If When

by Barbara Gaskell Denvil

  She scratched again, and he realised her gloves were fingerless. He felt the rip down the side of his cheek. The pain inspired him. He punched her again and thought he had broken her jaw. But she didn’t stop fighting. Jumping up, she kicked hard with both feet, surprising him, one foot to his groin and one to his thigh where he had recently cut a deep slice. This reopened at once and began to bleed ferociously. His groin ached. That was pleasant enough, but might damage his erection, and he was momentarily perturbed. That weakened him. His clasp failed, just an inch.

  The girl spat in his eyes, screamed at him, scratched down the length of his nose with one hand, and now her other hand was freed, she gouged at one of his eyes. Another kick up into his groin and he groaned. His testicles felt split and screamed at him, almost as loudly as the girl did.

  He let her go. His desire had ebbed. The treachery had swept away the longing and there was no more sense of power, instead a sense of failure.

  She ran like a wild thing, off down the road in the direction she had already been marching. He ran back the other way and scrambled into his car, slumping there, attempting to control the pain and the mounting headache.

  So he drove to the barn. On the small single bed, he wrapped himself in blankets, shut his eyes, and attempted to imagine what he would have done with the bitch, had he managed to bring her back with him. Her sobbing for mercy. He imagined her pleas. Then rape. One, two, three, in all the places and then with other instruments. The dreams faded, and he slept, only to dream uncontrolled of dismal and shuddering things, humiliation, loss, bitterness, and hatreds. He hated the girl. He wanted to kill her more than he had wanted to kill any of the others, but even in his dreams she rose up and forced him down.

  When he woke, his pillow was covered in his own blood. He washed, although no wound was deep, and no stitches were needed. He punched the logs outside and imagined the girl instead.

  Morrison said, “Not far from here. Not as close as Pamela Barnstable, but only three villages away on the Cheltenham side.”

  Harry scratched his ear lobe. “But she got away! Good god, how did she manage that? Is she a giant?”

  “Not in the least. Indeed, she appears frail. She’s in hospital now, with a broken nose and a cracked jaw, a dislocated shoulder and a number of bruises and other small fractures. She must have fought like a tiger. And, with considerable advantage to us, she has his DNA under her finger nails.”

  Harry stared, eyes wide. “Tony?”

  “No.” Morrison shook his head. “Neither Mr. Allen nor Paul Stoker.”

  Sylvia looked up. “My step-brother Fletcher?”

  “We do not have his DNA on file, Mrs. Greene. And since your relationship to the suspect is not through a blood line we can’t trace him through you.”

  “I don’t know where he’s gone.” Sylvia sighed. “He left. But he’ll want to deposit my cheque as soon as possible. Can you trace which bank he went to?”

  “Yes, although not so quickly.” Morrison’s sigh echoed Sylvia’s “But two days ago, after he checked out from the Crooked Wager, a most unlikely fire was started in a field nearby. The ground was sodden from recent storms. No fire would have been expected. But this was started with intention, and burned for some time before quenched. You did tell us at one time, Mrs. Greene, that your step-brother had a tendency towards arson.”

  “Yes, I did. He does.” Sylvia frowned, remembering. “At least, he used to when younger. I haven’t much idea of what he does now. Except borrow money.”

  “Should he visit you again,” Morrison continued, “I’d be obliged if you inform me immediately. And if you have any other relevant thoughts, either of you, I should also like to hear them.”

  “You mean,” Harry blinked, “we might be intelligent and useful after all? Not just pathetic old codgers?”

  With an apologetic smile, Morrison nodded and said, “I never thought – but no matter. All help is appreciated, Mr. Joyce. The police cannot be everywhere. And I admit, although the DNA does not match, we are interested in the surprising coincidence of Mr. Allen’s disappearance at just this time.”

  “You mean two murderers, one being Tony, and the other unknown? Working together?”

  “It has been known, Mr. Joyce,” Morrison said. “Partnerships in violent crime are comparatively common. Fred West and his wife. Hindley and Brady, Manson and his followers, and many others.”

