Stations of the Soul

by Chris Lewando

Robin looked mystified. ‘What is it?’

  ‘A list of the cars involved in the crash. You said you were good at analysing stuff. This needs analysing.’

  ‘What would I be looking for?’

  The DCI shrugged. ‘We don’t know. That’s the point. But you’re the one who said you had a good memory for detail. It occurred to me the crash was a cover for a single murder. Maybe it’s a waste of time, but we haven’t had the time to trawl the social media surrounding these people. Unless you have something better to do?’

  Robin grimaced. ‘Actually, I’m glad you came over. I wanted to ask you about Helen. Was she strangled? Was it the same guy who did those prostitutes?’

  ‘What makes you ask?’

  ‘If she was wandering about at night, he might have thought she was a prostitute.’

  Redwall stiffened. ‘Why would she have done that?’

  ‘Derek phoned yesterday to ask if I wanted to go to the therapy group. Apparently, Helen once told the trauma group that she’d wake up hearing her daughter calling, and walk the streets, looking for her. Someone asked her wasn’t she afraid of getting mugged, and she said, what was there to be afraid of? Nothing could be any worse than what had happened already.’

  ‘She was wrong, wasn’t she?’

  ‘Maybe not.’

  The Inspector’s brow rose.

  ‘She told me she wanted to die, but wasn’t brave enough to do it. I wonder if she was looking for her daughter in the only way she knew how, by putting herself in danger. Hoping someone would do it for her. Maybe she wanted to die.’

  ‘Really?’ Redwall’s tone was laced with acid. ‘You think the killer did her a favour?’

  ‘If so, it was inadvertent. I’m sure the murderer killed Helen for his own reasons.’

  ‘Reasons? What makes you put it like that? Surely it was accidental, opportunity and all that?’

  Robin hesitated. ‘I wondered if she’d discovered something. She told me that the person who killed her husband and daughter was the same one who caused the accident I was in. A trial run, was what she said.’

  ‘I might have suggested that, myself,’ the DCI said, irritated. ‘But it’s not a fact.’

  ‘Well, maybe she was silenced because she said that to the wrong person, and someone thought she knew more than she did.’

  ‘It’s a distinct possibility.’ Annoyed that he might have been the catalyst for her murder, Redwall dumped the mug on the table, and heaved himself to his feet. ‘Well, thanks for the coffee. I hope the statements don’t cause too much distress. You don’t have to read them, if it’s too close to home.’

  ‘I doubt they could come anywhere near my actual experience,’ Robin said, walking the DCI to the door.

  ‘You’re a lot more mobile than last time I saw you.’

  ‘Yes, it’s great, isn’t it? The surgeon said he’s amazed at my progress. I think he wants to put me under a microscope.’

  Him and me both, Redwall thought.

  Chapter 24

  Robin waited for nearly two weeks, hoping Sarah would contact him again. When he was with her, he was flying, but the moment she left doubt set in. Did she want to know him better? Maybe her silence was an answer in itself. Or maybe she was just exhausted with work. What would she think if she knew he’d followed her home, and had been researching her background? Eventually, he realised he’d have to make a move, himself. Before the accident he’d been so sure of himself. Where had that gone?

  It was late afternoon, and as she usually slept from her shift end until about midday, she would surely be up and about. He drove to the row of Victorian houses where she lived. He couldn’t see her car, but she might have had to park it elsewhere. He perused the list of buzzers. Eventually he pressed buttons at random. Two buzzers returned nothing, a male voice answered the third, and when he asked for Sarah, a male voice told him he’d got a wrong number, and hung up. Just as he was wondering what to do next, a young man in track suit and joggers bounced up the path, key at the ready.

  ‘Help you?’ he asked, head tilted for an answer.

  ‘I’m looking for Sarah Thompson.’

  ‘Must have the wrong address, mate,’ the guy said, turning back to the door.

  ‘No, this is definitely the place.’

  ‘Doubt it. The landlord only takes in single blokes. He says women are trouble. Doesn’t like couples, neither.’

  ‘Really?’

