by Jennie Finch
As he watched, a trickle of vehicles began to move down the road from the distant motorway, each finding its way to a house or cottage where the doors opened to disgorge children home from school and eager for the weekend. Samuel settled himself more comfortably in the shadow of the trees, waiting for the next arrivals, the exodus from work. Most people were remarkably predictable, he thought. You just knew they left the office at the same time, got home at the same time, parked in the same place and did the same things over and over, every day.
He knew exactly when she would appear, driving her mid-range hatchback through North Newton before taking the road towards the Grand Estate. Then a left, over the bridge and she was home, pulling up in front of the cottage by the stream. The one with the shiny new windows and the ugly plastic conservatory tacked on to the back. The one they had totally ruined with their lack of taste and crass materialism. Some people needed a lesson, and she was one of them he decided, even before seeing what she had done to the house. She was arrogant, stupid and self-centred, treating everyone around her as an inferior. She had sneered at him the first time they met – and she had scarcely two brain cells to rub together. Samuel realised he was grinding his teeth at the memory and forced himself to relax and enjoy the thought of just how she would pay for that arrogance. Nothing was going to ruin this for him, he decided.
The sun began to sink below the trees and the evening suddenly felt decidedly chilly. Without taking his eyes off the road below, Samuel opened the pineapple tin, sniffing the air as the faint scent wafted past. The sickly sweetness brought back memories of his childhood, pictures he suppressed with a grimace. Canned pineapple – a ‘treat’ for the poor kids in the class. If he had the freedom to prepare his own meals he would never eat anything out of a can again.
The tin contained his other clothes. Clothes selected to be as unlike anything he would normally wear as possible whilst still being suitably non-descript. He pulled them out and laid them on the grass beside him. Dull coloured clothes, poorly cut and slightly too big for his fit, athletic frame. For his feet he had a pair of old boots, a once fashionable brand with distinctive patterns on the soles. The heels also left an imprint with the shoe size, which was larger than Samuel’s fitting. He examined the insides where a lining of old newspapers filled the excess width. Everything was in good condition and ready for him and he stood up, stretched and began to remove his own clothes.
This was the moment when he began to feel the excitement of his actions. All the planning, organising, dreaming, it all came together at this moment. This was where he would begin his remembering as he savoured the event, long after it was over. He stared down the road, hungry for the first glimpse of his chosen companion for the next hour or so but there was no sign of the car yet.
She was never late. He knew that because he had checked, watching one evening after another. She didn’t stay late to catch up and was not the type to wait behind and help someone out. When her time was done she was out of the door, into the car and off. He pulled the worn grey shirt over his head, tucking it into the waistband of faded blue jeans. The jeans were a local speciality. Cut from off-blue fabric they were almost (but not quite) the right shape. As a consequence they failed to fit anyone who ever tried them on. The local power station issued them to its workers and around town any ill-fitting trousers became known as ‘Hinkleys’. Workers passed them on to friends and relatives and the style was endemic. Everyone had a pair.
Samuel fumbled with the belt, fingers encased in thin cotton gloves to ensure no trace would be left behind when he was finished. The boots were the only striking thing about his appearance. They had once been pink and retained enough colour to attract the eye. Anyone catching sight of him would remember the pink boots – and hopefully very little else.
He tightened the laces, double knotting the bows for security. Patting his pockets, he was reassured he had everything he needed. Key – blindfold – plastic rope, all carefully folded and placed in the right order. He fumbled in the back pocket and located a crepe bandage, useful if she tried to make a noise. At the bottom of the tin was an old-fashioned straight razor, the stainless steel blade folded away in the handle. Samuel reached in and picked it up, opening the blade to check it was still spotless. Quality pays, he thought as he examined the finely honed surface. It glinted in the dying sunlight, bright and clean, without a single blemish.
