by Mosby, Steve
I know you.
Except I had no idea who she was.
Fifteen
It is important to keep active.
Two mornings a week, Margaret leaves the house early and catches a bus into the city centre, then walks slowly through the busy streets, heading for the library. The first thing she does is return the three books she took out on her last visit, always feeling a pang of nostalgia for the weathered old cards replaced by the computerised system. Then she spends half an hour browsing, moving slowly through the aisles.
The vast majority of books hold no interest, but she finds it comforting to recognise the same titles and patterns on the spines, visit after visit. She finishes at the romance aisle, where the shelves are full of narrow paperbacks, the mostly pastel covers tattered and worn. The titles here are all but indistinguishable, but Margaret can usually tell from scanning the first page whether she has read one before.
It takes time, of course, but that is the point. So much of her life now is spent finding ways to fill her day. Killing time. A question always hovers underneath such moments. What is she killing time for? With Harold gone, there is nothing much to anticipate or look forward to, and so the answer is depressing: she is killing time simply to get to more time. Her days pass for the sake of it. But it always feels a little different here in the library. Meandering and browsing take her out of herself. The pleasures on offer here, however small, are one of the few things she lives for.
When she has selected three books she’d like to spend more time with, Margaret checks them out at the counter, then begins the slow walk back through town to her bus stop. Sometimes she window-shops. Today, the heat is so strong that she decides to rest along the way.
She reaches a tea room with an ornate front. It looks old-fashioned and homely, not one of those indistinguishable chains. The bell above the door tinkles gently as she opens it. Inside, the shop is pretty and elegant, but small: there are only six tables, and five of them are taken. The room is also dimly lit, and it’s because of this that Margaret first notices her. How strange to be wearing sunglasses in here, she thinks – and then realises that the solitary woman at one of the tables is her next-door neighbour.
Even in here, Margaret thinks.
Even here, she can’t get away from them.
At the same time, she can hardly retreat now, and the woman isn’t paying her any attention. There is a large-brimmed cup of tea to one side on the table, untouched for the moment as she scribbles into a small black book. The metal clasp taps against the table as she writes. A Filofax, Margaret thinks, pulling the word from somewhere. Something busy people need.
Margaret approaches the counter and orders tea from the young woman serving there, then moves to the free table. To reach it, though, she has to pass her neighbour, and as she draws closer to her, she finds herself hesitating. The Filofax has gone away now, and the woman looks miserable. She has moved the tea across and is stirring it, lost to the world. What happens next is a whim.
‘Excuse me,’ Margaret says. ‘May I?’
The woman looks up quickly, and Margaret smiles and gestures to the empty seat at the table. In truth, she isn’t sure which of them is more surprised. Her heart feels like a bird in her chest, unexpectedly startled.
‘May I sit here?’
‘I suppose so.’ Then the woman gathers her manners together. ‘Sorry. I mean, yes. Of course.’
She moves her cup back, although there is no real need, and Margaret sits down.
‘I don’t want to interrupt. I just saw you here and thought it might be good if we had a chat. We never really have, have we?’ But the woman only looks confused at that, so Margaret has to explain. ‘I live next door to you. It used to be my husband and I, but he died last year.’
‘Oh. Yes. Of course.’
‘I’m Margaret.’ She holds out her hand. After a moment, the other woman shakes it carefully. Nervously, almost.
‘Karen.’
‘It’s nice to meet you properly.’ Margaret takes in the woman’s clothes. She’s wearing a white uniform, a little like a nurse’s. It occurs to her again that she really has no idea what her neighbours do for a living. ‘Are you on your lunch break?’
Karen nods, and is about to say something else when Margaret’s pot of tea arrives. They sit in silence for a few seconds while she pours. The sugar cubes are rough and hard. She plinks two into her cup, and then it’s her turn to stir incessantly.
‘If you don’t mind me saying so, you look like you’ve got the weight of the world on your shoulders.’
