Authors: Peter Robinson
Smoking was not allowed in the cafe, so she passed the twenty minutes or so she had to wait for lunch doing the crosswords and reading about the sexual exploits of famous TV personalities and
pop stars in the
Mirror.
When the meal finally came, it was good. Sue realized that she had spent too much energy avoiding fish and chips in Whitby – because it seemed that that was
the only food available – as she actually enjoyed it, at least in moderation.
As she ate, she remembered the local chippie near the university, where she and her friends had often stopped on their way home from the pub and eaten out of newspaper as they walked. If only
her mother could have seen her; she’d have had a fit. But the north seemed so full of fish and chip shops, what could you do? Though she had never thought about it at the time, she guessed
now that much of the fish came from places like Whitby and Scarborough, and even the smaller villages like Staithes. It came? Well, obviously it was delivered. It didn’t fly there by itself.
A whole fleet of vans must be constantly rushing back and forth from the coast to service inland towns and cities. Sue paused with her fork in the air as the simplicity of it all came to her: the
final piece of the puzzle. Of course! How could she be so stupid? Now she knew exactly what to do next.
When she had finished eating, she pushed the empty plate aside and lit a cigarette. One or two fellow diners gave her nasty looks, but no one actually walked over and asked her to stop. The
waitress also ignored her. She had much more on her mind than telling a patron to stop smoking. Eventually Sue got the bill, paid it, and walked out into the sea air. Its rotten-fish smell now
seemed mingled with the odours of seaweed and ozone, and just a trace of diesel fuel from the boats.
There was no point remaining in Staithes any longer, she thought as she walked along the harbour wall. She had always been certain, in her heart of hearts, that Whitby was the place where she
would find him. Now even logic backed up her instinct.
Still, it was pleasant enough walking in the sun and watching the placid blue sea. The place seemed less oppressive now that she had decided to leave it soon. She could at least wait until she
had digested her lunch. The only discomfort she felt was a hot and itchy scalp under her wig.
She sat down on the sea wall and let her legs dangle over the edge. Stretching her arms out behind her and resting her palms on the warm tarmac, she leaned back and let the sun warm her closed
eyelids. One more cigarette, she decided, then back up the long hill to the bus stop. Shifting position, she checked her timetable and found out that there was a bus at 2.18. It was twenty past one
now, so she had just missed the one before. Plenty of time.
As she sat watching a distant tanker move across the horizon, she became aware of someone staring at her. The hackles at the back of her neck, under the wig, stood on end. At first, she brushed
off the feeling as ridiculous. Hadn’t she just decided that she would find her man in Whitby? He couldn’t be here. Then, for a moment, she panicked. What if it was the police? What if
they had somehow got on to her? Or were they just following her, watching? She could bear it no longer. Turning her head slowly and casually towards the rail in front of the Cod and Lobster, where
she thought the watcher was standing, she picked out the tall, tanned figure.
It was Keith McLaren, the Australian she’d met at the Abbey Terrace guest house. And he recognized her. Even as she looked, he waved, smiled and started to walk towards her.
KIRSTEN
August gave way to September and the nights turned cooler. As the weeks passed, Kirsten began to look forward to her sessions with Laura Henderson. They smoked and sipped
terrible coffee together in that cosy room overlooking the River Avon. The immediate sights beyond the window became as familiar to Kirsten as if she had looked out on them all her life: Robert
Adam’s Pulteney Bridge, with its row of shops along each side, all built of Cotswold stone; the huge square late-Gothic tower of the Abbey; the Guildhall and municipal buildings. Often she
stared over Laura’s shoulders during the long silences or stood at the window as Laura sought out an article in a journal. Some evenings, when their sessions ran late, Laura would take a
bottle of Scotch from her filing cabinet and pour them each a drink.
They talked more about Kirsten’s childhood, her parents, her feelings about sex. Laura said that Kirsten was making progress. And so she was. She still didn’t like going out or
meeting people, but she began to enjoy the simple things again: mostly solo pursuits like a walk in the woods, music, the occasional novel. She even found that she could concentrate and sleep well
again. Though she no longer flirted with suicide, she hung on to her cold hatred, and the dark cloud still throbbed inside her mind. Sometimes it made her head ache. She and Laura didn’t talk
about the attack. It would come, Kirsten knew, but only when Laura thought she was ready.
