by Julie Howlin
‘Really?’ I stammered, hardly believing what I was hearing. They were just going to let me go, without questioning me, without taking me to court?
‘Yes, really,’ he said. ‘Off you go now.’ He thrust my bag into my hands and held the cell door open.
It seemed I was off scot free - I had no idea how or why. Not even a caution, not even a slap on the wrists and a telling off. I breathed a silent thank you to the universe as I stepped out into the street.
Scot free? Not quite, as I was soon to discover. ‘Tabitha Drake, don’t you EVER pull a stunt like that again.’ Jamie Swan fell into step beside me. ‘I had to pull some serious strings to get you out of there.’
‘I’m sorry, okay? I was only trying to help... but how did you know I was there, anyway? I didn’t ask you to get me off. They didn’t even let me make a phone call - so how did you know?’
‘They called me because I’m investigating the Mitzi Doll killer and because there’s the possibility he killed Clare Mulholland. So if there's a development, like somebody trespassing on the crime scene, they call me.’
‘I didn’t trespass. I was guided to where they hid the spare key.’
‘Thank God you didn’t put a brick through the window. As it was, they were just about willing to accept you were a friend of Mark Rees with every right to be there. It was a bloody stupid thing to do, though. What the hell were you thinking?’
I had never seen Jamie so angry. I was beginning to think that a few months in Holloway would actually have been preferable to this onslaught from him in a public street - and in front of Alison, who I now noticed clinging to his arm and being pulled along behind us.
‘I thought if I could only get something of Clare’s I could use psychometry on it and get some leads,’ I said.
‘For God’s sake, Tabitha, all you had to do was ask me! I could have got you something, no problem. In fact, I still can. I’ll get something couriered to you tomorrow. Just don’t do that again. Promise?’
‘Promise,’ I said.
‘Thank you,’ he said. ‘I can’t do anything now. Alison and I were just on our way to meet my parents. We’re already late.’
We parted at the tube station. Alison flashed me a filthy look as they went through the ticket barrier. Jamie did not look back at all.
I got home to an answerphone message from my mother saying that they had had a surprise visit from my dad’s cousin Sybil, and it would be nice, if I got this message, if I came for tea. Tired as I was, I liked my cousin Sybil - a bright, bubbly woman with a great sense of humour - and I needed something to occupy me so I would forget what a complete and utter fool I’d just made of myself.
**
It worked - I had one of the best evenings with my family in a long time. Even Caroline was amenable - but it meant I didn’t get to bed until the early hours. I was woken early by a courier delivering a package containing a crisp, white blouse and a note, which read ‘This is Clare’s. Let me know what you get from it. J’. I wished I could stay home and work with it, but I had to go to the office.
Megan’s psychic development group was on Mondays, and although she was not as inflexible as Jonathan, she still made it clear we needed to be committed and not miss sessions lightly. I went along as usual and took the package with me.
I held it during a meditation, hoping that the presence of the others would make it easier for Clare to come through to me. All I was conscious of was the fact that the smell of incense was making me light headed. And dizzy. The room seemed to flip and overturn. I was lying on the floor.
Megan was picking me up, and wresting the blouse from my hands. ‘You’ve been working much too hard on this,’ Megan said. ‘I’m ordering you to go home and get some rest.’ I reached for the blouse, but Megan held it out of my reach. ‘I’ll hang on to this. If you have it you won’t sleep - you’ll stay up all night trying to get something from it. So I’m going to look after it until I’m satisfied you’ve had enough sleep and that you’re ready to work with it again.’
She was right. I took her advice and went home and crashed out. I even took the next day off work seeing as there weren’t any meetings. Megan’s parting words to me had been to remind me that I was no help to Clare, or Mark, or anyone else for that matter if I was burnt-out and exhausted - I owed it to them to look after myself so that I could function properly.
I tried to forget about it all by watching daytime TV - some chat show about a couple who were trying to decide whether or not to move in together. The host asked them why they were considering such a big step. ‘Well,’ replied the girl, a hefty blonde with a Celtic tattoo on each of her fat, bare arms, ‘the relationship’s going well. It’s time we lived together.’
