Tasha followed her as she led her first to the foot and then up the stairs. She was, by now, very curious but Yvonne said no more, she simply picked up a broom and pressed the hatch door to the loft. It clicked open and the DI hooked the purpose-made ladder, pulled it down and started to climb. Tasha followed her up. Yvonne pressed the light switch at the top.
“Wow.” Tasha looked around in awe. The loft was huge. All rustic beams and plywood floor. “Have you never thought of having this converted?”, She asked, watching her step.
Yvonne swept a large cobweb away from her face and headed for a battered old suitcase next to the large and ageing cold water tank. “I keep a lot of stuff in here.” She said, opening the two buckle straps and throwing back the lid. They both coughed as clouds of dust billowed up.
“I call this my memorabilia suitcase. I have all sorts of things in here, some of which date back to my childhood. David used to tease me about it.” She took out a picture frame from an old pillowcase and handed it to Tasha , pausing momentarily to press the soft fabric to her face.
“This was his pillowcase,” she said, lowering her eyes, the colour rising to her cheeks. She gave a soft self-conscious laugh. “I used to be able to smell him on it.”
Tasha smiled and gently took the picture from her.
The photograph was that of a young man in a sheepskin flight jacket. He was unkempt and windblown, but Tasha could see the taste for adventure in the way he held himself and the love borne for the photographer, in his intense and smiling gaze. The smile lit his eyes and crinkled the skin in the corners.
“You took this picture,” Tasha said softly. It wasn’t a question.
“I did. He was just returning from his first solo flight when that was taken. Just before he got his pilot’s licence. He used to say that flying a plane was just like driving a car, simultaneously juggling three balls; cooking a three-course meal and making love to a woman.”
“That involved, huh?”
”So he said.”
“What happened?” Tasha asked the question tentatively, sensing that whatever it was, it had been extremely painful for the DI.
“He used to take people up with him: novices who wanted to go up in a glider or a plane just for the experience. A day out.”
“It’s chilly up here,” Tasha said suddenly shuddering, “shall we go back downstairs?”
“Yes, it’ll sound better over our brandies anyway.” Yvonne smiled sadly.
The fire roared and they settled down on the Hessian rug in front of it. The spitting of logs added to the emotional atmosphere that seemed to envelop the room.
Tasha swirled her brandy around in her glass, waiting for the rest of the story but not pushing for it.
“One afternoon, he was up there with an eighteen-year-old boy. A big lad and strong for his age. They suspected that my husband had offered the boy a go at steering. Something he usually did.” Yvonne paused and looked swiftly away from Tasha, too late to prevent the other from seeing the tear which had escaped from the meniscus in her eyes, and was running down her cheek. “Something went wrong and the boy panicked.”
“What happened?” Tasha prompted gently.
“Well, we couldn’t be totally sure, but at the inquest they said that the plane went into a dive. It happens occasionally and what you should do is take the plane into an even steeper dive to straighten out the flaps and then pull upwards to bring the plane out of the dive. Dave was almost certainly trying to take the plane into a steeper dive but the boy was just pulling up on the stick. It seems that Dave just couldn’t compete with the panicking boy.”
“Oh no…”
”They hit parked cars at the edge of Sherbourne airfield. The cars were a write-off and the plane…the plane was in pieces.”
”Were they both killed?”
“The boy died instantly. Dave died later in hospital.”
“Yvonne, I’m so sorry. Is that when the panic attacks started?”
“Yes. I had my first one standing there on the intensive care unit looking down at him. They’d pronounced him brain dead that morning and were waiting for my permission to switch off his life support.”
“Oh God.”
“I couldn’t breathe. I thought I myself might die there and then from heart failure. I wanted it. Wanted to die.”
“I understand…”
“Do you?” Yvonne sounded sceptical.
“When the most important person in your life is suddenly and violently taken away from you, the world is suddenly a much larger place.”
“I keep forgetting you’re a psychologist.”
“Have you been on your own ever since?” Tasha grimaced: the question had just blurted out.
“Yes. Initially I was incredibly lonely. I just couldn’t face the thought of beginning again. Of starting from scratch. And every time someone asked me out, I felt as though it would be disloyal.”
“And now?”
“And now I am comfortable with being alone. I am not looking to fill the gap.”
“And what about the thought of starting again? Does that still terrify you?”
“No, not any more. Although, these days it would take a lot longer for me to get into a relationship. I would need longer to get to know someone.”
“No whirlwind romances for you, then.”
“Thank you, Tasha,” Yvonne said, looking the psychologist directly in the eyes.
“For what?”
“For listening to me.” Another tear escaped and traced a glistening line down the DI’s cheek. Tasha pulled Yvonne into her arms, holding her whilst swaying as though to the sounds of gently lulling music.
Yvonne closed her eyes and could feel the warm, softness of the Tasha’s cotton shirt against her chin. She felt herself relax and began, slowly, to drift off into sleep.
