Her flight was stopped by the plate glass window of a store. Louise looked up and saw she had bumped into the window of Mothercare. As she looked inside, she saw the store was filled with pregnant women, mothers with children and older women with and without grandchildren in tow. Gaily printed little clothes were everywhere, racks upon racks of them. And then there were the cots, buggies, blankets, soft toys and accessories. Louise spun away from the window but everywhere she looked along the length of the shopping centre were more babies. They were cooing, gurgling, being fed, being played with. She was surrounded by them. She had to get out of the shopping centre, but they blocked her exit. She felt as fearful as if she were in an Alfred Hitchcock movie, one which was full of babies instead of birds.
Louise sunk to the floor, still leaning against the Mothercare window. Why couldn’t she have a child? What had she done that was so very wrong, to be made to suffer like this? Round and round in her head went the conversation with the gynaecologist all those years ago.
‘So sorry, Louise, but I’m afraid it’s bad news...’ the Doctor had started and then proceeded to tell her she’d never be able to have children.
Never.
Ever.
And where had Peter been when she’d needed him? Not with her at the hospital. Never with her. Always with his beloved army. And so she’d had to hear the news on her own without any support from him, as he’d not been able to get away from some important briefing or other. During heated, horrible arguments after that terrible news, he’d said he couldn’t forgive her for being barren. But did he ever think that she couldn’t forgive him for not being there in her hour of need?
Standing on legs that felt as wobbly as jelly, she pushed herself off the window and made her way unsteadily to the car, taking deep breaths as she walked and looking at the ground instead of around her.
The drive home, all of three miles, passed in a blur of automatic pilot and once there, she closed the front door and leaned against it. Tears of self-pity streamed down her face as she stood in the cold, empty house.
Which echoed how she felt.
Cold.
Empty.
In that moment of clarity Louise realised she had nothing and nobody. The only thing she had was the book. And the only person she had was Matilda. Retrieving the book from its hiding place, she curled up on the bed, still wearing her coat and greedily read the next entry....
Thirty Two
I had now dealt with the vicar and the headmaster. It was time to turn my attention to the next man on my list. I had to get him on his own. And it had to be somewhere where he wouldn’t be found for a while. Also there may be people about, so I needed to do something about my appearance. All in all this killing called for more creativity and involved me going out in the day. Would I be able to do it? Walk outside those gates in broad daylight? My palms sweated at the thought. But I decided my desire to kill him overrode my fear and I picked up the telephone.
When his receptionist answered the phone, I asked for an appointment.
‘I could give you 2pm, tomorrow.’
‘Is there a later one available?’ I asked. ‘Only I don’t want to take time off from work if at all possible,’ I lied.
‘Um, well I suppose I could give you the last appointment of the day. He will stay on if it’s urgent. Is it? Urgent?’
‘Oh, that would be so kind,’ I gushed.
‘Very well, 6pm tomorrow.’
We then went through the formalities of my name and brief description of my problem and she also gave me directions to the consulting rooms.
Replacing the telephone I smiled to myself. I’d done it. Now I had just over 24 hours to prepare myself and arrange transport as the address was in a nearby town and I wouldn’t have a car that afternoon. After several phone calls it seemed the best way to get there would be by bus. But, of course, the initial journey at least would be in daylight. I toyed with the idea of buying a wig, to change my hair colour and to cover my face with long tresses. But that would involve going out also.
I wandered upstairs and into the attic. There were a number of hats there, I recalled, perhaps one of those would be suitable. Climbing the steep wooden stairs I opened the small door and stepped into my make-believe world. I’d put all the clothes, hats and scarves in one large chest. That was it! I remembered a scarf, plain white and silky and decided that could work. Scrabbling through the contents of the chest, I came to the item I wanted. Walking over to the mirror I placed the scarf over my head, crossed the ends under my chin and then wound them round my neck to tie at the back. Looking at myself this way and that in the mirror, I fiddled with the back until I was satisfied. The effect was very Audrey Hepburn. It transformed me from a scarred shadow of my former self, into a film star. It covered my hair, hid my scar and made me look sophisticated. All I needed now was a long cigarette holder, I giggled to myself. Then I repressed my laughter. This was no laughing matter. I had to concentrate, for I would soon be able to claim my third victim.
