by Danuta Reah
‘There wasn’t anyone around to report it to,’ she protested, sounding defensive in her own ears.
He thought for a moment and seemed to make a conscious effort to move back into a more relaxed stance. ‘I know there’s still a problem with security in the evenings. You could do with mobile phones really, the teaching staff.’ He gave her a quick smile. ‘But that’d be the rest of my budget.’ After he’d made some notes, he said, ‘What was the other thing?’
‘Oh, well …’ Debbie was a bit uncertain now, unsure of his reception, but he leant back against the wall and waited, so she told him about her encounter at the station. He listened in silence. ‘Should I tell the police?’ she said.
‘Yes. Next question.’
‘Do you think it had anything to do with the murder?’ Debbie tried to keep the anxiety out of her voice, but something must have come through, because he narrowed his eyes and his face went serious.
‘I’ve no idea, Deborah. You’ll have to tell them and let them work it out. Why don’t you bring your car when you’re working late?’
‘Because I haven’t got one. I don’t drive.’
He looked exasperated, but Louise turned up before he could say anything, and the conversation turned to more general college matters. After a few minutes he left, promising to get back to Debbie about Room B110.
Louise was packing a pile of marking into her briefcase. ‘A bit of leisure activity,’ she added, seeing Debbie look at it. ‘Doing anything interesting this weekend?’
Debbie felt low. ‘I hate weekends. I’m not going anywhere, I haven’t got anyone to go with and even if I did I’ve got so much work I couldn’t anyway.’
‘Fancy a drink this evening?’ As Debbie accepted Louise’s invitation, she thought that the older woman must have seen how down she looked. Debbie, the youngest lecturer in the English and humanities team, was usually known as the most cheerful, having, as Louise pointed out, a lot more energy than the others, ‘and the chance of a future that will get you out of this dump.’ They agreed to meet later at Louise’s house. Louise didn’t like pubs much, and Debbie felt like a quiet evening.
Rob Neave was home in his flat, listening to music and letting his mind drift. Maybe things were getting better. They didn’t seem to be getting any worse. The flat was tiny, a bedsitter, really, but called a flat because it was self-contained. He had a small kitchen and a bathroom to call his own, and that was all he’d wanted at the time. He’d taken the first offer on the house he used to share with Angie, the first offer that would cover the mortgage. All he’d taken from the house were his stereo and some pictures. He’d bought everything else he needed – a bed, a chair, carpets, curtains, a cooker. It was all he could manage to do, to find a new place to live, a new job.
The evening stretched in front of him, bleak and empty. He could go out – but where and why? He could stay in, read, listen to music, like he’d done for the past countless number of evenings. He wondered about giving Lynne a ring, going over to her place, talking a bit of police shop, picking up the gossip, spending a couple of hours in her bed. It would be a distraction, something to do. Though she’d probably be busy at this short notice.
Maybe it was time to move on. Staying here, everything was a reminder. Places he went to, people he saw. He’d found a letter waiting when he got in, from an ex-colleague, Pete Morton. Morton had gone into the security business up in Newcastle, Neave’s childhood city. He’d written to ask if Neave was interested in joining him. There’s a load of work here, Morton had written. I’m starting to turn stuff down. Neave thought seriously about the offer, about going back to Newcastle. He needed to get away.
Applying for the job at City College had been part of getting away. He didn’t know anyone there, and no one knew him. The job had looked interesting as well. The place was wide open, equipment was walking out through the front door, the buildings were being vandalized and staff and bona fide students were starting to feel intimidated. It had been a challenge he’d enjoyed, imposing a system on to the anarchic world of post-sixteen education. It had given him something to think about, but he’d done as much as he could there.
He knew he wasn’t particularly liked. It didn’t worry him. He had the capacity to get on well with people, inspire trust – it had been an asset in his last job, but he didn’t need it now. His face in repose looked boyish and good-humoured, and his eyes, despite – or perhaps because of – the lines under them that seemed to be a permanent feature now, tended to look as though he smiled a lot. When people found out he wasn’t the easy-going person he seemed, they resented it. But he got results.