‘But do you love each other?’ the host asked. The couple looked at each other blankly.
‘I suppose so,’ said the young man, who was about half the size of his girlfriend and was missing a couple of teeth.
‘You suppose so.’ the host replied. ‘So it’s going okay and you think you should be moving the relationship up a gear because it’s about time - but love? You only suppose?’
‘Yeah.’
‘It’s going okay and it’s time. You really think that’s enough of a reason?’
That seemed to flummox the couple, but I didn’t hear what they decided to do about it because just then the phone rang.
‘It’s me, Megan. I thought I’d see if I could get anything from that blouse myself,’ she said.
‘And?’
‘It was very interesting. I’ll drop it off to you tomorrow so you can draw your own conclusions, but thought you might like to know what I got from it.’
‘Go on.’
‘I saw her arguing with a man. She was wearing the blouse - it’s part of a uniform - and I see her storming off. I see her at an airport getting on a plane. I think she’s a stewardess. I see her moving up and down the cabin with the trolley. There’s a man. A dark haired man with a blue tie. She’s pouring him tea and he’s coming on to her. She wouldn’t usually respond to this, but today she’s angry at the man she was arguing with. I see her going off with this guy and getting in his car. Then I got a choking feeling - like hands around my neck, squeezing the life out of me. And the words, ‘It wasn’t Mark’.’
‘So it wasn’t Mark. I knew it. It was this passenger she chatted up.’
‘So it would seem.’
‘Thanks, Megan. That’s useful.’
I couldn’t help but feel a little envious that Megan had got information when I had failed - but information is information, no matter where it comes from. I had no desire to speak to Jamie Swan, so I sent him a text.
‘From blouse. MR innocent. Passenger on flight did it.’
29 the mitzi doll killer
My mother never wanted me, I’ve always known that. She never wanted a boy. I never knew my father, or even what his name was - he was never mentioned. Oh, I was fed and cared for well enough, but there was little affection and I was left to my own devices a lot of the time. Perhaps she hoped that if she didn’t watch me I’d do something silly, as children do, and get myself killed, so she wouldn’t have to have a male in her house any more.
My sister arrived when I was about four. I don’t know who her father was, either. All I know is that Katie was the apple of my mother’s eye in a way I could never be.
My earliest memory is of asking for an Action Man for Christmas when I was three. I got a WRAF Mitzi Doll. I wanted the Batman Action Figure for my birthday; I got Super-heroine Mitzi. I threw a tantrum and was locked in my room with those nauseating dolls. I remember ripping their heads off and throwing them out of the window.
Katie, on the other hand, loved them. She couldn’t get enough Mitzi Dolls and as soon as she could walk, she was given them. Secretary Mitzi. Nurse Mitzi. Show jumper Mitzi. Air hostess Mitzi. Teacher Mitzi. Ski instructor Mitzi. The lot. She used to line them up on a shelf in our room in alphabetical order. I hated them, but if I so much as
touched one, I’d get a beating. Much as I longed to rip the heads off and stomp on them, I knew what I’d get if I did, and it would bloody well hurt.
Katie died of leukaemia when she was twelve. I know my mother wished it had been me. Those wretched dolls in their display case became a shrine to Katie - even more sacrosanct and untouchable than they had been when she was alive.
At fifteen I discovered sex. I craved it and took it every chance I got - but I hated women. Don’t get me wrong - no way am I gay. I’m not attracted to men in the least. I like tits and a nice piece of arse. What I hate about women is all that pink fluffy stuff - cuddly toys and dolls, and especially those grotesque Mitzi things. If any woman I was shagging had one in the room I’d pull its head off while she was in the toilet. They tended not to want to see me again after that.
I graduated to whores, women who liked it rough. Even if they did have a Mitzi Doll and I pulled its head off, they wouldn’t reject me because they needed the money.
