Only Darkness Page 14

  She poured herself another sherry and offered one to Gina. ‘No, not for me. You drink more than you should, you know, Debbie.’

  ‘Not that much,’ Debbie protested, thinking Gina was probably right. ‘It’s just that you don’t drink enough.’

  ‘A sherry at Christmas and my nightcap,’ Gina agreed. She had solved her insomnia problems years ago with a measure of rum in a cup of cocoa, and this was still part of her nightly ritual. Before she sat down in the evening, she would put the milk in the pan, and cocoa, sugar, milk and rum mixed to a cream in her cup ready for her to go to bed.

  Christmas Day, Debbie made a morning visit to her father’s grave, taking Christmas roses. ‘I’m in a mess, Dad,’ she said, as she arranged the flowers, breaking off the stems and putting them into the small container on the headstone. ‘Something’s wrong and I don’t know what it is.’ She didn’t know what she expected. Her father wasn’t there. When she got back, Gina had dinner in the oven, and Debbie’s present was on the table waiting to be opened. It was a dress in a fine deep-blue jersey that Gina had made.

  ‘You’ll look lovely in that,’ Gina said. ‘It’s just your colour. It matches your eyes. As soon as I saw that material I knew it was just the thing for a dress for you.’ Gina also gave her a bottle of whisky – from Santa, the label said.

  ‘I thought you said I drink too much,’ Debbie said, looking at the bottle.

  ‘Yes, but it makes you easy to buy for.’ Gina was opening a box of chocolates from her neighbour. ‘You know,’ she said, looking round the room, ‘I do like Christmas.’

  That evening, Gina said, ‘You’re still upset, aren’t you, love?’ She was knitting by the fire. She always seemed to have some project on the go. Debbie couldn’t remember seeing her mother sit down without some work in her hands.

  Debbie sighed and nodded. There wasn’t a lot of point in trying to keep the whole thing from Gina. She’d certainly find out eventually. She needed to talk about it anyway. She gave her the bare bones of the story, and waited for her mother’s comment.

  ‘He lost his wife and child together? Poor man.’ Gina was shocked. ‘Well, I wouldn’t pay too much attention to what he says he wants and what he doesn’t. He’s probably not in his right mind.’ She thought about it. ‘Mind you, I’m not saying it’s something you’d want to get involved in.’ She was silent for a minute as she negotiated a tricky section of the pattern.

  ‘I don’t think I’ve got much choice,’ said Debbie. ‘He’s made it clear what he wants. Or what he doesn’t want, more to the point.’

  ‘Which one does he talk about most? Or miss the most? The woman or the baby?’

  Debbie was surprised by the question, but she had no trouble answering it. ‘His wife,’ she said.

  ‘Sounds like a man who hasn’t had too much love in his life.’ Gina stopped knitting and pushed the needles through the ball of wool. ‘He’s likely to be trouble, Debbie. Keep your eyes open. Well, I’m ready for bed now, I’ll just go and do my nightcap and then I’ll be off.’ She came back a few minutes later carrying a cup from which the mingled smell of chocolate and rum drifted. ‘Don’t sit up too late, you look tired.’

  Debbie laughed. ‘Mum, I’m twenty-six.’

  ‘Yes, and I’m still your mother, so don’t forget that.’ She gave Debbie a hug and a kiss, and headed up the narrow staircase. Debbie sat up a bit later, thinking about what Gina had said. She was probably right. She had wondered herself how easy it would be to have a relationship with someone who had experienced what Rob had experienced. She thought, as well, that there must be something else. He never talked about his childhood, never mentioned parents or family, kept himself secret and safe behind that mask. Gina was almost certainly right, but it didn’t help Debbie a bit.

  Sarah put down her pen for the fifth time, and went to the door of the living room. ‘Make us a cup of tea, love,’ her father said from his chair in front of the television.

  ‘Can’t Lee? I’m writing my essay.’ Sarah’s brother was sitting on the floor pushing buttons on his new Playstation. He looked up at Sarah’s words.

  ‘Can’t make tea,’ he said.

