‘You look well, Donald,’ I said.
‘And you too, Verry.’
The use of my name, that troublesome name, slightly shook my resolve. Only Donald could say it with such certainty, and with such affection. I smiled at him.
‘I’ve waited so long for this visit,’ he was saying. ‘I’ve brought some of my paintings to show you.’
And then the Painter of Parkhurst flashed through my mind, and the film that they would make in Hollywood and my Donald on parole by public request. And slowly my resolve evaporated. All that remained was pity. A life sentence of pity, that no amount of counselling could conquer or assuage.
‘What’s it like here?’ I asked.
‘Not too bad,’ he said. ‘I’ve made some friends.’
That was a bonus, I thought. He’d made no friends on the outside. What with friends and painting, prison might be the making of him, I thought, and that cheered me up a little. He did not ask for news from outside. He was too intent on showing me his paintings. Their content surprised me, for none of them depicted the prison or prison life. They were seascapes, reminiscent of our early holidays with the boys. And they were beautiful. And full of longing. They moved me unutterably, but served only to swell my pity. I praised them fulsomely. My Donald had at last found his voice, that voice so monosyllabic on the outside. It was as if he had at last found peace. And who was I to pity him? But pity, I knew, had nothing to do with his circumstances. Pity was my need and, faute de mieux, pity was the only way I could stomach his incarceration.
‘I painted this one especially for you,’ he said. ‘Not that I need any reminder of you, but it’s as if you are here by my side.’ He drew a sheet from underneath the pile and he laid it before me like an offering. It was a portrait of myself, painted by and from the heart. The likeness was astonishing, and though it was a fine portrayal in every particular, I had an acute sensation of being blackmailed. But I could not help but admire it. I told him it showed great talent and that I was very flattered. That seemed to please him.
‘Encouragement helps,’ he said, and as he was tidying up the sheets, I looked around at the other convicts and their visitors.
Mrs Cox stood out among them, partly because she was on her feet and seemed to be in a bit of a temper. I could not hear what she was saying, because she was hissing, as if fire was coming out of her mouth.
Others turned to look at her, and her husband cringed with embarrassment. Then suddenly she turned and stormed out of the room, though there was a good half-hour left of visiting time. Poor Mr Cox. He made no move to follow her. He laid his head on the table, accepting defeat, and I wondered if Mrs Cox had fled the room with pity in her heels.
My Donald hadn’t seemed to notice the disturbance and I thought I ought to bring it to his attention.
‘Oh, we get a lot of that,’ he said. ‘Relatives get upset. And so do inmates, when they visit. But she’ll be back next time. They always have a dust-up, I’m told, those two.’
‘But why?’ I dared to ask.
‘He keeps saying he’s innocent, and she only pretends to believe him. Not like you, Verry,’ he said. ‘You believe me, don’t you? You know I’m innocent.’
I nodded my head. What else could I do? I was in a quandary. I wasn’t convinced of his innocence, never had been, but at the same time, I couldn’t believe that he was guilty. In view of our years together, the happiness we’d shared, it was much easier to presume his innocence, whatever the opinions of twelve men and women true. My former resolve was now totally shaken and I leaned forward and kissed him on the cheek, knowing that I would visit again and again and again, until he was exonerated. Even so, as I was kissing him, I sensed that I was out of my mind.
The remainder of visiting time passed easily and he seemed almost relieved when it was over. He told me he wanted to get back to his painting. ‘It’s my life-line,’ he said. ‘That and your visits.’
Again I felt faintly blackmailed, but I kissed him and told him that he was a fine painter. Once more I thought of Alcatraz and Hollywood and as I left the room, waving, I realised that my former resolve had been a hiccup, and that I must never entertain such thoughts again.
Outside the prison, the bus was waiting and the visitors were already boarding. I looked around for Mrs Cox but there was no sign of her. So I boarded and made my way to the back of the bus. There she sat, huddled in the corner, weeping.
I put my arm around her. ‘It’s not easy,’ I said.
‘He’s innocent,’ she sobbed.
‘Of course.’ I comforted her. And comforted myself with our shared self-deception.
