Nine Lives (17 page)

‘Has the pathologist been?' Wilkins asked.

‘Yes. He put the death at between four and six o'clock. The cause is as you see.'

‘Any witnesses?' Wilkins asked.

‘We've covered that too.' The Chief Inspector was smug. Nobody saw anyone. Except a clergyman who was collecting for Save the Children Week. But they're all over the town this time of the year.

‘Where was this clergyman?' Wilkins was desperate. ‘Was he seen in the close?'

‘No,' the Chief Inspector said. ‘He was near by and he
was seen to join a group of them going into the cathedral. You surely don't think a man of the cloth—'

‘It could have been a disguise,' Wilkins said. He recalled his session with Miss Lupesco. It was she who had suggested disguises. And what more obvious disguise for a Canterbury murder than the garb of a man of the cloth? But even if it was not a disguise, there was hardly any point in grilling the hundreds of genuine ministers who lived in and visited Canterbury. Especially in this tourist week. It was a dead end once more.

‘Remove the body,' he said to the Chief Inspector. ‘And thanks for calling me in. I'm afraid there's little I can do from London. Further investigations must be conducted from here. Your patch, Chief Inspector,' he said. ‘Of course we will liaise on any further developments.' But Wilkins knew that there would be no further developments any more than there had been in the six previous cases. Not one of them had offered a single clue.

On the journey back to London, he asked his driver to take it slowly. He was in no hurry to get home. He needed to think about his position and to wonder whether he should offer his resignation to pre-empt the suggestion that he might be taken off the case. Or rather the cases. Seven of them, as it now was. And he had come up with nothing. Such a dismal record cried out for a demotion if not outright dismissal. Yet he was loath to leave. It would be a blatant admission of failure. The shrink cases were his baby. His obsession almost, and though he had gathered no solid evidence, he doubted that anyone else could do better. He decided to have a word with his superior. Somehow he had to acknowledge his failure, yet cling with certainty to a none-too-distant future solution.

This he did and his superior seemed to understand. And he would hear nothing about talk of resignation.

‘You can't leave now, Wilkins,' he said, slapping him on the back. ‘I'm depending on you.'

Wilkins wasn't sure whether he was flattered by his trust, or burdened with a dire responsibility.

I'm still ashamed …

I'm still ashamed. I can't put that wooden leg out of my mind. And how can I face Donald? He's bound to ask me about the holiday. I could tell him about most of it. Even about Jim. Even about his wooden leg. I didn't have to tell him about my own excited one. But when I thought about that holiday, that is, when I had the courage to think about it, it was my leg that coloured every recall. Even the saffron and the sponges in the marketplace were stained by it. Even the fallen pillars and the torsos on the sand had to suffer my leg's rude interference. Once, while remembering, I caught my face in the mirror and it was red with shame. So how could I face Donald with all that recall. It even crossed my mind to make some excuse and cancel my visit, to give time for my blushes to fade and the leg memory to wither. But I had no hope of that. I knew that I could never expunge that humiliation. But I had no right to deprive him of a visit. Somehow I had to weather it all.

I didn't even have a meeting with Mrs Cox to look forward to. She was probably still in Florida, and her axeman spouse would be gnashing his teeth in his cell.

I dressed carefully. I was not sorry that my tan had faded, and it crossed my mind to deny that I'd been on holiday at all. I decided that that was a solution of sorts and I'd just have to go on making up events about life at home. I'd bought him a present in the market. A real sponge. But now I took that out of my bag, knowing that it would take more than a genuine sponge to wipe those memories clean. ‘No, I decided not to go away, Donald,' I rehearsed en
route to the station. ‘Didn't feel like a holiday on my own.' That might please him, I thought. It was much easier to be a liar than a potential nymphomaniac. Because that's how I saw myself. I was hungry, and that hunger might well lead to other leg movements of mine. And, guilty or innocent, Donald would never again be by my side.