  “So you really do suspect Tony?” demanded Sylvia. “I thought it was a passing possibility. Or are you thinking of Stoker too?”

  “Sadly, we have no principal suspect at this time,” said Morrison, hands still clasped over the overflowing file. “Many different paths are still open.”

  What he did not mention, but which was perfectly obvious, was that having someone who had escaped his clutches, there was now a hope that the killer could be described in some detail. Perhaps even his car.

  Within two hours of hearing that the latest victim had recovered consciousness, eaten her breakfast, and managed to sit up while propped by pillows, the detective inspector entered the hospital and sat at the bedside of the young woman in the small private room. Carol Knight was thickly bandaged, but seemed perfectly alert.

  “I’m sorry,” she said. “But it was dark. And he had a funny hat on, and a great big jacket with a hood.”

  “Anything at all, Miss Knight, will be of enormous help.”

  “Well, he was tall.” Pause. “That is, not unusually tall, but something like six foot. Much taller than me. Thick-set. Not body-builder sort of thing, but sturdy. You know. Shoulders and so on.”

  Morrison stood, pushing back his chair. “I’m five foot eleven, Miss Knight. And of average build. This man, how did he compare?”

  “A tiny bit more of everything.” Her jaw was bandaged and wired. Therefore, her words seemed clipped and difficult to follow. Clearly talking was uncomfortable. Morrison sympathised loudly, but in fact he was entirely disinterested in any pain she might be experiencing. He wanted to catch the killer. That was all that mattered, and this was his best chance so far.

  “Taller?” Morrison sat down again.

  “Just a bit taller. A bit wider. And older.”

  “His face looked older? Even in the twilight and beneath a hood? How old would you say he was?”

  “Hard. Perhaps forty eight. Fifty.”

  Morrison was making copious notes. “Eyes? Eyebrows? Nose? Mouth?” Six foot, he had written, slightly thick set, late forties to early fifties. “And his voice?”

  Carol, breathing only through a broken nose and speaking through a broken jaw, managed a few more words. She remembered in vivid detail what had happened, and thought it was something she would never ever be able to forget. But twilight, her attempts to get away, and the man’s winter clothes had hidden the most important marks of identification. She said, “Small dark eyes. But that was in shadow. Empty eyes. No real eyebrows. Sort of thin, like one wisp of hair. Long nose. Big nose. I scratched it, all the way down. I poked his eye too. It bled. He didn’t seem to have any lashes. But hair in his nose. Mouth? I don’t know. No real lips. Sort of thin.”

  “Voice?”

  “Soft. Sort of kind. Then harsh. Nothing unusual.”

  “Excellent,” decided Morrison. In a couple of days, when you’ve recovered a little more, I’ll send in a police artist to compile a likeness.”

  “Oh yes, and he had a limp. Quite a bad limp.”

  “Thank you, Miss Knight. You’ve been a great help.”

  The nurse had bustled in. Morrison nodded and got up to leave. He looked back once. “And you’re quite sure you’ve never seen this man in the area before, Miss Knight? Not shopping in the supermarket? Not walking in the village?”

  She couldn’t shake her head. “No. I’m sure. At least, not to remember.”

  “And there was only one man?”

  “I only saw one.”

  “And the car? Perhaps another waiting in the car? One driving, the other holding the vi
ctim?”

  Carol shivered. “Didn’t see any car.”

  “But he offered you a lift?”

  “Yes. Told you. Car hidden. Maybe no car.”

  Morrison left the hospital, climbed into his own car and nodded to his own driver. “We have the closest we’ve got yet to identification, and yet I’m still none the wiser. We’ll have to use the media.”

  It was the next morning that the newspapers displayed another set of clamorous headlines. “Killer named. Latest victim lives to tell the tale. Arrest imminent.”

  “Sociopaths,” said Harry, reading the report in the Herald, “have to give clues. You can’t live with one and not notice a damn thing. Do you think we’d be allowed to visit this poor little Carol Knight in hospital?”

  Sylvia watched his animation and smiled. She was sitting in his small living room and felt strangely honoured to be there. No Isabel. No Tony. No police. “I doubt it,” she said, “unless you can think of some particular reason. Or steal a police badge or a doctor’s white coat and stethoscope.”