Satisfied with his preparations, Samuel rolled his own clothes up in a plastic bag and placed them in the tin which he stowed away out of sight in the centre of the undergrowth. His watch was in the pocket of his tracksuit but he could tell the time to within a few minutes from the sun and a strange running count in his head, a metronome that never seemed to stop. He was ready but she was late. She was never late – never. Why was she late today, of all days? The tingling of pleasure was diminishing as he crouched in the shrubbery, replaced by rising frustration. Samuel’s eyes shone a bright, hard blue as he stared out over the empty landscape. She was making him angry and that was really not a good thing.
Alex was finally released by the police after six in the evening. Despite her reassurances the bomb disposal officers had swept the building, searching for any more devices. Ignoring her pleas, the police had set up a major incident team and were still scouring the area for Brian. She trudged home through the dusk feeling utterly despondent. Emerging from the tunnel that ran under the road, she was startled to see the lights on in her kitchen. Absorbed in her own problems, she had forgotten Sue had gone on ahead and presumably – hopefully – Margie would be waiting in the house.
Despite the fluttering of nervousness deep in her stomach, Alex felt her mood lift and she found herself hurrying down the path to the back door. Warmth enveloped her as she stepped into the kitchen and the rich smell of roasting chicken filled the air. Margie, looking decidedly stylish in smart black trousers and a flatteringly skinny top was peeling potatoes whilst instructing Sue on the correct way to prepare a salad. To her astonishment, Sue was actually doing what she was told for once.
As Alex stepped through the door, Margie dropped the vegetable knife and reached over to give her a hug.
‘I was starting to wonder if you was down in the basement defusing something yourself,’ she said with a grin.
Pleased and confused, Alex hesitated, not wanting to look at Sue, but her friend was absorbed in her culinary exercises and just flashed a smile in her direction before returning to the tricky job of extracting the stone from an avocado. Fortunately Margie didn’t seem to notice her reticence.
‘I hope you don’t mind,’ she said. ‘Sue here let me in and we didn’t know how long you was going to be so I thought I’d make a start. Didn’t think you’d want to eat too late. Here, have some wine,’ and she handed her a glass, brimming with a deep ruby red liquid.
Alex blinked, filled with a sense of astonishment at how – well, how ordinary this all felt. How natural, but how right, coming home to her friends, sharing the house with them. She took a sip from her glass and a powerful rush of sensation flowed across her tongue, warming her through as she swallowed the wine.
‘Wow,’ she said taking a deep breath before trying another sip.
Margie had returned to the sink and was busy finishing off the potatoes. ‘Hope you like it,’ she said. ‘I think that by the time we get to the end of the week, we deserve something a bit nice. Not that I get all that many weekends, being at Bristol, but I’m really a bit hopeful for Shepton. Would be a good move for me.’
Alex pulled up the high stool she kept under the counter and settled herself on it, leaning her elbows on the worktop and keeping a firm grip on the wine glass. It was, she realised, the first time she’d ever done that. Normally it was Sue propping up the corner, watching and appreciating as hot food materialised before her.
‘You really shouldn’t be cooking,’ she protested feebly. ‘I invited you to dinner.’
Margie waved a hand at her casually. ‘Is a real pleasure, havin
g a proper kitchen for a change,’ she said. ‘I’m in the warders’ houses in Bristol and quite frankly they is rubbish. I suppose they was built for single men, one time, and they would all eat in the canteen. Now most they have is a bit of a hot plate and a grill. No good for much more than breakfast, that lot. Can’t tell you how nice it is, having a real oven.’
She opened the stove door and the smell of roast meat billowed out in a cloud of steam. Alex almost suggested it was time to take the bird out before it overcooked and went dry but closed her mouth without speaking, watching to see what Margie would do.
Deftly juggling the hot pan, she flipped the chicken over onto its back, laid some foil over the steaming bird and covered it in several cloths, sealing in the heat.
‘Leave that to rest now for a while,’ she said and Alex almost sighed with pleasure. This was a woman who could really cook.
The moment was shattered by an unexpected knocking on the front door. Sue glanced up, raising an eyebrow before sighing theatrically and going to answer it. Left alone for a moment, Margie and Alex smiled at one another rather shyly.