  ‘Yeah, love, you do it, he can’t do it right.’ Her father smiled affably. Sarah started to protest again, but saw his eyes start to narrow, so she picked up his cup from the floor and went back into the kitchen. The sink was still full of the dirty dishes, and the table was a cluttered mess. She had her books and papers on one corner that she’d cleared, hoping to get her essay for Debbie finished. It had to be done for when term started, and she was working all week.

  She put the kettle on, and tried to hold the thread in her mind. She had come up with a good idea, and had been trying to follow it through the poem, something about the different ways the poet created a sense of fear and menace … no, she’d lost it. She poured water into the teapot. Her father liked his tea made in a pot. He was pleased with her this evening. She’d made sausage and chips for tea and he liked that, and she’d done a fruit pie, using that pie filling that he liked, with custard. ‘That was smashing, that, love. You’re turning into a right good cook.’ She wondered what to do with the cold turkey. He wouldn’t eat that. Maybe she and Lee could have it in sandwiches.

  But after tea it had been, ‘Where’s the telly guide, love?’; ‘Take our Lee out, he’s driving me mad’; ‘Bring us the paper’, as she sat at the table and tried to work on her essay. It was always like that, he just didn’t understand about college. She poured the tea, added milk and sugar and stirred it. She took it through to her father. ‘Thanks, love,’ he said absently, his eyes on the screen. Soon, in about half an hour, she’d have to go to work, and the kitchen still wasn’t done. With a sigh, she put her books away and started running water into the sink.

  Nick was meeting her after work. She’d phoned him about the present, as she’d planned. He’d been pleased, had been nice, he’d even apologized for the Friday night. You shouldn’t get me jealous, he’d said, and she’d felt – somehow – flattered. He’d agreed to meet her. She could give him his Christmas present. It was wrapped and ready in her handbag. It would have been nice if she could have given it to him on Christmas Day, but – she tried to imagine Nick and her dad together. She frowned, worried. Her thoughts were interrupted by her father’s shout. ‘Shut the door, Sarah, I can’t hear my programme for that racket!’ She pushed the door shut, and began clearing the table.

  Half an hour later, she hurried out of the house towards her bus stop. It was dark and, as usual, half the streetlights weren’t working, though Christmas lights shone in the windows of the houses. She could hear someone on the pavement behind her, some way back. She looked round, but she couldn’t see anyone. She waited at the stop, checking her watch. The buses were often late at the moment, with the holiday, but it came into view up the hill, more or less on time. As she paid her fare, someone who’d been waiting in the shadows by the wall got on. She got that whiff of unwashed body again. She looked round as she went to her seat, but whoever it was was disappearing up the stairs.

  Berryman was waiting at the bar of the Broomegate Tavern, on Friday evening, as he and Neave had arranged. He used it more than the Grindstone these days. The town centre pubs were too full of people he knew professionally to be relaxing places to go to often. He wanted Neave’s thoughts on some of the material that Lynne Jordan had brought in. She’d come up with some interesting stuff. As to whether it would be useful or not … Berryman was getting tired of having that feeling that the investigation was about to break, and then finding they were down another blind alley. He was certain that the answer lay somewhere in the memories of the relatives, the people who’d lived with the victims before they died. It was up to him, to his team, to spot the important facts and start following them. He was downing his second pint by the time Neave came through the door.

  The pub was noisy and busy at the end of Christmas week, but they found a table in an inaccessible corner where they were able to talk
. Neave asked about the investigation and listened without comment as Berryman ran through the latest developments. After a minute, he said, ‘You think he does stalk them, then?’

  Berryman nodded. ‘Two reasons. One: he’s never been seen doing a pick-up. He can’t be that bloody lucky all the time. He must be able to choose his time and his place. Two: it’s possible that some of the victims were being followed by someone or phoned by someone. Lisa’ – Berryman almost always referred to the women by their first names now. He felt as if he knew them – ‘her little girl started talking about an ugly man, just in the few weeks before her mum was killed. Something frightened her. She drew a picture as well. There’s something about it … And Mandy, she was getting phone calls. Her mum said it was the boyfriend, but it wasn’t, not all of them – we’ve checked. I’ve got Lynne Jordan working on the others now. You know Lynne?’

