Victims

by Richardson,Robert

  ‘You told me it wasn’t loaded.’

  ‘I know … How would you have felt if I’d told you it was? But it wasn’t for them. I’d thought out every detail of what we were doing … and farmers usually have dogs. As it turned out they didn’t, but one bloody great alsatian and we were in trouble. That’s the only reason it was loaded.’

  ‘But you killed them all — and you weren’t bothered afterwards.’

  ‘Wasn’t I? Grant me something, Randy. I felt like shit. Do you know who the worst one was? The boy. He had more bottle than I had.’ He blinked and turned away. ‘You’ve told me how bad it’s been for you, but you don’t know how often I’ve thought about that kid.’

  ‘Why didn’t you tell me this then?’

  ‘The state you were in? I was trying to hold you together. We’d still be looking at a lot of years in gaol if I’d cracked as well. And what would that have achieved? I couldn’t bring any of them back, but the least I could do was try to protect our families. If they’d got us, it would have crucified them. The only difference between you and me was that you showed it and I kept it in. But it hurts just as much.’

  He kept his voice low and guileless and, apart from the moment he deliberately looked away, his eyes didn’t leave Jowett’s.

  ‘I never realized all this.’

  ‘There was no point in telling you … The fact is I killed five people — me, not you — and it’s easy now to say I should have stopped after the first and we’d have got out of there. I’ve never understood why I didn’t, but … well, there aren’t any ways to turn clocks back. Pity.’

  ‘So … so you’ve never thought of … harming Joyce?’

  Lambert looked down again, rubbing his fingers against the sides of his forehead as if he were suddenly very weary. ‘Can’t you hear what I’m telling you? I know I bollocked you when you called me and bloody hit you when I arrived, but imagine how I was feeling. I’m sorry about that. But have I said anything — anything at all — to suggest I want to kill her? I don’t know how we’ll get out of this, but believe me, I don’t want another life on my conscience. I’ve got more than enough.’

  If you could see your face … why did I ever hang out with you? I could talk you into topping yourself if I wanted.

  Chapter Twenty

  Sleep had betrayed Joyce the second night; longed for but refusing to come. Passing traffic, voices and activities in the hotel were loud and intrusive to someone accustomed to the dark silence of a village, uneasy in a strange bed, tormented by the unthinkable. It was the wrong time to think, of course — the smaller the hour, the greater the problem — but it was almost impossible to move her mind to anything else. She tried reciting poetry, including a sonnet she had once written herself.

  The dialogue between my mind and heart,

  Considering my love’s accomplishment,

  Was crossed in disagreement from the start

  Of all such unavailing argument.

  His sugar’d words of love the mind condemns

  As but the mask to hide unfaithfulness,

  But from the heart all absolution stems

  And lovers’ eyes are blind to wantonness.

  Each accusation brings a counter-claim,

  Fresh evidence is met with alibis.

  The summer of his smile refutes the blame

  Of all that logic’s art can realize.

  Concerning love, the heart may reason ill,

  Yet triumphs over penetration’s skill.

  That had been when she was nineteen — the first time she’d fallen seriously in love. He’d been reading English and she’d wanted to impress him … Now his name wouldn’t come back.

  ‘But from the heart all absolution stems, and lovers’ eyes are blind to wantonness.’ How much absolution could she grant? More than she knew, otherwise she wouldn’t be hiding and he wouldn’t be free. It was unbelievable. She was an unremarkable woman with two teenage children, a bad marriage, an ageing mother and what she feared were the first creepings of arthritis in her fingers; living a life of quiet desperation perhaps, but not the doomed heroine of tragedy. All she’d wanted was an affair, for the fun and daring of it, until love had ambushed her. And even that had been all right, because he’d been kind — until a truth that belonged in Gothic horror had emerged, as though a mask had been torn from his face and she had screamed at the decay beneath …

  Stop it. There’s always a way out, however dreadful. Sing to yourself, pray for sleep. That’s not much to ask God for at the moment … What sounded like a juggernaut rumbled past, fading until she could hear the whisper of waves again.

