by Danuta Reah
‘Louise told me you were on your own. I don’t think that’s a good idea. Come on, Debs, come and sit down.’ He steered her back into the middle room, sat her down in a chair and passed her the box of tissues. She realized she was crying again, and ineffectually mopped her face. ‘I brought something to drink, but I don’t think you need it.’
He lit the fire and went out of the room. She heard his feet on the path and a car door slam. He came back a few moments later with a travel rug which he wrapped round her shoulders. ‘It’s cold in here. You’re frozen.’ Debbie tried to say something, but nothing coherent came out. She could hear him moving round the room, drawing the curtains and closing the door. The haunted emptiness felt further away now. She was so tired.
She closed her eyes and leant back in the chair, feeling the warmth of the fire and the blanket wrapped round her. She dropped into blackness and then she was wide awake again and she saw her mother’s face, the mouth gaping, the lips tinged blue. ‘Is this your mother, Mrs Gina Sykes?’ Yes, yes, yes! Her eyes snapped open and she was in her own house again, someone moving behind her in the kitchen, the overhead light off. Who was it? Louise? No, she’d sent Louise away.
Rob came through from the kitchen. He looked at her. ‘I thought you might need this tonight.’ He smiled at her, holding her hot-water bottle.
‘Rob,’ she said. There was something she wanted to ask him, but she couldn’t remember what it was.
‘Come on.’ He helped her to stand up. ‘It’s gone midnight. You need to try and get some sleep.’ Get some sleep. She was afraid of being asleep. He was guiding her over towards the stairs. ‘Come on, Debs, you need to lie down.’ He was right, she did. She couldn’t stand up. He looked at the whisky bottle as he steered her past the small table with her photographs on. ‘Did you drink all that tonight?’ She shook her head. She didn’t know. She couldn’t remember. She tried to turn back to get Gina’s photograph but he was firmly guiding her towards the stairs. ‘Hold on to the rail, Debs.’ He came up the stairs beside her, one arm supporting her against the handrail, holding her arm with his other hand. She could feel that clearly.
Then she was lying on her bed, the room spinning. ‘Oh, God.’ She sat up. ‘I’m going to be sick.’ He held her head over the wastebin as she threw up. ‘Pure whisky,’ he said. ‘You’ll be better for that tomorrow.’
‘Sorry, I’m sorry.’ She was shivering, her teeth chattering.
‘Drink this.’ He was holding her hands round a cool glass. She sipped the water, feeling the nausea subsiding a bit. ‘Try and drink some more, Debs. As much as you can. You’re going to feel like shit in the morning.’ She didn’t care. She felt tears running down her face again, then she was lying down and it was too warm. She threw the covers off, and someone put them back over her again and then the room started spinning, slowly then more quickly, then she was falling into the blackness and she wasn’t there any more.
13
Debbie felt terrible. Her head ached and she felt sick. There had been a brief moment of warmth and comfort, and then she was awake with a sense of dread lurking behind the sheer physical misery. She’d been drunk. Something terrible had happened. She struggled into a sitting position, holding her head to stop it from pounding itself apart. Saliva rushed into her mouth, and she just made it into the bathroom before she threw up. She thought it was over, then the nausea hit her again and she was left hanging over the toilet bowl, dry retching, a disgusting taste in her mouth and an acid burn in her throat. She slumped on to the floor, supporting herself on the seat, breathing deeply, waiting for the sickness and headache to retreat. She knew what had happened now. She was mourning her mother collapsed on the bathroom floor after drinking herself into oblivion. Gina, she reflected, would not have been surprised. I want my mum!
She got a grip on her emotions. Everyone said that crying was good for you, crying got it – whatever it was – out of your system. After her father had died, it seemed to Debbie that all crying did was make your eyes swell, your nose red and your face wet. It didn’t make you feel any better. She took stock. It was late morning – she’d slept for a long time. She was wearing a T-shirt and pants. She vaguely remembered someone had put her to bed. She wasn’t sure if she remembered who it was, or if she was remembering a dream. She stood under the shower, letting the water wake and refresh her. A cold shower was supposed to be good for a hangover, but she felt bad enough as it was. The warmth of the water was comforting. She wrapped her hair in a towel, pulled on a clean sweatshirt and a pair of jeans and went downstairs.