88
Yvonne wrapped her white mohair scarf more tightly around her neck and tucked it inside the lapels her coat, to help insulate her chest. A cold mist had settled over Wolvercote cemetery, its wispy tendrils licking at the bases of the trees and teasing the moss lining the entrance. It was a mist of which Tolkien himself would have been proud, this being the final resting place of his remains.
Yvonne paused at his grave for a moment and wondered why there was nothing particularly special about it. It was just one more grave amongst so many others, the inscription simple:
EDITH MARY TOLKIEN
LUTHIEN
1889 - 1971
JOHN RONALD
REUEL TOLKIEN
BEREN
1892 – 1973
David’s grave lay within twenty feet or so of the famous author’s. A large crow hopped about next to it and cawed as she approached. She shivered again and pulled her long, sheepskin coat around her legs, one hand deep in its pocket and the other holding a large bunch of red roses surrounded by several long sprigs of Rosemary. She paused to take a lungful of the aroma of the herb and sighed. She could feel him in the mist. Could almost touch him.
“David?” She called out loud and then, feeling foolish, she checked left and right for possible onlookers. There were none. She knelt by the grave busying herself arranging the flowers in the pots and clearing away the old and wilting ones. Softly, she ran her hand over the Earth – the grass and moss strangely warm considering the temperature of the air surrounding it.
A sound like a twig snapping made her jolt upright, her heart beginning its familiar fluttering, the tightness welling in her stomach. ‘There’s no-one there.’ ‘There’s no-one there,’ she told herself, desperate to stave off another panic attack. The wind fluttered through the flowers. Fallen petals were strewn around amongst the graves.
“Well if it isn’t the busy detective. Fancy seeing you here.” The mocking voice was familiar.
She leapt up a little too quickly. “Professor Jeffries, I didn’t see you approach…” It sounded like an accusation. It was. The bow tie from their last meeting had been replaced with a neckerchief in beige sil
k with black dots.
He was silent for several long moments before finally answering, “I came to visit the grave of my daughter.”
Yvonne was suspicious. “Oh?” She asked expectantly.
“She died in early infancy. She was eight months old and our first born.”
Yvonne felt guilty then “I’m very sorry. May I ask how she died?”
“Cot death.” He said quietly.
“That must have been a shock.”
“Yes it was…so what brings you here?” he asked, softly. Yvonne didn’t want to tell him but she could see him trying to peer at the gravestone behind her.
“My late husband, David.”
“Ah, now I’m sorry.” He said the words, but there was no emotion in them. She heard the crow caw somewhere behind her and the wind moan in the trees. She felt isolated. There was not a single other soul around and she was standing in a grave yard with one of the most sinister men she had ever met.
Her heart was pounding and she could feel the moisture on her skin. She told herself to get it together. She did not want to give away her fear of him. Besides which, there was no tangible reason for why he should make her feel so uneasy and she was a police officer.
They had put Jeffries out of their minds following the paternity test for Emma’s baby. He had dropped to very low on the suspect Richter scale. Now, he stood there staring with narrowed eyes and with an eerie stillness about him. Even his hair was eerie, in the way that it flared around his face in the wind. At that moment, she could almost believe him to be capable of anything.
“What do you think about what’s been happening in Oxford the last few months… all those murdered girls.” It just came out, and now she scrutinised his face for any telltale signs. It remained blank. No rise. No emotion.
“I think it’s terrible,” he said, but without feeling. “I do hope you catch whoever’s responsible and now I must go Inspector. We’re having friends over today.”
Yvonne was curious about his lack of reaction but relieved about his leaving. She made no attempt to delay him. The crow cawed again as he made his way along the petal-strewn path away from her. She shivered and burrowed into her coat. She waited a full ten minutes before walking the same path to reach her car and head for home on the Kidlington bypass.
Brian sat in the internet café trying to be as inconspicuous as he could, given that he had an earpiece. Granted, it was carefully disguised as walkman earphones but he couldn’t talk back. Not unless he went to the toilet anyway. Which was where Debbie had gone, not to talk but to ‘powder her nose’. The place was packed, mostly with men. There were very few women present.
There were untold numbers of internet cafes in London. Brian was amazed that Mike had been granted the resources to carry out a stake out on so many of them for a whole week. The operation was being carried out jointly with the MET, with them providing some of the officers on the ground. It wasn’t going to be easy. They only had enough manpower to stake out fifteen of them at a time, at two coppers each, and that meant rotating each day to a different fifteen. They just had to hope that they were at the right one at the right time.
This one was located at The Plaza on Oxford Street. There were around twenty computers and they were all occupied.
As Brian looked around, he could see four young ethnic males and could almost certainly rule those out if what Tasha had said was correct and the perpetrator was a middle-aged white male. There were three women present and that left only eleven white males, five of which were probably too young, being not much more than teenagers. The remaining six were roughly the right sort of age but only three of those looked sufficiently smart enough in their casual clothing to fit the bill. Although he was still watching the others, Brian concentrated on those – glancing when he could at the content on their screens and listening to the feedback he was getting from the guys at HQ.
