In the end, I admitted defeat. I’d go to the police first thing in the morning to tell them what had happened, and hope that they could do a better job of making sense of it all. I had an unhappy sensation that time was already running out.
Chapter Twenty Five
I had told George that I was coming back to work on Monday, so when I got up I thought I’d better give him a ring to explain why I was going to be late arriving. I kept the details of what had happened to a minimum, but he was still horrified.
“Are you sure you really want to come back to work?” he asked. “We can manage without you.”
“That’s what I’m afraid of,” I tried to joke. “In all honesty, it’s much better for me to have something to keep me occupied. Otherwise I’ll just sit brooding.”
“Ian’s arranged a party for us all at his house on Saturday,” George informed me. “But I’m sure he’ll understand completely if you’d rather stay away.”
“No, I’ll probably come. It might be just what I need – an evening out not thinking about bodies and killers. Anyway, I’ll see you later.”
I got to the police station, and asked to see DI Smith. Unsurprisingly, when she emerged a few minutes later from a door to my left, she had Michael Palmer in tow.
“Mr. Bailey. What an unexpected pleasure,” he said with the sort of smile that a lion must bestow on a fallen deer.
“How can I help you?” Laura Smith enquired. “Do you want to come through to an interview room?”
Son after, the three of us were once again sitting in the room which was becoming rather too familiar. I began by telling the story of Saturday night. I had just reached the part where I was knocked unconscious when Michael Palmer interrupted.
“Hold on a minute,” he said. “You’re telling us that you, who have been at the centre of two recent murders, whose premises had just been broken into, were beaten unconscious in the street? And you didn’t think that it deserved mentioning to the police? Do you often wake up on the pavement following an assault and just go home as if nothing has happened?”
His tone of incredulity was unmistakable. “I haven’t exactly been overwhelmed by the treatment I’ve received on the previous occasions that I’ve been to see you.” I answered.
“Well, pardon us for trying to solve a murder and not hanging on your every word,” he replied. “Go on with your fascinating story”.
I ignored the emphasis he put on the last word, and went on to describe finding the note in my pocket. Then I produced the note itself and handed it to them. There was silence for a moment as they read, and then a further explosion from Michael.
“So the killer, who supposedly wants you dead, knocked you out so he could deliver an invitation. Does anyone else feel we’re on a trip into fairyland here?”
“That’s what happened,” I repeated firmly.
“And even then, you didn’t feel that this was something that we ought to know about?” Laura Smith said quietly.
I had got used to ignoring Michael Palmer’s barbed comments but this question, coming from her, made me stop and think. I realised what a big mistake I’d made.
“No, it didn’t,” I admitted. “I can see now that I should have, but at the time I thought I could check it out myself and then tell you if anything worthwhile came out of it.”
“If you had come to us,” she continued, “we would have been able to make sure that we were online at the same time. There’s every chance that one of our computer experts could have traced where the other person was getting access from, or even their home address.”
These words produced a sinking feeling in my stomach. “I just didn’t think,” I said, “I’m sorry.”
“Or maybe you didn’t want to tell us because the whole thing is a pack of lies,” Michael Palmer said. “It would be a bit hard for you to produce this invisible killer if we were standing right next to you, wouldn’t it?”
He had a knack of getting under my skin in a very short space of time. “I might have known that somehow you’d twist this round to point at me. Is it that your brain’s too small to be able to cope with more than one suspect, or are you just too lazy to want to be bothered tracking down the real killer?” I said in anger.
His face flushed, and he half rose from his chair. Laura Smith put out a hand to restrain him.
“All this testosterone is making me dizzy,” she smiled sweetly. “Perhaps you could continue your account, Mr. Bailey, without interruptions this time”. She shot a warning glance at Michael and he subsided into his chair.
I told her as much as I could remember of my conversation on the computer. As I spoke, she made a few notes.
“Right,” she said when she had finished. “I’ve got quite a few questions to ask you, Mr. Bailey, and I’m sure DI Palmer will also want to question you when I’ve finished.”
There was a subtle emphasis on the last few words of the sentence, which caused a slight flicker of amusement to cross Michael Palmer’s face.
“First of all,” she continued. “This name “Guignol”, does it mean anything at all to you?”
I shook my head. “Was there anything about what he said, or the way he said it that made you think that you might have an idea who he was?”
“No,” I said.
“This site that he led you to, did you make a note of the full domain name?”
“I’m sorry,” I answered, “I’m not sure that I know what you mean.”
“A domain name,” she explained patiently. “Is the address of an internet site. If we know that, we can trace which server is hosting it, and possibly find the author.”
“I didn’t know,” I said feeling foolish. “All I noticed was the title of the site “serial killers of the world unite”.”
“Don’t worry,” she said reassuringly. “That should be enough for us to track it down. Did you form a view on what he was likely to do next?”
I explained my theory that he was hinting at attacking someone who I had helped through work. She nodded at this, but Michael Palmer snorted derisively.
“Are there any people that you thought of in particular?” DI Smith went on, ignoring him.
