Nine Lives (10 page)

Since my Paris adventure, I've taken to reading newspapers. I'm not too busy at the office, and until I am ready for my next mission it helps to pass the time. The papers are full of terrible stories. Muggings, thuggery, rape and murder. Even the political reports are coloured with the same lurid hues. But one particular story caught my eye, pertaining as it did to my own personal crusade. A young woman, in her early twenties, from a wealthy family, living in Liverpool, had fallen into a deep depression. Parental treats and overseas holidays had done little to lift her spirits. The family doctor, lacking confidence in anti-depressants, recommended psychotherapy. He should have known better. The girl's father forked out the payments, which, over three years at five sessions a week, amounted to a very tidy sum. During her sessions, the girl was encouraged to explore her childhood and after much prodding and suggestion she was seduced into recalling the fact that her father had sexually abused her. It's more than possible that the therapist had herself or himself been similarly abused in childhood and was going to make bloody sure that every father in the land had done the same. The patient was now furnished with the positive cause of her depression and thus armed, she confronted her father, the man who had footed the bill for his own ruin. Under the daughter's accusations, her mother suffered a nervous breakdown. But her father, innocent and broken, drove to the nearest coast and walked into the sea. He had virtually financed his own execution.

I wish I could ferret out the name of that therapist. He or she would be a more than fitting target for my crusade. But
no doubt they are legion. False memory syndrome seems to be the ‘in' thing nowadays, and though my mission is strictly personal, I like to think that it is also on behalf of all those families that have been destroyed by false accusation of any kind.

You would think that that story would have urged me on with my crusade, but the after-effects of Paris still lingered and I had first to simmer down, lest I should involuntarily put myself at risk. So, it's

STILL FIVE DOWN. FOUR TO GO.

Wilkins was uneasy …

Wilkins was uneasy. Although most were of the opinion, both in Paris and in London, that the killing of Mademoiselle Lacroix was a copy-cat deed, he was not swayed. It was too skilled a murder for an amateur one-off. Amateurs tended to leave clues. But the Paris incident had been in every particular exactly like each of the shrink murders to date. And there was no doubt in his mind that whoever had committed them was one and the same as the Paris killer. He continued to keep in touch with his opposite number in Paris who took no care to hide his irritation at his interference. As far as he was concerned the Lacroix murder was a matter for the French police and they were getting on with it. Apparently they had interviewed a number of witnesses and were holding at least four suspects in custody. But Wilkins knew it was all a show. The French had to be seen to be doing something. Wilkins smiled over the telephone and said he would continue to keep in touch.

Once again, he studied the files relating to the previous murders, and he consulted Dr Arbuthnot regarding the Paris affair. But that Mr Know-all tended to agree with the French. It was a copy-cat business and had nothing to do with the English cases, but he warned that it might well lead to others of its kind. Wilkins decided that thereafter he would bypass Dr Arbuthnot and his opinions and he went back to his files. But studying them over and over again revealed no more clues than the killer himself had left. It had been over a year since the killer had struck. He had never waited that long. His fingers must have itched
on that guitar string. Itched so persistently, that he simply had to perform. And this compulsion entailed excitement and risk. Both fulfillable in the trip to Paris.

And then Wilkins hit upon an idea. It was a shot in the dark, but it might pay off. He had no idea when the killer had travelled to Paris or indeed by what means. But he was pretty sure that the wanted man had left the city immediately after the murder. And probably by Eurostar, since it was the quickest and least encumbered way to leave. So he acquired a passenger list of the return trains for that day. And the same from the airlines. He received over two thousand names. But he was not disconcerted. He reckoned he could discount all family parties, and all men accompanied by wives or partners. This was a job of a loner who would hardly take a partner in tow. So out of these lists he selected the names of those men who had travelled alone. And mercifully there were comparatively few. Wilkins ordered his men to ferret them out and then to bring them in for questioning, assuring them that they were simply needed for elimination. He himself would interview them personally and in the police station of whatever town they resided in. Thus Wilkins found himself travelling the length and breadth of the country. But it did not trouble him. He was not happy with the relegation of the therapist killings. In his mind, Paris had once more put the pot back on the boil. And he was about to stir it with his old relish.

