by Vicary, Tim
‘Yeah. At her neck.’
‘Did you use any protection?’
Here, Terry thought, the story would crumble. There’d been condoms in Alison’s bedroom. A type called a Tickler. No rapist would bother with that.
‘Aye.’ A sick, cunning grin crossed young Peter’s face. ‘’Course I did. What d’yer think? I wanna get Aids or summat?’
Terry groaned inwardly. Could this be true? ‘You used a condom?’
‘Yeah. Keep myself clean.’
‘What type was it?’
‘I dunno. Normal sort. What you buy in supermarket, like. You’ve seen ‘em.’
‘So what did you do with it afterwards, Peter?’
‘Flushed it down t’loo. What d’yer think?’
Terry glanced sideways at Jane, shaking his head slowly. The cottage wasn’t on mains drainage, as he remembered; it had a cesspit. The thought of asking someone to trawl through years of accumulated sewage to retrieve a used condom made his heart sink. Even if they found it, it would probably be too filthy to provide any useful evidence. He gazed back at Peter. His story could be true, a lot of it fitted. Almost fitted. Yet Terry was reluctant to believe it.
‘So what happened next?’
‘Well, then ...’ There was a long, thoughtful pause. Peter looked down at his hands, then up at the wall behind Terry’s back, then down at the table again. Somehow the sparkle seemed to leach out of him. He sagged, deflated, then raised his head. There was an appealing look in his eyes. Terry thought he was about to admit he was lying, but instead he said: ‘She had to die, you see. After that. I couldn’t help it.’
‘Why, Peter?’
‘She’d seen my face. And she knew ...’ He looked down again, struggling for breath. ‘She knew what I’d done.’
Or hadn’t done, Terry thought grimly. But it wasn’t time to pursue that, not yet. ‘So how did you kill her?’
‘Well, I dragged her up. After I’d done it, like. Dragged her up to her feet.’
‘And she didn’t resist?’
‘Didn’t have no choice, did she? I still had me knife, see. Not like last time. Said I’d stick it in her tits if she moved. So she didn’t. Not till I said, like. Then when I were good and ready I told her to walk down t’stairs. In front of me, like, me holding end o’t scarf. Like a bitch on’t lead. With me knife in her back, ‘case she tried owt. Then I stopped her in front o’t mirror. Shaking she were.’ He grinned, relishing the image in his mind.
‘What happened then?’
‘I fastened t’scarf round her neck, like a noose. It were that long, it were easy. With me knife at her throat, like.’
Peter drew a deep, shuddering breath. He looked up, the sparkle returning to his eyes. He seemed to pump himself up with excitement at the thrill of the tale he was telling.
Or inventing, Terry thought. Can any of this be true?
‘She didn’t like that. She stood there weeping, staring at herself, the fat slag, in’t mirror. See what a great fat whore she were ...’
Beside Peter, the young solicitor’s face was pale, greeny white.
‘... then I got this chair from a room, put it in’t hall, and stood her up on it, in front o’t mirror. I fastened t’loose end o’t scarf through’t banisters, and pulled her head back tight, so she had to stand there on tiptoes, on top of this chair.’ He grinned. ‘It were too late then. She were weeping. She shat herself.’
Oh my God, Terry thought. He was there after all, he must have been. There’s no other way he could know. Not about that.
‘What happened then?’
‘I kicked the chair away.’ All the sparkle had returned to Peter’s eyes now. The confidence, the macabre delight. He smiled almost shyly at Terry. In triumph, it seemed. I did this!
‘And then?’
‘She swung. Like a pendulum, you know. It were odd. I shoved her a bit, to make it last. You don’t think that’ll happen, do you?’
Silence filled the room. For over a minute, no one could find anything to say. For Terry, it was like being trapped in a dream. Not his own nightmare, but that of this young monster before him, with the sparkling eyes and shy, appealing grin. And superimposed on that face - quite an attractive face, in its way, despite the ingrained dirt and spots on his forehead - he saw that last, terrible image. A hanged woman swinging to and fro on her own staircase. A small, dumpy, middle-aged woman, with varicose veins on one thigh. Watching herself die in her own mirror. The woman he and Jane had seen dead in her hallway.
