Requiem Mass (16 page)

‘I’m not walking over to the bar like this. You go, it’s your round anyway.’

Handing over the last of her dinner money in exchange for a pint of best and a large vodka and tonic, Melanie tried hard to put the open downstairs window of the music room out of her mind. It had seemed such a clever idea a few hours ago when she had anticipated the very scene that had just been played out under the disinterested but observing eyes of the Thursday night regulars. There was somewhere dry they could go but she wasn’t really in the mood any longer. She was disappointed in Ron now that the macho mystique had worn off and she felt used, abused and decidedly unsexy.

In the darkened changing room, he glanced at his watch; 18.00. Still early, with plenty of time ahead of him to make the killing appear motivated by robbery and sex in no particular order. He had not enjoyed the killing, he rarely did, but it was necessary and she had deserved it. At the end, as he had whispered those words in her ear, he had seen her eyes focus and try to find his. There had been an acknowledgement in her gaze. She had accepted his violence for what it was, delayed execution for past crimes.

Now he was faced with the need to desecrate her body and he resented it. She didn’t deserve that. Still, he worked methodically and silently to rip open her clothes with his knife. No point in mutilation – he knew that forensics would realise the injuries had taken place after death and he wanted to appear an accidental killer, desperate for money and sexual gratification.

He sliced her skirt away and inserted his knife beneath the elasticated bands of her tights and knickers. There was a lot of blood on the blade. He ripped them, leaving the ragged material lying on her naked stomach, her pubic hair curling round the folds. From the small knapsack on his back he took out a cigarette packet, opened it and withdrew a used condom, gathered from a local lovers’ lane that morning. If they did more than routine tests, they would discover the age of semen inside but he doubted they would. They would be more interested in determining blood group and any other possible matching from the sample. He squeezed the contents over her bare thighs fastidiously.

There was blood everywhere in the room. In her death throes she had spattered the floor, benches, walls, even the ceiling, a bright arterial red. He was covered too, but he had dressed to avoid leaving any traces. When he had finished he would peel off the black latex suit he was wearing and put on the compact woollen jumper and soft jacket from his pack. The overshoes would come off as well, leaving trainers underneath. It was best to play safe. Even though he was completely covered from hood to overshoes, he knew that there would be a slight risk of contamination to his normal clothes as he changed and they would be burnt later along with the rest of the kit.

His final task before leaving was to rifle her handbag; he took purse, credit cards and keys, of which only the latter were of any value to him. He intended to go straight to her house once he had changed to search for further evidence from the past. It was unlikely he would find anything but the scent of the chase was on him so strongly now that he couldn’t turn away from any opportunity to find out more.

Outside the gale continued, which was in his favour. Few would venture out on an evening like this. Already, the sky was darkening, hours before sunset, and the sheets of rain reduced visibility to almost zero. If he changed outside, as had been his original intention, he would be soaked to the skin before he could put on his cyclist’s cape and hood. So he peeled off his blood-coated latex suit in the tiny vestibule at the bottom of the
stairs, starting with the hood. He rolled it back and down on itself, peeling the Velcro fastenings at the sides, careful to avoid spattering the blood more than was necessary. Keeping the skin-tight black gloves on, he bundled the suit and overshoes into a plain plastic bag. Then he peeled off the gloves, placed them on top of the bundle and put the whole lot into a bin liner; underneath his hands were sheathed in another pair of latex gloves, preventing any trace of fingerprints.

He felt bitterly cold out of his suit and shivered involuntarily as he extracted his clothes and a bright yellow cycling hood and cape from his rucksack. Suitably dressed, he walked out of the music block, carefully pulling the door to behind him. Too late he remembered the music-room keys. The lock was empty; they were nowhere on the ground. She must have grasped them reflexively when she ran. He couldn’t go back into the slaughter room now. The door would have to be left unlocked. His bike, a sleek racer bought second-hand two weeks before, was hidden in the shrubbery. In moments he was cycling through the school gates and out on to London Road. It was almost deserted. Ahead a 250cc Honda roared out of the car park of the White Lion pub. It swerved past him as he turned right, soaking him with a wave of water. He ignored it, which was to be his second mistake of the night.