Thirty Three
When Peter returned home that night he found Louise watching the television. She raised a tear stained face to his.
‘Oh, Peter, have you seen this?’
He wanted to snap at her to say that of course he’d not seen the television that day. He’d been working. But he swallowed his angry retort and said, ‘No, why?’
‘Another girl has been killed. And look, people are lighting candles, leaving flowers and trinkets for her.’
Peter glanced up, just in time to see a photograph of a girl with sharply cut black hair and red, red lips. He grabbed the back of Louise’s chair to steady himself.
‘Who’s that?’ he managed to ask.
‘Oh, that’s the girl who was killed. Look, there’s another photo of her. That must be a friend with her. Doesn’t she look different without all that stuff on her face?’
The girl’s hair had been replaced by a blond ponytail and this time she wore very little make up. The news reporter said, ‘These are two pictures of the same girl, Lindsay Hatton. In the first she is dressed for work and the second is a picture of her taken with her friend Sally, who has also been killed. Sally’s body was found recently, near woodland in Badshot Lea.’
The photos disappeared from the screen, to be replaced by images of people maintaining a vigil in Aldershot High Street. Peter was still holding onto the back of Louise’s chair. His hand was clutching it so tight, that his knuckles were white. Both girls killed. Both girls that he had gone with. Someone appeared to be killing his prostitutes. With great effort, he prised his hands off the chair.
‘I’m, um, just going to get changed,’ he managed to say before turning away and running up the stairs.
Were the killings anything to do with him? They couldn’t be surely. Did anyone know he had been picking up prostitutes? No, he didn’t think so. Or at least he hoped not.
He stripped off his clothes and stepped into the shower. No so much because he was hot and sweaty, but because he wanted to slough the touch of Sally and Lindsay off his skin. Wash them all away so he could emerge clean and safe from his shower and no one would be any the wiser.
Once dry and dressed in sweat pants and tee-shirt he went downstairs. Following his nose, he found Louise in the kitchen, bending over boiling pans.
‘Oh, hi,’ she said, turning to him. ‘Dinner will be ready shortly.’
‘Okay, I’ll go and fix us a drink.’
Returning to the sitting room, Peter was glad to see the television was turned off. But on the drinks cabinet was a copy of the Aldershot News. The bloody story was following him wherever he went in the house. He swiped at it and it fell to the floor, where he left it. Grabbing a bottle of wine and two glasses from the cabinet, he returned to the kitchen and sat there sipping his drink, watching Louise as she pottered around the kitchen.
‘I see the story’s in the paper,’ he said after a few minutes silence.
‘Oh yes, it’s the biggest thing ever
to happen in Aldershot, apparently.’
‘And you know that how? We’ve only just arrived.’
‘Oh, from the other wives. It’s all anyone can talk about. They’re saying it’s so exciting to have a serial killer in Aldershot and everyone’s wondering who it could be.’
Peter emptied his glass of wine in one large gulp as though it were beer instead of good red wine and poured himself another.
1976
Mark Harmon sat behind his desk and surveyed his private consulting room in a break between patients. He finished writing up the report on the woman he’d just seen, using his fountain pen full of blue/black ink. He smoothed his silk tie out of the way as he wrote. He’d had an accident once and managed to get an ink stain on a particularly favourite tie. Since then he’d changed his pen and the Mont Blanc now took pride of place on his desk.
It was just one lesson learned in his transition from doctor in the National Health Service to consultant in the private sector. Who would have thought that a scandal would have turned out to be his salvation?
