Caedmon’s Song (23 page)

‘All right. Are you sure you don’t have anything else you want to do?’

‘I told you, I’m on holiday. No plans, no newspapers, no television. A vacation from the world.’

Sue remembered the bit about not reading newspapers from their last meeting. It made her feel a little safer – especially as he had made no mention of Jack Grimley’s death –
but there were still too many ways that someone like Keith could come across a local news story: a photo of Grimley and a request for information in some pub or cafe up the coast, for example; or
from the newspaper used to wrap his fish and chips one evening. Perhaps someone might be watching a local news programme on the TV in the lounge of his guesthouse just as he walked in to make a cup
of tea. And he would remember, that was the problem. He recognized her, even in disguise, so he would surely recognize Jack Grimley, the man he had caught her staring at in the Lucky Fisherman.
Then he might remember how he had thought she knew Grimley. The more she worried about what Keith knew, the more she realized she didn’t feel safe at all. Why hadn’t he gone straight up
to Scotland, or taken the plane back to Oz?

Keith took her silence for hesitation. ‘Look, Martha,’ he said, scratching his earlobe and looking out to sea. ‘I know I was out of order, like, before when . . . you know . .
. and I’m sorry. I want you to know I’m not on the make. I just think it’d be nice to go for a walk with you. I won’t try anything. Honest.’

Sue got to her feet and brushed the sand from the back of her long skirt. She was forming a plan and a little inducement would go a long way. ‘It’s all right,’ she said.
‘I didn’t mean to seem so brusque with you before. It’s not that I’m a nun or anything. It was just too soon. I mean, I hardly knew you.’ She smiled at him.

Keith looked surprised. ‘Yes, well . . . er . . . shall we be off?’

‘Haven’t you got your gear?’

‘Gear? Good Lord, you don’t need gear for a simple walk like this.’ He looked her up and down. ‘You could even do it dressed like that, though I wouldn’t recommend
it. No, all I’ve got is my Ordnance Survey guide.’ He patted the back pocket of his jeans.

‘No, I mean your stuff, your rucksack and all that.’

‘It’s back at the B&B. I was only having a little stroll around the village. No, what you see is what you get.’ He spread his arms and stood before her, tall, slim,
thin-faced and tanned. His curly, black hair still looked glossy, as if he had just stepped out of the shower, and his eyes reflected a bluer ocean than the one that stretched before them.

‘What did you mean about me not being dressed right?’ Sue asked.

‘I was only joking really. It’s not a hard walk. It’s just that skirts tend to snag on thorns and things, and those pumps will take a hell of a beating.’

‘Wait here a minute.’

Sue hurried into the public toilet, made sure that no one was around and went into a cubicle to change. First she took off her wig, scratching her head in relief when she had done so, then she
put on her jeans, a dark-blue checked shirt and her trainers. Carefully, she rolled up the wig, long skirt, white blouse and cardigan and placed them in the holdall. Sometimes, she thought, it was
a nuisance having to carry the damn thing everywhere with her, but it was light enough, and she could adjust the strap and carry it over her shoulder if she wanted.

She put the quilted jacket on top of everything in case it got chilly high up on the cliffs. Finally, she combed her hair in the cracked and grimy mirror above the sink and examined her make-up.
It wasn’t bad. She hadn’t put too much on that morning as she had intended to be out of Whitby for the day anyway, and now there was no point in standing here and washing it all off.
Someone might come. Quickly, she gave her lips a dab with a Kleenex, then dashed back outside to join Keith.

‘Lead on,’ she said, bowing and standing aside for him.

Keith laughed. ‘Are you
sure
you’re not a spy or an actor or something?’

‘Not at all.’ Sue gave him what she intended to be an enigmatic smile, and they set off.

They wound their way up by the Mission Church of St Peter the Fisherman, then followed the signs for the Cleveland Way past some farm buildings, over a couple of stiles and right up the hill to
the cliff edge. The village lay spread out below them. Even though it was a clear, warm day, smoke drifted lazily from some of the chimneys. Up on the cliff top, there was a cool breeze from the
sea. Pausing for breath, Sue put on the quilted jacket she’d been carrying in her holdall.

‘What have you got in that thing?’ Keith asked. ‘Your life’s work?’