  Robin’s tone must have registered disbelief, so the guy added, ‘We can have friends in, alright, but not to move in. If we want to get serious, we have to find somewhere else.’

  Robin drove away, confused. Had Sarah known she was being followed, and led him on a wild goose chase? But if she had known, why hadn’t she challenged him with it? Obviously sleuthing wasn’t his strong point. Deciding to come clean, he drove to the hospital, and asked the receptionist – a different one - if he could speak to Sarah.

  ‘She’s not in till later,’ she replied. ‘Why don’t you give her a ring? It’s only a step down to the nurse’s lodgings, down the way.’ Her head indicated. ‘You’d best drive down, though, as you’ll get a ticket, parking here without a ward sticker.’

  ‘She lives here?’

  ‘Oh, perhaps I shouldn’t have said. I can’t give you the number, though. You’ll have to ring the bell. She’ll buzz you in if she wants a visit.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  Taking his courage in his hands, he phoned her mobile, and was answered by silence. ‘It’s me,’ he said. ‘Robin. I was wondering if, ah, I was wondering if we could meet up again. I was hoping you’d call.’

  ‘I might have if you hadn’t followed me.’

  ‘I, ah, I wondered if that was it. I’m here, at the hospital. Please?’

  He heard a long sigh at the other end. ‘Third block, second storey, room 25.’

  When she opened the door, he couldn’t think of a thing to say, and just stood there, flushing to the roots of his hair as all the rehearsed lines disappeared. She was wearing a loose tee-shirt, jeans and flat shoes. Her hair was dragged into an explosive ponytail. With a quizzical smile, she stepped back. She was the same woman he’d taken to dinner; without the superficial glamour he’d been so thrilled about. He liked her better this way. Her flat was minuscule, almost clinically white, without a colourful ethnic artefact in site. She gave him a grimace as his eyes flashed around.

  ‘It’s convenient. I’ll put the kettle on. Tea or coffee?’

  ‘Tea would be great, thanks.’

  He crashed to earth with a thump. Everything he’d been envisaging had been in his mind. He was an idiot, and had nearly lost her. She was just an ordinary woman, and his interest in her was far deeper than any sexual fantasy. He lowered himself into a vile grey-blue chair that wouldn’t have looked out of place by a hospital bed, and realised that Sarah was pretty much camping out. Almost everything in the room was functional, provided with the flat. Aside from a couple of novels on a small table, there was nothing to betray her character.

  ‘How long have you been here?’

  She reached up into a cupboard for mugs, and bent to the fridge for milk, her movements neat and economical. ‘A couple of years. All my stuff is still at the old house. I’ll go back and get it one day, but there was no point until I found a place I wanted to live in. I didn’t intend to be here so long, but, well, you know. It just happened. All I do is sleep here.’

  He was silent for a while, trying to rationalise his own thoughts. She brought the drinks in and set them on a small functional table. Seating herself in an identical chair to the one he was perched on uneasily, she asked, ‘So, why did you follow me?’

  How could anything he said come near a rational explanation? His voice betrayed true confusion. ‘I don’t know. It seems stupid, in hindsight.’

  ‘It was disconcerting. Frightening. Not something a girl would expect a bloke to do. It made me wonder whether you were the psychopath, the one that reporter dubbed The Strangler. It’
s been all over the news. He’s done three in London and that’s just the ones that are known about.’

  ‘What? You think I’m…?’ He was lost for words.

  ‘No, I don’t think that. It was a momentary brain glitch, when I was tired. I came out of the hospital and saw you waiting there. I was going to walk home, but got scared. Being stalked is every girl’s nightmare. I’ve had my share of becoming the focal interest of a man’s wild fantasies. It comes with the job. Like Florence Nightingale, I’m perceived to be somewhat more than I am by people who are desperate or dying.’

  ‘Oh. So why didn’t you call the police? Have me arrested?’

  She snorted. ‘For fancying me?’

  ‘For stalking.’

  ‘I wanted to give you the benefit of the doubt. I just wasn’t sure if you liked me, or just wanted to have sex.’ Her brow lifted at his shocked expression. ‘It’s perfectly normal, but women are always vulnerable. And I know when men fancy me. It’s inconveniently difficult to hide. Even in a restaurant.’