And suddenly Terry, like Jane earlier, could take no more. He got to his feet.
‘That’s it,’ he said. ‘I think we all need a break. Interview ended at 1.47 a.m.’
He turned and walked grimly from the room.
58. Picture Phone
SARAH’S RELIEF at the knowledge that someone had been arrested was immense. Ever since she met Terry outside court, his suspicions had been preying on her mind. As time passed, she tried to separate her emotions from the facts. By this evening, she had decided there were two distinct questions that worried her.
The first was Terry’s suggestion that Michael had been having an affair with the murdered woman. Sarah’s initial response to this was jealous rage. Michael was her lover, no one else’s. If he’d been having an affair with this Alison, then he’d deceived her. But slowly, grimly, she had forced herself to look at this more logically. She and Michael weren’t married, they had made no vows to each other. The first time they had become lovers, in Cambridge, Alison Grey was already dead. And in fact their relationship had only really developed over the months since then.
So, in one sense, even if Michael had been having an affair with Alison, he had not been unfaithful to Sarah while doing it. She, Sarah, had come to fill the gap in Michael’s life that Alison had left. That was hardly a flattering way to see herself, but Sarah thought she could live with it. After all, whether the affair lasted or not, it had already given her a great deal. Michael was clearly fond of her, or he wouldn’t be so attentive, wouldn’t have cooked meals for her, wouldn’t have asked her to go to Spain with him. Wouldn’t have found her a house, wouldn’t make love to her the way he did. Wouldn’t have given her a life after her husband Bob had left her.
The more she thought about it, the more she realised how lucky that chance meeting on the train had been, and how much her life had changed because of it. She liked Michael, she was grateful for his affection, she owed him a great deal.
So this evening, when she had asked him about Alison, she hadn’t questioned him as thoroughly as she normally would. Thinking about it later, lying in bed beside him, she wondered at herself. It wasn’t like her, to allow someone to evade something like that. But there were at least three reasons, she thought, why she hadn’t asked him the direct question: ‘Were you having an affair with her?’
Firstly, because of moments like this. His warm body curled against my back, his strong arm round my waist, his breath whispering against my neck as he drifts off to sleep. I like it, I’m happy and content. I don’t care if he had an affair with Alison, she’s dead, she’s no challenge. I’ve got him now.
And then secondly, it would just have made him angry. When she’d asked him about Alison he’d become nervous. If I’d pressed him any more we’d have argued, she thought - we’ve never have made love, or had this blissful peace after. And I need it - it’s his gift to me, and mine to him.
The third reason was much the same thing. These suspicions aren’t mine, she told herself, they came from Terry Bateson. He put them in my mind because he’s jealous. He’s fond of me too, so he can’t bear to see me with Michael. So it would have been his questions that I’d have been asking, not my own. About an affair that doesn’t matter to me any more, because it’s over.
Not for the first time, she felt anger against Terry Bateson for having put her in this position. What had he asked her to do? Investigate her own lover, for heaven’s sake! And she, foolishly, had agreed. Why?
&nb
sp; Michael rolled over onto his back, and Sarah lay beside him, wide awake, her thigh pressed against his. His sleeping breath made a counterpoint to the steady rhythm of the sails turning outside. Why had she agreed? Because Terry had suggested that Alison’s lover - whoever he was - might also have been Alison’s murderer. And that of course put a quite different light on it. This lover - Michael perhaps - might have run Alison a bath, full of luxury bath salts, as Michael had done for her before now, then waited until she got out, warm and naked and presumably cleaned of all traces of male semen or hair from her previous lovemaking, and hanged her with a scarf in the hall.
Sarah shuddered. That might have been this man lying next to her - that’s what Terry had suggested. Only it wasn’t. That seemed certain now, and Terry must know it too. Michael had switched on the radio at ten o’clock so she could hear for herself the item on Radio York that he had heard earlier - a 24-year-old man had been arrested in an empty house in Crockey Hill, charged with a number of assaults on women in the York area, and was being interviewed in connection with the murder of Alison Grey.