At home, her mother continued to fuss and fret, and she often seemed to regard her daughter with a combination of embarrassment and pity. But Kirsten grew used to it. The two of them kept out of
each other’s way as much as possible. It wasn’t difficult. With her garden, her croquet, her bridge parties and her myriad social engagements, Kirsten’s mother managed to keep
busy.
Hugo and Damon sent get-well cards, and Galen phoned several times during August. At first, Kirsten instructed her mother to tell him she was out. Soon, however, she realized that wasn’t
fair. She spoke to him and tried to respond to his concern without encouraging him too much. One Friday, he paid a visit and tried again to persuade Kirsten to go with him to Toronto. They walked
in the woods and she let him take her hand, though her flesh felt dead to his touch. It wasn’t too late, he said, they had both been accepted and term didn’t begin for a few weeks yet.
Gently, she put him off, told him she would join him later, and sent him away partially appeased. Finally, at the beginning of September, he went to Canada and sent her a postcard as soon as he got
to Toronto. She had never told him what was really wrong with her; nor had she mentioned the suicide attempt.
If anyone sustained Kirsten outside Laura Henderson’s office, it was Sarah, who phoned almost every week and wrote long, entertaining letters in between. Always outrageous, funny and
compassionate, she made Kirsten laugh again. When she asked if she might visit over Christmas, when her own parents would be touring Australia, Kirsten jumped at the chance. Her father saw that it
was a good idea, too, but her mother, perhaps recalling her only meeting with Sarah in the dingy northern bedsit, was reluctant at first. Christmas was a family time, she said. She didn’t
want strangers around. Her husband argued that it wasn’t a very big family anyway. Kirsten’s grandparents, two uncles and aunts usually came for Christmas dinner, then her parents
visited friends in the village for drinks on Boxing Day. Surely, he argued, it would be good for Kirsten to have a friend of her own age around. Finally, her mother gave in and it was settled.
Sarah was due to arrive on 22 December, and Kirsten would pick her up at the station after her late-afternoon session with Dr Henderson. She would have her mother’s Audi, as usual.
One day in early October, when the elegant old city looked grey and a cold wind drove the rain through its Georgian crescents, circles and squares, Kirsten forsook her usual walk by the Avon and
drove straight home from Laura’s office. When she arrived, she noticed a strange car parked in the drive and her mother peeking out from behind the lace curtains – something she
didn’t usually do – and her heart began to beat faster. Something was wrong. Was it her father? she wondered as she hurried to the door. Her ordeal had taken a terrible toll on him, and
though he did seem stronger and happier of late, the bags still hung dark under his eyes and he had lost his boyish enthusiasm for things. Was his heart weak? Had he had an attack?
Her mother opened the door before Kirsten even had time to fit her key into the lock. ‘Someone to see you,’ she said in a whisper.
‘What is it?’ Kirsten asked. ‘Is father all right?’
Her mother frowned. ‘Of course he is, dear. Whatever gave you that idea?’
Kirsten hung up her coat and dashed into the split-level living room. The two men sat close to the French windows, near the spot on the carpet, now dry-cleaned back to perfection, where Kirsten
had had her Scotch and pills picnic. One of the men she recognized, or thought she should, but the memory was vague: spiky grey hair, red complexion, dark mole between left nostril and upper lip.
She’d seen him before. And then it came to her: the policeman, Superintendent . . .
‘Elswick, Miss,’ he said, as if reading her mind. ‘Detective Superintendent Elswick. We have met before.’
Kirsten nodded. ‘Yes, yes of course.’
‘And this is Detective Inspector Gregory.’
Inspector Gregory stretched out his hand, which was attached to an astonishingly long arm, and Kirsten moved forward to shake it. Then he disappeared back into the chair – her
father’s favourite armchair, she noticed. Gregory was probably in his mid-thirties, and his dark hair was a bit too long for a policeman. He was dressed scruffily, too, with brown corduroy
trousers, threadbare from being washed too many times, a tan suede jacket, and no tie. Kirsten thought he seemed a bit shifty. She didn’t like the way he looked at her. Superintendent Elswick
wore a navy-blue suit, a white shirt and a black and amber striped tie. It was the same one he wore last time, she remembered. Probably from an old school or regiment; he looked like an ex-military
type.
