by Ed O'Connor
A light came on upstairs. Underwood started and was sick into the road as terrible imaginings flooded his mind. When he thought that they might overwhelm him, he coughed the bile from his throat and headed back to his car. Why couldn’t he cry? He felt that he should. He now knew for sure that his marriage was over. That the years he and Julia had shared had been utterly meaningless. All he felt was emptiness and a hot spark of rage. Underwood unlocked his car and climbed inside. He stared into the rear-view mirror.
Lucy Harrington’s mutilated face gaped back at him.
15
At roughly the same moment, Dexter turned along Fawley Close and parked. Three of the four cottages had their lights on. Only Lucy Harrington’s remained shrouded in darkness. The police cordon was still in place around the house, which had been locked and sealed.
Dexter had no plans to go inside. Her mind had been working overtime since Jensen had showed them the newspaper article that had given general details of where Lucy Harrington lived. As Underwood had said, there were two roads in the area that fitted the information given by the article: Sherling Drive and Fawley Close. Dexter tried to imagine herself in the killer’s position. ‘I have rough information about where my target lives but nothing specific. I know she lives in one of two roads but I need to find out which road and then which house. Lucy Harrington is not in the phone book.’ Dexter looked again at the map. Sherling Drive had two entrances and ten houses. Fawley Close had only one entrance and four cottages. ‘I have a fifty-fifty chance but one road is much easier to watch than the other. I would choose Fawley Close first because if she lived there I could find her quickly. If she didn’t, I could rapidly eliminate the four houses.’
The logic was compelling and, on a whim, Dexter had driven to Lucy Harrington’s house. It was getting late. There were no street lights and she had only the lights from the houses and her torch to guide her. She started at the front door of the cottage and looked across the entrance to the cul-de-sac at the woodland beyond. ‘If I was watching this road,’ she thought, ‘where would I hide? I need a good view in both directions, I need to be able to see the front doors of all four houses.’ She walked out onto the roadway. She stood at the centre of the rough semicircle formed by the four houses, directly facing Hartfield Road and the woods beyond it. ‘Our man knows the woods.’ She remembered – she was a little afraid now – that serial killers often returned to the scene of the crime to relive the fantasy. The trees looked vast and ominous. Woods had always made her uneasy. Still, in for a penny …
She crossed Hartfield Road and stood at the fencing that marked the edge of the woods. There was a stile leading to a public footpath about fifty yards down to the right. She discounted the area next to it. The killer would have wanted to steer clear of that. She looked to her left. The hedgerow was pretty dense but he could have crawled in anywhere. She climbed over the fence. The cold mud squished over her work shoes.
‘Bollocks.’
She cursed the countryside for the thousandth time and looked at the entrance to Fawley Close. She suddenly felt vulnerable with the vast black expanse of woodland behind her. Maybe this hadn’t been such a good idea.
Dexter had had a nightmare when she’d been a child and it had stayed with her. She was running in a field that had become a wood. The woods became darker and darker as she ran further in. The trees were high, so high she couldn’t see the tops. The bark was rotting and twisted. The woods became an abomination. Insects snapped at her feet, the ground became gluey and she couldn’t run. Then she heard it. A terrible noise behind her: pushing trees aside, screaming and grunting. She dared not look round but she could feel her pursuer closing in. She threw herself at a tree and began to climb as fast as she could. The branches and bark splintered in her hands and she slipped as she scrambled upwards. The thing was behind her, snapping at her ankles – she could feel its breath against her skin. Then, as she finally reached the top of the tree, she looked down to see the hellish creature below her – and she fell. Smashing through the branches, rushing ever faster towards the ground.
Then she had woken up.
She was wide awake now, though. Dexter shone her torch around her. Nothing. From where she was standing she could see only two of the cottages. That was no good. She moved carefully along the line of the fence, stumbling slightly on the uneven ground. A third cottage came into view. She pushed back a sapling branch and sidestepped a tree stump. Finally, the dark shadow of Lucy Harrington’s home appeared.
