The Cradle in the Grave (43 page)

Simon willed Gibbs to go on with his theory, and he did. ‘Let's say Yardley's belief in Helen's innocence wasn't as rock solid as he made out it was – maybe he
did
have his doubts, even if he never expressed them. Most men in his position – let's face it, you wouldn't
know
, would you? Not for sure. All Yardley knows is that his life's been ruined – first he lost his two sons, then his wife was sent to prison, then he lost his daughter to Social Services. Getting out of bed in the morning must have been a struggle for him, but while Helen's still in prison, he's got a purpose, and that's to get her out. Once she's out, there's nothing more to aim for. She's busy with Laurie Nattrass and JIPAC. What's Yardley thinking about, day after day, while he fixes people's roofs?'

‘Facias and sofits?' Sellers suggested with a chuckle.

‘Make your point, Gibbs,' said the Snowman wearily.

‘What if Yardley's the type for brooding? What if he starts thinking someone ought to pay for all the shi—all the suffering he's been through? Whose fault was it? Helen's, perhaps, if she killed his sons. Duffy's? Thanks to her, Yardley lost his wife for nine years.'

‘What about Sarah Jaggard?' Simon asked.

‘Sarah Jaggard wasn't killed,' said Gibbs. ‘She wasn't even hurt. Maybe she was never supposed to be. Maybe she was supposed to mislead us, to broaden the focus out, from Helen Yardley's case to other similar cases.'

‘Let me get this straight,' said Proust, smoothing down the lapels of his jacket. ‘You're saying Paul Yardley killed his wife and Judith Duffy because he wanted to punish someone for wrecking his life and, of the two of them, he wasn't sure which was to blame?'

Gibbs nodded. ‘Possibly, yeah. Or there's another way it could work: not as an either-or, but he blames them both equally: Helen for the loss of his two boys, and Duffy for the loss of Helen and his daughter.'

Simon thought both these possibilities stretched credulity somewhat, but he was pleased Gibbs had put them forward. At least one of his colleagues had an imagination.

Tina Ramsden was smiling. ‘You seem to have a whole team full of psychological profilers,' she said to Proust. ‘Are you sure you want me to stick around? I have to say, I can't agree about there being two people involved.' She looked at Simon and shrugged apologetically. ‘And I'm as certain as I can be about the escalating irrationality. The card-sender as the rational, controlled one doesn't work because the way he distributes the cards isn't regular – sometimes he posts them, with no violence, or emails them in photographic form; other times he leaves them in the pockets of murder victims.'

‘The numbers, if we knew what they meant, would lead to us identifying him,' said Simon. ‘It's a challenge. He's sending cards to people he sees as his intellectual equals, people he thinks ought to be clever enough to crack his code.' Seeing Sellers open his mouth, Simon raised a hand to stop him. ‘Were you about to say that Helen Yardley was a childminder, and Sarah Jaggard's a hairdresser – not great intellects, as the Brain would see it, and yet they got a card each?'

Sellers nodded.

‘No. They didn't. Helen Yardley and Sarah Jaggard
did not
get a card each. Judith Duffy
did not
get a card.' Simon listened as the sound of confusion filled the room. ‘Yardley, Jaggard and Duffy weren't the intended recipients of those three cards. Anyway, Duffy was dead by the time she got hers. Those three cards were for us: the police. Our job is to work out what's going on, right? Laurie Nattrass and Fliss Benson's work consists of trying to unearth the truth that lies behind three miscarriages of justice.'

He had everyone's full attention. ‘We need to start looking at the two things separately, the violence and the cards. In the first category, two women were murdered and one threatened at knifepoint, all three connected with crib death murder cases. In the other category, five cards were sent, three to the police, however indirectly, and two to documentary-makers – all five to people the Brain thinks might be intelligent enough to make sense of his code. There's nothing irrational about any of it,' Simon addressed Tina Ramsden. ‘It makes perfect sense, and it means that Fliss Benson and Laurie Nattrass aren't at risk of attack, any more than we all are.