“I was trying to think of people who might have a reason to dislike me so much,” I explained. “I could only come up with two names; Ryan Clarke and Adam Sutton.” I briefly outlined the history of both of them.
“I think I can help here,” Michael Palmer interrupted, producing a small notebook from his pocket. “Those are the two names that you mentioned to PC Taylor in connection with the apparent break in at the Domestic Crisis Centre. I asked him to keep me informed about what he turned up. Ryan Clarke claims to have been at home on Saturday night, although he doesn’t have anyone to corroborate his story. Adam Sutton is now living in Leicester. As part of the terms of his parole, he has to report to the local police station every two days. There is no reason to suspect that he has even been to York since his release from prison.”
I actually felt relief at this last piece of news, for Jill and Sophie’s sake if nothing else. “I don’t have any other ideas,” I told them.
“That’s all the questions I have for now,” DI Smith said. “Although I may want to speak to you again after we’ve done some digging around.” She glanced across at DI Palmer. “Michael?”
“No,” he answered. “I think we’ve wasted enough time here already. Good morning Mr. Bailey.” He stood up abruptly and marched out of the room.
“We will take your story seriously and investigate it properly,” Laura Smith assured me, as we both stared at the door that he had slammed after him.
“Thanks,” I said, and stood up to leave.
On my way to the Centre, I decided to do a little research of my own. The main York library is at the very far end of town, not all that far from the theatre that Katie and I had seen the pantomime at. I walked past the theatre, with the posters still advertising the last few days of the pantomime. It was hard to believe that it was only seven da
ys since Katie and I had spent that magical day together.
The library is large, and it took me a while to find the shelves of encyclopaedias. All the reading chairs seemed to be occupied so I lifted down the heavy volume, and thumbed through it, standing next to the shelves. It didn’t take me long to find the entry I was looking for.
Guignol, n. The Theatre Du Grand Guignol. A theatre in Paris, very popular in the late 1980’s. It featured short, violent sketches. Guignol was the chief character of a popular and bloody puppet play. In Paris the name Guignol attached itself to cabarets which specialised in short plays of murder, rape and suicide
I took the book over to one of the photocopiers, and paid to make a copy of the entry. I folded it and wrote on the back; “DI Smith, I thought this may be of some interest, Jack Bailey”.
As I went to replace the book, I was trying to decide what the choice of name told me about the killer. I could imagine he was well pleased with it, both by the connection with public carnage, and the idea of him being the main character and surrounded by puppets. To come up with such an appropriate and obscure reference, either he was very well educated or he had spent a lot of time researching it. Either way, it didn’t sound much like Ryan Clarke to me.
On the way back to work, I dropped the note in to the desk at the police station. When I got to the centre, George was sitting at the reception desk.
“How are you?” he greeted me, looking concerned.
“I’m OK,” I answered. “The guy in charge of the investigation is still convinced that I’m a mad psychopath, but at least his partner doesn’t seem to share that opinion.”
“You know you don’t have to be here,” he said. “You can have as much time off as you want.”
“I know,” I told him, “And I do appreciate it. But what good would it do me to sit on my own at home? I’d only end up tying myself up in knots, going over and over things again and again, feeling more guilty all the time.”
“Why should you feel guilty?” George countered. “None of what’s happened is your fault.”
“But it is in a way,” I said. “I don’t know what I’ve done to antagonise this person, but he’s picking his victims because of their connection to me. I just pray that they’ll catch him before anyone else dies.”
Understandably, George didn’t know what to say to this. I told him not to worry, and went into the office to plan some sort of schedule for the week. The question that was nagging at me was whether I should get in touch with Linda or Jill. And if I did, what could I say to them?
The door opened, and Katie rushed in. She almost ran up to me and grasped me in a crushing hug.
“Why didn’t you tell me what had happened?” she said eventually.
“I didn’t want to worry you,” I said apologetically.
“But I could have helped,” she said furiously. “I’m so worried about you, Jack. You can’t start keeping things from me, or I’ll panic even more.”
“I’m sorry,” I told her. It seemed to be my day for apologies. “I’ll tell you everything from now on.”
I told her the story in full, including what I’d found out that morning. She was horrified.
“Why aren’t the police doing more to protect you?” she demanded. “Giving you a round the clock escort or something?”
“I think that’s your job,” I joked, trying to reduce the tension. “Anyway, I think that sort of thing only happens in the movies. Who knows, they may be able to track him down through the web site.”
“You may joke, mister,” she admonished. “But if you think I’m planning to let you out of my sight while there’s a killer on the loose, you can think again.”
“The problem I’ve got now,” I told her, “is what to do about Linda and Jill. Should I warn them so that they’re more vigilant, or would that just be scaring them unnecessarily?”
“Do you really think that one of Ryan or Adam are responsible?” Katie quizzed me.
