The Red Room (14 page)

17

I was tired, I had mildly swollen glands,
a sore throat that felt like glass when I
swallowed. I didn't feel much like going to work,
so I lingered over my breakfast of toast and honey
and strong tea. The kitchen table lay in a pool
of sunlight. I would have liked to sit there all
day, hands round a warm mug, feet in 223
warm slippers, listening to sounds coming from the street,
maybe even watching daytime television. But then the
phone rang and it was Oban. He said he wanted
to talk to me. "We are talking."
"I mean in person."
"When?"
"Could you be here by ten?"
I looked at my watch.
"I suppose so. I'll have to cancel a
meeting."
"Good."
"Has there been a development?"
"Not as far as I know."
"Then what's it about?"
"We'll talk about it face to face."

I was puzzled all the way over, constructing
good scenarios and bad scenarios in my head, but
mostly bad ones. I didn't come up with anything
as bad as what I found when I was shown
into Oban's office at exactly ten o'clock.
Oban was sitting at his desk, clearly not working
but looking expectant. I saw he wasn't
alone. A woman was standing with her back to me,
looking out of the window. She turned round. It was
Bella. She caught my eye, then looked
away. And sitting on the sofa against the wall was
Rosa from the Welbeck.
"What's this?" I said.
Oban gave me an uneasy smile. "Would
you sit down, Kit?" he said, gesturing at the
chair in front of the desk.
Unable to think clearly, I did so and immediately
regretted it because it made me the lowest person in
the room. Oban nodded across at Rosa.
"Dr. Deitch?"
Rosa bit her lower lip. It was a way of
signaling that this was going to hurt her more than it
hurt me. She leaned forward and put her hands
together almost in an attitude of prayer. "Kit,
I want to make it clear that I blame myself for
all this."
"All what?" I asked--knowing that that was what
she wanted me to ask. I should just stay quiet,
I told myself. "All what?" I asked again
helplessly.
"We feel," said Oban, looking at me
kindly, which was worse than anything else, "or that
is, I feel and I think that Rosa agrees with
me, that we rather unfairly plunged you 225
into th case without proper regard for, er, level of
expertise and ..."
"You have become rather involved, haven't you,
Kit?" said Rosa gently.
"In the first place," said Oban, "it was a
purely routine matter, a brief assessment
of a suspect. We felt we owed it to you to ask
you. And you performed that task admirably. We
remain indebted to you. Then--and I admit this was
entirely my fault--I asked you to become more
involved. But recently ... well, there have been
some murmurs. ..."
"Bella?" I said, twisting round in my chair
to look at her.
Bella looked at me steadily. "I've not
made any complaint, Kit. But after you left I
talked to Jeremy Burton, and to the mother, and I'm
afraid I had to report to DCI Renborn that
I couldn't see any point to your interview with
them. I'd describe it as a fishing expedition,
but I couldn't even see that you were fishing for anything.
This is a delicate case. It's getting a
lot of attention."
"I know," I said. "I only wanted to--was
"I want to echo Dr. Deitch," said
Oban. "I blame myself for pushing you into th
pressured situation."
"You don't want me to work for you anymore?"
There was a pause. "We think it was too soon
for you," said Rosa. "And that this particular case
has touched some nerve in you that may not be
particularly healthy."
"What do you mean?"
"Rosa has told me something of your early
history," said Oban.
I stared at Rosa.
"Kit, all I have said to Dan is that
personal circumstances--losing your mother so young--
may, in certain ways ..." her face was going
red his... well, have affected your judgement in some
ways."
"Oh." I sat there for a few minutes, my
cheeks burning as well. Then I swallowed hard
and painfully. "You may be right. I may be too
involved. I do care, I don't know what the right
level of caring is. But that doesn't mean I'm
wrong. And I haven't been derailing the
investigations. I haven't been telling other people
what to do. I've just been following up different
lines of inquiry." 227
"Well, now," Oban said, "this isn't one of
your bits of academic research. You're talking
as if we can just let anybody roam round a
murder inquiry, pursuing their own interests.
