It was quickly established that Woods’s father walked out on his wife when she was pregnant with their only child. As his son would do thirty years later, Woods père had dropped comprehensively off the radar. When last heard of, he was working in a packing factory in the Mexican border town of Tijuana. That was fifteen years earlier and there were rumours he was now somewhere in Venezuela. Some said it was Bolivia.
Woods’s mother had died of stomach cancer when her son was twenty. She had worked as a hotel cleaner all her life and to everyone’s surprise, it turned out she had managed to squirrel away a considerable sum in her savings account. She left it all to her son and as soon as he could he moved out of their rented apartment and put down a deposit on the cottage he’d lived in since then.
Military records showed that around the time his mother died, Woods had been overseas with the US Army in Korea.
This was where the story took its first sinister turn.
Reporters tracked down some of Woods’s former army buddies, and while these veterans took great care not to incriminate themselves, a few of them spoke guardedly about persistent rumours of an atrocity involving civilians in the spring of 1951, when Woods was a 21-year-old G.I. attached to special forces on the Asian peninsular.
For years there had been word-of-mouth reports of civilian massacres in Korea, barbarities committed by both sides, but no one was admitting to anything. However, under pressure from hard-nosed reporters – and with envelopes stuffed with twenty-dollar bills quietly changing hands – some of the men in Woods’s outfit began to open up a little.
‘I ain’t saying I know this for sure,’ one former member of his platoon told an NBC News Tonight film crew, ’cos I was on furlough down in Seoul at the time, and I weren’t up there on the line. But I heard some of our planes shot up some refugees in a village called No Gun Ri – by mistake, of course, lousy intelligence, the usual screw-up – and Woods was part of a detachment of specials sent in on the ground afterwards to see how bad it was. What I heard was that some of those Ko-reans were still alive, but in a pretty bad way. Dyin’, I means. The detachment didn’t have chopper back-up or medical supplies worth a good goddamn so they did the kindest thing and put those poor heathen souls out of their misery. Shot ’em in the backa the head.’
The off-camera reporter’s voice cut in. ‘And John Woods was part of this alleged incident?’
The man hesitated. ‘I ain’t sayin’ he was and I aint sayin’ he wasn’t. But that’s what I heard, anyways. Someone tol’ me he was the guy that suggested the whole mercy-killin’ thing, to be honest, almost as soon as they reached the village.’ He looked down at his hands, and added, so quietly that the sound man was forced to quickly push up the recording level: ‘I heard he enjoyed it. Enjoyed it a lot. And that some of those people he shot probably woulda made it, you know?’
Woods had taken a sniper’s bullet to the shoulder later that same year and been shipped home to the States with a Purple Heart and a pension. Back in Key Largo, he’d worked as a car mechanic for six or seven years before joining Pelican Cabs in 1958. He’d been with them ever since. They described him as a model employee with a blameless record. He’d never been in any kind of trouble with the police, either, not even a speeding ticket.
A search of his cottage revealed remarkably little apart from a Polaroid camera, 900 series, which police believed Woods had used to take the photograph he had delivered to the Courier offices. But no other photos were found, and no knives. It was thought that these and other compelling evidence, such as the chloroform he used on his victims and the rope he bound them with, had either been disposed of or were in the trunk of his Dodge, which was still missing.
To no one’s surprise, the fingerprints taken at the house matched those on the knives used to kill the girls. Woods moved up from prime suspect to Most Wanted.
Stella felt increasingly surplus to requirements as the days dragged on. There was nothing more she could usefully offer the inquiry and Lee was away at headquarters for much of the time, co-ordinating the hunt for Woods. When he did manage to re-join her at Largo Lodge, it was invariably late in the evening and he was exhausted and preoccupied. They had slept together once more but it had lacked the spark and romance of the first occasion. He had apologised to her afterwards.
‘I’m sorry, I wasn’t much good there . . . I’m just so damned tired, honey. And I can’t stop thinking about the case. Where the fuck is the bastard?’