I wondered about my future. I had always tried to avoid such thoughts, for my prospects were bleak. I knew I had to do something. I had to stick with Donald, or leave him. But to do either, I had to be convinced of his guilt or innocence. But I had no evidence for either. I knew so little about him. By virtue of our many happy years together, he was innocent, but I could not ignore the verdict of the jury. Somehow I had to find evidence that pointed either way. I would have to find the courage to question him. I would not beat about the bush. I would say to him, ‘Donald, did you really kill all those people?' And his answer would be, ‘Yes. But I am innocent.' Exactly as he had answered from the dock. I didn't understand it then, and I don't understand it now. But I have to learn to understand it before I can stay with him. Or, God forbid, leave him to cope on his own. I found myself shivering at such a thought, and I hurried down the platform where the train was waiting.

I made my way to a window seat, and there she sat, as if waiting for me. Poor Mrs Cox, severely untanned, and Florida a ragged figment of her imagination. She looked ashamed.

‘I didn't go away,' she said, as I took my seat opposite her. ‘Didn't have the courage.'

‘Neither did I,' I said. ‘Same reason.' I was glad to have a rehearsal run for my lies and I was glad, too, to see her at all. But not all that surprised. I suspected that she would
have had second thoughts. I warmed towards her. She was as tied to her axeman as I to my killer, and neither of us knew why. Both of us claimed loyalty and love and, above all, pity. But neither of us had sufficient self-esteem to turn away.

‘I haven't brought him anything,' she said. She announced it as a triumph. ‘Not after last time. He doesn't deserve anything. I don't know why I come at all.'

There was nothing I could say to that, so there was silence between us. Then, after a while, as the train started to move, she looked directly at me and said, ‘Why do you come? Tell me.'

‘For the same reasons as you,' I replied, ‘and, like you, I don't know what they are.'

‘I think this is my last visit,' she said.

But I knew that she didn't mean it. Compulsion would put her on that train and drive her over the ferry, urge her to sit across from that man she loved and loathed. And that same compulsion would force her into the decision never to visit again. Until the next time. Both of us were serving a life sentence.

Donald looks better each time I see him. He's filled out a little and he has a good colour. I checked the thought that prison was good for him. He was there at the table, waiting for me to arrive. I noticed that the axeman was waiting too. And his presence made me angry. How dare he so coldly assume that his wife would visit him? And already he had a look of victory in his eye. I had a mind to persuade Mrs Cox to write him off. But I would miss her company on the train and the ferry, someone with whom I could share my dilemma.

Donald rose when he saw me, and stretched out his arms.
I thought of the wooden leg and I went willingly towards him and kissed him heartily. It was the only way I could ask for his forgiveness.

‘You're looking well,' he said. ‘Did you go to Frieda's?'

‘No,' I said, glad to be able to tell the truth. ‘I didn't feel like going away.' I waited for him to declare his usual innocence. But it was not forthcoming. That puzzled me, and I wondered whether he was saving it until I had to leave.

‘What's new?' he said.

‘Nothing much. I keep busy'

‘With what?'

‘The usual things. I've joined a dressmaking class,' I invented. ‘I quite enjoy it.'

‘You were always a great darner,' he said. ‘Do you remember the days when I used to wear woollen socks?'

He was right. I loved darning. It made so much sense. All that weaving in and out. There's no call for that skill any more. Nylon put an end to it. I stole a glance at the Coxes who sat at the far end of the room. Their hands, unlike mine and Donald's, were not joined over the table, and there was silence between them. Mrs Cox was looking into her lap, and her husband was staring at the ceiling.

Both were clearly waiting for the end-of-visiting bell. The visit itself was a mere formality, and as such it would be repeated like a longstanding routine that has lost its original purpose.

‘Has Cox been behaving himself?' I asked. ‘After his last explosion?'

‘They put him in solitary for a week,' Donald said. ‘That calmed him down a little. Then they let him work in the garden.'

‘I don't know why she visits him,' I said. ‘He killed her mother.'

‘He says he's innocent,' Donald said.

Don't you all? was on the tip of my tongue. But I refrained. I wanted evidence. I remembered that that had been the purpose of my visit. But I didn't know what questions to ask, and even if I did, I knew I wouldn't have the courage to ask them. ‘How is the painting going?' I said instead. His answer would be safe.

He grew excited. ‘They've asked me to paint a mural. In the games room. They've asked for a seascape.'