It's not like that. And, I'm sorry to have to say this,
in a way you're in danger of derailing the
investigation. You put my men's backs up, you
trample on other people's turf, and it seems,
I'm sorry, but it seems that you're doing it without
any reason. I mean, without any proper
reason. I accept that you're upset by these
victims. So are we all. We all want
to catch these killers. You've helped us," he
added, more gently, "but now we think it's time for us
to move on."
"Can I say something first? Before I go, I
mean?"
Oban leaned back in his chair. "Of
course."
"First of all," I said, "tell me, just in a
sentence, how you would describe the murder of
Lianne."
"Standard murder of an accessible victim by a
psychopath," he said. "The crime was committed
by someone with a pathological hatred and fear of
women. Hence the violent stabbing."
"And the murder of Philippa Burton?"
"Completely different. I hardly know where
to start. She was severely battered with a blunt
object. She is a high-risk victim for the
perpetrator. She was abducted in a public
place while she was with a child. Different kind of
person, different method, different area,
different level of violence. But you disagree."
I stood up. I had to pretend at least to be
authoritative. I walked to the window and looked
out. Outside was an area of virtual wasteland
at the back of the police station. There were three
overflowing Dumpsters and some large metal bins,
piles of planks, something covered by a tarpaulin.
To one side, growing out of the concrete was a vast
explosion of buddleia, flaming purple.
Butterflies were fluttering around it like tiny
scraps of paper tossed in the wind. That was
nice. I turned back to my reluctant
audience. "When I looked through the files on
Philippa Burton something rang a bell."
"What was it, Kit?" asked Rosa, at the
same time as Oban said, "We don't employ
you to listen to bells ringing. There are 229
psychics telephoning us every day about Philippa
Burton who hear bells ringing."
I thought of my group of men at Market
Hill; I thought of the things they had done and the
skewed way they looked at the world. There were things
I had learned from them that nobody else in this
room knew. I had that at least. "People leave
signatures behind," I said. "Always, even when
they try to cover it up, because the signature of a
murderer is a bit like the meaning of a poem.
There's the meaning that the poet intended, but there may
also be hidden meaning that the poet wasn't conscious
of. Sometimes they think their signature is one thing
but it's actually another." I hurried on,
anxious to get to the end of my last stand before they
lost interest entirely. "What caught my eye
about the murder of Philippa Burton was that she
was lying face down. Like Lianne."
I paused and looked at Oban. His
expression remained gentle, even pitying. "Is
that it?" he said kindly. "We've already covered
this, Kit."
"Have you ever seen a recently killed body
lying face up?" I asked.
"I suppose so," said Oban doubtfully.
"I've seen lots of pictures of them. The
eyes are open, staring upwards. You know how eyes
in paintings are meant to follow you around the room.
The eyes of a dead person are the opposite.
They are obscenely static, just staring ahead,
accusing, maybe. You can imagine that if you'd
killed someone, you might want to turn them face
downwards, so they weren't looking at you."
"Maybe, but for God's sake, Kit, a
body is like a piece of bread. It can only
fall two ways, butter side up or butter
side down. It's not enough to build a case on."
"Remember the wounds on Lianne's body?
Where were they?"
"Abdomen. Stomach, chest, shoulders."
"On her front. And yet she was laid face
down. That's like painting a watercolor then hanging
it so that it faces the wall." I looked at
Rosa. She was pulling a face.
"I find it difficult," she said, "when you
talk of these women as if they were works of art."
"I know, but they are works of art," I said.
"They are wicked and incompetent and of no
aesthetic interest, but they are works of art and we have
to read them. That's what I do at the 231
hospital. You know that. I read crimes as if
they were symptoms and patterns. I search for
meanings. What about the wounds themselves?"
"Brutal," Oban said. "Frenzied."
"Those aren't the words I would use. Tepid,
maybe. Precise. Decorous, even. In some
ways, it looked like a frenzied sexual attack
but it just didn't ring true." I saw Oban
wince again. "It's not that there were no signs of
sexual assault--these psychopathic murders can
be a punishment of women for their sexual threat.
But in those cases you see terrible aggression
directed at the breasts and genitals. Not here,
though. The stabbings were all above the waist and
avoided the breasts entirely. Display of this kind
is very rare and this form of mutilation, it's called
piquerism, is even more so. And yet she was
turned face down."