It seemed as good a place to hide as any. Dexter shone her torch at the ground. Twigs, leaves, mud. Ahead of her and slightly to the right was a small clump of hedgerow, pressed up against the wooden fencing. Some of the branches had been broken away and lay on top of the mud. She moved towards them.
A large beech tree loomed above her, a thick root clawing into the soil next to the hedgerow. She leaned against the tree. The bark was damp and rough. It felt cold and dirty against her skin. Dexter looked more closely at the root. It was twisted and pock-marked with age. Rainwater had pooled darkly at a point where the root divided in two. She flashed the torch at it; there were tiny black leaves floating on the surface. She picked one up. It was a flower petal.
Dexter remembered that Underwood had found and bagged a flower petal at the back door of the cottage. Was it coincidence? Had the killer left the petals behind him? As far as she could see there were no flowers in the area around the tree stump. She doubted whether the petals could have been blown there: the base of the tree was sheltered, surrounded by other trees and hedgerow. She withdrew an evidence bag from her pocket and carefully dropped the flower petals inside. It was something.
The cold and blackness was getting to her; she felt the trees closing around her. She remembered her nightmare. Time to go. Dexter had a hard rational brain and didn’t scare easily but she was starting to feel increasingly tense. She stumbled along the line of the fence as quickly as she could and crossed the road to her car. She had scared herself but felt exhilarated. Fear can come as a rush. She checked the back seat of the car for madmen before she drove off.
It took her ten minutes to get to the station. There would be no one in the crime room now. Dexter bounded up the stairs. She would compare the flower petals she had collected with the one Underwood had found. What if they matched? What did that prove? That the killer liked flowers? The thought seemed ridiculous. She opened the door of the crime room and retrieved Underwood’s evidence bag from a locker at the back of the room. She dropped the two bags on her desk and flicked on her desk light. Using the tweezers she kept in her top drawer she withdrew a petal from each bag. They were the same. Or, at least, they were the same colour. Purple. She knew that they probably wouldn’t be able to get a print from either sample but she felt a flash of triumph. If the killer had left the petals behind, he hadn’t expected them to be found. He had made a mistake.
Satisfied, she rebagged the evidence, sealed it back in the secure locker and left the room. She locked the door behind her and headed along the corridor. There was a light on in Underwood’s office. The door was slightly ajar and she looked through. Underwood was asleep. He was leaning forward onto his desk, his head resting on his arms. Dexter hesitated, deciding whether or not she should wake him. It was past ten. ‘Guv …’ she said softly. No response. Dexter watched him for a second. Her boss was breathing heavily, his breath rasping against his ribcage. She would leave him alone. Underwood twitched slightly: maybe he was having a dream. Dexter hoped it was a happy one.
16
The room was warm and sumptuously furnished. Julia Underwood sat with a glass of South African Sauvignon in her hand. It had been intended to steady her nerves but had made her feel worse. The music wasn’t helping either. Chopin’s Nocturnes were her favourite and she guessed Paul had chosen the CD deliberately. She recognized Opus 15 No. 1 in F major. Moravec’s piano work was exquisite; the notes seemed to drop through time like tears onto ivory. Ravel had famously described the N
octurnes as ‘deeply felt poems of despair’. Tonight, as they wrenched at her, she truly understood why.
Where does the pain come from? Regret? Anger? Disappointment? The things we have done. The things we will never do. The people we leave behind. The people we bring with us. The things we have said. The things we bury inside. The hurt we make for others. The hurt they make for us. The weakening of our bodies. The strengthening of our prejudices. Living up to our expectations. Living down our failures. And Time. Julia knew that for sure. The time we have wasted and the time that we have yet to destroy. Was she saving her future or destroying it absolutely? She kept biting down on the thought like an angry fish that had taken the bait and the hook kept driving deeper into her brain.
