I noticed how Michael’s eyes became more alert as he waited for me to continue. “My friend replied that he did go to the theatre but hadn’t seen a play for ages, and then my father got a bit uptight saying he didn’t mean in the auditorium itself but upstairs in the members’ bar—The Green Room it’s called—after that night’s performance. I think Dad was so distressed over his forgetfulness that he was in danger of becoming over-excited.”
I closed my eyes for a second, playing the scene in my mind as it had evolved. “I remember there being a short pause, and then my friend agreed he had been in there recently. He gave the impression he couldn’t recall which one, but Dad insisted he knew which evening it was.”
I thought back to what he had said, surprised I remembered it almost word for word. “It was after the final curtain, so time was getting on. In fact, I know exactly which evening it was. It was the night they found the body of that little actress who was murdered and raped in Stoke Park. I remember seeing her sitting alone at The Green Room bar after the play, having a drink—a gin or vodka and tonic. You were also sitting at the bar on your own. I know I didn’t stay long that night, I had one quick drink and left before closing, but I’m positive you were there.”
Chapter Twenty-Five - Ella
Michael shifted in his seat, one hand in his lap, the other curled round his beer glass. He held his upper body and face taut and stiff. I had his full attention now. “He said that? Did he mention anyone else he knew in the bar? Was the girl alone all the time, or did anyone approach her? Did your friend say anything to her? Buy her a drink. Did she leave before your father?”
“Whoa! Hold on, Michael. You’re asking too many questions at once. I’m not the one you should interrogate.”
He held up his hands and grinned. “Sorry, habit. Go on. I won’t interrupt again. Promise.”
“Where did I get to? Oh yes. My friend seemed a bit dazed and then shook his head emphatically. He said Dad was wrong and he hadn’t visited the bar that evening. He then went on to explain he’d been to a party that very night, and then he turned to me and asked me to back up his statement, as we’d been at the same party. I thought it a bit strange because he seemed so upset. After all, Dad wasn’t accusing him of anything, just that he remembered his face. My friend seemed to turn it into something much bigger.”
“And was he right? Were you both at the same party?” Michael asked before taking a mouthful of beer. He patted his pockets for a moment before looking sheepish. “Christ, I wish I still smoked…I’d give anything for a ciggie. Why did I ever listen to you? I’ve always enjoyed a smoke.”
I nodded, ignored his mutterings about cigarettes and carried on. “Yes, we were at the same party. I told Dad it must have been another night. On hearing that, he looked puzzled and really dismayed, saying he was so sure, he could see it all in his mind. Then he gave in and said quietly, ‘My mind must be playing up. I got confused over the time.’
I rolled my glass between my hands, remembering how I felt at the time, that something didn’t seem right. I stared Michael full in the face. “I’m sure Dad was correct. He has an amazing ability for remembering things. If he said my friend was there, then I believe him.”
Michael frowned, an expression of exasperation crossing his face. “You’re not making sense, Ella. You just said you were at the same party, and now you’re saying your father didn’t make a mistake. Sorry, sweet pea, but you’re confusing me.”
I shook my head. “I haven’t finished. Both facts are right, I believe. Think about it. We’ve been to the theatre together, and the last act usually finishes no later than around half ten or near eleven at the latest. I’ve no idea what time The Green Room bar closes, but Dad often visits after seeing a play and never gets home later than eleven thirty or thereabouts. I was puzzled until I recalled my friend turning up at the party. It was actually quite late. I remember saying I was just on the point of leaving, and he replied saying it was still early. But, in fact, it was nearer to two o’clock. So ask yourself this—where had he been between leaving the theatre and arriving at the party?”
