Yvonne nodded. “That doesn't surprise me at all.”
101
For Caroline, the relief of being found alive was marred somehow by the feeling that she was an exhibit. A curiosity jigsaw whose pieces, if handled correctly, could answer the enigma. It had taken the best part of an hour for the SOCO plastic suits to remove the layers of cling film: each one being carefully bagged and tagged and treated with such care. “I'm the one,” she wanted to say, “I'm the one who needs care.”
She could have told them they wouldn't find anything. Could have told them that he was much too careful for that but she knew it wouldn't have made any difference anyway. She resented their handling of her. Resented the intrusion and even though she knew deep down it was silly to feel this way, she thought she could so easily have been an alien: freshly landed from an unidentified flying object being examined at some secret NASA installation. The whole process felt so impersonal even though every now and then they seemed to remember that there was actually a person inside that cling film casing and would call her by her name and tell her she was going to be alright. Instead of their voices comforting her the way they ought to have done, they just made her want to scream out, “don't patronise me! Just don't bloody patronise me!”
Even the chafing of their plastic suits irritated her. It was just a little bit too close to the sound of being wrapped in cling film and the chafing of his PVC rain coat.
This wasn't what she had expected to be thinking about when she was rescued. Neither was she expecting to be dwelling on the questions she would now be asked and the fear and embarrassment she would feel when admitting how she came to be with her abductor.
She ran over in her mind what she knew she would be asked by the police and however much she thought it through, it didn't seem to reflect well on her or her decision making. His chat had turned her on. His chat had made her want to go to him to experience the thrill. His chat had made her feel like a sexual human being. It was simple and it was complicated. But how do you tell a watching world that you had those feelings and expect them to not feel that you in some way deserved your fate?
102
Stop it. You can do this tomorrow.” Tasha grabbed the notes from in front of the DI and shoved them unceremoniously back into the brief case, “Caroline is safe now and as far as we know he has no one else. The murders have been all over the newspapers and television for a while now and all females have been warned about going off to meet strange men. If you can't take a break from it now for one evening, then when can you?”
Yvonne had to admit that Tasha had a point but her reply tumbled out before she could stop it and she sounded peeved and impatient, “You've muddled them up now and I was on a train of thought.”
Tasha grabbed her firmly from behind by the shoulders. “Come with me,” she said, leading her to the sofa in front of a fire piled high with logs which threw out a hackle-raising warmth.
Tasha's grip was firm and the DI gave into it, allowing herself to be guided. Satisfied, Tasha moved back and, readjusting her black and white striped apron, she giggled as she retreated back in the direction of the kitchen.
It was then that the smell of freshly baked garlic bread caught Yvonne and made her nostrils flare. She sighed and relaxed in spite of herself. “God that smells so good,” she said settling back and allowing her eyes to close just for an instant.
When she opened her eyes seconds later, Tasha was stood over her with a glass of Shiraz and a tray of the delicious-smelling bread. “Now,” the psychologist said, handing her the wine, “take a piece of that and no more talk of the case this evening.”
It was good. It was very good and Yvonne was now very much looking forward to the Chilli which was to follow it. Tasha went back to the kitchen for her glass and then returned to join the DI on the sofa. Both women were appreciating their rest after the frenetic day they had had down in Surrey.
“There was something I wanted to talk to you about...,” the DI began, a slight uneasiness detectable in her voice.
“Uh oh,” Tasha gave her an 'I've-told-you-we-are-not-going-to-talk-about-the-case-tonight' sort of a look.
Yvonne laughed. “It's OKay, it's not work-related.”
“Thank goodness for that. Well go on then. Fire away...”
“You were telling me once about a woman you were involved with. I was embarrassed and I didn't let you finish.”
The smile left Tasha's face as she shook her head, softly. “It doesn't matter,” she said.
“No, really.” Yvonne placed a hand on the psychologist's shoulder, “please tell me about her. How long were you with her? Did you have a relationship?” Stupid question, the DI thought.
Tasha sighed. “Her name was Rebecca. We were together about three years, we'd known each other as friends for about two years before we got involved.”
“What was she like?” Yvonne took a very large sip of her red wine.
Tasha's eyes moved towards the window, but she wasn't taking in anything from outside, “She was tall, strong, red-haired. Fiery.” Tasha gave a stiff little laugh. “We were introduced by friends back at College. She had been a vocal member of the lesbian rights brigade. She was totally out there whilst a lot of us were still under wraps to most of the people we knew. I loved that about her, her strength and conviction in knowing who she was and what she wanted.” Tasha paused to drink, swallowed some of her wine and sat back, resting the back of her head on the sofa behind.
“How old was she?”
“We were both early twenties I think I was twenty-one and she was twenty-two.”
“How did you get together?”
“I was attracted to her right away. Her independence; her beautiful eyes; her flare for judging how you felt and knowing just what to say. It took me ages to ask her out, two years to be exact.”
“And she said yes?”
“She said no.”
