggests.
You're supposed to be on our side, Jethro complains to him.
Sam whines: Auntie Kate, it will look like sick, won't it?
He is able to hear me in his head now, like his mother, but I say nothing. Instead, I pick up the Christmas tree fairy, from the cardboard box where she has rested all year, and make her wings flutter, as though she is actually flying, until she reaches the top of the tree. Once there, I rudely push a pine branch up her skirt to secure her. I am hoping this might move things along. Sam appears suitably wowed but the younger two can see the strings, of course.
I wanted a star on the top, this year, Jethro grumbles.
I am on the point of shouting at him, when I remember something. You used to do the tree with your dad, didn't you?
They all stare into the distance. This is their first Christmas Eve without him. They're not going to see him until Boxing Day, when Carrie is allowing them to spend the day with him and Maxine. I was shocked by this when I found out about it. But, Carrie seems to have gotten over her rage towards Phil, in exact proportion to her deepening involvement with Nigs. It is no doubt thanks to him that a day without the boys around has its attractions. It must be hard for the boys, though. I'm not sure I am up to inventing a new Christmas ritual to replace the old familiar one, they had with him. Gaining a dead aunt can't be much solace, if you've just been separated from your dad.
Why don’t we toss a coin? Heads for colour coordination and tails for dolly mixture, I cry.
I check to see if the boys are with me on this. There is a low squawking assent. Throwing the coin high into the air, I allow it to fall on the rug, where we can all inspect it for tricks and tampering.
Tails! We win. We win, Jethro yells, excitedly.
It will look like sick, Sam growls, surly in defeat.
Dolly mixture it is then, I say, briskly.
I have to toss the coin several times more before the tree is finished and we can invite Carrie, our tipsy guest of honour to turn on the lights. The sparkle silences us as a collective, ahhhhh, oozes out like slow pouring honey. A couple of carols, and a plate of warmed up sausage rolls, later, and the boys are almost ready for bed. Well, they're in their pyjamas. I read them a story from the Bumper Book of Christmas Ghost Stories for Children, which is so frightening Caleb is soon asleep in his mother's arms, Jethro's eyes are drooping, and even Sam seems to have entered a pre-sleep inertia.
Jethro asks me, sleepily: Now you are dead Auntie Kate, do you know Santa Claus?
Carrie stifles a giggle.
No, I haven't had the pleasure yet. Maybe tonight, though.
We carry the two youngest ones upstairs to bed. Then, we go and say goodnight to Sam. Downstairs, again, by the fire, Carrie pours herself another glass of eggnog. When we're sure the boys are asleep, we will take up their presents in three pillow cases and place them by their beds.
You've done a good job with the boys, I tell her. Despite the bickering, they seem much more steady, particularly Sam.
Settling things with Phil was the secret. We have been working together rather than against each other, recently.
Don't tell me you have dropped the court case against him?
The Crown Prosecution Service has. The police gave him a caution, instead.
That’s outrageous. He could have killed you.
She shrugs. His lawyer found out about my relationship with Nigs.
What does that matter when he has had Maxine stashed away for God knows how long?
That’s what made him more cooperative over the financial settlement, and he has agreed to me having sole custody of the boys, as long as he can see them. I could get all bitter and twisted about what he did. But, I’m not sure it is in my interests, nor the boys.
