Nine Lives (13 page)

‘Might as well,' she said. ‘We've paid anyway.'

‘I'll make it up to you,' Wilkins said, though he had no idea how or where. He was totally shrink-obsessed. Even when the killer took a break, he waited impatiently for a further strike. Practice did not necessarily make perfect, and the man was bound, eventually, to slip up.

There was much work to be done at the station. Robbery, muggings, even the occasional murder but none of these crimes stirred in him the slightest interest. He did what had to be done, and in routine fashion. He was biding his time.

He went to Dr Fortescue's funeral. He had been to the funerals of all the murder victims, and on each occasion, he had made notes. He fixed faces in his mind's eye. He hoped to find the stranger, one who was in no way related to the deceased; the stranger who would appear at every burial and whose repeated attendance would be questionable. But no such stranger appeared. For the most part the funerals were sparsely attended. Lonely people they had been, Wilkins surmised, their patients, however bereaved, unwilling to show their faces. Families mostly, if they had any, for all but one had lived alone. He had travelled to Barry Island for Bronwen Hughes' interment, and had stood by the graveside with only the local vicar for company.
It was almost as bleak in Birmingham, where Angela Mayling had been laid to rest. It was only in Paris that he had found a decent attendance, jollity even, and a right old rave-up wake afterwards. The gendarmerie wondered what he was doing there, for they considered Mademoiselle Lacroix their own business. But he had come to look for that same stranger who, he remained convinced, was responsible.

After the murder of Dr Fortescue, Dr Arbuthnot was again called in for his opinion. He stuck to his first diagnosis, and he had nothing further to offer. He confessed himself as bewildered as Wilkins himself. In desperation, and on the quiet, Wilkins called on a clairvoyant. She had hitherto been useful to the service in pinpointing the location of bodies. And sometimes she had been accurate.

But Wilkins knew very well where the bodies were. No attempt had been made to hide them. It was the whereabouts of the perpetrator he was after, and although he had as little faith in clairvoyance as he had in therapy he was a desperate man. And in desperation, all avenues must be exploited.

He had worked with Miss Lupesco before, and he looked forward to the glass of mulled wine she always served before her seances. Her parlour was unadorned, and she likewise. She wore a tweed skirt, a silk blouse and sensible shoes. Her hair verged on ginger, and neatly framed a slightly florid face. Wilkins suspected high blood-pressure or perhaps an over-indulgence in mulled wine. However, in all respects, she cut a conventional figure and, but for a crystal ball on a small table, she could have passed as a simple spinster, devoted to good works.

She offered him a glass, but refused one herself. Then
she sat opposite him at the table. She placed her hands around the crystal ball and closed her eyes.

‘Tell me all you know,' she said.

So Wilkins started from the very beginning, with the first victim Harry Winston. And as he told his long and sorry tale, he felt an enormous relief, an unburdening as it were, and he warmed towards Miss Lupesco much as a patient, he thought, might warm to the therapist. When he was done, Miss Lupesco opened her eyes. Her fingers were light on the ball, and they quivered at times, as did her lips.

Wilkins waited. He was happy to enjoy his relief in the silence that followed. At last she spoke. ‘I'm not sure it is a man,' she said.

Those were her first words and Wilkins was jolted. Had he been barking up the wrong tree all this time?

‘I see a woman sometimes,' she said. ‘And then there are men. Perhaps it is a man in disguise. Gloves seem to be important here. White gloves, or black. But they are always there. Prominently. There's a car. Red. Not a new one. Looks much travelled. I see twins. Boys. They are very important. But I don't see a connection. Yes. I think it is probably a man. He is crying. He is in great distress. There is a scream inside him. And a rope.'

Quickly she covered the ball with a black cloth. ‘I can't go further,' she said. ‘Perhaps next time.'

