Nine Lives (14 page)

But not so much with fear as with a sudden exhilaration. And sense of power. For it was by my leave that the man was here in the first place. It was I who had given him a breather. I did not view it as a coincidence that, out of the thousands of English hotels, we had both chosen the same. It was not mere accident. It was fate. Chosen and planned. And I felt that I had engineered it all; that poor old Wilkins was my bait and that though I could use him to catch nothing, I could dangle him at my pleasure.

‘Are you on holiday?' Verry was asking.

‘Just a couple of days,' Wilkins said. ‘Have to be back at work on Monday.'

I was tempted to tell him that there was no need. That there would be no devastating shrink-note waiting for him on his desk and that I would take my own time in causing one. I would make him itch for clues I would not leave, for witnesses who had seen nothing, for prints that were invisible. I would dangle him on my hook until I was ready to offer him a catchful of promise, but one that would get away like all the others.

And with these thoughts in mind, was it any wonder that I felt I had him in my power? I gave him my hand, the only print he'd ever get out of me.

‘Pleased to meet you,' I said. I gripped his proffered paw.

He would not forget that handshake. Nor my name, which I donated loud and clear.

‘Donald. Donald Dorricks,' I said. It was a name, then unknown, a name to be reckoned with at a future date, a date that I would determine. Then he would recall that handshake of mine, even feel it once more and his hand would tingle with rage and my name in his ear would thunder with fury.

I suggested we dine together. The enjoyment of power has no limits. Over the meal, we discussed our professions. I offered mine first. An accountant. It held no interest for anybody, least of all for myself. I wanted to get it over and done with because I was anxious to hear of Wilkins' profession, and to feign fascination in a calling of which I was already acutely aware. When he gave it across the table, Verry, bless her, was excited and it was she who introduced the murders and asked for Wilkins' prognosis.

He feigned an optimism in which he clearly had no confidence. ‘We're on to him,' he said. ‘It won't be long now.'

You're sitting right next to him, you silly bugger, I thought, and my sense of power was sublime. I could barely contain myself and, for my own relief, I changed the subject and asked them whether they had been to the Manor House before and what they knew of the county. It turned out that Mrs Wilkins was originally from these parts and this topic of conversation, though dull, lasted us through dinner. I have to confess to a measure of relief when the meal was over and especially when they announced that they would be leaving early in the morning to call on one of Mrs Wilkins' relatives who lived in the area. To add to my relief, no attempt was made to exchange addresses with the purpose of further meetings. That would have been a terrible risk, and a threat to that power of mine that was already perilously close to explosion. But its euphoria lingered for the remainder of the weekend and in its glow, I treated Verry with all the love of which
I am pathetically capable. I gave no thought to a further sortie of my mission. Delay would give me pleasure, for I could keep Wilkins waiting. Let him trumpet his empty optimism, nurture his futile hopes. His prognosis was at my dictation. His future was in my hands, and he could do nothing about it.

STILL SIX DOWN. THREE TO GO.

Wilkins' colleagues …

Wilkins' colleagues had urged him to take time off. They had noticed how the shrink murders were getting to him, eating away his usual confidence. He had listened to them, and gone to the Manor House for the weekend. But he couldn't relax. Every second of that weekend he was pricked with the urge to get back to work and he prayed for a note on his Monday-morning desk that would offer him another chance.

And there was indeed a note. But it irritated him.

‘What have missing persons to do with me?' he asked his deputy. ‘That's not my department. ‘Give it to Brown. Let him deal with it.'

‘It was Brown who passed it over to you,' the deputy said. ‘He thought it might be of interest.'

Wilkins picked up the memo. ‘“Georgia Yonge,”' he read aloud. ‘“Reported missing, Saturday ten-thirty p.m. Not seen or heard from for six days.” So?' Wilkins turned to his deputy. ‘What's of interest to me?'

The deputy sniled. ‘Everything, sir,' he said. ‘The woman's a psychotherapist.'

Hope kindled once more. ‘Any relatives?' Wilkins asked.

‘A husband.'