‘Are you expecting company?’ Margie asked. ‘Didn’t know how much to do but I can always peel a few more spuds if we need ’em.’
Alex shook her head. ‘I’m not expecting anyone,’ she said. ‘I’m not sure about Sue but it’s probably some last-minute electioneers. They’ve been a real nuisance this last week. I thought I’d finally got rid of them on Wednesday. Some child campaigning for the incumbent who had a script and was incapable of answering the simplest question turned up and just would not go away. Eventually I told him I’d vote for a bucket of elvers if it kept his lot out of power this time and he went off in a huff.’
Margie began to put the potatoes into a pan of cold water, laughing at the picture Alex painted. ‘Perhaps they see you as a challenge now,’ she suggested.
There was the sound of voices from the front room and Alex peered through the kitchen trying to see who was at the door.
‘Well, come in and I’ll ask her,’ said Sue from the front room. ‘It’s not a good time though. She’s got company and it’s been a rough week for us all. You should know that,’ she added over her shoulder.
Alex’s heart sank as she recognised Lauren’s voice and the heavy footsteps suggested she had Dave with her. A glance at Sue’s harassed expression confirmed her impression this was not a social visit.
‘I’m sorry Alex,’ said Sue. ‘They’re not going to give up. You’ll have to talk to Dave.’
Why, thought Alex. Why do I have to talk to him? This is my house and this is my weekend and I don’t have to do anything. She suddenly became aware of the startled look on Margie’s face. ‘Sorry – did I say that out loud?’
‘She does that sometimes,’ said Sue. ‘You’ll get used to it.’
‘Go on,’ said Margie turning her attention to the resting chicken. ‘I can get this all ready. You see what they want.’
Alex already knew what they wanted but to refuse again would be horribly rude especially after everything her friends had done to support her over the past few years.
Dave and Lauren were standing awkwardly in the middle of the front room and Alex waved them towards the couch, seating herself on a chair with her back to the window.
‘Go on,’ she said cutting across Dave’s apologies. ‘What is it?’
The young detective pulled a thick file from a bag and riffled through it as he spoke. Briefly he outlined the Moth Man case, touching on the lack of any physical evidence, the dearth of witnesses and the new evidence from Northumbria Police. Alex listened in silence, her face increasingly grim.
‘So, you’re worried he may be escalating?’ she said when Dave had finished. ‘If this is the same person of course.’
‘The samples from Northumbria were a bit basic,’ said Dave. ‘They match ours broadly though. Another non-secretor and a blond man. Their suspect did go from flashing to rubbing himself against the windows too.’
Alex nodded. ‘So, if it is the same person he’s already moved from looking to touching.’ She caught Lauren’s puzzled frown and continued. ‘A flasher is seeking the impact on his victim – the shock or horror or fear. It’s partly a power thing, I think. But here is a man who needs more. The initial reward isn’t enough. He’s seeking a physical sensation, otherwise he wouldn’t risk rubbing up against the windows. He’d just get closer to see better. Whether he will go any further – I don’t know. It is a huge step, and he’d have to risk getting into the house. Of course, if a door were actually open – who knows?’
Dave was making notes as she spoke. ‘I wondered about that,’ he said. ‘Any idea what would make him stop for a while?’
Alex shrugged. ‘Could have been a spell in prison or something like that,’ she said. ‘You’ve checked that already haven’t you?’
Dave nodded.
‘So, maybe he moved somewhere else, especially if he came close to being caught. There may be other incidents still not reported, but this is such a strong pattern – what, every four weeks? I don’t think it would have gone unnoticed for so long.’
‘Could have gone abroad?’ suggested Lauren.
‘Yes, that’s possible. I don’t suppose anyone’s thought to ask Interpol or someone have they?’
Dave pulled a face. ‘We put out a request but it can take months for anything to come back, especially if he was out in the sticks somewhere. To be honest, this would be a very low priority for them.’