Finishing his notes, he looked at his watch. Nearly 6pm. He was just waiting for the last patient. He pulled towards him the notes from his secretary and cast his eye over the few details she’d taken over the phone. Yet another middle-aged woman with psychiatric problems. He was getting a bit tired of stale, older women, to be honest. That was the only thing wrong with psychiatry. There weren’t enough pubescent girls needing help and guidance.
Which reminded him of his time in the NHS. A time when he’d had unfettered access to young girls. In his role as a general practitioner for various orphanages and children’s charities, his work had allowed him to indulge his partiality for young flesh. But then that meddling social worker had stepped in. One child or other had objected to his close examination and the bloody woman had actually listened and then instead of turning away and doing nothing, she’d had the temerity to confront him. After some negotiation, she’d agreed not to tell the police if he left general practice and moved away. He had no choice but to agree as at least that way he wouldn’t be struck off the Medical Register.
At the time he’d been alternately angry, fearful and desolate. He’d thought his life was over. But then his luck changed. It was as though he had a guardian angel looking out for him. An old friend from medical school, Stephen Baker, was looking for a psychiatrist to join him in private practice. Mark hadn’t any money, but it hadn’t mattered. Stephen’s family were loaded and were bankrolling the practice. Mark had wondered about the fact that he hadn’t specialised in psychiatry, but again Stephen over-ruled that objection, saying he’d much rather work with someone he knew, than someone he didn’t.
And so gone was the white coat, the cheap suits, corduroy trousers and suede shoes, to be replaced by far better fitting pure wool ensembles. At £50 a throw, each consultation cemented the metamorphosis from under paid, over worked GP, to overpaid and underworked consultant. That was why he didn’t mind staying late for one extra patient. The money. It was always about the money.
Mark glanced at the piece of paper again to check the name of the new client. Tilda Underwood. It didn’t ring a bell. He’d never come across a Tilda before. It was an interesting name. The only connection he could think of was a child he’d once known called Matilda. His recollection of her innocent white skin, red hair and green eyes flooded into his brain, taking his breath away, the image as real as though she were standing in front of him. She had been a particular favourite. He’d invented several infections that had needed his close attention, just to keep her with him for as long as possible.
At a knock on his door, the picture of Matilda flew away and once again Mark was sitting in his office. But tendrils of the image persisted as his next patient entered the room.
Thirty Four
Crane had managed to keep away from Anderson and had told him by phone that despite lots of digging by Jones and himself, there were no cars around the garrison that were small and dark with German plates on. Which, of course, was the truth, as all the cars had been re-plated. It salved his conscience somewhat, as he wasn’t really keeping anything from Anderson. Anyway he was following orders. It wasn’t his decision or problem anymore. Wasn’t it?
Then a few days after that conversation Anderson phoned, wanting Crane to look at CCTV film of someone in the vicinity of Lindsay’s body, near to the rear of the KFC outlet around the time of the murder. Crane made his way to Aldershot Police Station somewhat reluctantly and not even the lure of Anderson’s steady supply of cakes and biscuits helped brighten his mood.
The two men settled down in an interview room to view the footage, Anderson’s office being too full of clutter and files to offer comfortable viewing. They looked at the footage together on Anderson’s laptop. They watched a figure appear in the area of the camera, walk toward the alley leading to the shopping area and KFC and then disappear from view once more.
‘Is this the only camera that caught her?’ asked Crane.
‘Yes, it’s the only one within range. There’s nothing in that alleyway and it seems she didn’t go as far as the shopping area, or into the take-away itself. I’ve had people combing all the camera footage they can find, but with no luck. Our best guess is that this woman could be another prostitute, but we can’t identify her,’ said Anderson.
‘Or she could just be a random person.’
‘Woman.’
‘Sorry?’ said Crane.
‘The figure is more than likely a woman. Look at the hair, it’s long and curly.’
‘Plenty of men have long curly hair.’
Anderson sighed in exasperation. ‘Have you ever seen her before? Do you think she’s a working girl?’