‘Let's go.' Wilkins was already reaching for his coat. ‘Without doubt my department,' he said.

Mr Yonge himself opened the door. He wore that distraught look that Wilkins expected.

‘May we come in?' the deputy asked, having shown his identity. They were invited inside.

‘Have you found her?' Mr Yonge asked, fear in his voice.

‘No,' Wilkins said. ‘Not yet. We just wanted a word.'

They were not asked to sit down. Mr Yonge was a pacer and in the circumstances he felt no one else was entitled to relax. Wilkins asked the usual questions. Had there been a domestic quarrel? A crisis of any kind? Something special that would have worried her?

‘No.' And emphatically, Mr Yonge added, ‘Absolutely nothing!' He insisted they had a good marriage, protested rather, which seemed to give the lie to that statement. Wilkins was losing hope. This disappearance was a simple domestic and had nothing to do with his department. The woman would turn up, sooner or later.

And indeed she did. Washed up on the shoreline, some miles from home, and after a week in the water. It was then that witnesses came forward. A woman had been seen leaning over Battersea bridge. Another witness actually saw her jump. But from afar, and too distant to try to stop her. No, she hadn't reported it. Didn't want to get involved. Didn't think it was any of her business. ‘If she wanted to make an end to life,' she shouted at Wilkins, ‘I didn't see why I should interfere. And it's none of your business either,' she added.

So that was poor Mrs Yonge wrapped up, and her husband to be comforted. But apart from the comfort, there was the search for motive. And it was this aspect of the case that Wilkins sensed as a clue to the larger investigation.

He left the comfort to a woman officer, and after she had done her ‘sorry' bit, he called on Mr Yonge to pump him for motive.

For some time, the man insisted on a happy marriage and he was at pains to provide proof and illustration. It was
up to Wilkins to ask the leading question. ‘Was your good wife in any way disturbed by the spate of killings of those in her profession?'

It was as if the widower had been waiting for such a question, unwilling to suggest such a connection himself. And then he came into his own, and there was nothing stopping him. ‘Of course,' he said. ‘She worried about it all the time. Ever since the whole terrible business started. She took every precaution, but I work in the City and she was alone most of the time. With each killing, she got more and more depressed. She knew Dr Fortescue very well. They were close friends. They met at conferences. And it wouldn't surprise me if it was his murder that tipped her balance. When are you going to catch him, Inspector?'

Then the man just fell into weeping and Wilkins suspected there was more to Mrs Yonge's friendship with Dr Fortescue, a friendship that went beyond the conference table. But all that was now irrelevant, except for the obvious and frightening threat of spin-off. A spin-off that might lead to further suicides and breakdowns, and a depressing pall of responsibility engulfed him. Another murder, he begged to himself. Just give me one more chance, and I'll crack it.

Although Mrs Yonge had not been a murder victim, Wilkins nevertheless went to her funeral, in the vain, yet eternal, hope that he would find the stranger. It was a small gathering, with few mourners. As far as he could ascertain, there were no patients present, which hardly surprised him. But there were no colleagues either. It was as if no one wished to be associated with the event, lest they be seen as suitable targets for the next elimination. Fear made for a barren burial, and Mr Yonge wept alone.

When Wilkins returned to his desk, he again recapped on the previous killings, and as before discovered no clues. What's more, the public was getting angry. The newspapers were full of letters of protest and indignation – all with addresses withheld. The Government was also disturbed and pressure was brought to bear on the Chief Constable who, with little hesitation, passed it on to Wilkins. At one point he even suggested that Wilkins take a short break. But Wilkins would have none of it. He would not let it go. He would get to the bottom of it. But how he would reach that bottom, he had absolutely no idea.

Visiting day …

Visiting day. I was up early. I took great care with my dressing. I needed to look attractive. Not only for Donald's sake, but for my own. For I was lacking in confidence and unsure of my feelings, and although good dressing would affect neither, it would cloak my doubts in the eyes of the outside world. But that world did not include Mrs Cox, whom I had no wish to fool, for I knew that we were sisters under the skin. I looked forward to seeing her again. I would not mention the boys during my visit, and I relied on Donald to do likewise. I took him some extra brushes and paints but I had lost confidence in their association with Alcatraz and Hollywood. All that was cloud-cuckoo land and I realised that such dreaming was too insubstantial to tide me over Donald's prison term. I would have to find another way. I intended to spend the duration of the train journey to Portsmouth working out some alternative.

