Authors: Peter Robinson
‘I think so,’ Kirsten said. ‘I . . . I just don’t know if I can. I don’t know how.’
‘Sermon over.’ Dr Craven’s lips twitched in a smile again. ‘Now back to practicalities. Nobody can make you, but I strongly suggest that you see a specialist in Bath,
someone who knows about the kinds of things you’re feeling. I can recommend just the right person.’
‘A psychiatrist, like you mentioned before?’
‘Yes. I feel it’s even more important now. I’ll set up an appointment for you, but what I want to know, Kirsten, is will you go?’
Kirsten turned her head aside and looked through the small window at the sky and tree tops. At least it had stopped snowing, she thought. That had been the last thing she had registered before
coming over faint and retching on the carpet: how odd that it was snowing in August. It hadn’t been snowing at all, of course; it had just been her vision going haywire.
She turned back to Dr Craven. ‘All right,’ she said, ‘I’ll go. I don’t suppose I’ve got anything to lose.’
‘You’ve got quite a lot to gain, young lady,’ the doctor said, patting her hand. ‘Good. I’ll fix up an appointment and let you know. Now are you sure you’re
feeling all right physically? No ill effects?’
‘No, I’m fine. Just a bit woozy. Mostly I feel silly.’
‘And so you jolly well should.’ Back to her normal self, the doctor stood up and walked to the bedroom door. Just before she left, she turned and said, ‘You can stay in bed
till tomorrow morning, that’s quite reasonable for someone who’s done what you just did, but after that I want to see you up and about. Understood?’
Kirsten nodded. Left alone, she pulled the sheets up to her chin and stared at the long, faint crack in the ceiling. Her head was still throbbing and her stomach felt sore, but apart from that,
everything seemed in working order, considering the mixture of pills and the amount of alcohol she had taken. As Dr Craven had said, none of the tablets had had time to do any damage, and she was
suffering more from the effects of the Scotch, which was all the stomach wall had had time to absorb.
She would go to the specialist in Bath, she decided. Though she had little faith in psychiatrists, having studied and dismissed both Freud and Jung in a first-year general studies course, she
felt desperate enough to try anything. If only he could get that dark cloud out of her mind and give her something – anything – to replace the terrible cold emptiness that she felt
about everything. It wasn’t fear that kept her indoors, in her bed, it was just apathy. There was nothing she wanted to do, nothing at all. She felt foolish and despised, and that was about
it. With a bit of luck, perhaps the specialist really could help. Maybe he could give her something to live for.
SUSAN
During the night, the seagulls by the lower harbour were just as noisy as the ones on West Cliff, but breakfast at Mrs Cummings’s establishment was an altogether less
elaborate affair. For a start, there was no cereal, just a small glass of rather watery orange juice for each person. Nor was there a choice between tea or coffee, only tea. The main course
consisted of one fried egg with the white still runny, two thin rashers of bacon and a slice of fried bread; there were no grilled tomatoes, mushrooms or slices of black pudding. There was, of
course, plenty of cold toast and marmalade.
And the whole meal seemed to be taking place at fast forward. Sue was a little late coming down, as she had her face to fix and her wig to secure. No sooner had she sat down than the plate
appeared in front of her. The tea had already been mashing for some time, and it tasted so bitter by then that she had to resort to sugar. She never had time to get around to the orange juice.
The only other guests in evidence were a bedraggled-looking bachelor in a grey sleeveless V-neck pullover, who hadn’t either shaved or combed his hair, and two bored teenage girls with
multicoloured spikes of hair and warpaint make-up. Sue finished quickly, went up to her room to smoke a cigarette and pick up her bag, then wandered out.
It was another grey day outside, but the thin light was piercingly bright. Weather like this always puzzled Sue. There was no sun in sight, no blue sky, no dazzle on the water, but she found
that she had to screw up her eyes to stop them from watering. She considered buying sunglasses and perhaps a wide-brimmed hat, but decided against it. Enough was enough; there was no point in going
overboard and ending up
looking
like someone in disguise.
First she bought cigarettes and newspapers at the closest newsagent’s, then she found a different cafe on Church Street in which to enjoy her morning coffee. She had read in crime novels
about people changing their appearance but still getting caught because they were stupid enough to stick to the same inflexible routines.
