Nine Lives (12 page)

He was a kind-looking man, a father-figure, and I knew that this would not be an easy dispatch. He smiled at me, and that didn't help either. He motioned me to follow him.

‘I wasn't expecting a schoolboy,' he said, as he led me into his office. ‘You could have told the school to call me. I would have come.'

I didn't know what he was talking about. Normally, I would
have been happy to have fooled him, but I was sad that he was so taken in by my disguise. For a fatal moment I thought of leaving, of writing this one off. But it had already gone too far. Besides, together with my weapon, I had brought my dream.

He motioned me to sit down. ‘Now what's troubling you?' he asked.

‘I don't think it's important,' I began. ‘It's probably nothing.'

‘But it seems to be troubling you,' he said.

I nodded.

‘Tell me about it. Perhaps I can help you.'

‘Well,' I said, settling down, ‘it's about a dream I keep having. It's a very sunny day in the dream. A splendid day. I'm about ten years old and I'm in a park. I notice a beautiful array of flowers all around me. I feel the sun on my back. And I'm happy. I've brought my skipping-rope with me and I start to skip. And I count out loud. One for each two jumps. I'm shouting the numbers and when I come to nine, I stop. It seems I can't skip any more. Every time, it's always nine. Then I wake up.'

I looked at him for some explanation. He was silent, watching me closely.

‘The trouble is,' I went on, ‘that I wake up in a sweat, and very afraid. What I don't understand,' I said, ‘is that the dream is so beautiful, yet it turns out to be a nightmare.' Even as I spoke, I felt the sweat on my forehead, and my knees began to tingle.

‘Does the number nine have any meaning for you?' Dr Fortescue asked.

It was the number of my crusade, I suddenly realised, and for me it had more than enough meaning.

‘No,' I said. I was shouting. ‘None at all.' I didn't want any probing. I didn't want any explanation. With a shattering
clarity I now understood why my so-benign dream had turned into a sour nightmare. And it was none of Fortescue's business. I had to get out of there before my sweat betrayed me. I took the string out of my pocket.

‘I've come to kill you,' I said. ‘And may God forgive me.' It was the first time in my crusade that I had asked for forgiveness. I was getting soft, and with three more to go, I could not afford remorse.

He didn't seem in the least bit fazed by my threat.

‘I understand,' he said. ‘Now relax and breathe deeply. Take your time. Your dream is very strong,' he said, ‘very interesting.'

‘I'm going to kill you,' I said again.

His lack of fear infuriated me. ‘I mean it,' I said. But the more I said ‘I mean it', the less he was convinced.

‘You're taking up my time,' he said.

‘You're taking up
my
time,' I managed to say, and I heard my voice breaking like a growing schoolboy. I slipped behind him, and with my gloved hands I forced him into his chair and got on with the business. I checked his torpor and was satisfied.

I got out of there as quickly as I could. It had not been a pleasant dispatch. I recalled my euphoria after dear Mademoiselle Lacroix's
coup de grâce.
Dr Fortescue's killing had left a sour taste. It was not my touch that I was losing. It was my appetite. This worried me and I had to meticulously recap on every aspect of my motives. I had to image them again in the hope that they would nurture the need for my crusade.

There were some people around as I left Dr Fortescue's house and it's possible that I was seen. But I was not particularly noticed. A schoolboy was no oddity in that neighbourhood, and I walked with confidence to my car. I made sure
that no one was about when I reached it. I got inside and drove a little way, then parked in a lay-by and quickly changed back into my regular clothes. I drove back to my office, poured a stiff whisky, and set myself to thinking.

Why am I writing this diary? Is it for myself or, as in some diarists' cases, is it written for others to read? As to the latter, I am certain: it is for nobody else's perusal. For if others should read it, they would pronounce me guilty. It is true that I have killed, and that I shall go on killing until my mission is fulfilled. But the mission itself is the quintessence of innocence. It is a truly honest protest and, in the long run, it will fulfil its purpose. A noble purpose, which is simply for the benefit of mankind. I say that with no arrogance, but with absolute certainty. I started it late, long after the event that occasioned it. When that happened, I was in such despair of my future that I grasped at the first hand that offered comfort. It belonged to one Emma Lewis, and I told her nothing at all. All I gave her was my despair. She didn't know the first thing about me. I valued myself so little, I couldn't imagine that anything about my person could be of interest. She tolerated two years of my silence, and then could bear it no longer. She was tired of dying in my company, and she left me to find some kind of life for herself. I didn't blame her. Fortunately we had no children.