Six minutes later he was cycling down Hedgefield. He scanned the roads and paths and checked the windows of the next-door houses. Nobody was around and the windows were blank, sightless eyes. He turned round slowly and cycled up the path to the front door of number 1. He used her Yale key to open the door. There was nowhere to hide the bike so he wheeled it through the house and into the kitchen. The house was silent at first but then from behind him he heard a scratching and high-pitched crying. His cleaned knife was out of the sleeve sheath in a flash and he sank into a crouch. The lounge door nudged open, and he tensed for attack. A tiny brown and black face peeked round, nine inches from the floor, to be followed quickly by two others. The cats regarded him suspiciously, backing away with a low hiss at the back of their throats.

The intruder laughed softly, a surprisingly normal sound in the silence of the house. ‘Go away,’ he whispered to them. ‘I’m busy and I don’t have time for you.’ They were only the second set of words he had spoken out loud for three days and he was surprised at how rusty his voice had become. Pushing carefully past the cats he looked around the lounge for likely places of interest. Nothing looked hopeful. It took less than five minutes to rifle through the small chest of drawers in the corner without success. He pocketed a few small valuables automatically just to confuse the police. There was a partly written letter on a desk under the window with a rough draft to its side. He noticed the addressee’s name with interest and picked the papers up, tucking them into his pocket for later scrutiny.

The dining room contained nothing of interest but as he walked into the hall he noticed the day’s post lying on the carpet. He bent down and picked it up, looking at each item quickly. There was an expensive hand-written envelope among them, with writing that pulled at his memory. It was a beautiful italic script, every letter perfect and he had seen it before. The envelope was only lightly sealed and he pulled it open, taking out the single sheet of creamy vellum inside. He read the letter slowly once, then again. He dropped everything else back on the floor but put the letter in his pocket alongside the other papers.

There were two bedrooms upstairs. One was obviously a large guest room with a double bed, wardrobe and bedside table. It held nothing worthy of his attention. Her small bedroom looked out over the back of the house and was decorated in quiet good taste. There were two built-in wardrobes, a chest of drawers with a mirror on top, a bedside table and a small covered table in the far corner with a plant on it. There was no chair; she must have been in the habit of doing her hair and make-up whilst standing.

His hopes rose as he looked around the room. There would be something here; this was the heart of her house. He started on the chest of drawers, working methodically from the bottom up; there was nothing to see beyond the usual women’s clothes.
He tried the bedside table drawer – nothing except a well-thumbed Bible and an erotic book on Parisian society in the 1920s. A search under the pillows revealed a used handkerchief and a nightie; the wardrobes – neat and tidy, clothes arranged by colour and type – held no secrets. He started to become annoyed, he felt the woman was toying with him from beyond his reach. There had to be something, his instinct was usually so accurate.

His fist slammed into the cupboard top – startling a large ginger tomcat from behind the long curtains by the radiator. Seeing a stranger barring his way to the door, the angry feline slid under the bedspread that fell to the floor. The man started to turn, to resume his search, and then stopped halfway. Under the bed – that would be a logical place to hide secrets.

He lifted the bedspread and peered under the springs. There, in the middle was an old dusty brown suitcase. He reached in – and was rewarded by ten pounds of angry cat attacking his hand, running up his arm and taking a side swipe at his face. The claws connected and the man experienced a burning pain as three parallel gouges were ripped from his cheek and chin. He swore but the cat was gone in an instant and he was left cursing the animal for the mess it had made of his hand and face. His fight with the woman had left him unscathed but now the bloody animal had marked him for the world to see. He checked the mirror. He was not a pretty sight. Blood leaked down his chin and spotted his jumper where it showed beneath his cape; the back of his right hand was raw. Blood ballooned out from three straight scratches which had torn his surgical gloves and left them flapping.