She understood, but a week after Woods vanished, and after a solitary lunch on the beach – solitary apart from the uniformed cop that was never loitering far from her side during the day – Stella made up her mind.
Lee phoned her that afternoon from headquarters. ‘We’ve cut our first real break,’ he told her jubilantly. ‘The Coastguard have found an abandoned motor yacht adrift about twenty miles south of Key West, over toward the Dry Tortugas. The rudder was locked off and the boat had run out of fuel. They’ve traced the owner. He’s a snowbird and—’
‘Sorry, Lee,’ Stella interrupted. ‘What’s a snowbird?’
‘Oh, it’s what the locals call visitors from the north who winter here in the Keys . . . anyway, the last this guy knew, his vessel was safely moored right here in Key Largo. But here’s the solid gold part, Stella – the guy says Woods had the contract to keep an eye on it while he was up north. So that’s how the son of a bitch got away.’
‘This is tremendous news, Lee,’ she told him. ‘But why didn’t the owner call the police when the TV and newspapers carried Woods’s photo and all the rest of it?’
‘Been in Europe on a business trip. Woods’s luck strikes again, huh? We tracked the guy down to West Berlin this morning. I spoke to him at his hotel there.’
‘I see . . . so, what, then – you think Woods is in Key West?’
‘Probably, or hiding out thereabouts. The boat’s little inflatable’s missing so he must have set the launch’s controls to automatic, then abandoned ship and rowed ashore in the dinghy. The bastard tried to open the main seacocks so the launch would eventually sink but he made a half-assed job of it and they got jammed with seagrass and all the junk that comes up with the Gulf Stream. Even so, it was settling in the water when the Coastguard boys showed up. Much longer and it would have gone down without a trace. We’re dusting it for fingerprints right now but that’s a formality.’
He sighed.
‘As usual, Stella, you were one hundred per cent right. The bastard got out by sea.’
She smiled into the receiver. ‘Well, you sound happier than you have for days, Lee. I’m pleased for you. But look . . . I’ve got something to tell you too.’
There was a pause at the other end. ‘You’re going back to Massachusetts, aren’t you?’ he said quietly.
‘Yes, I am. Tomorrow. My course starts in a few days and I can’t see that there’s any more I can do to help down here. I need to pick up the threads, Lee.’
‘Of course you do,’ he answered. ‘Don’t worry, I completely get it. But listen – the moment we get our hands on Woods and he’s looking out at the world from behind bars, I’ll be on the first plane to Boston to see you. I’m gonna miss you.’
‘I’ll miss you too, Lee. Really. I’m only going back because . . .’
‘Stella, I get it, really, it’s OK.’ He paused again. ‘But look . . . I’ve got something else to tell you. Well, ask you, actually. It’ll keep until supper, though. I’ll see you then.’
Now, sitting next to Dorothy in the front passenger seat of the Lincoln, the arc of Stella’s story had reached the events of the previous night on the beach at Largo Lodge.
She explained that they had just been served their sundowners when he’d leaned forward and reached for her hand.
‘Listen, Stella, I said there was something I wanted to say to you . . . well I’m just going to get right to it.’
He’d used his free hand to push his fringe out of his eyes. Stella realised that for the first time since she�
�d known him, he was nervous.
‘It’s like this . . . I think I love you. Hell, that’s just stupid: I know I do. I’m definitely in love with you, for sure . . . but I truly don’t think this is some kind of silly . . . infatuation. I’m nearly thirty and believe me I’ve had a few of those before . . . but Stella, this is totally different. You are the most incredible person I’ve ever met in my life, and you have to be the most beautiful woman I’ve ever laid eyes on. I’m dreading having to say goodbye to you tomorrow. I know you have a huge career ahead of you and that means spending at least four years up at Smith, and God knows where you’ll go after that, but so long as I’m a part of your life I don’t care.’
Stella smiled at him. ‘Um . . . don’t you think this is a little soon for a proposal?’ she teased.
