Hands of the Ripper (21 page)

Anna was embarrassed at this, partially at the childish, prudish way it was expressed, partly by the thought of John overhearing. She hushed Soft Mother, busying herself with sponge and soap.

Soft Mother wouldn’t be quietened.

‘There’s nothing wrong with it, you know,’ she said while Anna dunked her hair beneath the shower head.
‘Sometimes
that fruit is the best thing a girl has to keep her safe.’

‘It didn’t work for you, did it?’ Anna replied and then bit her lip. She didn’t want to upset Soft Mother, she was just being defensive.

‘Well, dear, your father didn’t really like that sort of thing. His attitude towards women left a lot to be desired.’

It occurred to Anna that thinking they were little more than sex objects, as Soft Mother seemed to do, left a lot to be desired too. She didn’t say as much though as she didn’t want to argue with Soft Mother. Soft Mother couldn’t help being a bit backward in her beliefs.

‘I don’t think John wants that,’ she repeated, ‘I think he just wants company, and someone to look after. John’s a very sad man.’

‘Indeed he is,’ agreed Soft Mother, ‘but I think it’s you that doesn’t want more than company.’

Anna didn’t reply to that, just cupped her hand and filled it with shampoo.

‘Is it such a terrifying notion?’ asked Soft Mother. ‘Is it more than you can bear to do in order to keep hold of him? Won’t you regret it when he tells you to leave because you didn’t give him what he wanted?’

‘He wouldn’t do that.’

‘Are you so sure? He certainly wouldn’t throw you out for offering though, would he? What man is offended by the idea of a woman wanting to crawl on top of him, eh? What man could fail to be flattered?’

‘I don’t know …’

‘Yes you do! Listen to your mother for once, if you
want
a man to love you then you need to loosen up a little.’

Anna leaned back and forced frothy shampoo from her hair. Could Soft Mother be right? She had nothing against the idea of sex, whatever Soft Mother might think, though she certainly had very little experience in it. Living in the prison of Aida Golding’s house her opportunities had been virtually non-existent. She’d still be a virgin were it not for the fact that Glen Logan couldn’t keep his hands to himself once he’d had a few drinks.

She thought about it. Imagined what it might feel like with someone softer and more considerate than Glen. Someone who might actually care about how it felt for her.

‘You know I’m right,’ said Soft Mother as Anna leaned back against the tiles and gave in to a her imagination, letting her fingers wander.

Perhaps she was.

Anna turned off the shower and reached for a towel. She looked at herself in the mirror. Was it such a bad face? Such a bad body? Maybe not. Maybe it was something she could offer John in return for all his kindnesses.

She heard him coming up the stairs.

‘I’ve got you a brandy,’ he shouted to her. ‘Is there anything else you want?’

She dropped the towel, walked over to the door and opened it.

‘Yes,’ she replied, standing naked in front of him – and didn’t that feel exciting and liberating? She took
power
from the way he stared, his eyes unable to hold onto her face, wandering irresistibly down her body. Of course he wanted her! Soft Mother was right, as always.

She walked across the landing and kissed him.

John had no idea what to do. Yes, he had thought about Anna while waiting downstairs. Had admitted to himself that he found her attractive. But could he really allow himself to give in to such an idea? He was more than twice her age and she was clearly not in control of her actions.

His mind went blank for a moment, unable to process anything but the taste of her mouth and the way her body felt pressed against his. She was hot, straight from the shower and steam was actually rising off her skin as she pushed him back against the wall. He felt his clothes dampening. Felt himself stiffening, the thought of her becoming aware of his erection both thrilling and shocking him out of the sensation.

‘No,’ he said, pulling away. ‘I can’t.’

Her face fell instantly and he wished for nothing more than to take back what he had said, she seemed so crushed.

‘I thought you wanted …’ she looked like she was about to cry.

‘I’m sorry,’ he insisted, ‘it’s not that I don’t find you attractive. Of course I do. I just—’

‘Forget it,’ she said, pushing past him and into her room, closing the door quickly behind her.

