by Jane Adams
His mind was full of questions that he couldn’t ask her. Worries that he couldn’t voice. He tried hard to write something sensible, but the essay he was writing seemed so far from any of the problems racing through his mind that he couldn’t concentrate.
What if they decided it was him? What if they sent him away, to prison, to a young offenders’ centre? To some secure psychiatric unit, locked up with the loonies.
He wasn’t mad, he wasn’t. He wasn’t guilty either; he was sure of that . . . wasn’t he?
Over and over again Terry ran through the twin events in his mind as if the two were linked, superimposed one against the other. A mess of images and impressions that merged and flowed and interrupted one another until he could no longer separate them out. Theo’s face, Nathan’s face. The fear he felt when he heard his mother coming.
Angrily, he tried to drag his thoughts back to Lenny’s problems in Of Mice and Men. His hand wrote about the prejudice that Lenny suffered, the bright hot sunlight and the dim-lit barn and the woman taunting him, pushing him too far. In his mind, Lenny and he became one. The misunderstood. The odd one. Lenny, killing. Terry, killing. Lenny not understanding. Terry not knowing. His mind worrying at the problem like a puppy with a rag. His hand writing ordered words.
And outside, it was raining.
When Judith came into the kitchen he could bear it no longer.
‘Did I do it?’ he asked her, desperate for absolution. ‘Did I kill Nathan?’
* * *
Sarah watched the rain lashing against her bedroom window. From this angle, she could see the back of Theo’s house and, if she stretched on tiptoe, the rooftops of the taller houses at the end of the street where Terry lived.
She wished desperately that she could talk to him but knew her parents wouldn’t hear of it. They had been by turns sympathetic and furious, still not understanding why she had gone off with ‘that boy.’
They were madder than hell with her because she wouldn’t tell them what Terry was running from. They knew it had something to do with Theo’s death and Sarah knew that her own mother and Terry’s had talked, but she was certain they knew nothing about Nathan.
Sarah could just imagine the scenes that would be played if ever they found out.
Finally, she had been sent to her room and her mother had made a show of fastening the window locks in Sarah’s room and taking away the key.
Sarah stared out through the wet glass, wishing, even, that she was back at school. Wondering when the blasted rain was ever going to stop.
10.35 p.m.
Jenkins’ was an engineering company. Mike took three uniformed officers as back-up and went in quietly, but even so, the presence of one plain-clothes and three uniformed officers was not something to be easily hidden.
Other officers had been assigned to the three exits from the building.
‘He’s a lathe operator,’ the night supervisor told them. ‘Look, what the hell’s going on here?’
‘If you’ll just point him out to us, sir,’ Mike said quietly. Now they’d found their man they didn’t want to lose him. He didn’t feel it was the time for explanations.
‘I’ll take you through,’ the supervisor said.
Quite what alerted him, Mike was never afterwards quite sure. Events seemed to fall in upon one another in quick succession. One moment Mike was aware only of the noise of the machine shop, of having to shout over it to make himself heard as the supervisor pointed to the man in yellow ear-defenders working at the lathe down at the far end.
Then the man turned and saw them and he was running.
He had a head start, the full length of the engineering shop. Mike began to run, shouting to the officers who followed him to split up, try to head the man off. He didn’t know if they had heard, but saw them move, hoped that someone would be in time. Trying to second-guess the route his suspect would be taking.
Beside him, the supervisor was gesturing. ‘The fire escape. There’s a fire escape that way.’
Had they anyone waiting there? Mike tried to visualize the layout of the building but was uncertain where the men outside would have taken up position.
He couldn’t leave it to chance, he had to get to the suspect before he made it to the door.
Around him was the roar of machinery, the sound of people shouting. Faces, gestures. Awareness that his leg, badly broken a few months before, was really not up to this. Then he saw the man ahead reaching for the fire escape door. Bursting through. The sudden rush of night air as the outside wind, damp with rain, surged in. Then Mike was through. Shouting ahead, hoping to make enough noise to alert whoever might be waiting below. One hand on the rail, one clutching his radio. Trying to predict where the fire escape might come down.
There was a sudden shout. The suspect dropped suddenly as though the ground had fallen out from beneath him. Mike looked down. The escape ended a good six feet from the ground.
‘Damn!’ He could see the man running down the back alley towards the main road. He expected to see officers come down the other way towards him, but at that moment there was no one. ‘Where the hell is everyone? Suspect has reached the alleyway, repeat, reached the alleyway. Headed in the direction of Alden Street. Repeat Alden.’
Behind him one of the other officers crowded close and for a second Mike considered moving aside, letting him go ahead, but there was little room for manoeuvre. Mike swung himself out into empty air and dropped ungracefully into the alleyway. He could feel his leg protesting at the strain. Stumbled, then ran on, limping badly.
‘You all right, sir?’ The uniformed officer had landed beside him.
‘Yes. Just get after the bastard.’
Then it was all over. At the end of the alleyway, Mike could see three officers, the suspect on the floor.
He steadied himself against the rough brick wall, then limped towards them, his leg and hip screaming every step of the way.
11 40 p.m.