Yvonne was engrossed as Tasha gazed wistfully at the wine in her glass, “I really didn't expect that she would be interested in me. You see, I was the opposite of her in many ways. I was quieter, more afraid of the opinions of others. She always had lots of people around her who all seemed to want her attention. She had a crush on one of the lecturers and just didn't see me in that way. She wanted sophisticated,” Tasha giggled, “and I was hardly that.”
“So, what happened to change her mind?”
“Well, firstly I was helped a little by the lecturer leaving the college for a better position elsewhere. I made myself constantly available as the shoulder to cry on: mopped her tears, bought her chocolates, took her to see some lousy films at the cinema. That sort of thing.”
Yvonne chuckled.
“Then one day I plucked up the courage to ask her out. She didn't get it at first: thought I was just asking her to another movie or out for dinner. When she finally got it and accepted I couldn't believe my luck. Straight away, I wanted to announce to the whole world that I was gay, so there!”
“And did you?”
“I finally told my family.”
“What did they say?”
“They were marvellous about it. Really cool. Hugged me and told me it was great that I was able to tell them.”
“I bet you were ecstatic, weren't you?”
“Well now you come to mention it, no. I wasn't. I felt a bit deflated as a matter of fact, because I had been ready for the fight: the big convincing argument. How perverse is that?”
“Quite perverse.” Yvonne laughed.
“I was happy, Yvonne. I was so happy I failed to notice that she wasn't. I went over it a hundred times in my mind afterwards. I'm a psychologist. How could I have failed to notice something so fundamental? I mean I did notice that she was quick to anger and that she would snap sometimes at the slightest thing. However, I didn't expect to find...”
“Go on.”
“One day, I came home from work (I was in my first job at a London hospital) to find her strewn on the bed, an empty bottle of pills in
one hand and the dregs of a bottle of vodka in the other. She had overdosed and I hadn't seen it coming.”
Yvonne placed her hand softly on the Tasha's forearm, “Did she die?”, she asked gently.
“No, thank God, she didn't. I phoned an ambulance straight away, and I lifted her and walked her around, the way I had seen people do it on TV. It was touch and go for weeks whilst she was in intensive care but she pulled through. After that, I could feel her growing away from me a little more every day.
She retreated to a place where I just could not reach her. She started hanging around with a woman from her work and the two of them were hitting the bottle hard. I think the other woman was also taking cocaine though I don't know if Rebecca ever did. The day Rebecca told me that she was leaving me for this other woman, I can't say I was surprised and if I'm honest I guess I was sort of relieved. But I missed her afterwards. I missed her so much. She had been so large in my life that I even missed that bad stuff. I used to think that if I had my time again, I could go back to the beginning and spot the problems before they got out of hand and put them right.”
“And what do you think now?”
“That it probably wouldn't have changed the outcome. She simply didn't love me enough for me to have made it better.” Tasha suddenly jumped up, “Oh lord the bloody chilli!” She made a mad dash for the kitchen.
That woke the DI up too. She had become totally involved in the story, studying Tasha's lips and their soft curve as she talked; noticing the way her long lashes dropped down, shielding her eyes whenever the story became difficult for her. She had more questions too, such as how long ago had all this occurred and had there been anyone since, though these questions could wait...for now.
103
He was back on familiar territory. He'd spent an age this morning in the mirror, swapping from this shirt to that shirt; from this jacket to that jacket. Even now, he wasn't sure if he had chosen the right ones. He'd decided on a rich cream cotton shirt and a navy blue suit jacket in brushed cotton and matched them with faded blue jeans. Someone had once described him as looking virile in those jeans and that suited him just fine.
He knew it oughtn't really to matter because after the first half hour or so she would not even be caring about his appearance or how much time he had spent making himself look just right. She would care only about what was going to happen next.
He saw how his hand shook as he lifted it towards the brass lion head door knocker. He swallowed and fidgeted and felt the chill wind up his back. Then he knocked. Loud. Confident.
He waited, one minute; two minutes and he thought his heart would stop. He reached for the knocker again. Louder this time. Thwack! Thwack! A curtain twitched. He saw it from the corner of his eye but resisted the urge to look up, preferring to seem relaxed and as though he had not noticed.
The door opened just a few inches initially. He could see the pale skin of her slim wrist; the dainty platinum watch she was wearing and the tiny folds of skin on the back of her hand as she held the rim of the door.
“It's been a long time,” he said softly. “How are you?”
She pulled back the door to full width now and just stared at him, mouth slightly open. It could have gone either way and he was unaccustomed to the feeling of uneasiness which now enveloped him.
“Come on in,” she said finally moving back so that he could brush past her into the hallway.
Mmm. The smell of freshly polished furniture. He looked around him at the beautiful objects, old and new which graced the hall side board and shelves. A woman after my own heart, definitely.
Catherine took a deep breath, “It’s been so long. What are you doing here? Oh my, that sounds so rude I didn't mean it like...”
“It's OKay,” he interrupted, “I should have contacted you and told you I was coming. How long has it been?” He edged further and further into her home. “I heard about your trouble recently and I came to see if there is anything I can do.”
