He broke her tense silence as they joined the Barton road. “Do you think, you little twerp, that I knocked myself out for two years getting you and those other bumpkin friends of yours through their A-levels and on to university for you to end up tarting on the street? What's the attraction? Do tell!"
His cynical purr had always set her teeth on edge. The other girls had thought it sexy. They'd sighed when he'd recited Shakespeare to the class—and Mr. Jameson never passed up a chance to use his voice. An actor turned teacher when the roles had dried up, he'd had the looks, the glamour, and the confidence to reduce the class to a jelly. Even some of the boys had quivered. But Chris had never been taken in by the sculpted profile, the ready wit, the throbbing baritone. With Mr. Jameson, all was, she was convinced, illusion. She'd always pictured him as a mysterious box swathed in black velvet. But what was at the heart of the box? Emptiness —or a picture of himself?
"Getting much job satisfaction, are you?” He'd not lost the knack of irritating her to the point of fury.
"Plenty,” she couldn't restrain herself from saying lightly. She decided he didn't deserve an explanation. And he'd only laugh even more derisively if she told him she was a detective constable. He'd always affected a disdain for the conventional, the conservative, the mundane. He'd projected a bohemian image, perpetually surprised and disconcerted to find himself in a classroom. No, she'd stay in the character she'd assumed, the better to torment him. “The financial reward is much better than anything you could get from teaching. And, honestly, there's not a lot you can do with a degree in English, is there, sir?” She regretted that the automatic “sir” had slipped out.
"Honestly?” he spoke with emphasis. “No, I suppose not. You chose the dishonest and lazy option, I see. Don't you want to know where I'm taking you?"
She didn't answer, but she was quite certain she knew. She would have to brace herself for an uncomfortable scene when they got there. He wasn't taking her home. He had no way of knowing about the flat she shared in the city—he was heading out to the country to one of the villages ten miles away to the southwest. To her mother's house at Shepton. He was going to dump her on her mother's doorstep again just as he had ten years ago. And deliver another telling-off.
Then it had been a gentle finger-wagging: “Afraid your daughter's had a little too much to drink at the disco, Mrs. Kenton. I'm sure you'll find the right words to say to her ... when she's sober enough to hear them, of course. We wouldn't want this to happen again, would we?"
And this time what would he come up with? “Found your daughter selling her body on the streets, Mrs. Kenton. I'm sure you'll find the words to discourage further excursions into immorality."
Chris suppressed a giggle. Her mother was smart. She'd take the situation in at once, feel embarrassed for his mistake, make all the right conversational noises, and the upshot would be the same as last time. When he'd refused her polite offer of a cup of tea and left, she and her mum would stand in the hall, eyeing each other until they heard the sound of his car moving off and they'd fall about laughing.
He enjoyed her silence and then said: “I think you've guessed."
He put his foot on the accelerator, sliding neatly between lorries heading for the motorway, then, at the last moment, he nipped down a sidestreet, turned, and reentered the traffic flow in the opposite direction. “Turn on a sixpence, these cabs,” he announced cheerfully. “I shall never drive anything else. You can get them for a song, you know, at the London car auctions. Change of seating arrangements essential, of course.” He cast a satisfied glance at the passenger seat with its leather upholstery. “Rather unfriendly to carry people about in the back. And a quick change of license plates and you're anonymous. Never get stopped by the Plod.” He cleared his throat. “Change of plan,” he added. “I've decided what to do with you."
"Whatever it is, this is kidnapping. You are holding me here against my will and I have given you due warning.” She was proud of the firmness of her tone.
Her abductor was less impressed, apparently. “Who's going to listen to the bleatings of a common prostitute? Come off it! Occupational necessity, isn't it? Getting into cars with men? But this is your lucky day. I came along quite by chance and I may even be able to save you from a lifetime of sin. Who knows? Life's too short and too precious to spend it in the gutter.” He flashed another cold glance. “On drugs, are you? No? Surprised but pleased to hear that. You're not too far gone. You look as though there might still be time to save you from yourself, as they say."
He gave a short bark of laughter. “Remember Henry IV?