At the time I was working as a junior partner in an accountant's office. I was not happy with my employers, and they in turn were not happy with me. I have to confess that, due to my sullen nature, I was almost unemployable. Moreover, I was lonely. I longed for companionship, but I was wary. I felt I had so little to give. I simply didn't want to be known. Then, by some miracle, I met Verry. Verry fitted the bill exactly. She accepted my silence and asked no questions. She
seemed to be eternally grateful. In so far as I could love anyone at all, after the horrendous event that occasioned this diary, in so far as I could conceal my heart yet still love, that person was Verry. We were married, and shortly afterwards I came into a legacy and started up on my own. I managed to build up a regular clientele and make a comfortable living. By then we had two lovely boys, twins, Martin and Matthew. We have been together for many years now and if Verry is grateful, her gratitude cannot exceed mine. I consider myself blessed. Yet I still do not want to be wholly known. The event to which I referred has condemned me to a semi-life. It has stilled my tongue.

So perhaps I am writing this diary for myself alone. To put words on paper. Words which refuse to come out of my mouth. When I think of all the killings, I only half believe them, but once written down, detail by detail, they achieve some credibility. And they astonish me. These deeds are not in my nature. I was a gentle boy, gentle to the point of timidity. Yet these are
my
deeds,
my
killings. But the force that leads to them all is overpowering. And will not, in the name of love and loyalty, be denied.

To date I have killed six human beings. It is they who are guilty. I have to kill three more to complete my mission and then, whatever happens to me, I shall rest easy. The killings are a protest against evil. And, as God is my judge, I am innocent.

SIX DOWN. THREE TO GO.

When the news …

When the news of the sixth killing landed on Wilkins' desk, it fell into the hands of his deputy. His boss was on holiday, somewhere in Scotland, and he debated with himself and other officers, whether Wilkins should be informed. Some were against interrupting their chief's holiday but most of them acknowledged that the shrink investigation was Wilkins' baby – always had been – and that he should be told immediately of the new development.

And, as they expected, Wilkins lost no time in coming back to work. He read all the facts of the case that were available. Dr Fortescue had been a well-respected psychotherapist. Among his duties was a weekly visit to the local public school to act as counsellor to those boys who needed guidance. Wilkins did not expect a break-in. Neither did he expect any kind of prints. But this case was different from the others. Although clearly by the same guitar-string garrotter, there were witnesses. Three of them to be precise. And all tallied in their testimony. One had seen a lad in uniform leaving Dr Fortescue's house. He looked like a sixth-former from the public school. He seemed to be in a hurry. The two other witnesses had seen what appeared to be the same boy walking in the street close to Dr Fortescue's house.

Wilkins was at first delighted, but he harboured doubts that a mere schoolboy could turn out to be such a vicious and cunning killer. Still, in all his investigations, it was the closest he had come to a clue.

He arranged an urgent meeting with the headmaster of the school, Dr Osborne, and presented himself in his office that very afternoon. He was invited into Dr Osborne's study and offered afternoon tea.

‘It's about Dr Fortescue,' Wilkins began.

‘A terrible business,' Dr Osborne said. ‘A wonderful man, and so understanding of children. There's not a lot I can tell you about him personally. He tended to keep himself to himself. We talked together but only about the children, and I always took his advice.'

‘We have some witnesses,' Wilkins said, coming straight to the point. ‘And that's why I'm here. I'm afraid one of them saw a boy from the school – it could have been a sixth-former – leaving Dr Fortescue's house round about the time he was killed. Two other witnesses saw what appeared to be the same boy walking along a street near Dr Fortescue's house. Have you any idea what a pupil might be doing at Dr Fortescue's house at that hour?'