‘But he killed my mother,’ she went on.
Nothing added up. Nothing at all. All was confusion. Mrs Cox was indeed my soulmate. Neither of us dared to believe what was real, so we fashioned another kind of truth that was easier to accommodate. We had to. But it was not all that easy. And certainly not comfortable. For both Mrs Cox and I would be forever plagued with pity. And it was pity that would lace our stirrings in the small hours, a pity so dangerously close to resentment and anger that it led to a paralysing confusion.
The Diary
Six Down. Three to Go.
Yes, I survived my Paris sortie and it was time I went back to work. Or rather, to my mission. In any case, Wilkins had had a long enough break. It was time for him to go back to work too.
Up till now I had gotten away with murder, to coin a phrase. My easy dispatch in Paris had made me cocky and I had to take a break for a while to steady myself. I was uneasy about killing women. But I knew that gender was irrelevant. Man or woman, it was the profession that was my target. Nevertheless, I chose a man for my next hit. A Dr James Fortescue. He sounded posh and learned, and although those factors did not whet my appetite, they lessened my scruples.
I had taken the trouble to do a little research on Dr Fortescue. I had an urge to know a little more of the figure that I was about to eliminate. It was totally unnecessary, of course. Dr Fortescue just had to be a psychotherapist – nothing more. But I thought that my previous dispatches had been too perfunctory, and I felt obliged to discover a little more about my victim than his or her mere profession.
Thus I discovered that Dr Fortescue was a therapist who practised according to Freudian methods. And among these was an interest in dreams. I decided to oblige him. I forget most of my dreams, but one sticks in my mind. Probably because I have it often. The same dream. The first time I dreamt it coincided with the beginning of my crusade. And from time to time it repeats itself. I myself don’t understand it. So I proposed to throw it over Dr Fortescue’s desk, to make of it what he would.
He lived alone on the edge of a London suburb, close to a famous public school. That gave me an idea. It’s true I’m a man well into my forties but I have worn well and at a pinch I could be mistaken for a school-leaving prefect. I am tall and lean, and I can affect a gangling gait. So I took myself off to the school uniform department of a large store and on the pretence of buying for my son who was on holiday, I purchased a blazer, a tie and a cap of the relevant uniform colours. I dressed in my office, and I have to say that I could have fooled anybody. And if any witnesses came forward, they could only offer a schoolboy, which would in no way please Wilkins.
I was given a morning appointment, eight o’clock to be precise, and I marvelled at how these people beavered away from early morning till late at night in order to ruin and destroy.
I parked my car well away from Dr Fortescue’s house. I was nervous as I walked towards it. I realised that I was out of practice. For murder is a skill that can rust if not continually exercised. In my mind, I rehearsed the usual moves as I fingered the string in my pocket. At his front door, I hesitated before ringing his bell. I knew that hesitation was dangerous so I rang it with some force, and many times. Dr Fortescue must have sensed an emergency for the door was immediately opened.
He was a kind-looking man, a father-figure, and I knew that this would not be an eas
y dispatch. He smiled at me, and that didn’t help either. He motioned me to follow him.
‘I wasn’t expecting a schoolboy,’ he said, as he led me into his office. ‘You could have told the school to call me. I would have come.’
I didn’t know what he was talking about. Normally, I would have been happy to have fooled him, but I was sad that he was so taken in by my disguise. For a fatal moment I thought of leaving, of writing this one off. But it had already gone too far. Besides, together with my weapon, I had brought my dream.
He motioned me to sit down. ‘Now what’s troubling you?’ he asked.
‘I don’t think it’s important,’ I began. ‘It’s probably nothing.’
‘But it seems to be troubling you,’ he said.
I nodded.
‘Tell me about it. Perhaps I can help you.’
‘Well,’ I said, settling down, ‘it’s about a dream I keep having. It’s a very sunny day in the dream. A splendid day. I’m about ten years old and I’m in a park. I notice a beautiful array of flowers all around me. I feel the sun on my back. And I’m happy. I’ve brought my skipping-rope with me and I start to skip. And I count out loud. One for each two jumps. I’m shouting the numbers and when I come to nine, I stop. It seems I can’t skip any more. Every time, it’s always nine. Then I wake up.’