“They’re the two names that I keep on coming up with,” I replied. “But I’m not confident about either of them. I would have said that Adam was the more likely, but the police seem satisfied that he’s safely tucked away in Leicester. If it was just breaking into the centre to find Linda’s address, I could well believe it was Ryan. But I still can’t see him in the role of a cold-blooded murderer.”
“He seemed pretty violent to me when I met him,” Katie observed. “If Adam’s out of the picture, there doesn’t seem to be much point alarming Jill. You could give Linda a ring, though. If you put it gently she shouldn’t get too wound up, and it won’t do any harm if she’s a bit more vigilant for a while.”
I agreed that this was probably the best solution, and the conversation turned to more pleasant things, like how we were going to spend the evening together.
I finally rang Linda at just before six o’clock, with Katie waiting to escort me home. She sounded pleased, but slightly surprised, to hear my voice.
“What can I do for you Jack?” she asked once we’d exchanged a few pleasantries.
“It’s nothing to get too concerned about,” I said cautiously. “But we had a break in at the Centre at the weekend. The police are fairly certain it was just kids, but there's a very small chance that it was someone trying to find out their wife's address.”
There was a gasp on the other end of the phone. “And you think that it was Ryan?”
“No, not at all,” I said quickly. “We’re just ringing around all our clients to let them know. All I’m saying is it wouldn’t do any harm to be a bit more careful for a few days, keep an eye out. But I’m sure it isn’t anything. To be honest, if it had been Ryan, he would have been hammering on your door by Sunday morning. I just didn’t want to miss you out.”
“Yes, you’re right,” she said, sounding relieved. “He wouldn’t have been able to wait. I’ll look out for him though, just in case.”
I said goodbye and rang off. Katie was watching me with a fairly amused expression on her face.
“What?” I asked her.
“I would never have guessed that you could lie so convincingly,” she said. “I can see that I’m going to have to keep my eye on you.”
“Just your eye?” I asked in mock disappointment. She laughed, but blushed slightly.
After that, the evening was great. We stopped to eat on the way home, and then spent the rest of the evening cuddled up together watching a video we had rented. Just being with Katie was like basking in warm sunshine, and it was just what I needed right at that moment.
Chapter Twenty Six
The rest of the week passed by, thankfully without incident. Katie was as good as her word, and we spent every evening together. I was fairly sure that she would have stayed the night if I’d asked, but I decided not to find out. So each evening, we parted with some lingering kisses, and she drove back home.
It wasn’t that I didn’t want her to stay, or that I didn’t have an ache of longing every time she went away, but there was something holding me back. Partly it was that to sleep together would be to make a fundamental step forwards in our relationship, and I wasn’t sure that was wise. A relationship with me was always going to be difficult, even without someone who seemed determined that I only had a couple of weeks to live, and I wasn’t sure it was fair on Katie to let her get even more involved.
But, if I’m being honest, that wasn’t the only reason. Sex for someone who’s experienced child abuse is always going to be a bit of a complicated area. It stirs up all sorts of feelings, not all of them positive. With Liz it was OK, we had built up such a degree of trust, that it was easy for me to relax, and not worry too much about the whirlwind of emotions. There was a part of me that couldn’t imagine anything better than making love to Katie, and part of me that was terrified of it.
More than that, making love for me is to be totally vulnerable with another person. I could only do that with Katie if I was certain we were going to build a future together. Right now, I couldn’t see past
the end of the month.
Saturday came and, although I didn’t feel much like going to a party, I figured that I owed it to Ian for all that he’d done for the Centre. In any case, I’d promised to take Katie.
I picked her up just a little before seven. She looked absolutely stunning as always. “Are you sure that you’re up to this?” she asked, as she climbed into the car.
“Of course I am,” I told her. “Anyway, I want to have a look at what sort of house the city’s most prominent businessman lives in.”
Ian’s house didn’t disappoint. He lived a few miles out of the city, in one of York’s most exclusive neighbourhoods. A long drive led up to it from the main road, winding past immaculately kept gardens. The house itself was large, fronted by a sun terrace and balcony which appeared to lead off an upstairs bedroom.
“Not bad,” Katie murmured as we walked up to ring the front doorbell. Almost immediately the door was opened, and Ian stood there smiling.
“Jack and Katie,” he began. “So glad you could make it.” As he closed the door behind us, his expression became more serious. “How are you really, Jack?” he asked. “George has been keeping me up to date with what’s been going on. It must be dreadful for you.”
“It has been pretty bad,” I admitted. Everyone’s being very supportive and helpful, but I’ll be glad once it’s all over. The worst thing is waiting, half expecting something awful to happen at any moment.”
“I’m sure,” he nodded sympathetically. “I hope you’re taking good care of him, Katie.”
Katie blushed a little. “I’m doing my best,” she answered.
“She’s being wonderful,” I told him. “I don’t know how I’d have managed without her.”
Ian opened one of the doors off the entrance hall we had been talking in, and waved us into an enormous living room. George and Mary were already there, as were Barbara and her husband Tom. Ian’s wife, Lisa, came across the room to greet each of us with an air kiss.
Shaping the Ripples Page 20