"This is just not enough, Kit," said Oban. He
was gradually losing his patience. "Where's the
connection? Two bodies lying face down?"
"I've seen a number of attacks on women
that were comparable to the Philippa Burton one. They
were all very violent. Also, it seemed as if the
presence of the child was an attraction, as an audience
or a victim. But this murderer didn't want the
child present. What I felt looking at
Philippa Burton's body was the relative
restraint. I mean, think of it: You hate
women, you've just killed a woman, and you've got
something like a claw hammer in your hand. Why not
really go for it?"
Oban leaned forward and put a hand on my
shoulder. "Kit, you're not giving us anything.
All right, you've got a feeling. True, I
don't know what the fuck it means. Sorry,
ladies." The ladies looked up, but mainly
because they were being called ladies. "But I've got
nothing to take to the people who think you've been wasting
our time."
I rubbed my eyes with my fingers. I had said
my piece and my mind felt empty. He was
right. What was there, after all I'd said? What was
there to do? I didn't want to think, I wanted
to crawl away, but with a last effort, I managed
to retrieve something very small from the corner of my
mind.
"OK," I said in a small voice. "I'm
finished. I'll just say one last thing. We know that
Lianne's dead body was brought to the 233
canal towpath in the back of a car."
"We don't know that at all," said Oban,
irritably.
"And Philippa Burton's body was found a
mile and a half from where she was last seen. So, in
all probability she was taken by car as well.
Has there been any cross-reference for fibers
or traces?"
"No, there hasn't, as you well know," Oban
said truculently. "Nor have we
cross-referenced them with the Jack the Ripper
murders. We don't have time--was
"That's my last suggestion. Will you do it?"
"Why would we--was
"Please," I said. I wanted to cry.
"Please."

18

There were fireworks in my head, hissing and
wheeling, in the red and purple dark. I don't
know how I managed to walk out of the station, with my
chin up and my legs not giving way beneath me. I
even gave a friendly nod to the woman on duty
at the front desk. I reached my car, but my
hands were trembling so much I dropped the key on
the ground and had to scrabble around for it. My eyes
stung, as if there was grit in them. I had to get
out of here, to where nobody could see me. I
didn't want anyone looking at me with that
terrible, terrible compassion in their eyes. I had
looked at people like that. Once, in a different
life. Everything seemed impossibly far off, as
if I was looking at my past through the wrong end
of a telescope.
I made it into the car. For a minute I laid
my head back against the head-rest and shut my
eyes. A nasty sick headache was screwing its
way into my left temple. I slid the key
into the ignition and drove carefully out of the car
park, looking straight ahead. I imagined the
three of them watching me go from their window and looking
at each other with troubled expressions. How would
I ever be able to face them again?
I drove as far as the little triangular
churchyard between the delicatessen and the
watchmaker's, not so far from my flat, where I
got out of the car and went and sat on the grass, with
my back against the beautiful copper beech.
Albie and I used to come here sometimes, and 235
sit under this tree. It was still damp from last
night's rain, and I felt the chill seeping
into my bones. I turned my face up to the sun,
which was just sliding out from behind a gray cloud. A
blackbird sang full throttle just above me.
I breathed in deeply. In, out, in out; trying
to get rid of the bubbles of panic.
I stood up wearily and walked back to the
car. My legs were no longer shaky, but they felt
heavy. My head throbbed. Before driving off, I
pulled down the shade and stared at myself in the
mirror for a few seconds. I looked at my
scar, snaking white down my cheek, then I
leaned forward, so that it was just my eyes gazing into my
eyes.

I hoped that Julie wouldn't be there. But as I
fumbled with my key in the lock, she came to the
door and pulled it open for me. Her cheeks were
flushed. She threw me a rather frantic glance and
said in a bright voice, "Kit! Good. You have a
visitor. I said I didn't know when you'd be
back but he wanted to wait. He said he was a
friend of yours."
I took off my jacket and walked forward.
I could see the back of a head above the sofa. He
stood up. "You said you would come back to see me,"
he said, in his soft, high voice. Michael
Doll, in the same grubby orange trousers
he'd been wearing last time I saw him, and an
ancient gray vest with rings of sweat under the
armpits.
