Nine Lives

by Bernice Rubens

  The station was not busy. It was holiday time, and even felons seemed to be on vacation. There were the usual muggings and break-ins, but those fell outside Wilkins’ remit. They were part of the duties of lesser officers. Even his deputy was on holiday, and Wilkins looked forward to his return, so that he himself could take a break. Perhaps they would go to the Lake District again; it was within easy calling reach of London. For wherever he was, Wilkins felt himself on duty.

  He was idling with The Times crossword when his telephone rang. It was the duty officer. He reported an attempted murder at a house in Hampstead. An ambulance was on its way, and a man was being held.

  ‘You seem to have sewn it all up,’ Wilkins said. ‘Why do you need me?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ the officer said. ‘The policeman on the site said it was one of your cases.’

  Wilkins called for his car and reached for his coat. It was not quite murder. And a man was being held. That didn’t necessarily make it one of his cases. He was curious. There was something missing. Some information to which he was not privy. Until he arrived at the scene.

  The victim, he was told, was one Charles Mills, a psychotherapist. So it was clearly one of his cases. A man had been taken to the station. He had openly confessed to the attempted murder. He was found with the gun smoking in his hand. ‘An absolute nutter,’ the policeman said.

  The victim had been taken to hospital. Wilkins ordered the front garden to be sealed. It was there that the gunman had loitered, waiting for his victim’s arival. The car was in the driveway, and Mr Mills had been shot getting out of it. There had been no attempt at escape. The shot had been heard and there was no shortage of witnesses. Moreover, there was a confession. Wilkins no longer needed fingerprints. But on his way back to the station, he wondered whether it was one of his cases, after all. If it was, then his killer had slipped mightily. Because of the Council’s directive, he’d not been able to make one of his usual appointments. And he was desperate. He’d come out into the open. But what didn’t make sense was his change of weapon.

  He was anxious to get back to the station and begin the interrogation. He chose a woman police officer to sit by his side in the interview room. A woman’s presence during such a procedure was always useful. It could embarrass the subject or intimidate him, and that subject would find both unnerving. Wilkins studied the suspect carefully. He seemed to be a man in his forties, though Wilkins would not have been surprised if he’d been much younger, for his face was creased with worry lines which etched his haggard expression. He was tall and gaunt and, despite his clothes which were of the finest cut, and his air of wealth, he looked as though he could do with a good meal. He was not as Wilkins had imagined his man. His killer was short, stocky perhaps, ugly and bald. Nothing like the man who sat before him.

  ‘Is he going to die?’ the man asked.

  It was a perfectly natural question, Wilkins thought. The man was simply concerned whether he would be tried for murder or grievous bodily harm.

  ‘We don’t know as yet,’ Wilkins said.

  ‘I hope he does,’ the man said. ‘He deserves to. After all he’s done.’

  But Wilkins would come to that later. He needed the simple facts of the assault. Its reasons could be explained when those facts were made clear. He switched on the tape.

  ‘State your name,’ he said.

  ‘Thomas Rhys May.’

  ‘Age?’

  ‘Thirty-one.’

  ‘Occupation?’

  ‘Psychotherapist.’

  Wilkins shivered. He thought of Dr Arbuthnot who had suggested an unfrocked shrink as the killer. Was this Mr May one of those struck off the register? His hopes rose once more. He saw his overcrowded back-burner quickly unpeopled. A slate wiped clean. He smiled. He suddenly loved Mr May. He would go easy with him for a while. He could afford to.

  ‘Just answer the questions,’ he said. ‘Tell me what happened. In your own words. Just the facts.’

  ‘I was waiting for him,’ Mr May said. ‘I knew he went every Thursday to work at a private clinic. Well, he would, wouldn’t he, money-grubbing bastard? I knew what time he came home and how he parked his car in the drive. I’d watched him at it a number of times. So I decided to do it today. I hid behind the hedge in the front garden, and I waited. He arrived on time, as expected. I stayed hidden until he got out of the car, then I came out from behind the hedge and faced him. I wanted him to recognise me. I wanted him to know who was going to put him away.