He laughed, embarrassed. ‘Of course it is. Don’t worry, I’m not going to go down on one knee and produce a ring. But I guess this is a proposal, of sorts, Stella. I’m asking you if we can . . . this is going to sound ridiculous from someone my age but I can’t think of any other way to put it . . . go steady. You know, not see other people. Give this thing a go. What do you say?’
She leaned forward and kissed him gently on the lips.
‘I say I think you’re a lovely man and no one’s ever asked me to go steady, as you put it. And I can’t think of anything nicer. The answer is yes.’
But Stella couldn’t resist pulling Dorothy’s leg a little now.
‘I suppose I’d have to say he proposed to me, really.’
‘What? You’re kidding. You’ve only known each other for a couple of weeks! What did you say?’
Stella leaned back on to the soft, smooth leather bench seat, stretched her long legs all the way into the Lincoln’s capacious footwell, and began to sing, waving both forefingers to and fro in time with the words.
‘Here comes the bride, here comes the bride . . .’
Dorothy gaped. ‘I don’t believe it! You can’t marry someone you’ve barely—’
Stella burst out laughing. ‘I’m sorry, Dorothy, I’m joking. But he did make a proposal of sorts. He asked me if we could – oh, it was so sweet – “go steady”, and I said yes. He’s lovely, Dorothy, and considering the rocky start we had . . . well, we’re becoming very close.’
Dorothy was fanning herself with one hand in relief. ‘Well, for goodness’ sakes don’t go rushing into anything, dear . . . are you in love with him, would you say?’
Stella smiled happily. ‘If you’d asked me that yesterday morning, I’m not sure what my reply would have been. But when I woke up today I realised I am in love. He told me last night that he loves me too and that sort of unlocked something in my head, I think. And I know this is a horrible cliché, Dorothy . . . but I’m missing him already.’
40
‘That’s odd.’
Stella walked back into the living room where the Rockfairs were settling down to watch the early evening television news.
Sylvia glanced up at her. ‘What is?’
Sylvia had run all the way home from class that afternoon, bursting through the front door and leaping on Stella – who’d just come downstairs after unpacking in her old room – with screams of delight. ‘You caught him, Stella! You caught that monster, that horrible, horrible man! I’m so proud of you! We’re all so proud of you!’
Stella staggered back under the onslaught and almost fell. ‘Hey, steady on, Sylvia!’ she laughed. ‘You’ll have me over.’ She managed to recover her balance and put her arms around the younger girl, hugging her tight. ‘Anyway, I haven’t caught anyone, I just helped identify him, and God knows where he is now. But never mind all that, it’s wonderful to be back. I wanted to call you all every day but it was made pretty clear to me that I couldn’t. I haven’t even spoken to my mother since I went down to Florida.’
Stella could have sworn that Sylvia and Dorothy exchanged some sort of coded glance but the next second Jeb, who’d cancelled his last class of the day, was striding through the front door and sweeping her off her feet and whirling her around and around, and the moment was swept away by another joyful reunion.
Now, several hours later, she sank down on the sofa next to Sylvia, shaking her head.
‘It’s just that I’ve tried to call my mother at least four times now, but she isn’t answering. I even rang her college and they said they think she’s gone away on holiday, which is very strange – her lectures will be starting in a week or two and she should be preparing for them now. She always does that in her study at home, where our phone is. I so want to tell her the news about Lee and me. I can’t understand where she’s gone.’
Jeb was fussing with his pipe.
‘Well, I’m sure you’ll talk to her soon,’ he said from behind a cloud of smoke. ‘You must try again later. It’s lunchtime in England right now – she’s most likely out with a friend. And, by the way, please stop offering to pay for the call, Stella. Transatlantic telephone connections aren’t nearly as expensive as they used to be. In fact, I read the other day that British and American television stations will soon be able to talk to each other live, in sound and pictures. Imagine that! In fact, I—’
He was interrupted by a knock on the front door. Jeb jumped up and went to one of the windows that looked out over the street.
‘Well now, there appears to be an airport taxi outside our house,’ he said, turning to the others with an exaggerated expression of surprise. ‘I wonder who this could be. Dorothy? Sylvia? Are you expecting someone this evening; a weary traveller from afar?’