He thought about his conversation with Deborah Sykes that afternoon. He remembered his first meeting with her. She’d been banging her head against the brick wall of management, trying to get a perfectly reasonable request for decent lighting implemented. The response had been to agree in principle and postpone action until the budget allowed – i.e. indefinitely. He’d played traitor on that one, and helped her get it through. She, and then Louise, her sharp-tongued boss, had become his first supporters in the place. He enjoyed their company, and had taken to dropping into their room to talk to them.
He’d fired Debbie’s evangelical instincts when they’d had some kind of argument about books, about the value of poetry, and she’d started lending him things she wanted him to read. Typical bloody teacher. He smiled. He liked Debbie, and he’d been relieved when he’d seen her come through the college entrance that morning. His mind wandered. He could picture her now, not very tall – her head had just reached his shoulder when she stood beside him this afternoon. She kept her black hair firmly pulled back and held in a knot with pins and combs, and it had smelled clean and sweet. He tried to picture it curling down round her pale, pretty face and over those small, high tits … He shook himself awake, pushed that line of thought out of his mind – you don’t need that – and picked up the book she’d lent him, turning the pages back to the poem she’d pointed out … were axioms to him, who’d never heard/ Of any world where promises were kept/ Or one could weep because another wept.
She was right, he’d known them, the empty-eyed children who didn’t seem to know – or to care – what or why their lives meant to themselves or anyone. And maybe it was him, too.
He read on through some of the other poems, and found more words that spoke to him – the glacier knocks in the cupboard, the desert sighs in the bed … He even found that ‘Stop all the Clocks’ poem from the last film he’d seen with Angie. He couldn’t read that. It had made Angie cry, and it would make him cry now, if he could cry, if he wanted to cry.
‘The thing is,’ Debbie said, pouring herself another glass of wine. ‘Sorry, did you want one? The thing is, I like being on my own and I don’t – if you see what I mean. When things are going OK it’s great, but when you’ve got something on your mind, you haven’t got anyone to talk to.’ She stood up, feeling the wine she’d drunk, and got another bottle out of her bag. ‘I bought a red. Is that all right?’ She had arrived about eight-thirty, and they’d spent the first hour talking about work, students, and drinking a bit too quickly.
‘Yes, fine. I dunno about all this talking it over.’ Louise had been married for twelve years and sometimes envied Debbie her freedom. ‘Dan only has conversations with the television these days. What problems? Want to talk about it?’
‘Oh, it’s complicated. A bit of it’s Tim, I suppose.’
‘Tim Godber? He’s always a problem. I wish he’d go and be a proper journalist and stop wasting my time.’ Louise had to organize curriculum and timetables, and thought that Tim didn’t take his teaching work seriously. ‘What’s your problem with Tim?’
‘Well, we had a bit of a fling and I wish we hadn’t. There’s something a bit creepy about him.’
‘Is he giving you any hassle?’ Louise’s voice sharpened.
‘No, oh no, nothing like that. I just wish, I don’t know, that I’d kept away from him, really …’
‘Did you enjoy it at the time?’ Louise refilled her glass and raised an eyebrow at Debbie.
‘Well, OK, yes, I did.’
‘Well then.’ Louise dismissed the problem. ‘Was that all? That’s worrying you, I mean? You’ve been quiet all day.’
‘Louise?’
‘Still here, still listening.’
‘You know Rob Neave?’
‘The security man? Yes. What about him? You haven’t joined the Rob Neave fan club, have you?’
‘Is there one?’
‘Oh, I think so. I wouldn’t kick him out of bed. Mind you, I wouldn’t kick Tim Godber out of bed either, if that was all I had to put up with from him.’
‘Someone told me he used to be in the police.’ Debbie had been curious about Rob for a while, but this was the first opportunity she’d had to ask questions.
‘Neave? That’s right. I don’t know much about it, though.’
‘Why did he leave, do you know?’
‘No, some kind of personal crisis, I think. Something to do with his marriage? I don’t know any more, though someone said he was drinking a lot before he came to City.’ Louise was looking at Debbie speculatively. ‘Be careful,’ she said.