  ‘“Thomas?” he said. He seemed surprised because in no way was he expecting me. He must have noticed the gun in my hand. Then I saw the fear on his face and I was delighted. I let him indulge his terror for a little while. There was a sudden puddle of it at his feet. Poor bugger raised his hands. Where did he think he was? On the Somme? But I don’t take prisoners. So I shot him. That’s it. I’ve confessed. What more d’you want to know?’

  The facts were now clear. Mr May seemed to have held nothing back.

  ‘Have you done anything like this before?’ Wilkins asked. He still clung to the hope that the man was the killer he sought.

  Mr May looked offended. ‘Of course not,’ he said. ‘Do you think I make a habit of this sort of thing? Like that notorious shrink-killer? Now he’s a real nutter and I don’t know what his reasons are. But I had a reason. I had just one target. Mr Mills. If he doesn’t die, then I hope that I’ve at least crippled him for life. Just as he’s done to me.’

  ‘And what has he done to you?’ Wilkins was patient. He already suspected the answer. He’d heard it before during his investigations.

  ‘I’ve told you,’ Mr May said. ‘He’s crippled me for life.’

  ‘In which way?’ Wilkins asked.

  ‘It’s a long story and I don’t expect you to understand.’

  ‘I’ll try,’ Wilkins said.

  ‘Any chance of a cup of tea?’ Mr May asked.

  ‘With pleasure,’ Wilkins said. He was going to indulge this man. He was going to spoil him. Despite his denial of the other killings, he smelt his guilt across the table. His posh accent and smart clothes could not save him. Slowly and very gently he would wear him down.

  He switched off the tape, and asked the policewoman to organise a cup of tea. ‘And a biscuit perhaps,’ he added. Then he himself left the room. Once outside, he rehearsed the questions that he would ask. And their tone. Especially their tone. How they would begin in a voice of such understanding, and how gradually they would lose their gentle edge. Until in a burst of rage, he would openly accuse him of serial killing. Then the blessed charge. ‘I am arresting you, and so on and so on.’ The press would be alerted, and those stupid gendarmes across the water. Then he and Mary could go off to the Lake District once more, or even abroad perhaps, for he no longer needed to be within call.

  Shortly the policewoman arrived with the mug of tea and a wrapped biscuit, and together they re-entered the interview room.

  Mr May was smoking a cigarette. He seemed calm and at peace with himself. Not for much longer, Wilkins thought. May took the mug of tea with a smile. ‘Just what the doctor ordered,’ he said. ‘I’m parched.’

  Wilkins switched on the tape, and announced the time of the renewed interview.

  ‘Shall we go on?’ he said. ‘You were going to tell me in which way Mr Mills has crippled your life.’

  Mr May leaned back in his chair and took a large gulp of tea.

  ‘Are you married, Inspector?’ he asked.

  ‘I’m asking the questions here,’ Wilkins said gently. ‘But to answer your question, and there must be no more, yes, I am married. Married twenty-six years.’

  ‘Children?’ Mr May persisted.

  ‘I have two,’ Wilkins said. ‘Now, can we get on with it?’

  ‘It’s important for me to know if you are married,’ Mr May said. ‘Because if you are, you are more likely to understand my position.’

  ‘Explain yourself,’ Wilkins said.

  ‘I’m married,
’ Mr May said. ‘Twelve years. Three children. And now all that is over.’

  He took another gulp of tea. Wilkins noticed that the man was losing his calm. His hand was shaking as he held the cup. Wilkins was confident of a further confession. Shooting Mr Mills was only the beginning. Or the end maybe. Either way, he would urge him to backtrack. He would drive him to Mr Winston’s door, then to Angela Mayling’s, to Bronwen Hughes’, to Alistair Morris’s and to all the other doors he had entered. He would put that guitar string back in his gloved hand. He would grind him down until he was broken. Until he whispered that he had killed them all. But he had to be patient. The man wanted to talk about his marriage. He would listen, feigning sympathy, though he knew that the state of the man’s marriage was irrelevant.