Many of the lone travellers came from London. He kept them till last, suspecting they might prove more fruitful. Birmingham and its half-dozen travellers was his first port of call. He was given a room in the central police station, and he interviewed them all, one by one. All of them were
more than willing to help. But Wilkins had never been fooled by willingness. He viewed any mateyness with the Force with a faint suspicion. All of them had been on business in the city or the countryside. They all gave names and addresses of companies they had visited as proof. They travelled in wine, textiles, ceramics. One had gone to visit his ailing mother in Provence. The interviews yielded nothing. Then he went off to Manchester and a similar reception.

Wilkins rested his hopes on London, though by the time he came back to the capital, his confidence had waned and he decided that none of those who had come forward was worth pursuing. Neither were those whom he interviewed in London. All were willing to be interviewed and gave proof of their alibis. All were believable. There was just one more lone traveller to investigate, a Mr Coleman, and when he entered the interviewing room, he seemed to epitomise the total folly of Wilkins' hopeful shot in the dark, for he had one leg and moved slowly on crutches. Wilkins saw no point at all in questioning him, but he felt the man would be offended if he didn't. So he invited him to sit down, which Mr Coleman did. Slowly and with a smile.

He was a handsome man, somewhere in his fifties, Wilkins guessed. But the smile worried him. There was, after all, nothing to smile about. A young French woman had been cruelly garrotted on her doorstep. Mr Coleman's smile might have been that of a villain.

Wilkins began with the usual question. ‘What were you doing in Paris, Mr Coleman?' he asked.

‘I can't tell you,' Mr Coleman said. ‘It's a secret.'

Wilkins leaned forward in his chair. He sensed a fruitful moment.

‘What passes between us,' he said, ‘is in absolute confidence. I need to know why you were in Paris. I need to eliminate you from our inquiries.'

Mr Coleman hesitated and his smile dissolved. ‘My wife would never forgive me,' he said.

‘She need never know,' Wilkins said, having a pretty shrewd idea of what Mr Coleman had been up to.

Mr Coleman leaned forward in his chair. ‘Are you sure this won't go any further?' he asked.

Wilkins nodded. ‘Just between you and me.'

Then Mr Coleman seemed happy enough to open his heart.

‘I go there about once a month,' he said. ‘I've been doing so for about ten years. I tell my wife I go to keep in touch with the galleries and what's happening in modern art. She's not interested in that sort of thing. And I
do
go to the galleries. That part of it is true. But I go with my friend. She's a painter. That's how I met her. In a gallery, ten years ago. She's an abstract painter, you know, and she's quite successful. Only last week she sold two pictures.'

Wilkins shifted in his chair. He was not prepared to listen to the progress of Mr Coleman's mistress. He suspected that the man would have happily sat there the whole day, detailing his adulterous affair simply because he had no one else to tell it to.

‘What's her name?' he interrupted. ‘And what's her address?'

‘Is that absolutely necessary?' Mr Coleman asked.

‘It's part of the procedure,' Wilkins said. ‘I repeat, it's totally confidential.'

Mr Coleman took a notepad out of his pocket, tore out a page and wrote down the information that was requested. It was as if he suspected that walls have ears.

Wilkins glanced at the note and pocketed it. He thought about his wife and tried to imagine his own infidelity. And he shuddered with a mixture of excitement and disgust. He was anxious to get rid of Mr Coleman. He had no appetite for further confidences. He rose from his chair.

‘Thank you, Mr Coleman,' he said. ‘That will be all.'

Mr Coleman rose reluctantly from his seat. He was disappointed. He had looked forward to a one-sided chinwag. Man to man. He knew no one in whom he could confide. And in sworn secrecy. He comforted himself with the thought of his next Paris rendezvous.

But Wilkins had little to comfort himself with. His long shot had been far too long to pay off and at the station they might well be laughing behind his back. Yet he could not dismiss the possibility of a link between the Paris murder and the others. It wasn't just a hunch. He felt it in his bones. The killer of them all was the same man.

