‘Yes, I do,’ Paniatowski replied. ‘And I strongly suspect that the boyfriend is much older than she is.’
‘So the common thread that’s running through all three cases is sex,’ Beresford said.
‘With the greatest respect, sir, you might as well say that the common thread running through them is that all the victims had two arms and two legs,’ Meadows said. ‘Yes, they were all involved in sex in some way or another, but Jill was having a mildly lesbian affair, Dolly – as far as we know – was having a monogamous heterosexual relationship, and Maggie would pretty much open her legs for any boy who showed an interest.’
But there had to be a common thread, Paniatowski thought – there just had to be.
This killer was playing by a strict set of rules he’d set himself, and those rules included selecting victims in their early teens, doing no more than was strictly necessary to extinguish their lives, and leaving their bodies in the park.
He was disciplined.
He was motivated.
And she had no more idea of what was driving him now than she’d had when the first body had been discovered.
In the morning, she would inform George Baxter of the attack on Dolly. Then, the chief constable – who already thought she was too influenced by what had happened to Louisa – would take her off the case, and though she believed that no other chief inspector could have done more than she had, she knew she would feel that she had failed Jill, Maggie and Dolly.
TWENTY-ONE
The tight knot had begun to form in the pit of Jack Crane’s stomach the second he had made the momentous decision, and as he approached the place where he was about to enact that decision, it grew ever tighter.
It was hardly surprising that he was nervous, he thought – what man wouldn’t feel nervous when he was about to do something that would change the entire course of his life?
He rang Liz Duffy’s doorbell. He had no flowers in his hands this time – the only gift that he was bringing to Liz was his feelings.
As he heard her footstep coming down the hallway, he searched his brain for the little speech he had so carefully constructed earlier, and could find no trace of it.
But that didn’t matter, he told himself, because you didn’t need to be clever and balanced when you were speaking from the heart.
The door opened, and Liz was looking up at him.
In his imagination, he had pictured an expression of delighted surprise on her face – delight when she realized that what they both knew had to happen was going to happen, surprise that it was happening so soon.
The reality was not like that at all – Liz looked startled rather than delighted, and more troubled than surprised.
‘I wasn’t expecting you,’ she said, and as she spoke she looked past him into the street, as if she believed that he had not come alone, but had brought along an army of friends with him to argue his case.
‘Half an hour ago, even I didn’t know I’d be here,’ he said, slightly less sure of himself now, ‘but then I realized that we really needed to talk as soon as possible.’
Liz frowned. ‘Talk? What about?’
What about!
Didn’t she know? Couldn’t she tell?
‘About us, of course,’ he said. ‘Could I come inside?’
Liz hesitated for a second or two, then she said, ‘Yes, I suppose you better had.’
There was no fire blazing away in the grate that night, but there were two open suitcases on the sofa.
‘Are you taking a trip?’ Crane asked.
‘Yes,’ Liz replied, woodenly.
Now he understood what was going on, he thought. Now the worried expression on her face and the deadness in her voice were starting to make sense.
It was very simple really. The sudden reawakening of their feelings for each other had, for a while, sent his head spinning – but it had plainly terrified Liz.
And her terror was more than understandable. She had been badly hurt once, and she did not want to have to live through the same pain again. So she was running away, like a frightened rabbit, and only when she felt strong enough to resist her natural impulses would she return.
‘There’s no need to be scared,’ he said reassuringly. ‘There’s no need to go away – even for a while. I love you, and I think you love me. We can make it work this time, Liz. I know we can. And I promise, here and now, that I’ll never, ever let you down.’
He was half expecting her to rush across the room and throw her arms around him, but instead she remained rooted to the spot.
‘You don’t seem to understand,’ she said. ‘I’m not packing my bags because I’m going away for a while – I’m leaving Whitebridge for good.’
‘But you can’t!’ Crane gasped. ‘You’ve got your practice to consider. And your work as a police doctor.’
‘I resigned from the practice this afternoon.’
‘But surely you can’t go just like that – they’ll have wanted you to work out some kind of notice, while they find a replacement.’
‘They did want me to work out my notice – but I told them I wouldn’t. And as for my work as the assistant police surgeon, my letter of resignation is already in the post.’
This was turning out so differently from the way he’d thought it would that Crane was having difficulty convincing himself any of it was real.
‘It’ll be a black mark against you,’ he argued. ‘You’ll never get a decent job again.’
‘I don’t care.’
‘You’ll be throwing away everything you’ve ever worked for.’
‘It doesn’t matter.’
A sudden wave of guilt swept over Crane.
‘It’s because I came on too strong, isn’t it?’ he asked. ‘That was foolish of me, I know, but when I realized what I’d let slip out of my grasp once before . . .’
‘It has absolutely nothing to do with you,’ Liz said.
Were there ever crueller words in the English language than those, Crane wondered, as he reeled with the shock.
It has absolutely nothing to do with you.
‘So what is it to do with?’ he asked, as anger swept through him, burning away the guilt.