‘The choice of victims for the violent behaviour also makes sense: Helen Yardley and Sarah Jaggard were picked for a reason, though not the most obvious one. The Brain wanted to show us that we'd underestimated him. That's why Judith Duffy was the next victim, not Ray Hines.' Simon was sure he was right about this. ‘We forced his hand. On Saturday, Sam here was quoted in every national newspaper as saying that our working assumption was that the killer was a self-appointed punisher, attacking guilty women he thinks have got away with their crimes. But that's
not
his motivation, and later that same day he proved it to us by killing Judith Duffy – I'm using “he” as shorthand for “he or she”, remember.'

‘Sexist,' a female voice mumbled.

‘He may have had no reason to kill Duffy whatsoever, other than to demonstrate to us that we were wrong about his motivation,' said Simon. ‘Just as he's meticulous – writing his number fours and number sevens the same every time – he's also objective, or so he thinks: fair and clear-thinking. He wants us to notice that about him. He's probably someone who associates vigilantism with extreme stupidity – unwashed, tabloid-reading hang-em-and-flog-em proles. He wouldn't like the symbolism of that, because he's clever, and if I had to guess, I'd say he's middle-class. He wants us to realise that any justice doled out by him, or by Baldy on his orders, is exactly that: noble justice, not grubby revenge. By murdering the leaders of the two warring armies – Helen Yardley and Judith Duffy – he's showing us he's fair and impartial.'

Everyone stared. No one wanted to be the first to react. Proust stood with his arms folded, staring up at the ceiling, his neck almost at a ninety-degree angle. Was he meditating?

‘Well, if no one else wants to jump in, I will,' said Tina Ramsden, after nearly ten seconds of silence. She held up her notes so that everyone could see them, and tore them in half, then in half again. ‘You have no idea how annoying it is to have to do this, after I sat up most of last night cobbling all this together, but I'm no use to you if I'm not honest,' she said. ‘I defer to DC Waterhouse's superior analysis.'

‘His what?' Proust turned on her.

Ramsden looked at Simon. ‘I prefer your profile to mine,' she said.

 

‘So you think his plan was to sweep you up in his arms and give you a good rogering?' said Olivia Zailer enthusiastically. She'd dropped everything and come to Spilling to take care of her sister after her ordeal, having first checked Charlie had no injuries that would necessitate any heavy lifting or staunching of bodily fluids.

‘No idea,' said Charlie. ‘All I know is, he sent me a love letter – well, a love scrap of paper – and told me to get back as early as I could on Saturday.'

‘But then, when he next saw you, he didn't make a move.' Olivia wrinkled her nose in disappointment.

‘The next time he saw me was just after I'd had a gun held to my head by Judith Duffy's killer. I was too shaken up even to remember that sex might have been on the cards, and Simon was more interested in interrogating me about the man they're calling Baldy.'

Liv snorted. ‘His work-life balance is like a seesaw with a concrete rhinoceros strapped to one end. Still, at least he sent you a sweet letter – that's a big step forward, isn't it?'

Charlie nodded. She and Olivia were sitting at her kitchen table, drinking tea, though Liv had brought a bottle of pink champagne. ‘To celebrate you not getting shot,' she'd explained.

The sun was shining as if it couldn't tell the difference between summer and winter; Charlie had had to lower her kitchen blind. Since Simon had sent her those eleven words, the sun had shone almost constantly, even though whenever she caught the local news there were big grey clouds covering the Culver Valley. Charlie trusted her own senses; the TV people had got it wrong.

‘I nearly didn't tell you about the love letter,' she said.

‘
What?
' Nothing horrified Olivia Zailer more than the thought of not being told something.

‘I thought you'd think it was pathetic – not even a proper sheet of paper, the word “love” missing . . .'

‘Please! How hard-hearted do you think I am?'

‘We're having a bit of a feud over the honeymoon,' Charlie told her. Was she so used to scrapping with Olivia that she had to find something for her sister to attack, so that she could assume her customary defensive position? ‘Simon's parents are scared of flying, so he started off saying we had to go somewhere in the UK.'

‘Please tell me Simon's parents aren't going with you on your honeymoon.'

‘Joking, aren't you? They get palpitations if they go as far as the bottom of the garden. No, they're scared of
Simon
flying. His mum told him she wouldn't sleep or eat for a fortnight if she knew he was going to be “going on those aeroplanes”, as she calls it.'

