Nine Lives (26 page)

‘Please don't hurt me,' she managed to say.

There was no ‘sorry', no remorse, no sympathy. Just a selfish egomaniac plea for her own survival.

I needed a little more silence before I could finish my story. I had to tell her why I had come. Why I had killed nine people, one for every year of her destruction. Why I had to avenge Derek's death, and find my own peace. I took a deep breath.

‘Derek Dorricks was my brother,' I said. ‘My twin. He was part of myself, and I of him. And we loved each other. You killed him,' I said, ‘and you left me with a semi-life. I half live, I half work, I barely half love. And for all that, I'm going to kill you.'

I picked up the string and I moved behind her. I took my gloveless, joyful time. I circled the string gently around her neck as if I was fastening a delicate necklace. Then I pulled with a strength I did not know I possessed. I listened to her gurgles, and they were like music. I watched her die with infinite pleasure and then I pushed her limp and lifeless body off the chair. I heard myself laughing, and I saw my feet dancing as I moved towards the door. Once outside, I broke into a jig, and I danced my laughing way down the drive. There were people outside and they were staring at me. They must have thought I was mad. And in a way, I was. Mad with joy and fulfilment. I danced all the way home. I noticed that one of the spectators was following me and he stood outside my house, watching me as I jigged through my front door. I gave a thought to Wilkins. His hour had most certainly arrived.

I am calmer now. And at peace. I am writing the last words of my diary, and then I shall burn it for no one must ever know the cause of my crusade. It's getting dark. Verry and the boys will soon be home.

There is a knocking on the door. Not Verry. She has a key. I think they have come for me. But one more sentence before the fire. And then I shall be ready. So I write.

As God is my judge, I am innocent. History will absolve me.

Detective Inspector Evans …

Detective Inspector Evans was just about to leave his office when his phone rang. The desk clerk put through the call. ‘He wants to speak to the chief,' he said. ‘He won't tell me why.'

‘Put him through,' Evans said.

‘My wife has been murdered,' a voice screamed.

‘Where are you?' Evans asked.

‘Twelve, Wyndham Drive.'

‘Stay there and don't touch anything. We'll be over right away.'

It was his first murder investigation since his promotion. He was nervous, and he wished Wilkins was by his side. But he knew the form, and he gathered together the crew he would need. The pathologist, the photographer and the print merchants. Together they drove to Wyndham Drive.

A small crowd had already gathered outside. They had heard the husband screaming as he ran from the house, anxious to tell the street of his loss. He was crazy with grief. Evans led his team inside, and formal investigations began. His heart had already missed a beat when he noticed a guitar string around the woman's neck.

‘What did your wife do?' he asked, well knowing the answer.

‘She was a psychotherapist,' the man said. ‘And a very good one,' he sobbed.

Evans found an empty corner and phoned Wilkins.

His wife answered the phone. ‘He's in the bath,' she said.

‘Get him out,' Evans said. ‘It's urgent.'

He waited and tried to be patient. He was excited. He had a feeling that they had run their quarry to ground. At last Wilkins came to the phone.

‘He's done it again, sir,' Evans said. ‘Fingerprints galore. And witnesses too, I gather. This is one for you.' He gave Wilkins the address and told him to hurry. Then he returned to the scene of the crime.

The pathologist gave his usual report. Cause of death, which was patently obvious. He added the time. The woman had been dead for about two hours. Wilkins arrived as he was pronouncing his verdict.

‘What have we here?' he asked. ‘Any sign of a break-in?' He hoped not. That would not be the pattern. In all his investigations, it seemed that the killer had been invited inside the house.

‘No,' one of the crew said. ‘But there's no shortage of fingerprints. They're everywhere.'

‘Good,' Wilkins said. ‘And what about witnesses?'

‘There are three outside,' Evans whispered in Wilkins' ear. ‘One especially. He saw a man leaving the house at about the right time. I've questioned him already, if you don't mind.'

‘Why should I mind?' Wilkins asked. ‘It's your case.'

‘Yours too.' Evans smiled.

‘I'm grateful,' Wilkins said. ‘Who is this man?'

‘A neighbour. And he's got quite a story.'

‘Bring him inside,' Wilkins said. ‘I'll find an empty space.'

The witness was anxious to be questioned once again. He said his name was Brian Telson, and he lived directly opposite the house. He was coming home from work and he noticed a man coming out of Miss Robinson's house.