‘Why? Do you think I use prostitutes? Are you insinuating there’s something wrong with my marriage?’ Crane knew he was biting, but couldn’t seem to help it.
‘Don’t be stupid. I meant had you ever come across her during your investigation of other cases?’
‘No sorry can’t help,’ said Crane. ‘She doesn’t look familiar at all. Anyway you can’t see enough of her face; a bulky scarf around her neck covers most of it. She’s just a slim woman with dark curly hair. How the hell am I supposed to recognise anyone from that?’
The only outstanding feature was the eyes, Crane felt. They were very striking almond shaped, cat-like eyes. But he kept that observation to himself and after finishing his cup of tea he left Anderson still frowning at the CCTV footage and returned to Provost Barracks.
Thirty Five
I managed to make it to Mark Harmon’s office on time despite having to take the bus there. Not that I minded using public transport, or at least I hadn’t before. Before the attack that is. With my headscarf on I was at least sparing my fellow passengers a glimpse of my ravaged face. Everyone told me that it didn’t look that bad now. That my cheek had healed really well. But I didn’t believe them. They didn’t have to stare at the injury every day in the mirror. The livid raised scars on my pale skin seemed to pulse. They had a life of their own, as though an alien being had landed on the side of my face and was feeding on me.
Even though my hair and face were covered by the white headscarf, I felt unsteady as I walked through the streets, my eyes averted from the shop windows, cast down just in case anyone, or even I, inadvertently caught a glimpse of my face. I didn’t want to see pity or more likely the revulsion in people’s eyes.
I arrived at his consulting room a few minutes early and stood looking at the building. The doctor had rooms in an elegant old building of Georgian proportions. A discreet bronze plaque bore the engraved names of the two men inside. But it was only Mark Harmon who interested me, not the other man. I walked up the few steps to the front door and I traced his name with my finger, feeling a frisson of fear as I did so. But then anger pushed away my anxiety, as I thought about the acts he had inflicted on me, reinforcing the purpose of my visit. I pushed the bell and the door clicked open, sealing his fate.
&nbs
p; The receptionist was waiting behind her desk in the hallway. ‘Ah, Mrs Underwood,’ she said after I’d introduced myself. ‘The doctor is waiting for you. Please go through,’ she pointed to a door. ‘Doctor will see you out after your consultation, as I’ll be gone by then.’
‘Thank you,’ I replied smoothly, trying to fall into the role of Audrey Hepburn and I knocked on his consulting room door.
As I sat in front of his large masculine desk, he took some initial details and then asked why I felt the need to see a psychiatrist.
‘I want retribution, payback for what has been done to me,’ I told him.
He looked surprised. Perhaps I’d been more vehement in my tone than I’d intended.
‘What has been done to you?’
If he recognised me, he gave no sign. But then I suppose I was all grown up now. I pushed my headscarf off my head to expose my cheek, so he could see my disfigurement.
He gasped at the sight of my exposed face.
‘This,’ I said, not needing to point at the scarring.
‘Oh my,’ he managed to stammer.
‘I think you should come closer and have a good look. I’m surprised that you don’t recognise me. Have you forgotten me already, Dr Harmon? Surely not. For I’ve not forgotten you. I’m Matilda. I was once your very special friend. Or at least that’s what you used to call me.’
He remained where he was, not seeming inclined to move. So I went to him. As I walked around his desk, he pressed backwards into his chair, becoming trapped up against the wall. For once he was the fearful one. For once he was the victim not the perpetrator. It was a delicious role reversal. It felt so right. Felt so good. But it seemed that Dr Harmon was so shocked by my presence and my words that he was frozen. Panic stricken. Perhaps he thought I was going to expose him. Tell the world about his guilty, dirty secrets. But exposure wasn’t my game plan. Before he could react, I plunged the shard of glass into his neck.
Glass Cutter: A Sgt Major Crane crime thriller (A Sgt Major Crane Novel Book 7) Page 10