‘Something like that.’

The unfenced path ran close to the edge of the cliff, and the drop was sheer. After Keith had stopped to point out Boulby cliffs further up the coast, they started walking in single file. The
pathway was rough, though mostly level, and they soon got into a comfortable rhythm. Keith was talking most of the time, half turning his head to look at her. He talked about how he was loving
England but still felt homesick, and about a body that had been washed up on the beach at Sandsend while he was staying there. No, he hadn’t got a good look at it. By the time he had noticed
that something was happening quite a crowd had gathered and the police had arrived.

Sue realized now that she would have to kill him. He was just too much of a liability to let go free. She didn’t know how the police were progressing on the Grimley investigation, but she
was sure that, without Keith, they couldn’t link her to the dead man. Keith might not have seen the body, but there was a chance he might find out who it was and, if questioned, remember that
strange girl who had acted as if she recognized the man . . . the girl who kept changing her appearance.

But she didn’t know if she could do it. Keith had done her no harm; he had only tried to kiss her. But he could give her away before she’d finished, and she couldn’t afford to
let that happen – not after everything else. Grimley had been a mistake in the first place, and one that almost sent her screaming back home. Now Keith. All she had wanted to do was find the
man who had hurt her and murdered the other girls and kill him, put a stop to his carnage once and for all, but she was so deep in blood already and she hadn’t even found him yet. How much
further would she have to go?

With an effort, she pulled her mind back from this negative track. It wasn’t as if she had any choice in the matter, she told herself. Somehow, from somewhere, she would have to dredge up
the courage. He was a man, after all, wasn’t he? When it came down to it, they were all the same underneath. Hadn’t he tried to force himself on her, and wouldn’t he do the same
again? She shuddered at the thought.

It would be easy to do it up here. Just a gentle push over the edge, or quick kick at the ankles to make him stumble and fall. An accident. But it was too open, and she could see two other
walkers approaching from the opposite direction. As it was, they turned out to be serious hikers with binoculars, boots and rucksacks, far more interested in distant seabirds than in fellow human
beings, but there must be no witnesses and no probing, time-consuming inquest. As the men passed, Sue looked the other way. So far she was sure that nobody would remember seeing her with Keith, but
there was no point in being careless.

Gulls swooped low, flashing white in the sun, and curious insects buzzed around Sue’s head. Before long, she could see the crumbling jetty of Port Mulgrave way below, and they began their
descent into the tiny village. Keith wanted to stop for a cup of tea and a sandwich at the Boat House Tea Room, but Sue urged him on, saying she was still full from lunch. She was nervous now she
had made her decision, and that made her cautious. When she took his hand, he gave in quite easily and they set off up the road to Hinderwell.

Soon they were on a rough track approaching a caravan site, then they turned right, crossed some more fields, and walked down a steep hill to a footbridge over a beck. It was a dramatic change
of landscape, from coast to inland valley. They walked through brambles and blackberry bushes, and Sue could see what Keith had meant about snagging her skirt on the thorns. Even in jeans she had
to walk carefully. The smell was different here, too. Rotten fish and seaweed were distant memories, replaced by crushed berries and wild garlic in the honeyed air droning with insects.

Beyond the brambles, they entered the woods. The path was bounded on both sides by dense thickets and tall trees. They passed an elderly couple, who smiled and said hello, then after a few
minutes walking in the quiet woods, Sue suggested that maybe it was time for a rest.

‘But there’s nowhere to rest here,’ Keith said. ‘Just the path.’

‘There’s the woods, isn’t there?’ Sue broke free and ran off through the undergrowth. ‘Come on, it’s nice in here!’ she called back. ‘Cool and
dark. I’m sure we’ll find somewhere to sit down.’ Keith ran after her.

When they’d gone far enough that they couldn’t be seen from the path, Sue pointed to a concave patch of ground between two trees. ‘There. Perfect.’ She sat and leaned
back against a tree trunk. Filtered green light streamed down through the leaves and birds called to one another from their high nests, passing on warnings that intruders had come. Keith lowered
himself down beside Sue, so close that their arms touched.