Then one time I almost killed one of them. I nearly throttled the life out of her and she fainted. I thought she was dead, panicked and did a runner. I remember thinking, why isn’t there a prostitute Mitzi? The bitch survived, though, I saw her on the street a few days later. I knew the marks on her neck were from more than just love bites.
She didn’t report me - she wasn’t exactly legal herself - and she had a drug habit and a kid to feed. She wouldn’t shag me again, though. Not because I nearly killed her, but because I hadn’t paid.
My mother eventually topped herself. They said she never got over losing Katie. You can imagine how that made me feel. I went into the bedroom and looked at those bloody dolls, all lined up. I wanted to overturn the cabinet and slash them all, but even though there was no retribution coming if I did, I couldn’t do it. That frustrated me. I wanted them all dead, the bitches. Only how could they be dead when they had never been alive?
There was only one way to deal with them. One at a time. I knew what I had to do. I opened the door and took out Accountant Mitzi.
30 tabitha and robert
‘Penny for them, Tabitha.’
I looked up, aware that I had been stirring my coffee and gazing into its murky brown depths for several minutes. Robert seemed to be in a jovial mood, for once, the kind of mood I was not sure I would be in ever again. It was Friday, I realised. That probably explained it.
‘Personal stuff,’ I said, dismissively. Wondering how my ex-boyfriend was doing in prison. Wondering what on earth Jamie Swan could possibly see in Alison Harman, and wishing I’d made a move on him months ago, before Jonathan. Before Alison. Wondering if I’d ever be part of a couple again. Wondering if they’d ever track down the Mitzi Doll Killer and how many more women would die before they did.
Wondering what the dream I’d had last night meant: watching that daytime talk show with the girl saying she wanted to move in with her bloke because ‘It was going okay and it was about time.’ Only instead of being interrupted by the phone, in the dream I kept watching, thinking, ‘this is a repeat. I’ve heard it before.’ The host had said, ‘That’s not a good enough reason, Kelly. The only good reason is that you love him.’ Then he’d turned to the camera - to me - and said ‘Remember that, all of you out in TV land. Spread the word, before it’s too late. Tell him, Tabitha.’ Tell who? Tell them what, exactly?
None of it was stuff you bother your boss with, no matter how good a mood he might be in.
‘It’s nearly five,’ he said. ‘Fancy a drink?’
I stared at him. I was so shocked, I found myself agreeing. He’d never suggested such a thing before. Perhaps it was because I was the new Sarah. Not that he’d ever asked Sarah out for a drink. She was always in a rush to get to the child minder’s at the end of the day, so he probably knew she’d refuse. Not me, though.
Even more shocking was the discovery that Robert was really rather good company. I liked the way he confidently ordered expensive drinks and asked for them to be put on his tab. I noticed for the first time that he had quite an endearing floppy fringe and warm brown eyes. Was it the champagne? Was I still on the rebound from Jonathan? Was this wise? Probably not, but I was having a good time - my mood lifted slightly with each sip of bubbly until I was positively buzzing.
‘What do you think of psychics?’ I asked, after my fourth glass.
‘Psychics? Can’t say I ever really thought about them.’
‘Do you think they can solve crimes?’
‘Dunno. Interesting, though. I read in the Metro there’s a rumour they’ve got a psychic trying to catch that serial killer, but even if it’s true, they still haven’t caught him. Police are denying it, of course, but it’s all good, surely, if they can find out who’s doing all these murders.’
I nearly choked on my drink. The Metro knew about me? How had the press found out? Did that mean Jamie was in trouble?
‘I’m psychic,’ I said. I decided not to mention that I was the one working on those murders. If indeed I still was. I hadn’t heard anything from Jamie Swan since the Mark Rees flat incident and I was beginning to wonder if he’d decided I was a lot more bother than I was worth.
‘Yeah. Course you are,’ said Robert. ‘Have some more wine.’
‘I’m serious,’ I said. ‘I really am psychic.’
‘Really?’ Robert said. ‘Do you do Tarot cards and all of that stuff? What do you see in my future?’
‘I couldn’t say now, I’m too drunk,’ I said.
‘Tomorrow, then?’ He smiled, an alarmingly attractive smile, and poured me another glass.