  ‘You seemed troubled, Mr May,’ he said. ‘Why is your marriage over?’

  ‘Can I ask you another question?’ Mr May said.

  Why not? Wilkins thought. He could afford to play with him a little longer. ‘Go ahead,’ he said.

  ‘If you found out that your wife was sleeping with another man, what would you do?’

  ‘I would be very sad,’ Wilkins said.

  ‘Is that all? Sad?’ Mr May’s voice was raised. ‘Sad,’ he said with a sneer. ‘What kind of man are you? Wouldn’t you do something about it?’

  ‘Like what?’ Wilkins asked.

  ‘Like a gun,’ Mr May said. He had begun to tremble.

  And so had Wilkins as all his hopes faded. As all his certainties melted. As his holiday was reduced to mere fantasy, and as all hopes of promotion collapsed. He had been called in to investigate a simple domestic, one that with little trouble could be proved. He had a sudden urge to strike Mr May for his honesty and for the rude shattering of his dreams.

  ‘Charles Mills was sleeping with my wife,’ Mr May was saying. ‘She was going to leave me and take the children with her. You ask her. You ask him. If he’s still alive. He knows why I wanted to kill him. He knew it when he saw my gun. He’s ruined my life. I hope he pays for it.’

  Then Mr May finally broke down. ‘I had to do it,’ he mumbled. ‘I couldn’t help myself.’

  But Wilkins felt no pity for him. ‘Charge him,’ he told the policewoman. ‘Grievous bodily harm. And that’s for starters. Then read him his rights.’

  He left the room. He had never before felt so dejected. So let down. His killer, his real killer must be laughing his head off. He could tick off yet another shrink for nothing. If not dead, then certainly wounded. One more to add to his tally of revenge. One for free. How much longer could it go on, he wondered.

  Once back at his desk, he rang the hospital to enquire as to the condition of Charles Mills. He would survive, the doctor told him, though he would take some weeks to recover. His wife was at his bedside.

  Wilkins wondered what on earth they could find to say to each other. He felt a sudden urge to ring his wife, just to hear her voice, just to know that she was at home and possibly preparing his supper. He was floundering and he desperately needed anchorage.

  I had a letter from …

  I had a letter from Donald this week. He’s full of excitement. The mural is almost finished, and the Governor has given him permission to show it to me on my next visit. I’m a bit nervous. I’m sure I will like it and I’ll certainly say so. But I’m still nervous. Not for myself. I’m nervous for Donald. For what comes after the mural? How will he deal with the anti-climax when the mural is finished and unveiled? What then for my Donald? But I must not think about that. I must manage one day at a time. As he will have to do. I told my boys about the painting, and their indifference was sublime. I have to accept that they will never see him again. I think of the last time they laid eyes on him. And he on them. It was the final day of the trial. The verdict had been given. He’d been sentenced to life and he was being led away from the dock. He turned and looked towards the gallery where I was sitting with my boys. He stood still and waved his hand. I could see that he was trying desperately to give us a smile. But it was hard for him. And I know why. Because at that moment, my boys, both of them at the same time, rose from their seats and turned away. Then I saw Donald shrug helplessly and wave again, but he knew that that wave was for me alone.

  But I don’t want to think about the trial. It’s too depressing. Though no doubt there will come a time when I’ll have to relive it, if only in my search for the ‘why’ of it all.

  I bought a new dress for my next visit. The unveiling I was promised called for a display. I wanted Donald to be proud of me. I thought of Mrs Cox and I was uneasy. She would be without me in the visitors room, silent with her axeman, while I would be enjoying myself elsewhere. I hoped that she wouldn’t be envious, and as a result our accidental friendship would be frayed.

  She was not on the train when I boarded, and I half hoped that she had kept her word and decided not to come. But at the last moment I saw her rushing down the platform and there she was beside me, breathless and already tearful. But sober.

  ‘I wasn’t going to come,’ she said. ‘I tried to stop myself. But I couldn’t. So here we go again.’

  I took her hand. ‘You would have regretted it,’ I said. ‘I’m glad you’re here.’