  He flushed vividly at her slightly malicious words.

  ‘See, that’s what I’m saying. You couldn’t help it. Men have needs that aren’t satisfied by social equality. Civilisation is a very thin veneer covering millions of years of evolution. I believe very strongly that prostitution should be legalised. It’s a necessary function, a safety valve society should allow itself. Being a prostitute would then be a choice, not something forced on women who aren’t given a choice.’

  ‘Well, we agree on that front.’

  ‘So, what do you want, Robin Vanger?’

  ‘I, ah, well, I’d like you to move in with me.’

  She was startled by his blurted offer. ‘You hardly know me! We only went out once. Then you stalked me!’

  ‘That was enough to know that this feels right. I enjoy your company, and have never felt that way about a woman before. I fancy you, of course, but it’s not just about sex. I wake up every morning and want to discuss things with you. I want to share my life with you.’

  ‘Goodness,’ she said mildly. ‘I wasn’t expecting that. It’s a bit premature, isn’t it? Perhaps we should just have sex first, see it if it wears off?’

  She laughed as he flushed again. ‘I’m not a virgin, Robin. I’m not saving myself for the mythically higher state of marriage. I leave that to people too stupid to realise that sex is a physical need, like eating; whereas love lies in compatibility and character and sharing the enjoyment of everything other than sex.’

  Robin leaned his head back in the chair, glancing at her sideways. ‘You see, you’re so practical and down to earth. That’s what’s attractive. Not the fact that you’re attractive, even though you are.’

  ‘So that’s settled, then. Good.’

  It was strange, talking about sex as if they were looking at a menu. It made him wonder just how many men she’d actually been with, which in itself was a turn off, especially as she had said she didn’t sleep around, and hadn’t wanted to stay with him for the night.

  They chatted about his recovery, about his possible return to the bank, about the fact that DCI Redwall had given him a load of stuff about the crash to read and analyse. She was interested, but he admitted that so far, he’d discovered nothing the police hadn’t already known.

  When he left, it was with a sensation of relief, but he was once again torn. Did he want her? Why did he expect the woman of his choice to have been celibate? He hadn’t been. It was one of those ingrained mores of society that hadn’t quite been shaken off.

  He drove home feeling disorientated and dissatisfied, fairly sure she’d manipulated him into being less interested in her over the hour they’d spent talking; if so, she had succeeded. What he wasn’t sure of was why she would do that. If she didn’t want anything to do with him, why not just say so? She’d casually suggested they have sex, to get it out of the way, but would she really? His desire for Sarah was now disquietingly ambiguous, and the meeting hadn’t even resulted in a date, never mind her moving in with him. Why the hell had he said that, anyway? He wasn’t sure he wanted to go out with her at all.

  When he got home, a message was waiting for him on his answerphone from some guy who said he was working with DCI Redwall on the pileup stats. Redwall had said nothing to him, but how else would the guy even know he was doing it? In a state of irritation, he pressed the call-back button, but got an auto response.

  Hi. This is Jack Freman. Sorry I’m out and about, it’s the nature of the game. I’ll call back when I can.

  The name sounded vaguely familiar. He was about to slam the phone down, when there was a click, and a brief acknowledgement: ‘Jack.’

  ‘Why did Redwall ask you to work with me?’

  ‘In case you needed someone to do any running around. He said you weren’t so mobile, that you were injured in the Stinger’s pile-up.’

  Then it came to him. ‘You’re that reporter...’

  ‘Ah, caught in the act. But Redwall did ask me to call you. Call him, if you don’t believe me. I’ve helped him out loads of times. We went to school together.’

  ‘Well, um, at the moment, I’m just reading my way through, and haven’t found anything worth reporting.’

  ‘OK. But I’m here if you need me.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  ‘Perhaps I should come around and introduce myself?’

  Robin suspected the last person Redwall would ask for help would be a reporter, school chum or not. Freman must think him a fool. But perhaps he could make use of Freman. ‘I wouldn’t mind getting out of the house. I’m going stir crazy, not working. How about a pint, sixish, if that’s not too early?’

