The Various Haunts of Men (33 page)

‘I haven’t been to this place for years and I am starving.’

‘The menu’s on a blackboard behind the bar.’

‘I know and I can’t see it.’ She hauled up the Louis Vuitton and took out her spectacle case.

‘Dior?
Chanel?’

Sharon put the YSL glasses on and made a face. ‘OK, food.’

They ordered and Freya replaced her empty vodka glass with mineral water and settled back. She had no idea how she might bring Simon Serrailler’s name into the conversation but, in fact, it was relatively easy. When their crab cakes had arrived, Sharon said, ‘You know the choir AGM is next month and Peter Longley and Kay aren’t
standing again?’

‘No, I haven’t really found my way round that side of things yet.’

‘Meriel was mentioning your name. She wants you on board.’

‘Really? I’ve only just joined.’

‘Yes, she rang me. She’s an amazing woman, Meriel, knows everyone and she is just so clever at roping them into things.’

‘She’s roped me into making six chocolate truffle tortes for a hospice do and to help with the
spring fair. She must have been pretty high-powered when she was a consultant.’

‘People still speak of her in hushed tones though I gather students quaked when they were on her ward round. She’s the kind of person who should never retire. Now she has to divert all that energy into her charities.’

Their main courses arrived, the monkfish in thick meaty chunks surrounded by its lightly curried
sauce, with big bowls of fresh vegetables. Freya went to the bar to get more mineral water. She wondered if Angela Randall had ever come to a pub like this with the man for whom she had bought the expensive presents; she hoped so and that she had had some return for her extravagance. How had she met him? Where was he
now? She was sure the gifts tied in with the woman’s disappearance but was still
without a single lead. Debbie Parker, she thought, putting the deep blue bottles of water on the table between them, would almost certainly not have been to the Fox and Goose, with or without her new friends from Starly. Freya felt guilty that she did not find Debbie very interesting.

She sat down, poured herself a glass of water and then said, ‘It’s a real medical establishment, the Serrailler
family.’

‘Going back three generations. Do you know the others?’ Freya bent her head to her plate. ‘No. Though I work with Simon, of course.’

‘Yes, he’s the odd one out. His parents weren’t best pleased when he decided to become a policeman, of all things. God, I can’t believe I just said that.’

‘Don’t worry, we know we’re a pretty low form of pond life.’

‘But, to them, a Serrailler who is
not a doctor is not a true Serrailler. You’d think two out of three triplets as doctors would do, wouldn’t you?’

‘Do you know him well?’

‘Richard?’

‘I meant Simon, but yes, Richard too.’

Sharon looked at her quickly, put her knife and fork together and leaned back.

‘Hardly,’ she said. ‘He and Meriel don’t come as a couple, if you see what I mean. She does her own thing.’

‘I didn’t take to
him when we met.’

‘Nobody does. I think she’s had a tough time. He’s a very bitter man.’

‘What, about a son becoming a copper?’

‘That and Martha. Do you know about Martha?’

‘No. Do you want pudding?’

‘How do you think I get into my clothes. Coffee though.’

They ordered espressos.

‘Martha is the youngest Serrailler, about ten years younger than the triplets. She was born severely brain-damaged.
She’s in a home on the other side of Bevham. From what I’ve heard, it killed Richard. Martha represents failure to him. He had to have the perfect family, moulded to his design. It didn’t work.’

‘Poor Meriel.’

‘Yes, she’s the one who suffers. That’s why she’s always in this whirl of activity, most of which takes her away from him.’

‘Presumably he’s retired too?’

‘Yes. He was a consultant neurologist.
No one knows what he does with himself now. It certainly isn’t giving help and support to his wife.’

The coffees came, with a plate of four chocolate truffles. Sharon pushed them away. ‘How do you find Simon to work with?’ she asked.

Freya was caught off guard. Sharon was looking at her carefully.

‘He’s a very good DCI. Runs a good team.’

‘And?’

‘Sorry?’

‘Don’t say you haven’t fallen in
love with him. Every other female who has ever come up against Simon Serrailler has.’