Phillip Myers collected his things from the custody sergeant and walked out of the building without a word. He felt in his pockets. He had his front door key, a handkerchief, a little change. For the first time in years, he didn’t even have enough to hire a cab.
He shivered. He didn’t have his coat either.
There was a call box on the corner of the road and Myers crossed over to it, oblivious of the traffic. He had enough change to call his wife.
‘They’ve let me go. No charges,’ he told her. ‘Do you think, I mean, could you and Sarah come and fetch me home?’
11.40 p.m.
Mike had settled down to what was going to be a long night. A half-hour into the interview and Max Harriman was already causing problems. He wanted to confess to everything, he said. But wouldn’t even let them know his real name.
‘Names are unimportant, don’t you think? They tell you nothing about the man. It’s actions that are really important, not just names.’
Mike sighed. ‘All right,’ he said. ‘For the moment, Harriman will do. Now, Mr Harriman, you were telling me about the woman that you met last night.’
* * *
An hour later they took a break in the interview. Flint was convinced that they could pin the whole series of attacks on their suspect, he seemed so willing to talk, to boast about what he had done. ‘Forensics won’t stand up to that, sir,’ Mike reminded him. ‘We know the first two attacks were carried out by someone with O group blood.’
Flint paced the room irritably. ‘I know, I know,’ he said. ‘But God knows it’s tempting. Anyway.’ He brightened a little. ‘We’ve cleared five of the eight girls — the path report on the latest victim just came in — and getting this one might well scare our other perp off our patch.’
‘So he can become someone else’s problem,’ Mike said wryly.
‘Oh, get real, Mike. You know his type as well as I do. He was someone else’s problem before he was ours, and will carry on being someone’s problem until either he gets caught or gets too old to get it up
. People like him — for that matter scum like him in there — they don’t stop, they just go on and on until something puts a stop to them or they get too old for the chase.’
Mike fell silent. Then: ‘What about Myers?’ he said.
‘What about him?’ Flint shrugged. ‘Dammit, Mike, if he wants to complain we’ll feed it through the usual channels. It was a legitimate suspicion you had.’
‘I had.’
Flint nodded. ‘All right, we had. And I’m behind you on it all the way.’
20 December, 12.45 a.m.
Jake had been making a delivery when he saw her and for a moment thought she looked like Marion. But no, at second glance, the similarity was superficial. Marion had a different way of moving, an indefinable quality that this girl didn’t have.
He turned his back on her and locked the garage door.
This would be the last drop tonight. He rarely made deliveries himself these days but from time to time liked to check on security, in this case a strong-box hidden beneath the garage floor. They never knew when a delivery would be made. He demanded payment in advance, delivered the goods within ten days, but no set day and no set time. And no more than three issues to a set. He didn’t believe in leaving merchandise in bulk, too much loss if someone got careless and the stuff was seized, and the price this stuff went for, he didn’t have to deal in bulk.
He thought about Marion again as he got into his car. She could have been quite something if she hadn’t got too stupid and threatened to give the game away. Talking of stupid, he had only himself to blame. First woman in a long time he’d allowed to get that close and it could have been an expensive mistake.
He wondered vaguely if Vinnie had any more like her on his list. The new editions would come out in a few weeks’ time. Marion at her best, and no one would ask too many questions about where the pictures came from.
And later on, there would always be the new video.
Switching on his radio, he heard the first news of the other one’s arrest. It was vague; talk of a police raid on an engineering firm and a suspect being interviewed about last night’s murder and the previous attacks.
He was not surprised. Max was getting careless, always trying to impress. Jake had a feeling the man would try to cop for all the previous assaults, even Jake’s score. He was that sort, liked to play the numbers game when, they both knew, Jake out-classed and out-scored him every time.
Jake turned the radio up, started the engine and drove away.
2.15 a.m.
The police photographer had finished at Harriman’s flat and the cuttings books and pinned up clippings removed and brought to the police station.
Mike was told as soon as they came in. He took them to the interview room and laid the cuttings books out on the table in front of Harriman. There were eight in all, the last not yet complete.
Max looked at them but made no attempt to touch the books wrapped inside evidence bags.
‘Are they yours, Mr Harriman?’
Max looked across at him and smiled. He had, Mike thought, a truly appealing, ingenuous smile that creased the corners of his eyes and lit his entire face. It was a strange thing to think about a possible murderer.
‘I collected them,’ Max told him. ‘For posterity.’
‘Posterity?’
Max nodded. ‘You see, Inspector Croft, we’ve been making history here, and now,’ that smile again, ‘now you’re a part of it too.’
Mike ignored the boast. ‘These young women, Mr Harriman. You were telling me about the attacks on these young women.’
Harriman nodded.
‘We know you’re not responsible for them all,’ Mike went on. ‘No, no we know you’re not.’ This as Max began to protest. ‘There were two separate blood types you see. O and A. Yours is A, and, much as my boss would love to see this whole thing cleared up in one go, we know that someone else attacked two of those girls. You can’t take credit for them all, Mr Harriman.’
Max Harriman smiled and he shrugged his shoulders as though conceding the point. ‘I had a good teacher Inspector Croft,’ he said. ‘He set a fine example for me to follow.’