Michael stared and didn’t say a word for a full minute before leaning in closer to me. His voice was low and gravelly when he spoke, but there was a new spark in his eyes. “You’re linking these two murders and you’re perfectly correct. There is a definite correlation, only it hasn’t been made public yet. As a member of the team, I am in on certain things. Both women were actresses and so were all the other murdered women attributed to the Surrey Punisher. Our killer has a penchant for women who tread the boards it seems.” He smiled suddenly, and I thought once again of how smug he looked. It was as if he was in sole charge of the cases. He went on. “So, you’re making an assumption that this friend of yours knew the Yvonne Arnaud actress and followed her across town to Stoke Park and then raped and murdered her. If she knew him from the theatre bar, she could even have either left with him, although no one has said so, or she waited outside for him to turn up.”
I nodded and watched while he ran his tongue over his bottom lip and then continued. “Then we have the girl from Cranleigh. Again a thespian, albeit an amateur one. We’ve learnt she sat with a group of friends in a pub after the play ended, and then she left on her own before closing. No one followed her, although one friend, who has come forward and given a statement, said he thought someone left just before her. But as he was pretty drunk at the time, so he couldn’t be sure. The barman had popped into the other bar and hadn’t seen either person leave the pub, so he’s not much use either.”
Michael rubbed his hand against his chin. I noticed how smooth it was apart from a small cut where he had nicked himself shaving. He must have cleaned up just before coming out to meet me. He tapped the table in front of him gently with his gloved forefinger as if making a point.
“Am I right in thinking you’re suggesting this friend might have watched the girl leave the pub? Maybe waited outside the Cranleigh theatre even, knowing she’d be out later? Perhaps he knew her movements. Her father said she usually caught the last bus home if she couldn’t get a lift. Did her murderer know her? Was he an old boyfriend, perhaps? Maybe he sweet-talked her into getting into his car and drove her to Chinthurst Hill. If so, then he has local knowledge of the area—a walker perhaps. There are plenty of tyre marks in the area, and no one would have walked up there in the dark. The manner in which she was murdered was sickening and similar to the one in Stoke Park.”
I felt my mouth dry as I thought of the plight of that poor girl. “He must have stalked her, convinced her to get into his car, and if he didn’t she might have been the one who suggested going to the beauty spot.” I took a sip from my glass and noticed my hand was trembling. I blinked away, a tear threatening to form in the corner of my eye.
“I know it’s a thin line between the murders, but have you anything else to go on? Any other suspects?”
Michael made a face, his mouth turned down at the corners, and he shook his head a fraction. “Not so far. We have some DNA samples, and the bods have already started on finding a match, plus there are the house-to-house searches, calling for volunteers, the usual sort of thing. But DNA results take ages to come through despite what you see on television. If only it were that simple and as fast as the TV shows make out. It’s a bloody joke, really. And DNA samples are only useful if we have the actual murderer’s DNA on file. These two women were surprisingly clean and the murderer burnt their clothes. This friend of yours, if it’s not Tim, can I assume he works at the hospital with you? A surgeon perhaps?”
I thought about Liam and how dishevelled he was when he turned up the night of the party. At first I thought he had come straight from work, even down to the flecks of blood on his shirt cuffs, but no self-respecting surgeon would ever have let that happen. Most surgeons I knew wore nothing but their underwear and maybe a T-shirt under their theatre scrubs. Liam had said he’d cut himself on a wine bottle. Then there were his muddy shoes. And the scratches on hi
s hands…would the latest murdered girl have had DNA under her fingernails? Could I help Michael solve these dreadful crimes?
I steeled myself. Despite telling Michael everything so far, I knew it was only the beginning. Had Liam lied? Should I have been a good citizen and given Michael his name without hesitation, despite Liam being a friend and colleague.
I felt torn between doing my duty and being an absolute bitch. I was out of my depth and I hated it.
After I had made up my mind to tell him, Michael mentioned my dad again and then Tim. Not that this had anything to do with what we were discussing, but it surprised me all the same.