...the time of life is short!
To spend that shortness basely were too long,
If life did ride upon a dial's point,
Still ending at the arrival of an hour.
An if we live, we live to tread on kings;
If die, brave death, when princes die with us!
"Dial? Hour? Death?” The words tolled like a funeral knell in her head and Chris felt a trickle of cold horror creep along her spine.
For the first time since he'd picked her up, it occurred to her to wonder what business he could possibly have, driving down Eastern Avenue through the red-light district. Sick in her heart, she realised that this man whom she had always mistrusted was not taking her home to her mother in Shepton as she had naively assumed. He seemed to have other plans for her.
* * * *
The detective inspector was trying to keep the lid on the pot of bubbling emotions. “That's enough, Shantelle! Er ... Sarah! Not your fault. When Nature calls and all that ... Not one hundred percent your fault ... let's say forty-nine. Fifty-one for Chris. Why the hell didn't she put up a fight or get off a scream? She's always ready enough to have a go at me ... Something not right here ... Get me the replays up on screen. We'll take another gander. Where's that cab got to? You're joking! Hell! He's given us the slip? Anyone traced the number? A London-registered cab?” He groaned. “A poacher! That's all we need! Now we'll have the Met swarming all over our patch! Track ‘im! He's most likely on the M11 by now, heading south."
An exclamation of dismay from the redhead distracted him.
"Oh, for God's sake, Sarah! Look, love, do us all a favour, will you, and stop blubbing! Go home. Take the rest of the shift off. After you've made your statement. Go back to the station ... you're in no fit state ... is there a squad car around? Get a lift back, love...” He paused and added awkwardly, seeing her shoulders shake: “Try not to worry! She'll be all right. Tough girl, DC Kenton. Go and put some clothes on—that'll make you feel better."
The inspector waved her away. The sympathetic eyes of the rest of the squad followed her as, white-faced and suddenly awkward, Sarah slipped a pink cardigan over her bare shoulders and stumbled out of the office in her sparkling high heels.
* * * *
"Now where are you going? I'm getting fed up with this!"
"You know where. But first, we're going to drive around for a bit. Get to know each other again. I want to hear your story, Chris. Find out what led you into this disgusting mess. Try to understand. You may not have guessed it, but you were always one of my favourite students. Not the cleverest—but the most individual."
"You disguised your esteem pretty well,” she said, unbelieving.
"I'm good at disguise,” he reminded her.
They drove out into the country, past the fruit farms. They passed a signpost to the left: Shepton 6 miles Foxfield 6 miles.
"Your neck of the woods, if I remember rightly?” he commented.
He drove straight on. “I thought we'd go via Grantchester.” Suddenly he was speaking with the heavy kindliness of an uncle proposing an outing. “Such a beautiful village. All of England is there, I always think. Now, if one were dying, these are the images one would want to carry with one, wouldn't you agree?"
"One would agree,” she replied, determined to be tiresome.
"I'd want to say goodbye with, imprinted on my mind's eye, meadows
full of silvery moon pennies, chestnut trees, swans preening on mysterious dark stretches of river, and ... and ... here it comes now! The church! Check the time, Chris—I don't want to take my eyes off the road ... tricky bend coming up ... wouldn't be much fun if we both ended up splattered on the churchyard wall, would it? But it wouldn't be bad to be hearing the words of Rupert Brooke as one expired, either ... What was it he said?
Stands the church clock at ten to three?
And is there honey still for tea?
Well, go on! Have a look!"
"Of course it stands at ten to three,” she snarled, annoyed by his dramatics. “Because it is ten to three! You stage-managed that well.” She dared to ask: “Do you ever stop acting and just ... well ... live?"
He gave a laugh he would probably himself have described as “sepulchral,” she thought. It boomed out from some cold, empty space.
"And why this obsession with time?"
"I think I've already answered your question. Or, at least, The Bard has spoken for me. That's why he's so often quoted, Christina. Whatever our deepest thoughts, you can be sure that Shakespeare has already voiced them for us, but with ten times the nobility of phrase. If only we had the wit to profit by his wisdom, how many mistakes we would avoid, how much pain would be averted."