It wasn’t long before his hands started wandering, as she had expected, just touching her hair and throat at first. The tension inside her was almost unbearable, but she tried not to
stiffen up. Then he kissed her. She let him. She took off her quilted jacket to make a pillow against the rough bark and he started fiddling with the buttons on her shirt. She let him. One button,
two buttons, three buttons . . . she had one arm around him and the other groping in her holdall. Her mouth was dry and it still tasted of greasy cod. Four buttons. Now her bra was exposed and he
bent forward and kissed the dark cleavage. She sighed. His fingers quickened and soon unbuttoned the shirt right down to her waist. Without bothering to take it off, he pulled the bra up over her
breasts. She let him. Her free hand stroked the nape of his neck and tears ran down her flushed cheeks.

Suddenly, he froze.

‘My God, Martha! What happened? What on earth happened?’

He pulled back and stared in horror at the puckered zigzags across the skin of her breasts. They looked like an old hag’s dugs, as Sue well knew. Her hand closed on the paperweight.

‘Nothing,’ she said softly. ‘Nothing for you to worry about. Why, does it turn you off?’

‘Well, no,’ he said awkwardly. ‘I didn’t mean that. I just . . .’

‘Go on then, Keith. Go ahead. Kiss them if you like.’

She put her free hand on the back of his head and drew him towards her. As she felt him resist, she pushed harder. She could feel his oily black hair under her fingers and the strength in the
knotted muscles at the back of his neck as he shoved against her hand. Tears of anger burned in her eyes. His lips brushed the dead skin where the severed nerve ends had never knit back together.
He strained back, but she kept pushing him down. When his mouth reached the place where her right nipple used to be, she brought the paperweight down on the side of his head.

He didn’t jerk and twitch like Jack Grimley, and for that she was grateful. She didn’t know if she would have been able to stand that without going mad. He just slumped forward into
her arms. She rolled him off and he fell onto his back at her feet. Blood bubbled over his ear through his glossy hair onto the earth. She wasn’t going to make the mistake of touching the
wound this time. Her heart was beating wildly, but at least she didn’t feel sick. Perhaps, like everything else, murder got easier with practice.

Sue raised the paperweight again, but the sound of rustling in the undergrowth stopped her. Heart thudding, she looked up straight into the eyes of a large panting collie. The dog just stared at
her with its tongue hanging out and its head cocked to one side, as if it wondered what the hell was going on. Sue felt more naked under its gaze than she had under Keith’s, and she quickly
pulled down her bra and began to button up her shirt. The dog just stood there, watching her with that pained and puzzled expression in its eyes.

Then she heard a faint cry in the distance. The dog’s ears pricked up and with a final, despairing glance at her, it turned and ran off through the thicket towards two distant figures
standing on the path. This place was too dangerous; she had to get out before someone else came. First, she took Keith’s Ordnance Survey guide from his back pocket. She would need that to
find her way back to the main road. Then she felt for his pulse. She didn’t really know where to look, except from programmes she’d seen on television, but she couldn’t feel
anything on his wrist. Quickly, she hit him once more, just to make certain. Surely one of the blows must have fractured his skull, she thought. She wiped the paperweight carefully on his shirt,
wrapped it in paper handkerchiefs and put it back deep in her holdall.

Next she piled all the loose brush and dead leaves she could find over Keith’s body. He looked so innocent lying there, such a babe in the woods. Then she remembered the pressure of his
muscles as he had pushed himself away from her, rejected her, and that split second of balance when their strength had been equal and she had killed him. She patted her hair and brushed the leaf
mould and twigs from her jeans, then hurried back towards the path. Looking behind her, she couldn’t see anything of Keith, just a small mound that looked like an old tree stump. She followed
the map about three-quarters of a mile to the main road without passing another soul. Not that it mattered anyway. If anyone did recollect her, it would be Martha Browne they remembered. The police
might find Keith soon, and they would make enquiries and track down the bus driver too. But it would be Martha Browne he remembered. And as soon as she got to the toilets near Whitby bus station,
Martha Browne would disappear for ever and Sue Bridehead would return.

At the bus stop, she caught her breath, then sat on the warm brick wall at the bottom of someone’s garden, where she watched the ants and smoked a cigarette as she waited for the 4.18 back
to Whitby.