Only Darkness (31 page)

Cuttings recorded the deaths of each of the victims, all reports into the developing investigation, carefully and chronologically placed, including the pictures of the victims as they had appeared in the paper where he first saw them. Lisa, smiling lovingly at her husband, Karen in the foreground, Kate smiling triumphantly at the Education Secretary, Mandy casting a fiancée’s loving look at Damien Hastings, Julie’s smile at Andrew Thomas –
Broughton’s Winning Team
– understandable, to those in the know. And Debbie, whose smile was directed at someone who wasn’t even in the picture. Each
one an echo of Susan Stringer’s smile at her bridegroom, her smile turned away from the child half cut away from the frame?

There, also, in due order, were the deaths of Sarah Peterson and Gina Sykes. Written under their names, in one of the few personal records that Stringer left, was the word
Vermin.
A bunch of keys, carefully labelled, lay beside the file.

The world that Debbie woke up to was a different one from the one she’d left. A procession of people came to see her at the hospital. Berryman came, with Lynne Jordan. She wasn’t sure if this was an official visit or not. He asked her some questions, but didn’t push her when she said she couldn’t remember something. ‘If anything comes back …’ he said. He asked her about her keys, how they could have come into the killer’s possession, and she remembered the morning she had found them slung carelessly on her desk, as though someone had thrown them contemptuously down – and hadn’t wanted to think about what that meant. They told her that her mother, and Sarah, had both been victims. Debbie knew that she had led the killer to them, unwitting, unintentional though it had been. ‘It wasn’t your fault,’ Berryman had said, seeing the expression on her face. He was a kind man. The papers were full of the story for the first few days. The staff tried to keep them away from her, but it was impossible, really.

She had no job. The redundancy notice had landed on her mat, posted on Friday morning before the news of the attack got out. Debbie rather thought they would have held off, if they had known. Louise brought it in to her on the third day of her hospital stay. She didn’t care.

Tim Godber was a hero. His story appeared on the front page of the national that was now employing him. His picture, of the track pointing like an arrow, the group frozen underneath the eye of the signal light, the two men by the open pit lifting a limp figure with a lolling head, had been printed in every paper in the country. She’d looked at it once, and never wanted to see it again. The nurse said he’d come to the hospital, wanted to see her, but she’d told them to send him away.

She thought about going home. But her house seemed like a stranger’s in her mind – the familiar furniture, the bits and pieces, the pictures and colours that had meant so much to her were just – nothing. He’d been there, he’d seen her things, he’d touched them. She didn’t feel revulsion, just distance. Louise had tried to reassure her. I’ve been round and really cleaned the place up,’ she had said. ‘Not that it needed it, but you know …’ Debbie could almost smell the lemon and lavender, the polish and bleach with which Louise had tried to obliterate him. Louise. Debbie smiled briefly. Lovely Louise, rallying round, supporting her, trying to put the pieces back together again, not realizing there weren’t any pieces to put together. Debbie didn’t feel broken, only changed. No, not changed – touched, spoiled, contaminated. She thought of the photographs on the table. Gina’s serious face above her graduation gown, her father’s proud smile at the little girl holding the trophy, his older, blurred face already fading into memory. And another face – she saw Sarah’s eyes watching her through a tangle of hair. Gone, all touched, contaminated and destroyed. The house would be cold after standing empty. The cold felt right. Cold stopped things from germinating, taking root, growing. She couldn’t go home. There was nowhere to go.

There was still a lot they didn’t know. Stringer had been a solitary man. Their enquiries identified no friends, and few acquaintances. The men he had worked with had few memories of him – he was
a quiet man,
he was
a loner.
One of them said,
He knew more about these railways than anyone I’ve ever met. He loved them.
His lodger hardly saw him, living in the flat in the basement. He collected the rent and that was all. He’d bought the house with the insurance money from his mother’s death, and his redundancy. After his redundancy, he seemed to have made a living from renting the basement of the house he had bought. He wrote articles for model makers that were published in some special-interest magazines. Back issues had suddenly become collectors’ items.

And then there were the questions that would probably never be answered. Berryman doubted they would have
been answerable
even if William Stringer was still alive.
What makes a man stalk, mutilate and kill?
They had something of his story now, but there had to be another part, the bit they didn’t know, the bit that was lost. Some dark part of his mind? Some cruelty that can’t be ignored or forgotten? The desires of an evil man? Berryman didn’t know the answer, and didn’t want to know it. It was over. Let it lie. He looked at the clock. Nearly ten. God knows when he’d get home. There was a tap on the door, and Lynne Jordan came in. ‘There’s just me and Steve left now, sir,’ she said.

Berryman sighed. ‘I don’t think there’s much left to be done tonight. Anything new?’

‘Do you need to talk to Deborah Sykes again?’ Berryman shook his head. ‘She’s out of hospital. They discharged her today. She’s gone away for a couple of weeks. Rob Neave’s taken her up north somewhere.’