The pain of the wounds was a minor inconvenience but he did not want to leave traces of himself in the bedroom. Using tissues from a box by the table, he blotted his face and hand until the blood stopped. He slipped the used tissues into his cape pocket and opened the case with his good hand. Inside was a mix of papers, photographs and books. Opening an album at random, he was disappointed to find family snaps, but at least she had been methodical. Neatly printed on the front facing
sheet were the words.
Family Christmases from 1988 (and counting!)
.

The next album covered various holidays, weddings and family gatherings, all dated, from 1985 onwards. Opening a page at random, he was startled to see Deborah Fearnside’s face staring back at him from an anonymous wedding group. He lifted the plastic sheet and removed the photograph to study later. Similar albums, less glossy but with pictures somehow more garish, traced Katherine Johnstone’s past back to the late 1970s. A graduation photograph was lovingly preserved in its original mount. He tossed it to one side.

His frustration grew. Half a dozen albums had revealed nothing but a photographic coincidence and all that was left in the case was a paper wallet of loose pictures and a shoe box. He opened the wallet first and smiled. Inside were school photographs: long line-ups of girls in grey sweaters and striped ties; portrait photographs of Johnstone from the ages of about eleven to eighteen; prize-givings, speechdays, school choirs – the pile of discarded photos grew on the floor. And then he stopped.

Five smiling faces looked up at him, one of them unmistakably that of a teenage Katherine Johnstone, grinning confidently at the photographer with her arms loosely thrown around the shoulders of her nearest companions. On her left, Deborah’s blonde head rested on her shoulder – lips pouted seductively, eyes daring. To her right, two familiar, barely remembered faces. He knew their names now but could no longer remember which applied to which. And at the end, slightly apart from the group, beautiful and aloof, one face stared out at him, smiling at him knowingly.

His eyes dimmed. No matter how distant the memory, nor how many times he looked at his own photograph of this face, it always affected him. She was no different – so lovely, so irretrievably dead. But so were two of the others now, and it wouldn’t be long before he had obliterated the whole group of lying, scheming bitches. Confident now that there would be more here to satisfy his thirst for knowledge, he opened the shoe box, inadvertently tearing the old cardboard where it
proved weaker than the atrophied Sellotape.

Inside were several diaries, their dates embossed on the cover, with little gilt clasps or padlocks for which the keys were missing: ‘1973 My Diary’; ‘1976 Kate’s Diary’; ‘1977–81 Five-Year Diary’; ‘1982/83 Diary’. ‘Secret keep out’ had been Dyno-taped to the outside of the shoe box, a show of adolescent independence. He glanced at his watch. It was still only 18.30. There was just enough light to read by as he settled down with controlled curiosity to find the date that lay at the heart of his search.

Ron had finished his second pint – two in half an hour was a considerable feat, even for him, but it had done nothing to stop his growing sexual frustration. This was the second night bad weather had prevented them finding a secluded spot in nearby woods.

One of his mates had already left the pub, bored by the weather and the commuter chatter. Ron was having another go at Melanie about finding a place to go.

‘Mel, that’s it. Two pints is enough. I’m not risking driving with more on a night like this. Come on, Mel – I’m either taking you home or somewhere I can screw the living daylights out of you!’

The last thing Melanie wanted was to go home. She had three pieces of maths prep waiting for her, a French essay from last week that had to be in on Friday morning and a sulk to continue against her mother. She thought of the music room and the open window. It didn’t seem such a bad idea now. The two large drinks had warmed and relaxed her, making Ron seem quite attractive again.

‘We could try the school, Ron. Sometimes they leave the doors or windows open in the music block.’ She did not want to make it sound too explicit.

‘Why didn’t you mention it before?’

‘I didn’t think of it.’ Another lie intruded into their relationship.

Ron eased his 250cc machine off the main road and through
an open side gate into the school ground, tucking it out of sight behind a late-flowering rhododendron. Melanie led their way along a narrow path through shrubs to the back of the music block. It stood silent and deserted in the early dusk.

‘We can start by trying that window over there,’ she said, pointing reluctantly to the one in the piano room.