Freya swallowed a mouthful of scalding coffee. Pain shot down her throat. Sharon leaned forward. Eager for confidences and confessions, Freya thought. Be careful, be careful. But she was desperate to talk about him and careless of everything except to know more.

‘OK,’ Sharon said, ‘I get it. Now listen –’

‘I need to know just one thing, Sharon. Is he gay? It sort of seems obvious that he would be – must be, of course he must.’

‘Good God, no,’

Freya felt sweat running down her back. Her head was swimming.

‘It’s a bit of a mystery what he is. Everyone’s tried to crack it, no one ever does. You’re a detective, you’ve got as good a chance as any. I don’t know Simon well, it’s Meriel I know, but I’ve
met a lot of people who’ve been bruised by him. He’s a charming man, handsome, cultivated, warm, good company. He’s fast-tracked up the career ladder, which is also an attractive trait. But he has broken more hearts than I’ve had hot dinners, Freya. He charms women, he’s friendly, he makes them feel they’re the only one in the world, he gives them his full attention, listens … he’s a very good
listener. Now whether it is that he simply doesn’t have a clue, I don’t know. He certainly isn’t a sadistic woman-hater, I’d put money on that. But he backs off when they start getting keen, and when he backs off he cuts off, big time. They don’t know what’s hit them. And there’s something else – no one knows where or what, but he definitely has another life away from Lafferton and the two lives
never, ever meet – they probably don’t even meet in his own brain, if you see what I mean. I’m going to order another coffee – you?’

Freya nodded. She could not have spoken a word. Sharon got up and went over to the bar. The buzz of happy conversation and laughter boomed and buzzed round the room, the smell of coffee and whiffs of cigar smoke floated in the air. It was an atmosphere she could
hide in, while she struggled to sort out her emotions.
Sharon was sharp enough to have unmasked her at once. Be careful, she warned herself again, be careful.

When she came back, she said, ‘Listen, Sharon …’

Sharon raised a hand. ‘I know. Don’t say anything to anyone.’

‘There isn’t anything to say.’

‘Whatever. You work with him, you don’t want it getting round. I’m not an idiot.’

‘There is
no “it” … really. I’m just curious.’

‘Right. Curious.’

‘All right, attracted as well.’

‘I just wanted to warn you.’

‘Warn me – or warn me off?’

‘Absolutely not – a) not my type, and b) I’m sorted. But I’ve seen too many women made very unhappy by your DCI.’

‘Thanks, I am warned. After having one man ruin some of the best years of my life, I’m not about to let it happen again. I tell you
what though – if he were gay, might he not have to keep it under wraps and away from home for one reason.’

‘His father?’

‘From what you’ve said.’

‘Could be.’

‘OK, that’s quite enough of men. If I came to one of your shops, how much discount would I get off a pair of Armani trousers?’

On the way home, Freya made a detour to the Hill. No one was about. The tapes were still across the entrances,
whipped about by the wind and giving off the reminder of death and disaster common to every crime scene. If this is a crime scene … she thought, walking slowly up
to one of the gaps that led on to the green slopes, now bare and bleak in the waning light. It was easy to conjure up ghosts here as well as images of fear and violence. On a sunny summer day, it would emanate charm and playfulness,
with children running about, people strolling with their dogs, runners sweating in singlets and lycra.

What had happened here? She knew it was here, she had a gut feeling and there were too many links. The young mountain biker had last been seen here. Jim Williams had seen Angela Randall running into the fog. Debbie Parker had taken to walking here in the early morning because she had been told
it was an auspicious time. Even Skippy the Yorkshire terrier had run away from Jim Williams into the undergrowth and vanished.

What was happening and why? Where was the link, not only between three people and a dog all last seen on the Hill, but in any other sense? Was there one? If so, it was obscure and she could get no handle on it.

She looked round again. What had always motivated her as
a police officer was a sense of owing something to the victims of crime, those who could not, for one reason or another, speak for themselves, defend and even avenge themselves, because they were either inarticulate, intimidated, or dead.

She had the same conviction now. She had to work on behalf of the missing people, even the missing dog. None of them had disappeared of their own accord, she
had no doubt.