  ‘You asked me that last time.’ Neave was noncommittal. He didn’t think it was any of Berryman’s business. Lynne was a very independent woman. ‘OK, I’ve got something you might find interesting then.’ He told Berryman about Debbie’s experience in the college and his own findings when he went to investigate. He watched as Berryman’s face darkened.

  ‘Why the fuck –’ he began, but Neave interrupted him.

  ‘OK, I know, but I’m telling you now.’

  Berryman began pushing for details, and Neave ran through the events of the Thursday evening, and his search of the staircase the Monday before Christmas. ‘You didn’t see anyone or hear anyone? But someone had unlocked that door from the inside?’ Berryman thought. ‘And the damage to the light – it’s the fitting, not the bulb? And the Sykes woman went back to your place …’ Berryman wasn’t making much of it, but there was something in his voice, ‘And you haven’t talked to her since?’

  ‘Not since the Friday. We didn’t talk about the staircase.’

  ‘Her briefcase, was anything missing?’

  ‘She didn’t mention anything.’

  ‘Did she check?’

  ‘Not straight away, not while she was with me.’

  ‘And she hasn’t missed anything since?’

  ‘She hasn’t said anything.’ Neave was aware that Debbie couldn’t have told him anything anyway, so he added, ‘I went away on the Saturday. She hasn’t seen me.’

  Berryman thought about it. ‘You think this could be our man?’ Neave shrugged. ‘Why?’ persisted Berryman. ‘Why would he be after anyone now? It’s too soon. And why would he be at the bottom of that staircase? I’ll tell you something, I can’t think of a better way of getting a few computers out of that building. There’s been trouble with pilfering before at that place. It’s that door that opens on to the back lane, isn’t it, by the car park?’ Neave nodded. ‘Have you checked your own people? Sounds like an inside job to me. Down the fire escape, out the back door, put the bolts back later. Whoever it was was probably shitting himself when half the bloody college starts playing around the fire escapes. An intruder on a staircase, that’s not stalking.’

  Neave had thought about that. He knew that Berryman could be right, couldn’t think of any convincing reasons why he should be wrong. Except … Berryman emptied his glass. ‘Want another?’ he said.

  ‘My round.’ Neave went up to the bar. The barmaid, a tall blonde, smiled timidly at him and he realized he’d seen her around the college. She must be a student. She had a fading bruise on her cheek and her lip was slightly swollen. He ordered the drinks and smiled back as he gave her the money. She went pink and slopped the beer over the side of the glasses.

  ‘Sorry,’ she said.

  ‘OK, love. Going to top them up a bit?’ Neave looked at the level in the glasses which was distinctly lower than the line now. She went even pinker, and carefully pulled more beer into each. He looked at her face as she was concentrating on the level in the glasses. Not your problem, Neave. He winked at her and took the drinks back to his table. Berryman had been thinking.

  ‘Look. I’ll get someone up to the college to have a look. See what we can pick up. Did you touch that light fitting?’ Neave shook his head. ‘I’ll need convincing that it’s anything much, but I will make sure it’s looked into. Anything else?’

  Neave took a piece of paper from his wallet and gave it to Berryman. ‘I had a look at the attendance that evening. Those are the students who were in that room. Most were gone before seven, but there are a few stayed later, and these stayed to the end.’ He pointed to names by a signing-out time of nine o’clock.

  Berryman looked at it. ‘Sarah Peterson. Richard Fury. A. Mellors. Right, I’ll get someone to talk to them once the college is open again. It won’t hurt to talk to the Sykes woman again – Steve’s already talked to her, but I’ll send someone round. And I might need something from you, depending on what we come up with.’ He waved Neave’s protest down. ‘Just be glad you’re not working for me any more. Fucking a witness gets you a disciplinary, these days.’