So it was nothing to do with Michael after all, Sarah told herself. I can relax. Just as I relaxed my defences when he asked me to come up to bed. And I’m glad I did that. It was better than ever tonight; it seemed to matter more to him. Even if he leaves me and goes to Spain we’ve both had this. I’m happy here now. Warm and comfortable and safe.
But somehow, she couldn’t relax. The tension of the evening wouldn’t leave her. She lay awake, listening to Michael’s breathing and the steady swishing of the sails. They hadn’t drawn the curtains - no need out here, so high up - and the moon crept round the corner of a window and shone first on her pillow, then on her face.
She felt thirsty, and searched for a glass of water beside the bed. But there wasn’t one - in the heat of passion neither of them had thought of such things. It’s no good lying here, she thought, I can’t sleep anyway and I need a pee too. Carefully, so as not to wake Michael, she slipped out of bed, dressed herself in his shirt, and crept downstairs past the living room to the kitchen and the bathroom.
Coming out of the bathroom she put the kettle on and sat at the kitchen table listening to it boil. It was quiet and peaceful; just the low lights under the kitchen units. The kettle boiled, and she got up to make a cup of tea. She found cups, milk and teabag, then hunted around for a teaspoon to stir it with. She wasn’t used to this kitchen; she didn’t know which was the cutlery drawer. She pulled open one, full of dish cloths, then a second. It was full of batteries, candles, phone chargers, matches, an old mobile phone.
She was about to close it when she stopped, her heart pounding strangely. An old mobile phone. That was what Terry Bateson had asked her to look for, wasn’t it? The one item he had been specific about. The number of an unidentified mobile had cropped up frequently on Alison Grey’s phone bill, and the police wanted to know who it belonged to. Well, maybe it was Michael’s, Sarah thought, after all, he’s admitted he knew her.
Maybe he was her lover, and this is the phone they used. So what, what does it matter, he didn’t kill her and the woman’s dead. Her hand trembled as she reached for it, then drew back. Leave it alone, why don’t you?
But she couldn’t. It’s better to know, she thought, then I’ll be certain. If there are texts on here I can read them, know a little more. Maybe it’s all innocent anyway.
She picked up the phone and pressed the On button. The screen lit up. Sarah gave a guilty start as a welcoming jingle played - louder than she had expected. She looked round nervously, but she was alone. She searched for Inbox, and found a string of little icons of opened envelopes. Beside each one was the same word - Alison.
Sarah’s heart began to pound in her throat. This is like reading someone’s diary, she thought, it’s snooping, no good ever came of that.
Don’t look. Okay, Terry was right, Michael was having an affair with her, so what? It’s none of my business, put it back.
But she had to know. She pressed the button for the first message.
As she did so, the kitchen door opened, and Michael walked in.
‘Do you believe him?’ Jane asked, as they stood outside by the coffee machine. It was the middle of the night and they were both exhausted.
‘Not about the rape, no,’ Terry said, pressing the button for black coffee. ‘And the story about the scarf is odd, too. He doesn’t mention the whip marks either. But he knows most of the rest.’
‘What rest?’
‘The mirror. The chair, the way she lost control of her bowels. He couldn’t have made that up if he hadn’t seen it.’
‘So it has to be him.’
‘Looks like it, doesn’t it? The young bastard.’
‘So why lie about the rape?’ Jane asked. ‘She wasn’t raped, we know that. That proves he’s lying, doesn’t it? If he’d raped her the pathologist would have found semen, pubic hairs - got his DNA from that, weeks ago.’
‘No, he never touched her.’ Terry sipped his coffee, grimacing as it scalded his mouth. ‘Not that way.’
‘Then why tell us he did?’
‘Male bravado, I guess. He wanted to, poor sad sap. That’s what he said about Lizzie Bolan, isn’t it? He went there meaning to rape her, but he was interrupted. Couldn’t do it. So this time, he wants us to think he got his revenge.’
‘Only he didn’t.’
‘Not sexually, no. But you could say, he punished her for it in every other way. Poor woman. If he’s telling the truth.’
‘Punished her for what?’ Jane frowned. ‘She’d done nothing. Not to him.’
‘She was a woman, wasn’t she? That’s what she’d done. He hates women, that’s his problem. Any woman’s a target for him. Probably never had a girlfriend in his life.’