The fire was lit and turned low. Rob was sitting in front of it flicking through the pages of her Othello. He looked at her appraisingly and said, ‘Bad?’
Debbie nodded. ‘Did you stay last night?’
‘Spent the night in this chair.’ He smiled, but his eyes looked tired and he was unshaven.
She didn’t know what to say. ‘Thank you. For coming round, I mean. I got really drunk. I’m sorry.’
He shrugged. ‘Best thing to do. Louise was worried about you. She was right. You shouldn’t have been alone. Do you want something to eat?’ Debbie shuddered and he grinned sympathetically. ‘Thought not. Look, I’ve been monitoring the phone. Louise called – I said you were still asleep. She’ll phone later. The police want to talk to you. They’re coming round this afternoon unless you aren’t up to it.’ Debbie looked at him. ‘I’d talk to them as soon as you can,’ he said.
‘I don’t know.’ Debbie felt a sense of bewildered desolation coming over her. ‘I don’t know what I want to do. I don’t know what I should do.’
He stood up. ‘Have a cup of tea, take something for the hangover.’ That wasn’t what she meant, but it seemed like good advice, so she nodded when he offered to make her one, and sank down into the other chair. Her glass and the whisky bottle had gone. He’d presumably put those away. Buttercup was comatose on the rug in front of the fire, so Rob must have fed her. Her eyes skidded away from the photographs on the table. She’d look at those later. Her eyes felt wet again, and she dug her nails into the palms of her hands. Crying did no good.
At the briefing that morning, Lynne rather tentatively brought up the Deborah Sykes connection again. ‘Can I just check what we did with that?’ she asked.
‘I got someone to look at the staircase in the college,’ Berryman said. ‘There wasn’t anything that looked like our man, unless you count a damaged light fitting. There were no prints worth taking. I still have to say – if there was anyone on those stairs, it was someone after something in the college. I’ve talked to their security,’ he added, reflecting that a chat over a pint probably counted, and Neave knew what to do anyway.
He moved on. ‘I’ve still got a watching brief on the student who was killed, but as you know, it doesn’t look like one of ours. Lynne, why did you ask that?’ He was interested in Lynne’s opinion. She had a good instinct.
‘It’s just that there’s been another death associated with Deborah Sykes.’ Lynne was uncertain. ‘It came through on the bulletin this morning. A Gina Sykes died in a fall over in Goldthorpe. They found her on Thursday afternoon, but it happened the night before. I checked. She’s Deborah Sykes’s mother.’ She shrugged, indicating that she couldn’t take it any further.
There was a stirring of interest. ‘Is Peter Cave on that one?’ Berryman was trying to remember who was based at Goldthorpe.
‘Bit of a Jonah, this Deborah,’ McCarthy murmured in Lynne’s ear.
‘I’ll contact him, let him know we may have a connection. Lynne, you talked to her. Was there anything, anything at all – phone calls, someone following her, anything?’
Lynne shook her head. ‘I asked her specifically. And Steve warned her.’
McCarthy nodded. ‘She wasn’t aware of anything. I told her to watch out, to be careful.’
Berryman scowled in frustration. ‘OK. Next?’
Other teams reported back. They were still doing some follow-ups on the house-to-hou
se, and still trying to talk to some of Julie Fyfe’s contacts. ‘We’ve lost a neighbour,’ someone said. ‘She moved in November. Rebecca Wilcox. She’s emigrated, gone to Australia. That’s where she went when she left.’
Berryman checked the notes. ‘She left on the twentieth, right? When did she leave the country?’
‘The twenty-first. I’m still trying to track down an address.’
Berryman thought. ‘She’s about Julie’s age, isn’t she? I’ll get the Melbourne people on it. We need someone to talk to her. OK. Anything else?’ No one had anything new to report. Lynne’s team were talking to the freight companies, looking at schedules, trying to find any significant details for the nights of the killings. ‘It’s difficult getting to the drivers,’ she told the team. ‘They work different hours. So far, we’ve drawn a blank, but there are a lot more people to talk to.’