She seemed anxious for him to leave, disturbed by her sightings. And so was Wilkins, though he had doubts about clairvoyance. He recapped what she had told him, and it was the rope that stuck in his mind. And the scream. He couldn't fathom either, but he sensed that both were crucial. He was also aware of her doubts about gender. It had never occurred to him that the killer could be a woman. Neither
had the possibility of disguise. That was a factor he must consider in future investigations – if there were to be any. And with shame, he half hoped that they would continue, for he was determined to get to the bottom of the shrink mystery. He began to look upon it as a crusade.

It is the boys' birthday …

It is the boys' birthday. Twenty-six today. It's difficult to buy presents for people who have everything, but there's a shop in the West End that caters for this problem. It sells silly things. Useless and expensive. I bought them each a miniature model of a Porsche, one that dispensed soda water. They were cocktail people, my boys, and I thought it very suitable. I'd arranged my treat carefully. Since Donald's arrest – and I don't know why – I've become more of the ‘Verry' he always called me. I find myself making decisions, organising things. Like this birthday treat. Apart from the presents, I had booked three seats at the National, for a performance of
King Lear.
I was careful in my choice. I thought it would do them no harm to view the breakdown of a father at the hands of his ingrate children. Or at least two of them. But I only needed two. It would be something to talk about at supper in the small restaurant that I had booked. Yes, I had arranged it all very carefully. I think it will be a birthday treat that my boys will remember, but not necessarily enjoy. For I was determined not to condone their neglect as far as their father was concerned. Or worse, oblivion.

My boys were familiar with the play. They had studied it at university. And so was I, because I liked to be part of their studies. So we were all reasonably well equipped.

It was a wonderful production; the storm effects were breathtaking, and I could not fault the performers. Yet as we left the theatre, eavesdropping on rave reviews, the boys were subdued, and I was glad of it, for it meant that the
message had struck home. It was a grand hors d'oeuvre in preparation for our supper.

It was a small restaurant and I'd ordered a corner table. There were few diners, and there was no music to drown what might have been our silence. The boys said nothing, so it was up to me to start the prickly ball rolling.

‘What did you think of the acting?' I asked. Safe ground. I would come to the content of the play later.

‘I thought Edgar was wonderful,' Martin said. ‘And the Fool.'

Between them they praised or criticised most of the cast. But there was no mention of Lear and his daughters.

‘What about the king?' I had to ask.

‘If you think about it,' Matthew said, ‘he asked for it. What he did was foolish.'

‘Foolish yes. But not criminal,' Martin said.

They were both tired of pussyfooting.

‘We're not going to see him,' Matthew said.

‘And that's final,' Martin echoed.

I had played all my cards. No trumps. They had not even allowed for argument. Their decision was beyond debate. And it was final. But I would not surrender. ‘I went to see him a couple of weeks ago,' I said. ‘It was a lovely trip on the ferry.' I waited for them to at least ask how he was, how he was settling into a life sentence.

‘What about a dessert?' Martin asked. ‘I feel like a crème brûlée.'

It was like a slap in the face, Donald's as well as my own. But through the lump in my throat, I persisted. ‘He's done some beautiful paintings,' I said. ‘Seascapes. He recalls our Margate holidays together.'

No response. I sensed that in their silence, they were
beginning to pity me. ‘He was a good father to you,' I added helplessly.

‘Mum,' Martin said, with infinite patience.

I was grateful that at least he didn't address me as ‘Mother'.

‘Mum,' he said again. ‘That was in another life. That was when he was another person. All that is in the past. It's history. It has nothing to do with us now.'

‘Look,' Matthew interrupted. ‘We respect how you feel. You must cope with it in your own way. Let us cope with it in ours.'

‘I don't understand you,' was all that I could say. ‘He always asks after you,' I added. I was lying. During my last visit, Donald hadn't mentioned the boys and it occurred to me that perhaps he also had consigned his sons to history, and that his, too, was altogether another life. In which case, it was only I who was holding the fort, who was keeping the home fires burning – but just for myself. I refused to differentiate between the past and the present. The former gives shape to the latter and I am undeniably part of both.