‘He’s sick. I can hardly stand being in there with him. Leering at you like he does.’
‘He wants to impress me. Make me think he’s a man.’
‘You’re all sick, the whole lot of you.’ Jane shook her head vigorously. ‘If that’s what being a man is, count me out.’ She met Terry’s eyes, and shrugged apologetically. ‘I’m sorry, I didn’t mean you.’
‘You think I like him? He needs mental help.’
‘That’s the worry, isn’t it?’ Jane said. ‘He’ll get away with an insanity plea. I could see the wheels spinning in that brief’s mind as you talked.’
‘That’s why we’ve got to nail him down to the details. Go through it all again, piece by piece. Build a case as solid as we can so there’s no way he can wriggle out of it by changing his plea. Because you’re right. That’s exactly what she’ll do. If she’s got any gumption.’
Jane sighed, looking at the clock. It was nearly two in the morning. ‘Now?’
‘It’s late. Start again tomorrow morning. If we go on any more his brief will claim harassment. Maybe the details will become clearer to all of us after a night’s rest. And I’ll ring that wretched laboratory again.’ Terry tipped up the paper cup, swigging the last dregs of his coffee, or whatever it was. ‘Cheer up, lass. We may have solved our murder case, at last.’
Guiltily, Sarah tried to hide the phone behind her back. She’d had no time to read the message. Michael’s hair was tousled, he wore a blue dressing gown loosely tied around his waist. ‘Sarah? What are you doing?’ he asked.
‘Making a cup of tea. I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to wake you. It was the moon, I couldn’t sleep.’ Stop babbling, she told herself, you’ve done nothing wrong. ‘Would you like one?’
‘Okay.’ He sat on a chair at the kitchen table. Sarah turned to make the tea and put down the phone casually beside the kettle. Perhaps he hadn’t noticed it, after all he was half asleep.
‘Where do you keep the spoons? I couldn’t find any.’
‘In that drawer there.’
She made the tea and joined him at the table. It was cold in the kitchen; she clasped her mug in both hands and watched the steam rise before her face. Michael sipped his t
ea, and then, to Sarah’s surprise, got up, opened the front door, and stepped outside. His voice carried in from the night. ‘Storm’s gone, at last. It’s a beautiful night. Come and see.’
She followed him to the door, and looked outside. He was right. The wind had dropped and the moon and stars shone down crisp and clear out of a jetblack sky. Far below in the valley, she could see the distant lights of remote farmhouses scattered in the darkness. Above their heads, the sails turned lethargically, almost motionless. An owl hooted from the woods behind.
Sarah felt cold and vulnerable standing there in his shirt. After a moment, she turned back into the kitchen. It’s okay, she thought, he was too sleepy, he didn’t see the phone. I’ll put it back in the drawer before he notices.
She picked it up and wondered whether to switch it off. If I do it’ll play that jingle again and attract his attention, she thought. But if I don’t he may find it switched on and realise I’ve touched it. Which to do? Leave it switched on and come back to switch it off later or ...
She hesitated, looked down at the phone, and her world fell apart.
There was no message on the screen. Just a photo of a naked woman, hanging from the banisters in the hall of her house.
59. Two Suspects
IT WAS two a.m, and the station was almost empty. Jane Carter left, escorting the young solicitor out to her car. Terry Bateson took Peter Barton downstairs to the custody sergeant, who looked him away in a cell for the night. He watched as the boy was led away, pondering the details of the confession they had heard. There was a swagger in the boy’s walk that disgusted him. After all these years, he was still shocked by the depths to which human beings could sink. This is the world I try to protect my children from, he thought. My God, if I could only lock up all these bastards before Jessica and Esther grow up, that would be something worth doing.
But I never will, of course not. There are plenty more where he came from. Breeding in some swamp somewhere.
He shuddered, and went back upstairs. He longed to go home, but dreaded it too. The girls would be asleep, hours ago. Trude, not he, would have read them a story and tucked them in. He didn’t want to go in now and wake them, with the filthy aura of this murder still about him. He needed to chill out first, let his mind settle and recover some equilibrium.