  “Maybe not.” The bottle of red wine stood almost empty on the coffee table. Just a small pine table, stained dark oak, but holding two more unopened bottles, and two empty glasses. Sylvia had brought the bottle they’d nearly finished but hadn’t wanted to show off by bringing rare or expensive. All three bottles were Merlot and tasted good enough. Harry refilled the glasses and opened the next screw top. He drained his own glass. “But I can’t help wondering where Tony and Isabel went,” he said. “And why.”

  “No secret why.”

  “If you’re innocent,” Harry pointed out, “you don’t need to run.”

  “But it’s what Paul Stoker did,” added Sylvia, “he was found not guilty but still ran. Disappeared to France, I gather. And I don’t blame him.”

  She had gone to more trouble than usual when dressing for the evening at Harry’s. Denying, even to herself, that she expected unusual activity, she had washed her hair with perfumed conditioner, chucked the large polyester knickers back in the drawer and pulled out the black chiffon and lace frills instead, struggled into the matching bra which no longer really fitted her, tucked herself in, wore lapis earrings, and even managed some make-up. It wasn’t the make-up that actually bothered her, it was scrutinising herself in the mirror that seemed unattractive. The dark shadows under her eyes were no problem, she’d had them for years, and putting on mascara seemed reasonable. At least she still had eyelashes left, and good enough to paint. But a slick of powder certainly didn’t cover all the grooves, dips, swells and furrows. She decided her face looked as though it had been ploughed. Her upper lip was such a cave of grooves and pits that she could not possibly put on lipstick, which would surely ooze upwards and turn those creases red. Yet over the years her lips had narrowed, almost shrunk into paper, and needed a little emphasis. She slicked on a touch of sheen, but then thought it looked absurd, and wiped it off again.

  Now she sat, legs outstretched on Harry’s best armchair, and wondered if Isabel had sat there every night until recently. There had been one hurried, slightly drunken, and later regretted sex-session which both Harry and Isabel (her first, of course, or probably he’d have said nothing) had confessed, but Sylvia had no idea whether they had used the carpet, the bed, the spare bed, the kitchen table or any other damned thing.

  Trying not to think about it, Sylvia drank her wine, and the next glass too. “We have no way of tracing Tony, nor any way of tracing Paul Stoker. But now we know it almost positively isn’t either of them anyway. I suppose I have to be sensible and admit it isn’t Fletcher either.”

  “Or your handyman Arthur. Or his odd son. Or your irascible Norman Syrett. Or my pub friend Sebastian Pratt.”

  “And there was a Badger someone.”

  “Nor him.”

  “But there’s one thing we can do,” Sylvia suggested, speaking tentatively into her lap. “We could search for the house where the killer takes them. He has them for days. Locked up and chopped into pieces. Pam was dumped back here. Whether he knew she worked here or not, I’ve no idea. But surely this means his hideaway is somewhere close.”

  “He has a car,” said Harry, staring back. “He went for a working holiday in Wales.”

  “Must you call it that?”

  Harry laughed. “Squeamish all of a sudden? Lord, we’ve seen enough over these past months. You can’t be shocked by anything much now. So the ripper has a car. He doesn’t carry corpses along the road in his arms. So his nasty little cottage of death could be anywhere.”

  “But it would make sense being fairly close. I don’t mean in the next street. But within – oh, I don’t know – ten miles? It could, couldn’t it?” Sylvia thought a moment. “I want to visit Pam’s mother. I should offer my condolences anyway. And I want to know where Pam was coming back from when she was snatched. Lavender knows her address. Then search for the hideaway.”

  “Yes. That’s it, then,” said Harry, bright eyed again. “We visit Pam’s mother. We visit this Carol Knight if we can manage it. And we search a ten mile radius around Rochester Manor.”

  Chapter Sixteen

  “Well, we’ve made our plans, we’ve finished the wine, and I’ve had a thoroughly entertaining evening,” said Sylvia, gathering her skirts and unfolding herself from the depths of the chair. “So I suppose I should go home.”

