Caedmon’s Song (22 page)

‘It’s not as simple as that, Kirsten.’ Elswick shifted in his chair. ‘When you were in hospital—’

‘He’s already tried?’

‘Yes. You must have noticed that we had a man on the door all the time. As soon as news of your survival hit the papers, the attacker came back. Apparently he must have entered the
hospital dressed as an orderly. He can’t have been all that bright, otherwise he’d have known we’d be guarding you. Anyway, when he turned the corner, he spotted the constable and
ducked quickly back the way he came. Our man was good. He saw from the corner of his eye that someone was behaving suspiciously, but he had orders not to leave his post. A more headstrong bobby
might have done just that. But if he’d gone chasing after the intruder, looking for the glory of an arrest, then he could easily have got lost in the maze of corridors and chummy
could’ve nipped back in and . . .’

‘Finished me off?’

‘Yes. Instead, the constable stayed put and called in on his radio, but by the time we got there our man was long gone. We didn’t even get a description.’

And he never tried again?’

‘No. Not as far as we know.’

‘Does he know where I live?’

‘I don’t think so. How could he? The press details were sketchy. The local police have been warned to keep a lookout for any strangers in the area, but I don’t think
you’ve got anything to worry about.’

Kirsten thought of all her walks in the woods, all the times she had lingered in the streets of Bath after sessions with Dr Henderson. She felt a sudden chill. ‘Why didn’t you tell
me all this before?’ she asked.

‘We didn’t want to alarm you.’

‘Thanks a lot.’

Elswick leaned forward and rested his palms on his knees. ‘Believe me, Kirsten, you’ve been perfectly safe. I can understand how you feel, but look at it this way. Whoever attacks
you is worried when he hears you’ve survived, so he rushes over to the hospital with some half-baked scheme of trying to silence you. He fails. Time goes by, he no doubt loses track of you
when you come down here, and lo and behold, it’s already three months ago and nothing’s happened to him. He’s still free as a bird. So obviously, from his point of view, you
can’t know anything, you’re not a threat.’

‘Until he strikes again?’

‘I still don’t think you’re in any danger. We’ll keep an eye on you, don’t worry, but it’s more for form’s sake than anything else.’

Kirsten felt a little relieved. There was some truth in what Elswick had said. If anything was going to happen, it would have happened long before now. And she wasn’t about to start
walking around in fear of her life; it wasn’t worth that much. Though she no longer felt suicidal, she did feel reckless sometimes and often drove the car too fast or walked alone after dark
in streets she shouldn’t visit. Even genteel Bath had its seedy characters and sleazy areas. So she wasn’t going to give in to fear. She had determined not to spend the rest of her life
jumping at every sound and running from every shadow. If he found her, so be it; may the best person win. More than anything, she was angry at the police for being so useless and for joining the
growing list of people who didn’t want to ‘alarm’ her by telling her the truth.

‘Why does he do it?’ she asked. ‘Mutilate women like that. Why does he hate us so much?’

Elswick shook his head. ‘If we knew the answer to that we might have an easier job stopping him. Usually it’s a him, and that’s about all we can be sure of. Who can say what
sets them off? We have people in to do profiles and doctors write books, but who knows really? Often it’s prostitutes they go after, but this time it seems to be female students, if
we’re reading the pattern correctly. No doubt there’s a million unresolved conflicts from his childhood on, that have turned him into what he is. Perhaps he was sexually abused. But
plenty of other people suffer from cruel parents and don’t turn into killers. We don’t know what the trigger is that makes the odd one different.’ He shrugged. ‘I suppose it
comes down to fear, really. People like him are terrified by women, whatever the reason, and the only thing they can do about it, because of the kind of people they are, is strike out and despoil
and kill.’

‘How do you know it’s the same person?’ Kirsten asked. ‘You said something earlier about the similarity of injuries.’

Elswick looked at her grimly. ‘Do you really want to know?’ he asked.

Kirsten wasn’t sure, but she certainly didn’t intend to give in. ‘Considering that so much else has been kept from me, I think I have a right, don’t you?’

Elswick sat back and studied her face for a moment. ‘All right,’ he said. ‘The wounds were the same, the areas he used his knife on were the same; there was also bruising about
the face consistent with punching and slapping. And that strange cross he cut, with the long vertical and short horizontal just below the breasts, that was found on her body, too. Do you want me to
go on?’