Chris groaned. Why, after all these years, did she feel she was being tested? With a strange feeling that her response might be important for her also, she wrestled with memory and expression.
"Okay, your answer: the speaker's the King, I guess because he's using the royal ‘we.’ He's saying life's short. So we ought to live as good a one as we're able. If we live on, well, that gives us an advantage over any dead king because you can take nothing with you when you go—not even kingly status. And if we die—so what? —it's a brave death when princes are dying along with us."
Jameson gave an elegant shudder. “Something on those lines,” he said repressively.
She looked again at the face, as handsome as it had been ten years ago, but subtly changed. The long-lashed dark eyes were shadowed, the mouth indecisive, tormented. Well, it was pretty much as you'd look if you'd decided to kill someone, she supposed.
But her training was taking over. She flexed her hands and feet, ready to call on instant supplies of adrenaline when the moment came for flight or fight. If she could only get out of the car and kick off her silly shoes, she thought she could probably outrun him. And, though he was strongly built, she'd put up a fight if it came to it. This victim wouldn't go down without a murmur. There'd be tissue under fingernails, scratches on his face. She decided on a surprise preemptive attack, going for the eyes. He'd never expect it. But there was something she could try first. She was a sort of hostage, wasn't she? Okay—she'd try out the prescribed technique. She might just pull it off. Avoid bloodshed. After all, it was unknown for serial killers to murder someone they already knew. That must work in her favour. Chris adjusted her blouse, pulled down her skirt, settled back in her seat, and looked out of the window.
"You're right, Mr. Jameson—I say—may I call you Julius?—after all these years I feel I've caught up with you in age—it is perfection. Glorious countryside! And the best moment of the year! Easy to see why neither of us has moved away. (Establish a link.)
"And I may not be looking the part at the moment, but I have actually stayed a scholar of sorts. I played Desdemona in my first year in college....You inspired me—you inspired many of us ... did you know Maisie Jones was madly in love with you, by the way? No? And Jennifer Hogg and Patrick Dewar? We were sure you must have guessed! (Feed his sense of self-importance.)
"Now this time when you deliver me to Mum, I want you to accept her cup of tea. Lots to talk about!” (Convey the idea that the man has a future beyond the present circumstances.)
Chris added an incentive her instructors had never thought of: “Yesterday was baking day ... there'll be a lardy cake and some chocolate brownies.” (Greed. What man could ever resist a brownie?)
Her girlish prattle faded away. His eyes were looking inward, dull and dark as Byron's Pool, and she realised he hadn't taken in a word she'd said. He turned to her. The swift smile he gave her was the sweetest she would ever encounter and was the more striking for its utter sincerity. Finally, he had dropped the mask of irony and she was being given a glimpse of the man below. But the face was frozen by agony, the man adrift and unapproachable.
"I'm glad you're with me at the last, Christina,” he said softly. “I'd never have planned for it, but now the moment's come, it feels right. I did always admire you, you know. Enjoyed our fencing bouts. If things had been different ... Ah, well ... brave death when princes die with us. Princess would have been good. But I'll settle for a tart. Whatever ... it's nice to have company."
She knew the signpost well. A few yards before the level crossing they were offered: Shepton 1 mile Foxfield 1 mile. He took the Foxfield turn, brought the taxi to a halt in the deserted lane facing the level crossing, looked at his watch, and listened.
The three-thirty goods train on the London line screeched its customary warning.
* * * *
Gary Newstead scooped up the Monday copy of the Cambridge Observer from the mat and settled down with his mug of tea at the scrubbed table of his gran's old kitchen. He grunted at the size of the headlines on the front page. Plenty of news today, then.
Fifth slaying! they shrieked. Body of victim found at Eight Bells Public House.
In a quiet village ten miles southwest of Cambridge, a day after she was reported missing, the latest victim of the Clock Killer has been found. Almost exactly where experts predicted.