"Michael!" I didn't know what to say.
He was like my recurring nightmare, come to squat
in the corner of my flat.
"I waited," he said plaintively.
"How did you know where I lived?"
"I followed you back from the station once," he
replied, as if it was the most normal thing in the
world. "You never noticed me."
"I'll be going now," said Julie. "Is that
OK, Kit? Or do you want me to stay?"
"How long's he been here?" I hissed,
turning my back on Michael, who had sat
back down on the sofa.
"A good hour."
"God. God, I'm sorry. You should have
rung me."
"I did. I've left three messages on
your mobile." 237
"God," I said again.
"Are you all right?"
"Yes. No. I don't know. You shouldn't have
let him in."
"Kit," said Michael, from the sofa.
"He seems harmless enough. He just kept staring
at my breasts."
"I didn't," said Michael, as if it
didn't matter much anyway. "Why didn't you
come back to see me, like you said you would?"
"I've been busy."
"You said you would."
"I know, but--was
"People should keep their promises."
"Yes."
"Otherwise it's not fair."
"You're right."
Say as little as possible. Don't allow him
to establish any claim on me. Above all,
get him out, but without making him feel resentful.
He nodded as if satisfied and put his hands on
his knees. There was a recent scar running down his
left forearm, and a messy scab on his wrist.
"Can I have coffee now? I gave you coffee."
"You've had three cups already," interjected
Julie.
"Four sugars, please."
"I have to go out again now, Michael. I'm
sorry, but you can't stay here."
"And one of those biscuits I had before with your
lady-friend." He ran his tongue round his mouth.
I felt sick. "Michael, listen--was
"And can I, you know, use your bathroom?" There
were little beads of sweat on his forehead and above his
upper lip.
"It's through there."
As soon as he had shut the door, I turned
to Julie. "Listen, can you do something for me? Can you
take my mobile and ring the police from outside
the flat? I'll give you the number." The
horror of ringing the people who thought I was going
crazy, and asking them to come and protect me from the
man I had prevented them arresting, swept over
me. I buried my head in my hands.
"Kit?"
"Yeah. Sorry. It's just--oh, shit. I
don't know what to do. He's probably fine, but
I don't want to take stupid risks."
"Give me the phone, then." She held out her
hand. "Come on, let's get on with it." 239
"I might be about to do something terrible to him. Or
to me."
"I don't have a clue what you're going on
about, but if he's dangerous, let's get him out
of here. Come on."
"No. Wait. Wait one moment." I could
hear the toilet flushing. "I know. Ring Will
Pavic. He'll know how to deal with this."
"Him?"
"Please. I can't think of anyone else just
now. Do it from outside."
"What's his number?"
"It's in the phone's memory. Pavic."
"OK, OK. This is crazy."
"I know. Thanks."
"What if he's not there, or if he--was
Doll came out of the bathroom, and Julie
bolted for the front door. I noticed
approvingly that she left it on the latch.
"I'll put the kettle on, shall I?" I
said, too brightly.
"Do you live here alone?"
"No."
"Are you married?"
"Why are you asking?"
"Your friend said you weren't married."
"Then you already know." Avoid conflict.
Don't back him into a corner. Don't catch
him out. "Four sugars, you said?"
"And a biscuit."
"Was there something you came here to tell me,
Michael?"
"Why don't you have carpets?"
"Michael, is there--was
"It's funny, not having a carpet. It's like
not being in a proper house somehow. Even in the
home, we had carpets in every room. Mine was
brown. Brown carpet and white wall, with those little
bits in the paper."
"Woodchip."
"Yeah. I used to lie in bed and pick the
bits off with my fingernails. I used to get
beaten for that, when they found out in the morning. But I
couldn't stop myself. Like picking off a scab. I
used to do it for hours sometimes. There's be little bits
of lumpy paper all over the bed, under the sheets.
Like having crumbs in your bed and even when you can't
see them you can feel them against your skin. Know what
I mean?"
"Yes," I said helplessly. I 241
poured boiling water over his coffee and added
milk. "Here. And help yourself to the biscuits."
"Got any fags?"