‘It's preposterous.' Dr Osborne almost laughed. ‘They must have been mistaken. If a student wanted to see Dr Fortescue, he would wait until his Thursday visit. He would have no need to make a personal call.'

‘Nevertheless,' Wilkins insisted, ‘I must take all sightings seriously. Out of courtesy, I have to ask your permission to interview all your sixth-formers. And separately, of course.'

‘As you wish,' Dr Osborne said. ‘I'm sure they'll enjoy it enormously. Any excuse to take them out of the classroom. But I have to tell you, Inspector, Dr Fortescue didn't counsel the sixth-form boys. He spent his Thursdays in the Junior School. With the boarders mostly. Homesickness. That sort of thing. I don't think the sixth-formers could
shed any light on the crime.' He laughed again, and Wilkins rather hoped that in time, Dr Osborne would be laughing on the other side of his face.

‘I'm obliged,' he said. ‘Tomorrow morning. Nine o'clock. Is that suitable?'

‘I will be expecting you,' Dr Osborne said.

Wilkins was hopeful. It was only a chink of light but one that, if well directed, could easily reach to the end of the tunnel. On his return to the station, he appointed his deputy to accompany him to the school. The deputy could not match Wilkins' optimism. He had his doubts, so together they made an able grilling pair.

The headboy, Hopkins, was the first to be interviewed. Witnesses had guessed the boy's height at about five foot ten, and of slim build. Hopkins was barely five and a half feet and round as a barrel. But out of courtesy, they questioned him as to his whereabouts at the time. Hopkins was a boarder, and at eight o'clock he was at breakfast along with a dozen others who could testify to his presence. This went for all the boarders at the school. There was only one sitting, at seven-thirty, and roll-call ratified their attendance. That left about twenty dayboys from the lower and upper sixth to be interviewed. The deputy's doubts seemed confirmed, but Wilkins still clung to his hopes. They went through them all and all offered the same breakfast alibi. They were at home, with their cornflakes. ‘Mum or Dad'll tell you,' most of them said.

Harris was the last to arrive. He apologised for keeping them waiting. He had work to catch up with.

As Wilkins looked him over, he felt an involuntary thrill ripple through his whole body. Harris was five foot ten and of slim build.

‘I suppose you're going to say you were at breakfast, like the others,' the deputy remarked without interest.

‘As a matter of fact, I wasn't,' Harris said. ‘I missed it. I had to do an errand for my father.'

‘So exactly where were you at eight o'clock in the morning on Friday last?'

‘I was with Dr Fortescue,' the boy replied. ‘A bit before eight actually. Say a quarter-to.'

The thrill rippled still, but hiccuped around the base of Wilkins' spine.

‘I must have been the last person to see him alive,' Harris said. He seemed proud of that fact.

The boy's honesty did not mark him out as a killer. But Wilkins pressed on. In his time, he had known boasting murderers, and Harris could well be one of them.

‘What were you doing there?' he asked.

‘Dr Fortescue is a close friend of my father. Or was, I suppose. My dad's a psychotherapist too, and he'd written a paper on adolescence that he wanted Dr Fortescue to comment on. I dropped it in on my way to school.'

The thrill fizzled out. This was the boy whom the witnesses had spotted. And that was the end of the matter. They were back to square one. No clues, no prints, no break-in. No useful witnesses after all.

‘Thank you Harris,' Wilkins said. ‘That will be all.'

He was tempted to add a warning to the boy about his father who was in the same perilous profession as the victim, but he did not want to alarm him. So it was back to the station to sift through the contents of Dr Fortescue's desk, and, unsurprisingly, they found Dr Harris's thesis on adolescence. It had been on top of the desk. It was open to page ten, and there were comments
in the margins. It was on page ten that the killer had called.

During his absence, Mrs Wilkins had rung from the hotel in Scotland. He called her back. She wanted to know if he was returning to finish their holiday but he had lost all appetite for a break in his work. Although there was nothing more he could do in the Fortescue investigation, he wanted to stay put, even to be doing the nothing. The long-suffering Mrs Wilkins decided to stay on.