  ‘I’m still not sure I’ll go,’ she said, though the train had already pulled out of the station.

  Then we were silent. We had only one train conversation, and both of us were tired of it. Once on the ferry, she went straight to the bar, and I dreaded the outcome. She returned to our table, but she was not carrying glasses. Instead, she held a half-bottle of whisky which she stuffed into her bag. Alcohol was not allowed into Parkhurst and I wondered what she had in mind.

  When we disembarked from the ferry, we walked together to the waiting bus. But as we reached it, she stopped. ‘I’m not going,’ she said. There was no hesitation in her voice, so I knew there was no point in trying to dissuade her.

  ‘What will you do?’ I asked.

  ‘I’ll sit by the sea,’ she said. ‘I’ll just look at the water.’ She opened her bag and tapped the bottle. ‘This’ll be good company,’ she said.

  I feared for her and I wondered how she would get back to London.

  ‘When shall I see you?’ I asked.

  ‘I’ll make my own way,’ she said, and she was already off, and at a brisk pace, as if she feared I would hold her back. But I did not go after her. Her decision was her own business and I boarded the bus alone.

  As I entered the visitors room, I saw the axeman rise and move towards me. He was used to seeing us arrive together.

  ‘Where is she?’ he shouted.

  ‘I’m not your wife’s keeper,’ I shouted back. ‘I don’t know where she is.’

  ‘Was she on the bus?’ He was now quite close to me.

  ‘No,’ I said. And that was true. I just hoped he wasn’t going to enquire about the ferry.

  Donald was coming towards me, and I was glad of his protection, for the axeman was threatening. A warder approached him and tried to calm him down. Then he led him out of the room. At the door he turned.

  ‘Bitch. Fucking bitch,’ he announced to the assembly. He could have been referring to me or to his wife. It was probably the same phrase he’d used to his mother-in-law before he axed her. His curse was directed against women in general. He simply hated them.

  I was trembling when I sat down. Donald held my hand. I leaned over and whispered to him Mrs Cox’s whereabouts and her likely condition.

  ‘I don’t blame her,’ he said. ‘She’s better off there than here. At least she’s safer. He’s a monster.’ He smiled at me. ‘You will be honest when you see it, won’t you?’ he said. ‘Tell me what you really think.’

  ‘Of course,’ I said. ‘Though I’m sure it’s wonderful.’

  ‘Let’s go then.’ He led me out of the room, past the empty Cox table which looked no more vacant than when the wretched pair were sitting there. Donald took my hand and led me through endless corridors. He was excited and in a hurry
and I trotted by his side. On our way we passed a patrolling warder. He nodded to Donald. ‘Ten minutes,’ he said. Donald was clearly a ‘trusty’. At last we reached the games room. I hoped there’d be no one inside so that Donald and I could have a really private view. But as he opened the door, I saw a man leaning over the pool table, lining up a shot. He was alone, and he didn’t have to turn around. For I knew from his axeman’s back exactly who he was.

  ‘Let’s go,’ I whispered to Donald.

  ‘He won’t bother us,’ Donald said. ‘And this is your only chance.’

  The mural was on the opposite wall, and I could see it from where I stood. But not in detail. In the long view it was impressive enough, and I wanted to move towards it to examine it closely. But to cross the room meant skirting the pool table. There was no way we could avoid being seen. But he must have heard the door closing behind us and he turned around.

  ‘Ignore him,’ Donald whispered.

  But the axeman would not be ignored. All his life he had been neglected, disregarded, overlooked, and he was damned if, even in prison, doing his time, the pattern would be repeated.

  ‘What d’you think?’ he sneered. ‘Awful, isn’t it? A kid could do better than that. Just a load of green paint. And we’re supposed to be grateful for it.’

  We ignored him as Donald urged me towards the wall. Our backs were towards him, and I wasn’t happy. Suddenly he was at my side, the billiard cue in his hand. I thought he might strike me and I wanted to run.

  ‘You know where my wife is,’ he said. ‘She always comes with you.’