  When she opened the curtains it was a glittering morning, the rising sun molten on rippling water dyed pale blue by shining sky. Across the road a family were early on the sand; a father and two sons kicking a red plastic ball, while the mother held the hand of a tiny girl who was jumping with delight in the sea’s shallow edge. Joyce watched them for a long time, before ordering a continental breakfast in her room; polite conversation downstairs would be unbearable. Then she showered, packed, settled her bill and left; it was eight hours before she was due to meet him. She felt better in daylight, her emotions more governable, leaving space for clearer thought. She bought cheese, apple and a fruit drink in Bungay, then drove south again, half aimlessly, the car radio on to occupy her mind, before stopping within sight of a windmill and walking across the fields to it. The sun was now blazing and she sheltered in its shadow. Still another five hours. Come on, look at this head-on.

  Find the nearest police station and … No, she’d promised to talk to him first. So allow him that, then explain she had no choice but to … but not until he had time to get away — if that was what he wanted. Which meant she didn’t want him to be punished? But he’d killed them … No, he hadn’t. He’d been there, but she’d read how dreadful he felt, why he’d come to Finch, how desperate he was to find forgiveness. Couldn’t she, of all people, forgive? How would she feel when everyone turned on him — and it came out that she had given herself to him? Fay would be sympathetic, but who would understand? What would cruel children say to Rupert and Annabel? Are you the ones whose mother fucks killers? She remembered what the tabloids had been like in nineteen ninety and her revulsion at them; if anything, they were worse now and would tear her to pieces. So what would telling achieve? Randall in gaol, so beautiful they’d be queuing up to rape him; her life and the children’s destroyed; Ralph and her mother disowning her; all the condemnation. And five bodies would still lie in the churchyard, no better for it.

  She unwrapped the cheese and bit off a corner. Of all the men she could probably have slept with, even found herself in love with, what malign fate had made it him? Emotion was no use, and thought made it worse. The alternative was to keep loving him, protect him, help him to become a complete person, not the sixth victim of Tannerslade. Of course, it would mean this Giles, the one who’d been truly wicked, would still walk free, but there was always a price, however bitter. Her mind went back to Sunday night at the house, the closeness of his body, watching from the window as he found the rose, the unutterable warmth of feeling she was slowly bringing him into her private harbour, the pure joy when he had lifted her to the morning sky. If that had been real, it should be unalterable. ‘Beareth all things, believeth all things, hopeth all things, endureth all things’ … How many times had she said that, convinced it had to be true, because if love failed what was left? Greed? Jealousy? Vengeance?

  She gave a small, bitter laugh at how simplicities could be subtly distorted. Facts. I can identify the murderers of five innocent people, including two children; and, I knew them; the law, which I always observe, insists I must tell the police. That’s what real life is about. This isn’t grand opera, I’m not a portrayal of a soul in torment. So why am I sitting here agonizing? Because I’m scared — and have no more idea about what to do than I had before. Unless I could run away.

  *

  Jowett felt trapped in the c
ottage, but Lambert refused to leave and would not let him go out alone.

  ‘We’ll have to chance it this evening, but we mustn’t be seen together if we can help it. I’m not meant to be here, remember. How long to get to this Stowmarket place?’

  ‘I’ve not been there, but … half an hour?’

  ‘And she said seven o’clock, so we leave here at five thirty. You drop me off somewhere and we don’t know each other until you pick me up again.’

  ‘I still can’t understand why you want to be there. I’ll tell you what she says to me.’

  ‘We’ve been through that. I want to see what sort of woman you managed to pull.’ There had only been one Valium left in the car, and Lambert was having to control his nervousness. ‘I’m assuming she looks like a dog.’

  ‘No, she doesn’t.’ Jowett felt protective, partly insulted on Joyce’s behalf. ‘You wouldn’t think she’s as old as she is, for a start. I’m not going to … Just don’t slag her off, OK?’

  ‘All right, I’m …’ Lambert forced himself back into the mood he needed to maintain. ‘I didn’t mean it. I’m just on the edge here, you know? She might have changed her mind and be talking to the police right now.’