  “Must you?” Harry stayed where he was, looking up, and still nursing the last drops of red. “I’ll drive you home of course, but must you go already? I mean, it’s not eleven yet. Or have I worn you out?”

  “I’m usually in bed by eleven or earlier.”

  They both smiled at the same time. Harry murmured, “You could sleep here.”

  “I didn’t bring a toothbrush.”

  Harry said, “I’ve got a spare of those too.”

  Sylvia raised both eyebrows and looked straight at Harry. “But not one that Isabel used? And not the bed that Isabel used?”

  The suggestion that Sylvia might experience some fleeting jealousy seemed suddenly tantalising. Harry’s smile turned to a grin. “The toothbrush is still in its cellophane. And she slept in the spare room. You could sleep in mine.”

  He stood and at the same moment she stepped forwards, and he put both his arms around her so quickly and so tightly that she lost her breath, found it again, and chuckled. “I think,” she said, “it’s going to be a very sweet night,” and kissed him.

  Just holding her seemed enough for the first moments. Harry felt the warmth and the pressure of her against his chest, the prod of his own erection, the heavy heat of her breasts, and the soft tickle of her hair on his neck. It had been a long time that he’d wanted to do this, had thought of it, imagined it and wondered if it would be as deliciously enjoyable as he hoped. He decided that it was, and remained still, absorbing the pleasure. Then his hand crept, travelling its own automatic pathway to the small of her back, the first swell of her buttocks, and then up and around to her breasts, to skim but not to press. He felt the rise of her nipples. He heard her breath deep and fast.

  She heard the whisper in her ear, neither shy nor tentative, but gentle. “Neither of us want fast. I doubt I’m capable of fast. But will you let me take you to my bed? Just to lie together would be a delight. Whether we discover more is up to you. But first, just to be close.”

  The bed was wide and deep. His sheets weren’t ironed, but they were clean and the quilt was smart mustard with a rich paisley pattern, while the pillows were feather and soft. The room was nondescript, but the bed was wonderful, and “That’s,” Harry pointed, “the en-suite.”

  She muttered thanks, considered climbing under the quilt fully dressed, but knew she’d be so creased the next morning she’d have to wear an invisibility cloak before daring to go home. “My dress is coming off,” she said, “but nothing else.”

  “Shoes?” he smiled.

  “I’m not that daft.”

  “You are daft,” Harry said, “which is the last thing I expe
cted of you. We’re the same age. We know what age does. What I want is touch, feeling close, being part of your warmth, the excitement of affection. Older men are all terrified of finding themselves impotent and being laughed at. Would you do that?”

  “Of course not. It wouldn’t occur to me.”

  “So it wouldn’t occur to you to snigger at my bulges and lack of waist? Saggy thighs and wrinkled chest? No muscles and a bulging belly?”

  “You’re exaggerating,” Sylvia said, “and who cares anyway. Aren’t we past all that?”

  “So why don’t you want to get undressed?”

  “Because I’m a fool after all. And you’ve had some recent practise. I haven’t had any practise at all for a couple of hundred years.”

  Harry said, “But practise isn’t what this is about. It’s about caring. Perhaps even loving. And I promise you, it’s even longer since I felt any of that. Except, my love, for you.”

  Risking a half strip, Sylvia laid her navy silk over a small chair, kept the half petticoat but, deep breath first, unclipped her bra. Harry was already naked to the waist of his trousers, and Sylvia knew she didn’t care tuppence for what he looked like. He wasn’t a handsome man fully dressed, and his hair was rough grey and receding although his eyes were deep and kind and seemed to know everything. It was the person she had grown to adore. She saw his personality, not his lack of flesh where it should be, nor the overlap where it shouldn’t be.

  Evidently he felt the same, for he hugged her hard and immediately, and she felt him hardening further against her groin.

  After love-making, they lay wrapped in each other’s’ embrace, speaking softly. It had been slow, elegant, seductive and eventually even passionate. Sylvia found his touch expert and gloriously reminiscent of long romantic dreams when reading books of shameful rubbish, or remembering what she would have liked to experience in the distant past, but never had.