Stella looked suspiciously at the three of them. They all seemed to be struggling not to laugh.
‘What’s going on here, you lot?’ she demanded. ‘You’re up to something . . . and why isn’t anyone going to open the door?’
Dorothy managed to bring herself more or less under control. ‘Well,’ she answered, a touch unsteadily, ‘that’s because we figured it might be better if you did, dear. Go on. Go see who’s out there on the porch.’
Stella rose from the couch, half-smiling now. ‘I have no idea what this is all about but fine, I’ll go.’
She strode across the Turkish rug and onto the polished wooden floor beyond it that led into the hall. A moment later she was pulling the front door open.
A woman on the step was paying off the cab driver, so she had her back to Stella. Then she turned around to face her and cocked her head to one side, frowning in mock reproach.
Stella gaped.
The woman spoke. ‘Come on, Stella. Don’t you have a hug and a kiss for your mother? After all, I’ve come all this way to see you.’
‘MUMMY!’
Behind her, Stella heard the Rockfairs’ triumphant shouts and slaps of palms. Beginning to cry with laughter, she fell into Diana’s open arms. ‘I’m so glad to see you. I’ve missed you dreadfully. I have so much to tell you and I’m SO happy you’re here!’
Diana clasped her daughter to her. ‘Well, dearest, I believe I know the headlines already,’ she said, repeatedly kissing Stella’s cheeks and nose and forehead. ‘Jeb and Dorothy have been reading me the American newspapers over the phone every day, although you’ve been in ours too of course. I’m very, very proud of you, my darling.’
After a moment or two, Stella pulled away, wiping her nose with the back of her hand.
‘Ah, but there’s one headline you can’t possibly know,’ she said, hiccupping and laughing at the same time, ‘because it’s about something that only happened yesterday evening.’
Diana’s eyes widened. ‘My goodness! Have the police got their man already?’
Stella shook her head. ‘No. But I think I might have.’
41
He’d never lived like this before. Under a new identity. In disguise.
He found it oddly liberating.
Going blond would probably have been enough in itself, he reckoned. No one looked past first impressions. But he was taking no chances. As soon as he’d slashed the rubber dinghy and r
ammed its ribboned remains into the nearest dumpster, he headed straight for Duval Street, Key West’s throbbing main artery.
It was past nine in the evening but most of the crummy, tacky shops on Duval were still open. He went into the men’s fashion store opposite the Hog’s Breath bar – ‘HOG’S BREATH IS BETTER THAN NO BREATH AT ALL!’ the crudely painted sign hanging over the bar’s western-style saloon swing-doors proclaimed – and picked out the clothes he calculated would best complete the transformation.
Skin-tight white jeans. Pointy-toed Chelsea boots. A short corduroy jacket in beige with matching cord trousers (if anything, tighter than the jeans). Some high-collared cotton shirts with purposeless buttons running along both sleeves from flounced cuffs to elbows. A large, light blue canvas shoulder-bag swinging from a long cream-colored strap.
Three doors down he found a cheap jewellery store and bought some brightly coloured bangles and plastic rings, and a pair of steel-wire sunglasses with narrow rectangular frames and pale yellow lenses.
As an afterthought he went back to the fashion store and bought a jaunty cap in white denim with a peak made from faux mother-of-pearl.
He crossed the street and went inside the Hog’s Breath, heading straight for the restroom. Inside a locked cubicle he stripped out of the clothes he’d been wearing since that morning and put on the white jeans, boots, and a purple shirt. Outside in the restroom he balled his old things into the trash and transferred the rest of his new purchases and contents of the old hold-all into a new blue shoulder-bag. He crammed the battered grip and empty fashion store bags on top of the rest of the stuff in the bin.
He put the yellow sunglasses on and slid every single bangle, bracelet and ring on his wrists and fingers.
Then he inspected himself in the cracked and dirty restroom mirror.
His own mother wouldn’t know him.
He grinned at his reflection.
He was ready.
The Way You Look Tonight Page 16