by Mosby, Steve
‘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 course. 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.’
I leaned back, considering her. From her manner alone, I could tell she wasn’t lying to me. That she had received these two calls, and that the man on the other end of the line had really managed to convince her he was responsible for the attacks. Of course that didn’t mean it actually was him. Still, I felt some sympathy for her. It must have been unpleasant enough regardless.
‘What was it that convinced you?’
‘The second call.’ She said this immediately, more definite now. ‘After the first one, I told myself it hadn’t been real. It was shocking while it was happening – while he was talking – and it was shocking afterwards too. But then I spoke to Richard and started to doubt myself. It began to feel a bit unreal. So I told myself that it couldn’t have been him, however genuine it felt at the time …’
She trailed off and shrugged helplessly. She actually looked apologetic, as though she’d been sitting on a crucial piece of evidence all this time.
I prompted her.
‘But then the second call …?’
‘It gave me the exact same feeling. And this time, I was sure he was telling me the truth. There was an atmosphere on the line.’
An atmosphere, I thought. God help us.
‘What did he say?’
‘He was relieved to get through to me. I think he must have tried a few times before he did. And then it was just like the first call. He wanted to talk about the crimes. About what he’d done. Reliving it, I suppose.’
‘Like one of those sex calls?’
‘No, no. Because he wasn’t enjoying it. You can usually tell. But he was crying. It was like he was unburdening himself of it. As though he was upset about what he’d done, and talking to me was a way of making himself feel better.’
‘Like a confession to a priest or something?’
‘Yes.’ Jane nodded emphatically. ‘Yes, exactly that. Because the calls are anonymous, you see. We guarantee confidentiality. So he knew he could talk to me without getting into trouble.’
‘And yet.’ I picked up a pen and twiddled it. ‘Here you are.’
Her pale skin gained a flush of colour at that, and she looked down at her lap, embarrassed. I decided not to press it. Presumably she and her colleagues took their vow of silence seriously. Putting myself in her position, I realised that it must have been a tough decision to come here today and report this – a breach of confidence that she might very well get in trouble for. Well, she didn’t need to worry about that, at least. I could pretty much guarantee the confidentiality of this conversation.
Follow it through anyway.
‘I’m guessing you don’t have this individual’s phone number to hand?’
‘No. We don’t see the numbers.’
‘Someone does?’
‘I don’t know for sure. B
ut you’re the police. You can trace it, can’t you? You could force them to reveal it. If you had to, I mean.’
‘I imagine that would take a court order. But I don’t think it’s going to come to that, Jane. And I really don’t want to get you in trouble for no reason. Like I said, we receive a lot of calls like that too …’
I trailed off, because she seemed to be sinking into herself as I was talking: slumping down further in her chair. She thought she was doing the right thing, coming in here, at real personal expense, and I was just dismissing her.
‘All right.’ I sighed. ‘What about the content of the calls? Let’s see if there’s anything there. What did he talk about?’
‘He talked about what he did. Described it.’
‘Tell me.’
Jane took a deep breath and began. The more she spoke, the more certain I felt. The information she was giving – that had been given to her – was nothing exceptional or revealing. There were no details that hadn’t been in the papers or on television, no special inside knowledge that couldn’t have been picked up from the news and that would indicate he knew more than he should.
He was a crank.
Of course he was. Serious offenders don’t suddenly get an attack of conscience and confess everything to strangers – and certainly not this offender. The violence accompanying the attacks had escalated steadily, and he had become much better at what he was doing. Even if he’d panicked after Sally Vickers, that wouldn’t have lasted. He wouldn’t be feeling the slightest hint of regret for his actions, or crying down the phone. He hated these women.
‘He said he killed the last one,’ Jane finished. The memory of the conversation was clearly distressing her. ‘He said he raped her and beat her, just like the others, but this time he decided not to stop. He was crying when he was telling me.’
‘Sick bastard,’ I said. ‘Look, I know it’s upsetting. I’ve had people confess the most awful things to me, and it’s never pleasant to hear, and sometimes you’re shaken afterwards.’ That wasn’t true; most of the time I was just pissed off at them. But I wanted to make her feel a bit better about herself. ‘In this case, I want you to know, I highly doubt that this is the individual responsible for these crimes.’