‘I’ve been speaking to Simon,’ Liz said.
‘Simon!’ Crane repeated, almost choking on the name.
‘He wants me to leave. He thinks it’s for the best.’
‘After all he’s done to you, why are you even listening to him?’ Crane demanded.
‘He never meant to hurt me. It wasn’t his fault.’
‘And will you be running straight back into his arms when you leave here?’
‘That’s really none of your business.’
‘Stay,’ Crane begged her. ‘Just for a month – or even a week – until you’ve had time to consider things properly.’
‘I’ve already considered them.’
‘If someone has to go, let it be me,’ Crane pleaded. ‘I know you can be happy here, and if I’m in the way of that happiness, I’ll resign from the force and go somewhere else.’
‘I’ve already told you once that it’s absolutely nothing to do with you,’ Liz said, as if she hadn’t even noticed the sacrifices he was willing to make. She glanced at the open suitcases. ‘Listen, I’ve still got a lot of packing to do, and I think it’s best that you leave now.’
And what would have been the point in staying, he asked himself, as he stepped through the front door and heard that door close firmly behind him. Liz had spoken to Simon, he had told her what he wanted her to do, and now nothing would change her mind.
As he walked along the lonely street, he tried to convince himself that – this time – Simon would make her happy.
But he knew, deep within himself, that Simon wouldn’t, because – even if you ignored the way he had treated Liz – he was still a nasty piece of work.
He was surprised that this thought had even entered his head, but now that it was there, it refused to go away.
Simon’s a n
asty piece of work . . . Simon’s a nasty piece of work . . . Simon’s a nasty piece of work . . .
It was true, and thinking back to their time in Oxford together, he could produce countless examples of Simon’s nastiness to support his case.
So why had he never seen Simon in quite that light before?
It was partly that the man had used his obvious charm to paper over the cracks in his personality.
But I’ve done some of that papering-over for him, Crane thought. I’ve mentally edited out what Simon did and Simon said, because Liz so obviously loved him, and I wanted him to be the kind of man who’d take care of her.
He should not have left Liz’s flat when she asked him to, he told himself. He should have stayed and tried to talk her out of throwing her life away.
He was a failure and a coward. The dashing knight could have saved the fair damsel from the dragon, but instead had pretended that the dragon wasn’t a dragon at all.
Crane glanced down at his watch. It was almost nine o’clock, nearly half an hour after the time he had promised Sergeant Meadows that he would be at the Drum and Monkey. He should go there now, because the team was in trouble, and he was a part of that team.
He had reached the corner of the street. If he turned left, he would be in the Drum and Monkey in ten minutes.
He turned right.
He would certainly go to a pub, he had decided – but it wouldn’t be the one where Paniatowski, Meadows and Beresford were waiting for him.
The theory that had begun to germinate in George Baxter’s mind in the car park of the Red Lion had almost come to full bloom by the time he reached Dunston Prison, and all that was left to do was to see how well that theory stood up when tested against the facts.
He began the test with a phone call to the governor of Winson Green Prison in Birmingham. He had only one question to put to the man – but it was a vital one, and the governor’s answer would make clear whether he had a solid foundation stone on which to build his case, or was merely left holding a handful of dust.
The foundations were solid, the governor’s answer confirmed, and Baxter breathed a sigh of relief.
His second call was to Wally Small, an old friend of his, who was a reporter at the Birmingham Evening Post.
‘Of course I remember the Ski Mask Rapist case,’ Small said, once they’d finished exchanging pleasantries, and got down to business. ‘It was really big news round here.’
‘And do you also remember the principal witness for the prosecution?’ Baxter asked.
‘I do. She was a girl called Jane Williams, wasn’t she?’
‘Susan Williams,’ Baxter corrected him.
‘That’s right, Susan Williams.’
‘You didn’t happen to do a story on the family, did you?’
‘I did not,’ Small said. ‘For her own protection, the girl was never named in open court, and my editor made it perfectly plain that the family was off-limits as far as we were concerned.’
That was disappointing, but not entirely unexpected, and Baxter had already thought out another course he could follow.
‘I don’t suppose you remember where the Williams family lived, do you?’ he asked.
‘As a matter of fact, I do remember that. They’re from Edgbaston, just like me.’
‘And how many parish churches are there in Edgbaston?’
Small chuckled. ‘Being an ungodly journalist, I’m not entirely sure, but I should imagine there are three or four. Why, for heaven’s sake, would you want to know that?’
‘Let’s just say I’ve suddenly developed an interest in ecclesiastical architecture,’ Baxter said. ‘Now be a good chap, and look up the telephone numbers of the vicarages.’
The explanation for Jeremy Templar’s suicide lay far beyond the narrow confines of Dunston Prison, Baxter thought as he waited for the reporter to return, but if he was ever to prove that, he would have to find links that stretched across both time and space.
There were, in fact, five parish churches in Edgbaston, and after Small had given him the numbers, the two men promised that they really would make an effort to get together soon, and the reporter hung up.