I went over to my bag and took out the packet
of ten that was left over from the time I'd visited
him in his bedsit. There was one left. "Take
this."
"Match?"
I handed him a box; he struck a match, and
put the box into his pocket.
"You had to pretend not to mind when you were beaten.
But I always cried. Even when I was fourteen,
fifteen, I cried. I couldn't help myself.
Cry-baby. And then they'd jeer at you, and then
I'd cry some more. So when I lay in bed,
picking off the wallpaper all night, I'd cry
then too, while I was doing it. Because I knew
I'd get caught and beaten, and I knew I'd
cry in front of everyone, and get picked on more
by the other boys."
He picked up his mug and slurped at the
coffee. Bits of ash scattered from his cigarette
and he brushed them off his clothes onto the sofa.
"You don't know what it's like."
"No," I said.
"I still cry. I cried at the police station.
Did they tell you that?"
"No."
"They laughed at me when I cried."
"That wasn't kind."
"I thought you liked me."
Be firm. "Michael, I told you. I've
been busy."
"I waited. I didn't go to the canal. I
waited for you to come back to talk to me."
"I've been working."
"You're just like the others. I thought you were
different."
A chimney of ash fell on his knee. He
dropped the glowing cigarette end into the coffee
cup and I heard it hiss. He could have killed
Lianne, I thought. Easily. If she had
laughed at him when he tried to pick her up,
say, or laughed at him when he cried.
"Can I have another fag?"
"I'm out of them. We could go to the shops together and
buy some more?"
"It's all right." He took a packet out of
his pocket. It was almost full. He offered one
to me but I shook my head. "I need 243
to go out, Michael," I said. Will was never going
to come.
He frowned. "Not yet. I want to talk."
"What about?"
"Just talk. You know. Like you said I could say
anything."
"That was a professional interview,
Michael," I said gently. A look of
incomprehension crossed his face. "It was for
work."
"You mean, you weren't telling me the truth?"
"That's not what I mean."
"I still think about her."
"Lianne?"
"Yes. Nobody wants to hear me, but I was
there, wasn't I? I was there."
"Maybe."
"No. No. Not maybe. Why do you say
maybe? I was there and ..."
The door swung open. I hadn't heard his
footsteps. Doll sprang out of the sofa, tipping
his cup onto the floor, where it dribbled coffee
dregs and wet ash.
"Hello, Michael," said W. He came
forward with his hand outstretched and Doll took it and
held on to it.
"I wasn't doing anything wrong."
"Of course you weren't."
"Why are you here, then?"
"Dr. Quinn is a friend of mine." He
hadn't looked in my direction yet.
"You know each other?"
"Yes."
"So I know Kit and you know Kit, and I know
you and you know me. We all know each other."
Suddenly he looked small and skinny, standing there
in his horrible orange trousers. And I felt
foolish and ashamed of my fears.
"You know each other?" I echoed Doll.
Will turned to me, perplexed. "I thought you must
have realized. It's not such a coincidence, if you
think about it. How's the fishing, Michael?"
"Haven't been," muttered Doll.
"Pity, now the weather's getting better.
Michael's a great fisherman, you know," he said
to me.
"Yes, I know."
"I'm driving your way, Michael. Shall I
give you a lift?" He glanced at his watch.
"You could still have a good few hours by the 245
canal before it gets dark."
"I don't mind the dark."
"Well, let me drive you anyway. I'm
sure Dr. Quinn has work to do."
"Yes," I murmured. "Thank you."
"Are you all right?"
"Yes."
"Well, you don't look it. Maybe you should
take a bit more care of yourself." He glanced
sharply at me. "And put an inside chain on
your door, perhaps."
"I've got one. Julie just ... oh,
well, you know."
"She's lurking outside, in her slippers.
Ready, Michael?"
They left together. I watched from the window as Will
put Doll into the passenger seat. Doll said
something to him and Will laughed and patted his shoulder.
Then he shut the door. He looked up at the
window. I mouthed a thank-you through the glass but he
didn't react. He just stared, as if he couldn't
make out my face properly. Then he turned
away.
Julie burst in through the door. "Tell me
everything."
"I can't," I said. "I think I'm going
to be sick."