‘Hurry it up,’ Berryman said. ‘Put more people on if you have to. I don’t need to tell you how important this is.’ He looked at McCarthy. ‘Get on to the Goldthorpe people. Tell them why we’re interested. Make sure we’re in close contact.’ Lynne returned to her desk, thinking about the Goldthorpe connection and laying odds with herself how long it would be before Neave contacted her.
Neave wasn’t sure about the best way to play this. He could go to Berryman, try to get some information from him. He could try Lynne Jordan. She’d listen, and she’d probably be willing to give him some of the details. Was she still pissed off with him, though? She hadn’t tried to contact him, but after the library incident, that was hardly surprising. She’d be busy as well. Berryman was working his team into the ground, he knew that.
He picked up his phone and keyed in Lynne’s number.
She answered almost straight away, and didn’t seem surprised to hear from him. He explained what he wanted, quickly. He wondered about apologizing for the long silence, but decided against it. ‘You’ve got a cheek, Neave,’ she said, when he’d finished. ‘You’re still on this after everything I said to you? And now you’re asking me to tread on Pete Cave’s toes because some old biddy got drunk and fell downstairs?’
‘Yeah, OK, I shouldn’t have asked. There isn’t anyone else to ask though. Lynne, I really need this. It’s important.’
‘It may come as a surprise to you, but we’re already on to it. There’s no obvious connection, but we’re not stupid enough not to look.’
There was a moment’s silence. ‘OK. Sorry. I didn’t exactly convince you last time.’
‘You haven’t this time. It’s an outside chance, but we are looking, all right?’
‘Thanks, Lynne. One more thing. Let me know what you think about it when you’ve seen the file. Let me know if it looks right to you.’
‘OK.’ She sounded resigned. ‘Where can I get this to you? Do you want to meet up somewhere?’
‘That’s a bit difficult at the moment, Lynne. Give me a ring when you’ve got something, and we’ll take it from there. OK?’
‘Christ, Neave, you really owe me for this. I’ll phone you.’ She hung up. Lynne didn’t mess about with see-yous and goodbyes. He wondered if she was really angry with him. He didn’t think so – a bit pissed off, but he couldn’t blame her for that.
He’d made some excuses and left Debbie’s when he’d seen the police car pull up outside. He wanted to talk to Lynne before he talked to Debbie about her mother, and he wanted Debbie to talk to the team looking into Gina Sykes’s death without his interference. He knew from his own experience of that kind of work that if there was anything problematic about it, Debbie would be seen as a potential suspect. He ran his hand across his face and grimaced. He needed a shave. He needed to decide what to do, as well.
He’d better call in to the college briefly. He’d phoned to say he was working off-site, which was true enough as far as it went, but a brief appearance would be a good idea. Not that it was too important. He was leaving at the end of the month.
There was nothing to keep him at City. He collected his post, told Andrea to phone him if anything urgent came up, and was heading back to his car when his phone rang. It was Berryman wanting to see him at once. ‘I want you in here to tell me exactly why you’re fucking around with Pete Cave’s Goldthorpe case.’
Neave debated telling Berryman that he wasn’t working for him any more, but decided he’d be better cooperating, and arrived at Berryman’s office twenty minutes later. Berryman already knew the details of Gina Sykes’s death. What he wanted to know was Neave’s involvement. ‘I’ve followed up everything you’ve given me, and it’s come out nowhere,’ he said. ‘We aren’t ignoring it, but it’s not a first priority. If there’s anything wrong with the Goldthorpe thing, Pete Cave will let us know. They’re investigating it, right? They don’t need you treading on their toes. We don’t need you treading on our toes. Oh, and don’t ask Lynne Jordan to do your dirty work for you.’
Neave waited for Berryman to finish. ‘OK,’ he said mildly. ‘But what’s the thinking on the Goldthorpe case? Is there a problem?’
He watched as Berryman swung between apoplexy and the old ties from the days they had worked together. He knew which one would win. Berryman still trusted his judgement. ‘It looks like an accident,’ he said after a moment. ‘The postmortem says she was drunk. Her blood alcohol was high. No sign of a break-in, no sign of a struggle, nothing the neighbours noticed. Your girlfriend seems to be well alibied – not by you or I wouldn’t be talking to you now – so, it isn’t closed yet, but it looks pretty straightforward.’