Berryman grinned. ‘Miserable sod. What’s wrong with Tenerife?’ He flicked through the papers on his desk. ‘Is she OK? No permanent damage?’

‘Who’s to tell?’ Lynne shrugged.

Berryman pushed the last pile of papers back into the file. ‘Right. I’m leaving this until tomorrow.’ He stood up and picked up his coat, a big man, heavily built. He was going home to his family, but Lynne thought he looked lonely.

‘Good night, sir,’ she said. She went back into the main office. She felt lonely too. The desks were empty now, the incident room being wound down. Steve McCarthy looked across at her, his thin face weary. Lynne waited for the irritation that usually crossed his face when he saw her. Instead, he smiled. She responded with a friendly nod. ‘You ready for off, then, Steve?’

He rubbed his face in a gesture that reminded her sharply of Neave. ‘I’m calling in for a drink first,’ he said. ‘I need one. How about you?’

Lynne thought for a moment. ‘Sounds good.’ She paused. Was this a wise move or not? Probably not, but what the hell. ‘First round on me.’ She had a fridge full of beer at her
flat, and a bottle of single malt. She could tell him about that later. Or not.

He looked sharply at her, then smiled. ‘OK,’ he said, ‘I’ll take you up on that.’ He waited while she got her coat.

It was more a pub than a hotel. It had a slightly shabby luxury, thick carpets and velvet curtains, a bar with an open fire and dark, panelled corners. It was close to the sea. In the morning, when the wind came off the land, they walked on the beach and watched the waves breaking on the sand, grey water and white foam. As the wind turned and blew from the sea, the chill set in, and they went back to the warmth of their room at the hotel. They spent long afternoons lying among the tumbled sheets and pillows, watching the clouds race across the grey sky. No one disturbed them.

There had been a clamour. Papers had wanted to pay Debbie for her story, television reporters had wanted to interview her. She didn’t want any of that. She knew enough now, and didn’t want to know any more. She supposed people were writing and believing what they wanted. She didn’t care.

Towards the end of their stay, they crossed over to Lindisfarne, taking the car across the causeway just before the tide came in, stranding themselves on the island for the next few hours. After they left the village, they had the place to themselves. The beach was littered with the detritus of the sea, weed tangled over ropes and driftwood, sand and shingle mixed underfoot. The wind blew across from the east, rattling the sparse grasses holding the dunes together. The sky and the sea were grey, but a light shone behind the clouds, painful in its intensity.

Rob watched Debbie as she pulled her coat more tightly around herself, shivering with the cold. She was staring out across the flats, where the sea, sand and sky met in a shatter of light. The bones of her face made planes and shadows.
She looked ephemeral, insubstantial. The familiar bleak pain twisted his stomach, locked in his throat. For a moment he could hardly breathe, then it seemed to dissolve, rise up and overwhelm him. He could feel tears running down his face and he stood behind Debbie, pulling her inside his coat for warmth, wrapping his arms round her. She lifted her hand to his face, briefly. He didn’t know where the tears came from, what they were for. All the things he’d never been able to cry for, for the child he’d never been, for Angie, for Flora – and for Debbie.

She shaded her eyes against the light, and watched a sea bird, white against grey, glide above their heads. They watched it as it flew towards the horizon, towards a gap in the clouds where light raced across the waves. The bird seemed to hang in the air, gliding on straight wings. The light caught it and for a moment it shone like a fire against the threatening sky.

With many thanks to the people who gave me help and advice when I was writing this book, particularly to the e-mail writers’ group: Sue, Penny and Jenn for their constructive criticism; to Janet, Jennifer and Kathryn for their support; to Detective Chief Inspector Steve Hicks for his advice about police procedure – where I’ve got it wrong, it was where I didn’t follow that advice; and, of course, to Ken and Alex. (Alex – particular thanks for allowing me to borrow Buttercup. I hereby return her.)

People who are familiar with South Yorkshire will recognize that Moreham is closely based on Rotherham. I hope that the inhabitants of that historic town will forgive me for the liberties I have taken with their geography. People who know Rotherham will also recognize that City College campus is based on the campus of Rotherham College of Arts and Technology, before its refurbishment. No other reference to this establishment is intended.

Danuta Reah

Danuta Reah lives in Sheffield with her artist husband. She currently works as an education consultant and as a university lecturer in English Language.

She is a fan of comics and graphic novels, and is interested in the relationship between popular fiction, folklore and anthropology. She is a published cartoonist and writes textbooks on English Language and Linguistics.

Only Darkness
is her first novel. Her second,
Silent Playgrounds,
is available in hardcover from Collins Crime.

Silent Playgrounds

……
all my light drawn in to shed
Only darkness on the living, only darkness on the dead

from ‘The Death of the PWD Man’,
Tony Harrison

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

HarperCollins
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Hammersmith, London W6 8JB

The HarperCollins website address is:
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This paperback edition 2000

1 3 5 7 9 8 6 4 2

First published in Great Britain by
HarperCollins
Publisher
1999

Copyright © Danuta Reah 1999

Danuta Reah asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work

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