I was so happy for him. Alcatraz and Hollywood were not so far away after all. ‘Have you started?' I was as excited as he.

‘Tomorrow,' he said. ‘They're getting me all the equipment.'

‘Will I ever be able to see it?' I asked.

‘They said something about a public day. Some bigwig to unveil it. Perhaps even the boys might come.'

It had been at least two visits since he had mentioned them, and I didn't know how to respond. Nothing on earth would induce them to come to a mural viewing. ‘They might,' I lied. ‘But even if they don't,' I added, ‘they will be very proud.' I doubted that too. Pride belonged to another life and for them that life was over.

I looked across the room at the Coxes. I doubt that, throughout the visit, a single word had passed between them. She was still looking into her lap, and he towards the ceiling, and I saw them as an apt still-life in Donald's mural.

To my relief Donald did not mention the boys again, and I quickly pursued the topic of the mural.

‘Do you make a sketch of it first?' I asked.

He seemed glad to discuss it and he launched into his plans. ‘I'll have to measure the wall first,' he said. ‘Halfway along it curves and I'll have to use that bend in the picture. I thought I might mask it in a rolling wave. So many colours in a wave,' he said. He was impatient. ‘I can't wait to begin.' He has a life, I thought to myself. He has a purpose. He has more than I. Then I recalled my decision to cross-question him, but now in his mood of such cheer it would have been cruel perhaps to refer in any way to the reasons he was in this place, the reasons behind the innocence that he claimed. I was impatient for the signing-off bell. Again I looked over at the Coxes. There had been no movement between them. It seemed that they were set in concrete, rigid and unyielding, and I wondered how Mrs Cox would prise herself off the seat and make the bus. Then mercifully the bell rang and I rose.

‘It goes so quickly, Donald,' I said, and I kissed him in my relief.

‘You should take a holiday, sweetheart,' he said. ‘Give yourself a break. I'm going to be busy here, and I don't mind if you miss a visit.'

I thought of the wooden leg and I felt myself blushing.

‘I'm not a holiday person,' I said, having had bitter proof of that conclusion. ‘I'll see you next time.'

On my way out, I passed the Coxes' table. She still sat there, unmoving. I dared to tap her on her shoulder.

‘Coming?' I asked.

Then at last, she made a move. But a silent one. She turned away from him and took my arm while her axeman fixed his eyes on the ceiling.

‘That's the last time,' Mrs Cox said, as we settled on the
bus, and I knew that I would be sitting next to her on the bus and the ferry, again and again. Even if her husband should die a natural and undeservedly peaceful death, she would still take the ferry and the bus, looking for a place to bury her pity.

By the time I reached home, I had made a decision. I had found myself unable to question Donald and I knew that I would never be able to do so. So I would make my own investigation. But I wasn't too sure what I had to investigate. Donald had told me often enough that he was innocent although the verdict had proved otherwise. But I could not bring myself to believe my Donald guilty. He had loved me for so many years and had shown his love in sundry ways. Night and day. How could I equate such a man with a murderer? And what kind of woman was I who could spend those years in such company? Donald
had
to be innocent, if only for my sake. Yet he had admitted to the killing of ten human beings – and declared in the same breath that he was innocent. Why ten? I asked myself. Why even one? And what does ‘innocent' mean?

The doubts lingered. He must have had very solid reasons for doing what he did. It was those reasons that made him declare himself innocent, but nothing regarding them came out at the trial, and I hadn't dared ask him. Nobody on earth knew the ‘why' of the crimes. Except Donald himself, and he would take those reasons to his grave. Why? Why? I kept asking myself. And I knew that it was in that ‘why' that his innocence lay.

I did not know which way to turn. Had I known any of his family, perhaps they might have provided a clue. But he had no brothers or sisters, and his parents were dead. No nieces, no nephews for certain. But perhaps there were
uncles, aunts or cousins. I knew there was a way of finding out. The name Dorricks must feature in the files of the Register of Births, Deaths and Marriages. But I baulked at such an idea. That would be a true invasion of Donald's privacy, and he would never forgive me. I was happy to put the idea aside and accept once more my Donald's innocence. So the ‘why' was no longer viable.