“I’ve mentioned this to you on numerous occasions, Ella. You can meet psychopaths in all walks of life and never dream of what’s going on behind that face of innocence. If this friend of yours is found guilty, then you’ll understand what I’ve been saying. Why I’ve taken trouble to warn you. You’ve known him for some time but never suspected anything. Take your parents’ new tenant, Tim whatever he’s called. I didn’t like him the first time I set eyes on him.”
“I don’t know why you’ve brought my new neighbour up again. You’ve only met him the once.”
“Actually more than once and I’ve seen him around town.”
“I can’t see how you can like or dislike him, as he’s done nothing wrong to you or me. The only slightly odd thing I’ve noticed about him is that he’s taken down Mum’s photographs in his flat.”
“What? What photographs are you on about?”
I sighed, wishing I hadn’t said anything, but Michael had goaded me somehow.
“It’s nothing really. Mum put up a selection of young women, actresses she photographed years ago. It was a subject Dad encouraged her to photograph, and she won an award with them. Anyhow, Tim admired them on his arrival, only now he’s taken them down, and I haven’t asked him why because it’s none of my business. He’s the tenant after all…he can put whatever pictures he likes on his walls for all I care.”
Michael narrowed his eyes and sat very still for a few seconds, then stood up abruptly. “Those photos. Actresses, eh? How bizarre is that…or is it? We’ve just ascertained that the victims are all young actresses, and you’ve now told me about three people who have shown an interest in them.
“Three?” I squeaked, fearing the worst.
Michael bent down so close I could see the irises in his eyes. I realised there were little flecks of yellow in them, something I had never really noticed before.
“Yes, sweetheart. Tim, your hospital colleague and your father. Tell me, apart from admiring young actresses and getting your mother to photograph them, has your father always had an unhealthy fetish for women, would you say?”
I recoiled from his stare. “That’s preposterous. Dad’s not like that.” I leaned forward and gritted my teeth before going on. “If you must know, his late mother was an actress, only, he never knew her. He’s always used the theatre to feel nearer to her. Nothing more sinister than that. So you can keep your vile thoughts to yourself.”
Michael’s eyes widened just a fraction. “Is that so? I often wondered about the photos but never asked. Sorry, but we have to ask insensitive questions. So, in effect, you’re related to her, this late actress.” He pulled back the chair he had just vacated and sat back down.
I nodded. “I never met her, though, and she gave Dad up when he was little. It’s sad, really, him never knowing her.”
“It is, and believe me when I say I’m sorry for saying that. I only meant it’s an odd coincidence about all three men. But getting back to your author friend, Tim. Please, just trust me. I can sniff a criminal out, and if there’s one person with a dark secret, then it’s him, whether he has anything to do with these murders or not. I think I’ll have to do some more digging, but first, I have to decide about your other friend. I am right, aren’t I? It’s someone from the hospital?”
His words dismayed me. I felt cut in two.
Chapter Twenty-Six - Ella
I arrived home an hour or so later, feeling bemused and shoddy. Michael had insisted I gave him Liam’s full name and he promised—swore—to just make a few tentative enquiries, but it didn’t make me feel any better.
“Relax, babe. No one’s going to arrest your surgeon friend. I’ll talk to my superiors, and then we can decide what the best approach and course of action are. We may question him, or not…just leave it to us, and don’t worry your head about anything. If the girl scratched her murderer, then she’ll have his DNA under her fingernails. If we get a match, then we’ll be looking at our killer, but this is all supposition, and as I’ve already said, DNA testing takes a bloody long time. Thanks for this, Ella. I know we’ve had our differences, but I do care and I want you to remember that. Now go home and get some sleep.” He leant close and kissed my cheek.
I drove home, along roads I travelled a thousand times day and night. It was strange…the dark had never bothered me before, yet I felt an unfamiliar sense of apprehension. Almost as if something alien was trying to take up residence.