I'd had a letter …

I'd had a letter from the prison. It was friendly and I was grateful for that. It informed me of the best way to travel there. Portsmouth to Fishbourne and then a special bus. I didn't like the special bus bit. On the train and the ferry, I could be anybody. But the bus would mark me as a prison visitor and although I knew that my Donald was innocent, I didn't want to publicise my visit. For my second visit, I would have to work out a less conspicuous way of getting there. The letter also gave a list of items that could be brought into the prison and those that were forbidden. Food of any kind came into the latter category but games were allowed, such as playing cards and chess sets. I was disappointed. I'd wanted to bake Donald his favourite sponge cake. I didn't know what to take him. He didn't play chess or cards. My Donald had no hobbies. He flew a kite sometimes on the common, but a kite would be pretty pointless in Parkhurst. Yet I couldn't go empty-handed. Then I remembered that he'd started to paint, so I bought him a paintbox, with two good brushes. It was better than nothing. Although I was excited at the prospect of a visit, and of crossing the water to boot, I was nervous. I couldn't think of anything to talk about. I was too loaded with subjects unmentionable. Emma was one of them. I didn't think he'd want to be reminded of her. The boys were another. I could not tell him of their refusal. And that receipt for the ashes. That above all. I could never mention that. God knows where it might lead. He would have no news to give me, so he would naturally ask for news from
home and since my life was uneventful I would have to invent news, so on the train down to Portsmouth I cobbled together a few stories about the neighbours and their troubles. Terrible troubles. There was no way I was going to impart good news about anybody. Not while my Donald was suffering. So I invented fatal accidents, bankruptcies, even suicides. I hoped they would comfort him, as, I must confess, they surely comforted me.

The Portsmouth train station led directly to the ferry. I boarded it and climbed straight on to the top deck and leaned over the railings with the free wind on my face and the roar of the engines in my ears. I tried to clear my mind of any thoughts. I wanted to enjoy myself, and my kind of thoughts would have been an impediment to any fun. I stayed at the rail for some time, but it grew too cold for comfort, so I went downstairs to the bar and bought myself a large brandy. I'm not much of a drinker, but I thought it would give me courage. I was more than nervous. I was frightened. I feared what I would find. Parkhurst was known to be no picnic, and I was afraid that Donald might be ill or thoroughly depressed. But I would put on a happy face. I hoped I could touch him, kiss him even, but I expected a barrier and I prayed it would be a glass one with a telephone, so that at least we could play our game.

I sipped my brandy and enjoyed it. The bar area of the ferry was full, and there were few unoccupied tables. I felt ashamed sitting at one all on my own, so when a woman, carrying her glass, approached I motioned her to take a seat at my table, and we naturally fell into conversation. She asked me if I lived on the island. I told her I had friends there and I was going to visit them. I hoped she would not enquire as to details. So, quickly, I asked her the same.
She too had friends there, she said, whom she was going to visit. We were silent then. It seemed that neither of us was interested in further exploration. I wondered if, like me, she was lying. A good liar can smell another, and I sensed that each of us would dodge the Parkhurst bus until the other was out of sight.

‘My name's Mary,' she said. ‘Mary Comley.'

I felt obliged to give her mine, but as you already know I have problems with my Christian name, but even more with the Dorricks and especially on this journey and where it must inevitably lead. For Dorricks is a well-known name, and a hated name and that name alone would give the lie to my so-called friends on the island.

‘Joan,' I said, once more trying that name that allowed for no variation and ‘Jones,' I added, off the top of my head. I put the two names together in my mind. Joan Jones. It sounded so preposterous, it just had to be true.

‘I'm Welsh,' I said, as if that explained everything.

‘I'm pleased to meet you, Mrs Jones,' Mrs Comley – if that was her real name – said.

I held out my hand and said, ‘Likewise.'

Again there was silence between us. I was anxious for the ferry to dock, for any further conversation between us would have entailed more and more lies and I was fast running out of invention. I sensed that Mrs Comley was restive too, and probably for the same reason.