Debbie wanted to leave the subject now. She hadn’t known he was married. If he still was. She went on, quickly, and rather addled by the wine, to tell Louise about the man at the station. Louise listened quietly until Debbie had finished. ‘And he, Rob Neave, said to go to the police. I can’t see how it could be to do with the killing, but …’
Louise was her efficient work self now. ‘Wait until tomorrow, then see what’s in the paper. If it is one of those killings, go and tell them. If it isn’t, then you’ve no need to worry. And I wouldn’t tell anyone else. You don’t want it all over the college.’
‘I’ve already told Tim.’
Louise’s eyebrow lifted again. ‘Bad idea,’ was all she said.
They’d moved quickly since finding the body. The men searching the embankment by the line had found a handbag discarded in the grass. A purse was still in there, intact, containing £30, a debit card, a credit card for a chain store, some miscellaneous receipts and other pieces of paper that were being checked to see if they gave any information about the woman’s movements in the weeks and days before she died. It seemed certain that this had belonged to the dead woman, as there was a brand-new travel pass with a photograph, and though her face was brutally changed, it looked very like – the same mass of fair hair, the small features. Mick Berryman, the senior investigating officer, had looked at the photo for a moment, then said, ‘Has anyone checked out this address?’
Now he was looking at the scene-of-crime photographs, with Julie Fyfe’s sightless face staring at him from the track side, half masked by the tape over her mouth, the thin cord embedded in the bruising round her neck. He looked at the initial report from the pathologist: … hands secured by tape round the wrists … cuts to the hands … numerous cuts, bruises and abrasions to the body … injuries to both eyes … He hadn’t been prepared to commit himself any further at that stage. Had she been raped? Damage to the genital area made that a possibility but he couldn’t say until after doing a postmortem. Were her injuries pre- or postmortem? Impossible to say without further examination. What kind of maniac dumped mutilated, dead women by railway lines? More your field than mine.
‘OK.’ Berryman looked at the team who were working on the strangler killings. ‘It isn’t officially confirmed yet, but we all know – we’ve got another one.’ He pinned the photograph up on the board, and ran through the known facts about this killing. ‘Young woman, twenties found’ – he indicated on the map – ‘here, just outside Rawmarsh, near the junction. Injuries to the eyes. Mouth and wrists taped. Bruising to the neck, general damage, probable sexual assault. What else?’ Berryman could see Lynne Jordan, a DS who had been involved with the team since the first murder, checking back through her notebook.
‘First week of the month,’ she said, flicking over a page. ‘That’s different. The others have all been in the last week. Poor visibility – the moon was well into its last quarter. A rainy night – it was fine when Kate and Mandy disappeared.’
‘Any thoughts about that, Lynne? Anyone?’
‘The rain – if it’s as heavy as it was last night – that makes our job more difficult,’ Lynne said. ‘A lot of evidence could just get washed away. On the other hand, it makes it more likely that he’ll leave marks. Footprints, tyre tracks.’
Berryman nodded. The problem was, the killer had left them nothing like that so far, except for one set of fingerprints, on the handbag of the first victim.
‘How could he know? If he’s planning ahead.’ That was Steve McCarthy, also a DS who had, like Lynne Jordan, been on the team since the beginning. He was looking at Jordan with some hostility. ‘What about broken glass?’
‘The light above the post was smashed. How recently we don’t yet know. They’re looking for glass on the body.’
‘Timing.’ That was Lynne again. ‘We thought his interval might be getting shorter. We’ve got a seven-month gap, a six-month gap, but now we’ve got eight months.’ She shrugged. She didn’t know what to do with the information. They wanted a pattern, not randomness.
‘Show us on the calendar, Lynne.’ Berryman believed in visual presentation of information.
Lynne went over to the calendar that was pinned to the wall next to the display board. ‘The first killing, right, was at the end of March. That was Lisa. Seven months later, we get Kate. Last week in October. Six months after that, Mandy is killed, last week in April. That looks too much like a pattern to ignore. We expected the next one at the end of September, but nothing happened. Until now. Now we get one in the first week of December. Why the change?’ There was a murmur of interest, a shifting, around the room.