‘You couldn't miss him,' he said, ‘because he was dancing a jig in the driveway. Throwing up his arms and laughing as if he'd pulled something off. Some business deal, maybe. Something like that. His face was familiar. I thought he lived round about. I was right too because I followed him. I didn't have to go far. He was dancing all the way and I saw him go into three, Founders Road, still laughing and dancing as he let himself into the house.

Wilkins made a note of the address. The witness was promising. Other witnesses were eager to come forward. One of them knew the man by sight, he said. Saw him often in the High Street. Had seen him ring Miss Robinson's bell round about five o'clock. Both witnesses were asked to describe the man. Separately. And both accounts tallied.

Wilkins felt he was entitled to hope. There was nothing to stop him going to the address straight away, simply to eliminate the man from their inquiries. Or that's what he'd say on the man's doorstep: a polite ‘sorry to trouble you' visit. He waited for the investigation to be completed, then he told Evans to order the body to be taken away. He left a policeman with the bereaved widower, though there were enough ready neighbours at his side. He sent the crew back to the station, then he and Evans went to Founders Road.

He rang the bell and waited. He knew someone was at home because there were lights on in the house, and a small flicker of fire in the front-room grate. The longer he waited, the more his hopes were raised. Delay was suspicious. The man was perhaps hiding something. The flicker of flame died out, and Wilkins again rang the bell. He wished he knew his name. At last they heard footsteps behind the
door. Perhaps they were dancing steps, Evans thought, still celebrating a supposed triumph.

A man answered the door, with a smile. Wilkins stared at him. The face was vaguely familiar, and he associated it with a pleasant occasion. His hopes were dashed once more.

‘Detective Inspector Wilkins,' the man said. ‘How good to meet you again.'

Wilkins hesitated.

‘Dorricks. Donald Dorricks.' The man jogged his memory. ‘Don't you remember? We had dinner together at the Manor House in Kent. The four of us. Your wife and mine. Now what can I do for you?'

Wilkins felt a fool. He'd been led up the garden path on this one. There was no way this Mr Dorricks was a killer. But he had to say something. ‘There's been a murder committed not far from here. We're just making inquiries. Forgive me, Mr Dorricks, but we have to ask you where you were round about five o'clock this afternoon.'

‘I was at Miss Robinson's house,' he said. ‘Round the corner.'

Wilkins lost his voice and it was Evans who had to continue. ‘Miss Robinson was murdered,' he said.

‘I know,' Mr Dorricks said. ‘I killed her.'

Wilkins had had enough. ‘Please do not waste our time,' he said.

‘I'm not,' Mr Dorricks told him. ‘I'm telling you the truth. I killed her. Round about six o'clock. Maybe earlier.'

Wilkins marvelled at the man's composure. Or perhaps he was simply a lunatic.

‘Out of interest,' Wilkins was friendly, ‘how did you kill her?'

‘Garrotted,' Mr Dorricks said. ‘With a guitar string.
Like all the others,
including
Mademoiselle Lacroix in Paris.'

Evans unclasped the handcuffs from his belt. He didn't expect their man to make a run for it. Indeed, he seemed almost willing to accompany them to the station, for he held out his hands for the cuffing.

‘Donald Dorricks,' he said. ‘I am arresting you on suspicion of the murder of Adèle Robinson.' Then he read him his rights.

‘May I get my coat?' Dorricks asked.

Evans followed him into the hall, and waited while he put his coat on. Then he led him to the car and bundled him inside. Wilkins did not encourage any more talk during the ride. The man had said enough. He just prayed that it was all true.

At the station, there was the usual routine of formalities, then Dorricks was taken to the interview room. He asked politely for a cup of tea, and politely it was given to him. He sat facing the detectives and said, ‘I'll help you all I can.'

He didn't wait for questions. He knew what they would ask, and he simply volunteered the answers.

‘Yes,' he said. ‘I killed them. And all in the same way. I killed Harry Winston, and likewise Angela Mayling. Bronwen Hughes was the next on my list and then Alistair Morris. Dear Mademoiselle Lacroix followed, and then Dr James Fortescue. Mrs Stephens from Canterbury was next on my list. And then there was that poor Mr Quick who was only a dentist. My mistake, I confess. But at least I didn't count him in my crusade. That made seven altogether, and I needed nine. I was sorry about Miss Brown, but I had no choice. Then there was Miss
Robinson this afternoon. The last. And now I don't need any more.'

‘What does “need” mean?' Wilkins asked. ‘And why nine?'

‘That is my concern,' Dorricks said, and it was clear he would say no more.