I looked at him for some explanation. He was silent, watching me closely.
‘The trouble is,’ I went on, ‘that I wake up in a sweat, and very afraid. What I don’t understand,’ I said, ‘is that the dream is so beautiful, yet it turns out to be a nightmare.’ Even as I spoke, I felt the sweat on my forehead, and my knees began to tingle.
‘Does the number nine have any meaning for you?’ Dr Fortescue asked.
It was the number of my crusade, I suddenly realised, and for me it had more than enough meaning.
‘No,’ I said. I was shouting. ‘None at all.’ I didn’t want any probing. I didn’t want any explanation. With a shattering clarity I now understood why my so-benign dream had turned into a sour nightmare. And it was none of Fortescue’s business. I had to get out of there before my sweat betrayed me. I took the string out of my pocket.
‘I’ve come to kill you,’ I said. ‘And may God forgive me.’ It was the first time in my crusade that I had asked for forgiveness. I was getting soft, and with three more to go, I could not afford remorse.
He didn’t seem in the least bit fazed by my threat.
‘I understand,’ he said. ‘Now relax and breathe deeply. Take your time. Your dream is very strong,’ he said, ‘very interesting.’
‘I’m going to kill you,’ I said again.
His lack of fear infuriated me. ‘I mean it,’ I said. But the more I said ‘I mean it’, the less he was convinced.
‘You’re taking up my time,’ he said.
‘You’re taking up my time,’ I managed to say, and I heard my voice breaking like a growing schoolboy. I slipped behind him, and with my gloved hands I forced him into his chair and got on with the business. I checked his torpor and was satisfied.
I got out of there as quickly as I could. It had not been a pleasant dispatch. I recalled my euphoria after dear Mademoiselle Lacroix’s coup de grâce. Dr Fortescue’s killing had left a sour taste. It was not my touch that I was losing. It was my appetite. This worried me and I had to meticulously recap on every aspect of my motives. I had to image them again in the hope that they would nurture the need for my crusade.
There were some people around as I left Dr Fortescue’s house and it’s possible that I was seen. But I was not particularly noticed. A schoolboy was no oddity in that neighbourhood, and I walked with confidence to my car. I made sure that no one was about when I reached it. I got inside and drove a little way, then parked in a lay-by and quickly changed back into my regular clothes. I drove back to my office, poured a stiff whisky, and set myself to thinking.
Why am I writing this diary? Is it for myself or, as in some diarists’ cases, is it written for others to read? As to the latter, I am certain: it is for nobody else’s perusal. For if others should read it, they would pronounce me guilty. It is true that I have killed, and that I shall go on killing until my mission is fulfilled. But the mission itself is the quintessence of innocence. It is a truly honest protest and, in the long run, it will fulfil its purpose. A noble purpose, which is simply for the benefit of mankind. I say that with no arrogance, but with absolute certainty. I started it late, long after the event that occasioned it. When that happened, I was in such despair of my future that I grasped at the first hand that offered comfort. It belonged to one Emma Lewis, and I told her nothing at all. All I gave her was my despair. She didn’t know the first thing about me. I valued myself so little, I couldn’t imagine that anything about my person could be of interest. She tolerated two years of my silence, and then could bear it no longer. She was tired of dying in my company, and she left me to find some kind of life for herself. I didn’t blame her. Fortunately we had no children.
At the time I was working as a junior partner in an accountant’s office. I was not happy with my employers, and they in turn were not happy with me. I have to confess that, due to my sullen nature, I was almost unemployable. Moreover, I was lonely. I longed for companionship, but I was wary. I felt I had so little to give. I simply didn’t want to be known. Then, by some miracle, I met Verry. Verry fitted the bill exactly. She accepted my silence and asked no questions. She seemed to be eternally grateful. In so far as I could love anyone at all, after the horrendous event that occasioned this diary, in so far as I could conceal my heart yet still love, that person was Verry. We were married, and shortly afterwards I came into a legacy and started up on my own. I managed to build up a regular clientele and make a comfortable living. By then we had two lovely boys, twins, Martin and Matthew. We have been together for many years now and if Verry is grateful, her gratitude cannot exceed mine. I consider myself blessed. Yet I still do not want to be wholly known. The event to which I referred has condemned me to a semi-life. It has stilled my tongue.