‘Or was it just coincidence?’ That was Steve McCarthy again. Berryman scowled. Steve and Lynne tended to contradict each other’s ideas. He thought he’d been lucky at the beginning to have both of them on his team, because they were both good, skilled detectives. When the killer struck again, and again, he’d kept them working close to the centre as he coordinated the massive team that was now working on this investigation. He was beginning to wonder if this had been wise. They couldn’t seem to work together. He moved on to the next point.
‘How did he get her to Rawmarsh?’ Berryman tapped his pointer on the map. ‘If he grabbed her in a car, why leave her there? There’s no road runs close to where he dumped her. If he grabbed her at the station, how did he move her up the line?’
‘Took her on a train?’ Dave West, facetious. There was a stir of laughter around the room, lightening the atmosphere. West, a young DC on Lynne Jordan’s team, was dealing with this case early in his career. Some detectives never had to deal with a random killer, or the horrors of a sadistic sex killer.
Berryman treated it as a serious suggestion. If there was a way … ‘Tell me how he gets a dead woman on the train without anyone noticing, and how he gets the train to drop them off between stations, and I’ll give that one some serious thought.’ He waited to see if anyone else had anything to say on that point.
‘Emergency stop – communication cord?’ McCarthy’s face indicated that he saw the flaws in this, but was putting it forward anyway. Berryman shook his head. They’d thought of that. No train on that line had had an unscheduled stop that evening.
‘It’s the same …’
‘Kate Claremont …’
McCarthy and Jordan started together. Berryman looked at Lynne. She said, ‘It’s the same problem we’ve got with Kate. She was dumped on the line away from the road. There’s a footpath, but I wouldn’t want to carry someone – dead or alive – all that way. How did he get her there?’ She was only voicing a problem they’d discussed before. No one had anything to add.
Berryman felt weary at the thought of the work ahead. They’d done it all before, the house-to-house, tracking down the
people who’d last seen the victim, talking to the relatives. It had got them nowhere, so far. OK, they needed her identity confirming, they needed to find her next of kin – who was missing her now? They needed to find out where she was going the night she died, who she’d seen in the days, weeks or even months before she died. They needed to know if she was just a random victim in the wrong place at the wrong time, or if she was carefully selected, chosen by the killer because something had drawn him to her. They needed to know this about all the victims, and they had so little to go on. Four women: Lisa, Kate, Mandy – and now Julie? It seemed it couldn’t be any other way, and he felt as though he’d let them down, each one more than the last. And the next one and the next one?
3
Saturday morning’s paper confirmed to Debbie that the dead woman was indeed a victim of the railway strangler. Debbie looked at the photograph of the woman who’d died, then read the article. The police put out the usual advice about women being careful, not going out alone after dark, etc., etc. She read through the article again, trying to find anything that might link the murder to the station, but as Tim had said, the body had been found several miles up the line at Rawmarsh. She looked again at the photograph of Julie Fyfe, twenty-four, younger than Debbie, and dead. She was laughing in the picture, at someone off camera to her left, fair hair tumbling rather glamorously round a small-featured face. Debbie looked for a long time, then she took some pieces of paper from beside her phone, and held them round the face in the picture, trying to see it with the hair pulled back into an elegant, business style. That cold feeling was coming back again now, because the face looking back at her could be, might be, no, was the face of the woman, the woman she’d seen so many Thursday nights, the woman who waited on the opposite platform for the Doncaster train.
Cover her face. Mine eyes dazzle. She died young.
There was a phone number in the paper, and after several attempts she got through. The officer she spoke to seemed quite calm about what she had to say, which was a relief, but asked her if she could come in to talk to them in more detail. He wanted her to do that as soon as possible, which made that cold feeling stronger. ‘Can you make it today?’ he’d said. Debbie decided to go that morning. She wanted to exorcize the whole experience, and be reassured by the indifference of the police that she had seen nothing and knew nothing. She didn’t want to think about the implications of anything else, but she couldn’t stop. If it had been … him, then had she, Debbie, missed lying dead on the tracks by minutes? Had talking to Les Walker and Rob Neave saved her life? And cost Julie Fyfe hers?