When she looked at the local newspaper, she noticed that it was a Saturday late edition she hadn’t seen. Of course! Today was Sunday; there would be no local papers, only the nationals. In
the stop-press section at the bottom of the left-hand column on page one, she saw an update on the Grimley story:
Police are not satisfied that the body washed up on Sandsend beach last night, now identified as that of Mr Jack Grimley, died of natural causes. Detective Inspector Cromer
has informed our reporter that a post-mortem has been ordered. Mr Grimley was last seen alive when he left a Whitby pub, the Lucky Fisherman, at about 9.45 p.m. Thursday evening. Anyone with
further information is asked to get in touch with the local police as soon as possible. Mr Grimley, 30, was a self-employed joiner and part-time property assistant at Whitby Theatre. He lived
alone.
Sue chewed on her lip as she read. Slowly but surely, they were stumbling towards the truth, and the police always knew more than they told the newspapers. She felt a vacuum in
the pit of her stomach, as if she were suspended over a bottomless chasm. But she told herself she mustn’t panic. There might not be as much time left as she had hoped for, especially if she
were racing against the police investigation, but she must stay calm.
She lit a cigarette and turned to the
Sunday Times.
This was hardly the place to look for salacious, sensational and scandalous news, but surely they would at least report the latest
developments in the Student Slasher case. And so they did. Police simply confirmed that the Friday evening murder was the work of the same man who had killed five other girls in the same way over
the past year. They refused to discuss details of the crime, but this time they gave a name. Susan added it to the other five she knew by heart, another spirit to guide her: Margaret Snell,
Kathleen Shannon, Jane Pitcombe, Kim Waterford, Jill Sarsden and now the sixth, Brenda Fawley.
Sue idled over the rest of the paper, hardly paying attention, and by mid-morning she had come up with a plan for the day. It was time to start checking out the nearby fishing villages. First,
she headed back across the bridge and picked up a timetable at the bus station. It took her a while to figure out the schedule, but in the end she discovered that there were no buses going up the
coast on Sundays. The service ran between Loftus and Middlesbrough, further north, and that was it.
She thought of renting a car, though she knew that might also be difficult on a Sunday. Even if she could get one, she realized, it might cause all kinds of problems with identification –
licence, insurance, means of payment – and that was exactly the kind of trail she didn’t want to leave behind her.
There was no train line, so it had to be a bus, then, or nothing. Turning to the Scarborough-Whitby service, she found that there were buses to Robin Hood’s Bay. They ran regularly at
twenty-five past the hour and took less than half an hour. Coming back would be simple, too. She could catch a bus at Robin Hood’s Bay Shelter, which would be up on the main road, at 5.19 or
6.19 in the evening, or even later, right up to 11.19 p.m.. Robin Hood’s Bay it would have to be.
Sue wasn’t sure what she would find there, but the place had to be checked out. She was certain that her quarry came from Whitby and that he had something to do with fishing, but it was
quite possible that he lived in town and worked in one of the smaller places nearby, or vice versa, for that matter.
Besides, she also felt the need to get away from Whitby for a while. She knew the town too well now and was becoming tired of tramping its streets day in, day out. The place was beginning to
feel oppressive; it was closing in on her.
Breakfast at the Cummingses’ had been a depressing and suffocating affair, too – the obvious poverty; the noise of children; the lack of cleanliness (the teacups were stained, and
there had been one or two spots of dried egg that hadn’t been washed off her plate properly); and the sense of hurry and bustle that even now was causing her heartburn. Yes, another day trip
out of Whitby would be a very good idea.
Checking her timetable again, she found that she had missed the 10.25. Never mind, she thought, finishing her Kenco coffee, she was in no hurry. There were the papers to read, crosswords to do,
plenty to keep her occupied. She could even go up to St Mary’s and spend a while in her favourite box if she wanted.
KIRSTEN
‘Come in, Kirsten. Sit down. Make yourself comfortable.’
Dr Henderson’s office was on the second floor of an old house, and the window, which was open about six inches, looked out over the River Avon towards the massive abbey. The last of the
great medieval churches to be built in England, it was still very much in use.