‘Do I?’ Karen gives a hollow laugh, then takes off her sunglasses and rubs her eyes. She is a lot older without them, especially close to. ‘Oh, I’m just tired. It’s hard work bringing up two children. Three, sometimes, if you count Derek.’
Margaret smiles; despite the undercurrents, it’s clearly at least an attempt at a joke. But she also thinks, Derek. So these are her neighbours. Karen and Derek. They aren’t so frightening after all.
‘Why are you in town?’ Karen says.
Margaret holds up the books in a carrier bag.
‘Shopping. If you can call it that at the library.’
Karen looks at her; it’s clear that she feels she should be able to come up with some casual reply but isn’t good with small talk. It makes Margaret like her a little more. They aren’t so different, really. In an odd way, she feels more in control here than she expected to.
‘So you like to read?’ Karen says eventually.
‘It keeps me occupied. Don’t you?’
‘I used to. It’s hard to find the time.’
‘It must be difficult.’ Although in truth, Margaret has no idea. She and Harold tried to have children, but neither of them were too bothered when it refused to happen. Anyway, that was a very long time ago now, and they were always happy enough, the pair of them …
Even though it has been well over a year, she suddenly feels the same burst of loss that went through her on the day Harold died. It has never left her. How can an absence leave you? Although the time between its keenest moments has increased, the intensity of the loss has remained.
How could you leave me, Harold? How unfair of you.
I know, love. I’m sorry.
She does her best to keep it inside. Nobody wants to see an old lady cry. They never know what to do.
‘It is difficult,’ Karen says. She means her family. But when Margaret doesn’t reply for a moment, she thinks about it, then adds: ‘And I’m sorry about your husband. I do remember him.’
‘Thank you.’
‘What happened to him?’
‘He had a heart attack.’ Strangely, she finds this territory easy. ‘It was very quick, they told me, and he wouldn’t have suffered. He was driving when it hit. According to the people behind, he indicated suddenly and pulled in. He ended up across the pavement with his hazard lights on.’
The doctors explained this to her, but initially she had no idea what it meant. She knew very little about cars, and for a time, when she told the story, it felt like she was speaking in a foreign language. Hazard lights. It almost came as a surprise when people understood the words. Now they are more natural, and amidst the grief she feels the familiar dab of pride for Harold: a man who never went out without a waistcoat, and with his hair combed just so; a man who even in his final moments had the presence of mind to do the correct thing. The indicator. The hazard lights.
When it happened, Margaret was at home, reading one of her battered paperbacks. It still seems ridiculous to her that there was a period of time when Harold was dead and she was happy. A period when the world was already this awful and ruined and she did not know the truth about it. That was the most unfair thing of all. She should have been with him.
‘I’m sorry,’ Karen says again. But then she checks her watch, and Margaret thinks she has been waiting to do that, because the surprise that follows seems a little staged. ‘Oh. I have to get back to work.’
‘Of cours
e. It’s been nice talking to you.’
‘And you.’
On impulse, she says, ‘I’m sorry about the garden, by the way.’
Karen is on her feet and is gathering up her handbag, but she pauses now, clearly confused.
‘The garden?’
‘That it’s so overgrown. I keep meaning to have it cut, but it’s hard for me, with Harold gone. I will get it sorted.’
Karen still doesn’t understand.
‘But it’s your garden.’
‘Well, yes. But I know it’s a bit of an eyesore. And your husband – Derek – he said something about it. He was quite angry.’
‘That sounds like Derek. I wouldn’t take it seriously. He’s not bothered about your garden, honestly.’ She gives a hollow laugh. ‘We’d probably just had an argument about something, and he was throwing his toys out of the pram.’
Margaret smiles again. Karen does her bag up with a snap and loops it over her shoulder. She is clearly about to leave, but then she pauses, considering something, and turns back to Margaret.