John stood there, both drinks still in his hands.

*

Anna climbed straight into bed, wanting to hide under the sheets where nobody could look at her.

‘I told you he didn’t want that,’ she told Soft Mother, pressing her face into the pillow to deaden the noise. ‘I told you.’

‘Yes dear,’ Soft Mother replied. ‘Stopped him asking any more awkward questions though, didn’t it?’

John sat down on the edge of the spare bed.

‘
Fuck
,’ he said, absolutely at a loss as to how the night had gone so wrong so quickly. He drank his own drink. Then, still angry with himself, he drank hers.

He put the empty glasses on the bedside table, stripped and climbed into bed. His chest burned with cheap brandy and embarrassment.

‘Fuck,’ he repeated. He closed his eyes and reached under the duvet to imagine how things might have gone if he had only said yes to Anna.

Thirteen

‘They’ll Kill Someone One of These Days’

THE FOLLOWING MORNING
, John left for work before Anna got up. On his return both of them moved politely around each other, steadfastly refusing to mention what had happened the night before. After a while both of them relaxed, he telling her about his day, her asking questions about all his students. She seemed to find every detail of his working life thrilling, which it wasn’t, but he couldn’t help but enjoy the attention.

That night they went to their separate beds he smiling, she laughing about a particularly innocuous joke he’d made.

It had clearly been decided, by mutual consent, that the night before would simply not be mentioned.

This set the standard for the days that followed. John went to work; Anna became the old-fashioned housewife. After so long looking after himself – and since Jane had worked more hours than he did before her illness forced her to retire he had always taken the lion’s share of the housework – John found it awkward to begin with. Everything was always immaculate, a drink pressed into his hand as he came through
the
door, food laid out on the table shortly after. He felt like he’d taken residency in a seventies’ sitcom. He realised she was trying to be useful, no, more than that …
essential
, so that he didn’t decide to revoke his invitation for her to stay. He tried to explain that it was unnecessary, that she could stay as long as she liked and that she certainly didn’t have to repay him by becoming the house slave. She would just laugh and tell him not to be so silly, she liked helping out, liked keeping busy, what was the matter? Did he not like her cooking? At which point, backed into a corner, he would simply confess that he liked it just fine and stopped complaining.

Of course, there was a great deal of truth in what she said. Anna was desperately avoiding finding herself at a loose end. She wanted to be busy, focused on simple tasks, dashing from one place to another. As long as she had that she could ignore the voices – for the most part at least – and convince herself that life really was no more complex or threatening than a series of rooms to tidy and meals to cook.

Michael and Laura visited again and John was pleased to see that the first night hadn’t been a fluke, the company was easy and everyone got on well. In fact, Laura and Anna made plans to see each other during the following week, for ‘girls’ adventures’ they said, laughing together as naturally and confidently as if they had known each other for years.

Anna didn’t suffer from another of her ‘blanks’ – at least, John admitted, if she did he was unaware of the fact – and he found he was in no great hurry to discuss
it
any more. Life was too comfortable. After feeling uneasy in his own house for so long he couldn’t bring himself to rock the boat. Let things continue as they were. He was happy.

Plans for Michael and Laura to move in continued, helped, John was sure, by the clear friendship developing between the two women. They began to discuss how the house might be split, how they could best afford to double up on the amenities. While sketching out a plan of the rooms, John realised he had included space for Anna without even thinking about it, she had become part of the household in his head and therefore needed to be accounted for. How easy it is, he decided, to change your life completely within the space of only a few weeks.

Laura and Anna made regular trips into the city, both of them insisting on ‘doing the tourist thing’. Anna was only too happy to visit the well-worn old haunts, despite having lived in London all her life she had seen very little of it. Not that she would have minded even if she had, to be able to live a normal life, with a friend on her arm, was more than she had ever hoped for.

Michael got a job touring an Agatha Christie play around provincial seaside towns. The money wasn’t great but it was better than nothing and he joked about the pleasure of killing members of his cast on a daily basis (twice during matinees).