So perhaps I am writing this diary for myself alone. To put words on paper. Words which refuse to come out of my mouth. When I think of all the killings, I only half believe them, but once written down, detail by detail, they achieve some credibility. And they astonish me. These deeds are not in my nature. I was a gentle boy, gentle to the point of timidity. Yet these are my deeds, my killings. But the force that leads to them all is overpowering. And will not, in the name of love and loyalty, be denied.
To date I have killed six human beings. It is they who are guilty. I have to kill three more to complete my mission and then, whatever happens to me, I shall rest easy. The killings are a protest against evil. And, as God is my judge, I am innocent.
SIX DOWN. THREE TO GO.
When the news …
When the news of the sixth killing landed on Wilkins’ desk, it fell into the hands of his deputy. His boss was on holiday, somewhere in Scotland, and he debated with himself and other officers, whether Wilkins should be informed. Some were against interrupting their chief’s holiday but most of them acknowledged that the shrink investigation was Wilkins’ baby – always had been – and that he should be told immediately of the new development.
And, as they expected, Wilkins lost no time in coming back to work. He read all the facts of the case that were available. Dr Fortescue had been a well-respected psychotherapist. Among his duties was a weekly visit to the local public school to act as counsellor to those boys who needed guidance. Wilkins did not expect a break-in. Neither did he expect any kind of prints. But this case was different from the others. Although clearly by the same guitar-string garrotter, there were witnesses. Three of them to be precise. And all tallied in their testimony. One had seen a lad in uniform leaving Dr Fortescue’s house. He looked like a sixth-former from the public school. He seemed to be in a hurry. The two other witnesses had seen what appeared to be the same boy walking in the street close to Dr Fortescue’s house.<
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Wilkins was at first delighted, but he harboured doubts that a mere schoolboy could turn out to be such a vicious and cunning killer. Still, in all his investigations, it was the closest he had come to a clue.
He arranged an urgent meeting with the headmaster of the school, Dr Osborne, and presented himself in his office that very afternoon. He was invited into Dr Osborne’s study and offered afternoon tea.
‘It’s about Dr Fortescue,’ Wilkins began.
‘A terrible business,’ Dr Osborne said. ‘A wonderful man, and so understanding of children. There’s not a lot I can tell you about him personally. He tended to keep himself to himself. We talked together but only about the children, and I always took his advice.’
‘We have some witnesses,’ Wilkins said, coming straight to the point. ‘And that’s why I’m here. I’m afraid one of them saw a boy from the school – it could have been a sixth-former – leaving Dr Fortescue’s house round about the time he was killed. Two other witnesses saw what appeared to be the same boy walking along a street near Dr Fortescue’s house. Have you any idea what a pupil might be doing at Dr Fortescue’s house at that hour?’
‘It’s preposterous.’ Dr Osborne almost laughed. ‘They must have been mistaken. If a student wanted to see Dr Fortescue, he would wait until his Thursday visit. He would have no need to make a personal call.’
‘Nevertheless,’ Wilkins insisted, ‘I must take all sightings seriously. Out of courtesy, I have to ask your permission to interview all your sixth-formers. And separately, of course.’
‘As you wish,’ Dr Osborne said. ‘I’m sure they’ll enjoy it enormously. Any excuse to take them out of the classroom. But I have to tell you, Inspector, Dr Fortescue didn’t counsel the sixth-form boys. He spent his Thursdays in the Junior School. With the boarders mostly. Homesickness. That sort of thing. I don’t think the sixth-formers could shed any light on the crime.’ He laughed again, and Wilkins rather hoped that in time, Dr Osborne would be laughing on the other side of his face.
Nine Lives Page 9