‘I’m sorry if he was rude to you, though. Derek can … well, lose his temper sometimes. Come across quite aggressive. He lashes out without thinking.’
There is something troubling about the way she says that, and Margaret remembers how miserable Karen looked when she first approached the table. He lashes out without thinking. But in the circumstances, it somehow seems impolite to press.
‘That’s all right,’ she says gently. ‘It wasn’t me he spoke to. It was my great-nephew. And he can be exactly the same, I promise.’
Karen grimaces at that. ‘Your great-nephew?’
‘Yes. Kieran.’
‘I don’t like him very much.’
‘Oh?’
‘I don’t like the way he looks at me sometimes.’
Margaret hesitates, because that seems a very forward comment to make to a stranger about a member of her family. The urge to defend Kieran is there – but it often is, and that’s what bothers her most: that Karen’s complaint feels so plausible. Kieran has always been a little antisocial and awkward. Gauche was Harold’s word, but to Margaret that never went quite far enough. She could imagine, if you didn’t know him, that her great-nephew’s behaviour might come across as odd.
‘He can be a bit strange sometimes,’ she admits cautiously. ‘But it’s like you said about Derek losing his temper. Kieran’s a sweet boy really. He means well.’
Karen considers that, then nods.
‘Perhaps it’s just me, then.’
The way she says it, it’s as though she’s used to men looking at her, and just finds it distasteful in this instance because it’s Kieran. But Margaret is still thinking about it as she watches her leave. Because she does worry about Kieran. She knows in her heart that he would never hurt a fly, but her thoughts keep returning to the argument he had with the man next door. With Derek, another man who can lose his temper and lash out. She sips her tea, remembering the way Kieran paced back and forth in her kitchen, and the look on his face, which scared her for a moment, but most of all the way he talked about Karen.
That painted-up …
That pause as he fought down the language he really wanted to use.
That painted-up … woman.
Sixteen
I surprised myself that night by not having the nightmare, but then I hardly slept. My thoughts were occupied by the woman I’d seen on my way out of the Packhorse. After backup had arrived, I’d gone back inside with them, ostensibly to assist with Drew MacKenzie’s arrest but also to look around for her. The place had emptied somewhat by then, as the regulars had known the police were on their way and many had decided to clear out. Whoever the woman was, she had disappeared with them.
I know you.
Except I didn’t – or at least I didn’t know how, or where from. She had been considerably older than me, I was sure, but I couldn’t think of anyone I might have known growing up who even remotely fitted her description. Casting my mind back over previous cases, she didn’t obviously figure in any of them. The scar had been hideous, but presumably she hadn’t had it when I’d known her, or else I’d remember her more easily. On balance, she was a stranger to me. At the same time, she was utterly familiar, and something about that made me feel incredibly uneasy.
I was still thinking about her as I arrived at the department the next day, wondering not entirely half-heartedly if there was a simple way to trace her. Distracted, I almost walked straight into Vicky, a young sergeant based on our team.
‘Zoe,’ she said. ‘I’ve got a live one in suite four.’
‘A what in what?’
‘This young woman.’ Vicky nodded to the closed door beside us. ‘She came in about an hour ago, says she’s got vital information about the case.’
I rolled my eyes.
‘Oh, superb. That means we can all go home.’
‘Ha ha, yes. I know what you mean. But she’s pretty insistent. Seems quite scared too, to be honest.’
‘Of what?’
‘Our boy.’ Vicky nodded at the door again. ‘Jane Webster, her name is. She says he’s been calling her.’
‘Right.’
I closed the door to the interview room behind me, perhaps a little too aggressively. The woman sitting there looked at me hesitantly. From her body language, you’d have imagined that she’d been caught shoplifting and dragged in here for questioning, rather than coming in of her own accord.
I sat down across the table from her. She was probably in her mid-twenties, but still resembled a little girl more than a proper grown-up: small and slight, with astonishingly pale skin. Looking at her, I imagined a child who had been forbidden from playing outside, where she might pick up even the mildest of tans or bruises.