Kirsten nodded.

‘When he was with you, he was disturbed. The dog, we assume. Up to that point your injuries are identical with those of the other victim.’

‘What killed her, then?’

‘She was strangled.’ Elswick pinched his nose, then scratched the mole lightly. ‘Oh, she’d no doubt have died of loss of blood or internal bleeding, but just to make
sure, the bastard strangled her. And according to our forensic experts, he did this
after
he had inflicted the other injuries.’

‘Are you saying that she was conscious while he did all . . . what he did to me?’

Elswick shook his head. ‘We don’t know. It would have been difficult for him if she’d been able to struggle. The blows to the face and head were probably enough to cause loss
of consciousness, and it seems that they were the first injuries. He grabbed her from behind, threw her down onto the ground, straddled her, pinning her arms down with his knees, and then began
beating her about the face. Perhaps it wasn’t until she was unconscious that he went on to the more serious business. And this time he wasn’t disturbed.’

Kirsten felt sick. She could feel the blood drain from her cheeks. She struggled to control herself. She wasn’t going to be sick. She wasn’t going to let Elswick say, ‘I told
you so.’ She wouldn’t appear as the weak woman in front of these men who were intimate with every aspect of her brutalization. To cover up her discomfort, she poured another cup of tea.
Inspector Gregory shook his head quickly when offered some. He was so still and silent he seemed really to have become part of the chair.

‘What we were wondering,’ Elswick went on slowly, ‘was whether you’d remembered anything else, no matter how insignificant or unimportant it might seem to you.’

Kirsten shook her head. ‘No, I haven’t. I’ve tried, of course, but after what I told you, it’s all still a blank.’

‘You see,’ Elswick persisted, ‘what we think is that the victim must have still been conscious, at least at the time he threw her onto her back. And if that’s so, then it
might have been the same with you. You might have got a glimpse of his face. Maybe he was wearing a mask or a stocking, but even that could help us. Or maybe he said something. Anything.’

‘I’m sorry,’ Kirsten said, ‘really I am. But I just can’t remember. You might be right. Maybe I did see his face, maybe he did talk to me. But I
can’t
remember.
Do you think I don’t want to? Of course I’d like to help you, but I can’t. After that rough hand closed over my mouth, I can’t remember a thing.’ She
felt tears in her eyes and fought to hold them back.

‘There was a moon that night,’ Elswick said.

‘Yes. I was looking for it when . . . before. But I couldn’t see it.’

‘It was there, behind you, just over the tops of the trees. We’ve checked.’

‘Why?’

‘Light. Because if you were conscious when he pushed you down to the ground, there would have been just enough light to make out at least something about his appearance. It was a clear
night – a bit hazy maybe – and there was a full moon.’

‘But I can’t have been conscious,’ Kirsten said. ‘I don’t remember.’

‘Never mind, then.’ Elswick glanced over at Inspector Gregory, who slipped his notebook back in the inside pocket of his tan jacket, and both men swung forward in their chairs,
preparing to leave. ‘I’m sorry to have brought such bad news and stirred up painful memories,’ Elswick went on, getting to his feet. His knees cracked and he put his hand to the
small of his back as if it hurt. ‘Getting old. I hear you’ve been seeing a doctor, Kirsten.’

‘There’s not much you don’t know, is there?’ Kirsten said. ‘As a matter of fact, yes, I have. Her name’s Laura Henderson and she’s a
psychiatrist.’

Elswick smiled indulgently. ‘Yes, we know.’

‘Don’t tell me – you checked her out?’

‘It’s standard procedure in cases like this.’ Elswick followed her out of the room down to the hall. ‘Doing you any good?’

‘Yes, I think she is. She says my loss of memory might be anterograde amnesia, caused by the trauma.’

‘Hmm, yes, we’d heard. And it’s consistent with the facts. All you remember is the hand, and you’ve blotted out all the violence, all the pain. According to our medical
experts, the memory may or may not come back.’

‘You’ve certainly done your homework, haven’t you, Superintendent?’

Elswick seemed embarrassed again. He changed moods remarkably quickly for a policeman, Kirsten thought. One minute he was all confident and superior, the next he was avuncular, and then he got
all tongue-tied. This time she decided to help him.