‘But why
any
murder?' Wilkins persisted. ‘Why at all?'

‘It was my crusade,' Dorricks said with a little pride. ‘My mission. The killings were a protest against evil. That is all I have to say.'

The interview terminated. They had had enough. Dorricks was taken to the cells.

‘Do you believe him, sir?' Evans asked, when they were alone.

‘I'm afraid I do,' Wilkins said. ‘And I'm also delighted, but I don't understand it at all. The man
is
telling the truth. Of that there's no doubt. Thank you for calling me in,' he said. ‘I shall feel better now sitting at my desk. I'll rest easy.

Mary was waiting for his return. And he had a tale to tell. He rehearsed it on the way home. ‘You remember that nice couple we met at the Manor House? The Dorricks? The ones you wanted to stay in contact with? Well it seems that that nice Mr Dorricks turns out to be our killer. And, moreover, he's confessed.' But he told her nothing of the sort. Such a report would have diminished her. They'd arrested a man on suspicion. That's all that he gave her. She could come with him to court in the morning to hear the charge. He couldn't believe his luck. He had no doubt that Dorricks was guilty. But he sensed he was more than that.

‘What kind of a man is he?' Mary asked.

‘Bananas,' he said, and he had already begun to pity him. Miss Robinson's was a funeral he wouldn't have to attend. The stranger was in custody.

It's me again …

It's me again. Don't bother with the name. Nor where the accent should lie. It doesn't matter any more. I don't care how it's pronounced. In fact, I don't care if it's never pronounced at all.

I had a visitor this morning. Two in fact. It was only eight o'clock and I thought it might be the milkman. Through the glass of the front door I could see two figures. They looked like policemen. I opened the door and I saw that one of them was a woman. It was her presence that set my mind racing. For I knew that it was the man who had come with the news, and the woman had come with her consolation. ‘May we come in?' he asked. Gently. So gently. And I knew. I knew. I let them into the kitchen. It was warm in there. Familiar and safe. I'd been drinking a cup of tea, and it was half-full on the table. I thought of offering them a cup. Anything to delay the news they had to tell me. Because I knew. I knew. ‘I'm afraid we have sad news for you,' the policeman said. And the consolation moved towards me, putting its hand on my shoulder. ‘Your husband has died,' the man said. ‘How?' I asked. Though I knew. I knew. It couldn't have been a heart-attack. My Donald was in excellent health. And his blood-pressure was normal. Whatever they told me, I wouldn't believe. Because I knew. I knew. ‘He was found early this morning. In the games room. He had hanged himself.' The consolation tightened its grip on my shoulder. ‘Shall I make you some more tea?' it asked. I shook my head. I wouldn't believe it though I knew it was true. ‘You have two sons,' the man
said. ‘Would you like us to contact them?' ‘No,' I said. ‘I'll do that. It's better I should do that. Much better. I'll do that. Much better,' I kept saying. My mind was running away from me, I knew. And I knew too that it would never come back. ‘Is there anything we can do for you?' the consolation asked. I shook my head. I needed to finish my tea and cook my breakfast. And carry on as if they had never been. ‘Please go,' I said. ‘We'll be in touch about the burial arrangements,' the man said. ‘Are you sure there's nothing we can do for you?' the consolation said again. ‘Please go,' I said. ‘It's much better that you go. Much better.'

I heard them close the front door, then I finished my cup of tea and told myself that Donald was dead, that he had hanged himself. That he had taken the ‘why' of it all to his grave. That made me wonder whether they would bury him or burn him. And then I thought of those ashes in the wardrobe. Derek's. Whoever he was. I knew I had to scatter them. But where? Did Derek like the sea perhaps? Or the open fields? I would scatter them on the common, I thought. Donald would like that. He told me he used to fly his kite there when he was a little boy. Perhaps Derek would like that too. I shall do that first thing tomorrow. Much better. Much better. I shall leave this house, I think. I only held on to it because of Donald. So that he would have a home to come back to. Now I can leave it with no sense of betrayal. I have been liberated at last, and monumentally against my will. This is a freedom I did not seek, and for a moment I envied Mrs Cox who was still confined. I must ring the boys. I would rather not tell them face to face. I would fear their expressions. The phone is better for such people with such news. I shall do that when I've
finished my cup of tea. Much better. Much better. Then I might start clearing the house. I shall pack his clothes first, with no misgivings, and then I shall send them to Oxfam, where they can hang on the morgue rail. Then I'll clean up the house and put it on the market. But first, more tea. Much better. Much better.