Instead of a couch, Kirsten found a padded swivel chair opposite the doctor, who sat at the other side of her untidy desk with her back to the window. Filing cabinets stood to Kirsten’s
right, and glass-enclosed bookcases to her left, many of them filled with journals. From one shelf, a yellowed skull stared out. It seemed to be grinning at her. Behind her was the door, and beside
that, an old hat stand.
Dr Henderson leaned back in her chair and clasped her hands on her lap. Of course it had to be a woman, Kirsten realized; they wouldn’t have sent her to a male psychiatrist after what
happened. But she hadn’t expected such a young woman. Dr Henderson looked hardly older than Kirsten herself, though she must surely have been at least thirty. She had short, black hair,
neatly trimmed so as not to be a nuisance, which complemented the angles of her face and emphasized her high cheekbones. She had dark blue eyes, kind but glinting with an edge of mischievous
humour. Her voice was soft, husky and deep, with just a trace of a Geordie accent, and her lips were turned up slightly at the corners, as if always on the verge of a smile. A smattering of
freckles covered her small nose and the tight skin over her cheekbones.
Kirsten made herself comfortable in the swivel chair, and after glancing around nervously at the office she turned to face the doctor, who smiled.
‘Well, Kirsten, how do you feel?’
‘All right, I suppose.’
Dr Henderson opened a file on her desk and pretended to read. Kirsten could tell she knew the contents already and was just doing it for effect. ‘Dr Craven has passed on the full medical
details, but they’re not what interest me. Why don’t you tell me what happened in your own words?’ Then she leaned back and clasped her hands again. The springs in her chair
creaked as she moved.
Kirsten felt her mouth turn dry. ‘What do you mean? What details?’
Dr Henderson shrugged. ‘Perhaps you could start with the attack itself.’
‘I was just walking home and somebody grabbed me, then everything went black. That’s all.’
‘Hmm.’ The doctor started playing with a rubber band, stretching it between her fingers like the silence she was stretching in the room. Kirsten shifted in her seat. Outside on the
River Avon a young couple rowed by. Kirsten could hear them laugh as their oars splashed water.
‘Well?’ Kirsten said, when she could bear the tension no longer.
Dr Henderson widened her eyes. ‘Well what?’
‘I’ve told you what happened. What do you think? What advice have you got for me?’
‘Now hold on a minute, Kirsten.’ Dr Henderson put the rubber band down and spoke softly. ‘That’s not what I’m here for. If anybody has given you to believe that
you’re coming to me for some kind of magic formula and – hey presto! – everything’s back to normal again, then they’ve seriously misled you.’
‘What
are
you here for then?’
‘The best way to look at the situation is that you are here, and that’s what’s important. You’re here because you’ve got problems you can’t deal with alone.
I’m here to help you, of course I am, but you’re the one who’ll have to do all the work. Your description of what happened, for example – a bit thin, wasn’t
it?’
‘I can’t help it, can I? I mean, I can only tell you what I remember.’
‘How do you feel about it?’
‘How do you think I feel?’
‘You tell me. Your description sounded curiously flat and unemotional.’
Kirsten shrugged. ‘Well, I suppose that’s how I feel.’
‘How are you getting along with your parents?’
‘I don’t see what that’s got to do with anything.’
‘Have you told them about your feelings?’
‘I told you, I don’t see what that’s got to do with anything. Of course I haven’t told them. Do you think I . . .?’
‘What?’
‘Nothing.’
‘Kirsten, have you ever been able to talk to your parents about your feelings?’
‘Of course I have.’
‘When?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Give me an example of something you’ve discussed with them.’
‘I . . . I . . . well, I can’t think of anything offhand. You’re making me flustered.’
‘All right.’ Dr Henderson sat up straight. ‘Let’s take it easy then, shall we?’ And she smiled again. Kirsten found herself relaxing almost against her wishes. The
doctor took out a packet of ten Embassy Regal from her desk drawer. ‘Mind if I smoke?’
Kirsten shook her head. She was shocked to find a real doctor smoking – especially, for some reason, a young female doctor – but she didn’t mind. Dr Henderson turned in her
chair and opened the window a little further.