‘Stupid mad bint,' said Olivia crossly.

‘Trouble is, she means it. Simon knows she
wouldn't
eat or sleep until he was safely back, and knowing he'd return to find a withered death's head where his mother used to be would spoil his fun. Though the difference, it has to be said, would be marginal.' Charlie stopped to check her guilt level: zero. ‘I didn't want to spend my honeymoon in the Rawndesley Premier Inn, which is a suggestion my future father-in-law made in all seriousness . . .'

‘Unbelievable!'

‘. . . so we compromised. Simon agreed to go anywhere that's less than three hours' flight time, and I agreed to lie to his parents and pretend we're going to Torquay – close enough to sound safe, but far enough away that Simon can legitimately tell his mum he can't pop back for Sunday lunch.'

‘I assume Kathleen and Michael know cars sometimes crash,' said Liv.

‘Ah, but we're going to Torquay by train.' Charlie couldn't help laughing. ‘Because people die on motorways. It's so ridiculous – Simon's in his car every day, but because this time he'd be venturing out of his mum's comfort zone . . .'

‘People die in train crashes,' Olivia pointed out.

‘Please don't tell Kathleen that, or we'll be forced to spend our honeymoon fortnight in her front room.'

‘So where are you going?'

‘Marbella – flight time just under three hours. Two hours and fifty-five minutes.'

‘But . . .' Olivia's eyes narrowed. ‘If you're lying to Kathleen and Michael, you could go anywhere: Mauritius, St Lucia . . .'

‘I said all that to Simon, and do you know what he said? Go on, have a guess.'

Liv closed her eyes and bunched her hands into fists, muttering, ‘Hang on, don't tell me, don't tell me . . .' She looked about six years old. Charlie envied her sister's uncomplicated enjoyment of all life had to offer. ‘He'd be too far away if his mum got ill and he suddenly had to fly back? I wouldn't put that sort of ruse past her, you know.'

‘Good guess, but the truth is even madder: the less time Simon spends in the air, the less chance there is of him dying in a plane crash and being caught out in a lie by his parents.'

‘Which would obviously be the worst thing about dying in a plane crash.' Liv giggled.

‘Obviously. Without having referred to any statistics, and completely ignoring the fact that most plane crashes happen on take-off or landing, Simon's decided short-haul flights are less lethal than long-haul.'

‘Can't you try to persuade him? I mean,
Marbella?
'

‘I've found this amazing villa on the internet. It's—'

‘But you'll have to fly to Malaga. The plane'll be full of people with “love” and “hate” tattooed on their knuckles, singing “Oggie, oggie, oggie”.' Liv shuddered. ‘If it has to be less than three hours, what about the Italian lakes? You'd fly to Milan . . .'

‘Is that better?'

‘God, yes,' said Liv. ‘No tattoos, lots of linen.'

Charlie had forgotten to factor in her sister's colossal snobbishness. ‘I thought you'd disapprove of the lying, not the destination,' she said. ‘Part of me's tempted to sack it and make the lie true. I do love Torquay, and I don't want there to be anything negative or complicated connected with our honeymoon. In an ideal world, I'd like to be able to tell the truth about it.'

‘You can, to everyone but Kathleen and Michael. It's not as if they ever meet or speak to anyone.' Olivia unzipped her bag and pulled out four books with creased spines. ‘I brought you these. I hope you're grateful, because they've bent my new Orla Kiely handbag out of shape.' She poked the bag's side with her index finger. ‘I wasn't sure how long you'd be off work, but I brought enough . . .'

‘I'm going back tomorrow.' Seeing her sister's crestfallen expression, Charlie said quickly, ‘I'll have them anyway, though. Thanks. I'll read them in Marbella.'

Olivia adopted her strict schoolmistress expression. ‘You're not planning to read a novel until next July?'

‘Are they good? Are they ones you've reviewed?' Charlie asked. She picked one up. The cover picture was of a frightened-looking woman running away from a dark unidentifiable blur behind her. Liv tended to bring her novels about women who ended up leaving the useless and frequently psychotic men they'd been wasting their lives on, and going off into the sunset with better men.