‘He could also have found a girlfriend,’ said Alex. ‘Really, you would be amazed what a difference that can make. I sometimes think if we can just keep them out of serious trouble until they’re in about their mid-twenties, they’ll all settle down and forget all this nonsense. Of course, that’s putting all the responsibility on the women,’ she added hastily.
‘I’m not sure he’s the settling down type,’ mused Lauren. ‘Seems more like the “Who cares, I’m doing what I want even if it’s weird” type to me.’
Alex tended to agree with her. It was unlikely this particular lone wolf had succumbed to the love of a good woman. ‘Is it exactly four weeks between attacks?’ she asked.
Dave looked a little nervous. ‘It is, yes. Look, I’m getting into confidential stuff here, details we’ve kept under wraps. I’m not sure what my sergeant would say if he knew I was talking to you.’
‘Well don’t blame me,’ said Alex. ‘I’ve told you over and again to leave me out of it. I don’t know how I can help, not in any real way. All that stuff about being able to identify a character type or tell you what he had for lunch – that’s not true you know. All I can do is make the same guesses you do. And you’ve got all the information, even if you don’t know it.’
‘Don’t none of it work then?’ asked Lauren.
Alex shook her head. ‘Well, sometimes geographical profiles are useful,’ she said. ‘It is true a lot of serial offenders stick to their known area. They feel safer and it is easier for them to get away if anything goes wrong.’
Dave looked glum. ‘That’s one of our big problems,’ he said. ‘We’ve got three scenes now, two a long way apart and none of them with any sort of decent road linking ’em. We’ve no idea how he’s travelling either, though he must get to his site a while before the attack. I think someone would notice him if he was totally naked on the bus.’
‘You said the scenes are not linked by a direct route? Hang on – I’ve got a map somewhere round here.’ Alex rummaged in an over-full bookshelf, spilling several volumes on the floor before pulling a new edition Ordinance Survey map of the area out from between two volumes of an encyclopaedia.
‘Here,’ she said, unfolding and laying it on the carpet. ‘Show me.’
Dave hesitated for a moment before pointing to the three sites.
‘All on the same evening of the week, though they were later each time,’ he said.
Alex knelt on the floor and stared at the map for a minute, tracing the main roads wit
h her fingers.
‘Right,’ she said finally. ‘Now we start making some assumptions. Always Friday – why? Perhaps he works and it’s the end of the week for him. And perhaps somehow his work links him to these sites. The shift in time is interesting. Does it coincide with dusk?’
Dave looked blankly at her. ‘I don’t know,’ he admitted.
‘Check the times in an almanac,’ she said. ‘If he’s waiting for darkness that could mean he’s being careful – using it to escape. But if it’s dusk, then there’s some sort of personal meaning for him. And he will be travelling to his site during sunset at the latest so he’s taking more of a risk. You’re right about the roads though. The main route runs out towards Monkton but a good way to the west. These others straddle the road out past Durleigh but they’re not really connected to Monkton at all.’ She frowned at the map.
‘Also if he’s changing the time it suggests he’s got some form of transport. There’s not many buses going out to any of these places and certainly not in the evenings. So how is he travelling …’
‘I’m sure that’s the key to it,’ said Dave. ‘We haven’t found any signs of a car or a van and no-one’s reported hearing one either.’
‘Maybe usin’ a tractor?’ suggested Lauren. ‘Joking, joking. Would make a right racket, I know. Just wondered if’n it would make him – invisible sort of.’
Alex nodded as she pored over the map.
‘Actually you’re right,’ she said. ‘Not the tractor, obviously, but about him being invisible. He’s choosing these women, studying them and making all his preparations and nobody sees him. Why is that? Someone who’s there but not seen. Bus driver – no, too dependent on shift work. Farm worker – wrong season for pickers. Gardener perhaps – freelance or self-employed …’ Oblivious to Lauren and Dave’s presence, Alex ran her hands across the map, muttering and shaking her head as she struggled with the puzzle. Suddenly the phone rang making them all jump.