She looked at him gratefully. He looked good, she thought, she had been lonely for the last few weeks and to see an old friend was maybe just what she needed. She felt suddenly shy though and wished she had dressed more appropriately for the occasion.
“Can I get you anything? Some tea, perhaps?” She said, finally remembering her manners.
“That would be great.” His brain was ticking now. Weighing up method and opportunity. “How's Graham?” he asked as Catherine made her way along the hall, towards the kitchen. Her kitchen was small, he noted, but the view amazed him. He could see all over Bath right through to the church spire at Widcombe. He was still looking at it when she answered him.
“I threw him out,” she said simply.
“I'm sorry to hear that.”
“He's had it hard I know, what with the police arresting him and everything that came out. I just couldn't go on as we were. I miss him, of course.”
“Of course.”
“What about you? What have you been up to?”
“Oh this and that,” he prevaricated, “nothing too exciting you know...”
“I've made some scones. Would you like one?”
He watched her mentally kicking herself. She was feeling gauche with him and it was filling him with a tingling pleasure.
She brushed a stray lock from her eyes and he looked fully at her then: at the soft tendrils of hair which had escaped from her hastily prepared bun and tumbled down her nape and round her ears, giving her an air of vulnerability which tugged at his heart, but not enough that it would sway him from his course. Had she put her hair up this morning, he wondered, or had she done it just now after he had rung the door bell the first time. Was that the reason for the delay in answering?
Catherine blushed a soft pink which worked its way from her cheeks, to cover her neck and what he could see of her chest. She turned away from his scrutiny and her back was to him now as she worked to fill the kettle and take down a fine china tea pot into which she was spooning loose leaf tea.
“Do you take sugar?” She asked without turning around.
“No thank you. I like it black, no sugar.”
“Do you like it strong or weak?”
“Strong.”
“Very well,” she said waiting for the kettle to boil, tapping her foot as though she had been waiting a whole week already.
She was dressed simply, he noted, in a cream cashmere sweater and dark brown corduroy trousers. The effect was to give her an approachability which was at odds with her otherwise aloof and fragile appearance. He was being very patient and felt self-satisfied at his restraint. He had waited a long time for this moment. He could wait longer still.
“How's business?” He bit into a scone but his eyes remained fixed on her.
The kettle boiled and she poured the water on the tea. “It's been very good...was very good,” she corrected herself. “I've neglected it lately. We both have. I've thought about selling up and moving on. This was mine and Graham's dream and it doesn't seem right to continue it when we are not together.”
He didn't blink. Didn't betray anything.
“What about you?”, she asked.
He shrugged, taking a mouthful of the tea. “Actually,” he asked, putting the cup down, “Have you something a little stronger? I've had some pretty awful news.”
“Of course,” her eyes were now filled with compassion, “I didn't realise you had something to tell me...what would you like?”
“Some sherry if you have it or something similar. In fact, I'd like to share one with you for old times’ sake.”
Catherine placed her tea cup down on the kitchen work top and quietly left the room. When she came back, she had a little silver tray with two small glasses and a decanter of sherry and she proceeded to pour. To anyone else, the silver tray would have appeared excessive, but not to him.
“Perfect.” He smiled, satisfied. “Just perfect.”
They sat down at the kitchen table. “You're looking pale Catherine.”
&n
bsp; The fines lines around her eyes deepened as she half-smiled. “What did you want to tell me?” she asked, taking a sip of the sweet liquor.
“I had some bad news from the doctors this week.”
She took him in. “Oh?”
“Cancer.” He shook his head. “They don't rate my chances much.
Catherine stared at him. “I'm so sorry.” Was all she said. It wasn't that she didn't feel sympathy, just that it didn't seem a shock: coming as it did on top of everything else which had happened. “Are you having treatment?”
“Yes, but I've been so sick I wish I wasn't.”
“I'm so sorry,” she said again, knowing it was probably totally inadequate. “Does Graham know?”
“No...that is...not yet.”
“You are going to tell him?”
“Yes. I'll tell him.”
It was time. He went to take another sip of his sherry and fumbled the glass, dropping it on the table where it tumbled to the floor. It didn't break but just as he knew she would, Catherine jumped up to clear it away and fetch him another glass whilst he mumbled his apologies. When she left the room, he took a small vial from his jacket pocket and pipetted its contents into the rest of Catherine's sherry.
It didn't take long to work. She was telling him the history of an artwork on her wall as he wandered around looking at things. She was slurring her speech and appearing confused. When she lost her legs, he caught her and then held on to her with one hand whilst he reached for a cable tie from his pocket with the other. She was easy to bag. She offered no resistance as he trussed her hands behind her and checked that the tie was tight enough without cutting off her circulation. He wasn't trying to hurt her at the moment although he knew ultimately that hurting her was exactly what he intended to do.
He put on latex gloves and proceeded to wipe the glass he had used. He carried his drugged captive to the front door and checked around, cursing as he waited first for the traffic and then for a couple walking down the road to pass. Then he carried her swiftly to the car, laying her in on the back seat on a blanket he had bought from the market that morning.
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