She was having an affair; she was one of those women you read about in the problem pages of magazines whose misfortune you smirked at. She knew that her husband suspected something was wrong. Despite his failings – his insensitivity, his pigheadedness, his carelessness with himself and others – she knew you could only fool John Underwood for some of the time.
‘You have to tell him,’ said Paul, reading her mind. ‘It’s the only way now.’
‘I know, but it’s not as easy as that.’
‘Nothing worthwhile ever is.’ He took her hand. Julia shivered. He felt warm. Paul Heyer. He was her lover. HER LOVER. The thought was absurd. She was a woman on the cusp of middle age. People like her didn’t have lovers. They had headaches and gardening gloves.
‘It’s been eighteen years, Paul. You can’t just throw it away.’
He was getting frustrated with her. ‘You already have, Julia. It’s a dead marriage. The rest is paperwork. And courage’
‘You’ve been through all this yourself.’ She didn’t feel at all courageous. The prospect of telling John she didn’t love him any more made her feel sick. ‘This is all new to me.’ She was crying. ‘I don’t know what to do.’
He smiled softly at her. ‘You’re right, I have been through it myself and it’s pretty horrible. But I’ll tell you one thing: I have never regretted it. If you’ve got a cancer you don’t pretend that everything’s all right and hope the problem goes away. You cut it out.’ He could see she agreed with him. ‘We can’t go on like this, can we? I am tired of all this lying and sneaking about.’
‘Me too. And I’m sure he knows that something’s wrong. He’s too sharp not to have noticed something.’
‘All the more reason to tell him now. He’ll find out sooner or later. Isn’t it better that you do it on your own terms?’
‘You don’t understand, Paul. He’s not well. He’s depressed or something. I don’t know how he’d cope if I wasn’t there. He’s hopeless. Like a child sometimes.’
‘You can’t think like that. It kills me to see you like this. Let’s be clear. You don’t have to worry about money. You don’t have to worry about having somewhere to stay. You just have to be brave.’ His voice was quiet but insistent. Paul Heyer was a patient man and he was in love – but he was too old to mess around. Life was like business: profit or loss. She either wanted to be with him or she didn’t. Julia cradled her glass and glanced at the clock nervously.
17
Heather Stussman’s bedside clock beeped once at midnight. She was awake and worried. She had seen the news and wasn’t sure how to react. The phone call earlier in the day seemed unreal now. She wanted to think it hadn’t happened. She was afraid. She had checked and double-checked the lock on her doors. The college gates were locked at nine. She knew she was safe. What should she do? She had tried calling Mark and her mother but had got no reply. She would have to figure this one out for herself.
A man had called her, told her to watch the news and explain it to the police.
She had dismissed him as a crank, a practical joker or an irritating colleague. Then she had seen the news. A local girl murdered. Was this what the guy had meant? She hadn’t made the connection at once. The images of the cottage, of police cars, of the ambulance had all flashed across her TV screen. It didn’t click until the newsreader had mentioned Lucy Harrington’s name for the second time. Then she knew that she would have to call the police.
18
11 December
Underwood woke slowly and painfully, uncertain where he was. A phone was ringing. He ignored it. There was a pain in the back of his neck and he had chronic pins and needles in his left arm. He sat up at his desk. It was morning. There was movement in the corridor outside. Harrison pushed the door open. He seemed surprised.
‘Sorry, guv, I didn’t think you were here.’
‘I hardly am.’
‘I didn’t mean to barge in. I heard the phone ringing. I didn’t think you’d be in yet.’
‘What time is it?’
The phone had stopped ringing. ‘Six-forty-five,’ Harrison said.
‘Jesus. Do you always get in this early?’ Underwood’s eyes felt like bricks wedged into his head.