He wished the long-haired assistant wouldn't keep looking at him. He had been doing so since they had flashed their badges at him and explained why they were there. He behaved as though he thought they were going to pounce on someone any minute, looking over and fumbling things, causing them to clatter to the floor. Brian responded by smiling at him reassuringly but felt like getting up and slapping him.
The Sergeant was tiring. He found himself wondering how Mike was getting on at the Café on Dean Street and decided it was time to get a strong coffee. Debbie returned with the very thing.
“You know you’re psychic.” Brian said gratefully taking a sip of the strong black stuff. It wasn’t the best he’d tasted but right now he was thankful for anything.
“People tell me that all the time. Anything?”
“Nothing so far Deb, and still another four hours to go.”
“Is he online yet?” Debbie wasn’t wearing an earpiece.”
“No, not yet. No news from the IT guys anyway.”
They both hoped it might be them who landed the big fish. They had gotten excited the previous night when, at one of the stakeouts, a guy had logged on a PC just as the Master appeared online but the guy had had turned out to be just a DIY enthusiast who had logged in to check out kitchens and bathrooms. It served to remind them of just how much of a long shot this mission really was.
The ear piece sparked into life. “Okay, people he’s just logged in now.”
Brian nodded to Debbie who stood up and acted stiff before taking a wander around the room, pretending to stretch her legs. The priority was given to the screens of the likely suspects. That proved fruitless. One of the guys stopped what he was doing and looked her up and down suggestively, as though he felt she was making her move around the room for his benefit. She couldn’t help giving his smug face a filthy look.
All the time Brian listened as IT kept the officers updated with the fact that the Master was still logged on. Nothing. Not a single person in the room was logged into Lady Firebird’s chat room. Brian and Debbie were both dejected and tired. It was only two days into ‘Stakeout Week’ but despondency was already creeping in. The more they thought about it, the more ridiculous the idea seemed. So they told each other not to think about it but that was it for them for tonight. They could only hope that one of the other teams had had more luck.
They left discreetly to relay their news and catch up on everyone else’s, knowing that the Master never remained on the net for more than an hour at a time and this would not allow them enough time to set up in another internet café that night.
89
Bath was cold that morning: barely above freezing. The last snowy vestiges of the overnight frost still clung to the metal railings, the pot plants and the cracks in the pavement. He lingered on Lansdown, staring directly ahead to where Catherine waited for the bus which would take her into town and, he guessed, to her Christmas shopping.
He was tired. The cobwebs of last night’s sporadic sleep lingered like the frost and the drive down had seemed unending but he had to watch her, had to observe her playing her important role in the drama of his making. In this way he was almost in control of her and she was almost his, as much as if she were walking towards him down an aisle full of expectant people.
He could tell she was cold. Even though her cream-coloured coat was long, he suspected it wasn’t nearly thick enough for this temperature. Her small shoes would not be enough to protect her feet from the pavement’s relentless extraction of their heat.
When the bus finally arrived, its shuddering hulk-like frame drew slowly to a halt yards beyond where she stood. As the doors hissed open he watched her run to them and step carefully up, smiling at the driver. It was a haunted, ethereal smile which matched the gossamer sheen of her coat. She climbed the steps and the doors hissed closed, clouds of diesel smoke billowing into the street as the bus pulled away.
If he walked quickly, he could be there when the bus arrived at the station and he was certain she would ride all the way to the bus station. She was a creature of habit and would start her shopping from the
very bottom of town, in the small precinct which lay below ground level, accessed via the steps just across from where the bus had stopped. Then she would work her way back up through the crowded high street, looking for bargains but spending far more time there than originally planned. She might stop for refreshment in one of the coffee shops on the square in front of the Abbey. Might linger and listen to buskers and toss a few small coins into their battered hats. Perhaps she would even walk through to where she could peer through the iron railings and watch the steam rising from the waters of the Roman Baths. Finally, conscious of the time, she would start the long walk back up Lansdown Road, more gruelling now she was laden down with bags. If she became too tired she might wait and catch the bus for the final few hundred yards to her home.
‘You see Catherine?’, he whispered out loud. ‘I know you.’
Yvonne was fed up of sitting around waiting for news. One week into her forced leave she decided to call Brian and find out what was happening. She was sure he wouldn’t be telling Tasha all that he knew or all that he was doing.
“Yo! Brian speaking.”
“Hi, Brian, its Yvonne.” She waited for him to ask her why the hell she was calling him when she should be enjoying herself on leave but he didn’t. “Hi, How are you?” he asked and he sounded pleased.
“I’m fine thanks, Brian. I’m phoning about the investigation. I can’t just sit here twiddling my thumbs. I need to know how it’s going Tasha said you guys were staking out internet cafes. I wondered if anything has come of it?”
“Not yet, I’m afraid. The longer this goes on, the more it seems that it’s just one hell of a long shot but Mike won’t have it.”
“I don’t understand. How’d he manage to get the resources agreed by Peterson?”
“I reckon there’s a lot of face-saving going on…”
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