A police spokesman tells the Observer that the corpse of a young woman was abandoned (possibly killed) in the orchard to the rear of the Eight Bells pub in Shepton. The modus operandi conforms to that of the four previous victims. There was no sign of sexual assault, and the death was by strangulation.
Police fear that the killer, by the significance of his choice of location (EIGHT Bells), may be taunting the forces of law and order. It had been widely predicted that the next attack would take place at nearby Foxfield, which lies exactly on the eight spot of the dial the police themselves had foreseen. It was late on Saturday night when the landlord became suspicious that something was amiss. The pub's guard dog, released to perform his nightly duties, entered the rear snug, carrying a lady's silver shoe in his mouth. The Alsatian (Butch) led his master and a selection of guests outside to the next grisly find by torchlight: a pink cardigan caught up on a rosebush.
Behind the bush, the grim discovery. A double shock awaited the investigating officers who hurried to the scene. An examination of the body revealed the victim to be one of their own: DC Sarah Sharpe (25), who had, by a strange quirk of fate, herself been working on the case.
DCI Rowe, who has been leading the enquiry, will pay his respects to the deceased in a news conference to be held at noon today. It is confidently expected that he will be announcing the arrest of a suspect.
The landlord, who is helping the police with their enquiries, told our reporter of his puzzlement. His pub, isolated and at the end of a cul-de-sac, had seen no traffic other than regulars and police vehicles coming and going at the weekend...
Gary read the article again carefully. He was so absorbed he didn't hear their quiet arrival.
"Enough shock-horror in there to entertain you, Newstead?” The grating voice of the detective inspector. “Did they get it right?” Two heavy hands descended on his shoulders. He listened in silence to the rigmarole: “Gary John Newstead, we are arresting you for the murder of Sarah Sharpe..."
"Gerraway with you! You're ‘aving a larf!” Newstead started to protest.
They couldn't know! He'd offered her a lift back to the station and no one had even noticed them set off. So many squad cars milling about they hadn't been given a second glance. They'd never trace the car. He couldn't even remember which one he'd used himself. She'd come quiet as a lamb, believing eve
ry word of the story he'd fed her about instructions to redeploy to Foxfield. Her mind was still on her mate. She was even keen to get there and help out. He'd knocked her unconscious in a lay-by before they approached the village and fastened her arms behind her back. His usual M.O. He risked no scrapings from fingernails, no scratches on his face. Nasty moment when she'd come round in the shrubbery, but he was always a quick, neat worker. He'd left no more trace than with any of the other sluts. And she was a slut. No doubt about that. He'd watched her enjoying herself, tormenting the men. Making fools of them. A slut. Like his mother. Gran had had to throw her out in the end. Then Gran had got him out of the Home and brought him up herself. Strictly. Correctly. She'd have approved.
The DI was trying to balance distress at the death of a smart young officer and elation at the result he was about to announce. His voice was tightly controlled and betrayed only a trace of glee as he allowed himself the satisfaction of an explanation.
"Sarah was tough and she was clever. She worked out she was in trouble and left a trace in the police car. We checked out the whole bloody fleet! The one you were seen returning to the pool—the one that still has your fingerprints on the wheel—also had stuck down on the door side of the passenger's seat a wodge of chewing gum. Cram full of Sarah's DNA! She parked it there deliberately, I reckon."
"Only proves I gave her a lift back to the station,” Newstead objected. “Am I saying I didn't? If you ask me, I'll tell you! Go on—ask!"
"Agreed. But it was the first link. And once we had you up on screen, so to speak, it turns out it's the second link that's going to do for you ... Tissue under her nails,” the DI watched Newstead's face closely as he said the words. And, seeing with gratification the surprise he'd caused: “Naw, lad! Not her fingernails. Tied behind her back with plastic cuffs, her hands were, but our Sarah fought back, didn't she, Gary, old chap? She kicked off her shoes and raked your leg with her toenails. I bet if I could work up the will to do it, I could lift your trouser leg and find a six-inch scar on your right ankle. Probably thought it was a rosebush you'd scratched yourself on in the scuffle? We've done the analysis. Now we'll be needing a sample of your DNA. Open wide, will you? Sergeant—if you please?"
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