‘Mostly. I jog in, then shower here.’ Joe Harrison was tall and athletic, the only black CID officer in New Bolden. Underwood knew that Harrison had been a victim of racial prejudice within the force in the past. Some people would have lost heart: Harrison just seemed to get tougher, more determined to succeed. He was a year or two junior to Dexter, another refugee from the Met. They would make a formidable partnership one day – assuming they didn’t kill each other first.
‘Jogging?’ Underwood asked. ‘What for?’
‘It’s habit, really,’ Harrison continued. ‘I never sleep well. Do you want a coffee or something?’
‘Milk. Two sugars.’ Harrison rushed off. Underwood recalled the previous evening’s events. An exhausted sadness gnawed at his heart. Did he really care any more? He wondered where Julia had spent the night, what she had done with the man he had seen. Underwood was falling through emptiness, clutching at branches that wouldn’t bear his weight. He had to clear his head. Who was this fucking bloke anyway? Who was this fucking bloke who was fucking his wife? He flipped open his notebook and looked at the car registration number: S245 QXY. More than just a number. The code to his misery. He decided he did care. A lot. It would be a long day for everybody.
Harrison returned, carrying two steaming coffees. He placed one on the desk. Underwood watched him carefully.
‘Did we get anything from the house-to-house? Didn’t anybody see anything?’ the inspector asked.
‘Hardly anything.’ Harrison sat down, ‘A woman who lives off London Road – you know The Crescent?’ Underwood nodded as he sipped his coffee. ‘She says that a white van was parked in her road from seven that night and had gone the following morning. We asked at the other houses but no one else saw a thing.’
Underwood scowled. ‘This coffee is disgusting. Did the woman see the driver? Can she give us a description?’
‘No.’
‘Marvellous. Did she know what type of van? Can she remember the registration?’
‘Only that she thought it looked like an RSPCA van. She was worried they might have come for her cat.’
‘What do the RSPCA inspectors drive? Those small Sherpa things?’
‘Not sure, guv. I’ll check it out.’ Harrison pulled a Post-It off Underwood’s pad and scribbled a note to himself.
‘It’s not much but it’s a start. If he has a van like that he might be a plumber or a joiner.’
‘If it’s our man.’ Harrison seemed doubtful.
‘What about this bloody poem thing? The text on the wall? Any joy there?’
Harrison shook his head. ‘Dexter is going to the library this morning. She’s got an old squeeze who works there, apparently. I left it with her. She seemed a bit tense. I didn’t want to step on her toes.’ He left the statement hanging. Underwood got the message. ‘I better get on, guv.’ The detective sergeant stood and stretched. He was still wearing his jogging gear.
‘Before you go.’ Underwood handed over the piece of paper on which he had written Paul Heyer’s registration number. ‘There wa
s a call last night after you’d gone. Some woman. Wouldn’t give her name. She said she saw a car driving down Hartfield Road late on Monday night. BMW, she thought. She had to swerve to avoid it. It’s probably just a pisshead on a magical mystery tour but it might be worth checking out.’
‘Bit weird. The fact she got the whole number, late at night.’
‘Who’s to say she got the right number, though? As I say, I doubt it’s anything but we should check it out.’
‘Fair enough. I’ll run it through the computer.’ Harrison left the room and closed the door firmly behind him.
Underwood smiled to himself. He was taking a calculated risk. Still, Harrison would come back with a name and that would give him an advantage over Julia. Maybe he would pull the bloke in for questioning and rough him up a bit. It would be interesting to hear his alibi for Monday night. There was a cruel symmetry in all this that amused him. He felt his chin. He needed a shave. It was grey outside. Dawn was beginning to streak against the sky. The phone started ringing again. He got up and walked out of his office along the corridor to the gents. The phone jangled faintly behind him as he closed the cubicle door. It was their wedding anniversary in three days. Maybe he’d ask for a divorce then: more symmetry. Underwood felt mucus crawling up his throat, saliva creeping across his dry tongue. He leaned over the pan and was sick.