  Jowett shook his head. ‘She wouldn’t lie to me. I know that.’

  ‘OK, it’s all right … How many cigarettes have you got?’

  ‘One more pack after this.’

  ‘Jesus. I need more than twenty to get me through today.’

  ‘I’ll go out for some.’

  ‘No way. I’ll manage. Let’s watch some crap on TV.’

  By mid-afternoon, they had lapsed into silence. Jowett wished Lambert would talk, explain what he was planning in more detail since they had discussed it the previous evening after Joyce’s call. If their best hope — that she would somehow not want to hand him over — failed, Jowett was to play on her sympathy, asking for time to go to France to confess to his sister, preparing her for when he gave himself up. He’d told Lambert she would probably agree. That would buy them a few days, during which Jowett was to raise as much money as possible and Lambert would transfer it to his overseas account. Then it would be Eurostar across the Channel, hidden among crowds of day-trippers, a plane out of Paris to anywhere on one of the less efficient airlines, then on to the Cayman Islands.

  ‘It’s not perfect,’ Lambert had admitted. ‘But it won’t make it easy for them to find us. Anyway, we may not need to do it. If she hasn’t gone straight to the police, she might not go at all. Turn your charm on.’

  Relieved that Lambert was so capable, Jowett also knew that once he’d handed over the money, there was nothing to stop Lambert disappearing. He’d felt bad suggesting it, as though it showed a lack of trust.

  ‘Think about it,’ Lambert had told him. ‘If I’m not at Waterloo when you expect me, you’ll go to the police and they’ll turn Interpol loose. I know they’ll get you as well — she’ll make sure of that, anyway — but we’ve got to trust each other on this, Randy.’

  And Jowett had accepted it. Why not? It sounded plausible enough. Not as refined as planning Tannerslade had been, but there wasn’t time to perfect it. Lambert found a pack of cards among the assorted games supplied in the cottage and insisted they played three-card brag, German whist, cribbage — anything to keep Jowett’s crazy mind occupied.

  *

  Lambert bought a copy of The Times in Stowmarket and folded it so it looked as if he was doing the crossword as he sat on a barstool in the Crown; he surprised himself by solving half a dozen clues. The quiet, soft-carpeted lounge was immediately inside the entrance: two grey imitation leather settees and a handful of low tables with armchairs, muted crimson lighting. Three men and a woman were the only other customers until Jowett walked in at twenty to seven, not looking at Lambert as he bought a gin and tonic and sat near the door. He lit a cigarette, then took a handful of peanuts from the bowl on the table and ate them one at a time. Lambert concentrated on the paper; the answer to six across was Coppelia. Behind him low voices, bland violins playing Andrew Lloyd Webber and the barman joshing with a waitress who came through from the dining room with a drinks order. One of the men told a dirty joke and the woman laughed politely; perhaps he was her boss. Lambert checked his watch against the lounge clock; it was three minutes slow. Where was she? The barman glanced at his glass to see if he wanted a refill, then continued playing with a pocket computer game.

  It was ten past seven when Lambert saw the revolving door move; Jowett had described her, but not well enough. Statuesque, the sort of woman to make him wonder what she had looked like twenty years earlier when her beauty had been fired by carnal greed. High heels, olive green cotton shirt taut across good breasts, then sloping in to a wide leather belt and full skirt. She hesitated, then saw Jowett, and seemed both relieved and apprehensive. He stood up and they spoke before he went back to the bar and bought a St Clements with ice. Lambert stared at twenty-three down, ears strained but they were speaking very softly, leaning towards each other.

  ‘I’m so relieved you’re here.’

  ‘Why shouldn’t I have been?’

  ‘Because you could have run away from me … May I?’ She indicated his cigarettes, holding one between inexperienced fingers as he lit it, then coughed. ‘Sorry. It’s years since I’ve had one. I never thought anything would drive me back.’