I parked my car outside in the driveway in one of the resident allotted spaces, and as I locked the car door, I raised my eyes to the second floor window and saw Tim standing there. He was silhouetted against the light from the interior, and I knew he was staring down at me. The past couple of hours had been wearing; I remembered Tim’s calm, steady character. The thought made me yearn for just that.
***
“Remind me again…how you like your coffee?”
“Milk and with one tiny spoonful of sugar, please.” I followed him into the kitchen, and he swung round and pointed into the lounge. He was dressed in a deep-blue dressing gown, tied at the waist and, judging by the waft of soap or shampoo, recently out of the shower.
“Go and sit down, or take a look at the view. The sky’s beautiful tonight. Not a cloud in sight. It’s rare we get such a flawless one.”
I did as he said and he was right. The night sky was striking: as clear as a bell and a deep, inky blue-black, dotted through with stars.
“I’ve always fancied having a view over the sea. A wide expanse of blue, scalloped with white wave tips.”
“Nice in the summer but can be extremely cruel in the depths of winter,” Tim said as he came up behind and handed me a mug. “I tried it once. Loved it at first—long runs along the beach, clambering up the cliffs. I was very fit then.”
An image of Tim standing in the window crept unbidden into my head. Recalling how his pyjamas had clung to the curves of his chest, arms and thighs, I was in no doubt about his level of fitness and strength.
I felt my cheeks glow and blew on the top of the coffee, deciding it was making me warm. I turned away and sat down on the settee.
“You’re out late. Been somewhere nice?” Tim asked.
“Nowhere special. Just a pub in Godalming.”
“I remember you telling me Michael lives over that way. I assume you had a date.”
“Yes, he has a cottage on the outskirts near Peasmarsh. It goes by the name of Sweet Riverside cottage, but actually its location is more boggy than riverine. And no, you assume wrong. Yes, we met, but it wasn’t a date.” I suddenly felt weary. I didn’t want to talk about my evening, and I certainly didn’t want to discuss Michael. I was still confused over everything. And I had noticed that the damned photographs were still missing from Tim’s walls. What was the matter with me? Michael’s final words came back to haunt me: Trust me, I can sniff a criminal out, and if there’s one person with a dark secret, it’s him.
To my horror, I felt a sudden pricking behind my eyelids, and my eyes filled with tears. I swallowed, blinking them away as best as I could, and at the same time, I put my coffee mug down and fished in my jacket pocket for a tissue. How far was it to the front door, and could I make it in time before I broke down and bawled my eyes out?
I sensed a movement beside me, and he handed me a clean white handkerchief. Who the hell uses cotton handkerchiefs these days? I
thought.
“Sorry,” I gasped, wiping my eyes on the soft cotton. “But it’s been a horrible day, and I feel like I’m cracking up.”
I felt the settee cushion move as Tim edged nearer, and then his arms crept round me, gently, slowly, and I realised he was trying not to startle me.
“There’s nothing to be sorry about. You’ve had a tough day, and if you feel like cracking up, then go ahead. It doesn’t bother me in the slightest. Remember, I’m used to it. But I don’t think you’re really that far gone. Just tired and upset over something.”
I began to cry properly. Huge fat tears fell from my eyes and ran over my nose and cheeks. “Please, you’re just being kind. You mustn’t say things like that, or I’ll never stop crying.”
To my surprise, Tim’s arms tightened, and I felt myself sag against his chest, face pressed into his silky dressing gown, my cries muffled. Eventually, I registered the dampness against my face as the tears soaked into his night clothes, and I moved away, grabbing his handkerchief tightly between my fingers and holding it to my nose. I blew hard.
“Sorry.”
“Why? What for?”
“For…for being such an idiot, and soaking your pyjamas.”
Tim glanced down and smiled. “They’ll dry and I can always change.”
“Nevertheless, I am sorry and now I feel such a fool. I thought…I don’t know what came over me. I’m usually in control.”
Tim studied me for a moment. “Perhaps that’s your problem. Something happened and now you’re not in control.”
The Green Room Page 11