She got back into the car and drove away, but the melancholy and loneliness of the empty Hill clung to her all the way home.

Lunch with Sharon had been enjoyable and a complete
change, regardless of the real reason behind her invitation. With some slight reservation, Freya liked her, and would try and sustain the friendship, though she would never trust her with secrets, there
had been too much of an eager gleam in her eye, and a longing for gossip. Freya could keep silent about anything to do with her work. But it was not work that she had wanted to talk to Sharon Medcalf about.

For the rest of the afternoon, she involved herself in displacement activity – supermarket shopping, washing and ironing. She cleaned the bathroom and had a shower. She watched the early television
news.

At half past eight, she went out. She had no plan, she simply went, parking at the side of the cathedral where she ought to have been the night of the choir practice.

It was dark. The streets were quiet. The Close was empty apart from a woman on a bicycle and three boys walking towards the choir school. Freya lingered until they had gone in, then she walked, keeping to the shadows, towards
the end houses.

He might still be at the station, or out on some police business. His flat would be in darkness and she would have wasted her time. If the lights were on, meaning that he was there, she would be happy. She could stand and look up, picture him in the room, stay as long as she needed. There was no question of her ringing his bell. She was not such a fool.

As she stepped across
the grass at the side of the path, she heard a car. Simon Serrailler drove past her. Freya stopped dead. If he turned, he would see her. She stepped back into the shadows.

A couple of other cars were parked outside his house. Simon drew up beside them and the headlamps were
doused but in the light of the street lamp Freya saw both car doors open. He got out first, and then a woman. She was slim
and slight, and wore a pale trench coat.

Freya felt suddenly, horribly sick. She wanted to run, she wanted not to see but had to see, had to stand watching, taking in every detail.

They walked towards his building, but instead of going in, stopped at one of the other parked cars. Simon had his arm round the woman’s shoulders and was bending to say something. At the car, she turned to him and
he held his arms out to her.

Freya turned away. She could not run, she was paralysed, if she had been caught now, she would have been as frozen as a wild creature in headlamps. She did not want to see any more, she wanted not to be here, enduring all this. She was furious with herself.

She heard the car door slam, the engine start, the wheels turn on the cobbles. She looked up quickly. Simon
was standing in his doorway, his hand raised. Then, as the car drove quickly away, past Freya, he turned, pushed open the front door, and went in.

Freya waited. It had begun to rain. In a couple of minutes, the lights went on at the top of the dark building. She pictured the flat, the lamps, the pictures. Simon. Then, she walked away.

He thought he knew everything about himself. He had spent so much time alone, searching his own soul, trying to trace everything he did and thought and needed back to its source, that he would have said he could never be surprised again.

He had known for so long what he must do, and why. He had known what gave him the satisfaction that was only ever temporary, the pieces of knowledge
which were gradually making the whole. He had never had any real interest in the chase and the capture. They were means to an end. He had to find the people, to select them carefully, to stake them out, track them down, pursue them one final time, and then of necessity still them. He avoided the words murder and kill and death. But none of that gave him pleasure. Sadists and psychopaths, evil people,
obtained gratification from the act of murder, and possibly from everything that led to it. He was not like that. The idea horrified him.

What he did was altogether different.

So he was shocked to realise that he longed to return
to the Hill, now that temporarily he could not do so. He wanted to retrace his steps, to stand where he had stood with each one of them, to recall everything. If the
police had not cordoned off the place to the public, he might never have found this out. The previous night, he had looked at his list and something else had troubled him. There were three examples left. Mature man. Elderly woman. Elderly man.

The others were accounted for, had been examined, dissected, recorded and filed away. His research was unique. No one else had experimented in the way
he had, comparing the way each had been killed and the minute differences between them.

It would soon be over. He would have done what he set out to do. There would be no need for more. It was when he realised it that he knew he was not an obsessive but an addict. Even the thought of being deprived of it for ever, even the phrases ‘the end’ and ‘the last time’ and ‘never again’ caused him to
break out in a sweat which ran cold and unpleasant down his back. He had to get up and pace about the room, then go out and pace the street before he felt calmer.