The vicar of St Augustine’s was unable to give Baxter the information he needed, as were the vicars of St George’s, St Wilfred’s and St Bartholomew’s. It was only on his fifth call – to St Luke’s – that he hit pay dirt.
‘I can’t say I actually remember that particular christening – I’ve conducted so many, you know – but since the family are regular members of my congregation, I assume I must have officiated at it,’ the vicar said.
‘And do you have copies of the baptism certificates?’ Baxter asked.
‘Oh yes, indeed,’ the vicar said. ‘My wife is a stickler for that kind of detail, and makes sure they’re all properly filed.’
‘Where do you keep them? Are they in the church?’
‘No, they’re in a filing cabinet in my study. As a matter of fact, I’m looking towards it right now.’
‘I need one detail from that certificate,’ Baxter said. ‘Do you think you could give it to me?’
‘I don’t see why not,’ the vicar replied. ‘What particular detail are you interested in?
Baxter told him.
The vicar promised to be right back, but it was five minutes before he came on the line again.
‘I’m awfully sorry to have kept you waiting,’ he said. ‘I’m really not very good with paperwork. I expect my wife would have found what you wanted in a moment, but she’s out at a meeting of the Women’s Institute.’
‘But you have found it now?’ Baxter asked, reining in his impatience.
‘I have – and you were quite right about the name. How on earth did you know?’
‘A lucky guess,’ Baxter said.
And so it was – though it was a guess that fitted so perfectly all the facts he had already acquired that he would have been surprised if he’d been wrong.
‘I’d like to copy down all the details on that certificate, if you don’t mind,’ he said.
‘I don’t mind at all,’ the vicar assured him.
Jack Crane only left the Green Dragon at closing time. By then, he had lost count of how many pints of best bitter with whisky chasers he had consumed, and when the cold night air hit him, he realized that he was drunker than he had ever been before.
As he walked back towards his bedsit, he made a conscious effort to try and stop weaving in wide arcs from one side of the pavement to other, but with only limited success.
Yes, he was drunk, he told himself. He was drunk, and Liz – beautiful, wonderful Liz – was leaving Whitebridge for ever.
He wondered why it was that shits like Simon had all the luck that was going in life, and then he turned a corner and wondered what it was he had just been wondering about.
Walking suddenly seemed to be a terrible effort, especially since the ground refused to stay still, and the night sky was slowly and sickeningly revolving around his head.
He stumbled into a lamppost, and heard a loud clang reverberating around his brain as his head made contact with the dull grey metal.
He clutched the lamppost for support, and tried to work out what his next move should be.
If a policeman came along now, he could well find himself – DC Jack Crane, rising young star of the Whitebridge police force – being arrested for being drunk and disorderly. That wouldn’t look good on his record, but he somehow couldn’t bring himself to care. Nor did he care that in the morning he would have to face the anger of DCI Paniatowski, a woman whose good opinion he had – until that night – valued as a precious jewel.
His stomach issued a warning of what was soon to come. He relinquished his grip on the lamppost, and sank to his knees.
As the bile rose, and he began to vomit into the road, it occurred to him that perhaps he didn’t want to be a policeman any more.
There was no darkness like the darkness of the moors, Jo Baxter thought, as she sat in her s
tationary car on the edge of the moorland road.
Yes, the moors were fringed with towns, and if you looked towards the far horizon, you would see a pinkish glow.
But out here, in the very centre of it all, there was just a blackness which was as dense as treacle, as mysterious as the womb.
Perhaps she should have had children, she thought.
Perhaps if she’d had children, everything would have been different.
But it was too late to have kids now – her doctor had confirmed that at her last visit.
So there she sat, a woman entering early menopause, married to a man who would rather have been married to someone else.
She looked into the darkness again, and found it comforting. She wondered if death was like that, not a glowing tunnel leading to a new life, not haloes and everlasting bliss, but something much better – a reassuring nothingness.
She switched on the engine and pulled away. Her headlights picked out the thin strip of road that led to the next town, where, no doubt, there were hundreds of people just as miserable as she was.
Slowly but surely, she increased the pressure on the accelerator pedal, so that soon the car was racing along.
The headlights began to annoy her. By cutting their way through the darkness like that, they were denying her the mystery – the lack of anything – that she so craved.
She switched off the headlights and increased the pressure on the accelerator.
That was better!
She did not see the bend in the road, or perhaps she had just not been looking for it.
The car left the asphalt surface. It plunged down a sharp slope, skidding on the heather, bouncing over the large stones.
She felt totally indifferent to what was happening to her, yet her instincts kicked in anyway, and made her pull on the steering wheel and stab down on the brake pedal.
But it was already too late to take remedial action. Before it had ever reached the bottom of the slope, the car flipped over, and then – because it still had momentum – it flipped back again.
By the time it finally came to a juddering halt, it had completed three and a half somersaults.
A Walk With the Dead Page 21