**
I woke up next morning with a pounding headache, in a strange room with a duvet thrown over me. I couldn’t remember where I was or how I had got there. The last thing I could remember was promising to give my boss a Tarot reading. My boss? Oh, God.
Gingerly I sat up and surveyed the room. It was full of dusty exercise equipment and shelves of books - the spare room of a bachelor pad, I assumed. Robert must have brought me here. I groaned with embarrassment as it all came back to me with sickening clarity.
I’d got up to leave the bar, felt dizzy, and as soon as the fresh air hit me I’d thrown up in the nearest drain, collapsed at Robert’s feet, telling him to leave me in the gutter to die. Thankfully, he had not done as I asked. I guessed I had not been compos mentis enough to tell him my address, so he’d brought me home with him. Another thought crossed my mind. Horrified, I threw back the quilt and looked at myself. I was fully clothed except for the jacket I’d puked on. He hadn’t taken advantage of me, then. Phew. That, at least, was a relief.
There was a knock on the door. ‘Tabitha? Are you awake? Are you hungry? Can I come in?’
‘Awake. Not hungry. You can come in.’
He came in with a breakfast tray. ‘I know you said you’re not hungry, but trust me; you’ll feel better if you eat.’
I cautiously nibbled on a slice of toast, and had to admit he was right. ‘Thanks for scraping me up off the pavement,’ I said.
‘I thought you’d probably not give me a psychic reading if I didn’t,’ he replied.
‘Well, unless you tell me where the shower is and lend me some soap and a towel, I still may not,’ I said.
After a shower I felt much more human and able to try reading for him. I got some things from his childhood, and a great-aunt who was trying to warn him of something I couldn’t quite make out. Then I saw in my mind’s eye a vision of him sitting with Jonathan in a prison cell. ‘Do you see anything else?’ he was asking.
‘No,’ I said, quickly. ‘Nothing.’ I wasn't sure how to interpret that. He wouldn't know who Jonathan was and it would take a long time to explain. And of course, there was still that nagging feeling that I was getting it wrong, as I had done with Becky.
**
Getting involved with your boss. Never a good idea, I’d been told. But when it happens it can be impossible to resist. It means you actually look forward to going in to work. It means you no longer
mind that a man you briefly fancied is marrying a woman you don’t like. It means you’re going out with someone who earns more money than you - so you get taken to expensive restaurants, whisked off for weekends away - I was even going to get to try skiing in a few weeks. I’d been itching to give skiing a go ever since hearing Daniel talk about it, so for me, it was a dream come true.
When I’d told Robert I’d like to give it a try, he’d said, ‘Really? Well, I’m actually on the verge of booking my annual ski trip. It would be great if you could come along. Nobody else takes holiday in February, and it’s usually quiet once Christmas and the sales are over. If you fill in a leave form on Monday I’ll sign it off.’
‘Great,’ I’d said. This really was a different side to Robert, who usually made a big thing of making sure no two people had holidays at the same time. ‘Where are we going?’
‘Well, I haven’t actually decided yet. I decide which week I’m going and book my time off work, and then I look at the snow reports. I’ve got an idea, though. This can be a test of your psychic powers.’
I wasn’t sure I liked the sound of that. ‘What kind of test?’
‘I’ll give you a list of the places I’m thinking of going to. You look at it and tell me which place you get the best vibes from, and that’s where we’ll go.’
‘That’s a big responsibility.’
‘Not really. I did look at the snow reports a few weeks ago and these were the places that looked pretty good then.’
I’d shrugged. Why not? I knew nothing about any of the places he’d written down. Val d’Isere. Verbier. La Plagne. La Tania. St. Anton. Zermatt. Avoriaz. Morzine. The last one sounded like the name of a cough sweet, but otherwise, they meant nothing to me. I’d closed my eyes and taken a breath. OK, spirit, I doubt you even care which ski resort I go to, so I’m not even sure this will work – but if there is one place where I’d have a better time than anywhere else, or be able to learn best, give me some sign.