‘What is it you want?’ she asked. ‘Do you want to talk to her? Do you want access to her records of our sessions? They won’t tell you anything, you know.’

‘Er, no, no, that won’t be necessary,’ Elswick said as Kirsten handed them their coats from the hall cupboard. She sensed from his hesitation that he might already have had
such access or could easily get it if he wanted, and she felt a surge of anger towards Laura.

‘What I was wondering was,’ he went on, scratching his mole again – Kirsten felt like telling him to get it seen to before it turned cancerous – ‘was, well, with
the doctor’s permission, of course, I was wondering if you’d consider trying hypnosis?’

SUSAN

‘It was partly the way you smoke your cigarette,’ Keith said. ‘Everybody’s different. You hold it straight out between your first two fingers like a
real lady, or like you’re just pretending to smoke.’ He grinned. ‘But why the change in appearance? You look so
feminine.
I mean, not that you didn’t before,
it’s just . . .’ He slowed to a halt.

Sue smiled and flicked her cigarette end onto the sand. ‘You know what they say: a change is as good as a rest.’ Why the hell did he have to turn up? she asked herself. And what am I
supposed to do about him?

‘Did you need a rest?’

‘No, I needed a change.’

They both laughed.

‘But seriously, Martha,’ he persisted, ‘it’s almost as if you’re trying to avoid someone. You aren’t, are you?’

‘It’s nothing but a skirt and a blouse. You’re acting as if I’m dressed like Richard III or something.’

‘There
is
the wig.’

Sue touched the false hair. ‘I was sick of having it short. I couldn’t wait.’

‘And the make-up.’

‘Can’t a girl put a bit of lipstick on any more?’

Keith smiled. ‘I’m still not convinced. I think you’re a spy. I just don’t know whose side you’re on.’

He seemed happy to meet up with her again, despite the sour note they had parted on, but she could tell he was suspicious by the way he studied her. He had recognized her without much
difficulty, that was clear enough. Maybe it was because he fancied her, and when you fancy someone you notice little things like how they hold their cigarettes and the way they walk. She was sure
that strangers, people she had passed in the street or sat near in a pub, wouldn’t connect her with the short-haired, tomboyish Martha Browne. But Keith could be a problem.

‘What are you doing up here?’ he asked.

‘Just taking a break for the day. And you? I’d have thought you’d be in Edinburgh by now.’

‘Oh no, I’m moving very slowly. First Sandsend, then Runswick Bay, now Staithes.’ Sue noticed again how pronounced his Australian accent was: Staithes came out as Stythes.
‘I’m in no hurry,’ he went on. ‘I might never see these places again. And the weather’s been so bloody good. Another first in England from what I’ve heard. You
still in Whitby?’

‘Yes.’

‘Still in the same bed and breakfast?’

‘Yes.’

‘Still get black pudding for breakfast?’

‘Most days.’

Sue’s mind was working fast. She didn’t want to be noticed with him in public, for a start, and they could hardly get more public than here on the sea wall. Luckily, though, there
was hardly anyone around at the moment. One or two people sat on the beach, but they were facing the sea, and two blonde children, dressed identically in white shorts and blue and red striped
T-shirts, stood eating ice-cream cones near the Cod and Lobster. Everyone else was either in the pub, at the shops, or waiting for lunch in the restaurant. The steep hill down to the village
probably put a lot of older visitors off, too, Sue thought. No matter how warm it was, people so much liked to sit in their cars right beside the sea, but they couldn’t do that here. Though
it was easy enough getting down to the beach, the walk back up the hill was no doubt too great a price for many to pay for a day at the seaside.

So far, no one had so much as glanced at them. The first thing to do was get Keith away somewhere off the beaten track, then she would be able to think clearly. She didn’t like the idea
that was forming, forcing itself on her, but she hadn’t thought of another way out yet.

‘What are your plans?’ he asked.

‘Well,’ Sue said, ‘I was intending to walk along the coast to Runswick Bay, then catch the bus back to Whitby. What do you think? Is it too far?’

‘No, it’s not far at all. I’ve done it myself. Nothing to it. Tell you what, if you’ve no objection, I’ll come with you. There’s an even better walk in my
guidebook, though. You walk along the cliffs to Port Mulgrave, then cut back inland through some woods and circle around to the main road. That’ll take you to your bus stop, and me back to
Staithes. How about it?’