  He could think of nothing to say as she drew in and instantly expelled smoke several times, examining him curiously, as though he were someone she knew intimately who had become a total stranger.

  ‘Where’ve you been?’ he asked.

  ‘Not far … But it was a hell of a long way back. I just had to be somewhere on my own after …’ She stubbed out the barely smoked Dorchester in the cut-glass ashtray impatiently, as though asking for it had been a weakness. ‘And before I say anything, I want you to swear to tell me the truth. You’ve lied by default, if nothing else. If you don’t promise to be honest from now on — and for God’s sake I deserve that — I may as well walk straight out of here.’

  ‘Don’t do that. Please.’ She had her back to Lambert and Jowett could see him glancing across occasionally. ‘I promise.’

  She held his eyes as if trying to see deception. ‘All right. Thank you. The first thing I have to know is … When I read what you’d written you said it had never been planned as murder … Don’t interrupt. You said this Giles had told you the gun wasn’t loaded and you were horrified when it happened. Was that true?’

  ‘Yes.’ He held his palms open for emphasis. ‘What would have been the point in lying when I was writing about it? No one else was meant to see it, but I’ve been hiding from this for six years, and … there’s a lot I can’t explain. Writing it down, making myself read it again … I thought it might help me.’

  ‘And did it?’

  ‘In some ways … at least that’s what I told myself. I was beginning to think that coming back here was helping as well.’

  ‘Even though what happened between us took your mind off it?’ She sounded slightly caustic.

  ‘It didn’t,’ he said simply. ‘Can’t you understand? Nothing I do is separate from that day. It … possesses me.’ At the bar Lambert was ordering another drink.

  ‘So when you said it had been crucifying you, you meant that? Really meant it.’

  ‘Did you read the part about when I tried to kill myself?’ She nodded. ‘I don’t know how well I explained how I felt when I couldn’t go through with it, but not having the courage to do it made me hate myself even more. Finch was the last place to go. If I fail here, with you, I might find the courage to try again. At least that would end it.’

  She wondered how much the sudden twist of pain showed in her face. ‘And you didn’t kill them?’

  ‘No, I didn’t! You’ve got to believe that.’

  She rested her elbows on the table and raised her hands to her lips, looking away, eyes troubled. He wanted to reach across and touch her, but feared rejection.

  �
�All right, I do,’ she said finally. ‘But what happened afterwards? After you told him you wanted nothing more to do with it.’

  ‘I just got out. Started trying to run away from it. As far as I was concerned, Giles could keep what we’d stolen and I never wanted to see him again. I didn’t care what he did.’

  ‘But you did see him again. On Moorgate. I read that.’

  Randall fumbled with the cigarette packet. ‘Yes, but it was just a chance meeting. I didn’t even know he was living in London.’

  ‘Tell me about him.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because he turned you into somebody I know you’re not.’ She shook her head in dismayed disbelief. ‘How could you let him do that to you?’

  He looked directly at her, despite the urge to look beyond. ‘He just did it … He’s very clever and I … I’ll never understand myself, but he could argue so well and I let him persuade me. What I need forgiving for is not what I did, but what I didn’t do. I should have told him to forget it right from the start, then at least tried to stop him when it happened. And I should have given myself up.’

  ‘Do you think he’s evil? You didn’t make him sound it.’

  ‘If I said he was, wouldn’t that be as if I were making an excuse for myself? He’s … hard, determined, you know the type. They succeed because they don’t give a damn about people they hurt. Perhaps he’s more extreme.’

  ‘Wasn’t he worried you’d betray him?’

  ‘How could I? If the police ever picked him up, he’d drag me in even if I hadn’t been the one who told them. I’ve dreaded hearing that they’d got him and knowing it was me next.’

  She sipped her drink, before opening her bag and taking out a handkerchief, holding it briefly against each eye in turn as she sniffed. ‘I know exactly what I ought to do, of course, but …’ Her voice caught on a small hiccup. ‘Well, if you didn’t believe me before when I said how much I love you, I hope you’ve grasped it now. I can’t bear the thought of you … Just swear you’re telling me the truth!’