‘It’s Jane, isn’t it? What can I do for you, Jane?’
‘It’s about the case that’s been in the news,’ she said. ‘The women who have been attacked.’
‘Yes, I know. That’s why you’ve been directed to me.’ That’s why I’ve been dragged in here. ‘I’m actually the lead officer on the investigation.’
The tone of my voice caused her to flinch slightly, and she rubbed her hands together anxiously. For a moment, she didn’t reply, and I looked at her carefully. Her white cotton blouse was undone just enough to reveal a small silver cross hanging on a chain, and her blonde hair was pulled back into an approximation of a ponytail, with lock-pick ridges of split ends poking up. The glasses she wore were very large and very circular. All in all, she reminded me of the unkempt girl in one of those high-school brat-pack movies: the one who gets a makeover two-thirds in and ends up looking pretty.
‘Sorry,’ she said finally. ‘Of course you are. It’s just difficult to explain. I don’t know where to start.’
‘Me neither. Let’s try, though.’
‘I’m not sure if I should be here really.’
I feel the same way.
Under other circumstances, I would probably have said it out loud, but despite my impatience, there was a fragility to Jane Webster that kept the reply private. She seemed so timid, with her knees pressed together and her shoulders slightly hunched, as though she had real trouble looking at the world. And although she didn’t remotely resemble our creeper’s usual choice of target, I didn’t want to scare her off, not if she knew something important. We needed something important. We needed it months ago.
‘Can you try to explain, please?’ I said. ‘It’s something about a phone call, isn’t it? That’s what I was told.’
She nodded. ‘I had a call. I think it might have been him. The man who’s been doing all those things.’
‘Right. That seems pretty unlikely to me.’ None of the other victims had reported any contact prior to the attacks. He stalked his targets, certainly, but they’d never been made aware of it before. ‘You mean a threat of some kind?’
‘Oh, no. I’m not explaining this very well. I work on a helpline – I volunteer. Mayday?’
She said it as though she expected me to have heard of it.
‘I have no idea what that is.’
‘It’s a local organisation. A confidential service. We offer support, that sort of thing – just listening, basically. People can call us up and talk to us, when they’re feeling lonely or depressed.’
‘Okay.’
With every faltering word, my impatience was growing. Now, I imagined a tiny room full of meek do-gooders like Jane. Probably eating lentils out of plastic pots.
Hear her out, at least.
‘We get all sorts of calls,’ Jane said.
‘Depressed, miserable people …’
‘Sometimes. That’s what it’s there for, anyway. But a couple of nights ago, I had a phone call from … well, I think it’s this man. No, I’m sure it is.’
‘He called your helpline?’
‘Yes.’
‘And threatened you there?’
‘No, no. He wanted to talk.’
The penny finally dropped. I felt myself groaning inside.
‘Listen,’ I said. ‘When any case becomes as high profile as this, you always get idiots crawling out of the woodwork. It’s highly unlikely that the man who called you was the offender. Far more likely that it was just some crackpot. We get them all the time here.’
And Jesus, didn’t we just. False confessions from outright lunatics; twisted phone calls from oddballs craving attention; useless tip-offs from busybodies who’d added two and two and somehow come up with rapist. Of course, we rely on information from the public, but find me a single detective who doesn’t face dredging through it with all the enthusiasm of a plumber approaching a drain, and I’ll show you a detective with a news camera trained on them.
‘I know,’ Jane said. ‘I can imagine you do. We do as well. Most of the calls we get are sex calls. But this was different. I didn’t want to believe it either. Not the first time, anyway.’
‘There’s been more than one call?’
‘Yes. Two, so far. The second was last night. The first one felt genuine, but Richard – my boss there – he said pretty much the same as you. That it was probably just some weirdo. A lot of sick men use us as an outlet.’