Mike let the implication sink in. ‘You know the other man?’ he said.
Harriman merely smiled.
2.15 a.m.
After leaving the police station, Davy had ridden the bus to its terminus before he’d even thought of what he had to do next.
Finally, he had walked back to Theo’s house, but the police seal was still across the door, a reminder that they still did not know who had taken his Theo’s life.
There was, he thought, nothing left for him here, but he had no idea of where to go or what to do.
Finally, he had taken a taxi to John Tynan’s cottage and retrieved his car. Tynan wasn’t there — Davy was relieved about that. John would have been full of more questions that Davy didn’t know the answers to. Then he had begun to drive.
Close to dawn and he sat on the stones at the mouth of West Kennet Barrow. Uncertain what had brought him here, but glad that he had come.
Inside, someone had lit candles and their faint glow lit the barrow forecourt. It was beginning to rain once more, a slow, steady drizzle that would soak him to the skin.
Davy knew that he should move and go back to his car, but the rain continued to fall and Davy sat, his hair dripping water down on to his face. Davy no longer knew what was rain and what was tears.
11.50 a.m.
Terry had not gone to school on Tuesday. Late morning, he took a break from work. He watched as his mother buttered bread for sandwiches and made tea. She had barely spoken to him all day and when she had it had been with that false brightness that Terry hated. That ‘Let’s just forget everything and get on with life’ brightness that had nothing to do with the way either of them was feeling.
‘Can I go to the funeral?’ Terry asked. The question had come out of the blue, taking even himself by surprise. He had been thinking about it off and on all morning. Theo’s funeral. He knew that he wanted to go.
His mother ignored the question. ‘Do you want pickle with this?’ she asked him. ‘Or mayonnaise?’
‘I asked you something,’ Terry said. ‘I want to go, Mum. I want to go to Theo’s funeral.’
The knife stopped moving. His mother halted what she was doing, her hands limp on the kitchen counter.
‘Do you honestly think anyone will want you there?’ she said, her voice hoarse with emotion. ‘She’ll have family, friends. What makes you think they’ll even want you there?’
Terry stared at her, hurt and angry. ‘I was her friend, Mum.’
His mother turned on him. She slammed the knife down on the counter and whirled around to face him, the tension and strain of the weekend suddenly breaking over her.
‘Your friend,’ she hissed, ‘that woman was your friend, was she? You think she’d have been your friend if she’d known about you? Known what they said about you. Known all the gossip we’ve been trying to protect you from. Me and your grandad and everyone?’ She stopped suddenly, wringing her hands in desperation. ‘You can’t have friends like that, Terry, love. People like that who might talk and not understand you. I wanted you to understand that for yourself, not have to do everything for you. You have to grow up, Terry, realize that however much you try, however much either of us try, it can’t be normal and easy and all the things I know you want. Life’s not like that, Terry. It never was.’
Terry stared at her. ‘You knew about Theo?’ he said. ‘Mum, did you know about Theo?’
‘Of course I knew. Not because you told me either. Always creeping around the way you do, keeping things from me, but I knew about her and about that girl.’
‘You followed me?’ Terry was incredulous. He thought he had been so careful.
‘I was going to tell her,’ Judith said, her voice falling almost to a whisper. ‘Tell her to keep away from you. I didn’t want you hurt if ever she should find out.’
Terry shook his hea
d. ‘Theo did know,’ he said. ‘I told her. I told her about the night Nathan died and about how everybody thought I might have done it and how you started drinking and all the things you never wanted to talk to me about. I told Theo, Mum, because I knew she’d listen to me and help me sort out what I really felt and what I thought and what I couldn’t understand. And she did. She didn’t hate me and she didn’t think I was some kind of creep. And you know what she said? She said she didn’t believe I could have done it. She said that accidents happen and that maybe the padding just wasn’t tied up right. And something else. She said I was still the person she had known before I told her and it wasn’t her way to hate someone just for being honest about what had happened to them. That made me feel good. Better than all the secrets and all the . . . everything.’
He’d run out of words, he could see his mother’s face, cold and white with anger. ‘After all I’ve tried to do for you,’ she said. ‘All I’ve tried to protect you from.’ She walked unsteadily to the table, pulled out a chair and sat down.
‘I love you, Terry,’ she said softly. ‘You know that, don’t you? I really love you, kid.’
‘Oh Jesus, yes I know you do.’ He went over and stood beside her, pulling her close to him, holding her tightly as though he was the adult and she was the child.
Chapter Thirty-Five
Tuesday, 20 December, 10 p.m.
Terry crept downstairs to the hallway. It was almost ten at night, but he couldn’t think of what else to do. His mother had been so odd, talking little that afternoon and evening and when she had spoken it had seemed like nonsense.
At last, she had seemed to make up her mind about something and had told him to call Maria Lucas.
‘But it’s so late,’ Terry had objected. But she had insisted.
Maria listened to what he had to say. ‘All right,’ she said finally, reacting more to the distress in his voice than to his confused words. ‘I’ll be there in about an hour. You just hold on till then.’