  Sarah loaded glasses into the dishwasher, and looked at the clock. Nearly eleven-thirty and she was nowhere near finished. She was worried. She had seen the security man from college, and she wanted to ask him about the man following Debbie. She’d felt a lot better after talking to Tim Godber, but through the week a feeling of unease had been growing, and she wasn’t sure any more. She’d seen the man, and Tim’s explanation just didn’t seem right. The security man, he’d know what to do. She waited for him to come back to the bar, but as the evening wore on, he didn’t, and she couldn’t get out to talk to him. The landlady, Maggie, who usually came behind the bar to help when it was busy, was in bed with flu, and the other evening bar staff, Jacquie and Pete, were as rushed as Sarah, and there was no time for anyone to take a break.

  Nick should have been here by now. He’d said eleven. She looked at the clock again. Tony came round behind the bar. ‘All right there, Sarah? How are you getting back? Want a taxi?’

  Sarah shook her head. ‘Nick’s meeting me,’ she said, pulling another load of glasses across the bar.

  ‘He’ll get locked out if he doesn’t get a move on.’ Tony was watching the last of the customers leaving the pub. ‘Good night. Good night. Right, Pete, get that door closed and let’s get finished.’

  Jacquie dumped two ash trays on the bar. ‘That’s about it, Sarah. Want any help over there?’

  The pub was empty now, and Sarah was loading the last of the glasses into the machine.

  ‘Want a drink?’ Tony and Pete, the barman, couldn’t wait to see the customers off the premises, but often stayed late in the end having a drink after doors.

  ‘Nick’ll be waiting,’ Sarah apologized.

  ‘OK.’ Tony never asked Nick to join these late sessions, though he sometimes asked Jacquie’s boyfriend Dave. ‘You get off, Sarah, I’ll finish up here. Go out the back, I’ve locked up now.’

  Sarah went and got her coat, looked in the mirror, rubbed some more concealer over the fading bruise and dragged a comb through her hair. She wanted to take more time, but she didn’t dare leave Nick waiting any longer. She hurried out of the back door and round to the front of the pub where he’d be waiting. There was no one there. She looked up and down the road. It was empty, apart from a man waiting in the shadows at the bus stop opposite. She chewed her finger, wondering what to do. Nick had said eleven. ‘I’ll come at eleven. Make sure you’ve got a drink in for me. And try to finish on time, I don’t want to be hanging around all evening.’ She looked at her watch again. It was gone eleven-forty-five. He wouldn’t be coming now. Her eyes began to prickle.

  She could go back into the pub, phone for a taxi, but all the doors were locked. She’d have to ring the bell and that would wake Maggie, and maybe the kids. Tony would see her looking red-eyed and she would feel a fool. She chewed her fingernail again, undecided. There was a phone box up the road. If it was working, she could phone a taxi from there. Then she remembered. She didn’t have enough money for a taxi. She looked at her watch again. If she could just get
across to Headlands Road, she could catch the late bus. She’d caught it before. If she went round by the road, she’d miss it, but she could cut across the footpath to the bridge and be there in five minutes.

  The footpath was busy during the day, a stretch of green in an urban landscape where the land dipped down between high walls to a bridge over a stream. The banks of the stream were overgrown with shrubs and trees, and the ground could be treacherous underfoot. Most of the path was in darkness, though there was a streetlight at the other end, just before it rejoined the main road, but the moon was bright. Sarah shivered. It was starting to get cold.

  She crossed the road and went down the steps at the beginning of the gennel that led down to the bridge. If she walked quickly, it wouldn’t take her five minutes. She began to speed up her steps. The wind was getting up, and the clouds were starting to blow across the sky, drifting across the face of the moon. The path faded into darkness.

  Sarah slipped through the shadows, following the path down. The moon was appearing and disappearing behind the clouds that raced across it. She looked behind her. The path wasn’t lit, but she thought she saw something moving further back behind her in the dark. Her heart lurched and began to beat more quickly. Don’t be stupid, she admonished herself. She’d think about something else, about her essay, remember her ideas about the poem. She’d been reading it, trying to get the essay right for Debbie.

  Like one that on a lonesome road

  Doth walk in fear and dread

  Sarah quickened her pace, her breath catching in her throat. She didn’t want to think about the poem now. The bushes were higher around the path, meeting above her. A branch brushed against her hair and her heart leapt. Where was the bridge, where was the light? It couldn’t be far now. The path ahead was shadowy. She didn’t look back. There was only darkness behind.