‘They’re all failed soap stars,’ he said, ‘or creaking comic turns from the eighties. You’ve never known a more poisonous group of people, they deserve everything I give them, with knife, axe and garrotte!’

While he was on the road, Laura moved in with John and Anna. She was perfectly capable of looking after herself, she insisted, but it seemed pointless not to make the most of their company when they were all getting on so well.

It was a shame that it was all to be lost so quickly. But lost it would be, and it started with a visit from Lord Llewellyn Probert.

Probert found John alone at the university. He and Anna had travelled in together (as had become something of a habit of late) and to his relief Probert arrived just after she had left his office to do some shopping. John hated to think how she would have reacted had she been present for the conversation between the two men, no doubt it would have done much to ruin her current contented feelings.

‘You free for a chat?’ asked Probert, catching John between his office and the main lecture hall.

‘Actually, I’m lecturing in a few minutes.’ John felt absurdly embarrassed at the sight of the Lord here at his place of work. It was as if something private had been brought out into the open. He glanced around in discomfort, wondering who might be watching.

‘It’s important, I’m afraid. Is there somewhere we can talk privately?’

‘I can’t just go wandering off,’ John replied. ‘Can it not wait?’

‘Not really. Leave them a note to say you’ll be late.’ Probert seemed almost as uncomfortable as John when he admitted: ‘It’s about Anna.’

That was enough to beat down John’s complaints and he passed on a message to one of his students that he’d be there as soon as possible.

He led Probert to his office, finally regaining some of his confidence once they were out of the public eye.

‘How did you find me?’ John asked, then brushed the question away. ‘You know, forget it, I’m sure it’s not difficult for someone like you.’

‘No,’ Probert agreed with a smile, ‘it isn’t. I just asked the police.’

‘Why then? I mean, is everything all right about that night? About …?’

‘Father Goss? Yes, at least in the way you mean. There’s quite a lot you don’t know, I imagine, unless you read about Alasdair?’

‘What about him?’

Probert tried to get comfortable on the small chair he’d been given, stacks of books and magazines in his way. ‘Is there nowhere with a little more space?’

‘Alasdair,’ John repeated, ‘what should I have read about Alasdair?’

‘He was murdered,’ Probert replied, giving up and resting his left foot on a stack of old test papers. ‘During one of Golding’s demonstrations. His skull was caved in and then he was nailed to the door of the meeting hall. The murderer took a knife and …’ Probert mimed a cut from groin to throat. ‘When they opened the door he spilled out everywhere.’

John couldn’t think what to say to that so he kept silent.

Eventually, Probert continued. ‘Golding dragged me
in
because she was convinced that whoever had murdered Alasdair intended to kill her next. In fact, she thought it was Anna.’

‘She thought what?’ John was genuinely confused; he couldn’t place the two ideas together in his head. ‘She thought Anna was next?’

‘No.’ Probert sighed, clearly finding all this exceedingly unpleasant. ‘She thought Anna was the murderer.’

‘Ridiculous.’

‘Perhaps. It certainly seemed so later. I drove her home and …’ Probert shifted awkwardly again, ‘we actually apprehended the likely culprit.’ He saw no need to explain that he had done so with the bonnet of a car. ‘Apparently, after having dealt with Alasdair, he had driven to Golding’s house meaning to carry on the good work. He killed both Alasdair’s brother and his girlfriend. Presumably he would have then lain in wait to kill Golding when she returned home.’

‘Who was he?’

‘A fellow by the name of Trevor Court. History of mental illness, there was some question of his being implicated in the murder of his brother when they were both children. Nothing could ever be proven of course but he’s been in and out of institutions and care programmes. Apparently he attended one of Golding’s demonstrations and became convinced, after she claimed to have a message for him, that she knew something about his past. He ran out of the place screaming his head off.’

Trevor
, thought John, remembering the look of panic on the man’s face at that first demonstration, the one he
had
attended with Michael. What had he said? He’d been terrified at the notion that Golding was talking to someone that had a message for him.

‘“What does he want?”’ John said.