When the waiter passed by our table, I signalled for the bill. There had been enough of a treat, I thought, and crème brûlée wasn't going to be part of it. We waited in silence for the bill to arrive, and when it came I paid it hurriedly. I was anxious to get home. I wanted to be where I was unseen and unheard, some small corner where I could weep my heart out. The boys put their arms around me, and it was difficult not to howl aloud.

‘Thank you,' Matthew said. ‘It was a lovely birthday treat.'

‘Can I at least give him your love?' I begged. My persistence, futile as it was, was getting on my own nerves. And,
as I expected, they were silent. For to send their father their love would be an acknowledgement of his continued existence, and they had made it more than clear that he was dead for them.

They helped me into the car. Matthew drove, and Martin sat with me in the back. He kept his arm around me.

‘I love you, Mum,' he whispered. ‘So does Matthew. That will never change.'

I should have been satisfied. But it was a one-parent love they were offering, and to accept it spelt betrayal. So I said nothing, and nothing more all the way home.

Once inside, I shed all those tears that, in the restaurant, had been sent back to where they came from. I saw Donald in his prison gear and I was overwhelmed with a feeling I couldn't quite define. It could have been love for him, but possibly it was one of protection. Or perhaps they were one and the same.

I prefer to think of it as two. Two to go. I was eager to make the last call of my mission. No preparations for that one. Above all, no gloves. But I had to put it out of my mind – till its proper time.

Dr Fortescue was a doddle. I read in the papers that there were witnesses. People had seen a public schoolboy. But it didn't worry me. That was all the information the newspapers divulged. Then they went pretty quiet, and I imagined the police had slipped up. Old Wilkins had probably interviewed the whole of the sixth form. Poor bugger. I must be driving him crazy.

So, a few weeks later, as much for his sake as mine, I decided to take a breather. To take Verry off for a weekend somewhere. Somewhere in the English countryside. Anywhere peaceful and quiet. Verry has been wonderful. She knows nothing of what I've been up to. And never will. There is no one I can tell. It's too painful. Far too painful. But in so far as a man of my nature and experience can love at all, I have loved Verry with all that is left of my heart. I've done my best by her. So I decided on a little English village. A shrinkless village, where I would not be tempted. Where I would live gloveless for a while, and bide my time.

We drove to a little Kentish hamlet where I'd heard of a small country house that welcomed weekend guests. Verry was so excited. That's what I love about her. She has not totally left her childhood behind. She whooped with joy at the sight of the four-poster bed, and I considered myself
blessed. I felt safe with her. Safe from questioning. She is a monument to total acceptance.

I was glad to be out of London. To distance myself from the site of my pain was a measure of relief. But only a measure. Because my mind was never free of my crusade and the agony that had launched it. There are two Donald Dorrickses, one whom Verry and the boys know. But only I know the other Donald and I have to keep it a secret because it is untellable. I wonder sometimes whether the fulfilment of my mission will soften the pain, that when it is complete, the other Donald can freely be known, for it is too heavy a burden to carry alone.

I had to change my shirt before dinner. I persuaded Verry to go downstairs and wait for me at the bar. She agreed without any demur, which surprised me because Verry is shy by nature. But she is also obedient. I adjusted my tie and looked in the mirror, and I wondered which Donald I was seeing. Or rather which Donald the mirror reflected. For sometimes I confuse the two of them, and that is a dangerous jungle that might well unhinge me before my mission is accomplished.

Verry was waiting for me at the bar. She was talking animatedly to a woman, and I wondered what had happened to my shrinking violet of a wife. I think that the sight of the four-poster bed must have boosted her confidence. I approached them, and Verry made the introductions.

‘This is my husband,' she said, and I put out my hand to the woman.

‘Mary Wilkins,' she said. ‘My husband will be along shortly. We're here for the weekend.'

As she was speaking, I noticed how my outstretched hand was trembling. It was the name that was melting my bowels. There are thousands of Wilkinses, I told myself, as I limply
shook her hand, but the name was enough to unman me. I wanted to flee before her husband's arrival. I would know his face. It had appeared often enough in the newspapers and on television on my behalf. A bewildered face, frustrated, and with good reason. And then it presented itself at my side. And I trembled.