Neave thought. On the face of it, it looked convincing. But he wanted to get out there himself, see what he felt when he saw the scene of the death. He would be clearer in his own mind then what had, and what had not, happened. ‘When will the house be available?’ He saw Berryman’s expression. ‘Deborah wanted to know,’ he lied.
‘I don’t know. Soon, I expect. I’m doing what I can, OK? And that’s because I do trust your judgement, though I’m not sure you’re in a condition to be judging anything clearly at the moment.’ There was a knock at the door, and Lynne Jordan put her head into the room.
‘The report from the lab’s come back, sir,’ she said. She glanced in Neave’s direction, and when Berryman started rummaging in his desk drawer, she waggled her eyebrows and pulled a face. Neave grinned. She mouthed, My room, and held up five fingers.
Berryman looked up and said, ‘Have you got the file? I had it in here yesterday.’
‘Yes, sir, I put it back with the others. Shall I get it for you?’
‘Put it on my desk. And give me the report.’ He held his hand out. Lynne passed the report over to him and left. Berryman looked at Neave. ‘Well, that’s it,’ he said. ‘That’s all I can tell you. If you can give me anything else …’ He shrugged. Neave nodded, and left. He’d been lucky to get that much, he knew. He’d go and see what Lynne wanted.
Lynne was sitting at a desk in the room she shared with three other officers. It was a small room, crowded with desks, filing cabinets, a coat stand getting in the way of the door. She smiled when she saw Neave and pulled open her desk drawer. ‘Sorry if I dropped you in it with Berryman,’ she said, not sounding particularly sorry. ‘Any joy?’ She pulled some folders out of the drawer and began spreading the contents over the desk top.
Neave shrugged. ‘It all depends what’s going on. How are you doing on the Strangler cases?’
‘We aren’t. If there’s another one and we don’t get him quick, heads will roll. That’s official, and one of them will be Berryman’s. Look. I want to show you this. This might convince you. These are the four victims.’ She showed him the pictures of the women. ‘Nothing that strikes you about them except they’re all young, right? He doesn’t go after blondes or brunettes specifically, or small women, or fat women – just young women. Now look at these.’ She spread out the pictures of the bodies. ‘There, you can see a pattern. He does the same things to each one, right? What you can’t see is on the report.’ Neave looked, observing
the mutilations, the extent of the bruising round the necks, the evidence of sexual attack, the incidental damage – bruising and lacerations to the bodies. The pictures were horrible, the reports were worse, and his stomach felt uneasy. He’d forgotten what it could be like. ‘There was none of that in the Peterson case or the Sykes case. Peterson was strangled, but it was manual strangulation – the killer wore gloves. No mutilation, no sexual assault and the body was found near where she was killed. The pathologist is quite clear – no significant similarities. Sykes – it looks like an accident. Something disturbed her and made her get up, but she fell downstairs after she’d had too many. Loads of people do it, but they’re usually luckier.’
Neave could see all of that and he’d argued these points with himself. Killers like the Strangler worked to a pattern. They might change their MO, but the mutilations, the sexual attack – that would stay. That was what it was all about. He couldn’t get away from the facts. The Strangler wasn’t ready to kill again and he didn’t kill like this. But he still felt uneasy. He flicked through the file contents again. ‘If I’m right, then these two, Peterson and Sykes, were just convenience killings. They weren’t the real thing. Peterson might have seen him. Berryman was going to interview her. Sykes – what if he broke into her house?’ He saw Lynne’s expression. ‘OK, I know there wasn’t a break-in. And I don’t know why he would have done. But I don’t like it.’
Lynne came round the desk and looked over his shoulder at the files. ‘It’s all a bit tenuous at the moment, though, isn’t it?’ She began taking bits of paper out and looking at them. Neave saw a newspaper cutting – Karen-Can – and a cutting of the Small Business of the Year Awards. ‘I just want to check something,’ Lynne said. ‘Look, I’ll keep an eye on things. I’ll let you know what’s going down, OK?’ She packed up the files again, and tucked them under her arm as she made for the door. Neave followed her.