‘How are you, Kirsten?’ Elswick asked.
Kirsten sat down on the sofa before answering. Her mother hovered over them and asked if anyone would like more tea.
‘I haven’t had any yet,’ Kirsten said. ‘Yes. I’d like some, please.’
The two policeman said they wouldn’t be averse to another cup, and Kirsten’s mother walked off promising to make a fresh pot.
Kirsten looked at Elswick. ‘How am I? I suppose I’m doing fine.’
‘Good. I’m very glad. It was a nasty business.’
‘Yes.’
They sat in tense silence until Kirsten’s mother returned with the tea tray. Having deposited it on the mahogany coffee table before the stone hearth, she disappeared again, saying,
‘I’ll leave you to it, then.’
After her sessions with Dr Henderson, Kirsten was used to silence. At first it had disconcerted her, made her fidgety and edgy, but now they sometimes sat for as much as two minutes –
which is a
very
long time for two people to be silent together – while Kirsten meditated on something Laura had said, or tried to frame a reply to a particularly probing and painful
question. Elswick and Gregory were easy meat. There was something they wanted, obviously, so all she had to do was wait until they got to the point.
Gregory played ‘mother’, clearly an unsuitable role for him, and spilled as much tea in the saucer as he got in the cups. Elswick frowned at him, and added milk and sugar. Then, when
they were settled again, Gregory crossed his long legs and took out a black notebook. He did his best to pretend he was part of the chair he was sitting in.
‘Kirsten,’ said Superintendent Elswick, ‘I should imagine you’ve guessed that I wouldn’t come all this way unless it was important.’
Kirsten nodded. ‘Have you caught him?’ For a moment she panicked and thought the attacker might actually be someone she knew, someone from the party. She didn’t know if she
would be able to handle that.
‘No,’ said Elswick, ‘no, we haven’t. That’s just the point.’
It was obviously very difficult for him to talk to her, Kirsten realized, but she didn’t know how to make it any easier.
Finally, he managed to blurt it out, ‘I’m afraid there’s been another attack.’
‘Like mine?’
‘Yes.’
‘In the park?’
‘No, it took place on some waste ground near a polytechnic not far away. Huddersfield, in fact. I thought you might have read about it in the papers.’
‘I haven’t been reading the papers lately.’
‘I see. Anyway, this time the victim wasn’t quite as lucky as you. She died.’
‘What’s her name?’
Elswick looked puzzled. ‘Margaret Snell,’ he answered.
Kirsten repeated the name to herself. ‘How old was she?’ she asked.
‘Nineteen.’
‘What did she look like?’
Elswick tipped the tea from his saucer into his cup before answering. ‘She was a pretty girl,’ he said finally, ‘and a bright one too. She had long blonde hair and a big
crooked smile. She was studying hotel management.’
Kirsten sat in silence.
‘The reason we’re here,’ Elswick continued, ‘is to see if you’ve remembered anything else about what happened. Anything at all that might help us catch this
man.’
‘Before he does it again?’
Elswick nodded gravely.
‘Does that mean there’s some kind of maniac, some kind of ripper, running loose up there?’
Elswick took a deep breath. ‘We try to avoid alarmist terms like that,’ he said. ‘It was a vicious attack, much the same as the one on you. From our point of view, we’re
pretty sure it was the same man, so it looks like we’ve got a serial killer, yes. But the newspapers don’t know that. They don’t know anything about the similarity between your
injuries and those of the dead girl, and we’re certainly not going to tell them. We’re doing our best to prevent anyone linking you to the business.’
‘Why?’ Kirsten asked, suddenly apprehensive.
‘All the bad publicity. It would upset your parents, make your life a misery. You’ve no idea how persistent those damn reporters can be when they get on the scent of a juicy story.
They’d be up here from London like a shot.’
Kirsten could tell he was lying. He wouldn’t look her in the eye. ‘It’s because you think he might come after me, isn’t it?’ she said. ‘You’re worried
that if he knows you connect him to two victims and he knows one is still alive, then he’ll want to finish me off in case I know something, aren’t you?’