I arrived early at the station and the train was already standing at the platform. I found myself a comfortable window seat facing the engine. I like to see where I am going. I took out my notebook and a pen to jot down my thoughts, for I find that when I translate them into words I have to take them more seriously. To begin with, I wrote the heading: ‘The boys' suggestions.' I wish I'd never thought of it, and certainly not as a first choice. So I was deeply relieved to see Mrs Cox making her way down the carriage. On seeing me, she smiled and settled herself on the seat opposite mine.

‘Here we go again,' she said. ‘And I don't know why. Sometimes I don't think he'd miss me if I didn't visit.'

‘Of course he would,' I said, and I thought what a blessing it would be for us both, if our men were indifferent to our visits. Then we could simply stop going and no one could apportion blame. But I would miss my visits. They were the punctuation of my life. They measured my days, and without them, I would surely crumble.

I noticed that Mrs Cox was holding a carrier-bag. ‘What have you brought him?' I asked.

‘A couple of books he asked for. Gardening books. About roses. He's fixed on them. They let him tend the prison gardens from time to time.'

The word ‘redemption' came to my mind. And I wondered whether he had been rose-fixated before he axed his wife's mother. And, as if she read my thoughts, Mrs Cox said, ‘Roses have been his hobby since he was a boy. There's nothing he doesn't know about them.'

It didn't add up. Roses and murder, and I wondered how it added up for Mrs Cox.

‘I'm going on holiday next month,' she said. ‘I shall miss my next visit. And I'm afraid to tell him.'

‘You're entitled to a holiday,' I said, and wondered whether I should take one myself. ‘You can't serve his sentence to keep him company.'

‘He'll go bananas,' she said.

And he did. In the visitors room, and in the hearing and sight of prisoners and visitors, the word ‘Holiday?' he yelled. The offensive word shook the chairs and tables, which rocked into silence. Mr Cox was standing, his hands stretched towards his wife's neck, and had he not been quickly restrained, she would surely have joined her late lamented mother.

They took him away. His wife looked after him helplessly, then she made her own way out of the room, and I knew that soon I would find her crouched in the back of the bus, weeping her heart out.

The silence persisted. What had happened was a private matter and invited no comment, and it would have seemed insensitive to continue conversation that had been so rudely interrupted. But I took advantage of the event and I told Donald that all the woman wanted was a holiday and that was not such a terrible idea. And it only meant missing one visit. I was testing him, for I had in mind a holiday of my own. Then I thought that as far as Mr Cox was concerned, it was not the missed visit that vexed him. It was the thought of his wife having fun that caused his distress. That she could actually go off and enjoy herself when any kind of enjoyment was denied him. I wondered whether Donald would suffer the same resentment.

‘Why shouldn't she take a holiday?' Donald obliged. ‘You should take one too. Go up to Scotland. Stay with Frieda.' Frieda is my cousin.
She's
got a manageable name. Pronounceable. But we're not very close. I think I'm jealous of her. Especially since Donald's episode. She's married and cosy, with two kids who live happily at home. I wouldn't visit Frieda. I couldn't bear her smugness. No. I'd go off on my own somewhere. A little hotel. By the Lakes perhaps. Or preferably somewhere hot. I'd stand at the bar. I'd had a rehearsal at the Manor House and that had led to good companionship. It could happen again. Someone would talk to me. I could be anybody, a hairdresser, a dress-designer, or even, God forgive me, a widow. The last thing I needed to be was a lag's leftover.

I became quite excited. ‘I might do that, Donald,' I said. ‘But between visits. I wouldn't want to miss one.'

He smiled at me. ‘You're a good girl, Verry,' he said, and then I loved him all over again, and I knew that as long as I lived I would never desert him. And perhaps during my holiday, I could put pity aside.