  Freman suggested the King’s Head, half a mile from Robin’s home, which suited him fine.

  When he got there, Freman was the only guy in the bar. He was a rangy figure, with a shaggy mop of hair, lounging in a corner, hunched into a tired, outdated jacket with elbow patches. He might have been mistaken for a down-and-out save that the paper he was reading was the Financial Times. When Robin came in, the newspaper he was apparently reading was instantly folded. Keen, narrowed eyes virtually stripped him of everything sellable before he sat down.

  Robin held out his hand. ‘Robin Vanger.’

  ‘Freman. Get you a pint?’

  ‘Bitter, thanks.’

  When it came, he downed a third of it in a long sluice before sighing. ‘That’s my first real beer in so long, I don’t know when the last one was. Cheers.’

  ‘Cheers.’

  Freman took a tiny sip, and said, ‘I know you were in the pileup, but it’s strange that Redwall gave you access to confidential information.’

  ‘I’m a, ah, was a data analyst. He wanted a single person to read through all the statements in case there were any dots that hadn’t been connected. I volunteered. He said nothing about you to me.’

  ‘We only spoke yesterday. He said you might need wheels, but it doesn’t look like it.’

  ‘No, I bought a car,’ he grimaced towards his leg. ‘An automatic.’

  ‘So, can I help in any way?’

  Freman waited, and Robin blurted out, ‘It’s just that you’re the guy that lit onto the hooker strangler, aren’t you?’

  ‘Ah. I’ve been clocked. I did, but Redwall was already on the case. He wasn’t best pleased with me for putting it out there. But people have a right to know.’

  ‘And Helen Speakman, was she one of his victims, too?’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Don’t play dumb. You covered her story when her child died, and she attacked Sarah. You know she was murdered, strangled. I wondered if it was the same guy.’

  Freman considered, then answered, without the least hint of embarrassment at being caught out. ‘She wasn’t a prostitute. Doesn’t fit. Told Redwall so, but I have my own idea.’

  Robin leaned forward. ‘What?’

  Freman’s grin was feral. ‘Tit for tat, sport.’

  ‘So, what is it you really want from me?’
/>   ‘I want to be kept in the loop. If Redwall drops anything interesting, I want to know.’

  ‘He doesn’t drop anything. What he gives me is calculated. He gave me all those statements because he knows there’s nothing in there.’

  ‘Wondered as much, myself. Bollocks.’

  The reporter leaned back and glanced at his watch. Robin realised he was losing his interest, and added, quickly, ‘So, what if I could give you something that isn’t in the statements?’

  Freman tensed totally, eyes honing in like those of a stalking cat. ‘What?’

  ‘Tit for tat, sport.’

  ‘Pinkie promise?’

  Freman held a fist over the table, little finger extended. Robin laughed, and shook it with his own. ‘Pinkie promise.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘Angels,’ Robin said. ‘Helen’s child saw an angel when she was dying. The priest saw an angel at that accident you covered, where the kids died.’

  His lip curled. ‘Two fruit-cakes.’

  ‘I don’t think so, and neither did you when you covered the stories.’

  ‘Just because I write it, doesn’t mean I believe it.’

  ‘Well, what if there was a third angel? Two’s a coincidence, three’s a pattern.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Me.’

  His eyes narrowed. ‘You? Come on, that’s stretching things. If you had seen something, you would’ve mentioned it.’

  ‘I was kept in an induced coma while they patched me up. I had a busted jaw and couldn’t speak for a bit. By the time I could, I realised that if I said anything, I’d sound like a headcase. At that time, I hadn’t recalled anything about Helen’s kid. I only put it all together when I was researching. Something clicked. That’s how it used to work in the bank. I’d read everything, not have a clue, then wake up with the pieces clunked into place.’

  ‘So, you saw some big fairy with a halo and wings?’

  ‘No. That’s what makes it interesting. Helen’s daughter saw an angel, the priest saw an angel. Helen saw a monster, but they all saw something.’

  ‘So, that’s why you went to see the nutty priest?’

  ‘How do you know that?’